“That isn’t dinner, is it?”
“It’s for the dog,” Mother said, stirring placidly. “Ground beef, raw egg, rice. You should go buy a bag of dry dog food, but this dog needs good food right now. Poor thing, you can see its ribs.”
You could. Partly, that was probably because it had very short hair, but she was right: the dog was too thin. When I’d had my hands all over it in the tub earlier, I’d felt several scars under the fur, too. It hadn’t had an easy life.
“How about I run to the store now?” I said. “You look like you’ve got this under control. I’ll buy a bag of food, a leash and collar, and some dog treats. And maybe a couple of dog bowls.”
Mother’s kitchen was full of fine china, and I wouldn’t put it past her to serve the dog on Sèvres porcelain, but the bowls could go home with me (and the dog) when we left in a day or two. I had no suitable dog bowls—or Sèvres porcelain—in Nashville.
Mother nodded. “You go ahead. Pearl and I will be fine.”
I had no doubt. The dog wasn’t taking its eyes off the stove. But it was waiting patiently, and as long as it didn’t attack Mother to get at the food, they’d probably be all right.
“I’ll be right back,” I said, as much to Mother as to the dog.
Mother nodded. “Drive carefully.”
The dog didn’t even look at me when I left.
* * *
The closest store to the mansion is the drugstore where Yvonne had been working since Beulah died and the restaurant closed. I knew she wouldn’t be there—she was probably at home, trying to drown her sorrows in wine and a bubble bath, to take her mind off the Odoms and their attempt to railroad her into a murder charge. But drugstores usually carry dog supplies, I’ve noticed, so I made that my first stop. If I couldn’t find what I needed there, there was a Walmart in Columbia I could go to, but I wasn’t going to drive all that way if I didn’t have to.
As it turned out, I didn’t. The drugstore had a small bag of dog food—Pearl would probably make her way through it in a couple of days, but by then we’d be back in Nashville and I could buy something bigger, and have Rafe carry it for me—and a collar and leash that looked like it might fit her. The collar was pink, because I thought it might look nice with Pearl’s coloring, and the leash was the kind that retracts into a big handle. I chose a pink handle, to coordinate. Then I chose a bag of minty chew-sticks—was I supposed to brush the dog’s teeth? I couldn’t imagine Pearl taking kindly to that, although I should probably ask the vet tomorrow—and a box of bone-shaped dog crackers. On my way up to the register, I grabbed a rubber bone that squeaked and a small, fuzzy, stuffed animal. Maybe she’d like the company.
I was standing at the register pulling out my wallet when the sliding doors opened, and in walked Ms. Odom, cashmere coat flapping around her knee-high boots.
I shrank back behind a display of chewing gum, hoping it would hide my increased girth. Although I needn’t have bothered. She didn’t look neither right nor left, just swept down the makeup aisle toward the back of the store.
I craned my neck, until the cashier popped an extra-loud bubble-gum bubble to get my attention. I paid her what I owed for the dog paraphernalia. But instead of leaving, I backtracked to see if I could figure out what Ms. Odom was up to.
My first impression was that she might be looking for Yvonne. Yvonne wasn’t working today, though, and Ms. Odom had to know it, since it wasn’t that long ago that she’d seen us at Oak Street Cemetery.
So maybe she was here to talk to Yvonne’s boss? To try to get Yvonne fired? The Odoms had certainly tried to ruin Yvonne’s life in other ways, so it might not be beyond them to try this.
I skulked through the aisles, keeping my eyes peeled for Ms. Odom’s camel-colored cashmere. The plastic bag with Pearl’s paraphernalia crinkled in my hand.
The manager’s office was probably in the back. Behind the door that said ‘Employees Only,’ was a good guess.
I tried the door, but it was locked. It had a keypad on it, but of course I didn’t know the combination.
Beyond the door, I could see restroom icons, and that gave me an idea. I was pregnant. I always had to pee anyway. Nobody would question it if I asked for the code so I could get back there and use the bathroom. And while I was back there, I could scope out the manager’s office, and maybe hear what Ms. Odom was up to.
