In our final session, she gave me a card with phone numbers where I could reach her twenty-four hours a day. “I’m going to see you through this,” she said. “Call me when you need to talk, even if it’s the middle of the night.” Eddie and I drove out of
Detroit
, leaving the life we’d loved. We had no idea where we were going, but we knew what we were seeking. A life we could live with.
I fell asleep again thinking we’d found that. Sort of.
I awoke with a start, the dreams still in my mind, looked at the bedside clock. Five-fifteen.
Eddie put his nose on the bed to let me know he was there.
I patted him, knew I was through sleeping for the night. “It’s okay, fella.”
I threw off the covers, got up, and walked to the bathroom. Eddie padded along behind me. I rested my hands on the sink counter, leaned forward, looked in the mirror. It was the same face I saw every morning. Salt-and-pepper curly hair, blue eyes, ski-slope nose, broad mouth, dimpled chin. Handsome and refined was the way Claire had described it. This morning, it looked lost.
I shaved, showered, dressed. Eddie and I had a bite of breakfast and a leisurely walk. It was six-thirty when we returned, too early to call Dr. Swarthmore. Seven would be better.
At six-forty, the phone rang. I picked it up in the kitchen. “Matt Seattle.”
“Hello, Matt. This is Tory Wright. I got your message. I don’t know whether Julian told you, but I don’t work for anyone toxic.”
“Toxic?”
“Anyone I don’t get along with. So before I say whether or not I can help you, I’m going to need to meet you. That okay?”
“It’ll have to be. When and where?”
“Eight-thirty at the Pier Grille on Anna Maria?” She named the island just north of Longboat Key.
“Sure. How will I know you?”
“Easy. I’m the woman in black.”
At seven exactly, I called Dr. Swarthmore in
Detroit
. “Hello, Adelle. It’s Matt,” I said when she came on the line.
“Matt, good to hear from you. Are things going well?” I heard the rustling of papers, probably my file.
“I think I’ve been doing pretty well. Last night, though, I had dreams again.”
Papers rustled briefly. “It’s been a little over a month since their last occurrence. That’s good. Tell me the specifics.” I recounted the dream for her.
When I finished, she said, “We dream to help process information, to attach meaning and feeling, which is part of the grieving process. So this dream was positive in that regard. I’m curious. What do you think triggered the dreams last night?”
It had to be Joe’s death. I shared that news with her, let her know Joe and I had become close. Two lonely men with a common interest.
“I’m sorry to hear about your friend, Matt, but I’m pleased to hear you’re forming friendships. Each friendship will make you stronger, more whole.” Papers rustled again. “I notice your friends all seem to be male. Have you made any female friends?”
I knew what she was really asking. Was I seeing anyone? “I have female friends,” I said a little defensively. “Nobody special yet.”
“You can’t stay walled-up in yourself, Matt. You’ve made progress in allowing people into your life. Joe, for example. Most of these people seem work-related, which is fine. However, you need to find friendships at a personal level. Male and female.” She continued, gave me advice, the name of a book to read. I heard a door open and close. “My patient has arrived for her session, I’m going to have to go, but keep calling me, Matt. You are making progress.”
I hung up, walked into the living room, picked up a framed picture of Claire. Progress was great, but I wasn’t ready to let go of Claire.
The phone rang again. I walked back to the kitchen, picked it up. “Matt Seattle.”
“I’m at the Pier. My meeting just finished. Any chance you could get here earlier than eight-thirty?”
I looked at my watch. Seven-twenty. “I’m on my way.”
The Pier Grille was a white clapboard building adjacent to the Anna Maria fishing pier. It didn’t look like much, but the food was good, the prices cheap.
I found a spot in the parking lot and pulled in. Eddie got up, circled in his seat, ready to get out. “Sorry, fella,” I said. “I’m afraid you’re going to have to wait in the car.” He didn’t complain, just settled back down. I rubbed his ears. “I won’t be too long.”
Inside, the place was packed. Locals mostly. Northerners went to Firstwatch and Starbuck’s. It was crowded, but she was easy to spot. Black is not the color most worn in August in
Florida
.
“Hello, Tory,” I said when I got to her booth. “I’m Matt Seattle.”
She put down her coffee cup. “Thanks for coming early. Have a seat.”
