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Weaver's Needle

Barbour Publishing, Inc.

Unless you get one of those miracles they're always talking about in church, I don't see how you'll be able to keep the business open into spring."

Landry leaned back in her father's old chair — it creaked, but it didn't comfort her as the sound usually did. "I don't understand."

Her best friend and accountant closed her attaché case then stood. "I'll send you the final audit report next week, but Landry, it doesn't look good." She gave a half smile and squeezed Landry's arm. "I know why you wanted to start your own business, and I understand. I do." Marcie shook her head. "But with taxes and rent and overhead ... it's my professional opinion you've bitten off more than you can chew. I'm sorry."

Landry exhaled through her nose and stared out the dirty window into New Orleans's early February grime. Mardi Gras would come later in the month this year, but right now, it was only rainy and dismal out, just like her financial status. "No, the truth is what I need." She forced a returning smile. "I'll look over what you've given me, but will wait for your report before I meet with Dad's lawyer." How would she tell him that she'd single-handedly killed her father's dream in less than a year?

"Hang in there." Marcie walked out of Landry's office and into the hall. "Are we still working out later tonight?"

"I can't. I have a meeting."

Marcie sighed. "Landry ..."

"No, I really do." She shifted scraps of paper around her desk until she found the pink slip. She carried it with her as she walked Marcie into the front room of the office. "A prospective client. Supposed to meet at her house at six this evening."

Marcie stopped and faced her. "Since when do you make house call appointments? Isn't that the point of having an office?"

Landry gave a humorless chuckle. "Apparently I need to take appointments any way I can."

Her friend didn't smile. "It doesn't sound safe. I don't like it."

This time, Landry really laughed. "You watch too many scary movies."

"No, I watch the news."

"You're beyond serious." Landry waved the pink note again. "Besides, it's Uptown. I think I'm safe."

"Where?"

"Right by Audubon Park, baby."

Marcie raised one eyebrow. "Who, pray tell, are you meeting there?"

"Probably someone who wants me to recover a piece of art their great-aunt somebody sold a hundred years ago." But Landry read the name off the note anyway, snorting. "A Winifred Winslet. Who names their kid Winifred?"

Marcie's eyes went wide, and she slowly shook her head. "Winifred Winslet? Are you kidding me?"

"Uh, no. Do you know her?"

Marcie rolled her eyes and set her case on the reception table. "You really should start watching the news yourself, girl. Winifred Winslet is wealthier than wealthy. Old money. She was born into it, then married Bartholomew Winslet and merged their companies into Winslet Industries. One of the largest private oil baron companies in the South." Marcie perched on the edge of the table. "How do you not know this?"

"I don't keep up with the society pages." But if the wealthy woman wanted to hire her, Landry sure wouldn't turn her away. Not when she needed the money so badly, according to Marcie, whom she trusted more than anyone else. "Socialites don't interest me."

"Two weeks ago, the Winslets were all over the front page of every paper." Marcie lowered her brows. "You really need to stay abreast of the news."

Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. She didn't have time to sit in front of what Dad always called the boob tube. "I'll start, I promise, but tell me why they were on the news."

"Bartholomew Winslet was murdered."

Landry sank onto the arm of the couch in the front room. "Murdered?"

"Yeah. A robbery gone wrong, so the news said."

"Maybe that's why she wants to meet with me." She'd never been hired to recover something that might be linked to a murder.

"I don't have a good feeling about this, Landry. The news said the police had no suspects. You shouldn't get involved."

Probably not. Then again, she was known for getting involved when she shouldn't. "Won't do any harm to just meet with the poor widow. Hear what she needs recovered. Maybe it's something totally unrelated to her husband's murder."

"Uh-huh." Marcie stood. "I don't like it."

Landry pushed to her feet and chuckled. "If I stayed home every time you got a bad feeling or didn't like a situation, I'd have been broke long before now."

"You aren't broke, Landry. It's your company. You need to sit down with the attorney and go over my report." Marcie grabbed her case. "I still can't figure out why he was so big on you opening your own business. You could've kept doing recovery work for the insurance company."

"Because that was Dad's job." While she'd done a remarkable job, the board of directors hadn't been too happy to find out she'd been doing Dad's job for him in his last months. Without notifying them.

But she hadn't had a choice. Not really.

Marcie smiled. "They should have hired you, and everyone knows it. You're good."

Probably, but she would've had to jump through hoops, and after her discharge, she refused to jump over anyone's hurdles again. "But not good enough." It hurt her to even consider defeat.

"You aren't a CEO, Landry. You excel as a recovery specialist. That's where your strength is."

She nodded and crossed her arms over her chest. "Thanks again for the audit."

Marcie paused at the door and pointed at her. "You be careful tonight."

Landry grinned. "Yes, ma'am."

"And call me when you get home."

"Yes, Mother."

"Joke all you want, but I'm serious."

Landry gave her friend a quick hug. "I'll be careful, and I'll call you when I get home. Okay?"

Marcie gave a curt nod then ducked into the mist.

