by MJ Rodgers
Damn annoying. What in the hell was causing it, anyway?
He sank heavily into his black leather chair, resting his elbows on its thick-padded arms, being careful not to lean back against his injured shoulder. He immediately recognized the telltale silver envelope Tami had placed on the top of his mail.
The intercom buzzed. He leaned over and pushed the button. “You got him?”
“The chief of police is on vacation, visiting relatives for the holidays. Sergeant Patterson is on line two. Will he do?”
The corners of Scroogen’s mouth dropped in disgust as his stomach jumped with irritation. “All right, I’ll talk to Patterson.”
“Shall I bring in some wet towels and the first-aid kit?”
Scroogen could hardly feel the wound now. Even the odd burning sensation was retreating, leaving a diffuse tingling in its wake.
“No. I’m not cleaning up. I want the police and the newspaper to take pictures of me as I am. Get Yearsley on the line just as soon as I’m finished with Patterson.”
Scroogen flipped off the intercom, pressed the button for line two, then activated the speaker phone. He rubbed his palms together, trying to work a peculiar pins-and-needles tingling out of his fingers.
“Dole Scroogen here, Sergeant Patterson. Five minutes ago I was attacked in the parking lot behind my office.”
“What happened, exactly, sir?”
“I drove in as usual to my parking space, got out, locked my car, started toward my office. Someone sneaked up behind me, knocked me to the ground and struck me on the left shoulder with some sharp instrument while yelling ‘Silver Power.’”
“Can you identify the person who struck you?”
“I told you I was knocked to the ground and struck from behind. But the voice sounded like Mab Osborne’s.”
“Did this attacker try to take your wallet or valuables?”
Scroogen’s stomach turned over in a queasy wave. He gulped down a strong urge to retch and attributed it to the dunce on the other end of the line.
“You fool! This wasn’t that kind of attack! Does she have to kill me before you guys do something?”
“How badly are you injured?”
Scroogen took a moment to glance over at the caked blood clinging to the ripped edges of his shirt. Some had even splashed onto his suspenders. Both blurred in front of his eyes. He blinked, trying to refocus.
“My shoulder’s bleeding. That good enough for you?”
“Perhaps it would be best if you seek medical attention before coming down to the office to give us your official statement on this matter.”
An acrid bile rose in Scroogen’s throat. “I don’t have time to go traipsing down to your office. I have a business to run.”
“I understand you’re a very busy man, sir, but we will need you in person in order to—”
Scroogen slammed his palm down on his desk right next to the speakerphone’s mike. “Then stop wasting my time and get down here. And make sure you bring a camera!”
Scroogen punched the speakerphone, disconnecting the line. Anger churned at his stomach, quickly transmogrifying into a violent wave of nausea. In some surprise, Scroogen found himself doubled over, retching into the solid oak wastepaper basket.
His head throbbed as he straightened up and a shiver skidded down his back. The room swam like a white blur before his eyes. Sweat dampened his armpits and groin, soaked his socks, collected at the back of his knees. A powerful new wave of nausea doubled him over and he retched again. He shivered and wrapped his sweaty, shaky hands around his middle as an appalling chill swirled into his lungs.
The intercom buzzed. He unwrapped one hand to stretch a finger toward the button.
“Yeah?”
“Shall I get the editor of the newspaper now?”
Scroogen tried to blink away the persistent blurring before his eyes.
“Yeah. We got anything to settle a stomach?”
“I’ll run over to the drugstore after I get the editor on the line.”
Scroogen released the button on the intercom.
He tried to straighten up, but the effort made him feel even weaker and incredibly dizzy. He slumped back over the side of his chair, hugging his arms to his chest. He shivered again. His face was beginning to go numb. He wished like hell he hadn’t left his suit coat in the car.
The intercom buzzed again. The button blurred before his eyes. He whacked at it twice before connecting with numb fingers. He tried to clear his throat, but the collected mucus stuck like a frozen Popsicle to the back of his Adam’s apple. He moved his lips, but he could barely feel them.
