Waiting sucked.
Even with her face half-buried in Pete’s coat, she noticed the doors to the exam area swing open. Dr. Fuller strolled out, looked around, and approached them. She turned to call to Wayne and Seth, but they’d already spotted the doctor and were headed his way.
“How’s my sister?” Wayne asked.
“We’re getting her stabilized.”
“What the hell does that mean?” Seth’s voice was stretched so tight it squeaked.
Dr. Fuller had decades of practice dealing with stressed family and friends, and offered a smile meant to comfort. “We’re supporting her vitals while we try to diagnose what’s causing her symptoms.” His gaze passed to each of them, settling on Zoe. “You were with her when she collapsed?”
“Yes.”
“Had she eaten recently?”
“She told me she’d had lunch at the new fast food place in Phillipsburg,” Zoe said. “She had a drink with her. It looked like iced tea.”
The doctor turned to Wayne. “Does she have a history of diabetes?”
“No,” he replied. “Zoe asked me the same thing. What’s going on?”
“Is there any history of diabetes in your family?” Dr. Fuller asked.
“None.”
The look Dr. Fuller gave Zoe raised the hairs on the back of her neck. She knew what he was going to say before he said it.
“Miss Baronick’s bloodwork results reveal she’s severely hypoglycemic.”
At Wayne’s puzzled expression, Zoe said, “Her blood sugar’s low.” Just like Franklin’s.
“Dangerously low,” the doctor said.
Seth stepped forward. “I thought diabetics had high blood sugar.”
“For which they take carefully monitored doses of insulin. If they take their medication but don’t eat, they can go into hypoglycemia. Insulin shock.”
“That’s what’s going on with my sister?” Wayne asked. “But she’s not on insulin.”
Dr. Fuller crossed his arms. “We’re treating her with a dextrose IV, which should bring her glucose levels up. Once she regains consciousness, we can offer her some sugary foods and beverages as well. Then we’ll start running tests to find out what’s causing her symptoms.”
“Tests?” Wayne mirrored the doctor’s crossed arms. “Tests for what?”
“There are any number of issues that could be behind this. Kidneys. Hormone deficiencies. A tumor on the pancreas.”
“A tumor?” Seth’s voice cracked. “As in cancer?”
The doctor placed a hand on the young officer’s shoulder. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. I’m sure we’ll find out this is something much less serious. First things first. Let’s get the young lady stable and awake and go from there.”
“When can I see her, Doc?” Wayne asked.
“You can go in now.” At Seth’s sharp intake of breath, Dr. Fuller added, “Two of you can sit with her.” He glanced at each of them. “I’ll let you fight it out as to which two.” With another comforting smile, he strode away.
As much as Zoe wanted to see Abby, she knew who the second visitor should be. She looked at Pete, trying to read his eyes.
He gave her a quick nod before facing Seth. “You two go.”
Zoe wanted to hug Pete.
Instead, Seth grabbed his hand. “Thank you.”
She watched the men hurry away from them and disappear through the automatic doors into the exam area. In spite of everything—or because of it—there might yet be hope for Seth and Abby.
If she survived.
Pete draped an arm over Zoe’s shoulder. “We need to talk.”
She looked up at him and wished she could read his face. “Okay.”
He guided her to a quiet corner in the waiting room, away from the TV tuned to a twenty-four-hour news network and a worried couple with a squalling infant. “Tell me about John Doe.”
How had he found out? How much did he know? Not that either of those things mattered. She lowered into an uncomfortable chair just as her phone rang. County EOC filled the screen. “Uh-oh.” She held up a finger to Pete and answered.
The operator reported a vehicular accident with a fatality on the Interstate, about five minutes away.
“I’ll be right there,” Zoe said and ended the call. She looked at Pete sitting next to her. “Duty calls. I have to go.”
He put a hand on her arm to keep her from rising. “Not until you tell me about John Doe.”
“I have a call.”
