You belong to me (15 page)

"You also rearranged your calendar so that your first appointment is not until four o'clock"

Don realized that his mother was now keeping track of him through his secretary as well as his housekeeper.

"You went to the lake again, didn't you?" she asked.

"Yes."

His mother's face softened. She put her hand over his. "Don, I didn't forget that today is Kathy's anniversary, but it has been four years. You're going to be forty next month. You've got to move on, get on with your life. I want to see you meet a woman whose eyes will light up when you walk in the door at the end of the day."

"Maybe she'll have a job too," Don said. "There're not too many women who are just homemakers these days."

"Oh, stop it. You know what I mean. I want you to be happy again. And allow me to be selfish: I want a grandchild. I'm jealous when my friends whip out pictures of their little darlings. Each time all I can think is 'Please God, me too.' Don, even psychiatrists may need help recovering from a tragedy. Did you ever consider that?"

He did not answer, but sat with his head down.

Then she sighed. "All right, enough. I'll let you off the hot seat. I know I shouldn't pull this on you, but I do worry about you. When was the last time you took a vacation?"

"Bingo!" Don said, his face brightening. "You've given me a chance to defend myself. Next week, when I finish a book signing in Miami, I'm going to take six or seven days off."

"Don, you used to love going on cruises." His mother hesitated. "Remember how you and Kathy called yourselves `the sailaways,' and you'd take those spur-of-the-moment trips, having your travel agent book you on a segment of a long cruise? I want to see you do that sort of thing again. It was fun for you then; it can be fun again. You haven't set foot on a cruise ship since Kathy died."

Dr. Donald Richards looked across the table into the blue-gray eyes that reflected such genuine concern. Oh yes I have, Mother, he thought. Oh yes I have.

44

Susan could not reach Pamela Hastings immediately. She got through to her office at Columbia, but was told that Dr. Hastings was not expected there until shortly before eleven. Her first class was eleven-fifteen.

Chances are she stopped at Lenox Hill to visit Carolyn Wells, Susan thought. It was already nine-fifteen, so it was unlikely that she would have enough time to reach Pamela there. Instead she left a message asking that Dr. Hastings call her at her office anytime after two o'clock, and emphasizing that she needed to speak to her on a confidential and urgent matter.

Once again she saw disapproval in Jed Geany's eyes when she arrived at the studio only ten minutes prior to broadcast time.

"You know, Susan, one of these days-" he began.

"I know. One of these days you'll be starting without me, and that won't go over well. It's a character flaw, Jed. I cut things too close timewise. I even talk to myself about it."

He gave her a reluctant half smile. "Your guest from yesterday, Dr. Richards, stopped by. He wanted to pick up the tapes of the programs he was on. Guess he couldn't wait to play them again and hear how good he sounded."

I'm seeing him tonight, Susan thought. I could have brought them. What was the big rush? she wondered. Then, realizing it was nothing she had time to be concerned about now, she went into the studio. Picking up her notes for the show, she put on her headphones.

When the engineer announced the thirty seconds warning, she said quickly, "Jed, remember that call from Tiffany yesterday? I don't expect to hear from her, but if she does call in, be sure to record her phone number when it comes up on the ID."

"Okay."

"Ten seconds," the engineer warned.

In her earphones Susan heard, "And now stay tuned for Ask Dr. Susan," followed by a brief musical bridge. She took a deep breath and began, "Hello and welcome. I'm Dr. Susan Chandler. Today we're going right to the phones to answer any questions you have in mind, so let's hear from you. Maybe between us we can put whatever is bothering you in perspective."

As usual, the time went quickly. Some of the calls were mundane: "Dr. Susan, there's someone in my office who's driving me crazy. If I wear a new outfit, she asks me where I bought it, then shows up wearing the exact same thing a few days later. This has happened at least four times."

"Clearly this woman has some self-realization problems, but they don't have to be yours. There's a simple, immediate solution to your problem, however," Susan said. "Don't tell her where you buy your clothes."

Other calls were complex: "I had to put my ninety-year-old mother in a nursing home," a woman said, her voice weary. "It killed me to do it, but physically she's helpless. And now she won't talk to me. I feel so guilty I can't function."

