Due for Discard

by Sharon St. George

  “Hi, yourself.”

  “Have you heard anything more?”

  “Nothing new.” He glanced around. “Looks like you’re turning into quite the ranch hand.”

  Fanny trotted over to rub her head against Harry’s ankle. He leaned down to scratch the top of her head, and she hacked up a slimy fur ball on the toe of his shoe. I ran inside and grabbed a handful of paper towels.

  Harry shook the gunk off the edge of the deck to the ground below, and wiped his shoe clean. “Did you forget her fur ball medicine?”

  “I’m afraid so. I’ll do it tomorrow before Amah and Jack get home.”

  “Tomorrow? I thought they were coming home Saturday.”

  “So did I, but Amah just called. They’re due back tomorrow afternoon.”

  “Damn. Bad timing.” He side-stepped Fanny, who was rubbing his ankle again, and we went inside.

  I handed him a bottle of beer and waited for a sign that he detected the dead turkey smell. He inhaled and asked what we were having for dinner.

  “Fried chicken,” I said. “Why?”

  “Smells a little different.”

  “I know. The Four Corners deli is trying a new recipe.”

  He gave me a skeptical look and took a long draw from the bottle. I pulled the chicken from the oven where I’d been keeping it warm and put some pieces on paper plates with the potato salad. We sat at my recently scoured dinette table and started eating.

  Dusk had settled on Coyote Creek, and the darkening room created an eerie disconnect between Harry’s mood and mine. Harry munched away, content without conversation, while I floundered in uncertainty. I had never kept secrets from my brother. I was dying to tell him what I suspected about Maybelline and my theory about Bonnie’s uncle being in cahoots with Dr. Beardsley. I was less eager to tell him about my stalker’s progression from spray paint to bloodshed.

  “Hey, earth to Aimless. I’m talking to you.”

  “What?” I’d been so deep in thought I’d tuned him out.

  “Where’s Bosco?”

  “He’s lost. I think he ran away.”

  Harry’s lips twitched. “You lost Jack’s foul-mouthed bird? How’d you manage that?” Harry got up and wandered through the studio’s living space, looking under furniture and behind the stuff on my bookshelves.

  “As if you didn’t know. Nick must have filled you in on the whole catastrophe.”

  “What’s he got to do with it?”

  “You’re the one who sicced him on me as a babysitter. Doesn’t he report to you?”

  “Yeah, but he hasn’t reported lately. Last I heard you two were going out to dinner. How’d that turn out? I thought maybe you were getting back together.”

  “Sorry to disappoint you, but it looks like he’s never going to be your brother-in-law.”

  “Too bad. He’s still my best friend.” Harry walked back to the kitchen and opened the cupboards.

  “Save yourself the trouble. The bird’s not here. I’ve looked everywhere.”

  Harry sat and picked up another drumstick. “Fanny?”

  “I don’t think so. She always leaves a messy crime scene. There’s nothing linking her to his disappearance. Not a single feather.”

  “When did you notice he was gone?”

  With that perfect opening, I forged ahead. “Something happened here last night. I think Bosco got out during the … thing that happened.”

  Harry stopped eating and leaned forward, elbows on the table. “What happened?”

  “A break-in.”

  He shot out of his chair. “What kind of break-in? Were you home? Jesus, Aimee, why didn’t you call?”

  “I wasn’t home when it happened. Nick was here when I discovered it. We called the sheriff’s office and a deputy came by. I didn’t want to worry you.” I was near tears, which always gave me a little edge with my brother. “We thought you were going to be arrested today.”

  Harry sat again, making a visible effort to calm himself. “Tell me everything that happened last night. Better yet, tell me everything you’ve been keeping from me.”

  “If I do, you have to promise not to yell at me.”

  “I’m not promising anything. Just tell me.”

  I relayed my suspicions about Maybelline and described the whole sordid turkey scene while he sat shaking his head.

  “Where’s the evidence of this break-in?” Harry looked around the spotless kitchen with a skeptical eye.

  I told him about trying to bury the mess. Just talking about it made my shin throb. “Nick took pictures, and so did the sheriff’s deputy.”

