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  She nodded. “Brooke. Yeah, Brooke. Just call me Brooke.”

  “Heavy on the repetition, right?”

  She laughed as Henry’s lips seemed to be trying to produce a grin. You old brainiac. You’re enjoying this!

  Jimmy continued. “Okay. Here’s the app I’ll be using, and you can easily upload it, too. It’s fantastic. It’s a cognitive therapy company called Magnus Health. On their app, you’ll see lots of exercises and health resources. I understand the doctor informed you about Henry’s aphasia, correct?”

  Did Henry just nod his head a smidge?

  “Yes, he did,” she said. “I guess it mostly just affects his memory and speech, right?”

  “That’s right, although according to his doctor, he should use a cane for another day or so. But he can certainly stand up to get dressed and undressed and go to the bathroom. You did fix his bathroom, didn’t you? I’m required to check to make sure before I go.”

  She nodded, irritation spilling over her. But she had no time to think about him any further. Abby was at the door and entered just in time to see the therapist perform his so-called magic.

  Starting with tongue exercises, Jimmy stretched his tongue out for a full two seconds, then pulled it back and up for two seconds. He instructed Henry to do just that, holding a mirror up in front of him. It was a dismal failure. Jimmy repeated at least ten more tries with the tongue exercises.

  Nothing.

  Brooke felt frustrated but Jimmy didn’t seem too concerned. “Let’s do this one, Henry.” He pushed his tongue unto side-to-side positions. Over-and-over again he performed that, too, with a simple eye roll from Henry.

  “He’s a character,” Jimmy said, chuckling. “In my opinion, characters do better than normal people. They’re smarter.”

  She and Abby smiled at each other.

  After a whole slew of the tongue positions, Jimmy held up a mirror in front of Henry and said, “Say cheese.”

  Henry’s eyes rolled. Big time.

  “Now, Henry. I know it’s dumb but…”

  “Not if you’re a wedding photographer,” Brooke said.

  Soon, she and Abby were saying it too. “Say cheeeeese,” they both echoed.

  All I need is for Chief Bruner to come in now.

  “Okay, before I stop for the day, here comes a kissy face.” Jimmy puckered his lips then held a mirror up in front of Henry. “You try it, Henry.”

  Her roommate’s eyes narrowed.

  “Kissy face, kissy face,” Jimmy said to Henry’s now almost slit eyes.

  “He sure can emotionally respond. That’s good, right, Jimmy?” Abby asked.

  “Actually, yes, I’m encouraged.” He kept the mirror up. “Okay one more thing today, Henry, then I’m gone.” Jimmy stared at his patient’s almost grin. “I saw that!”

  He positioned his lips. “Ra-re-ri-ro-ru,” he said clearly. He repeated that at least five time, as Brooke and Abby chimed in.

  But all Henry could do was purse his lips a fraction of an inch.

  “Okay, that’s it for today. The rest is up to you, Brooke. Please make sure you’ve downloaded the app by tomorrow so we can go over more exercises. In the meantime…” he rummaged around in his bag. “I have this for him.” He handed over two cans of chicken soup. “They’ll go down easily and also have much more nutrition than applesauce.”

  Henry’s eyes flashed some alarm. Then he slumped his shoulders. It was obvious that was it for the day. He looked exhausted.

  “See you tomorrow, Henry,” Jimmy said, nodding at his patient’s demeanor. He placed his hand on Henry’s shoulder. “Rest well.”

  After Jimmy left, all Brooke wanted to do was escape into her room and forget about everything. What a procedure. How long was this all going to take?

  Able Abby saved the day. “Brooke, what song does Henry like?”

  Brooke thought for a moment. “‘Blowing In the Wind.’ The Peter, Paul, and Mary version.”

  Immediately, Abby started to sing a couple of first lines from the song.

  Henry’s eyes lit up.

  “Do it again,” Brooke said.

  Abby did and when she sang the song’s chorus, Henry’s eyes brimmed over.

  “Good work, Abby,” she said as her friend threw them a wave at the door.

