Hair Raiser

by Nancy J. Cohen

  But they just turn my stomach queasy;

  Please don’t give me anymore!

  “I like it,” she said, chuckling. Recently, Moss had entered the computer age so he could make travel arrangements online, but he was constantly calling her with questions. She handed him back the poem, glad he was still writing in spite of a spate of rejections.

  Knocking on the new neighbor’s door evoked a strange response. From inside, Marla heard a series of barks that sounded more human than canine. The door swung open, and on the threshold stood a man wearing a sheepskin vest over a Hawaiian shirt, shorts that showed off bony knees, and lamb’s wool slippers. A fur hat with a tail capped his head. Wild dark eyes peered at them.

  “Ba-a-a,” was his greeting. “Who are you?”

  In the background, Marla heard faint high-pitched sounds undulating like whale calls. After Moss introduced them, she brought up the matter of the car.

  “Not mine, dude. Hey, wanna come in and see my cattle prod collection?”

  “Not today, thanks. Moss, let’s go.” Grabbing the old man’s elbow, she turned away and stumbled down the steps. When she heard the door close behind them, she muttered, “Where did he come from—the zoo?”

  Moss grinned, revealing a row of uneven crowned teeth.

  “Works as a dog groomer. You’d better keep a close eye on your pooch.”

  “Dear Lord.” Marla shuddered at the thought of her precious pet in that man’s clutches. “Speaking of dogs, I have to take Spooks for his shots. How is Emma doing today?” His wife had spent the afternoon at Macy’s yesterday and then complained about her legs aching.

  “She’s well enough to meet her bridge group for lunch.”

  “Say hello for me, will you? And Moss”—she touched his arm—”if you see that blue car again, let me know.”

  Walking into the vet’s office always produced a maelstrom of smells and sounds. As a chorus of barking and high-pitched yelps assaulted her ears, Marla approached the front desk. A friendly golden retriever leapt at her, bouncing into her leg. She jumped back, tugging Spooks away on his leash. Animals were such close analogies to humans, she thought, keeping a wary eye on the large dog. Golden’s eagerness to greet new arrivals reminded her of car salesmen who waited in parking lots slobbering as prospective customers drove by. If you actually stopped, they hounded you to make a sale. Worse was the pet owner who allowed their animal’s obnoxious behavior, like this guy who let his dog’s leash trail on the floor.

  Careful to keep Spooks from the larger beast’s path, she gave their names to the receptionist. Sniffing, she wrinkled her nose. A strong pet odor tainted the air. Doubtless, the staff members were immune, just as she was used to the chemical scents at her salon.

  Eager to complete her business, she was glad when a uniformed tech arrived to lead them into an examining room. Scooping Spooks into her arms, she cuddled his trembling body.

  “Poor baby,” she murmured. “This won’t take long. You’ll be okay.” Her fingers stroked his soft coat of creamy hair while she examined the tan-and-gray squares designed in geometric swirls on the linoleum floor. Looking as though it had seen better days, the linoleum continued halfway up the walls. Splash guard against pet accidents, she presumed.

  Resigned to a long wait, she sank onto a built-in bench against the wall. Its Formica surface was as cold and hard as the examining table in the center of the room. Her gaze roamed to the wall hangings, a color diagram displaying the anatomy of a canine eye and a notice about rabies vaccinations. Spooks, held in her arms, quivered as though he knew what was coming.

  A folding door that led to the staff area in the rear creaked open, and a white-coated doctor emerged. Since it was a group practice, Marla never knew which veterinarian she’d be assigned. A perky redhead who appeared young enough to be a recent college graduate washed her hands at a sink unit and then turned to face them.

  “How are we this morning?” the doctor asked brightly.

  We are anxious to get out of here, Marla felt like saying. Why did medical personnel always insist on using that royal pronoun? Annoyed by doctors who didn’t address her directly, she’d developed her own theory about their rationale. Perhaps it helped them maintain distance from their patients. After all, they were taught in medical school not to get emotionally involved. Inquiring how you were feeling might imply they really cared.

