Whittaker 01 The Enemy We Know (25 page)

We sat mulling over the many questions for a bit.

“
I wonder if Pete would know about the knife,” she finally said.

“
Pete?” My mind blanked. Pete who?

“
Pete Durrant,” she said, vamping a little, fluffing her hair. “He’s taking me out tomorrow night. I’ll see what I can find out.”

“
Sue, I doubt he’s going to spill any police secrets over the Sunday meatloaf special. He’s a cop, after all.”

“
We’re going out for prime rib. And, anyway, I’ll wear my sexy underwear.” She batted her eyes and waggled her hips a la Mae West. Sue as a scheming seductress? The images that developed were not welcome. And I seriously doubted that Mae’s hips would’ve made squeaky fart sounds on the cheap pleather seat.

“
You’ve only known him a few days. Isn’t sexy lingerie a bit premature?”

“
Yeah, but it sets the tone.” She winked.

“
In that case, you better shave your legs, too.”

Every little bit helps.

Sunday’s are supposed to be peaceful. I slept in, waking nose-to-whiskers with a dead mouse. Shrieking, I flung the pillow one direction and scrambled wildly off the bed in the other. Landed with a bone-crunching thud on my butt and looked up to see Siggy peering over the edge of the bed at my lunacy. His ears twitched as he tried to fathom my reaction to a perfectly
nice
little gift.

“
Is that yours?” I asked, pointing to the rodent.

He walked over, picked it up in his mouth and made for the kitchen.

I bounded down the hall after him, squealing various versions of “Eww!” and trying to convince him to drop it. He finally complied, giving me a disgusted look as if to say, “Make up your mind, woman.” I used a file folder and a broom to scoop the limp little body up, tossing it in the garbage. Then, even though it wasn’t nearly full, I grabbed the bag, tied it off and took it outside to the dumpster. Threw the broom in, too, for good measure. Bleh!

Siggy was miffed with me all day, staring with squinty, green eyes while I poked in drawers and in closet corners looking for mouse droppings. I never found any. Avoiding places where Siggy would have access, I set a couple of traps anyway. I’d filled my quota for rodent encounters for the year. Maybe the decade.

After the poop hunt, I stripped the bed and hauled the mound of sheets, pillow cases, and blankets to the laundromat. The last time I’d been here had been the day after I’d chaperoned Marshall at his birthday party and the weekend my utilities had been tampered with. Distracted, I overshot the laundromat entrance and had to make a sharp right in order to swing back around the block. Almost got rear-ended by a big, blue Buick, which had been riding my tail.

If I was going to have a shot at figuring out the sonnet stalker, I was going to have to reanalyze everything that had happened and decipher
which
behavior was caused by
which
asshole.

So many assholes in the world.

Obviously the sonnets had originated with the stalker and not Wayne. My earlier skepticism that Wayne would express himself in Shakespearian works was correct. He was more of a “Beans, beans, the musical fruit” kind of guy.

The first sonnet, impaled to the cloth doll with the fillet knife, had appeared on a Friday, just over a week ago. The second sonnet popped out of my glove box two days ago, also on a Friday.

A coincidence? Was there something significant about Fridays? It was too soon to tell, but I’d have to keep that in mind. I wondered if there was anything else I’d mistakenly attributed to Wayne.

With a start, I remembered the bouquet. At the time, the card’s message had seemed quaint, adoring. I grabbed my AA book, rifling through the pages. Scraps of paper with phone numbers and other miscellaneous notes fluttered to the floor, the floralist’s card among them.

“
To my ‘forward Violet’—Thou hast all the all of me.”

So much for romantic. Now, it felt creepy as hell. More importantly, though, it matched the language of the sonnets. I was going to have to get a book on Shakespeare, preferably one with commentary. I certainly wasn’t going to Marshall for an interpretation.

Just then the dryer buzzer went off, hurling me out of my reverie, scaring the crap out of me. I got several strange looks from other patrons. Apparently, a wild-eyed woman shrieking at the appliances unnerved them. Wimps.

I called in sick on Monday. Being alone with my thoughts about sent me crazy, but I couldn’t deal with seeing Marshall.

