The Blue Journal (30 page)

For his part, Knoebel did not ask why he had been relegated to this antiseptic meeting place. It was clear from the start that he had little interest in being here and wanted to have done with this meeting as quickly as possible. “When you called yesterday and asked to see me, I felt I owed you the professional courtesy of this final visit,” Knoebel announced with his customary formality. “I should tell you that I won't be coming to see you or your group again. I have begun seeing a psychiatrist affiliated with my hospital in New York.”

“So I understand.”

This appeared to amuse him. “And how might you have come to learn confidential information about my medical treatment, Doctor Conway?”

Randi could not believe her blunder at revealing what Walker had just told her that morning. A very rough day was becoming worse. “It's not important.”

“Indeed. Well let me hazard a guess. Could it be that you learned it from our local constable, Detective Walker?”

Randi folded her arms across her chest and clutched her elbows in her hands. “It's not important.”

Knoebel's chilly smile remained frozen on his lips. “Was it also your friend Detective Walker who suggested that you call me to arrange this meeting?”

“No, of course not.”

“Of course not,” he repeated with an extravagant show of skepticism.

“You're my patient,” Randi said. “At least you have been up to now.”

“Of course.” His Eastern European affect seemed more imperious than usual today. “My attorney advised the police that they are no longer authorized to contact me without him being present. Are you aware of that?”

“What?”

“Is this meeting an attempt to circumvent that directive by having you interview me on their behalf?”

“I have no idea what your attorney said to the police. I asked you here because I've been your therapist and I felt, under the circumstances, we should meet.”

Knoebel leveled his cold stare at her again. “But you admit you have been speaking with the police.”

“Naturally. Detective Walker wants to find Elizabeth's murderer and he wants my help. I've told him that the discussions I have with my patients are confidential.”

“Oh, excellent,” Knoebel said. “Apparently we all want the same thing. We all want our rights protected.”

Now it was Randi's turn to stare at him. “Shouldn't we also want the truth?”

“Do you, Doctor Conway?”

“I do.”

Knoebel nodded his head slowly, watching her. “I'm not so sure.”

“Why would you say such a thing?”

“There is much about Elizabeth none of us ever wanted to know.” He paused before adding, “She inspired such hatred,” then seemed to let the thought go.

“She inspired enough hatred for someone to murder her.”

The statement roused him from his brief melancholy. “I've met Detective Walker and I must say, you're beginning to sound a bit like him.” Knoebel folded his arms across his chest, showing that he, too, was capable of striking a pose. “So, who hated Elizabeth enough to murder her?” He sighed, as if the matter were too troublesome to consider. “Everyone and no one, I suppose. My wife had a great facility for drawing out the worst in people, as you well know. Homicide is quite another matter, and far beyond my comprehension.” He paused. “Perhaps you're in a position to guess the identity of her murderer.”

The suggestion caused her an imperceptible shudder. “I'm not sure that I can. But I think I can guess at your frustration and upset.”

“Really? I'm not sure I believe that.”

“What
do
you believe?”

He thought it over. “I believe you had a reasonable appreciation of how miserable our marriage was.”

“I'm not sure I ever understood your marriage, certainly not from your perspective. To be candid, I really don't think I ever came to know you at all.” Randi allowed herself a smile. “I think you're the only patient I've ever addressed by last name after spending so much time together. It's probably best that you'll be seeing someone else.”

Knoebel nodded. “That may be,” he said, appearing to think it over. “Unfortunately, whomever I see will not have had the benefit of knowing Elizabeth.” That thought quieted him for a moment. Then he said, “My wife and I loved each other in a totally destructive way. We actually hated each other more effectively than we loved each other. Surely you saw that.”

“I saw two people who were more comfortable with bitterness than with tenderness.”

“Perhaps.”

“Is that what kept you together?”

“A bond of hatred, you mean?”

“I'm not sure what I mean,” Randi admitted. “There was so much hostility between the two of you, yet neither of you ever wanted to deal with it.”

Knoebel rubbed the inside corners of his eyes with the thumb and forefinger of his left hand. “Did you know my wife was sleeping with some of your other patients?” He posed the question as if this were some tiresome piece of business he simply had to get out of the way.

“Whether I knew such a thing or not,” Randi replied evenly, “I would not be at liberty to say.”

“You knew, didn't you?”

“I'm sorry, but your wife's confidences survive her death. Even in speaking with you.”

“Were you sleeping with her?”

Randi drew a deep breath. “Why would you think such a thing?”

“I didn't say I thought it, I was merely asking.”

Randi offered a blank look in response.

“Did she ever ask you?”

Randi hesitated, then said, “Your wife was an extremely flirtatious woman. When she wasn't dealing with her anger, she traded on her beauty and her sensuality to manipulate men. And women. There's no reason to believe she amended her behavior in a clinical setting.”

The immediacy of that concept hit Knoebel hard, knowing that Elizabeth had talked with Randi, revealing things about him, herself, perhaps her other lovers. “Did you know she was keeping a diary of her exploits?”

This time Randi was determined not to betray Walker. “Again, whether I knew such a thing or not is of no consequence. I think you are the person we should be talking about, not Elizabeth.”

With a sudden flash of anger, Knoebel said, “We are talking about me, don't you see?” It was the first time Randi had ever heard him raise his voice. “She was the biggest part of me, everything she did, all the pain we inflicted upon one another, every moment we lived, whether separate or apart. What else is there for me to speak of? My medical practice? My own infidelity? Is that what you want to hear about, Doctor Conway?” He shook his head. “It's too late for that. The game is over.”

“The
game
?” It was Elizabeth's word.

