Dead by Any Other Name Read Free Page A

Howard-and-somebody Wolfson?”
    â€œHoward and Sally Wolfson are her parents?” That was a surprise. The Wolfsons were the authors of a bunch of pop-psychology books, offering up just the kind of shallow, facile, tie-up-all-your-traumas-in-a-nice-silk-bow bullshit that made my blood boil. If I’d learned one thing in my years as a practicing shrink, it’s that you can’t leave your deep hurts behind, you have to work to understand them, make some kind of peace, and then move forward with them—but with you, not them, in the driv er’s seat. The Wolfsons’ pabulum led to more unhappiness because it made people feel inadequate, unable to live up to the freedom and happiness that they were claiming was possible.
    Pissed me off. I can’t tell you how many of my clients would say to me, “I just can’t get over my husband leaving me” or “my Mom’s death” or “the size of my thighs.” My answer was always, “Stop trying.” Then we’d get to work understanding their traumas and neuroses, getting a perspective on them (time was an invaluable ally) and then moving forward as alpha dog over the pain and ghosts and nasty little inner voices. People like Howard and Sally Wolfson made the job harder, and if you ask me they’re a symptom of a spoiled, narcissistic society that worships at the altar of instant gratification, entitlement, and pat answers.
    Finding out they were Natasha’s parents increased my sympathy for her by a factor of ten. “Do you know anything else about her or them?” I asked Abba.
    â€œThe Wolfsons live down in the Hudson Highlands, in some amazing glass house cantilevered out over the river; it was featured in the Times a few years ago. You want to eat this sandwich here?”
    â€œI should take it over to the store. George opened up for me.”
    Abba wrapped the sandwich and handed it to me. “I’m sure you’ve heard about his horse trainer.”
    â€œGiddyup.”

five
    There was a commotion out on the street. A lanky man of around forty was making his way down the sidewalk, surrounded by a small entourage, shaking hands, smiling. One of his posse was carrying a sign: Building a New New York—Reelect State Senator Clark Van Wyck.
    I’d read about Van Wyck in the local papers but had never seen him in person. He was a good-looking guy, athletic, toothy, with a wholesome Vermonty vibe, but—even as he was reaching for hands, waving, shouting a greeting, grinning—he seemed distracted. He was going through the motions but this guy’s head was somewhere else.
    He reached me and gave me a disarmingly modest smile, “Clark Van Wyck, I’d appreciate your vote.”
    I shook his hand.
    Helen Bearse, a realtor in town, was one of his entourage. “Janet runs an antique shop just across the street.”
    â€œWell, I’m working for you ,” Van Wyck said, “Folks like you are the backbone of this valley—and this state.”
    He kept moving. Helen grabbed my hand, “Janet, if Clark wins there’s a very good chance he’ll be elected majority leader. It would be incredible for the whole valley. He was born and raised here. And he doesn’t want to stop there—his real goal is governor.”
    I had kind of mixed feeling about the news. Powerful politicians always seem to end up in bed with the greedbags and fat cats, who tend to skew toward real estate developers. I liked the Hudson Valley the way it was and you could almost smell the development pressure. It was hardly an unspoiled paradise, thank God—I loved the crazy-quilt mix of country/suburb/city but I’d sure hate to see it become unbroken sprawl. It wasn’t like I wanted to put a fence around the place. Just a gate maybe. If this Van Wyck guy made it to the governor’s office, chances are he’d arrive with a lot of IOUs from condo cowboys salivating to