“I’ll have to check my schedule. I’ll give you a call.”
He couldn’t read her expression, but he put up a hand. “Well, if it doesn’t work I can figure something out. With my job.”
“I understand,” she said. “Well, we’d better go.” Dee put a hand on each of the girls’ shoulders and gently turned them toward the waiting car. “I’ll let you know.”
Five minutes later, Wade stood alone in the drive, watching as the trail of dust Dee’s car kicked up faded to nothing.
Chapter 25
Wade stood in the drive, shading his eyes, seeing only an empty road. Dee Thackery’s car had disappeared from sight, carrying away the most precious cargo imaginable. He whispered a prayer for the kids, then trudged to the end of the lane and flipped down the arched door of the mailbox. Inside, the usual stack of catalogs and bills were neatly bundled with a rubber-band.
He stripped off the elastic and leafed through the envelopes as he walked slowly back up the drive. The sun’s fiery rays bored through the thin fabric of his cotton shirt, but he was in no hurry to go back in to the dead silence of the house. He culled the obvious junk mail from among the catalogs and letters and tucked it under his arm, ready for the trash bin.
When he reached the porch, he sat down on the wide steps and sorted through the rest of the mail. There was the electric bill––probably sky high now that he’d turned the air conditioner on. And another notice from the hospital about Dani’s emergency room bill he still owed on.
The monthly State Farm bill in its distinctive red-and-white envelope was there. It still gave him a moment of pause every month to see a letter addressed to Starr. With the kids gone he hadn’t used Starr’s car much. He probably ought to sell it. But he hated to open what could be a real can of worms. Though he’d been writing the checks for Starr’s auto insurance for several months now, everything was still in her name. He had no idea what was involved in getting it changed. He’d probably find out when it came time to pay the tags and taxes in November.
He sighed and added the bill to the “deal with later” pile. He picked up the only remaining letter, a regular #10 business envelope. He had to read the return address twice before he realized what he was holding. In spite of the sun beating down on him, a chill started at the small of his back and snaked its way up his spine.
Coyote County Coroner the simple black script read. With trembling fingers, he tore open the envelope.
Dee dropped three subdued children off at the Xaviers’ and headed back to the office. She checked her watch and pressed harder on the accelerator. She had a case planning meeting in half an hour.
The sun’s heat filtered through the windshield, and even with the air conditioner running, it was hot and humid. Her cotton blouse clung to her skin, and she felt irritable and out of sorts.
Visitations often left her feeling disconcerted and mildly depressed, knowing that, too often, children would be integrated back into a home situation that was far from ideal. In some cases, they would suffer for it the rest of their lives. Her visit to the Parnell kids’ home had been unsettling as well, but not for the usual reasons.
As far as she could see, the children adored Wade Sullivan. It was obvious they felt completely at home in the farmhouse, and Wade appeared competent and comfortable with the kids. Maybe that was what bothered her. It seemed rather odd that a single man would take such an interest in three children to whom he had no blood relationship.
She thought of the way little Dani had run to Wade and cried on his shoulder. A fleeting image of Mick Cranston flashed through her mind. Her stepfather had babied her the same way when she was younger. It wasn’t until she was older that his affections had turned sinister. Or maybe there had always been something perverse underlying his interactions with her, and she just hadn’t understood until it was too late.
She tried not to think too much about that time in her life. But sometimes her job seemed to throw her past in her face through the eyes of the children she worked with. Those were the times when she realized how much her past had influenced her career choice. And on good days she recognized it as one of the ways God had redeemed her past, allowing her to be part of the “rescue” that had come too late for her.
Her thoughts turned to her own father, and again she found herself comparing Wade Sullivan. She had to admit that the affection Wade expressed toward the Parnell children was as much like her natural father’s as it was like Mick’s. There had been nothing perverse about Dad’s love for her. It had been a tender, beautiful thing––and the greatest of her losses in her parents’ divorce.
