by Gayle Trent
I laughed. “Sewing by candlelight is not for you then?”
“No, ma’am. I like my modern conveniences, thank you. And two of my favorites are electric lighting and sewing machines. Now, are we there yet, because I’m storied out.”
*
By the time we did get to Haysi, the narrator for Agatha Christie’s book had put Myra to sleep. She was snoring softly. I pulled into a parking space near the fabric shop. I thought maybe someone there or someone on the street could give us directions to the medical research facility.
I gently touched Myra’s shoulder.
“What?!” she yelled, straightening up and looking about wildly.
“It’s okay,” I said with a grin. “We’re here.”
“Oh . . . yeah. I know. I was just . . . .”
“Resting your eyes?”
“That’s it.”
We went into the fabric shop. It was cool in the shop, as if it lacked adequate heating. The proprietor was sitting in a rocking chair by the window with a space heater at her side and a long green . . . something . . . she was crocheting. For some reason, the heavy woman with her squinting black eyes and her gray hair pulled into a bun reminded me of Madame Defarge. That was ridiculous, of course; Madame Defarge was a knitter, not a crocheter.
“Help you?” Madame said, barely glancing up from her work.
“We’re just looking,” Myra said. “I haven’t been here in years, but I remembered you have a great little shop here.”
“Thank you. But it’s not my shop. It’s my sister’s. I’m watching it today while she does some Christmas shopping.”
“Well, I’ll just browse around then,” Myra said.
“Help yourself.”
I inched closer, wondering if you could actually crochet names into a long piece of green whatever. If you could knit names into something, you could surely crochet names into it.
“Help you?” the woman asked.
“I was just admiring your work,” I said. “I can’t crochet.”
She nodded and looked back down at her work. She never dropped a stitch, and I thought that probably meant she was pretty good.
“Somebody told us there’s a medical research place near here,” I said. “Do you know where it might be?”
This actually made Madame stop crocheting. “What do you want to go there for? Ya’ll don’t look hard up to me.”
“Hard up?” I asked.
“Yeah. Ain’t you going there to volunteer to be a guinea pig? I hear the pay is fairly decent, but ain’t no way I’m gonna volunteer to test drugs. Too many people have had bad experiences there.” She shook her head. “They’re doing some weird stuff over there, I’m telling you. They take advantage of people that’s fell on hard times. I’ve seen people get worse. But I ain’t ever seen anybody get better from going there.”
Chapter Eight
After what Madame Defarge had said about the medical research facility, I was afraid there would be junkies and all sorts of scary looking people lurking outside. There was, in fact, no one outside—lurking or otherwise. Unless they were lurking in the bushes. We didn’t see a soul.
Myra and I walked in to the sterile looking facility, which appeared much like any other doctor’s office. Black chairs lined the walls, broken up in twos and threes by wooden tables piled with outdated magazines. At the moment, all the chairs were empty. To the left was a receptionist’s window, enclosed by a glass partition.
I stepped up to the receptionist’s window. The receptionist—a woman with short red hair and glasses with tortoise shell frames—looked up and opened the window.
“Hello,” she said. “Do you have an appointment?”
“No, we’re here to ask about someone who might have been a patient here.”
“We’re not allowed to give out any information on test subjects,” she said.
“Well, I’m not even sure he was a test subject. His name is Fred Duncan. Can you tell me if he’s on your client list?” I asked.
“No, I can’t. We’re bound by strict confidentiality agreements with both our test subjects and our corporate sponsors.” She closed the window.
“Well, she has a nerve,” Myra said.
I knocked on the glass. “Is there someone else I can speak with?”
The receptionist shook her head. “No. If you don’t leave now, I’ll be forced to call the police department.”
Myra and I left. She had bought lots of cute fabric at Madame Defarge’s shop, but I doubted they’d let her do anything with it in jail.
“This bugs me,” I said, as we left. “Let’s find a library and see if we can’t dig up more on this medical research/test subject stuff. Maybe we can find something that will make her tell us whether or not Fred was working for them.”
“You go ahead. I’ll thumb through some magazines. I’m not dealing with her and her nasty little threats anymore.”
The library wasn’t hard to find. I was relieved to discover that it was comfortable and had a friendly staff, especially since the earlier two receptions I’d received in this town were about as warm as an ice chest.
“Hi, there,” said a tall, thin woman with a dark blonde, shoulder-length bob. “May I help you find anything?”
“Do you have computers for public use?” I asked.
“We sure do. Do you have a library card with us?”
“I’m afraid not. I’m from Brea Ridge and I’m here on business.”
“You got a Brea Ridge library card?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Well, that’s good enough for me.” Smiling, she led me to the public computers and signed me in. “Let me know if you need anything.”
I did a search for human test subjects and clinical drug trials, and I learned quite a bit. One article spoke about researchers’ lack of upfront information to test subjects, indicating they weren’t informed about the unknown problems scientists are paying “guinea pigs” to find. Another article mentioned that some researchers refuse to share information about the number of human test subjects they employ, the types of studies they perform or how many adverse reactions have occurred during their studies.
