Never Tomorrow Page 2

  Lily moved within inches of the cliff’s edge on the pretext of taking pictures.

  Kendra looked away. “I can’t bear to watch.”

  “I’m fine. This is my new Nikon.” Lily waved the camera.

  Kendra turned her back completely.

  Lily took advantage of the moment to stomp and thud to the ground about eight feet past the railing. She cried out, “Darn! I’ve twisted my ankle and can’t get up. Help me, please.”

  Kendra snapped around, covering her mouth with her hands. “Oh no. I’m sorry, I can’t.”

  “Come a little way past the railing so I can lean on you to get up. Ouch.” Lily moaned again. “It hurts terribly.”

  Kendra edged closer to the metal railing and gingerly leaned over. “Grab my arm. I’ll pull you back.”

  Lily planted her palms on the ground and feigned pushing herself up. She collapsed and grimaced. “I can’t get up. I need you to help me stand. It’s quite safe. Stay on the level ground.”

  Still Kendra resisted climbing over.

  “Owww,” Lily moaned louder.

  Kendra blinked rapidly. “Okay, I’m coming.” She lowered her head and inched over the rail.

  Kendra edged slowly over to Lily’s side. Lily jumped up like a tigress and whipped her arms against Kendra’s chest. Lily’s advantage of surprise and size prevailed.

  Kendra tottered, regained her balance a few seconds, then Lily shoved again, another strong, swift thrust. Kendra gasped and fell backward, her legs folding beneath her. Lily peered over the ledge as Kendra’s arms scrabbled for a root, a branch, anything. No foliage grew along the barren precipice.

  Her victim tumbled, thrashing wildly.

  Kendra’s scream echoed briefly before being lost in the sound of the crashing waves beating against the rocks.

  Lily stood for a time as if spellbound then calmly climbed back over the rail and wove her way down the path toward her car. The sun surged through the clouds, striping the cliffs with lavender. She stopped twice on her descent to snap a picture. Her fingers shook only a little, causing the sapphire stones in her bracelet to shoot off glittering rays.

  At the base of the trail, two tourists sat in their car, engrossed in a map on their laps.

  Lily inhaled deeply, strolled past them, and headed for her auto, confident no one had seen what went on above. Kendra had fallen. That was all. There was nothing anyone could do.

  The next day, the local paper reported that nuns on their morning stroll from an oceanfront convent had found a female tourist’s battered and bruised body washed up in a cove. The name was withheld pending notification of nearest kin.

  A week later local news reported that, after investigation, police ruled Kendra Starin’s death an accident or suicide. She wasn’t the first person to fall from the Cliff Walk, despite the warning signs. Kendra’s tour group had been contacted as a matter of routine. They said she’d completed her itinerary, and they had no contact with her after the tour ended. They were extremely sympathetic but could give no information.

  Lily read the article and smirked. The other female travelers Kendra had met were back in their respective states and probably never even heard the news. Not that it mattered to Lily. Even if Kendra’s acquaintances had been questioned, no one knew the last name of the woman who had stopped by their table the night before the accident. Besides, the woman was heading to the Ring of Kerry.

  The tour company wouldn’t be informing other tour members of this tragic event. Kendra was an independent traveler at the time of her death.

  Two weeks later in the States, Lily searched out a tiny obit in her local paper with the information that an urn containing Kendra Starin’s remains had been flown home in cargo and buried immediately at St. Margaret’s Cemetery as requested by her husband.

  Lily visualized “Accidental Death, Case Closed” stamped on the paperwork recording Kendra’s demise.

  No one would ever know anything else.

  TWO

  A year later.

  Gusts of wind blasted Whitney Barnes’s shoulder-length hair the moment she stepped from her Honda Accord. She checked her watch then quickened her stride. Tight for time again, nothing new about that. As editor of the Cortland Courier, Whitney seemed to thrive on a rushed pace.

