What She Forgot Page 12

  “That’s sick,” Snyder said.

  Smalls nodded. “But you could see it happening, couldn’t you?”

  Snyder didn’t answer. “So how do you go about authenticating the letter?”

  “By comparing it with known handwriting samples.” Blatch looked Snyder in the eye. “With Melody Young’s daughter on our side, we’d have a better chance of doing that A.S.A.P.”

  Snyder blanched. “Wait a minute. Don’t tell me she works for you?”

  “Sort of,” Smalls said. “This is her first day.”

  Snyder crossed his arms over his chest. “Well, if you want my case, it had better be her last.”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  “DEANNA? IS THAT YOU?” Dr. Lawrence Filbert repeated into his phone.

  “Yes.” The voice sounded as fragile as spun glass.

  “I’m here, Deanna.” Larry employed his soothing, therapist voice. “What do you want to tell me?”

  “I ... I started having the dreams again. The one with the spiders. Mom and me ... drinking tea with spiders in it.”

  “Yes. I understand.”

  “I think I know what it means.”

  “And what does it mean, Deanna?”

  Deanna scowled. “Look, Larry. I don’t need you to play therapist with me. I need you to be my friend.”

  “Okay.” Larry cleared his throat and switched to his normal tone. “You’ve got it. How can I help?”

  “My mother is a black widow, Larry. A murderer.”

  “Dear God, Deanna. Are you sure? What’s happened?”

  “I always had this nagging feeling that my mother murdered my father. Now I’m pretty sure I have proof.”

  “Tell me everything, Deanna. And start from the beginning.”

  LARRY HUNG UP THE PHONE, scarcely able to believe the story Deanna had just spelled out to him.

  After eight years as her therapist, he knew Deanna’s childhood had given her plenty of reasons to play the victim. But she never had. Instead, she’d used her hard-knocks experience to bring empathy to her patient care. The Deanna he knew was strong, and quite possibly allergic to feeling sorry for herself.

  She was also an excellent therapist. After pitching her a few neurotic softballs for clients, she’d blossomed with confidence. But not over-confidence. Deanna had sought his advice when warranted. Knowing her limits is what had set Deanna apart. So many therapists, both new and old, didn’t—and thus, doomed themselves to a career spent twisting in the wind along with their patients.

  Deanna twisted too, but not from lack of insight. She was too eager to bear responsibility. She also took her patients’ lack of progress too personally. And sometimes, like with Joel Bernstein, Deanna didn’t have the heart—or perhaps she had too much heart—for the hard task at hand.

  God help her, Larry thought. Now that she was facing it head-on, he hoped Deanna would be strong enough to conquer the trauma that had, thus far, eluded her grasp.

  Her past.

  A past taken by the spiders.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  DEANNA CLICKED OFF the phone with Larry and wiped away the one tear she’d allowed herself. Just exactly who it was for, she couldn’t say.

  Coping with her mother and her neurotic clients had taught Deanna long ago that the most effective technique for managing such shocks and disappointments was to conduct an objective damage assessment. It was both a coping mechanism and a way to contain the hurt. To keep it from ripping her apart ....

  Deanna straightened her shoulders and stepped out of the service alley running behind the office buildings downtown. As she rejoined the crowd on the sidewalk and headed toward home, she began objectively assessing the damages.

  First off, the job with Blatch & Smalls is history, she thought. Second, there would be no fresh start in Florida. Melody has managed to ruin both by turning out to be ... Deanna finally allowed the thought to take form ... a freaking serial killer! Third—

  Deanna stopped in her tracks. Wait a minute. How could Mom have killed those people if she never left the house? Unless that whole agoraphobia thing had been a lie ....

  And Melody Young did love her lies.

  Deanna’s cellphone buzzed again, as it had repeatedly while she’d been speaking with Larry. The first few times, she’s taken a peek at the caller. Every time it had been Blatch.

  It was Blatch again.

  Deanna ignored his call. The man either wanted to chew her out or interrogate her on behalf of his new client. She wasn’t in the mood for either. She shoved the phone back in her purse and trudged toward home. The only thing she was in the mood for was a vodka gimlet.