“Yeah?”
“Dole, you sound awful,” Tami said on the other end of the intercom. “I’m on my way to the drugstore. Back soon with some relief. Fred Yearsley from the newspaper is on two.”
Scroogen released the intercom button without answering. He shook as an icy sweat climbed up his spine and spread out over his back and down his legs. He couldn’t feel his tongue anymore. Or his jaw.
He barely found the button on the speakerphone. He strained to push out his words.
“Yrsy. Got a stuy.”
“That you, Scroogen?”
Scroogen concentrated on forcing his increasingly numb mouth to open and close. “I gt a stury f’r yu.”
“Did you say a story? Look, you’ll have to stop mumbling and speak up.”
Scroogen shivered anew as the iciness clutching at his spine spread into his leg muscles.
“Ma...Ma—”
“Look, I don’t appreciate these kinds of games, whoever you are. Lose my number.”
The dial tone blared out of the speakerphone.
Scroogen quaked. He didn’t know how much of it was from anger or cold, but every single cell in his body seemed to be vibrating at once. He tried to reach the speakerphone to turn off that damn blaring noise, but his hand felt so cold and heavy and the effort was so exhausting that he gave up.
He closed his eyes, but the fuzzy, swirling snow still swam behind his lids.
His breath came out in rapid little puffs. His legs convulsed beneath the desk. A sharp pain shot through his chest.
Scroogen forgot his anger at the newspaper editor. Scroogen even forgot his anger at Mab Osborne. Along with the bone-chilling cold, a frozen kind of panic clutched at his insides. He was ill. Desperately ill.
He raised his head. Tried to open his eyes. The room swam in sickening waves, everything thick and green-tinged.
He closed his eyes. He didn’t even feel the impact when his head fell forward onto the hard oak desktop.
Chapter Seven
“It’s going to take the boys some time, but they’ll get it pumped out of there,” Douglas said in his gruff voice, his large, bony frame leaning against a long tanker truck that had printed on the sides, Sons of a Twitch.
Octavia watched Douglas’s boys, two hefty men in their fifties, as they attached a suction pump to the back of the large tanker truck. They grinned over scruffy beards and gave thumbs-up signs before dragging the large vacuum-type hose over to the community center to get started on the cleanup job.
“Your boys are pretty special, stopping all their own work to come over here to help their dad this way,” Octavia said.
Douglas shrugged his big, bony shoulders and kicked at a tire of the truck with the toe of his boot. “I better go help ‘em,” he mumbled after a moment.
“We’ll need a crew to disinfect after the initial cleanup,” John said. “I’ll start calling this morning for volunteers.”
“And we’ll need furniture and decorations,” Constance added. “Nothing new, but maybe some members can donate a few extra pieces that they don’t need.”
“I have a lot of old but perfectly good furniture I’d be happy to donate,” Voleta said. “Of course, some of the arms are a bit frayed.”
“We can knit Christmas slipcovers to cover any imperfections,” Constance said. “It will give everything a homey, festive look.”
“I’m certain I can talk a few of our members into using their trucks to bring the furniture donations here,” John said.
“But only after a new paint job,” Mab added as she walked up. “A spanking new paint job!”
Octavia turned toward her grandmother, glad to see her arrive at last. “Is that where you’ve been this morning, Mab? Arranging for the paint?”
“That and making a quick radio announcement so that all the seniors who are able will join us here to help. I explained what happened and the fact that we only have a few days until the Christmas party. We have an awful lot of work to do.”
Octavia was delighted to see and hear the determination in Mab’s face and voice as well as in the other seniors this morning. They all wore sloppy sweat clothes and old running shoes and a spirit of hope and can-do that was undeniable and unbeatable.
She was very proud of her gutsy grandmother for leading this charge after they had been dealt such a disheartening defeat. The emotional endurance and energy of Mab—and of all these seniors—was truly inspiring.
“Mrs. Osborne?”
