Plain Jane (2 page)

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Authors: Fern Michaels

BOOK: Plain Jane
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“I don't feel clean yet. Just a while longer.”
Jane walked over to the shower and turned off the water. “All the showering in the world isn't going to make you feel clean unless you do something about it. You're going to need to talk to a counselor when you go home. Will you do that?”
“I don't know. Probably not. It's a small town. People talk. How long do you think it will take for the bruises on my thighs and upper arms to go away?”
“A week, maybe two. Slacks and long sleeves will take care of that. The bruises and the gouges are the least of your problems. I have a camera. Do you want me to take pictures of your bruises? The police do that all the time in rape cases. Just in case you change your mind and want to report the incident later on?”
“No. I'm not going to change my mind. What I would like is some more of that brandy so I can go to sleep. Did you lock the door?”
“It's locked. Sleep in my bed, Connie. Don't argue, just do it.”
“How can I ever repay you for all your kindness to me this evening? Will you sit with me till I fall asleep?”
“I'm sorry I couldn't do more. I'll sit right here.”
“Do you know what one of those bastards said to me while he was raping me?” Connie said sleepily. “He said, ‘silence is golden.'”
Jane's shoulders drooped. The minute she heard Connie's breathing even out, she started to shake. Like Connie, she wanted to curl into the fetal position and suck her thumb. She couldn't do that, though. She had to stay alert and watch over her new roommate in case she woke during the night.
What she could do was roll up the arms and sleeves of Connie's pajamas and take pictures of her cuts and bruises. Just in case.
She slipped the Polaroids into the paper grocery bag without looking at them.
Then Jane Lewis did something she hadn't done in a very long time.
She prayed.
 
“This is it, kiddo, your big day!” Trixie McGuire, Jane's godmother, said happily. “How does it feel to be graduating fifth in your class?”
“It feels great. Trix, do you mind if I leave you for a few minutes. I have to find someone before all hell breaks loose.”
“Go ahead, honey. Fred and I will go to our seats and wait. Take all the time you need.”
Jane fought her way through happy, laughing students and their equally happy parents until she spotted someone she recognized who might know where Connie Bryan or Todd Prentice were. She nudged a perky redhead, and asked, “Have you seen Connie Bryan or Todd Prentice?”
The perky redhead stared at Jane for a long minute. “Didn't you hear?”
Jane looked up at the fluffy white clouds and the patches of deep blue sky overhead. Her instincts told her that whatever the redhead was going to tell her, she wasn't going to like it.
“Hear what?” she whispered fearfully.
“Connie killed herself two days ago. Todd didn't come to graduation. He's having a real hard time of it. Were you friends with Connie?”
“Yes. Yes, I was,” Jane stammered as she made her way through the crowd, tears streaming down her cheeks. She thought about the brown bag with Connie's clothes, shoes, and pictures that she'd taken home with her and were now in Trixie's garage. Just in case. Next week she'd come back and file a report with the authorities. If it stirred up a can of worms with Connie's family and Todd, then so be it. They deserved to know the why of her death. No death should be in vain. She wiped at her tears with the sleeve of the long, flowing gown as she took her place near the end of the graduation line.
1
Rayne, Louisiana, 2000
 
