The sky was gray and threatening when I left the house. I took an umbrella. Once inside the hospital, I followed the central hallway to the lab. On the way I passed patients in johnnies, some ambulatory, some in wheelchairs. A thin, elderly man tethered to an IV pole shuffled past. His legs beneath the flimsy gown looked like straws. I was reminded of Shakespeare’s line, “An aged man is but a paltry thing.” Silently, I counted my blessings.
In the lab’s waiting area, I took a seat on a plastic bench. A large woman in green sweatpants sat inside a cubicle at the end of the room. She grunted when the lab tech removed the IV needle from her hand. What nearly made me swoon was the bulging sack suspended above her. While I can watch slice ’n’ dice movies without cringing, faced with real blood, I’m weak kneed.
Before long a young woman in a white lab jacket called my name. Reluctantly, I followed her to the cubicle next to Green Sweatpants. “Roll up your sleeve and hold out your arm,” she said. Running a finger over my inner arm, she said, “Mmm hmm. Please make a fist.”
“They always use a pediatric needle on me,” I reminded her. “My veins are small.”
“I’ll do that,” she said, “soon as I locate one.”
“I’m having a bad vein day.”
It’s my lame joke for those occasions when I have to give blood. Eventually, after fruitless poking and probing, the lab tech calls in the top gun, a phlebotomist who’s been there for decades. They could insert a needle while wearing oven mitts.
That was how the session played out, with me finally jumping to my feet and threatening to leave. “Sit tight,” the young tech said. “I’m calling my supervisor.”
“Finally,” I muttered as she fled the room.
Seconds later, a frizzy-haired woman in a white coat swept into the room. “You the troublemaker?” she asked, peering at me. I nodded meekly, and before you could say “Type A Negative,” she slid a needle into the vein.
I peeked at the free-flowing blood filling the syringe. “Piece of cake.”
After that ordeal, my hemoglobin needed fortification, so I took the elevator to the basement cafeteria. It was after lunch, and most of the tables were empty. I grabbed a tray and headed for the salad bar. The offerings were impressive, everything from deviled eggs to kielbasa. I filled a large plastic bowl with everything but lettuce and stopped at the frozen drink dispenser for a mocha iced coffee with cream.
At the register, the cashier was nowhere in sight. “Excuse me,” I called.
A young woman who’d been chatting behind the soup tureens approached. “Sorry,” she said, sliding my hefty salad onto a scale. “That’s seven dollars and eighty-five cents.”
I handed her a ten dollar bill and glanced at the plastic name tag on her breast pocket reading Sunni: Food Services Associate. “Sunni’s a pretty name,” I said. The remark is an icebreaker, I’ve found. It helps if the name really is pretty and not something like Bertha.
“Thanks. It’s not a nickname. Sunni’s my real name.”
“Have you worked here long?”
“Three years this June,” she said, “part time. I’m taking classes to be a massage therapist.” The row of gold hoop bracelets lining her arm clanged when she handed me my change.
“Then you must have been familiar with Dr. Klinger.”
She made a sad face. “She came in here a couple days a week seeing patients on Bigsby, the third floor mental health unit.”
“Did you talk to her?”
“Dr. Klinger wasn’t what you’d call friendly. She came in alone, always bought the same lunch, always ate it over there by the window.”
I had to ask. “Do you remember what she ordered?”
“Uh huh. A plain salad, lemon on the side.”
I glanced down at my salad mountain smothered in a puddle of blue cheese dressing. “So she never talked to anyone?”
“Not really, though she got to know the kitchen employees. Dr. Klinger helped them out big time.”
“How is that?”
She glanced around before speaking. “It’s not confidential. After all, it was written up in our newsletter, The Dietary Digest. See, the hospital had a policy that women working in the kitchen had to wear hair nets, but not the men. It wasn’t a problem until they hired some high school girls who squawked. They wanted to know how come the cook has a ponytail and doesn’t have to wear a hair net. They got a petition going, but before they could get enough signatures, my boss fired them.”
“Sounds like they had a grievance,” I said.
