Blonde Joke

By Margaret Koch

The son of an organized crime family walks into psychologist Barbara Stark’s office seeking marital counseling with the wife he intends to murder. Therapy should cause change, but usually everyone survives talk therapy, don’t they? This time, the therapist might not survive.
Barb dives into an accelerating spiral of violence, and the crime scion soon finds that therapy is his worst nightmare.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Margaret Koch
• Release date: Oct 31, 2010
• ISBN: 9781458114716

Margaret Koch

Margaret J. R. Koch, Ph.D. is a psychologist with many years of experience. She's returned to her first love, writing, and rather than write self-help books, she's turned to suspense and mystery.So don't expect her to address your bad habits. She hopes to become one of them.

Book preview

Blonde Joke

Margaret Koch

The son of an organized crime family walks into psychologist Barbara Stark’s office seeking marital counseling with the wife he intends to murder. Therapy is supposed to cause change, but usually everyone survives talk therapy, don’t they? This time, the therapist might not survive.

Barb dives into an accelerating spiral of violence, and the crime scion soon finds that therapy is his worst nightmare.

Other titles in the Barb Stark Series:

Camp Soul

Song of the Monster

Power in the Blood

Blonde Joke

Margaret Koch

Copyright 2006 MargaretKoch

Copyright Rev. Ed. 2010 MargaretKoch

All rights reserved

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Author’s Notes

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I am deeply grateful to those who were willing to carefully read, provide honest criticism and help me to forge an entertaining story. To Kris and Alan, Callie and Larry, Jane and Charlie, Mary and Timm, Myrene and H.Dee, Susan and Bill, Mary Ann and Charles, Cathie, Sylvia, Claire, Judy, Gayle, Vicki and others, thank you. To Connie, who seems to believe that writing is a normal thing and who helped with contacts, thank you. And to Allison, who has gone above and beyond with her astute editing and her technical skill and her patient assistance to the chimp at the keyboard, thank you, thank you, thank you. Those who study under her tutelage are fortunate indeed.

To my son Clifton, whose unceasing efforts to drag me into an increasingly techie world made an ebook possible, I will be eternally grateful.

Table of Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Epilogue

PROLOGUE

May 15, seventeen years and seventeen days ago, Duncan, Tennessee

Jonathon Scholuff cursed as Betty oozed out of his grasp again.

God! She was going to snap his spine! She hadn’t started out this heavy – depression must make a woman eat. He crouched to get a better grip and dragged her inert body up the final step to the room over the garage. It had been her study, but all she’d ever done here was nap.

This time she wouldn’t wake up.

Jonathon draped his young wife on the flowered couch and placed the empty pill bottle and overturned glass on the floor. The typed suicide note went on her desk. He ran over his checklist as he peeled off surgical gloves and walked out of the stuffy room. The windows were closed tightly. He made sure the door’s snap lock caught. Later, he’d yell Betty’s name frantically as he rattled that door knob and finally he’d kick that door off its hinges in front of witnesses.

He glimpsed himself in the hallway’s full-length mirror and paused to admire the man who looked back at him – a strong young conqueror in complete control of destiny. Tall and dark with startling amber eyes, Jonathon had style. He grinned, flashing even white teeth at his reflection. Women were drawn to that grin like moths to the flame.

He turned to make sure his white silk shirt was neatly tucked into his black slacks, and ran his palms quickly over his hair. Almost time for the trip to Miami for another trim.

That man in the mirror had star quality. He could do a lot with Betty’s money. With her parents dead and their estate almost settled, he’d be first in line for a bundle once Betty was gone and buried. Timing was everything.

The checklist. Car running in the closed garage just below. Correct vents open, and correct ones closed. Towels rolled and placed beneath the glass deck doors. Jonathon’s full lips tightened into a smile as he knelt to carefully pull a rolled towel against the inside bottom of the door, using thin wire looped around the towel roll, ends running under the door. He slowly pulled the flexible wire free of the towel and pocketed it. He’d given Betty the precise dosage. She’d breathe carbon monoxide fumes for the toxicology report, but even if he’d screwed it up, it didn’t matter. She’d have just taken the pills first and started the car but stopped breathing before the fumes built up. Whatever killed her would be the official cause of death secondary to suicide. A fail-safe plan. Either way, it worked. Betty’s Uncle Roberto, the genius crime lord, couldn’t have planned it better.

