THAT DAY AND THE NEXT, I CALLED BEVERLY GARDENER’SOF-fice several times, only to get Agnes. I left messages about rescheduling but got no reply. I thought of calling Nick about it but didn’t want to, except as a last resort. Besides, I was busy. I had a new patient, Celia Dukell. Celia was fifteen years old and had been carving herself with razor blades off and on for three years. Our first sessions went well enough, but I suspected she was saying and doing what she thought she was supposed to say and do. Her family portrait showed her as a bland and hollow figure amid relatives of substance and color. A polite, controlled, only slightly revealing sketch.
My other cases were demanding, as well. Amanda, almost completely bald now, drew her family without including any image of herself. Hank wouldn’t paint at all until the bristles on his brush were perfectly aligned, which was never. sydney, having adapted to his medications, began a still life of a vase, but the vase in his sketch, unlike the model, was severely chipped and cracked.
Evie Kraus finally painted something other than her literal surroundings. she did a self-portrait, examining her features closely in a mirror while she worked. I looked over her shoulder to see what she’d drawn; like the tattoos covering her arms, it was a coiled, thick snake, devouring a cat.
I finally heard from Dr. Gardener on Wednesday morning. I’d begun to think that I’d never see the profile, that Nick might have reconsidered having my input on the case. Then, Wednesday morning, I smelled flowers, heard the quick clack of heels against tile, and looked up to see Dr. Beverly Gardener herself bursting like floodwaters into the arts and crafts room.
“You must be Zoe.” Her eyes focused on me, drenching me with their intensity. she wore a cranberry tweed suit with a knee-length skirt that showed off her incredible calves, and she examined me from head to toe and back to head again, as if measuring me for curtains. “I’m Beverly Gardener. Nick stiles’s friend.”
His friend? Not colleague? Not consultant? His friend. Okay. I got it. Her makeup was simple, accenting her green eyes, and her dark hair was done up in a neat chignon. I stood to greet her. In her low heels, she was taller than I in my flats; I had to look up at her when we spoke.
“Nice to meet you.” I extended my hand to shake; she cupped it in hers like a wounded bird, watching me. studying my. reaction?
“Nick said to pass this along to you.” she handed me a large white envelope, her eyes not leaving mine. “Thank you.”
“You live right in the middle of it, then? You found the finger?” “Yes.”
“How awful for you, dumpling.”
Dumpling? I remembered now; on her radio show, she used epithets all the time. Callers were “honey” or “peach.” It was her shtick to talk in food.
“Well, not as awful as it was for the woman who lost it.”
“I imagine not.” Her eyes probed mine, studying me. I felt them, hot like spotlights. “But cupcake, have you talked it out with anyone?”
Oh, please. Was she going to play sixty-second shrink with me? “Thanks for your concern, Dr. Gardener. I’m fine—”
“Really? Because Nick says you’ve been upset about the nanny case. He said one of the missing women is your friend.”
“Did he?” sonofabitch discussed me with her? What else had he said? That I was easy? That I’d hopped into bed after just two slices of pizza? “He must have caught me at a bad moment.” Damned if I was going to let on that I was upset.
“Look, sugar, you don’t need to impress me with your strength. This case is brutal. Horrible. You’d be nuts not to be upset.” Her eyes were jade green. “Professionals like us don’t like to admit that we can have problems, too. We’re supposed to be invulnerable and help everybody else. But guess what? We’re only human. sometimes we need a shoulder to lean on just like everyone else. so if there’s anything I can do for you—anything at all—just call. You hear?” she seemed sincere. Despite the food nicknames and the fact that she hadn’t answered my calls for three days, I found myself oddly drawn to her. Warmed by her energy, flattered by her attention. Almost believing her sincerity Almost wanting to.
“Thanks,” I said. “I’m really fine, though.”
“I hope so.” Her voice was husky, like smoke. Her eyes glowed like green embers. “We’re on the same team, after all.”
We were a team? I pictured us in football uniforms, huddled around Nick. Not a good image. I blinked it away.
She was leaving. Heels clacking on my floor, reviving me. I remembered the message I had for her.
“Oh, Dr. Gardener?” Damn, why hadn’t I said “Beverly”? “There was a man at your office, Phillip Woods. He was waiting to see you—”
“Woods?” Her eyes widened. “He was? Oh, Christ. When?”
“Monday morning. He said he was your friend.”
“I’m sure he did. Actually, he’s more like my devotee. He’s a groupie. An infatuated fan. He writes letters and e-mails, sends me flowers, hangs around the radio station hoping to catch sight of me. I guess it was only a matter of time until he showed up here.”
Were we talking about the same Phillip Woods? “Really? He didn’t seem the kind of person who’d intrude that way.”
“Actually, he’s not that unusual. I’ve come to expect that sort of thing—it comes with celebrity. When you’re in the public eye, people begin to think they actually know you, even that they’re in love with you. Like Phillip Woods. He has a crush on me. It’s a nuisance, but no big surprise.” She shrugged. “Thanks for telling me. I’ll take care of it.”
When she waved good-bye, the air shimmered around her; after she’d left, the room seemed empty and deprived. Except for the lingering scent of her perfume, I was alone with her profile.