To the Grave (11 page)

She entered the room with its expanse of restful tan carpet and contemporary armchair and couch upholstered in matching vanilla and light brown tweed. A maple coffee table sat in front of the couch and an end table by the chair. Her large maple desk faced the sitting area and sat out from the wall bearing two long windows set six feet apart. Between the windows hung a large print of Renoir's
Boating on the Seine
with its vivid blue sun-dappled water and two passengers sitting in an orange-gold canoe.

A fifteen-inch-tall gilded porcelain temple jar adorned with delicately painted green vines and pink, blue, and white flowers sat toward the right side of the credenza behind her desk. Ian Blakethorne had dropped by week before last and presented her with the jar for her newly decorated office. She'd protested that the gift was far too extravagant, but he had insisted she accept it and she couldn't say no without insulting him. Besides, she loved the jar. She also loved Ian, who in his young life had gone through so much with such grace.

The two had formed a bond years ago when he'd spent weeks in the rehabilitation center of the hospital after he'd been in the car wreck that killed his mother and nearly took his life, too. That summer Catherine had been sixteen and a volunteer in the rehab unit at the hospital where her father was a surgeon. She'd taken a special interest in the ten-year-old boy who'd bravely suffered through the pain of recovery. Catherine had spent hours reading to him, watching television with him, and teaching him chess. They'd maintained a friendship ever since, in spite of the age difference and all the time Catherine had spent in California.

Now Catherine glanced at her tidy desk, adorned with only a desk pad, a gold pen set, and the tall milk-glass vase that held the dozen long-stemmed coral pink roses James sent every Monday. Then she retrieved the files of her morning patients.

At precisely 9:01, Catherine's first patient seemed to blow through the front door, slamming it behind her and demanding, “Is Dr. Gray here yet? I really need to see her
fast.
”

“Of course Dr. Gray is here, Mrs. Tate,” Beth answered in a pleasant voice. “She's always early.”

Catherine walked to her open office door and looked at the woman standing in the middle of the waiting room, her wrinkled beige raincoat buttoned unevenly as she flung raindrops off her large, partially open umbrella. Beth said, “I'll take that for you,” as droplets of water hit her desk. The patient clung to it, and for a moment Catherine thought Mrs. Tate and Beth might battle over the contraption. The woman finally released it when Catherine diverted her by smiling as she said, “How nice to see you this morning, Mrs. Tate, but you look chilly. Would you like a cup of fresh coffee?”

“Do I look like I need caffeine?” the woman demanded as she finally released her death grip on the umbrella handle.

“I guess that's a no to the coffee,” Catherine managed with a smile. “Please come in my office. I'm all ready for you.”

Mrs. Tate swept into the office and thumped down on the couch, placing her ever-present huge, black vinyl tote bag beside her. Catherine had never seen such a large tote bag. Nevertheless, the woman kept it full to the point of bulging.

At thirty-four, Mrs. Tate had been married for six years, had no children, and was convinced her husband was having his third affair. Her overbleached hair frizzed to her shoulders, her iridescent purple eye shadow and slash of shocking pink lipstick glared under the overhead lights, and she glowered at Catherine. “I know I look like hell. You don't have to tell me. Those damned bright office lights of yours show every wrinkle in my face. They're also hurting my eyes.”

“Then I'll fix the lighting for your comfort, not because you have wrinkles,” Catherine said diplomatically as she flipped off the two bright ceiling fixtures and left on the large, soft-shaded lamp sitting by the chair. She sat, opened her notebook, and looked seriously at her patient. “You don't seem to be feeling well this morning. What's wrong?”

“I've been up half the night, that's what's wrong! My husband didn't come home!”

“All night?”

“Not until around midnight.
Midnight
when he
said
he had to be at work at eight today instead of nine!”

“Did he say where he'd been until midnight?”

“Helping his best friend fix a water heater. He said the guy couldn't get a repairman on a Sunday night and had to have hot water for family showers in the morning. I called the friend. He backed up my husband's story, but then he
would.
I asked to speak to his wife for confirmation of his story, but he said she was asleep. I think she just wouldn't come to the phone and lie. Then my husband left at seven thirty this morning—the early day at work, he claimed. I think he was meeting
her
for coffee.”

