Bound by Suggestion (13 page)

Richard shifted his weight as he stood outside Paula Devlin’s apartment. A bouncy country tune thumped inside. So much for thinking he’d come too early.

He rang the doorbell again. Footsteps approached, paused. She must be checking him out through the peephole.

The door swung open and Paula stood before him in a mauve sweater, black stirrup pants and fuzzy pink slippers. The color had returned to her cheeks.

“Dr. Alpert. What a surprise.”

“I hope you don’t mind, but I thought I’d drop by and see how you were doing.” Only partly a lie.

“Come in. Can I get you a cup of coffee? I was just about to make a fresh pot.”

“Sure. Thanks.” He followed her into the kitchen, where she turned the volume down on a radio on the counter. Stacks of newspapers sat beside it, along with a box half filled with wrapped items. Grocery store cartons proclaiming bananas, apples and green beans made neat rows along the hallway and spilled into the living room.

“Looks like you’re moving.”

“At the end of the month,” she said, running water into the glass carafe. “I need a change. I need to be in a space where Eric never lived. Krista helped me see it would be good for me to start over.”

“She’s helped you a lot.” It wasn’t a question.

Paula measured ground coffee from a blue Maxwell House can. “I don’t know what I would’ve done without her. I feel stronger because of her.”

Paula hit the switch and took two cups from the nearly empty cupboard.

“Thanks so much for the beautiful flowers you and your wife sent. I’ve been trying to get all the thank-you cards written and mailed before the move. So many people sent flowers—hundreds of bouquets and wreaths. It blows my mind that all those strangers wanted to help, or at least express their condolences.” Her voice broke, and she coughed to cover it.

“Are you okay, Paula?”

For a moment her face went blank, her brown eyes just hollows of sorrow. Then she took a breath and smiled bravely. “I think so. I’ve lived through the worst that could possibly happen. Now I just have to face every day knowing my baby is gone.”

Her lower lip quivered. Richard reached over to touch her hand.

They sat at the table. Richard sipped his coffee, listening as Paula talked about the boy’s funeral. She seemed to need it.

“Gosh, I’ve been blathering,” Paula said at last, her cheeks flushing.

“Not at all.”

She studied his face. “Something’s troubling you. I can see it in your eyes.”

“I wouldn’t say troubling. But I have been trying to figure out how you and I got to talking about psychic—show my knowing Jeff Resnick came up in conversation.”

Paula worried at her left thumbnail. She started to answer—then stopped herself.

“It could be important,” he said.

She got up to warm her coffee. “I told you about the woman psychic who wrote, then came to see me. But the things she told me about Eric weren’t right. She said he loved tacos. He
hated
tacos.” She sat down, dumped more sugar into her cup and stirred it. “I think I started to cry. You looked really worried and said you knew someone who might be able to help me, but that I shouldn’t get my hopes up.”

Her words brought the incident back into focus. “Did someone actually tell you I knew a psychic?”

She lowered her eyes, stared at the table. “Yes.”

He waited. She didn’t elaborate.

“Did this person suggest you mention your experience with the other psychic?” he tried again.

She exhaled loudly. “It was Dr. Marsh.”

Richard worked at keeping his face impassive. “Can you remember exactly what she said?”

“Just that you might know someone who could help me. But that I shouldn’t mention that she suggested it.” Paula’s brow furrowed. “Is Mr. Resnick in trouble?”

“No. But he values his anonymity.”

“There was nothing about him in the paper. How could Krista telling me about him invade his privacy?”

“It can’t.” Richard saw no point in explaining the situation when she was already dealing with her own emotional overload.

“You care about him, don’t you?” Paula said.

“He’s probably my best friend.”

“He’s lucky to have you for a friend.”

Richard frowned. Lucky? Maybe not. When God handed out good fortune, Jeff got shorted. Yet for all the crap he’d endured, Richard hadn’t heard him complain. Jeff simply accepted what life handed him. That passivity sometimes irritated Richard.

“I’ve thought about Mr. Resnick a lot since that day,” Paula said, “wondering how I could thank him for giving me closure on my son’s death.”

“That’s not necessary. He was glad to help you.” Okay, another partial lie.

“It amazes me how anyone can do what he does. I’m sure he must run into a lot of people who’d want to abuse his talents.”

Richard nodded, his unease cranking up another notch. Is that what Krista was doing? What had she hoped to gain by arranging that meeting? A controlled setting to test Jeff’s psychic abilities? And now she had him helping her with one of her other patients. But helping her do what? Her evasive answers the last time Richard spoke to her seemed almost sinister in retrospect.

Good Lord, now
he
was getting paranoid.

Richard pushed his chair back from the table. “I’d better be going.”

Paula walked him to the door. “Thank you for coming. And thanks again for bringing Mr. Resnick.” She hugged him good-bye.

As Richard headed for his car, he couldn’t shake the feeling that Jeff’s meeting with Paula was the catalyst in a chain of events that would lead to . . . disaster? He frowned. He really was letting his imagination run wild. At least, he hoped that’s all it was.

Depending on
the crowd, Saturday nights tending bar could be the best of times or the worst. I was late for work and heading out the door when the phone rang. I was tempted to let the machine take it, but something told me to grab it.

“Jeff? It’s Sam.”

“I wasn’t expecting to hear from you so soon,” I said, glancing at my watch.

“You ask a favor, I deliver. Only I couldn’t find much on Doug Mallon, other than the usual business relates.”

“Which are?”

“He got his B.S. in Printing at Rochester Institute of Technology, and an MBA from UB. He took over Mallon Printing five years ago when his old man died. He tripled their square footage and their profits. No actual financials, because it’s a family business.”

“Anything personal?”

