“How’s that?” Marla’s pulse accelerated. Now she was getting somewhere.
“The poor man, he never talks about it. You know how he is, such a perfectionist about everything. That’s why he’s such an excellent surgeon. But it must break his heart to—”
“Ladies, what are you doing in here?” Dr. Taylor’s icy tone interrupted them.
The nurse’s hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, I’m sorry, sir. This woman said she was waiting to speak to you.”
“That will be all, Sheila.” He waited until she left before letting an ugly scowl betray his emotions. “I thought I was finished with you,” he said to Marla.
Feeling like a rat caught in a trap, she floundered for a response. “I, uh, had another question.”
“Yes?” His suspicious gaze traveled from her to his desk, as though he were afraid she might have moved one of his precious possessions.
She decided to be bold. “How much do you pay per month to the waste disposal company? As I said earlier, I’m trying to get a handle on who might be polluting the preserve. Any information would be helpful.”
His eyes hardened. “I have no idea. Why don’t you let your cousin deal with that problem?”
“She has enough to do. We’re having Thanksgiving at her house this year. Normally, my cousin Julia has the family over in November, and Cynthia does Passover in the spring. But Julia and her husband will be away on a cruise this year. Cynthia volunteered to switch with her even though Taste of the World is next month.” A nervous chuckle bubbled from her throat. “If she’s smart, Cynthia will keep the tables set up for the few weeks in between.”
His lips tightened in response to her prattle. “I see. Well, if you want information on who picks up our red containers, ask the girls at the front desk.”
“Thank you.” Surprised by his apparent cooperation, Marla scurried away. Perhaps she was wrong to believe him guilty of dumping medical waste in the preserve. But then again, according to his nurse, he had some major expense every month that he didn’t discuss. And Lance had said the clinic’s financial stability was questionable.
Unfortunately, none of his staff could provide the information she needed. She had to find out if the disposal fees were significant enough for her to pursue this lead.
That left one alternative. She needed to speak to someone in the waste disposal company.
She’d kept the information from the dentist in her car. Before starting the engine, she sifted through the papers and found an address about fifteen minutes from her current location. Checking her watch, she cursed at the time that had already elapsed. Still, curiosity compelled her to follow through.
Once on the road, she headed toward Davie. UFO Medical Waste Systems occupied a two-story, white concrete building with green trim in a warehouse district. A large truck with the company’s logo rumbled past as she claimed a parking space.
A receptionist sat at a desk in the front office. On one side, a closed door led to an inner sanctum. On the other side, a stairway climbed to the second level. A trio of roughly dressed men chugged soft drinks and chatted in a corner. Sparse furnishings included a threadbare couch, a Formica table, and a soda machine of an early vintage.
Ignoring the men, who had broken off their conversation to stare at her, Marla got to the heart of the matter. “I work for Ocean Guard, a beach preservation society,” she told the girl at the desk. “We’re having a problem with medical waste washing up onshore. I need information that may allow us to pinpoint the culprit. Would you be able to tell me how much the monthly disposal fee is for a doctor’s office and a surgical clinic?”
The girl tapped a painted fingernail to her chin. “I don’t have a clue, honey. If you’ve got a few minutes, I’ll ask Woody upstairs.”
“Okay.” Marla paced idly while the girl made a call. Color warmed her cheeks when one of the men winked at her.
“If anybody can help you, doll, Woody is the one,” he said. “He knows everything that goes on this place.”
“Great.” She hoped he was right. Time was rushing by, and she had to get back to work.
The receptionist signaled. “Woody can talk to you. Go up those stairs, hang a right and he’s in the room at the end.”
After passing a row of cubicles upstairs where workers toiled diligently, Marla entered the place indicated. Instead of an office, it was a conference center, complete with a long polished wood table and stately chairs with space for twenty people. At the far end sat a man in shirtsleeves and tie. Concentrating on a stack of papers spread out on the table, he didn’t look up until she cleared her throat.
“I appreciate your taking the time to see me,” she began.
“Please, take a seat. What can I do for you? My name is Woody Erikson, and I’m a major account executive.”
They shook hands before Marla lowered herself into a chair at a ninety-degree angle to his. “I’m Marla Shore, and I represent Ocean Guard. We’re concerned about someone illegally dumping medical waste on a private beach owned by our organization. We think we have a lead on the individual who might be responsible, but I need more information. How much does a doctor’s office pay per month to your disposal company?”
Woody leaned back in his chair, exposing a paunch. “Well now, that depends. A private office may pay seven dollars per reusable sharps container or twenty dollars per thirty-gallon box for general medical waste. Say they use eight boxes per month. That’s one hundred sixty dollars.”
“Or nineteen hundred and twenty dollars a year,” said Marla, doing a quick mental calculation. Hardly an amount of money worth committing an illegal act to save. “And a surgical clinic?”
“There you’re talking from five hundred to three thousand a month. Hold on, let me give you a copy of the regulations.”
