“That’s a great idea,” she said.
“I know, right?”
“Except, you can’t pay your rent.”
“All the more reason to move.”
“And houses out there are priced higher than you can count.”
“It sounds silly when you put it that way.”
“You know those women in nursing homes who have to be restrained around the clock because they mix up everyone’s medication and steal all the bedpans?”
“Yes,” I said, wondering what I was walking into.
“That’s going to be you.”
She was probably right. If I lived that long.
* * *
I drove up to a stunning adobe casita with a three-car garage and a manicured lawn, wondering if I could afford something like that if I sent all my purchases back and sold Misery. Behind it were the Sandia Mountains and in front, gorgeous red-rock canyons. Julia met me out front and led me around the house to the back.
“I got a call from Mrs. Lowell,” Dr. Penn said as she showed me to an outside patio behind the house. She had a fire burning in a kiva fireplace. “I’ve been expecting to hear from you. But I didn’t expect you to show up on my doorstep.”
Wonderful. Had Mrs. Lowell called the PTA as well? Maybe Harper’s childhood friends? Or her second-grade teacher and high school volleyball coach. She must have been on the phone for hours.
Dr. Penn, an averaged-sized woman with long gray hair pulled back into a hair clip, motioned for me to sit, her outdoor furniture elegant to the extreme. “I can’t talk about the case. I’m sure you know that.”
“I’m aware that you can’t talk specifics, so I was going to ask some more general questions. You know, things that could apply to anyone.”
She offered me an impatient smile.
“Do you know what the symptoms of PTSD are?”
“Are you going to attack me, Ms. Davidson?”
“Not at all. I just want to make sure you know the symptoms.”
“Of course I know the symptoms.”
“Did you not recognize them in Harper? It sounds to me like they were genuine.”
“Do I come into your office and tell you how to run your investigations?”
I thought a minute. “Not that I’m aware of, but I haven’t been in my office for a while now.”
“Then please, Ms. Davidson, don’t tell me how to diagnose a patient. I think I’ve had a few more years of experience than you.”
Snobbish much? “So, what you’re trying to tell me is that you screwed up but you can’t take it back because it would look bad.”
“You can see yourself out, yes?” She rose and started for her back door.
I stood as well. “Or did Mrs. Lowell pay you to misdiagnose Harper? To keep her drugged and compliant?”
If my stepmother’d had money, I had no doubt in my mind that she would have done that very thing. To shut me up. To keep me from causing trouble or embarrassment.
She turned on me. “I am a psychologist. I rarely recommend drugs and am not licensed to prescribe them.” She turned to her fireplace. “Every psyche is different. Some are more fragile than others. Harper missed her father, what she once had with him. She saw Mrs. Lowell as a threat. It’s all in the timing.”
“Ah, the marriage. But what if something else happened? Looking back, knowing what you know now, could she have had a form of PTSD?”
With a sigh of resignation, she said, “It’s possible. But I even tried regression therapy.”
“You mean hypnosis.”
“Yes. I shouldn’t be telling you this, and I only am because Harper hired you and her stepmother said to cooperate, but she lost a chunk of time. A week, to be exact. She couldn’t remember anything about the week she spent with her grandparents. Nothing at all.”
“And she’d stayed with them during the Lowells’ honeymoon, right?”
“Yes, but they doted on her hand and foot. Now, that is all I can tell you. The Lowells are very good friends of mine. I’ve already overstepped the bounds of confidentiality.”
“I just have one more question.”
With a beleaguered sigh, she said, “Fine. What is it?”
“Are you renting or did you buy this outright?”
* * *
When I’d asked Dr. Penn about her house, she became slightly volatile, accusing me of accusing her of taking payoff money to be able to afford her luxurious lifestyle. I really just wanted to know if she was buying or renting. Clearly we’d gotten off on the wrong foot.
On the way back to the big city, I called Gemma for more intel. “So, how’s the head?” I asked.
“What the hell did Cookie put in those margaritas?” She sounded like she had a cold. It was funny.
“Your guess is as good as mine, which is why I only had one.”
“Oh, my God, I had like twelve.”
Being the loving, nurturing sister that I was, I laughed. “Let that be a lesson.”
“Never drink twelve margaritas in a row?”
“No,” I said with a pfft. “That’s totally acceptable. Never trust Cookie.”
“Got it. Have you seen my pants?”
“Speaking of which, how did you get home without them?”
“I borrowed a pair of your sweats. I ran into a convenience store with them on. I talked to neighbors out in their yard when I pulled up. And only after I got inside did I realize they had ‘Exit Only’ written across the back.”