by A.W. Hartoin
Chapter Two
BEFORE I KNEW it, I was staring at Aunt Miriam’s shoes instead of the stained bit of carpet I’d been eying. My eyes went up from her black gum-soled shoes, past her compression hose, her dove gray A-line skirt with matching sweater to her wrinkled, thin face crowned by her veil. For me, her face wore an expression of critical appraisal. When she looked to Dixie, it softened to gentle concern. I wouldn’t get that expression unless critically injured. Aunt Miriam sat down between us, put her arms around Dixie and gathered her into her bony chest. Dixie took a huge breath and her body began to rock with the slow rhythm of grief.
“I need to speak to the doc,” I whispered to Aunt Miriam. She nodded in reply and I left.
Dr. Guest sat in the lounge doing chart review and drinking a chocolate diet drink. From the look of him, he needed to forego the candy bar next to the drink.
“Excuse me, Dr. Guest?”
He looked up, sucked in his belly, and smoothed his comb-over.
“Yes, I’m Dr. Guest.” Emphasis on the doctor.
“Hi, I’m Mercy Watts, a friend of Gavin Flouder. I need to talk to you about his case?”
“I’m afraid that wouldn’t be appropriate. You know you look a lot like…”
“Yeah, I know,” I said, crossing my arms.
He stared at me. I expected him to start rocking like a hypnotized cobra.
“So…Dr. Sanderson will vouch for me. I was PRN here last night.” I flashed him my hospital badge and hooked it to my waistband.
He looked at my badge and smiled in recognition. “What do you want to know?”
“Are you sure it was an MI? He was following a regime and was on meds.”
“That’s why I’m sure. These things happen and all the drugs and all the workout plans in the world can’t stop them.”
Not exactly the reassurance one wants from a doctor. Maybe that explained the candy.
“I understand that, but his wife would feel better if she knew what went wrong. He was pretty young. Were his drug levels adequate?”
“They were, but we don’t know to what extent his heart was already damaged.”
“Will you recommend a full autopsy?”
“No. Cause of death is apparent.”
“But they’ll do one if the family makes the request, right?” I asked.
“Of course. What do you suspect?”
“Not a thing. I think his wife wants to know it was unavoidable. Do you think you could write her a script for Ativan? She’s pretty freaked out.”
Dr. Guest gave me an evaluating look, pulled out a prescription pad. “What’s her name?”
“Sharon Flouder.”
“I’m only giving you two doses. If she needs more, she’ll have to go to her family doctor.”
“Thanks. I appreciate it,” I said.
“No problem. Have time for a cup of coffee?”
“Some other time. The wife’s waiting. Thanks again.”
The diagnosis was exactly what I expected to hear, but I didn’t like it. Gavin did everything right, and he was still dead as hell. I wished he’d spent his last year eating Ho Ho’s and lying around, instead of eating salads and working out. He would’ve been happier, even if Dixie wasn’t.
I ran next door to the pharmacy, got Dixie’s Ativan, collected Gavin’s paperwork, and went back to the sofa. Dixie wasn’t crying anymore. She sat with a dazed expression on her face, looking at her hands. I showed her where to sign the forms and asked her if she wanted an autopsy.
“I don’t know.” Dixie looked at me like she wasn’t sure what I was asking.
“Why don’t we leave it for now? I’ll ask for a full chart review,” I said.
Dixie nodded. I took care of the paperwork and review request. Then I went back to the sofa, feeling drained and very young. Maybe that’s what it feels like when you lose someone for the first time. I went back to feeling like a child in a big world without a compass.
I dropped onto the seat next to Aunt Miriam and she said to Dixie, “Who would you like us to call?”
“I don’t want to talk to anyone,” said Dixie.
“We’ll do it.”
I hoped by ‘we’ she didn’t mean me. Gavin and Dixie didn’t have children, but they were very close to his brothers. I couldn’t imagine telling them their little brother died. It’d be a nightmare. I’d have to tell Mom and Dad. That was bad enough.
Dixie gave Aunt Miriam her phone and I edged away, hiding my hands under my butt, so Aunt Miriam wouldn’t give it to me. Lame, but it was the only way I could think of to protect myself from that awful duty.
Aunt Miriam put the phone in her little grey purse and said, “I think it’s time to go now, Mercy.”
“Where are we going?”
“Home, naturally,” she replied.
“I don’t want to go home,” said Dixie as she looked from Aunt Miriam to me and then back.
“Let’s go to Mom and Dad’s,” I said. “Mom’ll be pissed if I don’t water the plants and feed the cats.”
“That’ll be fine,” Dixie said.
Aunt Miriam gave me a rare smile, and we left. The traffic was vicious, and it took us forty-five minutes. The drive gave Dixie some time to collect herself, and her eyes were clearer when we got there. We sat Dixie down in Mom’s big kitchen and Aunt Miriam put the kettle on. I went into the butler’s pantry to find more tea and some hot cocoa for me.