Contrasting the two father figures in her life, she was reminded of the need to be constantly wary of how easily her past could color her perceptions in this business.
The truth was, Wade Sullivan seemed far more at ease with the kids than their biological father did. Of course, that was understandable. Darrin Parnell had been separated from his children for several years. It would take time to build relationships with them again. She had to admire the man. He’d returned to his insurance job in Minneapolis, but he was still making the eighteen-hour round trip to see his kids almost every week. As much as Dee knew her own father had loved her, Darrin’s effort to see his kids was more than her father had done when her mother had moved Dee a mere six hours away from John Thackery.
Darrin Parnell’s obvious devotion went a long way to convince Dee that, whatever problems he’d had in the past, he was strongly committed to making things work with his kids this time. This case would likely turn out to be a real victory for the family preservation movement Social & Rehabilitation Services championed. And it was her privilege to be part of that process. Sometimes she had to remind herself it was a privilege to be part of the healing of fractured families.
Dee eased the Taurus into the cramped parking lot at St. Joseph’s. Clay Two Feathers’ old Chevy was gone from its usual spot adjacent to the old brick building, under the only shade tree on the lot. She smiled as she thought how Clay made sure to be the first one to work every morning just to claim that spot. Never mind that he lost parking dibs mere hours into every workday the minute he had to transport a kid or put in an appearance at the courthouse. Chuckling to herself, she pulled into “his” space. She parked there whenever she could, just to get his goat. As soon as he got back to the office, he’d seek her out and give her what for.
It was a silly, juvenile game they played, but it was a fun diversion from the heaviness this job sometimes held.
Dee rolled her windows down a crack against the heat, locked her car, and went in the back door of the agency. A welcome blast of cool air hit her. She headed down the narrow hallway to her office, mentally composing her case report about this morning’s visit to Wade Sullivan’s place in the country.
Sophie wiped off the four-top and straightened the containers holding the Sweet’N Low and sugar packets. Before moving on to the next table, she stopped to stretch, kneading the taut muscles in her lower back. Brushing back a strand of hair that had escaped her ponytail, her fingers grazed the wound on her cheek. It was healing nicely, and her bruises had faded to a faint yellow-green. But even though Darrin Parnell had supposedly gone back to Minneapolis, Sophie was still looking over her shoulder.
He’d warned her he would return on a regular basis to visit the kids. And he promised she hadn’t heard the last of him.
After spending almost a week at Lydia’s apartment, Sophie had finally gone back to her own place. Not that she was sleeping well at night. All her dreams were nightmares starring Darrin Parnell.
She’d only talked to Wade twice since the kids had gone into foster care. She knew it was killing him to only see them once a week. Truth was, she missed the little snots, too. More than she’d ever thought she would. Wade had told her she was welcome to come over whenever the social worker brought the kids out for a visit.
Wade didn’t deserve everything that had happened. And it wasn’t over yet. Apparently, unle
ss Darrin gave up his rights to the kids, this was going to court. What if Darrin ended up with the kids?
The thought brought a sharp pang of guilt. She still hadn’t confessed to Wade––or anyone else, for that matter––that it was Darrin who beat her up that night in the parking lot. She would have told him if she thought it would mean they’d lock Darrin up and throw away the key. But she knew better. All the times he’d worked Starr over, he’d spent a total of one night in jail, and that only resulted in him giving Starr a worse beating when he got out of the slammer than the one she’d called the police for in the first place. Sophie had never seen anyone hoodwink people the slick way Darrin Parnell could. She considered herself a pretty good judge of people, and yet he’d snowed her. Boy, had he snowed her. But then, even Starr hadn’t seen the man for what he really was––until it was too late.
Sophie moved to another table and scrubbed the bar rag hard on the Formica surface, trying unsuccessfully to push the thoughts from her mind.
