11-Corpse Suzette

by G. A. McKevett

  * * *

  Exam Room One wasn’t much bigger than a closet. In one corner was a chair, the sort that kids sat in at school with a half desk in front of them. A blood pressure machine hung on the wall, and the smell of alcohol hung in the air.

  Locked cabinets filled with large bottles and tiny vials lined another wall, and a counter held the supplies, cotton balls and swabs, gauze squares and bandages, all in spotless glass and stainless steel containers.

  “So, if he recently injected himself here at the clinic,” Dirk said, looking around, “it probably would have been in this room?”

  “Most likely,” Bridget replied.

  “Go through it with us, step by step, how he would have done it.”

  “Well, he would have opened this drawer and taken out a syringe. One like this,” she said, going through the motions. “Laid it over here on this tray. Gotten one of these alcohol wipes and laid it here, too. Then he would have used his key to get into this cabinet and taken out a vial of the B12.” She removed one of the small bottles of clear liquid, the one nearest her in the box, closed the cabinet and locked it.

  “Then he would have loaded the syringe like this, tapped it to get the air bubbles to rise, pressed the plunger to expel the air and laid the syringe on the tray. He would have rolled up his pant leg, or dropped his trousers and cleaned the spot on his thigh with the alcohol wipe. Then he would have injected it into his thigh, right here in the muscle.”

  “And what then?” Dirk wanted to know.

  “He would have thrown the needle into the biowaste can under the cabinet there.”

  “And the empty vial?”

  “Tossed there, in the regular trash can.”

  Eagerly, Dirk reached for the can and looked inside. But Savannah was a step ahead of him. She had already donned a pair of surgical gloves. She took the can from him and began to rummage among the small amount of garbage inside.

  In seconds, she had found it—a small vial with printing on the side. “Is this it?” she asked, holding it up for Bridget’s inspection.

  “Yes, that’s it.”

  Dirk pulled a small brown paper bag from his jacket pocket and held it open for Savannah to drop it inside. He promptly sealed it and began to scribble the date and other pertinent information on what was now an evidence bag.

  Savannah continued to scrounge around until she had found the rest of what she was looking for. “Is this the top from that bottle?” she asked, showing it, as well, to their resident nurse.

  Bridget studied the top for a moment, then nodded. “That’s it.”

  “Good job, ladies,” Dirk said, as he opened a second bag for Savannah.

  “Oh, so for now we’re ladies and not broads?” Savannah asked teasingly as she watched him seal that one, too.

  “Nope,” he said. “No broads around here at the moment. You two definitely qualify as ladies in my book. Now, let’s see if you dames can help me find that syringe, too.”

  Chapter

  11

  You didn’t have to give us a ride over here, Savannah,” Tammy said, leaning over Savannah’s shoulder from the back seat. “I could have taken Abby myself. My bug’s been running better lately.”

  Savannah decided to be kind and not mention that Tammy’s VW Bug was about ready to be swatted and put out of its misery. The car was on its last tire and had been for months. When you had to pour in more oil than gas on a regular basis, it was time to start thinking about trading up to a later model... say, from the seventies or eighties. As much as the Moonlight Magnolia team loved their classics, a car that got you places “most” of the time didn’t cut it.

  “No problem,” she said. “I wanted to drop by there and nose around anyway. This gives me a good excuse.” She turned to Abigail, who sat glumly in the seat next to her. “Another appointment with that hotty, Jeremy... that can’t be too dreary a prospect. Huh, Abby?”

  To her surprise, a tiny smile appeared on Abigail’s lips and a soft look came into her eyes. “I like Jeremy,” she replied. “He’s kind. He treats me with respect.”

  “Of course he does,” Tammy said. “Why shouldn’t he?”

  “People don’t always do what they should,” Abigail replied. “Take that jerk in the car ahead....”

  Savannah studied the bomb-mobile in front of them, an old sedan with four different colors of primer instead of paint, and bumper stickers galore that bore witness to the driver’s extensive travels. According to the faded, torn banners, he had visited all of the world’s great wonders: Old Faithful, the Stardust Casino, the Tuscaloosa Rattlesnake Farm, and Joe’s Catfish Shack in the Heart of the Ozarks.

