One We Love, The (8 page)

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

 _

R
egina alive was
scary enough. I couldn’t handle a ghost. I walked cautiously back to the chair
and decided I really didn’t need to sit in it after all. Anything I needed to
do could be done standing. And leaning toward the door. Just in case.

I could ask Emma if she knew the password, but the two
sisters didn’t appear to have been that close. I wondered if Regina, despite
the warnings not to, kept a notebook with passwords written down. I did. Who
could remember them all?

The middle drawer held the usual pens, paper clips, blank
sticky notepads. The next two drawers yielded nothing of interest to me, but I
discovered a stack of bills which I set aside for Emma. The lower drawer had a
hanging file system that made my heartbeat quicken, but I didn’t discover any
client records. Instead of names, the tabs read AUTO INSURANCE, BANK, CREDIT,
and so on. More for Emma, and I left them alone.

I didn’t find anything in the desk. Before I left the room,
I scanned Regina’s book shelves. She had crystals and rocks scattered
attractively on various shelves. As for the books, a good portion were
political in nature, but she had a nice selection of literary novels,
biographies, and a smattering of clinical psychology texts that were probably
left over from college. With as much as the college textbooks cost, most of us couldn’t
admit how worthless they are after graduation.

Thwarted by a stupid, locked computer, I wandered back out
into the hall, crossing to the tiny, white tiled bathroom opposite. Regina’s scent
was back, but since a nearly empty perfume bottle squatted next to the
toothbrush holder, I didn’t need to fear a ghostly specter. I picked the bottle
up.

Prada Infusion D’Iris?

She didn’t own a pair of tweezers, scorned makeup, yet she
was willing to spend more than sixty bucks on a bottle of perfume. The thought
that Regina was a secret girly-girl made me smile. However, I wasn’t likely to
find any clues in here, so after availing myself of the facilities, I checked
out Regina’s bedroom.

Again, I was surprised at Regina’s choice of decor. Instead
of the eclectic use of space that she’d displayed in her offices, her bedroom
was surprisingly plain. Neat, clean, but plain.

I went downstairs and found Emma in the kitchen, elbow deep
in the produce drawer, a garbage bag of spoiling food at her side. She wrinkled
her nose at me.

“I’m glad I didn’t wait any longer,” she said. “Things are
just starting to go bad.”

“Smells like something already has.”

“That’s the milk. Did you find what you were looking for?”

“Kind of. Regina has a laptop, but it’s locked. You don’t,
by chance, know the password, do you?”

Emma shook her head. “I wouldn’t even know how to guess.”

“I’m hoping she kept a list of her passwords or usernames.
You know?”

“I wouldn’t know that, either.” She sat back on her heels,
looking infinitely sadder, and fell silent.

“Do you mind if I keep looking?”

She waved a latex-gloved hand at me. “Go right ahead. There
will be strangers going through everything soon enough. I’ll probably donate
most of it. In fact”—she pulled her head out of the fridge to look at me—“if
you find anything you’d like as a remembrance, let me know. I’m sure Regina
would want you to have something. There are a few furniture pieces I’m keeping
that are family—well, I don’t know if I’d call them heirlooms—hand-me-downs
maybe. But other than that, it’ll all just go to St. Vincent’s.” 

She smiled up at me while I struggled with what to say. A
remembrance? Of Regina? I smiled weakly and said thanks.

 “Do you have Regina’s car keys?” I asked. “I want to be
thorough.”

 “Good idea. I have so much crammed into it, my car is a
rolling office.” She retrieved a set of keys from her purse.

Regina drove a minty-green Prius that I found parked outside
the detached single-car garage behind the house. One peek into the garage
windows told me why. It was crammed to the rafters with junk, making me wonder
how long Regina had lived here.