“That’s what Dr. Klinger said.”
“How did she happen to get involved?”
“One of the girls saw her on that cable TV show, Speak Up, Citizens, and got in touch. Dr. Klinger contacted the Attorney General’s office.” She giggled. “My boss was written up. After that, you better believe she hated Dr. Klinger.” Sunni leaned closer, lowering her voice. “She said she hoped there was an E. coli outbreak the day Dr. Klinger came in for lunch.”
“She said this to you?”
“She said it to the cook.”
“The ponytail guy?”
“No, the head chef. He’s older. They’re always chit-chatting.” She rolled her eyes.
“I take it your boss isn’t here today?”
“She works three afternoons a week for her sister’s catering company, thank God. Soon as I’m licensed, I’m quitting this place.”
“Good luck,” I said. “By the way, do you know the name of the catering company?” When she shot me a suspicious look, I added, “My boyfriend and I are marrying next year. We’re looking into caterers and bands.”
“Awesome,” she said. “It’s called Clarissa’s Catering, and between you and me, they’re a rip-off.”
I thanked her and asked, “By the way, did the kitchen workers get their jobs back?”
“Yup. Now everyone in food prep has to wear a hair net, guys included.”
“How’d they like that?”
She shrugged. “Most of them shaved their heads.”
Normally, I eat breakfast at home except when I oversleep. That’s what happened the next morning. The thick towel I placed over the alarm clock to muffle the sound had worked too well; I didn’t even hear the buzz. Chester was perhaps miffed that I didn’t take him when I went out to meet B.A.
In the bathroom I did an abbreviated version of my routine. Instead of foundation, powder and blush, I slapped on bronzer. The mascara and lip gloss I would apply while driving. There was no time to make coffee. I decided to kill two birds with one stone, get an egg sandwich and coffee at Stella’s and have a quick chat with Brandi.
I got the last space in the parking lot, pulling in next to Spencer Farley’s shiny Mercedes. I peeked in the window. The car, inside and out, was immaculate. Even the tennis racket on the back seat had a nice leather cover. I hoped he didn’t leave Stella’s before me. I wouldn’t want a neatnik like Spencer seeing the rubble inside my car. On the other hand, Spencer Farley doesn’t strike me as a peeper. Some people are born nosy. Thank God I’m one of them.
A guy in a fluorescent vest had just vacated a stool at the end of the counter when I walked in. I grabbed it and looked around. It was the usual early morning mix of office and construction workers and retirees. The latter sat at a round table wearing sweatshirts with the group’s name, The Gab & Gaiters, printed across the front. Their morning walks always end with Stella’s blueberry pancakes.
At the far end of the counter, Spencer sipped coffee and read The Wall Street Journal. Without being asked, Brandi put a steaming cup in front of me. “One Sweet ‘n Low, one Equal and one teaspoon of sugar, right?”
“You’re a whiz,” I said. “By the way, can I talk to you for a second?”
She drew an order pad out of the pocket of her jeans. “First tell me what you want. I’ll put it in and be right back.” She glanced at the wall clock over my head. “The next wave doesn’t arrive until about nine.”
I rattled off my order: egg
sandwich on a grilled English muffin with sausage and cheese, jelly and honey mustard on the side. Brandi nodded and scooted off to the grill where Stella flipped eggs and pancakes. Ten seconds later she appeared before me. “Okay, what’s up?”
I kept my voice low. “It’s about Cassandra, the caterer you work for. Do you know her sister, who works for her, too?”
“Mary Lou? She works afternoons, three days a week. I don’t really know her because I work nights.”
“Do you know of any instance, while catering, where she might have interacted with Dr. Klinger?”
“Hmm. Now that I think of it, there was a luncheon Cassandra catered for the Visiting Nurses. It was called Hooray for Healers, given in appreciation for those who make a difference in the community. Dr. Klinger was one of those honored.”
“Did you ever hear Mary Lou say anything about Dr. Klinger?”
“Like I said, our hours don’t overlap. The only time I spoke to her was when I went to Cassandra’s house to pick up my check. Mary Lou was kind of snippy.”
