“The toxicology showed no drugs in Renata’s system?” I asked.
“None. The only thing unusual I found was some elevated levels of CoQ10.”
“The health food stuff?” I’d never have taken Renata for an advocate of eat right, feel right. She was carnivore down to the bone.
“CoQ10 is being evaluated in a number of studies.” Doc shrugged. “I’m not up on my research like I should be, but the journal articles I’ve read show promise in a lot of different areas. Stroke, Alzheimer’s, mental acuity. Renata may have been taking it as a boost to memory, or it could be something else. There’s no way to tell, because it’s an over-the-counter product, and we have no one to ask about the dosage or why she was taking it.”
“Memory?” That triggered a thought. Graf had said Renata was having trouble remembering her lines, even though she’d done the play a thousand times. “Like absentmindedness or what?”
“CoQ10 is beneficial to memory, or so some studies show. A lot of people without any serious medical conditions take it to improve their memories.”
Tinkie shook her head and pointed to Doc’s coffeepot in the corner. “Maybe you should figure a way to get your coffee into a gel cap and use it for health enhancement. Heck, looking at you, I think that stuff may be the fountain of youth.”
“Was Renata showing any signs of illness? Anything at all? Clogged arteries, anything?” There had to be something.
“Her liver showed a few irregularities, but nothing life threatening or even indicative of permanent damage. Of course I didn’t do a genetic screen or anything like that.” Doc rubbed his chin. “She was poisoned, so it was obvious what the cause of death was. Maybe I should order some additional tests.”
“This is all so vague.” I wanted to kick the wall. I needed to find answers, but Doc couldn’t get the answers I needed from a corpse. Dr. Samen’s records might hold some useful information, but I didn’t know how to get them. Renata had to be involved in something worth dying over. I just had to figure out what.
“Doc, I know Coleman requested Renata’s medical records from Dr. Samen in Hollywood. If he gets them, he’ll probably ask you to interpret.”
“If he’s a smart man, he will. Coleman couldn’t read a medical chart if his life depended on it.” He looked over his glasses at me. “And neither could you.”
“Will you call us?”
“I will. If Coleman says so.” He cleared his throat. “You haven’t even asked me to snoop into the charts about Connie Peters. That’s not like you, Sarah Booth.”
I stood up. “And I won’t. I can’t keep going back and forth like that, Doc. I never believed Connie was sick. Coleman continues to believe whatever lies she tells. That’s his choice. I’m finished.”
Doc rose and came over to me. His arm went around my shoulders, and he gave me a hug that brought tears to my eyes. “Sarah Booth, I don’t know a finer man than Coleman Peters. But he is a man with obligations.”
“Coleman loves her.” Tinkie rose slowly, looking from Doc to me. “That should count for something. He truly loves her.”
“I realize that.” Doc put his other arm around Tinkie and drew her close. “In a perfect world, Tinkie, love would transcend all other things. Evil would bow before love. Death and disease would flee in its presence. But love isn’t enough. Not nearly enough. I’ve watched Sarah Booth pass up several good men while she waited for Coleman to set his house in order. I’m with her. She’s waited long enough.”
Tinkie was smitten silent. “Thanks, Doc,” I said, working hard to control the quaver in my voice.
“I’m only telling you what I think your folks would say. There comes a time when walking away is the only answer that makes sense.”
I kissed his cheek. I’d taken that first step in ending what now seemed like a lifetime of love. In high school, I’d always noticed Coleman, the football hero, the kid who worked after-school jobs to get his college degree in horticulture, the young adult everyone respected. We’d never dated, because Connie had always been on Coleman’s arm. And she was still there, one way or another.
I couldn’t look at Tinkie. I had to walk out the door and keep walking before I dissolved in tears. My hand was on the knob when she spoke.
“You both make it sound so cut-and-dried.” Tinkie refused to let it die.
“If it were cut-and-dried, I’d be Coleman’s date and not his prime murder suspect.” I took a deep breath. “Now let it go. I have to, so please let it go.”
