Storm Season

She had that right. “But as Wynona Wisdom, you still deal with their misery every day, at least on paper.”

She flashed a rueful smile. “I provide insight or give advice, but I don’t have to watch people self-destruct by ignoring it.”

I understood. Having clients unable to grasp, and therefore change, the circumstances that caused their problems was probably as frustrating for psychologists as recidivism was for cops, who often arrested people only to have them commit the same crimes again as soon as their sentences had been served.

“You must get a ton of mail,” I said. “How do you keep up with it?”

“I have a staff of seven in Omaha. That’s where I’m from, originally. They maintain the office there, sift through the letters, discard questions similar to ones I’ve answered before and send me the queries that are the most timely or interesting. They also help with research, if I need it.”

“And the death threats?”

“They keep a file of those, just in case.”

“You never read them?”

Kimberly shook her head and reached for another cookie. “I used to, but they were too upsetting. So upsetting, in fact, that I decided to relocate here, become more anonymous.”

“No one’s ever bothered you here?”

She shook her head. “Not until today. I guess you cops would say my cover’s blown.”

“That’s only if the shooter was really after you. We haven’t established that yet.” I took a bite of sandwich, chewed and swallowed. “The death threats, the ones you used to read, what was the basis for them?”

She laughed without humor. “Most of the psychos didn’t need a basis. One said my picture gave her the evil eye, staring out of her newspaper every morning. Another said he’d followed my advice about not letting his cat roam outdoors, and the feline had died of a broken heart and boredom. And there are always the wackos who say I should roast in hell for getting rich off of other people’s misery.”

“Did you save those letters?”

“My staff saves them.”

“And the envelopes?”

She nodded.

I checked my watch. Six-thirty. It would be five-thirty in Omaha, and FedEx didn’t close until after seven. “Can you call your office, have them box up all the threatening letters and overnight them?”

“Sure, my chief assistant will take care of it. Damn.” She shook her head. “I keep forgetting Steve’s on vacation, but Cindy can handle it. She’s not as efficient as Steve, but this she can manage. But I don’t know what good having the letters will do. Most of them are anonymous.”

“You say someone wants to kill you. Part of my job is to find out who and, for now, those letters are the only clues we have.” A thought struck me. “Unless you’re involved in a family dispute. Or have relatives in your will who are overeager to inherit.”

Kimberly shook her head. “My parents are dead, I have no siblings and my only living relative is a great-aunt with dementia who lives in a nursing home in Des Moines.”

I waved my arm, encompassing the penthouse in my gesture. “You’re obviously a wealthy woman. Who gets all this when you’re gone?”

I could see the hackles rising on her neck. “That’s a bit personal, isn’t it?”

“Having me or another of my investigators sticking to you like a second skin to keep you alive and well is about as personal as it gets,” I said. “You can hire bodyguards to live in your pocket the rest of your life, or we can try to figure out—if you really were the killer’s target—who had a reason to take a shot at you. Then we find him and free you to live normally.”

Or as normal as life could be if you were Wynona Wisdom.

She groaned and buried her face in her hands. “I don’t like to think about him, much less talk about him.”

“Him, who?”

“My ex.”

“Ex-husband?”

She lifted her head and grimaced. “We never got that far, thank God.”

“I take it your parting wasn’t amicable?”

“Amicable? It wasn’t even civil.”

“How uncivil was it?”

Kimberly’s gray eyes widened. “He threatened to kill me.”

CHAPTER 5

One of the ironies of interrogation that I’d discovered over the years was that people seldom tell you what you need to know up front. Often only after endless hours of careful probing does the blooming obvious finally surface.

“Tell me about your ex.”

Kimberly made a face. “Like I said, I don’t like to talk about him.”

“A disgruntled partner from a former relationship should top our list of suspects.”

“But Simon wasn’t serious about killing me. He was just angry because I’d broken our engagement. And that was three years ago, right before I left Omaha. He’s moved on by now.”

“You’re sure?” I wondered how much her broken relationship had factored into her move to Florida.

Kimberly shrugged and reached for another cookie. If Adler and Porter didn’t collar Sister Mary Theresa’s shooter soon, Kimberly was going to need a new set of clothes in a larger size.

“What’s Simon’s last name and where does he live?” I asked.

“Anderson. And the last I knew, he was still living in Omaha and working as an investment counselor.”