“You’re not on the ambulance anymore. Your DOA will still be dead when you get there.”
His words stung. But he was right. A few more minutes wouldn’t save the fatality’s life. Saving lives was no longer in her job description. She eased back into the chair. “There isn’t really anything to tell.”
“It’s the case Abby was working on and didn’t want to talk about.” Not a question.
“Yes. She asked for my help.”
“And?”
Zoe related their findings—or lack thereof.
Pete gazed into the distance. “Another dead end.”
“Afraid so.”
“What made Abby—and you—look into his death?”
“I told you. She had a hunch. I was helping out a friend by digging up more information. It all felt too…coincidental. But apparently sometimes a coincidence is just a coincidence.”
“I hate coincidences,” he muttered.
Zoe remembered her and Abby saying the same thing. “I know.” She climbed to her feet. “I really have to go.”
Pete stood as well and drew her to him. She inhaled his scent, a mingling of soap and coffee, and wished she could close her eyes and be alone with him, anywhere but here. One week, she thought. In one week, they’d be headed to Florida.
She backed out of Pete’s arms and stood on her toes to give him a quick kiss. “Keep me posted on Abby’s progress.”
“Promise.”
Sitting in a waiting room and doing nothing wasn’t Pete’s strong suit. Once Baronick came out to update him—Abby was stable but still unresponsive—Pete headed back to Vance Township on a mission.
Zoe had insisted the John Doe investigation had gone nowhere. Yet Abby’d had a hunch about him, and Pete had come to trust Abby’s hunches.
He’d last seen the folder containing Franklin Marshall’s report on his antique washstand yesterday morning. John Doe’s file and the second folder with Elizabeth’s autopsy notes had vanished at some point, gathered with all their other belongings and moved to the farm.
That’s where Pete headed.
He parked in front of the barn. With no other vehicles around, he assumed he’d have the place to himself.
The sun had come out, offering a rare warm day. A tease of spring. Two of the five horses in residence hung their heads over the fence, expecting treats to be forthcoming. The other three dismissed him as the human least likely to offer an apple or carrot. Or one of those peppermints he’d seen Zoe carry in her pockets. All of the herd looked the same right now. Wooly in their winter coats and caked with mud.
Several large boxes filled with other flattened ones sat on the porch, evidence that unpacking was in progress. He had his keys out, ready to unlock the kitchen door when it swung open. By reflex, his hand went to where his holster would be, had he been in uniform. He relaxed—only slightly—at the sight of Kimberly.
“How is that young woman?” she asked, uncharacteristically concerned.
“Hanging in there.” He entered and looked around for a place to deposit his keys. After living in the same house and having the same routines for the last ten years, this new home was going to take some getting used to. “I wasn’t expecting to see you.”
“I’m decorating my daughter’s house.” She lifted her chin as if daring him to protest. Whe
n he didn’t, she asked, “What’s that mean? ‘Hanging in there.’ Is she going to be all right?”
He stuffed the keys in his coat pocket. “The doctors are optimistic. They’ve stabilized her heart rate and blood pressure and are trying to find out why her sugar levels dropped so low.”
Kimberly opened her mouth to ask more, then closed it and nodded. “I hope it’s nothing serious.”
Pete eyed her. Zoe’s mother had changed last November on that snowy night in Erie. Or maybe she’d always had the capacity for compassion and had rediscovered it while under duress. He slipped out of his coat and hung it on the hall tree that had been relocated from inside the door of his house.
“I hope you’re planning to do some work here this afternoon.” Kimberly crossed her arms. “I have no intention of unpacking all of your stuff by myself.”
And there was the Kimberly Jackson he knew so well. “I’m looking for a couple of folders. Autopsy reports. Have you seen them?”
She wrinkled her nose. “Autopsy reports? Heavens, no. What would they be doing here?”
“Your daughter is the county coroner.”
“Well, I certainly hope she doesn’t bring her work home with her. That’s disgusting.”
