Your Killin' Heart

by Peggy O'Neal Peden

  “Dr. Miller?” I asked.

  “Jackie, except we don’t call her that around the hospital. It’s Dr. Miller or Jacqueline. She really doesn’t like to be called Jackie.”

  “I didn’t know which hospital she worked at.”

  “I think she has privileges at two or three, but she’s at Good Sam most of the time.”

  “I did a gallbladder with her yesterday,” Pam offered. “She did fine, very professional, but yeah, she’s been stressed. No joking around, no small talk. It’s really been tough on her.”

  “Yeah,” Betty added, “and she doesn’t need any more stress. How long has it been since…”

  They looked at each other, then away, embarrassed.

  “What?” I demanded.

  “It’s common knowledge at the hospital.” Melinda shrugged.

  Pam explained. “Dr. Miller spent three months in rehab two years ago. The hospital doesn’t like that kind of thing talked about.”

  “Maybe not, but it’s pretty common,” Betty returned.

  They all watched my mouth drop. “Is that true?”

  “Oh, yeah. Long days and nights, easy access to drugs, not as easy as it used to be, but still…”

  “The hospital or the doctors’ practices quietly pay for rehab when it happens. Part of the idea is that drug and alcohol problems will be dealt with better and more quickly if your job’s not on the line, especially for a first-timer. If somebody knows or thinks you have a problem, they might be more likely to tell someone if they don’t think it’s going to destroy your whole career.”

  “And Jacqueline Miller?”

  “Yeah. A couple of years ago. She had a pretty tough time, I heard.”

  “That’s when her husband left, at least, when he left for good.”

  “I don’t think it was the first time, for rehab, I mean,” Betty added. “I heard something about it a long time ago, ten years, maybe?”

  Melinda nodded. “You used to be on the state board that tracks that, didn’t you, Pam?”

  Pam nodded.

  “Could I talk to them? Who oversees that?”

  “The state health department, but they won’t tell you anything. It’s very confidential.”

  I sat back, trying to take it all in. I’d thought Jackie was the stable one. Rosie Layne had neglected to mention Jackie’s drug use when she talked about watching her daughter grow up in a household with substance abuse. Not that I blamed her for not talking to me about it. Maybe that’s why Rosie had gone public about their relationship so quickly. She, they, might have hoped it would forestall more digging.

  This changed everything. Even an anesthesiologist can need money when there’s a drug habit to support. And maybe Jackie didn’t have a drug habit, but she had once—or more than once. If she were innocent in all this, what a mess for a fragile person to have to deal with: the death of the only mother she had known, then finding out that death was murder; learning that her biological mother was someone she had seen and, to some extent, known all her life; looking out for her son, who seemed bent on self-destruction. Annie sang about her hard-knock life that night, but all I could think of was Jackie’s.

  That was before I got back to my car after the show and found my tires had been slit. I called AAA and George at AAAAuto, the only mechanic I would let touch my Spider. Two hours later I made it home. I didn’t like feeling paranoid, but I was pretty sure somebody was out to get me.

  Mark had left a message while I was out: Hazel’s will had been read and released. I called him back in the morning.

  “No surprises really,” he said, “except for one that I thought you’d be interested in. Small legacies to the maid and George Lewis and a couple of friends, the house to Jay Miller, which could be quite a bit actually. Real estate in that area has really gone up.”

  “What about Jackie?” I demanded.

  “I’m getting to that. The rest of her estate to Jackie, undetermined value, probably not much, maybe a net debt, but of course, the real value is in Jake’s estate, which now goes to Jackie outright.”

  “We knew that already,” I said impatiently.

  “The rest of her estate except for the art collection. It goes to Kenneth Elliott.”

  “Kenneth Elliott?”

  “Yep, except for the pieces that deal with Jake and his career, her collection of paintings and sculpture goes to Elliott. Her will encourages that a Jake Miller museum be established with the pieces directly relating to Jake’s career.”

  “That would take a lot of money.”

  “Yes, and the will only suggests that. She had no money to fund it.”