“Not officially. But I called Bobby Tobin—remember Bobby from high school?”

“Sam, I had my skull caved in with a baseball bat last year. I’m lucky I remember you.”

“Well, Bobby’s got a prepress operation on the west side, and he’s President of the Buffalo Chapter of Printing Craftsmen of America.”

“Now you’ve got my interest. What’s the dirt?”

“There isn’t any. The guy’s a friggin’ angel. He’s won awards, gives generously to charity. Never been in trouble with the law.”

“Ever married?”

“To Danielle Gibson Mallon for eighteen years. She died of complications of MS last year. They never had any kids.”

Just my luck, I thought, Maggie’s new boyfriend was a goddamn paragon of virtue.

“Where does he live?”

“Two fifty seven Brittany Crossing in Amherst. Nice neighborhood.”

I jotted down the address. The nouveau riche section of our fair town, as opposed to the old money area where I lived on Richard’s property.

“Thanks, Sam. Now about that lunch—”

“I’m holding you to it. I’ll call you next week to set a time and place. It’ll also give me a chance to work up an appetite.”

We said goodbye—and I hung up and I flew down the stairs, jumped in my car, and headed for work. I stopped at the light at Main Street, waiting for an opportunity to make a right turn.

Okay, so the wonderful Doug had money, a successful business, and no ex-wife and kids to disrupt his budding relationship with my woman. What kind of opening did that leave me?

Someone beeped me from behind and I made the turn.

Unless Doug did get hit by a bus in the not-too-distant future, there was no way Maggie was going to dump him for me. What had he told her, that he’d made a mistake by breaking their engagement and marrying someone who’d ultimately died on him? At least he’d shown good taste and hadn’t gone for a bimbo half his age with an IQ equaling his shoe size.

Another red light stopped me at Getzville Road. Who the hell timed these things?

Maybe Detective Hayden was right. Maybe I should just forget Maggie and move on. But how could I when she was all I could think about? Hell, it had only been a week; what was I expecting? I had no future with Krista, but so what? We could have a few laughs, maybe a couple of romps in the hay. No commitments. No expectations. Although if our lunch date was any indication of what was to come, I’d be better off making a hasty exit from her life.

I had to stop again at Harlem Road. I was late for work two days in a row—and now the goddamn stoplights were conspiring against me.

I frowned. Where was all this introspection coming from? How about the fact I was staring at another birthday a week away and would probably spend it alone? Big deal. It wouldn’t be the first time. Maybe it was the thought of spending the rest of my life alone that scared me. I’d been alone for nearly three years after Shelley left me. The worst years of my life. Could I go through that again?

Man, what was I thinking? Why did this bother me so damned much? I’m alone. Big deal. I should find a hobby. Get a second job . . . only I could barely hack the part-time job I already had.

I hit another light red, the last one before I’d pull in the bar’s parking lot.

What I needed to do was think about my next step in getting Maggie back. Hayden had warned me off watching her, but what was the harm of driving past Dougie boy’s house? And why was I pissed at him, anyway? It was Maggie’s sister’s fault for putting them back in touch. Yeah, Irene was the source of all my problems.

As I pulled into an open parking slot I wondered if maybe I should pay her a visit . . . .

“Nice shot,”
Jared Crain said, watching Richard’s Titleist ball arc down the fairway.

It was just Richard’s good fortune that he’d arrived back from Paula’s in time to get Crain’s call to fill out a foursome that afternoon. True, the course was still a bit spongy, but a stiff brush would remove the mud from his cleats and drivers.

Richard knew he could probably birdie the hole, but decided it might be more to his advantage to miss the putt. Crain held sway with a majority of the Foundation’s other board members, and knew a great deal about the hospital staff. Cultivating a friendship with the surgeon could open doors for Richard. And it wouldn’t be the first golf game he’d lost for a greater good.

The others had already gone on ahead when Crain and Richard replaced their clubs in their golf bags. Crain slipped behind the golf cart’s wheel, but didn’t start it.

“I’m sure you wondered about this last-minute invitation to join us,” he said.

“It crossed my mind.”

“The scuttlebutt is you’ll be named head of the Foundation’s capital campaign.”

“I’ve heard I’m being considered.”

“It’s a done deal,” Crain said, his gaze focused up ahead.

“Is there something else I should know?”

Crain turned his unwavering gaze on Richard. “Watch your back.”

Richard almost laughed. “Anyone in particular I should avoid?”

Though they were alone, Crain glanced around before answering. “Wes Timberly. But you didn’t hear that from me.”

Richard’s hackles rose. “Can you be more specific?”

“Wes hasn’t made it this far on talent alone. He married an ambitious woman who’s financed a number of his successes. Her hospital connections go back two generations.”

And Richard had been worried about accusations that he’d bought the job.

“I won’t say Wes has ruined anyone’s career,” Crain continued, “but rumors have followed his enemies, making it difficult for them to remain at the hospital. This warning applies to your family, as well. If he can find something on them, he won’t hesitate to use it against you.”

Vague threats, Richard thought, but remembered Timberly’s remark about Jeff’s psychic ability. And while interracial marriage wasn’t uncommon these days, Timberly might use strong sentiment against it to try to hurt Brenda. Richard also couldn’t rule out the man digging deeper into his past for information on his and Jeff’s mother, either. She’d died of cancer, but had suffered a nervous breakdown when he was a toddler. She’d been an alcoholic through Jeff’s childhood. These days, she’d be accused of neglect.

“I appreciate the warning, and I take it seriously,” Richard said.

Crain merely nodded, started the golf cart, and headed for the green.

They played through, Richard taking two strokes on the green, making par, but giving Crain the match. And well worth it, too, he thought, considering the advice the surgeon had given him.