The Stars Shine Bright Page 11

  “Aside from the minor injury, how are things going?”

  “Fine.”

  “No problems?”

  I searched for the right words. Silence only encouraged him. “My mom’s dog is coming to live with me.”

  His eyes showed almost genuine interest. I congratulated myself and kept talking. He wrote another note. Wrote and wrote. Then I stopped.

  He looked up. “You say your fiancé will be bringing the dog. How do you feel about that?”

  “Fine.”

  He waited.

  “I mean, excited. I’m excited to see DeMott. I miss him.”

  “You miss DeMott,” he repeated as the pen scratched across the paper. “In what way do you miss him?”

  “He’s my fiancé.”

  He looked up. “You haven’t answered my question.”

  Uh-oh.

  I glanced at the doctor’s hands. The left hand. No ring. And here we were at eight o’clock on a Thursday night. At a mental asylum.

  I said, “Are you married?”

  He hesitated. “No, I am not married.”

  “Have you ever been engaged?”

  There was another pleasurable moment of silence. He scooted back into his chair. “No, I have not been engaged.”

  “Well, let me tell you, it’s the greatest thing. Just knowing that somebody wants to spend the rest of their life with you. Nothing compares to that.”

  “Nothing compares?”

  “No.”

  “And you’re not concerned that your fiancé’s appearance might compromise your identity?”

  “You mean my undercover status?”

  “Do you feel that you have another identity, Raleigh?”

  Oh boy. Jack’s words echoed in my mind. “No ammo.”

  “DeMott won’t blow my cover.” I lifted my hand, flashing the engagement ring. “Raleigh David is engaged. And her fiancé is a wealthy guy who lives in Virginia. That pretty much describes DeMott. And he’s a horse guy. So everything fits.”

  “Everything fits?”

  “Yes.”

  “How long will he be here?”

  “We haven’t discussed that.”

  “I see.”

  The pen scratched the paper. The sound made my teeth itch.

  He said, “You invited him, or he decided to come?”

  “He’s bringing my mom’s dog.”

  Freud looked up. “The animal, the one named Madame?”

  “Yes.”

  “Your mother talks about that dog. Frequently. It seems she misses it a great deal.”

  This was the most intimate information he’d ever divulged to me about her. But it put me on the defensive somehow. Was he taunting me with how much he knew and wouldn’t divulge? Was he retaliating for my marriage comment? I could see a mild expression on his face and decided Freud was just petty enough for this. As he might diagnose it—the guy had some serious passive-aggressive tendencies because the heavy inference hung in the dimmed light. My mother talked about her dog; she missed her dog. But she didn’t miss her daughter. Because I lied to her. Because I called the men in white who took her away.

  No ammo.

  I straightened in my chair. “I’m glad she talks about Madame.”

  “You’re glad?”

  “Yes. She loves her dog.”

  “Animals are not allowed in the building.”

  “That’s pretty stupid.”

  “Stupid?” His eyebrows rose.

  “I mean silly.”

  “Silly?”

  “Unnecessary.” I smiled, tightly. “It seems like a visit with her own pet would be helpful.”

  He was writing again. I considered telling him that Madame was depressed. Maybe the dog could come in for an appointment.

  He said, “I concede the dog might improve her mood. Perhaps something can be arranged. A therapeutic visit. To elevate your mother’s mental outlook.”

  “What is her mental outlook right now?”

  “Raleigh.” He laid the pen on the pad, the fountain tip like a miniature sword. “We’ve been over this.”

  “These drugs you’re giving her, what are they supposed to do?”

  “We have privacy laws. Even with involuntary commitments. You know that, which means you’re asking because—”

  “Because I have a right to know what you’re doing to my mother.”

  He picked up the pen. “You sound angry.”

  I bit my tongue. And prayed. Seal my mouth. Tight.

  It took several moments of silence, but finally he said, “She shows signs of improvement.”

  “Is that the clinical way of telling me she’s not trying to kill herself?”

  “She’s interacting with the other patients. And she seems very fond of one orderly. When this particular orderly makes a request, your mother complies. That’s a significant step. It’s a sign of attachment. And the orderly is a young female, no less.”

  I felt an irrational stab of envy. “Can I see her?”

  He didn’t write anything.

  “Please?”

  “Raleigh—”

  “Okay, I get it.” It wasn’t something I wanted to hear, but the words hurt less when I said them myself. “She’s improving but she still doesn’t want to see me.”

  He moved the pen, adjusting it on the page without picking it up. This wasn’t even worth writing about: she didn’t want to see me. I could feel my lungs holding back a long scream.

  “Raleigh, do you ever feel that your life is all or nothing?”

  Right now, nothing. “Pardon?”

  “I’m curious about your perspective on life. Oftentimes, when a parent ‘checks out,’ the abandonment produces in the child an all-or-nothing mentality. They can develop into a person who is unable to handle gray areas. Nuances. That poses significant challenges later in life.”

  “Is that so?” Thanks, you just called me a simpleton.

  But I was smart enough to see what he was doing. He wanted to provoke a heated response. And maybe OPR asked him to do it. No, not maybe.

  Definitely.

