by E. Joan Sims
Cassie slumped into the kitchen with a long and mournful mien and a worse disposition.
“Get out of the way you stupid dog!” Immediately contrite, she bent and lifted the fat, squirming puppy into her lap.
I sat down at the table across from Cassie and waited for her to open up.
“He’s such an idiot!”
I knew better than to reply to that.
“He doesn’t even try to defend himself. He just keeps saying, ‘I didn’t do it’ over and over, but he won’t explain anything. I just don’t understand, Mom. He needs help, but he refuses to let me call Dr. Haywood, or anybody in Atlanta. What are we going to do?”
She turned her lovely tear-stained face to me. She must have cried all the way home.
“What about Bruce Hawkins? Mother, has he returned your call yet?”
Mother carried the unfrosted cake and a big bowl of icing over to the table and sat down.
“I talked to him about an hour ago. That’s why I’m baking.”
Cassie and I exclaimed in unison, “Uh-oh.”
“Yes, I’m afraid the news is not so good. Bruce is representing the family of the victim, or victims, I should say. He cannot even recommend anyone else because it might be considered a conflict of interest. He said he was sorry because he’d met Ethan when he first came to town and liked him a lot.”
Cassie’s face got even longer and more morose looking. She was absently stroking Aggie’s soft furry ears. I was a nervous wreck waiting for the first nip of those nasty little teeth. She never let any of us, including Cassie, pet her.
“Cassie, tell us exactly what the situation is—not what Ethan says, but what Joiner told you.”
“That’s just it,” she cried. “I couldn’t talk to Chief Joiner. They made me go in through the back of the jail. I never got to the front office, so I didn’t get to see anyone else. The deputy said it was for my own safety. Something about the town being ‘riled up’—whatever that means.”
“So, we still don’t know exactly what happened.”
Mother cleared her throat and licked the icing-covered spatula. I was astounded. That was a first. She must really be upset.
“I spoke to Mavis,” she said quietly.
“Ah, ha! Now we’re getting somewhere.”
Mavis was an erstwhile friend of Mother’s. She had a police scanner and the biggest personal address book in town. Mavis knew everybody’s business before they did. I should have suggested that Mother call her in the first place.
“Mavis heard the call over the police scanner when the young woman telephoned for help. I think her name is Hayes, Brittany or Brandy, one of those 1980s names. Anyway, she called 911 and said her father had been shot. Mavis heard the dispatcher order a police car to the Hayes’ farm and then call Doc Baxter. When the police got there, the girl’s father was lying out on the side of the road by his mailbox with a bullet through his head. The girl was found lying unconscious on the front porch.”
I glanced at Cassie and watched her face grow paler as her back stiffed.
“When the doctor got there he revived young whats-her-name and put her in the ambulance. On the way to the hospital she accused Ethan of raping her. When they told her that her father was dead, she said Ethan must have done that, too.”
“Impossible!” cried Cassie.
“Go on, Mother,” I encouraged grimly.
“Chief Joiner himself went over to the Parsons’ house and quietly arrested Ethan. He was in his apartment working on some papers. He claimed that he knew nothing about Mr. Hayes being killed, or the daughter’s rape, but he couldn’t explain some really bad scratches on his hand and arms.”
“No, no,” moaned Cassie.
“Mavis said they photographed his wounds and booked him. The judge has refused to set bond since it’s a murder case.”
Cassie jumped up, dumping the sleeping puppy in a furious snarling heap on the kitchen floor.
“Ethan is innocent! He could never do anything like that!”
“Listen to me, Cassandra! Your friend is in big trouble, but you can help him if you don’t wallow in your own feelings. His little genius medical brain seems to have shut down for the moment, and we’re going to have to do the thinking for him. So cool it and calm down.”
She stared down at me for a moment, then sat down hard on the kitchen chair. Aggie jumped back up on her lap immediately.
“You’re right. You’re absolutely right.” She tucked in her chin and grew three inches taller. I was proud of her. “Where do we start?”
