One We Love, The (9 page)

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

I
hated getting
up early on a Saturday, especially when I hadn’t been sleeping well lately, but
I couldn’t miss the board meeting. I almost didn’t bother with business clothes,
but forced myself into a pair of decent slacks and an autumn-colored sweater
when I remembered I was trying to impress people with my professionalism.

While I’d been out prowling, Sue had left a voice mail
telling me she’d tracked down the board member, Beth Collier, and filled her in
on my situation. She said Beth had been receptive, but couldn’t promise
anything until after she’d met me and heard the shelter’s concerns.

Great. An ethical alcoholic. Why did I have to keep tripping
over all these ethical people these days? I wished I’d had a chance to talk to
her myself. Living an honest, sober life sure made navigating problems a lot
trickier. Took more energy, too.

On the flip side, I wasn’t waking up with sweaty jitters and
puking my way across town to the meeting. Pros and cons to everything, I
guessed.

The board met in the group therapy room. Based on the varied
appearance of the members I could have worn whatever I pleased. There were six
of them—an even split of three men, three women. Two of the men, crisply
suited, looked as though they were hustling back to the office as soon as they
could wrap things up here. The third, however, wore baggy shorts, an
eye-jarring Hawaiian shirt, and leather thong sandals. His thinning hair was
pulled back in a grey braid as thin as my pinky.

The women had taken the middle road, casual, although there
were wide differences in the amount of money each seemed willing to spend on
achieving that effect.

 I recognized Beth from the newsletter photo. Stylish,
auburn-haired, and decked out in a trendy, boucle jacket, she winked at me as I
came in. I smiled back.

Clotilde and Lachlyn were already seated. Just for giggles, I
tried picturing Lachlyn as a nun, mentally cloaking her in the habit she’d been
wearing in the newspaper photo. The effort made my head spin.

Astrid trotted in, balancing a tray of fresh baked cookies,
a fistful of yellow pencils, and a stack of papers clamped under her armpit. The
papers started an ominous slide, forcing Astrid into a strange contortion as
she tried to clamp harder while not losing any cookies. I hurried over and
rescued the papers just as they slithered free. Beth saved the cookie tray, and
between the three of us, we managed to get the supplies over to a side table
where a large coffee urn bubbled darkly.

“Let’s get started,” Clotilde announced over the top of
Astrid’s expressions of gratitude. I took my seat as Clotilde ran through quick
introductions. Since I’d perused the shelter newsletter, I was familiar with
the names and only had to match them to the faces. Sean Benson, the lawyer,
caught my attention first of all, because I assumed he’d have the most say in
my situation. He was, of course, one of the besuited gents. He was also really
hot in an I’m-a-power-hungry-stud kind of way. The other suit, Steve Riccio,
was the shelter treasurer and a professional accountant. He handed me his card.
The aging hippy was Dr. Brian Feldman. “Retired,” he clarified as he shook my
hand. Soft, limp grip, but a friendly smile. I’d already pegged Beth. She was
the wealthiest looking alcoholic I’d ever seen. Despite that, she appeared
down-to-earth, and just as friendly as Dr. Brian. The second woman, Amy Myers,
looked crisp and professional and slightly irritated at the delay. Her bright
smile surprised me, though and I decided I was projecting. Last of all was
Joyce Trent, a former shelter resident turned employee, who sat on the board as
a resident representative. Months ago, when Regina had first brought me, I’d
heard whispers about Joyce’s past. She towered over me by a good four inches
and embraced the no-makeup look of the shelter women. She also looked like she
could bench press a small cow.

“I need to bring up one item before we go over Regina’s case
load,” Joyce said. “I need the board’s approval for a Buddy tracker on one of
our kids. There is—”

“What’s a Buddy tracker?” I asked. Okay, it had nothing to
do with me, but hey, I was curious.

Joyce went mute, letting Clotilde answer. “It’s a GPS
tracking device. We use them in extreme situations when we fear a parent might
abscond with a child. It needs board approval.”

