“Yes, she wanted me to join her in snorting it. I wouldn’t even begin to know where to get the stuff.”

  “And did you join her?”

  “No, I did not. I like to think of myself as a fairly adventurous person, but I wasn’t up to that.”

  Dr. Henshaw made further notes. “So how did she overdose, and why are you responsible?”

  “She just kept right on snorting it, and she kept on inviting me to join her the entire time.”

  “But you didn’t.”

  “No, I didn’t. I just watched. She told me it was time for her to leave and that she was very tired of it all.”

  “What do you think she meant by that?”

  “I think she meant she didn’t want to make a living by being a phony psychic anymore.”

  Once again, Dr. Henshaw jotted something down and then looked up. “Is that all there was to it?”

  “Isn’t that enough?” Charlotte fidgeted a bit. “I murdered her because I didn’t call 9-1-1 and just sat there while she kept on snorting right there in front of me with her eyes rolling back in her head. I could have saved her, but I chose not to. So that makes me guilty, the way I see it. I should spend the rest of my life in prison, the way I figure it.”

  “I understand now.” Dr. Henshaw glanced at his notes and changed the subject. “The first thing you mentioned to me was your husband’s suicide and how you had never gotten over that.”

  “Yes.”

  “Tell me more about that. You sort of skimmed over it before as if it weren’t all that important.”

  “You’re wrong about that. It was very painful for me, of course. But I managed to ride it out.”

  “How did you do that?”

  There was a hint of a smile on Charlotte’s face. “I stayed close to my friends and what family I had left at my disposal. I forced myself to get out there and entertain to keep my head above water. I was told that the worst thing I could do was to sit around at home doing nothing.”

  “That was certainly good advice. I would certainly have said the same thing to you had I been your doctor at the time. What kind of entertaining did you do?”

  “Believe it or not, I gave lots of parties. Dinners, luncheons, brunches on Sunday with champagne. Had people over for games of bridge and things like that.”

  Dr. Henshaw paused for a decent length of time. “I thought you said you were just beginning to learn the game of bridge from Wendy with this new group of friends here in Rosalie.”

  Charlotte’s smile grew wider, even mischievous. “All right, then. You caught me red-handed. I already know how to play bridge. I’m actually very good at the game. I’ve played both party bridge and duplicate bridge for a long time. I’ve even won a tournament or two, which is not the easiest thing in the world to do. I joined the group here in Rosalie because I needed to make some new friends. Pretending that I didn’t know how to play ensured that I would get lots of personal attention from Wendy. Being the expert elephant in the room might intimidate some people and turn them off. I certainly didn’t want that to happen. I had an excellent game plan, you see. Is that so wrong?”

  “No, not at all.” Then, Dr. Henshaw went for it, crossing his legs at the knee. “What else aren’t you telling the truth about? Did you really watch Aurelia Spangler snort cocaine?”

  Instead of becoming upset, Charlotte looked even more amused. She even puffed herself up a bit. “No, I made that up.”

  “Why?”

  “I-I don’t know. I’m not sure why I do these things. Sometimes, I don’t even think about them. They just happen.”

  “Maybe to get attention?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Maybe to feel important?”

  “Maybe.”

  Dr. Henshaw duplicated her smile with one of his own. “You could be playing a dangerous game in this instance. I’m bound by doctor-patient confidentiality to keep this session between us private, of course, and I assure you that I will do just that. But I suggest you not go around telling these types of stories to the police or Wendy or anyone else, for that matter. They might take you seriously. You also might be putting yourself in danger. Is there anything about the story you just told me that is true?”

  “Yes, I did visit with Aurelia Spangler at Overview that afternoon. I did not let her know in advance. I just popped in, and she was very surprised to see me at the door. Her cold reading had left me tearing up. It wasn’t so much that I was upset that she dredged up my Jimmy’s suicide as that it . . . well, it gave me something to do, somewhere to go. I like . . . acting out. It seems to be part of my nature. Sometimes, I think I should have been an actress in Hollywood, you know. I’m sure I could have been very, very good at it if I’d applied myself. Perhaps even a Meryl Streep type. She’s a chameleon, you know. I am, too.”

