SUICIDAL SUSPICIONS: A Kate Huntington Mystery (The Kate Huntington Mystery Series Book 8) (6 page)

An exaggerated throat clearing from the direction of the kitchen doorway.

They looked up. Maria was standing there, trying to look stern and failing miserably. “Dinner ees getting cold, you two.”

Kate jumped up. “Let’s eat. I’m starved.” As if to prove the point, her stomach grumbled loudly.

Skip followed her into the kitchen. He was still pretty sure that her client had committed suicide. But if the belief that she hadn’t was bringing Kate out of her slump, he wasn’t about to argue.

~~~~~~~~

On her way to work on Tuesday, Kate called both Josie’s psychiatrist and her regular doctor. She didn’t get through to either of them, which was no surprise. She left messages asking if they had prescribed clonazepam for Josie.

With a few minutes to spare before her first client, she did some quick research in her reference books on drug interactions and side effects. Her suspicions were confirmed. Clonazepam was a powerful and addictive benzodiazepine, used for seizures and panic disorder. It would not have mixed well with the other meds Josie was taking. One of her doctors might have prescribe it to replace her Xanax, except for the fact that it would have interacted negatively with the mood stabilizer she was on. Kate was quite sure neither doctor would take her off of her mood medication.

She was about to close the reference book when the word
suicide
caught her eye.

Holy crap!
One of the possible side effects of clonazepam was increased risk of suicidal ideation.

It was highly unlikely then that either of her doctors would have given her that prescription. Had she gone doctor shopping, expressly to get some additional meds in case she decided to kill herself? Kate found that hard to believe.

But there was a suicide note.

Had Josie gone to a new doctor who prescribed the clonazepam without asking about other drugs she was on? Also unlikely.

But if a doctor had been that careless, the clonazepam might have triggered suicidal impulses. Still, she would
not
have left the dog in his crate like that.

Arrghh!

Kate took a deep breath and mentally shoved Josie’s case aside. Time to focus on her living clients.

.

At lunchtime, there were messages from both doctors confirming what Kate had surmised. Neither had prescribed the clonazepam.

Next step was to talk to Father Phelps. She called her childhood parish in Parkville, one community over from Towson, on the outskirts of Baltimore City.

“St. Batholomew’s Catholic Church. How may I help you?” The voice was female and elderly–probably one of the legion of retiree volunteers who took turns manning the front desk in the office.

Kate asked for an appointment to see Father Samuel Phelps and was relieved when she was able to get one for the next day at twelve-fifteen.

Then she called Rob. It went straight to voicemail, which meant he was either in a meeting or in court.

“Hey, I can’t make lunch tomorrow, but I do want to touch base with you about my client’s parents. I could do lunch on Friday if you’re free then. Call me. And sorry about bailing on you for tomorrow but something’s come up that I need to check out.”

As she disconnected, a shiver ran through her. The end of that message was reminiscent of the last one she had gotten from Josie–the one she now wished she hadn’t erased.

CHAPTER FIVE

Kate arrived early for her appointment with the priest and decided to look around the church for a few minutes, for old times’ sake.

The cavernous sanctuary smelled of furniture polish and candle wax, with a hint of incense. Off to the left, a middle-aged woman lovingly polished the pews. She returned Kate’s nod of greeting without missing a beat in the smooth motions of her cloth over the already lustrous wood.

The stained-glass windows were even more beautiful than Kate had remembered them. Of course a child, and then rebellious teen, would not have appreciated them as she could now. She made a slow circuit of the outside aisles, staring open-mouthed at each richly-colored scene from the scriptures.

She stopped at the rows of mostly unlit votive candles near the altar. Some flickered with a soft flame. A few sputtered as they burned low.

A strange mix of peace and mild anxiety grew in her chest. Her fingers fumbled a bit as she struck a match and lit a candle for Josie. Her childhood religion had both comforted and confused her. In adolescence, the confusion had briefly turned to disdain.

