Melinda tearfully asked for a few hours to round up her husband and son. She knew they’d want to say goodbye to their dog one last time, to witness the end.
Of course, Juliette gave her that time. How could she not? But sitting around waiting for them to arrive was more than Juliette herself could handle. She told Zoe and Roger she’d be back after lunch and to keep an eye on Roxy while she was gone. Roger said, “No problem,” without looking up from his computer display, but Zoe, more attuned to Juliette’s mood and the ongoing situation with Roxy and the Bremmers, asked if Juliette wanted company for lunch.
“Thanks, Zoe,” Juliette said, “but I’m meeting someone. Rain check?”
“Sure,” Zoe said with a bright nod.
In truth, Juliette hadn’t called Rosalee about having lunch together, and doubted she’d have someone available to cover the spice shop, but she hoped the other woman would make some time for her. Juliette thought talking to a fellow healer might help her ride out the dismal day. While Rosalee wasn’t a doctor, per se, she certainly had experience healing Wesen of various non-human maladies. Plus, she had cured Juliette’s memory loss and the unnatural obsession she’d shared with Nick’s captain. Rosalee’s specialty was healing that for which traditional medicine had no answer, let alone a cure.
When Juliette entered the Exotic Spice & Tea Shop, she saw the portly, grandfatherly gentleman—she remembered Rosalee had said his name was Oscar Cavendish—in one of the aisles, but no other customers. Juliette made her way to the counter, offering a little wave when Rosalee glanced up from a magazine she’d been skimming.
“Oh, hi, Juliette!” Rosalee said. “This is a surprise.”
“Sorry about not calling ahead.” She raised a large white paper bag. “Didn’t know if you could get away, so I brought veggie wraps and salads—hope that’s not too redundant—and some bottled water. Thought we could share a stand-up lunch.”
“Nonsense,” Rosalee said. “I’ve got a spare stool around here somewhere.”
Rosalee disappeared for a moment in the back room and came back with a three-legged stool, tall enough for her to sit comfortably behind the counter.
“So, what brings you down my way?”
“A really awful day,” Juliette said. “I had to call a family and give them some bad news.”
“Oh, no, not the lab.”
Juliette nodded as she reached into the bag for the wraps and plastic containers of salad.
“One good day, then they brought her back in again this morning, almost worse than before. It feels worse.”
“I’m sorry,” Rosalee said, accepting a water bottle from Juliette and setting it beside her portion of the food. “There’s nothing else you can do?”
Juliette shook her head, dejectedly. She had her food laid out before her but no appetite.
“I ran the tests again. Same result. Kidney failure.”
The older gentlemen approached the counter, carrying several jars of spices.
“I don’t want to disturb your impromptu lunch, so let me pay for these and be on my way,” he said.
“Find everything you need?” Rosalee asked as she stepped over to the cash register.
“Yes, thank you,” Cavendish said. “I’m experimenting with different flavor combinations. With delectable results.”
“Good for you,” Rosalee said. She placed the jars in a paper bag and read him the total amount due.
As he removed a billfold from his jacket pocket, he said, “I’m curious, Ms…?”
“Calvert,” Rosalee said.
“Yes, Calvert,” he said, handing her two twenties. “I had heard that a Frederick Calvert owned this shop.”
“Freddy was my brother.”
“I note the past tense…?”
Rosalee nodded, and gave him his change.
“Yes, he—he’s no longer with us.”
“I am sorry for your loss, Ms. Calvert.”
“Thank you,” she said, passing his bag over the counter. “After his passing, I inherited the shop.”
“Ah,” the portly man said, nodding. “Well, you have a wonderful place.” After she thanked him, he leaned forward and spoke softly, clearly intending that Juliette not overhear. “I’ve heard rumors, about certain… exotic items for sale.”
Rosalee glanced awkwardly at Juliette before replying. “After Freddy’s death, we stopped carrying… those particular items.”
“Very good,” Cavendish said. “Of course, I understand why you’d rather not follow in those footsteps. And I’m not personally in the market for such things. But some rumors provide a person of my advanced age a certain vicarious thrill to hear about.”
“I understand,” Rosalee said, but her body language had become stiff. “Have a great day, Mr. Cavendish.”
“Thank you,” he said on his way out. “Enjoy your meal.”
After the door clicked shut, Juliette asked, “What was that about?”
“Freddy had a little side business going,” Rosalee said. “Selling… controlled substances. Having that kind of thing in the shop resulted in his death.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay,” Rosalee said, jabbing a plastic fork into her lettuce. “I hadn’t pictured Mr. Cavendish as the type who’d—maybe he was only looking for some juicy gossip.” She took a bite of her wrap and a sip of water. “You were talking about the dog. Kidney failure. You made the call…?”
“Yes,” Juliette said. “The whole family is coming in later. I had to get out of the office. To try and stop thinking about it. But they were so upset, I can’t think about anything else.”
“You’ve done all you can. Right?”
Juliette nodded. “I don’t understand the sudden recovery. I think that bothers me the most. It seems so… cruel.”
“Life isn’t always fair,” Rosalee said. “Sometimes it’s the opposite of fair.”