“Sorry to say, she did, this time.” He surveyed the boxes marked “kitchen” piled along the opposite wall and doubted the files would be in those. The boxes in the living room were less precisely labeled. The lids on some gaped open, revealing assorted items he’d collected over the years, a few of which had been placed on the mantel and end tables. He spotted his eight-point buck antlers in an otherwise empty box shoved in the corner.
After searching the first floor, he headed upstairs to the bedroom. His gaze fell on the antique washstand, which seemed much better suited for this room than where he’d had it in his house. He crossed to the old piece of furniture and opened the drawer. Both files lay inside, where someone had no doubt shoved them during the move.
Perched on the edge of the bed, he opened the John Doe folder. Zoe had covered the bulk of what Pete found. He read and reread Marshall’s handwritten notes. Old track marks indicated a history of drug use. The only fresh needle mark on the body was that used for the fatal injection of heroin laced with fentanyl. According to Zoe, Abby interpreted this to mean he’d fallen off the proverbial wagon with deadly results. And she was probably right.
Pete scanned the rest of the report, setting pages aside as he went, until he came to a series of photos. The intake ones fit Doe’s homeless status. Filthy clothes, short but scraggly beard, long hair. Later pictures showed the man stripped and washed. Pete couldn’t help but think the pre-autopsy cleansing may have been the first shower this guy’d had in quite some time.
Zoe said Abby remembered the man as tall and fit. She’d been right. Even in death, John Doe’s physique was above par. Not a bodybuilder by any means, but he definitely had the hard, wiry look of a marathoner.
Pete tucked the rest of the pictures and pages back into the folder, keeping the headshot out. “Who are you?” he mused to the photo. “And what connection do you have to Elizabeth Landis?”
Twenty-Seven
Zoe shuffled into the new office mid-morning on Monday after completing the autopsy on yesterday’s traffic fatality. Paulette greeted her with a look Zoe couldn’t quite identify. Something between a tight smile and a pained grimace. Either way, she didn’t like it. “What’s wrong?”
Paulette squirmed in the seat of her brand-new chair. She opened her mouth, changed her mind, and bit her lip. When she spoke, she asked, “Is there any word about that young cop?”
“Abby? I stopped in to see her while I was at the hospital. She’s awake and complaining about the food.”
“That’s a good thing. Are they going to release her today?”
“I doubt it. They’re still running tests to figure out what the heck happened yesterday.” Zoe slipped out of her coat and tossed it over a pile of still unpacked boxes. “But Abby isn’t what you were fussing about when I walked in. What’s going on?”
“Two things. First, you owe me.”
Zoe scrambled to think of a reason. She didn’t have to think long.
“Loretta called demanding that we…and by ‘we’ I mean you…release Franklin’s body to Hulton’s.”
Zoe swore. “What did ‘we’ tell her?”
“I told her what you said. His death is still under investigation. She was livid. Said she’d have everyone from the police to the Supreme Court knocking on our door. And by ‘our’ I mean—”
“Mine. I get it. What else?”
Paulette fingered a notepad on her desk. “Remember I said I knew Franklin’s attorney? Well, he finally called me back this morning. Apparently, the only deed on record is the one I found listing Franklin and Loretta as the owners. And the only will he has in his possession dates back to early in their marriage when Franklin left his entire estate to his wife.”
“But that can’t be right. According to Lauren Sanders, one or the other of them would’ve gotten the property in the divorce.”
Paulette gave her that pained look again.
Another reality sunk into Zoe’s brain. “Oh, crap. Do you mean that Loretta’s had ownership of the funeral home all along?”
Paulette shifted in her chair. “That’s one way to look at it.”
“And she allowed Franklin to run things even after the divorce?”
“Not exactly.”
“Then what exactly? Lauren told me no court would sign off on the final divorce decree until all the property had been divided up. Either Franklin owned it or Loretta did.”
