MURDER IN RETROSPECT (Allie Griffin Mysteries Book 5)

by Leslie Leigh

  Here we go.

  Tomlin continued, "Yeah, I say, 'Chief,' I say, 'we got this girl here, this Allison Griffin, and she's a real pain in the butt. And the funny thing is, she's always there, you know?' And he says, 'Is that so?' And I say, 'Never fails. Every time there's a murder, you can find Allie Griffin a few steps away from it. Every time.' And he says, 'Well that is interesting.' and I say, 'I know, isn’t it?' And he says, 'You ever look into it?' And I say, 'Well, sir, I would love to look into it. The truth is, I've never really gotten the opportunity.' And he says, 'Really?' And I say, 'Ay-yup.' And so he says, 'Well, you got any leads? Any suspicion? Any cause?' And I say, 'Funny you should mention that, because there was some wonky stuff that came up in the death of her husband some time ago.' And he says, 'Really?' And I say, 'Ay-up.' And he says, 'What kind of wonky stuff?' And then I say, 'Welp, Chief, let's just have a look, shall we?' And that's when I laid it out for him. And that's why I'm here now: To tell you that I wouldn’t be planning any trips out of town any time soon if I were you, Allie Griffin. Ok? Little warning."

  At this, he winked at her. "See you soon, mystery girl."

  The pain in her tooth had been flaring up, and now she welcomed it. She wanted the pain.

  "Easy does it," said Del.

  Allie breathed heavily through her nose.

  "I'm serious," said Del. "You look like you’re gonna blow any minute. Just take some breaths. Be calm."

  "That man is an infected blister on the neck of humanity."

  "Glad to see you're channeling the anger well. Looks like your meds are ready. It's not too late to ask the dentist for another Vicodin script, by the way. Just sayin'."

  She got her meds, and without another word, stormed out to her car while Del followed.

  Once in the car, she said, "Where does he get off? Honestly. I killed Tom? Really? Is that really where he wants to go?"

  "Relax, darling, this isn’t the first time you've heard this out of Tomlin."

  "No. But at first I thought, 'Aw, isn’t that cute. He's like a kitten who thinks he can scratch and bite hard.' I thought maybe one-upping him every time would make him realize that I—"

  "That what?" said Del, ever the pragmatist. "That you can solve murders? That you have this uncanny ability to do so? Don’t you realize—and I'm so not blaming the victim here, so don’t even—but don’t you realize that a guy like him sees you as a threat? And not for nothing, but from everything I know about this guy, he's not exactly the sharpest crayon in the pack."

  "So what are you saying? I should just ignore him?"

  "I'm saying that maybe you can beat him at his own game."

  "What are you saying?"

  "Allie Griffin, you are the smartest woman I have ever known in my life. You're ditzy and brilliant and kooky and wonderful. But you can’t see this."

  "See what?"

  Del looked at her friend. "Solve it for him."

  "What?"

  "Tom."

  "What? What are you saying?"

  "Didn’t you ever wonder about Tom's death?"

  Allie thought for a moment. "I—" she started to say, and then it hit her: She'd never really thought about it. Of course, there was the usual bargaining process that takes place during the stages of grief. But she'd trusted in the authorities. She was used to doing so back then, which was long before she'd awakened the skeptical inquirer that had lain dormant within her. She wasn't in the habit of asking questions back then. It was time to revisit the circumstances surrounding his death, if only for a short time. Maybe they'd bring back painful memories. It was a chance she'd have to take. After all, Tomlin wasn't bright, but Chief Fraser wasn't stupid. If the chief saw a reason to reopen the case, then maybe there was something there. If so, Allie had to find it. It was the only way to get Tomlin off her back for good. But moreover, it would be doing justice to Tom's memory. He would've wanted it, she told herself. She'd always considered that chapter of her life closed, but maybe, just maybe, there was a scene or two in that chapter that had not been closed altogether. If so, she'd find it. And she'd clap it shut once and for all.

  "Where are you right now?" said Del.

  "What? I'm in my car with you."

  "No, in your head. You've been silent for the last two minutes and you missed our turn."

