by Eileen Brady
“Does that make me her Romeo?”
Cindy cracked up. “You made a joke, Kate. Things are finally looking up.”
I wasn’t sure about that, but hearing that Raeleen’s murder probably had nothing to do with any of us was more of a relief than I realized.
* * *
Mari decided to add to our Christmas decorations because we weren’t “cheery” enough. While we were in the middle of hanging more lights, the chief and a deputy swung by to pick up the Christmas cards sent on behalf of three dead persons.
“You be nice to Kate,” Cindy scolded her brother-in-law. “The whole stupid game was my suggestion. Kate didn’t even want to play, but I forced her into it. If I could take it back I would.”
“I know, I know.” His voice conciliatory, he gathered up the envelopes sealed in plastic, holding them up to the light. “Just you two handled them, right?”
“Once they got to the hospital, yes.” She looked around as though confirming the statement.
“Well, I’ll tell you one thing,” he said, holding up the bag with the first card we opened signed Frank Martindale. “This isn’t Frank’s signature. I’ve got plenty of complaints at the office signed by the deceased. Obviously, someone else wrote this. And it wasn’t no ghost.”
“A prankster?” Cindy volunteered.
“If you call this a prank. All three deaths and they used the same card. Someone wants us to focus attention on that wish, or on you, Dr. Turner.”
His last words made me freeze.
“Alright, then.” He looked around for his deputy, who stood on a ladder helping Mari string the lights. From the laughing and body language their exchange looked quite friendly. “Come on, Phil,” the chief said, keeping his visit brief.
We followed the officers out the door and into the parking lot. After whumping the siren twice, they drove up to the main road and took off.
The three of us stared at the disappearing patrol car before hurrying inside. “What do you think they’ll do with the cards?”
Cindy answered. “The chief said this sort of thing happens all the time. Some federal agency will investigate because the Postal Service is involved, but there’s been no threat, no extortion. No nothing.”
With not much at stake, I doubted any sophisticated or costly tests would be run. The cards warranted only a minimal investigation. I made my way into the treatment area and began packing supplies to take out to the truck. Then I checked for my personal backpack, sort of a mini emergency kit I’d been carrying since vet school. Ever since going on a hike and encountering a dog suffering from heat stroke, I’d kept that backpack nearby.
* * *
With two house calls scheduled this afternoon, I glanced out the big picture window in the reception area to check on traffic. From the number of cars and trucks speeding by, I guessed the latest snowfall hadn’t slowed anyone down.
Our own parking lot, most of it in direct sunlight, was perfectly dry thanks to Pinky’s plowing and Cindy’s salting the walkways.
“I’m saddled up and ready to go, Mari,” I yelled out to my technician. Greta was busy running some lab tests, the manual open on the countertop next to her. “Do you have any questions?” I asked her.
“So far, so good,” she said. “Mari set up some fecal tests and bloods to run with extra samples you had. That way I can compare my results to yours.” Given the fact she was surrounded by ziplock bags full of organic matter, she had a cheerful smile on her face.
A text message from Cindy said Mari would meet me at the truck. Glad we could teach this departing intern something new, I said goodbye, threw my backpack over my shoulder, and hustled out the door.
* * *
Once we reached the edge of town I relaxed as the scenery changed to fields, farms, and mountains. Getting out into nature and away from the white walls and fluorescent lights of the clinic usually afforded me a much-needed mental break.
However, before that happened, I had to battle wits with our most frequent house call client and her ferocious Chihuahua.
Daphne Davidsen had been given the nickname Daffy by family members, and she strived to live up to it. She was an eccentric retired teacher and former librarian, and her chief pleasure in life was her tiny dog, Little Man. The daffy part centered on her enjoyment of dressing them both in matching homemade costumes.
Now her Chihuahua wasn’t a dainty little female with melting dark eyes. No. Her male looked like a thug, a muscular no-nonsense sort of guy. Dressing him up was like dressing up a gangster in a bonnet. Which made it all the more fun.