“Okay. I won’t keep you any longer. Next time you work for Cassandra, ask the staff what they know about Mary Lou. See what you can find out.”
“You’re saying she didn’t like Dr. Klinger?”
“It seems she didn’t care for her at all.”
Thirteen
The next morning I found myself trapped in the recurring dream of being pursued by pigs while slogging through knee-deep sludge. I awoke when the phone rang, yanking me back to reality. In the tangle of blankets I struggled to reach out and croak a greeting. “Yeah?”
“Rose? It’s me, Brandi.” She was crying.
I sat up. “Brandi, what’s wrong?”
“He’s dead!”
“Who’s dead?”
“Rusty. They said he drowned.”
I kicked the blankets off. “Who said he drowned? Start from the beginning.”
She let out a shaky sigh. “This morning I was listening to Stella’s police scanner. They mentioned a forty-year-old man found that morning in the park, drowned in the fish pond. I thought it could be Rusty. I borrowed Stella’s car and got there as the ambulance was leaving. They wouldn’t let me get close or say who it was until they’d made a positive ID. I spoke to Cal, and he admitted it was Rusty.”
“But that’s a kiddie pond, not more than three feet deep.”
“Cal said it was probably an accident. He said Rusty had been drinking and fell and hit his head on the concrete embankment.”
“How do they know he was drinking?”
“They found a bottle near his body.”
The news was too much so early in the morning. I needed coffee and time to think. “Brandi, I’ll stop by later today, okay?”
Her voice was subdued. “I’ll be at Stella’s.”
I raised the shade. The sky was a dirty bowl overhead. Rain ran down the window panes. It was the kind of morning that made you wish you were retired… or a dog. After letting Chester out, I rifled through the freezer among the unidentified frozen objects and found a fossilized bagel. I put it in the toaster oven and dialed Cal’s cell phone. He answered right away.
“Hi, Rosie. Change your mind about dinner at my place?”
“Cal, Brandi Slocum called me earlier.”
“Uh huh. It’s a shame about Rusty. I got the impression Brandi doesn’t think his death was accidental.”
“I said I’d get back to her when I learned more.”
“There’s not much to learn. The toxicology report will be more specific, but it’s pretty obvious. Rusty was in the park. He got drunk and fell, hitting his head on the cement apron of the kiddie pond. Around six-thirty this morning, a senior citizens’ walking group called the Gab and Gaiters came upon the body. Not long after that the EMTs verified his death.”
“You don’t suspect foul play?”
“Rosie, you’ve been reading too many Robert Parker novels.”
“Cal, I’m in no mood for smartass comments. I just want to know the official cause of death.”
“Don’t get your undies in a twist. Doc Moss says it’s a subdural hematoma with secondary drowning. Maybe Rusty was feeding the fish. He fell hard, as drunks do. They lack the involuntary response of raising your hands and breaking the fall. The EMTs said he slammed the concrete.”
“Is it possible he was hit?”
“Everything’s possible, and at this stage everyone’s a suspect, including Brandi. Maybe they had a lover’s quarrel.”
“They weren’t lovers. Rusty was like a big brother to her.” Cal snorted into the phone. I ignored it and asked, “How about the street people who hang around the park? Will you question them?”
“In due time. Rusty pissed off a lot of people. There’s a group of skinheads, tough guys who ride skateboards near the Homer Frost statue. We get complaints about them all the time. They pee on the petunias and scare the squirrels. One day Rusty got fed up with the punks and kicked ass. Someone heard them threatening him.”
“Please follow up on that, Cal. Now before I let you go, do you know if there’s going to be an autopsy?”
“Rose, the chief is satisfied. We’ll interview people, but basically this is considered an accidental death.”
“But an autopsy would reveal more about the head wound.”
“It might, had we found him earlier. His head was in the water for several hours and, well, the fish did a thorough job of cleaning the wound.”
An image of a big orange carp surfaced in my mind. I put the bagel down. “You’re saying the department won’t pursue the issue?”
