Not Guilty Part 23

"Plenty of time. Dr. Stover was called out on an emergency. It could take a while," said the secretary. "Do you wish to wait? We can reschedule."

Do I wish to wait?Keely thought.No. But I will. I'm not leaving until I see him.

"I'll wait," she said firmly.

It was nearly two hours later when the secretary put down her phone and turned in her chair. "Dr. Stover is ready to see you now," she said.

Smothering a sigh of frustration, Keely rose from the chair and entered the office.

Dr. Stover, an overweight, bearded man in his sixties, stood up and came around the corner of his desk.

"Mrs. Weaver," said Dr. Stover. "I'm sorry you had to wait."

"Well, I wanted to be sure I saw you today," Keely said, unsmiling.

"I'm glad you're here," he said, resuming his seat. "I wanted to see you as well. Just give me another minute."

Keely sat down in the chair he indicated. While Dr. Stover shuffled through some papers on his desk, Keely looked around the office at the framed diplomas on the walls, the shelves of psychiatric textbooks.

"Now, Mrs. Weaver," he said.

Keely sat up straight in the chair.

"Let's talk about Dylan. His suicide attempt came as a great shock to you, I'm sure."

"It certainly did," said Keely.

"Does your son have any history of psychological problems? Has he ever been treated by a psychiatrist, or a psychologist before?"

Keely shook her head. "No, never."

Dr. Stover raised his eyebrows. "Not even when his father committed suicide?"

Keely immediately felt the rebuke in his words. "No," she admitted.

"Did you consider getting him some professional help? That had to have been very traumatic for Dylan."

Keely took a deep breath. "Dr. Stover, my husband . . . Dylan's father was . . . tormented-I can't think of a better way to describe it-tormented by migraine headaches. No treatment seemed to help. Dylan was aware of this. I mean, even as young as he was. Our lives very much revolved around Richard's headaches. So, even though I realized his death was a shock to . . . to both of us, I didn't think . . . I thought Dylan would be able to accept it in time. With a lot of help from me."

"In retrospect," he said, "do you think that was the right decision?"

Keely looked at him squarely. "I did the best I could at the time. I don't see any point in wis.h.i.+ng I could change the past."

"And yet, when your second husband died, you still didn't seek any help for your son. Is that right?"

"It was so recent," Keely said, hating to make excuses for herself.

"I have a note here that you did call me on the very day of Dylan's suicide attempt. Did he exhibit any behavior that indicated he was suicidal?"

"Like what?" Keely asked.

Dr. Stover looked at her in surprise. "I would have thought you would be aware of those signs after the death of your husband."

Keely stared back at him for a moment without speaking. She could hear the disapproval in his voice. "I don't know what you mean," she said.

Dr. Stover nodded. "Well, for example, we often find that people who are suicidal talk about doing things for the last time. They'll take leave of a person and remark that they won't be seeing that person again. They often give away prized possessions just before the act. Entrust them to others. Say they won't be needing them."

"They telegraph their intentions, in other words," she said, "hoping someone will stop them."

"Yes, they often do."

"No. The answer is no. Neither one of them did."

Dr. Stover frowned.

"I'm not saying that to exonerate myself," said Keely. "I failed Dylan, okay? I failed both of them. I admit that. I'm not making excuses. But, no, those things you said-no, they didn't."

"You seem like a perceptive woman, Mrs. Weaver. Are you saying that you had no warning?"

"I knew my first husband was suffering. But he wasn't a man who liked to talk about his feelings. He was a scientist. He prized . . . objectivity. He tried any number of drugs to try to cure his headaches. Nothing helped. He never talked about ending his life, but obviously, he thought about it. As for Dylan, well, I knew he was depressed. Under the circ.u.mstances, it seemed . . . reasonable. I was depressed myself." Keely sighed. "What's the use of wis.h.i.+ng I could change the past? I have to think about today. How my son is doing right now. I mean, you've had a chance to talk to him. How does he seem to you?"

"He's anxious, depressed, I would say-not severely, surprisingly."

"He told me you prescribed medication."

"That's right," he said. "I've prescribed a mild antidepressant for him."

"What will this drug do for him?" Keely asked. "I mean, is it something he's going to have to take for a long time?"

"As long as I feel he needs it," said Dr. Stover. "It's meant to calm his anxieties, keep him from sinking too low."

"Side effects?" she asked.

"Sleepiness. Often there's a loss of appet.i.te. It has a dulling effect on the libido in some people."

"Nothing permanent, I hope," she said.

"No, nothing permanent. I want him to take it in addition to regular therapy."

"That would be good," she said. "I think he needs someone to talk to."

"Does he talk to you, Mrs. Weaver?"

"Not as much as I'd like him to," Keely admitted.

The doctor s.h.i.+fted in his chair. "Have you and Dylan ever talked about his own father's suicide?"

Keely frowned. "Yes. A little bit. He was just a child . . ."

"Did you ever think that it might have something to do with Dylan's suicide attempt?"

Keely nodded slowly. "I've read that suicide is more common among the children of people who died . . . that way."

Dr. Stover nodded. "My impression is that your son is keeping a lot of his pain about his father's death hidden."

"You're probably right," Keely admitted.

He paused, then said, "There have been certain allegations, in the newspaper, by the district attorney . . ."

"Oh no," Keely began. "Don't start that . . ."

Dr. Stover sat back in his chair and gazed at her.

"Look, Dr. Stover," said Keely. "The district attorney is a woman named Maureen Chase. She used to be engaged to my second husband, Mark. Ever since Mark's death, she has been persecuting my son out of some kind petty desire for revenge. I know I probably sound paranoid, but believe me, it's true.