* * *
Once in Daffy’s home, Mari and I prepared for the main event. Directly across from me disguised as a Christmas tree, weighing in at seven pounds, two ounces, was Little Man.
Cloaked in my magical white coat as returning champion Dr. Kate Turner, I wasn’t required to give my exact weight. My veterinary disguise didn’t fool anyone. Armed for battle with a pair of toenail clippers, we faced off for round one.
While I distracted the growling dog with Christmas carols and jazz hands, Mari circled behind and slipped a custom gauze muzzle around his pointed snout.
After appropriate high-fives all around, she held while I clipped.
Under his breath and between snarls, Little Man told us what he would do to us if he ever got sprung. Most of it was a big act for his mom, Daffy, also dressed as a Christmas tree, but her costume was topped with a glowing star. Our client circled around us, making conciliatory promises to her pet for this terrible invasion of his privacy. “Be good, Baby,” she’d implore him to no avail. With teeth bared he continued to protest. I’d been clipping his nails every three to four weeks for months, but Little Man never gave it up without the semblance of a fight.
Once finished we reversed our choreography. Mari slipped the muzzle free then escaped as I captured the angry Chihuahua’s attention. His big bat ears glowed translucent from the reflected starlight on his mom’s head.
Once in her arms, he dialed it down to a half-hearted snarl.
Every visit she insisted on feeding us a little something, often related to whatever they were celebrating. That held true today as iced Christmas cookies and sliced fruitcake appeared on the kitchen table.
Mari eyed the fruitcake, trepidation in her glance.
“Doing anything for the holidays?” I asked our host. Some shortbread with ribbons of chocolate caught my attention.
“Of course, dear. I need to finish decorating the house before Little Man and I have Christmas Eve dinner with the family.”
For the life of me I couldn’t see one single surface not festooned with something. There were figurines on handmade doilies, artificial pine boughs woven in and out of the stair rails and draped over every door and window. A large nativity scene took up the middle of the dining room table, and I counted three Christmas trees of various colors and styles.
Daffy’s enthusiasm was evident, so I simply said her home looked lovely.
“Thank you, Doctor,” Daffy said. “This holiday must be a bit stressful for the two of you.”
It had begun. The second inquisition from Oak Falls’s Queen of Gossip. Although she rarely left her home, she knew everything.
“How do you mean?” I pretended innocence.
Her tree shook with laughter, the star tilting to one side. “Whatever possessed you two? What a pickle to be in.”
Mari lightened the mood by asking if we were dill pickles or bread and butter slices, but it only briefly deterred Daffy.
“So much gossip about this wish of yours. I wonder who’s behind it?”
That sparked my interest. “You think the gossip is deliberate?”
Daffy and her dog both stared at me, sympathy in one set of eyes. “Don’t you?”
Averting my face from her keen scrutiny, I muttered, “I have no idea.”<
br />
We almost escaped when she asked how the investigation of Raeleen’s murder was going.
Mari helped me out by implying that the general consensus was that her death resulted from domestic violence and left it at that.
“The ex-boyfriend or someone new?”
Since anything I said would lead to another question, I remained silent. My assistant, on the other hand, had no problems speculating about murder with our client.
“Now don’t quote me,” Mari began. “But I think the focus is on Devin, her ex. They say he has an alibi. But I didn’t hear that from any official source.”
She may as well have posted it on Facebook. It felt incongruous to be talking about murder under a sprig of mistletoe.
“A lovely girl, Raeleen, dedicated and uncompromising. Devoted to her animals and yet unsophisticated in the ways of the world—completely oblivious to the messes she created.” Daffy stroked the smooth fur of her Chihuahua. “Mark my words, being impulsive and naive is what got her murdered.”
Mari got up from the table, an extra cookie in her hand, and said, “Sorry to cut things short, but we need to get going. Want to start the truck, Dr. Kate, while I pack up?”
