by Ann B. Ross
“I don’t know. I don’t know what he does. We just keep moving, but I didn’t know about the drugs, I really didn’t.” She swallowed hard, then reached over to put her hand on my arm. “And it really wasn’t him. I mean, personally, it wasn’t. He told me he always made sure they’d go somewhere else.”
Listening to her disjointed defense of her husband, I nodded. “Smart,” I said, “until he fouled his nest by selling locally. I have pictures, Lauren, of prescription drug vials with his name on them, the names of local pharmacies, as well as patients’ names of people I know.”
Lauren’s eyes began to fill. “They weren’t supposed to be sold in the same town. He promised me that, and he didn’t know about it until sometime last night, early this morning. But I, I didn’t know. I promise I didn’t, not till he packed up and left.” She covered her face with her hands, crying. “He was so angry, but I didn’t know about the drugs. I really didn’t, I promise I didn’t.” She wiped her face with a napkin, took a deep breath, and went on. “He couldn’t wait for us.” Tears began to flow again, enraging me even more. “I don’t know what I’ll do.”
“Get a grip, Lauren,” I said, thinking of what Lloyd had seen through a window. “You have plenty of options, and number one is putting him in jail and keeping yourself out.”
That got her attention, and she cried, “But I didn’t know what he was doing!”
I sat and looked at her—a grown woman, mother of two, wife of a physician, at least partially educated, and now claiming to be unaware of what had gone on not only in Abbotsville, but apparently in other towns. Shrinking violets who would not face ugly facts, but had no problem profiting from them, did not elicit pity from me.
I folded my arms, sat back in my chair, and softly but very firmly asked, “What did you know, Lauren?”
* * *
—
“Sam,” I said, clasping his hand tightly, “I declare, I am just done in. Lauren told it as if it was the most natural thing in the world. But how he’s gotten away with it is beyond me—how he could’ve even dared such a thing.”
“Unbelieveable,” Sam said, nodding. “Think of the nerve it took to pull it off, not just once, but over and over. It’s enough to knock your socks off. And we didn’t have a clue.”
We were sitting in the library late that night while I recounted the events of the previous night and of the morning, tying them in with what he’d learned from the sheriff during the hours he and Mr. Pickens had spent at the jail. Don Crawford had had the nerve to call them both when he’d been brought back and booked. He’d wanted them to put up his bail, if you can believe that.
J. D. Pickens had pulled the U-Haul truck to the curb at the Rosewood house a little after noon that Saturday, both he and Sam worn to a frazzle. With the help of Lloyd, James, Nate Wheeler from next door, and a couple of dollies, they’d stacked boxes in the house, locked the door, returned the truck, and gone home to rest. But not for long for that was when they’d been called to put up bond to free the detained Dr. Crawford. Do I need to say that they refused? Yet they’d gone to see him in his cell, and Sam had come home stunned at the man’s audacity in asking, and not only at that, but at his assumption that his abilities were needed by the town.
“He acted like it was all a misunderstanding,” Sam said, shaking his head in disbelief. “Even expressed concern for his patients.” Then with a wry smile, he said, “I thought Pickens was going to deck him.”
“Well, I’m glad that neither of you did,” I said, “although he certainly deserves it. But, Sam,” I went on, “why in the world did Bob Hargrove bring him in? And turn all of us over to somebody totally unqualified? Didn’t he look into his background?”
“He did, honey,” Sam said. “I know he did, because I had breakfast with him when he was looking through résumés from several applicants. Crawford had the best background and outstanding recommendations, and he made a good impression when Bob interviewed him. These things,” Sam went on, stretching out his legs, “are usually handled through accredited agencies. Doctors who’re willing to temporarily take on a practice register with an agency, and doctors who need help get a list of the applicants, and a match is made. If anyone’s at fault, it’s the agency, but even with more diligence, I’m not sure Crawford would’ve been found out. From what the sheriff learned, he’d taken on the identity of someone who is highly qualified, who’d had excellent training in Canada, and who now works on some kind of hospital ship off Africa. I’d guess that’s how Crawford was able to pull it off.”
