Midway through his donut, Scott wiped his sugar-speckled lips with a napkin and then exclaimed. “Sorry, Professor Henry! I didn’t mean to eat this kind of stuff in front of you.”
“Don’t worry, Scott.” James sighed. “Just be glad you have the metabolism of a goat.”
Scott guffawed. “’Cause their stomachs have four chambers. Good one!” He cocked his head to the side and then said, “But hummingbirds have the fastest metabolism of all animals. I wouldn’t want that, though, as you’d have no time for anything except for eating.” The phone in James’s office began to ring.
“Sounds good to me,” James murmured crossly and got up to answer the phone. It was Lucy.
“James? Do you have a second?” she asked hopefully.
The black cloud that had been orbiting James’s head disappeared with a poof. “Of course,” he answered brightly. “What can I do for you?”
“The lab results came back,” Lucy paused and took a deep breath. “I kind of eavesdropped on Sheriff Huckabee as he talked to the ME in Rockingham. All I heard was the sheriff repeat the word . . . um . . .” James heard the rustle of paper. “Sorry. Here it is. Coumadin. Do you know what that is?”
“No idea.”
“Well, I can’t look it up from work or they’ll wonder what I’m doing. Plus, I have to type up the incident report and all of the interviews, even though Keith is supposed to do his own.” James could almost feel Lucy shrug at the other end of the line. “Guess it’s better this way, ’cause I get to stay in the loop. Do you have time? I don’t want to keep you from—”
“No problem. We’re really dead today,” James assured her. “I’m not positive, but Coumadin sounds like the name of a drug. Give me a sec and I’ll grab a PDR.”
“A what?”
“It’s a hundred-pound book called the Physicians’ Desk Reference. Hold on a sec.” James placed the receiver on the desk as gently as if he were placing a bird’s egg back in its nest. He grabbed the blue tome from the reference section and returned to his desk, his lethargy completely dissipated. Glancing through the index, he spotted Coumadin under the heading “Blood Modifiers.” He picked up the phone again. “Lucy? Looks like it’s a kind of blood thinner.” He scanned the microscopic font describing Coumadin’s uses. “Comes in tablet form or can be injected. Let’s see here—if I’m translating this medical-speak correctly, it looks like people are mostly given Coumadin after they’ve had heart valve replacement or after having a heart attack, if that’s what myocardial infarction means.”
Lucy digested the information. “Weird,” she said after a pause. “I doubt Brinkley has had heart problems. I mean, he was a football star in high school and then he mowed lawns all day long. What would Coumadin have to do with his sudden death?”
“I dunno. It doesn’t make much sense to me either.”
Lucy was quiet for a moment “I’ll have to just wait and see, I guess. Sit here answering phone calls about lost pets until one of the real deputies gives me a report to type or something,” she added bitterly, her voice trembling a little, as if she might begin to cry. When James failed to respond, she said, “See you Sunday,” and quickly hung up.
James held the receiver aloft until the grating noise blaring out of the earpiece signaled the conclusion of his call. Returning it to its cradle, he thought back to the many times when his wife had been upset about something and he had felt incapable of finding a way to comfort her. It’s not that he didn’t want to, but something in him seemed to shut down and go numb in the face of a woman’s tears. He didn’t know whether Lucy had been on the verge of crying, but that same reaction of idiotic silence had taken a hold of him during the last few seconds of their conversation. He was going to have to be especially attentive and charming on Sunday to make it up to her—two character traits he had never been known for.
As he was about to return to his work at the circulation desk, Scott tapped him on the shoulder.
“You’ve got somethin’ on your pants, Professor.”
James looked down at his clean khakis and saw nothing amiss.
“On the back,” Scott pointed at his own non-existent derriere.
James craned his neck over his shoulder and still saw nothing. Excusing himself, he went into the men’s room and turned his back to the mirror. There, on his wide bottom, were two perfect handprints made of orange dust. James sighed and dampened a paper towel with water. Rubbing at his pants while watching himself in the mirror, he noted that tiny dots of white paper towel were now sticking to his pants along with the orange dust. He moved closer and closer to the mirror above the sink, so that his rear end was practically hanging in the bowl. He was so focused on his reflection that he didn’t hear the door open.