Although glad Mari had thrown me a life preserver, I had to admit I was curious about our conversation. After wishing happy holidays to all, I took off for the safety of the truck.
* * *
About ten minutes later Mari opened the passenger door and climbed in, a small wrapped box in her hands.
“What took you so long?” I asked as she buckled up.
“Oh, Daffy and I had a little talk. She also gave us this to munch on.” Mari pointed to the package.
“I believe that was a new world’s record for clipping his toenails,” I said with a laugh. With the GPS set for our next appointment, I settled in for an uneventful ride. I was contemplating the ins and outs of Christmas with Gramps at my Dad’s house when Mari interrupted my thoughts.
“That’s odd,” she said.
I automatically slowed down. “What’s odd?”
“Pinky. He’s plowing out Frank Martindale’s place.”
“So?” I’d read in the paper that my former client’s estate might go into probate. His closest relative was rumored to be a second cousin, located somewhere on the West Coast. Searches were being ordered by the court to find any other relatives.
Mari scratched her head and turned down the heat. “Pinky plowed out two of the people who died: Frank Martindale and Eloise Rieven. He’s also the one who added Raeleen’s name that day at the party, and now she’s dead. Don’t you think that’s a little odd?”
I did think it was odd, but for now I wanted to give Pinky the benefit of the doubt. “Doesn’t he plow out most everyone on this side of town?” I asked her.
“I guess so,” she answered tentatively. “You’re probably right.”
The traffic light at the next intersection turned yellow, so I eased my boot onto the brake. How many people in the vicinity were in the business of plowing out driveways, I wondered?
Waiting at the intersection, I recalled an emotional Pinky telling me that he’d kill anyone who hurt me. The light turned green, and I hit the gas.
“Don’t worry about it, Mari. It’s just a coincidence.”
Another coincidence.
* * *
Our afternoon of house calls continued uneventfully, the roads slushy but drivable. Since Cindy had put us on a tight schedule, Mari and I ended up snacking on cookies in the truck. We checked each other for stray crumbs before our next appointment.
Situated in a natural glade, the home was a modern- build log cabin, with soaring ceilings and exposed beams, a far cry from Daffy’s modest ranch. Our delightful client was a stay-at-home artist mom and her three children under four. Their cat and dog stoically rose above the chaos, barely waking up for their exams. Child gates separated the rambunctious kids from the woodstove and potential trouble.
Although the temperature outside was in the thirties, we’d both peeled off all our outer clothing and Mari had quietly threatened to strip down to her underwear. Like many folks in the country, the family had their wood stove functioning at full blast with the inside temperature hovering around seventy-four. The babies comfortably ran around dressed only in their diapers. We didn’t have that luxury.
Mrs. Haber noticed the pile of clothing on her living room chair and apologized. “We like it nice and toasty,” she said, dressed in a light t-shirt and shorts in December. “But I confess I overloaded it a little this afternoon. With the woodstove going we can have all the heat we want and a low electric bill.”
We both nodded, the sweat trickling down our backs.
“It also makes my paintings dry faster.” She shifted a small sleeping child to her other hip and pointed to several large canvases painted in a dramatic modern style. The splashes of color and changes in texture in the paintings looked pleasing and very professional.
Mari recognized the technique. “Didn’t you have a show at one of the galleries in town last year?”
“Mommy,” interrupted a small boy with red hair, “Jason hit me.”
“Say you’re sorry to your brother,” she answered in an absentminded way. “Let’s see, I was pregnant with Pearl at the time, so that must have been the spring before last.”
“Sounds about right.” Mari tried to put down our cooler with the vaccines in it but thought better when she noticed both boys eying it.
“Haber is my married name,” she explained. “I exhibit under my maiden name, Lark Moreux.”