  But smack in the middle of all the others, one of the bumper stickers was all the more obvious because it was bright yellow and not as faded. Apparently a new addition to the montage, it read: SAVE A WHALE—HARPOON A FAT CHICK.

  Savannah cast a sideways look at Abigail and was surprised to see tears in the woman’s eyes. It was a disgusting sentiment, no doubt, but the world was full of such insults. She was taken aback by Abigail’s sensitivity to such insensitivity.

  “It should be against the law to put something like that on your car,” Abby said, her voice shaky. “Don’t you agree?”

  Savannah shrugged. “I can see why it upsets you, but I’ve always thought that a body should be able to say whatever’s on their mind without it being illegal. How else are we going to be able to tell the assholes from the good folks? That yahoo puts a thing like that on his car, we know he’s an idiot from a block away. Forewarned and all that.”

  But Abigail shook her head vigorously and said, “No, it should be illegal. Can you imagine the uproar if, instead of saying ‘Fat Chick’ it said ‘Lesbian’ or ‘Black Man?’ Somebody would shoot his tires out. Somebody else would sue him for two-hundred and fifty thousand dollars and win. The ACLU would be all over it. Because society has decided not to tolerate that sort of thing. But you can bash a fat woman at home, at work, on late-night talk shows, and people everywhere will laugh.”

  Tammy spoke up from the backseat, her words soft and hesitant. “I guess it’s because society believes that a lesbian is born a lesbian, and a black person is born black. But they think a fat person chooses to be that way.”

  “Sure they think that,” Abby said. “They think we’re all a bunch of lazy slobs who do nothing but lie around all day, shoving junk food into our faces. They think a simple change of lifestyle would just fix everything. Eat right and exercise! Yeah, right. That works for most people, but not for all of us. It’s a lot more complicated than that.”

  Savannah wasn’t going to argue with her. Years ago, when she had been at war against her own body, she had tried every diet in the world. But after months and months of counting every calorie, exercising herself half to death, eating nothing but “wholesome” food and still gaining weight, or going to bed hungry night after night and losing next to nothing, she had decided her body had other plans.

  One morning she looked in the mirror and saw a barely thinner, miserably unhappy, sallow woman whose hair was falling out, who couldn’t walk up a flight of stairs without nearly fainting, who hated the world and everybody in it... and she had decided to love her body and herself more than that.

  She had never dieted again—in spite of the yahoos with insulting bumper stickers, late-night TV comedians and their hurtful jokes, the constant barrage of commercial ads that hawked one weight-loss solution or another, and fashion designers with their stick-thin models.

  And she was fine with it.

  She only wished that young women like Abigail could be fine with it, too.

  “It’s too bad,” Abigail was saying, “that in this world there are more jerks like that one in front of us than there are people like Jeremy.”

  “But you’re on your way to see Jeremy,” Savannah reminded her. “You’re choosing to spend your time with someone like him. And that guy in front of us... you can just chalk him up as an idiot; give him the mental
finger and keep walkin’.”

  Abigail gave her a long, thoughtful look. “Is that what you do?”

  “No, I’m a Southerner. I mentally lop his head off with a great big sword, watch it roll across the ground, kick it into a ditch, and spit on it. Then I walk away. Us Georgia gals are a little more mentally violent in the way we deal with people who irritate us.” Abby laughed. “I love it! I think us Yankee gals might have to follow your example. Maybe I’ll mentally push him onto a subway track and watch the train run over him.”

  “Whatever it takes to get the job done,” Savannah replied. “As long as you maintain your inner spiritual tranquility.”

  “You guys are weird,” Tammy said from the back seat. “And a little scary.”

  “And don’t you forget it,” Savannah reminded her.

  “Yeah, don’t mess with a fat chick,” Abby added. “You never know when we might act out one of those violent fantasies of ours. You could wind up headless and under a subway train.” Savannah lifted a militant fist. “Amen, sister.”