“There is a restraining order in place between the father
and mother,” Clotilde continued, “but the court has allowed supervised
visitation. Dad has already tried picking the boy up at daycare, so we can see
how well he respects court orders. The boy is only three and a half years old
and can’t be expected to refuse a surprise visit from Daddy, even if he’s seen
the man beating his mother once a week for the last two years. He has a teddy
bear that we can plant the Buddy in.”

Lachlyn sighed. “I wish we could home school every one of
them. It’s ridiculous that their lives are in such danger and we blithely send
them out to school or daycare while we sit back and pretend their fathers can’t
get to them.”

Beth spoke up. “Well, we can’t isolate them forever,
Lachlyn.”

“Why not?” Lachlyn smiled ruefully.

“If it’s okay with the board, I’ll get you the Buddy tracker
this afternoon, Joyce,” Astrid said.

After the board approved the motion, Clotilde broached my
role as Regina’s professional executor. Astrid passed around copies of Regina’s
arrangements, although I noted that Sean Benson, the lawyer, already had one. Feldman
and Beth both asked him a few questions clarifying what a professional
executor’s role was. His answers meshed with what I’d learned, so I didn’t
interrupt.

“So, what do you need from us?” Beth finally turned to Clotilde.
Her forthrightness verged on abruptness, but she softened it with a smile.
Riccio nodded at her question, glancing at his watch. Time was money and apparently
he needed to go count it.

“We need to know just how far this document reaches,” Clotilde
answered. “Are we talking about Regina’s case load at the time of the accident?
Or is this more far-reaching? I’m particularly concerned that Regina’s unusual choice
. . . ” she turned to me with an aside. “No offense.”

“None taken,” I lied.

“Regina’s choice is an outsider. Someone completely
unfamiliar with shelter policies and practices, which, of course, could be
dangerous to our clients.”

“Regina must have felt a high level of confidence in Ms.
Whittaker,” Beth countered. “Are there problems with her qualifications?”

“No,” Clotilde answered almost reluctantly. I could tell
that she had researched that end carefully.

Feldman entered the fray. “Maybe not, but Clo has a valid
point. Our clients are in a precarious position. We can’t allow anything to
jeopardize that or even increase their sense of vulnerability. They have enough
against them. I’m against anything that risks that. Why can’t one of you follow
up with Regina’s clients?”

   Time for me to jump in. “Because that goes against Regina’s
expressed wishes. My understanding is that this document is legal and binding. Assigning
a professional executor is a practice that the American Psychological Association
strongly favors, and its practice is specifically addressed in the Code of
Ethics.” Damn, I sounded good. And pulling the APA’s Code of Ethics was an
especially nice touch, I thought. It had the added sweetness of being the
truth, too.

After a brief pause, Benson asked, “What is the current arrangement?”

“We’ve allowed Ms. Whittaker access to the files of Regina’s
open client roster. Lachlyn has been supervising her during the file review. As
far as actual therapy, Lachlyn and I have divided the case load in the interim
and are providing group therapy.”

Joyce asked her second question of the meeting. “Isn’t that
a strain? You’re both so busy already.” Although she’d obviously meant well and
had displayed a reasonable concern for the director and Lachlyn, they both
frowned at her, not wanting to admit to the burden.

Joyce dropped her eyes to the floor.

“That’s a valid point,” Beth jumped in. Her eyes had
narrowed slightly and, legs crossed, the topmost foot jiggled in midair with
irritation. “I really don’t understand what the problem is. We’ve granted that
Whittaker’s credentials are legitimate, we’ve acknowledged Regina’s professional
discretion in choosing her executor, and we’ve also acknowledged the legal and
ethical realities of the situation. My feeling is that we need to allow Letty to
get on with her obligations. I’m sure she has plenty of other things going on
in her life that she could be attending to.”

A long, stiff pause ensued as the others grappled with
Beth’s blunt summary. I liked her. As long as she was on my side, that is.