“But he’d been doing it for years—how does someone live that way? And Lauren, she knew, although she claims she knew nothing about the drugs. But she’d known all along that he wasn’t a real doctor, and she put up with it—aided and abetted him, even. I don’t understand it, Sam.”
“Well, I’m not excusing her, but think back. She wasn’t putting up with it all that well, was she? He seemed to be thriving, but she was fading to the point of considering doing herself in.”
“But, see,” I said, sitting upright, “that’s what I’m talking about. How can anybody allow themselves to be so cowed and downbeaten that they’d even think of such a thing? Why didn’t she put her foot down? Why didn’t she take those children and get away from it all?”
“I don’t know, honey, but some people—mostly wives, I guess—feel trapped, especially with children to be cared for. They get in so deep that they can’t see a way out.”
“Well,” I said with a huff, “I’d like to see a man do that to me.” Then I stopped, realizing that to a certain extent I had let a man do that to me. “Oh, me,” I said, rubbing my forehead, “it’s only too easy, isn’t it, not to rock the boat. To go on day by day, knowing that things aren’t right, but hoping they’ll get better.” I sat back and sighed, then recalled Lloyd’s front-row seat on a rear window. “Maybe Lauren saw Nate Wheeler as a way out.”
“She could do worse,” Sam said, smiling.
“Worse?” I said. “Unfortunately, she already has.” Then, as a wave of sadness washed over me, I asked, “What’s going to happen to her, Sam?”
“Nothing, probably. Legally, I mean. She’ll be seen as a victim, especially if she testifies against him.”
“Well, I’m just glad they caught him, and so quickly, too. The way he knows how to turn himself into somebody else, it’s a wonder that they did. But he didn’t expect Lauren to give him away, especially as quickly as she did.”
“No, and he didn’t expect that certain vigilantes—who should’ve been home in bed—would come along and collect undeniable evidence.”
“Well,” I said with appropriate modesty, “we got lucky. But I’ll tell you, Sam, I couldn’t believe how fast the sheriff’s department went into action. When they heard what Lauren had to say, then looked at the pictures Lloyd and Lillian took, they really hopped to.”
Then with a surge of regret, I said, “Poor Waymon. He found himself in the same pickle as Lloyd—doing a good deed and getting blamed for it.”
“Yeah,” Sam said, “but after a few questions, it was plain that he wasn’t the contact. I heard one of the deputies say nobody’d trust him to sell drugs. He’d take them himself.”
“Well, bless his heart anyway,” I said. “But I hope they find out who Don’s contact is—whoever it was that bought drugs from him, then sold them to our children. And I hope they string him up when they do.”
Sam nodded. “Crawford will tell. That kind always does when a little leniency is offered.”
“That kind doesn’t deserve any leniency. They ought to lock him up for life. But you know, Sam,” I said, marveling at the thought, “we should’ve caught on that something was wrong. Remember how he didn’t go to the emergency room to see Horace? And remember how he discouraged walk-ins? Probably because they were more likely to have acute problems. To say nothing of prescribing too many toxic drugs to too
many patients. To tell the truth, I thought he was lazy, but, in fact, he was avoiding situations that would reveal how little he knew. But,” I went on, “on the other hand, I can’t forget how decent he was to Lloyd. He couldn’t have been nicer.”
Sam nodded. “He had it down to an art, all right, including how to avoid police reports and insurance investigations. Plenty of practice, I guess.” Then he smiled at the unintended pun.
“I wonder, though,” I said, musing over the possibilities, “just what Lauren will do—she’ll have to stay around, for a while at least, to testify. Hazel Marie, bless her heart, has taken in her and the children, but that has to be temporary.”
The telephone rang then and, since Sam answered it, I heard only one side of the conversation. He came back to the sofa, a pleased look on his face.