  “Kenneth Elliott?”

  “Oh, yeah, and Franklin Polk is the executor. You can read it in black and white tomorrow morning.”

  Why would Hazel name Franklin Polk—a man she reportedly hated, a man she had petitioned the court to have removed as executor of Jake’s will decades before—to administer her own affairs after her death? It didn’t make sense. And why had she left her art collection to Kenneth Elliott instead of her family?

  I waited until ten, and then called Rosie Layne. Rosie answered; the dreaded Mrs. McKeever look-alike must have Saturday mornings off. “Miss Layne, you have no reason to talk to me, and I really don’t want to cause you any more pain, but I just heard about Hazel Miller’s will. Why would she have named Franklin Polk executor of her will? I thought she hated him.”

  Rosie sighed. She’d probably thought she was done with me. “Franklin Polk always handled Jake’s dirty work. After Jake died, I considered trying to get Jacqueline back. I even started the paperwork to make a claim against the estate for Jackie’s support. Franklin Polk came to see me. Quietly, politely, he made it clear that he would destroy me if I pursued it. Even if I won, and that would have been unlikely if he and Hazel were determined to fight it, he said he would make sure that I never worked in this town again. Not just singing, he said, ‘You won’t be able to get a job washing dishes, not in Nashville and probably not in the state.’ Then he laughed. I didn’t file the supporting documents, so the claim was denied.”

  People who don’t know any better can listen to the down-home, good-buddy chatter—or, now, watch the back-slappin’ and huggin’ on the TNN cable broadcast—and think the Grand Ole Opry is just a bunch of country hicks sittin’ around Nashville pickin’ and grinnin’. Hardly. There are more lawyers in country music than guitar players, and the politics of who is asked to join the Opry or who gets a contract would put a lot of political machines to shame.

  Rosie went on. “The next week I found ten thousand dollars in cash in my mailbox. No note. A month later, another ten thousand. I wasn’t going to touch it, and I didn’t spend any of it for a long time, but finally there was a day when I needed rent money, so I used some of it. As soon as I could I replaced it, put the twenty thousand in a bank account, and never touched it again. I was saving it for Jackie.” She laughed. “She’s never needed it, of course, but it was a great comfort to me through the years, knowing that it was there for her. I imagined her leaving Hazel or being thrown out, having nowhere to go, and my going to her, saving her. Silly, but that bank account was going to be my proof that I had always loved her. Twenty thousand doesn’t sound like that much, but it was there.

  “Anyway, if Franklin Polk is involved, there’s something to hide. Hazel had him removed as administrator of Jake’s estate. I’ve always thought that had happened when she found out that Jackie was my daughter. She never spoke to me after that. Not that I cared.”

  * * *

  I wanted to talk all this over with Sam, but for once, he didn’t call. Not a word. I kept doing double takes when I saw plain, dark sedans, but no detective. I was beginning to miss that. Doug was out of town until sometime Monday. I didn’t want to hear a sermon from him, but I needed to talk to someone. Stick, who had agreed to go out on a rare tour with a superstar, was in Las Vegas.

  I picked up the Spider from George on Monday afternoon. “Maybe you c
ould take a taxi the next time you’re going to be downtown late,” he suggested. “Or Uber?”

  The art-print cards arrived from the St. Louis museum, and I spent much of the first part of the week writing notes to clients about the trip, which was not very time-efficient. Handwriting notes was almost unheard of in this age of merge-mail and quick-print shops on every corner. But it seemed to fit this group, and I was counting on it to capture their attention and make them feel that they and their trip were special.

  On Wednesday morning I called Kenneth Elliott at the gallery one more time. “Kenneth, this is Campbell Hale. I really need to talk to you about the Smith Logan museum. Please call me.” I left office, mobile, and home numbers.