  Watching him walk into the bedroom with his cane, she remembered what the doctor had said. How independent movement-wise he actually was. Perhaps soon, he could lose the cane and walk on his own.

  Just inside his bedroom, she asked, “Henry, do you need me to stay?”

  His widened eyes definitely read “Not On Your Life.”

  “How about a shake of your head?” She performed that several times, slowly.

  After a few seconds, he gave a tiny hint of a headshake.

  Then it hit her. Dare she dare try it? Okay, here goes…

  “Henry, do you remember you were going to tell me something important about someone on KnowYourAncestor.com? For our cloth sack murder case, remember?”

  His total blank look was scary. Obviously, they had a long way to go.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Rubbing her burned out, over-used blue-screen eyes, Brooke turned toward June, sprawled across her bed. The purrs spilling out of the cat sounded like her “Soothing Sounds” app’s version of distant rolling thunder.

  “I know you miss the old, normal Henry talking to you, kiddo,” she said softly as she stroked her pet behind one ear. June’s eyes scrunched up in ecstasy as one front paw repeatedly curled and uncurled.

  Even after a few days, not hearing Henry’s conversations with Junebug or his food prep chopping was more than depressing. It was as if another loved one in her life had, once again, deserted her.

  But she had to move on. “Get over yourself, Brooke. Time to start his morning lesson,” she told herself.

  A fast shower and flung-on clothes took all of five minutes. Then, padding down the hall in her heavy wool socks, her phone clutched in her hand, she could hear the microwave ring out in the kitchen. As soon as she entered, she noticed Henry, sitting at the table, his cane placed against a far wall.

  Heartened, she patted him on the back. “That’s great, Henry. You’ve graduated from your cane!”

  He smiled proudly. “Yes, that’s good, isn’t it?”

  Two days before, when he spoke his first, “No,” she felt as if he had just climbed Mt. Everest. It was a major milestone in his recovery. Then, with each passing hour, his speech grew clearer and more succinct. And his facial expressions? They were coming in just fine. Thank God!

  Yet, no real signs of memory were happening. Determined, she vowed today to do every conceivable memory exercise she could find. If not for him, then for their team. She’d do anything not to repeat a week like the one before. It started out with Larry and Tony telling her there was no sign of Collin’s shovel anywhere. And how, without that evidence, they knew they probably didn’t have a case against him that would stick.

  “But his emails were filled with rage against the Whitman girls,” she had reminded them.

  “Maybe so,” Larry had said, “but according to his lawyer, that alone does not justify holding him in jail.”

  Information like that, plus Henry’s not recalling anything and her almost nonexistent sleep, finally got to her. So much so, she decided to take out a wine spritzer can while Henry was in his bedroom reading.

  Or so she thought. In the living room, she got out the covert can, opened it, and poured it into her empty coffee thermos, inwardly congratulating herself on how clever she was. She was about to put the empty can into her lower desk drawer when she heard a sound in the room. It was him. On the one hand, it was good that Henry’s face looked far more expressive than it had in the past few days. But analyzing it closer now, she became concerned. Besides worry and disgust, there was something else written across it. Something that stabbed at her heart––envy. And temptation.

  Will I be the one who starts him drinking again?
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br />   As soon as she saw him go back to looking peaceful as he filled his large coffee mug filled to the brim with French roast coffee, almond milk, a splash of vanilla, and several drops of agave syrup, she smiled.

  “Let’s begin, okay?” she asked.

  He pointed to her thermos. “That’s your special coffee, isn’t it?” came out so clear, so exaggerated, it made her gasp.

  “Henry, your speech is so good now.” She avoided looking at his stare. I’m so busted.

  After a couple more sips of her “coffee,” she clicked on her phone’s Magnus Health Company app, to set up the day’s new exercises. But of course, their usual warm-up came first. Tongue exercises and repeats of certain words. Boring! No wonder I never wanted to teach.

  Turning back to her app, she noticed a word association game, which looked perfect for memory. It did cross her mind that her grandma Martha could use this. Truth was, she could use it herself.