Betty wasn’t a bad wife, but she was too curious, too critical, and she’d wanted control of her parents’ estate. Next time he’d marry a totally controllable airhead…and thin. She’d be real thin. Betty had let herself go. Time to put her down for good.

He should put the boys down, too. They’d be a handful. But they looked a lot like him… but then, so did Betty. His sons got those golden-eyed genes from both parents. But they did look like their dad. That made it harder. He’d have to be a heroic single dad. He could do that. Poppa Jon.

The new women in his life – the skinny airheads – would be glad to help him with the boys.

CHAPTER ONE

June 1, 3:30 a.m., Duncan, Tennessee

Seventeen years and seven days after Elizabeth Scholuff’s death was, following a ten-day investigation, officially ruled suicide by carbon monoxide poisoning.

Dawn was a couple of hours away on an inky night, but Duncan’s downtown street lights clearly outlined the woman sitting astride the bridge rail, the lacy tails of her white nightgown fluttering like moth wings high above her bony knees and hunched shoulders. She could see me clearly, too, as I walked toward her on the bridge’s cement deck.

Come here, honey, she crooned, pleading with me like I was a hesitant puppy.

I stopped abruptly. This was all wrong.

As soon as I stopped, she let loose a throaty wail and simultaneously grinned at me, like we shared a secret. A chill raced up the back of my neck. Psychotic? She kept both hands hidden under the billowing gown. Weapon? Gun?

I was a fool to be here. I should have called the police as soon as I got her call. But she wasn’t my patient. Her regular psychologist was my colleague Barton. He’d assured me that she was not suicidal – she threatened suicide, but then she waited to be talked out of it. It was like a game to her, he’d said – the games borderline personalities play. He’d said she could be trusted. Avoid involving the police, he’d said – right before that lying scumbag Barton went on vacation and left me to cover his caseload.

Charlotte had called at 3:00 a.m. She wanted to wait for me in her car near the bridge.

I need to talk myself back from death, she’d said.

Let’s meet in the ER and we’ll talk, I’d said. I can tell you don’t want to hurt yourself. I’ll give you a ride to the ER. My voice had been fogged with sleep, but my brain had been working. A nice policeman and I would give her a ride.

You come talk to me right now or I’ll be dead and hard to find.

Then she’d started wailing. I’d sat up in bed, wincing at the noise. Barton had covered for me many times, following my instructions to the letter, but I’d never have met my own clients on a bridge. With police help, I’d have met my suicidal client at the emergency room, not in a car at downtown Duncan’s Little River Inlet bridge in the wee morning hours. But when you cover for another therapist, you follow their rules. Maybe she hadn’t pulled this kind of shit on Barton. Hunching my shoulder to hold the phone, I’d started wriggling into my jeans and looking for my bra, shirt and shoes.

I’ll be there in twenty minutes, I’d told Charlotte. And here I was.

But seeing her perched in her nightie on a wobbly rail high over swift deep water, looking downright psychotic, she sure seemed too unstable for me to handle alone. I pulled out my cell phone and speed-dialed the police. The station was just two blocks away, and the night desk officer, Max Hunt, was a former client of mine. He picked up on the first ring – Duncan Police, Officer Hunt speaking.

Max – Barbara Stark here. I’m on the Little River Inlet bridge, and I have a jumper who may be armed. Female, about 45, wearing a white nightgown.

Dr. Stark? You’re on the bridge? Downtown? Now? It’s 3:30 a.m.!

Bitch! Who you talking to? yelled Charlotte. Hang up that phone.

She pulled a gun from somewhere and fired it in my direction. I hit the cement deck, feeling the knee give way on my old jeans and losing skin as I scrabbled like a crab to get behind something – anything. The bright streetlights behind me outlined my every move for her. She climbed off the rail, firing again as she staggered toward me, reeling.