  “That’s very high praise for yourself, indeed,” Dr. Henshaw said, raising an eyebrow. “Just think. I might have had an Oscar winner sitting before me had you followed through on what you just told me.”

  Charlotte dismissed his comment with a wag of her penciled-in brows and changed the subject. “I want you to know that I really do miss my husband terribly. That much will always be true. I sort of fell off a cliff onto the rocks below when he left me the way he did. You have no idea how abandoned I felt. The worst part is that I felt responsible for my own loneliness.”

  “I believe you. So let me get my bearings here. Aurelia Spangler was alive and well when you left her?”

  “Yes.”

  Dr. Henshaw wrote quite a bit in silence, then finally looked up. “Do you want to continue to see me?”

  “Do you think I should? Do you even want me as a patient? I can understand why you wouldn’t. I’m so mixed up.”

  Dr. Henshaw laughed gently. “Please cut yourself some slack. You wouldn’t be here if you weren’t confused about things.”

  “I suppose that’s true.”

  Dr. Henshaw nodded very slowly, which imparted an extra element of wisdom to his words. “As long as you tell me the truth about things, I believe you may be able to benefit from some extended therapy. But let’s keep these stories of yours away from the police, shall we?”

  Charlotte’s smile finally disappeared. “Dr. Henshaw . . . I am not a bad person. I’m really not.”

  “No one said you were.”

  “Then why do I feel the compulsion sometimes to think of myself as one? Is that part of my problem?”

  There was an almost paternal aspect to Dr. Henshaw’s smile. “It’s complicated. But we can get into it as you continue to come to me. I don’t want to overwhelm you too soon with too much that’s clinical. My approach is to let my patients gradually discover what they’ve been doing so they can get a handle on getting it under control. That provides them with the best opportunity to succeed, and I do have an excellent track record.”

  Charlotte’s smile returned. “Actually, that sounds exciting to me. I haven’t had much control over anything since Jimmy died. I don’t know why, but control is extremely important to me.”

  “That makes perfect sense. But we can work on that, I promise you. With any luck, we should make some measurable progress together. I have to tell you that it won’t be an overnight process, but it will happen.”

  “I’ll look forward to that very much, then. I’m very thankful that Wendy spoke to you.”

  “I am, too. I’m proud to say that Wendy is one of my greatest successes, and I think you and I are off to a good start.”

  * * *

  After Charlotte’s hour was finally up in the good doctor’s indoor green jungle, and she had made her exit feeling uplifted and actually humming a little tune under her breath, Dr. Henshaw proceeded to his desk to scan his notes again carefully. When he had finished, he turned on his recorder and began speaking into it in that irresistibly unique way of his.

  Patient is Charlotte Ruth, fifty-seven-year-old widow in reasonably good health . . . after first session of approximately one hour, patient presented to me a classic case of histrionic personality disorder . . . she needs to be the center of attention and even lies about circumstances to achieve that end . . . the prognosis, I believe, is good with continued therapy, which patient has agreed to . . . I have advised patient not to repeat stories of being responsible for Aurelia Spangler’s suicide or murder to anyone, particularly police . . . it is possible that patient will not abide by my suggestion due to her HPD . . . her behavior is a persistent one . . . but I can deal with that should the circumstance arise . . . made an appointment with the patient one week from today at one p. m. and believe she will keep it . . . however, it has been my experience that a percentage of patients like this do not wish to undergo therapy and accept the reality of their condition . . . it is too strong an addiction for them . . . that would likely be the case if Charlotte Ruth does not keep her next appointment.

  CHAPTER 13

  Milton had his youthful exuberance and confidence back—that feeling that he would live forever like the cast of Fame insisted musically while dancing in the streets, and someday make many millions and live the life of a person on the cover of People. When he had graduated from LSU with his degree in theater arts, he genuinely believed that he could hurdle any obstacle in the way of his planet-wide success. He would eventually accumulate the power of Zach in A Chorus Line. Conquering Broadway? London’s West End? Of course he would play them and then later direct. It was a given that people would remember his name. He did not intend to change his moniker, by the way.

