SUICIDAL SUSPICIONS: A Kate Huntington Mystery (The Kate Huntington Mystery Series Book 8) (20 page)

She gingerly climbed down off the chair and tugged the books off the next lower shelf. A fleeting glimpse of something sliding down behind the books and another thud.

She pulled the books off the next shelf more carefully, one at a time. Wedged behind them was a small book. She reached in and got her fingers on the spine.

Pulling it out, she prayed that it was what she thought it was. She blew the dust off of it and opened the front.

October 10th, continued – The fight with mother was one of the worst we’ve had
…

She flipped through the pages, searching for a year. At the beginning of January, she found it–2008. Yes, this was one of Josie’s earlier journals.

But what had happened to the rest of them? Did the Hartins have them?

She glanced at her watch. She was out of time.

Back in the manager’s office, Kate handed over the key. “Have the Hartins packed up any of their daughter’s things yet?”

He shook his head. “Not that I know of.”

“Has anyone else been around, asking to look at her condo?”

His eyes flicked up and to his right. After a beat, he shook his head again. “Nope.”

Odd. A negative answer shouldn’t have required even that much thought. “But someone was around?” she asked.

He nodded. “I saw somebody in her corridor a few days after she died. They turned away quickly. I don’t even know if they were there to get into her place, or had anything to do with her.”

“Male or female?”

The manager closed his eyes for few seconds, as if calling up the details of the memory in his mind’s eye. “Can’t really say for sure. Could’ve been a woman or a short man. They were all bundled up in a coat and a scarf around the head. Didn’t get much sense of their build and never saw the face.”

Kate thanked him and headed back for her office.

She prayed no traffic cops were hanging out along her route.

.

At the end of the day, she hastily jotted down the phone messages from her voicemail. She’d return the calls later. She spent the next forty-five minutes skimming through the first part of the old journal.

She was about to stop when she turned one more page, and there it was.

November 23rd

I thought I saw him today, the old man I see in my head sometimes. I was walking across the grocery store parking lot. I could only see his profile, but I was sure it was him. Then he turned and it wasn’t him at all. Yeah, he had the scraggly beard, but his face was fuller, and the eyes weren’t right. They were blue, not brown, and softer.

I haven’t had those flashes in a while. I hope they don’t start up again. They’re creepy, and scary. He’s yelling in my face. I can’t remember the exact words, but I’ve apparently done something wrong.

Mother and I had another fight today
…

That was it. Nothing more about the man’s face.

Kate sighed, then glanced at her watch. Time to put all this aside and go home to her own life.

She returned phone calls via her Bluetooth on her way home. How had she ever survived without this gizmo?

One call was in response to an inquiry from a potential new client, referred to her by a colleague. She was relieved when she got his voicemail. Being circumspect in case others in his household had access to his voicemail, she said, “Hi. This is Kate Huntington returning your call. I’m very sorry but I’m not taking on anyone new right now. My schedule is booked solid. Let me know if you need a referral to someone else.”

The booked schedule was a lie. She had two empty time slots this week, one of them the next afternoon. But she had plans for that one, if Sister Michelina called her back by then.

And she wasn’t willing to take on new clients right now.

She’d adjusted somewhat to her new normal and was able to focus okay in sessions. The feeling that she was on the verge of making a mistake had eased some. But she still felt like she was walking on a tightrope with clients.

No, not exactly a tightrope–more like she was walking along the top of a wall. There was room to plant her foot firmly, one in front of the other, but she had to concentrate and be very careful. One misstep and she would plunge off one side or the other.

Her old smooth confidence was gone, and with it most of her enthusiasm for her work.