An older man entered the restroom and gasped in shock at the sight of the head librarian thrusting his full buttocks toward the mirror. He pivoted immediately and exited with a huff. James groaned. He would never be able to look at that man in the face again. This is what he got for cheating.
Sunday evening finally rolled around, signaling the end of a gray and rainy week that seemed to have dampened the spirits of everyone in Quincy’s Gap. James stopped by Dolly’s to pick up one of her famous “After Church Pot Roast” specials for his father’s dinner. The diner buzzed with a pleasant air of vivacity. Silverware clinked, people chatted between booths, and Dolly bustled about, laughing heartily as her mighty bosom shook beneath her “Kiss My Okra” apron.
At home, Jackson eyed the take-out container with a frown. “What’s this?” he demanded, sniffing the lid as if the Styrofoam package was filled with fresh manure.
“Pot roast.” James opened the fridge. “There’s a bowl of Caesar salad in there for you, too. I’ll be back around ten-ish.”
“You got some kind of hot date tonight?” Jackson cackled gleefully. “Maybe she could come over and fix our leaky roof instead of you wastin’ yer money throwin’ food down her neck.”
“I told you, Pop. I’m in a supper club,” James said as he glanced at the two plastic buckets sitting on the counter. He had used them to catch the water seeping in through the ceiling of the upstairs bathroom and hallway. James knew that the entire roof needed to be replaced, but he didn’t have that kind of money saved up. As it was, he was completely supporting himself and his father on his librarian’s salary. Jackson never offered his son any money and didn’t even glance at the bills in the mail pile, most of which were in his name. James didn’t know if his father even owned a credit card any longer.
“There are five of us altogether. There will be three women at the meeting tonight,” James added proudly.
Jackson’s caterpillar-like eyebrows crawled higher on his forehead in a mocking expression. “Oh yeah, the Fat Club.”
“Not for long.” James jerked on his windbreaker. It was an old jacket, left in his closet during a visit home years ago. James now found that he couldn’t zip it closed. Jackson smirked and suddenly anger whirled up from deep inside James like a scorching tornado. “At least I’m getting out of the house!” he yelled. “Do you think Ma would have wanted you to sit inside that shed doing God knows what or waste the rest of your life watching game shows? You’re more of a ghost than she is, and she’s the one who died!”
Both men were stunned into silence by the fury in James’s voice. He had never spoken to his father in such a tone. Jackson’s eyes flashed with a mixture of ire and pain. Before his father could deliver one of his scathing responses, James fled.
James was the last one to arrive at Lucy’s house. Bickering with his father had caused him to run late. His mouth had gone dry just thinking about how he had screamed at his remaining parent—he felt both ashamed and liberated at the same time. His father was obviously having trouble dealing with his wife’s death and James should be more sympathetic. On the other hand, he had spent a lifetime accepting his father’s criticism and dour moods and he was simply growing tired of being treated like an uninvited houseguest.
Lucy lived about five miles out of town in a clapboard farmhouse. It was painted a cheerful, butter yellow and it had teal-green shutters. Two large planters filled with sedum and marigolds flanked the green door and an ancient maple tree dropped fiery leaves all over the front steps leading up to the small porch, where Lucy had installed a porch swing and two white wicker rockers. Three lopsided pumpkins squatted on the porch swing, covering up several large rust-colored stains. Everything looked like it could use a fresh coat of paint.
Mail was stuffed in the black metal mailbox and dead leaves blew across a ratty doormat. The word “Welcome” was so faded that only the “l” and the “o” were discernible. The lawn had an air of neglect and Lucy’s dormant azalea bushes were in dire need of pruning.
As James approached the house up an uneven brick walkway, a ferocious chorus of barking erupted from behind a green chainlink fence. This barricade surrounded a seemingly endless backyard, where dense woods suddenly swallowed the dandelion- and thistle-pocked lawn. Lucy materialized at the front door and held the screen door open for the final supper club member.
