by Gayle Leeson
We both said we were, and Ryan reiterated the fact that there was something about Thomas Lincoln that made him uneasy.
“He downright scares me,” Joyce said. “Amy, hope you feel better.”
After Joyce walked off, Ryan asked me if my hand was hurting.
“Some.” I debated about telling him that Joyce had given me a prescription medication that I’d thought was an aspirin, but I decided against it. “I’ll be fine. Let’s go pay our respects to Mrs. Lincoln.”
When we went into the chapel, I was relieved to find that the casket was closed. Mrs. Lincoln was speaking with an older woman who kept dabbing at her eyes with a dainty handkerchief.
As Ryan and I waited for our turn to talk with Mrs. Lincoln, my heart began racing. I thought I was probably nervous because I was standing in a funeral parlor. I took a few deep breaths and ignored the look Ryan was giving me.
By the time the elderly lady finished talking with Mrs. Lincoln and we stepped forward, my heart was beating faster than ever.
“I . . . I’m s-so . . . sorry, M-Mrs. Lincoln,” I stammered.
She took my hand. “My dear, whatever’s the matter?”
“J-Joyce gave me a . . . a p-pain reliever earlier. I th-thought it was . . . an aspirin, but she t-told . . . told me it was a p-prescription med . . . medication.”
“Oh, goodness! You should never take medicine from someone else, especially not Joyce Kaye. Who prescribed the medicine?”
“D-Dr. Kent.”
“That quack again. It’s hard to tell what you’ve taken,” she said. “He once gave me antidepressants and they didn’t help me one iota—only made me sleepy.”
“I believe we’d better go and call Dr. Kent,” Ryan said. “You have our sincerest sympathies, Mrs. Lincoln.”
“Thank you, dear. Amy, I hope you feel better.”
When Ryan and I got out into the fresh air, I took my phone out of my purse. My hand was trembling so badly, I nearly dropped it.
Ryan took the phone from me. “Is Dr. Kent listed in your contacts?”
I nodded.
He opened my contacts, found Dr. Kent’s number, and called him. Dr. Kent must’ve answered immediately because Ryan began explaining the situation.
Ryan paused as Dr. Kent asked a question. “About forty minutes or so. We’re at Pelham’s in Bristol.” Another pause. “Yes, sir. We’ll meet you there.”
• • •
Dr. Kent met us outside his office and ushered us into an exam room. He took out a stethoscope and listened to my heart.
“Your heart rate is elevated, but not to a dangerous level. Let’s check your blood pressure.” He put my arm in the motorized blood pressure cuff and awaited its reading. “Your blood pressure is normal. I think if you’ll go home and rest, you’ll be fine. You said you got this medication from Joyce Kaye?”
I nodded. “It looked like an aspirin, and she took it from an aspirin bottle.”
He clucked his tongue. “She’s always been ashamed of taking antidepressants. I don’t know why. Many people take them and are better for it—including Joyce.”
“She said it was a pain reliever for her migraines,” I said.
“It is, but it’s also an antidepressant,” said Dr. Kent. “I imagine her heart was in the right place, but she should never have been so careless as to offer a prescription medication to someone else.”
“And, Amy, you really needed to establish what it was you were taking before you swallowed the darned thing,” said Ryan.
“I know.”
“Did you get the prescription filled that I gave you?” Dr. Kent asked.
“No. They make me sleepy and unable to work.”
He rolled over to the cabinet, opened a drawer, and got out another packet containing two of the prescription pain relievers. “Don’t take anything else tonight. Just go home and go to sleep. But take another dose of these—or two—as needed tomorrow.”
“Thank you,” I said. “By the way, Mr. Landon—the beekeeper—came into the café today and told me to put honey on the wound.”
“Landon thinks honey is the answer to everything,” said Dr. Kent. “But if you’d like to try it, it won’t hurt anything.”
