by Jeff High
We talked for several more minutes. Afterward I had Camilla draw more blood to run some additional tests and Ann retrieved all the expectant-mother schedules to review with her. Before departing, I gave Margie a quick hug and congratulated her again. There were always added risks with older pregnancies. But given where Margie’s life had been only a few months ago, I could only conclude that God still had big plans for her. It was a good start to the day.
I was in my office later that afternoon when Nancy stopped by to say that Sunflower Miller was there to see me. I hesitated before telling Nancy to send her in. It was late in the day and I just wasn’t sure I was up to listening to another of Sunflower’s rants.
“Did she say what she wants to meet about?” I asked.
“I don’t think she wants to chat.”
“I don’t understand.”
“She’s in exam room two. She’s sick.”
“Seriously?”
“Seriously.”
“Wow. Okay. I’ll be right there.” This was an unexpected first and, I had to admit, rather troubling. Given Sunflower’s disdain of institutional medicine, her condition must be serious. I grabbed my lab coat and stepped briskly.
As I entered, Ann had just finished getting all of Sunflower’s vitals. I immediately noticed that her eyes were puffy and watery.
“Sunflower, I am not sure what to think about seeing you on this side of the clinic. Are the planets out of orbit? Tell me what’s going on.”
“When it rains, it pours, Doc. For some reason my eyes and nose have been running like a faucet.”
I briefly examined her. “Have you been taking any antihistamines?”
“Sure have, but the relief is only temporary. It just keeps coming back.”
We talked at length. Sunflower had a case of severe conjunctivitis that had been chronic for over a week. She had no history of allergies or hay fever. Her temperature was normal and there were no other symptoms. Her illness was puzzling, and as well, it was clear that it had worn her down. She seemed to have lost some of her vibrancy, as well as the spark and obstinacy that I had grown to expect. She agreed to a few tests and I prescribed some medications including an antibiotic to relieve the symptoms. She wasn’t severely sick, just exasperated. For now it seemed that little more could be done other than to treat the symptoms and monitor her situation. As I turned to leave, I paused, recalling something she had said.
“Sunflower, you mentioned a moment ago something about when it rains, it pours. Are you having any other issues?”
“No. Well, yes. But not with me, with my chickens.”
Chickens didn’t fall under my primary practice. A veterinarian named Charlie Ingram came over from Grainger County one or two days a week, although I doubted Sunflower had ever called him. So once again I started backing toward the door, speaking lightly as I departed, “Something afoul with the home on the free range?”
“Yeah. They’re all dying.”
Some ancient memory clicked at this. I stopped and gave Sunflower a studied look.
“Tell me more. How many have died, Sunflower?”
She went on to tell me that in the last three weeks, ten of her best chickens had suddenly developed peculiar choking behaviors and plopped over dead. She had tried to separate them from the others whenever she saw the symptoms, but wasn’t sure of the root cause.
“Have you added any new chickens lately?”
She thought for a moment. “Yeah. A friend from Kentucky gave me a couple of Indian Game chickens. They’re a type of Cornish hen, but really big. They died along with the others.”
I rubbed my chin and reflected on this.
“Sunflower, come to my office with me. I want to look something up.”
I found my Journal of Infectious Diseases on the shelf beside my desk. I flipped through the pages, discovered what I was looking for, and spun the book around for Sunflower to see.
“It’s called Newcastle disease. It affects chickens and causes conjunctivitis in humans. I can’t be certain that’s what we’re dealing with here, but it sure seems suspect.”
Sunflower read through the summary and began to nod her head. Her pensive and subdued appearance projected such a sad contrast to the fiery woman I had known. My heart went out to her.
“Thanks, Luke. Thanks for this and for taking care of me this afternoon.” She paused for a moment and looked down, gathering her thoughts. I couldn’t tell if it was solely from the infection, but her eyes seemed on the cusp of tears. Her voice was penitent. “I know I give you a hard time. But I want you to know I think you’re an excellent doctor.”
She offered a weak smile and began to rise from her chair. I held my hand up to stop her. “Sunflower, can you do something for me?”
“Sure, I guess.”
“Tell me about you.”
She caught the tenderness in my voice and slowly collapsed back into her chair.
“What do you mean?”
“How did you . . . become you?”
To my delight, an elfish smile inched across her face. Her words were bemused, reflective.
“I’ve always been pretty independent. I got it from my dad, I guess. By Watervalley standards, we were outsiders. Dad bought the farm and moved here in 1940. He came from Wisconsin. His people were Norwegian. In those days, Watervalley was slow to warm up to newcomers. He had friends, but I guess most people thought he was peculiar. He had a thick accent and he farmed differently. He grew different crops than the locals and had different kinds of milk cows, Brown Swiss rather than Holsteins. He was skeptical about how things were done around here and it only got worse after his best friend was killed.”
I stopped her. “Hold it. Who are you talking about?”
“A man named Oscar Fox. He moved to Watervalley shortly after my dad did and opened a bakery. It’s an old story and you’ve probably never heard about it. But back in the forties Oscar and some stranger killed each other out at the bandstand late one night. They actually found his body on the edge of our property near the lake. My dad took it hard. They had struck up a pretty strong friendship.”
