Saddled with Murder

by Eileen Brady

  Movement to my far right made me turn my head.

  Pinky stood at his front door watching, Princess in his arms. His gaze had been focused on the back of Jeremy’s car. After I noticed him, he put the elderly dog down on the cleared sidewalk. How long had he been standing there?

  I put my hands in my coat pockets and walked back into the animal hospital feeling more upset and confused than I thought I would.

  * * *

  Mari was busy in exam room two setting up my next appointment. I took the opportunity to ask our volunteer if she’d like to help me. She’d been shadowing us for about three weeks, as part of a work-study program. Greta jumped at the chance to help rather than take notes.

  We were doing a quick recheck on a case previously in the hospital for diarrhea. Duke, the dog, wagged his tail on seeing us, his owner trying unsuccessfully to get him to sit.

  “So,” I asked, “how’s he doing?” His shaggy coat and broad face defied fitting into any known breed.

  “Doing great.”

  “Excuse me, Dr. Kate,” Greta said. “Do you want him on the table?”

  I looked at the diminutive girl and at Duke sitting on the floor. The dog almost outweighed her.

  “No, we should be fine, thanks.” I performed a basic exam on the floor while asking the owner about any other symptoms.

  Our office had run a fecal panel, which checked for many types of bacterial DNA, such as salmonella and e coli variants. We’d hit the jackpot on cryptosporidium, a particularly nasty bug that can also affect people. Duke had been on the approved medication for dogs and was much better. The problem was to figure out where he’d gotten it from to prevent re-infection.

  “Would Duke have any access to livestock, or rodents?” I asked, getting up off the floor.

  “No,” his owner told me. “We don’t live on a farm, and we certainly don’t have mice in the house.” She sounded a bit indignant that I might even suggest it.

  Taking a medical history is like spotting clues in a murder mystery, one of my veterinary professors used to say. Ask questions, and then ask some more.

  “What about your neighbors?”

  “We have fields on either side of us, but no close neighbors.”

  “That sounds nice,” said Greta. She nervously looked back and forth between the two of us, not sure what to do.

  “It’s very nice,” Duke’s mom agreed. “Some days I can look out and only see cows grazing with the mountains in the background. Quite a different view than the one from my apartment in the city, that’s for sure.”

  Cows grazing. My first clue.

  “I bet Duke likes to look at the cows, too,” I said.

  “He does,” she agreed enthusiastically. “He’ll slip under the fence and walk around with cows, but he doesn’t chase them. Duke’s too much of a gentleman.”

  Duke wagged his tail when he heard his name. I was sure this big dog was doing more than walking around with the cows. Nothing is more tantalizing to a dog than a pasture full of cow pies.

  “One last question. Are you on well water?” The mystery was close to being solved.

  “Yes, we are. The best water ever.” Getting restless with all my questions, Duke’s owner snuck a look at her watch.

  Greta’s forehead wrinkled in thought.

  “Can I ask you when you last had your well water tested?”

  Now my client appeared puzzled. “You test well water? Why? It’s pure, one hundred percent natural, I mean, right from the ground.”

  Sometimes ignorance can be bliss. Unfortunately, I intended to rock that bliss boat.

  “I’m going to recommend you have your well tested, to make sure you aren’t getting contamination from the farm next to you. There’s a chance that if they are on a higher elevation than you, their…waste products can…contaminate the aquifer below. The same aquifer your well draws its water from.”

  “AGHhhh.” Her sound of disgust was unmistakable.

  “And Duke here,” I patted his head again, “is probably sampling some of the dried cow turds.”

  “YUCKkkkk.”

  The dog licked his chops and smiled.

  “Welcome to life in the country.”

  * * *

  “That was fantastic,” Greta said after we finished the appointment. “How did you figure that out?”

