Chapter 16
My mother was really mad at me. Her reaction to Emma James revelation had alarmed me and I insisted that she see a doctor. While she was busy with supper the night before, I made an appointment for her. She was not happy about it and insisted she felt fine. The victory I won was probably a Pyrrhic one.
Dr. Richard McCauley stuck a tongue depressor into my mother’s mouth just as she mumbled something.
He pulled out the depressor. “What did you say, Flora?”
Mom snorted. “I said that I’m here only because of my stubborn daughter. There’s nothing wrong with me.”
Dr. McCauley smiled and proceeded to examine her.
When the doctor pressed the stethoscope against her chest, Mom threw me a sideways glance that would have shriveled a turnip.
The doctor wound the blood pressure cuff around her arm, for the second time, and she wouldn’t even look in my direction.
Shaking his head, Dr. McCauley said, “Your blood pressure is way up. Let’s see . . . .”
He thumbed back through her file. “It usually runs low, in the neighborhood of 110/60 but today it is 150/90 and that’s too high.”
Dr. McCauley pulled a stool toward him with his foot, sat down and observed her over the top of his glasses. “Now, why don’t you tell me what’s worrying you?”
Crossing her arms over her chest, Mom snorted again. I put a hand over my mouth to stifle a giggle. She was beginning to sound like a steam engine.
“Nothing is worrying me, any more than what’s worrying most people,” she said. “You’re the doctor. Why don’t you tell me what you think is wrong?”
Dr. McCauley had dealt with my mother for more than twenty years. Tapping her hand lightly, he said, “I’m betting the problem with you, Flora, is finding Ben Ventris like you did and then later his daughter turning up dead over there in Goshen Cemetery. It’s no wonder to me that you are stressed. Any normal person would be.”
She nodded in my direction. “Well, then, you ought to examine Darcy too.”
He nodded. “I’ll be happy to do that. And I bet neither of you has been sleeping well. Isn’t that right?”
Years of experience had produced acute discernment in Dr. McCauley.
“No, I’m fine, Doctor,” I said.
The truth was that both Mom and I were uneasy because we feared a return visit from someone poking around in our yard at night. Jasper might be keeping watch and that new burglar alarm was in place, but wires could be cut and Jasper’s roaming through the woods was erratic.
Although Dr. McCauley was a sympathetic listener, I balked at telling him all this. He might think we were just foolish women with a wild imagination.
“Everything else checks out okay, Flora,” the doctor continued. “But you need to keep an eye on your blood pressure. Do you have a monitor at home?”
“She doesn’t, but I’ll get one,” I promised.
“Fine. I’ll give you a prescription for these new sleeping pills that I guarantee will work.” Speaking to me, he said, “I think you should both try them. They aren’t habit forming.”
Although I nodded in agreement, I had no intention of taking those pills. Perhaps Mom would use them. I didn’t like taking anything that slowed down my mental processes, and somebody should be aware of what was going on around our house each night. I just wished Mom would realize I was worried about her health and had insisted on the doctor for her own good.
Apparently, Dr. McCauley sensed the tension between us and thought he’d help out. “Now Flora,” he said, “your daughter was right in bringing you here to see me. We don’t want a recurrence of that problem you had last year with an irregular heartbeat, do we? Keeping an eye on your blood pressure is the smart thing to do. You know, sometimes we’re so used to being independent that we have a hard time figuring out what’s best for us. I think that’s one reason the good Lord gave us children.”
He winked at me behind her back. “You’ve never had a weight problem, your bones are remarkably strong, your lungs sound like those of a thirty-year old, and you don’t even need glasses except for reading. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear you hadn’t reached the ripe old age of sixty. You’re in much better health than a lot of women your age. We want to keep it that way.”
As he talked, he scribbled on a prescription pad. He tore off a sheet and handed it to me. “I wonder, since neither of you is tied down with a job right now, if it might be a good idea to get away for a while. Go down to Florida or take a cruise; something like that.” He patted Mom’s shoulder. “Then by the time you get back, maybe the sheriff will have caught Ben’s killer, and you’ll have nothing more to worry about.”
A short while ago, Mom wanted to do just that—maybe not go to Florida, but she wanted us to leave town for safety’s sake. If we were going on a vacation, I would vote for Georgia. I’d like to visit the land that produced the metal which caused men to lie and kill. But my mother’s enthusiasm for a vacation had vanished after we got Ben’s will and the map. And then, of course, Skye Ventris was killed. In some strange way, these events put a new determination into my mother. Since she was the only person standing between the killer and the treasure, a normal person might want to keep a low profile; not Mom. Now she was determined to stay in Levi and not be run out of her home.
Now, she was just plain angry. She reminded me of a tiny chipmunk who once faced up to our family cat. Mom had a stubborn streak a mile wide. If I was blessed with stubbornness too, I needn’t wonder where it came from.
Mom looked the doctor in the eye. “You can quit this ‘we’ business and patting me and talking to me as if I were a three-year-old, Richard McCauley. You are certainly old enough to know that running away doesn’t solve anything and I am certainly old enough to make my own decisions.”
Dr. McCauley raised his eyebrows, but he made no further comment. As we got back into my Passport, I thought I’d try and break the ice.
“Looks like we both need to keep an eye on our blood pressure,” I said.
Mom did not reply. Neither did she say a word to me all the way home.
My mother believed in cooking or cleaning to relieve stress so immediately after lunch (a very quiet affair) she hauled out the furniture polish, mop bucket, mop, Windex, and a wad of paper towels.
Jerking her head toward the hall, she said, “You can clean the bathrooms.”
I made sure she didn’t see my grin. She knew I didn’t like cleaning bathrooms and she gave me that job because she was still irritated. I knew her well enough to realize there was no sense in trying to talk to her until she got over her snit, so I took the mop, bucket, and Windex and dutifully went upstairs to the hall bathroom.
The Cemetery Club Page 16
