My life was in the crapper.
Twenty-five, recently divorced and—at my parents' insistence because it's so convenient for all concerned—living with my widowed grandfather and his cranky cat. I barely recognized who I was anymore. No longer Rebecca Davis, socially prominent wife of up and coming attorney about town, Jack Davis, I was just plain old Becca Reynolds, all-around screw-up. No, it's not me feeling sorry for myself. I seem to have earned the reputation. My current challenge was trying to hang on to my latest job as office support for a two-member psychiatric group, Daley & Palmer. A job I desperately needed.
Daley & Palmer consisted of, you guessed it, Dr. Dick Daley and Dr. Marcy Palmer. For a Type A shrink, Dr. Palmer was pretty nice. Dr. Daley was not. Apparently having an army officer for a father instilled a strong sense of punctuality in the good doctor and since punctuality seemed to be a major problem of mine, it's been a bit of a sticking point. In the five months that I'd worked for D & P, I'd been late more times than even I'd like to count. And here I was hurrying, late again.
Yesterday I'd promised Dr. Daley that I'd make every effort to be on time this morning. And I'd meant it when I said it. Really, I did.
But I'd overslept.
Again. No time for breakfast at home, I popped into the building's sandwich shop and scooped up my sausage and egg breakfast bun in its greasy white wrapper, placed it inside my leather briefcase that held nothing but a few old People magazines that I'd borrowed from work, and hurried toward Suite 109 – the offices of Daley & Palmer.
Double-timing it down the hallway toward the suite at the end of the first-floor corridor, my stomach tightened and my shoulders tensed. Already today I'd been the recipient of Lecture 405 (Eat a Healthy Diet or Die Not Trying), a heartfelt plea for proper nutrition from my granddad. I sure as heck didn't need a psychiatrist launching into me on the prudence of punctuality. Or worse, the evils of unemployment.
As I approached the suite, I let out a sigh of relief. The door to the office was shut. That meant no one was here yet. For once, the gods were smiling on me. I slipped my key into the lock, turned and met no resistance. That was strange. The door was unlocked. Juggling my keys, purse, and briefcase full of food, I entered the suite with caution.
As soon as I stepped inside, I knew I'd worried for nothing. The lights were on, and I could make out the legs of our first patient, Robert O'Malley.
He sat in the high-backed Queen Anne chair, the one that faced away from the rest of the waiting room and looked out the wall of windows onto the woods behind the building.
I put my things down on the desk. Since I was so new and still on double-secret probation with Dr. Dick—that's Dr. Daley to his patients, and a total Dr. Dick toward me—I'd taken a piece of masking tape and written "Becca Reynolds" on it and stuck it over the generic Receptionist nameplate.
I breathed easier knowing that Dr. Dick had arrived early and was holed up in his office either making callbacks or whatever else he did in there alone.
Hopping to it, I set about making the reception area receptive.
"Morning, Mr. O'Malley.
Looks like it's going to be a nice day."
I liked to chat with the patients while I went about my office tasks. It made the day go faster, and it seemed to cheer our patients to be treated like real people by someone around here. Clients, I reminded myself. They were clients, not patients. I'd received that correction from both therapists more times than I'd like to count.
With my luck, I'd get it right on the last day of my employment.
I try hard to be positive, but sometimes that was truly difficult because here's the thing. I suck at just about everything I try.
Marriage. Daughterhood. Granddaughterhood. Life.
But you know how God always gives everyone one thing they good at, well, my one thing is this amazing talent of getting along with people—my ex and Dr. Dick being two serious exceptions.
Granddad always claimed I attracted people because I was sprinkled with fairy dust as a child. Yeah, right. Whatever.
One thing I knew for sure.
Granddad sees right through fairy dust.
And Dr. Dick must be allergic to it.
"I'll have some music going in a second or two. Dr. Daley should have switched on the radio or popped in a CD when he came in. Guess he was in his usual rush." Or maybe it conflicted with that damn, screeching opera he liked to listen to.
I made my way from my desk to the small room off the reception area that doubled as our supply closet and flicked the switch on the radio. The office filled with the soft tones of Richmond, Virginia's easy listening station. On my way out of the utility room, I pocketed something that had fallen on the floor and poured myself some bottled water, one of the few perks I'd discovered since starting work here.
"Mr. O'Malley, would you like some water?" I waited for his reply. When he didn't answer me, I shrugged and made my way across the thick pile carpet.
Both doctors had cautioned me that their clients would have days where they didn't want to communicate. I guess this was Mr. O'Malley's turn. By now, I knew not to take it personally.
My stomach growled, and I checked my watch. Five after the hour. The doctor should be out any minute to get his patient. After they retreated into his inner office, I could enjoy my breakfast in peace. My stomach rumbled again, much louder than before.
"Sorry about that, Mr. O'Malley. I overslept this morning. No time to eat. Then my grandfather started in on how important it is to eat properly, and by the time I got out of the house, I was late. The doctors are going to have my butt if I don't pick up the messages from the service."