  The moment Savannah pulled into Emerge’s parking lot, her cell phone rang.

  “You ladies go on in,” Savannah told Tammy and Abigail. “I’ll take this and follow in a few minutes.”

  As they got out of the car and headed inside, Savannah answered the call. It was Dirk.

  “What’s the news?” she asked. It was safe to assume there was some sort of business to discuss; Dirk never called just to shoot the breeze.

  “Lab just called me about that bottle and syringe we dropped off,” he said. “They found something good.”

  “Fingerprints?”

  “Yeah, but they’re just his. No big deal there.”

  “Anything suspicious in the vial?”

  “Nothing. It was clean. Not even residue from the vitamins that should have been in it. Like somebody washed it out really good before they pitched it. Same with the syringe. Nothing but water inside.”

  “So what’s the good word?”

  “The cap. It had a trace of something else on the inside.”

  “Oh yeah? What?”

  “The gal at the lab wasn’t sure, but she said it looked like botulism.”

  “Botulism?” Savannah started to grin. “You mean like Botox, the stuff they use at plastic surgeons’ clinics?”

  “No, she said she checked that and it isn’t Botox. Similar, but not the same. She said that Botox is relatively safe. In order to kill somebody with Botox, you’d have to inject them with something like thirty-five vials of the stuff. And at four hundred and fifty bucks a vial, the cost alone would be prohibitive.”

  “Not to mention trying to hold a victim down long enough to inject them with thirty-five vials of anything.”

  “Right. But this stuff she found, she said it’s a lot more concentrated than Botox. She’s not sure what it is.”

  Savannah looked up at the brass sign and its fancy “Emerge” logo. “Well,” she said, “I just happen to be sitting in the clinic’s parking lot. Let me go inside and see what I can find. I’ll get back to you.”

  “Thanks, babe. I owe you one.”

  “Oh, sugar, you owe me way more than one.”

  * * *

  Once inside, Savannah found Myrna alone at her desk. She looked tired and bored, but happy to see Savannah.

  “Hey, girlfriend,” she said as Savannah walked over to her and stuck out her hand. “You about ready to go out for another drink?”

  “Any time,” Savannah replied, shaking her hand heartily. “For you, any time at all.” She looked around at the clean desk, the bottle of red nail polish and file, the hand cream. “Not much going on, huh?”

  “Nothing. Nothing at all. But I guess that’s to be expected. With one owner missing and the other one dead, what do you expect? I’m just going through the motions. We all are.”

  “Like having Abigail come in for her meeting with Jeremy?” Savannah asked.

  Myrna smiled sweetly. “That was Jeremy’s idea. He likes Abby, thinks he can be of help to her. He asked me to call her this morning and have her come in for a stylist consult.”

  “Where are they?”

  “He just took her and Tammy out to the patio for a nice lunch. You can join them if you like.”

  “No, I’d rather talk to you.”

  Myrna seemed pleased. Savannah got the idea that the receptionist might not have a lot of friends. The woman had an air of loneliness about her.

  “Good. Pull up a chair and let’s chat.”

  Savannah settled herself in the offered chair and glanced around to see if they were alone. There was no one in earshot except the butterflies.

  “How much do you know about the medicines they use here?” she asked.

  Myrna looked a bit sad. “Probably more than I should... personal experience and all. Why? Which meds do you want to know about?”

  “Botox.”

  “Botox? Why? Are you considering some injections for those forehead wrinkles of yours?”

  “No. I like my wrinkles. I earned every one of them. I was just wondering if they use Botox here... or something like it.”

  “They used to use Botox. But lately Suzette had switched to something else, a new product she was raving about.”

  “Do you know the name of it?”

  “No, but I can look it up for you.” She turned to the computer on her desk. “I’m sure it’s listed in our inventory.”

  After a minute or so of searching, she found it. “Here you go. That’s right; I remember now. It’s called Bot-Avanti. It’s the latest thing on the market.”

  “And why would Suzette have switched to it, if you know?” Myrna gave a little sniff. “It’s cheaper.”