After locking the front door, Landry returned to her office and slumped into the chair. She stared at the mementos of her life, all crammed into one bookcase. The Distinguished Service Medal she'd received just prior to her discharge from the army. The custom-made frame holding her military police badge. Photos of her mom and dad at her officer training graduation. Photos of Landry and her father.

Her eyes burned as she stared at the tattered remnants of her life. She leaned back in her chair — once her father's — and pinched the bridge of her nose. How had her life gotten so messed up? First, Mom died right after she relocated to her first base assignment. She finished up her obligations to the army then moved back home to New Orleans. Then two years ago, Dad's diagnosis.

It was hard to believe he'd been gone almost a year. Not a day went by that she didn't think of him. Miss him.

She swiped her face and glanced at the clock. With traffic being what it was, if she didn't leave now, she'd never make it to Mrs. Winslet's on time for their appointment.

Maybe, just maybe, this job would help her get the financial footing she needed.

God, I need a little direction down here in my life. I think I've made a mess of everything.

* * *

What now?

Nickolai sat in front of the clinic director's chair. He crossed his ankles. Straightened his legs out in front of him. Then crossed an ankle over his knee.

"Thank you for coming in, Mr. Baptiste." The doctor entered the office, shutting the door behind him.

Nickolai shot to his feet and extended his hand. "Of course."

After shaking Nickolai's hand, Dr. Bertrand waved him back to his chair as he sat behind the desk. "I suppose you're wondering why I called you in."

Nickolai nodded, jiggling his left leg so that his knee bounced rapidly.

The doctor opened a file on his desk, scanned, and then smiled. "I have good news. We've received approval to go forth with our plans to open a halfway house, so to speak, for some of the patients here."

Where was this going? Nickolai shifted in the chair. "I don't understand."

Dr. Bertrand smiled wider. "Some of our patients have responded very well to long-term treatment plans. Medication. Therapy. They've made great progress."

Nodding, Nickolai remained silent.

"It is our contention that some of these patients can become viable members of the community ... society. In keeping with that theory, we asked to purchase a home just two blocks away. This home will be converted into a halfway house. For patients who exhibit the signs of possible success in society."

Silence thickened the director's office.

"For patients like Lisbeth."

Nickolai's heart thudded double time. "Lisbeth?" Her name caught sideways in his throat, nearly choking him.

"Yes." The doctor kept his focus on the file in front of him. "She's responded well to her medication. She's participating in therapy. She trusts me. And her medication seems to be working at the correct dosage." The doctor looked back at Nickolai. "I think she's a prime candidate for success in the program, and she will turn eighteen next year."

Lisbeth: out of this ... this ... institution. Nickolai almost couldn't imagine it. Yet, he could. He'd dreamt of this so many times, but each time, the doctors had advised against her being released.

"What about her being a danger to others? And herself?"

"As I said, her treatment — medication and therapy combined — has given every indication of working. It is my professional opinion that Lisbeth is a perfect candidate for the halfway house." The doctor closed the file. "She's bright, and I think she could be a viable, participating part of the community. It would be a waste not to try her in the program."

"I — I don't know what to say." It was a dream come true, but it also came with reservations. Justified ones. "You really think she's ready?"

"She hasn't tried to cut herself in months. Nor has she exhibited any type of violent behavior."

Was that only because the clinic limited her access to tools that could hurt herself or others?

"I'm more than pleased with her openness and honesty in therapy. She could be my poster child for psychosocial treatment success."

But what about ... "And her fascination for fire?" Had that affinity responded well to treatment, too?

The doctor stopped smiling. "She has a tendency to focus on fire. Believes it's a source of power."

Hadn't that been what brought on her diagnosis to begin with? If she still liked fires ... liked setting them and seeing the flames eat ...

"Mr. Baptiste, as you know, there is no cure for schizophrenia. We work within the confines of medication and therapy such as psychosocial treatment, illness management skills, education, rehabilitation, and cognitive behavioral therapy." He tapped the closed file folder. "Taking all of that into consideration, I've selected four patients who I believe, in my professional opinion, are candidates with the highest potential to succeed in the halfway house program. Lisbeth is one of the four."

Just the chance for Lisbeth to be out and normal ... "If you think she has a shot, let's go for it."

The doctor smiled and passed a piece of paper across the desk. "Here's the information as well as the tentative timeline. If all goes as projected, the house will be ready by early summer. Of course, we'll go over the authorization forms as the date to move draws nearer. For now, read over the information, and feel free to call me with any questions or other concerns."

Nickolai scanned the first two paragraphs but stopped on the third that had the breakdown of costs. He jerked his stare to the doctor. "Forty thousand a year?"

Dr. Bertrand nodded. "That includes room and board, and fulltime, on-site medical personnel. That's a requirement for the program."

Forty thousand. "How much does our insurance cover?"

The doctor frowned. "As this is a trial program, private insurance companies provide no coverage allowance."

Forty thousand dollars. "What about state or federal funding?"

"I'm sorry. With the economy and the crackdown on welfare, Medicaid, and Medicare, there are no government funds for this particular program."

Forty-k. Nickolai tried to wrap his mind around the amount. That was more than he lived on in a year. "So, you're telling me that I'll have to pay the full forty thousand dollars?"

