Sing Sweetly to Me Page 2

  Wrapping her hands around the warmth of the mug, she thought again of last Christmas. The four of them had been so happy in that rented cabin in the Berkshires.

  It had snowed most of the day, a dry powder, the temperature well below freezing. They’d been grateful to get the groceries unpacked and a roaring fire started.

  Rob, married just over a year and a solicitous father-to-be, had settled Trisha comfortably in a rocker. Margie and Frank had pulled on their parkas and gone for a walk in the woods.

  New snow nestled in the branches above their heads and crunched under their boots, and sunlight glancing off the white landscape gave it an iridescent glow. Margie breathed in the pine-scented cold and returned Frank’s happy smile, thinking how impossible it seemed that six months earlier she had not even known him.

  They had met in a Hartford courtroom while working on the same case; Frank was the prosecutor and Margie was brought in as a state psychologist in a case involving malicious mischief and aggravated assault against a local farmer. Frank argued that the defendant, Roy Gates, had premeditated the acts of violence, while the defense claimed Gates was a hapless victim of mental illness.

  Margie, after a thorough analysis, concluded that Gates was cunning but sane, an organized sociopath who planned his attacks and most certainly should stand trial. But neither her testimony nor Frank’s arguments had been enough to send him to prison. Gates had drawn a stint at a state hospital, and that had been the end of it.

  For Margie and Frank, it was the beginning of a friendship that had quickly become much more, and now, matching her stride to his, it seemed she had known him always. She felt that if the world should stop, this was where she’d want to be.

  “This is God’s country,” Frank whispered, putting her thoughts into words. “There’s a peacefulness here like nowhere else. If I thought I could make a living here, I’d stay.”

  Margie burrowed closer to him. “You could, if you really wanted to. Even in the mountains, people need attorneys.”

  Frank shook his head. “And be a desk jockey? No, that’s not for me. I love the courtroom, you know that, Margie.”

  “Yes, my love, I do. You thrive on the excitement, the high drama.”

  “Okay, so I should have been an actor.”

  Margie smiled. “Not for a minute. You’re too darn good at what you do.”

  “Right,” Frank said. “Defender of justice. Trying to outswim the sharks.”

  They paused to watch a pair of gray squirrels forage in a fallen tree trunk, then scamper off with a light-footed grace that barely left tracks in the snow.

  “I’ve got it,” Frank said. “We’ll have two houses, one in the city and one here. Then, when we get fed up with the sharks, we can hide up here with the squirrels.”

  “And run like rabbits from the big, bad wolf who wants to collect on the mortgages.”

  Frank laughed, a deep chuckle that echoed in the silence, and drew Margie to him until their faces met and the smile faded from his lips. “Marry me, Margie. I love you so much. I want to spend the rest of my life with you.”

  Margie shivered with joy and cold. “Nothing would make me happier.”

  They held each other for a long moment, oblivious to the cold. Then the wind picked up and a dusting of snow began to swirl about their heads.

  “Race you to the cabin,” Frank said, swatting her gently on the rump.

  “No fair! Your legs are longer,” Margie shouted, already beginning to run. “I get a handicap, and the first one there gets to tell Rob and Trish the news!”

  The day was as clear and sharp in her memory as if it happened yesterday, etched into her brain like the letters of her name on the blue mug now cold in her hands.

  Exhausted, Margie set down the mug and crawled back into bed. It was no good remembering. She had done the right thing when she accepted the offer in California.

  Eventually, beset with fragmented images, she fell into a restless sleep, only to wake at the howl of the wind and stare into the night.

  2

  The morning was bright and cloudless, Margie saw as she drove the two-mile distance to the hospital. There was no hint of last night’s wind except that the range of mountains to the north stood out in relief against the pale blue sky, evidence that the Santa Ana winds had swept through and cleared away the smog.

