Ladies' Night Andrews, Kay (great novels .txt) 📖

off our session, we’ve got all night,” Camryn said. “So don’t keep us in suspense.”

He filled them in on Callie’s efforts to get him into hot water with the judge, and how his lawyer had instead managed to turn the tables on her.

“Wyatt, that’s huge!” Suzanne said, beaming. “I’m so happy for you.” She looked at the other faces around the table. “We’re all happy for you.”

Grace saw Wyatt watching for her reaction. “It’s great, really,” she said. “For once, the good guy comes out ahead with that clown Stackpole.”

“Thanks, Grace,” he said. “Maybe he’ll change his mind about you and Ben, too.”

“I wouldn’t count on that,” Grace said. “I’m a woman, remember? I’m the gender he loves to hate.”

“Did you, uh, tell everybody about last week?”

Grace blushed at the memory.

“What?” Ashleigh demanded. “Did something happen after we left here?”

“You might say that,” Wyatt said. Had Grace imagined it, or had he actually winked at her? She’d hoped to avoid any mention of their late-night chase the previous week.

“We don’t actually know for sure that the car was Stackpole’s,” she put in, when he was done.

“Although…” Wyatt was trying his best not to look smug, but it was a hard-fought battle. “Today, while I was at the courthouse, my aunt and I took a drive through the county parking deck. Did you guys know judges get assigned parking spaces?”

“They probably don’t even have to pay for ’em, either,” Camryn said. And then she perked up. “Stackpole drives a Lexus?”

“A black one,” Wyatt said, “with a little Florida gator decal in the lower left corner of his rear window.”

Grace grinned despite herself. “So, it was Stackpole!”

“Maybe,” Camryn cautioned. “Half the judges in this state probably have a UF Gator sticker on their car. And of those, there’s probably a whole bunch of them who drive a black Lexus.”

“But there’s only one judge in Manatee County who drives a black Lexus with a UF sticker and who resides at 4462 Alcazar Trace, Longboat Key. And that is the Honorable Judge Cedric N. Stackpole Jr.” Wyatt said.

“You’re sure?” Grace asked.

“Yup. Betsy did an online search. It’s him.”

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Rochelle said. “What do you think that means?”

“I knew it!” Ashleigh said. “You can always tell with those straitlaced types. They’re the biggest horn-dogs on the block. And, of course, they’re always married.”

“It might not mean anything,” Grace cautioned, although she hoped against hope it did. “Maybe they were just having a professional meeting, and he told her he didn’t like the way she was conducting our group session.”

Camryn was drumming her long acrylic fingertips on the tabletop. “Okay, y’all, I’ll tell you what I think it means. I think it means a hard-nosed piece of investigative journalism will unveil a web of intrigue and paybacks between a respected local circuit court judge and a disgraced therapist. And I think, maybe, just maybe, it might mean a daytime Emmy for a certain hard-hitting member of the News Four You I-Team.”

She held up her iPhone. “I’ve been doing a little dirt digging on my own.”

30

“Paula Talbott-Sinclair,” Camryn said, pausing for dramatic effect, “used to live in Oregon. But three years ago, the state revoked her professional license. She moved to Florida sometime after that and set up an office here, but she’s not licensed by the state of Florida to be a clinical therapist. So how does she get away with charging three hundred dollars an hour for a group session? And more importantly, when the phone book is full of marriage counselors, why does Stackpole insist people like us attend counseling sessions with her?”

“Do we know why they revoked her license in Oregon?” Suzanne asked. “And does the state of Florida require her to be licensed in order to be a therapist here?”

“This is Florida, honey,” Camryn told her. “Just like we attract every kind of poisonous reptile, bug, or plant, every whacked-out criminal, huckster, or con artist, we also get every loony-toon variety of self-appointed therapist on the planet. Even though Florida seems to have pretty strict licensing requirements for therapists, there’s always a loophole. So you could still call yourself something else, hell, you could call yourself a divorce whisperer, and as long as you have a business license from the county, you’re good to go. Paula does have that. I checked. As for why Oregon took away her professional accreditation, I’m working on it, but it’s slowgoing. All these state licensing boards have layers and layers of confidentiality rules. I’ve got an intern at the station working on trying to dig up the particulars, but so far we’re getting sandbagged.”

“I wonder if her losing her license had anything to do with drugs?” The others at the table turned to look at Grace.

“She’s obviously impaired, at least some of the time. And we did find those sleeping pills and tranquilizers in her purse,” Grace reasoned. “Camryn, can your intern check to see if she’s had any drug arrests, or something like that?”

“I can ask,” Camryn said. “But this kid’s no rocket scientist.”

“I don’t care what she’s done or how she lost her license,” Suzanne spoke up. “Paula is obviously troubled, but I honestly believe she cares about us. I don’t know about you guys, but she’s helped me. A lot. I feel sorry for her. Can’t we help her, instead of making her part of an exposé?”

Ashleigh laughed. “You think she’s helped you? I mean, no offense, Suzanne, but you’ve never said one thing in group about what happened in your marriage. All we know is that your husband’s name is Eric and he cheated on you with another teacher at your school.”

“Ashleigh!” Grace chided.

“I don’t care,” Ashleigh tossed her honey-colored tresses. “We’ve all opened up our innermost secrets, and she just sits there, every week, with her lips zipped.”

“Something you might try once in a while,” Camryn said.

“No, Ashleigh’s right,” Suzanne said. “I haven’t been open. And that’s not fair to you or me. That’s one reason I