In mid-June there was a check made out to a Dr. Singh. Probably just a regular check-up, but worth looking into. Then Claire noticed that every subsequent week there was another check made out to Dr. Singh. So these were not physical checkups. Possibly mental health or a chiropractor. Very worth looking into.
By July, Claire was taking her time. The regular checks for groceries and gas she ignored, but there was a check made out to Timber Services. She would call them up and see what it was about.
The last check was made out to the liquor store in Red Wing. She wondered if Chet and Anne had enjoyed their last drinks together. Sad.
The credit card bills showed much the same pattern of shopping. Nothing jumped out at her: gas, The Best of Times bookstore, supplies at the Cenex, the post office.
Putting aside the bills and checks, Claire pulled out a box containing the contents of their medicine cabinet, and the pills she found next to the refrigerator. Again, what you might expect to find: aspirin, Sudafed, Vitamin C, calcium. But there were
five pharmacy bottles containing prescription drugs: Lexapro, Lipitor, Flomax, finestreride, and Viagra.
Viagra for Chet. That surprised her a bit. Chet always struck her as brimming with testosterone. But he was in his mid-fifties, about fifteen years older than Anne. Lexapro she knew was an antidepressant, that prescription was for Anne. Lipitor for Chet’s high cholesterol. But the other two she wasn’t familiar with. She’d have to ask Bridget.
She wanted to see if she could find Anne’s Dr. Singh so she got out the phone book. She’d try Red Wing first. There were few doctors on their side of the river—most of the local clinics and hospitals were in Minnesota. Claire lucked out. There was one listing for a Dr. Singh and after the phone number it read: “Family counseling, chemical dependency counseling, and panic and anxiety.” Claire would have to get a court order and see what the good doctor might reveal.
“How do you know where this place is?” Amy asked Bill as he turned down a dirt road heading into the woods.
“The sheriff told me. He said it was owned by a friend of Chet’s, thought it’d be worth a look-see.”
“Can’t believe how blasted hot it is. When are we going to get a break?” Amy rested her head back on the seat and looked out the window at the large oaks shading the road. “It feels a bit cooler here in the trees.”
“Yeah, I’m sure ready for this hot spell to break. I think I’m getting a rash on my behind.”
“Oh, how romantic. You’ll have to show me.”
“My pleasure,” he smiled.
Bill could never drive slowly, even down a dirt road, maybe especially down a dirt road. When they came in sight of the cabin, he slammed on the brakes and dust flew up all around them.
“Our own private dust storm,” Amy said quietly.
“Huh?” Bill asked.
The cabin looked as if it was slowly sinking into the ground. Amy got out of the car and walked up to the front door. The wooden door was cracked, only a few peelings of paint protected it. She tried the door, but found it locked. She walked around and looked in a window, but couldn’t see much of anything. When she yanked the window, it flew up.
“Hey, Bill, I’m going in.”
He looked over at her, but didn’t make a move in her direction. “Go for it. Think I’ll wait for you to unlock the door.”
After squeezing through the window opening, she landed on the floor in a heap. Dust stirred up and she sneezed. The one-room cabin was dark and cool, an old card table with two chairs took up the middle of the room with two bunk beds built into a far corner.
Amy heard a gentle rapping on the door. “I’m coming,” she said and picked herself up off the floor.
After fumbling with the old lock, she finally turned it the right way and the door opened. “How was your day, darling?” she asked.
“Fine, lover.” Bill walked in, leaned over her and planted a kiss on her upturned face.
The first kiss was a quick peck on the cheek, appropriate for “Father Knows Best,” but then he moved to her lips.
Amy pushed him away and said, “Not during work.”
Bill pulled her close and whispered in her ear, “But we’re not at work, we’re home. Come on.” He grabbed her tightly around the waist and started to rub against her.
She made herself turn to wood. “Stop it.”
Instead of stopping, Bill slid his hands up under her shirt.
She tried to push him away, but he grabbed her shirt and was lifting it over her head. “Not now,” she said, her voice muffled in fabric. At the sound of her voice, he stopped, left her shirt turned inside-out over her face and arms. His hands slid down her body.
