The Blue Journal (13 page)

“Not a problem. And the good news is that you're coming to the club tonight.”

“Yes,” she agreed. She felt better already.

Walker telephoned Stanley Knoebel, who was in his customary state of distraction and arrogance.

“I told you to contact the funeral director about arrangements for . . .”

“I'm calling about Doctor Conway,” Walker told him.

“All right then,” Knoebel demanded impatiently. “What about her?”

“You told Chief Gill that you and your wife were seeing Doctor Conway. I was wondering if you've been seeing her in a group format, as well as privately.”

“Yes.”

“I wanted the names of the other men in your group.”

Dr. Knoebel paused, then without asking the reason for the question, he slowly intoned the names, “Mitchell Avery, Fred Wentworth, Thomas Colello, and Gorman, uh, Paul Gorman.”

“You wouldn't happen to know the names of the women in Elizabeth's group, would you?”

“I do not. I believe they were the wives of the men I have just named. Does that satisfy your curiosity?”

“Isn't that sort of odd?” Walker asked. “Husbands in one group, their wives in the other.”

“I'm not in a position to make that judgment. The format was devised by Doctor Conway. We all agreed to honor the confidentiality of our sessions and not discuss them with our spouses.”

“May I ask if you honored that commitment?”

Knoebel's sigh came through the phone like a blast of cold air. “Yes, I did, and so did my wife.”

Walker told him that was all for now and hung up. He decided it was not time to tell him anything about his wife's diary—assuming he didn't know about it already. He looked forward to another face-to-face with the good doctor, especially after Blasko determined which, if any, of those files referred to Elizabeth's husband.

For now, Walker had the names of Paul Gorman, Fred Wentworth, and Thomas Colello, not to mention the interesting coincidence that his recent acquaintance Mitchell Avery was also part of the group. On the department computer, he quickly matched them up with their wives: Lisa, Phyllis, Fran, and, of course, Joan. For a moment he wondered how her son Kyle was doing.

He noted that Thomas Colello was the only one in the group with
T
as an initial, the initial used in the file name they had read in “Notes for the Chapter Nine.” He realized that might not mean anything, that he would have to wait for Blasko to finish his work on Elizabeth's code. Meanwhile, he decided to make a phone call, just to confirm what he had learned so far.

He tried the Wentworth house first, punched in the numbers, but got no answer. Then he tried the Gormans. A woman picked up.

“My name is Detective Anthony Walker, Darien Police Department. I'm calling with regard to the recent death of Elizabeth Knoebel. With whom am I speaking?”

“Poor Elizabeth,” the young woman volunteered before he finished his introduction. Then she said, “I'm Lisa Gorman.”

Walker nodded to himself. “Was Mrs. Knoebel a friend of yours?”

“Well, no, not exactly. We were in group together. I guess you know that. Isn't that why you're calling?”

“Actually no,” he said, “we didn't have that information.” Walker realized that if any of these people thought he learned about the group from Randi Conway, it might cause a problem for her, and therefore for him—no point in unnecessarily antagonizing a potential ally. He still had hopes of enlisting her assistance with the case. Walker, in his best ‘golly gosh' tone, said to Lisa Gorman, “I didn't know you were in a group together, but that information may be very helpful to us. Actually, we found your name in Mrs. Knoebel's address book,” he lied.

“You did?”

“Yes. This is just a routine call. We're following up on all leads, contacting anyone who knew her.”

“I would like to be helpful, if I can.”

“You know, Mrs. Gorman, because you're being so candid, I can admit this to you. We did know that Mrs. Knoebel was seeing a psychologist. Let me check my notes here.” He riffled through some papers on his desk like a Foley artist, creating the proper sound effect. “Here's the name. Doctor Conway. Is she the therapist you were seeing in your group with Mrs. Knoebel?”

“Yes, yes, she is,” Lisa replied earnestly. She had begun the day feeding her four-year-old son and cleaning the house. Now she was working with the police, helping to solve Elizabeth's murder. “Doctor Conway runs our group.”

“Uh huh. That really is very helpful. And who are the other people in the group?”

“Joan Avery. And Fran Colello.”

“Anyone else?”

“Oh, yes, sorry. Phyllis Wentworth.”

“Anyone else?”

“No. Just the five of us.” She paused. “Five, including poor Elizabeth.”

Walker nodded to himself, confirming all the names.

“I hope I'm not doing anything wrong,” Lisa Gorman said, “by giving out the names, I mean.”

“No, no, of course not. And I'll keep our discussion confidential.”

“Thank you.”

“Well, you've been of great assistance, Mrs. Gorman.”

“I have?”

“Yes. Very much so.”

“Is that it?”

“That's all for now. But I'm sure we'll be in touch.”

“Oh yes, please do. I mean, if I can be any more help.”

They said their good-byes and, as soon as she hung up, Lisa pushed the speed-dial button for her best friend, Karen Martin. “Karen? Listen to this,” she began.

CHAPTER 14

That afternoon, Mitchell Avery was seated comfortably on the striped couch in Randi Conway's private office. His right arm was outstretched along the back cushion, his legs were crossed, and his foot was wagging up and down like a metronome. He said, “Joan and I had a rough time after you and that cop left the other night.”

“What do you mean ‘a rough time'?” Randi asked.

“Just kind of tense.” Avery shook his head. “Arguing is easy. Yelling and shouting are no problem. I can deal with conflict.” He shrugged. “Silence is much worse. It's like she's giving up or something.”