“It looks like much of this has already been worked out,”
Amy Myers spoke up for the first time. “May I suggest that as Ms. Whittaker
finishes reviewing the files, she’ll let our people know if she has any
immediate concerns for any particular resident’s well-being. It doesn’t make
sense to transfer the women back to yet another therapist, though, does it?”

She was right and I told them so. “However, I’m not
comfortable with limiting the review to the few clients Regina was working with
when she died. Given the frequency of women returning to the shelter in the
first three years, it would make sense for my review to extend that far back.”

I knew that newsletter would come in handy. They would find
it very difficult to argue with the results of a national study that their own
newsletter had cited.

Another pause. Then, Clotilde rallied. “Three years is entirely
unnecessary. For one thing, we don’t have the staff to supervise for as long it
would take you to get through that many clients.”
“I’m not clear on why you think I need to be supervised anyway,” I interrupted.
“I don’t want to take Lachlyn away from her duties any more than she does. In
fact, it makes it difficult for both of us to have to coordinate our schedules.
It also makes for a very scattered approach on a task that I could already have
finished by now. For instance, my duties at our clinic are very nearly wrapped
up.”

“Maybe so, but the shelter has vastly different concerns
than does a clinic,” Benson said. “We will certainly comply with Regina’s
wishes, but it will be done in keeping with the shelter’s policies and with our
residents’ best interests uppermost.”

That sounded very lawyerly to me. Very cover-my-butt and
you’re not-getting-what-you-want, as well.

“So, how far back are we willing to let her go?” Beth chimed
back in. “And what safety measures will Letty need to follow?”

“Three months,” Benson said. “Lachlyn supervises a file
review of Regina’s clients going back three months. No contact with any of those
residents unless you have a specific, defined reason for approaching her, and
you’ll be required to have written approval from Clotilde beforehand.”

Clotilde kept up the facade of reasonableness that she’d
erected. Her lips thinned slightly when Benson announced the time period, but
no other emotion snuck through. Apparently, even a measly three months galled
her. Lachlyn, on the other hand, shook her head, refusing to look at me. I bet if
I mentioned that I’d already tracked down Karissa and her kids, I’d get her
attention. And not the positive kind, either.

“The board will expect a report on your progress at the next
board meeting,” Benson concluded. “When is that?” He looked at Astrid, who had
been taking notes.

“October 3rd,” she answered briskly. “At 9:00 a.m.”

“There you go,” Benson said. “Any questions?”

“I second it,” from Riccio.

The meeting wrapped up quickly, Beth tossing me a discreet
wink as she left. Nobody else said a word to me, although I heard the buzz of conversation
as soon as they cleared the doorway.

The room emptied, leaving Astrid and me. She had gathered
all her papers and was moving efficiently around the room tidying up. I debated
helping, but realized I’d just have time to make the Saturday morning meeting
at the club if I hurried.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

I
was glad I made
the effort to get to a meeting. Sue was there, so I was able to tell her about
the board meeting.

“You got more out of them than I expected,” Sue said.

“Not really. It’s all paperwork. They gave in just enough to
say they complied, but that’s all. My impression was that the lawyer wasn’t
confident that they could just ignore Regina’s will. But they were adamant that
I not have any contact with the nonresident clients. And since they’ve divided
the current residents between Clotilde and Lachlyn, it doesn’t look like I’ll
have any face-to-face time with any of them, either. They have to be feeling
pretty stretched. From what I can tell, Clotilde’s main duties before this were
community outreach and fundraising while Lachlyn managed the day-to-day stuff.
You can’t keep a facility like that running without a constant inflow of money,
and that takes personal attention. Lots of it.”

“What exactly are you looking for, Letty? Is this just a
power struggle or do you have a definite goal in mind?”

Good question. Before I could answer, a familiar voice
hooted a greeting to me from across the room. “Hey, Letty! Hey!”