  AS DEANNA REACHED THE screened door to the front porch, her phone made a little chirp. After countless attempts to call, Blatch had finally decided to leave a text message.

  Just want to talk. Get your side of things.

  No thanks, Deanna thought. Besides, if she talked to Blatch, he might find out she’d lied about being a psychologist. Or worse yet, think she had something to do with all of this.

  I’m a liar. Just like my mother. Deanna grimaced at the thought, and reached into the mailbox. She thought it was empty, until her fingertips felt something. She grabbed it and pulled it out. It was another rubber spider. Her initial jolt of fear was quickly followed by a flame of anger. Deanna flung the spider into the yard.

  “Not funny, you horrible witch!” she yelled up at the sky.

  She stomped her foot, then yanked open the screen door, tromped across the porch, and crammed her key in the lock on the front door. Her phone chirped again. Blatch. His next text message surprised Deanna.

  We decided not to take the case. Give me a call.

  Deanna padded to the kitchen to make herself a drink. The guy was obviously going to hound her until she responded. She might as well get it over with. She fixed a gimlet, took a huge slurp, and dialed his number. Blatch answered halfway through the first ring.

  “Deanna? Are you all right?”

  She’d expected his voice to sound angry. She’d been wrong. He actually sounded concerned.

  “Yes. Sorry I didn’t answer. I was on another call and then I was .... Are you really not taking the case?”

  “Yes, that’s right. We’re not taking the case.” It’s a white lie, Blatch told himself as he paced the hall outside the conference room.

  After Deanna had dropped the tray of coffees and run out the door, he and Smalls had calmed their client, then taken a small recess to consider their options. During their side powwow, both partners had agreed the smart move was to keep Deanna Young in play. As the daughter of the suspect, collecting evidence on the case would go much smoother with her unimpeded cooperation.

  The plan felt underhanded to Blatch. But he’d acquiesced to Smalls’ wisdom and experience. Smalls’ job was to seal the deal and convince Snyder to hire them. Blatch’s job was to get Deanna back on board. To that end, he’d been calling Deanna for nearly an hour. Meanwhile, Smalls was in the conference room with Snyder, stalling him with paperwork, interview questions, and collecting evidence. By now, Smalls was probably down to juggling coffee cups or performing magic tricks with paperclips.

  “You dropped the case for me?” Deanna asked.

  Blatch tried not to let the pressure show in his voice. “Well, to be honest, no. It’s complicated.”

  “Does that mean you think my mother’s innocent?”

  “That, I couldn’t say right now.”

  “Then why?”

  Blatch engineered another lie on the fly. “Snyder told us he’d been following you.”

  Deanna swallowed hard. “What?”

  “He told us he’d driven by your mother’s house and saw you there. He ... he showed me a copy of your mother’s obituary he’d clipped from The Tampa Times. Deanna, I’m so sorry for your loss.”

  “Oh.”

  Blatch chewed his lip, considering his next words carefully. He hoped Smalls could keep Snyder at bay for a few minutes longer. There
was simply no easy way to ask someone if they thought their mother could be a killer—much less if they wanted to help prove it. Before he could find the words, Deanna spoke.

  “Mr. Blatch? I can’t say I blame him. Your client, I mean. If I’d gotten a letter from someone confessing to killing my sister—if I had a sister—I don’t know what I’d have done. Maybe the same thing.”

  Empathy was the last thing Blatch had expected. It made him feel even more like a douche. “Deanna, I have to ask. Do you think your mother is ... excuse me ... was capable of killing another human being?”

  Despite everything, try as she might, Deanna couldn’t picture her mother killing anyone. Her mother was too weak. Too isolated. Too ... detached from reality. But what other explanation was there? Deanna knew all too well the evil that twisted minds were capable of. She thought of Joel Bernstein and shivered.

  “My mother was no angel, Mr. Blatch. I’d like to say she couldn’t possibly have done it. But I’d only be speaking wishful thoughts, not certainties.”

