Adjusted to Death Read online

  I nodded in agreement and wondered if this was her idea of occupational therapy. It was certainly a lot better than hanging around in the waiting room reading chiropractic propaganda.

  I went back down the hallway and slid open the door of the last room. The walls of the room were mauve, the floor tiled with alternating blue and white diamonds of color. The only furnishings were two treatment tables and a chair. The first table was a multipurpose therapeutic couch on which patients were massaged by electrically operated rollers underneath the leather. It also had attachments for traction and other un-imaginable tortures. I tripped over one of those attachments as I entered the room, a long metal bar whose purpose I didn’t want to think about. I picked it up gingerly and set it down on the lone chair.

  The second table had a narrow padded surface with a hole at one end where your face could rest. On it Scott Younger lay face down, his arms dangling over the edges. I wished I could relax like that. His hot-pack had even slid off onto the floor, apparently unnoticed. When I lay on that table, I always clutched the handles on the sides during that endless stretch of time before Maggie arrived to pop my spine into place.

  “Maggie says to tell you she’ll see you in about ten minutes,” I said.

  He didn’t answer. I figured he was asleep.

  Sighing, I crossed the room and touched his shoulder softly to awaken him.

  It was then that I noticed a small pool of blood on the back of his neck, just above the collar. I stopped breathing. The pool seemed to shimmer in psychedelic red clarity against the blackness of his hair. With icy hands I grabbed his shoulder and shook it hard; it was unnaturally heavy.

  “Maggie!” I screamed.

  -Two-

  Maggie and Wayne were a close match running into the room, but Wayne sprinted ahead at the doorway. Maggie regained the lead quickly though once she saw my expression, shoving both of us aside to take Younger’s pulse. She shouted over her shoulder at Renee to call an ambulance. When she couldn’t find a pulse in Younger’s wrist, she moved her hands up toward his carotid artery. Her eyes widened as she saw the blood. She felt the back of his neck with those large, strong hands, and her face lost all color under its freckles.

  “Better make that the police,” she said.

  “The police?” asked Renee at the doorway.

  “His neck is broken.”

  Wayne yelped and moved to approach Younger. Maggie gently intercepted him.

  “He’s dead. You can’t do him any good,” she said.

  My upper torso floated selfishly toward the only chair in the room, dragging my weakened legs along unresisting. I flopped down onto that chair, only to pop back up again, goosed by the hard edges of the object beneath me. It was the metal bar. I picked it up and resumed my seat.

  “Can’t be dead,” Wayne said, and then repeated himself softly.

  Eileen came in and wrapped her dark arms around Maggie. Maggie’s large form seemed to melt into the smaller woman. Wayne dropped to the floor next to my chair. I could see the tears oozing through his fingers, which he held pressed tightly over his eyes. My hand began moving of its own accord to stroke his hair, but my attention was arrested by the bar I still held. It was about a yard long, maybe half an inch thick and two inches wide. The edges were smoothly beveled. At the edge of the bar furthest from my hand I saw a red stain. I let go of the bar. It clanked loudly on the tile floor.

  A collage of faces turned toward the sound. Valerie had entered the room, erect as ever, but mouth gaping. Ted followed her, looking unexpectedly frail. At the doorway I could see Devi pulling Tanya back out of the room and Renee looking in past them. Eileen and Maggie stared in my direction as one, still holding on to each other. Only Wayne seemed unaffected by the sound, isolated in the world contained by his fingers. The chiropractor’s office no longer smelled sterile. It smelled of sweat and something else I didn’t want to identify. I felt nausea rising.

  “I think we should all sit in the waiting room until the police come,” said Renee, her voice unexpectedly calm.

  It seemed like a good idea. We all walked out slowly and silently, leaving Scott Younger and the metal bar behind. Only Wayne turned back at the doorway for a final look.

  Once back in the waiting room I sat next to him. Belatedly, I realized mine was the chair last used by the late Scott Younger.

  “Who would like some coffee?” Renee asked. Beaver Cleaver’s mother couldn’t have been more gracious under such stress.

