by DiAnn Mills
“Good.”
“Has the FBI guy called you?”
“Why?”
“Because he’s interested, and I’m looking out for you.”
Oh, Whitt. There’s no need to be afraid of someone not wanting you in the picture. “He called to let me know there’s nothing new about the case.”
“Did he ask you out?”
“Why would he do such a thing?”
“Your face is red.”
She gave him a feigned sideways glare. “Please.”
“So are you going out?”
She lifted her chin. “I informed the agent that you and I are a package deal.”
His eyes softened. “You don’t have confirmation yet. Putting your life on hold for me isn’t necessary.”
“Let me be the judge of what’s important in my life.”
“Okay. I’m going to eat.” He disappeared into the break room.
Her little man did a better job of avoiding emotional confrontations than she did.
“Miss Stacy,” Whitt said, walking into the reception area again, “what time are visiting hours at the funeral home?”
“Seven to nine o’clock.”
“One more thing I need to get behind me.”
She ached to make Whitt’s world an easier place, but he refused to address his deepest hurts, the ones only God could heal. She’d left hers at God’s feet and prayed soon Whitt would discover his need for the ultimate Father, the One who’d never disappoint him.
Life had become far too tangled.
WEDNESDAY NIGHT, Stacy met Channel 5’s TV station reporter and cameraman in the parking lot of the clinic. The well-dressed blonde in her early thirties smiled and extended her hand. Stacy recognized her from the evening news, a popular figure in Houston. The cameraman whipped into action, apparently preparing to use the clinic as a backdrop for the interview in the parking lot.
How very strange that a few days prior, she’d hosted a carnival here where families were entertained and enjoyed each other’s company. Since then Mr. Parson had died and residents were becoming sick with flu-like symptoms from the water. But at this moment, she could handle only one of the problems plaguing her community, that of the health department warning them not to use the water while offering no alternative. She hoped her plea would bring a solution to the residents, other than moving to another location until the correct chemicals addressed the problem. Although nervous, she believed this was the best way to support the residents.
“Stacy Broussard?” When she nodded, the reporter introduced herself as Kathi Scott. “Thank you for agreeing to the interview. Do you have the health department’s letter?”
She handed it to her, and the woman read the contents.
“I’ve never heard of the health department making such demands without offering assistance. For that matter, I’d think the Centers for Disease Control might have been consulted. Peculiar.” Ms. Scott stared out at the street. “Would you excuse me for a moment? I want to call the station for clarification.” The reporter made her way to the van.
Stacy waited in the heat. Whitt preferred to stay out of the public’s eye, a wise move on his part. When Ms. Scott returned, she no longer wore a smile. “I’ve been asked not to cover this story until we have confirmed the letter’s contents,” she said. “Could I have a copy?”
“The one you have is a copy. I don’t understand what’s going on.”
She smiled with what Stacy had come to recognize as professional courtesy. “My supervisor wants to talk to the health department. It’s likely the notification is a hoax. Which is still a story for us to report but from an entirely different angle.”
Cajun anger lifted the roots of her hair. She inhaled to keep from exploding. After all, it wasn’t the reporter’s fault. “Several of the residents received the letter. I phoned the number given on the letterhead. Twice. A representative was supposed to call me this afternoon to schedule a meeting. I expressed the need for residents to have a defined plan. Look around you—this isn’t even middle-class America.”
“Were you contacted?”
“No. I assumed they were busy.”
Ms. Scott pursed her lips. “I’m really sorry, but we have to verify the sender. I should have asked you to fax me the letter beforehand, and then we wouldn’t have wasted each other’s time. This is a serious implication about the water’s contamination, and the health department doesn’t operate this way. They’d be swarming the area offering assistance and providing solutions.”
“So you think the letter’s a fraud even though people are sick?”
“I’m not sure, but our station prides itself on fair reporting based on facts.”
Was she insinuating Stacy had lied? Trying to get media attention? For what? “Have you heard of anything like this before?”
“Not to my knowledge.”
“Who would do such a thing? A desperate bottled water company?”
