Bloodroot

by Cynthia Riggs

  “That figures.” Ophelia turned to Dr. Mann and asked in a gentler voice, “Will Mrs. Wilmington be all right?” She brushed an auburn hair off the front of his white coat. “Were all of her grandchildren here?”

  “Susan was here,” said Dr. Mann. “I didn’t see the others.”

  “Too much was going on,” said Ophelia. “Exactly what occurred?”

  Dr. Mann looked down at his lab coat and smoothed a hand over the front of it. “We’re not sure yet what happened, Ophelia.” He seemed to notice for the first time the staff members who’d been working on patients: Dr. Sam Minnowfish, who had been about to do a root canal on the large man, and two of the three dental assistants, one who was cleaning a young bearded man’s teeth and one who was taking X-rays of Mrs. Hamilton’s jaw. The one who had been assisting Dr. McBride with Mrs. Wilmington’s usual checkup was missing. The three stood mutely by the doors to their respective operatories.

  Dr. Mann turned to Dr. McBride. “Where is your assistant?”

  “In the lavatory. She’s isn’t taking this well.”

  “Like you think the rest of us are all happy?” asked Dr. Minnowfish.

  “It’s an awful mess,” said the assistant who’d been taking X-rays.

  “We’d better clean things up,” said Dr. Mann, taking charge. “Where’s Vivian?”

  The receptionist scurried into the corridor from the waiting room. “Yes, Dr. Mann?”

  “Please bring us the cleaning supplies.”

  “Certainly, Dr. Mann.” Vivian hurried to the broom closet at the end of the hall.

  “You want all of us to clean?” asked Dr. McBride.

  “All of us, dearie,” said Dr. Demetrios. “You heard him.”

  “The place is a mess,” Dr. Mann said. “We also need to work off the adrenaline generated by this, this”—he swallowed—“unfortunate incident.”

  Vivian returned, wheeling a cartload of plastic bottles, brushes, buckets, and rags, and the clinic’s staff got to work.

  They mopped floors, emptied waste into the incinerator behind the clinic, rinsed bottles and glasses and put them through the autoclave, took linens and uniforms to the laundry near the airport, and wiped down all surfaces with bleach.

  When they were finished, Dr. Mann announced, “Come into my office. You, too, Vivian.” He nodded at the receptionist, who was fanning herself with a copy of the Island Enquirer. After scrubbing floors on hands and knees, she’d collapsed into one of the padded waiting room armchairs, where she sat slumped, her sandaled feet flat on the floor, her floral-printed skirt draped between her spread legs.

  Dr. Minnowfish and the two technicians, Arthur Morgan and Roosevelt Mark, lugged chairs into Dr. Mann’s office. Dr. McBride’s assistant, Jane Douglas, a young woman with silver-blond hair and a stunned look, who’d been helping with Mrs. Wilmington, had come out of the lavatory and was hovering in the background, her face almost as pale as her hair. She murmured, “Horace,” and with that she fainted.

  Mann moved toward her, but Roosevelt was already at her side and caught her as she fell. He lowered her onto the floor and knelt beside her. Her face was ashen. She was perspiring. Roosevelt looked up. “Someone get a blanket.” He pulled off his navy blazer, rolled it up, and put it under her feet. “Shock,” he said. “Small wonder.”

  Mann bent over her. “Jane?”

  No answer.

  Ophelia Demetrios had returned from the linen closet with a blanket and tucked it around Jane.

  “Brandy, do we have any brandy?” asked Sam Minnowfish. Sam was a Wampanoag from Gay Head (Aquinnah).

  Swathed in the blanket, Jane opened her eyes. “I’m all right.” Her voice was weak. “Really. Quite all right. Please. I’m fine.” She eased up to a sitting position on the floor, clutching the blanket.

  Aileen McBride, who didn’t look great herself, appeared with a mug of hot tea from the staff room down the hall and handed it to Mann, who held it up to Jane’s mouth. “I put a couple of spoonfuls of sugar in her tea, Horace, to elevate her blood sugar.”

  Jane took the mug from Mann. “Thank you. I’m sorry to be such a bother.” She took a sip. “How is Mrs. Wilmington?”

  “Mrs. Wilmington will be fine,” he said.

  Minnowfish raised his eyebrows.

