“Mr. Mulray, are you all right?”
He turned to me, his eyes enormous in his pale face. “You’re saying he was murdered?”
“I don’t know. Maybe he had a heart attack, maybe he mixed pills and booze.” I looked around. The door to the bedroom stood open and the bed hadn’t been touched. On the opposite wall, a small kitchenette had been customized where the single motel room’s original bathroom had been. Two glasses were on the counter by the sink. “Do you see anything out of place?”
Mulray kept a safe distance from the sofa as he looked through his rental unit. I followed him into the bedroom. He reached for the bathroom door.
“Don’t touch anything. I’ll open it.” The two glasses on the sink meant Lincoln might have had a drinking buddy. Someone could be hiding in the bathroom. I lightly grasped the doorknob with the tips of my fingernails, trying not to damage any latent prints. The hinges squeaked as I pushed the door inward.
The bathroom was empty. The fresh towels were undisturbed. No personal articles lay around the sink.
A search of the bedroom closet revealed neither hanging clothes nor a suitcase. To all appearances, Artie Lincoln had checked into Daleview Manor with just a bottle of whiskey.
I returned to the kitchenette. “Are there only two glasses in each unit?”
“Yes. Some of our long-term renters bring in cookware, but with only a small refrigerator and no dishwasher, most people eat out.”
I bent eye-level with the counter. The glasses appeared clean. I opened the cabinet door under the sink and discovered a wastebasket. Two wads of paper lay on the bottom. “Do you use sanitary seals on your drinking glasses?”
Mulray peered over my shoulder at the crumpled pieces. “Of course. But why would he unseal the glasses and then drink from the bottle?”
“Good question, Mr. Mulray. And if he washed these, what did he dry them with?” There were no paper towels in the kitchenette. “Do you remember seeing any cars in the parking lot that didn’t belong to a tenant since Lincoln checked in?”
“No. Someone could have come during our supper. Cars go in and out a lot around supper time.” Mulray glanced back at the body. “Maybe someone else rode with him.”
“Maybe.”
I was anxious for the crime lab to arrive. The cleaned glasses suggested an effort had been made to destroy evidence. Maybe fingerprints, maybe traces of poison. Either way, the case I’d hoped to close by finding Lincoln had now taken a very strange turn.
Sid Mulray went back to his apartment. Ezra Clark arrived half an hour later. He waddled in toting his black medical satchel and wheezing from the short walk from his car. The portly coroner looked like he was minutes away from pronouncing his own demise.
“What’ve we got?”
I led him to the body. “I don’t know yet. It could be a natural death or it could be a homicide. Possibly poisoning.”
Clark’s lips formed a small O. “Really?” He pushed his bifocals higher on his nose and leaned over Lincoln. “If he used poison, it must not have caused any pain. Some poisons contort the victim’s face into all sorts of hideous expressions. This guy looks like his lights just switched off.”
I pointed to the empty Seagram’s bottle. “Poison could have been in the whiskey.”
Clark nodded his head. “Could be. Enough alcohol could have acted as a depressant. You think suicide?”
“There were two glasses. They look like they were wiped clean.”
Clark straightened up and folded his hands over his stomach. “Really?” He stared at Lincoln. “I wonder.”
“What about barbiturates? They wouldn’t cause pain.”
Clark didn’t seem to hear me. He opened his worn bag and extracted a pair of latex gloves. He stretched them over his pudgy hands. “Help me roll him toward us.”
I grabbed Lincoln’s hips while Clark twisted the dead man’s shoulders. We rotated the body until Lincoln lay flat on his back. Clark lifted Lincoln’s left forearm and examined the hairless skin of the inner side of the wrist up to the hem of Lincoln’s short sleeve golf shirt.
“Nothing,” he muttered to himself and laid the arm across Lincoln’s chest.
“What are you looking for?”
Clark didn’t answer. He picked up the right arm and repeated his examination. He extended Lincoln’s elbow and peered over the top of his bifocals at the crook of the joint. “Take a look.”
I leaned over the old man’s shoulder. He made a circle with his thumb and forefinger to highlight the area in question. A small smear of dried blood discolored the pale skin. A darker red dot lay over the vein.