  “Then what do you need me for?”

  “I think I’m close to figuring out who killed Bonnie.”

  “You’ve been sleuthing with Nick so far. Why bring me on board now?”

  “Nick thinks my theory about Maybelline—my volunteer—is too far-fetched.”

  “What makes you think I don’t?”

  “You’ve always been able to think outside the box. You’re better at it than I am. And I won’t take no for an answer.”

  He sighed in resignation. “This could take a while, but start talking, and don’t leave anything out.”

  I told him everything I had learned about anyone connected to Bonnie Beardsley. We agreed that Milton and Netta Palmer were long shots. Ditto for the Underhills, although there was still some doubt about Grover Underhill. Lorraine Beardsley was also an unlikely candidate; she was just too darned happy to bother killing the likes of Bonnie.

  That left Dr. Beardsley and his sister as my prime suspects, other than a couple of dark horses. One was Jared Quinn; the other was Bonnie’s unidentified uncle who worked at TMC. I added my suspicions about Mercer. When I finished, Harry went to the fridge and popped the cap on another beer.

  “Is that going to help you think?” I asked.

  “Nope. But it’ll keep me from yelling at you. I can’t believe you did all this shit without telling me.”

  “You were busy building a mall and getting arrested. I couldn’t get hold of you even when I tried.”

  “You’ve got my attention now. You said Nick took pictures of the turkey. Do you have them?”

  “No, they’re still in Nick’s phone.”

  “What about the other pictures? Didn’t you say he took some pictures at that facility in Marin County? Do you have those?”

  “He used his digital camera for those. I just checked my email and they weren’t there.” I ran over and checked again. “Still not there.”

  “Call him.”

  “I already did. Just before you got here.”

  Harry drained half the beer and belched long and loud. He poured the rest in the sink. “Put on a pot of coffee. This looks like an all-nighter.”

  “Should we call Abe? Maybe he should be here, too.”

  “Do you know what Abe charges per hour?”

  “Do I want to?”

  “No. We’ll do our brainstorming first. Then we’ll call him. Now how about starting that coffee?”

  I went to the counter and opened the coffee can. “Sorry, it’s empty.”

  “Then why do you have it on the counter?”

  “To remind me to buy more.”

  “What about Jack and Amah’s? We can borrow.”

  “This was Jack and Amah’s.”

  “Damn. Don’t you ever go to the store?”

  “I stopped there on the way home to get our dinner. I forgot coffee. I’ll go back to Four Corners. They’re open ’til ten o’clock.”

  “I’ll go. You keep trying to reach Nick, and keep watching your email.” He stepped out onto the deck. “Lock your door. I’ll be right back.”

  He bounded down the steps, drove down the lane, and peeled out onto the street.

  I wrapped the leftover chicken in foil and shoved it into the fridge. I put the scraps in Fanny’s bowl. She caught a whiff and dug in.

  Nick’s cell was busy, so I left another message. I hoped he was talking to Abe, getting to t
he bottom of the Verna Beardsley/Maybelline Black mystery.

  Chapter 44

  Every time I tried Nick’s cell, it was busy. My inbox was still empty. Ten minutes passed. Fifteen. I paced the small studio, peering out the kitchen window to watch for Harry’s headlights coming down the lane.

  My phone rang after twenty minutes. Harry.

  “Aimee, did you reach Nick?”

  “I’m trying. His phone’s busy. I left a message. Where are you?”

  “I’m still at the Four Corners Market.”

  “Why?”

  “Flat tire.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “I wish. This isn’t good, Aimee. Someone cut my tire.”

  “But how? You’ve only been there a few minutes.”

  “I think your intruder followed me. He must’ve been watching the ranch.”

  “But why follow you?”

  “To put me out of business so he could come after you.”

  “Damn. How fast can you get back here?”

  “Soon. He only got to one tire. I must have come out of the market before he could do the others.”

  “Are you sure you’re safe? He might still be lurking around there.”

  “Not likely. It’s you he wants. Keep calling Nick. Get him out here. And barricade yourself inside. Did you buy the bear spray?”