As she pulled up in front of her house, she mentally slammed the door on thoughts of clients and work. She was going to have a good evening with her family!

~~~~~~~~

Kate’s phone rang as she was driving to her office the next day. The display on the dashboard said
Rob’s cell
.

She answered the call. “Good morning.”

“Good morning to you,” Rob said. “You sound more chipper than you have in a while.”

“Skip keeps reminding me that I have a life. I’m trying to heed that advice.”

“Good, because you’re not going to like what I have to say.”

Dread twisted in her gut. “What?”

“Kathy O’Connor says she’ll be happy to ask the Hartins for the journals, as soon as you hand over their daughter’s records.”

“Crap. She won’t even
ask
them?”

“That’s what she said, but technically she’s supposed to inform them of anything relevant to the case.”

“So she may or may not mention it to them.”

“Yeah.” Rob cleared his throat. “You know, you could probably get away with turning the records over to make this lawsuit go away. Technically, breach of confidentiality is illegal, but it’s a civil matter, not a crime.” His voice was gentle. “The client can’t exactly sue you, and I can write up something for the Hartins to sign promising they won’t either.”

Kate shook her head, even though he couldn’t see her. “Rob, that goes against everything I stand for.” She stopped to swallow the lump forming in her throat. How could she explain? “For lawyers or doctors, confidentiality is a practical, legal matter and/or a privacy issue. For therapists, it’s different, almost sacred. Clients have to be able to trust that what they’re telling us will never, ever be revealed to anyone, and especially not to the very people they are complaining about in therapy. Besides, the Hartins aren’t going to find any answers in my records. They’ll just find more grief.”

“Why do you care if the contents hurt their feelings?”

Kate’s temper flared. She tamped it down. “I’m not doing this to spare the Hartins. It’s my
duty
to protect Josie’s confidentiality. She would be horrified if her parents, especially her mother, knew what she had said in therapy.”

A beat of silence, then Rob said, “I understand.”

“Hey, maybe we could tell them I’m considering settling out of court but I want to meet with them in person first? Then I could ask Mrs. Hartin about the other journals.”

The sound of air being expelled in a sigh. “Maybe.”

Hmm, not exactly enthusiastic, is he?
That ticked her off even more. He was willing to bend the rules and turn over confidential records but objected to some mild trickery to get a chance to even
ask
the Hartins for the journals?

But she didn’t want to fight with Rob. She opted for a more conciliatory approach. “I did find one of the older journals at her condo. Maybe I should look through that first.”

“Yeah. See you tomorrow for lunch?”

“That’s the plan.” She faked a cheerful tone. “See you then.”

“Take care, Kate.”

.

She hadn’t taken the time to pack a lunch that morning so she ran out to a nearby deli to get a sandwich to go. Halfway back to her office she thought to turn on her cell phone, which she left off during sessions.

It immediately beeped, indicating a message. She stopped abruptly in the middle of the sidewalk. Someone ran into the back of her.

“Sorry.” The person ducked their head and hurried past her. She barely glanced up–just got a quick impression of red against black–as she accessed her messages.

An elderly female voice, this one firm and no-nonsense, informed her that she was Sister Michelina Larsen and she had returned from her family visit. Please call her back.

Kate hit redial while crossing the street to her building, but she kept an eye out for speeding cars this time. As the phone rang a second time, she had that creepy, being-watched feeling. She looked around. The sidewalk was teeming with people. No one seemed to be paying any attention to her.

Someone picked up the phone on the other end. After greetings were exchanged, Kate asked for Sister Michelina.

Kate was just inside the door of her building when the same voice from the message said, “Hello.”

“Hello, Sister. My name is Kate…O’Donnell.” She wasn’t real sure why she gave her maiden name. “I attended St. Bartholomew’s as a child. I have some questions about the school, and I was wondering if I could meet with you.”

“It’s been a long time since I was at St. Bartholomew’s.”

“I know, and perhaps you won’t be able to help me, but I’d appreciate a few minutes of your time. Could I come there to see you this afternoon at four-thirty?”

She took the stairs rather than the elevator to her second floor office. She didn’t want to lose the connection.

She was starting to fear that the call had been dropped despite that precaution. Then Sister Michelina said, “I suppose that would be fine. Do you like tea?”

“Yes, Sister, I do.”

“Fine. I’ll see you then.”

Kate pocketed her phone and searched in her purse for her office keys. She glanced down. A piece of white paper stuck partway out from under her outer door.

She crouched down and grabbed its corner. Pulling it out, she stood.

It was half the size of a regular sheet of paper, with writing on it in block letters, all caps.

SOME PEOPLE MIGHT SAY THAT POKING YOUR NOSE WHERE IT DOESN’T BELONG IS A FORM OF SUICIDAL INTENTIONS.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Kate’s knees wobbled. She grabbed for the wall. Her heart raced as her mind flashed to eight years ago, when someone had been sending anonymous notes threatening her baby daughter.

Those notes had also been in block letters, all caps. But the person who’d sent them couldn’t be behind this one, not unless they could send notes from the grave.

Kate fumbled to get her key in the lock. She opened the outer door carefully and was greeted by an empty waiting room. She knew no one was there. The note was meant to scare her off. Its sender probably wouldn’t do anything else yet. Not unless she ignored the note’s message.

Still she searched her office, checking the closets and behind furniture. Nobody lurking behind the loveseat, and nothing seemed to have been disturbed.

Rustling in the waiting room. Her heart jumped into her throat.

Sheez! It’s your client.

She peeked out. “Be with you in a minute,” she said to the woman who was settling into a chair and reaching for a magazine.

Kate closed the door and quickly hit the speed dial number on her phone for Manny.

“Yo, Kate. What’s up?”

“Can you follow me this afternoon? I need to drive over to Essex to interview somebody.”

“Who? They dangerous?”

“No. It’s a nun. But I want to make sure no one is following me.”

And I want you close by, just in case.

“Sure. What time?”

“Come to my office at three-forty. And thanks, Manny.”

“
No problema
.”

