by Linda Lovely
“Where are those samples?” Mason barked. “Does Dr. Swihart have them?”
I took a deep breath before I answered, knowing full well my reply would move me farther into idiot or suspect territory.
“We put the samples in a cooler and stuck it behind a seat in Andy’s truck. I imagine the cooler’s still there. My brain was fried by the time we got to Udderly, I forgot all about the cooler.”
Deputy Danny spoke up. “Andy’s supposed to be at my Cousin Larry’s farm this morning vaccinating cows. I’ll call.” The deputy whipped out a cell phone and punched buttons.
After a brief conversation, Danny moved the phone away from his ear to give a report. “Andy’s literally penned in with a half-dozen baby calves and their mamas,” he said. “But he gave Larry the go-ahead to get the cooler out of his cab. My cousin’s walking to the truck now.”
While we waited for Larry to finish his treasure hunt, Mason quizzed the techs about testing items that might have spoiled because they hadn’t been refrigerated overnight. The answer? Spoilage probably wouldn’t mask a toxin’s presence.
After Cousin Larry confirmed the cooler was in Andy’s truck, Mason arranged to retrieve it. He also decided Dad and I were no longer needed.
“You two can leave. I’ll have my people dust for fingerprints and secure the house as a crime scene. We’ll let you know when you can return.”
He paused and focused on me. “I’d suggest you get a decent lock for this sunporch door. Any kid with a piece of wire or a hairpin could have jiggered it.”
I nodded. The sheriff didn’t bother to say he’d have more questions for me or that I wasn’t to leave Ardon County without letting him know. The two of us had done this dance before. We both knew all the steps.
I just hoped Mason recalled who the bad actors were the last time we danced. Though a suspect, I wasn’t among the villains bound for prison when the music stopped.
EIGHTEEN
Dad maneuvered around the sheriff’s cruiser and van to back out. Two wheels strayed off the drive and onto the Summer Place lawn. I didn’t object. Maybe the tire tracks would murder some of the crabgrass and weeds I eventually had to exterminate.
“Call Ursula,” Dad suggested. “Find out if she’s cleared to check out. We should be there in ten minutes or less.”
I reached Ursula. She said a doctor was about to give her a get-out-of-hospital free card, but she might be incarcerated fifteen more minutes.
Dad parked in the visitors’ lot. As we walked toward the hospital, I spotted Lawrence Toomey, the Supreme Court nominee, chatting with a younger man. Given the younger guy’s white coat and the stethoscope around his neck, I assumed he was a doctor.
I tugged Dad’s sleeve. “Want to find out what Toomey’s doing here?”
With a brief nod, Dad took the lead, walking purposefully toward a man he might have once put on a list of males least likely to be a sexual predator.
Toomey saw us coming, pasted on a smile, and stuck out his hand. “Hello, Howard.” He inclined his head to include me. “And it’s Brie, isn’t it? Have you come to see Ursula?”
“Yes,” Dad answered deadpan. “We’re hoping to take her home with us. I understand she’s much better. Are you visiting a friend or family member who’s ill?”
“No, no.” Toomey smiled. “I dropped by to congratulate the hospital administration on an excellent rating in Medicare’s Hospital Compare analysis. Then I heard Ursula, my old law school classmate, had been admitted.”
He put a hand on the doctor’s shoulder. “Howard, Brie, have you met Dr. Ridley? He treated Ursula, and says she’s doing much, much better.”
Toomey flicked a look my way. “I heard it was a bad case of food poisoning. One that also killed Harriett Quinn. Any progress in finding the source?”
I ignored Toomey’s question and held out my hand to the physician.
“Hello, Dr. Ridley, I’m Brie Hooker. Dad told me how nice you’ve been. We’re so grateful. Any thoughts about what might have made them sick?”
“Judge Toomey just asked the same thing,” Dr. Ridley answered. “We ran screens on blood and urine from both patients to see if any of the usual culprits like listeria were at fault. Afraid we didn’t find anything. There are many possibilities, but I have no answer.”
Dad tugged my arm. “Gentlemen, if you’ll excuse us, Ursula is expecting us. Good to see you.”
