T. Lynn Ocean - Jersey Barnes 02 - Southern Poison

by T. Lynn Ocean

  Just for kicks, we took the hearse and Lindsey had a ball riding in the back. She dumped ice and canned Pepsis in the insulated compartment, and brought a DVD of music videos to watch on the flat-screen television.

  “It’s rad back here!” she called through the modified electric sliding window, that lowered just like those in some limousines. “Need some A/C, though. Crank it up, would you?”

  Ox glanced my way from the driver’s seat. “You sure she’s sick?”

  We made it to the medical complex in plenty of time and Lindsey saw Dr. Warner again. I went into the examination room with Lindsey while Ox stayed in the waiting room. Pam took Lindsey’s temperature—which had risen slightly since I’d checked it—and drew some blood, which a nurse carried out to test. When the doctor pressed on the girl’s abdomen, Lindsey flinched.

  “Take it easy, would you, Doc? That really hurt.”

  Dr. Warner pressed again, on the other side, and got the same results. When Lindsey sat up, the woman quizzed her on her symptoms and verified that she hadn’t been menstruating. She asked about drug usage and Lindsey told her that she didn’t do any drugs—not even prescription. Pam asked me to step outside for a minute.

  “Would you mind going back to the waiting room for a few minutes? I’ll call you back in when we’re ready,” she said in a quiet voice. “I feel sure she’s telling the truth, but sometimes young girls won’t admit things in front of a parent or guardian. Sex, drug usage, habits. I’d just like to quiz her again, by myself.”

  I felt sure that Lindsey was telling the truth, too, but didn’t argue with my doctor friend. Ox had stepped outdoors to make some phone calls, so I found a table of magazines and sat down in the waiting room.

  “Are you pregnant, too?” a woman asked. She wasn’t showing, but sat with her hands protectively folded over her stomach.

  “Nope, not me. I’m waiting for someone.” I opened the magazine, but like an overly friendly passenger on an airplane, she wanted to talk.

  “I am,” she announced. “I was never supposed to get pregnant because I had defective eggs. I was born with them. But all of a sudden, bam! I’m having a baby now and my doctor says it’s a true miracle.”

  “Congratulations. You must be very excited,” I said, hoping to get back to my magazine.

  She laughed, nervous and fleeting. “Probably more information than you wanted, but I am excited. I’m so excited, I can’t tell you how much. I’m a chemist and have spent years researching a fertility drug.”

  I smiled at her. “The drug worked, then.”

  “No, it never did.”

  Now she had my attention.

  She did the nervous laugh again, seemingly unsure of herself. “It’s a long story. But I’m just happy to be having a baby. I’m Peggy Lee, by the way.”

  “Jersey.”

  “I’ve never known anyone with that name,” she said. “Thank you, Jersey. You’re the only person to congratulate me, other than a sales clerk in the department store. And she was earning a commission.”

  The comment struck me as strange, but we didn’t talk further because I was summoned back to the exam room. Dressed, Lindsey sat on the doctor’s round stool, studying a chart on the wall.

  “To be honest,” Dr. Warner said, “I’m stumped. I thought that Lindsey may have some type of bacterial infection, but her white blood cell count is normal. The tenderness has me concerned, though. I’m going to schedule a vaginal ultrasound and a few other imaging tests. Is that agreeable?”

  “Sounds like a lot of fuss over a simple stomachache,” Lindsey said.

  Pam laughed. “Don’t worry, the tests won’t hurt. They’ll just give me a better picture of what’s going on inside your body. It’s like a puzzle, and I need some more pieces to figure out the big picture.”

  Lindsey shrugged. “Whatever you think, I guess.”

  “Additional tests are fine,” I said. “If nothing else, for peace of mind.”

  Ox’s forehead creased with worry when I relayed the information during the return drive, but Lindsey had returned to her energetic, happy self, jamming to music videos in the rear of the corpse caddy.

  “It may just be normal female stuff,” I told him. “The tests are nothing invasive, okay? The doctor just wants to figure out what’s causing Lindsey’s symptoms.”