“That was Pickens,” he said, sitting beside me. “He just got back from the sheriff’s office and they’re moving right along. The sheriff took it on himself to call Bob Hargrove in Sweden or somewhere and let him know that his practice is about to go to hell in a handbasket. Sorry, honey—I’m just quoting my source.”
I laughed. “Oh, good. I’ll be so glad to have our doctor back in town, especially since you helped move boxes today and I fully expect you to be laid up with back pain again.” After Sam’s strenuous day, I was worried that his back would flare up at any minute, so I’d been trying to distract him and myself from the fact that we were now without a physician, other than some nameless hospitalist. Which, come to think of it, would be better than the make-believe doctor we’d been trusting.
Sam raised his right hand. “I only supervised.”
“Well, I’m sorry that Bob and Sue’s vacation has to be cut short and that they’ll be coming back to an absolute mess. But what a relief it’ll be to have our real doctor back in town.”
“He’ll probably never take another vacation,” Sam said with a wry twist of his mouth.
“I shouldn’t be selfish about it, but I hope he won’t.” Then at a sudden thought, I sat up straight. “Oh, Sam, you know what? We need to get Sue’s house cleaned up—I don’t mean you, I mean me, Lillian, James, Hazel Marie, and, yes, Lauren. She can pack their things and move them out, and the rest of us can do the cleaning. Actually, it’s not dirty, just disorderly—you can’t walk without stepping on Cheerios.”
“Have you thought of where Lauren can move out to? Or has she?”
“I doubt it,” I said. “I spoke with Hazel Marie right before you got home, and she said that Lauren still seems to be in a daze, doing what she’s told, but otherwise just staring off into space.” I stopped and thought a minute. “Maybe she needs to see a doctor.”
“I wouldn’t doubt that,” Sam said, “but in the meantime, I have an idea. I’ll be back in a minute—the phone number’s upstairs.”
He was gone longer than a minute, but when he came back he had another pleased look on his face. “Got us some more help,” he said. “Nate Wheeler will help move Lauren and the children into Crawford’s house on Rosewood. He says he’s finished with it except for a few touch-ups, which he’ll do tomorrow.”
“Why, Sam,” I said, surprised by what he seemed to be arranging. “Is that wise? She’s in no state to . . . well, whatever.”
“She needs a place to live, and that place is available. And it’s hers, at least for the time being.
“Now,” he said, sitting down and taking my hand, “let’s talk about that car of yours. It’s a mess, honey.”
“Well, I told you we had to go get Leigh Swanson at that house, and—”
“But you didn’t tell me you had to go through hell and high water to get there. It’s not only caked with mud inside and out, it’s scratched from one end to the other, and the back fender’s bent, and no telling what else is wrong. You didn’t let Lloyd drive, did you?”
“No,” I said, drawing back at the thought, “absolutely not. I took the wheel, and I take full responsibility. Besides, it’ll clean up. Won’t it?”
“Well, if it won’t,” Sam said, giving me a sidewise teasing glance as he reached for my hand, “you can buy that little Boxster next door.”
I laughed. “Oh, that would be just perfect for me. I can see it now—I’ll have to have a pair of big shades and a long scarf to flap in the wind. And I’ll need some driving gloves, maybe a leather jacket . . .”
“And,” Sam said, “a couple of felt dice to dangle from the rearview mirror.”
“Yes,” I said, picturing it all, “and I’ll need piles of high-end shopping bags in the back.”
“And a good-looking man beside you.”
“Oh, I have that,” I said, leaning into him. “I already have that right here.”
About the Author
Ann B. Ross is the author of twenty novels featuring the popular Southern heroine Miss Julia, as well as Etta Mae's Worst Bad-Luck Day, a novel about one of Abbotsville's other most outspoken residents: Etta Mae Wiggins. Ross holds a doctorate in English from the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill, and has taught literature at the University of North Carolina at Asheville. She lives in Hendersonville, North Carolina.
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