  “Just a sec. I’ll be right with you.” I needed to finish a text message for Cindy and note my recommendations on Duke’s record. My receptionist also had a handout of state contacts for clients with possible public health water issues, and poisonous plant questions. I’d have her add another handy list with the closest licensed animal rehabilitators for injured or orphaned wild animals and birds.

  “Okay,” I smiled at Greta. “Now to answer your question.”

  I explained that Duke’s source of infection was most likely direct from the cows, but checking the well was a prudent step for the well-being of everyone. Understanding the most common sources of parasites and bacteria helps the doctor, patient, and the client.

  “Don’t worry,” I reassured her. “You’ll get the hang of it. When do you apply to vet school?”

  Her answer surprised me. “I’m still not sure about what medical field I want to go into. That’s why I signed up for this internship. I’m also going to shadow a chiropractor, an orthopedic surgeon, and a dentist.”

  I compared how she felt to my own experience. There never was any doubt in my mind I would study veterinary medicine. I’d always been drawn to and loved animals. Veterinary medicine fascinated me. Still does. But that passion for your work didn’t happen to everyone.

  “Your school program sounds like a good one. Without some real-life experience, students don’t know what to expect.” I turned the microscope off and swung my chair in her direction. Greta had a very professional business-like appearance: crisp new scrubs, shiny closed-toe shoes, and a stylish modern haircut completed her image. In fact, looking down at myself wearing a white jacket decorated with a light covering of brown dog hair and slip-on knockoff Crocs, she looked more professional than I did.

  Silently vowing to go shoe shopping, I gave her some additional advice.

  “Pre-med can lead to many very different professions. Explore your options. Find a career that excites you. I know a human doctor who didn’t realize he hated the sight of blood until his second year of med school.”

  Greta seemed horrified. “What did he do?”

  “Became a psychiatrist.”

  * * *

  When the mail arrived, we took the sight of another square Christmas card in an ivory envelope for granted. No return address, as usual.

  This time I didn’t open it, simply handed it back to Cindy.

  “From Raeleen?” she asked.

  “That would be my guess. Go ahead and put it in a lab bag and store it with the others,” I cautioned her.

  Whoever mailed these Christmas cards to me could stop.

  Frank, Eloise, and Raeleen were all dead. Vanished from this earth.

  All the wishes had come true.

  Chapter Twenty

  The following day Cindy took me aside and herded me into reception. “Sit,” she demanded and handed me an evaluation form I had to fill out from Greta’s school.

  “Really? I’ve barely had a chance to talk to her. Same for Aaron, the new kennel help.” Yesterday had been particularly crazy. Mari and I had waved to both of them as we dashed past.

  Cindy rubbed her hand over her face. “I feel the same way. We’re supposed to be getting a new intern in a few days because we signed up for some kind of rotation schedule. It’s only for three months, so we’ll see how it works out.”

  I reserved my judgment for now. Each intern came with a list of things they had to accomplish, as well as specific tasks the school required them to master. Greta c
ame close to failing the surgical part of her rotation because of a queasy stomach. With some accommodations she eventually made it through the experience.

  “Right. Meanwhile, I guess we need to check with Mari for feedback.” I leaned back and said, “If there’s anything I hate doing it’s this kind of paperwork.”

  “Me, too.” Uncharacteristically Cindy plopped down in her desk chair. “I didn’t get much sleep last night—sorry if I’m grumpy.”

  I scooted over to her. “You aren’t grumpy. Everything okay?”

  “Oh, there’s just so much to do and so little time to do it. And Raeleen’s murder has me wondering…” She didn’t have to finish the statement. We both knew what she meant.

  “It has me wondering, too.”

  Now she resembled a cheerleader whose team lost the big game.

  “Trouble seems to follow you, Kate.” Her eyes met mine. Was there a hint of blame?

  “Yeah,” I admitted. “I’ve noticed that.”

  The ring of the bell chime on the front door made us look up. A well-dressed woman in her seventies strode into the room then zeroed in on us.

