Dark Path

by Melissa F. Miller

  “You don’t look old enough to be retired.”

  “Yet, I am.”

  One perfectly groomed eyebrow shot up Lynette’s forehead. “Sounds like there’s a story behind that.”

  “There is, but it’s a long one.”

  “I’ve got nowhere to be.”

  He laughed. “The short version is I uncovered a death cluster in Pittsburgh. It developed into a local political scandal. Throw in some corporate malfeasance, an adulterous affair, and an unfortunate office rivalry that ended with my kidnapping, and, well, as you might imagine, the press covered it pretty heavily.”

  “I’ll bet,” she said drily.

  “The attention got to be a bit much for me. So, after the cases wrapped up, I took an extended sabbatical. And, I just never went back to the coroner’s office.”

  She studied his face. “But you figured out what caused the deaths?”

  She focused on the salient detail from the story like any good trial attorney would.

  “That’s right.”

  Interest sparked in her eyes. “Well? What was it?”

  “Five otherwise healthy females in their late teens and early twenties died suddenly, in most cases after reporting feeling feverish and fatigued. The cause of death was myocarditis, an infection of the heart.”

  “Did they catch it from one another?”

  “No. It’s not contagious.”

  “Then how …?”

  “It turned out that they all had been drinking a sports energy beverage that contained wild red ginseng that hadn’t been properly sourced.”

  “Ginseng caused a deadly heart infection?”

  “It’s a little more complicated than that. The ginseng in question had been contaminated. And the women who died all had low body fat. Those factors and the fact that carbonation intensifies the effects of certain herbs all interacted and resulted in the deaths.”

  Lynette processed this information then gave him a skeptical look. “So you think all the folks who’ve died here ingested the same thing, and that’s what killed them?”

  “Possibly. Or they were all exposed to the same airborne pathogen. Or they all swam in the same water. Some common thread exists. And then, just as with the cases in Pittsburgh, the dead may have shared some underlying physical characteristic or condition that also contributed.”

  “Hmm.”

  She still didn’t seem convinced. He smiled reassuringly.

  “I suppose I’d better let you get back to it.”

  “Wait,” he said before she disappeared behind the divider. “Do you know if there’s a computer here I could use to access electronic databases?”

  “Sure. There’s a computer room behind the magazine area. I log on every week to keep up with developments in caselaw. What do you need?”

  “Just an internet connection. I can log in to the medical journal databases as long as I can get online.”

  “Sure. I’ll show you where the computers are.”

  He followed her out of the room and down a short hallway. She stopped in front a glass-walled room. Inside, four computers sat two by two on two long tables. “This is it. I sure hope you find what you’re looking for. And fast.” Her wide smile wobbled.

  Me, too, he thought. Me, too.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Conquer anger with non-anger.

  The Buddha, Dhammapada

  Be angry, and do not sin.

  Meditate within your heart on your bed, and be still.

  Psalm 4:4

  Felicia knew she was in a foul temper, and she knew she was taking her irritation out on Bodhi. But she couldn’t seem to help herself.

  When Ed had finally gotten back to her, she’d been unable to convince him that the situation was serious. The more she’d tried to explain that he needed to find a good criminal defense attorney and then lawyer up, the more he’d insisted he’d done nothing wrong. It didn’t matter how many times she told him the facts didn’t matter as much as how things looked, she couldn’t seem to get through to him.

  As soon as she filed a report containing the fact that Eduardo Martinez was the only nurse who’d been working during all five deaths, the chief would order her to bring him in for questioning. And the smart money was on the district attorney deciding to charge him, even if there wasn’t evidence that he was culpable.

  Gossip about the deaths at Golden Shores was spreading through the Keys like pink eye through a kindergarten classroom. The politicians who’d handed Bryce Scott and his church a big, juicy tax break when they’d bought the island now wanted to shut down the news about folks dying at the assisted care facility. She didn’t think they’d be particularly concerned about whether Ed was actually responsible for the deaths. But Ed had just laughed her off.

