Jonathan Kellerman - The Clinic

“Something about Hope's background that might help explain her death.”

“Why would her background explain anything?”

Her black eyes were locked into mine, sharp as a falcon's.

“There's some indication she might have been abused as an adult. Sometimes that's related to abuse as a child.”

“Abused how?”

“Physically. Pushed around, bruised.”

“Was she married?”

“Yes.”

“To whom?”

“A history professor, quite a few years older.”

“Is he the one who abused her?”

“We don't know.”

“Is he a suspect in the murder?”

“No,” I said.

“No? Or not yet?”

“Hard to say. There's no evidence against him.”

“A professor and a psychologist,” she said, closing her eyes, as if trying to picture it.

“Hope was a professor, too,” I said. “She'd become pretty prominent as a researcher.”

“What did she research?”

“The psychology of women. Sex-roles. Self-control.”

The last phrase made her flinch and I wondered why.

“I see… Tell me exactly how she was killed.”

I summed up the stabbing and told her about Hope's book, the publicity tour.

“Sounds like she was more than prominent. Sounds like she was downright famous.”

“During the last year, she was.”

Her head moved back an inch and the black eyes got narrow. I felt like corn surveyed by a crow.

“So what does her childhood have to do with it?” she said.

“We're clutching at straws. You're one of them.”

She stared at me some more. “Famous. That's what I get for not reading the papers or watching the idiot box. Stopped both years ago… interesting.”

“What is?”

“Her getting famous. When I first got her as a student, she was shy, didn't even like to read out loud. Do you have a picture of her as an adult?”

“No.”

“Too bad, would have loved to see it. Was she attractive?”

“Very.” As I described Hope, her eyes softened.

“She was a beautiful kid- I can't stop thinking of her as a kid. Little blondie. Her hair was almost white… past her waist, with curls at the end. Big, brown eyes… I showed her how to do all the braids and twists with her hair, gave her a book with diagrams for a graduation gift.”

“Sixth-grade graduation?”

She nodded absently. The cuckoo shot out of the clock and beeped once. “Medicine time,” she said, standing. “Got two others in the bedroom even worse than the Shih Tzu. Collie hit by a truck out on Route Five and a part-beagle choked unconscious and left in a field to die.”

She went to the kitchen, filled two syringes, disappeared through a rear door.

I sat in the dim room until she came back looking grim.

“Problems?” I said.

“I'm still thinking about Hope. All these years I haven't thought much about her, assumed she was fine, but now her face is right here.” Tapping her nose. “Thank you for brightening an old woman's day.”

“You assumed she was fine,” I said. “Meaning you worried she might not be?”

She sat down and laughed. “You are a psychologist.”

Her eyes drifted to the clock and stayed there for a while.

I said, “You don't remember all your students but you do remember her. What made her stand out?”

“Her intelligence. I taught for forty-eight years and she had to be one of the smartest kids I ever had. Maybe the smartest. Grasped things immediately. And a hard worker, too. Some of the gifted aren't, as I'm sure you know. Rest on their laurels, think the world's lining up for them. But Hope was a good little worker. And not because of her home environment.”

The skin around the black eyes tightened.

“No?” I said.

“No,” she said, but this time it wasn't mimicry. “Not because. Despite .”

She got up again. “Sure you don't want a drink?”

“Something soft, thanks.”

Swinging the fridge open, she took out another beer and a can of orange soda. “This okay?”

“Sure.”

Popping both tops, she sat down and immediately started tapping her feet. Then she straightened a slipcover, pulled her braid forward, unraveled it, and began to retie.

“You need to understand something,” she said. “Things were different back then.” She looked down at her feet, kicked aside a pink plastic feed bowl. “Hope came here with her mother when she was just a baby. I never saw any father. The mother said he was some kind of sailor, died at sea… This professor husband, what makes you think he beat her?”

“We don't know that he did. It's just a possibility.”

“Why's it a possibility?”

“Because husbands are usually the ones who do that.”

“Does he have a raw temper?”

“Don't know,” I lied. “Why?”

“I've had two husbands and neither would classify as brutal, but both had their tempers and there were times I was afraid. How much older is he than Hope?”

“Fifteen years. Why do you ask?”

The beer can rose to her lips and she took a long time drinking. “She was always mature for her age.”

“Where did Hope and her mother come from?” I said.

She shook her head and took a longer swallow. I tried the orange soda. It tasted like candy mixed with cleaning solvent. I tried to produce saliva to wash away the taste but my mouth was dry.

“The mother's name was Charlotte. Everyone called her Lottie. She and the child just showed up one day with one of the migrant picking crews. Lottie was nice-looking but she had the face of an Okie, so maybe she was one. Or maybe she just had Okie heritage- know anything about the Okies?”

I nodded.

“Where are your folks from?”

“Missouri.”

She thought about that. “Well, Lottie seemed like pure Okie to me- pretty, like I said, but skinny, rawboned. Twangy accent, not much education. I know it's a derogatory term, now, but I'm too old to start worrying about shifts of the wind. Back then they seemed fine being called Okies so they're still Okies to me. My own family's part Californio but I've been called everything from taco-bender to greaser and I've survived. Know who the Californios were?”

“The original settlers from Mexico.”

“The original settlers after the Indians. Before the New Englanders came out west to find gold. I've got both in me- tamales and boiled supper but I don't exactly look like DAR so I've been getting wetback comments my whole life. I learned to close my ears and go about my business. Lottie Devane was an Okie.”

Two more swallows and the beer was gone.

“She was quite a nice-looking girl- slim figure, good bust, legs. But she'd seen some wear. And she could walk, make it look like a dance step. Natural blond, too. Not the platinum stuff she started using a month after she got here, wanting to match Hope. More of a honey blond. She favored blue eye shadow and false eyelashes and red lipstick and tight dresses. Everyone wanted to be Marilyn Monroe back then, whether it was realistic or not.”

She looked away. “The thing with Lottie was she came with the picking crew but she never went out to pick. Despite that she managed to pay rent on a two-room cabin over on Citrus Street.” She hooked a finger. “That's three blocks over, we used to call it Rind Street 'cause the migrants took the oversoft fruit home to make lemonade and the gutters were full of skin and pulp. Rows of cabins- shacks. Communal bathrooms. That's where Lottie and Hope lived. Except soon they got upgraded to a double cabin. When Lottie was in town, she tended to stay indoors.”

“Was she gone a lot?”

She shrugged. “She used to take day trips.”

“Where?”