An Appointment With Murder (3 page)

I walked to his office, stuck my head in, and said, “I’m going out for a bit. Be back later.”

“Where are you going?” he asked, peering at me over the rim of his glasses.

“Out,” I said.

I walked to the kitchen and grabbed my purse and a bottle of water. When I got to my car, I sat in it for a few minutes—a passive aggressive move—to see if Daniel might come to his senses and come out to stop me.

I waited two minutes, then started the engine and drove off.

* * *

Bridgeport, New Hampshire in November was deserted. The tourists had departed in October, along with the mild temperatures. Ahead lay the long winter and the dreaded notion of shoveling snow and high cost of heating oil.

Noticing my hands shaking on the steering wheel, I pulled over and dug my cell phone out of my purse. A single number sufficed: my psychiatrist was on speed dial.

“Doctor Webb’s office.” The female voice was mellifluous.

“Hi. My name is Sarah Woods.” I tried not to sound too desperate. “I’m a patient of Dr. Webb, and I’d like to make an appointment to see him as soon as possible.”

“Sure, Sarah. Let me check. Let’s see…he has a cancellation at one o’clock today. Is that too . . .”

“I’ll take it!” I said, saving her the trouble of completing the sentence.

I looked at the display on the closed cell phone. It was almost noon. I had an hour to kill, enough time to stop to inquire if Detective Flynn had any leads on Beth’s killer. I made a u-turn and headed for the police station.

A small, New England town of fewer than twenty thousand souls, Bridgeport did not see a lot of crime. In fact, I knew people who never locked their cars. A murder in a town like this couldn’t help but take center stage. It was only minutes before I was pulling into a parking space directly in front of the police station. It had begun to drizzle as I made my way through the glass double doors into the building. Detective Flynn must have seen me walking towards his desk; as I approached, he cleared his throat and tugged on the sleeve of his shirt.

“Hello, detective. I was wondering how the investigation is going.”

He squinted briefly, as if he didn’t recognize me, then his eyebrows rose and he nodded, smiled, and motioned me to a chair.

“We’ve taken statements from a few of Beth’s friends and family members,” he began, eschewing amenities. “The investigators have been to her house and searched her room. And we’re still processing the crime scene at the lab.” He made little eye contact as he spoke.

“What about the calls made on Beth’s cell phone?”

“Well, it turns out Beth must have had a pre-paid cell phone, so we weren’t able to access any phone records.” He cleared his throat. “We also have to accept the fact that this may have been a random act of violence, and that Beth didn’t know her killer.” His tone was neutral. “We’re still going through the evidence from the crime scene. There’s lots of different fingerprints to process. It could take some time.”

“Did you talk to her fiancé? He’s not a suspect, is he?”

“Jacob has an alibi and it’s been confirmed. So, for the time being, he’s not a person of interest.”

“Does he have any idea who could have done this?”

“No. But something might occur to him after the shock wears off. Best thing for you at this point is to hang tight and let us do our job. If something comes to light, you’ll be the first to know.” With that, he inclined his head slightly, a nod I took to mean understand?, and escorted me politely out of his office.

Getting back into my car, I realized I had just enough time to make my appointment. I drove with my head in a fog, trying to remember the last time I had seen “the good doctor,” as I was inclined to refer to Dr. Webb. It had been a few months at least. Not that I was keeping track. I parked behind, and made my way inside, the two-story brick building.

“Sarah, great to see you.” The good doctor was always well dressed and groomed to perfection. He put a hand on my shoulder, led me into his private therapy room, and closed the heavy, oak door. “It’s been what, a few months, since I’ve seen you?”

I nodded, taking my usual position on the overstuffed couch. Settling into the chair behind his desk, he studied me intently, as if intuiting that something was very wrong. It was only then that I remembered why I had made the appointment.

“I need some meds,” I blurted out.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I need medication. I’ve been having a lot of anxiety, and I need something to take the edge off.” I looked off to my right at a ghastly abstract painting that was not the least bit calming. I considered telling him that he should hire a new interior decorator, but thought better of it.

“This is quite unusual, Sarah. You’ve never asked for medication before. Something must really be bothering you. Please, tell me what’s on your mind.” His carefully paced delivery was trying my patience.