Mother knew.
“Cake, anyone?”
Chapter Seven
After bracing ourselves with several cups of Queen Anne tea and a slice or two of Lady Baltimore cake, we took our full tummies back to the library—the gracious room that had provided the comfortable headquarters for our previous sleuthing. I loved the big brick fireplace, the soft jewel tones of the oriental rug, and the twin comfort of overstuffed sofas. The many photographs of family and friends lining the walls never failed to remind me of where I belonged in the grand scheme of things.
Fortified by the aforementioned ladies Baltimore and Queen Anne, we sat around Dad’s desk with yellow legal pads in hand and waited for some monumental inspiration.
“This is ridiculous,” protested Mother. “I don’t even know what I’m supposed to be considering. Paisley, give us a starting point, dear. And don’t ask for any more cake.”
“Whatever do you mean?” I asked with feigned innocence.
“You have that look in your eye.”
“Please, you two. Let’s get serious,” begged Cassie.
“Okay, okay. But Gran’s right. We don’t know diddley. For instance, when and where did Brandy, or Brittany meet Ethan? Was he really at the Hayes’s place that night? And if not, how did he get those scratches? And, I think, most important of all, what is Ethan doing in Rowan Springs in the first place?”
“He told us the other night, Mom. He’s trying to find out why so many
unborn babies are dying.”
“Yeah, but is he really investigating the environment or the medical establishment?”
“Oh, I hadn’t thought of that.”
“Well, I think that’s where we need to focus.”
“I could call Ed Baxter.”
“I don’t think so, Mother, not just yet, anyway. I think we have a good starting place right here in this room.”
“You mean Ethan’s laptop?”
“Yes, Cassie, that’s exactly what I do mean. If he won’t talk to us, maybe his computer will.”
“But that’s so indiscreet, Paisley. It’s like snooping in someone’s closet. Dreadful manners.”
Mother looked so prim and proper I almost laughed. “But isn’t that just what we are? Snoops?”
“Gran, you can’t argue with that. You’re the one who loves this detective stuff.”
Cassie tapped her fingernail on the top of the closed computer case. “You are forgetting one thing though, Mom. We couldn’t read that disc. How are we going to let the computer do the talking if we can’t gain access?”
“I’ve been thinking about that. Remember the other night when Horatio was here? He was telling us about Ethan’s work in Africa and his search for the host of the Ebola virus.”
“Yes.”
“Remember the word he used?”
“I do. Dear Horatio was quite informative. The word was ‘vector.’”
“Well, Mother, I think that our young doctor is very intelligent, but not so creative. He probably uses words that are very common and familiar to him like ‘vector’ for encrypting all of his medical research. I imagine he is annoyed that he has to do it at all. Most doctors I know feel a little superior to the general public. And, excuse me for saying so Cassie, but Ethan is probably no different from the rest of the genus ‘white-coatis superiorus.’”
“Most people, myself included, wouldn’t understand any medical terminology at all. Why would he t
ake it one step further and bother encrypting his work in the first place, dear?”
“As I explained to Cassie earlier, the government probably has rules for everyone across the board, from the Department of Defense to the CIA. I’m sure there are generic mandates to protect information.”
“Okay, Mom, if you’re so much smarter than Ethan, let’s see you try.”
“Not me—Leonard. If I’m going to waste the remaining little grey cells in my cerebrum on this, then Leonard and I get a story out of it. Deal?”
“Deal.”
“Now, what’s Ethan’s password?”
“He changed it to ‘Cassie’ when we met.”
“I rest my case.”
I plugged away on Dr. McHenry’s computer for three hours. Cassie fell asleep on the sofa, and Mother kept the teapot full of Queen Anne. I tried everything I could think of from “vector,” to “Ebola,” to “Kinshasa,” to “Tarzan,” with no luck.
And it took forever. Every time I tried a new word and got kicked out I had to log on again. To say it was frustrating was definitely an understatement.