As a young adult, she’d described herself as a lapsed Catholic. She and Eddie Huntington had sporadically attended the Episcopal parish where they had been married. Eddie had loved the old joke:
Catholic Light, same rituals, half the guilt.

Kate smiled to herself.

Now she and Skip belonged to that same Episcopal parish. They’d started attending to give their kids a religious base but had become members mainly because of the current priest.

“Katie O’Donnell. How the heck are you?” rang out through the church, startling her out of her reverie.

She turned and smiled at the elderly priest hobbling toward her, leaning heavily on a brass-headed cane. “Father Sam!” The name the children had always called him popped out.

He motioned for her to come to him and held out his arms.

She willingly stepped into them and returned his hearty hug.

Then he took her by the shoulders, his forgotten cane clattering to the floor. “Lemme get a look at you, girl. Why you haven’t aged a bit, still as pretty as a picture.”

Kate let out a small snort. “Don’t you know it’s a sin to lie, Father?”

Age had not been kind to the priest’s appearance. The thick silver hair she remembered from her youth had been reduced to wisps of white fuzz. His skin was leathery and craggy with deep wrinkles.

What did I expect? He was middle-aged when I was a teenager.

 But above those weathered cheeks, his eyes still sparkled with the same
joie de vivre
Kate had always admired.

“You want to talk here or in my office?” He gestured with his right hand toward the pews, then looked at the empty hand, confusion on his face.

Kate bit back a laugh as she reached down and scooped up his cane.

“Oh, there it is. The confounded thing is always falling down on the job.” He chuckled at his own joke.

Kate laughed out loud. She’d forgotten how delightful the man could be.

Then her mood sobered as she remembered the reason for her visit. “In your office would be better.”

His expression grew serious as well. “Of course.” He turned and led the way.

When they reached the doors leading from the sanctuary to the church offices, Kate had to fight the temptation to jump in front of the old man and hold the door for him. He would be offended. She tried to look nonchalant as he fumbled his cane into his other hand, then pulled on the door handle. The heavy, carved door submitted slowly to his efforts.

Finally he had it open and stepped back so she could precede him into the hallway beyond.

As they walked past a secretary’s desk, the forty-something woman behind it asked, “Would you like some tea, Father?”

“Yes, please. That would be excellent.”

“And for you, Mrs. Huntington?”

“Sounds wonderful.”

“I’ll bring it in a minute.”

They settled in Father Sam’s cluttered office, on either side of a large mahogany desk. The visitor’s chair was a leather wing chair, in a rich shade of burgundy. The room smelled of old books.

“Huntington. Yes, it’s coming back to me. You married that Protestant boy.”

Kate smiled. “Yes, but he died. I’m re–”

“Of course, how could I forget. Your parents stopped by to see me when they were in town for the funeral. A terrible thing. He must have been a good man. Your parents were very fond of him.”

Kate’s chest ached for a moment with the old pain. “It was a horrible time, and I still miss him sometimes. But I’m remarried now, and quite happy.”

“But you’re using the first husband’s name?”

“It’s complicated.” She decided she might as well explain, since she wasn’t bringing up Josie Hartin until after their tea arrived. “I still use Huntington professionally, since I’d already established my reputation as a psychotherapist under that name. Elsewhere I go by Kate Canfield.”

“So this is a professional visit.”

Kate hid a smile. The old priest might have a spotty memory, but otherwise his mind was still quite sharp.

“Yes, and it’s a little… I’m not sure what to call it… difficult, awkward? Because of the confidentiality. One of your parishioners was my client. From my end, I’d like to ask that this discussion have the seal of the confessional, so that I can tell you some things in confidence.”

Something had clicked in the old man’s eyes. They turned troubled. “Josephine Hartin.”

“Yes, Father.”

A light rap on the door. “Come in,” Father Sam called out.

The secretary entered, carrying a small tray with two steaming cups and a sugar bowl. She made no effort to clear a spot on the desk, just put it down on top of the clutter. “Do you want cream, Mrs. Huntington? I can get some from the rectory.”

“No, no.” Kate reached for one of the cups. “This is fine.”