She thought about what Darrin had asked her to do. Correction: Darrin never asked anybody for anything. He demanded it. Or he saw to it that you owed him one. And he wasn’t subtle about calling in his chits. She rubbed her jaw and, out of habit, looked over her shoulder toward the front door of the café. Silly, since she’d locked up and put the closed sign in place thirty minutes ago.
Chapter 26
Wade read the stark words again. It still seemed unbelievable that he could be holding an autopsy report for his beloved Starr. She was still so fully alive in his memories. Even now, more than three months after he’d discovered her lifeless body on the floor of the bedroom they’d been so eager to share, it was still hard to fathom that she was gone forever from his life.
He stared at the two folded pages the coroner’s office had sent. Though he didn’t understand most of the pathologist’s report, one sentence stood out like a billboard: In my opinion the cause of death was cerebral aneurysm secondary to the presence of phenylpropanolamine.
The toxicology lab report attached to Starr’s autopsy report shouldn’t have contained more than perhaps a trace of caffeine from the cup of coffee Wade had made her the morning she died. The caffeine was there all right, under the column marked Drug Confirmation Results. But there was the technical-sounding word again.
Phenylpropanolamine (PPA) detected in blood.
Why couldn’t they just write these things in plain English? Wade had no idea what this PPA was, but why would Starr have had a foreign substance in her blood? Something strong enough to contribute to her death, if he was reading the report correctly.
Could the paint fumes have been strong enough to get into her bloodstream? He knew nothing about this sort of thing, but it didn’t seem likely. Yet it was equally unlikely she had actually ingested something that would kill her.
Though Starr had experimented with alcohol and even drugs during a rebellious youth, she had been ashamed of the fact, and upfront with Wade about it from the start of their relationship. Many times she’d lamented that Sophie had gone down the same path. She’d told Wade she felt responsible, since she had set such a bad example for her little sister. But she’d given up that lifestyle when she became a Christian. And as long as Wade had known her, she had to be feeling pretty lousy to take so much as an aspirin.
In all the speculation over Starr’s death, he’d never had a deep need to know. Now he felt differently.
He scooped the mail off the porch and went into the house, his mind reeling. He pitched the junk mail into the trashcan under the kitchen sink. Taking the envelope from the coroner’s office, he went to the desk in the dining area and pulled the dictionary from the bottom drawer. Turning to the P’s, he ran a finger down the columns. The technical-sounding word wasn’t listed, and he searched without success for the abbreviation, PPA.
He threw the dictionary back in the drawer and scanned the autopsy report, searching for the phone number of the coroner’s office. He picked up the phone and dialed the number, steeling himself.
“Coyote County Medical Examiner.”
Wade faltered. “Yes…um…I just received an autopsy report from your office. It was for my…my fiancée. She died in March. Is there someone there who could explain this to me?”
“Well, I’ll try. This is Doug Satherton. I’m the county ME. What is it you have questions about?”
“Well, this says the cause of death was cerebral aneurysm. But there’s something in the toxicology report…something about”––he stumbled over the syllables, then shook his head––“I can’t even pronounce it. The abbreviation looks like PPA…I’m not sure…”
“Oh yes. Phenylpropanolamine.” The word rolled easily off the man’s tongue. “I remember the report you’re referring to. I don’t remember the exact levels now…but toxicology found the drug in the bloodstream. Hemorrhagic stroke is consistent with certain levels of PPA.”
“Wait a minute…” Wade shifted the phone to his other ear. “You’re saying she might have taken a drug that caused her death?”
“The levels found probably would not indicate an intentional overdose or illegal drug use. They’re probably more consistent with an over-the-counter drug. PPA was mostly found in diet pills and cold medications, but it was recalled a few years ago when studies showed a connection between high levels of PPA and intracerebral hemorrhage or aneurysms––especially in young women. But a lot of people keep old medicine around. You don’t remember if your fiancée had a cold or maybe a respiratory infection at the time of her death, do you?”
