Not Guilty (25 page)

“Please—I don’t want to discuss it.”

Dan frowned. “You’re as white as a sheet,” he said sternly. “Just sit down over here. Come on.”

Keely was resentful of his interference. “I don’t need any help,” she snapped.

“At least let me clean this mess up,” he said. “Which way is the kitchen?”

Keely sank down into the corner of the sofa and pointed down the hall. Dan went in that direction. Keely shook her wrist absently and then peered at it. There were red fingermarks where Wade had grabbed her. Keely’s gaze fell on the cigarette butt in the ashtray.
Why did I do that,
she thought miserably?
I sent him away and now I have nothing.

Dan reappeared with a trash basket and a rag he must have found under the sink. Then, while she watched, he walked over to the hall table and righted it, wiping off its surface. He bent down and began to pick up the mess, collecting the flowers and the shards of vase in the trash can.

When he was done, he straightened up and looked at her. “You can tell me it’s none of my business,” he said, “but who was that guy?”

Keely shook her head.

“Hey, I know what it feels like to talk to yourself ’cause you’ve got no one else to tell,” he said. “It’s the story of my life.”

The forced composure in his voice and the lost expression in his eyes were all too familiar. Keely felt suddenly chastened. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I know you do understand. How long has your wife . . . how long have you been alone?”

“Annie died three years ago. Breast cancer.”

Keely felt her head start to throb. “How do you manage?” she said miserably.

“Who manages?” he asked wryly. “You’ve seen my house.”

“It’s a cheerful house,” she said.

Dan sighed and sat down at the other end of the sofa. “It’s pretty much the way she left it,” he said. “Only messier.”

“I feel as if I know your Annie, just from being there,” said Keely kindly.

Dan nodded, and his gaze swept over the living room. Keely wondered if her own house said a lot about Mark when someone new walked in. Somehow, she doubted it. Mark had not lived here long enough to make an impression on the place.

“Anyway . . . like I said,” Dan continued stubbornly. “I know how it feels not to have another grown-up you can talk to when you have a problem on your hands. And it looks to me like you’ve got a little problem there. What did that guy want from you? Are you in some kind of trouble? I’ll keep it to myself. You don’t really know me, but I’m highly reliable.”

Keely managed a wan smile. It was a tempting offer. She could tell that he would be good listener. He had an intent expression, as if he was
really seeing her when he looked at her. And for a moment, she wanted to tell him. She knew he would be indignant at Wade’s demands, and his indignation would be comforting. She could halve her burden by sharing it with him.

But then she reminded herself that it was Nicole who had told her about the delivery man from Tarantino’s. She’d only been trying to help. But if Dan found out, he’d probably feel responsible. He seemed to be that kind of man—chivalrous. He’d insist on going down there and having it out with Wade. Wade would clam up, and she would never find out what she needed to know. “It’s nothing,” she said. “Really. Just a misunderstanding.”

K
eely didn’t bother to go to bed. She knew she would just toss and turn all night. Instead, she mulled over her encounter with Wade Rovere. He implied that he could sell his information elsewhere. But where? Surely he was just bluffing, trying to make her pay for some useless nonsense he had made up on the spot. But then she reminded herself that he knew what Mark had been wearing. A lucky guess, or was it possible that he did know something? The normal thing to do would be to call the police, but when she thought about Phil Stratton and his questions, she knew she would not be doing that. And if she wanted to cash out a bond, she was going to have to tell Lucas, who had the paperwork on all their investments. He had offered to help, and she had willingly turned over their portfolio to him to manage. Still, the thought of telling Lucas why she needed to cash out a bond—to pay extortion money—bothered her. Maybe he wouldn’t ask, she told herself. It wasn’t as if she had to account for her spending. But she knew Lucas. He would be concerned. He would want to know.

Finally, just before dawn, she lay down on the couch and fell into a restless sleep. Her dreams were a riot of incomprehensible images. When she awoke, she lay on her back on the sofa, thinking about Mark. What would he advise her to do? He was always so competent, so confident—a cool head in any emergency. Suddenly, she remembered what Mark once said to her:
I always keep a large bundle of cash in the house. I hide it in the closet, in case of an emergency.