“Let me guess. You met him when you were looking for someone to manage the bundles you were earning as Wynona Wisdom.”

Kimberly dusted cookie crumbs from her hands. “You want some coffee?”

“Thanks, and the more caffeine, the better.” At the slow and painful rate that I was extracting needed information, it was going to be a long night.

Kimberly abandoned the rapidly diminishing supply of cookies, scooped coffee grounds into a filtered basket and filled the reservoir with water. With brewed coffee trickling into the glass carafe, she puttered around the kitchen, clearing plates, putting mayonnaise and leftover cold cuts into the fridge and placing the half-empty bag of chips in the pantry. I didn’t have to be Sherlock Holmes to know she was stalling. Obviously, Simon was a sore point.

When the coffee had brewed, Kimberly filled two large ceramic mugs, also lavender, and offered cream and sugar. I heaped three spoonfuls of the sweetener into my coffee, then followed her into the living room. I took the chair I’d used earlier, and she settled once again into the corner of the sofa. She cradled the huge mug in both hands and sipped slowly. Sensing she wouldn’t talk until she was ready, I waited.

“I met Simon at Starbucks,” she finally said, “around the corner from my office in Omaha. We used to run into each other every morning on our way to work.”

Her expression turned dreamy with memory. “He was so good-looking, I never thought he’d be interested in me, but one morning I dropped my purse. The contents scattered everywhere, and Simon got down on his hands and knees to help retrieve them.” She smiled, but not at me. Her expression was distant, as if she was lost in the past, reliving the experience.

“I thanked him and apologized for being such a klutz. He said he was glad it had happened, that he’d been waiting for a chance to meet me. He’d recognized me from my picture in the paper.” She looked at me and blushed. “He said he could tell from my columns that I was a fascinating woman.”

“So he had no ulterior motive?” I said.

“What do you mean?”

“He never asked to handle your investments?”

Her flush deepened. “Well, yes, but only after we’d gone out together a few times.”

Poor Wynona Wisdom, I thought. All that sage advice for others, and she’d walked straight into the arms of a disaster she hadn’t seen coming. “And I bet you were one of his biggest accounts.”

She nodded. “He was so grateful. If it hadn’t been for me, he wouldn’t have been promoted so quickly.”

“And when you realized he was after you for your money, you dropped him?”

Her face reflected sadness, embarrassment and remorse. “I didn’t recognize the financial implications of his interest in me until after the breakup. Funny, isn’t it, how much easier it is to recognize other people’s problems than your own?”

I dipped my head in agreement and thought about Bill and Trish. Did I really have a problem or, in a few days, as soon as Bill found his ex-wife a place to live, would she be out of our lives again with Bill and me back to making wedding plans?

“If you didn’t think Simon was gold-digging,” I said, “why did you break off your engagement?”

Kimberly stared into her coffee mug as if looking for answers. “At first, I was flattered by how attentive he was. You’d think that I, who’d advised so many women to run for their lives from controlling, abusive men, would have recognized the danger signals, but I was as blinded by love and denial as the next woman. It wasn’t until Simon blew up at me for not replacing the two young men on my staff with female employees that I became aware of what he really was.”

“That must have been a scary realization.”

“A reality check. How he could be jealous of Steve and Gerry, I couldn’t figure. Steve is a terrific employee. Several years ago, when I was hospitalized with an emergency appendectomy and a post-op infection, Steve stepped in and wrote my column for six weeks. A nice guy, but he’s years younger than me and not particularly attractive. And Gerry’s obviously and flamboyantly gay. The fact that Simon was jealous of those two was a real wake-up call.”

This time her smile was sly. “I made my moves before he knew what hit him. Within twenty-four hours, I’d switched my investments to another firm, changed all the locks on my office and apartment doors, arranged for new, unlisted phone numbers and booked a flight to Tampa to look for a place to live.”

“And avoided the Starbucks around the corner?”

“Absolutely. I returned Simon’s ring by messenger. The only contact I had with him after that was outside my apartment when I was getting into the cab for the drive to the airport. Simon was waiting. He grabbed me, called me every name in the book and threatened to kill me if I didn’t marry him.”

“Did you call the police?”

Kimberly shook her head and smiled. “Didn’t have to. The cab driver was the size of a sumo wrestler. He told Simon if he didn’t back off his fare, he’d mop the street with him. Simon was enraged, but he wasn’t stupid. He knew he was no match for the cabbie.”

