Not One Clue_ A Mystery - Lois Greiman [89]
“Aren’t the details pretty well set?”
“He said he’s sorry I’ve gotten so stressed. He’s going to make some changes.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. He’s going to find a place where the paparazzi won’t figure out the location of the ceremony, for one thing.”
“He’s going to change the venue?”
“Not sure,” she said. She was busy pouring Green Goo into a Klean Kanteen. Apparently, she’d learned to make do without her recipe.
“Didn’t you pay an arm and a couple vital organs as a deposit for the Pavilion?” I asked.
“Something like that.”
“Can you get it back?”
“Maybe a gallbladder.” She was already making a beeline for the front door, but stopped halfway there and turned with a scowl. “Shoot! Do you think the cops can convince Nadine to give my jacket back?”
“She probably sold it on eBay for an arm and a spleen.”
She gave me a look. “Any chance that joke’s going to get old anytime soon?”
“Doubtful,” I said, munching a mouthful of the captain’s finest.
She sighed. “Can I use your jean jacket?”
“It’s nine hundred degrees out there.”
“But it’ll only be eight seventy-five this evening.”
“If you’d gain a couple ounces of fat maybe your body could regulate its own temperature instead—”
“Mac—”
“Sorry.” For one shuddering second I contemplated the idea that I was beginning to sound like my mother. But I would not consider suicide. Not until I started scrubbing my counters with Hi-lex. “It’s in the closet.”
“Thanks,” she said, and pacing over, snapped the jacket from its hanger before striding, long-legged and cool, toward the door. “Oh, Mac?”
“Yeah?”
“You’re nothing like your mother,” she said, and disappeared.
My workday went pretty smoothly until three o’clock when Shirley buzzed me, saying I had a call from a Courtney Paxton. I picked it up in a moment.
“Christina McMullen,” I said. I sounded confident and intelligent. Role-playing—highly recommend by leading psychologists and certified nut cases.
“Yes, Ms. McMullen, I’m the therapist at Northmont High School. I had a message to call you regarding Emily Christianson.”
My mind clicked into gear with little more than an audible groan. “Oh, yes. Thanks for returning my call. I was hoping to get a little more information about Ms. Christianson.”
“Such as?” She sounded a little wary.
“Any pertinent findings regarding her emotional and physical health.”
“As you probably know, she’s an excellent student.” She paused a second. “We had no warning that she was troubled until she was found bleeding on the tile in the girls’ restroom.”
“So you had no prior sessions with her?”
“There was no reason to,” she said. Did I sense a shadow of guilt in her voice? “She exhibited no prior behavior that would suggest self-destructive tendencies, and when I did speak to her, she said her parents were insisting that she see someone …” She paused as if checking her notes. “… more qualified to handle her specific issues.”
And they had chosen me? How? Why? “Well, I guess it doesn’t matter who she’s seeing. The important thing is that she’s getting help. I’ll continue sending you updates to keep you apprised.”
“Updates?”
“The emails,” I said. “Regarding her progress.”
“I haven’t received any updates from you.”
I frowned and read off her cyber address to make sure I’d sent my missives to the right location.
“That’s right, but I didn’t get them.”
“That’s funny.” My brain was clicking along a little faster now. Apparently, my churning system had realized it wasn’t going to get its mid-afternoon nap and had decided to function anyway. “I can’t seem to contact her parents either.”
“Her mother is a celebrated cellist for the L.A. Philharmonic.”
“So I’m told. Ioan Banica.”
“She’s never come to a parent/teacher conference.”
“Have you called her to find out why?”
“We have three thousand and forty-three students in a facility built to house half that many, Ms. McMullen.”
I kind of thought that might be a no.
“And I believe Ms. Banica is currently on tour with an elite string quartet.”
“Do you know the name of the group?”
“I work at three different schools