  It was a card in the third box of prints that reminded me of the painting Doug and I had picked up for The Mockingbird Gallery. Four times on Wednesday afternoon I picked up a card with that painting on it, opened it, and began to write. Each time I became more and more sure that the painting had to be almost identical to Hazel’s. Even if Kenneth had sold it to the museum, these cards had to have been printed long before Doug and I returned Hazel’s paintings to the gallery. It had been my favorite of the paintings we had picked up; I suppose that’s why I had noticed it more than the others. Before I sealed the last note, I stared at the painting for several minutes. The back of the card identified it as Fleurs du Jour by Henri de Suisse.

  I called the Smith Logan museum and asked if all the paintings pictured on the cards I had ordered were currently on display. “I’m bringing a group there, and I had told them they would see these paintings.”

  “Yes,” the curator assured me. “All of those paintings are on display now. We hung the Impressionist exhibit yesterday.”

  “You’re sure? I’m especially interested in Fleurs du Jour by Henri de Suisse.”

  “Yes, quite sure. It’s one of my favorites in this show. I know exactly where it’s hanging.”

  I thanked her and hung up.

  If Doug were in town, I could at least find out if both paintings were, indeed, by the same artist. Artists do often paint different versions of the same subject, but I could at least check that. I could be making something out of nothing. I was sure the list Kenneth had given Doug the day we went to Hazel’s would be in a file in his office.

  I called Doug’s office. His personal assistant, Barbara, and I had become friends over the years. If she considered this information the least bit confidential, I had no hope of accessing the list, but it was worth a try.

  Barbara was glad to help me out. She saw no reason why Doug would mind my seeing the list again. “I’ve already had to make copies for the police. What’s your fax number?”

  The list appeared within minutes. There were no titles, just artists’ names and general descriptions. Second on the list was “de Suisse, Henri: Impressionist floral.”

  I retrieved one of the notes from the mail out-box, opened it, and rewrote the note on another card. I stuck the note with the de Suisse painting in my bag.

  * * *

  I was in line at the bank the next morning, Thursday, waiting to make the office deposit, when George Lewis walked in. Considering his attitude when I’d last seen him on Hazel’s back lawn, I wasn’t sure how he would react. He hadn’t hung up on me when I called him, but I didn’t think I was a favorite with him.

  He stopped just inside the door, waiting for his eyes to adjust from the brightness outside. When he noticed me, he waved and came over to stand behind me in line.

  “Miss Hale, how are you?”

  “I’m well, and you?”

  “I’m great, Miss Hale, just great.” Lewis was ebullient; he was almost effervescent.

  “You’re a lot more cheerful than the last time I saw you,” I observed.

  “I am. I definitely am.”

  “May I ask why?”

  “Miss Hale, can anyone keep you from asking questions anywhere, anytime, about anything?”

  I was chastened. “I guess I deserve that.”

  “Yes, you do, but I don’t mind telling you. I have a new job.”

  “That’s great. What will you be doing?”

  “I’ll be a personal manager. I won’t be carrying dinner trays to an alcoholic old woman who still thinks she owns this town.” He named one of the biggest acts in country music. “I told you I had contacts. I’ll finally get some real money.”

  “Well, congratulations. How did all this come about?”

  Lewis laughed. “It really isn’t who you know; it’s what you know. You just use what you’re given.”

  Cryptic. And all this time I’d thought it was a well-organized résumé, experience, and solid references that landed you a job.

  “When do you start?”

  “The first of the month. I’m taking a couple of weeks off first. It’s been years since I’ve had a real vacation. I’m going to Saint Martin, get some sun, check out the nude beaches, hit the casinos. I should have called you. You’re a travel agent, aren’t you?”

  Luckily, it was my turn at the window. Otherwise, I’d have probably had to listen to what a great deal he had found somewhere else. He was definitely not the same George Lewis who had been worrying about his next paycheck. And I didn’t even want to think about him on clothing-optional beaches. He really must have had connections to land a job with someone on par with Alan Jackson, Vince Gill, and Kenny Chesney. But if Lewis were that well connected, why had he stayed with Hazel all those years? Had something changed since I had seen him last?

  I finished my deposit and turned to leave. “Have a great trip.”

  “Thanks,” Lewis acknowledged as he moved forward. “I need traveler’s checks,” I heard him announce to the teller, “hundreds.”