Hang up that damned phone or you are roadkill! Barton is mine, not yours! I’m taking you with me, bitch! Her voice was earsplitting. What the hell had Barton been doing with this woman? Sex? Had he misdiagnosed psychosis? What was she on?

I heard! yelled Max. We’ll be right there!

My car was a half-block away. No cover. No place to run. Guess I had to talk with her. I was a talk therapist. I could do this. Sure. I gulped and got to my feet.

I’ve hung up, I lied, holding the phone up and smiling. I stuck the phone in my breast pocket so that Max could hear, and tried to slow things down. I’m Barbara Stark, covering for Dr. Tackett. You called me. I’d like to help. Are you in pain?

Damn straight I’m in pain! I know Barton Tackett is sleeping with you! He’s got your damn phone number memorized! She clumsily swung a long leg back astride the rail, leaned over the river, and waved the gun loosely in my direction.

"Dr. Tackett’s happily married, Charlotte. We work together. I’m a psychologist. Dr. Tackett speaks highly of you. He went on vacation and asked me to be available for you. That’s why he had my number. I looked at her face, not the gun, and edged closer.

She whipped her other leg over the rail. Now both feet were on the river side, her gown ballooning behind her. She rocked back and forth. She didn’t seem to feel the cold metal rail. She sucked at her teeth noisily, squinted through straight brown hair wind-whipping across her face, and drooled a little over tight lips. We watched each other for a moment. Prescriptions or street drugs – something potent was on board. One wind gust and she’d go into the river.

That’s a pretty gown. Aren’t you cold, Charlotte? I said, still edging closer.

Nope, she said, a little like a kid. I don’t believe you. I don’t like blondes.

Her balance wavered and she almost lost her grip on the gun. She looked down to grab it again, and I leaped forward and leaned over the rail to get my arm between Charlotte and the river. Moving with astounding agility, she jumped onto the bridge deck and attacked. Her gun bonked my jaw hard as she clawed at my face. I spun dizzily and grabbed at her arm, but she crouched low and slammed me, ramming her shoulder into my butt and lifting. Suddenly I was over the rail, flailing. My arms windmilled as I desperately wrenched my body around to get my feet under me before I hit the water.

I hit the icy water with stunning force, feet first into deep water. Charlotte was no doubt right behind me, making good on her threat to drown and take me with her. Finally I felt the rocky bottom with both feet and pushed. I came up sputtering, swept along in a fast current. Where was Charlotte? I couldn’t see her in the black rushing water.

Charlotte! No answer. Shit! I’d just drowned Barton’s client.

I knew this stretch of river. Kicking off my shoes, I aimed for the lights of the downstream boat ramp and swam for my life. I didn’t fight the current head-on, but carved a downstream diagonal. It was a long swim, but at last I felt my fingers hit rough concrete. The ramp. On all fours, I crawled up the slope, head hanging, so out of breath that when a hand closed around my ankle in a death grip I didn’t even scream. I froze and stared at the man using my ankle to pull himself out of the water and up the ramp.

Who…are you? I panted. God! Damn river party going on tonight.

You swim like a sea otter, he gasped. Chandler. Police Chief. Called us. Jumped off bridge after you. Save you. He collapsed face-up, breathing heavily. He still had on his shoes…big heavy leather cop shoes. Hard to swim in those big wet cop shoes. Cop Shoes! Did cops put psychologists in jail for drowning clients?

Omigod, Chief Chandler, I tried to keep Charlotte from jumping and I screwed it up, and now she’s drowned. I think I killed her? Maybe the fastest confession he ever got.

If Charlotte is the one in the white nightgown, she’s running like hell with Max two steps behind her. She’s not even damp. Still flat on his back, Chandler spoke to the sky.

Charlotte didn’t jump?

Not even close. She threw you off the bridge like a pro. He rolled over and propped himself on an elbow to look at me. What the hell were you trying to do, anyway? She had a gun. Max heard her fire two shots. Did she hit you?