“What do you want me to do, request an autopsy just to satisfy you and Brandi? I don’t mean to sound heartless, because I liked Rusty. He was a great athlete at one time. He was also a drunk, an ex-con and a murder suspect as well.”
“So that’s how it works. Justice is meted out according to one’s standing in the community. One set of rules for the Rotarians, another for the riffraff.”
“Rose, honey, you’re letting Brandi influence you. I was there. I saw the body. I smelled the booze. Many nights I’d see Rusty staggering around in the park. What’s amazing is that he lasted so long.”
“I guess there’s no point in continuing this conversation. The chief’s got his loose ends all tied up in a nice bow. Mayor Froggett and the Chamber will be pleased Dr. Klinger’s murder is solved. Now there’s no need to try Rusty. Good riddance to bad rubbish, eh?”
There was no response for so long, I thought Cal had hung up. Finally, he said, “I’m not the enemy, Rose. I just do my best. In any case, after I’m done guarding Stella’s pigs, I won’t be working the streets anymore. I put in for a transfer, mostly to satisfy Marcie. I’ll be Director of Roads and Highways. So, if you find a dozen bodies in the fish pond, don’t call me, because I won’t give a damn.”
“I never thought I’d hear you say something like that, Cal Devine.”
“That makes two of us. Goodbye, Rose.”
By the time I reached the office, my mood matched the weather. Stewart was working on a story about Rusty, searching the archives for pictures and clips taken during his football years. “The guy was phenomenal,” he said. “I saw all his games—as a kid, of course.”
“Were you with your nanny?” I asked and immediately felt bad. Stewart didn’t deserve the fallout from my black mood. “Don’t mind me,” I said. “It’s been a rough morning.”
I got up to get coffee in the break room. A sign tacked to the wall announced that coffee had risen to seventy cents a cup. Stew is in charge of buying and making the coffee. While he claims it’s Blue Mountain, I suspect generic. Why else would he volunteer for the coffee job if not to make a few bucks to augment his trust fund checks?
I carried the mug back to my desk and listened to my voice mail. The first message got my attention. The voice was young and guarded. She said she was calling in response to my story about Stella’s pigs and what she perceived as the high school administration’s heav
y-handedness toward the seniors. “I just want you to know we’re fighting back.” Before hanging up, she left a number.
I didn’t recognize the area code; most likely it was a cell phone. This was what I’d hoped for, a response from the seniors, a sign proving they weren’t all mainstreamers, that their spirit was alive and well.
I dialed the number. A young man answered. His voice, too, was guarded. After determining my identity, we made a date to meet at the high school in an hour. “Look for a red van,” he said.
After hanging up, I let out a whoop. It startled Yvonne, who’d just arrived, wearing a metallic rain poncho. “Yvonne, the pig story is taking off. I’m meeting with some high school seniors in an hour. They want to speak anonymously.”
She shook out her umbrella. “Under the circumstances, an anonymous source is fine. Plus, we have to pay attention to our young people. They’re our future readers.”
Stew piped up. “Was that the only response you got?”
“So far,” I said. “I haven’t listened to all my messages.”
I booted up my computer, determined not to let Stewart’s remark destroy my excitement. While the Gazette readers hadn’t responded as passionately as I’d hoped, I had reached someone. One must work with the raw materials at one’s disposal, or as my dad is fond of saying, “You can’t make chicken salad out of chicken shit.”
Two hours later I found myself in the back seat of a red van parked in the high school lot near the bleachers. The two kids sitting across from me, Meggie and Seth, made me smile. I was reminded of myself at that age.
“They’re incapable of independent thought, “Meggie said, referring to the faculty. “There’s no flexibility, no thinking outside the box. Every week they make up new rules just to keep us in line. It’s senseless.”
“Do the students have any input regarding the rules?” I asked.
Seth, who wore a single skull earring, said, “If you have a perfect score in school citizenship you can participate in the weekly community meetings. Whoopee.”
Sharon Love Cook - Granite Cove 01 - A Nose for Hanky Panky Page 18