  Her mood hadn’t improved when Jenny Mumma flagged her down to let her know Philomena Pearl and Charlene Rivers had both called off work to attend some church function. According to Jenny, Golden Shores’ policy was extremely liberal with regard to permitting personal time for Golden Island Church activities, and there was nothing she could do to compel the aides to show up for their shift.

  So, having spent the entire afternoon and most of the evening at Golden Shores with absolutely nothing to show for it, Felicia had been irate to learn that Bodhi had invited Cleo to meet them at the bar.

  “That woman should be working around the clock trying to figure out why her guests are dropping dead. She has no business going out for drinks,” Felicia grumbled as they disembarked from the yacht and made their way across the parking lot.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize it would upset you if she joined us. But she’s not coming until later. She said it would be close to ten o’clock by the time she gets there. We’ll have plenty of time to bring Dr. Ashland up to date and learn whether he has anything for us before she shows up.” Bodhi’s tone was apologetic but carried a hint of confusion, as if he wasn’t quite sure what her problem was.

  Neither was she.

  She gritted her teeth and walked faster. By treating her as if she were being reasonable, he was just making her feel more unreasonable.

  After a while she said, “I’m not upset, I’m tired. And I’m frustrated because I didn’t get to interview the aides. That’s all.”

  He nodded but said nothing.

  She popped the locks on the sedan and slid behind the wheel, slamming the door harder than was necessary. He took his time getting in on the passenger side. She tried to use the moment alone to calm down. But her heart was hammering, and the anger in her gut was roiling.

  When he finally sat down beside her, he gave her a long look. Then he said mildly, “Detective Williams, you might find it more helpful to acknowledge your feelings without judgment and then let them pass than to try to deny them.”

  She shot him a suspicious sidelong look. “How?”

  “Like this. Take a breath and notice that you’re angry.”

  She rolled her eyes, but inhaled. She felt the hot flare in her belly, quickly followed by a clawing shame at her lack of control. “Now what?”

  “Now, instead of judging your anger, just acknowledge it. Say to yourself—or aloud—I’m angry.”

  “I’m angry,” she growled.

  “Great. Now, having named your emotion, let it go.”

  “What does that mean, let it go?” She was willing to try his stupid idea, but not if he was going to hide behind meaningless mumbo-jumbo.

  “It means you let the fact that you’re angry pass through you. It doesn’t mean your anger will magically dissipate. It just means, you accept it as an emotion and move on.”

  Fine. She was angry.

  “And then what do I do?”

  “Nothing. Just note your anger as a mildly interesting piece of information and then forget about it.”

  “You’re telling me that just by knowing I’m angry, I’ll be less angry?”

  He met her gaze with clear, untroubled eyes. “There’s no harm in trying it, is there?”


  She narrowed her eyes and didn’t answer. She took another deep breath and made note of the red hot feeling that filled her. Then she told herself, ‘Okay. You’re pissed.’

  When her brain started to chide her for her loss of control, she batted the thought away. Her heart rate lowered a notch. Her breathing slowed. The grip of her emotion loosened.

  She turned and gave Bodhi a wide-eyed look. What kind of Buddhist magic was this?

  “That’s it? That’s all I have to do to find inner peace?” she demanded.

  He smiled. “No. But it’s a start.”

  She turned the key in the ignition to start the car. “I’m sorry I was snappish.”

  He said nothing but gave her an encouraging nod.

  “I’m worried about a friend.” The words flew out of her mouth before she realized she’d said them.

  “Oh?”

  His tone suggested he’d listen to whatever she wanted to tell him, but he wasn’t going to pry. Playing true confessions wasn’t really her style, but why not? They had a twenty-minute drive to Sugarloaf Key.

  “Yeah. A guy I grew up with—Eduardo Martinez.”

  “The nurse who was working during all five deaths?”