  “If anything happens to her …”

  I squeezed his hand. “Nothing’s going to happen to her.”

  He nodded.

  FORTY-ONE

  Chuck was spending more time than normal in Wilmington lately and Peggy Lee realized the exhilaration she always felt upon seeing him had become slack, like an overly stretched piece of elastic. The desire to see him remained strong—she loved him, after all—but now that there was a secret between them, her devotion to the man had faltered. She planned to tell him about the baby but she had to wait until she was too far along for a safe abortion. Otherwise, he’d try to change her mind.

  “Peggy Lee,” he said, going to the refrigerator for his customary seltzer water. “You’re glowing. Glad to see the pumped-up production and extra hours haven’t worn you down.”

  “Not at all,” she said, although she had started to grow weary of the excessive overtime. She’d rather have been out shopping, or reading books on baby care. When her work with Project Antisis ended, she planned to join a mom’s club and socialize with other parents. Maybe she’d even make a friend.

  “There’s no seltzer water.” Chuck slammed the refrigerator door and cold air shot out with a hiss.

  “Oh, sorry,” she said. “I forgot to get some more. But there’s Coke and ginger ale in there. And plain water.”

  “You know I don’t drink soda. And that cheap bottled water you buy tastes like it came out of the sewer.”

  “What’s the big deal?” she said, suddenly in the mood to challenge him. “Just go buy some seltzer water. There’s a store two blocks down the road. For that matter, why don’t you get us something to eat while you’re out? I skipped lunch and I’m starving.”

  Perplexed, Chuck studied the employee. She’d never spoken back to him. To the contrary, she always agreed with everything he said. And in the past, she’d gone out of her way to please him. She had even started checking him into the hotel before he arrived, to save him time. She’d put drinks in the mini fridge and fresh fruit on the desk. But this was a different person. Who did she think she was, demanding that he bring in food? Maybe she was working too many hours and hadn’t gotten enough sleep. Chuck thought about hiring a lab assistant for her, but immediately knew it was a bad idea. He couldn’t take the chance. Secrecy was vital to the success of the project.

  “Peggy, Peggy,” Chuck said. “You’re right, the water is no big deal. My flight got delayed and it’s put me in a bad mood.”

  “Are you going out for food? I’ve still got at least another two hours here before I can quit for the day. And to be honest, room service is getting old.” Peggy used to love the routine. She’d work all day, then drive to Chuck’s fancy hotel, where she’d take a bubble bath while he checked e-mail and returned phone calls. She’d come out wrapped in a big towel and climb into his lap, teasing him, until he stopped working and carried her to the bed. They’d make love—he always taught her new things to do to him—and then they’d order room service and watch a movie while they ate dinner in bed. But for some reason, she wasn’t up for the bubble bath or eating while staring at a television.

  Chuck felt like telling his chemist to go and get her own food, if she was hungry. But he held his tongue. Everyone was entitled to a bad day, now and then, he supposed. And he needed Peggy Lee, more than she knew. She was the only person he had entrusted with the formula, and he couldn’t chance having her quit on him. Or worse, talking to somebody about what she’d been working on.

  “Peggy, I know you’re working very hard and I appreciate everything you do, really. I’m happy to go and buy you a fast-food hamburger. But I won’t eat that crap,” he added
without meaning to. “Why don’t I bring you a sandwich and then I’ll go grab a bite to eat by myself while you finish up here.”

  Peggy Lee finished filling a container, sealed it, and peeled off the double-layer latex gloves. Now that she had her miracle, she wasn’t taking any chances. Come to think of it, she didn’t want to eat fast food, either. It wouldn’t be good for the baby.

  “I’ve got a great idea,” she said. “I can make up the time tomorrow, so why don’t I quit early today? I’ll change clothes and we can both get something to eat, together. At a real restaurant. Won’t that be fun?”