While he left the room, Marla pondered the implications. Would Dr. Taylor risk exposure for up to thirty-six thousand dollars a year? It sounded substantial to her, but that might be peanuts to his purse. She wasn’t sure if saving money was a valid enough motive in this case. And that brought her right back to Popeye’s heir who had more to gain.
“Here’s a copy of the Florida Administrative Code for biomedical waste,” Woody said, handing her some stapled papers. “This one lists rules and definitions. The waste acceptance protocol serves as the set of instructions we give our generators. It explains the types of waste we accept, how it should be packaged and labeled, and describes our transportation and treatment facilities. Generators must use only registered transporters to remove biomedical waste. Our company provides a receipt for each service.”
“Can this receipt serve to track a user?”
Woody scratched his jaw. “Maybe. A tracking document accompanies all waste transported from the generator. It gives the type and quantity of waste products; the generator’s name, address, and phone number; information about the transporter and the medical waste treatment facility. The customer retains a signed copy. We file them for at least three years.”
“So if I can find a labeled biohazard bag or sharps container, you might be able to trace its origins?”
He nodded. “It’s more likely your culprit is using unauthorized containers to haul the stuff to wherever it’s being dumped. In that scenario, you wouldn’t have the means to trace its source. May I offer a suggestion?”
“Of course.”
“Take photographs and bring them to me. This might give us a hint of where the material is originating.”
She regarded him with a puzzled frown. “How so?”
He rolled his shoulders as though stretching his muscles. “Some items are peculiar to the type of generator. For example, nursing homes dispose of diapers. If you have those in your waste, I’d look in that direction.”
Marla grimaced. “Next time, I’ll inspect the debris more carefully.” Definitely not a prospect she anticipated with any glee. Rising, she smiled and extended her hand. “I really appreciate your help, Mr. Erikson. If I get those photographs, I�
�ll be sure to bring them to you for your expert opinion.”
She’d pass on this advice to Cynthia as soon as she could spare the time to make return phone calls. After finishing her last two customers for the day and wrapping things up at the salon, she bought a few groceries on her way home. Inside the house, she put away the food and let Spooks out the back door. Finally, she headed into her office where the blinking red light on her phone system made her groan. Too much to do, not enough time!
Fielding questions from her mother about David and filling Tally in on recent events took over an hour. Her conversation with Cynthia was brief but annoying.
“David told me about Morton Riley,” Cynthia snapped. “I can’t believe you didn’t give me the news right away. Where have you been all day? I’d half a mind to drop in at your salon, but I wasn’t near that end of town this morning.”
“Sorry, I had a lot to do.” Feeling remorseful, Marla stooped down from her desk chair to scratch Spooks behind his ear. His yapping had compelled her to let him back inside the house after her first phone call. His affectionate presence brought her comfort as she sought to appease her cousin.
“Riley was the only one who could tell us the identity of Popeye’s heir,” Cynthia replied. “Now what are we going to do? That disgusting waste is still washing through the preserve, and we’ve lost our only chance to learn who’s responsible.”
“Not necessarily. Your husband may still get the answers we need from Ben’s legal assistant. Or there’s another alternative. If you can take photos of the debris, I’ll show them to a man at the waste disposal facility. He may be able to help us identify the source.”
“I’ll try.” An exasperated sigh came across the line.
“How’s it going with Annie?”
“Don’t ask.”
“Things will turn out okay. Have faith, cuz.”
Hanging up, Marla considered whom to call next. The hell with it. She’d rather take a bath than talk to anyone else.
Soaking in the tub surrounded by sudsy bubbles, she sifted through her mental list of chores for the next day. Babs had an afternoon appointment, meaning Marla would be able to question the woman about her deceptive trip to Orlando. That encounter should prove interesting, but she wasn’t as eager for the other item on her list. Interviewing Stefano Barletti about Pre-Need funeral arrangements would be a somber affair.
Chapter Fourteen
Marla stood outside the funeral home gazing at the colonial white two-story building with its circular driveway in front and its discreet side entrance, where a hearse was parked. Located in a busy commercial district of town, this was the main facility for Stefano Barletti’s family, who owned a series of parlors.
I can think of better things to do on a Friday morning, Marla thought, glad there wasn’t a funeral in progress when she entered the foyer. A couple of chapels branched off on either side, rows of empty chairs facing forward. She gave her name to a man who bustled out of a small office to greet her.
“Oh yes, Mr. Barletti is expecting you. Please come with me.” He led her down a hallway and halted at an elevator. After a brief pause, they boarded the lift to the second floor.
Upstairs, a hive of people busied themselves in a series of offices. Stefano, attired in a dark suit, greeted her warmly.
“I was so glad to get your call. You’re doing the right thing, Marla. A Pre-Need plan will save you money and relieve your family of the burden during a difficult time.”
His office was a cluttered space personalized by family photos and potted plants. Marla sank into a chair opposite the desk. Her glance surveyed the standard furnishings. How unlike Dr. Taylor’s ostentatious space, she thought.
After rummaging on his desktop for a printed form, Stefano dropped into a seat and folded his hands. “Can I offer you a cup of coffee before we get started?”