I understood what caught his attention. “Someone injected him.”
“Sure looks like it. Somebody could have knocked him out with a drugged drink and then killed him by injecting him with God only knows what. No way of knowing for sure until an autopsy is done, but at least now the medical examiner will have a better idea of what to look for.” Clark gently laid the arm down. “Sheriff’s got a real reason to send this body to Asheville.”
I heard the hint of sarcasm. “What made you look for a needle mark?”
Clark stripped the gloves off his hands and dropped them in his bag. “Cause I’ve been there.”
His answer left me speechless. Doc Clark was nearly as old as Uncle Wayne. It never crossed my mind he’d been a junkie.
He saw the expression on my face and laughed. “You’re thinking I was a drug addict?”
I sputtered a few incoherent syllables that proved I wasn’t thinking at all.
Clark pointed to the empty whiskey bottle. “I was a drunk. Nearly cost me my medical license, and it’s the reason Sheriff Wadkins double checks all my reports.” He looked back at Lincoln. “Also why I doubt this poor devil got shit-faced. Toward the end of a fifth, half the liquor wound up on my shirt or splattered on the table. No way he could have drunk himself into a stupor and not have a single splash of hooch on him.”
I stepped closer to Lincoln. “I’ll put a rush on the blood work. Any guesses?”
Clark pulled his glasses off and pinched the bridge of his nose. Then he looked at Lincoln and sighed. “A fifty-cc syringe can pack a lethal dose of just about anything. Insulin would do it and be hard to trace if you didn’t look for it right away. Or an epinephrine overdose would lower the blood pressure and send the heart into an arrhythmic flutter.”
“That’s adrenaline, right?”
Clark nodded. “Comes in vials to protect against overdose. People who are extremely allergic to bees carry it. EMTs stock it to jumpstart a heart.”
A knock came from the door behind us. Reece walked in. “Barry, I need to speak with you.”
“Wait a second. Ezra’s found evidence proving this is a homicide.”
Doc Clark gave Reece a dismissive glance. “As I was saying, the injection could have been a lot of things, from some high tech synthetic drug to something as simple as a syringe of air.” He waved his arm in a wide circle. “Air’s free, plentiful, and deadly. Fifty ccs will stop the heart like a well pump losing its prime.”
Reece came right up beside me. “Barry, it’s important.”
I made no attempt to hide my exasperation. “Whatever it is, can’t you handle it?”
Reece moistened his lips. “No, I can’t. Your father’s been rushed to the hospital. He fell down the stairs. We just got the call on the two-way.”
My chest tightened and I couldn’t breathe. The air Clark proclaimed to be so plentiful suddenly left the room. The safety gate. I’d been so anxious to find Lincoln I’d run out of the funeral home without replacing the damn gate.
Doc Clark grabbed my arm. “You want to sit down?”
“No. I’d better go. Cover Reece on what the autopsy should look for.”
Reece pulled a small notepad from his shirt pocket. “I’ll take care of things here. You need a driver?”
“I’m fine.” I walked on rubbery legs out of the murder scene knowing I hadn’t fooled eit
her one of them.
Only four nights earlier I’d been in the same emergency waiting room because of my friend Tommy Lee and Helen’s daughter Cindy. Tonight I found my mother in the same corner where Patsy had sat, not knowing whether her husband would live or die.
Mom looked up as I entered. Her lower lip quivered. “Oh, Barry. I tried to call you.”
I sat down and put my arm around her shoulder. “I didn’t know it was you. We were in the middle of something.” My voice broke. “I forgot the gate. I’m so sorry.”
Her face tightened. “Don’t you even think that way. If anyone’s to blame, it’s me for not going up to check on him sooner. The gate’s there to keep him from wandering through the house, not off the stairs. He’d never had trouble with them before.”
“But the gate had been closed till I opened it.”
“Not another word.” Mom’s reprimand left no room for argument.
I turned away and fought back tears. We were alone, but I didn’t want to seem weak in front of her. Mom would start consoling me, and she needed her strength for Dad.