Knoebel rose from his chair and Randi flinched as he stood, realizing in that instant that she was not really sure who he was or what he might be capable of doing. “You simply did not understand Elizabeth,” he said angrily as he glared down at her.

“I suppose not,” she replied, trying not to reveal her anxiety as he stood over her.

Knoebel took a deep breath, attempting to calm himself. “Probably because she never meant you to,” he said, then nodded to himself. “Or perhaps you simply never fell into her trap, not completely, and that is very much to your credit.”

It was clear that Knoebel was not about to sit down again, so Randi got to her feet. “It appears that you and I are left to protect her secrets,” she said.

“Are we?”

“You said so yourself,” Randi told him.

He responded with a sad nod, as if this came as a relief. “Perhaps you are right.”

Randi drew a deep breath. “Is that why you wrote those notes to me? Was that part of the ‘game,' as you call it?”

His blank look in response seemed as genuine as anything he had ever said to her. “What notes?”

“Never mind,” she said, shaking away the thought of the two typewritten slips of paper the police had taken with them. Instead she found herself wanting to ask him about the diary, but she knew she must not.

Knoebel saw the conflict in her eyes. He said, “This part of the drama is not done. You realize that, don't you?”

“What isn't done?”

She waited for an answer, but Knoebel gave none. He formally offered his hand and she took it. “Good-bye,” was all he said. They shook, his grip firm, but his hand was much colder than she had expected. Then he turned and was gone.

CHAPTER 36

Mitchell Avery was on his way home from the airport, and he was worried.

He had not been able to reach Joan since he arrived in Miami. That was the last time they had spoken. Her tone seemed more distant than usual, even cold, but he had not asked why. He was not in the mood to have an argument over the telephone. He was in Florida to have fun.

Yesterday he telephoned the house several times. No one answered, and the voice mail system had been turned off. He tried her cell phone, but got nothing. So this morning, as he rode in the back of the taxicab, he was worried. Joan must have suspected something. She must have discovered he was in Florida.

Isn't that perfect?
he asked himself. He had not spoken to his wife or children for two days, had no idea where they were, but his first thought was not about their safety, it was about whether she had found him out. He shook his head, knowing what she would say if she could hear his thoughts right now.

“In the end it's all about you, Mitchell.”
That's exactly what you would say, right Joan?

He tried to shake it off. At the moment, he just wanted to know where they were.

The taxi pulled in to the semicircular driveway of their large colonial. He took great pride in the place, always pleased to come home, to have others know that this grand home belonged to him.

This morning he had no such feeling.

He paid the driver, slid his bag off the back seat and hurried to the front door as the cab drove away. Things were unusually still.

He tried the polished brass knob, but the door was locked. He rang the bell and listened to the chimes as they echoed inside. There was no answer. He dropped his bag and made his way to the kitchen door around the side. That door was also locked. He cupped his hands around his eyes and placed his face to the glass.

No one was there.

He went to the end of the driveway, where they kept a spare key hidden beneath the mailbox in a magnetic holder. He found it and let himself in the front door.

“Joan,” he called out. “Joan, I'm home.”

There was no response.

He left his bag in the foyer and took the stairs two at a time, heading up to the master bedroom. Everything looked as it always did. Until he noticed the blank space on one of the walls.

Joan's favorite painting had hung there. A small oil of no great value, a Paris café scene at the turn of the century. A man in a wide-brimmed hat, sitting at an outdoor table, bent over a sketchpad, oblivious to the activity behind him. She loved that painting.

It was gone.

Instinct led him to her walk-in closet, knowing what he would find when he flung the door open. It was empty. Only hangers remained, some suspended naked and askew on the long, wooden rods, others having spilled to the floor, lying in a mangled heap.

He went to his own closet and opened the door. Everything was just as he had left it.

Mitchell ran down the hall to his children's rooms. As he went from one to the other, he found that some of the clothing had been removed—their closets had not been emptied in the same dramatic style as Joan had done with hers. He noticed that all of the beds were made. Everything else appeared to be in its proper place, just as if they would be returning at any moment.

But he knew they would not.

The silence in the house was numbing as he went down to the kitchen, looking for something, some sort of explanation. That would be the place for it, of course, that's where they left messages for each other.

An envelope with his name printed on it was taped to the refrigerator door. He pulled it down and tore it open. The note was in her handwriting.

Dear Mitchell,

I hope you enjoyed yourself. Unfortunately, you will finally learn that the cost of selfishness is high.

Joan

When he placed the envelope down, Joan's gold wedding band fell out. He watched as it rolled across the granite countertop, onto the floor, and bounced two or three times on the ceramic tiles before coming to rest at his feet. He slowly bent to pick it up, held it in his hand, then carefully studied it as if it were something he had never seen before.

She must be at her sister's place
, he told himself. He would start making phone calls. She probably had a lawyer by now. He wondered if he should call his own lawyer first.

Then he turned back to the refrigerator. It was not yet noon, but a beer seemed like a good idea while he figured things out.

He pulled the door open, flooding the room with an awful, sour smell. He looked inside and saw that Joan had emptied the refrigerator, unplugged it, and left a half-gallon carton of milk, open, to spoil within.

Avery began to laugh out loud, but there was no merriment in the sound.

He sat on a stool at the counter and continued laughing, the refrigerator door still open, the nauseating odor of rotten milk permeating the entire kitchen. He laughed so hard his whole body began to shake until he could not distinguish between amusement and sorrow, between his own heartbreak and the anguish he knew he had caused her. He continued to sit there, his body beginning to shudder, feeling more alone than he had ever felt in his life.

CHAPTER 37

The anonymous notes had concerned Randi, but they had not really frightened her. In her profession this sort of communication was not uncommon, nor were telephone messages from patients disguising their voices, or unattributed gifts.