  “Right. Ed’s a good guy. There’s no way he’s involved in anything—”

  “Hang on. There’s no evidence anyone’s implicated in the deaths, Detective. That’s why I’m here, isn’t it? To find an explanation.”

  She made an impatient gesture with her right hand. “Sure, right. Maybe there’s no forensic evidence—yet. But you’d have to be naive to think that the district attorney and my chief aren’t going to take one look at the fact that Ed was there and make him their number one suspect. The community wants closure, an answer. They’re not going to worry too much about the details—believe me.”

  “You think your friend will be railroaded in the absence of another explanation?”

  She did.

  “I do.” Her stomach tightened as she said the words.

  “Hmmm.”

  “What?”

  “I suppose we’ll just have to keep doing what we’re doing—search for a genuine explanation for the death cluster.”

  His sanguine attitude would have come across as patronizing from just about anybody else. But, from Bodhi King, it was a comfort. She clung to it.

  “I hope so.”

  He rested his hand, briefly, just for a second or two, on her forearm.

  “I’ll find the medical answer. You keep gathering facts and interviewing witnesses. Your friend will be okay.”

  “I hope so,” she breathed. Then after a moment, she said, “I wanted to talk to those two aides tonight …”

  “But?”

  “But they called off. Neither of them came in for their shift.”

  “They both called off? That’s interesting.”

  Again with the mild tone.

  She shrugged. “The nursing supervisor seemed to think it wasn’t all that unusual. They’re members of Scott’s church, and there was some sort of meeting or event.”

  “Oh?”

  “Spit it out, Bodhi.”

  She didn’t know if his attempts to gently lead her to some point of view were a Buddhist thing or a doctor thing, but, either way, she didn’t have the patience for it.

  “I don’t claim to be an expert on Christianity, but most organizations—religious or otherwise—schedule meetings and events pretty far in advance.”

  “Christians included,” she confirmed.

  “So, if this was a regularly planned meeting, those women presumably could have requested the night off in advance.”

  “Okay. But maybe it was an emergency meeting or something.”

  “Maybe.”

  “You’re saying the timing is suspicious,” she pressed him.

  “If not suspicious, it’s at least convenient.”

  She fell silent. He was right. Whether Jenny Mumma saw anything out of the ordinary about Philomena Pearl and Charlene Rivers’s last-minute absence, it did warrant further investigation.

  And it gave her an excuse to circumvent Cleo Clarkson and go straight to Bryce Scott. A shiver of anticipation zipped up her spine at the thought of finally pinning down the church leader and getting some solid answers.

  “Thanks.”

  He wrinkled his brow. “I didn’t do anything.”

  “Oh, you did,” she informed him gleefully.

  She switched on the radio and let Jimmy Buffet serenade them the rest of the way to Sugarloaf Key.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Joel Ashland raised his beer bottle in greeting, then waved Bodhi and Detective Williams over to his table, which was tucked into a corner behind the bar.

  The steel drum band playing out on the patio was loud, and the happy hour revelers singing along were louder still, but when Bodhi reached the medical examiner’s table, the noise faded, as if it were being carried out to the ocean by the wind.

  “I see you got your favorite table,” Detective Williams commented.

  “I know the right people.” Dr. Ashland winked and gestured for them to sit.

  A waitress hurried over to take their drink orders. “Sorry, Felicia, but you and your friend missed happy hour. The specials ended an hour ago.”

  “No sweat, Stacey. I’ll just have a Landshark.”

  Stacey smiled at Bodhi. “And your friend?”

  “A club soda, please.”

  “You want a lime with that?”

  “Sure. Thanks.”

  She stowed her pen behind her ear and walked over to the bar to get the drinks. The lead singer announced the band was going on break. Detective Williams slid a laminated menu across the table to Bodhi.

  “You might as well order something. The fridge where you’re staying isn’t stocked,” she told him.

  “Where am I staying?”