“There’s one other option.”
Zoe was sick of this guessing game. “Franklin left everything to his ex-wife in his will?”
Paulette shook her head.
“Then what?” Zoe clenched her fists. “Just tell me already.”
Paulette lowered her eyes. “Their divorce was never finalized.”
Zoe’s jaw went slack. Words and thoughts collided inside her head without making it to her tongue.
“Yeah,” Paulette said. “That was my reaction too.”
“How…can that…be?” Zoe finally managed to ask.
Paulette raised both hands in a silent I have no idea.
“What did the lawyer say?”
The secretary placed her open palms down on the desk. “It seems they started divorce proceedings way back when and couldn’t agree how to divide everything. Franklin’s lawyer remembers the last time he saw Loretta and her divorce attorney was in an arbitration meeting. She got pissed and stormed out. He expected to hear back from them to reschedule and get the proceedings rolling again, but days turned into weeks and months, and nothing else ever happened. Franklin never brought it up. And we all assumed they’d gotten the divorce and moved on. Instead…” Paulette shrugged. “…they moved on without the divorce.”
Zoe sank into her chair, still trying to piece together Paulette’s story. “Loretta really does get the funeral home—half of it, at least—as the surviving spouse.”
“He left everything to her, including his half of the property, in his old will.”
As bad a taste as the news left in Zoe’s mouth, one thing didn’t add up. “Then why is she over there tearing the place apart?”
Paulette’s lips thinned, pressing into an angry frown. “Franklin’s lawyer told me something else,” the secretary said. “A few months ago when Franklin’s health started going downhill—”
Zoe interrupted. “He made another will.”
“Yes. How’d you know?”
“I didn’t. But it makes sense.” Zoe met Paulette’s gaze. “You just said the lawyer didn’t have an updated will.”
“No. That’s just it. Like the divorce, Franklin had it drawn up but never filed it. Against his lawyer’s wishes, he took al
l the copies home to review and said he’d bring them back.”
“But he never did,” Zoe said.
“No, he didn’t.”
“Which means,” Zoe said, musing out loud, “those copies are probably somewhere in Franklin’s funeral home.”
“I didn’t find any. And I looked. Believe me.”
“He probably left his estate to someone other than his long-absent wife.” Zoe noticed tears brimming in Paulette’s eyes. “You. He was going to leave everything to you.”
Paulette looked away. “Not everything, but his lawyer hinted at a substantial inheritance.” She brought her gaze back to Zoe. “I don’t want it. I mean, I’m touched, but I really can’t see myself owning the business.”
“You’d be great at it. You’ve been practically running the funeral home for years in addition to helping with the coroner’s office.”
“But she would still own the other half.”
“I bet she’d be more than happy to let you buy her out.”
“She’d probably insist on triple what it’s worth.” Paulette huffed. “I do hate the idea of Loretta taking over and ruining Franklin’s good name though.”
Paulette had a good point. The Marshall family had run the business with compassion and dignity for as long as Zoe could remember. Two traits she doubted Loretta possessed in even small quantities. If she inherited it all, she’d make as much money from the bereaved as she could, run the business into the ground, and sell it. Marshall Funeral Home was nothing but a cash cow to her. No wonder she’d fired Paulette and torn up the office. If anyone else found the new will, Loretta would be out of a considerable inheritance.
The new phone on Paulette’s desk rang, jarring Zoe out of her ruminations. The secretary swiped a hand across her face before answering.
Zoe closed her eyes. Please, not Loretta again. Or another fatality. How did Franklin ever get anything else done?
“I’ll let her know,” Paulette said and hung up. “That was Gloria at the crime lab. She said to tell you Franklin’s toxicology results are ready.”
Pete had no luck identifying John Doe. The face in the photo didn’t match any of the missing persons from the time of or even several years prior to his death. A wasted morning on what Abby and Zoe had already deemed a wild goose chase.
TIL DEATH Page 20