“Thank you, Julie,” the priest said as he leaned forward to doctor his tea with a heavy dose of sugar.

“Thanks,” Kate echoed.

They both sat in silence until the door had closed behind the woman.

“Father Phelps, I have to get back to my office in a little while, so I’ll cut to the chase.”

The priest’s brow furrowed. “I’d prefer you call me Father Sam. Father Phelps sounds so stuffy.”

Kate chuckled softly, then leaned forward in her chair. “Look, I know there’s a limit to what you can tell me, but I don’t believe Josie killed herself. I think she was murdered.”

A chill ran through her at the sound of her own words in her ears. It was the first time she had said
murdered
out loud in reference to Josie. It brought home the enormity of what she now suspected had happened.

Father Sam’s eyes had gone wide. “Who would want to kill Josie?”

“That is the big question, but first let me address why I think it wasn’t suicide. I’ll tell you what I can, and then you let me know if there’s anything you feel comfortable adding. And again, please keep this confidential. You can’t even share it with her family.”

“I understand, Katie.”

She took a deep breath. “Josie was doing really well. The day before she was found, which may have been the day she died, she left a cheerful message on my voicemail. So it totally blew me away when I found out she was dead. My husband’s a private detective. He has contacts with the police. He found out that it was deemed a suicide. But he also told me that her dog was locked in his crate and was near death by the time the body was found.”

Father Sam winced. “That doesn’t sound like Josie.”

“That absolutely is not her. She would never do that to a dog, especially not her own.”

“She might not have thought it through. Just assumed someone would find her right away.”

“Maybe, but there’s something else. One of the almost empty pill bottles they found in her apartment was for a drug that would have interacted negatively with her other meds. I checked. Neither her psychiatrist nor her regular doctor prescribed it.”

The priest rubbed his chin. “Would this drug, mixed with the others, could that have killed her accidentally?”

“Not likely. She would have to intentionally take way too much of each. The interaction tends to build up over time with normal doses, and it was a new prescription, recently filled.”

Father Sam blew out air and sat back, his tea forgotten.

“Had you seen Josie recently?” Kate asked.

He nodded. “She only comes to church now and again. But she did come to see me a few weeks ago. I can’t remember exactly when, but I can find out.”

“Would that discussion be considered a confession?”

He squirmed in his desk chair, then sat up straighter. “No, not really. But I consider all meetings with parishioners about their personal matters as pastoral counseling sessions, so the same rules apply for them as they do for you.”

He stared at the ceiling above her head for a moment. “I think I can share some things with you. And I too would like you to keep what I say confidential.”

Kate nodded.

“She wasn’t in a good place when she came to see me. She was having some disturbing dreams and she wasn’t real sure what to do about them.”

Kate’s stomach churned. Why would Josie tell Father Sam about the dreams and not her therapist?

“I knew she was in therapy,” the priest said, “but I hadn’t realized you were her therapist. I asked her if she had told her therapist and she said no, that it wasn’t safe. I asked her what she meant by that, and she couldn’t seem to explain it. She said she just felt terrified at the thought of telling anyone about what happens in the dreams.”

“Did she tell you?”

“No. She started to, said they were dark and shadowy. Then she got really nervous and practically bolted out of here.”

Kate sat back against the stiff leather of her chair. “What the hell does that mean?” She winced internally when she realized she’d let the
hell
slip out.

But Father Sam didn’t react to it. “I have no idea. I’ve been trying to figure it out myself, ever since she died.” He paused, took a deep breath and then let it out. “You realize I can’t bury her in sacred ground as a suicide?”

“That was the first thing that made me wonder about her death,” Kate said. “She may not have gone to church regularly, but she was still Catholic enough to believe that suicide is a mortal sin.”

That and sheer stubbornness had kept Josie from going that far in the past. She’d often said that she wasn’t willing to let her bipolar disorder win. But maybe the fight had gotten to be too much.

Still there was the dog issue. But Father Sam had made a good point. Maybe she’d assumed she’d be found sooner. Did she have an appointment with someone to come to her place?