The Blue Journal (45 page)

“I do understand,” Walker told her.

Linda nodded. “Elizabeth was . . . she was a special person. For all of her faults, for all of the pain she inflicted on people, she was something different.” She sighed. “After a while—and it wasn't a long affair, you see—after a while I came to understand that all of her tenderness, all of the caring, all of the love, it was just pretense. She preyed upon my weaknesses, the lack of passion in my marriage, my inability to have children. I knew Robert had affairs, and I told her about them. Actually, I told her about everything. She was good at what she did, believe me. She was extremely good at drawing me out, at encouraging intimacy. For a while, even after I suspected it was some sort for game for her, I was still willing to, uh, to be with her for the way she made me feel. But when I discovered she was also seeing Robert . . .” She puffed on the cigarette again. “Can you have any idea how that felt, any idea of that pain? I was already wracked with guilt for having an affair with a woman and for betraying my marriage. Then I learned she was fucking my husband. Don't you see? This was a woman I thought I loved.”

She appeared to have run out of steam for the moment, so Walker asked, “How did you learn she was seeing your husband?”

Linda paused for a moment, then let out a bitter laugh. “She told me. Can you believe it? I had reached a point where I couldn't deceive myself anymore about who she was, and I think she realized that. So she told me about Robert, and I finally saw that she was hell-bent on destroying us both, although I'll never really know why. She was just evil, I suppose, simple as that.” She paused again, remembering, and this time Walker remained silent. “It was an impossible situation. There was no escape.” She took a long drag of the cigarette. “I cannot count the days and nights I spent searching for an answer. Robert would be at work, or at meetings. Or with her. I would sit alone in the dark, trying to find a solution. Wondering if there was someone I could ask for help. Berating myself for having gotten into this pathetic mess. Looking for a way out. But it was clear. I knew our lives would be ruined. Our reputations. Robert's career.”

“Did you ever confront her about it?”

Linda managed a sad smile. “Of course. And she laughed in my face. Told me I was weak and deluded and privileged. She called me pathetic. One of her favorite words, by the way. It was awful. This . . . this person I'd trusted, I'd shared everything with. It was sickening. I wanted to choke her then and there, but instead I just walked out, still trying to find a solution, realizing it all came back to the same choices. I had to kill her. Or Robert. Or myself.”

Stratford let out an audible gasp, before saying, “Linda, my God . . .” but his wife gave him a look that brought him up short.

“She was a hideous individual,” Linda said to Walker. “Actually,
hideous
is not nearly strong enough to describe her. But even so, the choice was not easy.” She took another puff of her cigarette and let out the smoke. “Sometimes, when I wake up in the middle of the night thinking about everything, I fear I made the wrong choice.” As Officer Kovacevic took her by the arm and led her toward the front door, Linda Stratford turned back to look at her husband. “Some nights, I think I should have killed you instead.”

CHAPTER 60

Walker's bluff had worked. When he called the State Troopers, they told him they had found nothing in the car, not a shred of evidence. Still, he never told the Stratfords they had, he had not lied to the suspect. All he did was suggest the possibility, creating the predicate for her to tell the truth.

Elizabeth Knoebel had not really kept a record of her assignations, no appointment book, nothing. Walker never even telephoned Chief Gill, never bothered to share his suspicions with him. Instead he relied on his instincts, called Kovacevic for backup, then took a run at Linda Stratford. Once he figured out that she was Elizabeth's Celia, he knew that she would tell him everything, that she actually wanted to come clean.

It was just as Linda had said about him. Somehow, Walker simply understood.

One of the ironies of the confession given by Mrs. Stratford was that her husband was never implicated in any way. To the contrary, he became a tragic figure, someone worthy of empathy. A victim of the distorted relationship between two unbalanced women. Even his political career might survive.

Phyllis Wentworth was obviously relieved to have her husband vindicated. As a bonus, she now owned the rights to a wrongful death claim against a wealthy woman who had admitted enough to ensure Phyllis a wealthy dotage.

One of the nicer by-products of the recent tragedies was the Averys' reconciliation. After Joan's call to Mitchell on the day Fred Wentworth died, he raced back to Connecticut and the two of them spent the remainder of the day together. And the night. They discussed Elizabeth Knoebel, Fred Wentworth and, more important to them, their children, their relationship, their past, their present and their future. Joan and the children moved back home the next day, filling their closets with the clothing she had hidden in the cedar storage room in the attic. Leave it to Mitchell to not even check there.