Tall and gangly with a sheaf of blond hair, Paul still
looked like a corn stalk, but since getting sober he’d filled out a bi. The
added confidence of belonging somewhere had also calmed his twitchiness
somewhat. I had gotten skilled at sidestepping his attempts to ask me out, but
it was a constant balancing act between salvaging his feelings and not getting
hooked into a date. Unfortunately for me, Paul had displayed unswerving loyalty
and even a burst of self-sacrificing courage during that horrible period of my
life. Whether I liked it or not, I owed him. Besides, he was such a vulnerable,
social misfit that I couldn’t bear to do anything that might hurt him
regardless of how uncomfortable I felt with his fawning.

Paul took a lot of energy.

After the meeting, not wanting an encounter of the
Paul-kind, I scooted out of the club as quickly as I could. This might be a
good time to return to the shelter. The board members had scattered immediately
after their meeting and I’d watched Clotilde drive away as well. That left
Lachlyn, but if she was there perhaps she’d let me get started on the files.

No surprise, none of the administrative staff had hung
around. Joyce, however, was still there, scrubbing out the stove in the
communal kitchen, but she wouldn’t relinquish any of the files without Lachlyn
being present. Couldn’t blame her really.

I wanted access to the resident side of the building, hoping
I could maybe talk to a few of the women without Lachlyn breathing down my
neck. “Would you mind if I explored the shelter a bit?”

She paused so long I thought she was ignoring me. “You can’t
go on the residents’ side. If you really want to help, you can go upstairs and
get some blankets,” Joyce finally answered. “A new girl came in this morning.
First room on the left at the top of the stairs.” She pointed down the hall in
the general direction of the therapy offices.

There weren’t too many rooms on the administrative side that
I hadn’t been in. The one area that I had no reason to enter, and frankly, hd no
desire to, was the upper story. I knew I
should
examine the stairs and
what lay beyond. I just didn’t want to. I got the feeling Joyce’s request was
inspired by her own desire to avoid the site of Regina’s death. She stared at
me, stone-faced, awaiting my decision.

The door leading to the stairwell was next to Clotilde’s
office. In all the times I’d been here, I’d never seen anyone go upstairs.

Holding my breath, I made it past the spot where Regina’s
body had been found. I promised myself that if I caught even one whiff of Regina’s
fancy perfume, I’d haul ass out of the shelter and
never
come back, pushy
ghost bitch or not.

They were steep, too, those stairs. My foot barely fit on
the tread, so I had to go up angled sideways. They shot straight up like a
ladder into the darkness above. Apparently back when the house had been built,
people had had teensy, tiny feet and strong-like-bull thigh muscles. Three-quarters
of the way up, they took a hard right.

Stars danced in front of my eyes by the time I reached the
top. I told myself it was from holding my breath, but the button of my slacks
digging into my belly argued a different cause.

Spooked and in active button-denial, I turned into the first
room I came to. Somebody had decided that this was the room where furniture
came to die. A jumble of mismatched wooden chairs had been shoved against the
far corner, their legs entwined incestuously. An ancient,
too-cheap-to-be-antique bureau squatted, gap-toothed, against the wall, several
drawers missing and a pile of chipped ceramic planter pots stacked haphazardly
across its surface.

Dust thickened the air, dulling individual color into a
homogenous skin over the objects. Even the wall paint and window curtains had
aged to a tired taupe.

Made it hard to breath, too. Cupping my hand over my face, I
glanced around for blankets, even though the state of the room made it an
unlikely place to store linens. A space had been cleared in front of the closet
door, however..

I cracked the door open and peered into the darkness. It was
a deep closet, not quite a walk-in but deep nonetheless. Files cabinets lined
the back, five across. Dust coated most of their surfaces, except on three cabinets
where recent finger marks had left clear swathes. I pulled open a drawer on the
closest and, unsurprisingly, found it stuffed with manila files, jammed so
tightly I couldn’t fit a finger between them. The second drawer down showed a
disturbance. A section  of files jutted up, an obvious irregularity.

These must be the shelter’s archives, although they couldn’t
possibly hold all the files since the shelter first opened. Maybe those had
been recycled. Agencies only had to hold on to their files for a certain number
of years—seven, I thought. I performed a hurried check to see if the disturbed
areas matched the files Regina had appropriated.

They did.