  I would have to see what my detective made of George Lewis’s new prosperity. My detective?

  Back at the office, I told Lee and Anna about Lewis and his sudden vacation.

  “Who’d he have to blackmail for that?” Anna asked.

  Now, that was a thought. I wondered what the maid’s plans were.

  That afternoon, when things slowed down at work, I thought about calling Hazel’s house to see if the housekeeper was still there, but I didn’t have the phone number. It was unlisted. I tried an Internet directory. No luck.

  I wondered if Doug would give me the number. We hadn’t talked lately. I really didn’t want to ask him, but the worst he could do was say no. I called.

  “I’m sorry, Campbell. Mr. Elliott is in a meeting. May I put you through to his voice mail?” She didn’t sound as chummy as usual. I wondered if Doug had said something to her.

  “No, thanks.”

  I decided to call Detective Davis, but I got voice mail there, too. I tried the gallery. Kenneth was out, but his assistant, a Vanderbilt art-major intern who looked fourteen going on twenty-five, answered.

  “Miss Hale, of course, how may I help you?”

  I had a story all ready, but I didn’t need it. She gave me the number efficiently, as if her only regret was that I hadn’t asked for something that was more of a challenge.

  The maid answered.

  “My name is Campbell Hale. We met the afternoon Mrs. Miller died,” I began to explain. “I was wondering if you’re going to be looking for another job. I have a friend who is looking for someone reliable, and I thought of you.” I was feeling pretty guilty, but at any given time I generally know five to ten people in need of an experienced housecleaner. If she really was looking for a job, I was pretty confident I could put her in touch with someone.

  “No’m, Miz Hale. Thank you, but Mr. Lewis said he’d take care of me. I’ll be here for a few more weeks takin’ care of things, helpin’ Miss Jackie get things straightened out and packed up, but then I’m goin’ to work for Mr. Polk some, Mr. Franklin Polk. And I might retire before long. Mr. Lewis say I won’t have to work if I don’t want to, and I’m ’bout old enough to think that sounds pretty good.”

  At least Mr. Lewis was spreading his good fortun
e around.

  * * *

  I called Sam again and got his voice mail. This time I left my number. I would ask him to come by for supper, and I wasn’t sure why, but the thought made me nervous. I was a little relieved to put it off. A temporary reprieve.

  Ten minutes later he called. “Campbell?” He said it like my mother did when I was in trouble. “What’s up?”

  “I wondered if you’d like to come by for supper.”

  “Tonight?”

  He was stalling. I’ve heard that tone before. Why had I done this? I wanted to hang up, but I was trapped, stuck there on the phone.

  “Actually, I was thinking tomorrow night.”

  “I’d like to. I’m sorry, but I can’t. My daughter’s going to be home tomorrow night. That’s pretty rare on a Friday night with a teenager, and I … really ought to be home.”

  “Of course.”

  “Look, what about Saturday night?” he countered.

  “Ummh, sure, Saturday night’s fine.”

  “Okay, good. What time?”

  “Six, six thirty?”

  “Can I bring something?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Okay, thanks, I’ll see you then.”

  “Okay, great,” I agreed.

  “Uh, is there anything you need to talk to me about before then?”

  “No, no. I’ll see you then.”

  “Okay, then, Saturday night.”

  Okay.

  At least I didn’t have to rush to the grocery store.

  Chapter Fifteen

  I still couldn’t get the painting out of my head, and could think of only one way to find out for sure what I needed to know. I didn’t want to approach Doug or, worse, Sam with some harebrained idea when my suspicions might have a very simple explanation. Lots of artists did similar studies of the same subject matter.

  Just before lunch Friday, I convinced Lee to call The Mockingbird Gallery and ask for Kenneth. I didn’t want him or the intern to recognize my voice. Kenneth wasn’t there, and the intern didn’t expect him to return before four thirty. I stuck the note in my pocket and grabbed my coat.

  “I’m going to The Mockingbird Gallery, but don’t tell anybody. I’ll be back in, oh, no more than an hour, anyway.”