Death Wore Brown Shorts (Happy Holloway Mystery Book 1) Page 4

  “No, but that detective in charge, I’m not sure I have much confidence in him. I mean he’s been on the job for a million years and a day. We don’t get this kind of heinous crime in our neck of the woods, Annie. Why would Detective Lawson even know how to deal with it?”

  “I’m sure he’s had plenty of training.”

  “Sure,” Stacy agreed, “twenty years ago when they didn’t know to check for fingerprints and the like.”

  Annie chuckled. “Twenty years ago, huh?”

  Stacy waved her hand. “You know what I mean. I suppose this will give you plenty to work on for your books. Oh why couldn’t it be a romance instead?”

  “I would have preferred to stumble upon a random romance on the street.”

  Stacy’s face flamed, and Annie rushed to apologize.

  “I’m sorry, Stacy. I didn’t mean to poke fun at your theories. I get a little arrogant when it comes to mysteries and crime. You write one book, and you think you’re an expert.”

  “Don’t worry about it, sweetheart. I understand. To be honest, I would put my money on you solving this case faster than the police. Plus, you’ve written a whole lot more than one book.”

  Annie thanked her. “I’m not qualified to solve a murder. I don’t even want to think about who could have done it. Surely, no one who lives around here. It must have been someone from somewhere else, maybe someone who knew Paul in his regular life.”

  “Perhaps. Let’s get breakfast made so we can eat.”

  Stacy whipped up scrambled eggs with sharp cheese, onions, and green peppers added in. She removed the bacon from the oven and popped in a pan of biscuits from the can. Soon they were fluffed up and piping hot.

  When Annie received her plate, she stood to rinse off her silverware and wiped them with a napkin while Stacy was distracted with something else. She slathered butter on two biscuits and made a sandwich of bacon and eggs with one. The other, she halved and added honey to each side.

  “This all looks so delicious, Stacy. Thank you for inviting me.”

  “No problem, Annie. You’re welcome any time. I admit I’ve done it for selfish reasons today. I wanted to discuss the murder. I still can’t believe it’s happened so close to home.”

  “You didn’t hear or see anything last night?”

  “No, I wish I did. Maybe I could have stopped whoever did it.”

  Annie shivered. “You wouldn’t have gone outside?”

  “Heavens, no, but I’ve got a big mouth.” Stacy laughed. “I would have screamed loud enough to wake the neighborhood. I guarantee you.”

  Annie laughed. “I believe you.”

  “I’ve got something for you, Annie. Are you ready?”

  Annie looked at her friend, frowning. “Sure, what is it?”

  Stacy threw one arm into the air and slapped a hand over her chest with the other. She squeezed her eyes shut and recited in a voice loud enough to twang Annie’s ear drums.

  “Caught in the flames of apprehension and grief, Isabelle dared to dream of a better, bolder life.”

  Annie blinked and waited. Stacy said nothing.

  “Oh, was that it?”

  “Yes, you can use it if you want. I made it up, and I don’t need any recognition at all if you use it in one of your books.”

  Annie had no idea where she would use such a phrase. She also understood by “I need no recognition” Stacy meant she expected a mention on the dedication page.

  “Thank you for your generosity, Stacy. I’ll make a note of it and keep you in mind.”

  Chapter Six

  Annie took in the tiny office as she sat on the couch. If a serious case of claustrophobia were added to her issues, she might be ready to climb the walls. The psychiatrist’s office was well-appointed with soft lighting and comforting colors, but the woman hadn’t bothered with the luxury of space. Perhaps clients were hard to come by, and this was all she could afford. Annie found it surprising given the hourly fees.

  Dr. Verville strode into the room and shut the door. “Sorry about that. I needed a file, and my secretary had trouble finding it.”

  Her name didn’t match her description. Dressed casually in simple slacks and a cream short-sleeved blouse, she tucked a lock of plain dark hair behind her ear and took her seat across from Annie.

