Healing Waters (32 page)

I heard Wesley sigh, and our eyes met in a tacit agreement that it didn't get any sadder than this.

“You going to find out what that's about?” she whispered to me.

“Oh, heck yeah,” I whispered back.

I put a plate of four cookies on the sit-down counter and helped James-Lawson onto his stool while Wesley went to the fridge for the milk. Bethany took one and eyed it suspiciously.

“What's wrong?” I said.

“Was that white stuff we put in this refined sugar?” she said.

“Yeah,” I said.

“Then we shouldn't give one to James-Lawson.”

He looked at her as if she'd just suggested we take away his birthday.

“Why not?” I said.

“Because it will decay his teeth and make his bones weak. I love him too much to do that to him.”

Recitation complete, she moved the plate out of his reach, to an indignant “Huh?!” and took a cookie for herself.

“Hey! Miss Lucia!”

“Thank you for your love, Miss Bethany,” Wesley said, “but two cookies are not going to rot James-Lawson's teeth, I promise you that.”

She bulged her eyes at me.

“Ms. Schmacker was talking about her dog, Bethie,” I said. “He can't brush his teeth like you can.” As her gaze went for the floor, I added hastily, “That was wonderful of you to think of James-Lawson, though.”

“But I have to ask you,” Wesley said, as she placed a cookie firmly into Bethany's hand. “If you thought he shouldn't have one, why was it okay for you to have one?”

Bethany stared down at the cookie. “Because I love James-Lawson,” she said.

“And you don't love you?”

She looked up at her, blue eyes startled.

“Well, I do,” Wesley said. “And James-Lawson does and Miss Lucia does, so if you don't want to be left out of this party, you better love you too.”

Bethany nodded and took an obedient bite. She, too, had discovered you didn't argue with Wesley Kane.

But, oh, dear God, please let her believe it.

Once they'd gone, I let Bethany help me put the rest of the cookies in a bag for the freezer, lest Marnie should polish them off. I did consider briefly encouraging Marnie to eat all she wanted, so her teeth would fall out and she would no longer be attractive to my husband, but I shoved that back in with the Chip trash and looked at Bethany.

The tip of her tongue had crept to the corner of her mouth as she positioned the goodies just so in the bag.

“James-Lawson saw your mom,” I said.

“I know.”

“He wasn't scared.”

“I know.”

“Of course, she's not his mom, so that's different, but—”

“I'm not allowed to,” Bethany said. She tried to press the top of the Ziploc bag together, tongue still working.

“You're not allowed to what?” I said.

“I'm not allowed to see her without her face.”

I didn't know which thing to scream first. I had to chomp down on my lip to keep from letting them all spew out.

“Did someone tell you that?” I said.

“Yeah—yes, ma'am.”

“Who?”

She got the bag zipped and showed it to me proudly.

“Great,” I said. I set it on the counter and closed her hands between mine. “Bethie, who told you that you weren't allowed to see your mom without her face?”

The blue eyes blinked at me. “She did,” she said. “May I go play in the fort now?”

“Absolutely,” I think I said. It was hard to know, with everything else that shrieked in my head. I pressed my fingers to my temples.
Dear God.

Just—
Dear God
.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

S
ully took off his ball cap to mop his forehead with it. Four o'clock in the afternoon wasn't the smartest time of day to be out using a weed eater, but if he'd stayed inside the guesthouse with that microphone much longer, he would have flushed the thing down the toilet. He'd spent the hour before he came out here looking up Ukrainian names on the Internet. When they all started sounding like characters from
Fiddler on the Roof
, he'd opted for edging Sonia's walkways.

It helped some, he decided—his head, not necessarily the yard. Lawn maintenance had never been his strong suit. Lynn had always taken care of that.

And of him, according to Anna. He released the trigger on the weed eater. That could have merely been Anna's take on it, but the more weeds he ate up, the less he thought so. When he was in divinity school, even before they were married, Lynn did everything—the chili making, the window washing, the bill paying, the mailing of birthday cards to relatives.

He headed to the garage with the contraption hanging awkwardly over his shoulder. Lynn had even made weekly trips to Birmingham during Mom's illness when Sully couldn't, and had begged her to come to their house for hospice care. Mom refused, only days before she passed away, and left Lynn crying with him while she made the funeral arrangements.

Sully sat on the fender of Sonia's Escalade. Lynn had cared for every detail of their lives so he could devote all his time to his doctorate. But she seemed to love it. She swore to him she was made to do that.

But had there been some hidden resentment because she never got her degree? He stood up and shook the sweat out of his hair before he put his ball cap back on. If there had been, he must have been blind, because Lynn wore her feelings everywhere: in her eyes, in the way her hands moved, in the way she flipped the pancakes. Until the night she died, he'd thought he knew every emotion that passed through her heart.

A car pulled into the circular drive, and Sully was grateful for the interruption.

Special Agent Deidre Schmacker got out of the passenger side of the white sedan as he emerged, blinking, from the garage. Agent Country Singer stretched his long legs from the driver's seat and adjusted his sunglasses as he looked at Sully.

Sully braced himself.

“Dr. Crisp, isn't it?” Agent Schmacker said. “Are you working for Ms. Cabot now?”

Sully shook his head as he extended his hand, noticing too late that it was striped with dandelion stems. Schmacker looked amused. Agent Country Singer did not.

“I'm Special Agent Ingram,” he said, still taking a veritable CT scan of Sully with his eyes.

Sully didn't think it was a good time to ask what made them all “special” agents. They were obviously here on serious business. Even Deidre Schmacker's benevolent fairy godmother demeanor was less evident today.

