Ill Will

by J. M. Redmann

  You’re already here; you might as well check out his office, I told myself. First I reapplied the lotion, did as quick a run as I could in the kitchen to snag another plastic bag, then went back to his office.

  I promised the empty room that I would return whatever I took and, if Reginald wanted it, help him fight whatever fight he needed to battle with his insurance company. Rather than taking the time to sort through things, I loaded up the bag with all the piles of paper on his desk. He seemed to be a file-by-pile person, as his desk drawers were used for pens, paper, sticky notes, and other office supplies. There was no file cabinet and his bookshelves held only books, a long shelf of science fiction, another couple of shelves that seemed to be college books, then another shelf on self-help books, nutritional books, several about natural healing and herbal medicines. I took several of those as well, to see if I could get an idea of what he was doing—or let Cordelia sift through them; she’d probably understand them far better than I could.

  Then it was truly time to get out. At this point even sandalwood was starting to make me gag. I’d probably never be able to use that scent again.

  I hastened back to the living room, grabbed the bag of medications, and then was out to the fresh air.

  Pam, the cop, was lounging on the front steps, texting on her cell phone.

  I hadn’t seen one in the house and wasn’t going to go back and look for something as small as a cell phone. Most likely it had fallen under the bed, and there was no way I was going to get on the floor in that bedroom and look for anything. It was possible that Reginald didn’t have a cell phone. Or his battery had run down and with the power off, he couldn’t recharge it.

  “Oh, hey,” she looked up and greeted me. “Was beginning to think you were lost in there.”

  “Not likely. But I wanted to make sure I’d checked everything. The last thing I want to do is go back.”

  “Makes sense to me. It’s fine out here on the steps enjoying the breeze, so no problem on my end. Plus the longer I’m here, the more paperwork gets done without me. Hope this helps the guy.”

  I handed her the key back. “Yeah, me, too. Thanks for agreeing to meet me.”

  “Slow time of day—as if there is one. They’re just waking up now from sleeping off last night’s buzz.” She waved good-bye as she got in her patrol car.

  I put the two plastic bags in my trunk and got in my car, opening all the windows. My nose felt blasted by the tang of decay overlaid with the sweetness of sandalwood rose. At the moment, diesel fumes would be a welcome change.

  I was headed for home. At the last minute I made a course change to take a convoluted route there. I needed a memory jog to remind me I was in mortal danger and until Dudley Dude was caught, hypervigilant needed to be my middle name.

  The cats were happy to see me, especially with such interesting-smelling clothes. I went straight to the laundry room and stripped. Even the underwear went in. I tossed yesterday’s clothes in as well and started the washing machine. As agreed, Cordelia could finish it up.

  Then upstairs for a brief shower and into clean clothes.

  Only now did I begin to feel like I could breathe without smelling a lingering odor.

  It was way past lunchtime, but I wasn’t very hungry. However, I grabbed an apple and some string cheese. It was remotely possible that I’d be hungry later, and this way I could stay safely locked in my office and not have to forage for food.

  I just got back in my car when the phone rang.

  “Micky? Where are you?” It was Cordelia.

  “Uh…in the car.” I started the engine just in case I needed to speed off. And locked all the doors.

  “You don’t need to go to Reginald’s house anymore.”

  “He’s okay?”

  But she didn’t immediately answer, and I knew he wasn’t okay.

  “He’s… No, I’m sorry, he’s not okay. He passed away. I just found out.”

  “Oh.” I couldn’t think of anything else to say.

  “I’m sorry. I hope I saved you from a useless trip.”

  I didn’t immediately answer, and that gave her the answer.

  “Oh, honey,” she said. “You’re not there now, are you?”

  “No, I left a little while ago. Came home to change clothes. Even started the washer for you.” I coughed to cover that my voice was about to crack. I only knew this man as a name and a disease. And an emaciated hand shoving pill bottles to the floor as a plea for me to enter his home and find him. Find him to save him, and I hadn’t done that.