  The doctor pulled a laptop onto her legs, and Annie considered how she should approach this visit. A significant portion of one of the books she planned required the heroine to visit a psychiatrist. Annie recalled talking to a child psychiatrist many years ago, but she believed the experience would be different as an adult.

  Now, how do I hide the reasons I’m here today but also learn something I can use in my book?

  “So, Annie, tell me about your name.”

  Annie’s mouth dropped open. “Huh?” That one came out of nowhere. She hadn’t expected it, but she should have. After all, everyone made a comment when they learned her first name. She made sure not to allow many to learn it. Those pesky official documents existed unfortunately, like the ones for the psychiatrist.

  The woman smiled and waited. “Your name?”

  No getting out of it. She cleared her throat. “Well, there’s not much to tell really. My first name, as you read from my paperwork, is Happy.”

  “Happy Annie Holloway, that’s an interesting moniker. Do you like it?”

  This wasn’t helpful at all. “No.”

  “How did you get the name? Were you named after a relative? Who gave it to you?”

  Annie ground her teeth.

  Note to self, psychiatrists have a sixth sense for getting to the heart of a matter.

  “My father thought it would be great to name me Happy. He was wrong.”

  “You could have changed it once you reached adulthood.”

  Annie clutched her hands together and leaned forward. “Is there a reason you’re harping on my name? I thought we would discuss other stuff like…”

  She had no idea what other subjects they could talk about in her life unless she was prepared to lie. Too late, she realized just how much attention Dr. Verville gave to the survey she asked Annie to fill out ahead of time. Annie had come ill-prepared. On some level, she suspected she had done it on purpose.

  The doctor set her computer aside. “Annie, several of your answers mentioned your dad and not in a positive light. One statement in particular made me think there’s something much more involved regarding him. I like your name, and I thought we would start on a lighter note, but perhaps that’s not the case.”

  “I keep the name Happy because I have a notion that if I change it, I will change, too.”

  “In what way?”

  “To be like him. It can be hereditary.”

  “What can?”

  Annie’s lips sealed of their own accord. She couldn’t say. Of course she knew she had a problem, if one wanted to give her mental stability such a mild description. She was self-diagnosed as having borderline obsessive-compulsive disorder. Up until now, she could deal with it. Not once had she ever let it hold her back from all she enjoyed in her life.

  Annie thought that was the extent of the issues, but sitting here, hardly beginning to discuss her family and herself, a sense of foreboding came over her. If she admitted the truth then what? Jane had overcome their dark past, and Annie let everyone think she did, too. Reality was different, and only Jane knew how different.

  “Insanity,” she mumbled at last. “My father is in prison for murdering my mother and—”

  “I’m very sorry to hear that.”

  Annie nodded.

  “You were about to say something else?”

  “He also…” She tapped a finger on her leg. Embarrassment brought heat to her face. “Jane and I…as kids…”

  “I understand. You believe he is insane?”

  “He is, but he failed to get the insanity plea to pass. Jane and I testified against him. She was twelve at the time, and I was ten. We saw it. So you see, I know it doesn’t make any sense, b
ut I keep the name Happy because if I don’t, I might become like him. I know the name doesn’t make the woman. It’s just the way it is for me, doctor.”

  “And are you happy, Annie?”

  “I’m the happiest person I know. I’m living my dream, and I don’t let my past stop me.”

  “That’s wonderful. Many people find it hard to move past a traumatic experience. You should be proud of what you’ve accomplished.”

  A load of tension melted from Annie’s shoulders. She didn’t know what she had expected, but Dr. Verville helped her to feel more comfortable, not judged at all. They chatted as if they were, if not friends then close acquaintances. Annie needed to recall this atmosphere so she could write it into her book.

  She leaned back and crossed one leg over the other. Her thighs decided to duke it out, so she uncrossed them again. “Well, since I’m here, I guess I’ll just tell you, I might be OCD.”