“Don’t really feel like talking about it right now.” I fidgeted with a pillow.

“So you want me to prescribe meds for you without knowing what the underlying issue is?”

“Yep,” I said, averting his raised eyebrow and patronizing tone. After a few seconds, I turned back to face him.

He smiled, shook his head, and got up from his chair. He walked towards me, sat on the couch and placed his hand in my lap. I looked down at it.

“Sarah, Sarah, Sarah,” he said softly, and paused. He was so close to me I could smell his aftershave. “I have to admit, your coming to see me today is very courageous. I didn’t think I would ever see you again after last time.”

“I didn’t come here to talk about old times. I just need some pills. Please!” I pleaded, trying to inch away from him. He was invading my personal space, and it wasn’t the first time.

I knew it was a mistake to see him again. I thought I’d put the past behind me. He’d been a great shrink, but I had had to screw it all up by sleeping with him. It had been three months since I’d sat in this same spot pissing and moaning for the umpteenth time about the trivial disappointments in life. Unappreciative husband. Money issues. Typical, stupid stuff. I’d been comfortable with the good doctor. He’d been my therapist for years, so I trusted him completely. But a boundary had been crossed that day. In the midst of my ranting, he’d come to me and kissed me so passionately that all my defenses melted away. We’d made love on the overstuffed couch, without a word. And when it was over, we’d gotten dressed. We didn’t make eye contact until I opened the door to leave, then he’d said, “I know I don’t have to remind you, but my reputation is everything in this business. Please be discreet, I beg you.” He’d slicked his hair back with one hand as he saw me out the door. The memory slipped away as I was jolted back to reality.

“Okay, Sarah. I can see you’re distressed about something and don’t wish to discuss it with me. But I cannot, in good conscience, prescribe medication for you without knowing the cause of your anxiety.” He rose from the couch, walked back to his desk, and sat down, posture perfectly straight, interlaced fingers resting on the desktop. He studied me, his head tilted slightly to one side.

“How’s your wife, doctor?” I asked nonchalantly, inspecting my fingernails. I would not give up without a fight, and if I had to resort to blackmail, so be it.

He paused only for a moment before smiling and withdrawing something from a drawer in the desk. He scribbled quickly, and gently tore off the top sheet. “A prescription for Ativan, 3 mg before bed for three nights,” he said, extending his hand across the desk.

Off the couch and in front of his desk in an instant, I leaned over, snatched the piece of paper from his hand, and calmly left the room.

* * *

I drove to the pharmacy, filled my prescription, and sat in my car in the parking lot. The view through the windows of my steel cocoon was obscured by the light drizzle and the effect of my breath on the cold glass. I was about to indulge my growling stomach with a granola bar retrieved from the glove compartment when I heard the phone ringing in my purse. I dug it out. It was Gabby.

“What the hell? Just listened to your message on voicemail. Are you okay?”

Gabby’s was not a soft, feminine voice, and I moved the phone a distance from my ear before replying. “I’ll be fine. Has Detective Flynn called you yet? He’s in charge of the investigation.”

“Do they have any idea who it was?”

“Not yet. They’re working on it.”

“I can’t believe she’s friggin’ dead.” Neither did Gabby mince words. An outspoken feminist type, and a lesbian to boot, she nevertheless had a kind spirit and her sense of humor compensated to a great extent for her lack of tact. With curly, blonde hair and an abundance of curves, she was what people referred to as a lipstick lesbian. That she was a little on the chunky side somehow suited her. Few of our massage clients were aware of her sexual preference. I’m not sure why, but I thought it better that way.

“Did Beth ever talk to you about an ex-boyfriend or any other guy she was involved with before Jacob?” I asked.

“Never mentioned anyone to me. She was so wrapped up in her wedding stuff, she never talked about anything else.”

“I know what you mean. This whole thing doesn’t make any sense.” I could hear Gabby breathing on the other end. She was either at a loss for words or deep in thought. “Gabby? Are you there?”

“You know, I just remembered something that happened a few days ago. Beth and I were working a little late. I think it was Wednesday night, after you went home. Anyway, when she walked out the door, I happened to look out the window and saw her get into a white Subaru Outback. Didn’t get much of a look at the driver, but enough to know it wasn’t her fiancé.”