  I counted to seventy-five and listened to my breathing, steady and strong.

  Finally, he said, “Was there anything else you’d like to discuss?”

  I shook my head.

  “All right, then,” he said. “I’ll see you on Saturday.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  I kept the Ghost restrained to second gear, motoring away from Western State at thirty miles per hour. I navigated back roads, skirting the Puget Sound waterfront that faced Fox Island, then cut across Tacoma’s North End neighborhood, all the while resisting the urge to stop at Eleanor’s house. Drop in. Find somebody who was happy to see me. Or somebody just to see me.

  But I didn’t trust myself.

  There was an edge, just past my feet, so close that one more step might bring the long, descending cry. And never-ending tears. That precipice where self-pity beckoned.

  You’re an orphan.

  One parent dead, murdered. The other had left for another world, a land so remote nobody issued passports.

  And your lies sent her there.

  When I reached Thea’s Landing, my condo looked precisely the same. No mess. No family. No life. Staving off the weeps, I walked to the refrigerator and threw a frozen burger into the microwave, sliced the Tillamook cheese, and toasted a bun, slathering the bread with mayonnaise. Freud would diagnose this moment “emotional eating.” And I wouldn’t disagree, but I could guarantee we disagreed on the outcome. A cheeseburger made me feel better. And there was nothing wrong with that. In fact, after polishing off the first, I was trying to decide if a second one would taste even better, but the phone rang. I glanced at the clock on the microwave. Almost 10:00 p.m. The caller was probably a telemarketer. Or DeMott. Or Jack.

  And I didn’t feel like talking to any of them.

  But the voice that trumpeted through the answering machine sounded like human reveille.

  Eleanor.

>   “Raleigh! If you are not home—you should be!”

  I picked up. “Hi, I’m here.”

  “No time for chitchat,” she said. “The arson investigator is coming to the barn tomorrow.”

  “All right.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous! He wants us there at six in the morning!”

  “Okay.”

  “Okay? I’ll have you know, the last time I opened an eyelid before 8:00 a.m., it was to vote for Eisenhower.”

  “I’ll take care of it. You don’t have to be there.”

  “Let me warn you, the man did not sound friendly.”

  “He’s not selling Amway.”

  “Are you being smart?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Well, don’t attempt it with this gentleman. He’s one of those people.”

  “Which people?”

  “I haven’t told you—the two kinds of people in this world?”

  I tapped my finger on the plate, picking up the crumbs, laying them on my tongue. The playwright was coming, I could feel it. “Tennessee?”

  “Are you listening?”

  “Promise.”

  “The great difference between people in this world is not between rich and poor or good and evil. It’s between the people who’ve had love and those who haven’t, the people who just look at love with envy. Sick envy.”

  The words scraped up my throat. “Who said that?”

  “Chance Wayne. Act one of Sweet Bird of Youth. My first husband uttered those lines during the show in Kalamazoo, and from that moment on, I knew we were doomed. But that’s another story.”

  I nodded, then realized she couldn’t see me. “I’ll meet the arson inspector at the barn. Thanks for the warning.”

  She wished me sweet dreams and hung up.

  In the otherwise empty sink, I rinsed my dish. The stainless metal had a flat gray light and it seemed to accuse me. I turned away, drying my hands on a spotless towel and refusing to look at my reflection in the microwave’s glass door. I walked through the quiet untouched rooms, preparing myself for bed and refusing to admit the feeling that was pressing down on my heart. But it was there.

  Eleanor’s description of the arson investigator might just as easily be applied to me.

  Friday morning, I wore high-styled armor. The brass buttons on my Chanel jacket looked like military bars. The ironed creases in my silk-blend trousers stood out like battle greaves. And dark sunglasses visored my eyes. Big sunglasses. The waterworks had arrived with last night’s bedside prayers. My eyes were still puffy.

  The backstretch was nearly empty as most of the horses were out running on the track or being prepared for it. There was a faint blanket of dew glistening on the sawdust, and I lifted the sunglasses to get a full glimpse of Mount Rainier. In the morning light, the glaciers had the pink and purple hues of fresh bruises. But I dropped my shades when I saw him. It wasn’t hard to pick him out. In the closed circuit of the backstretch, strangers stood out like neon signs. Strangers like me. But when I came up beside him, I realized Eleanor was right.

  “You must be the arson inspector,” I said.

  Instead of answering, he cataloged my appearance. His eyes were dark gray—a color like smoke, I decided—and his hair was also gray but closer to the hues of fog. The hair grew from the top of his head, the roots lifting straight up before the strands fell to the sides into an ash heap of a hairstyle. A brushy mustache covered his upper lip and inevitably reminded me of a chimney sweep’s broom.

  I extended my hand. “Raleigh David.”

  “Walter Wertzer.” Rather than shake my hand, he opened a notebook and took out his business card, offering it to me.

  I read it carefully. The name and title were in large print. Too large. “Nice to meet you,” I lied.

  “I already talked to your trainer, Bill Cooper.”

  “Bill’s the one to talk to.” I placed the card in my Coach bag.

  “Funny. He said I should talk to you.”