  Blatch could barely believe her honesty. I really am a douche, he thought. “Good.”

  Deanna blanched. “Good?”

  “I appreciate your honesty. Listen. Take the rest of the day off. We’ll see you tomorrow at nine a.m. sharp.”

  Deanna nearly dropped the phone. “You mean you want me to come back? After all this?”

  “Yes.” Blatch tried to convince himself his largess was about giving Deanna a second chance, and not because he needed her cooperation for the Snyder case. “I don’t know much about you, Deanna, but I know this. You are not your mother. And ... well ... you certainly know how to make a memorable first impression.”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  BLATCH HUNG UP THE phone, loathing himself. He’d given Deanna the day off because he couldn’t face her right now. He was afraid she’d see the deceit in his eyes. He’d gotten her back on board just as he and Smalls had planned. But the lie about dropping the case had been Blatch’s own fabrication. Now that he’d done it, he needed to explain the situation to Smalls so they could figure out a way to keep both Snyder and Deanna. That would require coordinating meetings so the two never met ....

  Shit! Blatch thought. This is a freaking mess. It’ll never work. Losing the client would hurt. He truly needed the money. But not at the price of selling his integrity. Thanks to his mother, he’d at least have a roof over his head. As Blatch headed to the conference room to tell Smalls they had to let Snyder go, his cellphone rang. The number surprised him.

  “Deanna?”

  “Yes. It’s me again. Listen, I know this may seem weird, but I want you to take the case. If it’s true ... if my mother really did do these things ... well, I want to know the truth.”

  “You ... you sure about this?” Blatch stuttered, astounded at her selflessness. “What about your family? They may not like you working for the other side.”

  “There is no other family. And yes. I’m sure. I need to know if she really did it. And if so, why.”

  “Okay.”

  “And Mr. Blatch? If it’s possible, I’d like for you to figure it out without making my mother’s confession public.”

  “I promise to do my best. But if it turns out she’s guilty, we can’t withhold that information from the public.”

  “I understand.”

  “Then you’re okay with that?”

  “Yes.”

  Blatch let out a breath. He’d stepped in shit but had come out smelling like a rose anyway. All he needed to do now was lie one more time to Deanna about dropping the case. He swallowed and got to it.

  “Thank you, Deanna. Listen, I better go. I need to let Smalls know your decision, so he can try to get us back on the case.”

  “Right.” Deanna hesitated. “I ... I just wanted to say thanks ... for believing in me. Despite, you know, this.”

  “Like I said, you are not your mother, Deanna. We can’t be held accountable for others’ actions.”

  “Yes, of course.” Deanna stared at the letter to Reggie Cane’s family. “Mr. Blatch? I have a confession to make.”

  Please don’t say you’re the killer, Blatch thought, then wondered where such a crazy idea had come from. “Yes?” He held his breath, waiting for Deanna to speak.

  “It was all a misunderstanding,” she said. “Yesterday, I mean. I wasn’t at the café for your job interview.”

  Blatch’s left eyebrow shot up. “You weren’t?”

  “No. I just happened to find an old résumé in my coat pocket. You sat down and, well, you were kind of unstoppable.”

  Blatch chewed his lip. “I see. Well, I suppose I should ask, then, do you want the job?”

  “I want to know the truth about my mother.”

  Deanna wanted to tell Blatch about the letter in her hand—her mother’s confession to a second murder. But she couldn’t bring herself to do it. Having a mother who was a murderer was enough to own up to for one day. Serial murderer? That was a whole other level of shit to wade through.

  “Okay, then,” Blatch said. “It’s settled. Get some rest, Deanna. Get your head together. And forget about coming into the office in the morning. We’ll come to you. We need to conduct a preliminary search of the house for prints to match to any potential ones we find on the confession letter. Is that okay with you?”

  “Yes. Just please try to be discreet?”

  “That’s our specialty. You have my word.”

  Blatch clicked off his cellphone feeling like a cad. His “word” to Deanna had been worthless. He vowed not to lie to her again. Blatch tapped on the conference room door, then opened it. He gave Smalls a quick nod—their signal that the deed with Deanna was done.

