X's and O's (Will Kilpatrick, DVM Mystery Series Book 1)

by A. Carlock Maxwell DVM

  Will fell into a trot beside a deputy running toward the noise while fumbling with his holster. Fearful of being shot in the foot at any second, he swung to the man's left. People came out of shops, looked towards the commotion. The door to Dr. Dudley's medical clinic opened. A nurse attractive enough to be utilized as a cardiac stress test stepped out, looked around. He had seen her yesterday, outside Hensley's room. She smiled and gave a wave as he moved by. Maybe she was the one the brothers Grim mentioned. It might be prudent to talk with her.

  Will slowed down to keep up with the deputy. "What's going on?"

  "Not sure." He panted as the street angled uphill. "No fireworks planned for today. But we had another crank call last night."

  "Crank call?"

  "That animal liberation group threatening to blow town up again." Each word punctuated an exhalation as he stopped, hands on knees, and struggled for breath. "Ain't that about crazy?" He studied Will. Especially the clothing smeared with various secretions, several commonly associated with crime scenes. "You sure are a nosy Nate. Do I know you? Is that blood on your shirt?"

  "Will Kilpatrick. Serial killer." He raised his hands as if being arrested. "Just kidding. My Uncle Bill was the vet. I'm here to settle some paperwork."

  He grunted, arms crossed, body angled. "Well, don't do anything suspicious or I'm apt to get suspicious."

  "Yes, sir. I wouldn't want to put you through that. Did they investigate his accident? To be sure that's what it was?"

  Seth gave him a slanted look and shrugged. "Sheriff Ledbetter says it was an accident. Closed the case. Guess there's where it'll stay."

  The crowd milled as the officer asked who had set the fireworks off. From the debris, it had been several hundred dollars worth. No one confessed and the crowd drifted back towards the square.

  Kids began yelling for their parents when they discovered their chickens running loose. Since even the over-achievers amongst domesticated chickens seldom respond to pet names or shouted commands, their pace picked up when the poultry posse gave chase.

  "What is the world coming to?" A parent yelled, waving a piece of paper as she stalked towards the officer, aggravation shaking her fleshy jowls. "Listen to this. There's one of these flyers on every cage."

  "Wait a sec." The deputy reached for his shirt pocket. "Let me get my notebook out. Need to make an official report."

  The lady thrust a spare flyer into his hand. "This is report enough, Seth."

  "Good idea."

  "Let my chickens go. It is a disgrace to keep them confined. They have dreams. They have aspirations. Do not teach these young people to perpetuate exploitation. Pioneer the new 4-H. Heart healthy holistic herbs. Remember what happened to Dr. Kilpatrick. Signed, PETTA. Please End Tyranny Towards Animals."

  The lady threw her hands up as they watched the kids' scramble after the birds. Agile and energetic after being overfed production rations for months, they proved more elusive than catching a glimpse of Elvis in cloud formations. "These are chickens, not political prisoners."

  Will trailed the deputy, listened to his conversation with the upset parent, promising the department would spare no effort in tracking the group down. While they talked, Will picked up a flyer, folded it, and stuffed it in his back pocket. The parent had asked the right question. What was the world coming to?

  Had the brothers Grim, Bicycle Pete, and Jug Marlin been correct in suggesting foul play was involved?

  If Deputy Seth's handling of a chicken caper reflected the department's overall crime-solving ability, the sheriff wasn't Columbo.

  Someone tapped his shoulder. He turned. Skeets. Looking more lovely than a law enforcement official should. Though not searching for excuses to stay in the Springs, she would be five good ones. Sitting in the swing last night had rekindled many memories, ignited new ones.

  "I saw you shoplift that brochure. You must lead a boring life if that's your reading material."

  He ducked his head. "I cast myself upon the mercy of the justice system."

  She opened her arms. "Cast away. I could arrest you for the way you're dressed. Take the clothes for evidence."

  He laughed at her flirtatious words while watching a truck slow down as it drove by. Liza Hall. Unsmiling.

  Skeets hadn't missed the hostile expression. "You do something to Ellie May? She didn't look happy."

  He ignored Skeets's catty reference. "Her dog died at the clinic yesterday. She didn't take it well."

