Fatally Flaky

by Diane Mott Davidson

  Norman reared back. “Because there are privacy laws concerning health information these days, missy.”

  “Oh, yeah? Well, when you called me from the hospital after ruining Ceci’s wedding, you didn’t care about privacy laws. You were too busy crying about being reconciled with your daughter and being a grandfather to her adopted daughter. That was before you puked your guts out, though.”

  Norman winced, then slammed down some coffee. “The baby almost died of dehydration.”

  “Dehydration?”

  “Yeah.” He took a long pull of coffee, then went on, “Ceci wanted to adopt a baby so badly. So she went through some Eastern European adoption agency.” He smirked at me. “Dodie isn’t the only one with spies, you know.” When I said nothing, he said, “The baby got over here, and supposedly she’d been checked out by doctors at the orphanage she came from, but for whatever reason, Ceci couldn’t get her to take a bottle of formula. So Ceci took her to Spruce Medical, and some physician’s assistant there told her she might be allergic to formula, try her on soy. So she tried her on soy, no luck.”

  “Wait. A physician’s assistant? Who? Lucas Carmichael?”

  “I don’t know who they are there.” Norman weaved a bit more, as if he were trying to figure out where in the story he was.

  “On soy, no luck,” I prompted.

  “Okay,” Norman said, with effort. “So then Ceci went back to Spruce Medical, and said she wasn’t leaving until somebody helped her. A doctor saw her, and told her to give the baby a bottle of water. But the baby wouldn’t take a bottle of water.”

  “What doctor?”

  Norman shrugged. “The water didn’t work either.” He closed his eyes.

  “Norman! Is there more to this story?”

  “Yeah. My spies tell me Ceci finally called Doc Finn, even though he was officially retired. But he’d been her doctor when she was little, and she trusted him. He recognized that the baby was severely dehydrated. Finn convinced her to take the baby down to Southwest Hospital, where they put her on an IV. They said down there that in another twelve hours, the baby would have been dead. That’s the rest of the story.”

  “That’s all of it?”

  “Ceci was eternally grateful to Doc Finn. That’s why she wanted him to give her away at her wedding.” Norman’s eyes filled with self-pitying tears, which he brushed away. “Instead of me.”

  “I understand,” I said, and Norman finally seemed more chipper, as if he’d just been let out of class. “Uh, Norman? Is there something else, something you’re not telling me?”

  NORMAN SQUIRMED. “WELL, this next part, I’m not supposed to know.”

  “Seems to me you shouldn’t be knowing any of this.”

  “Well,” said Norman bitterly, “aren’t you the soul of compassion.” I stood and refilled his coffee, hoping that would make me seem more … compassionate. Alcoholics are always saying no one understands them, Tom had told me often enough. “Dodie began malpractice proceedings against Spruce Medical.”

  “Against a physician’s assistant or doctor in particular?”

  Norman shook his head. “Don’t know that. All I do know is that somebody came along claiming to represent the practice, and told Dodie if she dropped her suit, he’d give her three hundred thousand dollars. That’s a huge amount, given that the doctors in Romania or wherever it was had given the little girl a clean bill of health. I don’t think anyone in the entire country of Romania has three hundred grand. Dodie must have known she was on slippery ground with the suit, so she took the money. It paid for Ceci’s wedding and a down payment on a large house for Ceci and her husband.”

  “Wow.” It seemed to me that Norman O’Neal might be estranged from his ex-wife and daughter, but that he was doing a pretty good job of keeping up with their doings.

  “So will you help me with Ceci?” he asked, his voice pathetic with desire.

  “Absolutely,” I replied. “I’m sure you’ll be a great grandfather.”

  “I’m a drunk,” he said, with doleful insight.

  “That’s why there’s rehab,” I told him. And then I drove him home. Afterward, I called Norman’s office and said somebody would have to deliver his car to his house, as he was now indisposed. And, I hoped but did not say, Norman’s on the phone right now with rehab centers.

  24

  It was half past ten. I was already feeling guilty about leaving Julian with all the work out at Gold Gulch. So I jumped into my catering uniform, phoned Boyd to ask if he could still meet me at the spa, and hopped into my van. On the way out on Upper Cottonwood Creek Road, I called Tom and told him all I’d learned from Norman O’Neal.