Fresh pain assaulted him. Starr was always so cheerful and upbeat. When she was sick, she’d rarely let on. And she’d always bragged about having a high pain threshold. But a disturbing memory brushed a corner of his mind. Starr had been fighting a cold the week she died. Wade remembered sending her to his medicine cabinet for some sinus tablets. Was it possible something she’d taken for a stuffy nose had actually killed her? Something he’d given her?
“Sir? Hello?” The medical examiner’s voice broke through Wade’s haze of confusion and disbelief.
“Yes. I…I’m here. So…it could have been a reaction to some medicine she took that killed her?”
“That would be the most likely scenario, yes. It was the pathologist’s opinion, apparently.”
Wade was silent, his mind racing.
The medical examiner’s voice cut through his thoughts once more, his tone impatient. “Sir, do you have any other questions about the report?”
“Um…no. No…thank you.” He had a thousands questions, but he didn’t even know how to phrase them right now.
His breath came in shallow huffs, and he felt light-headed as he rose from the desk and went back to the bathroom. He flipped on the light over the medicine cabinet and opened the mirrored door, feeling numb as he pulled a bottle of sinus tablets from the top shelf.
He vaguely remembered buying them. It seemed like eons ago. He’d taken two of the capsules and hated the way they made him feel––groggy and disoriented. He’d never taken another dose. But for the amount of money he’d paid, he wasn’t about to toss them out.
Now he picked up the plastic bottle with trembling hands and brought it close to read the fine print. The first thing that caught his eye was the expiration date stamped on the label. The date had expired over two and a half years ago.
A wave of guilt rolled over him. Holding the bottle to the light, he read the list of ingredients.
There it was. Phenylpropanolamine. Listed under active ingredients.
Wade felt like the breath had been sucked out of him. He had bought these pills. Encouraged Starr to take them. Had his negligence at having out-of-date, toxic medication in his medicine cabinet killed the woman he loved? Had he unknowingly caused Starr’s death? The thought made his stomach roil.
He went back to the desk and slumped into the chair, feeling the strength drain from him. Who else might have received a copy of the autopsy report today? His heart lurched. He neede
d to talk to someone.
Dialing Pete Dolecek’s cell phone, Wade tried to think how he would ever explain what had happened. The phone rang twice, and Pete’s voice mail kicked in.
Wade hung up without listening to the rest of the message. He stuffed the autopsy report in his pocket. He held out his hands and discovered they were trembling violently. Grabbing his keys on the way out the door, he headed for the pickup.
Pete removed his K-State ball cap and swatted at a pesky horsefly before replacing the cap. Wade knew his partner well enough to know he was thinking, weighing his words carefully before he responded.
The two men sat side by side on the newly shingled roof of the addition they were building. Below them, a patchwork of prairie grasses and ripening wheat fields rippled in the breeze like an ocean.
With forearms propped on raised knees, Wade felt the sun bake his skin, felt the prickle as his arms turned a deeper shade of reddish-brown. It stung and it felt good at the same time. He had shown Pete the autopsy report, explaining what the medical examiner had said, and confessing that he had bought the pills, he had let them sit on that shelf for years past their expiration date.
Finally, Pete looked up at him. “Wade, even if this pathologist is right, there’s no way you could have known about this PPA stuff. Shoot, I’ve sure as the dickens never heard of it. For all I know, there might be something like that sitting in our medicine cabinet at home right now.”
“I should have been more careful.”
Pete shook his head. “It was a fluke. It could have happened to anyone.”
“But why did it happen to me?”
“I don’t know, buddy. I wish I did.”
“What if Parnell’s lawyers try to make something of this? What if it jeopardizes my chance at getting custody of the kids?”
“Hey. That’s not going to happen. Anybody who hears about this will realize it could just as easily have been them as you. Anyone who knows you at all knows you would never let something like that happen intentionally.”
A Nest of Sparrows Page 18