  She exchanged glances and with the medical examiner. Then she turned to Bodhi. “Well, seeing as how you didn’t want to take the church up on their offer to cover your expenses, it’s not going to be a guest villa on Golden Island. The medical examiner’s office is going to put you up.”

  Dr. Ashland nodded. “It’s tough to get a room on short notice—even out of season, so you can stay at my place. It’s just across the road.”

  “At the campground?” Bodhi had noticed the sign on the drive down from Big Pine Key.

  “Yeah. I have a vintage Airstream—you know, the silver campers. It’s got plenty of room for two. And it has a kitchen, but as Felicia noted, the cupboards are bare.”

  Bodhi scanned the menu and found a black bean sandwich. Then he leaned forward, “So you live in the camper?”

  Just then, the waitress returned with Detective Williams’s beer and his club soda. She overheard the question and laughed. “Oh, that’s just temporary. Until he finds a place, right, Doc?”

  Detective Williams took a swig of beer then joined Stacey in laughter.

  “That’s right,” Dr. Ashland confirmed.

  “He’s been temporarily living in that thing for four years,” Detective Williams explained.

  Dr. Ashland shrugged. “I kind of like it. I have a nice view of the water. Nobody bothers me there. And I don’t have to mess around with mowing a lawn or paying a homeowner’s association some sort of maintenance fee.”

  “And he can stumble across the street when this place closes for the night,” Stacey added.

  “It sounds great,” Bodhi told him. “Thanks for putting me up.”

  Detective Williams rolled her eyes.

  Stacey muttered, “Men.” She took their food orders and promised the kitchen would have their meals out quickly.

  After she left, Detective Williams turned to Dr. Ashland with an expectant look.

  “Well? Did you figure out what killed Carlos Garcia?”

  “Sure.”

  “And?”

  “His heart stopped beating,” he said acidly.

  The humor was lost on Detective Willi
ams, who let out her breath in a loud whoosh of disappointment.

  Dr. Ashland turned to Bodhi. “What about you two? Did you learn anything at Golden Shores?”

  Bodhi could tell from the way Detective Williams tensed her shoulders, as if she were bracing for a blow, that she thought he was going to bring up Nurse Martinez. It wasn’t his place to speculate on the suspect list, though.

  Instead he said, “I met with Ms. Clarkson to discuss the contours of the field investigation.”

  “I’d like to discuss Ms. Clarkson’s contours,” Dr. Ashland laughed.

  Detective Williams shot him a look of pure disgust.

  Bodhi went on as though he hadn’t heard the double entendre. “She provided me with the medical records for the five deceased individuals and is going to set up a time for me to interview residents and staff—after Detective Williams has had a chance to question them.”

  Dr. Ashland blinked at him. “You reviewed all their records? Did anything jump out at you?”

  “Not really,” Bodhi admitted. “I had to read them there—patient privacy rules, But I took my time going over them. I didn’t see anything that could explain the death cluster.”

  The medical examiner slumped in his chair. Detective Williams glared at her beer as though the beverage were responsible for the news.

  “Great,” she muttered. “Now what?”

  “I do have a theory,” Bodhi ventured.

  Dr. Ashland leaned forward, and Detective Williams’s eyes lit with interest.

  “But it’s very preliminary,” he warned. “And we’ll need to have a lab do a DNA analysis to confirm it.”

  Dr. Ashland cocked his head to the side. “You’re thinking a genetic mutation may be responsible?”

  “Maybe. After I finished reviewing the medical records, I got online at Golden Shores’ library and accessed the journal databases. I searched for mentions of the rictus grin in the literature.”

  “And?” Detective Williams prompted.

  “And, in addition to cases of tetanus and strychnine poisoning, risus sardonicus has been seen in cases where the deceased suffered from Wilson disease.”

  “Wilson disease,” Dr. Ashland mused.

  “Who’s Wilson? And what’s the disease?” Detective Williams wanted to know.