  Chuck didn’t like this new Peggy, he decided. If he didn’t know better, he’d think she was still knocked up, the way she’d started acting hormonal. He most certainly didn’t want to be seen in public with the homely woman. She didn’t even bother to color her hair or buy fashionable clothes, much less wear lipstick or eye makeup. His live-in girlfriend wouldn’t be caught dead without makeup and nice clothes. But something told Chuck it would be best not to rock Peggy’s boat. Maybe they wouldn’t see anyone he knew.

  He took her shoulders and kissed her pale mouth. “That is a great idea. Why don’t you get changed and meet me at the hotel. I’ll take you out for a delicious meal. We’ll find someplace romantic,” and dark, Chuck thought. Low light was a good thing. “Do you have a dress you can wear?”

  FORTY-TWO

  When he learned that Incognito didn’t blow up, John Mason put a fist through the stateroom’s locker door. Furious with himself for damaging his sailboat, he hit the teakwood slats again, bloodying his knuckles. It had been easy to learn that Jill Burns was really Jersey Barnes. But trying to terminate the bitch who had ruined his life’s mission had infuriated him. He should just sail off as planned. Start a life somewhere outside the United States, away from the country that had gobbled up his brother’s life as though he were a piece of ripe fruit. Something held him back, though, especially now that he knew everything there was to know about Jersey Barnes.

  The night they’d eaten dinner at Elijah’s restaurant, John remembered that a waitress knew Jersey and asked if she’d been out on the water lately. He went back to the restaurant and made sure he sat in that waitress’s section. Because of his looks and build, he stood out and, just as John figured, the server instantly recognized him. Hoping his assumption that Jersey owned a boat was correct, he told the waitress that he planned to buy his girlfriend a gift but couldn’t remember the name of her boat. Incognito, the woman promptly answered, as though it were a Jeopardy! television show question, adding that Incognito was a small yacht, not a boat. John gulped down the rest of his lunch, headed for the nearest Internet café, and logged on to Boat-Info World, where he entered the name of the vessel. Numerous other Web sites provided the same information but he knew this one from memory. A screen popped up giving him information about the boat, including its home port, owner, mailing address, and Coast Guard documentation number. John didn’t have much use for the government, but federally funded agencies sure did make it easy to gather information about citizens. Almost everything about a person was out there and easily accessed, if you knew where to look for it.

  Even though her boat was documented to the Barnes Agency, simple legwork revealed the rest of the story: Jersey Barnes owned the agency as well as a restaurant called the Block, where she lived. Surprisingly, she was a former SWEET agent, just like him. He’d even secured her personal cell phone number. Some text messages would be fun, he decided. Since he couldn’t leave town until he got some form of satisfaction, some semblance of revenge for his twin’s senseless death, John figured he may as well enjoy the hunt.

  Explosives hadn’t worked on Jersey, so the only sensible thing to do was take a different approach. He already had something in mind, something that would leave Jersey Barnes thinking about him for hours, maybe days, while she died.

  Meanwhile, he would have a little fun. Using a prepaid phone, he composed the first of several messages and saved it to the draft file for future use:

  Jill Burns is a nice name. Jersey Barnes is better.

  FORTY-THREE

  Chuck had to admit that Peggy cleaned up pretty well. When she’d spotted his invitation to a charity mixer at the Wilmington Hilton lying on the hotel room dresser, Peggy wanted to go. It was a fund-raiser to benefit North Carolina beauty pageants, hosted by an organization that promoted all the great student causes, including teen pregnancy prevention. Chuck had donated graciously, offering additional scholarship award money to pageant contestants, provided the Derma-Zing logo received priority placement. He would be in town anyway to install some upgraded lab equipment, so he agreed to attend the mixer. But he hadn’t planned on going with his chemist. Taking her out to dinner had seemingly opened the door to more demands.

  She had grown tired of always staying in the hotel room when he was in town, Peggy complained, and demanded to know if he was embarrassed to take her out. What could he do—tell her the truth? He thought about skipping the event altogether, but they were expecting him. Besides, he wanted to see for himself how many of the young girls in attendance sported designs. Not that he was concerned about sales. Almost four million girls ages fourteen to twenty had already used, or were currently using the product. The Derma-Zing Web site gained thousands of new hits daily and the college program had successfully launched. But additional PR never hurt. Especially when his designs were on beautiful, hip role models.