  “Oh?” The laptop returned to the doctor’s lap, and she typed a few notes. Annie took a mental picture.

  “Yes, I wash my hands a lot.”

  “That doesn’t constitute OCD.”

  “I can’t touch the sink even with a nail without washing my hands. My head swims with the amount of bleach spray I used on a daily basis. I have a routine about using gloves, like using rubber bands on the ends and replacing them after each session. That can get expensive, but I make sure to budget for it. I check that the doors are locked multiple times at night and after I leave the house. I check regularly that my bank cards haven’t crawled out of my purse and wandered off, and I carry a ridiculous amount of items in my purse, which probably don’t need to be in there. This list goes on.”

  Annie pulled in a huge breath and blew it out. The relief of telling the doctor all that was like a confessional.

  “Is there anything else?” The doctor’s tone remained even and encouraging.

  “Wasn’t it enough?”

  “I can tell by your expression and your body language, you gained some relief in sharing your challenges. If there are more, it may help to talk about them.”

  “I’m scared of chicken.”

  “Scared of it?”

  Annie’s tension returned, and she squeezed one hand into a fist. “You can get E. coli from raw chicken.”

  “Yes, and there are simple steps to combat this.”

  “True. My head knows it, but it takes me an hour to decide to cook chicken in particular. I won’t give it up. It’s my favorite food, but I have to get my mind ready in order to handle it. Then I wash my hands at least ten times during and after.”

  The doctor took more notes and nodded her head. “Working with chicken for you sounds like it’s tied to the OCD.”

  “Yes, so how do I fix it?”

  The doctor smiled. “Well, there are several methods we could use to approach the problem, one being you could practice not following your routines. You would keep this up until the habit breaks.”

  Panic stirred in Annie’s chest. She pressed a hand to it and tried to calm the racing that had started up from the suggestion. “You mean don’t wash my hands?”

  “No, E. coli is a real concern. I meant not washing your hands ten times for starters.”

  Annie swallowed. She almost felt like walking out of the room and finding the nearest bathroom.

  “How does that make you feel, Annie?”

  “Like you’re talking nonsense,” she admitted.

  “How about tackling one of your lesser habits like the bank cards. How do you check to see that they haven’t wandered off as you put it?”

  “I stick my finger through the gap between the zipper and the side of the purse. When I’m out of the house, I open my wallet to see if the cards are there.”

  “So how about this? You resist sticking your finger in the gap, and you don’t check your wallet more than one time while you’re out.”

  Annie’s other fist curled on her lap. A bead of sweat broke out on her upper lip. She tapped her foot and tried to imagine following through with the doctor’s suggestions. Pulling it off seemed impossible.

  “I don’t believe that will work for me.”

  “Fair enough.”

  Annie expected the doctor to be offended having her toss the solutions to Annie’s issues back at her. She sensed no such sentiments. Either the doctor had thick skin, or she would make a fantastic poker player.

  “Annie, we can take things at a slower pace. You can keep a journal, which we can discuss each time you visit me.”

  “Each time?” Annie hadn’t intended to come more than once.

  “Yes, conversely, we can try medication. There are some on the market, which actually help reduce symptoms of OCD.”

  Annie groaned. “So you’re saying I was right? I do have it?”

  “Yes.”

  Annie rubbed her forehead.

  “It’s nothing to be ashamed of. Sometimes when we suffer traumatic experiences, we can feel out of control. The subconscious mind seeks ways to bring that control back into our lives, and we develop certain habits that help to make us feel better.”

  Annie recalled washing her hands after finding the body. For a moment, she considered talking to the doctor about discovering Paul and how it had taken her straight back to the past and seeing her mother’s lifeless eyes. Her mind crawled in reverse away from that subject. She wasn’t ready.

  “Well, I suppose I could come back,” she said. Determination to get past her fears had brought her this far in life. If she talked to the doctor, maybe her fear wouldn’t come to pass. “But I’m not taking medication.”