“And you never heard from Simon again?”

“I just added his threatening letters to the pile with those from other wackos.” She frowned. “What I’m telling you is confidential, you know?”

I crossed my heart. “Like attorney-client privilege. Our agency is discreet. But we should tell Detective Adler about Simon Anderson so he can check him out.”

Kimberly thought for a moment. “Okay, but I don’t think Simon shot Sister Mary Theresa.”

“Because he knew she wasn’t you?”

“Because if Simon is twisted enough to really want to hurt me, his type would want it up close and personal. Like any control freak, he feeds off fear. He’d want to see my terror, witness my suffering. Then he’d kill me. No, he wouldn’t take a shot from a distance.”

Sometimes knowing too much about what makes people tick could scare the daylights out of you. I attempted to lighten the conversation. “You called Simon a control freak. Is that a clinical diagnosis?”

She smiled. “It’s God’s honest truth.”

“With your permission, I’ll tell Adler.”

“It’s probably a waste of time. Simon’s moved on to another victim by now.”

Kimberly was already rattled, so I kept my theories about cold revenge to myself.

BEFORE EIGHT THE NEXT morning, I was headed back to my office. I’d called Abe Mackley from the penthouse the night before. Since Abe’s retirement, he’d been happy to supplement his pension by working occasional assignments for our agency. Today he’d agreed to guard Kimberly at the penthouse while I did some digging into the nun’s murder and Simon Anderson’s background.

When I entered the office, Roger greeted me with a howl of delight. It was nice to know that someone had missed me. I scooped him into my arms.

“Is Bill here?” I asked Darcy.

She shook her head. “You just missed him. He brought Roger for me to keep while he runs errands.”

“Was he alone?” As soon as I asked, I wished I could snatch the question back. I was acting like a jealous harpy. And with no reason. At least, I hoped I had no reason.

“He was by himself,” Darcy said with a puzzled look. “And he didn’t say where he was going.”

I tried to act nonchalant. “Anything else going on?”

She handed me a pink slip. “A Mr. Moore called a few minutes ago.”

I read the message written in Darcy’s neat script. J.D. was currently at the Lassiters. I checked my watch. I could stop by the sisters’ house on my way into Clearwater to talk to Adler, but confronting J.D. was a task I dreaded. I didn’t know what I’d do if he was mentally ill, as I feared. If he presented a definite threat to himself or the Lassiter women, I could arrange to have him committed under the Baker Act. But I’d need some kind of proof, and too often that evidence didn’t arise until a subject had hurt someone. Otherwise, as long as the Lassiters refused to file trespassing charges, my hands were tied. My only other recourse would be to track down J.D.’s family, as the Lassiters wished, and ask that a relative take charge and see that he received proper medical assessment and care.

I took Roger into my office, removed a bone marrow treat from the box I kept in my desk drawer and offered it as compensation for abandoning him, which I was about to do again.

I returned to reception and told Darcy my itinerary.

“Any message for Bill?” She was watching me closely as if aware of the tension I’d been trying to hide.

On days like these, I was almost tempted to give in and get a cell phone, but I have an aversion to technology, especially computers and cell phones. Darcy handled my computer work, which took care of one problem, but carrying a cell phone would create an intrusion into my life that I didn’t want. The only good thing about no longer being a cop was not being electronically connected to the world with a radio and beeper. So far, that disconnect hadn’t been a problem. I could usually find a landline if I needed one, and I checked in with the office often in case of emergencies. But sometimes, like today, I wished for that instant connection with Bill.

“When Bill comes back, give him Kimberly Ross’s phone number. He can reach me there after five o’clock. I’ll be pulling the night shift.”

With a pat for Roger, whose forlorn look nipped at my conscience, I headed out the door.

I FOUND J.D. in the front yard of the Lassiter house, trimming shrubbery. He wasn’t the wild-eyed, aging hippie with long oily hair pulled back in a ponytail, dirty ragged clothes and a body covered with bizarre tattoos that I’d expected. The man, who appeared only a handful of years older than Bill, had the gentle demeanor and clean-scrubbed look of an old-fashioned country doctor or a favorite parish priest.

His gray hair was neatly trimmed in a short, military cut, and his clothes were worn and mended but clean, except for the perspiration that soaked them from his exertion in the humid morning air. His smooth, tanned cheeks were testament to a recent shave and his brown eyes were clear and smiling.