No. I felt like wailing. Not my client. Barton’s client. Covering his caseload. He said she could be trusted. Didn’t know her. Got in over my head.

That’s putting it mildly. You do bridge therapy? Max said you’re a psychologist?

No, I don’t. Yes, I am. I want to talk to Charlotte. Will Max have her now?

If he’s lucky. She was fast on her feet. I think maybe we’ll just take her on to the hospital. I don’t think she wants to talk with you. You want dry clothes?

No. I’ll go to the hospital – I’ll get some scrubs there – and make sure she doesn’t want to talk, and then I’ll go home. I pulled myself to a sitting position. I couldn’t remember where I had left my car, and I hoped I’d left it unlocked with the keys in it, but no way was I going to tell Chandler that.

Thank you for jumping off the bridge, Chief Chandler, I said stiffly. I know your father, and I’d heard you had taken his place as Chief. If you need to make a report, I’ll be at my office after 8:00. I was getting defensive. Lord, I hate to be stupid.

Just tell me one thing. Why did you come out at this hour and meet her on a bridge?

Those were my colleague’s instructions. They’d done it before. I’ll take it up with him. I didn’t know she had a whole delusion going on about Barton and me.

Just go on home. I’ll write this up in the morning and file it myself. It won’t get in the papers unless you want to press charges. We’d better go. They’ll be looking for us. Walk you to your car?

I shook my head, staring at the ground like a two-year old. He shook his, too, smiling slightly, and stood and took my hand to pull me up. He was taller than his dad. I watched him walk away, squishing in his cop shoes, and then I gingerly picked my way barefoot along the riverbank until I got back to the bridge and found my car, unlocked, keys under the seat. I drove to the hospital.

Charlotte did not want to talk with me. I skipped the dry scrubs and went home.

The sky was turning pink as I pulled into my garage to get ready for a full day’s work on not nearly enough sleep. No point in going back to bed. Hell of a way to start a day. 5:00 a.m. Dawn. First day of June. I breathed in the dawn air deeply to create some energy as I rubbed my sore jaw and pulled at the jeans now sticking to my skinned knee.

I checked e-mail. The twins, excited about a summer of sailing, had sent one. My sons Rob and Jim are with me for the school year but my ex-husband owns a beautiful sailing ship on the Gulf of Mexico, and he dangles before their young eyes a summer of adventure. I’d kissed them goodbye yesterday, and the house was way, way too quiet. I’d live alone for three months starting today – I’d better learn to like it.

I walked out of my bedroom’s sliding glass doors onto the deck and sat staring at the lake. It’s one of those big TVA dam-controlled lakes on the Tennessee River. It’s a big lake – damn big dam big, we river rats say. At my house, it’s two miles wide, and alive – always moving, always changing. It’s my emotional haven.

I skipped the morning run – Charlotte had already given my heart a workout. Psychologists sit too much. We tend to get bottom-heavy, but one day shouldn’t cause a jeans explosion. Feeling dangerously out of control, I ate a donut and licked my fingers.

I showered, grabbed a black linen suit and ivory silk shell, stepped into a pair of low-heeled pumps, chose a pair of chunky silver hoop earrings and morphed into my work role. On my fifteen-minute drive into Duncan, I reviewed today’s nine clients and drove into the parking lot thirty minutes early with their issues organized in my mind.

My first client was Larry – a 33 year old unpublished writer with bipolar depression. Thin and wiry, he was an intense Type-A personality with wide pale gray eyes and an acid sense of humor. Larry’s mild manner hid a lot of anger. During his last manic episode, he’d lost his house and savings in Vegas, slashed his wrists in the Mandalay Hotel, and then spent four weeks in a Nashville hospital painfully putting his world back together. Now he’d resolved to stay on medication. That’s why he had come to me – to keep him honest when he started to talk himself out of his meds.

The problem was, Larry hated medication. It felt like he was shooting his muse right between her loving eyes. But trying to ride out a manic episode without meds was like trying to steer a car by running alongside and kicking the wheels. If he didn’t stay on his meds, his world became jagged hyperspace fragments. It was cruel.