  Chuck gave Peggy a salon gift certificate to get herself fixed up and had some clothes and shoes delivered to her apartment. It made her feel pampered, she said over and over again as she thanked him. Showing off a new haircut and style, and wearing a slinky white cocktail dress, Peggy was now presentable. Almost pretty. She hadn’t quite gotten the hang of walking in the heels, but the dress showed off her slim figure and shapely breasts.

  Before they left his hotel room for the mixer, Chuck made Peggy promise not to discuss her work in the lab, for obvious reasons. Confidentiality was imperative, he told her, and in a few more months, when he sold off the Derma-Zing branch of his company, she’d be a wealthy woman. He made sure to periodically dangle the money carrot, and so far it had worked to keep her motivation up. That, and the fact that Peggy thought their personal relationship held promise. The gullible idiot actually believed he was in love with her. Chuck planned to fuel the fantasy, right up until the chemist had served her purpose.

  Walking into the hotel, Peggy grabbed his arm—only slightly wobbling on her heels—and stretched to kiss his cheek. “Oh, Chuck. This is fabulous. I’m so glad we’ve started going out, to do things together.”

  Chuck almost scolded her for kissing him in public when a thought bloomed. On the off chance that Project Antisis were to be discovered, he could pin everything on his chemist. She would make the perfect scapegoat. She worked solo and had zero social life. He could claim to know nothing of her past research with fertility drugs. He’d simply made a bad judgment call by dating an employee, and everyone who saw them together could vouch for the fact that Peggy was enamored with him. All he’d have to do is explain that Peggy was so screwed up in the head because he broke up with her. She was a terrific insurance policy.

  He rubbed her back. “You look very pretty, Peggy. And I’m glad you’re having a good time. Just remember what I said about not talking work to anyone, understand?”

  “Okay.”

  Chuck rarely drank alcohol, but tonight would be an exception. He found a bar and ordered a screwdriver for himself and a glass of wine for Peggy. When he passed it to her, she declined.

  “I thought you wanted to have fun tonight, Peggy,” he said. “Lighten up a little.”

  Not wanting to disobey him, she took the glass of wine and pretended to sip. As soon as he wasn’t looking, she quickly poured some of the liquid out, into a discarded lowball glass. The doctor told her it would be best to completely abstain from alcohol and she eagerly agreed. She wasn’t even going to take aspirin or aceta
minophen.

  Hanging prominently above the stage where a live band pumped out music he didn’t recognize, a large Derma-Zing banner was illuminated by two spotlights. Chuck didn’t recognize anyone in attendance, but the coordinator made it a point to introduce him and ignite conversations. The party was what he expected: average hors d’oeuvres, loud music, a few local newspaper photographers snapping human interest pictures, smiling businesspeople and professionals who’d come to network, parents of aspiring Miss North Carolina contestants, and lots of pretty girls—most of whom wore delicate ankle or wrist designs. Eyes scanning the ballroom, he spotted one of his spokesmodels strutting his way.

  FORTY-FOUR

  “Hiya, Doc!” Lindsey, said, reaching Holloman first. I’d driven her and a friend to the Wilmington Hilton, where Derma-Zing had sponsored a charity event.

  “Why, hello ladies.” He bumped Lindsey’s fist when she held it out. “What are you doing here?”

  “I’m a local celebrity now. I get invited to all these things. Besides, your PR lady told me I need to start making more public appearances, even though you don’t pay me for all the extra time.”

  He laughed. “You’ve been reimbursed quite nicely for your time so far. By the way, how are you feeling?”

  The girl shrugged. “Okay, I guess. My stomach still hurts, so the doctor is going to run some tests.”

  “Really? What tests?”

  “Nothing major, Dr. Holloman,” I intervened. Lindsey’s medical history was none of his business. “We didn’t realize you were in town.”