"Give her a little time to adjust," Susan suggested. "Visit her regularly. Remember that she wants to see you even if she ignores you. Tell her how much you love her. We all need to know that we're loved, especially when we're frightened, as she is now. Finally, and most important, stop beating up on yourself."

The problem is that some of us live too long, Susan thought sadly, while others, like Regina Clausen and maybe Carolyn Wells, have had their lives cut short.

The show's time was almost up when she heard Jed announce, "Our next call is from Tiffany in Yonkers, Dr. Susan."

Susan looked up at the control box. Jed was nodding-he would copy Tiffany's phone number from the Caller ID.

"Tiffany, I'm glad you called back today-" Susan began, but she was interrupted before she could continue.

"Dr. Susan," Tiffany said hurriedly, "I almost didn't have the courage to phone, because I may disappoint you. You see-"

Susan listened with dismay to the obviously rehearsed speech about why Tiffany couldn't send her the turquoise ring. It sounded almost as though she were reading it.

"So like I said, Dr. Susan, I hope I'm not disappointing you, but it was such a cute souvenir, and Matt, my former boyfriend, gave it to me, and it kind of reminds me of all the fun times we had when we went out together."

"Tiffany, I wish you'd call me at my office," Susan said hurriedly, then had a sense of de‚ja… vu. Hadn't she spoken those same words to Carolyn Wells forty-eight hours earlier?

"Dr. Susan, I won't change my mind about giving you the souvenir ring," Tiffany said. "And if you don't mind, I want to tell you that I work at-"

"Please do not give your employer's name," Susan said firmly.

"I work at The Grotto, the best Italian restaurant in Yonkers," Tiffany said defiantly, almost shouting.

"Cut to commercials, Susan," Jed barked into her headphone.

At least now I know where to find her, Susan thought wryly as she automatically began to say, "And now a message from our sponsors."

When the program was over, she went into the control room. Jed had written Tiffany's phone number on the back of an envelope. "She sounds dumb, but she was smart enough to get in a free plug for her boss," he observed acidly. Self-promotion on the show was strictly forbidden.

Susan folded the envelope and put it in her jacket pocket. "What worries me is that Tiffany is obviously lonely and trying to get back with her old boyfriend, and she sounds very vulnerable. Suppose some nut was listening to the program and heard her and got ideas about her?"

"Are you going to contact her about that ring?"

"Yes, I think so. I just need to compare it with the one Regina Clausen had. I know it's a long shot that they came from the same place, but I won't be sure unless I can check it out."

"Susan, those kinds of souvenir rings are a dime a dozen, as are the shops that sell them. Those guys who run the shops all claim their stuff is handmade, but who are they kidding? For ten bucks? No way. You're too smart to believe that."

"You're probably right," Susan said in agreement. "Besides-" she began, then stopped herself. She'd been about to tell Jed her suspicion that Justin Wells's critically injured wife was the mysterious Karen. No, she thought, it's better to wait until I see where that information leads me before I spread the word.

45

When Nat Small noted that Abdul Parki's souvenir shop still hadn't opened at noon on Wednesday, he became concerned. Small's shop, Dark Delights, a porn emporium, was directly across the street from the Khyem Specially Shop, and the two men had been friends for years.

Nat, a wiry fifty-year-old with a narrow face, hooded eyes, and a troubled past, could smell trouble just as distinctly as anyone who got near him could smell the combination of stale cigars and liquor that was his personal scent.

It was common knowledge on MacDougal Street that his sign announcing that he did not sell to minors had nothing to do with reality. That he never had been caught at it was due to the fact that he knew by instinct when an undercover cop opened the door of his well-equipped store. If there happened to be a young customer already there, attempting to make a purchase, Nat would immediately start demanding proof of age - as loudly as he could.

Nat had one abiding credo, and it had served him well: stay away from the cops. That was why he tried every other avenue available to him when he first became concerned about his friend's failure to open for business that Wednesday morning. First he tried peering in at the door of Abdul's shop; seeing nothing, he then phoned Abdul at home; not reaching him there, he tried phoning Abdul's landlord. Of course, he got the usual answering machine runaround: "Leave a message," it said. "We'll get back to you." 'Yeah, right, Nat thought. Everyone knew the landlord didn't give a damn about the place and would jump at any opportunity to get out of the long-term lease Abdul had gotten during one of the city's periodic real estate downturns.