Today he had no hand tremor, stayed on topic, showed no irritability or grandiosity, and reported no fights with his agent or girlfriend. He was sleeping and eating okay. He was clean shaven and wore clean clothes, clean glasses, socks and a watch, and his fingernails were trimmed and clean. He seemed to really see and hear me – eyes open to the outside world. Larry was okay today. Thumbs-up.

He ended every session in the same passive-aggressive way. We’d talk about it some day, but it wasn’t high on my list. Grinning, he’d tell me his latest blonde joke. I’m a blonde. This time the blonde flipped a coin to get true-false answers on an exam, but had trouble when she went back to check her answers using the same technique. Har.

Next was a new client – Jonathon Scholuff, local entrepreneur. He’d requested marital counseling, but he’d come alone. I found him slouched on the waiting-room couch punching a cell phone. He looked to be forty-something and tall – over six feet, wearing a light leather jacket, dress pants and Italian-made loafers. Expensive taste. His almost-black hair was cut to look rumpled. He had interesting golden eyes and a petulant expression that lightened as he looked up with a pleasant smile. Full lips – very white teeth. Physically fit, broad shoulders – probably worked out.

I glanced at Nommi, our office manager. She gave me one of her dense-data looks. It said – He’s here alone, don’t know why – not expecting his wife – paying cash – ready to go. Nommi’s glances can say a lot more, but she hadn’t had much time with him.

Mr. Scholuff? I’m Barbara Stark. My office is straight ahead down the hall.

As he got up, he easily balanced two cups of foamy designer coffee from the Mea Cuppa downstairs. He extended one to me. Still very hot. He’d come precisely on time. As we walked into my office my first hazy impressions formed. There’s a control issue in serving refreshments without asking. And he showed up alone for marital counseling. That’s sometimes a control ploy. I’d see.

I want to talk about my wife Jennifer, he said as we sat down. Pleasant voice – tiny hint of an accent. Latin America? Jonathon had an engaging smile – quite attractive and quite aware of that. He continued with no prompting from me.

She’s depressed – I don’t know why. We have a good life. His shrug was almost imperceptible. She’ll do counseling – just feels rotten today. Takes a lot of pills. She’s got sleep disturbance. She’s losing weight and she’s tired all of the time, and she’s very negative about herself and life in general.

Wow. That was a lot of information for an introductory statement. I hadn’t even asked him what brought him to my office. He’d researched this. He had awkwardly used a couple of terms right out of the diagnostic manuals.

Please call me Barbara. May I call you Jonathon? He nodded and smiled.

I’m worried. She’s clinically depressed, he said – and smiled more broadly.

Could you give me some background? You’re requesting marital counseling?

I watched Jonathon size me up. He took his time – assessed my watch, shoes, hair, breasts, eyes, lips, legs with skinned knee – everything. His eyes paused on my jaw. I hoped there wasn’t a bruise. He finally nodded and went into a recap of his marriages.

This was his second marriage – two early 20’s sons in college from the first, and four-year-old Cassie from this one. They’d been married eight years. His wife was eighteen years younger – she’d been his sons’ nanny after his first wife’s death. Jennifer’s parents died accidentally a year ago, and she hadn’t gotten past the loss. Cassie wasn’t handling it well either. He flew right past the loss and grief – three deaths – with no show of emotion. Jonathon was older than he looked – closer to fifty. He probably had a diagnosis himself. He was very detached, compulsive and agenda-driven, and his striking yellow eyes were icy, calculating. There was something feral, wolf-like, about his eyes.

Tell me about your own background, Jonathon.

I’m fine – just have a depressed wife. I had a normal childhood. My dad worked himself to death three years ago – but death happens. My mother’s in her 70’s and healthy. She’s always there for me. Jonathon gave me that charming smile, but that last statement about his mother wasn’t true. His face and body had made very slight defensive movements. Jonathon had some secrets.