“Come on in.” She smiled thinly. James noticed that the skin beneath her eyes looked swollen, as if she had been crying or had had too little sleep. He wondered if the diet was taking a big toll on her.
“I like your house,” James said brightly, trying to boost her spirits.
“Thanks. It was my grandparents’ place. Built in 1939.” She beckoned him into the eat-in kitchen. “They raised four kids in a two-bedroom house. I’ve managed to fill it up all by myself, though. I’m kind of a pack rat.”
“Don’t forget your roommates, the Hounds of Hell,” said Bennett, coming forward to greet James. “What are their names again?”
“Benatar, Bono, and Bon Jovi, after the three greatest band leaders of the 80s.” Lucy’s eyes twinkled for a fraction of a second. “The best decade of music ever.”
James wasn’t so sure of that, but he wisely decided to keep quiet. Lucy’s kitchen was decorated in blues and creams. She collected blue pottery roosters and had an array of ivory-colored cow creamers displayed on a baker’s rack. There were a number of dirty dishes in the sink, and a pile of Cosmopolitan magazines looked like they had been hastily dumped on top of the refrigerator.
Gillian was preparing their side dish—fake mashed potatoes. Every few seconds she stopped stirring in order to yank the bottom of her mango-colored turtleneck over her love handles. Yet no matter how much she tugged, the shirt was too short to completely cover her lowest roll of fat. It snapped upward after each tug like a roller shade. Whenever she lifted her arm toward the stovetop, a pale fold of skin poked out above the waistline of her pants. Finally, Gillian gave up and let her flesh hang out, exposed.
“I am among friends,” she said, mostly to herself.
“What’s actually in there, Gillian?” Lindy asked as she gazed into the steaming pot, unconsciously pulling her own shirt down over her round, wide bottom. “It smells really good.”
“It’s in this menu packet James made for us. Here it is.” Gillian pointed to the recipe.
The Flab Five’s Phony Mashed Potatoes
Ingredients
1 head of fresh cauliflower
1½ teaspoons of minced garlic
1 teaspoon rosemary
1 tablespoon of whipped cream cheese
¼ cup grated Parmesan cheese
A generous sprinkle of salt and pepper
¹/8 of a teaspoon of chicken bouillon powder
1 tablespoon of butter substitute such as Smart Beat or Smart Balance
Boil cauliflower for five to six minutes until soft. Drain water. Using a potato masher or large spoon, mash the cauliflower, adding in the rest of the ingredients. Don’t use an electric mixer or food processor—it won’t taste as good. Plus, mashing by hand burns calories! Makes 4 servings.
Gillian paused in her mixing. “I was only supposed to use one tablespoon of butter substitute but I used two. I really like the flavor of butter.”
Bennett placed two bottles of diet soda on the counter. “You look like you could make this in your sleep.”
Gillian beamed. “I actually did a trial run for myself as I was feeling a little pressured about cooking for others.” She cast a sideways glance at the packages of meat sitting in the sink. “I actually doubled this recipe as I will not be partaking in . . . in the tragic consumption of animal meat this evening,” she added theatrically.
“Great. James and I will split the extra one.” Bennett nudged James in the arm. “Right?”
Lindy scowled at Bennett for being insensitive and patted Gillian’s shoulder. “Looks like you did a great job. Bennett and I shared the cost of the meat, but I was in charge of prepping the steaks. I just covered them with some Southwestern meat rub and they’re all ready for the grill. I picked the ones with the least amount of fat. Bennett, did you bring the herb butter?”
Bennett bowed with a toothy grin. “Surely did, ma’am. Half cup butter substitute, one teaspoon rosemary, one teaspoon parsley, and a sprinkle of garlic salt. I then rolled them into balls with a spoon. They’ll melt nice and fast on those hot steaks. That is, if the dogs don’t attack me on the way to the grill.” Bennett eyed Lucy.
“I’ll protect you. Come on, I’m starving.” Lucy led him to the deck where her grill was fired up and ready to cook their sirloin strips.