  "No, I haven't," said Allie. "I didn’t miss it. We're going to Verdenier General."

  "Everything ok?"

  "Everything is wonderful," she said.

  She sort of meant it.

  3

  "Ever see Jaws?" she said to Del as they pulled into the hospital parking lot.

  "Yeah, once. When I was a teenager. That was the last time I ever went swimming at the beach."

  "Yeah? Well there's a scene where Quint, the character played by Robert Shaw, is describing a shark he encountered once. He says something about its eyes, and he says they're dead eyes, 'like a doll's eyes,' he says."

  "Ok, and?"

  She stopped the car and turned to her friend. "You're about to come face to face with a Great White."

  Verdenier General had that hospital smell: A mixture of pea soup and iodine. Tom had come home smelling like it a number of times. It had been a gorgeous, state-of-the-art facility when he'd worked here six years ago. Now it looked to be even more so. The air buzzed with activity. It seemed everyone had at least two things to accomplish at once. Receptionists worked feverishly at entering data while speaking on the phone about entirely different matters.

  Allie approached the desk and waited. The girl on the phone was engaged, Allie observed, and probably recently, for her nails were done up in French manicure, which is what women do to show off an engagement ring, and what hospital receptionists engaged in constant data entry rarely do for fear of chipped polish.

  She hung up the phone. "Can I help you?"

  "Congratulations," Allie said, pointing to the ring finger.

  "Oh, thank you. Two days ago."

  Another win for Allie Griffin.

  "Wonderful. Best of luck to you. Um, I was wondering if I could possibly speak to Dean Robert Hawkes?"

  The woman's face changed at mere mention of the name. In less enlightened times, Allie would have thought there to be some magical power in the utterance.

  "Can I ask who it is that would like to speak with him?"

  "Allie Griffin. My husband Tom used to work under Dean Hawkes."

  The girl's face changed again. Perhaps there was some power in the utterance of the name. Or perhaps Dean Hawkes was walking behind her right at this moment, which was the case. The girl motioned and whispered, "He's actually right over there."

  Allie smiled. "Thank you." Then she turned and called out, "Dean Hawkes?"

  The man turned and Allie caught the image of a Bluetooth device in his ear. "Excuse me," he said to the device, then to Allie, "Can I help you?"

  He was every bit as imposing as Allie remembered. Age and the years had done nothing to diminish the effect. He was officious, professional, and important. His suit was dark and tailored to perfection, and he smelled of expensive aftershave, and when he reached up to mute the device in his ear, his cuff slipped down and a Rolex watch glistened in the fluorescent light.

  However, for all his imposing presence, Robert Hawkes looked pale and tired. His commanding presence was all in how he carried himself. Strip away the determined gait, the Bluetooth, the expensive clothes, and here was a man who was not in the best of health. The gait, she'd noticed, was off slightly. She then remembered that Robert Hawkes suffered from gout.

  "Hi," she said, "Allie Griffin." She held out her hand.

  Robert Hawkes refused it. "I'm sorry?"

  Allie found herself taken aback. "Allie Griffin, Tom Griffin's wife?"

  "Griffin..." he searched the air for the name.

  "Doctor Tom Griffin was your head of thoracic—"

  Recognition splashed across the man's face. "Griffin! Of course. Allie Griffin, yes. How are you? Hang on a moment, will you?"
He touched the device in his ear. "Listen I'm going to call you back. How are you?"

  "I'm good. My memory is still good. How about yours?"

  "Oh, I see so many people every day, you can't possibly take offense."

  "No, of course not. I'm only the wife of the guy who served as your very own head of thoracic surgery for, what, eight years? Nine? I was here all the time. I went to your grandson's Christening. Now why would you remember little old me?"

  The man glared at her. "I'm beginning to remember you more and more, Allie Griffin. You haven’t changed."

  "Thank you. And neither have you."

  "Yes, well, anything I can do for you?"

  "For starters, you can tell me why you never came to Tom's funeral."

  "Excuse me? I was at the funeral."