  With its countywide circulation, the Courier was puny compared to big players in the news industry, but Whitney enjoyed more control than she’d have at a major paper. She loved her job and had been lucky to get the head position at her age. Her career wasn’t the problem. Whitney checked the sign on the door of the tan brick building before she entered—Cortland City Counseling Center. Hopefully this appointment would resolve her anxiety issues and she could get on with life. She’d enter the counseling process the way she did everything—all circuits go.

  Masking her pain wasn’t difficult since she was a skilled pretender, but inner grief submerged her emotionally into grayness. She often felt like a drowning victim. She wasn’t too proud to finally admit she needed help. Mom would have wanted her to consult a professional.

  Inside the lobby she scanned the list of names then headed down the hall to Office Suite 1C. Five chocolate brown vinyl chairs with chrome arm rests sat on nubby blue carpeting. All were empty except one occupied by a middle-aged man engrossed in Sports Illustrated. The office formality was softened by a huge potted fern in one corner, draping fluted arms in three directions. A middle-aged woman in a fuchsia and pink striped dress shuffled papers into files behind a glass window. Her nameplate read, “Peg Forester—Receptionist.”

  Whitney approached and Peg slid the glass halfway open. “May I help you?”

  “Whitney Barnes to see Dr. Karen Trindle.”

  Peg reached for a clipboard and handed it to Whitney. “First visit, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “Please fill out these new client forms.”

  Whitney clutched the board and walked over to the rack of magazines against the wall because she wasn’t ready to sit yet. She browsed and selected a three-week-old Newsweek, more for its familiar cover than to read after her paperwork. She selected a chair and penned four pages of answers about where she lived, insurance, etc.

  The sole man at the end of the row of chairs kept his eyes glued to his magazine, much to Whitney’s relief. This wasn’t the sort of place she wanted to make small talk.

  Whitney finished as the side door opened. A frail-looking woman with a thick head of white hair emerged. Beside her, guiding her by the arm, strode an attractive woman in her early-fifties. She transferred the lady to Peg to make another appointment then strolled over to Whitney and stretched out her hand. “Hello, I’m Dr. Karen Trindle.”

  Her handshake was brief but warm, her demeanor engaging and somehow comforting. Whitney liked her smile.

  “Please follow me.”

  They entered an office that seemed more of a living room with a plump blue and gray striped sofa and two wide wing back chairs. Whitney settled on the edge of one. Uncharacteristically self-conscious, she wished she were anywhere else.

  Dr. Trindle eased into her seat directly across from Whitney and scanned her intake papers. She assured Whitney of complete confidentiality, tucking a notepad on her lap. “I may jot notes from time to time as you speak. Now, Ms. Barnes, may I call you Whitney? Let’s start with the primary issue that prompted you to come see me?”

  Whitney sensed warmth and sincere concern in the inquiry. She relaxed her grip on the arms of her chair. “My mom’s been deceased a little over a year, Dr. Trindle...” A chill settled over Whitney. How she hated saying the word, “deceased.”

  “I’m so sorry for your loss. By the way, please feel free to call me Karen.”

  Whitney stalled, searching for words. How to describe the hardest thing in her life now? Handling deep loneliness since her Mom—her very best friend—had died was dreadful. She’d expected that, but not this anxiety, the restless, unsettled feeling, and palpable concern about her mom’s fate that she c
ouldn’t rationalize away.

  Whitney rubbed her palms together. “I still struggle with my mom’s death.”

  “A year is still very fresh grief.”

  “I often wake up in a cold sweat in the middle of the night, clutching my bedcovers, my body rigid. I know this anxiousness isn’t healthy.” Whitney leaned forward. “I chose you as my counselor because when I was away at college, Mom wrote me that she came to you for counseling. Do you remember her?”

  “I hate to disappoint you, but I don’t recall anyone with the last name Barnes.”

  “Mother used her maiden name, Kendra Starin. She hadn’t lived in this area long before her death. She and Dad downsized when I went off to school in England. When I returned, I jumped at the chance to come here to work, thinking it would help me feel close to her. I doubt many people around town know that Kendra Starin was my mother because of our different last names. Do you remember now?”

  Karen studied the ceiling as if her records were visible there then shook her head. “I see many women. Perhaps some details about her history would refresh my memory.”