  The case was good to go.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  “IT’S TOO DAMAGED TO live.”

  That’s what her mother had said when Deanna had shown her the half-naked little bird wobbling around in her tiny, cupped hands.

  “But I’ll take care of it, Melody,” she’d pleaded. “I promise!”

  Her mother had twisted her cigarette butt into the ground and studied the injured chick. “Its wing is broken. It’s neither merciful nor kind to save something with no chance of a happy life, Deanna. In fact, it’s torture.”

  “But Melody! Please!” Deanna had begged as her mother snatched the chick from her hands. Five-year-old Deanna had watched, powerless and horrified, as her mother took a rock and crushed the tiny bird’s skull.

  “There. Now it’s out of its misery.”

  Deanna inhaled sharply at the painful memory. After downing a gimlet at a quarter past noon, she’d gone into the backyard in the hopes of calming her rattled nerves. Her eyes focused again on the spot under the oak where she’d buried the little bird thirty-odd years ago. Back then, the garden had been a colorful oasis. Brick pathways lined with flowers leading to a gurgling fountain, a fishpond full of waterlilies, and a magical, jasmine-covered trellis housing a swing stuffed with comfortable cushions.

  As a child, it had been her favorite escape. But now the backyard was in a frightful state—a veritable zombie tangle of overgrown hedges, scraggly rosebushes, and knee-high weeds. Fallen twigs and branches poked like skeletal limbs from a foot-thick blanket of unraked leaves. To Deanna, it seemed as if Mother Nature herself was hell-bent on reclaiming the space.

  She stepped over a fallen branch and cut another stem of white tea roses and added it to the small bouquet she’d trimmed from the overgrown bushes lining the dilapidated wooden fence. Deanna snipped a few leathery ligustrum leaves and ferns for greenery, and poked them into the outer edges of the bouquet. Then she toyed with the bunch until she was satisfied the arrangement would make a nice gift.

  Even though Mrs. Havenall and Jodie were old friends, Deanna never liked to arrive to dinner emptyhanded. The shocking news about her mother’s letters had left Deanna too frazzled to drive, so she’d been unable to purchase the bottle of wine she’d promised to bring. Deanna had seriously considered
not attending the dinner at all. But what excuse could she give? Sorry, my mom’s a serial killer. Maybe catch you next week?

  Deanna knew if she was going to sort through this hell with any sense of propriety, the fewer people who knew about it, the better. She had to go on as if everything was fine. If it turned out her mother was innocent, no one would be the wiser. If it turned out her mother was guilty, well, she was already dead. What could anyone do about it?

  Only make my life miserable, Deanna thought. She envisioned a pack of press hounds banging on her door for interviews and shivered. No way.

  Deanna straightened her back and practiced her best poker face, trying to convince herself she could make it through dinner. I can pretend for a few hours, she thought. Besides, she’d been looking forward to seeing Jodie again. Why should she let Melody Young ruin that for her, too? She’d deal with her mother’s letters in the morning—and, quite possibly, for the rest of her life.

  Deanna sighed, picked her way to the back door, and went inside the house. As she padded to the kitchen in search of a vase for the flowers, she tried to recall the last time she’d seen Jodie, and why they hadn’t kept in touch. Had it been when Jodie had gone away to study art?

  Where had she gone? Europe, perhaps? Deanna thought as she searched through a kitchen drawer for a rubber band. She wound the band around the bouquet and stuck it into one of the dozens of empty jars littering the kitchen counter.

  Not very classy, she thought as she ran the tap to fill the jar with water. She glanced around. The flowers were the one lone bright spot in an otherwise dreary houseful of her dead mother’s memories. A sudden chill caused Deanna’s back to arch. She set the vase down on the counter and studied the mounds of garbage with fresh eyes.

  This wasn’t just the treasure trove of a hoarder.

  It was the memorabilia of a murderer.

  Deanna’s breath caught in her throat. Blatch and Smalls would be here in the morning to rummage through the house for clues. What if they discover evidence of murder in this mountain of junk?