As Bill’s hands undid her pants, Amy started to get frantic. He wasn’t stopping. Her arms were trapped in her shirt. She couldn’t breath with her face covered with the shirt. She kicked out at him and slammed her head into his chest.
“Ooh, I like it like that,” Bill said. “A little wild.”
The shirt fell down far enough for her face to be uncovered and Amy screamed as loud as she could.
Bill stopped and looked at her. “What?”
She took a deep breath, then spit out each word, carefully and separately, “I — don’t — want — to — do — this.”
He looked a bit embarrassed, ran his hand over his mouth and joked, “What? Just thought we’d have a little fun.”
Amy yanked her shirt down and stared at him. “This is not fun. Not for me. What’s the matter with you? Some kind of pervert?”
“What’s the matter with you?” Bill threw up his hands, but
stepped back from her. “You’re acting like we haven’t done this before? Like I’m trying to rape you or something?”
“Whenever a man forces himself on a woman it’s rape.”
“What? Rape 101. Are you serious? Come on, Ame. What’s wrong with getting it on? We’re not doing anything wrong.”
“I told you not during work. I told you that. What do you not understand about that?”
“Okay. Enough already. I get it.” Bill stood in the doorway. “I didn’t know you were such a prude.”
Amy felt like her hair was going to fly off her head. “I’m not a prude. I just don’t want to have sex while I’m working in a dirty, dusty cabin.”
Bill stayed in the doorway, but turned his back to her.
Let him be mad, she thought. She smoothed her hair back from her face and tried to gather her wits about her, as her mom would say.
Amy examined the cabin, walking around and looking at the floor. It was hard to tell but she thought she saw footprints. But who knows when someone had last been in the place.
At first she would have said that no one had been there recently, but then she noticed a package of crackers open on the table.
“Crackers,” she said and sat down at the table. “Looks like someone opened these recently.”
“You talking to me?” Bill turned and asked, sarcastically. Then added, “How do you figure?”
“Mice. There’s no way this place isn’t crawling with them and they would have demolished these crackers before now.”
“Good work, detective. So we know someone has been here recently. So what does that prove?”
Amy picked up a cracker and broke it in half. It was soggy. “Well, actually we know more than that. We know that someone who was famished was here recently. No one else would have bothered with these crackers.”
“So there’s a chance that Chet was here.”
“Yes, which would mean that he’s on this side of the river and probably heading east. Which would support what Claire said—that he was probably going home.”
* * *
Bridget tied her hair back, splashed her face with ice water, and wafted her arms up and down. She had to talk to Claire about putting air-conditioning into this house of hers. She had been renting it for a few years, but they hadn’t had a hot summer like this one for a long time.
“Come on, Rachel. Going to Auntie Claire’s, Uncle Rich’s and Meg’s.”
“My Meg?”
“Yes.” For some reason, Rachel insisted that Meg was hers. Meg was more like an older sister than a cousin to four-year-old Rachel.
When Bridget turned around, she saw that her darling daughter had decided to take off all her clothes. “What happened to your shirt and shorts?”
“Don’t like ‘em.”
“Well, this isn’t up for debate.” Bridget found the pile of clothes in the hallway outside the bathroom and proceeded to pull the light t-shirt over her daughter’s head.
“Don’t like it.” Rachel flung her arms around.
“Not even your cute donkey?” Bridget pointed to the picture of Eeyore on the front of the t-shirt.
“Don’t want it.” Rachel tried to take it off.
“You have to wear clothes to go see Meg. She wants to see your donkey.”
“See the donkey?” Rachel asked.
“Yup,” Bridget quickly pulled on the shorts. “Let’s get in the car, baby. It’ll be cooler in there.”
After the two minute ride over, during which the air-conditioning did nothing to cool down the car, walking into Rich’s house felt like walking into a freezer. Bridget had the urge to lay down on the floor and soak up the cool.
Claire came walking out of the kitchen and Meg came bounding down the stairs. Rachel squealed with delight.
“I’ll take her up to my room,” Meg said, hoisting Rachel up to her hip and carting her off.
“Thanks,” Bridget said.
Claire held up her arm.
“I see. How broken is it?”
“Asked like a true doctor. Badly. The bone snapped, then shifted. They had to set it. Torture of the worst kind. The doctor said a good two months.”