I didn’t hear from Sue until later that night. When she heard I hadn’t gone in to work, she nagged about “isolating”—an AA term for withdrawing from the world and a warning sign for potential relapse.

“
Sue, it’s not isolating. It’s protecting my ass!”

“
Your ass is up for grabs anyway, unless you figure out what’s going on. That won’t happen if you’re cowering on the couch waiting for it to all just go away.”

I moved from the couch to the rocking chair—
how did she know?—
and changed the subject. “Did you learn anything from Durrant?”

“
Not much,” she admitted. “He’s divorced and has four adult kids. At least I won’t have to deal with the ex. And he’s—”

“
About Wayne’s murder,” I said through gritted teeth.

“
I was getting to that. And it’s still not much, because it’s not like I could ask him straight out about the knife. But I did ask if he thought this Blodgett was a good detective. He was, like, ‘Why?’ And, so I go, ‘Because the jerk is going on and on about the knife Wayne was wavin’ in Letty’s face a
month
ago instead of worrying about who shot the asshole.’”

“
What did he say?”

“
He got a funny look on his face, kind of constipated, you know? And he wouldn’t look at me. But he did say that Blodgett was a good cop. And I finally got him to say there was no doubt that a shotgun was the cause of death.”

“
He looked funny, though?” I persisted.

“
Yeah, like there was more that he wanted to say, but couldn’t. Crazy as it sounds, I think the knife was involved somehow, even if he
was
killed with a shotgun blast. There’s something weird going on about that knife.”

“
I know.”

We left it at that. After a few more minutes talking mild smut about Durrant’s big hands and potentially corresponding body parts, we hung up.

My first client wasn’t scheduled until ten o’clock, so I had just enough time to run to the bookstore. There was a ton of books on Shakespeare—various plays, theories on his true identity, and, of course, sonnets. I got caught up in the mystery of Shakespeare. I hadn’t known that his very identity was a subject of controversy. Apparently, no one even knew for sure if Shakespeare was really the actor/playwright from Stratford-on-Avon or if some notable had taken the name as a pseudonym.

I finally refocused, picking a collection of sonnets that should have been subtitled “Shakespeare For Dummies,” and speed-walked to the checkout. I’d never in my life gotten out of a bookstore with only one book, but I had time constraints and stalker issues.

As soon as I walked through the clinic doors, my mind latched relentlessly on two subjects: the knife and Marshall. Before starting sessions, I slipped into the file room to peek at the Harmon file. Resisting the urge to pull it out, I ran my fingers between it and its neighbor, feeling for knife lumps. A line of sweat beaded my upper lip. I didn’t just dream it. It was there.

An innate ability to deny harsh reality came in handy; focusing on my clients as they rotated in and out of my office was a blessed relief, but it only lasted as long as each session. As soon as the client crossed into the lobby, my brain circled back on itself, picking at the identity of the Shakespeare stalker like an infected scab. I avoided Marshall, skirting the reception area if I heard his voice and scooting past his open office door with head down, face buried in reports.

For the rest of the week, my mood fell into the same pattern: distracted, skittish, and isolated. Marshall’s eyes followed me, questioning. Lisa asked three times if I was feeling all right, and Mary Kate brought me homemade chicken noodle soup.

In between sessions and at night locked in my apartment, I read sonnets ‘til my eyes blurred. After a while, I found myself understanding the cadence of the language, making sense of the music of the words. Deep in the middle of the sonnets, I found the “forward Violet” sonnet, although it wasn’t capitalized in the original. It was one of the lighter sonnets, thankfully, speaking as though the flowers had stolen color and fragrance from the writer’s loved one to adorn themselves. I also noted that the flowers in my bouquet were taken from the sonnet as well. Violets, baby’s breath, marjoram and the three roses—pink, white, and red—were all specified.

At work, I couldn’t stop myself from visiting the file room several times a day, inventing reasons, slipping in when the front was empty, volunteering to file. It was as if I’d found a new addiction, just as dangerous, substituting checking on the knife for alcohol. I vowed to stay away, but the tension fed on the ever-present fear until I felt like I’d explode or go crazy. More importantly, I knew the sheer physical relief—the sudden loosening of neck and back muscles, unclenching of stomach muscles, smoothing out of forehead—just from checking on the knife was completely illogical. The killer was still out there, after all.