  I smiled but the bad feeling crept across my neck, like the whisper of a noose. “Bill’s just being generous. He knows much more about the barns, the horses, everything. I’m still learning.”

  “You do that often?”

  “Pardon?”

  “Sleep in a stall. With a horse.”

  “No. In fact, never.”

  “So why that night?” He clicked his pen, flipping to a fresh page in the notebook.

  I stared at the empty page. My life was overpopulated by note-takers. “I stayed in the stall because the horse was sick. And the vet, or rather the assistant vet, wanted somebody to stay with her. I was available.”

  He wrote in the notebook, head down. I stared at the smoky haystack radiating from his scalp and realized two problems. One, Cooper should’ve already told him why I was in the stall that night. And two, Wertzer was writing down my statement without any concern for how the transcription made me feel. He didn’t care. Which meant the trainer was setting me up, and the investigator didn’t intend to play nice.

  He looked up. “Trainer says he asked the groom to stay with the horse. But you went behind his back.”

  The trap was laid. And the facts were in Cooper’s favor. Backed into the corner, I knew my only defense was total offense. Summoning an attitude of condescending wealth, I pulled myself to full height and thought of the way DeMott’s sister MacKenna treated their hired help.

  “We do keep underlings around the barn,” I said, “and Bill Cooper is one of them. But that night our groom seemed unusually tired. I offered to help. Does that surprise you, Mr. Wertzer, that I care about our employees?”

  He reached into his jacket and rummaged in the side pocket, wincing slightly as he pulled out a small device. “I’m going to record your statement. You mind?”

  I shook my head.

  He hit Record and a cold swallow went down my throat.

  Holding the machine near his gray mustache, he spoke into it with great care. “Statement from Raleigh David.” He gave the date, time, and place.

  And I realized a third problem. In addition to envying love, this guy hated the rich.

  “Let’s start at the beginning.” The broomy mustache bumped up and down as he winced again. “You went into the stall to stay with the horse because . . .”

  I started to repeat the statement. Word for word.

  “Yeah, fine,” Wertzer said, cutting me off. “And when did you realize the place was on fire?”

  “When—do you mean what time?”

  “Yeah. What time.”

  “I’m not sure.” I couldn’t explain why, but something told me that knowing the exact time would only bolster Cooper’s case against me. “I do remember waking up to a train whistle. Maybe you should check the schedules.”

  “Maybe I should.” He waved the recorder. “Let’s go in the barn.”

  The recorder was in his right hand, the notebook in his left with the pen secured between two fingers. He grunted slightly as we walked across the sawdust to the burned-out stall. I glanced around for Cooper. Or Juan. But it was only horses, sticking their heads out of the stalls, eager for distraction. KichaKoo blew her lips, fluttering her opinion of the whole thing.

  “The gun,” he said suddenly. “You got a license?”

  “Yes.”

  Raleigh David had a concealed gun permit, courtesy of the FBI’s whiz kids. But Wertzer had to know that since the weapon was fired and the police didn’t confiscate it. And I knew this guy must have combed all that paperwork. Standing beside the burnt stall, where the air smelled of soot and water-soaked wood, I felt the bad feeling creeping down my neck. Wertzer’s mustache twitched under his nose as he sniffed the air, tilting his head to catch an exact odor. He reminded me of a ragged hunting hound on the fox’s trail.

  He said, “You don’t look like the type to carry.”

  Go on offense. Don’t give in. “Are you all right?”

  “Huh. Why do you ask?”

  “You keep wincing. Is
something wrong?”

  His gray eyes compressed into slate. “I’ve got a hernia.”

  “Sorry to hear that.”

  “Back to the gun,” he said. “You carry it because . . . ?”

  “It’s a private matter.”

  “Not anymore.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Miss David, this is an arson investigation. And you managed to get yourself right in the middle of the whole thing.”

  “Are you implying I’m somehow responsible for the fire?”

  He narrowed his eyes. “Why do you say that?”

  “Something about your tone.”

  “My tone.”

  “Yes. You’re making it sound like I lit the fire.”

  “Did you?”

  “Mr. Wertzer, do I look suicidal?”

  He lifted his pen, poking at the stall’s charred wood. “I checked you out, Miss David.”

  “I’m sure you did.”

  He pushed the pen deeper. The blackened wood snapped. He caught the shard with his notebook, leaving a charcoal smudge on the white paper.

  “You’re not a groom,” he said. “And you’re not a trainer. And you’re not really an owner. You just suddenly show up at Emerald Meadows, right after the place gets remodeled and all the smoke detectors are replaced. And suddenly, there’s a fire. In the exact stall where you decide to sleep. Where the sprinklers have been cut off. And somehow, you’ve got a gun, loaded, to shoot your way out.”

  “What’s your point, Mr. Wertzer?”

  “Like I said. You don’t seem the type to carry. Especially a Glock.”

  “It’s for protection.”

  “From what, barn cats?”

  Juan stepped out of Stella Luna’s stall. He seemed to studiously avoid looking our way, but the black horse tugged against the lead. Her sculpted muscles flickered as she turned her white-blazed face, looking directly at me. She nickered. Juan tugged on the bridle, pulling her forward again.