  The mountains were a dull gray-brown and craggy, not at all like the Berkshire Hills she loved. Still, they were majestic in their own Spartan way, and Margie wished she could enjoy this rare glimpse of them. But lack of sleep and fragmented dreams had taken a heavy toll, and the Tylenol she’d taken before breakfast had not yet made a dent in her headache.

  She was worried about Rob and Trisha and the baby and wondered when she would hear from them. More than that, she realized in the clear light of the day, it was increasingly hard to convince herself that what had awakened her last night had been anything but a woman’s scream.

  I should have called the police, she told herself, that’s what I should have done, if for no other reason than that they might have looked around and assured me that everything was okay. An argument, maybe, between two roommates. Who knew why people screamed?

  But she hadn’t called, and now she would feel silly, calling in to report she’d heard a scream more than eight hours ago.

  She drove into the employees’ lot at Santa Clarita State Hospital, maneuvering the Honda past the choicest parking spots to a walled area out of sight of the prison ward where staff psychologists were asked to park.

  On the face of it, she realized, it was a reasonable precaution, given the fact that the prisoners she dealt with could be back out on the streets at any time. On most mornings, in fact, she did not mind the extra walk. When the weather was good, she almost welcomed it, but today she was impatient to get to her office. Silly or not, she was going to make that call.

  The building was old, worn, and cavernous, echoing with the sounds of the sick and the desperate, and smelling somehow faintly of mildew despite its daily scrubbings.

  Margie took an elevator to the eleventh floor, one floor below the topmost level, which was in such disrepair that it was no longer used for patients.

  The eleventh was bad enough, with its yellowing walls and an accumulation of forty years’ worth of steam table smells seeping up from the cafeteria below.

  Margie strode past the worst of the food smells, past a small, makeshift library, and stopped at a heavy metal door at the far end of the hall. Stretching to her full height to peer through a small square of safety glass, she pressed the buzzer at one side of the door and waited for Mack to buzz her in.

  “Morning!” Mack greeted her with his customary good cheer. “Ah, you’re a sight for sore eyes!”

  Margie smiled ruefully. “Don’t look too close. I’m not at my scintillating best.”

  Mack winked at her. “Late night?”

  “Short night. I didn’t get much sleep.”

  She continued past him to her small office halfway down the corridor, at the end of which a double set of doors led to a dozen cells.

  Tossing her linen jacket over the back of a chair, she glanced at the Walters file, pulled for her to read before the interview she was to have with the new patient this morning. She was anxious to read it, but she put it aside and reached for a telephone book. Scanning it for the number of the Santa Clarita Sheriff’s office, she picked up the telephone and punched the numbers quickly, before she could change her mind.

  A youthful voice came on the line. “Desk, Sergeant Jordan. Can I help you?”

  “I hope so,” Margie said. “My name is Margie Reed. I’m a psychologist at Santa Clarita State Hospital. I live not far from here, in the Wentworth Apartments, on Wentworth just north of the boulevard.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” The voice urged her along, but Margie took her time.

  “Last night, about twelve twenty—actually, I suppose it was twelve twenty this morning—I heard—well, I thought I heard a woman sc
ream.”

  “At the hospital?”

  “No, Sergeant. At home.” Margie paused. “I should have reported it right away. But I—I thought at first I might have been dreaming. I was asleep, you see. The sound woke me. And then I thought maybe I’d dreamed it.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  The officer was being less than helpful, and Margie began to feel foolish. “Anyway,” she said, “the more I thought about it, the surer I became that it was real. Someone screamed. I only heard it once, but I feel certain it was a scream.”

  “I see,” the officer said flatly. “Could you tell where the noise was coming from?”

  “Near my apartment. I went out to look around, but I didn’t see or hear anything.”

  “No one in the area who didn’t belong there?”

  “No. I didn’t see anyone.”

  The officer paused. “No further disturbance?”

  “No…not to my knowledge.”

  “Well, ma’am, if you had called last night, we would have sent a car to look around.”