As Professor Rubenfeld often told Randi, the best course of therapy is often the one you don't plan.

Paul and Lisa Gorman had a beautiful wildflower arrangement delivered to Phyllis Wentworth along with their heartfelt condolences. They also sent a card to Randi expressing their appreciation for everything she had done for them and telling her that, for now, they would not be seeing her again.

Fran Colello sent a handwritten letter to Randi. She said that she was sorry for the Wentworths. She also appreciated everything the therapist had tried to do for her. And, she wrote, she was filing for a divorce.

Finally, Walker went to see Dr. Stanley Knoebel to tell him everything the police now knew about his wife's death. Knoebel conducted himself with his usual formality, but at the end of the interview he handed Walker an envelope and asked Walker to deliver it to Randi Conway.

Apparently everyone in town now knew about the police detective and the therapist.

The envelope contained a short note written on an embossed card. It read, “Dear Dr. Conway, Whatever you may have thought of us, our marriage and our lives, I need to say that we thank you for trying.” It was signed Stanley Knoebel, the first time he had ever used his first name with her.

All that was left then, was for Walker to close his file on the Elizabeth Knoebel murder. As he sat at his desk he needed to have one last look at who this woman really was, someone who could inspire so many people to engage in so many acts of deceit, stupidity and even murder. Before he placed the printed manuscript, along with the computer disk, into the evidence box, he turned to the final entry in her diary and read.

SEXUAL RITES
By Elizabeth Knoebel
NOTES FOR FINAL CHAPTER
What Every Woman Needs

I can recall a time when I was young, yet not so very young. I remember him, how he was also young, how he was trim and muscular and how I thought him handsome. His legs were long and agile, his arms sinewy and strong. He was ardent and I was willing, and we enjoyed the fever of our age. And we believed we were in love.

I cannot recall exactly how it was the first time we were together, but I remember that we were in the woods, not far from my home. I can still picture the large trees with their green leaves providing us shelter, hiding us from view. I can still feel the warmth of the rays of sunlight that traveled their broken path through the foliage, finding us on the soft floor of the forest. I can still envision us, naive and awkward in our nakedness, and so very eager to share our passion.

We made love together many times after that first day. Each time, when we were done, he would hold me. Sometimes we would kiss, or he would have me lay my head on his chest as he gently stroked my hair. Sometimes we would speak in a soft whisper. Sometimes we would say nothing at all. Sometimes we would doze off, sleepy in the aftermath of passion.

We knew so little then, except how we felt. I can actually recall how we felt. I can also remember how he held me.

He was young and I was young, as I have said. I have had many lovers since, all of them more worldly. But not one of them has ever made me feel wanted and needed and loved the way he did, both during and after our lovemaking. Not one of them has ever held me the way he did, after desire released us from its convulsive grip, after he had been satisfied, when it would have been easy for him to find a reason on those sunny summer afternoons to go away.

But he always made me feel that there was no place better for him to rush off to, no reason to leave. He made me feel that there was nothing else in the world more important to him than I was at that moment. Whether that was true or not I did not know, not then and not now. The only thing that mattered was how I felt, and how I feel about it even today.

I can still see his face as it was then, and I wonder where he is now. I hope that his ability to feel love did not fade with his youth as mine has done. I wonder, if he were to hold me in his arms today, would I feel the same way I did then? I wonder, would he find a reason to leave too soon, or would he still understand what I need, just as he seemed to understand then?

I want to believe that he would, that he would hold me the same way, and that we could feel what we felt then. But there is a sad aching in my heart, a fear that tells me it would not be.

Even so, even with all that I have learned and experienced, even after seeing men and women in the harshest light, even in the face of that, all I want is to experience once more what I felt on those summer afternoons when we lay together amidst the trees, when making love was so much simpler. When life was so much simpler.

When he finished, Walker slid the pages into the brown envelope, dropped the envelope in the box, sealed it for shipment and marked it for transfer to the oblivion of closed files and forgotten lives.

About the Author

L. T. Graham is the pen name of a New England–based suspense writer who is the author of several novels. Graham is currently at work on the next Detective Anthony Walker novel.