Married to a Stranger Page 8
“Nice to see you again, sir,” Trey said politely. “May I present Lieutenant Atkins of the state police.”
“Good to meet you, Lieutenant,” said Burke shaking hands. “Won’t you have a seat?” Burke indicated a love seat and two chairs facing each other in front of a cold fireplace. The detectives each took a chair. “How can I help you?” he asked. “Anything I can do. Anything.”
“Mrs. Webster told us that she was receiving some mysterious notes at work,” said Joan. “She said she kept them here. We’d like to see them.”
“My secretary can take you to her office, if you want to search it,” said Burke.
Joan nodded to the younger detective. “Can you take care of that?”
Burke called Geraldine on the intercom, and Marbery left the office to meet her in the reception area.
“Dr. Webster told us that she showed the notes to you,” Joan said.
Burke nodded. “She did.”
“Was she concerned about them?” Joan asked.
Burke hesitated and then sat down on the love seat. “She was concerned. They made her anxious, of course.”
“What about you? What did you think?”
Burke frowned. “I knew there was a possibility of erotomania.”
“That’s a…clinical term for obsession, isn’t it?” asked Joan.
“Well, in its most extreme form, it’s a psychosis. A person believes that the object upon whom they are passionately fixated, returns their feelings. Even where there is ample evidence to the contrary. But generally speaking, the obsessed person does not remain hidden but makes himself known to the love object. Interferes in their day-to-day life, hounds them, threatening them with harm if they refuse to reciprocate their feelings.”
“And this…delusion can lead to violence.”
“Oh, absolutely,” said Burke.
“So why didn’t you alert the police to this situation,” Joan asked, “when Mrs. Webster showed you these letters?”
Burke shook his head. “These notes didn’t really fit the profile of a violent psychotic. And, as you will see, there are no threats in them. This isn’t the first time I have encountered this sort of acting out in a facility populated by highly emotional adolescents. Besides, I know from experience that there is nothing the police can do about anonymous love notes.”
“And there were no other incidents? Someone stalking her, Peeping Tom, anything like that?” Joan asked.
“Not that I know of,” said Burke.
“Do you have any idea who sent these notes?” Joan asked. “Any of her patients have a history of this kind of…fixation?”
Burke shook his head. “None that I know of.”
“I’ll need a complete list of her patients,” said Joan.
Burke nodded. “I can get that for you. Lieutenant Atkins, there is one thing I feel I have to mention to you.”
“What’s that?” Joan asked.
“We did have a situation here not long ago…. Emma was treating an anorexic patient, and the girl’s parents—her father specifically—took issue with Emma’s…methods. They pulled the girl from the center, and she died shortly thereafter of her disease. The girl’s father was extremely angry at Emma. He came to me, demanding that she be fired. I tried to reason with him, but when that didn’t work, I had him barred from the facility.”
Joan raised an eyebrow. “Mrs. Webster didn’t mention this to me.”
Burked sighed. “She doesn’t know about it. Emma’s confidence was shaken by the girl’s death as it was. And, in my judgment, she had acted appropriately. I felt that the father was…in the wrong on this. So I ran interference. I am the director of this facility. The buck stops here, as they say.”
Joan nodded and took out a pad and pen from her pocketbook. “This man’s name?”
“Lyle Devlin. He’s a music professor at Lambert. His daughter’s name was Ivy. I need to be clear about this. I’m not accusing Mr. Devlin of anything. But he was extremely angry at Emma.”
“I’ll talk to him,” said Joan, making a note of the name and slipping the pad back into her shoulder bag.
Marbery tapped on the door as he opened it. “Come in, Detective,” said Burke.
Marbery, who was wearing disposable plastic gloves, brought a manila envelope to Joan, who, also donning gloves, opened it and pulled out the contents. Each note was short. Joan shuffled through them, reading certain phrases aloud.
“‘In my dark dreams your face glows like a distant star. I try to fly to you. The pain of love is more than I can bear. How can you look through me and not see the secrets of my soul?’ She seems to have inspired quite a passion in this guy,” Joan observed.
“Passion can be dangerous,” murmured Trey.
Joan nodded and replaced the notes in the envelope. Then she removed her gloves and tapped a pale, oval fingernail against the envelope. “Tell me, Dr. Heisler, you said that Mrs. Webster is a personal friend as well as a colleague.”
“She was my wife’s college roommate. As a matter of fact, I was the best man at Emma’s wedding,” said Burke.
“Really? So, you’re friends with David Webster as well.”
“We’re friends from childhood. My family owned a casino, and his mother was a waitress at one of the casino restaurants. I went away to private school, but when I was home I used to hang around the restaurant kitchen, and sometimes David’s mom would bring him with her to work. We became best buddies. We’ve remained friends all these years. Emma and David met at our home.”
“Did you ever have any reason to suspect Webster’s motives in marrying Emma Hollis?”
Burke recoiled from the suggestion. “No, of course not. What are you talking about?”
Joan studied the doctor’s reaction. “Mrs. Webster is a wealthy woman. If she died, her husband would inherit her money.”
“David?” Burke cried in disbelief. “No. That’s out of the question. David doesn’t care about money.”