  “I appreciate that, Sergeant. I guess I’m just wondering if you knew of any trouble in the area.”

  “Checking the blotter, ma’am, I find no record of any reports from that neighborhood. If it will make you feel better, I can send a car tonight, or have the day patrol cruise by.”

  Margie sighed. “Whatever you think. If there’s no record of any trouble…”

  “Well, ma’am, we thank you for calling. We’ll certainly have a look around.”

  “Officer, it’s a big complex. I live in building two, apartment three-B.”

  “Well, I doubt we’ll be knocking on any doors. But I’ll dispatch a car to cruise the area.”

  “Thank you, Sergeant.”

  “No problem at all.” The call was disconnected.

  Fat lot of good that did, Margie thought, replacing the phone on the hook. My own fault. I should have called last night. But then, there’d been nothing reported. Maybe I did dream the whole thing. Maybe I should mind my own business.

  Resting her chin on her hand for a moment, she put the thought firmly out of mind. She reached for the file marked “Walters, Glenn,” and opened it to read the court order.

  Her new patient was an 18-year-old Caucasian male with no prior adult record, who had come to California some months ago with his family from Scottsdale, Arizona.

  He was charged with the torture of a Siamese cat, which had been disemboweled and left in its owner’s mailbox. The owner, a 72-year-old woman, had suffered a heart attack upon finding the corpse and was still under hospital care.

  Margie recalled that the story had made banner headlines, understandably arousing wrath and fear in a quiet, suburban neighborhood. It had been several weeks before the Walters boy had been arrested, but his arraignment had been widely covered. At a pretrial hearing, the judge had ordered psychological reports on Glenn’s competence to stand trial and, concurrently, on his mental state at the time of the alleged offense.

  Margie made a note to check for juvenile records in Scottsdale, Arizona. With a crime of this nature, it was very likely the boy had some previous history. She was about to read the lengthy police report when the telephone sounded at her elbow. She barely had time to identify herself before a voice bellowed into her ear.

  “Good morning! This is Carlton Richards, attorney for Glenn Walters. I’ve just been retained to represent the young man and I wondered if you’d seen him yet.”

  “No, I haven’t,” Margie said. “I’ll be seeing him later this morning.”

  Richards growled. “Totally ridiculous! There’s no need for mental evaluation. A childish little prank has been blown out of proportion and the court sends him to you!”

  “That’s what I’m here for,” Margie said, mildly surprised at Richards’s tactic. “This ‘childish little prank’ is a felony, after all, and a woman has suffered a heart attack.”

  “Elderly people are subject to heart attacks—it simply comes with the territory. Glenn Walters did not intentionally or unintentionally cause her to suffer this one.”

  They were getting into the legal arena, and Margie was not about to be drawn in. “Tell me, Mr. Richards, do you happen to know if your client has a juvenile record?”

  “I do not,” Richards said. “I was only retained by Glenn’s parents this morning. In any case, it has no relevance to the case currently pending.”

  It was clear she would get nothing more from Richards, who had undoubtedly not yet seen his client. She had work to dom and she wanted to get on with it. “Well, thank you for calling, Mr. Richards. If there’s nothing else, I’ll be in touch as I gather information.”

  The attorney paused. “I thought I should tell you I am considering moving Glenn to a private psychiatric facility. I thought, inasmuch as the court has ordered these reports, perhaps a private psychologist—”

  “You have that option,” Margie said. “I’m sure you know the procedure.”

  “Yes. Well, we’ll see. We’ll certainly see.” The phone went dead in Margie’s hand.

  Nurse Emma Danziger glanced at the clock and rubbed her blistered left heel. Damned if she’d buy sale shoes again for the miles she put on around here.

  She should have listened to Lilly Platz. The pace up here was insane—patients in and out like a revolving door—you’d think it was a damned hotel, and the doctors so rushed even she had trouble reading their orders on the charts.