“
Her
being his secretary.”

“Of course. Who else?”

“I see. Are you certain he didn't go to work? Did you follow him?”

Mrs. Tate's bloodshot eyes slid away. “I tried, but he must have seen me, because he went to his office. She was probably lurking in a back room, waiting for him.”

“Did you see her car?”

“Well, no, but she could have parked anywhere. I don't see so well in this damned rain.”

“You would if you'd wear your glasses.”

“I hate my glasses! I look awful in them! And I've told you I can't wear contact lenses! Didn't you write down all that stuff?”

Catherine suppressed an impulse to sigh. Sometimes talking to this woman was like having a conversation with a thirteen-year-old.

“Mrs. Tate, do you have any real proof that your husband is having an affair?”

“Proof is everywhere. You just have to be observant, like me. It's wearing me out, but I'm on the ball all the time! Nothing gets by me!” She sagged slightly as if in defeat. “But I think I do need a cup of coffee after all. I'm running out of steam.”

No wonder, Catherine thought as she poured the coffee in a china cup. Then she motioned to a plate of candy sitting on the coffee table. “How about a snack? They're an Italian candy called Perugina Baci—
baci
means ‘kisses' in Italian. They're chocolate with hazelnut filling—”

“Italian!” Mrs. Tate leaned forward, glaring at the silver-wrapped candies decorated with dark blue stars. “I don't eat foreign food. Nothing but American fare for me.”

“Oh.” As the woman took a couple of sips of coffee, Catherine wondered if Mrs. Tate thought the coffee beans had been grown in the United States, not Colombia. Apparently, she hadn't given the matter any thought, because she had no qualms about emptying the cup and asking for a second one.

After a few minutes, Catherine said carefully, “Mrs. Tate, you're obviously suffering a great deal of anxiety. I'm a psychologist, not a medical practitioner, so I can't prescribe medication. I think you'd benefit from some mild tranquilizers to help relax you, though. I can refer you to a family physician or even a psychiatrist who could give you a prescription for some.”

Mrs. Tate looked at her in near horror. “That's what my husband told me to do! Get tranquilizers.
Strong
ones, he said. He just wants to keep me so groggy I don't know what's going on. Well, it won't work. I'm not taking anything except an occasional drink or two before bed. I'm not turning into some zombie. And I'll
never
divorce him. I plan to make his life as miserable as he's made mine!”

“I see.”

“I also don't want to take medicine. He could substitute pills and dope me,
poison
me, make it look like suicide!”

Paranoia? At least the appearance of paranoia. Catherine was certain Mrs. Tate was not above acting dramatic to get sympathy. Still, better to be safe than sorry. Better to calm the woman, she thought, to ease the fear that might drive her away from any professional help. “I certainly won't force you to take medication if you'd rather not,” Catherine said calmly. “That is
your
choice.”

“I knew after our first session you were exactly what I needed!” the woman announced triumphantly. “You don't treat me like I'm crazy. You don't bully me. You treat me with respect.” She took a deep breath. “Don't you ever worry, Dr. Gray—I'll
never
stop being your patient! I'm faithful and loyal and stuck to you like a tick on a dog!” Mrs. Tate looked at her with near threat in her tired eyes. “I'll be back next week and the next and the next and maybe just forever!”

Five minutes later, Mrs. Tate marched through the waiting room, unfurling her umbrella and flinging more water drops before she'd even opened the door. After a brief struggle, woman, huge tote bag, and umbrella made it safely to the porch. Catherine had followed her, closed the front door, and tossed Beth a rueful smile. “I suppose you heard some of that.”

“I always do. I don't know how you manage to keep your patience with her.”

“I keep my patience because she's one of my
few
patients.”

“Well, Dr. Hite always says it takes time to build a practice. Don't give up yet.”