  “Yes. I picked it up a couple of days ago.”

  “Good. I’ll be there in ten minutes.” He hung up.

  Stillness settled in my chest, followed by dizziness. I had forgotten to breathe. I gulped air, forcing my lungs back to life while I checked the deadbolt on my door and the locks on the windows. From my kitchen window I scanned the lane leading from the street to the llama barn. Manzanita and scrub oak cast murky shadows in the feeble light of a thumbnail moon, but the lane was deserted. If an intruder was out there on foot, the llamas surely would warn me. I located my flashlight and tested it, aiming at the floor; the beam was anemic. It needed batteries, which I didn’t have. I looked out my peephole. The llamas were settled and quiet.

  I went to the kitchen counter for the bear spray. It wasn’t there. It had been there the night Quinn brought me home. I looked on the floor and in all my cupboards. It was gone. Had it been on the counter the night before, when I’d discovered the dead turkey? I couldn’t remember seeing it. The intruder must have taken it.

  I tried Nick’s cellphone again. No luck.

  I glanced at my computer. The message from Nick had arrived. Maybelline Black’s drugs are lithium and aripiprazole. Even if they match, Abe says it’s not enough for a judge.

  Now I needed the photos from Verna Beardsley’s medical chart. Nick’s second message appeared, with the photos attached. I scanned them and found what I was looking for. Verna Beardsley’s prescriptions. There they were. Lithium. Aripiprazole.

  The medications matched. Good, but not good enough for a judge. What else matched? There was nothing in the chart about treating Verna for hyperthyroidism. I scanned the rest of the pages. In her discharge orders I found a brief note: Monitoring of thyroid function recommended.

  I went online to the National Institutes of Health and used PubMed Central to start a search using the keywords hyperthyroidism and bipolar mania. There I found a case report that fit Maybelline like a surgical glove. A patient with a long history of bipolar disorder presented with comorbid hyperthyroidism and bipolar mania after recent discontinuation of lithium treatment.

  Maybelline’s manic behavior and exophthalmos had grown more extreme in just the two weeks I’d known her. She was inappropriately chatty from the beginning, and then there was the incident with the irate patient who doused her with water. I suspected that she had brought it on herself somehow. She had reacted strangely when I spoke to her about having dinner with Vane Beardsley and even more strangely when I brought up the issue of Orrie Mercer using the library restroom. And her unfilled prescriptions were more than three months old. If failure to take her meds was the explanation for her worsening condition, she was a walking time bomb.

  No matter what Abe said, there was no doubt in my mind. Maybelline was Verna Beardsley. Her print on the acrylic toenail proved she was mixed up in her sister-in-law’s death—something she couldn’t have managed without an accomplice. Was it her brother, or was it some hired thug?

  Maybelline had told Lola where I lived. But how did she know? I’d wondered about that earlier without thinking it through. Now I knew why it bothered me. I had seen Orrie Mercer at Four Corners Pizza just days ago. Maybe he had noticed me there, assumed I lived in Coyote Creek and mentioned it to Maybelline. But why? Was it a comment in passing, or was it because Mercer was involved somehow in what happened to Bonnie? I still couldn’t quite believe Orrie Mercer would participate in the murder of his own niece. I had to know if he really was Bonnie’s uncle, and Lorraine Beardsley would have the answer.

  I checked the clock again. Five minutes had passed. No sign of Harry, but everything was quiet. I called Lorraine on my landline to keep my cellphone free. She answered on the second ring. I forged ahead with my apologies for bothering her and said I had confirmed that Verna Beardsley and Maybelline were the same person.

  “I see,” she said. “Then what is it you need from me now?”

  “Do you happen to know a man named Orrie Mercer? A friend of Maybelline’s?”

  “Of course. He’s the man Vane shot in the foot.”

  “He is Bonnie’s uncle?”

  “Yes. Ora Mercer. Dora Belcher’s twin brother. He leached off Bonnie’s folks for years. Mediocre intellect, drug problems off and on. He never amounted to much. They eventually cut him off financially, too.”

  “You said Dr. Beardsley helped him get a job at TMC?”