  “I’m not seeing a straight line yet,” I said.

  “A dotted one, maybe.” Tom was uncharacteristically silent.

  Wait a minute.

  “Charlotte’s blackboard,” I said. “The name O’Neal had been written down, and then erased. Maybe Billie wrote it down when she was looking for me last Friday morning, and blasted into Ceci’s wedding. But maybe it had to do with Dodie’s lawsuit.”

  Tom said only, “Okay, go on.”

  “Look, Tom, you said for me to look at the relationships among these people. And of all the people connected to this case, the Attenboroughs are the only ones I know who have three hundred grand just lying around. They also would have the motivation to try to save Spruce Medical, because they didn’t want anything to sully the name and reputation of their dear Craig Miller.”

  Tom said, “Big leap.”

  “What about the piece of paper I got at the golf club? Did you analyze the handwriting?”

  There was more silence. In a low voice, Tom said, “It looks like it’s Doc Finn’s writing. I’m sorry, Goldy.”

  “You’re sorry?” Once more my brain wasn’t functioning quite properly. “Sorry about what?”

  “Well … we always suspected these two cases were linked, and now we know it for sure.”

  Okay, maybe my brain wasn’t firing on all cylinders, but my emotions were picking up signals from Tom that made me anxious. “So the two cases are linked,” I repeated. “What else?”

  “I’ve sent guys out to try to find the right people to match the names on the list. Unfortunately, most people won’t admit to having symptoms of addiction,” he added. Still, this was good, I thought, as the sheriff’s department had much better resources for finding people than yours truly with a phone book. Tom paused again.

  “Tom, what is it?”

  “Okay, Miss G. We got the preliminary results back from the autopsy on Jack. He did die of a heart attack. But the attack was induced.”

  “Induced? How?”

  “He was taking verapamil for his heart. We talked to his cardiologist, and she insists Jack was very faithful about his medicine. The only problems she had with him were his smoking and drinking.” Tom took a deep breath. “I wish I could be with you to tell you this. Jack had a very excessive amount of verapamil in his system. Our guess at this point is that a liquid form of verapamil was put into his IV … at the hospital.”

  I pulled over to the side of the road.

  “So Jack was killed at Southwest Hospital,” I said flatly.

  “I’m sorry, Goldy. Yes. They don’t have surveillance cameras pointed at the patients’ rooms, so we have no idea who could have gone in or out. Liquid verapamil? We asked ourselves, who with a motive to kill Jack would have access to that? At first, we just came down to Craig and/or Lucas. But then we thought, wait a sec, wasn’t his girlfriend Charlotte a nurse, back in the day? Maybe she would have a way to get hold of it. Plus, Billie the Bitch Bride hated Jack, and she has money, so she could probably get whatever she wanted on a black market somewhere. And finally, we have Victor Lane. You said he videotaped Jack hunting around in the Smoothie Cabin. Maybe Victor got real nervous about what Jack was up to, and decided to get rid of him. He knows how to make smoothies, maybe he knows how to put stuff in an IV.”

  “But … did all those pe
ople know Jack took verapamil?”

  “We don’t know. Listen, Miss G., I’m aware that Marla’s out at Gold Gulch. Is Julian still there, too?”

  “Yes. In fact, I’m on my way to help him. Boyd’s going to meet me, then we’ll drive in together.” Tom said nothing. “I’ll be fine. I’ll see you tonight.”

  “Wait. Where’s Boyd meeting you?”

  “On the dirt shoulder beside the turnoff from Upper Cottonwood Creek Road that leads to the spa. Please don’t worry, Tom.” I made my tone reassuring, because I’d kept my poor husband up most of the night with the country club key caper, and as long as I was feeling miserable anyway, I might as well feel guilty about that, too.

  We signed off with assurances of mutual love. This helped.

  As I waited for Boyd, I glanced across the street at the old Spruce Medical Group building, now virtually empty. Two trucks with the logo front range drains were parked on the side, but I didn’t know if they were the last or even the only remaining tenants of the building.

  I took a sip of the coffee I’d remembered to bring and averted my eyes from the former medical building.