Unlocking the car, I slid into the front seat. Despite the
fall temperature, the interior of the car was toasty from sitting in the sun. There
was a small stack of papers on the passenger seat: a gas charge receipt, junk
mail, a month-old copy of the Buck Shopper—a weekly advertising circular. No
calendar. Feeling a twinge of unease, I popped the glove compartment and found
nothing more dangerous than old maps and Regina’s insurance card. Nothing under
the sun visor either. Shifting sideways, I peered into the backseat. A red
leather laptop case sat on the floor wedged behind the passenger seat. Still
looking for a clue to the password, I plundered the pockets. Except for the
wall charger, I found nothing.

Disappointed, I made my way back to the kitchen.

“I hope she didn’t keep her financial information in the
computer,” she said. “Do you suppose there’s someone we could take it to?”

I liked the “we” part. “I could probably find someone who
can hack into it,” I offered. I didn’t expand, but AA was a delightful
repository of (hopefully) retired criminality. Our people have skills. Somebody
would know.

Emma, far more trusting than her sister had ever dreamed of
being, agreed without hesitation.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

I
continued my
search in the living room, checking end tables and between couch cushions.
Found lots of crumbs, proving that even ice queens like Regina ate in front of
the TV. I also found a tote filled with various balls of yarn and assorted
needles next to the armchair. I lifted a tangle of yarn on top. A six-inch wide
strip unrolled a couple of feet. A scarf?

Huh. I was wrong about dismissing knitting as Regina’s
hobby. I turned a slow circle, scanning the living room. Something seemed off,
but I couldn’t place it.

Hoping it would come to me if I didn’t push it, I stretched
full out on the floor, trying to peer into the darkness beneath the couch in
case the calendar, if it even existed, had slipped underneath. My nose tickled
from the rough fibers of the carpet.

Why
not
choose something to remember Regina?

I stopped fishing under the couch and lay still, my arm
jammed full length under the three-inch clearance of the couch. Regina had
practically saved my life. My sanity, at the very least. I’d been steadily
discovering more about her over the last few days, having to jettison the
cardboard picture of some fanatical feminist that I’d cast her in when she was
living.

I sighed, sucking up dust and inciting a sneeze that almost
ripped my still-wedged arm off. Regina was never going to leave me alone. I’d
inherited her.

I trudged back up the stairs to her office and stood staring
gloomily at the bookshelves. I picked up the ugliest rock I could find--a
gravely, gray lump, the size and shape of a halved orange.

Turning it over, I discovered a scooped-out shell filled
with twinkly crystals. Sunlight from the window sparkled off a multitude of
brilliant lavender shards like a visual echo of laughter. Regina’s laughter,
set in stone.

Just as I turned to leave, I noticed a small, red spiral
notebook jammed between two volumes of poetry.

Aha.

Heart thumping, I opened it and discovered an alphabetized
list of passwords and user names. I did a little victory dance primarily
consisting of butt wiggles and hooting sounds.

I went to the top of the stairs, hollered “Found it!” down
to Emma, then trotted over to the laptop. It took a few minutes scouring the
notebook to find the right one, but eventually I lucked onto it: Gloria5teinem.

Of course, it was.

M
oments later I
was clicking happily through Regina’s calendar. She hadn’t used names, just
initials, keeping confidentiality. She seemed to work three nights a week.
Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Fridays—which made sense. I’d never seen her at the
clinic on those evenings, and Tuesday was my late night.

Dates had been filled in through the week of September 19th,
a scattering of others scheduled ahead in the subsequent weeks. Regina had
died—or been killed—on Saturday, the 13th.

The week prior to her death didn’t appear to be unusual, but
I’d have to study it more closely. I’d also need to compare the initials
against the list the shelter had provided to see if any others besides
Karissa’s had been conveniently left off.

 I copied off the results for the last year and included her
contacts for good measure. Next, I went to her Documents folder, but there was
nothing I could tell for certain was connected to the shelter. I’d need hours
to examine it all.