  "Heard about that. Sorry." She crossed her arms. "Saw you come out of Kincaid's. Guess you signed papers today."

  "Not exactly. Looks like I have some decisions to make." He ran his fingers through his hair. Now wasn't the time to discuss that. And she wouldn't be the best to discuss it with. "Had an interesting chat with Otis Spivey today. Claimed he had an agreement to buy Uncle Bill's property. Kincaid said that wasn't the case."

  Skeets rubbed an ear. "I would believe a lawyer over Spivey, if you get my drift." The sun accented the scattering of freckles on her nose. She placed a hand on his arm. "How about I bring something over for supper? We could sit in the swing again. Do some more catching up."

  He nodded, relieved. He hadn't known how to invite her out tonight without seeming over-anxious to resume their relationship. Although agreeing to her request basically said the same. Perhaps he would find something in the Sentinel archives that he could ask her about. "Fine by me. I'll fix something for dessert."

  A seductive smile sauntered across her face. "I'd like dessert."

  ***

  After talking with a sympathetic young lady in the Sentinel office several minutes, saying he was compiling a memory book about his uncle, he found himself in their archives. The musty smell of old issues made his nose itch and prompted a sneeze. After debating where to start his search, he decided on 1960, the year Uncle Bill graduated high school. Given that the Sentinel was a twelve page weekly paper, perusing a year's headlines wouldn't take long.

  July's first issue contained a Page 2 story about a man who reported missing the previous week. Louis Johnson. A local farmer. And father of Barbara Johnson, Uncle Bill's fiancée. After mention in two subsequent issues, it dropped from being reported besides sporadic requests for people to be on the lookout and, if seen, to call the sheriff's department.

  Though it seemed a long-shot that two people would disappear from a place as small as the Springs, he hastily checked through the 1959 and 1961 issues. Nothing similar had happened.

  He stepped onto the square, nearly colliding with Deputy Seth.

  "You again." Seth surveyed his wardrobe. "You've changed clothes."

  Will grinned. "I hope that's not suspicious behavior."

  "Nah." He pointed a thumb at the Sentinel office. "Whatcha doing in there?"

  Recalling Hensley's admonition, he needed to come up with something besides the truth. "Just looking at the article on Uncle Bill."

  "Gotcha." His walkie-talkie chirped as he turned in. "Gonna say hi to my girl friend. See you around."

  On the way to the clinic, he attempted to piece together a logical scenario but couldn't. Should he bring the old case up with Skeets? When they were younger, keeping secrets hadn't been her strength. But people changed.

  Chapter 12

  Will raised a hand after rebuffing Miss Effie's questions pertaining to his meeting with Kincaid. Let her gain momentum and he would be here until Thanksgiving, 2000. "I came by to check the financial records, not to work."

  "This won't take long." Miss Effie sniffed and turned her head. Not being told details had agitated her. He understood. His decision would affect her future too. "They're already here. Wouldn't be polite to send them home."

  He shrugged, glancing at his watch. The extra cash would help pay upcoming travel expenses.

  As he worked through several appointments, he enjoyed reading his uncle's notations on the client records. He had labeled people and their pets and shared the code years ago. A bit warped, but entertaining. So, despite
seeing a client for the first time, Will already knew them to some degree.

  In a short time he had met Cocoa, a Labrador Retriever code-named Tongue due to his licking anyone within six feet. Then Tooter, a Siberian Husky that passed enough gas to lift the Hindenberg. Sally Long, The Professor because of her overwhelming knowledge of everything, had brought in her cat, Muffin, that she claimed suffered either from malaria, tetanus, or a ganglioma.

  Finished with Muffin's ear mite issue, Will entered the exam room to see his next client. He glanced at her file. The nurse the Grims and Otis had mentioned. Phyllis Johnson. PJ. He had seen her earlier on the square. Yesterday, outside Hensley's door at the hospital. Up close, she proved more attractive. Forget your momma's name attractive.

  She appeared to be in her mid-twenties, with wide-set copper eyes. Cinnamon freckles speckled her nose. Unbound, curly hair a shade lighter than her eyes brushed her shoulders. Mint green scrubs accentuated her curves.

