Pink Balloons and Other Deadly Things (Mystery Series - Book One) by Nancy Tesler Page A

the family?”
    He strode to the door. “I’m outta here. I don't need to listen to this crap.”
    I grabbed his arm. “Oh, yes, you do! For once in your miserable, self-centered life, you’re going to listen. Because this time she damned well pissed off the wrong person. Somebody even tougher and meaner than she was, somebody who wasn’t going to take it. And for a change, this time the sky didn’t fall in on dumb little Henny-Penny. This time, it was her and you who paid the price!” I stopped, out of breath. And nerve.
    Rich was standing over me, clenching and unclenching his massive fists. I wasn’t a hundred percent sure I wasn't about to become a battered wife. I stepped back.
    His mouth worked, but nothing came out. Then he managed a croak. “You did it, didn't you?” His face turned purple. “You did it to get back at me! You killed Erica!”
    Before I could answer, the door was flung open. Out of my peripheral vision, I caught Dot’s triumphant expression. Behind her, staring at me, mouth agape, stood Gus Gennaro, Rich’s normally jolly security guard, looking as though someone had just whacked him in the gut with a battering ram.
    I don’t remember running past Gus or Dot, or pressing the elevator button, or riding the elevator to the lobby. I think I used the stairs, but I wouldn’t swear to it in a court of law. Somehow I found myself in the parking lot racing to the safety of Meg’s car. I fell to my knees beside the rear tire and lost what was left of my breakfast. Then I burst into tears. I’m not sure if they were the result of the past couple of days, or grief over love gone rancid, but I cried all the way back to the office as though I’d lost my best friend.
    Which I certainly had.

CHAPTER FIVE
That Afternoon
    THERE WAS A MESSAGE on my answering machine when I arrived back at the office. Joe Golden, Vickie Thorenson’s psychiatrist, wanted me to squeeze her in for a relaxation session. Joe sends me patients on a regular basis. He’s one of the few psychiatrists I know who appreciates the benefits of biofeedback, so I always try to accommodate him. After this morning I probably needed a session with him more than Vickie needed one with me, but I’d blown her off yesterday, so I called Jen Cordova’s mother and asked if she’d mind picking up her daughter directly from school and bringing her to my office by three fifteen. Jen’s one of my ADD’s. She’s on her next-to-last session and is now getting B’s in school, so I knew I could finish with her in three-quarters of an hour. I called Vickie and arranged to see her at four.
    Somehow I managed to put the incident with Rich in a separate compartment of my mind. Keeping busy, the best therapy. I checked my book, saw that I had Baji Ponamgi at twelve-thirty, Carl Lomax at one-thirty, Phyllis Lutz at two-thirty, and Timmy Brannigan, another ADD, at five.
    Mr. Ponamgi’s a pain client, fifties, an uptight accountant, referred to me by my old clinic. Quite a compliment, considering they have two biofeedback therapists on staff. As a result of an automobile accident, he suffers from pain in the cervical and lumbar regions, meaning whiplash, and back injury. Difficult areas to treat, especially in an A-personality type like Mr. Ponamgi, who thinks he’ll be struck dead by the God of Workaholics if he allows himself a day off. But he’s making progress. He works as hard at healing himself as he does at everything else, and being East Indian, he’s more open to alternative therapies than many westerners.
    Carl’s the complete opposite. Only thirty-eight, sinewy, and basically in good shape, he had a minor accident on the job, gets workman’s comp, and if he can get away with it, will probably milk the system forever. He stonewalls me at every turn.
    Phyllis is my only hypochondriac. She had both hands pressed to her head and was already pacing the waiting room impatiently when I finished with Carl at two-twenty.
    “I’m getting a