Shivers of excitement raced down her spine as she watched him walk across the crowded restaurant toward her table. He was right on time, but then she knew he would be. Like herself, he was a professional with a full schedule of patients, so he knew the importance of being prompt.
Tall, dark, and classically handsome, Dr. Michael Sorenson was a hunk in every sense of the word. He was also a man who was comfortable in his own skin, a not-too-often-seen trait that made her heart flutter—the same way it had the first time she'd seen him all those years ago when he and his family moved to Rayne.
Dr. Jane Lewis felt her eyes squint behind her wire-rimmed granny glasses as she tried to imagine how her godmother, Trixie McGuire, would describe the good doctor. Knowing Trixie, she would say something embarrassing like “he's probably hung like a Moscow mule.” In spite of being seventy-four, Trixie loved to stare at men's belt buckles. And when it came right down to it, Jane did, too.
Suddenly, he was standing in front of her. “Jane, it's good to see you again. It must be . . .”
“It's been a long time,” Jane said, motioning for him to sit down opposite her.
Muscular. Works out regularly. Great tailor. Really fits that suit.
He was so put-together she felt like a dowdy spinster in comparison. She watched, fascinated, as he reached for his water glass.
Fabulous hands. Big, strong hands.
Trixie would probably say, “all the better to explore a body with.” Jane felt herself blushing. “So, how's it going, Mike?”
Brilliant, absolutely brilliant dialogue here.
“Couldn't be better. The practice is thriving. I even took on an associate so I could get away and play tennis once in a while. And I finally got around to buying a house last spring. Believe it or not I mow my own lawn and even cook a meal from time to time. Oh, and, I almost forgot, I adopted a stray cat. She's an inside cat now and a great companion. I call her Noodle. How about you, Jane? By the way, congratulations on your radio show. What a coup! I'm jealous.”
So he knew about her show. Good. She hated blowing her own horn. “Thanks,” she said modestly. What should she tell him about herself? She mentally ticked off the things he'd told her and compared them to her own life. Her practice was thriving, too, but even if she had an associate, she wouldn't play tennis. She was lucky to get to the gym once a month. Like him, she owned her own home but instead of grass, she had glorious, foot-high weeds. As for cooking—she could make a gourmet meal from freezer bags, cans, and boxes with the best of them. And if it could be microwaved—all the better. “I have a nice little house in Rayne. It's on the town's historical register. It has a ghost. And a dog ghost,” she blurted, then wondered what had possessed her to tell him that. She was nervous. Befuddled actually. Was it because he was so good-looking, or did his smooth confidence intimidate her? Even in high school, he'd been confident and good-looking, she reminded herself.
And back then he wouldn't have given you the time of day.
Mike leaned across the table. “Ghosts? Are you putting me on? Tell me about them. I've always been interested in the paranormal.”
Jane squirmed in her chair.
Open mouth, insert foot,
she thought. “Well, it's just a rumor actually. The story goes that a young man fell in a well on the property, and his dog just sat and pined away for him until he died of starvation. To tell you the truth I haven't seen them, although there are times when Olive gets
spooked.
”
“Olive? Your daughter?”
“No,” she chuckled. “My dog.”
“I'd like to try to get a look at your ghosts, that is unless your significant other would object.”
“No, I don't think Olive would mind,” she said, laughing lightly. “I live in the old Laroux house at the end of town. It used to be a rice plantation. You know the one, don't you?”
“That's
where you live! My God, I tried to buy that house before I went into practice in Lafayette, but it was part of an estate and not for sale. It was pretty run-down as I recall, but I would have been willing to invest a few bucks in it had I been lucky enough to get it.”
“Believe me, it took more than a few bucks to get it so it was even habitable. It reminds me of that movie. You know,
The Money Pit.”
She felt her hat slip and settled it back on her head.
“For some reason I thought you'd head for N'awlins or points north after high school. I never thought you'd stay in Rayne.”
He'd thought about her.
“Why would you think that?” She looked up to see the hovering waiter. “We better order.” As Mike perused the menu, Jane gazed around at the restaurant. Tassels had been Mike's choice, she'd just made the reservation. Obviously, her colleague liked fine things. The menu was pricey, the decor beautiful, the waiters discreet, and the tablecloths and napkins were a blend of linen and cotton. Everything the eye could see was burnished and polished. She didn't see anyone she knew, but then who in Rayne would bother to travel twelve miles to Lafayette for lunch?
“I'll have the Cajun crab pie, French dressing, and a glass of house wine,” Jane said.
“Ditto,” Mike said, then waited until the waiter left before continuing their conversation. “How about I come by tonight? Today's my short day.”
“Tonight?” She really hadn't thought he was serious. “I—Well—Today's my long day, so I won't get home much before seven. If that's not too late, then it's okay with me.” Her heart skipped a beat at the thought of him coming to her house. She tried to ignore the feeling.
“I'll pick up some Chinese. Do you have beer?”
“Of course I have beer. Doesn't everyone?” Jane quipped.
“Ya never know. Now, tell me what this is all about. I like a free lunch as much as the next guy, but what do I have to do to earn it?”
He certainly didn't beat around the bush. Jane leaned back into her chair. “I have this patient I can't seem to get a handle on. There's something . . .” She shook her head. “I have this awful feeling the guy is setting me up for something. I learned early on in my career to pay attention to my gut feelings. I suppose the case is a classic textbook one. At least on the surface.”
“What's his problem? Is he a psycho?”
“I don't know. I should know, but I don't. He's saying all the right things. I'm saying all the right things. It's not going anywhere,” she said, putting her hands on the table. “I've seen him three times so far, and I'm still at square one. I suspect one of his problems is that he's very controlling.” She took a sip of her wine. “Frankly, I think he might do better with a male psychiatrist. I was wondering if you would consider sitting in on one of his sessions. Maybe you can get a feel for what he's all about. That is, of course, if he's agreeable.”