  A shy smile tugged lightly at prim lips. It seemed forced, as if she viewed life as a grand tragedy. She stroked Gretchen, a brown and white Lhasa Apso. Surgical drains placed in several massive bite wounds days before his uncle died needed checked. Momma's Girl was notated on the record. Uncle Bill's code for spoiled and pampered and prone to bite.

  "Sorry to hear about your uncle's...accident." She rubbed her wrist as she spoke in an uneven voice. "I can't believe it happened so soon after I was here last. I'll always remember the bad mood he was in when I arrived." She breathed a dismal sigh and licked her bottom lip. "Thanks for making time to check Gretchen during my lunch break. I'm sure you've got lots going on."

  Hesitation gapped her words. If he could get Miss Effie out of the way, he could ask a few questions. "Is she in a good mood today?"

  Surprised, she chuckled. "That's an odd question. She's the epitome of a bon vivant."

  "Does that stand for good in a foreign language?"

  Miss Effie answered first. "It means healthy liver in French. If you have normal liver function there, it's a miracle. Check out one of their menus sometime."

  He could only stare at her. For some reason, her hackles were up. A good plan might be sending her on an errand. To Nebraska.

  Laughter bubbled over PJ's perfect teeth. The smile lifting full lips lent her a natural beauty. What a relief to meet a local woman not obsessed to either see his name and funeral details on the mortuary sign or to be married by day's end. "Yes, that's very good."

  Will patted Gretchen's head. Her brush of a tail swept the table while she licked his hand. The hair on her back, large patches on either side, and on her rear legs had been clipped to the hide. Rows of stitches ran every direction. Serum crusted the ends of latex tubing projecting from the larger wounds. Minor infection oozed around two flank wounds. "She's doing great. A bit of drainage. But I'd like to give her an antibiotic injection and change her prescription."

  PJ's smile appeared spontaneous. Wedding jewelry was absent from the hand stroking Gretchen. If she wasn't dating a sniper, he might ask her out. If he stayed. "I've done my best. You think she'll be alright?"

  He gave a half-shrug and winked. "From the looks of things, you've been a wonderful nurse. We'll check the drains again in a few days. Maybe remove them then."

  "It's a relief knowing that you're staying." She paused and rubbed Gretchen's ear. "I'll bring her in every day if you think I need to."

  Miss Effie grunted an exasperated huff. "I hardly think that will be necessary. Why, a big girl like you, nursing degree and all, could take those tubes out by yourself."

  Will went into the pharmacy and pulled a dose of antibiotic into a syringe. Why had he suggested a recheck? He wouldn't be here that long. He turned as Miss Effie slid into the room.

  She stared at him, shaking her head. "That's about the poorest exhibition I've ever seen. I'll bring her in every day if you think I need to. Holy estrogen. Give this old lady a break."

  Will rebuffed her with the wave of a hand. How had Uncle Will survived twenty years of her opinionated behavior? Another few hours like this and he would be looking for street drugs. "I've got a plan."

  Her cheeks puffed out like a chipmunk with impacted molars. "It better include a new ID and a ticket to Argentina. From the way she's gawking at you, you looked like her first husband."

  "She's been married?"

  Miss Effie spoke through a smirk. "Nope. And just so you know, it was her sister Dr. Bill was going to marry. And her car he was driving."

  Gretchen wagged her tail during the injection. PJ's gaze held his two beats before dropping back to the dog. "She didn't even feel it. Sometimes shots make her a bit upset." She smiled with energy sufficient to power a Trident submarine. "I really appreciate your gentleness with her."

  Miss Effie cleared her throat. "He's gentle with all his patients. Not just Gretchen."

  Will sent Miss Effie after Gretchen's new prescription. "She's been a model patient. Is there anything else?"

  PJ pointed at the medical chart. "What does Momma's Girl mean?"

  "Oh, that." Will felt a flush flare from his neck. "I'm not sure."

  One hand worried a button on her blouse. "It has to mean something." Her eyes were as adamant as her voice and pressed for an answer.

  Will tilted his head, lifted his eyebrows. Why not? He almost mentioned it, but decided to see if she would. "Our secret?"