I wished Dad hadn’t pulled me away.
“Why didn’t you give me a chance to ask Dr. Ridley more questions?” I asked Dad once we reached the elevators.
“I have questions, too,” Dad said. “But I didn’t want Toomey listening in on the answers. I wonder if he knows Ursula’s considering unmasking him as a miserable, misogynist bastard.”
When we entered Ursula’s room, her bed was empty. Had she tired of waiting for us and left ahead of schedule?
The door to the room’s private bathroom was closed. Dad walked over and knocked. “Ursula, you in there?”
“Give me a moment.” The warble in her voice suggested she’d been crying.
Ursula opened the door. Her eyes were red and swollen. Her complexion blotchy. She bore no resemblance to the composed Judge Ursula of TV fame.
“Let’s get out of here,” she managed. “The paperwork’s all done. Just need to call a nurse and submit to the final indignity of being wheeled outside.”
She attempted a smile. “Come give me a hug, Brie. I can’t tell you how sorry I was to hear Harriett died. Please don’t let the bad press or anything else make you feel guilty. This wasn’t your fault.”
Bad press? Racing through my chores at Udderly before meeting the sheriff, I hadn’t listened to any newscasts. We didn’t take the paper. Aunt Eva refused to subscribe to the Ardon Chronicle and give the owners a single penny.
“I haven’t read or heard any news today.” Did I want to know? I was more than a little afraid to ask. “What are they saying?”
Ursula shuffled over to a nightstand and handed me a copy of the Chronicle. This was the same newspaper Allie Gerome, the former publisher, had used to accuse me, Aunt Eva, and Eva’s good friend, Governor Carol Strong, of all manner of evil deeds.
The family newspaper was now operated by Allie’s nephew, Nate Gerome. Though less toxic than his predecessor, Nate would relish printing any article that cast the Hooker clan in a bad light.
“You can read the story,” Ursula answered. “But first, get me out of here and as far away from that slick monster Lawrence Toomey as humanly possible.”
“What?” Dad exploded. “Has he been bothering you?”
“You could say so.” Ursula choked back a sob. “I’d dozed off for a few minutes. When I woke, Toomey was at the foot of my bed, studying my medical chart. The door to the hospital room was closed. He walked over and grabbed my left hand so I couldn’t reach the nurse call button. He squeezed so hard I thought my fingers might snap.”
She looked down at her hand and flexed her fingers.
“Once he had my attention, he leaned in to whisper a threat. Said I’d better not dredge up any ancient accusations about a ‘sexual indiscretion’—of course, he didn’t utter the word ‘rape’.”
“What?” I gasped. “He threatened you while you were lying in a hospital bed?”
“He promised any attempt I made to sully his reputation would backfire and result in my own character being ripped to shreds. Claimed he’d chatted with several former classmates, male friends who’d swear on a stack of bibles I was a boozing slut, who’d have a hard time remembering how many men I’d screwed on any given night.”
A blotch of red climbed Dad’s throat and colored his cheeks. A sure sign he was angry. “Toomey made certain no one overheard him, right? He was just paying a ‘get-well’ call on an old college friend.”
“Naturally,” Ursula agreed. “Dr. Ri
dley came in seconds after Toomey threatened me. Larry the Lech smiled and patted my hand like he was consoling a friend.” She shuddered. “I don’t want to think about it anymore. Let’s go.”
I was so incensed by Toomey’s threat I forgot all about the Ardon Chronicle clutched in my mitt until I scooted into the backseat of Dad’s SUV. Ursula was tucked into the front passenger seat. She and Dad were both uncharacteristically quiet. That gave me a chance to scan the article as we drove to my folks’ house.
The story was mostly factual although the reporter—or Nate as editor—had carefully selected which facts to exclude. The headline? “Invitation-Only Luncheon Leaves 1 Dead, Others Ill.”
Comments from Bert Rider and Mrs. Quinn were pulled out of the body and printed in bold type as graphics. Bert was quoted as saying he’d never felt so sick and planned to sue and demand DHEC revoke Summer Place’s certification as a commercial kitchen.