“I know,” Juliette said, taking a bite of her own wrap and finding it flavorless. “But I have this feeling…” She groaned. “I don’t know. It’s like an itch I can’t scratch.”
Rosalee took a bite of lettuce, then pointed the empty tines of the fork toward Juliette. “Maybe there’s something there that you can’t see from the test results, but subconsciously you know it’s… off.”
Juliette raised her eyebrows. “Like what?”
“It’s definitely kidney failure?”
“Yes,” Juliette said, shrugging. “All the classic symptoms are present. And the tests confirm it.”
“Both sets of tests were the same?”
“Yes—well, mostly the same,” Juliette said. “They wouldn’t be exactly the same. Some indicators were different.”
“Different how?”
Juliette had read the results several times and they were imprinted in her mind. Closing her eyes, she could see the odd numbers again: sodium 128, potassium 6.9, blood sugar 56mg/dL.
“Sodium very low, potassium very high, and blood sugar quite low. Those results were new.”
“And what do these different results tell you?”
“Well, there’s no chance that anti-freeze ingestion was involved, which was our original concern. And there’s no sign of infection.”
“That part sounds good,” Rosalee said. “But what does it all mean?”
“It means I’m stumped,” Juliette said. “It’s a bit odd, but doesn’t change the outcome.”
“Unless it does,” Rosalee said, before taking another bite of her wrap.
“But I keep coming back to kidney failure. That’s terminal.”
“Juliette, what am I?”
“You’re a friend. Rosalee Calvert. Shop owner. Entrepreneur.”
“And?”
“A Wesen,” Juliette said, smiling. “A Fuchsbau.” That revelation had been such a huge moment in Juliette’s Grimm and Wesen enlightenment. And here they were, having lunch together, as if none of that mattered. And, truly, it didn’t.
“Everything isn’t always what it
appears to be on the surface,” Rosalee said. “How long did you know me before you knew that about me? And you might never have known…”
A hidden nature beneath the surface, Juliette considered. Could Roxy have a condition that presented as kidney failure but wasn’t?
“I need to do some research.”
“That’s a good idea,” Rosalee said and finished her wrap. “I wish I could help, but that’s way outside my area of expertise.”
“You may have helped more than you know,” Juliette said. “I need to go.”
“Thanks for lunch!” Rosalee called as Juliette hurried out of the shop.
On the way to her car, Juliette called Melinda Bremmer on her cell phone.
“Melinda, I’m so glad I caught you.”
“Has something happened to Roxy?”
“No,” Juliette said, hoping that was true. “She’s the same.”
“You’re still going to wait for us before—before you…?”
“Yes, of course,” Juliette said. “But I want to check something before we… take that course of action.”
“Okay,” Melinda said. “But I’m not sure what you’re…”
“I need to research a few of the… anomalous test results,” Juliette said, again treading the fine line between pursuing all avenues of inquiry and offering false hope.
“What are you saying?”
“I want to check some results,” Juliette said. “And depending on what I find, I might need to run some more tests on Roxy.”
Juliette needed to buy time so she could discover the root cause of her misgivings about the diagnosis, but without getting the Bremmers’ hopes up, only to crush them again later. Even if she found something else responsible for the dog’s condition, a different diagnosis might be just as deadly.
“More tests?” Melinda said. “She’s suffering, though, isn’t she?”
Juliette stopped short, her car key in the door lock.
“Yes,” she admitted. She took a deep, silent breath, exhaling slowly. “But… I don’t want to give up on Roxy until I’ve answered some lingering questions.”
Melinda was silent for so long Juliette thought she’d lost the connection. Then she worried that Melinda would choose to end Roxy’s suffering now rather than prolong her pain. She was about to ask Melinda to reconsider when the other woman spoke.
“I haven’t called them yet,” Melinda said. “To tell them.”
“Oh.”
“I couldn’t do it over the phone,” Melinda said. “I wanted… I wanted them safely home before…”
“Melinda…”
“No, it’s okay,” Melinda said. “I wanted them safe, together with me, before I told them.” She made a snuffling noise on the line, like a burst of static. “We don’t want her to suffer”—her voice caught—“but we’ll wait for them to come home. Can you have the answers by then?”
“Yes,” Juliette said, too quickly. She hadn’t framed the questions yet. She couldn’t know what tests to run until she understood what troubled her about the dog’s condition.
The clock was ticking. She couldn’t return to the clinic fast enough.
* * *
Judging by the dark windows and the empty parking lot behind the corner building, the restaurant was closed. Nick pulled the Land Cruiser into the spot closest to the side of the building.
“Sure this is the right address?” he asked.
Hank double-checked the piece of paper Wu had handed him back at the precinct.
“It’s what it says here,” Hank said. “Whether it’s right or not, I don’t know.”
“Maybe Crawford’s inside, waiting for us,” Nick said, but had his doubts. No other cars in the lot. Unless the man had a driver drop him off or walked to the restaurant on foot, the place was deserted. “If you want to wait here, I’ll check.”
“Are you kidding me?” Hank said, grabbing his crutches from the back seat. “After the forest paths and hills and muddy lots? This is a paved lot and a level sidewalk.”