Finally, Nat did the one thing that showed the depth of his friendship: He called the local precinct and reported his concern that something might have happened to Abdul. "I mean, you could set your clock by that little guy," he said. "Maybe he didn't feel well yesterday, 'cause I noticed he didn't reopen after lunch. Maybe he went home and had a heart attack or something."

The police checked Abdul's small, exquisitely neat apartment on Jane Street. A bouquet of now-drooping flowers lay next to the smiling photo of his late wife. Otherwise there was no sign of recent habitation, and no indication that he had been there. At that point, they decided to go into the shop and investigate.

It was there they found the blood-soaked body of Abdul Parki.

Nat Small was not a suspect. The police knew Nat, and they all knew he was too smart to get involved in a murder; besides, he didn't have a motive. In fact, the very absence of motive was the most troubling aspect of the case. There was nearly one hundred dollars in the cash register, and it didn't look as though the killer even had made an effort to open it.

Still, it probably was robbery, the police decided. And the killer, probably a druggie, got scared off by something, maybe even by a customer coming in the shop. As the police scenario played out, the killer hid in the back until the customer left, then bolted. He'd been smart enough to put up the "closed" sign and snap the lock. And he gave himself plenty of time to get away.

What the police wanted from Nat and from other shopkeepers on the block was information. They did learn that Abdul had opened the shop as usual on Tuesday morning at nine o'clock and had been seen sweeping his sidewalk around eleven, after some kid scattered a bag of popcorn there.

"Nat," the detective said. "Use that brain for something besides the gutter. You're right across the street from Parki. You're always putting the latest filth in your front window. Did you notice anyone going in or out of Abdul's shop sometime after eleven?"

By the time he was being questioned at three o'clock, Nat had had plenty of time to think, and to remember. Yesterday had been slow, but then Tuesdays always were. Around one he had been putting some display boxes for newly arrived X-rated films in the front window. Although he hadn't actually stared at him, he had noticed a well-dressed guy standing on the sidewalk outside his shop. He seemed to be looking over the stuff already on display. But then, instead of coming inside, he had crossed the street and gone directly into Abdul's shop, without even pausing to look in the window.

Nat had a pretty good impression of what the guy had looked like, even though he had seen him only in profile, and the man had been wearing sunglasses. But even if that well-dressed guy had gone into Ab's place around one, he certainly wasn't the one who killed the poor little guy, Nat told himself. No, there was no use even mentioning him to the cops. If he did, he would end up wasting the whole afternoon in the precinct station with a cop-artist. No way.

Besides, Nat thought, that guy looks just like all my customers. The Wall Street guys and the lawyers and doctors who buy my stuff would go ballistic if they thought that I was talking to the cops about one of their kind.

"I seen nobody," Nat informed the cops. "But let me warn you guys," he added virtuously. "You gotta do something about the druggies 'round here. They'd kill their grandmothers for a fix. And you can tell the mayor I said so!"

46

Pamela Hastings feared that the students in her Comparative Lit course had wasted their time by coming to class today. The combination of two sleepless nights and the continuing acute worry about her friend Carolyn Wells had left her physically and emotionally spent. And now her suspicion that Carolyn's injuries might not have been accidental, and that in fact Justin might have been angry or jealous enough to have deliberately tried to kill her, had proven to be almost totally distracting. She was painfully aware that today's lecture on The Divine Comedy was both disjointed and uneven, and she was relieved when it was over.

Making matters even worse was the message she received to call Dr. Susan Chandler. What could she say to Dr. Chandler? Certainly she had no right to discuss Justin with a perfect stranger. Still she knew she could not avoid at least returning the call.

The Columbia campus was bright with sunshine, colorful with the turning leaves. It's a good day to be alive, Pamela thought ironically as she walked through it. She hailed a cab and gave the now all-too-familiar destination: "Lenox Hill Hospital."