Deadly Communications (2 page)

Lizzie Morton might be her best friend, but that didn’t mean Lizzie always had the best judgment. What had she done now? Hands on her slim hips, Lizzie shook her blonde tresses. “If I told you that, it wouldn’t be a surprise. Now get up.”

Maven grabbed a pair of dark green sweatpants and a faded pink T-shirt. Not sure what Lizzie was up to, Maven walked to the bathroom. She looked back. “I don’t like surprises. Tell me what’s going on right now.”

“You’ll know soon enough.”

After dressing, Maven gathered her hair into a ponytail, brushed her teeth, and walked back out.

Lizzie stood by the door with a smug smile.

“OK, I’m dressed. Tell me what’s going on.”

“So tacky.” Lizzie frowned. “You’ll be sorry you didn’t wear something nicer than sweat pants. I swear you have no taste when it comes to fashion.”

The doorbell rang.

“Your surprise is here.”

“If this is some sort of intervention, I will—”

“It’s not, so stop threatening me. It’s much better than an intervention.”

“Just so you know: I hate surprises.” Maven walked down the hall.

Lizzie moved towards the door at lightning speed. She opened it just as the doorbell clanged again.

A man stood there, dressed in a suit. His neatly cut brown hair was lightly sprinkled with gray. Everything about him screamed confidence and power, just the opposite of her.

His hand dropped from the buzzer. “Good afternoon, Lizzie. For a minute, I thought I might be at the wrong house, or it was the wrong day.”

Afternoon? Maven watched the exchange. Where had the morning gone?

“No, we were in another part of the condo. It’s nice to see you, Donald.”

The man looked vaguely familiar, but Maven couldn’t figure out why.

As usual, Lizzie was right.

Maven wished she’d chosen better when dressing. Oh well, too late now.

Lizzie turned towards her. “This is Maven Morris, and this is Donald Decker. He has a job proposal for you.”

3

“Money’s no object.” Donald Decker leaned forward as if this was some sort of intense business negotiation.

“But it’s not my area of expertise.”

“I understand that, and I thank you for your honesty, but you’re still the one we want.”

“Why would you want me? Like you said, money’s no object. You can hire the best speech pathologist in the country.”

“And I am trying to do that. If only you would cooperate with me.” His smile seemed sincere.

Maven shook her head. “I am not the best for what you need. I don’t understand why you want me.”

“Because you know my daughter.”

“Only slightly. Not enough to make a difference. She probably doesn’t even remember me.”

“But it could be enough. Besides, you did such a wonderful job with Micah. Her mother and I know you can do the same with Ella. We trust you.”

Maven Morris sighed. Donald Decker wasn’t making it easy for her to say no. But that was exactly what she needed to do. It wouldn’t be right to take their money or to give them false hope when she’d never worked with this type of client before.

“And money’s no object.” Why wouldn’t he take no for an answer?

“I heard you the first five times you told me that.” She was careful to pace her words, keeping each of them distinct and clear from the other. “I’m not being difficult as a negotiating ploy, Mr. Deck—”

“Call me Donald. No need to stand on formalities.”

“Donald, this is not about the money. I just know there are more experienced, more capable, more knowledgeable people out there for what you need. I am not the best speech pathologist for this job. Really.”

“And yet, you are the one we want.” The man folded his hands with grace, putting them quietly in his lap. His blue-gray eyes rested on her as he waited for her answer. It was obvious he was used to getting his own way.

But she truly was the wrong person for the job, and besides, she was so tired. She didn’t have the energy to take on a client right now. “I’m not being modest. Micah was completely different. That’s what I’m good at. Not this.” Maven stared back, wondering why she was arguing so strongly against taking the job. It wasn’t as if she couldn’t use the money, but it wouldn’t be right. She knew how to help kids communicate better, knew how to improve their speech, their language, even their listening skills.

But an adult patient with a traumatic brain injury? That was completely different than her job in the schools. Completely out of her comfort zone. Her stomach twisted. She wouldn’t even know where to start.

Still, she had taken the classes, even if it had been years ago. She could always brush up on techniques, ideas, and theories. And she did need the money. At the moment, she didn’t actually have the job she loved any longer.