  “Spooks is a little nervous,” Marla understated, lifting him onto the examining table.

  “Well, this won’t take long.” The vet turned away to prepare a couple of syringes. Marla’s gaze fell upon a rectangular red plastic container on the counter. It had a transparent cover and a sticker with the international biohazardous waste symbol.

  “What goes into that box?” she asked the veterinarian, her interest aroused. Maybe she could learn something about medical waste while she was here.

  The doctor called an assistant to hold Spooks while she performed her examination and administered the injections. “That’s the sharps container. It’s for needles and syringes. We also have one in surgery for disposable instruments.”

  Marla cringed as the first shot hit home and Spooks whimpered. “I see. And what happens to that box?”

  The doctor frowned. “Why do you want to know?”

  She shrugged. “Just curious. I’ve seen them in doctor’s offices, but I never figured a vet would need them, too.”

  The woman smiled. “We follow very strict government guidelines. There are separate bins for other waste products. You know, bloody drapes and gauzes, body tissues. Of course, animal carcasses go to the pet cemetery to be cremated. We follow the owner’s wishes in that regard.”

  “So what happens when the containers are filled?”

  “They get picked up, but I’m not sure by whom. Dr. Evans would have that information, and he’s not here today.” The vet finished her exam and handed Spooks back to Marla. “Your poodle is in top shape, Miss Shore. Y’all have a good day now.”

  Marla exited in a thoughtful mood, depositing Spooks at home and going about her errands until her dental appointment. Sure enough, sitting on the counter at the dentist’s treatment room was another one of the red plastic containers. This one was cylindrical in shape with a clear round top. It had a sticker on its side with the standard biohazard symbol. Also in the room was a tall bin with the same markings.

  “What do you put in there?” Marla mumbled in the middle of rinsing her mouth. The cup never seemed to hold enough water. She flipped the handle and a thin stream flowed into the small paper receptacle. A second rinse washed out the coppery taste of blood. Leaning back in the chair, she wiped her chin with the bib tied to her chest.

  The dental hygienist, a talkative blonde who wore a plastic face guard and latex gloves, resumed scraping tartar from Marla’s teeth. “That one is the sharps container.” She indicated the cylindrical tub. “Needles, explorer tips, and things like that go inside. The biohazardous waste bin over there is for gauzes, bibs, cotton, other items soiled with blood, and sometimes teeth. It gets emptied into a larger red bag in the back.”

  Marla made a garbled attempt to ask another question, but the girl placed a saliva ejector in her mouth, making communication impossible. She had to wait for the next break in their routine when the girl switched to a tooth-polishing phase using a slow-speed hand instrument. As soon as she was ordered to rinse again, Marla made her next inquiry.

  “Who picks up the bags and sharps containers?”

  “A driver comes by each month. You can ask Dr. Stiller. He’d know more about it.”

  Marla fell silent so the girl could finish her job. By the time they were done, her teeth felt clean and polished, and she felt guilty craving a cup of coffee. Caffeine wasn’t the best thing for your enamel, but she was never one to refuse any of its liquid forms. Coffee, tea, hot chocolate and cola were her favorite drinks. So she’d get her teeth bleached someday. The price was worth it; she would never give up her daily stimulant. At least she
wasn’t a chocoholic like Tally. Even with the cream and sugar she put in her coffee, the calories wouldn’t add up to the same amount as a few Godiva candies.

  Marla waited for the dentist to give her a clean bill of health before diving into her next query. “Can you tell me who is responsible for picking up your biomedical waste each month?” she asked, glad to be free of the bib around her neck. She sat up in the chair, swinging her legs over its edge.

  Dr. Stiller regarded her with his luminous blue eyes. He had an almost mischievous appearance with short reddish brown hair, freckles, and a perennially boyish expression. Young looking for his forty-some years, his even features added to his allure. The man always asked about her life and work as though he really cared, and she appreciated his interest since it was so rare among any kind of medical personnel.

  “There’s a company called UFO Medical Waste Systems.” He grinned, flashing a set of teeth so perfect they might have been carved from ivory.