There were no drugstore employees in sight, but the pharmacy was on the back wall in the opposite corner. I made my way in that direction, and stopped when I caught a flicker of camel cashmere.
Never mind the restroom code. Ms. Odom was standing at the window picking up a prescription.
I ducked behind the nearest display—walking sticks, some of them in psychedelic colors and patterns—and sharpened my hearing.
“Do you need to talk to a pharmacist?”
Ms. Odom’s shiny bob swung as she shook her head. “My mother’s been taking Epiclore for years. She knows what to do.”
The pharmacist named her price, and Ms. Odom ran her credit card through the machine and received her medicine, or her mother’s medicine, rather. I ducked out of sight before she could turn around and see me, absolutely no wiser than I’d been before I’d listened to the truncated conversation.
Epiclore? Epic lore?
It was a pity my sister-in-law was dead. Sheila had been trained as a nurse. She would have been able to tell me what it was.
A quick Google search on my phone netted me a Finnish heavy metal band, but nothing else.
Adding the word ‘medicine’ to the search didn’t help. All it did, was take the heavy metal band out of contention and give me information on some sort of game playing instead.
I was probably spelling it wrong. Medicines are sometimes spelled weirdly. And I might have heard it wrong. And chances were I could stand here for hours trying different combinations of things without hitting on the right one. I considered asking the pharmacist, but she’d probably find it suspicious, right on the heels of someone walking off with just that medication. It would be obvious that I’d been eavesdropping.
So I headed out instead, and when I got there, I called Yvonne. “Sorry to bother you again today.”
“It’s OK.” Her nose sounded stuffy, as if she’d been crying.
“When you work at the drugstore, do you ever work the register in the pharmacy? Enough to know about some of the medications?”
“Once or twice,” Yvonne said. “They have certain people they schedule back there, because they’re familiar with the process, but I’ve been back there a couple of times when someone’s been out sick. Why?”
I told her about Ms. Odom. “She was picking up her mother’s medication. And I’ve been looking for it online, but I can’t find it. It sounded like she said epic lore. But that can’t be it, because I can’t find it.”
“Epiklor,” Yvonne said.
“Isn’t that what I said?”
She spelled it.
“Oh. What is it?”
“Potassium chloride,” Yvonne said. “Medication for low levels of potassium.”
Oh. “Is there anything weird about it?”
“Not that I know of.”
“I don’t suppose Beulah was taking it?”
“No.” She sounded very certain. “Beulah was taking pills for high blood pressure and insulin shots. Nothing for potassium.”
“OK,” I said. “Thanks.”
“Have you heard anything about the autopsy?”
I hadn’t. “I’m sure it’s too early. The M.E. might not get to it until tomorrow. But I’ll give Darcy a call and ask her to get in touch with Patrick Nolan. He should be able to tell us one way or the other.” If he was willing. And hopefully, if Darcy asked, he would be.
Yvonne said thanks and hung up. I got in the car and called Darcy while I drove home to my mother and my dog.
Eighteen
By the time I got home, Mother had fed the dog the rice and ground beef mixture from the stove. She was
sitting in the parlor—Mother—with a glass of sherry, and Pearl was arranged at her feet, curled into an almost perfect circle. When I came in, she lifted her head and inspected me, but didn’t bark.
“Good girl,” I said, and got a wag of her stubby tail in response. “I bought something for you.”
I pulled out the little stuffed animal. Her eyes fastened on it, greedily.
“I’ll go put the bowls in the kitchen,” I told Mother, as I tossed the stuffed animal to Pearl. “I thought maybe I’d put them over in the corner by—”
It was all I got out. There was a growl, a snap of jaws, a ripping sound, and then the stuffed animal was in two pieces on the floor, its head off and stuffing everywhere.
“Dear me,” Mother said faintly.