The most recent article—one which appeared in Wired Magazine, Issue 15.05—discussed the disturbing trend of some “guinea pigs” to make a career of being a test subject. The article also indicated the existence of such inane studies as “the impact of the club drug GHB on driving ability.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
I didn’t realize I’d spoken the thought aloud until the librarian asked, “I’m sorry. Did you say something?”
“Oh . . . um . . . I came across an article on human research test subjects. Don’t you guys have a medical research facility near here?”
“We do.”
“And does that facility use human test subjects?”
“I believe so.”
“What do you think about it?” I asked.
“About humans volunteering to be test subjects or the research facility being located in our town?”
“Both.”
“Well, if somebody wants to be a test subject, I guess that’s up to him or her. I’m sure the researchers explain the risks and the fact that they may or may not be on a drug. After all, you have to have the mean, right? Isn’t that what they call it?”
“I don’t know.”
“Besides, I figure the people who allow themselves to be tested on know what they’re doing. Personally, I wouldn’t do it. But I’ve talked with people who have, and they act like it’s no big deal. As far as the facility goes, it did bring in a few new jobs.”
“Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”
I retrieved Myra from the pages of Modern Woman, and we headed home.
“So do you think Fred was coming over here to take part in some freaky Frankenstein experiments or something?” Myra asked.
“I don’t know. If something shows up in the autopsy report that the coroner finds odd, t
hen I suppose it’s a possibility. But the librarian pointed out something I hadn’t thought of with regard to the testing.”
“What’s that?”
“Even if Fred was coming over here and taking part in some sort of clinical trials, he wasn’t necessarily being given the drug being tested. Some people are given a placebo so the doctors can observe the differences between the two groups.”
“Hmm. I’d love to have a gazebo. Not this time of year, naturally, but during the late spring, summer and early fall, I think it’d be great.”
I smiled. “Myra, you are priceless. What are you planning to do with all that fabric?”
“Oh, I have all sorts of plans. Tote bags, dresses, blouses, place mats, curtains. But, in truth, I’ll probably put it in the sewing room with all the rest of my junk and forget I have it.” She shrugged. “But at least I have pretty new fabric, and it’ll be there if I take a notion to do something with it. If we have some snowy days, I’ll probably get bored and decide to do something. Might even make you a new apron.”
“Wow, I’d love it.”
“Then you’d better pray for snow. And keep the baked goods coming.”
“Hey, do you remember when Fred had his car accident?” I asked.
“Yep,” Myra said with a nod. “Everybody in town was on the lookout for that car—and not just because it wrecked Fred, but because we were all afraid we’d be next. I mean, of course, we were all upset about what happened to Fred. He’d always been a good boy . . . never been in trouble. But the fact that whoever was driving that car didn’t take responsibility for his—or her—actions . . . well, that bothered us all. Before that, we’d all felt like Brea Ridge was a town with integrity.”
“That shook your faith, huh?”
“Yeah. I mean, you know there are bad apples in every tree, but it wasn’t just the driver.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, somebody else had to know about that car wreck. I mean, if there was an accident where the driver pulled a hit and run, and the police were looking for a little red car, and you came home with your car all boogered up, I’d have to ask you about it.”
“I know that’s the truth,” I said.
“But, let’s say you came home at night and had a garage and you hid the car in there, people would have to see it when you drove it again . . . unless you had somebody come to your garage to fix the car. And, in that case, the person who fixed your car would know.”
“And what if I’d suffered an injury?”
“Exactly,” Myra said. “And if you’d hit a car as hard as that one hit Fred’s—”
“Wait a sec. I thought Fred hit a utility pole.”
“He did, but that other car still clipped the back hard enough to crush the back end of Fred’s car. Plus, the police found one of the other car’s hubcaps in the road.”
“So there was no question that the other car was damaged.”
“Right.”
I nodded slowly. “So now you’ve got a car that has to be fixed unless the driver has alternative means of transportation, a driver who might be hurt—not to mention drunk—and when you add all that together, you have at least a handful of people who have a decent suspicion of who the other driver was.”
“Yep. There could be a mechanic. There could be a bartender or a liquor store clerk who knows someone with that type of car was drinking that afternoon.” She shook her head. “Yet the police never got a single lead. That bothers me.”
“It bothers me, too.”
*
When we got home, I invited Myra in. We’d stopped in Lebanon for some lunch, but I thought she might want to come in for awhile. She didn’t. She said she needed to get home and put her fabric away . . . “stuff like that” and that she’d talk with me later.
I was relieved. I love Myra to pieces, but I wanted to relax for awhile before Connie and Fran came over to discuss catering Belinda’s party.
The first thing I did when I went in was check my messages. The answering machine was blinking like the dickens. Excited, I hit play.