  “Excuse me,” she began, her blond pageboy partially hidden by a shearling hat that matched her coat. “I’d like to speak with your manager about Queenie, a bulldog previously owned by Eloise Rieven.”

  Cindy and I exchanged glances. This woman meant business.

  “I’m Dr. Turner. Can I help you Ms…?”

  “Babs.” She thrust her hand forward. “Babs Vanderbilt-Hayes. I was a dear friend of Eloise, and I want to know who killed her.”

  * * *

  We escorted Babs into my office/conference room for privacy. I started by giving her my condolences, but she waved them away. Her presence hijacked the room.

  “Those idiots at the police station wouldn’t talk to me,” she began, gracefully sitting in the chair opposite my desk, “so I came here to at least find out about Queenie. Joe hasn’t been that forthcoming.” Babs conveyed what she thought of her friend’s son with a discreet sniff.

  A force of nature like this woman could be handled in many ways, but I figured I’d expedite it for everyone. I laced my hands in front of me and said, “What would you like to know?”

  Her narrowed eyes took my measure. “First, Queenie—is she in good hands?”

  “Yes. Eloise’s son has decided to give Queenie to a family friend, their former neighbor, Patty Whiffenwood. Joe currently lives in a second-floor condo walk-up, and it’s hard for him to get Queenie up and down the stairs. I believe he already took her to New Jersey to her new home.”

  “Hummp. Where there’s a will, there’s a way. Just saying.” Her hand loosened some buttons on her coat. “I know Patty. She’ll take good care of her. One problem solved.”

  This time I asked a question. “When did you learn about Eloise’s death?”

  “Smart.” Those clever eyes squinted at me again. “Nice way of asking why are you bringing all this up now? Well, I’ve been in the city, hospitalized at New York Presbyterian Hospital with double pneumonia, for the past two weeks. When I called Eloise, her phone was disconnected. Joe said she’d died. They’d already had a private memorial service and cremated her. Like that.” She snapped her fingers. “No trace of my LouLou left.”

  Behind the bravura I saw pain.

  “LouLou, that was my nickname for Eloise. Anyway, she and I went to boarding school together. We were friends for over fifty years. I can’t believe she fell down and froze to death. That’s just not acceptable. Getting wood at her age.” Anger flashed in her eyes. “Being hounded by those anti-bulldog people didn’t make her life easier either. My poor LouLou.” Babs’s rigid posture wilted for a brief second.

  I’d encountered many cases of people denying circumstances surrounding the death of their pet, or a family member, and recognized it as a stage of grief.

  “This has been a shock, I’m sure,” I reiterated to Babs. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

  “Not unless you can bring her back.”

  She rose and slid her Gucci purse over her shoulder. “I’ve hired a lawyer to review the radiologist’s and pathologist’s findings. We’re getting a second opinion. It’s the least I can do for my oldest friend. What about her house?”

  The abrupt change of subject took me aback. “I assume the house went to her son, Joe. You’ll have to see if the will has been filed.”

  “This is very disturbing. She loved that farmhouse, felt it should be a museum, an historical treasure. Never got the heat fully installed because of that. A bit of a mess, really, but I kept that opinion to myself. Keep things authentic, she’d tell me. I told her to stop burning wood, much too dangerous at her age, but LouLou was as stubborn as I am. We’re both tough old birds.” With that announcement Babs swept out of my office and, exhibiting a keenly honed sense of direction, headed straight for reception. She graciously thanked Cindy for her time and then was safely ushered into a large Bentley by a chauffeur. This woman had serious money.

  “What was that all about?” Cindy asked.

  “Mourning a loved one. And a hint of guilt, I think.”

  Despite privacy laws, I expected her to bulldoze through any obstacles set in her way and get her second opinion. I hoped it would give her some comfort.