I walked quickly out the door, down the corridor, and into the winter day. The sun had been replaced by clouds that scudded north, as if the troubles from down on the Gulf Coast had blown Renata into our midst and now promised more bad news.
“Sarah Booth! Sarah Booth!” Tinkie called out to me as she ran to catch up. “You don’t mean that. You aren’t giving up on Coleman, are you?”
How to explain this? It was difficult to think of a way to say it. “Coleman is who he is, Tinkie. That’s why I love him. Because he takes his vows seriously and does what’s right instead of what’s easy. But I can’t be the part of his life that’s wrong anymore. I have to find a place where I’m what’s right. For me and the person I fall in love with.”
She grabbed my hand and slowed me so that I faced her. “Is that Hollywood and Graf?”
I didn’t know. I had no answer for her, because a broken heart doesn’t mend with the promise of a screen test. “I’m not in love with Graf.”
“Could you be?”
“I was, once. But that was a million years ago.” I forced a smile. “I was a different person then with different dreams and ambitions.”
“Those dreams are close enough to touch now.”
I nodded. “But I have to figure out if I want to touch them.”
Tinkie started to ask something else, but she changed her mind. “We need to know more about Robert Morgan. Let’s go by the junkyard and see if there was anything in his Tahoe.”
Abel’s Junkyard was an amazing place. Kudzu had grown over the thirty acres of wrecked cars, creating clumps of vines, now wintery brown, that sometimes took on the shapes of animals. It was like a crazy, deformed topiary on Planet Mars. And the proprietor looked like something Stephen King might have dreamed up. He was a tall, slender man with a stoop and a long, asymmetrical face marked by profuse hair growth. Abel Cain had parents with a twisted sense of humor and just enough Biblical reference points to be vicious.
Tinkie made the introductions, handing the junkman one of our business cards.
He looked at it for a long moment. “What can I do for you little ladies?” he asked, his bushy eyebrows jittering around on his forehead. I couldn’t tell if he had a nervous twitch or if he was trying to wink at Tinkie.
“We need to see that blue Tahoe.” Tinkie pointed it out, a burned and twisted heap.
“Pulled that off the highway myself. Man died in it. Lost control.” He clapped his hands so suddenly and loudly that I stepped back. “He burned up fast.”
Tinkie cleared her throat. “Fascinating. Could we take a look at the vehicle?”
“Why?”
“We’re investigating the accident. Insurance purposes.” She leaned forward, showing off her assets in a scoop-necked sweater. “It’s possible fraud is being perpetrated upon our Fremont Insurance, and they’ve hired us to find out.”
Tinkie was smart not to disclose our true purpose. Abel Cain didn’t look like a man who wanted any part of a murder investigation, but insurance fraud was undoubtedly something he heard a lot about in his line of work.
He shrugged. “From what I heard the guy was speeding and lost control. Sheriff got some eyewitness reports. The driver didn’t make it to tell anyone anything.”
“You didn’t happen to find anything at the scene, did you? Maybe a bottle of liquor, or something more interesting.” Tinkie gave him a knowing look. “Wouldn’t be the first man got tanked in Memphis and tried to drive to Jackson.”
Abel sho
ok his head, and I thought of a St. Bernard. “Wadn’t nothin’ left in the car to find, but the good Lord saw fit to give me some excellent peepers. I found somethin’ a little interestin’. Might appeal to two insurance ladies.”
“Something you didn’t show the sheriff?” Tinkie winked at him.
“Wadn’t a reason to involve the law. Legal prescription.” He frowned. “Thought there might be somethin’ there, but I did some searchin’ around and discovered there’s no market for what he was takin’. Unless it’s the insurance market.”
I wanted to tie this guy in a knot. “Where is it?”
“Where’s what?” He gave me an innocent look.
“Ignore her,” Tinkie said, kicking me in the shin. “What did you find, Abel? You could help me pop this case wide open, and if that happened, I’m sure you’d be rewarded.” She reached into her purse and brought out a hundred-dollar bill. Who walks around with hundred-dollar bills in their purses?