"Dylan had nothing to do with the death of either of my husbands. It wasn't guilt that drove him to attempt to take his own life. If anything, it was because he couldn't make anybody, including his own mother, believe that he was telling the truth."

Dr. Stover c.o.c.ked his head and scrutinized her. "That's an interesting theory, Mrs. Weaver."

"If by interesting, you mean crazy . . ." Keely said sharply.

"No, I mean interesting." A faint smile crossed his face, and he jotted down a note on the papers in front of him.

"I've promised Dylan that I will find out exactly what happened on the night Mark died so that we can put an end to Miss Chase's innuendoes." She thought of Wade Rovere's visit and her face reddened. She hoped the psychiatrist didn't notice. "I think it's important, if you're going to treat Dylan, that you believe him as well."

"I'm on Dylan's side, Mrs. Weaver," Dr. Stover said cryptically.

Keely nodded and met his gaze. "He needs someone on his side. Someone besides me."

"Yes, but I can see that you are a staunch ally."

She could not detect any irony in his voice. "Thank you," she said. "Really. Thanks. I appreciate your saying that."

Dr. Stover nodded.

Keely took a deep breath. "I guess the other thing I really want to know is when I can take him home. I mean, can't he have his therapy as an outpatient? His sister and I really miss him."

"Well, I understand your . . . eagerness, Mrs. Weaver, but there are other considerations involved. It's my job to evaluate these young people and their living situations. We have to do everything possible to make sure that they don't repeat their suicidal behavior. They might not be lucky enough to survive another attempt." He tapped on a pile of papers. "I have a very . . . troubling report here from the social worker that contains many . . . critical remarks about your home and your parenting of Dylan."

Keely's face flamed. She didn't know how to defend herself from the social worker's accusations. She knew that attacking Mrs. Erlich would not win her any favor from Dr. Stover. "I . . . I had a feeling that she . . . that I was not . . ." Keely stopped and took a deep breath. "I was very nervous, Dr. Stover. It's awkward to have your home and your life . . . put under the microscope, so to speak. I'm afraid I didn't express myself very well. There may have been some misunderstanding between us."

Dr. Stover nodded gravely "I understand. Still, I have to take Mrs.Erlich's report very seriously, Mrs. Weaver. Your son attempted suicide. That puts the question of your parenting very much in the forefront of my mind."

Keely swallowed hard. "I don't know what I can say. My children are everything to me. I love Dylan more than life itself. I'd do anything to help him. Anything at all." Then her shoulders slumped. "I suppose all parents say that."

Dr. Stover frowned. "You'd be surprised," he murmured. He glanced at his watch. "I'm afraid that's all the time we have, Mrs. Weaver." Dr. Stover gazed at her impa.s.sively and pointed his pen at the door.

26.

Maureen Chase unlocked the door to her cottage and looked back over her shoulder at Phil Stratton. "Would you like to come in for a drink?"

It was a time-honored invitation that usually suggested some sort of intimacy to come, but Phil had his doubts. The evening had started out well enough, as they had a lively conversation about some of their pending cases over their drinks and appetizers. But by the time Maureen had had several gla.s.ses of wine and he'd brought up the subject of Dylan Bennett and the boy's role in his stepfather's death, her conversation got stuck on one note and never really moved on.

She was looking at him expectantly.

"Sure, why not?" said Phil. He followed her into the house.

The main room was a combination of kitchen, dining, and sitting areas. The love seats were slipcovered in flowery fabric, the china in her free-standing cupboard had ivy vines on it, and the gas fire, which Maureen hastened to light, was flanked by a needlepoint screen. All around the room were flower bouquets in vases, candles, and perfumed bowls of potpourri.

She looked up at him from beside the hearth.

"Nice place," he said. "Very pretty."

"I cleaned it up for you," she said.

"Really nice," he said. He could hear how flat his compliment sounded.

"Have a seat," she said, pointing to one of the love seats.

"Oh, thanks," said Phil.

"Beer?" she asked.

"Yeah, that would be great," he said, more enthusiastically.

She walked into the kitchen area and removed a beer and a bottle of wine from the refrigerator. She uncorked the wine and poured it into a gla.s.s. "I used to enjoy a beer," she said, "until I met Mark. He was a wine lover. We always talked about taking one of those barges that goes through the countryside in France and stops at different wine regions. He really helped me to appreciate the differences between wines and the quality of different vineyards."

She carried the beer bottle over by its neck and handed it to Phil. Then she clinked her gla.s.s against the green bottle. "Cheers," she said.

She sat down beside him on the love seat, and he instantly felt cramped by her proximity.

"Don't get me wrong," Maureen continued, "I don't have much patience for all those affectations-you know, a hint of blueberry and tobacco in the finish. But with Mark, it wasn't like that. I mean, he was not a pretentious person. He just had a fine appreciation of the pleasures of life."

Phil closed his eyes and tilted his beer bottle to his lips. Obviously, the change of scene hadn't jarred her focus. More about the life and times of Mark Weaver. He didn't think she even realized how monotonous and boring their dinner conversation had been. When he'd tried to tell a story about something, she would immediately be reminded of some tale about Mark Weaver. The connection might be gossamer thin, but she didn't seem to care.

Maureen was sitting close to him now, and he could feel the warmth of her skin. He even thought she might be coming on to him. Their thighs were touching as they sat side by side on the same small sofa. But if he put a move on her, even if she were willing, he had an uneasy feeling that he would just be standing in for a ghost. There was a point, when he was younger, when scoring was everything. He didn't feel that way anymore. He couldn't just go through the motions. It was too tough on the psyche. He needed to know that a woman was really interested in him before he went to bed with her.

She seemed to have noticed his silence. "Music?" she asked.

Phil shrugged and s.h.i.+fted into the corner of the loveseat. "Sure. Why not?"