  Milton Bagdad.

  It already sounded like some Hollywood production company or agent had made it up, even though the days of renaming actors Rock Hudson and Tab Hunter were long gone. Ethnic was now in. His name blended the unassuming-sounding—Milton—with the intriguing and exotic. Yes, there might be a certain pejorative connotation to Bagdad. As in Iraq. The Middle East. Operation Desert Shield. But there was that slight difference in spelling—the insertion of the h— that set his name apart from the legendary city, and he further believed that his blond hair and fair skin pigeonholed him neatly into the favored white American category. He would ask for no favors in that realm, but neither would he turn them down if they came his way. So he was going to continue to be Milton Bagdad no matter what anyone else said.

  He could almost hear the announcement being televised around the world in the near future: “And the Oscar goes to . . . Milton Bagdad!”

  On this particular sultry evening, Milton was going to deliver his first telegram without Rex Boudreaux along as his security blanket and bodyguard. True, he had become used to his hulking employer by his side to reassure him that nothing could possibly go wrong and that he needed to push Aurelia’s vision out of his head once and for all. Boom! It had to go. So it was way past time to toss the crutch.

  “I’m ready to solo again,” Milton had said when Rex handed over a telegram inside the A-frame warehouse of a building that was Party Palooza headquarters. It was to be delivered to a Miss Barbara Kay Beasley from her “ever-lovin’ ” boyfriend, Robbie Pelton.

  “Looks like a straightforward delivery to me,” Rex had added. “Nice enough section of town. The high school sweetheart thing is a cinch. You’ve done these before tons of times. I’m glad you’re ready to return to top form.”

  Merrie had been equally reassuring as she patted him on the arm a couple of times.

  “We’ve got our old Milton back, and we couldn’t be happier. Now our customers are getting everything they paid for. So you wear that tuxedo proudly, young man, and sing your heart out.” She wanted to add, “Forget about that knife,” but she knew she didn’t dare.

  Then she had lowered her voice and started talking out of the side of her mouth. “I haven’t even shared with Rex some of the more graphic complaints we got after his so-called deliveries with you. He wandered all over the scale.”

  “I heard that,” Rex said, smiling good-naturedly from behind his desk. “I’d like to think I was like Rex Harrison reciting songs in My Fair Lady. But I’m sure I was more like Frankenstein’s monster out there. You know—me grunting a couple of times and then wanting to say, ‘Frankenstein not sing bad.’ ”

  The laughter that followed filled the room with an energy that Milton eagerly embraced. “I know you’re exaggerating, but it really is good to be back on track. Solo is the way to go.”

  So now Milton was on the way to 105 Powell Street in Rosemont, one of the post-WWII, tin-type developments on the outskirts of Rosalie that had made it possible for returning soldiers to start their families in affordable housing. In truth, these were smaller cottages with limited square footage, even by the standards of the era in which they were built; but they had held up well over the decades since and still functioned as starter houses for younger couples, or even retirement homes for the elderly. It was indeed a safe, stable neighborhood with a general American look and feel to it—far removed from the much-lauded, strictly regulated historical district that had long been Rosalie’s calling card.

  Milton had turned on the SiriusXM Broadway channel and was happily listening to the rapid-fire Seth Rudetsky talking up a show tune he was about to share with his audience:

  “. . . and we have all these wonderful revivals of South Pacific to choose from in addition to the Mary Martin original in 1949. So here she is from the 2008 version performed at the Vivian Beaumont Theater . . . Kelli O’Hara as Nellie Forbush with her toes in the sand singing ‘I’m in Love with a Wonderful Guy. ’ ”

  As he was prone to do so often when he was driving around town, Milton began singing along in his rich, tenor voice, ignoring the fact that it was a woman’s song, but he never worried about such gender-related facts. He had always been crazy about R&H scores, and the unbridled breeziness of “I’m in Love with a Wonderful Guy” always swept him away in three-quarter time to a Pacific Island beach during wartime.