I opened my mouth to tell her that Abel Cain was scavenging drugs from wrecked cars and trying to sell them. He was little more than a petty drug dealer, capitalizing on the misfortunes of others. I didn’t even get the first syllable out of my mouth when Tinkie clipped my shin bone again. I despised those pointy-toed shoes of hers.
“Show me what you got, Abel,” she said, taking his arm and moving him away from me.
I was about to follow and make a few unbiased observations about the character of her latest male conquest when my cell phone rang. I answered while trying to keep up with Abel and Tinkie, who seemed determined to outdistance me.
“Miss Delaney, it’s your attorney, Harry DeLa Bencher, Esquire.”
I almost groaned. “Yes?”
“I need you to come into my office immediately. Drop whatever you’re doing and come now.”
I slowed my steps. “What’s wrong?”
“I can’t discuss this over a telephone line that isn’t secure. That’s not in your best interests. I am, after all, looking out for you.”
“That’s comforting.”
“Miss Delaney, sarcasm doesn’t serve you well in this instance. I’ll be waiting. And by the way, I’m putting my bill in the mail.”
I started to protest, but it wouldn’t do a bit of good. I’d fallen into the court system of America, and even though I was innocent, I’d still have to pay my lawyer and forfeit the money given to the bondsman. Neither whining nor threatening would lower the freight of this experience. “I’ll take care of it.”
“Very good. And may I say that I hope your adventures in Hollywood prove profitable and shine the light of success on your home town.”
No point in arguing my future, either. It was obvious that Bencher had an inside source on gossip. “Thank you.”
I closed the phone and started toward Tinkie and Abel. They were deep in conversation, and I saw the junkman reach into his pants pocket and bring out a pill bottle. Tinkie had what she’d come after.
“What’s up with Bencher acting all John Grishamy?” Tinkie asked as we sped back toward Zinnia and her copy of Physician’s Desk Reference. Our intention was to look up the drug and find the reason Renata had been killed. Just because Abel Cain didn’t recognize the little pink pills didn’t mean they weren’t some kind of power-punch drug. It was possible Renata had been involved in some kind of drug scam—Graf certainly had been. Or it could be the prescription was for something else entirely. Something that might spell murder for a different reason.
“I can’t begin to fathom Bencher,” I said, “and I can’t wait to find out what STD Renata was passing around New York.” I opened the prescription bottle and dumped the little capsules in my hand. I’d never heard of the drug before, and though the prescription was in Robert Morgan’s name, I didn’t believe it for a moment. This was Renata’s medication. If only we could figure out why she was taking it.
“We’re almost to the end of this case,” Tinkie said. “We’re going to find out what Renata was up to and why she was killed. Then we’re going to clear your name, Sarah Booth.”
We pulled into Hill Top, screeched to a halt, and ran into the library. In a moment we’d found what we were looking for. The particular drug in the bottle was new—just approved by the FDA for use in the treatment of progressive pseudobulbar palsy, among other things.
“What, exactly, is progressive pseudobulbar palsy?” Tinkie asked.
I picked up the phone and dialed Doc Sawyer’s number. He answered on the sixth ring, sounding as if he’d been asleep.
“Doc, what is progressive pseudobulbar palsy?”
There was a pause. “So you talked to Coleman.”
“No.” I hesitated. “We found a prescription for Robert Morgan, but we think it was actually for Renata.”
“That’s what Coleman came to discuss with me. It seems Morgan was the front man for Renata’s illness. Coleman got Renata’s chart, and the prescriptions, written by Dr. Samen in Los Angeles, were for Renata under Robert Morgan’s name. Renata simply couldn’t afford for the news of her illness to get out.”
“What kind of illness?” I almost couldn’t wait to hear it. Tinkie and I had been on the right path. Renata had gotten involved in some kind of medical mess.