“If you’re looking for Violet and Bessie,” he called when I got out of my car in their driveway, “they’ve gone for their walk.”

I gazed up and down the sidewalk but saw no sign of the elderly sisters.

“On the trail,” J.D. added. “They walk two miles every morning. That must be what keeps them young.”

I crossed the lawn, still wet with dew in the shade. “Actually, I came to see you.”

His friendly smile faded.

“The Lassiters asked me to,” I added quickly. “They’re concerned about you.”

He sighed, hunched one shoulder and wiped his perspiring face on his sleeve. “Are you a social worker?”

“I’m a private investigator. Violet and Bessie want me to find your family.”

J.D. turned his back on me and took a couple of angry whacks at the Turk’s Cap hedge beneath the front windows. “I don’t want to find my family,” he said through gritted teeth.

“Wouldn’t you like to know who you really are?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

J.D. dropped the loppers to his side and pivoted to face me. His eyes were pools of misery and fear. “Because I have dreams. If they’re from my former life, it’s better for everyone if that man stays dead and buried.”

CHAPTER 6

“What kind of dreams?” I asked J.D., thinking his sleeping visions might be a window into his state of mental health.

“Blood. Death. Killing.” He grimaced and shook his head. “I don’t understand the nightmares. I’m not that kind of man. Not now, at least. I can’t stand the thought of hurting anyone. That’s why I want to leave the past behind. Things could be buried there I don’t want to unearth.”

Everyone had nightmares at one time or another. Bad dreams didn’t automatically brand a person as crazy or homicidal, and J.D. appeared calm and caring. But I’d feel a lot better about the Lassiter sisters’ safety if I knew more about J.D.’s past.

“How long have you been like this,” I asked, “without your memories?”

The air was thick with moisture and mosquitoes and no breeze to alleviate, either. My blouse stuck to my skin, and sweat trickled into my eyes. I swatted mosquitoes with one hand and wiped my face with the other. Maybe J.D., who hadn’t responded, thought I’d become uncomfortable enough to leave him alone, but, if so, he underestimated my persistence.

“How far back do you remember?” I said.

“You have no right to pry into my past.” His voice held more frustration than belligerence. “I don’t have to answer your questions.”

“Yes, you do, because I’m concerned about two elderly sisters who have opened their home to a man they know nothing about. I need to be convinced that they’re safe, that you’re no threat to them. Either you deal with me, or I take my concerns to the sheriff’s office. Which will it be?”

“I’d never hurt Violet or Bessie,” he insisted with a stricken expression.

“Are you sure?”

“They’ve been good to me. Why would I hurt them?”

“Do you ever have blackouts? Hear voices?”

He shook his head and regarded me with a kindly smile that reminded me of my late father. “And I don’t drink or do drugs, either. Believe me, Miss—”

“Skerritt. But you can call me Maggie.” I felt drawn to J.D. in spite of my intention to remain objective.

He nodded. “Except for loss of memory and occasional night terrors, I’m as sane as you are. If I thought I was a danger to Violet and Bessie or anyone else, I’d turn myself in.”

“Then what’s the harm in letting me run your prints to find out who you are?”

J.D. sighed. “My memory goes back only as far as July. One morning I awoke and found myself on the Pinellas Trail in Palm Harbor with no money, no identification, a blinding headache and no recollection of anything before that.”

“Why didn’t you go to the authorities?”

“I know it sounds foolish, but I’d had those dreams before I came to, and I was afraid I’d…done something I shouldn’t have.”

He was warming to his topic, so I didn’t interrupt.

“For days, weeks, I scrounged old newspapers, looking for stories about missing persons. Or some horrible crime. If I had family worried about me, wouldn’t they have contacted the press?”

“Maybe. Did you come to the Lassiters then?”

“Not at first. I stayed in homeless shelters in Tarpon Springs and Clearwater, but the people who ran them asked too many questions. Eventually I found an old bike someone had left as garbage on a curb. I fixed the chain and appropriated it for transportation. Between collecting cans and doing odd jobs, I earned enough money to buy food. I shopped in thrift stores for clothes. All I needed was a place to stay. That’s when I discovered the toolshed out back, here. It’s handy for my bike, being next to the Trail, and I worked out an exchange with Violet and Bessie, odd jobs in place of rent.”

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.