~~~~~~~~

Kate and Sister Michelina made small talk in the parlor while they waited for the tea to be served. A somewhat younger nun arrived with a tray. The ceramic teapot and teacups were simple, plain white, but the cookies on a matching white plate looked homemade and were elaborately decorated with swirls of icing.

Sister Michelina thanked the nun, then gestured toward the plate. “Sister Mary Francis loves to bake. Try one. They’re delicious.” She leaned forward to pour the tea.

Kate ate one of the cookies. It was indeed excellent. Her stomach grumbled for more. She reined it in. She wasn’t here to eat cookies.

“Sister, I did go to St. Bartholomew’s as a child, but it was before you were there at the school. The person I’m interested in was Josephine Hartin. She would have been in the first grade a couple years after you started there. Do you remember her?”

“I certainly do.” The nun’s tone was firm but her eyes were wary. “You said
was
. Is Josephine okay?”

“I’m afraid not, Sister. She’s passed away.” Kate hated the euphemism but she couldn’t just blurt out that Josie was murdered. She didn’t want to give the old nun a heart attack.

Sister Michelina closed her eyes and crossed herself.

Of its own volition, Kate’s hand followed suit.

“She would only be in her thirties,” the nun said.

“Yes. She was thirty-one.” Kate took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “She supposedly committed suicide, but I have reason to believe that she was killed.”

Sister Michelina’s expression sagged. “Oh my.” She narrowed her eyes slightly. “Who are you exactly?”

“A friend of hers.” Kate hated lying to a nun, but she couldn’t say she was Josie’s therapist. “I’m looking into her death.”

“Aren’t the police investigating?”

“No. But they will if I can find enough evidence that it was indeed murder.”

Despite the slow build up to the M word, the nun’s eyebrows flew up. She sat back in her chair and ran one hand over her lap, smoothing the skirt of her light blue modified habit. Then she reached for her teacup on the small table next to her chair. It rattled a little in its saucer as she struggled to pick it up.

Age or nerves?
Kate wasn’t sure which. Maybe some of both.

“How can I help you?” Sister Michelina asked.

“Josie left St. Bart’s school in second grade. Do you remember why her parents moved her?”

The sister looked away. “We assumed it was to go to a better school. She transferred to Bryn Mawr, I believe.”

“But it was during the school year, an odd time to make such a change. Did anything happen that precipitated her parents moving her?”