  Onward and upward. But she didn’t begin. A familiar rhythmic knock made her rise. Opening the door, she immediately took in Larry’s look. His sagging shoulders and downturned mouth said it all.

  Inside the apartment, Larry patted Henry’s shoulder then pulled her out into the hall. “Chief Bruner is cracking down on this case big time. He says if we don’t produce anything more concrete by the end of the week, he’s thinking of turning the case over to the Feds. Brooke, that does not sit well for Tony’s and my reputation. And it sure doesn’t do wonders for your Gang of Three.”

  Brooke’s “Give me a break!” echoed down the wood-planked hallway.

  “Everything all right, Brooke?” Henry called out from the kitchen.

  Larry’s eyes grew to the size of nickels. “Wow, he’s speaking really well now!”

  She shrugged. “Yeah, but no memory yet.”

  Suddenly looking thoughtful, Larry offered a suggestion. “Why can’t we go to the library and find out what site he was using? Maybe we can read something there?”

  “I tried, but it was difficult. You know about this. According to this woman, Roberta, we’d need a warrant.”

  “She’s the one who has the hots for him?” Larry smirked.

  “Yeah.”

  “Then he must have some notes at home, don’t you think?”

  “I already looked in his files when he was still in the hospital, but I couldn’t find anything.”

  Larry’s hand squeezed her shoulder. “Can I at least try? Two heads together and all that stuff. Why don’t I check his room while you work with him?”

  “I’m down for that. Anything you might find new sure beats not having squat.”

  She poured a mug of coffee for Larry and watched him disappear down the hall toward Henry’s bedroom before returning to her roommate.

  “Henry, let’s see how this word association game works, okay?” She studied her phone’s small screen for a minute or so. “Okay. It puts up a word on the screen, and you have to say any word that pops into your head. Like what shrinks do, I guess. Ready?”

  She certainly recognized his raised eyebrows. It said, “Do you think I’m an idiot?”

  Progress. “Look, Henry, supposedly this will help jog your memory. Unless you remember exactly what it was you were going to tell me from that ancestor site you were following. You know, before your accident. Do you?”

  His three D’s expressions met her full on. Deflated. Dejected. Depressed.

  Feeling a tad guilty, she slowly handed him the phone. Then it hit her. What a giant leap this was for him to make. She could feel herself getting emotional as he silently read what was on the screen then shook his head.

  He handed it back to her. “Read it, please.”

  “Okay,” she said gently. “Car.”

  His eyebrows pinched together for a second or two. Then they relaxed. “Garage.”

  “Good. Next up, ocean.”

  Total confusion. “Forget about that one. How about pizza?”

  He looked relieved. “Yummy.”

  She laughed. We’re back! “Cousin,” she said.

  Pinched eyebrows again.

  She forged on. “Cat.”

  He didn’t hesitate. “Junebug––June–Junie.”

  Great! Brooke picked up their cat and placed her gently onto Henry’s lap. He cooed. Junebug-June-Junie purred. Perfect.

  Larry found Henry’s room to be as neat as Brooke’s was messy. But after a no-go on the password Brooke had claimed worked for her roommate’s computer, Larry decided to explore other places. Obviously, Henry had recently changed the password. If he had to, Larry knew he could try and break into the computer, but that didn’t feel right unless it was a last resort.

  After opening up each of the desk drawers, he found everything from pencils, pens, extra erasers, long 0.7 pencil leads, colored sticky tabs, a cornucopia of sticky notes, a pile of old letters from what looked like some of his students, to a stack of old newspaper articles, yellowed with age. He fanned them out on top of the desk. They were most definitely cold murder cases––some gruesome, all unsolved. But nothing that related to their case.

  As soon as June pranced in, she tried to get into Henry’s black two-tiered filing cabinet. Frantically scratching at it, she captured Larry’s attention. “What is it, girl?”

  Junebug continued to scratch at the low cabinet, this time, up on her hind legs.

  Why is she so determined? What’s in there?

