Jonathan Kellerman - The Murder Book

Bert's old station wagon was parked out in front, which told me nothing. Perhaps he'd left for his overseas trip and had been driven to the airport. Or his departure was imminent, and I'd enter to find him packing.

Third choice: He'd lied about the journey, wanting to discourage me from returning.

I admired Bert, wasn't eager to examine the possibilities. Returning to the Seville, I swung back onto the highway. Ready to tap the source, directly.

The entry to Mecca Ranch was latched but unlocked. I freed the arm, drove through, closed the gate behind me, and motored up under the gaze of circling hawks- maybe the same birds I'd seen the first time.

The corral floated into view, glazed by afternoon sun. Marge Schwinn stood in the center of the ring, wearing a faded denim shirt, tight jeans and riding boots, her back to me. Talking to a big stallion the color of bittersweet chocolate. Nuzzling the animal, stroking its mane. The sound of my tires crunching the gravel made her turn. By the time I was out of the Seville, she'd left the enclosure and was heading toward me.

"Well, hello there, Dr. Delaware."

I returned the greeting, smiling and keeping my voice light. The first time I'd met her, Milo hadn't introduced me by name or profession. Suddenly I felt good about the trip.

She pulled a blue bandana from her jeans pocket, wiped both hands, offered the right one for a firm, hard shake. "What brings you up here?"

"Follow-up."

She pocketed the bandana and grinned. "Someone think I'm crazy?"

"No, ma'am, just a few questions." I was looking into the sun and turned my head. Marge's face was well shaded, but she squinted, and her eyes receded into a mesh of wrinkles. The denim shirt was tailored tight. Her breasts were small and high. That same combination of girlish body and old woman's face.

"What kind of questions, Doctor?"

"For starts, have you thought of anything new since Detective Sturgis and I visited?"

"About…?"

"Anything your husband might've said about that unsolved murder we discussed."

"Nope," she said. "Nothing about that." Her eyes drifted to the corral. "I'd love to chat, but I'm kind of in the middle of things."

"Just a few more things. Including a sensitive topic, I'm afraid."

She clamped both hands on hard, lean hips. "What topic?"

"Your husband's drug addiction. Did he overcome his habit by himself?"

She dug a heel into the dirt and ground it hard. "Like I told you, by the time I met him, Pierce was past all that."

"Did he have any help getting there?"

A simple question, but she said, "What do you mean?" She'd maintained the squint, but her eyes weren't shut tight enough to conceal the movement behind the lids. Quick shift down to the ground, then a sidelong journey to the right.

Another bad liar. Thank God for honest people.

"Did Pierce have any drug treatment?" I said. "Was he ever under the care of a doctor?"

"He really didn't talk about those days."

"Not at all?"

"He was past it. I didn't want to rake things up."

"Didn't want to upset him," I said.

She glanced over at the corral again.

I said, "How did Pierce sleep?"

"Pardon?"

"Was Pierce a sound sleeper or did he have trouble settling down at night?"

"He was pretty much a-" She frowned. "These are strange questions, Dr. Delaware. Pierce is gone, what difference does it make how he slept?"

"Just general follow-up," I said. "What I'm interested in specifically is the week or so before the accident. Did he sleep well or was he restless?"

Her breath caught, and the hands on her hips whitened. "What happened, sir , is what I told you: Pierce fell off Akhbar. Now he's gone and I'm the one has to live with that and I don't appreciate your raking all this up."

"I'm sorry," I said.

"You keep apologizing, but you don't stop asking."

"Well," I said, "here's the thing. Maybe it was an accident, but you did ask for a drug scan on Akhbar. Paid the coroner quite a bit of money to do it."

She took a step away from me, then another. Shook her head, plucked a piece of straw out of her hair. "This is ridiculous."

"Another thing," I said. "Detective Sturgis never introduced me by name, but you know who I am and what I do. I find that kind of curious."

Her eyes widened and her chest heaved. "He said you might do this."

"Who did?"

No answer.

I said, "Dr. Harrison?"

She turned her back on me.

"Mrs. Schwinn, don't you think we need to get to the bottom of things? Isn't that what Pierce would've wanted? Something was keeping him up at night, wasn't it? Unfinished business. Wasn't that the whole point of the murder book?"

"I don't know about any book."

"Don't you?"

Her lips folded inward. She shook her head again, clenched her jaw, swiveled, and caught a faceful of sun. A tremor jogged through her upper body. Her legs were planted, and they absorbed the motion. She turned heel and half ran toward her house. But I followed her inside; she didn't try to stop me.

We sat in the exact same spots we'd occupied a few days ago: me on the living room couch, she in the facing chair. The last time, Milo had done all the talking, as he usually does when I tag along, but now it was my game and, God help me, despite the anguish of the woman sitting across from me, I felt cruelly elated.

Marge Schwinn said, "You guys are spooky. Mind readers."

"We guys?"

"Head doctors."

"Dr. Harrison and I," I said.

She didn't answer, and I went on: "Dr. Harrison warned you I might be back."

"Dr. Harrison does only good."

I didn't argue.

She showed me her profile. "Yes, he was the one who told me who you were- after I described you and that big detective, Sturgis. He said your being here might mean things would be different."

"Different?"

"He said you were persistent. A good guesser."

"You've known Dr. Harrison for a while."

"A while." The living room windows were open, and a whinny from out in the corral drifted in loud and clear. She muttered, "Easy, baby."

"Your relationship with Dr. Harrison was professional," I said.

"If you're asking was he my doctor, the answer is yes. He treated us both- Pierce and me. Separately, neither of us knew it at the time. With Pierce it was the drugs. With me it was… I was going through… a depression. A situational reaction, Dr. Harrison called it. After my mother passed. She was ninety-three, and I'd been taking care of her for so long that being alone was… all the responsibility started bearing down on me. I tried to go it alone, then it got to be too much. I knew what Dr. Harrison was, had always liked his smile. So one day I got up the courage to talk to him."

The admission- the confession of weakness- clenched her jaws. I said, "Was Dr. Harrison the one who introduced you to Pierce?"

"I met Pierce at the end of… by the time I was better, able to take care of things, again. I was still talking to Dr. Harrison from time to time but was off the antidepressants, just like he said I'd be."

She leaned forward, suddenly. "Do you really know Dr. H? Well enough to understand what kind of man he is? When we first started talking, he used to come over every day to see how I was doing. Every day. One time I came down with the flu and couldn't do my chores and he did them for me. Everything- vacuumed the house, washed and dried the dishes, fed the horses, cleaned up the stables. He did that for four days running, even made trips into town for supplies. If I'd paid him by the hour, I'd be dead broke."

I knew Bert was a good man and a master therapist, but her account astonished me. I pictured him tiny, aged, purple-clad, sweeping and hosing horse stalls and wondered what I'd have done in the same situation. Knew damn well I'd have fallen far short of that degree of caring.