Keely had never paid much attention, never bothered to ask or even to wonder what sort of emergency he meant. She had always felt safe with him in charge. In fact, she’d never given it a thought until that
moment, when the memory of his words came back to her like an answered prayer.

Keely ran up the stairs and stood at the door of Mark’s clothes closet, looking in at the muted array of expensive suits, the neatly arranged shelves of shirts, stiffly starched and still in their boxes from the laundry, and the rows of shoes on the floor, each one glossy with polish and shaped by a shoe tree. This was going to take a while.

She was searching through the folded sweaters on the top shelf when she was interrupted by the ringing of the phone. It was Dr. Stover’s secretary at the Blenheim Institute, saying that he wanted to see her immediately.

“Is my son all right?” Keely cried.

“I don’t know anything about what Dr. Stover wants to discuss with you,” said the secretary.

“I’m on my way,” said Keely.

She changed her clothes, got Abby ready, and quickly arrived at Dr. Stover’s office. “Excuse me,” she asked the secretary breathlessly. “I’m Mrs. Weaver. You said Dr. Stover wanted to see me right away. Do I have time to take my baby to the hospital nursery?”

“Plenty of time. Dr. Stover was called out on an emergency. It could take a while,” said the secretary. “Do you wish to wait? We can reschedule.”

Do I wish to wait?
Keely thought.
No. But I will. I’m not leaving until I see him.

“I’ll wait,” she said firmly.

It was nearly two hours later when the secretary put down her phone and turned in her chair. “Dr. Stover is ready to see you now,” she said.

Smothering a sigh of frustration, Keely rose from the chair and entered the office.

Dr. Stover, an overweight, bearded man in his sixties, stood up and came around the corner of his desk.

“Mrs. Weaver,” said Dr. Stover. “I’m sorry you had to wait.”

“Well, I wanted to be sure I saw you today,” Keely said, unsmiling.

“I’m glad you’re here,” he said, resuming his seat. “I wanted to see you as well. Just give me another minute.”

Keely sat down in the chair he indicated. While Dr. Stover shuffled through some papers on his desk, Keely looked around the office at the framed diplomas on the walls, the shelves of psychiatric textbooks.

“Now, Mrs. Weaver,” he said.

Keely sat up straight in the chair.

“Let’s talk about Dylan. His suicide attempt came as a great shock to you, I’m sure.”

“It certainly did,” said Keely.

“Does your son have any history of psychological problems? Has he ever been treated by a psychiatrist, or a psychologist before?”

Keely shook her head. “No, never.”

Dr. Stover raised his eyebrows. “Not even when his father committed suicide?”

Keely immediately felt the rebuke in his words. “No,” she admitted.

“Did you consider getting him some professional help? That had to have been very traumatic for Dylan.”

Keely took a deep breath. “Dr. Stover, my husband . . . Dylan’s father was . . . tormented—I can’t think of a better way to describe it—tormented by migraine headaches. No treatment seemed to help. Dylan was aware of this. I mean, even as young as he was. Our lives very much revolved around Richard’s headaches. So, even though I realized his death was a shock to . . . to both of us, I didn’t think . . . I thought Dylan would be able to accept it in time. With a lot of help from me.”

“In retrospect,” he said, “do you think that was the right decision?”

Keely looked at him squarely. “I did the best I could at the time. I don’t see any point in wishing I could change the past.”

“And yet, when your second husband died, you still didn’t seek any help for your son. Is that right?”

“It was so recent,” Keely said, hating to make excuses for herself.

“I have a note here that you did call me on the very day of Dylan’s suicide attempt. Did he exhibit any behavior that indicated he was suicidal?”

“Like what?” Keely asked.

Dr. Stover looked at her in surprise. “I would have thought you would be aware of those signs after the death of your husband.”

Keely stared back at him for a moment without speaking. She could hear the disapproval in his voice. “I don’t know what you mean,” she said.

Dr. Stover nodded. “Well, for example, we often find that people who are suicidal talk about doing things for the last time. They’ll take leave of a person and remark that they won’t be seeing that person again. They often give away prized possessions just before the act. Entrust them to others. Say they won’t be needing them.”

“They telegraph their intentions, in other words,” she said, “hoping someone will stop them.”

“Yes, they often do.”

“No. The answer is no. Neither one of them did.”

Dr. Stover frowned.

