An Arm and a Leg (16 page)

Immediately, Uncle Mike’s voice rang in her head:
Careful Frances, careful not to overload your hummingbird butt with your alligator mouth.

“Mind your own business.” Frankie got out of her car, careful to lock it behind her and headed into Angela’s office, where she sat waiting for her appointed time.

In a few minutes, a depressed-looking fellow exited the inner office. He mumbled a greeting in Frankie’s general direction and seemed to be relieved to make it to the outer door.

Angela smiled from the doorway to her office and motioned her in. Frankie took her usual seat—what she called the
hot seat
—still warm from the body that had just vacated it. Angela handed Frankie a chilled bottle of water, clicked on the recorder, and sat back in her chair.

“How has your week gone?” the therapist said.

“Jenny hasn’t spoken to me since our last session, but my nightmares have started up again.”

“Nightmares? Tell me about them.”

“Most of them are variations of the same dream I’ve had since I was a kid.” Frankie clenched her hands together, kneading her fingers. “I’m in a dark place, I hear a baby crying, I’m worried about the baby, but I’m stuck in the darkness and can’t find my way out. I try to yell, but when I open my mouth no sound comes out.”

“People often dream of being unable to speak when they feel something is out of their control in their waking lives, when they feel they have no voice. Is there something going on with you that feels like that?”

“My whole life feels like that.” Frankie told Angela about finding the adoption papers, about learning that her uncle and nanny had lied to her, and about discovering that Tim had become involved in something for which he felt ashamed. “What good are my dreams if I can’t understand what they’re saying?”

“That’s why you’re here. It takes a lot of mental energy to repress memories, so the psyche starts sending out little snippets to get the ball moving. If you choose to swallow it rather than allow it to come out, own it, and let it go, you can be assured it will erupt in some other form. I deal with clients every day who suffer from all sorts of obsessive-compulsive behaviors rooted in their inability to let go of something from their past.”

“Obsessive-compulsive behaviors?” The words erupted from Frankie’s mouth, scouring her tongue like a nettle as they escaped into the still office air.

An inquisitive look flitted across Angela’s face. “Yes, behaviors people feel forced to perform. Eating disorders, rituals like hand-washing, hoarding, things like that.”

“Ah.” Frankie picked at the chair’s fabric upholstery. For an instant she considered telling Angela about her food stockpile, but decided against it. There were too many other things she needed to get a handle on first. And too little time in which to do it. Besides, what she did couldn’t actually be called hoarding, could it?

“Your assignment for next week is to get a book for journaling, if you haven’t already. Keep it with a pen by your bed. Every morning as soon as you wake up write down anything you can remember about your dreams. Pay special attention to any feelings associated with them. Bring the journal with you next time.”

Frankie shifted her eyes to the pattern in the rug. “I might not be able to make it for a couple of weeks.”

“I see.” Angela leaned forward and patted the top of Frankie’s hand. “What you’re feeling is typical. Your impulse is to avoid emotional pain. It’s your call, but if we stop digging now, things will only get worse.”

“Okay.” Frankie ran the fingers of her right hand through her hair, pushing a wandering lock behind her ear. “I’ll see you next week.”

Chapter Twenty-One

The typically sunny Albuquerque sky was filled with clouds the density and blackness of burning rubber when Frankie woke. Per Angela’s assignment, she sat up in bed, pulled her blank-paged notebook onto her lap, grabbed her pen, and jotted down her memories from the night before. Although she couldn’t remember specific dream images, the attendant feelings hummed in her head. She jotted down the date and time, and added the words
panicked
,
afraid
, and
unable to speak or breathe
. Almost of its own accord, her pen added
hungry
. Not much to go on, but it was a start.

She jumped out of bed. After a brief mental skirmish, during which the word
obsessive
rang in her head like a gong, she counted her cans before slipping on her jogging outfit and heading for the front door.

While putting on her mittens and headband, her eyes slid to the wooden bowl and the single key remaining on Tim’s key ring: most likely the key to a safe deposit box. As to why she’d done nothing about it before today she had no answer. But the tingle at the base of her neck told her she should take care of that as soon as she got back from her walk.