  “UFO? Do they send the stuff into space?”

  He laughed, his eyes sparkling merrily. Too bad he’s married, Marla thought for the umpteenth time.

  “I think it stands for United Freight Operations,” he said, sobering. “And no, they don’t dispose of the waste in space. They incinerate it. We get the same registered transporter every month. He gives us a yellow sheet that’s a biohazardous waste manifest. The bags are registered in my name, so they can be tracked.” He accompanied her to the front desk where she waited for the bill.

  “How much is the fee you pay to this company, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  “It’s not much, maybe twenty dollars a month.” His face lit with curiosity. “Why this sudden interest?”

  “You know I do volunteer work for Ocean Guard? There’s been some medical waste washed up on the beach, and we’re trying to track the source.” That sounded like a plausible excuse, and it was half-true. She just didn’t mention which beach.

  “If you find the labeled red bags, they’re registered under the generator’s name. Otherwise, it might be difficult to find out where the stuff originated.” He scratched his jaw. “I can give you a copy of the regulations if that would help.”

  “Sure, thanks.” Her wheels of thought turned rapidly. “What about an oral surgeon’s office? Wouldn’t they produce more waste, meaning their fees would be higher?” Maybe someone was dumping medical waste illegally to avoid paying high fees to the disposal company. In that case, the mangrove preserve would merely serve as a convenient dump.

  “Betty,” Dr. Stiller said to the receptionist who’d just handed Marla her bill, “why don’t you call over to Dr. Marconi’s and ask them about pickup. Marla, I’ve got to go. Good luck with your research.” Waving, he hastened off and disappeared inside another treatment room.

  Betty had an answer within several minutes, which allowed Marla time to write out her check. “UFO Medical Waste Systems picks up at their office once a week. But their fee isn’t that much more than ours. Here’s a copy of the Waste Acceptance Protocol,” she said, handing Marla a set of stapled papers. “Say, can I ask you a question? My hair is awfully wilted lately. What can I do to make it look better?”

  Marla glanced at Betty’s straight cut. “Try using a good conditioner. That will give you more body. Layering could add more lift and so would taking an inch off the bottom.” She grinned. “Stop in at the salon, and I’ll work my magic on you.”

  Still smiling, she emerged outdoors into a blustery wind, thinking about what she’d learned. Medical waste. Who among Ocean Guard’s board members had regular access to such products? Dr. Russ Taylor, that’s who. The surgeon could be dumping the stuff illegally to save money. That would be logical only if he was suffering financial difficulty and the savings would be substantial. At least it was an alternative to being paranoid and believing Popeye’s heir was sabotaging everything.

  At home, she phoned Dr. Taylor’s office, but she wasn’t able to get an appointment until the following week, even though she claimed to have a painful injury. That put a crimp in her plans. How else would she determine the fees paid by the busy surgeon’s office to the disposal company? The other option to consider was whether his practice was in trouble, and she knew who to call on that one. Her friend, Lance Pearson, was a computer guru who’d helped her out before. Now if she could only think of a way to request his assistance without having to view his websites in return.

  “Hey, Marla. What’s up?” he answered in a raspy voice, as though he hadn’t gotten much sleep.

  “I need your expertise,” Marla replied, picturing his pasty complexion and owlish eyes. The guy ran a consultant business from his home and rarely went outdoors unless he was out of town on a job. “Is there any way for you to check into a doctor’s practice to see how he’s doing financially? I’m investigating something for Ocean Guard, and this information would really help.”

  He chuckled. “I read the papers, luv. You’re mixed up with that lawyer who got murdered? Seems to me I heard Ocean Guard’s name mentioned.”

  She let out a resigned sigh. “You’re right. He was one of the board members for the organization. So is Dr. Russ Taylor, the surgeon I need you to check out for me.”

  “So what’s the scoop? You think the doc killed the attorney? Ha-ha. Maybe the lawyer got him on a malpractice suit and the doc had to pay.”

  Hmm. Marla hadn’t thought of that one. “Interesting point. Will you be able to do this for me?” Dirt was one thing Lance was good at discovering.