“I’m not saying that to exonerate myself,” said Keely. “I failed Dylan, okay? I failed both of them. I admit that. I’m not making excuses. But, no, those things you said—no, they didn’t.”

“You seem like a perceptive woman, Mrs. Weaver. Are you saying that you had no warning?”

“I knew my first husband was suffering. But he wasn’t a man who liked to talk about his feelings. He was a scientist. He prized . . . objectivity. He tried any number of drugs to try to cure his headaches. Nothing helped. He never talked about ending his life, but obviously, he thought about it. As for Dylan, well, I knew he was depressed. Under the circumstances, it seemed . . . reasonable. I was depressed myself.” Keely sighed. “What’s the use of wishing I could change the past? I have to think about today. How my son is doing right now. I mean, you’ve had a chance to talk to him. How does he seem to you?”

“He’s anxious, depressed, I would say—not severely, surprisingly.”

“He told me you prescribed medication.”

“That’s right,” he said. “I’ve prescribed a mild antidepressant for him.”

“What will this drug do for him?” Keely asked. “I mean, is it something he’s going to have to take for a long time?”

“As long as I feel he needs it,” said Dr. Stover. “It’s meant to calm his anxieties, keep him from sinking too low.”

“Side effects?” she asked.

“Sleepiness. Often there’s a loss of appetite. It has a dulling effect on the libido in some people.”

“Nothing permanent, I hope,” she said.

“No, nothing permanent. I want him to take it in addition to regular therapy.”

“That would be good,” she said. “I think he needs someone to talk to.”

“Does he talk to you, Mrs. Weaver?”

“Not as much as I’d like him to,” Keely admitted.

The doctor shifted in his chair. “Have you and Dylan ever talked about his own father’s suicide?”

Keely frowned. “Yes. A little bit. He was just a child . . .”

“Did you ever think that it might have something to do with Dylan’s suicide attempt?”

Keely nodded slowly. “I’ve read that suicide is more common among the children of people who died . . . that way.”

Dr. Stover nodded. “My impression is that your son is keeping a lot of his pain about his father’s death hidden.”

“You’re probably right,” Keely admitted.

He paused, then said, “There have been certain allegations, in the newspaper, by the district attorney . . .”

“Oh no,” Keely began. “Don’t start that . . .”

Dr. Stover sat back in his chair and gazed at her.

“Look, Dr. Stover,” said Keely. “The district attorney is a woman named Maureen Chase. She used to be engaged to my second husband, Mark. Ever since Mark’s death, she has been persecuting my son out of some kind petty desire for revenge. I know I probably sound paranoid, but believe me, it’s true.

“Dylan had nothing to do with the death of either of my husbands. It wasn’t guilt that drove him to attempt to take his own life. If anything, it was because he couldn’t make anybody, including his own mother, believe that he was telling the truth.”

Dr. Stover cocked his head and scrutinized her. “That’s an interesting theory, Mrs. Weaver.”

“If by interesting, you mean crazy . . .” Keely said sharply.

“No, I mean interesting.” A faint smile crossed his face, and he jotted down a note on the papers in front of him.

“I’ve promised Dylan that I will find out exactly what happened on the night Mark died so that we can put an end to Miss Chase’s innuendoes.” She thought of Wade Rovere’s visit and her face reddened. She hoped the psychiatrist didn’t notice. “I think it’s important, if you’re going to treat Dylan, that you believe him as well.”

“I’m on Dylan’s side, Mrs. Weaver,” Dr. Stover said cryptically.

Keely nodded and met his gaze. “He needs someone on his side. Someone besides me.”

“Yes, but I can see that you are a staunch ally.”

She could not detect any irony in his voice. “Thank you,” she said. “Really. Thanks. I appreciate your saying that.”

Dr. Stover nodded.

Keely took a deep breath. “I guess the other thing I really want to know is when I can take him home. I mean, can’t he have his therapy as an outpatient? His sister and I really miss him.”

“Well, I understand your . . . eagerness, Mrs. Weaver, but there are other considerations involved. It’s my job to evaluate these young people and their living situations. We have to do everything possible to make sure that they don’t repeat their suicidal behavior. They might not be lucky enough to survive another attempt.” He tapped on a pile of papers. “I have a very . . . troubling report here from the social worker that contains many . . . critical remarks about your home and your parenting of Dylan.”