The Chevy never far from her thoughts, she took a long look out the front window before moving to the front door. Nothing moved on her block, and no non-neighborhood vehicles idled nearby. She patted the pepper spray in her pocket and headed out into the cold.

****

When Frankie arrived at the bank a female employee scrutinized her identification along with the proof of Tim’s death. The woman led the way back through a steel gate and into a concrete vault. She inserted her key into the double lock of one of the large safe deposit boxes running along the bottom of the wall, and motioned for Frankie to do the same with Tim’s key.

After a brief struggle to pull the box out of its crypt, the employee hefted the box onto the table in a viewing booth. She puffed “whew,” and discreetly went back to her work station.

In a state of high expectation, Frankie pulled the lid off the box. She didn’t know what she’d expected, but what greeted her was a layer of old Star Wars figurines, most of them still in their original packaging.

“It’s so like you to leave you trust papers laying around for anyone to find while filling your safe deposit box with old toys,” she muttered.

Don’t knock it
, Tim’s voice rang in her head.
Never know when you’ll need a cool toy
.

Frankie sighed. “Anyone else have something to say?”

Silence.

“No? Okay then.”

She removed the figurines and placed them on the table, exposing a large manila folder underneath. A label affixed to the front proclaimed the contents to be the original medical records of someone named Esther Emory.

With the feeling that she’d seen that name somewhere before, she lifted out the folder and put it into her tote bag for later review.

The next layer consisted of several small, clear plastic bags. A label at the top of each bag indicated its contents originated from a company named Gaylord Gold Investments. The company’s address and phone number were printed just below its name.

She selected a bag, opened it, and pulled out a paper with the words
Certificate of Provenance
printed across the top. Something fell from a fold in the paper, and clacked onto the tile floor. She bent to retrieve the clear plastic, box-encased gold coin that winked up at her.

Hands trembling, she pulled out several more bags. Each one contained a provenance and tiny plastic box in which lay a gold coin dated from the mid to late 1800s. Frankie put her hands onto the table to steady herself.

“What did you do, Little Brother, rob Fort Knox?”

On a notepad she pulled from her tote bag, she wrote down the name and contact information of the company printed on the label. She returned the certificate to the opened bag, resealed it, and put all the bags back into the safe deposit box.

Feeling as if she’d stepped into a scene from the old Twilight Zone television series, she summoned the employee to help carry the box back to its slot, slung the tote bag strap over her shoulder and left the bank.

She’d found no paper trail, nothing in Tim’s effects to indicate a purchase of the magnitude reflected by the cache of coins. So how had he paid for them?

It was always possible he’d been holding the coins for someone else. But wouldn’t that person have come forward to claim them by now?

Another possibility reared its head. What if Tim had accepted the coins as payment for medical services, rather than the checks on which he’d be required to pay taxes? Was that why he’d been so ashamed? Had he been involved in income tax fraud?

Frankie returned to her car, each step mocking her memories of Tim. It was becoming more and more obvious that she hadn’t really known her brother at all.

Once home, she pulled out the contact information from the gold coins. She sat in the chair next to her landline, dialed the number for Gaylord Gold Investments, and punched in several numbers in response to a recorded menu before a human voice came on the line. The representative regretted that she would be unable to give out any specific details regarding Tim’s account without a written request accompanied by corresponding legal documentation. She then detailed the fairly complicated process necessary to receive a printout of Tim’s transactions. Frankie jotted down the instructions, thanked the employee and hung up.

What had happened to the sweet, loving kid she grew up with? What became of the third-grader who punched Mark Lackey in the nose for teasing his sister, to the teenager who warned her Tom Brazel had taken a bet to ask her to the prom, or to the young doctor driven by the desire to help those less fortunate?

She sat at her dining room table, pulled the manila envelope from her tote bag, removed a thick sheaf of paper, and scanned the pages.