“I could have sworn it would be ‘vector.’”
“You had me convinced, dear. It was a good thought. Very creative and…”
“Stop it, Mother. You’re just saying that to bug me. Bug! Bug! Maybe that’s it.”
And so it was.
When I got in, I yelled, “whoopee” loud enough to awaken Cassie. She inadvertently kicked Aggie, who nipped her hard on the foot.
“Ouch! Damn dog! Ouch! Did you really do it, Mom, uh, Leonard?”
“Look for yourself.”
They both came to peer over my shoulder at the columns of medical data whizzing across the little screen of the laptop.
“Shouldn’t we stop it, or print something, or something?” asked Cassie.
“Beat’s the hell out’a me.”
“Language, Paisley, dear.”
“Sorry, Mother. But I don’t know what all this means.”
“Maybe I could ask ‘white-coatis superiorus.’”
“Very funny, Cassie. No, I don’t think we should let the good doctor know we have breached his security until we manage to save his butt.”
“Paisley!”
“Oh, Mother, for heaven’s sake.”
“Exactly.”
It was getting late in a long hard day. My afternoon nap had given me a false sense of energy. After the initial euphoria of finding my way into Ethan’s computer wore off, so did my vim and vigor. I slumped over the desk and watched the bytes of information I did not understand speed past. My eyes watered with the strain of my efforts and the screen blurred in front of me.
“Sleep, I need sleep.”
“I think we all do, dear.”
“But, Mom, poor Ethan.”
“Sorry, Cassie, I can’t think anymore. I’ve shot my wad.”
“Common and vulgar pronouncements not withstanding, Cassandra, think of your poor Mother for a change. You’ve had her up and going since one o’clock this morning. That’s almost twenty-four hours. Let her go to bed, dear. She’ll function much better in the morning.”
They made me sound like a machine.
But Mother was right, as usual. Early the next morning I was back at the desk trying to puzzle out Ethan’s discs.
Cassie brought me tea and toast, which she nervously devoured while watching me flip through the screens of data.
“Understand anything, yet?”
“Don’t get crumbs on the keyboard!” I responded testily, “And I’m hungry. Where’s my toast?”
“Gran will probably bring you some.”
“I may have to go on strike if…”
“Anyone for some more toast and jam?”
Mother came in with a tray of lovely looking dishes of jam and butter and two racks of warm toast. She sat down on the sofa next to Cassie and they served themselves breakfast.
“And me?”
“Oh sorry, Paisley, dear. Here, have a slice.”
She extended the plate of buttered toast but Aggie got there before me. With a beautifully executed leap that would have put the Flying Wallendas to shame, she took the toast from the plate and was out of the room before we could say a word.
“Never mind. I’ll wait until lunch,” I grumped.
“Umm, you want this last half of mine, Mom?” asked my gluttonous child with her mouth full.
“And lunch had better be good!”
Chapter Eight
Cassie left around ten to visit Ethan. Mother had some shopping to do. I hoped she was planning to buy something good for lunch. They left me and my loving canine companion to decipher the computer discs alone. We were not doing too well. I finally divided them into three piles, “difficult,” “impossible,” and “you’ve got to be kidding.”
I had never taken any courses in statistics, but I’m sure that even if I had, I would have been just as lost trying to understand the endless columns and charts.
Ethan was an epidemiologist—a medical doctor who studied disease and its prevalence, and thereby, its prevention. I was a single mother, a former writer of children’s books, who collaborated with a fictitious detective named Leonard Paisley on a series of mystery novels. The twain would never have met if it had not been for my lovely daughter. And that’s what kept me going. I had to help Ethan to make Cassie happy.
When I finally came across Dr. Ethan McHenry’s journal, I could hardly believe my good luck. The first entry was six weeks ago, the fifth of August. He had made an appointment to meet with the two medical doctors in town, Ed Baxter and Winston Wallace. Wallace had showed up, but Baxter had canceled with the excuse of not feeling well.
