CHAPTER THIRTY
Riley’s hopes were rising as she parked in front of the house with the dignified sign that read LIFEGRASP COUNSELING, INC.
This could be it, she thought. This could be the break I’ve been looking for.
In fact, she was feeling sure that she was on the right track.
She got out of the car and walked toward the house. Other than the sign, it didn’t look like a business at all. It was just an attractive, wood-frame, three-story house in a neighborhood with houses much like it.
When Riley walked through the front door, a little bell tinkled to announce an arrival.
She found herself in an almost alarmingly peaceful space. What had once been a large living room had been painted in muted, pastel colors, with mildly surrealistic paintings hung from the walls. There was a scent of incense in the air, and droning music that featured wind chimes was playing quietly.
A woman rose from the front desk as Riley came in.
“How can I help you?” the woman asked, smiling prettily.
Riley produced her badge and introduced herself.
“I need to speak with whoever’s in charge here,” she said.
The woman suddenly looked concerned.
She picked up her desk phone, punched a button, and said, “Eleanora, a woman is here to see you.”
She glanced up at Riley and added in nervous whisper, “She says she’s from the FBI.”
A few moments later, another woman seemed almost to float into the room. She was about Riley’s age, and flamboyantly dressed in a puffy, colorful peasant dress. She had large hands that seemed to just love making large gestures. She also had an enormous, glowing smile and deep green eyes.
She immediately inspired Riley with a gut-level feeling of dislike.
Riley reintroduced herself, and the woman said …
“FBI! Oh, my! This must be serious!”
“I’m afraid so,” Riley said.
“Well, I’m Eleanora Oberlander, founder and CEO of LifeGrasp Counseling. Come on, let’s find somewhere we can talk.”
Riley followed her upstairs into an enormous room that looked like it had once been two or three smaller rooms when people had lived here. The same music was being piped in, and this room also smelled of incense.
The hardwood floor was scattered with rolled-up yoga mats, and chairs were stacked against the walls. It was easy for Riley to see that this was where at least some of the process groups were held.
The woman unrolled a couple of mats and invited Riley to sit down with her.
Riley was used to interviewing people who asserted their dominance one way or the other, often by placing themselves physically above her. Riley was sure that Eleanora was doing the same thing right now in her own way, by making Riley sit on the floor instead of fetching them a couple of chairs.
As Riley sat down cross-legged on the mat, she realized that her feeling of dislike was starting to morph into outright suspicion.
Eleanora said, “Now do tell me what this is all about.”
Riley said, “I’m working on a murder case.”
Although the woman’s expression changed a little, Riley couldn’t read her reaction.
“Oh—murder. How terrible! Does this have to do with those three prominent men who’ve been murdered recently?”
“It does,” Riley said.
“But what can that possibly have to do with LifeGrasp?”
Riley considered her words carefully.
Then she said, “We’re starting to think that the murderer could be a woman. An abused wife, possibly, or someone who knew they were abused. Someone who is very angry.”
Eleanora’s eyes widened, and so did that disarming smile of hers.
“Surely you don’t think that LifeGrasp is some kind of connecting factor,” she said. Then her green eyes narrowed and she added, “That sounds downright silly to me.”
Riley’s suspicions were rising. Something about Eleanora Oberlander really bothered her.
Is it possible that this is the killer? Riley wondered.
Or were her persistent suspicions triggered by something else entirely? She felt sure that something was wrong here.
Riley said, “Two of the murdered men’s widows have attended your company’s sessions. Morgan Farrell went to your clinic in Atlanta. Charlotte Morse went to the one in Birmingham. Did you get to know either of those two women?”
Eleanora tilted her head curiously.
“Agent Paige, are you accusing me of something?” she said.
“I’d just like you to answer my question,” Riley said.
A silence fell between them.
Finally Eleanora said, “There is such a thing as therapist-client confidentiality, you know. Do you have a warrant to go poking into such matters?”
“Not yet,” Riley said. “I could get one very quickly.”
It was a bluff, of course. And Riley could tell by Eleanora’s expression that she wasn’t falling for it.
Eleanora rose to her feet.
“Well, I think you should do that,” she said. “And in the meantime, if you don’t mind, I have quite a lot of important business to attend to.”