“I'm just staying in the guesthouse as a family friend,” Sully said. “You're a psychologist, aren't you, Dr. Crisp?” Agent Schmacker said.

“That's right.”

“Have you ever worked professionally with Sonia Cabot?”

“You mean as her therapist?” Sully said.

“That's what we mean.” Agent Ingram's voice snapped, making him sound more like a junkyard dog than a country singer.

Sully felt vaguely uncomfortable. “No,” he said. “I haven't. We're colleagues. Friends.”

Agent Schmacker's eyes dropped at the corners, though with less empathy than he'd seen there before. “Then there is no client-patient privilege in effect, so you could tell us from a purely observational standpoint whether you think Sonia Cabot was stable before the plane crash. In your professional opinion.”

Where was this coming from?

“I didn't spend a great deal of time with her,” Sully said.

“You're telling us she's letting you stay in her house,” Ingram said, “but you don't really know her.”

“Not enough to have had deep insights into her psyche. But, no, I never saw anything that would indicate that she was unstable.” Sully tried a grin. “Not any more than any of the rest of us.”

Ingram looked unamused. “Would you consider Sonia Cabot's religion to be a cult?”

Sully felt his jaw drop. “A cult? No.”

“Don't her followers basically worship her?”

“What? No—the people Sonia ministers to are Christians. They have some ideas that are different from the mainstream, but—”

“So you'd say she's a radical.”

“I wouldn't put her in any category.” Sully shoved his hands into his pockets. He'd never been called as an expert witness in a trial, but he'd heard horror stories about cross-examinations that could turn the most single-minded psychologist into a double-talking idiot. He‘d always thought his colleagues were exaggerating—until now.

“I'm not comfortable with this conversation,” he said.

Ingram snarled something, but Agent Schmacker put up her index finger. If Sully had known that was all it took to shut him up, he'd have had all of his digits going several minutes ago.

“Dr. Crisp,” she said, “we're just trying to determine who had a motive for wanting Sonia Cabot dead. As I'm sure you know, sometimes leaders of less, as you called it, ‘mainstream' religious organizations can become somewhat careless with the power they have over their followers, and that can cause a great deal of anger.”

“That's true,” Sully said. “But to my knowledge, Abundant Living Ministries did not fall into that category.”

“Nevertheless, we have to explore the possibility, particularly since Ms. Cabot has been less than helpful in this investigation.”

“She here?” Ingram said.

Agent Schmacker glanced at her watch. “She should be finished with her physical therapy by now.”

Sully had seen Wesley and James-Lawson leave, as, he now suspected, these two had also. Uneasiness crept up his spine as they started for the front door.

“Look,” Sully said, “I will say that Ms. Cabot's emotional state since the crash has become somewhat fragile. You might want to tread carefully with her.”

“Then perhaps you should join us,” Schmacker said.

Agent Ingram gave him a look that said it was not merely a request.

“Purely as an observer,” Sully said.

“Of course,” she said.

Of course.

Bethany and I were on our way to the kitchen to discuss whether to have macaroni and cheese for the third night in a row or try my ravioli, when they came in the front door—Sullivan and Agent Schmacker and a man who flashed his badge at me.

Bethany ran up to her, round face dimpled in expectation.

“Did you bring J. Edgar?” she said.

Agent Schmacker went to her knees. “Not this time, sweetheart,” she said.

“Oh,” Bethany said. “Big people talk.”

“Yes,” I said, just in case Agent Schmacker had any ideas about going over the list with Bethany herself.

“That's right,” she said. “J. Edgar doesn't like big-people talk, and I bet you don't either.”

Bethany shook her head.

“Then perhaps your Aunt Lucia can find something fun for you to do so she can talk big-people talk with us and your mom.”

“I can watch TV,” Bethany said.

I cringed, but I didn't have a whole lot of choice.

The male agent scrutinized the foyer as if he were about to start a full-out search of the premises.

When Marnie appeared, more than likely on Sonia's order to find out what was going on out here, I said, “Take Bethany up to the home theater to watch a movie, would you?”

“We can just go in the Gathering Room,” she said.

“No. I want her up there—away from here.”

Her eyes rounded. The girl truly was not the sharpest knife in the drawer.

“I'll take you to Sonia,” I said when they were gone.

To my relief, Sullivan came with us.

Sonia sat at the desk in her office, shuffling through the mountain of mail I'd deposited there. None of it appeared to have been opened.

“What is it
now
?” she said. “I don't mean to be inhospitable, Agent Schmacker, but I am far too busy—”

“This is Special Agent Ingram,” Schmacker said. “And I have to warn you, he does not care how busy you are. He has some questions to ask you, and he and I will stay here until you answer them.”

My stomach seized. This was the FBI I remembered.

“I've asked your sister and Dr. Crisp to join us, but if you would rather do this alone . . .”

“I'd rather not do it at all.”

“That's not an option.” Agent Ingram pointed to a brocade wing chair in front of her desk. “Have a seat.”

Sonia moved from behind the desk to the chair with an attempt at dignity, but she mangled her hands, and her eyes took on their wild stare.

Agent Schmacker stood behind the desk at the window. Ingram pulled the other chair to face Sonia, close enough for her to detect what he'd had for lunch. This was what they did. I felt like I was seeing Sonia's skin removed all over again.

Ingram pulled a piece of paper out of a file folder and smacked it onto the desk.

“I am going to give you some names,” he said, “and you are going to tell me anything these people may have against you. Anything, and everything.”