  She leaned in, lips slightly parted. "I love secrets."

  "Uncle Bill had a code. Momma's Girl or Momma's Little Baby means a patient might bite."

  "I see. I guess that makes sense." PJ crossed her arms, forced a smile lacking conviction. "Are you going to stay on permanent?"

  "Not sure yet. But I don't think so."

  Her nod said she wasn't surprised. "It'd be hard to settle in such a little place after living in the big city."

  Will nodded, grateful for a sympathetic ear. He jotted notes while talking. "Right. Especially since I'm going on staff at Auburn. It would be easier if I could sell the practice. Somebody already wants the farm."

  "Really? Who?"

  He looked up. "Otis Spivey. Do you know him?"

  "Hard not to know him. Local football hero. Running for governor." She shrouded her eyes and tapped the table. "I'd advise you to stay away from him." Her voice dropped to the faintest of whispers. "He gives me the creeps. He's been stalking one of my friends."

  His negative first impression of Spivey must have been spot on. He took pride in being a good judge of people. "I met him this morning. For an ex-jock, he didn't look so well."

  PJ placed a hand on Gretchen's back. "If you had his liver, you wouldn't look well either."

  "What's that mean?"

  She waved a dismissive hand. "Everyone knows he drinks his body weight in booze every week."

  "Oh. He claims he had an agreement with Uncle Bill. Something about a golf course. If that's true, I could be out of here quick." He realized he was talking too much about himself. "Are you from here?"

  Her highlighted hair swished from side to side as she shook her head. "Grew up in Alpine, the next town over. Work here. For Dr. Dudley."

  Miss Effie stepped into the room. Her eyes judged them, left Will feeling guilty for something. "Here's the pills. We'll take care of the bill up front. Doctor has another client."

  "I'm sure he does." PJ's smile exuded invitation. She held an imaginary phone to her ear and mouthed into it over her shoulder as Miss Effie led her out. "Call me sometime. Soon."

  He would. Questions for PJ remained. Such as why she hadn't mentioned that her sister was Uncle Bill's fiancée. Or that he was driving her car. But Miss Effie had made every effort to keep them part. That probably explained it.

  Miss Effie orchestrated the remaining appointments with the precision of a freight dispatcher, but the clock chimed five times before they finished. After kicking off his Reeboks, he allowed the worn leather chair in Uncle Bill's office to swallow him.

  He had often sat there as a kid, dreamin
g of the day it would be his; took a textbook from the shelf, pretended to research a puzzling case. Now it was real and he didn't experience joy, only a vague resentment.

  Life's struggles, especially here in the past, and the resulting scars made him prefer easy and predictable and safe. To him, teaching surgery at Auburn fit that description. The Springs didn't.

  The day was gone. He still needed to examine the practice books. He needed to call Auburn, update them in on his plans. He smirked. What plans? You had to have time to make plans. And he needed to figure out how an empty grave factored into his uncle occupying one.

  Miss Effie walked in with a stack of papers, dropped them on the desk.

  "Here's the financial records from the past several years. His income tax records are there, too." She fumbled in her pants pocket. "Here's all the keys. You can lock up when you go. See you in the morning?"

  A defeated sigh dribbled from the corner of his mouth. "Yes. But please don't schedule appointments. I need time to tend to some loose ends. Then I'll be leaving."

  "I've already lined up a simple horse call near Alpine in the morning. Blood samples for Coggin's tests." Miss Effie raised her hands, as if surrendering to an invisible authority. "After that, I'll try my best. But if folks know you're here and call, I can't help that."

  "Try to help it. While I'm here, I'm the boss." He paused, thought of something else. "Do you remember Uncle Bill being in a bad mood the day PJ came in with Gretchen?"

  Her forehead furrowed. "He had an argument that day. With Otis Spivey. I told you on the phone." She raised a hand, palm up. "But they always argued."

  "Tell me again." He kept his voice neutral.

  She leaned against the door. "Otis came in for a prescription refill. When I came back with it, he was looking at his client file. I must have left it laying out. He was not happy."

  He shuffled through some of the papers, not bothering to look up. "Why?"

  "He seemed upset about something written on his record."