At the time of the last entry, Esther Emory was eighty and suffering from heart disease. No family members were listed. Due to the elderly woman’s indigent status, Medicare or Medicaid covered most of her hospital bills. Cottonwood Medical Center and Hospital Foundation, a local non-profit, assumed responsibility for the remaining portion.

Esther had been a resident of the Chaparral Convalescent and Assisted Living Center attached to the hospital. According to the records, Dr. Bellamy put her on blood thinners and cholesterol medication to manage her heart disease. The last entry was dated about eighteen months ago.

On a clean sheet in her notepad Frankie jotted down the questions she’d ask Flatte. What was her responsibility with regard to the gold coins? Could Flatte access Tim’s account at Gaylord Gold Investments? And what should she do with Esther Emory’s medical records?

She pulled her phone from its holster, punched in Flatte’s number, and asked to speak to the attorney. The assistant said he was out, but assured Frankie she’d tell him about her call.

While waiting, she retrieved the cardboard box of things she’d brought from Tim’s office. She pulled the lid off and picked up the items one at a time: a paperweight holding a once-living scorpion frozen inside a bubble of clear resin; the Mont Blanc pen set she’d given Tim upon his graduation from medical school, and on which she was sadly still making payments; a silver-framed photo of the both of them at his graduation from medical school, a small booklet for addresses and phone numbers—most pages of which were empty, and a fingernail clipper.

Idly, she leafed through the address book. She chuckled to see her address and phone number under
S
, presumably for Sis.

She put the booklet down onto the table, and it fell open to the C section. The only entry, someone named Hector Cordero, was followed by a local phone number. Beneath Hector’s name was scribbled a time and date followed by an exclamation mark.

Whoever this man was, Tim had scheduled an appointment with him the day of his death. And it had been only an hour before he showed up on her doorstep.

Frankie keyed Hector’s phone number into her cell. Voice mail kicked in after the fourth ring, and a man’s voice with a heavy Mexican accent cordially invited her to leave her name and number for a return call.

“Hector, my name is Frankie O’Neil. I’m not sure if you’re the Hector who came to my brother’s funeral, but I would really like to talk to you. Please call me when you get the chance.” She repeated her phone number twice before breaking the connection.

On impulse, she called the number Mina Landowski had scribbled on the box lid.

“Lunch sounds great,” Mina said in response to Frankie’s invitation. “I don’t have to be at the hospital until three this afternoon. Twelve noon at the Turquoise Trail café on Silver Street sounds perfect.”

For the next couple of hours Frankie pored over Tim’s journal, his bank statements, and his trust folder. She couldn’t shake the feeling that the answers were right there in front of her, but nothing announced itself. The tickle at the base of her brain still niggled away as she left for her meeting with Mina.

****

Frankie arrived at the café early. She stepped to the counter, ordered a Thai beef salad, and carried the plastic table tent with her order number engraved on it to a booth near the door. She sipped mango iced tea and mulled over how much she wanted to tell Mina.

Should she tell the nurse about finding Esther Emory’s medical records? She should probably return the records at some point, but to whom? To the hospital? To Esther Emory’s family, assuming any could be found? Or should she just destroy them?

Mina entered, waved at Frankie and walked to the counter. She placed her order, then dropped her plastic tent on the table and slid onto the booth’s orange vinyl-covered bench.

“Either you’re early, or I’m late,” Mina said.

Frankie smiled. “I’m early. I’m behaviorally incapable of being late for lunch. Pavlov had nothing on my uncle.”

The nurse laughed. “Sounds like the guys who raised us might have something in common.”

“Thanks for suggesting lunch. It will be nice to talk to someone who knew my brother.”

Mina’s smile faded. “No need to thank me. I’ve been meaning to talk to you ever since Doctor O’Neil’s accident.”

“It wasn’t an accident.” Frankie lowered her voice and described the events around Tim’s death. She was surprised to find the pain of his loss soften a bit as she spoke.

“Oh God, and he was killed right in front of you? I can’t imagine anything so horrible.” Mina patted Frankie’s hand, a gesture of sympathy that nearly made her dissolve into tears.