Octavia turned with her grandmother to see Detective Sergeant Patterson approaching.
“Yes, Sergeant,” Mab said. “I assume you’re here in response to the firemen’s report about Scroogen’s deliberate sabotage of our center last night.”
“No, I’m not here about that matter. I wonder if you would mind coming with me back to the station.”
“If this isn’t about the sabotage to the community center,” Octavia said, “what do you want with my grandmother?”
“Dole Scroogen was attacked this morning.”
“By whom?” Mab asked.
“That’s what we’re trying to determine,” Sergeant Patterson said, looking very pointedly at Mab. “Mr. Scroogen said he believed it was you who attacked him.”
“Believed?” Octavia challenged. “If someone attacked him, shouldn’t he know?”
“He was pushed down and struck from behind, Ms. Osborne. He didn’t see his attacker. Now, Mrs. Osborne, if you will come with me—”
“I did not strike that man from behind,” Mab said, crossing her arms over her chest. “I refuse to be dragged downtown to answer any such ridiculous charges.”
“Mrs. Osborne, I must insist.”
“Insist all you like. I’m needed here. If the Scrooge has any complaint against me, bring him here, and I’ll be happy to call him a liar to his face.”
“I’m sorry, but I can’t do that,” Sergeant Patterson said.
“Why? Because he’s a big businessman and I’m only an old woman?”
“No, ma’am. Because Mr. Scroogen died thirty minutes ago.”
* * *
“I CAN’T BELIEVE he’s gone!” Nancy wailed as she fell back into Brett’s arms and broke down into heart-wrenching, sobs.
Brett eased her back on the deep sofa in the Scroogen living room and cradled her head against his shoulder. He didn’t say anything to her. He didn’t know what to say. He felt as shocked and disoriented by this unexpected turn of events as anyone.
He focused his attention on Dole’s son. Ronald paced before them, as solemn and sour-pussed as always. But this time, Brett granted, he had cause for his morose demeanor.
“What happened, Ronald?”
Ronald stopped pacing and came to stand in front of Brett. His tone, for once, lacked its normal belligerence.
“His secretary, Tami, said he was feeling sick to his stomach, so she went out to the drugstore to get him something. When she got back, she found him lying beneath his desk, unconscious. When she couldn’t rouse him, she called 911. I got there just while the medics were finishing. They told me they had done everything they could, but that he was...gone.”
Nancy turned her face into Brett’s shoulder as Ronald’s final words faded away. Her body was racked with new sobs.
Ronald stood stiffly, his hands hanging off his arms like dead weights, his eyes blinking like light bulbs going bad.
“The medics couldn’t tell you why he died?” Brett pushed.
Ronald shook his head in jerky little spurts.
“How was his heart?”
Nancy’s head rose at Brett’s question. “He had a complete checkup a month ago. Everything was perfect!”
She dabbed a drenched tissue at her red eyes and swollen nose. “Brett, he was only forty-five! This is not right! He shouldn’t have died! You must find out what happened!”
“I’ll find out, Nancy,” Brett assured her, before she once again drowned his shoulder in her wet sobs.
Consoling distraught women had never been Brett’s forte. But investigating the mysterious death of his uncle was something he knew he could do for his aunt.
“Where’s your sister?” he asked of Ronald.
Ronald stared down at him, still appearing to be in a daze. Brett doubted whether the reality of his father’s death had sunk in yet. He knew that somehow he was going to have to try to help Dole’s son through this troubled time, just as he was going to have to help Nancy.
Ronald’s answer, when it finally came, was almost mechanical. “Attending a Christmas party at school.”
Brett didn’t want to be the one to tell Katlyn about her father. Maybe it would be best for his cousin to remain in school until Nancy could cope with the task.
Or Ronald? Perhaps that was what the young man needed—to be useful to others to help him work out his own grief. Perhaps a nudge in the right direction would show him the way.
Worth a try.