  “Do you have any herbal tea?” I replied.

  Maggie laughed shrilly. “I can’t believe you’re worried about caffeine at a time like this,” she said.

  “Do I need to be jittery at a murder?”

  The ‘m’ word was out of my mouth before I engaged my brain. The room became silent again, except for Devi’s hoarse breathing.

  “I’ll have some herbal tea, too, if that’s okay, I mean if it’s no bother,” said Devi finally. “Well, maybe you don’t have any, but if you did—”

  “That’s okay,” Renee cut her off. “We’ve got some.”

  “Oh, good, thank you. Maybe Tanya would like some too, or maybe—”

  “It’s all right, Mom,” Tanya said. She put her arm around Devi’s shoulder, brushing against the chandelier of sparkling crystals the woman wore around her neck. Healing crystals are considered more potent in Marin County than Vicks VapoRub. I felt a sudden surge of pity for Devi. Bad enough to be present at a murder, but miserable to have a cold at the same time.

  “Sorry I flaked,” said Wayne next to me. “Shock, I guess. Better now.”

  I felt better too. I was breathing evenly again, the colors around me were no longer dancing, and I hadn’t thrown up. I could feel a hint of warmth returning to my hands. Then I remembered the metal bar I had picked up. The murder weapon, for God’s sake. I was certain. I wondered who else’s fingerprints were on it. My hands went icy again.

  “Weren’t you involved in a murder before, Kate?” Maggie piped up.

  I felt eight faces turned toward me, a jury of my peers finding me guilty. Except for one, I thought. One of them knows I didn’t kill Younger.

  “I wasn’t involved in that murder as the murderer,” I explained, my voice sounding squeaky even to my own ears. “Nor this one,” I added quickly.

  “Of course not,” said Wayne. “You couldn’t be.”

  I turned toward his unhandsome face gratefully. What a kind man, I thought. Too bad he might be a murderer. But I couldn’t actually imagine him as a killer. True, he was the only one of us who had appeared to know Scott Younger well, but the tears that had trickled between his fingers had been real. And why would he want to murder Younger so publicly anyway? I looked around me.

  Maggie? Golden retrievers don’t commit murder. They might knock over your lamp or track mud on your rug, but murder? Eileen sat next to her, her gentle dark eyes large with sadness. Hard to visualize those eyes filled with violence.

  Renee came over to me with two steaming styrofoam cups. Now, she was a violent type. I could clearly picture her wielding the metal bar, her red-nailed fingers on one end matching the glistening red blood on the other. I shivered as I accepted one of the cups of tea from those fingers. The minty vapor floated up into my nostrils, and the heat of the cup warmed my hands.

  She gave the other cup to Devi. Devi was out of the running as far as I was concerned. I doubted that a woman who couldn’t ask for tea in less than five phrases was decisive enough to strike a death blow. And Tanya was just too young. At least I hoped this fifteen-year-old was too young to commit murder. I sipped the tea. It burned my tongue.

  “I’ll take a cup of that coffee now, if you don’t mind,” said Ted.

  A hardware-store owner would certainly know how to swing a hammer. How about a metal bar?

  “Valerie?” asked Renee. “Coffee for you?”

  Valerie shook her head silently. Her strong features were now sculpted in fear. Perspiration dripped from her face. Why?


  The shriek of a siren perforated the waiting room. Through the window I saw the arrival of a Mill Valley police car, theatrically spotlighted by a patch of sunlight showing through the low clouds. As the door to the police car opened, I felt that sinking sensation associated with getting a traffic ticket. But this was far worse than a ticket.

  The uniformed woman who jumped out of the car had a classic model’s face defined by high cheekbones and full, sensual lips. Her black hair was sleek in its long braid. She strode to the door, her dark eyes narrowing. As she entered the room her right hand traveled up to the gun on her belt.

  “Officer Terhanchi,” she announced. “I got a call about an emergency here.”

  “I called,” said Renee. “There’s a dead man in the last treatment room back.”

  “Are you sure he’s dead?”

  “His axis vertebra is fractured,” said Maggie. “He’s dead.”