  Arthur Morgan, a husky guy with thick black hair and a pockmarked face, helped Jane into a nearby chair. He shook out Roosevelt’s blazer and returned it to him.

  “Would you like me to take you home, Jane?” he asked.

  “No, no. Please. I’m fine.” Jane held the mug in both hands and sipped, eyes closed. She looked as though she’d been rescued from drowning. Her face was gray. Her beautiful silver hair hung in damp strands around her face. She clutched the gray wool blanket around her.

  “Everybody okay now?” asked Mann.

  “Hardly,” said Minnowfish. “But go ahead with whatever you have in mind, Mann.”

  Dr. Mann returned to his office, the only room with a window, and sat behind his desk. The others pulled up chairs in a semicircle before him.

  The phone at the reception desk rang. Vivian left her seat by the door to answer.

  Dr. Mann leaned back in his chair and cleared his throat. “Thank you for your fine work.”

  “What I paid to go to dental school for,” said Minnowfish, “mopping up Mrs. Wilmington’s vomit.”

  “Don’t say that, Sam,” said Ophelia Demetrios.

  “We’re all concerned about this upsetting incident.” Dr. Mann glanced around at his staff.

  “Incident,” repeated Minnowfish. “I like that.”

  “Sam, please!” warned Dr. Demetrios.

  Vivian tiptoed back to her seat. Her glasses had slipped partway down her nose and the sour odor of perspiration drifted in with her.

  “As we know,” Dr. Mann continued, “Mrs. Wilmington has a weak heart. And she’s not as young as she used to be.”

  “She’s considerably younger than Mrs. Trumbull,” said Dr. Demetrios, defending her patient.

  “Not everyone is a Mrs. Trumbull.” Dr. Mann ran a hand over his hair and straightened his tie. “I’m closing the office for the rest of the day. Vivian, please cancel all appointments.”

  “Certainly, Dr. Mann.” Vivian seemed about to cry.

  “By the way,” he said, “What was the call?”

  “Oh, Dr. Mann…” She looked up through bangs that almost concealed her eyes. “It was just a friend of mine who works at the hospital.”

  “Yes, Vivian?”

  “That call, Dr. Mann.” She pushed her glasses back into place with a forefinger. “She wasn’t supposed to say anything.”

  “Well?” asked Mann, showing a bit of impatience.

  “Mrs. Wilmington—” Vivian stopped. “Mrs. Wilmington has passed away.”

  CHAPTER 3

  Within minutes of the time they’d received word of Mrs. Wilmington’s death, Sergeant John Smalley of the state police and Trooper Tim Eldredge showed up at the dental clinic. Smalley was proud of the fact that he weighed only ten pounds more than he had when he played football in college. Tim Eldredge had recently graduated with an associate degree in criminal justice.

  It was shortly after noon. The staff meeting had just broken up and Dr. Mann met them at the door. “Hello, John. Tim.”

  “What d’ya say, Red,” said Smalley. The two shook hands. “Bad news, I’m afraid.”

  “If it’s about Mrs. Wilmington, we heard.”

  “Can’t believe you got the news before we did.”

  Mann grimaced. “Island grapevine at work. Privacy laws be damned. Come on in. I was about to let everyone go home.”

  “Where are they?”

  “In the staff room getting their belongings together.”

  Smalley stepped into the doorway and was greeted by the smell of bleach. “I hope to hell you haven’t cleaned up.”

  “Of course we did. The stench was overwhelming. Everyone got busy the minute Mrs. Wilmington was carried out.
” Mann waved a hand to include the entire dental area. “Nervous energy. Scrubbed everything down.”

  “You have to be joking.” Smalley stood stock-still.

  Mann looked blank. “What do you mean?”

  “Evidence.”

  “Evidence of what?”

  Smalley sighed. “Death of undetermined causes.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Mann leaned against the reception desk and crossed one ankle over the other. “She had a weak heart.” He folded his arms over his chest.

  “Undetermined causes,” Smalley repeated. “You’ve destroyed potential evidence.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake,” said Mann.

  Smalley strode into the clinic and paced the spotlessly clean hall with its sanitized operatories on either side. “I can’t believe he’s such a fool,” he grumbled at Trooper Tim, who was following him around.