“Ronald, you’re the man of the family now,” Brett said. “Nancy and Katlyn are going to need you to be here for them. They are going to need you to be strong.”
Ronald looked down at his stepmother, sobbing so inconsolably, his eyes appearing to focus for the first time in many minutes.
“They need you, Ronald. Katlyn and Nancy need you.”
Brett angled his head meaningfully toward the other side of the couch. After a moment, Ronald slowly sat next to his stepmother. He shoved his arm awkwardly across her shoulders.
As he disengaged himself from Nancy and got to his feet Brett nodded at Ronald. Ronald shifted his body closer to his stepmother, slipping his arm more securely around her shoulders.
“It’s okay,” he said a little gruffly. “I’m here. You can lean on me.”
When Nancy shifted her head and rested it on his thin chest, his face drew in some color and he patted her shoulder, a little uncertainly at first and then with more confidence. Finally, he secured his arm fully around her and looked up at Brett.
“I’ll take care of them,” he announced with a stiffness that could have been grief or pride in his new position—or a mixture of both. “I’m the man of the family now.”
Brett was gratified that Ronald was responding so well to his minimal coaching. Now he could spend his time finding out how and why Dole had died.
Damn, what a mess. And here he was right back in the middle of it. What in the hell had happened?
* * *
“MRS. OSBORNE, I understand what kind of man Dole Scroogen was,” Sergeant Patterson said as he stood before her, fingering both ends of his drooping mustache.
“And what kind of man was he?” Mab asked as she sat in the straight-backed chair across the table from Octavia in the small interrogation room.
“He slapped that ridiculous rent on you seniors, trying to kick you out of the buildings you had built,” Patterson replied. “He was trying to take your radio station away from you. He pushed you into that ditch.”
“So now you believe it was Scroogen who pushed me?”
Octavia had not missed the sarcasm in her grandmother’s last two questions. Sergeant Patterson couldn’t have missed it, either, although he was valiantly trying to overlook it.
“Yes, ma’am, I do believe Scroogen must have pushed you. Which is why I also don’t blame you one bit for hitting him when he showed up at your center last night and made that nasty remark
about your cleaning up that sewage accident.”
“It wasn’t an accident, Sergeant,” Mab corrected him.
“No, ma’am. It was deliberate sabotage,” Patterson agreed.
“So you did get a report from the firemen?”
“Yes, ma’am. And a Mrs. Kope called us last night to report Mr. Scroogen’s unwanted remark and appearance after the calamity at your community center. Of course, we both know Scroogen dumped that sewage into your center, don’t we?”
“Do you know that?”
The sarcasm in Mab’s tone was getting a little too much for the sergeant. A frown drew his eyebrows together.
“Well, naturally we’ll be investigating the matter further, but you know he was the one who did it, right?”
“It would not surprise me,” Mab admitted, for the first time without sarcasm.
“And that’s why it doesn’t surprise me that you were still upset enough at Scroogen this morning to seek him out in the parking lot in back of his building and strike him again. Of course, you might have just gone there to give him a piece of your mind. But when you saw him and remembered all the terrible things that he had done, why, you just grabbed whatever was handy and struck out like any of us would. Isn’t that the way it happened?”
Octavia was sorely tempted to give the persistent sergeant a proper dressing down. But she didn’t because she knew that Mab could not only handle the man, but also wanted to.
“Sergeant, for the umpteenth time, I did not go to the parking lot in back of Mr. Scroogen’s building this morning. I did not strike him.”
“Mrs. Osborne, there were close to twenty witnesses who saw you smack Dole Scroogen in the face last night with your purse.”
“That’s right, Sergeant. I whacked him in the face with my purse. He had it coming.”
Octavia watched as the sergeant plopped one of his big shoes on the seat of his unoccupied chair and rested an elbow on his bent knee as he loomed over Mab, obviously trying to intimidate her.
“And this morning? He had it coming to him then, too?”
“I did not strike him this morning. I did not even see him this morning.”
Patterson straightened and removed his shoe from the chair.