"If the lump sum is a problem, we have arranged with our board of directors to allow for a payment plan. Of course, that would include interest. I don't have that information on hand at the moment, but I can have a copy sent to you, if you'd like."

Forty thousand. "Please send me the information."

"I will." The doctor stood, extending his hand. "I appreciate you coming so quickly. We'll be talking more very soon."

Nickolai noticed the Rolex as he shook the man's hand. A watch probably worth at least a third of the needed forty thousand dollars. "Thank you. Can I see Lisbeth today?"

The director glanced at his watch. That very expensive watch. "She's in group therapy right now. You know how changes in the schedule can uproot not just Lisbeth, but the entire group. There are many in her group who aren't as stable as she has become."

"I understand." He didn't have time for a real visit anyway. He let the doctor escort him from the office.

"Thank you again for coming in so quickly, Mr. Baptiste. We'll be in touch very soon."

Nickolai gave a quick nod then headed into the parking lot. A heavy mist weighed on his shoulders as he climbed into the Ford F-250 diesel. He rested his forehead against the steering wheel and waited for the indicator light to go off so he could crank the engine.

Forty thousand dollars was a lot of money. Money he didn't have just sitting around.

He started the truck and stared out the windshield. A push of breeze clumped wet leaves against the edge of the concrete median.

The information stated the selected patients wouldn't be moved for at least sixty to ninety days. If he took every case offered and worked overtime, he might be able to come up with a down payment. Enough that he could qualify for the payment plan at least. Hopefully.

His iPhone chimed then flashed his appointment reminder on the screen. He had a meeting with a lady to discuss a job. She was wealthy. Recent widow. Maybe he could get a head start on that down payment. Maybe tonight.

Nickolai steered the truck into the road. He'd already loaded the lady's address into his GPS. He pushed the button, and the driving instructions popped on the screen. He'd arrive within ten minutes.

Images of Lisbeth before flitted across his memory. Her smile. Her hugs. Her dry sense of humor.

Forty thousand dollars was a lot of money, but his sister's recovery would be worth every single penny.

Talk about living in the lap of luxury.

Landry parked her VW bug in the driveway of the Winslet house, hoping it wouldn't insult the manor's grounds with its well-worn aging. An elegant two-story house raised on low brick piers with a side-gabled roof sat back from the property line and boasted covered two-story galleries framed by columns supporting entablature. The facade openings were arranged asymmetrically. In one word ... breathtaking.

Something Landry would never be able to afford. But she wasn't here to buy the house. She was here for a job.

The February wind danced through the overstated live oak trees surrounding the house as Landry made her way over the cobblestoned driveway. She carefully took the steps to the front door then took a deep breath, letting it out slowly before she jabbed the doorbell.

A moment passed. Two. Three.

The door swung open, revealing a man in jeans and a T-shirt. A very attractive man with cut muscles and a wide smile. "May I help you?"

"Um, I'm here to see Mrs. Winslet. I have an appointment."

"Right this way, Ms. Parker." He motioned her into the entry.

Her sneakers squealed against the waxed marble floors as she followed Mr. Handsome into the first room on the right from the foyer. A formal study, complete with mahogany built-in bookcases and marble-front fireplace, met her. Maybe she should have changed into something more professional.

He gestured to the seating options. "Please, make yourself comfortable. Mrs. Winslet will be with you directly."

"Thank you," she said to his retreating back. She avoided the stiff-looking Queen Anne's high-back chair, instead choosing the formal and uncomfortable love seat that sat across the coffee table. Brocade fabric. No throw pillows.

Landry scoped out the room. No windows broke up the monotony of the white and wainscoting walls. A painting of a woman, as formal and stuffy as the room, stared down her nose from her place over the fireplace. All in all, it was probably one of the most unwelcoming places Landry had ever been inside.

"I apologize to have kept you waiting."

Landry stood as the lady entered. She was much younger than Landry had expected, probably no more than sixty. Definitely not more than sixty-five. Standing about five feet seven inches, tall for a lady, but with a slim build. She wore a tailored gray dress. Her silver-streaked hair looked as shiny as a child's. Her blue eyes were separated by the hawking of her nose, which stood out from her other features as if it'd been placed on her face by mistake.

"Please, sit." She perched on the edge of the chair, her legs tucked demurely against the piece of furniture, ankles crossed but not touching. "I'm Winifred Winslet. Thank you so much for coming."

"I'm so sorry for your recent loss." Her tongue thickened inside her mouth. Landry had to remind herself Mrs. Winslet was a potential client, nothing more.

"Thank you, dear."

Mr. Handsome returned, carrying a silver service. He set it on the marble table splitting the room in two.

Mrs. Winslet nodded at him, and he disappeared in silence, shutting the study door behind him.

"Would you like some coffee?"

"No. No, thank you." Caffeine this late in the day would keep her awake all night. She needed to get the conversation on track. "So, the message I received was you were interested in discussing my company's recovery of an item?"

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Excerpted from Weaver's Needle by Robin Caroll. Copyright © 2017 Robin Caroll. Excerpted by permission of Barbour Publishing, Inc..
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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