A name from the case file popped in my head. “Your dad, was his name Otto?”
“Yes, it was. How did you know that?”
“Actually, I know quite a bit about the Oscar Fox murder. It’s been something of a curiosity to me. I read your dad’s name in a copy of the police report.”
Sunflower’s face tightened and a trace of defensiveness entered her voice. “What did it say?”
“Nothing about your dad, as I recall. Only that he had been interviewed.”
“Oh, they interviewed him all right.”
“I don’t understand.”
“All of this happened before I was born and my dad never talked much about it. But a year or so before he died, he told me that the day after the murder the sheriff—I think Lewis was his name—came by and asked him to come down to his office to answer some questions. Daddy went, but when he got there, he was locked in a room and interrogated for several hours.”
“About what?”
“About his friendship with Oscar, about what really happened that night. Oh, and get this, he kept asking Daddy about diamonds.”
I was on the edge of my chair. “Diamonds?”
“Yeah. Of course Daddy had no idea what the sheriff was talking about. Anyway, after it was over, the sheriff apologized and said it was all a big misunderstanding. But he also told Daddy not to talk about what happened, because it was an ongoing investigation. I think it really shook my dad up.”
“Sunflower, have you ever told anyone all this?”
“Not really. It was so long ago. By the time he told me, everyone involved was dead.”
“What do you mean by everyone?”
“As Daddy was leaving the sheriff’s office that night, he said th
ere were only two other cars parked there. He never saw anyone, but he figured out who they belonged to. It was a local banker, Raymond Simmons, and the clinic doctor during that time, a guy named Hinson, I think. Daddy thought they were all in on something. Anyway, after that, Daddy never trusted the police, or banks, or doctors. I guess all that rubbed off on me.”
I was speechless, fascinated by what Sunflower had told me. It was further confirmation of Frank Sanderson’s conspiracy theory. As well, it was the first time diamonds had been mentioned in any context other than rumor.
In time, Sunflower looked at her watch.
“Thanks, Luke. I need to go deal with some chickens.”
“Might be a good idea to call Dr. Ingram and get him involved.”
Sunflower exhaled an exasperated sigh. “Yeah. I’m sure you’re right. Thanks again.”
I walked her to the door. Closing it, I stood and gazed around my office, still slightly stunned and wondering. Maybe, just maybe, diamonds were the key to the Oscar Fox story. A half dozen theories raced though my head. But that’s where they would remain. For now, too many pieces of the puzzle were buried.
CHAPTER 35
Connie Knew
April arrived and with it came Easter Sunday along with all the glory and pageantry of the morning service and the excitement and squealing delight of the Easter egg hunt that afternoon on the church lawn.
There was an awakening to the farm life of Watervalley. By six o’clock in the morning the Farmers’ Co-op was a cacophonous buzz of trucks and tow motors moving tons of seed and fertilizer. Trees were beginning to bloom into rich canopies of green and the yards of Fleming Street teemed with the fragrance of lilacs, clover, and warm grass. The farm fields were drying out and the rich black soil seemed to be waiting for the imminent planting. Spring was attaining its full glory and the days were ripe with promise and expectancy.
But not on all fronts.
The Fox home had received no offers. Its state of disrepair, and high price, necessitated by the bloated mortgage, had made for an unattractive combination. Louise refused to take any additional funds from my secret partnership, leaving foreclosure and auction her only options. Bankruptcy and a difficult future were pretty much guaranteed for her and Will. For me, the situation was a nagging frustration.
I began to take Rhett with me on my morning runs. Over the winter he’d added several pounds, and along with modifying his diet, I was determined to return him to a trimmer shape. He was not as enthusiastic. He would trot along for the first half mile or so, but eventually his heavy coat and heavier panting took their toll. He was content to plop down on someone’s lawn and casually observe the world around him. Left to his own, he would be happy to stay there for hours. Eventually, I was able to cajole him on and we would walk the rest of my route.
Usually we went out to the bandstand to check the progress of the renovation, which was being accomplished at lightning speed. At just over a mile, the run from Fleming Street to the lake seemed like a perfect workout to get Rhett in shape. On Thursday of the second week of April, we started out early and reached the bandstand in record time. Our return was slower, Rhett having overextended himself and unilaterally deciding that several breaks were needed. Connie was waiting for us as we entered the front door. Rhett’s energy level took a notable uptick as he dashed to find her in the kitchen.
“Hello, Mr. Rhett. My, you are looking in fine form.” She rubbed both of his ears as she spoke to him. Her regard toward me was not quite so endearing.
“Good morning, Captain Stinky.”
“I love you too, Connie.” I walked to the counter to pour myself some coffee as she returned to the stove, wearing an amused grin.
“I’ve been asked to get you to do something.”
I took a seat at the kitchen table. “And what would that be?”
“Carl Suggs, the principal over at the high school, wants to know if you will deliver the speech at this year’s graduation.”
“Gee, I don’t know. Maybe. Why doesn’t he ask me himself?”