  “Okay, will you consider the journal?”

  “Sure. I’m a writer. It’s what I do.”

  “Great.”

  They discussed various other exercises Annie might be willing to do in order to work through her problems, along with discussing everything with the doctor. Annie set goals of what she would like to accomplish during the sessions, and when her time lapsed, she took her leave.

  In the parking lot, she sat still for a few minutes going over the session in her head. Then she pulled out her cell phone and opened an app for typing notes. Like a demon, she clicked away, transcribing all she had learned while talking to Dr. Verville. Her heroine at the therapist’s office would be great.

  When she was done, Annie chewed her lip and skimmed what she had written. A knot formed in her belly. Was she really going to do this? Face the past? A part of her wanted to call the doctor and cancel the appointment for a follow-up visit she had made.

  An alternative popped into her head. What if she modified her usual self-therapy? Annie maintained it was writing that helped her get all the negative feelings out. What if she took it one step further and tried to solve Paul’s case? Finding a murderer and getting him off the street might ease her fears. If nothing else, it could give her a sense of power and control.

  “I’ll do it,” she muttered, grinning. “I’m not the kind of woman that takes anything lying down anyway.”

  Excitement coursed through her veins as she started the car and pulled out of the parking lot. For now, she would also take that extra step and continue talking to the doctor. Two weapons were better than one.

  Chapter Seven

  Annie pulled into her driveway and cut the engine. She twisted around toward the back seat and grabbed the two bags she had placed there. Every time she told herself she wouldn’t go to the grocery store in the middle of the week, she did anyway. Maybe if her life depended on keeping a budget, she would actually keep it.

  As she gathered the bag handles, she caught sight of something in her peripheral vision and looked up. Marianne jogged down the road and passed Annie’s driveway. Sure, Marianne kept herself in top shape being a gym trainer, but as far as Annie could recall, she never jogged.

  Annie squinted after Marianne as the trees obscured part of her from view. She wasn’t dressed for the activity either. Annie climbed out of the car in time to see Marianne’s boyfriend Jason fol
lowing. Across the street, another neighbor popped into view and left her home to join in the processional, another then another.

  “Now hold on,” Annie muttered. “Everybody didn’t decide to get a little exercise at the same time. Something’s going on.”

  She checked the time and found that it had just gone past seven in the evening. Being late summer, the sun hadn’t gone down yet. Everyone would be off work, except those with late shifts tonight. A ding sounded on her phone, and she switched over to the messaging app.

  “Annie, get down here quick.”

  Annie frowned. What could Stacy want? Well, everyone had been migrating in her direction. She hesitated. All the hullabaloo lately had scattered her mind. She hadn’t written close to as many words as she needed to. In fact, she had intended to shut herself inside her office the moment she stepped into the house.

  “Darn it, I have to know.” She hurried to the house and dumped the bags and her purse inside. A moment to put the ice cream in the freezer and grab a pen and small notebook was all she allowed herself. Then she took her purse with her and locked the door to run back to the street.

  At the end of the half block, she paused to catch her breath. A small crowd of neighbors formed around the spot where Paul died. Annie joined the fray and stood on her toes to see above the taller people. She failed. Her heels hardly left the ground, and being of average height had its disadvantages.

  Not to be deterred, she elbowed a couple people aside and squeezed her plumper figure between a few others. At last, she popped out at the front to come face to face with a man she had never seen before. The man, about six foot two stared at Annie, mouth tight, nostrils flared, and eyebrows low over iced caramel eyes.

  What did I do?

  “Who are you?” he demanded.

  Not to be intimidated, Annie flashed her best grin. “Hi, I’m Annie Holloway. I live right there.”

  She hooked a thumb in the direction of her house although she might have been pointing to the trees from the look of it. The big man’s gaze never left hers. She waited a beat for him to introduce himself, but he said nothing. Was he a new detective assigned to the murder case?