  Deftly avoiding a fast-moving gurney, she made her way down the hall. One quick check of the sixth-floor beds and she was on her way to lunch at last.

  There was an empty bed in 6114. Emma stopped to think. She could swear a patient had been assigned there an hour ago, complaining of some kind of food poisoning.

  Three other patients were sound asleep: no help coming from them. She limped in, looking for a chart, but it had not yet arrived on the ward. No surprise, Emma thought, the way things got done around here. Well, she would look for it at the nurses’ station before she went to lunch.

  She finished the bed check and, favoring her sore foot, made her way back up the hall, where three women dressed in East Indian saris were clustered around a baffled-looking Lilly.

  “They keep telling me they’re ready,” Lilly said. “But I don’t know for what!”

  Emma listened to the women’s chatter. “Red-dy…Am-rit Reddy…”

  “They’re looking for Amrit Reddy, Lilly, the colostomy in sixty-one fifty. I’m out of here, okay? I’m going to lunch.” She retrieved her purse from a file cabinet.

  The elevator was halfway up to the cafeteria before she remembered the empty bed.

  Margie had read the police report on Walters and was making some preliminary notes when she heard Chet Anderson’s familiar whistle somewhere out in the hall. A moment later the blond psychologist leaned into her doorway, pushing his glasses up on his nose and smiling his cherubic smile.

  “If I read it right, it’s after ten. Time for coffee, eh?”

  “Sure,” Margie said. “I have this raging headache. A little caffeine is called for.”

  They took the stairs to the floor below and stood in line for coffee, carrying it to a table on the far side of the cafeteria, away from most of the noise.

  “Wish I had a cheese Danish,” Chet said, biting into a doughnut.

  “I hate cheese Danishes.”

  “You’d like these. I get them at Harry’s Deli. They’re great for headaches.”

  “I’ll bet,” Margie said.

  “So where did the headache come from?”

  Margie shrugged. “A bad night and an unendearing lawyer. His name is Richards. Carlton Richards. He’s representing Glenn Walters.”

  Chet polished off the last of his doughnut. “Must be money in the family. Richards hangs out in the high rent district. So you got the Walters kid, eh?”

  “Yes.” Margie sipped at her hot coffee. “I’ll be seeing him as soon as we’re through here. According to Richards, the entire incid
ent was nothing but a childish prank. But I’m not so sure, after reading the police report, and obviously the court isn’t, either.”

  “Any priors?” Chet asked, getting up to refill their cups from a pot that sat on a sideboard.

  “Not here,” Margie said. “But I’m checking with Arizona to see if there’s a juvenile file.”

  Chet grimaced. “Good luck getting it, even if it does exist. Heaven forbid they might have made a mistake when they let him slip off their hook.”

  “I know,” Margie said. “But I have a feeling that his history is going to be important. If I have to, I’ll go through a juvenile court judge to get the records released.”

  Chet nodded. “If I know Richards, he’ll want the kid moved elsewhere. Somewhere very private and very posh with an accommodating private shrink.”

  “He’s already indicated the possibility.” Margie finished her coffee. “Maybe he thinks he can buy a report that says what he wants to hear.”

  “It wouldn’t be the first time.” Chet shrugged. “And probably not the last.”

  “All of which means that my clock is running. I really ought to get back.”

  “Right. Margie, I enjoyed last night. I’d like to do it again.”

  “Well, it’s my treat next time. That’s only fair. Your paycheck’s no bigger than mine.”

  She started to rise but Chet stopped her, placing a hand over hers. “Hey,” he said, forcing her to look at him. “Okay, I can see you’ve been hurt. If you want to tell me what happened, that’s fine, and if you don’t, that’s okay, too. But it’s past. This is now. I like you a lot, and I’d like to look ahead.”

  Margie saw the warmth in his eyes. She had looked at someone with such tenderness once. “I’ve—got to get back,” she said softly.

  “I know. But I’m here if you need me.”