Suddenly, Riley’s suspicions took a much clearer shape.
She knew now exactly what she’d mistrusted about Eleanora.
She got to her feet and stood facing the woman.
She asked, “Tell me, Eleanora—this business of yours is properly certified, isn’t it?”
“Why, of course. I myself am a certified clinical psychologist. I can show you the certificates if you like.”
Riley could see a growing discomfort in Eleanora’s face.
Now she’s doing the bluffing, she realized.
Riley asked, “Where did you get your doctorate, Eleanora?”
Riley could see movement in Eleanora’s throat as she gulped a little.
“Thiebert University,” she said.
“I’ve never heard of it,” Riley said.
“I’m surprised,” Eleanora said. “It’s a very prestigious institution.”
“I’m sure it is,” Riley said, maintaining a tone of calculated politeness. “I ought to look it up, just out of personal curiosity.”
Eleanora’s smile disappeared entirely—and Riley was sure she knew why.
Thiebert University was nothing but a diploma mill.
And LifeGrasp wasn’t legitimately certified for any kind of therapeutic practice at all.
Riley knew she had Eleanora completely stymied now.
“Why don’t we sit back down, Eleanora?” Riley said.
She and Eleanora both sat down on the yoga mats again.
Riley said, “And now I’d like you to answer my question—did you get to know Charlotte Morse or Morgan Farrell?”
“I’m afraid I didn’t,” Eleanora said. “But that’s really not unusual. Although I frequently sit in on group sessions, I do very little hands-on therapy myself, and I’m constantly traveling among our clinics. I’m responsible for the quality of the overall program. My employees take care of the individuals who come to us for help.”
Riley felt sure that Eleanora was telling the truth now.
“Besides,” Eleanora added, “our clients seldom go by their real names.”
“What do you mean?” Riley asked.
Eleanora shrugged slightly. “One of the first things we do when a client shows up is … well, tap into her mythic identity, as we like to put it. We give her a list to choose from, and she adopts a name of some goddess or female mythic figure—Ariadne, Freya, Niobe, Isis, Ishtar, Kuan Yin, or what have you. And that’s the name she goes by in our sessions.”
Riley said, “But surely you keep track of the women’s real names.”
Eleanora blushed a little.
“Um, sometimes yes, sometimes no. I’m afraid we’re a little careless about that. Besides, some of our women are drop-ins who pay in cash and only come to a few sessions, then disappear again. Our records are rather … spotty.”
Riley felt a wave of discouragement.
How was she going to get any hard information in a place this poorly organized?
She thought for a moment, then said, “Surely your team of therapists report to you about what’s going on in their groups.”
“Of course,” Eleanora said.
“Have any of them happened to mention …”
Riley paused to consider …
What is it I want to ask, exactly?
Finally she said, “Have any of your therapists mentioned clients who’ve recently adopted warlike identities? Goddesses of destruction, maybe?”
Eleanora said, “We’ve got a few of those on our list. My team mentioned a few recent clients who chose those kinds of names. One woman called herself Anut, after the Egyptian war goddess. Then there was one who took the name of the Hindu warrior Durga. Oh, and I can remember one from a few sessions I sat in on right here. A woman called herself Brunhilda—you know, the Norse Valkyrie maiden.”
“Valkyrie?” Riley asked.
“Yes. The Valkyries chose which male warriors were to live and die in battle.”
Riley’s interest was piqued.
“What can you tell me about her?” she asked.
Eleanora chuckled and said, “Well, she was a tough young thing—pretty, but tough. Her husband was abusive, but she refused to get all weepy with self-pity about it, like so many of other clients. ‘I always come out on top,’ she liked to say.”
Riley felt a flash of recognition.
I’ve heard someone say those very words recently, she thought.
Then Eleanora squinted and said, “On the other hand, maybe she wasn’t so tough. Or at least not very honest. The last time she came here, she had a broken finger. The therapist was sure her husband had broken it, and so was I. But she denied it. She said she was clumsy, that she’d tripped and fallen.”
She knew perfectly well who this “Brunhilda” was.
But Tisha had flatly denied ever coming to LifeGrasp.
She lied to me!