  You did what you could, my rational voice reminded me.

  But someone should have saved him, and I was his last chance.

  Cordelia said gently, “You know if you had waited until tomorrow to do this, I would love you just as much. You don’t need to prove anything to me. You have stood by me and…” Her voice broke.

  We are not going to sob over cell phones, I told myself. “Hey, love, I’ve stuck with you because no one else would have me, okay? And…and going to Reginald’s house today just happened to work into my schedule. And I only started the first load, so you’re stuck with drying and folding the clothes. I think the cat blankets need to be washed as well.”

  “Thank you, thank you, thank you,” she said, half-laughing and half-crying.

  “And the bathroom rug and shower curtain.”

  “I love you. I will always love you.” She wasn’t crying anymore. She wasn’t laughing either.

  “You’re crazy.” Then I added, “I love you, too.”

  I caught myself smiling as I was driving back to my office. And forgetting to obsessively check my rearview mirror. I was sad about Reginald—he was young and shouldn’t be dead—but he wasn’t someone in my life, not someone I’d expect to see and talk to again. This evening I would be with Cordelia, we would talk as we usually did, hang out in the kitchen together as I cooked dinner. In the moments when you realize how fragile life is, you recognize how vital holding someone’s hand, talking to them, sharing food, and just laughing are.

  When I got to my office a big man was waiting outside for me.

  Mr. Charles Williams.

  Don’t I ever get a break, I thought as I got out of my car as slowly as possible.

  He waited for me to emerge and then called, “Hey, wanted to see what progress you were making on the case.”

  “It’s not your case,” I reminded him as I opened the street door just wide enough for me to slip in.

  “Yeah, yeah, but Fletch is a busy man, and this way I can help move things along.”

  I didn’t budge from the doorway. “Client confidentiality. Can’t divulge any info without written consent from,” I blanked on his last name, “the client.”

  “I can call him up right now and have him fax you something.”

  “You can do that. And then you can call me and set up an appointment to come in and talk about it. That will not happen right now, as I have other clients I need to deal with.” And for emphasis I added, “Ones who are paying me significantly more than Fletch.”

  “Not even five minutes? I drove all the way here.”

  “Not even a minute. You can save yourself a drive if you call first. I’m not responsible for your choice not to do that.”

  He stuck his foot in the door.

  I opened the door a few inches, then slammed it against his foot. He had steel toe boots on, so I couldn’t really do damage.

  Not that it stopped him from acting as if it had. “Ouch, damn it, that hurt.”

  “If I have to do it again, it’ll hurt even more. Mr. Charles Williams, you are trespassing. If you don’t leave now, you’ll never get a chance to come back and hear anything about this case unless Fletch himself chooses to tell you.”

  He slowly removed his foot. “How about tomorrow around this time?”

  “I don’t have my schedule book with me. Call me later and I’ll see if that works. And I have to have a signed consent from Fletcher.” Not giving him a cha
nce to say anything else or stick another body part in, I slammed the door shut.

  Through the door he yelled, “I’ll call in about five minutes, that should give you time to get your schedule.”

  I pretended I hadn’t heard, hurrying up the steps.

  Once I was safely locked in my office, I picked up my phone and dialed Joanne. For once, I was more than happy to be put on hold to wait for them to find her. Six minutes would be perfect timing as far as I was concerned. I doubted that she had any updates for me, but it couldn’t hurt to ask, especially if it forced Mr. Williams to leave a message.

  At just five minutes into the hold, Joanne came on the line.

  “I’ve been out in the field,” I said, “wanted to see if you had any news about Dudley Dude.”

  “Damn, pay a few dollars in taxes and everyone wants a miracle. I haven’t heard anything, but we’re looking for him. I know it’s not much comfort, but he’s probably hiding out. He screwed up big-time in not taking you out.”

  “His screwup is my benefit. Any way to link him to Prejean?”

  “Nothing so far. Hutch and I had a little talk with Mr. Prejean. He swears he had nothing to do with it, didn’t hire anyone to rough you up, doesn’t know anyone named Dudley or anyone answering to his description.”