“We missed you at the funeral home, Dr. Kent,” Ryan said. “I kinda thought you’d be there.”
“No. I felt it best that I stay home. I did send flowers, but Mrs. Lincoln isn’t fond of me. I was afraid my presence might agitate her.”
“She mentioned that you’d once prescribed an antidepressant for her,” I said. “It was after I said I’d unwittingly taken one of Joyce’s medications.”
“And I imagine she told you I was a quack or something of that nature.”
I inclined my head. “She said the medication didn’t work for her.”
Dr. Kent rolled his eyes. “Yes, that’s because it didn’t provide Mrs. Lincoln with immediate joy. It would’ve taken a miracle drug to have satisfied that woman. Although I suppose she’s happier now than she has been in quite some time.” His eyes widened. “I’m terribly sorry. I got aggravated and began speaking out of turn. That’s something a physician should never do.”
“I’m sure that you’re merely tired,” I said. “My family and I need to stop making such unreasonable demands of your time.”
“Nonsense. Usually, I’m offering my time, and you never demand it.”
Ryan and I both thanked Dr. Kent, I made him promise to send me an invoice, and then we left.
When we got back to my house, I kicked off my shoes and sat down on the sofa. Ryan asked me if there was anything I needed before he sat down beside me.
“No, thank you. I’m feeling better. I think I panicked at the thought of taking an unfamiliar medication more than anything.”
“That can be pretty scary,” he said. “I’m glad you’re feeling better.”
“You’re not going to lecture me?”
He shook his head. “I think this scare has driven the point home to you more than anything anyone could say. Plus, you believed you were taking aspirin. Wonder what George Lincoln thought he was taking?”
I raised my head sharply. “What?”
“Nothing.” He spread his hands. “I shouldn’t have said that. It’s still privileged information.”
“Are you saying you now believe Mr. Lincoln’s death to have been caused by some sort of prescription drug?”
“No. And we do have a suspect. But we need to gather more evidence before making an arrest.”
“Okay.” I could tell by his posture that the subject was closed. As it should be . . . confidential information and all that. “Would you like to watch a movie?”
Chapter 20
When I awoke the next morning, I was lying on my bed fully dressed, with the exception of my shoes, and covered with a light blanket. I remembered getting really drowsy as our movie progressed, and I must’ve fallen asleep. I rolled over to find Rory sleeping near me and a note from Ryan on the nightstand. I reached over Rory to get the note.
Good morning. Let me know if you’d like me to tell you how the movie ended. Hope you’re feeling better.—Ryan
I smiled. It had been sweet of him to bring me in here rather than leave me on the sofa.
Rory grunted and stretched. He raised his head, looked at me, and then plopped his head back onto the pillow.
“Is it too early to get up?” I asked him.
His tail wagged.
I patted his head, put the note from Ryan back on the nightstand, and went into the bathroom. I stripped off my wrinkled skirt and blouse and put them into the clothes hamper. Then I took a shower.
I opened the bathroom door, and Rory was there waiting for breakfast. Princess Eloise was perched on the edge of the bed wanting the same thing.
Sliding my phone off my dresser and into the pocket o
f my robe, I walked into the kitchen. I readied the coffeemaker and then fed my hungry pets. I yawned and took out my phone. I’d missed two calls—one from Ryan and one from Mom.
Afraid that something might’ve happened to Aunt Bess or that Aunt Renee might’ve run away from rehab again, I called Mom first.
“Is anything wrong?” I asked as soon as she answered.
“No. I just wanted to check on you to see how you’re feeling and to let you know that I’ll be helping Jackie in the kitchen today. Don’t join us until it’s time to eat.”
“Are you serious?”
“Absolutely,” said Mom. “Unless you’re not up to coming up to the big house for lunch. If that’s the case, we’ll bring lunch to you.”
“No, I’m fine with coming up there. But I know how you hate to cook.”