  “Yes, but I don’t remember—”

  “A security guard?”

  “Yes. That’s it. Vane put in a good word with the security company. Vane felt he owed it to the man. I think I mentioned Mr. Mercer lost a toe in the shooting accident.”

  “Thank you so much.”

  I hung up, rivulets of sweat rolling down my ribs. Where the hell was Harry? Was it Mercer who cut his tire? Was he out there somewhere in the dark doing Dr. Beardsley’s dirty work? If Mercer had killed his own niece, he wouldn’t hesitate to silence me. He had been curt and seemed wary of me from the moment we met, but why? I had assumed it was racism, but there was a more likely, more unnerving reason. I remembered that first day when I asked him if we should report the putrid-smelling Dumpster. How had he responded? It’s not our Dumpster. Belongs to the Happy Ox. That had to be the reason. He knew what was causing the stench, because he had dumped Bonnie’s body in there, hoping she’d end up in a landfill and never be found. But she had been found, and he must have worried that I would remember his reluctance to follow up about the Dumpster. That would explain his transfer to duty outside the building that housed the library and his frequent use of the library’s private restroom. It wasn’t Maybelline he was staying close to.

  It was me.

  I grabbed my phone and called TMC’s switchboard operator. When she picked up, I asked her to transfer me to the security office. I had to know if Orrie Mercer was on duty. After several rings, someone finally picked up.

  “Hello,” I said. “Who’s speaking?”

  “This is Jared Quinn.”

  “What? Why are you answering calls to Security? Why are you even there at this time of night?”

  “Aimee? Is that you?”

  “Yes, it’s me. What’s going on?”

  “We have a VIP patient en route to the ER. I’m arranging—never mind, why are you calling?”

  “I have a situation, too. I need to know if Orrie Mercer is on duty.”

  “No. He didn’t show up for work. Why?”

  “I think he’s the one who cut my tires. He’s been vandalizing my grandparents’ property and threatening me. I’m afraid of what he’ll do next.”

  “Is Mercer on the premises?”

 
“No. Not yet. But I suspect he’s coming.”

  “Jesus. Are you alone out at that freaking zoo?”

  “At the moment, but Harry should be here any minute.”

  “You need to call 911. Say you’re worried about a prowler.”

  “Okay. I’ll do it.”

  Quinn cleared his throat. “This VIP thing is almost under control. I can head out there in a few minutes.”

  “What’s the VIP thing?”

  “A woman tripped over her Chihuahua out by her swimming pool. She fractured an arm and a leg and opened a vein on a piece of broken glass. Lost a lot of blood. Her husband’s out of town, so her bodyguard called for a Life Support Unit. It’s headed out now.”

  “Bodyguard?”

  “Pool boy. Babysitter. Hell, I don’t know what the guy is, but he’s the one who found her pumping blood all over her patio.” I heard the hollow echo of an overhead page in the background. “I have to go,” Quinn said.

  “Wait, do you know if Dr. Beardsley is on call tonight?”

  “He is, and it’s a damn good thing. He’s walking toward me as we speak. He’s going to repair Mrs. VIP’s sliced arm as soon as we can get her into an operating room.”

  “Jared.”

  “What?”

  “Bring your gun.”

  “Damn, Aimee, call 911. And be careful.” His words came out thin, as if he’d lost the breath behind them.

  I hung up and looked out my kitchen window, hoping to see Harry’s headlights. The lane was dark. His warning after our workout at the dojo two weeks earlier came back to me. He had accused me of treating jujitsu like a game or a sport, casually passing tests and winning tournaments. He worried that I’d choke if it came to a real fight. You’d damn well better decide what you will and won’t do. Could I really gouge Mercer’s eyes out if that’s what it took to stop him? A wave of nausea washed over me at the thought, followed by a surge of doubt. What if Harry was right?

  Chapter 45

  I told the 911 dispatcher that I thought there was a prowler on my property, that someone had broken into my home a few days earlier. I said a deputy had responded to that incident. She found the report and promised to send someone as soon as possible, but it might take a while. All the deputies were working emergency calls at the moment.