Hmmm, Ghirardelli.
Nothing like chocolate for cold or heartbreak. I’d had enough of both to know. Mom served it up with little marshmallows and Dad with a splash of peppermint schnapps. Dad forbade me to tell Mom about the schnapps, but I suspect she knew.
Dixie, being a sensible woman, chose the Ghirardelli. I pulled out the prescription bottle and placed it on the table.
“What’s that?” Aunt Miriam asked.
“Ativan. Dr. Guest gave me a script for Dixie in case she has trouble sleeping.”
“You think I need Ativan.” Dixie looked at the prescription bottle like she’d never seen one before.
“No, but I thought you might want it. It was just a thought,” I said.
Dixie looked into her mug and then to Aunt Miriam.
“Take some if you care to. Everyone needs help now and again,” Aunt Miriam said.
I doubted very seriously that Aunt Miriam ever needed help of any kind. She never took so much as an aspirin. At least she didn’t tell me what to do with my little pills. She would’ve if she felt it was a bad idea.
Dixie read the label and took two small white pills. While they dissolved into her system, I made sandwiches, we ate and talked about the weather, the Blues hockey team and topics that didn’t matter one bit. After an hour Dixie’s eyelids drooped and I took her upstairs to The Oasis. I slipped her shoes off and tucked her in with a glass of water on the side table. She was asleep before I left the room.
Aunt Miriam was standing in the kitchen with her arms crossed when I got back.
“What?” I said.
“What did that doctor say?”
“Not much. Just that he didn’t know how much heart damage Gavin had before he started taking care of himself.”
“And?” Her fists went to her hips, not that they had much to rest on.
“And what? The man had a heart condition.”
“He was doing extremely well. He nearly got a clean bill of health at his last checkup. Dixie is very concerned.”
“What’s she concerned about? It’s over and done with now.” I sat down and picked up my mug. What was Aunt Miriam trying to say? It wasn’t my fault Gavin died. Hell, I wasn’t even there.
“She’s concerned that he didn’t receive adequate care, and this could’ve been avoided. Now what are you going to do about it?”
“Me?”
“Of course you. Your father isn’t here.” She sounded like she resented Dad’s vacation. Maybe she did. She didn’t take vacations, outside of her retreats with the church ministry.
&
nbsp; “Well, I guess I could take a look at the pathologist’s report. That should clear a few things up. I’ll call Mom and Dad.”
“Yes, do that. I’ll call Straatman Funeral Home. They’re the best.” Aunt Miriam’s expression went all flinty and cold like a raptor. Straatman’s were known for putting on a great memorial and, also and less flattering, predatory practices in the funeral biz. But they hadn’t experienced Aunt Miriam yet. I almost felt sorry for the chiseling bastards.
“How long will Dixie sleep?” asked Aunt Miriam.
“Probably all night,” I said.
Aunt Miriam stood, straightened her veil and tucked a few faded ginger hairs in. She gave me a hard look and left through the back door. I got up, made some more cocoa, and called Ellen. She cried and then had to go because her two-year-old, Sophie, found the house keys and was trying to escape out the back door. I liked to think that little blond devil took after me. Ellen was at her wit’s end most of the time.
I settled in and turned on the TV. The news was on and, for some reason, I expected Gavin’s death to be reported. Something like “Celebrated St. Louis police detective dies at age 55”, but, of course, there was nothing like that. The talk was of our beautiful June weather and a couple of ghastly murders that I tuned out. Gavin was more than enough death to think about.
After a couple of fortifying cups of cocoa, I went upstairs to my father’s office. His whole life was in his room, books, files, photo albums, and, most important, his desk. The desk was a veteran of his police career. He took the beast with him when he retired and, boy, was it ugly despite the coat of paint Mom insisted upon. Dad likes to say there’s a dent for every case he worked on and he was a police detective for twenty years. The beast resembled a pale gray boulder with legs. The drawers didn’t open anymore. Every once in a while Dad enlists my help to try and get them open. About once a year he gets it into his head that vital information is contained within them. We’ve never succeeded, so who knows.
I sank down into Dad’s deluxe, black leather massage chair. I flipped the switch and let the magic fingers go to work on my butt. After a few minutes of sublime pleasure I looked over the desktop. Mom had told me she left their travel itinerary on Dad’s blotter. I called the number for the cruise line and proceeded to get the runaround for a half hour. I lied and said it was a family emergency, but it didn’t help much. But if I’d said Gavin wasn’t a blood relative, they would’ve hung up, so much for customer service. After a few well-placed threats, I got a call put through. My parents didn’t answer their phone or their page. My head was down on the boulder and I was about to start banging. They were probably sitting in a Jacuzzi tub sipping margaritas, looking at the Mediterranean sea. I hated to ruin it. But still, they had to be told. The cruise was three weeks long and they were five days out. By the time they got back, Gavin would be buried, and I’d never be forgiven. I left a message and went to check on Dixie.