  “Around the start of menopause, Mom struggled with depression. I was away at graduate school but could tell when I talked to her on the phone she wasn’t herself. I asked about it, but all she’d say was, ‘I’m a little down, I’ll be fine. Don’t worry, sweetie.’ I didn’t. I believed she was getting over it.”

  “Many women have problems with depression during middle age. Unfortunately, without pulling my files, I can’t remember the details of your mother’s case.”

  Whitney lifted her shoulder bag from the side of the chair, rummaged within, and pulled a small picture from her wallet. She handed it over.

  Karen held the photo in her manicured fingers, examining it in silence for several seconds. “I remember her now, a dear woman. She came several times. I read there was an accident and she lost her life. But not here. Some other country, wasn’t it?”

  Whitney nodded. At the moment it was easier than speaking. She drew a breath then related the details of her mother’s death in Ireland, scant as they were, and finished by saying, “Doctor.... I mean Karen, I have no peace that her fall was an accident. It’s never made sense to me. I think that’s why I’m so upset.”

  Karen’s eyes widened further. “You think she took her own life because of her depression? Poor thing, no wonder you…”

  Whitney interrupted. “No, I mean ... I hope not ... certainly people have suggested that...”

  “Of course, one never rules suicide out in cases of severe depression.”

  Whitney stiffened her shoulders as if her posture could add force to her words. “Mom would never have made arrangements to meet me at Oxford if she intended to commit suicide in Ireland.” Whitney’s voice escalated. “As soon as my spring break started, we were going to tour England together.”

  “Then her death was surely an accident.”

  Whitney shook her head. “Mom was timid around heights and ultra-cautious in general. I think she met with foul play. Nobody but me suspects that, and I can’t come up with a motive. I know it sounds bizarre, but I can’t shake the feeling no matter how hard I try.”

  Karen sucked in her breath. “My, this is unusual. Surely the authorities investigated thoroughly?”

  “I doubt they did in an effort to avoid adverse publicity for the local tourist trade. An accident or suicide, which this wasn’t,” Whitney’s eyes focused sharply on the counselor, “would be less likely to scare tourists away than murder.” She longed for Karen to agree.

  “Isn’t this murder premise a rather bizarre conclusion? What would be the motive? Was anything missing—money, jewelry?”

  “Her traveler’s cheques were accounted for, and she’d left her jewelry at home.”

  “Wise for traveling,” Karen murmured. “Whitney, people don’t murder without a motive. You haven’t come up with any explanation for her untimely death?”

  “The other day it occurred to me you’d still have records from my mom’s sessions. I’d like to see them. That’s another reason I’m here.”

  Karen shook her head. “That’s why you scheduled an appointment? Do you have other issues of your own we should discuss?”

  “Mom’s my major concern now. I’ve had stuff in the past. Typical teenage angst. After high school I took a while to figure out what I wanted to do and ended up in graduate school after college. I’d always thought I’d marry right away and be a homemaker. In my early twenties, I kept looking for ‘my man’ around every turn. It didn’t happen. I’ve adjusted to being single. Now I have a career I love and couldn’t imagine fitting a husband into my life.”

  Karen scratched a note on her pad. “I see.”

  Was that a dubious tone? Karen probably doesn’t believe I’ve made peace with singleness. “Back to my mother’s records, there may be a clue there. Mom’s death intrudes into my dreams, and my stress over it isn’t getting any better. I’d hope you could shed some light on her final weeks. Now that she’s dead, you can’t mind releasing her information to me.”

  Karen drew a deep breath. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, but that’s impossible. Ethics are very clear in situations like this. Even though your mom is deceased, I can’t release her records to you.”

  Whitney glanced away to hide her disappointment. It took every bit of her willpower not to cry.

  “Whitney, the loss of a parent is extremely difficult. It’s easy to get stuck emotionally, but you can move forward with professional help. We can explore your good memories together. I’ll guide you in refocusing this event to reach acceptance over what happened.”

  In spite of her resolve, Whitney’s eyes filled with tears. “I would like to remember my mother with joy. I can hardly discuss her death.”