  “Sure, it’s right up my alley. Meanwhile, you can look forward to seeing some cool new websites I’ve found. I still remember the last time you were over here.” His voice deepened. “We had a good time, didn’t we?”

  Maybe you did, pal. Marla rolled her eyes heavenward. Lance was okay, but he kept trying to put the move on her.

  “I’ll be holding my breath until I hear from you,” she said in a wry tone.

  “Sweet! I’m getting to work on this right away. See ya.” Click. The receiver went dead.

  Now what? Lance was on the trail of Dr. Taylor, and she’d be visiting his office next week. Time to turn her attention elsewhere.

  Marla placed the phone in its cradle and sat staring at the wall clock in her study. Shaped like a nautical ship’s wheel, the brass timepiece rang bells on the hour. Stan had bought it on their honeymoon, and she’d taken perverse delight in claiming it after their divorce, along with other possessions they’d chosen together. Being selfish didn’t enter into the equation; their mementoes meant more to her than to Stan. After their struggle over the divorce terms, she’d insisted on keeping those items she felt were rightfully hers.

  Louse. She didn’t want to think about him.

  Maybe she should try calling around to different restaurants to see if she could coax any of the prospective chefs on her list into joining Taste of the World. Not all of the restaurants could be closed on Mondays.

  She was reaching for the receiver when Spooks leapt off his favorite seat, barking madly. As he raced for the front door, Marla trailed after him. He threw his small body at the entrance as though he could force it open by mere willpower. Usually he exhibited this reaction when the mailman walked by, but Marla had already retrieved her letters from the box outside. Something whacked against the door, producing a furious assault by her pet. A car engine roared away, but Spooks continued his loud protest.

  “Quiet now. Move out of the way.” She peered through the peep hole. No one was visible, so she unlocked the door and swung it wide. A scrunched brown paper bag lay on the doormat, stained with a moist blotch. She stared at the bag, unsure what to do. Unfortunately, whoever had delivered it had driven off, and she’d missed seeing the car. Regardless, caution made her wary. It seemed a good response when the blotch widened and turned a pinkish hue.

  Marla backed off, afraid to touch the thing. Her palms sweaty, she shut the door and headed for the telephone.

  She didn’t even have to look up the number
. Previous episodes had etched it in her mind.

  “Dalton?” she said when the detective’s gruff voice answered. “Can you come over to my house? I need you.”

  Chapter Six

  “You don’t want to know what’s in there,” Dalton Vail said after peeking inside the brown paper bag. He’d taken it onto her lawn since it was seeping fluid, and because she hadn’t been particularly eager to bring it in the house.

  Fixated on the coal black highlights in his hair, Marla reluctantly turned her attention to the object that had been cast on her front doorstep. “Tell me.”

  “I’ve heard of dead chickens, and sometimes pigeons, but this here sure as hell looks like one of those damned ducks you see waddling around the neighborhood.”

  Marla clapped a hand over her mouth. “You mean it’s—”

  “Beheaded, actually.” Grimacing, he rose from his crouched position clutching the bag with his fingertips. “Where can I dispose of this? It’s going to stink.”

  “There’s a garbage bin by the clubhouse. Wait, don’t you need it as evidence?” she called as he loped off.

  “Evidence for what? Could have been anybody throwing it at your doorstep,” he yelled back.

  Hands on her hips, she glared at his retreating back. “I don’t for one minute believe this was a prank,” she muttered. “Maybe Moss and Emma saw something, or that guy Goat. I’m not going to wait here and do nothing.”

  No one answered next door at Moss’s house, so she trudged down the street to Goat’s place. He must be home, she thought, her ears tuning into the sounds of jungle drumbeats and parrots squawking. Pounding loudly on his door, she stepped back when it was suddenly flung wide. An apparition stood there, a tall figure wrapped in furs with antlers on its head. It took Marla a moment to ascertain this was Goat with his face covered in black grease and dotted with feathers.

  “Hey, babe.” His eyes brightened as he recognized her. “You’re just in time for the ceremony.”