“I don’t want to contradict you, Doctor, but if his mother worked as a waitress, I doubt he was raised in the lap of luxury. Maybe you don’t care about money, but I suspect he probably does.”
Burke shook his head. “You don’t know him. He’s always marched to his own drummer. No. He never had any patience with money-grubbing people or people who bragged about being rich. That’s not who David is. I understand that most murder is domestic, but in this case, the answer has to lie elsewhere. Have you ruled out a random attack?”
“We haven’t ruled out anything yet,” said Joan.
“Well, you can forget about David,” Burke insisted. “He would never hurt Emma. David is crazy about Emma.”
Joan glanced at the envelope in her hand. “Is that an observation,” she asked, “or a diagnosis?”
9
EMMA pressed her forehead against the passenger-side window of David’s Jeep Cherokee as he drove. It was a gloomy November afternoon, the bare tree branches etched against the smoky, gray sky. The air had a tang that was restorative after the medicinal stuffiness of the recycled hospital air. The two hundred stitches she had received had made it impossible to move or breathe without pain the first twenty-four hours. Now, two days later, it was merely very difficult. A physical therapist had visited her room and showed her how to use a cane to minimize the pressure on her left side. “You’ll get the hang of it,” the therapist had said cheerfully. But when David had pulled the car up to the hospital entrance, she had nearly started to cry, wondering how she was going to manage climbing into the high front seat of the SUV. Then her husband had gone around to the trunk, opened it, and pulled out a plastic milk crate, which he placed by the open passenger door. When Emma had exclaimed with surprise over his thoughtfulness, he admitted that he kept the milk crate in the trunk for his mother, who was also unable to manage the front seat without a boost. So, with the aid of the crate, the first hurdle had been easily accomplished. But Emma knew that physical restrictions would be the least of her worries. There would be other woes, more ta
xing by far.
She realized, as she put a hand protectively across her abdomen, that she was lucky to be alive, lucky to have escaped, lucky that her baby was still safe inside her. She knew she should be grateful. But she was plagued by melancholy. After her initial relief that she had survived the attack, her spirits had begun to sink. A maniac, who was still on the loose, had attacked her, and a good man had lost his life trying to save her. Her honeymoon weekend in the woods had turned into a gory nightmare. She had always known that there was random violence in the world—impossible to ignore if you watched TV or read the papers. But being the victim of such a senseless attack was something else altogether. She had never really lived in fear. She always considered herself to be strong, and she thought of her strength as a shield. But now she knew better.
“Almost home,” said David.
She turned to him and forced herself to smile. “I’ll be glad to get back to our house,” she said. “To our own bed.”
“Well, you’re not going to be able to make those stairs for a few days, maybe longer. You heard the doctor. I’ll make up the bed for you downstairs.” They had a guest room off the kitchen. David had his computer and his files in there and had claimed it for his office.
“But that’s where you work. I don’t want to disrupt your work space.”
“It’s only temporary,” he said. “I don’t mind.”
“All right,” she said doubtfully. “As long as you sleep downstairs with me.”
“I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” he said. “I’d be afraid of hurting you. I don’t want to take a chance of opening up those stitches.”
The thought of sleeping alone downstairs filled her with panic. “I don’t want to be by myself down there, David.”
“No one’s going to hurt you, honey. Whoever it was who attacked you is probably still in the Pine Barrens, looking for someone else to…another victim.”
“I’m not saying it’s rational. I’m just afraid, all right?”
“But there’s nothing to be afraid of. It’ll be all right—”
“It’s not all right!” Emma cried. “Aren’t I allowed to be afraid? Who wouldn’t be after something like this?” she demanded.
“I’m sorry. Of course you are,” he said. “Take it easy. You’re not supposed to get upset. Maybe I can put up a cot or sleep on the sofa.”
“I just can’t do it by myself,” she insisted.
“I get it, Em. I understand.”
Emma forced herself to take a deep breath. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m being a baby.”
He reached over and put a reassuring hand on hers. “Hey, you’ve got a perfect right to be scared. You just lived through a nightmare. But once we get home, everything will feel better to you. We’ll be there in no time. Just try to relax.”
Emma nodded. “You’re right. We’re almost there.”
“A few more blocks,” he said.
Emma looked out the window at the quiet streets of Clarenceville as they drove toward their house. She pictured it in her mind’s eye. Home. The house sat alone at the end of a wooded cul-de-sac, with no neighbors to block their views of the woods. It was only a rental—but she had fallen in love with the house the minute they walked into it. It was a two-story Arts and Crafts–style house, with wide mahogany woodwork that contrasted with the ecru, stuccolike walls, and the windows had angular patterns of pale stained glass. The William Morris printed fabrics and leather Mission-style antiques they’d bought suited the house perfectly. She’d even thought they might try to talk the owner into selling the house to them. But it seemed so unimportant right now.
She closed her eyes and rested her head against the headrest. Home. She would feel better once she got home.
“Oh…hell,” he said.