I swallowed. I knew it was stuffed—had been stuffed—and it hadn’t suffered, but somehow I got the feeling it wasn’t the first time something like this had happened. This was what Robbie and the Skinners had trained Pearl to do. She was looking at me and wagging her tail, her tongue lolling. Looking for praise.
“Come here,” I told her as I dropped to the floor and reached for her. I could tell my voice was uneven, and I think she could, too, because she whined. “It’s OK. I don’t blame you. You just did what you’ve been trained to do. I won’t bring you any more stuffed animals.” And I’d make very sure that whenever we were outside, I’d keep her away from puppies or kittens or squirrels or anything like that. “It’s all right.”
I scratched her ears and stroked her back, my hand bumping over ridges of scar tissue under the sleek fur. “I’m so sorry. They shouldn’t have taught you to do that. You don’t have to do it anymore.”
Mother was still pale, and looked shocked as well as confused.
“The Skinners used dogs for dog fighting,” I explained, while I continued to pet Pearl. “She has scars under her fur.”
“The poor thing.” I’m not sure whether she was talking about Pearl or the decapitated toy on the floor. Maybe both.
“We’ll be kind to her from now on. Hopefully she’ll learn not to do that anymore. But I won’t give her any more stuffed toys for a while.” I blinked the tears away and reached into the bag again. “Here, baby. I bought you a squeaky bone.”
Pearl’s eyes lit up as I squeezed the bone and made it squeak. When I gave it to her, she tossed it up in the air, chased it across the room, pounced on it, and laid down to chew contentedly on the rubber.
Both Mother and I let out a sigh of relief.
“Sorry about that.” I got myself to my feet with the help of the coffee table. “I’ll go put the bowls in the kitchen. I thought I’d put them over in the corner by the back door, where they’d be out of the way.”
Mother nodded. “She ate some of what I made. The rest is in the fridge for tomorrow. You can mix it with the dry food. But she should probably just have dry food for the rest of the night. We don’t want her to have an upset stomach.”
No, we didn’t. I wasn’t in any kind of position to wake up and take the dog out multiple times a night. If I had to clean up dog poop from the floor, I’d probably vomit. And the thought of asking my elegant mother to do it was in equal measure inconceivable and hilariously funny.
Of course, Rafe would be home at some point. And would probably be up for taking the dog out as well as dealing with the poop. But it would be preferable if neither of us had to.
“Maybe it would be better to wait until tomorrow to give her any more food. She’s had two chicken wraps and a bunch of ground beef already this afternoon. That might be enough for tonight.”
Mother nodded. “She’s in no danger of starving at the moment. Although you should make sure she has water to drink.”
I should.
“And make sure to wash the bowl before you put it down,” Mother added. “Germs, you know.”
This was a dog that had spent its life outside, chained underneath a trailer. Somehow, I didn’t think plastic germs were going to do it in. But there was no sense in arguing. I told my mother I’d be sure to wash the bowls well before I put them down, and headed out of the parlor and down the hall to the kitchen. Pearl lifted her head to watch me go, but then returned to chomping on the bone.
After washing the bowls and filling one with water, I put them by the back door on a dish towel. The dog food went in the cabinet along with the biscuits, and I poured myself a glass of juice and went back to join Mother in the parlor. “Did I tell you that they dug up Beulah Odom?” Or had that gotten lost in the excitement of the dog earlier?
Mother’s eyes widened and she choked on a sip of sherry. Obviously I hadn’t gotten around to mentioning it.
“The Columbia PD came and picked up Yvonne earlier,” I added. “They’re trying to pin Beulah’s murder on her. But first they have to prove it was murder. Originally, the M.E. ruled natural causes.”
Mother leaned forward and put the sherry glass on the table. “They exhumed the body? Are you sure?”
“I watched them do it,” I said. “Dug her right out of the ground down at Oak Street. With a backhoe.”
Mother winced.
“A hearse took the coffin and drove off with it. I guess they plan to do the autopsy again. And come up with different results.”
“Dear me,” Mother said.