  Now, wasn’t that a hoot? A millennial’s view of the Big War. If only the actual worldwide conflict had been that worthy of song and full of optimism with an audience applauding at every turn. Curtain and scrim down on danger, nuclear bombs, and all the rest.

  So caught up in the lyrics was Milton that he failed to notice that someone had been tailing him ever since he had traveled just a few blocks from Party Palooza—but not so obviously as to give themselves away. There were times when Milton got so carried away with his singing that he forgot to check his rearview mirror for large segments of time. It had even cost him a ticket here and there, and he had failed to have any success arguing his way out of any of them with lines like: “But, Officer, I just got carried away listening to ‘The Carousel Waltz.’ ”

  Ten minutes of “singing along with show tunes” later, Milton pulled up in front of his destination, shut off the engine, pulled out his pitch pipe to sound a middle C, and decided to rehearse his telegram out loud before going in:

  I’m here to say I love you, my sweet Barbara Kay,

  You know I want to say it to you every day,

  But this one time I’m singing on this bended knee,

  I hope you really like it and you smile with glee,

  There’s nothing on this earth that I would rather do,

  Than spending all the time I have and just with you,

  So one more time I’ll say it, my sweet Barbara Kay,

  I really, really love you,

  I say, I really love you,

  You know I really love you, Barbara Kaaaaayyyyyy!!!

  Your ever-lovin’ boyfriend, Robbbbieeeeee!!!

  Milton was very pleased with his rehearsal. He wasn’t sharp or flat on a single note. He was going to blow Barbara Kay Beasley away. So he got out of his car and walked briskly to the front door with not a care in the world. He was going to make someone’s evening, and that was all that mattered. Nothing could possibly go wrong now, and he anticipated another big tip for his spectacular performance.

  * * *

  The driver of the car who had been tailing Milton parked three or four houses down on the opposite side of Powell Street, far enough away to be able to observe things without being noticed. Now there was nothing to do but wait around for Milton to emerge from the house. Patient observation was the game plan here, and it was more than certain to pay off.

  But the wait was beyond boring, even angst-producing. There was a time element here to consider. There was also only the radio for entertainment to make the time pass. But it crawled by, no matter what songs were played or what news was being discussed on various stations up and down the dial on both FM and AM. It was all just a boring jumble of cacophony.

  Really, now. How long did it take to sing ten or eleven lines of saccharine verse? Apparently, a little longer than expected. Or maybe the telegram recipient was going gaga and had asked Milton for more.

  Finally, Milton bounded out onto the small covered portico, and a group of three or four people stood in the front door, waving and praising his singing. He turned and waved back one last time and said, “I enjoyed meeting all of you. Have a good night,” before sliding into the front seat of his car.

  In the parked car three or four houses down, the thought on the front burner of the very focused brain behind the steering wheel was one note: Mission accomplished, nothing bad has happened.

  The reality was that Merrie Boudreaux was fast becoming the mother hen of them all.

  “I’ve had this headache coming on all day,” she had told Rex just after Milton had left Party Palooza to deliver his telegram. “And it’s gotten the best of me now, I’m afraid. I’m gonna go on home and lie down and let you close up as usual.”

  Fortunately, Rex had complied without an argument and did not suspect what she was up to. “You shoudda mentioned it to me earlier and gone home then. But I’ve got a few more things to take care of, so I’ll see you there. Oh, and I’ll pick up a few things we need from the convenience store. I think we’re out of coffee creamer and that spicy hummus you like.”

  Merrie finished reviewing that conversation in her head and then waited a decent length of time for Milton to pull away from the curb and head toward his home. Then she turned the key in the ignition and pulled out herself. As she drove slowly through Rosalie traffic, she felt terribly conflicted. If she and Rex let their guard down, was there still a possibility that something devastating could happen to Milton and, therefore, to their business? Rex had done his part in holding Milton’s hand for several deliveries up to now but felt that it was past time to give the young man his wings again and push him out of his nest that he, himself, had built of pure fright.