Was someone now seeking revenge? Did Cynthia have relatives who harbored a grudge? Surely Keith and Tory were pursuing this possibility.
Also, Tory had planned to interview Danielle today. A current of unease ran through me, that we’d left the young woman to deal with her husband’s anger last night. While I’d seen no indications that Fred abused her mentally or physically, he might be a powder keg.
“You must have the world’s most massive ego to think you’re in charge of everyone who consults you.” Tory hadn’t been entirely wrong, I supposed.
My nurse appeared and informed me that a patient required my attention. For the rest of the afternoon, I had a full schedule, and didn’t finish until nearly six p.m. I was descending via the stairs—for a little extra exercise—when my cell rang.
“Get over to the store fast. Fred’s losing it.” Tory broke off to snap, “You stay right there, buster. I don’t care what your wife says, one more move and I’m calling the police.”
In the background, I heard Danielle command, “An inch closer to those wine glasses and I’ll call them myself.”
How sad that she valued the glasses more than her safety. “Isn’t there a manager who could intervene?” I asked.
“Danielle just got promoted to that position,” Tory said. “Eric, we’re in a holding pattern but I’m not sure how long it will last.”
“On my way.” I quickened my pace down the steps.
Chapter Twelve
On the short drive, I reviewed what I knew of the Jeffers couple. They’d married six years ago, when she was twenty-one and Fred twenty-four. After I joined my father’s practice and she became my patient, I’d noticed that she often deferred to her husband. However, she wasn’t entirely submissive and he treated her with respect.
Their infertility stemmed from Danielle’s history of severe pelvic inflammatory disease. She’d been sexually active in her teens with multiple partners and had suffered from chlamydia, which is curable with antibiotics. However, the infection hadn’t initially caused symptoms and, before it was caught, her reproductive system suffered irreversible damage.
Later, she’d experienced a religious conversion and met Fred at a church singles group. Despite her past, which she’d disclosed, he’d fallen in love with her and they’d faced their medical issues as a couple.
Their relationship might be changing, though. Since Malerie’s death, Fred had acted rigid, and last night’s confrontation had indicated Danielle was no longer content to let her husband define their position on her family’s matters. Was Fred flexible enough to share power, or was he primed to lash out?
Kitchens, Cooks and Linens was located on a side street. When I entered, the glass door activated soft chimes and an orange-spice fragrance floated in the air. Surrounded by dishes and glassware, I moved gingerly, half-convinced that my elbows could smash china at a dozen paces.
No one staffed the checkout counter. A convex mirror in a corner revealed a trio of tense figures in an area defined by free-standing bookshelves. A directional sign pointed to the Cookbook Nook.
Tory greeted me with a tilt of the head. Danielle, wearing a red-and-white checkered smock, continued addressing the man looming over her. “I don’t see what there is left to say. According to your minister, I either bow down or you throw me out.”
“He’s our minister. And it’s a matter of obedience to God, not to me or him.” Despite an edge to his voice, Fred hung onto his self-control.
“That’s according to Pastor Vald,” Danielle responded. “And I resent your consulting him about my family.”
“It’s my family, too.” Only a flick of Fred’s eyes indicated he’d registered my arrival in their little group. “And why shouldn’t I visit my spiritual leader?”
“I’m not sure I’d describe him as spiritual.”
“We prayed together,” Fred said. “We prayed for you.”
“To kneel at your feet?”
Although the Cookbook Nook offered several canvas chairs, no one was sitting. I judged it wise to remain upright, too. As Tory had warned, there was no telling whether Fred might explode.
My sister-in-law remained balanced and ready for action. Even without a gun, Tory had plenty of defensive skills—offensive too, if necessary.
“You’re mischaracterizing this.” To me, Fred explained, “Last night my wife slept on the couch. This morning, she left without speaking to me. Since she refuses to join me in seeking counsel, I went alone. I don’t suppose you’re familiar with Pastor Vald?”
