“A month ago. He said he needed to find himself.” She finger quotes the last two words and rolls her eyes. “What a bunch of bullshit.”
“Can I ask you a personal question?”
She puffs on her cigarette, shrugs, and nods.
“Is that why you’re seeing Luke Nelson?”
Her brow furrows and she gives me a startled look. “How do you know about that?”
I explain about my investigation into Shannon’s death and how I came across the list of names. “I assure you I’ll keep the fact that you’re seeing Nelson confidential,” I tell her. “I don’t really need to know why you were seeing him, but I’d like to ask you some questions about him, if you don’t mind.”
“If you want to know if I had an appointment with him on the day Shannon died, some detective already asked me. I did.”
“What time was your appointment?”
“Three o’clock.” She stubs her cigarette out on the sidewalk and stuffs the butt back in her pack. “I was there for an hour.”
“Have you been seeing Nelson for a long time?”
“I started a couple of months ago when I sensed that Mark and I were drifting apart. I thought some counseling might help me figure out how to get things back on track.”
“Did it?”
“Obviously not,” she says with a wry chuckle. She turns to head back inside and I follow along beside her. “Maybe if Mark had gone with me it might have helped but I couldn’t get him to do it and Nelson said he’d prefer to keep it one-on-one for the time being anyway.”
This strikes me as odd since I’ve always heard that marital counseling is more effective when both parties are involved. “Has seeing Nelson helped you deal with the breakup?”
We are at the entrance to the ER waiting room and Lucy pauses with her hand on the door. “I started having panic attacks about a week after Mark left and despite trying several medications, they’ve been getting worse. So for my last few visits, Dr. Nelson tried something new, some sort of hypnotherapy. I guess it’s working because I haven’t had an attack since, though to be honest, I don’t remember a whole lot about the sessions.”
“Interesting.”
“Look, I have to get back to work, but it was good to see you again. You doing okay since you and David split?”
“I have good days and bad days.”
“Any chance of reconciliation?”
I shake my head. “No, we’re done. I can’t get past the whole cheating thing. I’m a pretty forgiving person, but that’s a bit more than I’m willing to take.”
Lucy nods and looks away. I sense she’s uncomfortable with my comment and wonder if Mark has strayed, too.
“You take care,” she says, and before I can ask her anything else, she opens the door and disappears inside.
Chapter 33
Lucy’s comments about her experiences with Nelson get me to wondering, so I dig out my cell phone and give Hurley a call.
“Hey, Winston,” he answers. That whole caller ID thing still freaks me out. “What’s up?”
“I’m wondering if you could give me some information. You provided us with a list of names for Nelson’s patients but not the times of their appointments. Do you recall who it was that had the four o’clock slot on the day Shannon was killed?”
“You’re still focusing on him?” he says tiredly. “I know you don’t want to believe your friend could have done this but Nelson’s alibi is solid for the time in question. He didn’t do it. Even with your discovery about Shannon’s eating disorder and the change in the time of death, Erik Tolliver is still our most likely suspect.”
“Humor me, would you? There’s something about Nelson that bothers me. I can’t put my finger on it, but I can’t let it go yet, either.”
Hurley sighs and says, “Hold on a minute.”
I hear him set his phone down and shuffle some papers, and wait until he comes back on the line.
“Okay, here you go. The four o’clock appointment was a woman named Carla Andrusson. I’ve already talked to her and she verified that she kept her appointment that day.”
“Thanks,” I tell him, glad Carla is someone I know. She’s the wife of my dentist, Brian Andrusson, and also a former patient of mine. I was on duty eight years ago when she came into the ER after having a seizure and was diagnosed with a brain tumor. The tumor was surgically removed and fortunately proved to be benign. But during the surgery Carla suffered a small stroke that left her with some left-sided facial paralysis and right arm and leg weakness.
After getting Carla’s home phone number from Hurley, I hang up. It’s well past nine o’clock, so I decide to head for home. I stop at the Kwik-E-Mart on the way to pick up some treats and discover they are out of Ben & Jerry’s Cherry Garcia. I settle on Cookie Dough instead, and by the time I lug it and my other treasures to the counter, my hands are nearly frostbitten.
When I get home, Rubbish greets me at the door, winding his way around my feet and purring contentedly. I scoop him up before he can trip me, and carry him to the kitchen, where I fix him up a nice plate of the tuna I just bought for him. While he eats I kick off my shoes and plop down on the couch with my ice cream, turn on the TV, and flip channels until I settle on an old episode of Cheers.
Twenty minutes later, I’ve dug out all the cookie dough chunks and have nothing but melting ice cream left. I pour a little of the molten remains into a dish for Rubbish, who cautiously sniffs and then laps it up. Nice to know we share similar tastes. I wash the rest of the ice cream down the sink, feeling slightly virtuous for not having eaten the whole thing.
Sated, I head for the bathroom to take a shower but my cell phone rings. I curse, thinking it must be Izzy with a death call, but to my surprise it’s Hurley.
“Hey, Winston, what are you doing?”
“I was just getting ready to hop in the shower before bed. Why?”
“Can I interest you in joining me for a drink?”
My heart skips a beat and I start to feel all flushed again. “Sure,” I say. “Where?” Before he answers I start a mental chant: your place, your place, your place.
“How about the Nowhere Bar in fifteen minutes?”
I hope this isn’t a sign our relationship is going nowhere. “Okay, see you there.”
I’m disappointed we’re meeting in such a public place, though I’m delighted to be meeting him at all for something that isn’t work related. But the suddenness of the call throws me into a frenzy because I’m far from date ready. I don’t have enough time to wash my hair because it takes me fifteen minutes just to blow dry and style it. So I pin it up and hop in the shower, washing everything from the neck down. I hesitate when I look at my legs. I haven’t shaved in nearly a week; when the weather gets colder and long pants become a daily fixture, I tend to get lazy. Now I’m regretting it. What if I get lucky tonight? What if Hurley and I end up somewhere in bed together? Can I risk grossing him out with hairy legs?
I decide I can’t and shave them in record time, leaving myself with two good-sized nicks that refuse to quit oozing blood. I get out of the shower and dab some toilet paper on them, praying that scabs are less of a turn-off than winter fur.
I do a quick fix to my hair and make-up, and then change my outfit five times in an effort to find a pair of pants that don’t make my ass look bigger than the fender on a Buick. Rubbish thinks I’m playing with him and each time I remove a pair of pants and toss them aside, he pounces on them, biting and clawing like it’s a life-and-death struggle.
I settle on a pair of pants I find the least offensive—black and made out of a very forgiving stretchy knit fabric—and smooth my blouse down over them. I grab my coat, purse and car keys, and head out with one minute to spare.