I found her sleeping in the spoon position with a pillow. Her dark hair fanned out around her head and I saw some gray peeking out at the roots. I looked at the gray for a while. I’d never imagined Dixie to have any gray, although I knew she was older than Gavin. Her face was soft in sleep and without the animation of wakefulness; I could see wrinkles beneath the heavy powder she wore. I wanted to curl up behind her the way my mother did with me when I was hurting. Instead, I brushed a lock of hair off her cheek and went downstairs.
I got Dixie’s address book out of her purse and called her doctor. I explained the situation and he called in a prescription for Ativan for her. I could pick it up for her later provided she needed it.
The phone rang as soon as I set it down.
“Hello,” I said.
“Mercy, it’s Mom. What’s happened? Are the cats alright?”
“The cats are fine.” Unfed, but fine. At least I assumed so. I hadn’t actually seen them, and I considered it the only good thing that happened that day. “I’m fine, by the way.”
“Please just tell me. I knew something would happen if we went away. What was I thinking?”
“It’s Gavin, Mom. He died.”
Mom didn’t answer. I heard a slow release of breath and then nothing.
“Mom?”
“Mercy, it’s Dad. What happened? Your mother is bleach white. Are you pregnant?”
“God, no. What made you say that?”
“Well, I always thought you’d hit us with that one at a bad time. Like when you set the Bleds’ garage on fire when we went skiing.”
“I was seven.”
“You’re due. Now what is it this time?”
“Gavin died.”
Dad let his breath out like Mom and said, “What happened?”
“He had an MI, a heart attack, this morning.”
“How’s Sharon?”
“Sleeping upstairs,” I said.
“Are you sure it was his heart?”
“He did have a heart condition, Dad.”
“Did you talk to the doc?” Dad started to sound like an investigator, all business.
“Yeah, but he wasn’t much help.”
“Was he single?”
“What does that matter?” I needed cocoa with more than a splash of schnapps.
“You could’ve pulled out the charm, batted your eyelashes.”
“I never bat my eyelashes.”
“Fine, the equivalent then. Can we get back on point, please?”
“And what is the point, Dad?” Maybe I’d skip the cocoa altogether and go to straight schnapps.
“So the guy didn’t know anything,” Dad said.
“Not a thing. I’ll check the final report as soon as it’s finished,” I said.
“Yeah, and see if you can get Simon on it.”
“Simon who?” I asked.
“Simon Grace. The head pathologist at St. James.”
“How do you know him?”
“How do I know every pathologist in the state? Think, Mercy,” Dad said.
“One of your employees could talk to Grace. You know, one of the actual detectives,” I said, without much hope.
Dad growled, very much like Aunt Miriam though not quite as scary. “Are you saying you’re unwilling to look into the suspicious death of a man you’ve known since birth? A man who took you camping, fixed your speeding tickets, picked you up drunk from frat parties, and employed you when you weren’t qualified to do anything.”
“Never mind. I’ll pay Grace a visit,” I said, my face in a hard flush.
“That’s right, you will, and you’ll be happy to do it.”
“Absolutely, Dad. I’m on it.”
“We’ll fly home as soon as we pull into port.”
“When’s that?” I asked, trying not to sound desperate.
“Three days. And don’t forget about the Smith file. You can take care of that while you wait for Gavin’s report.”
“The Smith file? Are you serious? Gavin just died, Dad.”
Dad got quiet and then said in a low voice, “I know my friend is dead. No one, except Sharon, feels it more than me. But there’s no point in sitting on your hands, while you wait for that report. I want my money before that old fart drops. He’d do it just to spite me.”
I rubbed my eyes and groaned. I’d forgotten about the Smith file the moment my parents passed through airport security. Dad was forever giving me assignments, none of which I wanted, but I did them, slowly and with plenty of reminders. I thought I was free for the duration of their cruise. I should’ve known it wouldn’t be that easy.
“If I must,” I said.
“You must. Call me if anything develops?”
“Like what?” I said as I grabbed Dad’s schnapps and added a generous amount to my mug.
“You know what I’m talking about. Call Chuck if you need help.”
Chuck was a detective in the STLPD and my cousin by marriage. He was also the head of the sleazeball brigade. Calling him would never happen. “I don’t need Chuck. I can handle anything
.”
“Be careful, Mercy,” said Dad, more serious than I’d ever heard him. “I have a feeling.”
I hung up without delving deeper into Dad’s feeling. First, the Smith file and now this. Fantastic. I knew Dad’s reputation well enough to know it wasn’t a good thing. Like most good cops, Dad seemed to have an extra sense. He knew when things were about to get messy. I hated messy, unless it was my apartment. Then it was just fine.