  * *

  Not even his mother’s famous Sub Italiano, on the dashboard neatly wrapped, could cheer Tony up. One Chief Bruner surly snarl after another aimed at their lack of decent clues was finally wearing him down. That morning, Larry had mentioned he was going to find anything he could over at Brooke and Henry’s place, while Tony’s job was to stake out Michael Whitman, who had already bought a brand new Lamborghini Venerio Roadster––for a cool 3.5 mil, thank you very much––within a week of both sister’s deaths.

  What a sweetheart.

  Tony sat in his two-year-old Toyota Corolla, ignoring the sub and scoping out the Whitman mansion from across the street. He’d poured over his notes earlier and zeroed in on the Whitman heir. Forget about Jane Doe, Michael sure had a motive to kill his sisters. Ruth Novak was another oddball in the mix, but hopefully, Brooke would work on that. In-between Henry’s therapy sessions, that is.

  Poor Henry. And Brooke. He drew a long, deep breath. His reaction to her strong emotions at the hospital when Henry had first been brought in surprised him. Not just her tears, but his own powerful, overprotective response to her. Was he physically attracted to her? Yes. Had respect for her? Definitely. But no one, outside of his parents and siblings, had ever affected him that much. What was going on?

  There was no chance to figure that one out. The Whitman front door opened, and suddenly, Michael stepped outside with another man. Quickly, they both shook hands with a short, businesslike grasp, as if both parties had come to an agreement.

  “Well, well, well.” Tony glanced at his watch and jotted down the time. “Maybe Collin Bothridge isn’t so angry at the Whitmans after all. Collusion City, anyone?”

  Instantly, he called Larry, who sounded more than frustrated. But the second Tony mentioned what he’d just seen, he heard his partner’s tone lighten considerably.

  “You gonna follow up on this, right?” Larry asked.

  “Yeah, I’m going to interview him right now.” Dare he ask Larry how he was doing at Brooke’s? Nah, his partner would tell him if he had found anything concrete yet.

  By now the Whitman’s melodic doorbell sounded familiar. Tony first heard the chime-like tones when he and Larry had interviewed Cathy regarding her missing sister, Wynnie. Then again, it rang melodiously when they were back interviewing the mansion’s servants, after both the girls’ deaths.

  That was interesting. Tony’s mind flashed back to the various attitudes of the household domestics regarding the Whitman family––Wynnie, Cathy, Michael, and the old man, himself, Joseph. They had also talked about Peter Nov
ak, Esq. There were no real glowing reports about that frequent visitor to the house. That much was obvious.

  Having come back three times in total, he picked up on more things each time he came. He’d thought the hired help would look solemn, sad even, right after the girls’ deaths. But no. Even though they definitely had the look of covering something up, with all their furtive glances.

  Unless Michael appeared. Then came frowns, grimaces, and sneers. Interesting.

  Tony was now led––once again––into the Whitman den to wait for Michael. And wait. And wait. Annoyed, he scoped out the room. It definitely was an explosion of good taste. Two large, modern yet comfortable, beige sofas faced each other, each topped with small coordinated pillows, fanned out across its back. A roaring fire in the fireplace crackled and popped. Trendy hand-woven Scandinavian area carpets sat on light-colored, wooden floors. The mountain of books were plain editions, not leather bound, and family photographs were spread out on different side tables as well as lining the mantelpiece.

  Twenty minutes later, Michael finally strolled in, his face a scowl. “What do you want now? This is harassment.”

  Really? You have an attitude? Tony stood up. “I just saw you with Collin Bothridge, and now I’m wondering why a man who has been questioned in connection to your sisters’ deaths was here visiting you just now.”

  Instantly, all the blood in Michael’s face drained.

  Tony continued. “Just a heads up. This was a man who supposedly hated the Whitman family. A man who I saw shake hands with you just twenty minutes ago.” Not so smug now, are you?

  Michael cleared his throat. “That’s privileged information. If you continue to ask for any more information, I will––”

  “You will what?” Tony interrupted. “You’ll deny your hatred of your father and your sisters?”

  Obviously stunned, Michael’s mouth stayed shut.

  Tony pressed on. “And how, since your sisters are both dead, you’ve inherited a mega fortune. Is Collin a part of that?”