  "No, I mean afterward. We all came back to my place for lunch, and, you know, to comfort each other. That's what you do when someone you've known for a long time passes."

  "Is there a point to this, Allie?"

  She stared at him. "No, there isn’t. See you around, doc."

  Without a word, he turned and walked away.

  Del came up beside her. "Oh. My God. What a complete and total—"

  "Yes he is."

  "I meant you."

  Allie felt her jaw drop.

  "Don’t give me that look. He may not be Mr. Congeniality, but he doesn’t owe you any explanations."

  "The jerk didn’t even remember me!"

  "How long has it been?"

  "I can't. If you don't want to stick up for your best friend, then I'll be seeing you."

  "Ok," Del said calmly. "I'm only gonna say this once. Tom's death still brings back painful memories for you. And I'm sorry I called you out over feelings you don’t really have any control over yet. I'm sorry you lost your husband. You're not the only one who misses him. I liked Tom a lot. So there's that. So I'm going to excuse your anger at me for what it really is. And I love you. And I hope you can feel better because I hate to see you upset. There."

  Allie's eyes welled up. "I'm sorry," she said with half a voice.

  "I know. I don't like being sweet, just so you know."

  Allie laughed. "I know you don’t."

  "I actually want to throw up. But I need you to remember how I feel about you."

  Allie nodded and gave her friend a hug.

  "Now," said Del, "the ladies' room."

  "Wait, you were serious about that throwing up thing?"

  The sudden dart to the ladies' room was enough for an answer.

  If you're going to be sick, thought Allie, the hospital is a pretty good place to do it. She waited outside the bathroom door, thinking she could grab someone if necessary.

  Coming down the hospital hallway was a familiar figure.

  "Lucy Wainwright?"

  The woman turned around, and there was the spark of recognition that Allie expected.

  "Allie? Hi! Oh my gosh, it's been a long time. How are you?"

  "Hanging in there."

  "I'll say. You're famous now. Gosh, how long has it been?"

  Allie wondered for a moment why she hadn’t seen anyone here in so long. Small towns were nothing if not crammed with the same old people day in and day out. Why hadn't she run into anyone she knew from back when Tom worked here? The answer was obvious: She wouldn’t recognize any of these people out of their scrubs.

  "It's been a while. Um, do you remember Delaney Collins?"

  "Of course. I've seen her in a couple of shows down at the theater."

  "Yeah, well she's in there," Allie jabbed a thumb toward the bathroom, "and I don’t think she's feeling too hot."

  "Uh, ok," said Lucy Wainwright. "Is she alright?"

  "I think so." She knocked on the door. "Del?"

  "Just finishing up."

  "She's just...finishing up," said Allie.

  "Well, we can have someone take a look..."

  "We'll see."

  The awkward silence was palpable. But it did give Allie a chance to size up this person she hadn’t seen since...

  Lucy Wainwright was at Tom's side the day he collapsed in the middle of surgery. She was the first to try to revive him. She was at the funeral. And she came to lunch afterward.

  She was a diminutive woman. With a posture that declared self-assurance, and a kind face with a sprinkling of freckles. This latter feature, when coupled with long blonde hair, tends to render the bearer perennially childlike in appearance, which probably accounts for the way she wore her hair now: Short, tucked behind the ears, wisps of it feathering out around the upper part of her neck. Her eyes were bright green and just wide enough to let certain people in.

  "Well," said Lucy Wainwright, "I guess we should probably get together soon."

  "I'd love to," said Allie, and she thought for a moment. "As a matter of fact, you may be the perfect person for me to talk to right now."

  At this point, the bathroom door opened. And a ruined figure peered out.

  "I may need to get checked in."

  "Oh my," said Allie. "What happened?"

  "Chinese food happened. Last night. Or rather, leftovers this morning...pork lo mein...oh God..."

  She quickly closed the door.

  A moment later it opened again. "As I was saying."

  "Del, you remember Lucy Wainwright?"

  "Yeah," she said in monotone, "how are you?"

  "Ok. Listen Del, we're going to get you in to see someone ok. Can you make it on your own to the ER?"