“I saw Ms. Odom when I was at the drugstore just now. She was picking up her mother’s prescription. Mrs. Odom takes something called Epiklor. Yvonne said it’s potassium chloride. I wonder whether it’s possible to kill someone with it.”
Mother’s eyebrows rose. “I imagine it is. Your father took potassium chloride.”
And had died of a heart attack, just like Beulah. Not that there was any question about my father’s death not being natural.
“The doctors made sure we understood that it was only to be taken orally,” Mother added. “To inject it can be fatal.”
Really?
As I’d said earlier, who would notice another injection mark on a woman who injected herself with insulin several times a day?
“Wouldn’t it show up in the tox screen, though? I’m sure they did one during the autopsy. The original autopsy.”
“That I don’t know,” Mother said with an elegant little shrug. She picked up her glass again. “But now that you know what it is, you can probably find out.”
I probably could. I put my juice down and pulled out my phone. This search was a whole lot easier than the previous, and also netted me more helpful information. Yes, you could poison someone with Epiklor and cause a heart attack. I won’t bore you with the medical explanation, a lot of which went right over my head, but I did find out that it was possible. I also found out that potassium chloride occurs naturally in the body, and that elevated levels wouldn’t necessarily set off any flags during autopsy. And apparently it breaks down after a few days, so at this point, the M.E. wouldn’t find anything unusual in Beulah’s corpse.
If it had ever been there, of course. Just because Mrs. Odom took potassium chloride, and just because potassium chloride could be used to poison someone, didn’t mean that Mrs. Odom had poisoned Beulah. But it was something to keep in mind. If the M.E.’s verdict changed from natural causes to poison or undetermined, I could mention it then. And would.
And in the meantime, there was the dog fighting angle and the drug angle to investigate as far as the Skinner murders were concerned.
“Do you think the vet’s still open?” I asked my mother. “I should probably call and ask about bringing Pearl in tomorrow morning. Just in case they’re busy.”
Mother allowed as to how that might be a good idea.
“I wonder which vet the Skinners used.” If they’d used one.
“If they ran dog fights,” Mother said, her lips tight, “I doubt they’d bother with a vet.”
Probably not. But just in case, maybe I should drive Pearl to Columbia tomorrow morning, instead of the local Sweetwater vet. Just on the chance that the vet had her records already, and more to the point,
so I could find out what, if anything, the vet knew.
I googled veterinary clinics in and around Columbia, and found three. I picked the one closest to Sweetwater, and dialed. When the phone was answered, I explained who I was and that I had just adopted a dog whose owner had died. “I was wondering whether Robbie Skinner took his dog to you?”
“We can’t give out information on our patients,” the receptionist told me, snippily.
“I’m not looking for information. I’m just trying to do my best for the dog. If she already has veterinary records somewhere, it would be helpful to take her to the vet who is familiar with her.”
“Hold, please.” She disappeared before I could answer. When she came back a minute later, she told me, “Doctor Finster says to tell you we have no records for a dog owned by Robbie Skinner. Is there anything else I can do for you?”
I told her there wasn’t, and dialed the next number on the list, and went through the same conversation there, with the same result. They didn’t know Robbie Skinner and had no records for Pearl.
At the last clinic, the phone was answered by a man. “This is Doc Anderson.”
“Doctor?”
“Of veterinary medicine. How can I help you?”
I went through my explanation again.
“I’m sorry,” Doc Anderson said. He didn’t even have to think about it. “We never worked on any dogs for the Skinners. But we’d be happy to take a look at yours. Is something the matter with her?”
“Not as far as I can tell. She’s a little too thin, and has some scar tissue. And she just ripped the head off a stuffed toy. But other than that, she seems all right.”
“No fleas? No demodectic mange?”
“Demo what?” I said.
“Scabies. Mites that burrow under the skin and cause itching and hair loss.”
Oh. “No, she’s not scratching a lot. And she has all her hair. We just gave her a bath.” And wasn’t it a little late in the year for fleas?
Bad Debt (Savannah Martin Mysteries Book 14) Page 20