  * * *

  With Greta’s official evaluation form from her school program finished, I still had our new employee assessment to fill out. That reminded me. I wanted to make an effort to get to know Aaron better. I ventured over to the dog kennels, being deep-cleaned in time for the pre-Christmas boarders. Our new kennel helper had no idea I was behind him due to the bright white earbuds in both ears. For some reason I thought he was about nineteen or so but realized he was a bit older, maybe twenty-two or twenty-three.

  Both his body and the mop jerked comically to a decidedly hip-hop beat.

  Since I didn’t want to scare him, I slowly walked along the closest kennel so the movement would catch his eye. My plan didn’t work because his eyes were fixed on the long scrub mop cleaning the cement and floor drains. All the rubberized matting and beds were clean, elevated, and arranged in stacks to be placed down after everything dried. The air smelled of cleaning products.

  Trying to get his attention, I stuck my foot out, only to have it mopped with a saturated lemony-smelling liquid.

  “Oops.” Aaron’s inquiring look became one of terror when he saw me. “Sorry.” A quick pull dislodged the earbuds but didn’t stop the beat that kept pounding away. Darting glances searched for someone to help him.

  Thinking I would smooth things over with a joke, I said, “There’s no one here to save you, Aaron.”

  My smile froze when I saw his reaction. He trembled, pupils dilated. The skinny kennel worker looked like he might faint. What the heck was going on here?

  “Continue what you’re doing,” I told him. “Cindy sent me over to meet you officially.” A slight relaxation of his shoulder encouraged me to continue. “Good work. Keep it up.”

  “Okay.” He directed his word to the wet floor.

  With one shoe and the bottom of my pants leg sopping wet, I detoured into my apartment to change. Our encounter hadn’t gone as planned. Why was he so scared of me?

  * * *

  After changing into clean scrubs, I stopped to check the Christmas wish YouTube video—15,106 viewings.

  Since I was online already, I decided to learn a little more about Aaron and why I frightened him so much. The answer came in an unlikely place—Aaron’s Facebook page. Up popped a link to the YouTube video from the staff Christmas party that showed Mari’s litter box cake and me, forever stuck in my fateful wish. On his board were reposted some troubling conspiracy theories, as well as more links—one to a wishful thinking site and the other a rant about a breakup.

  Once again I had underestimated social media.<
br />
  * * *

  Raeleen Lassitor’s story became more complicated later that day. As usual, Cindy and her sources beat the local news by at least twelve hours. Normally I’d have heard everything directly, but this time I became updated simply by accident.

  I’d been scrambling to finish Aaron’s paperwork as well as reviewing the next intern’s resumé with Cindy. Instead of jamming it into my pocket, I’d been ordered to put everything in the appropriate folder, labeled either “Intern Program” or “Employee Files,” which she kept in a locked drawer in the reception area. Since we were closed for lunch, I decided now was a good time to get everything done.

  That’s when I overheard Cindy on the phone say, “Raeleen? Are you sure?”

  Pretty sure my friend wasn’t conversing with the dead, I waited until she hung up before questioning her.

  “Do you have a minute? I want to go over those forms with you,” I added to cover my interest in listening to gossip.

  We sat at her desk side by side. While glancing through the mostly completed forms about the number of hours Aaron spent in the hospital, Cindy said, “That phone call doesn’t have anything to do with you, Kate. I’m only telling you because I know you’re upset. It’s about Rae.”

  “Oh.”

  “There’s a boyfriend. The chief has declared him a person of interest in her death.”

  “Of course there is.” The number of boyfriends and husbands in the news lately who had killed their partners was disconcerting, to say the least. One of the risk factors of falling in love or being pregnant in America shouldn’t be murder.

  We finished Aaron’s evaluation and went on to the next person on the intern list, due to start on Monday. To my surprise I recognized the name.

  Juliet Bradsher. At my old job on Long Island I’d worked with a very skilled licensed technician with the same name. What was she doing in upstate New York?

  “Unusual name,” Cindy commented. “That would be nice if it was your friend. Let’s hope she’s your Juliet.”