  As hoped for, my second line rang softly. I’d let the answering machine pick up.

  “Of course he’s going to say that. When did you see him?”

  “Just a little while ago. A patrol car called in his license and we caught up with him at that big box store on Carrollton.”

  Interesting he hadn’t mentioned my earlier visit. Maybe he was smart enough to know the cops wouldn’t believe him over me. Or maybe he wanted out of the mess he’d created and was hoping the less he said, the sooner it was all behind him.

  “Thanks for doing this, Joanne.”

  “‘To serve and protest,’ that’s what your tax dollars buy.”

  “So what do I do now?”

  “You know the drill. Pay attention to your surroundings. Vary your routes. Look for suspicious activity. Make sure doors are locked, alarms set. Don’t take candy from strangers. Avoid eighties rock music. Pork rinds are not a food.”

  “Got it.”

  “You’re welcome to camp at our house for as long as you want.”

  “It’s hard to have sex on an air mattress.”

  “There is the Motel 6 in Slidell.”

  “Seriously, should we stay away?”

  “To be truly safe, yes. But, honestly, I don’t know. You’re probably going to be okay. My gut tells me that Prejean doesn’t want to play rough games anymore. Dudley Etherton may feel he has a beef with you, but if he shows up anywhere close to you and you see him before he bashes you to kingdom come—which you’d better do—then he’ll be arrested in two seconds.”

  “Floor sleeping doesn’t agree with me, but I can’t risk Cordelia being hurt.”

  “Want me to spend the night with you?” She quickly added, “At your place, that is? We could take turns standing guard.”

  “Let me think about it.”

  “Okay, call later and let me know.”

  Of course, five minutes after I hung up with Joanne, the phone rang again.

  On the off chance that it might be someone like Cordelia, I answered, “Knight Detective Agency.”

  “How come you don’t answer your phone?” My first guess was right: Mr. Charles Williams.

  “Can you believe it? Both secretaries are out sick, and I was on an important call with the police, so I couldn’t pick up. If you’d left a message I would have called back.” Tomorrow.

  “Got a chance to look at your schedule yet?”

  “As a matter of fact, I did. I’m pretty booked up, but I can see you the day after tomorrow, but only at 7:30 a.m.”

  There was silence on the other end. I seemed to have correctly guessed Mr. Williams was not a morning person.

  “That’s not a great time for me,” he finally said.

  “It’s all I’ve got open. Plus I’ll still have to have the signed consent from Fletcher.”

  “Can you do it late in the day?”

  “No, I can’t.”

  “You sure?”

  “I’m sure. I’m booked today and out of town after that,” I lied. “How about next week?”

  He was silent for a moment. “Nothing earlier?”

  “You do need the signed consent form. Might be better to give it more time.”

  “Can we do it around this time?”

  I glanced at my watch. It was 3:30 p.m. “If you’re here promptly at three, we can meet. Does that work?”

  He agreed reluctantly, as if hoping that if he was slow a miracle time would open up today or tomorrow.

  After I finally got him off the phone, I decided I truly deserved my apple and string cheese. My brain wasn’t hungry, but my stomach was growling.

  While eating, I remembered the plastic bags in my car. I’d left them there to bring to Cordelia. I wondered if it mattered now.

  Then I pulled the file on Fletcher McConkle’s case. I hadn’t seen or heard of Nature’s Beautiful Gift before—which didn’t mean all that much. Boiled shrimp instead of fried oysters is about as close as I get to health food. Cordelia worries about what she eats, so salads and veggies are a big part of our diet since we mostly eat together.

  Greedy people are a dime a dozen, and selling cures is a time-honored rip-off. Perhaps a new marketer was in town, aggressively pushing their magic pills, and in a weird coincidence had snagged both Fletcher’s aunt and Reginald Banks. If Reginald had been denied service by his insurance and didn’t have adequate access to medical care, he might have turned to someone promising a cure, or at least relief that only required taking some pills every day.