“He figured you’d have a harder time saying no to me.”
“Well, that’s kind of sneaky. Smart, but sneaky.”
“Oh, I think you could do a fine job if you put a little thought into it. Graduation is still a month away. They’re just a bunch of teenagers. I’m sure you could dispense enough charm and wit to hold their attention for a few minutes.”
“Why don’t you do it? You were valedictorian of your class.”
“And you were valedictorian of your med school class. I’d say that trumps my standing on the academic totem pole. Besides, public speaking is not my thing. I’d rather take a beating. Carl also invited you to come to the prom dance to celebrate with all the juniors and seniors. He said you could bring a date.”
“That’s a deal maker, there. This could be fun.”
“How’s that?”
“Well, dancing queen. You could be my date and show off some of those great moves John was talking about.”
“Humph. Thanks for your kind offer, but I serve on the refreshments committee and won’t have time to be giving any dance lessons. I think you better stick with Miss Christine for your boogie partner.”
“Ahhh. Sounds like somebody’s lost her groove and doesn’t think she can get it back.”
Connie was about to set a plate of eggs and bacon on the table but stopped and glared at me. “Just know this, Doctor. You’ve never seen me ride a bicycle either, but you can bet I still know how.” With that, she set the plate down before me and sauntered back to the stove, certain she had made her point.
I smiled and dove in. “In any case, tell Carl that I’m fine with giving the graduation speech.”
Connie brought her breakfast to the table and joined me.
“Hey,” I said, “I was wondering. Did Estelle ever come up with a name for the bakery?” I knew this had been an ongoing point of contention between them, and couldn’t resist pouring oil on the fire.
Connie stared at me flatly. “My, my, my. You’re trying awful hard to pick a fight this morning, aren’t you?”
I feigned innocence. “Just trying to make conversation, Mrs. Thompson.”
“Sure you are. All that’s missing from that act you’re putting on is a seltzer bottle and big floppy shoes.” She took a bite and studied me warily. “Anyway, it’s been a struggle. She got on a literary kick for a while.”
“Meaning?”
“Let’s see, Grain Expectations, Pie and Prejudice, and the Bun Also Rises were the finalists in that category.”
I laughed out loud. “Interesting.”
“Umm-hmmm. My thoughts exactly. Then she got an epiphany that it should have a religious theme. These included Holy Cannoli, Amazin’ Glazin’, and the Sweet Pie and Bye.”
“So what are your choices?”
“If it were up to me, I’d call it either the Flaky Baker, the Mix-up, or Retarted, if you get my drift. Anyway, the name is still a work in progress.”
“I’m sure Estelle will come up with a name you can both agree on.”
“She better do it soon because we’ve got to change the name in the tile work on the pavement outside the front door.”
“So, how’s the remodeling coming?”
“The work goes fine so long as I keep Estelle from having these flights of fancy.”
“How so?”
“Lately she’s gotten the bright idea to make sandwiches for lunch. But that requires putting things together in real time. Making cakes and pastries ahead, that she can do. Putting sandwiches together on the spot, not gonna happen. Besides, every inch of the kitchen is already dedicated. There’s no more room.”
I nodded thoughtfully. What Connie had said was giving me an idea, one that I would tuck away for later. I had another matter to discuss with her.
“Hey, not
to change the subject, but if memory serves, you have a birthday coming up in a few weeks. A big birthday.”
“Mmm-hmm. Thanks for dropping that little truth bomb. What about it?”
“We need to do a birthday celebration, of course. Speaking of which, what would you like for a birthday gift?”
“How about a particle accelerator?”
“Sure. You want that in pink?”
“No, pink’s not really in my palette. Maybe we should think about something different, like forgetting all about this foolishness.”
“Not gonna happen, Connie T. You don’t turn sixty every day. How about a telescope? You could use it to spy on your neighbors, look at the stars, even search the heavens for intelligent life.”
“Right now I’m not finding any intelligent life in this kitchen.”
“Yeah, yeah. Say all you want. It’s going to happen. Come on, admit it. You like the idea of a birthday party.”
Connie took a sip of her coffee and spoke dispassionately. “Sure, I’m ecstatic. Pardon me while I go do a few cartwheels on the front lawn.”
“Well, don’t worry. I have a plan.”
“Why do those words always scare me?”
She rose to take her dishes back to the sink but paused momentarily, gazing out the large rear windows at the sunlit backyard. “Going to be time to plant a garden soon.”
“I’m assuming that’s a rhetorical statement and not directed toward me.”
Connie turned and regarded me stiffly. “Nothing wrong with getting your hands in the dirt, even for a doctor.”
I was unmoved. “Nothing wrong with letting the grass grow either.”
Connie shook her head. “To plant a garden is to believe in tomorrow.”
“There’s a nice tidbit of wisdom. Who said that, Mother Teresa?”
“No. Actually I think it was Audrey Hepburn.”
“Oh, well, she was my next guess. Anyway, I don’t get the whole fascination with growing a garden. John Harris has been chiding me about it too.”
“At any rate, you need to be calling the Blind Boys about mowing the grass.”