“Only by reputation.” Pastor Vald had landed on the news when an established church ousted him in a dispute over his preaching on the role of women. After relocating his followers to a store-front, he’d launched a controversial blog and recorded a series of fiery sermons for YouTube.
While I wasn’t qualified to assess his theology, I certainly didn’t endorse his quasi-medieval views about marriage or God. As for my own religious convictions, I believed there ought to be a divine presence but, since Lydia’s death, preferred not to think about it.
“Somebody has to remember what the Bible says and how God requires us to live,” Fred said.
Tory started to roll her eyes, noticed my frown and schooled her features.
“Tell him the rest,” Danielle demanded.
“There’s no reason to repeat it.”
“Yes, there is!” To me, she burst out, “Our so-called pastor harped on what a tramp I am. According to him, we’re childless as a punishment. By refusing to let him preach at my mother’s funeral, I’m proving once again that I’m an unfit wife.”
“This isn’t about the past,” Fred huffed. “It’s about respect for your husband. You’re refusing to bend your will.”
“I’m refusing to let that man pass judgment on my sister and Heather at our mother’s funeral,” Danielle retorted.
“Better than allowing Doreen to corrupt you!”
“Homosexuality isn’t catching.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
The chimes ushered in customers. After casting a stern look at her husband, Danielle headed over and, apparently in response to a request, directed the young couple to the bath section.
Rejoining us, she picked up where she’d left off, in a more muted tone. “Doreen has as much right as I do to choose who officiates.”
“You should have stood by me, even if we don’t prevail,” Fred snapped. “It was disloyal.”
“Either I alienate my sister or you cast me off because I’m a slut?”
“That’s unfair!”
“It’s totally fair!”
They traded glares. Then they did something unexpected and unwelcome. In fact, terrifying.
They turned to me with hopeful expressions.
“Dr. Darcy,” Fred said. “You understand us as well as anyone. How do we resolve this?”
The simplest response would have been to refer the pair to the hospital’s psychologist, whose fertility group they attended. But since they were counting on me for suggestions, I decided to do my best.
“Let’s start with common ground,” I said. “You both want to save your marriage. Correct?”
Slowly, they nodded.
“Fred, did you truly forgive your wife for her youthful behavior?” That seemed a better term than “sins.”
“Yes.” He spoke emphatically.
“Was that forgiveness conditional?” I pressed. “Did she have to promise never to disagree with you? To accept you as her absolute authority?”
Shakily, as if asked to walk across hot coals, he said, “No.”
Danielle peered toward the customers. They appeared to be busy picking out towels.
“So Danielle’s respect for your…” Choose carefully. “…position as her husband doesn’t require her to follow blindly?” I’d read once that courtroom attorneys never ask a question to which they don’t already know the answer. Lucky that I’d gone into medicine instead of law, because I had no clue how he would
reply.
Fred thought it over. “Not blindly. Like, not if I ordered her to break the law.”
I recalled Danielle’s comment about throwing her out. “Did your pastor really say that if she doesn’t obey, you should divorce her?”
He cleared his throat. “Not exactly.”
“Fred!” prompted his wife.
“He implied it,” he conceded.
“Isn’t marriage sacred?” I’d heard the term “the sanctity of marriage” at church, which I’d attended occasionally when Mom was alive. Since her death when I was thirteen, neither Dad nor I had gone back. “Shouldn’t your goal be to work with Danielle to save your relationship?”
He ducked his head. “I don’t like fighting with her, but Pastor Vald makes good points.”
“That infertility is a punishment?” I said. “For the record, most of the cases I treat are unrelated to behavior.”
“I’ve been praying and atoning for more than ten years,” Danielle put in. “Surely God’s forgiven me by now.”
“Then why are we being punished again?” her husband countered. “The money that could have paid for a surrogate is gone. According to Pastor Vald, that indicates God still considers us sinners.”
“You mean, considers me a sinner!”