Even I recognized that name. Luke had introduced me to her paintings. She was a local celebrity and as unassuming as could be. Her work sold in the tens of thousands of dollars.
After I got over my shock, I tackled the pet exams and booster shots. Both went smoothly, each animal being pleasantly plump and agreeable. The only recommendation was a dentistry for their middle-aged Cornish Rex cat.
“Did I give her the wrong food?” Lark asked.
“A different diet might have helped, along with brushing, but some breeds like Rex, Siamese, and exotic shorthairs are notorious for having dental issues. As it is, she has a loose canine that might have to come out.”
“Oh, no. I didn’t notice anything, but honestly with the kids now, I don’t devote as much time to her as I should. She was my first baby.” Lark gave her somewhat hairless cat a pet. Immediately the yellow-eyed kitty’s motor started purring.
“I am going to recommend a dental diet, though. Plus, we’ll show you how to easily clean her teeth with either wipes or a product you slip over your finger. But for you,” I pointed my finger at the mixed-breed dog, “we might have to use the dreaded doggie toothbrush.”
Lark promised to do her best.
“How do you manage all these kids plus a career?” Mari asked. “I can barely juggle two dogs.”
Our client gave us a surprising answer.
“My husband is a graphic designer and writer for several magazines and needs his own space, so one day we sat down and decided to organize our week; otherwise we’d go mad. We use Alexa a lot here.” As if on cue the smart device on the kitchen counter glowed blue. “She keeps us on schedule and reminds all the kids what chores they have that day. We turned off her spy mode though.”
Noticing the blue light, the toddler said, “Can I play a song, Mom?”
“Sure. Go tell Alexa what you want to hear.”
We moved toward the dining room table as “The Wheels on the Bus” began to play.
“My husband, Philip, has the studio in the afternoon to work, and I have it in the morning to paint. Nighttime and bedtime are a free-for-all.”
From the racket of the kids dancing around the room pretending to be buses and then crashing into one another—I believed it.
“My parents live close by f
or babysitting, so we have a pretty good support team.” The child in Lark’s arms slept blissfully through the music and noise and general bedlam. She smoothly transferred the little one to a crib tucked in the corner. “We’ve got about twenty-six acres, but this sweet local guy helps us,” she added. “He delivers the wood in the spring so it can dry all summer, and then before the cold weather arrives, he stacks a few piles on the porch so I don’t have to go to the woodpile. Such a nice fellow.” She smiled, adding, “He also cuts the grass in the summer and plows our driveway in the winter.”
Mari glanced over at me.
“Do you remember his name?”
“Pinky. His name is Pinky. Silly name for a big guy, isn’t it, but I quite like it.”
Before I could respond Alexa blasted another chorus of “Wheels” to the delight of the boys, who now pretended to be trucks that crashed into each other. Lark appeared delighted as well as she swayed to the music.
* * *
“So Pinky strikes again,” Mari said after we’d climbed into the truck on our way to the main road.
“Afraid so,” I noted, thinking back to Eloise Rieven’s porch. “When we picked up Queenie did you notice any wood stacked against the house or up on the porch?”
“No,” she quickly answered, “and I’d remember, since I use a woodstove at home. Her hearth only had one or two small split logs and some twigs left in the kindling box.”
Too bad Pinky hadn’t stacked extra wood on Eloise’s deck. Perhaps her death might have been avoided. I shared my thoughts as we turned up Bates Lane.
“Pinky probably charges extra for hauling wood onto the porch. Between her pocketbook and her pride, I bet Eloise wouldn’t admit she needed some help.” Mari opened the laptop and made notes on my recommendations to Lark.
Small decisions sometimes had big consequences.
We drove along in silence for a while, our thoughts kept to ourselves. A few flakes of snow flittered across the windshield.
Mari closed the laptop then made a startling statement. “Guess what I’m doing? Daffy told me about an amazing psychic, so I’m getting a reading,”
Jolted out of my thoughts I asked why.