“How is he?” I asked.
“He’s in X-ray. They think he broke a hip. Susan’s been called in.”
“Good. She’s the best.” I also knew Susan would level with me as to my father’s prognosis. “Did you ride in the ambulance?”
“Yes. The EMTs were wonderful. They put me where your father could see me. He was in pain, but he wasn’t scared.”
“I’m sure they’ve given him something to sedate him. I’ll ask Susan if one of us can be in recovery when he wakes up.” My mind raced through the other details we needed to remember. “Did you call Uncle Wayne?”
“I tried a few times at the front desk. I got a busy signal. Maybe he knocked his phone off the hook.”
“Maybe.” I didn’t tell Mom he’d more likely taken it off to avoid talking to one of his new girlfriends. “I’ll call again after we know what’s going on.”
Mom and I sat for another fifteen minutes. A young Hispanic couple brought in a toddler. They were like so many new immigrants and illegal aliens who filled the area’s demand for service jobs during the bustling tourist season. Their boy’s face shone with perspiration. He whimpered and cupped his hand to his ear. The mother held him close and coaxed him to be quiet. I gave them a reassuring smile that their child wasn’t bothering us.
A nurse escorted them to a treatment room and what I expected would be a shot of amoxicillin. They had just left when Susan entered. She was still wearing street clothes.
“Aren’t you doing the surgery?” I asked.
Susan ignored my question and gave full attention to my mother. “Connie, I’m so sorry. But we’ve got Jack stabilized and he’s resting as comfortably as he can.”
Mom looked hopeful. “He didn’t break his hip?”
“Yes, he did. But it’s a clean break. I’ll pin it and he should mend without need of a replacement.”
I knew there was more to the story. “Why are you delaying the surgery?”
“Your father has pneumonia.”
Mom grabbed Susan’s arm. “Pneumonia? But it’s summer.”
“Pneumonia can be caused by a hundred different things. I suspect he might have aspirated some food. As we age, our swallowing muscles weaken. He might not always remember to chew properly, or thin liquids could have seeped down his windpipe.”
“You think it’s bacterial?” I knew viral was more difficult to treat and posed a greater risk.
“Yes. He’s built up quite a bit of fluid in and around his lungs. We’re tapping that to give him relief, and the fluid sample will enable us to get a more specific analysis of the infection. Right now we’ve got him on a heavy dose of general antibiotics, but when I know what we’re dealing with, I can prescribe a more targeted treatment.”
“Can I see him?” Mom asked.
Susan smiled. “I don’t think that will be a problem. Let me see if he’s been assigned a room yet.”
I left Mom and followed Susan out into the hall. “When do you think you can operate?”
Susan glanced over my shoulder through the open door to the waiting room. I turned around. Mom sat with her head bowed and her lips moving in silent prayer.
Susan gently took my hand. “I didn’t want to say this in there, but your father is very sick.”
“But the antibiotics?”
“The antibiotics will work as fast as they’ll work. I’m more concerned about your father’s heart. The fluid build-up has placed a strain on it and revealed signs of congestive failure. Some of the fluid is from the pneumonia and some is from the heart’s inefficiency. The combination is causing a downward spiral we need to break.”
Even though I knew the answer, I had to ask. “What’s the bottom line?”
Susan sighed. “I’ve called in a specialist in internal medicine because if the antibiotics don’t reverse the infection soon, the broken hip will be the least of our worries.” Susan’s eyes met mine and I could read the pain in them. “Your dad might not make it through the night.”
Chapter Fourteen
Time crept along, measured by the shallow breaths of my father. Mom and I sat by his bed helpless to do anything but watch the IVs of antibiotics and glucose slowly disappear into his veins.
I reached my uncle around eleven that night. “Wayne, it’s me. I’ve been trying to call.”
Wayne cut me off. “I just couldn’t deal with those women tonight. I promise I’ll talk to them tomorrow.”
“I’m at the hospital. Dad fell and broke his hip. And he has pneumonia.”
“Great day in the morning!”
I heard springs creak and I knew Wayne had sat down hard in his tattered recliner.