  “Maybe he’s not, sir.”

  Smalley paused and glanced at Tim. “We don’t need this shit right now. With the president due next week we’re shorthanded.”

  “Thought he was coming in August.”

  “His daughter’s getting married. June wedding.”

  When they reached Dr. McBride’s cubicle, Mann joined them. “This was where Mrs. Wilmington had her attack,” he said.

  “What did you do with the wastebaskets?” asked Smalley.

  “Usual waste such as paper bibs and towels, that sort of thing, we emptied into the incinerator. That included the rags and towels we used to clean up the mess. Then we rinsed out the containers with a bleach solution. Standard procedure.”

  “The incinerator?” asked Smalley.

  “High tech, state of the art, green. Low emission,” Mann said with pride. “We’re the first facility on the Island with this type of on-site incinerator.”

  “Where the hell is it?” asked Smalley, shifting impatiently.

  “Behind the clinic.” Mann waved in the general direction. “The black box, looks like an office refrigerator.”

  “Is the waste still accessible?”

  “It’s already been fired up. Nothing but clean ash in it.”

  “Damnation, Red.” Smalley sighed and turned away. “What did you do with the medical waste?”

  Mann indicated a new and empty red plastic bag suspended from a metal frame. “Anything with blood or body fluids goes into a biohazard bag. Everyone wore gloves, of course.”

  “I’m afraid to ask. You empty out today’s waste?”

  “Good heavens, yes. Today’s med waste has already been taken to the medical waste disposal unit.”

  “God damn it,” muttered Smalley. “Where’s the normal Island inefficiency when you need it?” He stood, feet apart, fists on his hips. Tim waited silently behind him.

  Mann nodded. “We had to clean up.”

  Smalley moved away from Mann and marched into one clean room after another, getting angrier and angrier.

  “Sorry,” said Mann. “But I could see no reason for not cleaning the mess.”

  “Christ,” said Smalley. “You get an A plus for cleanliness.”

  “Thanks,” said Dr. Mann.

  “I’m supposed to secure the entire place as a potential crime scene.”

  “What are you talking about? There was no crime, John.”

  “The forensic team will be here shortly to collect evidence. You made sure they won’t find any, didn’t you?”

  “What in hell are you implying?”

  “Evidence,” said Smalley. “Destruction of evidence carries a stiff fine and a jail term.”

  “I didn’t think for a moment that—”

  Smalley interrupted him. “That’s for sure.”

  “You don’t have a problem with my dismissing my staff for the afternoon, do you, Sergeant?” Mann asked with more than a touch of sarcasm.

  Smalley ignored him and went to the reception area where staff members had gathered.

  “Do you all live on Island?” he asked.

  Nods all around.

  Smalley turned to Mann. “Go ahead. Dismiss them. You stick around, though.”

  Mann saluted and turned on his heel.

  Arthur Morgan, one of the technicians, had been watching Jane Douglas, who was still pale. “You don’t look so good. I’ll drive you home.”

  “Thank you, Arthur. That’s nice of you. I really don’t feel like driving myself.”

  * * *

  After Dr. Mann dismissed the staff, Vivian Parsons, the receptionist, sat in her car, shivering, her arms wrapped around her stomach. Her face was blotched from weeping. Her eyes were red-rimmed and swollen.

  Roosevelt Mark, one of the dental technicians, came out of the clinic and walked over to where she was parked. He was a small, neat man with steel-rimmed glasses, short white hair, and a tidy white mustache that contrasted nicely with his dark skin. He tapped on her window. “You okay, Viv?” Roosevelt, in his fifties, was a good ten years older than she was.

  Vivian tried to fit the key into the ignition to start the engine so she could lower the window, but her hand was shaking so badly she couldn’t find the slot.

  He opened her car door. “Move over. I’ll drive you home.”

  Vivian shook her head.

  “The gear shift is blocking you,” he said. “Go around to the passenger side. I’ll drive. We’ve all had a rough day.” Even after a morning of scouring the clinic, his khakis looked pressed, his shirt unwrinkled, his tie in place. His blazer, which had been rolled up under Jane Douglas’s feet, was tidy.