“Hate is such a strong word. Let’s just say I prefer to allow someone else to do the cooking, but I don’t mind it,” she said. “So how are you feeling?”
“Fine.” No need to tell Mom about the medication scare and have her worried about that. The crisis had passed.
“Did you just get up?”
“I haven’t been up long. I was in the shower when you called.” I paused. “I take it there hasn’t been any more news about Aunt Renee?”
“No. And I feel that it’s particularly true in this instance that no news is good news.”
I got a beep and realized Ryan was calling me again.
“Mom, Ryan’s calling. I’ll see you soon.”
“Not before it’s time to eat. You won’t be allowed in the kitchen today—only the dining room.”
“Okay. Bye.” I switched over to Ryan’s call. “Hey, there. Thank you for not leaving me on the sofa last night.”
“How are you?”
“Fine. How are you?”
“Worried about you,” he said. “You were so out of it last night that I was concerned that the exhaustion might’ve been another side effect of Joyce’s medication. But if you’re okay, I can turn around and head back to the station.”
“Aw, you were coming to check on me?”
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry. When you called, I was in the shower. I hadn’t had a chance to call you back yet.” I had to admit, though, that it did feel nice that the handsome deputy had been so alarmed that he was driving here to make sure I was all right.
“That’s not a problem, Amy. But I’ve seen what the wrong drug can do to somebody, and it was better to be safe than sorry.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” His voice had softened to that mellow timbre that I loved. “I’ll call you after work.”
After talking with Ryan, I sat down at the kitchen table to savor my cup of coffee. I kept replaying conversations from last night over in my head. Ryan couldn’t say too much about an ongoing investigation, but he’d made it seem that George Lincoln had taken a drug meant for someone else—either a regular dose or an overdose. If that was the case, couldn’t his death have been as simple as what had happened to me? Maybe he’d had a headache and asked Joyce for a pain reliever.
But then the police were certain Mr. Lincoln was murdered. And Ryan said they had a suspect but needed more evidence to convict. Both Joyce and Mrs. Lincoln had been in a position to have switched out Mr. Lincoln’s medications or to have given him something he could have mistaken for something else.
Dr. Kent had said that he’d prescribed antidepressants for Joyce’s migraines. And he’d prescribed antidepressants to Mrs. Lincoln. Could antidepressants induce a heart attack?
When I’d finished my coffee, I rinsed out my cup, put it into the dishwasher, and went into the fancy room. Rory had already taken off outside, and Princess Eloise had retreated to parts unknown. I wanted to get my laptop and conduct a search for whether or not antidepressants can cause a heart attack.
I took my laptop off the shelf, and sat down on the fainting couch. I turned on the computer, went straight to Google, and asked my question. I learned that certain kinds of antidepressants—in particular, those called TCAs—can cause heart failure, especially in a person suffering from congestive heart failure.
Wonder if George Lincoln had congestive heart failure? Given his size, his tendency to keep the Chamber of Commerce cold but still perspire a lot, and his shortness of breath upon any exertion, I didn’t think it was too much of a stretch to think that he certainly could’ve suffered from heart disease. And if he did, both his wife and his secretary would have been aware of that fact.
I needed to shake my morbid thoughts before going to lunch at the big house, so I opened a new tab and went on Aunt Bess’s Pinterest boards. There had been a much-publicized movie premiere a few nights ago, and I figured that Aunt Bess would have posted something about it on her Lord, Have Mercy board by now. I was not disappointed.
She’d captioned a photo of an actress wearing a gown that was trimmed with white feathers and a matching feathered cape, She looks like a duck, bless her heart. A big, overgrown duck.
About a photo of an actor wearing a blue velvet suit, she’d said, What man would want to be caught dead in the woods wearing this garb? Little boy blue, come blow your horn.
Aunt Bess had actually liked one outfit. The young actress was wearing a seashell pink, off-the-shoulder dress, and she looked beautiful. The caption? Now, why’d they put this young’un in such a pretty dress and then pull her hair back in a ponytail? They could’ve at least taken the time to curl it right nice.