  I couldn’t help feeling that I had failed Jack, not to mention Doc Finn. Doc Finn had tended so lovingly to Arch, it made my heart ache now. And Jack had come through for me, over and over. He had showered me with many things, but what I’d most appreciated was his steadfast love.

  Outside, the weather was sunny and cool. The plethora of rain we’d had in the past month had left everything freshly green and refulgent, not at all like a normal Colorado August. Still, the tall, swaying grasses and the thick bunches of wild asters did nothing to brighten my mood.

  Boyd signaled me with his lights when he was a hundred feet from the turnoff. When we rolled into Gold Gulch Spa, my watch said it was almost eleven. The clients must still be in classes, because I didn’t see anyone around except staff people. They were rolling their laundry carts from door to door, depositing soiled towels in one side of the cart and pulling fresh towels out of the other.

  Julian greeted us at the kitchen door. In answer to my question, he said nothing unusual or weird or crazy had happened that morning, except the women had loved the vegetable frittata. Victor had shown up as usual with his vat of fruit cocktail, and he’d even had a bite of the frittata.

  Julian’s face broke into a wide grin. “He didn’t ask how many calories were in it, or even what I’d used. He just offered me a job, ‘to replace Yolanda,’ he said. I told Victor if he wanted to hire me, he was going to have to hire you, too. He just walked away with the empty vat of fruit cocktail.”

  I shook my head and thanked him. “What are we fixing for lunch?”

  “Chicken salad with fat-free mayo. I doctored it up with fresh sliced scallions and really crisp celery. I also alternated thick slices of farmers’ market tomatoes with slices of buffalo mozzarella and leaves of fresh basil. Then I poured a bit of pesto over that.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Victor’s going to kill us.”

  “Nah,” said Julian. “Hey, Boyd, you want to taste this Tomato Napoleon? It’s great, and it’s vegetarian.”

  “Yeah,” said Boyd, as he followed Julian into the kitchen, “but I’ll bet dollars to doughnuts that Napoleon never ate it.”

  We got through lunch, which the clients raved about. Lucas nodded to me, but didn’t speak. Maybe he was softening toward me, I didn’t know. Charlotte and Billie came in together, deep in conversation. Either they didn’t see me or they ignored me, but in any event, we didn’t speak, and I didn’t have a chance to ask if either of them had bailed out Spruce Medical to the tune of three hundred thou. Marla winked at me and murmured that she could tell Julian and I had been working on the food, because it was suddenly scrumptious.

  “Give Julian the credit,” I said.

  Marla smiled at Julian. “I’m always willing to do that.”

  Soon all the other clients shuffled off for their smoothies. Today’s flavor was mango-strawberry. I hoped that was all that was in them. Once we’d cleaned the dining room and kitchen, I was ready for a break. Boyd and I went outside and sat on the deserted lawn furniture. Scraps of yellow police ribbon still fluttered in the light breeze, and the sulfuric smell of the hot spring floated down to the spa’s main grounds. I wondered if anyone had ever cleaned up the hot pool.

  As usual at this point in the day, the spa looked as quiet as a Mexican town square at siesta time. Boyd and I sat in silence, while I tried to think. I scolded myself for not finding out which of the dormitories Marla was housed in, because I surely would have liked her company.

  As it turned out, she had sneaked back into the kitchen with Julian. She was asking if there was going to be anything decent to eat for dinner.

  “Pork tenderloin, cauliflower mash, and steamed broccoli,” Julian replied. “I’m going to lightly sauté the broccoli with garlic, and I’m making a stuffing for the pork that features figs. The cauliflower mash will have whipping cream—”

  Marla burst out laughing. “So is this spa where you come to lose weight, or gain it?”

  “For dessert, let’s see,” Julian continued, unfazed. He eyed the computer screen. “Canned plums with diet nondairy topping. I can’t make something else, because I don’t have the butter and eggs I’d need.”

  “Canned plums for dessert?” Marla cried. “That’s it?”

  I turned to Boyd and asked if he’d bring in the cooler that was in the back of my van. A moment later, when Boyd hauled the cooler into the kitchen, Julian cried out.