  Vivian started to hand him the keys but dropped them instead. She looked blankly at where the keys had fallen onto the floor mat. A half-dozen keys and a brightly cheerful Mickey Mouse dangled from the keychain. The mouse was stepping forward, welcoming arms extended, big round ears alert, a happy grin on his mouse face.

  “I should have realized,” she murmured.

  Roosevelt picked up the keychain by its ears and looked at it. “I would think all these protuberances would get caught up in your purse.”

  She didn’t respond.

  “I’ll stop at the Tidal Rip on our way to your place.”

  “I don’t want to stop at a bar,” said Vivian.

  “Passenger seat,” he repeated, beckoning with both hands. “We’ll talk about it on the way.”

  Vivian tried to swing her legs to the side.

  “Easier if you unfasten your seat belt,” said Roosevelt.

  Vivian, tears welling up again, unbuckled her seat belt, eased herself out of the car, and stumbled around to the passenger side.

  Roosevelt watched. “You really are in a state.”

  “I’m sorry,” murmured Vivian.

  “About Mrs. Wilmington, yes.” He nodded. “Unfortunate.”

  “I shouldn’t have answered the phone.” Vivian tugged a tissue out of her purse and blotted her nose.

  “There was nothing wrong with that.”

  “You know where I live?”

  “Off Wing Road. You’ll have to show me where. But we’ll get something to buck us up, first.”

  “I don’t want a drink.” She held the tissue to her nose.

  “Well, I do. A necessary medicinal dose.”

  He pulled out of the clinic’s parking lot and turned left onto Barnes Road toward Oak Bluffs and some conviviality. Vivian was shaking so hard the car seemed to vibrate in time with her.

  Roosevelt followed the one-way streets in Oak Bluffs until he got onto Circuit Avenue going the right way and there, in front of the Tidal Rip, was a parking space. He pulled into it.

  “I’ve got the touch,” he said with pride. He switched off the ignition and handed her the keys.

  He turned to her. “This is our stop.”

  She shook her head.

  “Look,” he said, “you’re not the only one suffering because of Mrs. Wilmington’s demise. Think of what Dr. McBride must be feeling right now. And her assistant, Jane.”

  Vivian remained seated.

&
nbsp; “Come on, don’t be shy.”

  “I don’t want to go in there,” she said.

  “Okay, give me the keys again. I’ll drive you home. But I’m stopping at the liquor store first for my own sake.”

  She fished out the chunky batch of keys and handed them to him. “All I want is to go home.”

  Roosevelt drove to the far side of the Oak Bluffs harbor. The liquor store parking lot was almost full, but he found a place and pulled into it.

  He glanced at Vivian. She was breathing rapidly and her face was white. “Do you have a blanket in your car?”

  She nodded.

  He found a plush throw on the backseat and tucked it around her. “I’ll be right back. Everything will be okay, Viv.”

  She nodded.

  CHAPTER 4

  Arthur Morgan escorted Jane Douglas to his pickup, opened the passenger door, gathered up empty chips bags and used coffee cups and tossed them behind the seat, along with a ratty towel. “My dog’s favorite place,” he apologized, helping her up into the seat. Arthur was a quiet, stocky man in his mid-thirties, about ten years older than she. He’d changed into jeans and a yellow knit collared shirt. His chin had a shadow of dark beard, although it was just past noon. He fastened his seat belt. She fastened hers.

  Jane had changed out of her green scrubs into black slacks and a white cotton blouse, had combed her hair, and put on a touch of lip gloss. Her face was pale.

  “What kind of dog do you have?” she asked politely.

  “He’s a Heinz Fifty-Seven,” Arthur said, and grinned. “Fifty-seven varieties of dog. My buddy.”

  “How nice,” said Jane, who wasn’t fond of dogs.

  “Heard Roosevelt tell Vivian he was going to stop at the Tidal Rip for a drink. You interested?”

  “No, thank you,” said Jane.

  “I don’t know exactly where you live,” he said, glancing at her. “I know it’s Vineyard Haven, but where, is what I mean.”

  “Off Main Street,” said Jane. “I hate to impose.”

  “No imposition,” said Arthur. “I been looking for an excuse to get to know you better. I mean, us being coworkers and all.”

  Jane turned away from him and looked out the window.

  Arthur turned right, out of the business park onto Barnes Road toward the Edgartown Road.