Catherine's next patient was suffering family problems because she couldn't bring herself to put her live-in, late Alzheimer's stage grandmother who'd raised her into a nursing home. Catherine needed to talk the woman out of her guilt before the elderly woman's constant needs and often dangerous behavior caused her granddaughter's husband to leave, taking their three teenage children because he worried for their safety, but Catherine could tell that today she'd made no progress with the woman.

The third patient, a sixteen-year-old girl, suffered from bulimia and refused to say anything except a vague, “I'm not sick.” Her gaze never met Catherine's. Instead, it strayed almost hungrily around the room, making Catherine glad she'd remembered to remove the dish of candies.

By noon, she felt as if she'd accomplished little for half a day's work. Still, she was relieved her cases hadn't been more challenging. Distraction about the events of the weekend and James's nightmare about Renée—the hatred in his voice when he'd said the name of a woman recently murdered—had severely weakened Catherine's focus. She touched her hand, slightly bruised and sore from James's grasp last night. What exactly had he been dreaming about Renée? When Catherine had asked, he'd said he didn't remember. She wasn't sure she believed him.

In a weak effort to fight the dreariness of the day, Catherine had chosen to wear her cheerful, new red trench coat. She'd brought a sandwich and pudding cup to eat for lunch, but suddenly she knew she had to get out of the office for a little while. She pulled the bright coat from the closet, grabbed her purse and red umbrella, and hurried into the waiting room. “I'm going out to lunch,” she told Beth. “I think I'll try that new café on Foster Street.”

“I've never seen you wear so much color! You look great! Good idea about the café, too. I've heard the food is good and I'm sure you could use a break.”

“So could you. It's so gloomy and quiet today. We have a window of freedom while Dr. Hite's not here. Why don't you join me?”

Beth smiled, reaching for the sack lunch she always brought to the office. “A secretary's work is never done. I need to be here to make appointments, which reminds me, your one o'clock canceled half an hour ago. He said he broke a tooth and has an emergency appointment at the dentist in a couple of hours. He sounded like he was in pain.”

“Poor thing. I'm glad he could get in to see a dentist so soon.” Catherine reached in her pocket, pulled out a red flowered chiffon scarf, and tied it around her head. “I don't want my hair to get wet in the rain. I hate having damp hair.” She almost flushed at her lie. Damp hair hadn't bothered her until the last two days, when she couldn't stop thinking of Renée's wet hair wrapped tenaciously around her fingers. “Marissa talked me into all of this red, but I have to admit the coat, umbrella, and scarf make me look downright festive.”

Catherine, usually bad with directions, used her GPS system and drove directly to the Café Divine. The place had a cozy, old-fashioned atmosphere with hardwood floors, exposed brick walls painted creamy beige, dark green booths, pots of lush, healthy plants hanging above the mirror-backed bar, and a large vintage jukebox sitting at the back playing songs from the fifties and sixties. The place was nearly empty. She quickly chose a booth halfway down the length of the narrow room, and a smiling waitress immediately appeared with a tray holding a tall glass of ice water and a menu.

As soon as Catherine looked at the menu, her nervous appetite kicked into gear again. She ordered a garden salad, a “Double-Thick Hamburger,” a piece of coconut cream pie, and an iced tea. She wanted French fries, too, but decided the hamburger would provide enough fat for one meal.

Catherine had finished her salad and begun eating her hamburger when over a dozen people arrived within ten minutes. They occupied nearly every stool at the bar, and she heard the voices of two women scooting into the booth behind her. Catherine lingered over her meal, enjoying the hum of conversation rising over the music pouring from the jukebox. For the first time that day, she was able to put the events of the weekend out of her mind and pretend this was just an ordinary day as she concentrated on the simple pleasure of good food.

She was finishing the hamburger when the song “Runaround Sue” ended. Apparently, no one had selected more music, because the jukebox went silent and Catherine clearly heard the women behind her talking.

“Did you hear about the dead body found at the Eastman cottage on Saturday afternoon?”

“Sure I heard!” answered the other in a loud, authoritative voice. “Someone told my husband it was a woman. The police claim they can't give out the name of the victim until there has been next-of-kin identification, but everyone knows it's James Eastman's wife, Renée.”