A Wedding To Die For

Kate was waiting in the reception room when I arrived in her tenth floor office. She wore blue today, a pale cashmere sweater and navy wool slacks. The colors complemented her creamy skin and dark hair, and I decided it felt good to see a rested, happy female for once. Rather than go out for lunch, she suggested we order Chinese, and we went to the family therapy room after she called King Food.

I love the therapy room. It’s the most comfortable, homey place imaginable. The lighting casts a pink glow over the spacious area—according to Kate pink is the most calming color. Two sofas and four armchairs surrounded an oval coffee table, and classical music played in the background today rather than Kate’s usual favorite, Jazz. Me? I would have opted for Dave Matthews if I came for a head shrinking. His music is about as real as it gets.

We sat in the “big chairs” as I call them, two huge overstuffed cranberry chairs you could get lost in. I removed my shoes and tucked my feet up.

Kate said, “I see you’ve been using the arnica gel. Your face looks so much better.”

“You were right about that stuff. Worked like a charm. Wish I had a magic fix for this case. Yesterday was chock-full of surprises.”

I brought her up to snuff and had just finished when the receptionist brought in the food.

After she was gone, I said, “Kate, I could use your support when I sit Megan down and tell her all this.”

“I planned on being there.” She pushed her rice around with her chopsticks. “But I have another concern for now. This confession of Roxanne’s. That girl is unstable, Abby.”

“My guess is she’s not guilty of anything besides being as nutty as a bag of ballpark peanuts.”

“You think she’s protecting Travis with this confession?” Kate asked.

“I don’t know what’s going on in her mind, but she did confess right after she found out Travis had been brought in for questioning.”

“So maybe she is protecting him?”

“One thing I know for sure about Roxanne is how much she cares for Megan and Courtney. If that means protecting Megan’s relationship with Travis by going to jail, I think she’d be more than willing to take the fall.”

“If she does get arrested, I’m worried how Courtney will handle it. Emotionally, she’s very fragile right now,” said Kate.

“Fragile? That’s an adjective I never would have chosen for Courtney.” I was eating with a good old fork, a far more sensible utensil than chopsticks. I speared a piece of sweet-and-sour pork and loaded it up with the yummy pink sauce before putting it in my mouth.

“I talked to Courtney late last night, and believe me, she’s not the same girl you met. I’m visiting her this afternoon, by the way.”

“She’s lucid?” I said.

“Lucid and depressed. But that’s what I expected at this point.”

I planted my fork in my untasted glob of white rice and left it there. “You know what? Roxanne’s confession came on the heels of Travis’s episode with Fielder, but it also came soon after she visited her sister yesterday. Maybe it’s not Travis she’s protecting.”

Kate offered an “I don’t think so” look. “What could Courtney have said that would send Roxanne off to martyr herself?”

“I don’t know. But I’m fresh out of ways to find out who killed James and Graham. If she’s got any ideas. I’d love to hear them. Mind if I tag along?”

Kate frowned, seeming none too thrilled with this request. She finally said, “Courtney would have to agree to see you. And if she starts to decompensate—she’ll be experiencing plenty of ups and downs in the next few days— you’ll have to leave the room right away.”

“Yes, ma’am, Dr. Rose. You have my promise.”

We drove in separate cars since the private psychiatric facility was about halfway to Seacliff. I planned on visiting the funeral home this evening and I wouldn’t have time to make two trips back and forth to Houston.

The psych hospital was a sprawling redbrick building surrounded by live oaks and plenty of shrubbery. And the obligatory ten-foot-high chain-link fence. The only thing missing was razor wire.

“Who’s paying for this? Sylvia?” I asked as we walked a concrete path toward a set of double glass doors.

“Believe it or not, Courtney has medical insurance,” Kate said.

“She has a job?” I said, surprised.

“No, she told me her father paid for her coverage.”

“I know for certain he didn’t have a job. Wonder how he afforded it.”

“Maybe you can ask Courtney,” Kate said, reaching for the door.

My sister was greeted by the staff with smiles and hugs, and there were introductions all around. I was provided with one of those stick-on visitor badges and then we walked down a long corridor to Courtney’s room.

Stopping outside number 120, Kate said, “Let me ask her if she wants to see you... and at some point I will need time alone with her.”

“Why don’t you do that now? I see some chairs down the hall where I can park it until you two are done talking.”

“You sure?” Kate looked amused.

“You think I can’t handle a few crazy people?” Kate glanced around and whispered, “Keep your voice down. I’ll come and get you if Courtney okays a visit.”

“Gotcha,” I answered.

She knocked on Courtney’s door, cracked it an inch, then slipped inside.

I headed for the chairs stacked outside what turned out to be a game room. The place was empty, so I went to a card table and sat down in front of a deck of cards. I started shuffling, but before I could lay out a round of solitaire, a heavy woman with red cheeks and a serious wheeze sat across from me.

“You new?” she asked.

“Oh, I’m not a patient,” I said.

Her hair was thinning, and she wore a purple and gold LSU T-shirt. “Then I’m not, either.” Her thick drawl wasn’t Texan—more like the deep south.

“Really, I’m not a patient. I’m waiting to visit someone.”

“Who? Bill?”

“No.” I dealt my hand, hoping she’d leave. Her scent reminded me of a perfumed poodle and her heavy breathing made me nervous. I sure hoped they had medical doctors here, too, if she wheezed herself unconscious.

“Bill has wife issues, and I thought you might be the girlfriend. I’m Amelia, by the way.” She extended a plump hand.

“Nice to meet you. I’m Abby.” We shook hands, and it was all I could do to not pull back too quickly. Her flesh was, well... squishy.

“The Abby. Courtney’s Abby?” Her eyes bulged with interest.

I wasn’t sure it was a good idea to admit I was the Abby, but she had my attention. “You know Courtney?”

“Honey, we all know each other in this place. She was hoppin’ mad at you when she was admitted the other day. Screaming and hollerin’ to beat the band once the drugs started to clear her system. You put her in here, right?”

“I think she put herself in,” I answered.

“She has father issues,” Amelia said, nodding.

“What does that mean?” I flipped three cards to start my game.

“Her father got murdered and that poor girl is thinking it’s all her fault. I don’t usually feel sorry for the druggies, but I do for her. Puny thing, too. Needs a big pot of red beans and some boudain.”

“She said her father’s death was her fault?” I asked.

Amelia coughed a few times, then pulled a tissue from her sleeve and spit into it. “Damn asthma. Anyway, Courtney is sorta like Owen—he was here last time I was in. Owen was a druggie with father issues just like Courtney. But I didn’t feel the least bit sorry for him. Especially not after he punched me.”