  "Yeah."

  Lucy looked at Allie. "I'll give them a buzz and let them know you’re on your way. Listen, Allie it was good to see you. We'll be in touch."

  "Sure," said Allie. She turned to Del. "You sure you can make it?"

  "Yes, just don’t talk about food. Or politics."

  She took her friend by the arm and began leading her toward the ER. "I can’t believe this. You should've told me you weren't feeling well."

  "I thought it would go away. It just got worse and worse. Blah."

  "I love you too, by the way."

  "Stop it, I'm feeling terrible."

  There wasn't another word between them.

  4

  Hospital cafeterias are dismal places, full of folks in between good and bad news, or bad and worse news. The coffee's usually terrible too.

  The Verdenier General hospital, for all its shining, noiseless modernity, had coffee on par with just about every other hospital in America.

  It was late in the day, around six in the evening, and after admitting Del, Allie went and tracked down Lucy Wainwright. The woman had agreed to meet her for coffee at six.

  She sat there now, waiting for the woman to arrive.

  Looking around, she noticed the people sitting around her. How many of them, she thought, were here because they were waiting, either for good news or for bad? No matter how you looked at it, this place was the hospital equivalent of purgatory. Neither good nor bad, just a place to sit and wait.

  Sitting diagonally from her was a young man in his twenties in hospital scrubs. He sat hunched over an open journal, his hair spilling out in front of him. He picked his head up and looked around dreamily; fixated on some point either in the real world or far off inside his mind, and then he dropped his head down again and scribbled.

  Allie watched him as she waited, waited for Lucy, waited for her coffee to cool to the point where it wouldn’t scald her to death. Everyone in here was waiting; everyone except for junior Ernest Hemingway over there. Allie's vision of whom was suddenly obscured by the form of Lucy Wainwright, holding a cup of steaming coffee in her hand.

  The woman sat down, the perfect picture of a hospital nurse run ragged yet holding steadfast to her post.

  After a few pleasantries, Allie took her first sip of Verdenier General's finest blend, winced, and said, "So, what do you remember about my husband? Don’t be shy."

  Lucy Wainwright smiled, a fond remembrance relaxing her tired features. "I remember he was a good man.
Kind, and he could be very funny when he wanted to be, and very serious when he wanted to be. We saw both sides often. He was relentless in surgery—always at the top of his game—and he expected you to be there right with him. I liked it; it kept me on my toes. I can’t say the same for others, I'm sorry to say."

  "Don’t be sorry," said Allie, dumping the third of what she assumed would be fifty-three packets of sugar into her mud water.

  "Yeah, there were folks who didn’t like to work with someone like that. I don’t know why. As I said, it kept you on your toes. We need people like that everywhere, but especially in places where people's lives are at stake. Anyway, I'm sorry, I liked him."

  "You're sorry that you liked him?" Allie said with a smile.

  "No, I'm sorry that I admitted there were people who didn’t."

  "Listen, you think I didn’t know my husband? I'm the first to say it. He was a pain; a lovable pain. You were with him the day he died."

  The woman's face contorted with painful memory. "That's right. He collapsed right next to me. We had to scramble to get everything under control and tend to him at the same time. What an awful day. I still can’t remember it without feeling some of those emotions. It was such a shock to all of us. He seemed like he was in great health."

  "Heart condition."

  "Yeah, I know. But there was just this feeling I had. Hard to describe. Do you believe in intuition? Real intuition?"

  "I do and I don’t. I think intuition is a good thing to help you make a choice. But it's like flipping a coin. Nothing in science or nature says that it knows any more than you do what the outcome of any situation will be. But it is good to follow intuition, if you trust yourself enough."

  "I believe the same way. And I had intuition about Tom's death. That it was something that just shouldn’t have happened the way it happened. I can’t explain. I wish I could. I've been living with the memory and this nagging feeling surrounding it all these years. That blackout, it was just awful."

  Allie paused, mid-sip, swallowed, and said, "Did you just say 'blackout'?"

  "Mm hmm," said Lucy Wainwright. "That's what caused it all, right? I mean—"