I approached the next day with a brand new attitude, determined to succeed. And to keep that low-profile Ryder warned me about. Last night, I’d spent a quiet evening at home reflecting on the past year and a half. It had been tough to make a go of my life since the separation and divorce from Jack.
I had been ill-prepared for the real world. The series of jobs I’d had before landing at Daley & Palmer showed me that much.
I’d come to the conclusion that my desperation to hang onto this job wasn’t because I’d been unable to hang onto any of my previous jobs—which I hadn’t—but because it offered me a chance for me to do some good in the world.
No matter what the psychiatrists, Ryder, or even my granddad thought of my abilities, I knew I was good with the patients. I had compassion and empathy. I had a soothing voice, when people weren’t dying on me or cars weren’t getting crushed.
Ryder confirmed what I had suspected. Things had not been good at D & P before my employment. I should know. I’d spent the first three months trying to straighten out the billing and claims processes.
Ditz, huh? Well, maybe so. But I was a ditz who had figured out how to ask people for money nicely and had learned how to work with the convoluted medical system our country employs, especially in the mental health field. But bringing in the money or drawing a paycheck wasn’t the ultimate issue.
The real issue was the patients - The CLIENTS – damn, I should just tattoo it on my arm as a permanent reminder.
I was good with them.
Well, most of them. They liked seeing a familiar face when they came in to bare their innermost secrets and fears to the doctors. They liked having the warm touches I’d added here and there without the doctors even noticing, like the Hershey Hugs, for instance, and the current magazines with which I’d stocked the waiting room, instead of those stale and boring magazines the psychiatrists had lying around before I came.
The clients also liked the CDs I’d chosen with them specifically in mind, playing softly in the background so their nerves weren’t jangled while they waited for their session. Many commented about how happy they were that I wasn’t playing that horrid opera music Dr. Daley favored.
But most of all they appreciated that I took an interest in them. A personal interest. I’d become more than the office receptionist. I was their contact at Daley & Palmer. Their friend. And I took my role seriously.
For them, as much as for me, I needed to keep out of trouble for the next three weeks. And do good. Do those little extra things that would prove to the psychiatrists that I was indispensable.
Looking down at the patterned hall carpet and lost in thought, I almost bumped into someone and fumbled my brown bag lunch and my morning biscuit. The other person paused to admire my juggling ability. I finally had my possessions under control and glanced up.
“Mr. Ancarrow?” I was more than a little surprised to see Robert O’Malley’s partner in the corridor leading to Daley & Palmer. To my knowledge, his name wasn’t on the books for an appointment this morning.
“Your face is familiar, but I think you have the advantage over me.”
“Becca. Becca Reynolds. I paid a visit to your office the other day.” I could see recognition dawning. And then I realized he wasn’t happy to see me.
“Are you following me, Miss Reynolds?” he asked, a frown creasing his face.
I laughed. “That’s a good one, Mr. Ancarrow. You almost had me going.”
He seemed genuinely perplexed, and it occurred to me that maybe he wasn’t in the building to visit Daley & Palmer, after all. My curiosity roared to life. “I work here. At D & P. Daley & Palmer, remember?”
His face relaxed. “I didn’t realize they were in this building.”
“Right down the hall.” I pointed toward our suite and realized that if he hadn’t sought out our office that only left Ryder’s accounting firm or the temporary agency next door to us.
Craig Ancarrow wanted to get by me. But I had the advantage of blocking his path in the narrow hallway. “Temp$ 4 Hire is a great company.” He looked bewildered. Ah-ha. So he hadn’t been to the agency for help. And he claimed he hadn’t been to D & P, either. That left Ryder. Interesting.
“I also hear Ryder is a great accountant. Are you happy with his services? Daley & Palmer is looking around for a new firm to handle our books.” I watched his face and saw the slightest blink from his eyes before he steeled them. I had my answer. His business was with Ryder.
“Well, good luck in your search. Now, if you’ll excuse me. I have things to attend to.”
I let him by and watched him retreat down the corridor and turn toward the exit. Curious. Ryder had never mentioned that he’d known Robert O’Malley or Craig Ancarrow. I may have to violate that low profile thing he’d recommended and ask Ryder a few questions about his clients. Not that he’d answer. But maybe I could worm a few tidbits from him.