“Wait a minute.” Tory broke her bystander’s silence. “This preacher, after discovering Mrs. Jeffers is no longer an heiress, advised you to you dump her?”
I had to admit, I hadn’t made the connection. Kudos to Tory.
Fred’s forehead wrinkled. “The two things aren’t related.”
“Are you sure?” Danielle seized on the idea. “He’s always pushing for donations to build a real church.”
“He isn’t trying to break up our marriage because your mom lost her money.” Fred drew back indignantly. “That would be immoral.”
“More immoral than urging you to dump her if she doesn’t knuckle under?” Tory was working up a head of steam.
“Down, girl,” I muttered.
She winced. “Sorry,” she told the Jefferses.
“He didn’t mean it like that.” Fred was too caught up in his mental turmoil to pay her much heed. “I don’t want to lose you, honey.”
“We have to find a new church,” his wife said. “One where the minister acts like a Christian.”
They were both breathing hard. Across the store, the young couple approached the checkout, their cart piled with towels.
“I have to think about this,” Fred said.
“Sleep on it and call me tomorrow.” Danielle swung around.
“Wait! Where will you stay?”
She called to the customers that she’d be right there. “A motel. Or Doreen’s place. I’m sure she’ll take me in.”
His fists bunched. “You’re not sleeping in that den of... whatever.”
“It isn’t your decision.”
“We have to draw the line somewhere.”
They’d reached an impasse. Someone had to break it. “We have a spare bedroom,” I said.
“She can stay with us,” Tory agreed.
“Us?” Fred’s suspicion dropped over me like a giant net. “You’re living together?”
Oh, great, we were about to be added to his list of wrongdoers. “Not like that,” I said. “My father-in-law, Tory’s dad, also lives there. We have a fourth bedroom, if Danielle’s interested.”
“I suppose that would be all right,” he said.
“Thank you,” Danielle said in my direction. “Now I have customers waiting.”
After she finished serving the young couple, we met her near the checkout. She had a condition for Fred, she announced. If by tomorrow he refused to compromise, she’d move out permanently.
She was quaking but resolute. I quashed the impulse to warn her against risking her marriage on an ultimatum, because there really might not be a future for them if Fred refused to meet her halfway. Also, I understood how hard it must be for her to stand firm.
Her husband ducked his head. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
I provided them both with my address. “The store closes at seven,” Danielle said. “I’ll pick up a change of clothes and come over. Thank you, Dr. Darcy. Ms. Golden.”
“Very generous,” Fred muttered.
“You’re welcome.”
Outside, Tory complimented me on the invitation. “I know how much you value your privacy.”
“It’s only one night,” I said, “What did you learn from her before Fred barged in?”
“I’ll tell you at home.” Her sly grin reminded me that she got a kick out of keeping me off-balance. Mischievous, Lydia used to call her. Sometimes fondly, sometimes not.
Since Morris was catering a special event, I nibbled on leftovers until Tory arrived with a sack of hamburgers and fries. Pleasant surprise.
She filled me in as we ate. Danielle had shared background on Fred. He’d grown up in a small ranching community in Wyoming, the middle child of seven. His parents were rigidly religious, with a sub-zero emotional chill factor.
“What I can’t figure out is why he married someone with her personal history.” Tory scooped a fry through a puddle of ketchup. “I mean, given his Neanderthal perspective.”
“Because she’s warm and kind, the opposite of his refrigerator parents,” I said over a tankard of dark ale. I limit myself to one drink per night, since you never know when you might have to perform surgery.
“You think he’ll compromise?”
“If he doesn’t, he’s a fool.” The same, in my opinion, went for Keith, except that unlike Fred, he’d already crossed a line too far. Or too wide. Or both.
Danielle arrived about eight. Red hair wound in a bun and a small tote in hand, she had an air of fragility, and her shoulders drooped with weariness.
She’d already eaten dinner, she assured us. Despite the early hour, she was ready to go to bed and read her email.