The hour went quickly. We covered a lot of background but I needed to see his wife before we negotiated the course of therapy. I gave him information about the limits of confidentiality, special considerations of marital therapy (i.e., the therapist stays out of the role of secret keeper) and the unpredictable effects of bringing out the true nature of any relationship. As true emotions emerge they might be marriage saving or marriage ending. Jonathon examined my office as I talked. His eyes roved and paused, assessing, judging. He looked at every item in the room as if he were casing the joint. He nodded at the right times and his eyes never glazed over. He was able to follow his own agenda while listening to my information and questions. Good multi-tasker.

We should come twice a week, he said. I think you’ll help Jennifer.

Let’s hold off on the therapy schedule until I’ve talked with Jennifer, I said. There’s a pacing to life changes, and sometimes grief resolution takes patience. Twice a week might not be right for Jennifer’s counseling, or for marital counseling.

Jonathon tilted his head like a Doberman considering attack and frowned at me while his pupils shrank to pinpoints.

Non-verbal quirks speak their own language. Some people laugh as they describe tragedy, afraid to talk about it seriously. Others make self-deprecating movements, inviting you to discount them even as they complain that people never listen. An out-and-out liar throws in tiny pauses to check whether you’re buying their story. Non-verbal behaviors form a roadmap of emotional hot spots.

Jonathon’s hot spots were hard to define. His emotional energy wasn’t invested where he said it was, and I didn’t know what that meant. I smiled at him and tried to ease his irritation at me for refusing to go along with his recommended schedule of sessions.

I need to see Jennifer before I know whether I’m treating depression or a marriage. We should be able to make a therapy plan as soon as she can come in for a session, too.

I expected him to argue. His golden eyes changed with the flow of his emotions, but he tried hard to hide his irritation. He succeeded and gave me a choirboy smile.

Fine. But her depression has to be diagnosed and treated. You can see her every day or hospitalize her to keep her from committing suicide. Money is no problem. He exhaled, stretched out his long legs and dropped the defensive posture.

He’d just delivered what he’d come to my office to say. And he was lying.

His emotions weren’t connected normally. He had an undefined intensity, expected to be obeyed, and he planned ahead. Jonathon bothered me. We made an appointment for next week. He’d have Jennifer sign a release so I could talk with her psychiatrist.

The day went quickly – seven more clients. Barton would be gone all week. I didn’t tell the other psychologists about Charlotte-on-the-bridge. I’d call Barton first. It was his to tell. We have a trusting, friendly atmosphere in the practice, and a great work setting. Our suite fills the second floor of a three-story brick that’s on the historic register. We have tall elegant windows overlooking Duncan’s downtown pedestrian mall. We have a great support staff – Nommi and Kathy – and bakeries, bars, ice cream and coffee just minutes away by foot. We are amply blessed.

As I drove home on the river road, the early June sunlight angled through the trees and bounced along the expanse of water, gilding the ripple edges with dazzling gold. I’d have time for a glass of wine on the dock before dark, watching the great blue herons make a final turn of the lake. That’s where I sort out my day, throw away the trash and file the rest. I needed it today – this day had been interminable, and I was dragging.

I peeled off my pantyhose as I penguin-stepped down the hall to the bedroom to gratefully strip to the skin and pull on a pair of old cut-offs and a soft tank top. I poured a glass of Merlot and padded barefoot down to my dock, feeling the tension easing out of my neck and shoulders. My neighbor Bonnie waved and went back to cleaning her pontoon boat. I sat at the end of the dock, feet in the water, toes wiggling, becoming one with the universe.

Then I looked out at the lake and along came a sleek black speedboat, Jonathon Scholuff at the helm, a small woman beside him. He was on my lake, and he pulled up to my dock, exactly where I needed a firm boundary between business and personal life. I struggled to keep a snarl off my face. How in the hell did he know where I lived? He hooked his line to my dock’s stanchion like he owned the place.

Dr. Stark, you need to meet Jennifer, he said, as if we were in the waiting room at my office. Underwater, my toes cramped savagely. I couldn’t bend over to rub them – no bra under my old tank top. I clenched my teeth and took the pain.