Ethan had been immediately put off by Wallace’s attitude of self-importance and his disinterest in the problem at hand. Wallace made the firm assertion that the high fetal death rate was just a seasonal thing and of no real importance. He arrogantly insisted that the CDC would find that their statistics were off. They were simply exaggerating the situation, and as soon as they got their noses out of his business everything would return to normal. Ethan explained that he had been called in by the state epidemiologist. If he left, someone else would just take his place.
Wallace left their meeting in a huff.
There was another entry later that day: Ethan had traveled twenty miles to the Women’s Free Clinic in Morgantown. Four young women from Rowan Springs had been there for consultations. Three of them had planned to have abortions but they had miscarried before they could return for the procedure.
I stopped reading for a moment and sat back in my father’s big leather swivel chair. I don’t know why, but I was somewhat surprised to learn that an abortion clinic, even under the guise of a free clinic for women, existed so close to Rowan Springs. This area was deep in the so-called “Bible Belt.” I had assumed that abortion was a dirty word around here.
I had never really examined my feelings on the subject because I had never had a reason to do so. I took a moment to ruminate a bit before deciding that nobody should have the right to make that decision for me. I also discovered, somewhat to my surprise, that I would never be able to terminate a pregnancy of my own.
Neither Cassie nor Mother knew that I had lost a baby shortly after my husband Raphael had disappeared somewhere in the jungle between Columbia and San Romero. Rafe himself had not even known of our coming happy event—I had been saving it as a surprise for our fourth anniversary party. The party was canceled when the host vanished due to unknown circumstances. I lost the baby a week later. Seventeen years had passed, but I still felt the aching emptiness.
Mother came in with my requested luncheon tray a little after twelve. I told her about the three clinic patients as I moved over to the sofa to sit beside her. Between mouthfuls of shrimp salad and croissant, I asked her for her opinion on abortion.
“I’m sorry to say that after sixty-two years, I still haven’t formulated a firm idea. In my day it was terribly illegal, you know,
and carried a dreadful stigma. It’s nice to see that young girls no longer have to risk their lives out of shame. But the awful truth is that there is no more shame. People feel free to do the worst things nowadays. Still, I think it’s important that a woman have the right to choose.”
She carried the luncheon tray back to the kitchen, shaking her head and mumbling to herself. I reached down and absentmindedly began to pat Aggie. She growled a warning, and I stopped immediately. Scary dog. She had me really well trained.
I went back to my perusal of Ethan’s journal. He recorded that he had gotten Wallace to agree to let him have a list of his pregnant patients. He had also obtained the doctor’s grudging permission to interview them—if they agreed. Ethan noted that he was afraid that Wallace would bias the women against talking to him. He felt compelled to hurry and get in contact with them as soon as possible.
Wallace introduced Ethan to his medical office manager, Poppy Hunnicutt. She gave him a list of the names and addresses of the six women.
I scanned through the rest of the journal entries very quickly and saw nothing that looked like a interview. Those must be on another disc.
Ethan had made no mention of Cassie or their relationship in his journal. He did mention “socializing with the locals” on several occasions “in order to get the pulse of the community.” I was a bit put off by that remark and scanned impatiently to the last few entries. I stopped quickly and backed up a page when I saw Brittany Allison Hayes’s name flash by. She was listed with three other girls, the young women who had gone to the clinic in Morgantown. The other girls had aborted spontaneously, but Brittany was still pregnant. Farmer Hayes had not been protecting an innocent virginal daughter.
I heard a car pull up in the long, circular, gravel drive and looked up to see Watson’s bilious green nose. I hurried over to let Cassie in the library door and stumbled over Aggie doing her little welcoming pirouette. We all very nearly went down in a heap. Cassie collapsed on the sofa laughing while the puppy joyfully licked her face.
“Wow, you’re in a good mood. Something must have happened. Is Ethan out of jail?”