“Giving up?”

“You know, disgusted, depressed, whatever. Really morbid, actually.”

“Did you talk about Kyle?”

As obvious as that question should have been, it caught Avery short. He stopped shaking his foot and sat up a bit straighter. “Not much,” he said. “What the hell is there to talk about?”

Randi leaned back in her chair. “How about the fact that Kyle made his way to the rooftop of a four-story building earlier that night?”

Avery could not look her in the eyes. “Let's not discuss Kyle right now.”

“All right. What would you like to discuss?”

“I don't know.”

“How about you and Joan?”

“Like there's anything about us you don't already know?”

“Indulge me.”

He was silent for a moment. Then he said, “Joan wants to know what went wrong between us, and I don't know what to tell her.”

“Why not start with the truth?”

He responded with a disapproving look, as if the notion of telling his wife the truth was nothing less than absurd. “How can I? How can I can tell Joan that too many years have gone by, that things have changed, that she got older. How can I say that to her?”

“I'm not even sure what that means.”

“What?”

“You said that
she
got older.”

“Did I?”

“Yes, you did. What does that mean?”

“That's a stupid question, Doc. What the hell do you think it means? She got older. She looks older. She acts older.”

“And what about you?”

Avery allowed himself an embarrassed laugh. “It's different for me.”

“Do you feel you haven't gotten older?”

Avery looked genuinely puzzled.

“Mitchell, you said that Joan acts and looks older. Don't you also look older?”

“You mean, what do I see when I look in the mirror?”

“Let's start with that.”

He pressed his lips together in a thoughtful frown, then said, “I'm heavier. A lot heavier, although I try and kid myself about it. I have less hair. Lines around my eyes. I'm closer to death than birth, if we're going to be blunt about it. That's what a midlife crisis is all about, right? Fear of mortality? But I don't really feel any of that. Somehow I don't feel older in the things that matter. Attitude. View of life. I feel as if I can still hack it. I feel . . .” He stopped.

“Go on.”

“It'll sound ludicrous to you.”

“Don't worry what it sounds like.”

“Okay.” Avery uncrossed his legs and leaned back, his arms folded across his chest. “I feel I'm still attractive to women. Including younger women. Maybe even more now than I was twenty years ago. Does that sound ridiculous?”

“Why would it?”

“Why? I've already admitted I'm a paunchy, balding, middle-aged guy.”

“But one who believes he's attractive to younger women.”

“Yeah,” Avery chuckled. “Yeah, that's exactly how I feel. Who knows why, who knows what these women are after? My life experience? My money?” He laughed again. “Maybe it's the story about older men being better lovers.”

“You rattle those off as if it doesn't matter what the reason is.”

“I didn't say that.”

“No, you didn't, but I want to know. Do the reasons matters to you or not?”

Avery paused, thinking it over before he replied. “If you want me to be totally honest about it, I don't think I care.”

“So you don't care why you're attractive to younger women, as long as they find you sexy, is that right?”

“This may sound foolish all over again, but it's not just about the sex. It's about the romance.”

Randi responded with a simple nod.

“It's about the excitement of a new relationship,” he went on. “The idea that a beautiful young woman would want me, want to be with me.”

“And maybe even love you?”

“Sure, why not?” He laughed. “Love is good, right?”

“But it's not that important to you?”

Avery tilted his head to the side and gave her a knowing grin. “Who are we kidding here, Doc? It's enough if a younger woman is willing to be with me. I'm not foolish enough to think she's really in love.”

“So romance doesn't have to involve love?”

“Of course not.”

Randi nodded, as if finally getting the concept straight. “Okay, then tell me how much younger we're talking about.”

“How's that?”

“You keep referring to younger women. How much younger?”

Mitchell Avery smiled. “I'm fifty-three, so twenty-eight or twenty-nine sounds about right.”

“Thirty is too old?”

“Come on, Doc, you're teasing me now.”

“I really don't mean to tease you. What about a forty-year-old woman?”

“What about her?”

“Would you be interested in an affair with a forty-year-old woman?”

“I might. Depends on the woman.”

For a moment, Randi wondered if they were both thinking of the same woman. “What would it depend on, Mitchell?”

He was obviously uncomfortable with the question. “Who knows?” he asked.

“But it's not as exciting as a woman in her twenties or thirties.”

“I guess that's true.”

“Do you mean it's not as flattering to have a forty-year-old woman want you as a twenty-eight-year-old?”

“Maybe. Maybe that's it.”

“What if Joan wanted to be with a younger man?”

He shook his head as if he was incapable of imagining such a thing.

“You think a woman in her late forties couldn't attract a younger man?”

“Sure, I guess so,” he replied. “But not Joan.”

“I see.” Randi hesitated, then said, “Elizabeth Knoebel was almost forty.”

Avery's brow furrowed into tight little lines and he leaned forward. “That supposed to mean something to me?”

“It just came to mind, is all.”

“Anything else come to mind? About Stanley's wife, I mean.”

“Did you know her?”

“Elizabeth?” He sat back again, taking his time now. “Yeah, we met.”

“You never mentioned that before.”

“You never asked.”

“Fair enough.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Only what you want to share with me.”

Avery forced a laugh. “A perfect therapist's answer.”

“Elizabeth was an attractive woman.”

“I'm not disagreeing.”

“Would you agree that she could have attracted a younger man?”

Avery became increasingly uneasy, but repeated a casual, “Why not?”

“Much younger?”

“What is that supposed to mean?”