The first message was from Violet. “Where are you today? Is everything okay? You didn’t mention going Christmas shopping today, and it isn’t like you to blow everything off—especially during this time of year—to take some unscheduled trip. Call me. I’m concerned.”
Yes, Mom.
The second message was from Ben. “Hi. Still feeling lousy. I’ll call you back later. Hope you’re not sick.”
The third message was from Cara. “Daphne, hi! It’s Cara Logan. You guys disappeared on us last night. What happened? I hope I didn’t upset Benny. Call me, okay?”
There was another message from Violet. “Hey, it’s me again. I ran into Julie, who waits tables part-time at Dakotas. She said you and Ben were there last night and that either Ben got sick or you two had a fight and left. She wasn’t sure which since she heard it both ways.” Her voice softened. “I hope everything is all right. Call me when you can.”
I rolled my eyes. Great. Now she thinks Ben and I have had some major argument, and I’m holed up at home with my Ben & Jerry’s crying and watching sappy movies.
There was one last message, and it was from Uncle Hal. “Call me. I’m hearing unpleasant rumors about you . . . but don’t say anything about that to your Aunt Nancy.”
Who am I? Daphne Jolie? Since when did I become the subject of unpleasant rumors, and when did people start speculating about Ben and me? Or should I call us Benphe? Or Daphen? Grrr. All those calls and not a single cake order. Double grrr.
I returned Violet’s calls first.
“Violet,” I said when she answered. “Can you come get me? I’m trapped beneath a house in Oz.”
“Oh, ha-ha; you’re so funny . . . although I’d almost believe that considering the socks you were wearing yesterday. Where’ve you been all day? And if you say something stupid, I swear I’ll hang up on you and call Mom.”
“You’re bluffing.”
“Try me.”
“I’ve been to Haysi with Myra.”
“Because . . . .”
“Because she wanted to visit a fabric shop over there.”
“You dropped everything during a peak baking season to take Myra to a fabric shop an hour and a half away? I don’t think so.”
“You can call and ask her yourself.”
“I know there’s more to it, and you’d better tell me right now before I call Mom.”
“You will so not call Mom,” I said. “Stop threatening me with that. Like the rest of us, you’re still creeping around on eggshells with her out of fear she’ll have another heart attack.”
“Right, but what do you want to bet every odds maker on the Blue Ridge Parkway thinks something you do or say will be the very pain down the left arm that sends Mom back to the emergency room?”
“I cannot believe you just said that to me.” And I really couldn’t. Violet is the golden child. She’d never hurt Mom, even if it was to spite me. “Besides, whoever said there are odds makers on the Blue Ridge Parkway? That’s ridiculous.”
Violet sighed. “I’m sorry.”
“What would you tell Mom anyway? That I took a neighbor shopping? Would that be such a complete shock to her as to cause a myocardial infarction?”
“No, I’d tell her the truth. I’d tell her you’re investigating another death.”
“Vi, look it—”
“No, you look. I care about you, and I don’t want to see you put yourself in jeopardy again. Let it go.”
“Okay.”
“I’ve heard that before,” Violet said. “I don’t know what you’re doing, and I doubt you do either, but I don’t want to be around you—and I won’t have my children around you—if you’ve got a target on your chest.”
“I don’t blame you. And, honestly, I’m through with this . . . pretty much.”
“Pretty much.”
“No, seriously, I’ll tell Ben what little I know and let him and Cara Logan hash out th
e rest of it.”
“Cara Logan. Why does that name sound familiar?”
“I met her in September at the Oklahoma Sugar Art Show in Tulsa.”
“That’s right. She works for a paper in Northern Virginia, doesn’t she?”
“Yes, plus she’s dating John Holloway of Brea Ridge Pharmaceuticals. She’s in a much better position to investigate Fred’s death than I am.”
“You mean it?”
“I mean it. I’ve had enough drama . . . well, except for Belinda Fremont’s New Year’s Eve soiree.”
Violet laughed. “Ooh, la, la. I suppose we’re toasting the arrival of Cavy New Year.”
“Something like that,” I said with a giggle. “You know, Belinda would probably adore that concept.”
“Well, good luck with that. I’d better get back to work before I have to fire myself.”
“Oh, yes, being self-employed bites.”
“It does when the market is as slow as it has been lately.”
“Are you guys okay? I could use some help catering this party and—”
“We’re fine, Daph. Jason’s job is secure, and we’re doing great. It’s you I worry about.”
“And it’s you I worry about.”
We shared another laugh and reassured each other that neither of us has anything to worry about before hanging up.
My next call was to Uncle Hal. Lucky for me—I guess—he answered on the first ring.
“Hey, Uncle Hal. It’s me, Daphne. Is this a good time for you to talk?”
“Yeah, honey, this is a fine time. Your Aunt Nancy is visiting one of the neighbors. She took them over some Christmas candy.”
“That was nice.” I decided then I might as well dive in with both feet. “You said you’ve heard some unpleasant rumors.”
