CHAPTER THREE
Back at home, I shoved aside the few clothing items I bothered to hang in my tiny closet and fished out a shoebox of mementos from off the small shelf buried within it. Among them were old photos from my time on active duty. A brief shuffle through the contents revealed no sign of Heidi.
I mulled the circumstances of Heidi Sternberg’s death for a day or so, then shoved them into a far corner of my mind where I hide all the other crap I’d like to forget. It took a few days, but eventually I got a voicemail message.
Someone wanted to stir some shit.
“Ms. Jensen, my name is Margaret Wilson and I need to talk to you. Please call me back as soon as you can.” The voice had a childlike tone, edged with panic.
So after performing my usual yoga routine and feasting on a hearty breakfast of toasted English muffins smeared with butter and Marmite, further fortified by a good, strong cup of coffee, my first order of business was to return that call.
Once I introduced myself, Margaret Wilson launched a torrent of words at me.
“Ms. Jensen, I got your name from Heidi’s phone. She said she knew you from your tour in Afghanistan. She also told me she was going to meet you. Take it from me. Heidi did not take all those pills. We had plans. And she had absolutely no signs of depression or anything else that would make her do such a thing. I simply can’t believe it. Won’t believe it. I refuse.”
This was all delivered in a high-pitched, but melodious voice. Like being lectured by Betty Boop.