“Oh, I nearly forgot.” She paused behind Tory on the staircase. “Remember on Sunday, we discussed whether Mom might have gotten confused about her meds?”
“Yes?” From the hall, I regarded her encouragingly.
“Well, she did get confused sometimes.”
“For example?”
She set her case on the step. “Right after Dee Marie died, when we thought it was from the asthma, Mom blamed herself for smoking when we were little. Because my sister was smaller and frailer than Doreen and me, Mom spent more time with her. That means she had more exposure to the cigarettes.”
“If Dee Marie’s lungs were less developed, she’d have been at higher risk for asthma in any event,” I said. “But second-hand smoke could have increased her vulnerability.”
“That wasn’t the weird part,” Danielle said. “While she was beating up on herself, Mom mentioned heart defects. None of us had heart problems.”
“Did she mean your father’s stroke?” Surely Winston’s own habit of lighting up had affected him more. I recalled seeing him sneak a cigarette on the lunchroom patio even though, as an anesthesiologist, he must have been aware that smokers run a higher risk of complications during surgery. People aren’t always rational. Maybe I should say, aren’t often rational.
“I didn’t get that impression. But who knows?” She picked up the case. “Good night, Dr. Darcy.”
“Good night.” More than ever, I wished I had Malerie’s missing file and the secrets it might contain.
On Wednesday, Fred arrived at 6 a.m. “Where’s my wife?” he demanded.
“Right here.” Wrapped in a robe, Danielle hurried down the stairs.
“I called your sister. Woke her up,” he said. “I told her to find a neutral officiant. She already had a person in mind who was fine with me.”
He’d covered a lot of topics in what sounded like a single breath. The underlying message was that he missed his wife far more than he would miss Pastor Vald.
“Is it okay if he comes in?” Danielle asked me.
“Sure.” I waved
toward the kitchen, from which wafted the scent of fresh brew. I’d remembered to fix it last night and set the timer for 5 a.m. “Help yourselves to coffee.” Neither of my housemates appeared to be up yet.
Their thanks accompanied me upstairs. Leaving them to talk, I showered and dressed.
When I descended, the pair sat at the table, holding hands like newlyweds. Tory was fixing herself a bowl of cereal. No sign of Morris.
“I figured out what put a bee in my bonnet,” Fred said when he spotted me. “I hadn’t been honest with myself how much I was counting on that inheritance until it vanished. That’s no excuse for taking it out on my wife, though.”
They soon departed, after telling me the ceremony and burial were scheduled for 1 p.m. Saturday at Safe Harbor Memorial Garden. “It’s outdoors. Pray for good weather,” Fred said cheerily.
“Let’s hope.” That’s my standard response to such a request, since praying isn’t part of my repertoire.
How often does a good deed bear results before you’ve eaten breakfast? If I weren’t aware that whistling irritates people, I’d have produced a happy tune. Or attempted one.
“You’ll be at the service too, right?” I asked Tory after they left.
“I could hardly miss it.” To my questioning look, she said, “Eric, the killer almost always attends the funeral.”
Just like that, my self-congratulatory mood disappeared.
Chapter Thirteen
Is there such a thing as a perfect day for a funeral? If so, Saturday surely qualified. By early afternoon, the temperature floated around 80 degrees, and light clouds diffused enough sunshine to avoid glare.
From a parking lot near the Memorial Garden’s main building, Tory and I followed a meandering paved drive toward a canopy erected on the grass. Morris had reluctantly bowed out. He had meals to prepare for that night, with Billie’s assistance. They’d be making deliveries together until she regained her confidence.
The rolling lawn was set with flat gravestones, some of which sported orange-and-black bouquets, pumpkins and skulls. After a startled moment, I recalled that the first of November, only a few days off, was Día de los Muertos, Day of the Dead. It’s a holiday when Hispanic families traditionally clean and decorate the graves of loved ones. Apparently they incorporate Halloween decorations, as well.
The Case of the Questionable Quadruplet Page 11