“Knock yourself out,” Nick said.
They walked to the front of the building. A sign above the broad plate-glass windows proclaimed in two-foot high letters PORTLAND & SEA TAVERN. Other than the sign, nothing else about the building indicated that it had ever functioned as a dining establishment. A notice on the Plexiglas door said CLOSED.
Nick cupped his hand around his eyes and peered through one of the broad windows into the dim interior. A rounded archway divided the open space into two sections. A door with a porthole window set in the back right wall might or might not lead into a kitchen. Twin doors in the back left were labeled as restrooms. In the center of the open area stood a folding metal card table with two chairs, one of them lying on its side.
“Anything?” Hank asked.
“Looks empty.”
“In the back?” Hank said and swung his way over to the door. He rapped on the glass with his knuckles, loud enough to be heard by anyone in the building.
“Five weeks since they ordered the hijacked kitchen equipment,” Nick said. “And nothing’s in there. No tables or booths. No ordering counter or bar. No sign of a restaurant setup.”
Hank rapped again, louder than before.
A minute passed.
Impatient, Nick pulled out his cell phone and said, “Read me Crawford’s phone number.”
Lamar Crawford had agreed to meet them at the restaurant, but hadn’t told them it was closed—rather, that it had never opened. And now he was a no-show.
Hank read the number to Nick, who dialed and waited for Crawford to pick up.
“Hello?”
“Lamar Crawford?”
“Speaking,” the man said. “How may I—?”
“This is Detective Burkhardt, Portland PD.”
“Oh, Detective, I’m sorry, we were supposed to meet at… Ah, I’ve lost track of the time. I’m afraid I wasn’t feeling up to the drive. Perhaps we could meet here, at my office.”
“Give me the address.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Monroe dreaded the conversation he needed to have with Rosalee. Not so much for what he had to say but for what he had to leave unsaid. He wandered along an aisle, feigning interest in several jars filled with glittery powders, while she rang up the purchases of an embarrassed young couple who apparently shared some sort of Wesen infection involving hives and sneezing. Judging by their furtive glances around the shop, he figured they needed a few moments of privacy.
After the couple had left the shop clutching their remedies in twin bags, Monroe joined Rosalee behind the counter. Her broad, welcoming smile warmed his heart but made the topic of discussion harder to broach. Of course, she sensed his unease immediately.
“Monroe, what’s wrong?”
He reminded himself to never play poker with her.
“Oh, nothing really…”
“I know your ‘bad news’ look,” she said. “So how bad is it?”
“About tonight…”
“Tonight, I planned to cook dinner for you. I found this recipe for…” Her voice trailed off and she frowned. “You won’t be coming to dinner tonight, will you?”
“It’s just that I, that old friend of mine who dropped by, I sort of promised I’d, you know, cook for him after we…” This time Monroe’s voice faded. He cleared his throat and tried to start again.
Rosalee placed a hand on his chest.
“You haven’t said much about this old friend.”
“No,” Monroe said. “He’s an old friend from, well, an old friend. Someone I never intended to see again.”
“I see,” Rosalee said. And Monroe believed she had intuited just how “old” a friend he meant. Before she’d met Monroe, Rosalee had her own dark period, a time she wasn’t proud of, same as Monroe. They had that in common, so she probably understood better than most what it meant for Monroe to hang around with somebody he knew during his own dark phase. “Monroe, are you…?”
“No, I haven’t don
e anything,” Monroe said. “I’ve been trying to help him.”
“Help him?”
“Be more like me.”
“He’s a Blutbad?”
Monroe nodded. “Hardcore,” Monroe said. “But he’s trying to change. At least he says he is.”
“You don’t believe him?”
“It’s been a struggle,” Monroe said. “I know I’ve been absent a lot lately, but…”
“Monroe, is it okay for you to be around someone like him?”
“Yes—no—I’m fine,” Monroe said quickly. “I just want to say that after tonight, it’s over.”
“It is?” she asked, doubtful.
“I tried to help him, but tonight’s the last time,” Monroe said. “He is—was—a friend, so I owed him that much, right? But I’ve made up my mind. One last attempt to set him on a good path. Then I’m done. It’s over. I have to admit to myself that I’ve done what I can and the rest is up to him.”
“I understand.”
“Good,” Monroe said, nodding, as if he needed to convince himself again that he’d had a moral obligation to try to help Decker and that he should back away if meditation failed as spectacularly as had Pilates and t’ai chi. “Because, maybe you’re right, you know?”
“Right about what?”
“That it might not be the best idea for me to spend a lot of time with him.”
She took his hand in hers. “If I am right,” she said, “maybe you should cancel your meeting tonight.”
“No, I’ll be fine tonight,” Monroe said. “One last night. Meditation and a non-meat meal at home. Tame stuff. And tomorrow, everything will return to normal.”
Again, Monroe felt as if he was trying to convince himself. His words rang hollow in his own ears and he wondered if he was simply reciting the rationalizing mantra of an at-risk Wieder Blutbad, like a child whistling past a graveyard to convince himself he’s not afraid.
Grimm: The Chopping Block Page 14