Harriett’s mother repeated the accusation that I’d intentionally poisoned her daughter and suggested I did it as revenge towards Mrs. Quinn’s participation in a protest of alleged satanic activities at Udderly Kidding Dairy.
Would wonders never cease? Nate hadn’t contacted me for comment.
It concluded that Sheriff Mason would look into Mrs. Quinn’s allegation I’d intentionally tampered with the food, which, if proven, would make Harriett’s death a homicide.
Naturally the newspaper didn’t mention I was fully cooperating with the sheriff or that the food poisoning victims included my own mother. It also failed to identify the alleged Udderly satanic activity as a harmless goat yoga class.
“Good grief,” I muttered as I tossed the paper on the seat. Too bad I didn’t buy the old adage that any publicity was good publicity. I couldn’t fathom how Summer Place’s new-found association with food poisoning and accusations of satanic activity could in any way be good publicity.
Ursula heard my muttering and turned around. “You still tormenting your aunt and mom with cheese-and-meat substitutes for cuss words? If so, I think you’re entitled to blast out your whole blue cheese and baloney vocabulary after reading that paper’s slanted coverage.”
She frowned. “The reporting made me realize how that rag would react if I denounced Toomey as a sexual predator and hypocrite. Makes me even more determined to expose that slime bucket. Toomey does not deserve a lifetime Supreme Court appointment. The White House and Congress are entitled to appoint someone who shares their Constitutional outlook. That doesn’t mean a misogynist, blackmailer, and liar should be awarded that honor. I just hope there’s a way to reveal his true character without hurting Amber.”
NINETEEN
As Dad parked in my folks’ garage, my cell phone vibrated. The display offered a surprise: Aunt Eva. She only called if she needed me to do something pronto. My aunt “didn’t cotton” to using telephones for gossip.
I sighed. I’d hoped to stay for lunch. Dad had to leave soon to teach afternoon classes. I wanted to pamper Mom and Ursula, fix them whatever comfort food they fancied. Then again, my former victims might be happier if I didn’t prepare another midday meal.
“Get your buns back here, Brie, soon as you can,” Aunt Eva blurted. “We have company. A bunch of nutcases from the Temple of True Believers with his holiness Pastor Gooney Guy Nickles leading the crazies.”
“How many people are we talking about?” Alarmed, I imagined Eva trying to hold off a mob with a pitchfork and a bucket of goat’s milk.
“Fifteen maybe twenty. Chanting and carrying signs.”
Signs? “What do the signs say?”
Eva harrumphed. “’Bout what you’d expect. ‘Justice for Harriett’ is real popular. ‘Sinners Repent’ and ‘To Hell with Goat Yoga’ are tied for second place.”
Murderous mincemeat. “So who’s in the crowd? Mostly women?”
“No. Brought along some menfolk and a handful of kids—youngsters who darn well ought to have their fannies parked at school desks. Probably homeschooling the little snot noses, teaching them Lucifer loves to jump into goat skins for earthly visits. They’ll likely get extra school credit for this civic outing. Today’s lesson: ways to show hatred toward all who think differently than you.”
“Are they actually on Udderly property? Trespassing?”
“Not exactly. They’re outside the gate. Probably think they’re interfering with business. Idiots must not realize we only open our retail store weekends. But I’m feeling a mite uneasy. Keep remembering how that lunatic Susan Young was ready to kick one of our babies like a soccer ball. Don’t want Nickles to get his cult followers so worked up they think they’re ordained to hurt our animals. The commotion’s already riled our guard dogs something fierce.”
I gritted my teeth as I tried to picture the scene. “I’ll be right there, and I’ll call the sheriff.”
“No, don’t do that,” Eva snapped. “They’d be pleased as punch if we brought the law in. A confrontation would let them showboat for the media. Ignoring them’s more likely to get their goat. ’Course if they start messing with our goats, dogs, or even Riley the Rooster, they’ll be sorry. My shotgun’s primed and loaded.”
I hung up and shared Eva’s report with Dad and Ursula.