I decided to show Emma my discoveries. A sly whiff of scent registered
in my nostrils before I made it to the top step. Once again, it filled my
senses, the scent more effective than a ghost in reminding me of my commitment.
If I’d had a tail like the Cowardly Lion, I’d have been clutching it.

Instead, I turned into the bathroom, picked up the Prada
perfume, and squirted a bit on myself. Now I had an excuse to keep smelling Regina.
I tucked the bottle into the back pocket of my jeans and bounded down the
stairs chanting, “I
do
believe in spooks! I
do
believe in spooks.”

Not wanting to look like an idiot, I paused in the living
room until I’d calmed down, then joined Regina’s sister in the kitchen, where I
gave her the notebook and showed her the “remembrances” I’d picked out.

Emma liked my choices. She smiled and held the rock up to
the light, making rainbows dance across the interior. “That’s Reggie, all
right. Beautiful on the inside, but a little spiky, too.”

“You must miss her,” I said.

“I do. That feels strange to say, because we never really
got along. We weren’t the type of sisters that share confidences or call each
other and talk all night, but still . . .”  Her voice trailed off.

“She was your sister.” I thought of my own sister and our
recent estrangement. My sobriety was a slap in the face to her, but what could
I do? The emotional distance wouldn’t make it easier if something were to
happen to Kris. In fact, it would make it worse.

Emma sighed, and grabbed the garbage bag of rotting food.
She hauled it over to the door, where she balanced it carefully. Nobody likes
their garbage spilling out all over the floor.

I took the hint.

Hours later, I lay stretched out on my bed with Siggy ensconced
on my stomach, his head nestled on my chest. Better than a man, let me tell
you. And lighter, too. The only problem was he listened about as well as most
men, which is to say, Siggy was sound asleep.

“You’re no help,” I told him.

His whiskers twitched.

I had so many questions swirling around my head that I was
giving myself a headache. Or maybe it was from Regina’s perfume. It would be
just like her to haunt me with something that gave me migraines.

“Did I mention the tote?” I asked Siggy. “She had a tote
full of yarn, but I couldn’t find any other skeins. Don’t real knitters hoard
yarn? Or is that quilters and fabric?”

That had been the thought that had bothered me when I’d
first found the tote. Regina had been killed with a knitting needle, but
neither Emma nor had I known she’d knitted. Admittedly, neither of us were
exceptionally close to Regina. Lying there, I mentally went back over the rooms
trying to remember any sort of  knitting paraphernalia: a stash of leftover
yarn, patterns, scissors,
anything
. I couldn’t recall any.

Had someone planted the tote?

Maybe it didn’t mean anything, but why were the laptop case
and power cord out in the car? And had Regina hidden the notebook on purpose? I
couldn’t imagine any other reason why she would hide it in the bookcase. From
the desk, it would certainly be inconvenient to have to get up and cross to the
bookcase, but then again, somebody burglarizing the place wouldn’t stop to hunt
for such a thing either. My gut told me that Regina had placed it somewhere
inconspicuous on purpose. It made sense that, if she had indeed been hiding the
password, it meant she had something else stored on the laptop. Maybe Emma
would be willing to let me examine it for an extended period of time. I’d have
to ask. It also meant that Regina knew something dangerous enough to get her
killed, and what she knew was linked to the shelter files. Which were in my
possession. Which meant. . .

I sat up, tossing Siggy once again. He was getting sick of
this, I could tell.  

“This is serious, Siggy. We could be in danger,” I called
after him.

He gave me the tail.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

S
itting at my
desk in the living room I pulled out my notes from the shelter files and began
comparing them to the information in the calendar.

In addition to Karissa Dillard and the group sessions,
Regina had been seeing seven women at the time she died. I found their initials
penciled into time slots in the weeks prior, each of them seeing Regina at
least once a week, but more often twice, for therapy. Karissa’s initials were
on evenings that matched the dates listed in her files, so it didn’t appear
that anyone had tampered with those details, but there was still the matter of
the altered contact info.