  Mr. Charles Williams was going to get his wish—assuming Fletcher, and his more astute wife, let him have access to my investigation.

  First I had to learn everything I could about Nature’s Beautiful Gift. I’d dig up what I could, but would probably also call in the Grannies. Time to go to the Internet.

  After an hour of searching what I had learned was the NBG, as I was now abbreviating Nature’s Beautiful Gift (who the hell thought up that name?) seemed like the classic multilevel marketing scheme. The big push was to get “naturalists,” as they called their salespeople, to buy into “promoting the health and well-being in your community.” Which translated to selling them any number of NBG products. The rhetoric was heavy on how altruistic it was to sell this product, like no one was actually making any money, but instead doing community service by making this fantastic creation available. It was “pure” and “wholesome” and “all natural,” using, and I quote, “Nature’s Beautiful Gift to help people live life to the fullest.” They had a variety of products from “promoting skin health” to “enhancing intimacy.” As Cordelia had pointed out, nothing actually claimed to cure or relieve any real physical condition, so they kept their toes on the right side of the legal line. But the main website had numerous links to other sites that weren’t selling NBG, and those did make claims on how wonderful the products were. There were vague mentions of studies, but most of the claims were anecdotal, heartfelt claims from people who were sure that NBG had been the one and only reason their hemorrhoids or arthritis or intimacy problems were now cured.

  According to the company shtick, a doctor in rural Alabama working in the 1930s was the supposed discoverer of the herbs used in NBG. The folksy story claimed that because he was so isolated, he often had to make do with what was at hand. He learned from the people around him, especially the sharecroppers, who had to depend on traditional cures. In other words, he had been a wonderfully enlightened white doctor working in rural Alabama, paying no attention to the Jim Crow laws of the time. So enlightened that his white patients were willing to mingle with black patients. In Alabama in the 1930s.

  Maybe it happened, maybe they were isolated enough that no one dared complain about se
eing the one doctor available.

  Anyway, this enlightened doctor wrote down many of the herbal medicines, but he passed away without telling anyone about them. Modern medicine took over with their machines and expensive pills and this knowledge was lost. Until by a major stroke of luck, a pharmacist was moved to investigate the attic of a house he had bought with the intention of tearing it down and building his dream house for his family. A dream McMansion was my guess. He found the doctor’s notebooks and because of his background and training understood the importance of his discovery.

  Realizing how significant this find was to the health and well-being of the people he served, he decided to put the money that would have built his house into recreating the herbal remedies that had been discovered so long ago and make them widely available.

  NBG was only five years old, but its products were so remarkable that it rapidly spread from Mobile, Alabama, where the pharmacist now lived, throughout the South, to Florida, Georgia, Mississippi, and was now expanding to Louisiana, Texas, and the Carolinas.

  NBG claimed to be very selective in who was chosen to be part of the naturalist sales force—I was betting that gullibility was a major trait—only those who truly wanted to help their family, friends, and community should even consider it.

  I was rather glad I hadn’t eaten much lunch, as all this goodness and wholesomeness was about to make me barf. Some herbal remedies probably were useful, but it was highly unlikely that multiple miracles were just waiting to be picked off a tree. Any company promising to cure everything—like NBG—was suspicious. I had no doubt that NBG was selling something like dried iceberg lettuce, and any relief obtained would be from the placebo effect.

  People spend money all the time on things they don’t need. Even prescription medicines aren’t a promise. Most of the time they do some good; sometimes they don’t, sometimes they do harm. How much worse was Nature’s Beautiful Gift?

  As I thought about it, I realized there were differences. Science isn’t exact; it’s just what we know now. Prescription drugs at least had to go through clinical trials that required they prove they have some beneficial effect, at least most of the time for most of the people. An FDA panel, people who were not supposed to have any vested interest in the drug, had to weigh the evidence of the trials and decide whether to approve it or not. Perfect? No. No human endeavor is. But there were checks and balances and more than just another person’s word.