“I still feel guilty, so I suppose I’m not cured. You’re right.”
“Yes. I can tell.”
I watched her uncork a bottle to let it breathe, the sleeves of a white cotton blouse rolled up to her elbows, forearms as firm and strong as those of a woman half her age. I did not know what Anna had looked like when she was young, but at almost seventy, she was an eye-catcher with strong Teutonic features, short white hair, and light blue eyes. Opening a cupboard, she reached for bottles and in no time was handing me a Scotch and soda and fixing herself a manhattan.
“What has happened since I saw you last, Kay?”
We carried our drinks to the kitchen table. “That would have been before Thanksgiving? Of course, we have talked on the phone. Your worries about the book?”
“Yes, you know about Abby’s book, at least know as much as I do. And you know about these cases. About Pat Harvey. All of it.”
I got out my cigarettes.
“I’ve been following it in the news. You’re looking well. A little tired, though. Perhaps a little too thin?”
“One can never be too thin,” I said.
“I’ve seen you look worse, that’s my point. So you are handling the stress from your work.”
“Some days better than others.”
Anna sipped her manhattan and stared thoughtfully at the stove. “And Mark?”
“I’ve seen him,” I said. “And we’ve been talking on the phone. He’s still confused, uncertain. I suppose I am, too. So maybe nothing’s new.”
“You have seen him. That is new.”
“I still love him.”
“That isn’t new.”
“It’s so difficult, Anna. Always has been. I don’t know why I can’t seem to let it go.”
“Because the feelings are intense, but both of you are afraid of commitment. Both of you want excitement and want your own way. I noticed he was alluded to in the newspaper.”
“I know.”
“And?”
“I haven’t told him.”
“I shouldn’t think you would need to. If he didn’t see the paper himself, certainly someone from the Bureau has called him. If he’s upset, you would hear, no?”
“You’re right,” I said, relieved. “I would hear.”
“You at least have contact, then. You are happier?”
I was.
“You are hopeful?”
“I’m willing to see what will happen,” I replied. “But I’m not sure it can work.”
“No one can ever be sure of anything.”
“That is a very sad truth,” I said. “I can’t be sure of anything. I know only what I feel.”
“Then you are ahead of the pack.”
“Whatever the pack is, if I am ahead of it, then that’s another sad truth,” I admitted.
She got up to take the bread out of the oven. I watched her fill earthenware bowls with chili, toss coleslaw, and pour the wine. Remembering the form I had brought, I got it out of my pocketbook and placed it on the table.
Anna did not even glance at it as she served us and sat down.
She said, “Would you like to review her chart?”
I knew Anna well enough to be sure she would not record details of her counseling sessions. People like me have statutory rights to medical records, and these documents can also end up in court. People like Anna are too shrewd to put confidences in print.
“Why don’t you summarize,” I suggested.
“I diagnosed her as having an adjustment disorder,” she said.
It was the equivalent of my saying that Jill’s death was due to respiratory or cardiac arrest. Whether you are shot or run over by a train, you die because you stop breathing and your heart quits. The diagnosis of adjustment disorder was a catchall straight out of the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders. It qualified a patient for insurance coverage without divulging one scrap of useful information about his history or problems.
“The entire human race has an adjustment disorder,” I said to Anna.
She smiled.
“I respect your professional ethics,” I said. “And I have no intention of amending my own records by adding information that you consider confidential. But it’s important for me to know anything about Jill that might give me insight into her murder. If there was something about her life-style, for example, that might have placed her at risk.”