  Karen reached over and patted Whitney’s hands clasped in her lap. She murmured in a soothing tone, “An experience with death brings forth conflicting feelings. One is fear that what happened to your mom could happen to you. Has that idea ever disturbed you?”

  “No.” Whitney shook her head. “I’m a Christian. I became one almost a year and a half ago. Since then I’m not afraid of dying. My problem is the weird circumstances of Mom’s death. It doesn’t make sense to me. I can’t shake this agitation that started the day I received the news.”

  Karen shrugged. “Certainly unfinished emotional business can cause inner turmoil.” Her voice was kind but firm. “The past can be a treasure or a curse. Nothing can be done until you choose to move on.”

  “I want to remember Mom without the pain.”

  “You can enjoy your life, but first you must give up this fixation about the cause of your mom’s death. Your desire to accept what happened is key.”

  “Of course, I want to move forward. I don’t like having my relationships with other people and my work affected by this constant distress over Mom.”

  Karen’s phone dinged with a message. She glanced at it quickly and turned it off. “Good. That’s a healthy desire.”

  “Instead of getting better, the strain is worse. I can’t ignore my unrest over her death any longer. I’m planning a feature on unusual female deaths of Cortland City’s residents using material I’ve been researching. I’ll include my mom’s story.”

  “Under the circumstances, that’s unwise.” Karen shook her head. Her chin-length, brown bob swayed neatly from side to side. “You make it sound like there’s an epidemic of murdered women. I hardly think so.”

  “You’d be surprised how many.”

  “I can’t recommend you pursue this emotionally stressful project. It will only deepen your fixation. If you like, I can help you deal with your grief during our counseling sessions.”

  Whitney dropped her head in her hands. “I want closure somehow.”

  “Grieving is a process.” Karen explained the stages of grief and discussed a treatment plan that would help Whitney put her feelings of loss into words. “You’ll need to let go of this confusion about your mom�
�s death to heal. I suggest a series of six appointments.”

  As their session ended, Whitney’s shoulders drooped. She’d hoped to feel better but instead was totally drained. She clutched her handbag and made another appointment, wondering if she’d keep it.

  Outside, the air had stilled. A ribbon of gray clouds was strung out over Lake Wionna. Whitney reached for a tissue and blew her nose before starting her car. Why hadn’t she talked heart to heart more with Mom when she was alive?

  Could there be something in her mom’s past that made her a target for murder? Or worse, made her want to kill herself? Whitney pounded her fist on the steering wheel. No, she wouldn’t believe that.

  Whitney drove about a mile until tears blocked her vision. “God, I need Mom here. I miss her. I want to believe she’s with you and I’ll see her again, but how can I be sure when she didn’t even know you?”

  Pulling over to the curb, Whitney dropped her head onto the steering wheel and wept.

  THREE

  Clumps of low clouds hovered over the lake, obscuring Dr. Karen Trindle’s view of the opposite shore from her office window. Her mind was hazy too. Who would have ever thought she’d be counseling the daughter of Kendra Starin? Karen hoped she’d provided the young woman some comfort, but Whitney had a long way to go. She should have come for help sooner. What else was new? So should eighty-five percent of her clients.

  Karen sighed. Whitney didn’t know the underlying issue that had brought her mother to counseling, and ethically Karen couldn’t tell. She checked today’s appointment printout. Ed, a recovering alcoholic, was late, but who wouldn’t be in these driving conditions? If he didn’t arrive within fifteen minutes, she’d have Peg reschedule him or be hopelessly behind the rest of the day. Unlike some counselors, Karen prided herself on punctuality, a comfort to clients who were emotionally troubled. She wouldn’t add to their stress by making them wait.

  Did Ed’s tardiness mean he’d slipped off the program? She hoped not. He’d been progressing well giving up alcohol dependency, but anything could happen. She’d helped him dissemble his alibis and typical blame patterns, but the pull of addiction was powerful. Had he succumbed? Seeing people get free again gave her great joy. If I could wave a magic wand, I’d remove all blame and rejection and guilt—the three biggest cripplers.