Jennifer sat listlessly with a totally blank expression. She did look like she was in trouble. Painfully thin, she wore a red tank top, white shorts and red strappy sandals with five-inch heels (in a boat!), enormous wedding and engagement rings, big gold hoop earrings, but no watch. Her reddish hair was thin and limp, but well cut. Her breasts were huge, impossible for a woman so thin. That amount of cleavage beneath protruding collar bones was startling. Her lips had that in search of our lip muscles look that shouted bad surgery. Her frozen facial muscles had been Botoxed. At 32, she was really pushing the anti-aging procedures. There wasn’t much of the original woman left.

I nodded a frosty hello and started setting boundaries like a scalded cat.

Jonathon, therapy of any kind needs to stay confidential, even to friendly neighbors.

My voice was too sharp and loud. Bonnie looked over, curious. She made my point, but Bonnie knows me too well. She could tell I was losing it. She might stroll over to help. I didn’t want that. I lowered my voice and spoke slowly.

When Jennifer and I talk, it has to be in the office. I unhooked his line and tossed it back, smiling through clenched teeth. See you next week in the office. Gotta go now.

I grabbed the stanchion and yanked my twisted toes out of the water, trying not to shriek and fall on my face as I stood up, very aware of my short frayed cut-offs, dock-plank patterned thighs, skinned knee and skimpy tank top. I’d walk funny until my toes unkinked, but I was not going to stay and talk. Jonathon nimbly caught the rope and stood open-mouthed, dumfounded. Jennifer sat like a dead woman. She didn’t move, make a sound, or change expression.

I limped back up the walkway. He had run me off of my own dock. What was it about this man? He’d set off my alarms like no other client had ever done. His boat low- throttled away, sounding like heavy breathing. Maybe they’d cancel their session and find another therapist. I hoped they would. Why was I so upset? Because I got shot at this morning? Repressed anger? No, my anger at Barton wasn’t repressed. I was going to get Barton. This was about Jonathon.

I began to put it together. Duncan was a small city, with small-town connections. He was a real estate entrepreneur. Duncan’s Landing was built by a consortium. I remembered Ken’s late-night meetings with a John when we built the house. Did Jonathon know where I lived before he’d walked into my office? He might live on this lake. He might have built my house. He might know my ex. He had me surrounded.

This lake was sacred to me – my sanctuary. Therapists compartmentalize their lives because we can’t talk about our daily business activities. In our private lives we don’t have to over-think, over-observe, or analyze. We can be clueless without worrying about it. But we can’t be in both worlds at the same time without going a bit nuts.

I didn’t like Jonathon. I’d have to deal with that if they continued therapy. I could decline to work with them, but that’s upsetting to clients and I didn’t want to take the easy way out. I wanted to believe I could educate Jonathon about therapy relationships and deal with my own demons. I didn’t like him, but Jennifer did need help.

I went straight to the computer and fired up the search engines.

Damn! His first wife had committed suicide – sleeping pills and carbon monoxide – one year after her parents had been killed in a nightclub explosion in Venezuela. No wonder he was worried about a wife’s depression after parents’ deaths! Why hadn’t he told me? Had I been so intent on preserving the marital therapy climate that I’d prevented a full history? I ran my mind back over the session, word for word.

No. I gave him lots of chances. He just hadn’t told me.

I analyzed the cached news stories. He’d remarried ten years later. He was in the consortium that had developed Duncan’s Landing. There’d been lawsuits over acquiring the land and he was a formidable adversary in court. One son, Bobby, had an arrest record at 16 or 17 – vandalism and intoxication. Those records should have been sealed. Jonathon and his lawyers had fought and publicized the case. He had a house in town, one on the lake, and an office building. He was part-owner of three construction businesses and had interests in half the town’s real estate. He belonged to civic organizations and the Hedges Golf Club. He had three ongoing lawsuits. One was a big project – a religious camp on the river – Camp Soul.

I sat back and sighed. I’d been surly to a litigious mover and shaker who knew lots of lawyers in my little corner of the universe. Unending day from hell! I was about to come unwound, go up the wall and right off the edge. I stomped out for a cooling-down walk and the sharp gravel made me stomp