Dead Past - By Beverly Connor Page 0,72

Hillard, psychiatrist friend and museum board member.

“Hi,” said Diane. “You call to tell me I’m a murder suspect?”

“I guess you know that some crazy woman’s been calling all of us,” said Laura. “I tried to set her straight, but it’s awfully hard to set someone straight who’s nuts—I know. Actually that’s not why I called. It’s about your employee, Juliet Price.”

“Juliet? Is she all right?” Diane walked back to her office as she listened to Laura.

“Nothing’s happened. Don’t worry. She’s been coming to see me. You know how I like to work—I have my patients come every day for a couple of weeks before I go to a weekly appointment schedule. I think the initial intensity gives them a lot of security up front and lets me get to know them better. Of course, I’ve had a few who think it’s just a money-making scheme.” She laughed. “Anyway, she gave me permission to speak with you. I thought you could help.”

“Me? How?” asked Diane.

“Her problems stem from that one tragic event in her life. She remembers only snatches of it. I’m working with her on that, but I have to be careful of creating false memories, so it’s going to be a slow process. But I think something happened recently that’s triggered post-traumatic stress reactions. She doesn’t know what it could be.”

“And you want me to find out? I don’t think . . .”

“No, no. I want you to take a look at her kidnapping. She has all the files in her possession. If you could solve it . . .”

“Solve it? Laura, what makes you think I can solve a—what is it—twenty-year-old case?”

“Isn’t that what you do?” asked Laura sweetly.

“Not exactly. Any bones involved?” said Diane.

Laura laughed. “None that I know of. How about it? I think it would help her to know what happened. All her life her parents shielded her from the information. Her stepmother meant well, but she wasn’t any help, either. Her father and maternal grandmother blamed her for her mother’s death. It wasn’t until she was an adult that she was able to find out much at all. Until then she only had strange memory fragments that frightened her. You might be the only one who can shed light on what happened to her.”

“OK, I’ll have a look at her files,” said Diane.

“Good. I’d like you to listen to the tape I made of her talking about her memories. She thinks it’s a good idea, but didn’t want to ask you herself.”

“All right,” said Diane.

“I knew I could count on you. Isn’t this more fun than going on a killing spree?” said Laura.

“That’s not funny, Laura. I suppose you heard about the McNair murder.”

“Of course. That’s the advantage of being ‘old Rosewood.’ We get to hear everything. I understand that addlebrained Councilman Adler is trying to take political advantage of these tragedies. Did you see him on the news, weeping over his nephew? He didn’t care a flip for his nephew. You can’t when you’re a sociopath, and Adler’s one if I’ve ever seen one.”

“No, I didn’t see him. For some reason he wants me to be the killer. I’m not sure I understand that.”

“Because you are part of the Rosewood police department, and he’s been gunning for them. He’ll stop that in a hurry. He’s made Vanessa mad and you know what she’s like when she’s mad. Attacking you is like attacking the museum, and that’s like attacking Milo, and she won’t have that.”

“Send me the files and tape,” said Diane.

“They should be on your desk. I sent them by courier. I knew you’d say yes.”

“You are awful, Laura,” said Diane.

“I know. But I get things done. I’ll talk to you later. I’m eager to see what you make of it all. Juliet’s having a hard time right now. Thank you for helping.”

“Sure, as you say, it beats going on a killing spree.” Diane looked accusingly at her phone after Laura hung up. “I can’t believe I said yes. As if I don’t have enough to do.”

Diane closed her office and went back to the crime lab where Jin, Neva, and David were bouncing ideas off each other.

“Any new theories on the crimes?” asked Diane.

“Nothing that makes any sense,” said David. “I think the kid just had his hand—pardon the pun—in too many pots.”

“You know, David,” said Jin, “I’ve been counting the number of times you’ve used a word that starts with p, and it’s a lot.”

David glared at Jin for a long

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