“How’s my sister?”
“She’s here.” I looked over at Mom. She held Dad’s hand.
“Tell him not to worry,” Mom whispered.
Wayne jumped in before I could pass the message. “I’ll be there soon as I can.”
“We’re fine. There’s nothing you can do. You should get a good night’s sleep before the Cosgroves’ visitation.”
Wayne didn’t mince his words. “Are you guaranteeing your dad will be alive in the morning?”
I couldn’t lie to my uncle. “He’s in room 307.”
Wayne arrived before midnight. For a few seconds, he stood in the doorway, his wrinkled face pale as he stared at my father. Dad lay on his back, mouth open, cheeks bruised and swollen, and his forehead wrapped in a clean bandage.
I answered Uncle Wayne’s unspoken question. “The cuts and bruises are superficial. Susan immobilized his hip and he’s being kept sedated.”
Wayne came to the foot of the bed, shook his head in disbelief, and walked behind Mom. He laid his hand on her shoulder.
She reached up and patted his hand. “They’ve done everything they can.”
“How long they got to keep him doped up?”
Mom looked at me to respond.
“Depends on how soon the antibiotics begin to work. Susan can’t operate on his hip till the pneumonia’s under control.”
“Is he in a coma?”
“No. Just sedated enough to ease the pain and keep him from pulling out the IVs.” I thought about Crystal Hodges, who had to be put in a coma to control her cranial pressure—a coma she emerged from only long enough to die.
Wayne’s lips disappeared in a grimace. He shrugged as in acceptance that he couldn’t control the uncontrollable. “It’s in the Lord’s hands, no two ways about it.” He turned to me. “You call Lester Pace?”
“Not yet. I’ll get him first thing in the morning.”
Wayne cocked his head and fixed me with a disapproving eye. “Your dad and Preacher Pace worked together nigh on fifty years.”
Lester Pace was even older than Wayne and my father. Pace wasn’t the minister at First Methodist in Gainesboro where Mom and Dad attended, but a theological dinosaur—a circuit-riding preacher who ministered to multiple congregati
ons scattered in the hollows and coves of the mountains. Methodist preachers are normally reassigned every three to five years, but Pace had been so exceptional in his devotion to the mountain people that he had become an exception. And in the age of TV evangelists and mega-churches, a simple backwoods man of God wasn’t the ecclesiastical model turned out by the modern seminaries.
Wayne stirred my feelings for the old gentleman, and if things were in the Lord’s hands, Lester Pace was someone I wanted whispering in His divine ear. I stood up. “You sit down, Uncle Wayne. I’ll get Reverend Pace’s number from the hospital.”
To my surprise, Pace didn’t answer his phone. His simple “Leave a message” caught me off guard and I stammered the hospital room number and my father’s precarious condition.
On my way back, one of the duty nurses stopped me in the hall. “Sheriff Wadkins knows you’re here. He said if you take a break, come down and see him.” She smiled. “He said everybody else in the damn hospital wakes him up, you might as well too.”
“Thanks. I’ll go down now. Please have someone get me if there’s a change with my father.”
Tommy Lee’s room was dimly lit. I could see his eye was closed, and despite his instructions, I hesitated about waking him.
“Sorry to hear about your dad.” He opened his eye. “How is he?”
“I thought you were sleeping. You must have been great on guard duty.” I pulled a chair nearer the bed.
Tommy Lee reached out his arm, pulling the IV tube with it.
I clutched his hand and held it while I spoke. “We don’t know. Touch and go until the pneumonia breaks. You hear how it happened?”
He nodded. “You gave me good advice not to blame myself for Mitch Kowalski’s death.” He gave my hand a firm squeeze and released it. I got his point.
“Did you hear about Lincoln?”
Tommy Lee pressed the control button on the bed until he sat upright. “Reece came by about eleven. That’s why I can’t sleep. Sounds like this time Doc Clark earned his election.”
“I believe Lincoln got lured to his own execution. Unless the crime lab turns up something, I can think of only one lead.”
Final Undertaking: A Buryin' Barry Mystery (Buryin' Barry Series) Page 15
