Not One Clue_ A Mystery - Lois Greiman [84]
“I know.”
“Why?”
She shrugged. “You’re the shrink.”
“Maybe we can blame it on potty training.”
“Okay.”
“Maybe it’s … It’s probably my mother. Did you know she—”
“Yes.”
“What?”
“I know everything about her. But I don’t care what it is.”
I looked at her, alarmed by the tone of her voice. And sure enough, she had tears in her eyes again.
“I just want to make it stop,” she said. “Put it in the hands of the police.”
Something in me resisted the idea. But I fought it down. “Okay,” I said, shaken by the realization of my own neuroses. I was pretty damned sure licensed psychologists were not supposed to be neurotic.
She stared at me, then nodded. “I love you, Mac.”
“I know. It’s one of the great wonders of the world.”
“It’s a wonder you put up with me.”
“You’re joking, right?” Through the years Laney had saved my ass in more situations than I can count. I owed her everything, including my ass.
“Not so much,” she said.
“You need sleep more than I do,” I said, and reached for her hand. She gave it. I hoisted all twelve pounds of her to her feet. “Go to bed,” I said, and she wobbled off to brush her teeth.
My brain was as fuzzy as a Georgia peach when I called Rivera first thing in the morning. He contacted the necessary people, and despite the fact that I stayed out of the way entirely (or perhaps because of) things happened quickly after that.
I was in a session with a narcissistic who had no apparent reason for his condition when the phone rang. Shirley answered it and subsequently informed me that I should call Rivera. The lieutenant informed me that the cops had gone to Nadine Gruber’s house. When they had informed her of their suspicions about the letters, she had immediately broken into lovely, self-controlled tears and admitted her crimes. After some probing, she had even confessed to breaking into my house to obtain the lauded Green Goo recipe. There might be a sound bite on Channel 9. Apparently attractive but crazy hairstylists made good press.
Later that night I spoke to him again.
“So that’s it, then,” I said.
“Disappointed?” he asked.
“What are you talking about?”
“Anticlimactic,” he said. “Boring.”
“I like boring.”
“No you don’t.”
“Dull is an aphrodisiac.”
“I’d be insulted if I believed you.”
“Believe me. If you were any more boring I’d be sleeping right now.”
He chuckled, drew a deep breath. “How are you doing?”
“Hush, I’m sleeping.”
The line went quiet for a moment, then, “You did good work on this.”
I blinked, glanced at the receiver, then scowled. “I must be more tired than I realized. I thought you said—”
“We had a half a dozen people on this case. No one else caught the hair connection.”
“Maybe you’re more tired than I realized.”
“Why can’t you just take a compliment?”
I smiled. “Lack of experience.”
“What are you doing tomorrow night?” His voice was all rumbly again. I considered telling him that I hoped I’d be screwing him, but that seemed to lack a certain amount of panache. “Buying groceries,” I said instead.
“Didn’t you do that just last month?”
“You are a funny man, aren’t you?”
“That’s probably why you love me.”
“I suppose,” I said.
I think it took us both a minute to realize what I’d just said. Another minute to assimilate the words. But I didn’t try to retract them. Perhaps that makes me masochistic as well as neurotic. But there it was.
“Get some sleep,” he said, and there was extra warmth in his voice now. Something that made me tingly and warm and hopeful. “I’ll talk to you in the morning.”
I slept like the dead that night … until two a.m., when something disturbed me. I awoke, heart pounding, utterly alert. Not like me at all. I glanced sideways, breath tight in my throat, but the doorway was blessedly empty. One stifled glance around the room assured me that all was well. But something had awakened me.
Stiff with fear, I pulled the blankets back and reached over Harlequin for my Mace. It felt cool and solid in my hand. I rose to my feet. Flipping on the light was harder than hell, because truth to tell,