I slid in the other side of the booth and sized her up. She had dark brown hair, shoulder length, curled under at the ends. An oval face with green eyes and strong features, a long straight nose, wide mouth, high cheekbones that made all her features come together attractively. Even sitting, I could tell she was tall, five eight or so, trim and fit. I put her age at around thirty.
She was probably sizing me up, too. “Well, what do you think? Do I pass the toxicity test?” I asked casually.
I got the beginnings of a smile. “Let’s hear what you want first.” She dug a legal pad and pen out of a black shoulder bag.
“I’m a stockbroker. One of my clients, Joe Jesso, a wealthy, older man married a—”
Our waitress, a young girl in a white uniform, arrived. “What can I get you?”
“Just coffee,” I said.
Tory shook her head. Remnants of her breakfast were still on the table. Our waitress gathered them and departed.
“Joe gets married, a week later he dies. I want to know the cause of death. Was it natural causes or something else? And I want to check this new wife’s background. I have this feeling Joe may have married a black widow.”
Tory nodded. “It’s possible. How old was Joe?”
“Seventy-eight.”
“How about the wife?”
The waitress returned, poured me a cup of coffee, departed.
“I don’t know for sure,” I said after she’d gone. “I heard her voice on their answering machine, though, and she sounded much younger than Joe.”
“Define younger? Are we talking twenty or fifty?”
“Older than twenty. Not over thirty five.”
“I gather this wedding was a surprise?”
“Sure was. Every Wednesday, Joe spent the morning with me talking stocks. He never told me he was seeing anyone. He never acted any different. I mean, he didn’t act goofy because he was in love or anything. He was always calm, deliberate, organized. Then, a week ago, almost as an aside, he told me he’d gotten married.”
“Did he tell you about his new wife?”
“He was evasive. That’s one of the things that made me suspicious. All I got was her first name. Janet.”
“No information about where they met, how long he’d known her, her background—any of that?”
I finished a sip of coffee, shook my head. “I asked if he had a photo of her; he told me she didn’t like having her photo taken. I asked if I could take them out to dinner to celebrate. He said she didn’t like meeting new people. Which made me wonder how she met him. Where does a seventy-eight year old man meet a thirty-year-old woman? They don’t travel in the same circles.”
She made a note on her pad. “That’s something I can find out for you.”
“I thought I’d meet her the morning I went to Joe’s place to check on him. But it was her brother who met me at the door, told me Joe was dead.”
“How old was the brother? Might give us some idea about her.”
“Mid-thirties, I guess.”
She looked over at me. “What else can you tell me about Joe? Past history? Employment? Family?”
I shook my head. “Other than he was retired, not much. When we got together, we talked investments. He never offered anything about his personal life. I never pressed.”
“How about social security number? Address? That kind of stuff.”
I fished my Blackberry out of my pocket, found Joe’s information and gave it to her.
When she finished writing it down, she said, “What makes you think foul play was involved?”
“Joe was never sick. Didn’t smoke. Took good care of himself. He marries—a week later he’s dead. It’s the timing. I think she killed him. How, I have no idea.”
“It could be as simple as a push or a fall. Withholding medicine is common—”
“Common? You make it sound like this happens all the time.”
“You’d probably be surprised how often it does happen. I looked into the death of an older man, virtually bedridden, who married his nurse. He was eighty-five, she in her late forties. His children said when he told them about the marriage, they supported it, thinking their father would get better care. Instead of giving him better care, she didn’t give him his medicine. He suffered a seizure and died.”
My jaw must have dropped.
“Worse, some of these women go from victim to victim.”
“Don’t these men—these victims—see what’s going on?”
She shrugged. “All they see is a beautiful young wife.”
“Poor Joe,” I said, a bit overwhelmed by it all. Lawyers and private investigators accumulated some pretty grim data.
“Let’s not jump to conclusions. It’s possible this woman’s a black widow. It’s also possible this marriage was harmless and aboveboard. We’ll know more once we find out what happened to him.” She paused, looked directly at me. “I’m assuming you want me to begin investigating?”
I met her gaze. “I’m assuming I’ve passed the toxicity test?”
This time I got the full smile. “Admirably.”
“The sooner the better.”
Her face turned serious. “It’s hard to say how much an investigation like this will cost. I charge a hundred dollars an hour. Did you have a limit on how much you were willing to spend?”
I shook my head. “No.”
“Okay. To start, I require a retainer of a thousand dollars. Check’s fine. I’ll give you an itemized accounting.”
“How long will this take? When should I expect to hear from you?”