  “I’ve got a feeling Goldy’s got something better for dessert in that cooler!”

  Ten minutes later, the four of us, plus Yolanda’s two helpers and the two servers who’d just finished setting the tables for dinner, were enjoying the chocolate cookies filled with frosting.

  “This is the flakiest, most buttery chocolate cookie I’ve ever had in my life,” Marla said to me. “You’re a genius.”

  “Thanks. I wish I’d been enough of a genius to keep my godfather alive.”

  Julian, Marla, and Boyd made sympathetic murmurs in my direction. Yolanda’s helpers and the servers, all of whom had finished their cookies, looked awkward, and quickly excused themselves. They said if Victor caught them eating, they’d lose their jobs.

  “That guy Victor is a maniac,” said Marla, her voice lowered. “We all cringe when he goes by.”

  I exhaled. I’d been cringing in Victor’s presence for many a year.

  Boyd asked Marla, “Where is everybody? You’d think you’d see the guests walking around or something. The place looks as deserted as a beach after a hurricane.”

  Marla looked furtively around, then drew a plastic shampoo bottle out of her pocket. It didn’t look as if it was full of shampoo, though, as the liquid had separated.

  “I had to improvise,” she said. “Yesterday we had strawberry, but today it’s mango-strawberry. I thought you might want to test it, too. I dumped out my shampoo, and saved my smoothie. Have to say, Victor watches us pretty carefully to make sure we’re finishing them. But when I saw him sucking up to Charlotte Attenborough, I put my smoothie cup in my pocket and held on to it all the way back to my room. Listen,” Marla said confidently, as she reached for a second cookie, “I know my drugs, or, what I should say,” she amended, batting her eyes at Boyd, “is, I know the effects of drugs. I know I shouldn’t have tasted the smoothie, but I did. This is not just fruit and whatever else they say is in it. Something else is in this drink.” She handed it across to Boyd. “Yesterday, even a little taste zoned me out. And I’m not talking chamomile either. My best guess is that it’s a prescription tranquilizer.”

  Once again, I couldn’t affirm her report, but I knew in my heart that it was true. I just prayed that the samples we’d taken yesterday would show what we suspected. Everyone else at Gold Gulch took a nap in the afternoon, but Marla had been wary, and with good reason.

  “Can you arrest Victor Lane?” I asked Boyd.

  “
Not yet,” he said. “We took samples of the fruit cocktail and smoothies, which are being analyzed. But the analysis has to come back before we can get a warrant for the Smoothie Cabin, Victor’s office and house, and anyplace else. Then our guys can look for the drugs themselves.”

  I closed my eyes and tilted my head back, thinking of the list that Doc Finn had compiled, and that Jack had put in a locker at Aspen Meadow Country Club. “What if you had a bunch of people who had withdrawal symptoms when they got home from here? And the only way for them to feel better would be to come back to the spa?”

  “You’re asking me?” said Boyd. “I’m telling you, we can’t arrest somebody unless we have evidence that will make the arrest stick. Sorry,” he added.

  “Maybe we should get going on dinner,” said Julian. “I’ve already ladled the plums into little bowls, but we need to make the fig filling for the pork, and pound the tenderloins so we can put them together with the filling in the middle.”

  Marla said, “I’d better get back to my bed and pretend to be asleep.” But before she left, she came over and gave me a warm hug. “You look like hell,” she whispered in my ear. “Why don’t you get Yolanda back here? What can you do that the police can’t?”

  I thought of Tom, and his insistence on having dots that connected. I thought of his request that I look at relationships. And I thought impatiently of the tests that Boyd said he would have rushed through the lab.

  “I don’t know,” I said truthfully. Marla hugged me and took off.

  Maybe I didn’t know what I could do that the cops couldn’t, but I did know, had known, my godfather. If I hadn’t, then I never would have discovered the last puzzles he’d left for me: the key ring that had opened the way to the golf clubs, the country club locker, and the non-functioning travel clock.

  But what difference did it all make? I wondered as I seared the stuffed pork tenderloins while Julian steamed and mashed the cauliflower and Boyd trimmed the broccoli. Jack was still dead, murdered. Doc Finn was dead, murdered. There were lots of suspects, but no clear lines.