“Sure. Just let me know when and where. What's his main problem aside from all the standard stuff?”
“He
said
his wife was raped and that he's having a hard time dealing with it. He's lost his sex drive, claims he can't bring himself to touch her. He's even having trouble being civil to her. I understand that he is angry, but his anger is directed at his wife for refusing to go to the police. I have this feeling that he's lying. I think he didn't want her to report it. He said she quit her job and hides out in the house all day.”
“Children? Other family? Pets?”
“Not that he's mentioned, but I don't know whether or not to believe him. He has this smirk on his face all the time. Last week I wanted to pop him.” She laughed to cover her frustration, then leaned forward. “He listens to my radio show. The other day he rattled off some of the problems people had called in with and told me he didn't agree with my advice. Said I was too flip, too giddy. That was the word he used:
giddy.
I am not giddy,” she said between her teeth. “I do try to be upbeat, but I'd hardly call that being giddy. If I have even the faintest inkling a caller has a really serious problem, I always suggest they get help. Sometimes I have them stay on the line and talk to them after the show.”
“You don't have to defend yourself to me, Jane. I know your reputation, and I've heard your show. You said you thought he was setting you up for something. Can you be more specific?”
She took a deep breath then let it out. “I wish I could but it's really just a
feeling,
Mike.” She thought a moment. “Last week, during his session, it occurred to me that everything he was saying was . . . rehearsed. Almost like he's reading from a script. He's got some kind of mental list, and he gets upset when my questions take him away from what he thinks I should be asking. When I tested my theory, he got hostile with me and told me to stick to the subject.” She sat back, crossed her arms.
“What's he say when you ask him about his wife?” Mike queried. His facial expression told Jane he was concerned.
“Not much . . . You know, I have to wonder if he isn't lying to me, if he really even has a wife. I've called his house, and no one ever answers the phone. If his wife quit her job and is ‘hiding out' at home, where is she and why doesn't she answer the phone? When I asked him if she'd ever had counseling, he got in my face and said
he
was my patient
not
his wife and that he would take care of her. I—” She started to tell him that she'd gone to his house but decided against it at the last second.
“Maybe he's the one who raped her when she said no and he said yes. You get them from time to time, the pigheaded, know-it-all macho types who think they own the women they married. Or maybe she's the one who shut down, and he can't handle it. Do you get the impression he could be physical ?”
“Absolutely.”
“I mean no disrespect here, Jane, but maybe he thought he could bamboozle you easier than a male shrink. The bottom line is, if the guy scares you, cut him loose. There's no law that says you have to keep him on as a patient. Refer him to someone else.”
“He doesn't scare me exactly, but he does make my skin crawl. As for cutting him loose, I wouldn't have a single qualm except—what if there is a wife and she really has been raped and goes into a deep depression and . . . and . . . does something to herself? How do you think I'd feel if that happened?”
“Like shit, of course, but you know as well as I do there's a lot of ‘what ifs' in our business. You also know that psychiatry is not an exact science. And you're not nine-one-one.”
Even though he was right, it wasn't what she wanted to hear. “Did you ever lose a patient, Mike?”
“ No.”
“Neither have I, and I don't want to lose one now. Why can't we just call ‘the wife' my invisible patient?”
“You can say and do whatever you want, Jane.”
Now he was patronizing her. “What would you do?”
“After what you've told me—I'd cut him loose. You're spending too much time and energy on this guy, and you have other patients to think about—patients who are being honest with you and who really need your help.”
Again, he was right, Jane realized as she thought about the sleepless nights she'd spent since first meeting Brian Ramsey. Only once before had sleeping been a problem, right after learning about Connie's suicide. . . .
“You're gonna love this crab pie,” Mike said, digging into his succulent-looking lunch.
Jane broke off a piece of crust and nibbled on it. She watched her colleague devour his lunch. She broke off a second piece and crumbled it between her fingers. She decided to throw caution to the winds and tell him the rest of her story. Looking down at her lunch, she said, “I know I'm crazy to tell you this, but I went to his house one day and rang the bell. No answer. Then I went around back, looked in windows. Nothing. It was a single-story house, so I could see into all the rooms. Everything was neat and tidy, but there was no one there.” She glanced up, and before he could say anything, she added, “I went back a second time and a third. Zilch both times. Please don't chastise me for my lack of professionalism. I know I was wrong. But I did it, okay? And still the question remains—if there is a wife who quit work and hides out in the house, where the hell is she?”
Mike had stopped eating. “You do realize, don't you, that you're breaking the cardinal rule here? You're allowing yourself to get personally involved.”
Jane nodded.
Mike laid his fork across his plate. “Where do you
think
she was, Jane?”
Jane cleared her throat. “I think . . . I don't know what I think. If she is in the house, the only place she could possibly be is in the basement,” she said, trying not to look at him. “They could have a summer kitchen. I have one in the house where I live now. It's a godsend in July and August. I suppose she could be down there or—he could be keeping her down there against her will. I don't know, Mike. I've never come across anything like this before. Nothing computes. I hope once you meet this guy, you'll understand what I'm talking about. I don't know how to proceed. I'm out of my depth here. Obviously you are, too, since you aren't helping me.”

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