  “Oh.”

  Another siren wailed to the door, and a plump middle-aged black man joined us in the waiting room. The friendly creases in his face were overridden by his current frown. Officer Terhanchi introduced him as Sergeant Green and attempted to explain the nature of Younger’s injuries.

  “Broken neck,” summarized Maggie helpfully.

  “There’s a long metal bar with blood on it next to the chair in there. I picked it up,” I said, not to be out done in helpfulness. Sooner or later they’d find out anyway.

  The two police officers shot each other identical glances, characterized by raised eyebrows. Then Sergeant Green warned us not to talk among ourselves, and disappeared down the long hallway. When he came back his frown had deepened to a scowl.

  “So which one of you hit the guy in the back room?” he asked.

  His answer was silence.

  “Any of you see who did it?”

  More silence. He sighed.

  “So who’s in charge here?”

  Maggie raised her hand uncertainly. “I guess I am. It’s my office.”

  Two more middle-aged men entered the room from the street. Neither wore a uniform. The first man was tall, pale and slender with short dark hair and a pencil-thin black mustache. The second was short, blond and barrel-chested, with the red skin that comes from a sunburn, or prolonged exposure to large doses of beer.

  “Glad this one’s yours, buddy,” said Sergeant Green to the taller man. “Luck of the rotation.” He walked the two men back down the hallway.

  Upon their return we were informed that Detective Sergeant Udel, the tall pale one, and Detective Inspector Parker, the short red one, would be taking charge of the investigation. We would be interviewed individually, and under no circumstances were we to enter the immediate crime scene, where Sergeant Green now baby-sat Younger’s body, or to talk among ourselves. Officer Terhanchi would stay with us in the waiting room to enforce the latter edict.

  They took Maggie first. Her shoulders slumped as they ushered her into her own business office. Poor Maggie. My eyes teared up as if her wretchedness was my own. It would be soon enough, I reminded myself.

  I needed something to distract myself from the mass misery that surrounded me. Wayne was ineffectively stifling renewed sobs. Valerie’s skin had turned an unattractive shade of grey. And Renee had taken to heaving large sighs in synchronization with the crossing and uncrossing of Ted’s corduroy-clad legs. Internally, recurring nausea and tremors competed for control of my body, while my mind attempted to forget the sight of Younger. I wished for a good movie or even a religious experience, but decided a magazine would do. I got up to reach for one, and Officer Terhanchi’s hand went to the gun on her hip.

  I quickly sat back down and remained seated for an hour and fifteen minutes more, until Maggie came back out of her office with reddened eyes and a message. She told me it was my turn to be interviewed.

  Detective Sergeant Udel sat behind Maggie’s desk. He shifted his weight in the beige chair uneasily as I entered the room. His face was shiny with sweat. He had removed Maggie’s stuffed animals and porcelain figures from her desk. I saw them piled unceremoniously in the far corner of the room. Inspector Parker sat in a side chair, notebook in hand.

  After introducing himself, Sergeant Udel asked me to picture it all in my mind and tell him exactly what had happened.

  I bobbed my head up and down energetically. I was ready to cooperate.

  “Why did Dr. Lambrecht send you in to talk to the victim?” he asked suddenly, thrusting his head toward me.

  It took me a moment to remember that Maggie’s last name was Lambrecht, and a longer moment still to consider the feasibility of explaining how come it had all been my husband’s fault. My hesitation couldn’t have gone unnoticed. I looked up and saw his intent dark eyes, measuring me for the gas chamber.

  “Everything was so busy,” I stammered.

  “Busy? What do you mean busy?”

  I told him about the late people, the early people and on-time Ted. I described the conversations I had heard and engaged in: the roller skating stockbroker, Tanya’s escape to the 7-Eleven, Ted’s business card and everything else I could remember. I even told him about crying in the restroom. When I got to the part about picking up the metal bar and finding the body, Udel’s questions flew at me like Alfred Hitchcock’s birds. Why did I think he was dead? Why did I pick up the weapon the first time? Had anybody seen me pick up the bar? The first time? How about the second time? Why did I touch it the second time? What about the other door to the room? What else did I touch? How long had I known the victim?