He had turned the corner onto their street. Emma sat up and opened her eyes. “What?” she asked. They had reached their secluded road and were headed for their house, which was just visible through the bare branches of the many trees that surrounded it. But instead of seeing their peaceful haven at the end of the street, they saw an assortment of haphazardly parked vehicles on either side of the road and a crowd milling at the edge of their front lawn There were news vans blocking the driveway, and reporters with microphones and notepads assembled, waiting for them.
“What are we going to do?” she said, feeling her anxiety start to mount.
“Oh, here we go,” said David bitterly.
Almost as if in answer to his words, one of the windbreaker-clad men holding a microphone in the driveway suddenly spotted their car and pointed. Every eye turned toward their car, and the reporters began to surge toward them.
David took a deep breath and continued driving slowly toward their home, not looking at the people who were swarming around the car, shouting questions at them.
Emma shrank from the passenger window, leaning against her husband and keeping her face turned away from the glass as he inched along, the reporters shouting and moving with him like a swarm of bees. The van was blocking his entry to the driveway.
“We can’t get in!” said Emma.
David started to lower the window to call to the driver of the van, but a microphone was instantly shoved into the gap. “Jesus Christ.” He raised the window as the reporter protested loudly about damage to his expensive equipment.
For a moment, David sat there fuming and then he pressed down on the horn. The blare of the horn was jarring, and Emma clapped her hands over her ears.
The driver of the van with a TV-station logo on the side looked startled to realize that the horn was meant for him. With an annoyed expression on his face, he finally mounted the driver’s side and turned on the lights. David backed up just enough to let him get out of the way, and then he started to pull into the driveway. “Oh great, look who’s here,” he said. He pulled up abruptly and parked at the foot of the short walkway to the house.
Emma frowned. “Who?”
David pointed to the car already parked in their driveway. “That’s Rory’s rental car from the airport.”
“Oh,” said Emma, trying to sound surprised. But she wasn’t really surprised. Her mother had rarely left her hospital room or the corridor outside of it.
David was swearing under his breath. “Of course, if we had a garage I could pull into it, but these old houses…”
Emma felt…chided. About the presence of her mother and about the old house. She didn’t expect him to welcome her mother’s visit, but the house was another matter. She loved the old house. She thought David did too.
“Stay right there,” he said. “I’ll come around and get you. They can’t come onto our property, so just ignore the yelling.”
Emma nodded.
David took a deep breath and opened the door of the car. Emma heard a babble of voices shouting questions at him. He slammed the door and pressed the remote to lock it. He walked around to her passenger door. She looked up at him through the window and he nodded grimly.
Emma hesitated and then began to open the door. He reached a hand in and Emma grabbed it. He opened the door a little bit more, and she slid out, feeling a searing pain in her leg and her side as she unfolded herself from the car where she had sat for an hour. She set her cane on the ground and leaned against it as David managed to get the door closed behind her.
“Emma, how are you feeling?” a woman’s voice cried, using her first name in a way that felt intrusive and overly familiar.
“Don’t look at them, and don’t answer them,” David said.
Is that more advice from Mr. Yunger? she wondered.
“Emma, do you know who the Pine Barrens killer is?” a bespectacled man holding a microphone cried out from the edge of the yard.
“What about you, Dave?” cried another man. “You have any comment about who tried to murder your wife?”
Emma glanced at David and saw that he was smoldering.
“Where were you when it happened, Dave?” another voice called out.
“What do you know about this, sir? What is your relationship to the victim?” a reporter demanded, undaunted.
David steered Emma up the walk and into the house past Rory, who stood there, nearly blocking the doorway. Kay, who was waiting just inside the front door, held out her arms and carefully hugged her daughter.
“Please, Kay, let her sit down,” said David.
Kay’s eyes flashed at her son-in-law, but she released her daughter. David helped Emma to the sofa, easing her down onto a cushion.
“Dave, you can’t let those people walk all over you,” Rory said, draping his arm over Kay’s shoulder.
David did not reply. “I’m going out to the car to get our bags,” he told Emma.
Emma leaned back against the sofa and nodded.
“You poor kid,” said Rory. “You look awful.”
“I’m just sore,” said Emma irritably. “It’ll pass.
Kay, in a taupe Calvin Klein pantsuit, her platinum hair perfectly coiffed, sat down on the sofa beside Emma and massaged her hand between her own.
“Oh, Mom, everything hurts,” said Emma. Stress and weariness had caught up with her. Tears rolled down her cheeks. They seemed to come and go without warning, like changes in the weather.
“Oh, my poor baby,” said Kay.
“What are you doing here?” Emma asked. This morning, as Emma was getting ready to leave the hospital, Kay had announced to David that she wanted to stay with them and take care of her daughter. David had quickly quashed that plan. “I thought you two were going back to Chicago.”
“We were,” said Kay. “We are. But I wanted to make sure you were safely home. And I thought you might need help with all those flowers you got….”
“We gave all the flowers to other patients,” said Emma. “David took care of it.”
“Well, and Stephanie told me, when she came to see you at the hospital, that she was going to be bringing over a casserole for you when you got home. I wanted to make sure someone was here when she came by. And it was a good thing too. She just left a few minutes before you arrived. She sends her love.”