“At least it’s your left arm.”
“There is a reason we have two arms.”
Bridget could tell her sister was on the edge. “How’s the menopause going?”
“Sweating like a pig, but with this weather, everyone is.”
Bridget knew that estrogen had become a dirty word with many women, who because of some recent studies, feared the long-term effects. “You could go on a low-dose of estrogen just to get you through the transition. Take it for a year or so and that might ease you through.”
“Ease me through to what—permanent cronedom?” Claire squinched her nose. “I’ll think about it.”
Letting that subject drop, Bridget sat down at the kitchen table and looked at the piles of paper and the line-up of pill bottles. “Are you organizing your life, Claire?”
“Not mine. I’m just trying to figure out what it all is. It’s Chet and Anne’s. What’s left of it.”
“How sad. Do you know what happened yet?”
“Not really. They still haven’t found Chet. Every hour he’s missing I’m afraid he’ll be found dead.”
“So you think he killed Anne?”
“I did. I was sure at first. Now I just don’t know what to think.” Claire pushed over the pill bottles. “What can you tell me about these?”
Bridget picked up the closest one, Lexapro, and read the label. “Very common anti-depressant, anti-anxiety. Low dose. Probably trying to nip it in the bud.”
“The Lexapro’s for Anne. I have to say I’m surprised to know she was on an antidepressant.”
“Totally common these days. You can’t believe how many
prescriptions I fill a day.”
“These four are for Chet.”
“Well, Lipitor. You know that. Just for cholesterol. Very common for a man his age.” Then Bridget scanned the remaining three bottles. “Hmm. Looks like he was having some prostate problems. Fairly serious problems. Had he had surgery?”
“Not that he told us. But I’m thinking the two of them were keeping some secrets. I’ll ask Rich if he knows.”
“Well, from the looks of these meds, I’d guess that your friend Chet was having trouble being sexually active. Viagra might have helped, but not necessarily. Not if he had had the surgery.”
“Thanks,” Claire said. “So he can’t get it up and she’s on an antidepressant. Not exactly the happy couple we had imagined.”
D
r. Singh?” Claire asked the gentle voice that had answered the phone.
“Yes, this is she.”
“My name is Claire Watkins. I’m calling from the Pepin County Sheriff’s department. Was Anne Baldwin a patient of yours?” She tucked the phone under her chin and tapped her pencil on the pad of paper she had ready to take notes. With one hand it was difficult.
“I don’t talk about who my patients are. Why are you calling me?”
“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to get off on the wrong foot with you, Dr. Singh. I already know that Anne was your patient. I would like to ask you some questions, if you have a moment.” Claire didn’t quite know how to phrase her next question. “Have you heard what has happened to her?”
“Anne? Something has happened to her?”
“Yes, I’m sorry to tell you this, but Anne has died.”
A gasp. “No. What happened?”
“We’re not sure exactly what happened, but it appears Anne died of a gunshot wound to the head three days ago in her home.”
“This is so terrible. Was it an accident?”
“We’re not sure. That’s why I’m calling you. I’m wondering if I could come and talk to you about her.”
Long pause. “How did you know she was my client?”
“I looked through her bills and saw that she was seeing you. We’re trying to understand if she might have been in the state of mind where she would have shot herself.”
“This is very difficult. I don’t feel that I can talk about Anne. Client confidentiality.”
“I understand that you must protect the privacy of your clients. But technically, is that necessary anymore? She’s dead.”
“Anne’s death is a great loss, but it does not effect the agreement that I make with all my clients when we begin a course of therapy. You understand.”
Her last sentence was not a question. Claire hoped they could work this out together and she wouldn’t be forced to go to a judge. “According to what I know from the Wisconsin State Psych Board, if you felt that she was a danger either to herself or to others, you, as her therapist, should have made that known to the proper authorities. Now there is a very good chance that she killed herself. Let me ask you this—did you ever consider contacting the police because of her state of mind? Were you ever concerned for her safety?”
“These are difficult questions.”
“Why? Why are they difficult questions? You must face them all the time.” Claire could hear her own voice rising. She drew a peace sign on the piece of paper to remind herself to stay calm. It would do no good, she was sure, getting belligerent