I reached the office and found the door unlocked with the lights on. I hesitated before going in. Ever since Mr. O’Malley’s death, I had to get past a creepy, icky feeling each time I entered the suite. I glanced nervously around as I entered and found the mysterious blonde girl occupying our couch again.
“Well, hey there. How have you been?”
I didn’t expect an answer, but you never knew. Our silent guest sat on the couch working a new necklace out of the most gorgeous blue and green glass beads. Her fingers were nimble, her gaze focused on her work. She didn’t acknowledge me, but I was getting used to that from her.
I stashed my things, more than a little glad that it was our mystery guest I’d discovered on entry, and not another dead body. I cut the radio on to Lite 98 and Bill Bevins, Richmond’s easy listening morning disc jockey. Bill could always make me smile either with his gentle banter or his selection of music.
Win-win all the way. Later I’d stick in one of the client CDs. But not quite yet. See how well I was doing keeping that low profile and proving myself indispensable.
I poured water from the Diamond Springs container for both myself and the blonde and settled down at my desk to devour my biscuit before we got busy. Checking the schedule, I saw no mention of Mr. Ancarrow anywhere.
Or our current visitor. That pretty much confirmed that Ancarrow had business with Ryder. And the pretty woman without a name, well, she was just a mystery. I’d have to find out whether either therapist was treating her and, if they weren’t, mention to them that she probably would benefit from some pro bono help. Considering our current financial crisis, I wondered if I could build a solid case for their taking on a patient—client, damn, I’d been doing so well, too—for free. And I’d have to find a way to bring Ancarrow up to Ryder. I needed answers all around.
The young woman kept her focus on her beading work and declined my offer to share my biscuit with her with a solitary shake of her head.
“Well, it looks like Richmond has added to its murder count.” Bill’s voice came over the airwaves. “The police just released the name of the latest victim. Thirty-one-year-old Anna Blake of Richmond’s far west end was found strangled in her home last night…”
I choked on my food. I had to have heard Bill wrong. Sure, that’s what it was. I’d heard wrong. Bill had said some other poor person’s name and in my current state of concentration on Ancarrow and the O’Malley murder, my brain had simply supplied a name I knew. Phew.
That was close. I swallowed a big swig of water to clear the last of the biscuit crumbs from my windpipe. Reaching for a tissue from a box I kept nearby for the patients, I wiped my eyes.
The mind really could play tricks on you.
“Again, repeating the top story of the hour. Richmond native, thirty-one-year-old Anna Blake is found dead in her west-end home.”
Ohmygosh! I hadn’t misheard. Not unless I’d heard wrong twice. And what were the odds of that? Slim and none.
I suddenly realized our mystery woman was gone. She must have slipped out during my coughing fit. I’d have to deal with the issue of her sudden appearances with the therapists later. Right now, I had more pressing problems. Anna Blake was dead.
But maybe it was a different Anna Blake than our Anna Blake. Only one way to find out. I dialed information. They gave me the number of the music station and I punched it in. My palms were sweating so badly that the receiver almost slipped out of my hands while I waited for someone to answer the phone.
A chipper female voice greeted me, singing out the call letters for the station. I cut her off. “That news segment Bill just gave. The one that reported a murder. Her name was Anna Blake. How can I find out if it’s my Anna Blake?” My voice had risen several octaves as the words tumbled out in rapid succession.
“Let me put you through to our news director.”
She couldn’t get rid of me fast enough. Hysterical callers will do that to you. Heck, I’ve experienced it, myself. More than once.
“May I help you?” Calm, cool, radio voice. One I recognized from news segments.
“Anna Blake. Bill just said Anna Blake was murdered. I need to know if she’s my Anna Blake.”
“Are you a relative?”
“No. No, I’m not. I’m, I’m - ”
What the heck was I? “I’m a concerned citizen.” Yes, I was. “Can you tell me where the victim lived?” My heartbeat reached a new all-time high.
“Well, that I can tell you. It’s been released to the public.
5587…”
I didn’t remember pulling Anna’s file, but I must have because I had Anna’s billing address in front of me.