Temporary medical leave.

More like being put out to pasture. Her sick days had run out, and she still hadn’t been approved for medical disability. Her husband’s illness had used up most of them, not that she regretted using them to take care of him during his last days. Those days had been precious—for both of them.

She forced herself to stay in the moment, instead of her own problems. Involuntarily, her hand strayed towards her lips, her mouth.
A speech pathologist whose mouth wouldn’t move the way it was supposed to wasn’t worth much.
First, the death of her husband, and then the Bell’s palsy that froze her face and slurred her words. Losing her job had been too much. Now she had nothing good left. Nothing to get up and get dressed for every morning. In less than a year, her life had gone from wonderful to…nothing.

Not wanting to call attention to her drooping mouth, she buried her hands in her lap. “I guess I can give it a try as long as you underst—”

“Wonderful. Wonderful.” He clapped his hands. “Sandy will be so pleased. And, of course, so am I.”

He pulled out a business card. After scribbling on it, he handed it to her. “Here’s our address. I can try to answer your questions. Please ask me anything you like. I’ll tell you what I can.”

Maven tried to think of something to make herself sound more prepared for this new assignment than she actually felt. “How is she doing?”

“Physically, she’s able to take care of her basic needs now. After the coma, she couldn’t take care of herself, but she’s improving. She still has physical and occupational therapy, so her days are fairly busy.”

“Does she attempt to communicate at all with you or the other family members?”

“Not much. It’s almost as if she’s given up.”

“That has to be hard for her and the family.”

Donald nodded. “Especially for her. When she was younger, we called her blabbermouth because she loved to talk. Now she stays up in her room most of the time by herself. Her friends have tried to be supportive, but you know how young people are.”

Life could be so hard. Sometimes it was just easier to give up rather than get knocked down again and again.
Maven understood that completely. “When you ask her to do something, will she do it?”

“I’m not sure I understand what you mean. Are you asking if she’s combative with us?”

“No, I mean, do you think she understands you? For example, if you ask her to hand you the remote to the TV, does she pick it up and give it to you? Does she simply stare or maybe even get you the wrong item?”

“Oh, I see. I’m not sure, to tell you the truth. I work a lot of hours. My wife spends more time with her than I do. Perhaps you should talk with Sandra before you actually see Ella.”

“That won’t be necessary. I’ll figure it out as I go along. The reports, though, are important. I want to see her treatment history and how she responded to physical therapy. The results of any tests they gave her.”

“I’ll be sure to get them to you.” He stood. “Thanks so much.”

She stood as well. “Don’t thank me yet. Like I said, it’s not my area of expertise.”

“I’m sure you’ll do a perfectly wonderful job.” He pulled a check out of his pocket and handed it to her. “This is for the first month of treatment. It’s not an hourly fee so don’t get stuck in that mode. We’re not counting hours and neither should you. Come and work with her. When she gets tired or stressed, stop. All we want is for her to get better.” After making arrangements for the first session, Donald Decker left.

Maven looked at the check. Her mouth dropped open. That couldn’t be right. But the words matched the numbers of zeroes. Well, at least she could pay this month’s mortgage and the next three months as well. Even if she didn’t know what she was doing. “Lizzie, where are you?”

Lizzie popped her head out of Maven’s office. “All done?”

“I’m done with him, but not with you.”

Lizzie walked down the hall and into the living room. “No need to thank me. I was glad to do it.”

Maven glared at her friend. “Believe me, thanking you was not what I had in mind.”

Lizzie flitted her eyelashes, the picture of innocence. “Why? What’s the problem? I thought you’d be thrilled to get a job. All you do anymore is sit around here and feel sorry for yourself.”

“That’s not true.” But even as she protested, she knew Lizzie was right. She’d been throwing a massive pity party for quite some time.

“It is true, and you know it. You refuse to even go to church anymore. I know you have a right to be a little depress—”

“I am not depressed.”

“Whatever. I’m not going to argue, but I thought it might be good for you to focus on something or someone other than your own problems for a change. And as your friend, I’m not afraid to speak the truth.”