Tracing back to the beginning of the year was a steady stream
of initials—women who Regina had seen that the shelter didn’t consider open
files. Hopefully, I’d be able to convince the board tomorrow morning that they
should be.

Not expecting anything, I paged through Regina’s address
section. Flipping through to the last names of my co-workers didn’t turn up any
familiar names, but I found the shelter women’s easily enough. Huh. I kind of
liked having access to Lachlyn’s address and home phone number. Ashley Perkins,
Regina’s lawyer, was also listed.

And more initials in this section.
Surprise, surprise.
I smiled to myself. Even Regina bent the rules a teensy bit.

She’d continued to use initials, but the addition of phone
numbers made the information potentially identifiable, and therefore, arguably,
a breach of confidentiality. It made sense, from a practical point of view. If
rescheduling a client became necessary, Regina wouldn’t have to have a shelter
volunteer contact her appointments. She could do it herself.

Under the D-F section, I found “KD-715-555-3477.” A tiny “c”
after the number made me hope that it would be safe to call Karissa since it
appeared to be a cell phone. A thought occurred to me, and I dug through my
notes until I unearthed the number I’d jotted down from the altered face sheet.
When it matched, I pumped a fist in the air, sparking a second look of disgust
from Siggy. Cats don’t respect enthusiasm.

A second number had been added directly under Karissa’s with
the acronym MGM after it. As a therapist, I knew that, in this case, it didn’t
stand for a movie studio but for “maternal grandmother.” Nice.

I now had two phone numbers, but I still  hesitated before
calling, remembering Lachlyn’s warning about endangering the women. As much as
I hated to admit it, she had a point. If there were some way I could check out
the situation before calling or meeting Karissa, I should try that first.

Googling Karissa’s number didn’t net me anything, but the
grandmother—Bernadette Stanhope, I learned—was listed in the Chippewa Falls
White Pages along with an address.

It was too early in the season for Daylight Savings Time
change, but the light-filled days of summer were long past. I only had about an
hour of daylight left and I hadn’t eaten supper yet. A drive-thru meal was a
necessary evil. I tried to feel guilty about all the transfats my body was
ingesting, but Big Mac sauce is as addicting to me as liquor and, if my
ever-tightening jeans were an indication, just as dangerous.

Karissa’s grandmother lived in a trailer park a few miles south
of Chippewa Falls. I debated attempting a private eye-type stake out, but the close
proximity of the neighboring trailers made me change my mind. They didn’t need
an official neighborhood watch committee in this community. They all watched.
All the time.

A decade-old green Wrangler occupied the patch of dirt that
doubled as a driveway for Lot 7. Despite the rust pitting the wheel wells and
the thick coating of dust, it looked a lot snazzier than the trailer. Decrepit
wooden steps leaned against the side of the home looking as if they’d gotten
tired of the job and wanted a rest. I wasn’t sure they would hold my weight,
and I found myself regretting the sugar-carb diet that had so recently replaced
my drinking habit.

Thinking light, airy thoughts as a gravity-defying defense
mechanism, I knocked at the door and almost fell backward when it was snatched
open by a young boy. It would have been hard to guess his age by looking at him—his
body size and ancient eyes told different stories—but the file had stated the eldest
boy was nearly six years old. Michael was his name, I knew, although I’d
forgotten the baby’s.

“Is your mom here?” I asked. Michael turned and yelled a
long, drawn-out “Mom” over his shoulder. My heart thumped despite my
legitimacy. A sharp gust of wind rattled through the oak trees, causing me to
glance up at the branches in case Clotilde and Lachlyn, hovering like harpies,
were waiting to snatch me away from my goal.

Footsteps brought my attention back just as a
twenty-something woman reached the screen door. She was almost my height, 5’6”,
but had the aid of two-inch wedge sandals to reach that. A strange choice for
the end of September. She also wore a caution-yellow tank top and loose-fitting
jeans. The dripping blood, barbed wire tattoo circling her upper arm didn’t
scream “mom,” but maybe I was old-fashioned. She held a bright red Elmo in her
hand that looked too new to have been toted around by a kid yet. She thrust it
at her son.

