The Blue Journal (6 page)

He led me to the bed where we sat side by side. He took my hands in his and told me how happy he was to finally be alone with me.

I turned to him but said nothing. I just stared into his eyes. Then he gently kissed me on the lips, letting go of my hands and tenderly holding my face. I responded, his tongue sweet with the taste of whisky as he explored my mouth. I pulled him close, kissing him with a growing passion as I pressed my breasts against his chest.

His hands slowly traced the curves of my sides, my hips, and my ass. I pushed away, giving myself enough room to stand and pull off my silk burgundy dress. Then I sat again, my face warm with modesty and desire.

He laid me back across the width of the bed and slipped off my lace panties. My pussy was already becoming moist from my natural flow. He lifted my legs high in the air and then, bending over me and supporting the underside of my thighs with his hands, he began to lick me. As he probed the lips and depth of me with his wet, hot tongue, I moaned. After enjoying several minutes of this intense pleasure I moved away and turned on my side, encouraging him to lie alongside me so I could take him in my mouth as he continued to explore my tender regions.

He became even more passionate now, with a faster motion, then moved slowly again, and I writhed with the increased rhythm and intensity of his effort.

He reached up to massage my breasts and play with my nipples, all the while licking and sucking me, joining the wetness of his mouth with that of my own engorged flesh. He pushed the heel of his hand against my mons veneris, released, then pressed down again, creating a sublime pressure that made me shudder.

He was large and stiff and I begged him to get inside me. He obliged, turning around and entering me as I lay on my side. After I came—loudly and with obvious delight—he changed positions, moving me onto my knees and taking me from behind. I came again and then he turned me onto my back, got astride me, and we rocked together in a furious motion until we climaxed together.

He was clearly pleased with his performance, and I made sure he felt even more than that. I told him that I had never had multiple orgasms before and, with tears in my eyes, said I was completely overcome by the experience.

He was both gracious and confident in his response, but I could see the truth in his eyes.

I could see, from that moment on, that I owned him.

Walker looked up at the other two men. “Nice lady. See what else she's got in here.”

When the officer closed the file and attempted to enter the directory, the screen became blank, displaying only a box in the center of the monitor requiring the reentry of the password.

“Damn, must have been on some sort of default screensaver.”

Walker nodded. “All right. Kovie, have the computer dusted for prints, then take it with you and get started on a warrant to have it impounded. Grab the maid again and find out if she knows which of the Knoebels used this computer. Find Teddy Blasko, tell him we need to get access to whatever's in there. Anything recent, especially e-mails. And you guys, you keep this to yourselves, you hear me?”

The two younger officers nodded.

“Meantime, make sure the forensic boys do a good job sweeping this room. And for God's sake,” Walker said, “tell them to finish with the photographs upstairs so they can cover that woman with a sheet.”

CHAPTER 6

That evening, Randi Conway stood in her dining room, the telephone clutched tightly in her hand. Phyllis Wentworth, a diffident woman who was one of the members in Elizabeth Knoebel's therapy group, called to deliver the news.

Randi sank slowly into her chair.

“It's been on the radio. I didn't know if you'd heard.”

“No, I hadn't,” Randi said.

“It was on the radio,” Phyllis repeated.

“What else did they say?”

Phyllis paused, then provided the few details that had been broadcast. A local woman, wife of a prominent New York surgeon, was found dead in her home, victim of a gunshot wound. They gave her name and said an investigation into the death was underway.

Randi did not respond.

“Doctor Conway? Are you there?”

“Yes, Phyllis.” Randi drew a deep breath, then asked, “Are
you
all right?”

“I'll be fine,” Phyllis said.

“I do appreciate you letting me know.”

“It's awful, Doctor Conway. Isn't it awful?”

“Yes. It is awful.” When there was no response, Randi said, “Please call me if you want to talk.”

“Thank you,” Phyllis said, but she did not say good-bye.

“Did you want to say something else?”

“I don't know. Maybe I just want to say that I can't believe it.”

“I understand,” Randi said. “Neither can I.”

Phyllis paused again, then said, “Good night, Doctor Conway,” and hung up.

Randi put the phone down and turned to her computer, bringing up the link to the local news station. The evening's top headline was the death of local resident Elizabeth Knoebel. The few details given were those Phyllis had shared. Elizabeth died some time the previous day. Her body was discovered this morning by the housekeeper. More to follow.

Randi sat back, remembering a group session she had conducted just two days before.

They met at Randi Conway's office each Monday afternoon, the gathering of her so-called Wives Group. This past Monday all five women were present.

One of them, a dark-eyed brunette named Fran Colello, was holding court on her favorite subject. “We have their children and make their homes. We cook for them, clean for them and lay on our backs for them. All for what? We're treated like indentured servants, and in the end we get dumped on the garbage heap of life. We can't even be recycled.”

A couple of the women managed sympathetic laughs, but Fran responded with a dismissive wave of her hand. She was on her usual roll and didn't see any humor in it.

“I'm forty-five years old and my husband treats me like a piece of furniture. I might as well be in one of those cabinets that hold the junk we've collected over the years, souvenirs that no one even looks at anymore. It might not be so bad if someone took the trouble to dust me off and play with me once in a while, but no one does. My kids are old enough where they don't need a thing from me. I haven't had a job for more than twenty years, unless you count live-in slave as a profession. I'm about as useless as a fondue set.” She was staring at Dr. Conway now, as if, somehow, some part of this was her fault.