A few minutes later the supper club toasted their first meal with glasses of diet soda. They agreed to put off the discussion of their weight loss progress (or lack thereof) until after the meal. As they ate Caesar salad, cauliflower potatoes, and steak with herb butter, the conversation naturally drifted toward the most interesting event of everyone’s week—Brinkley’s death.
“So what’s new with the Case of the Has-Been Football Star, Ms. Sheriff?” Lindy teased Lucy.
Lucy’s lip quivered. Wordlessly, she hid her face in her hands as a pregnant silence descended on the table.
Lindy leaned over to clasp Lucy’s arm. “Lucy, honey. What is it?” she asked with concern.
Lucy wiped a tear track from her cheek and tucked a strand of lustrous hair behind her ear. Sniffing, she said, “I’m sorry, everyone. I’ve been trying to act normal all night but . . . oh, I might as well tell you. The sheriff is going to arrest Whitney Livingstone tomorrow on suspicion of murder.”
“What?” Gillian squeaked, dropping her fork onto her empty plate with a clatter.
“The only reason she’s not in jail now is that the sheriff is hosting a family reunion tonight. First thing tomorrow, though, he’s gonna pick her up.”
“That’s absurd!” Lindy banged her fists on the table. “That girl wouldn’t hurt a soul! Are you saying that she supposedly killed Brinkley Myers?”
“That’s ridiculous,” Gillian harrumphed.
James looked at Lucy. “Does this have something to do with Coumadin?”
“Isn’t that a drug?” Bennett asked questioningly. “What do you know about all this, James?”
James hastily explained Lucy’s telephone call on Thursday and gave a brief definition of Coumadin and its uses.
Lucy issued a heavy sigh. “The problem is, Whitney’s daddy is the only person in Quincy’s Gap taking Coumadin. He had that massive heart attack earlier this year and had to have emergency surgery. I remember Mrs. Livingstone telling me that he needed a heart valve replacement. According to Donovan’s interview with the pharmacist, Mr. Livingstone was prescribed Coumadin right after that surgery. Seems he needed a blood thinner to prevent clots from forming on the new valve. Donovan believes Whitney gave Brinkley the entire contents of her daddy’s bottle.”
James frowned. “So Whitney’s father used the drug. Whitney wasn’t fond of Brinkley. Those are pretty flimsy pieces of evidence. There were no eyewitnesses, right?” Lucy shook her head. “How can an arrest be made on such insubstantial facts?”
“There’s more,” Lucy began.
“Let me hazard a guess,” Bennett
interrupted. “It was what she said yesterday at Dolly’s that did her in, wasn’t it?”
Lucy looked at him in surprise. “How did you know?”
“I was there.” Bennett explained. Looking at the perplexed faces of his tablemates, Bennett went on. “I only work until noon on Saturdays, so I always go to Dolly’s for lunch after my shift. I had a package to deliver to Clint so I went in through the back. Whitney was working behind the counter. I could see three customers sitting there. Two of them were football players, catching some lunch before tonight’s game, and the third was Lucy’s favorite person since Milli Vanilli, Deputy Keith Donovan.”
“Who, in this overly polluted world, is Milli Vanilli?” asked Gillian, momentarily distracted from the main narrative.
“Pseudo-rock stars from the 1980s with cool hair,” Lindy replied. “Go on, Bennett.”
Bennett took a swallow of Diet Dr. Pepper and continued. “As Whitney was handing a check to the football players, one of them asked her if she missed Brinkley. She looked as though she could fire missiles out of her eyeballs when he asked her that, but she just said ‘No, why should I?’ Apparently, the boys thought Whitney was one of Brinkley’s girlfriends.”
“Ha! She’s way too good for pond scum like that!” Lindy asserted.
“That’s about what she said, except not in such nice terms,” Bennett smiled. “But the boys wouldn’t let up. They taunted her, saying, ‘Brinkley said he would meet you behind the movie theater so you could give him what he had comin’.’” Bennett tugged on his toothbrush mustache and then laughed nervously. “My mama would have put all those boys over her knee if she had heard the rest of what they hinted at.”
Carbs & Cadavers Page 7