The addresses were identical.
“Ma’am, are you all right?”
I must have sounded like an obscene phone call; my breathing came so quick and loud. Finally finding my voice, I replied, “No. I’m not okay. But thank you.” I hung up the phone.
Anna Blake was dead. Our Anna Blake. Murdered.
Strangled. Hadn’t Bill said she’d been strangled and found in her home? I couldn’t believe it. She was too young to die. She had her whole life ahead of her. But someone had cheated her of that.
Dr. Dick emerged from his office. “Miss Reynolds, I’d like to review the schedule to clear some time to visit Mr. Nightingale at the hospital.” I heard him approach. “Did you hear me, Miss Reynolds?”
Instead of waiting for me to turn around, Dr. D. came to the front of my desk as he was prone to do if I didn’t hop to it. And right now, I definitely didn’t feel like hopping.
He caught sight of my face, a face that must be devoid of any blood in it.
“What’s happened? Is it Edna? Tell me nothing has happened to her? Have they rearrested her?” When I failed to respond, he reached out and shook my shoulders.
Too bad it didn’t do any good.
I was like a rag doll. He shook my limp body again. “Answer me, Miss Reynolds.”
“What’s going on in here, Daley? I can hear you out in the hall.” Ryder entered the office and approached my desk.
“It’s Miss Reynolds. Something’s wrong with her again, and this time I can’t get her to tell me what. She hasn’t even quit.”
“Becca.” Ryder came around to my side of the desk and twirled my chair gently to face him. He crouched so that we were eye-to-eye. “What’s up? You can tell me,” he coaxed.
For him, I somehow found my voice. “It’s, it’s…”
“It’s what?” he urged, holding my cold, clammy hand in his warm one.
“Anna. Anna Blake.” There.
I’d gotten it out. It wasn’t nearly as bad as I’d anticipated.
“What about Anna Blake?” Oops, there went Dr. Dick’s outside voice.
My mind shut down along with my vocal cords. I was wrong.
It was as bad as I’d thought it would be.
“Can’t you see she’s had some kind of shock, Daley? Shouting at her isn’t helping matters. Let me handle this.” Ryder spoke in a tone I hadn’t heard him use since he’d taken charge after Robert O’Malley’s death.
Robert and Anna, both dead.
One stabbed, the other strangled.
It was just too awful. Too awful for words. And too coincidental. My mind whirled. Whoever killed Robert O’Malley must have killed Anna Blake. Ohmygod. There was a serial killer right here in Richmond. Right under our noses. Connected to our practice. Ohmygod!
“She’s trying to say something. Take it easy, Becca. Here, take a sip of water,” Ryder coaxed.
“I told her not to eat at her desk. Look how this biscuit has soaked through my claim forms and phone messages.” Dr. Daley’s disgust was more than apparent.
“The grease is the least of our problems,” Ryder said abruptly. To me, he spoke gently, “Please Becca, what about Anna Blake?”
“She’s dead!” I finally got it out. And with those words, I found I couldn’t keep quiet. “They had it on the morning news. Bill Bevins. I always trust whatever Bill has to say. But I doubted him today. I knew I couldn’t have heard right, but then he repeated the story, and I heard it again. But you know how you can hear a name and mix it up. That’s what I thought I’d done. Mixed it up. But then I called the station and they verified her address. Our patient, damn, our CLIENT is dead. Strangled in her home.”
Both Ryder and Daley went strangely silent. I rushed to fill in the void. “Another murder connected to the practice. Another client dead. That makes two.”
Dr. Dick groaned. “I can do the math, Miss Reynolds. Does Marcy know? Anna was her patient. Now you have me doing it. Her client.” He reached for his cell phone and punched in a speed code, then disappeared into his office to talk to his partner in privacy.
“Ryder, she’s dead.” The tears finally came. I didn’t know why I was crying. Yes, I was crying for the loss of life. But it was more than that. I was scared. Really scared. Somebody was bumping off our clients. I didn’t like it. Not one bit.
Ryder pulled me toward him, and I put my head down on his shoulder and cried. I knew I should be strong at a time like this. But I wasn’t. I was weak. I was human.
But most of all, I was scared out of my mind.