“No, thanks.” She crossed her legs. “Tell me, how’s your part going for Taste of the World?”
“The flower arrangements will be magnificent. And you? Any further problems with the chefs?” Something glinted behind his eyes for a brief moment, then was gone.
Marla gave him a shrewd glance. For all she knew, he might be the one sabotaging her efforts. “Everything is on target,” she said airily.
“No more dropouts?”
“Not at this time.”
Frowning, he examined his hands. “I heard you went to the Bahamas with David Newberg.”
“Really? Who told you?”
“I don’t remember. I keep in close contact with all the board members, you understand.”
“Were you informed about the results of our trip?”
His eyes glazed. “Word got around. Riley bit the dust.”
You don’t seem particularly upset. “He was the trustee for Popeye’s estate. I was hoping he could tell us the identity of Popeye Boodles’s heir. Someone has been dumping medical waste on the preserve next to my cousin’s property, not to mention discouraging the chefs from participating in our fund-raiser. Whoever stands to inherit has the most to gain.”
She leaned forward. “Ben’s firm was involved in drawing up that trust. Do you think he was murdered by the heir?”
Stefano looked at her incredulously, his thick-set eyebrows rising like wings on a plane. The expression elongated his face, giving him a gaunt look accentuated by his perpetually startled brown eyes. “Why are you asking me that question?”
“Your family has been around town for a while. You might have heard things.”
“The only thing I hear is you’re snooping where you don’t belong.” Gripping a pen, he clicked it on and off. “Did you come here to discuss Pre-Need arrangements or to interrogate me?”
Brushing a strand of hair off her face, she smiled sweetly. “Forgive me, I’m just trying to help my cousin. Cynthia is getting nervous now that we’re a few weeks away from the fund-raiser. Anyway, let’s talk about funeral plans.”
From the way he glowered at her, Marla figured he was wishing she could make use of one right now.
“Is this going to be a package for two people?” he snarled, pen poised in his fingers. His glance dropped to her ringless left hand.
“No, this is just for me.”
“You should think ahead. At some point in your future, there may be a significant other. I assume we’re talking about a traditional ground burial rather than a mausoleum?”
“I guess so.” She had no wish to be preserved for eternity in a tomb like Romeo and Juliet. Besides, she believed her religion required a ground burial.
“Purchasing two plots now will save you money because land prices keep rising. In the event you don’t need the second plot, we’ll buy it back from you. Consider it a hedge against inflation.” Pushing a chart in front of her, he pointed to various sites marked out in squares. “Which cemetery section appeals to you?”
Marla moistened her lips. “It doesn’t matter, whichever costs less.”
“That would be the newest section.” He circled two spaces. “Do you prefer a chapel or graveside service?”
She gave it serious consideration, mortality being on her mind after viewing Riley’s body and being shot at herself. “A graveside service would be easier on my family, so let’s go with that one. Is there a price difference?” Squinting, she tried to read what was on the upside-down form.
“It’s $420 for use of the chapel as opposed to $275 for a graveside service.” At her nod, he continued. “Next there’s a basic charge for the professional services of the funeral director and staff. That’s $1870. This includes arranging conferences between family and clergy, filing necessary permits, planning the funeral, placement of obituary notices, and coordination with other responsible parties. It also includes administrative expenses for the use of our facilities.”
“I see.”
“You have a choice about embalming. May I ask your religious preference?”
“I’m Jewish.”
He nodded sagely. “Jewish people usua
lly don’t embalm unless you’re going into a mausoleum. It’s my understanding, and correct me if I’m wrong, that the religious directive is to return to the earth as quickly as possible.”
“Okay, no embalming.” She felt uncomfortable discussing these choices, but it made sense to do so before you needed them. What a relief for your relatives to make one phone call in the event your prearrangements became necessary. Ma had paid for a plan, and Marla was grateful. She dreaded the day when she’d have to use it, but that was better than having to make hasty decisions later while coping with grief.
“You’re going to have other expenses.” Stefano reversed the general price list so she could see for herself. “Transfer of remains to the funeral home is $290. Use of a hearse will be $275. Dressing and casketing is $145. Since you’re not embalming, refrigeration is required, which costs $395.”
I’d always wanted to die broke, she told herself sardonically. “What’s this opening and closing that you’ve circled?”
“That’s for opening the gravesite and closing it after the service. Also, I recommend a concrete vault. It gives more protection than a concrete liner, which is more porous. Now let’s discuss choice of caskets.” He stood, gesturing for her to follow. “We have a casket room so you can see the selections.”
Oh, joy. She couldn’t wait.
Trailing behind, she entered a room where up to twenty coffins were on display. Detaching herself emotionally wasn’t hard. She didn’t want to think about herself lying in one of those boxes.
“The Jewish religion calls for your casket to be made of all wood, meaning pegged and glued with no metal parts so the body can get back to the earth quickly.” He showed her a few samples. “See, no nails or metal hinges. Or, if you go into a mausoleum, embalming is required along with a sealed metal casket. Choices include steel, copper, and bronze, like this one here.”
Hair Raiser Page 15
