The memory of the warmth of their relationship started to calm her. Of course it wasn’t her fault that Liz had been killed. Liz herself would attest to that and insist Erin stop beating herself up over it.
Kristy gently knocked on the door. “Erin! Are you okay?”
Erin opened the door. “Kristy,” she said. “You’re right. It wasn’t my fault.”
Kristy’s face held a mixture of relief and concern.
“I loved my mother,” Erin said. “No one can ever take that from me.”
Kristy nodded slowly and went to look for her shoes.
Erin quickly dried her hair and dressed. As she opened the door, she heard Kristy playing a CD Liz had given her for her birthday two years ago. Ella Fitzgerald and Louis Armstrong were singing. Never had the music been so appropriate for the moment:
The way you wear your hat
The way you sip your tea
The memory of all that
No they can’t take that away from me
The way your smile just beams
The way you sing off key
The way you haunt my dreams
No they can’t take that away from me
We may never never meet again,
on that bumpy road to love
Still I’ll always, always keep the memory of
The way you hold your knife
The way we danced till three
The way you changed my life
No they can’t take that away from me
“You will always, always, always be in my heart,” Erin whispered to Liz. “No one can take you from me.” Somehow, Liz must know that. For the moment, it brought her peace.
Surprisingly, the better part of the day went by quickly. She found herself focusing one hundred percent on the task at hand, and somehow, that left no room for stray thoughts about the last moments of Liz’s life and the pain and terror she must have experienced.
That all changed when she picked up Liz’s purse at the police station.
“Sign this, please,” Ken Malone said, handing her a printed form. “It’s a receipt. You might want to check through it and make sure everything is there.”
Erin shook her head. “I can’t do that right now,” she said. And what would I do if something was missing? Blame the police?
He nodded. “I’ll call you Erin, if anything comes up.”
She took Liz’s leather purse and left the police station. Kristy was waiting in the car.
“I’ll open the purse later,” Erin said. But she knew she wouldn’t.
5
Pastor Rocky Ledford was on his last sip of burnt coffee when he received the call from Nelson Funeral Home about the death of Liz Griffin. He pushed the button on his intercom.
“Karen, do you know Liz Griffin? Nelson just called and said she was killed yesterday in a traffic accident.”
Karen took her job seriously as the secretary to the lead pastor. She made it her business to know everyone in the church and everything about them, salacious or otherwise.
“Yes, I know Liz. She helped with translating the booklets we sent to the orphanage in the Ukraine last year. Oh, how terrible, and I think she has a daughter, doesn’t she? I believe her daughter – Erin - that’s her name – works in the same building as my husband.”
“Great, could you get her address, send her a letter of condolence from me? And of course if there’s anything we can do …” he trailed off as he glanced at his watch, fighting the urge to ditch the salad his wife made for him and go out for a Lotta Burger.
“Right, Rocky. I’m on it.”
Karen called her husband Ron who easily found Erin Griffin listed in the building directory as a paralegal for Redding & Miles. Within 20 minutes, she had Erin’s address, cell phone number, and a letter prepared for Rocky’s signature stamp. It was how she liked to do business so close to lunch: quickly. Gathering her things, she swallowed hard, almost tasting the chili dogs at Coney Island where she was meeting Ron for lunch.
Karen was pushing in the seat to her neatly arranged desk when an attractive woman stuck her head through the door.
“Excuse me, but are you Karen?” she said shyly.
“That’s me,” Karen answered.
“Oh, I am so sorry to bother you. You must be on your way out to lunch.”
“No bother. How can I help you?” It was Karen’s job to intercept people like this, so that Rocky had time to meditate.
“May I come in?”
“Certainly.” Gesturing toward one of the chairs in front of her desk, Karen gave the woman a warm smile as she folded her coat neatly and sat back down.
I hope this isn’t going to cut into my lunch plans, Karen thought.
“My name is Lydia Knox, and I work for a company called Good Grief.”
Oh no, a sales vendor. Karen smiled. She could handle this in five minutes and still meet Ron. “We do all of our own grief counseling here. But I appreciate your thinking of us.”
“That is so wonderful!” Lydia seemed delighted and beamed as though Karen personally was doing all of the counseling.
Karen felt flattered. Lydia was a tall, slender woman who looked as though she were in her mid 30’s or early 40s at best. Her hair was fashionably styled, she was impeccably dressed, and her clothes looked expensive. She was drop-dead, knockout, stunningly beautiful. She had cold black hair and radiant green eyes. Her skin was perfect. Karen smoothed her own dress as she listened, subconsciously pushing in the bulge that sat on her lap.
” … is why we do this. There are so many in pain after a loss … ” the beautiful head tilted to one side, slightly frowning.
Karen rarely saw anyone she would consider glamorous. Tulsa is not exactly New York, after all, and when she did see attractive people, they rarely gave her a second glance. But here Lydia was treating Karen with deference – not as an equal, but as someone who should be respected. Karen sat up straighter in her chair, leaning into the role. She reached for the gold Waterman rollerball Rocky gave her for Christmas last year, poised to take notes on a fresh page of her legal pad. She pushed her feet with its lightly scuffed brown Naturalizer shoes farther under the desk.
“There is no charge for our services,” Lydia said, reaching for her messenger case on the floor, “I want that to be clear. We do not accept donations from anyone who experienced loss of a loved one.”
“How do you survive without charging for your work?”
Karen wrote in neat strokes: N/C for services.
Lydia shrugged and smiled. “Donations, just like you. We are fortunate to have many believers who have been grateful for our services throughout the years, and they have provided enough endowments for us to operate in the black. Most of the counselors, like me, are working part-time, as a service to others.” She placed a brochure on Karen’s desk.