“Can you remember anything else about him other than the car he drove?”

“No, not really.”

“Could have been anyone, right? Are we jumping to conclusions here?”

“Well, I would agree, except that the next day, when I asked her who the Subaru belonged to, she looked me straight in the eye and denied knowing anything about it. I thought she was being ridiculous because it was obvious I’d seen her. How else would I have known? But she played dumb and changed the subject. I just shrugged it off because it really wasn’t any of my business.” Gabby paused, but I could sense she had more to say about the business.

“So what do you think? Was she cheating on Jacob?” I tried to sound doubtful; I certainly never would have suspected such a thing.

“Don’t know. Maybe she wanted to have one last fling with an old boyfriend before tying the knot,” Gabby said, without much conviction.

“Not so sure about that. She didn’t seem like the kind of girl to go screwing around. And she was,” I added, with a long, tired sigh, “in love with Jacob.”

“You know, maybe it’s as simple as some crack head psycho came in planning to rob the place and freaked out and killed Beth.”

“I don’t think so. I mean, she was strangled. Strangling is a crime of passion.”

“Oh, really. And what makes you the expert on crimes of passion?”

“I read a lot of cheesy romance novels.”

“Maybe Jacob did it when he found out she was cheating.”

“She wasn’t cheating, Gabby,” I maintained matter-of-factly. “Besides, Jacob has an alibi.”

“Well, fine. Whatever. Anyway, I still like my theory about the crack head.”

“Either way, the police don’t seem to have a clue. Guess we’ll have to be patient.”

* * *

I decided after leaving the parking lot at the pharmacy to stop at my son’s favorite pizza joint and get a large cheese pizza. Not having had a call from Daniel or Brian all day, I figured they’d be wondering about dinner. When I arrived home, Brian took one look at the large pizza box I was holding and his face lit up.

“Sweet! I’m staaarving. Thanks for getting the pizza, Mom!” He took the box from me and set it on the table. The sweet smell of Italian seasonings made my mouth water. I reached into my purse and was taking out the bottle of pills when Daniel walked in.

“What are those?” he asked, looking at the pills I’d shaken out into my palm.

“Say hello to my little friends,” I said in my best, which wasn’t very good, Al Pacino imitation. I held the bottle up and shook it.

“What do you need those for?” he inquired testily.

“I saw my shrink this morning and he suggested I take these for a few days, for anxiety,” I replied, avoiding his stare.

“Cool, can I have one?” Brian stuck out his hand and grinned. Laughing, I slapped his hand away.

“Get outta here,” I said, “These are all mine.” But when I looked over at him, Daniel seemed less than amused.

“Had I known you planned on being medicated and getting take out,” he announced tersely, “I wouldn’t have gone out of my way to plan a nice dinner, or bothered to get a bottle of your favorite pinot noir.”

My jaw dropped. Go figure. “Dan, I’m sorry,” I began. “I guess I was just . . . .”

Before I could explain further, he put up his hand to stop me—“Whatever, Sarah. Just save it.”—and I knew that was the end of the conversation. He walked out of the kitchen into the living room, shaking his head.

Brian looked at me and shrugged. “Have some pizza, Mom. Let dad be a party pooper,” he said, handing me a slice. Half the cheese slid off before I got it to my mouth. It tasted damn good despite my petulant husband’s best efforts to make me feel guilty.

When we finished gorging, I took the prescribed number of pills with some water, told Brian I was going to take a hot bath, and left the table. As I made my way down the hall towards the bathroom, I consciously avoided even glancing into the living room; I could hear a game on the TV, and, honestly, I didn’t give a shit what he was thinking.

As the bathtub filled, I sat on the edge rubbing my temples, trying not to let my world spin out of control. The past few days had been a nightmare from which I kept willing myself to wake up. It pissed me off, the thought of being so out of control, but the sensation of the hot water closing around my toes and feet and ankles was indescribably soothing. I exhaled long and luxuriously as I slipped into the tub, closed my eyes, and let my muscles relax. The meds began working their magic, and I felt myself succumbing to a blissful world of silence.