I knew it was stupid. I knew it was risky. Like any good addict, I did it anyway. Maybe because, somehow, the knife was the connection. Touching it, making sure it was in reach, keeping it under
my
control, let me believe that I could uncover its secrets.

On Wednesday, Mary Kate and Hannah dragged me out to lunch. Mary Kate’s going-away party was scheduled for Friday, a fact I’d known but hadn’t really paid attention to. Tradition required the supervising therapist take her intern out for lunch during his or her final week. Hannah had graciously invited me along as well, even though Mary Kate’s transfer to her care continued to be difficult. Hannah was good that way.

Mary Kate chose Olive Garden, which suited everyone. She ordered first, asking for the mushroom stuffed ravioli, which sounded heavenly. Hannah went with the chicken scampi dish; I ordered soup and salad.

“
Oh, wait!” Mary Kate stopped the server. “I’ve changed my mind. I’ll have the scampi, too.”

Hannah smiled slightly. She reached over, lightly resting her hand on Mary Kate’s. “I just wanted to tell you what a pleasure it’s been working with you, Mary Kate. You have such energy and passion for helping people that I’ve felt re-energized in my own work. That’s one reason why I like working with interns. I’m sure Letty agrees.” Hannah turned to include me, and I smiled in agreement. It had certainly been interesting, that’s for sure. Mary Kate slipped her hand from under Hannah’s, unrolling her silverware from the cloth napkin, spreading the latter in her lap.

“
I wish I could stay forever,” Mary Kate said. “I can’t believe the semester is almost over.”

“
Are you ready for finals?” I asked.

Mary Kate shrugged. “I guess. Do you think Marshall is going to hire someone to cover the Saturday front desk? Like, part-time?”

“
I doubt it,” Hannah said. “More than likely we’ll just make do until we get another intern in.”

“
So, Mary Kate, have you been wrapping up with your clients?” I purposely avoided the word “termination.” “How’s that been going?”

She faced me with a wistful look on her puppy-dog face. “Not too bad, really. I think the toughest one was my teenager. Remember her? I think she’ll be okay, though. She’s got a good relationship with the school counselor who referred her, and they’re looking at colleges for next year. She’s excited.”

“
Moving on to the next phase of life can be exciting,” I said.

“
I know, I know. But I’ve been so happy at the clinic. It’s so hard getting this close”—she pinched her fingertips together—“to your dream and being told to go away.”

Hannah said, “Well, finishing your schooling will bring you even closer to your goals. And then you can come back, if not to our clinic, then to another.”

Our dishes arrived, diverting our attention. We fussed with handing around the bread sticks and dug in, abandoning conversation in favor of eating. After a while, I couldn’t help noticing Mary Kate picking at her scampi, shifting the noodles around with her fork. Although most interns took the end of their rotation with equanimity, others struggled. Mary Kate’s passion fueled both her empathy for the people she helped and depression at the thought of leaving them. At least she seemed to be trying with Hannah.

“
Mary Kate, what’re the plan for the interns’ going away party?” Hannah asked.

The right question. Mary Kate immediately sparkled, sitting up straight, filling her skin again.

The intern parties, low-budget and low-key, were usually held after hours in the clinic conference room, the arrangements dumped on Lisa. This year, Mary Kate had commandeered the social-planner duties. As long as she stayed in budget and didn’t make a mess, Lisa wouldn’t interfere. Nobody else cared.

Mary Kate chattered on happily, discussing the merits of regular cake versus ice cream cake and whether anyone would want to go out drinking afterward. I half-expected her to have purchased her own gift, but apparently Lisa had managed to hold onto the reins for that task.

By the time we made it back to the clinic, Mary Kate was her usual bouncy self and I returned to obsessing about knives and sexy bosses who might be killers. The usual.

Instead of TGIF, Friday turned into OMG-IF. I got back from lunch to find Robert, of all people, waiting for me in the lobby, suffering under Lisa’s baleful stare. She’d heard we’d broken up and, like any good woman friend, assumed it was his fault. Plus, she didn’t like real estate agents or guys who got manicures.