Randi leaned forward in her seat. “You said ‘useless,' Fran. Is that what you meant?”

“What?”

“You described yourself as useless. Is that accurate?”

Fran pushed back her straight brunette hair, revealing a plain face that would be far more appealing if she could lose the fifteen or so pounds she had picked up during those years she now regretted. Her eyes were dark and troubled, her mouth framed in lines etched by anger. “I suppose ‘useless' is the right word,” she answered defiantly. “I said it, right?”

They were seated in the windowless room Randi used for her groups, chrome and cane armchairs forming a circle, cool fluorescent lighting, and bare, eggshell colored walls creating an antiseptic space designed to generate the fewest possible distractions.

“Do any of you have a response for Fran?” Randi asked.

None of the women answered the challenge until Elizabeth Knoebel spoke up.

As was her custom, Elizabeth came to the session intending to show off her sultry beauty to its maximum and most irritating effect. Her dark green dress featured a low, revealing neckline and the slinky fabric clung to her trim waist. Her makeup was applied with care, her auburn hair brushed perfectly in place. When she turned to Fran a thin smile crossed her lips, but her voice was as cold as the overhead lighting. “If you feel useless then you are useless.”

Fran sat up a little straighter in her seat and said, “That's just great, coming from you.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“It means you haven't spent a single day of your life as a real wife or mother. You don't raise your own daughter, you send her off to school so you won't have to be bothered with her. And you probably couldn't find the kitchen in your own house with a map. Who the hell are you to be making judgments about my life?”

“I didn't. You made the judgment, Fran. I simply agreed.” Elizabeth's tone was positively frigid now. “And I must say, I'm sick and tired of you taking out your pitiful frustrations on me. The fact that you got fat and out of shape is a choice you made. The fact that you don't have a job is a choice you made. The way you've lived your life for the past twenty years is a choice you made. If you don't want to hear my thoughts, don't ask.”

“I didn't,” Fran said angrily. “She did.”

All five women looked to Randi Conway as if she were a referee in a wrestling match.

When Randi offered no response, Fran turned back to her antagonist. “You're a bitch, Elizabeth, a conceited, self-centered, bitch. You come here dressed like a hooker with your red lipstick and your big tits hanging out and you think you can tell the rest of us how to live. You're not even a real part of this group. You've never shared a single genuine emotion with us. What the hell are you doing here if you're so damned smart and so damned perfect?”

“I never said I was perfect.” Elizabeth spoke slowly now, her lovely face set in a hard stare, her jaw clenched, her dark eyes aflame. “If you see me that way, it's your problem Fran, not mine. I'm not going to sit here and make apologies for the way I live my life. You claim I should reveal more of myself? What a laugh. Why would I want to share anything with a bitter, jealous, used-up old housefrau like you?”

Everything else in the room stopped as Fran launched herself out of her chair, moving so quickly that Dr. Conway could not prevent the attack. Fran lunged toward Elizabeth's throat, her outstretched nails clawing their way across her neck. Elizabeth responded quickly, lashing out with the back of her hand, slapping Fran hard across the side of her face just as Randi Conway sprang forward and managed a deft tackle around Fran's knees, dragging her to the carpeted floor. The other women, including Elizabeth, jumped to their feet. They all stood, watching as Dr. Conway got control of Fran, the two women ending up in a heap in the middle of the circle.

“That's enough,” Randi hollered into Fran's face, and the woman suddenly became still. Randi looked up at Elizabeth. “Are you all right?”

Three bloody scratch marks ran across Elizabeth's throat. They stung, but she would not say so. “I'm fine,” she sneered. “As long as I don't get rabies.”

“That'll be enough from you too.” Randi looked back to Fran, who lay beside her on the carpet, appearing now like a meek child just roused from a nap. “Are you okay?”

Fran looked up uncertainly, then nodded.

Randi got to her feet and offered her a hand. “Let's resume our seats, ladies.”

Fran ignored Randi's outstretched arm, lifted herself to her knees, then stood, taking care to straighten out her blouse and skirt. When she sat, the other women also took their seats. All except Elizabeth.

“You see, Doctor?” Elizabeth demanded. “You encourage us to share our feelings and then what? I speak my mind and what do I have to show for it. This . . . this . . . lunatic tries to strangle me.” She reached up and gingerly touched the red marks on her neck.

“Please sit down, Elizabeth.” Randi spoke as calmly as she could, fighting the awful sense of professional failure, knowing that she had lost control of the group. “We have time left in this session and we obviously have some things to work out.”

Elizabeth shot a venomous look at Fran, then turned back to Dr. Conway. “What's the point?” she asked in a derisive tone. “To discuss our feelings?”

“That's one thing we can certainly do,” Randi Conway responded.

“You want to know my feelings?” Elizabeth replied coldly. Then she turned slowly toward Fran. “I think you're pathetic,” she said.

Now, just two days later, Elizabeth was dead and, as Randi sat in the darkness of her dining room recalling that afternoon, her shock slowly turned to anxiety—and then to dread.

CHAPTER 7

As Randi Conway dealt with the news of Elizabeth's death, Thomas and Fran Colello were spending another unpleasant night at home. As Fran saw it, she was trying to make sense of their failed marriage. As far as her husband was concerned, he was merely fending off his wife's latest angry tirade.