“I have no idea, but I do know this. Once we have the truth and this goes live, whoever sent the letter had better hide under a rock.” She lifted her shoulders and drew in a breath. “But a hoax doesn’t address the flu.” She pulled her phone from her shoulder bag. “I do have a contact at the Laboratory Response Network. The director’s a great guy, and if the water’s been tested for disease, he’d know.” She pressed in numbers. “This is Kathi Scott from Channel 5. I’d like to speak with Dexter Rayken.”
Stacy waited while the reporter explained the situation.
“Thanks for taking the time.” Ms. Scott ended the call and focused on Stacy. “Nothing’s come through the LRN.”
“This doesn’t make sense.” Stacy crossed her arms over her chest. “Would you use the water?”
“No. I’d be packing my suitcase.”
She couldn’t blame Ms. Scott for verifying the facts. If Stacy’s mind wasn’t so scattered, she’d have done the legwork prior to contacting the TV station.
STACY WOKE ON THURSDAY MORNING after a restless night deliberating the likelihood that she and other residents had received hoax letters regarding water contamination. The problem was worse than she’d imagined. If the threat was real, how long would the inconvenience last? If it was someone’s idea of a prank, rowdy folks would be out for blood. Such was her neighborhood.
A few answers sounded good.
Late yesterday, after Kathi Scott from Channel 5 drove away with a promise to call back, Stacy and Whitt visited the funeral home. Mr. Parson had so many people paying their respects, but she welcomed the crowd. The two didn’t stay long because they were both exhausted. On the way home, she purchased fifteen cases of water to drink, brush teeth, cook with, and use in the clinic. Actually, she’d bought out what Walmart had left in stock, which said others were on the same wavelength. Before coming home, they unloaded ten cases at the clinic. But what about bathing and laundry?
“I suppose you could call the pastor,” Whitt had said last night. “See if we can shower there in the morning. We can load my bike into the truck, and I can ride to school from his house. This is worse than camping.”
“I thought you enjoyed camping when we took some of the kids from church.”
“When it’s my choice, and the camping sites have water. I really hope someone ends up in jail over this.”
She’d wanted to take herself and Whitt to a hotel, but reality and logic nixed the idea. Too many would view the action as inappropriate. Plus, if the letter was a deception, she’d be spending money needlessly and inviting vandals. No matter what path she chose, someone would criticize. The future had snakes slithering around her ankles.
At this very minute, she must spring her body into action for whatever Thursday demanded. Time to face the day. The enticing aroma of coffee captured her attention, and one more time she thanked God for the boy who’d stolen her heart. When the judge awarded her custody, she’d take him shopping for a new laptop. The one he used was a refurbished model that gave slow a new line in the computer dicti
onary. He needed tennis shoes and jeans and a haircut. She’d given him a bicycle for his birthday and wanted to do much more, but she feared purchasing even the essentials might meet with disapproval from social services, as though she were bribing him. So hard to discern how much or how little to contribute to his life when she wanted to do it all.
Her feet hit the floor, and she tied her robe securely around her waist. Odd, she was a little dizzy. She made her way down the hall to the kitchen. Once at the clinic this morning, she’d pull up the health department’s website and find out for herself what was going on. Why hadn’t she done that yesterday afternoon instead of panicking like a woman on hormone overload? There had to be a test for her own water to show its purity.
She paused at the entrance of the kitchen and watched Whitt add a half cup of chocolate syrup to his coffee. Some bits of him were all kid. “I’m buying stock in Hershey,” she said.
He lifted a brow in greeting. Secretly she referred to him as Little Einstein.
“Do you have the right blend?”
“Sweet, chocolaty, and full of caffeine,” he said. “I’m ready to leave whenever you are.”
“Let me get us breakfast.”
“Got it handled. We have cranberry pecan English muffins and bacon. I’ll ready them for consumption while you pack your gear for the day.”
“Thank you, sir.” She wanted to laugh, but he was serious. When the mess of their lives was over, she’d encourage him to be a boy, not a mini adult.
Xena wagged her tail, and Stacy bent to pat her. “You are such a blessing to me and Whitt.” The dog followed her back to her bedroom. Her cell rang, and she hurried to lift it from her nightstand charger.
“Dr. Broussard, this is the health department,” a man said. “You left a message about needing a rep to speak to your subdivision. I apologize for not getting back to you. We had a series of emergencies that delayed us.”