  “It costs less per bottle?”

  “Well, no. It’s actually expensive initially. But it’s much more concentrated.”

  Savannah nodded. She couldn’t wait to get back to Dirk with this little tidbit. “And they keep a good stock of it here at Emerge?”

  Myrna squinted at the screen. “Actually, there’s only a few bottles of it here. Most of it is at Mystic Twilight, our old spa. That’s where Suzette did most of her work.”

  “What’s going on there these days?”

  “Not much there either. It’s as dead as here.” She lowered her voice. “Between you and me... Mystic hasn’t had a real client in months now. Suzette and Sergio had pretty much turned their backs on the old place and invested all of their time, energies, and money in this new one. That’s why we were so hoping this opening would make a big splash.” She sighed. “I guess now it’s more like a belly flop. We’re all going to have to start looking for jobs around here. It’s so sad. We all had such high hopes for the new place.”

  Savannah studied the receptionist, her face with its overworked, windblown look, her swollen lips that looked like she’d had an allergic reaction to a new lipstick. She thought how hard it must be to live Myrna Cooper’s life, even without losing one’s job.

  “Are you going to be okay?” Savannah asked her.

  Myrna’s eyes sparkled. She smiled and it occurred to Savannah that, in that moment, Myrna was a lot prettier than any plastic surgeon could make her. “Oh, don’t you worry about me,” she replied with a toss of her head. “I’m like a cat. I always land on my feet. Always.”

  Savannah laughed and patted her shoulder as she stood to leave. “Glad to hear it. And when I’m finished with this whole Suzette/Sergio business, we’ll go out again and since I won’t be ‘working,’ I’ll have a margarita.”

  “One big enough to take a jacuzzi in. My treat.”

  “It’s a date.”

  “I thought it was supposed to be warm all year here in Southern California,” Abigail said as she wrapped her sweater more tightly around her and covered her bare feet with the edge of the beach towel.

  On a larger blanket next to her, Savannah and Tammy were busy setting out a picnic that Savannah had thrown together at the last moment. She and Tammy had a frequent ritual o
f packing a dinner and bringing it down to the beach to watch the sunset. Thinking Abigail would enjoy this west coast experience, they had suggested it when she had given a thumbs down on fajitas at Casa Madre.

  But at the moment, the beach picnic wasn’t going over all that well either.

  “What is that stuff you’ve got there?” Abby wanted to know as she peered into the crock pot that Savannah had pulled from a box.

  “It’s southern style pulled pork,” she told her. “And, girl, you haven’t lived ’til you’ve sunk your chompers into some of this.”

  Abby looked doubtfully into the pot. “Looks like somebody already ate it.”

  Tammy cringed and Savannah counted to ten before saying, “That’s because the pork was cooked for hours in a sweet and spicy barbecue sauce until the meat fell all apart. It’s very tender and tasty.”

  Abby wrinkled her nose. “I don’t think I’m going to eat any of it. What else do you have?”

  “Onion buns to put the meat on, coleslaw and corn on the cob. So if you don’t eat the pork, it’s gonna be slim pickins for you, kiddo.”

  When Abby grunted in reply, Tammy said, “Let me make you a sandwich of this and if you don’t like it, I’ll eat it.”

  Abby looked surprised. “You? I thought Miss Vegetarian never ate anything like that. Where’s your tofu burger?”

  Tammy laughed. “When it comes to Savannah’s pulled pork sandwiches, even I fall off the wagon.”

  Abby seemed satisfied with that and settled back on her towel to take in the scenery while Tammy and Savannah assembled their sandwiches.

  “I guess it’s pretty nice here,” Abby said, as she studied the horizon. The sky, deep turquoise blue, was tinged with gold and a delicate shade of peach around the sun, which had dipped halfway into the water.

  Far in the distance off to their right a long, dark irregular shape stretched between the water and the sky. “What’s that?” Abby asked. “Some sort of island?”

  “That’s Santa Tesla Island,” Savannah told her. “It’s quite a ways out there. You can’t usually see it unless it’s a clear day, like today.”