I smiled. The original pinner had captioned the photo, It’s cool that they gave her a simple hairstyle to offset the beauty of her face and the design of the dress.
The eye of the beholder, I supposed.
• • •
I was getting ready to leave for the big house when Dr. Kent stopped by. I invited him in but he saw my purse and said it was obvious I was going out.
“I was actually going up to have lunch with my mom, Aunt Bess, and Jackie. Would you care to join us?”
“No, thank you. I’ve imposed on your family’s hospitality enough already. Besides, I have an engagement myself. I merely came by to make sure your heart rate had returned to normal.”
“It has. Thank you,” I said. “Could you tell me—did George Lincoln have a heart condition?”
He stiffened. “Why do you ask?”
“I was thinking this morning about how adversely I was affected by that pill Joyce gave me. It was really frightening, especially when I think about what could have happened had I not been young and healthy.”
“You’re right. I don’t discuss my patients’ health with anyone except that patient him—or her—self. But the extra weight George carried wouldn’t have been good for anyone’s heart.”
So was Dr. Kent confirming that George Lincoln had a heart problem without actually coming out and saying so? And why wouldn’t he simply admit it? Maybe he felt badly about telling me last night that he’d prescribed antidepressants for Joyce, and he didn’t want me to think it was normal that he talked about his patients that way.
“Anyway,” he continued, “please let me know if you have any other problems.”
“I will. Thank you.”
He left, and I went on up to the big house.
I could tell Mom was a little anxious about lunch. Jackie, on the other hand, couldn’t care less about my opinion. And the only thing Aunt Bess said about it was, “I can’t believe you went and cut your thumb half off and couldn’t make us lunch.”
“It’s not half off, Aunt Bess. I didn’t much more than nick it.”
“Well, to hear talk around here, it’s just barely being held on your hand by that thingamajig the doctor put on it and that surgical tape,” she said. “I believe that Dr. Kent is sweet on me, by the way.”
“You never know,” I said.
“I do know.�
� She ladled chicken and rice onto her plate.
I filled my plate and thanked Mom and Jackie for making such a delicious-looking lunch.
Mom watched as I began eating. The rice was a bit on the gummy side. The chicken was okay. There were changes I might have made to the other dishes as well, but I said that everything was terrific. Mom finally quit looking at me and ate her lunch.
“So were you able to go to George Lincoln’s funeral last night?” Jackie asked.
“That’s right,” Mom said. “I’d forgotten about that. I could’ve gone with you.”
“Actually, Ryan picked me up,” I said. “We went to the visitation, but we didn’t stay for the funeral. I don’t think many people did.”
“Well, if the man hadn’t been so all-fired greedy and mean to people, there might’ve been a bigger turnout,” Aunt Bess said. “When I turn my toes up for the last time, there’ll probably be people come from all around.”
What could any of us possibly say to that?
“Of course, if he’d been a better person, George Lincoln probably wouldn’t have even been having a funeral,” she continued. “At least, not yet . . . as far as we know.”
Couldn’t argue with that either.
Chapter 21
After having lunch with the family, I went back home to find Rory playing in the backyard and Princess Eloise sunning herself in the living room window. I doubted I’d be needed for a while, so I went into the fancy room to scour through my cookbooks. I wanted to find something new to introduce to the Down South Café patrons.
I came across a recipe for baked beef and cheese pasta that looked interesting. And it could be made in under thirty minutes. That was definitely a plus. I could go to the grocery store and get the ingredients, make the dish tomorrow to be sampled, and then have it as the special of the day on Tuesday if the patrons liked it.
I stretched my arms up over my head, yawned, and looked at the clock. It was nearly four o’clock. I imagined George Lincoln’s graveside service would be over by now. I supposed I should’ve attended, especially given my abrupt departure the evening before.