4

In spite of not feeling up to keeping the therapy session, Maven forced herself to get dressed, gather up a few materials, and head out. As much as she hated to admit it, Lizzie was right. She did need to focus on someone else’s problems. After doing some research, she had a few ideas of what to do.

Maven stopped her car at the wrought-iron gate in front of the Decker mansion. Pink metal roses sat atop the curly-cued, pristine white iron work. The detail was amazing. There were several different shades of pink flowers and buds of all sizes. Some had huge, dark green leaves as well as lighter, tiny green ones. Little blobs of brown—probably thorns. Did the gate smell like roses? It looked so lifelike that it might.

Maven had never actually been to house with a locked gate before. What was she supposed to do? Blow her horn? There had to be an intercom, right? There always was in the movies. As she reached for the car door, the gate opened. Her gaze traveled around. Were they watching her?

She parked in the circular drive and stepped out, trying very hard not to be intimated by the mansion. People were just people—no matter how much money they had, right? Good, bad, and everything in between, just like everyone else.

Of course, there weren’t many richer or more powerful around Wooster than the Decker family.

Refusing to be intimidated, she grabbed her therapy bag from the passenger seat, took a deep breath, and walked towards the door. She’d felt frumpy when she met with Donald Decker.

Hoping to avoid that same feeling today, she’d taken more time with her appearance. She’d chosen a long brown skirt with a layered top, and boots. Her long black curls were pulled back into a manageable ponytail. Maven liked her look even if it was a bit dated. The clothes also hid the twenty-five pounds she needed to lose.

Sandra Decker opened the door.

It had been years since Maven had their son Micah in therapy at school, but she’d seen Sandra in the newspaper, and even the occasional TV appearance. The woman was still slim, blonde, and beautiful.

Maven pasted a bright smile on her face.

Sandra walked out to greet her. So much for fashion. Sandra hadn’t dressed up for the occasion. Wearing jeans and a T-shirt, she grinned at Maven. “It’s been a long time, Mrs. Morris.”

Maven pushed out her hand. “Maven is fine. I only make my students call me Mrs. Morris, and since I don’t have them any longer, Maven’s the name, Mrs. Decker.”

The two women shook hands.

“Call me Sandra. Maven is a very unusual name.”

“My mother was a very unusual woman, Sandra.”

“Aren’t they all?” Sandra stopped at the door, motioning for Maven to go in first. Obviously well-mannered and gracious, she exuded an air of confidence. “So, how did your mother come up with the name?”

“The story goes that a nurse in the delivery room said something about the snow-white baby with bright blue eyes and raven black hair. My mother, who was sort of out of it from the drugs, started singing, ‘my raven-haired maven.’ And then insisted that was my name.”

Sandra laughed, a sweet and gentle tinkle. “As far as I’m concerned, it’s a great name and a great fit. I think she got it right.”

“Well, they’d already decided my name would be…” She paused with drama. “Are you ready for this? Hazel. Can you imagine? Hazel. After my grandmother, whom I loved very much. But really—Hazel?”

“Lucky your mother took the drugs, huh?” Sandra grinned.

Yes, siree, indeed.” Maven stepped in the foyer, trying not to let her jaw drop. She turned to Sandra. “Nice digs.”

More laughter.

Maven liked this woman. There was nothing pretentious about her.

“So, would you like some coffee or tea, and we can talk about the accident and her progress? Or what?”

“Coffee would be great. Does Ella know I’m coming today?”

“I told her.”

“Did you explain the reason for the visit?”

“I did, and I think she understood.” Sandra turned towards Maven, her gaze skittered a bit. “But, of course, I can’t be sure one way or the other.”

They walked into a kitchen that was easily three times the size of Maven’s and much shinier. All the appliances were silver—and not a fingerprint on any of them.

“Of course, I understand that.”

Sandra motioned to the kitchen island in the center.

Maven sat down.

Sandra poured coffee and then placed a plate of Danish pastries on the counter. “Try one. I made them myself.”

Maven looked down at the plate. “You made them. From scratch? I’m impressed.”