“I’m canceling my afternoon classes,” Dad stormed. His face was beet red again and I worried about his blood pressure. “I don’t want you and Eva facing down those self-righteous imbeciles alone. I’ve seen Guy Nickles in action. He brought his followers on campus last year to protest Clemson University admitting Muslim students. He’s a bigoted bully.”
I reached across the car seat and squeezed Dad’s arm. “Aunt Eva’s right. If we shrug off their little carnival show and act as if it’s no big deal, they’ll slink away. If they imagine they’re getting to us, they’ll redouble their efforts. If you come, it’ll make them think they’ve scared us.”
Ursula sided with me. “Howard, don’t cancel your classes. These folks may be a nuisance, but, based on what Eva said, there’s no reason to think they’ll turn violent. And you know your sister.” Ursula smiled. “Eva’s bluster alone could turn back an armed regiment. And, if that fails, her buckshot should do the trick.”
Dad’s grim face said he wasn’t convinced.
“If things turn uglier, Brie can call you or the sheriff,” Ursula added. “From what I hear, your daughter has two admiring young hunks who’ll run to her rescue if she whistles.”
Reluctantly, Dad acquiesced. He’d return to campus, though he made me promise multiple times to phone immediately if any True Believers set foot on Udderly proper.
Once Dad was out of earshot, Ursula whispered, “Wish I were feeling well enough to come with you. My Judge Ursula alter ego is pretty darn good at intimidation.”
I reached Udderly Kidding Dairy in under fifteen minutes. Two hundred feet from the turn-off, I caught my first glimpse of the protestors. Curiously they were facing away from the farm. Why? What were they looking at?
A minute later I solved that mystery. A gaudy magnetic sign—Ardon Chronicle—was plastered to the side of a car parked on the verge opposite Udderly’s entrance. A middle-aged reporter in tan chinos leaned against the car and scribbled notes as he chatted up a man holding a large “Justice for Harriett” sign. The sign’s bright red ink looked like wet blood. I was surprised it didn’t include a subhead—”String up Brie.” Though the face of the interview subject was blocked, I gathered it was Reverend Guy Nickles.
While the reporter interviewed the leader, other Temple apostles posed for a news photographer in front of the Udderly Kidding Dairy sign. As I motored ahead, a scowling mother leaned over and yanked her little girl’s arm. “What did I tell you?” she barked at the scrawny kid, who’d let her sign droop sideways. “Don’t slouch. Hold that sign up straight.”
The message on the kid’s sign? “Do Your Yoga in Hell.”
The protestors’ bodie
s were strewn haphazardly across the Udderly Kidding entrance, blocking my car. I tooted out a “shave and a haircut” tune on my horn to warn them my Prius and I were coming through. Nonetheless, I approached slower than molasses to ensure no one could claim injuries if the blockers refused to relocate their derrieres.
The reporter sprinted across the road and banged on my rolled-up car window while his photographer snapped pictures. The man the reporter had been interviewing glared at me over the shoulder of Ardon’s wannabe Clark Kent.
I felt certain I’d just had my first glimpse of Pastor Guy Nickles. Irises so dark they blended into his inky pupils. Black as coal hair. Square jaw. Wild eyebrows. Powerfully built but his skin sagged a bit. Signs the muscles below were wasting?
As Nickles turned his head slightly, I noticed he’d let his hair grow. Proud that he’d sprouted nary a gray hair or proud of his dye job?
Despite my revulsion, I smiled at both men and firmly shook my head at the reporter’s entreaty to roll down my window and answer questions.
“Sorry, can’t stop,” I mouthed with a little wave as my Prius inched forward. “Have animals to care for and chores to finish.”
Pastor Nickles responded by jumping ahead of the reporter to beat on my car hood and spit on my windshield. He screamed, but I could only decipher a few of the words. He was so worked up I thought he might be speaking in tongues. The words that did filter through included “murderer”, “witch”, “evil”, and “devil worshipper”.
After what seemed an hour, my car completed its crawl through the human blockade and on to Udderly soil. I spotted Eva, hoe in hand, supposedly tilling our herb and vegetable garden. Her shotgun rested against a tree less than three feet away. My aunt was monitoring my progress, not even pretending to see what her hoe was striking as she banged it into the earth with impressive force.