“Here, Mikey. Take Elmo to Grammy.” The voice, sweet and
girlish, did not match her exterior, but her eyes, like her son’s, had seen the
rough side of life.

Mikey scowled, refusing the toy. “No. That’s not Mo-mo. And
’sides, I’m too old for Elmo anymore.”

“Yes, it is Mo-mo. It’s a better one. Take it to Grammy and
go check on Myka.
Now
.”

He grabbed it by a leg and took off into the darkening
interior, carrying it along without any enthusiasm. She may have won the
battle, but he wasn’t giving up the war. Mo-mo hadn’t won his heart.    

“Can I help you?”

“Karissa Dillard? My name is Letty Whittaker. I’m, um, a
friend of Regina’s.” I tried not to turn the last sentence into a question. I
confess I was a little distracted by the cigarette smell she carried. I rubbed
my patch. It itched. “I’m a therapist, too, and we worked together at the clinic
in town. She appointed me as the executor of her patient files. That means she
wanted me to check in with her clients and make sure they’re all okay.”

As I spoke, Karissa’s face shifted from guarded to scared,
briefly, and settled on pissed. The knuckles on the hand clutching the screen
door whitened, veins popping in her arms with the pressure she exerted. I
half-expected the metal to buckle.

I took a step back, almost solving Karissa’s problem by
falling off the decrepit stairs and breaking my neck. I teetered a little but
kept my balance. Trying to defuse the situation, I lifted my hands, palm out in
the ancient I-carry-no-weapons pose. “It’s okay, Karissa. Nobody knows I’m
here. You’re safe.” Although I wasn’t so sure I was. Now that I thought about
it, perhaps telling her that no one knew I was here wasn’t such a good idea.
Despite her diminutiveness, this woman looked capable of stuffing my dead body
under the trailer and letting some lime and a couple of pine tree air
fresheners hide the deed. Mikey would probably let the new Mo-mo keep me
company.

She stayed tense, her muscles bunched, but she didn’t slam
the door in my face. Yet. Behind her, I saw another person moving swiftly
through the dark interior of the trailer. I braced myself.

A tiny wisp of a woman slid under Karissa’s arm, standing in
front of her like a shield. Not a particularly effective shield, since the top
of her grey head only came to Karissa’s chin, but I had no doubt whom I needed
to fear most. She wore a blue flannel shirt, probably intended for a twelve-year-old
boy, and a pair of psychedelic, tie-dyed pajama bottoms. Funky Grammy. A
gnarled finger thrust up to the tip of my nose, making my eyes cross as I tried
to follow it.

“Who the hell are you? What do you want with my Rissa?”     

“Um. . .”

“Gosh darn it! I’m tired of people thinking they can just
walk all over her!”

Behind her, Karissa laughed, enjoying the show.

“No, no. I’m not,” I said.

“You gosh darn better not be!” She whipped around, tilting
her head back to glare at her granddaughter. “Get in the house, missy. Don’t
just stand here in the doorway letting her push you around. Get inside.”

The puff of wind from the slam of the door blew several
strands of my hair around my face. Stunned, I meekly returned to my car and sat,
trying to figure out what had just happened. Attack-by-grandma had been
remarkably successful. Between the two, I hadn’t stood a chance.

As I looked back at the trailer, I saw a grey head pop up in
a window, every wrinkle in her grizzled face shaped into a mighty frown. I saw
her mouth move silently, behind the glass pane. I didn’t need to be a lip
reader to know what she was saying. The very un-grandma-like middle finger
salute clarified, in case I had any doubts.

I left. But just before I drove away another head appeared
in a window farther down the side of the trailer. Mikey. At least he waved with
all of his fingers.