I slid my growing colder-by-the-minute breakfast into the center desk drawer. No sense in giving the doctor early morning ammunition to launch into an attack on not eating at one's desk.
My stomach roared, causing my face to flush. Just one bite. That's all it would take to calm the hunger pangs. But I couldn't risk it. I shut the desk drawer and the heavenly smell of bacon and eggs was but a memory. At least I hoped that was all that remained behind. Dr. Dick had a bloodhound's nose.
"I'm sure Dr. Daley will be with you momentarily," I said filling the awkward silence and holding up my end of the conversation. "I'm just going to check for messages."
I picked up the phone and tapped in the number for the night service from memory. Pen poised over paper, I was ready. The phone rang several times on the other end. Everyone must be calling for messages all at once.
Out of habit, I drummed my pen against the desk before I realized how annoying that must be for Mr. O'Malley.
Feeling rude and wanting to make amends, I rolled my chair back and angled it around to make my apologies.
"Sorry about the pen thing, Mr. O'Malley. It's an old habit that started when I would get nervous in English class. You know how it is when you can answer a question in two words but—hey—it's English class and the teacher wants you to create an entire essay out of a yes or no. I just hate that, don't you?"
Still no response. Maybe he'd fallen asleep. Now that I really looked at him from this angle I could see that his head was sort of slumped forward. If it had been my grandfather he'd be snoring so loud the windows would be rattling. Maybe Mr. O'Malley wasn't a snorer. Yeah, that must be it. There wasn't any other explanation. Nope.
Couldn't be any other reason why he'd be all folded over like that. Okay, there was, but I was not going there. No way.
"Mr. O'Malley?"
For some reason the unease I'd felt when I'd first arrived at the office returned. Even though the mere thought made me want to scream like a girl—which granted, I was—maybe I needed to consider other possibilities for the dead silence. I tried to see if his chest was moving without being too obvious about it.
Slipping out of my chair, I tiptoed closer.
"Are you awake?" I whispered.
I'm not quite sure why I was whispering.
Any minute now the doctor would come out and wake him, anyway.
I worked up the nerve to approach from behind. Taking a deep breath, I poked him. His head lolled against the left wing of the chair. "Oh no. Oh no. OH. NO!"
I wasn't whispering anymore.
I was more or less screaming at that point and definitely freaking out. On some level, I knew I should check for a pulse but I was fairly certain that wasn't necessary. Plus, there was the small matter of the letter opener sticking out of his chest.
No matter how you looked at it, that pretty much meant dead. And—gross!—I'd touched him.
"OHMYGOD!"
"Miss Reynolds!"
The sound of Dr. Daley's voice snapped me out of my hysteria. I whipped around to face him which inadvertently blocked the view of the chair and Mr. O'Malley.
"Inside voice, Miss Reynolds.
Inside voice. Remember, we talked about that yesterday. I appreciate your enthusiasm for your new position here, but unlike your previous job, we go for understatement, for tranquility. And that means you need to use your inside voice. Are we clear?"
I nodded my head like a bobble doll, my mind numb.
Dr. Daley smiled that puckered smile of his that made me think he had a serious issue with constipation.
His gaze settled on the clock above the entrance. He double-checked the time against the gold Rolex on his wrist. "Eight after the hour. Where is my client? I hope he isn't going to be a no show."
I shook my head no slowly.
"You've seen him. Is he down the hall in the restroom?"
Again, I shook my head no, apparently rendered mute by the presence of a corpse.
Dr. Daley appeared exasperated with me. "Miss Reynolds, I really don't have time to play charades with you. Either you've seen my eight o'clock or you haven't. Which is it?"
And with that, I stepped aside and, like Vanna White pointing out a new letter that she'd turned over on Wheel of Fortune, I gestured to Mr. O'Malley.
"Your eight o'clock is dead."
Dr. Daley rushed past me and checked his patient for a pulse. I stood silently behind him knowing it was no use. He turned to me, his face contorted in anger. "What have you done?" he accused.
"What have I done? Are you nuts? I didn't kill him. He was like that when I got here."
His dark eyes narrowed and his brow furrowed. "And you've been here how long? Ten, fifteen minutes? And you saw no need to alert anyone?"
"I thought he was having a bad day."
"Miss Reynolds, that is enough. Quite enough. You have a unique sense of humor, but now is hardly the time."
"I'm telling you the truth. I talked to him, and he didn't answer me. You told me that some people need their quiet time. I thought he was, you know, having his."
"Let me get this straight. As you went about your duties, you never once noticed that my patient was dead!" His voice rose alarmingly on the last word, and he broke his own rule by calling his client a patient.
Now, who wasn't using their inside voice?
I pushed a wayward strand of my short blonde hair behind my ear. "I was busy. He was quiet. Besides, isn't that your letter opener sticking out of his …."
Simultaneously, we both leaned forward. I pointed to right above the newspaper in the patient's lap, the one covered in blood.
The handle of an instrument protruding from Robert O'Malley's midsection bore the initials DED – Dick Edward Daley.
Well, that couldn't be good.