  Once I had explained in exhaustive detail every single thing I had done or observed that morning, the detective sergeant asked me the same questions again. Then again. I would never more be surprised by the stories of hardened criminals blurting out the truth under police questioning. If he had asked, I would have admitted: that I stabbed John Lee with the sharpened end of a pencil at age eight in a fit of ill-temper; that I had lied to my mother about where I went with my boyfriend one hot summer night in 1966; and that I still longed for the love of my almost ex-husband. Thankfully, his interrogation did not cover those areas.

  Detective Sergeant Udel accompanied me back to the waiting room after Inspector Parker had searched my purse and found nothing that interested him, taken my fingerprints, examined my hands, and scraped the underside of my fingernails. The room was now filled with the buzz of police officials, both in and out of uniform, and the smell of food. Assorted sandwiches, bottled drinks, candy bars, and other goodies were lying on a folded 7-Eleven bag. My stomach growled, queasiness and hunger arguing. But, before I had a chance to root through the pile for a tofu burger, Udel told Officer Terhanchi to search me and remove my outer clothing for analysis.

  “But I don’t have any clothes to replace them,” I objected. “I can’t drive home in my underwear. It’s cold out there.”

  “I’ll drive you home and you can change there,” offered Terhanchi. “Or we can go get you something at Nellie’s,” she said, pointing across the street to the “vintage clothing” store.

  “All right,” I said, reminding myself that it was a good idea to play ball with the police, even if it did mean paying Nellie’s inflated prices. Nellie’s was, after all, no ordinary thrift shop by self-definition, but an establishment dealing in the vintage apparel of the forties, fifties, sixties and seventies.

  Terhanchi searched me in one of the treatment rooms and then we were ready to leave. I turned for one last look at the waiting room.

  Only the police were talking. My murder mates were all silent, some of them eating. I could smell the tuna sandwich Maggie and Eileen were sharing. Tanya was gobbling a candy bar, while Devi sipped a mineral water absently. Had the police silenced Devi’s objections to junk food? Ted’s rabbity teeth were tearing into a turkey sandwich, and Wayne played with something on dark rye, his eyes downcast. Renee was rapidly alternating gulps of diet soda with bites of fruited yogurt. Only Valerie had nothing in her hands. She sat tall in her chair, with her eyes
closed, pink palms up. I silently wished her luck in regaining her state of bliss.

  I waved to the group as Officer Terhanchi ushered me out the door into the November chill. Only Maggie and Wayne waved back.

  “I’ve always wanted to go to Nellie’s,” Terhanchi confided as we crossed the street. I was glad someone was enjoying this.

  We stopped at the two-dollar bins on the sidewalk but these contained only belts and scarves and other accessories. I’d need more than that to cover my soon-to-be-stripped body. Inside, we found a thirty-dollar pantsuit, detailed in a white peace-pins design on a navy blue background. Terhanchi liked it. I did too. It looked just like one I had given to the Goodwill many life-styles ago. I took off my comfortable shabby black sweater and corduroys and handed them over to Officer Terhanchi. She carefully placed them into a paper box. I left Nellie’s in the pantsuit.

  It wasn’t until I was in the car driving home that I recognized the burn hole in the left knee. In my previous life, before health fanaticism, I had been a smoker. I had made that hole over fifteen years ago when I had dropped a cigarette while laughing uncontrollably at a Nixon impersonation.

  Realizing that I had just bought back my own pantsuit for thirty dollars, I began to giggle. My giggles grew louder and louder as I guided my car carefully through the screen of tears that obscured my vision.

  When I pulled into my driveway, my cat C.C. thumped across the redwood porch and down the four front stairs to greet me. I picked her up and passionately kissed her furry face. Impatiently, she jumped from my arms and led me to the front door.

  I heard my telephone shrill.

  - Three -

  I shoved the door open, threw my purse on top of one of the old pinball machines that littered the living room, and ran across the hall to beat my answering machine to the phone. C.C. was ahead of me all the way.