“She was diagnosed with PPP, a form of ALS. It’s a tough disease, Sarah Booth. Paralysis of the facial muscles, vocal cords, throat. For an actress, it would be the worst possible thing. It would eventually have taken away her ability to express emotion, then to swallow. Another aspect of the disease is unbalanced emotions. Rage, hatred, despair. Someone suffering from PPP could go from one extreme to the other at the drop of a hat. It’s amazing she stayed on the stage as long as she did without coming apart in front of an audience.”
I sank onto a sofa, feeling as if the air had been let out of me. “Is there a cure?”
“No. CoQ10 is being studied, and there are new drugs, but no cure.”
After all of this time, I was shocked at what we’d discovered. I’d anticipated finding that Renata had undergone some devious medical technique to hang on to her youth or that she’d contracted some form of an STD that might bring shame on her and someone in the White House. I’d never considered that she faced a serious illness, an illness that struck at the heart of who she was.
“Where did Coleman go?” I asked.
“He didn’t say, but he left about thirty minutes ago.”
“Thanks, Doc.” I hung up the phone and relayed the information to Tinkie.
“Where the hell is Coleman?” she asked as she slumped beside me on the sofa. “We know that Renata was sick, but that still doesn’t tell us who killed her. Or why.”
No matter how hard I tried to shake the feeling of doom, I couldn’t. Renata, on the stage, was vital and alive. Yet she’d been stricken with a terrible disease—
I sat up. The truth came like a clap of thunder.
“What’s wrong with you?” Tinkie asked, concerned.
“Damn it.” I jumped to my feet and began to pace. “Damn it all.”
“What’s wrong?” Tinkie was really worried.
“It’s all right there. Right in front of me. I just didn’t see it.”
“See what?” Tinkie was growing impatient. She stepped in my path and grabbed my wrists. “If you don’t slow down and tell me what you’re so rattled about, I’m going to kick you in the shin again.”
That was threat enough. “No one killed Renata.”
Tinkie took a deep breath, realization dawning hard and fast. “Because she killed herself.”
“Exactly.”
“And in one last act of malice, she framed you.”
I nodded. “I think she wasn’t rational toward the end. The disease was so awful for her. She focused on me, because there had to be someone to blame.”
“And Graf cared about you.”
I swallowed. “My God, Tink, can you imagine what it must have been like for her?”
Tinkie grasped my arms and held them firmly. “How can we prove this
?”
My cell phone rang again and I answered, hoping in my heart that it was Coleman calling to tell me the charges against me had been dropped.
“Miss Delaney, it’s your attorney, Harry DeLa Bencher. I’m still waiting.”
And I knew then that Coleman had no intention of telling me. That was the message Bencher was meant to deliver—that at last I was a free woman.
Chapter 26
“The charges are formally dropped, which means there’ll be no record.” Bencher stroked his tie as he talked. His manicured hands were impressively clean.
“Thanks, Harry.” I was ready to leave. I had places to go and things to do. Finding Coleman and confronting him was right at the top of my list. He’d taken the coward’s way out—leaving Bencher to tell me that the two weeks of torment had been for nothing.
The case of Renata Trovaioli’s murder was closed. Doc had changed the cause of death from murder to suicide. Tinkie had gone to tell Oscar, and I stood on the porch of the old home Harry had converted into his law office, trying to figure out what to do next.
I heard the honk of a horn, and Graf glided into a parking space, the Porsche a glint of silver in the gray light. We were going to have a storm. A big one. And I wanted to be home when it struck.
To my surprise, Gabriel got out of the passenger side. Both men walked toward me. “Gabriel ...” I faltered. How to deliver the message that his sister had taken her own life? How much worse not to tell him? “I’m sorry. It seems Renata was very sick. Her death has been ruled a suicide.”
He was stunned. He stopped, his expression hardening before he controlled it. “Suicide? Renata? That’s impossible.”
I was the worst person to deliver the news to him, but it was done now. “I am sorry. You can check with Doc Sawyer at the hospital, or with the sheriff. They have all the details, and once you hear them, I think you’ll understand.”
“I’ll bet.” His anger was back in place. “Renata would never have taken her own life. This is some plan that redneck sheriff cooked up to make sure you didn’t go to prison.”
Ham Bones Page 24