Reservations coiled around her. “A return call yesterday would have eased my mind in view of the water contamination scare. What is your name?”
“Jake Johnson. This is not a scare.”
She wrote his name on a scrap piece of paper. “I must admit I have a few doubts.”
“About what?”
“The validity of the letter. It’s highly unlikely Houston’s health department would make such an announcement without having media backup, a press release, and solutions for the residents.”
“I assure you our claims are viable with serious health implications. Would you like for me to come by your clinic on Monday?”
“Today is preferable. Residents need answers as soon as possible. These people are not financially able to check into hotels.”
“I’m sorry, but we are still in the midst of an emergency.”
“Friday?”
“Impossible.”
“Saturday?”
“We don’t work on weekends.”
“Really? When people’s health is an issue?”
“I’m sorry. Today’s situation takes priority.”
“What’s the critical issue? Media hasn’t reported a problem.”
“Neither have they done so with your polluted water. We’ve learned some information communicated to the public can lead to near hysteria.”
“Like you’ve done in our subdivision. I’d like to speak to your supervisor.”
“She’s not available.”
“If I drive to your office, who will I talk to?”
“That would be me, Dr. Broussard. We’re managing the best we can.” Jake verified the clinic’s address.
“I’d like your supervisor’s name.”
“We can discuss that when I’m there at nine thirty on Monday morning.”
Stacy fumed, while misgivings spread through her mind. “Please bring a copy of the water testing report regarding our tower, and I’ll invite a few of the residents.”
“Most certainly. We want to answer questions and help you determine a path forward.”
“Bring your supervisor. This situation has been handled poorly.”
“I’ll talk to her. She’s quite busy.”
“Then I’ll make a personal—”
He ended the call before she had an opportunity to tell him she’d be at the health department’s front door if answers and solutions weren’t provided soon.
She placed her phone back in the charger. The smell of bacon met her nostrils, reminding her the day ahead demanded full attention. She and Whitt ate breakfast, showered at her pastor’s home, then chatted with his family until it was time for Whitt to ride his bike to school and her to drive to work.
At 8 a.m., she opened the clinic and began the morning. Only Xena remained in her care, and with the freedom, Stacy let the Lab keep her company. The dog had the sweetest temperament, and Whitt had quickly grown attached. They both loved her.
Shortly before nine, a short, round man entered the clinic without an animal. From his white shirt, khaki pants, and briefcase, she figured he was peddling animal supplies.
“Can I help you?” she said.
“I’m looking for Stacy Broussard.”
“I’m she.”
He handed her a business card—Walter M. Brown Investments. “I represent an investor who is interested in purchasing property in this community. I understand you own your home and lease the space here for your clinic. We’re prepared to make you a cash offer for your property.”
She’d paid cash for the home and would sell when she was ready. “I’m not interested.”
He snorted. “I understand, but with the health department’s mandate about the water problem, we’re prepared to offer residents a way to recoup from the loss of value certain to come.”
“The theory that our water is causing illnesses hasn’t been confirmed.”
He leaned over her receptionist counter, reminding her of Ace McMann taking a threatening pose. Apprehension crept through her. At least a four-foot-high barrier stood between them.
“Dr. Broussard, I believe you and the residents have been officially notified about the bacteria polluting your water. Waterborne diseases plague the world. In your community, children and adults are battling flu-like symptoms.” He held his fist up, punctuating every word. “How long can people hold out when loved ones are ill? What if they die?”
“You’ve rehearsed your spiel quite well,” she said. “I’m not impressed. The letter arrived yesterday. Without verification, I refuse to jump onto your bandwagon. To assume our water isn’t pure or that it’s causing people to be sick is a mistake.” She eyed him curiously. “Or is this what you’re planning, to take advantage of innocent, frightened people?”
He stepped back. “I resent your insults. I represent an investor who is reaching out in a gesture of goodwill.”
“Why? If the water is a problem, why would anyone be interested in the homes and land?”
“Because ultimately the city is responsible. Until it’s rectified, my investor can wait it out.”
“What plans does the investor have for our little subdivision?”
“I’m not privy to future projects. I’m not sure he has made a decision.”
“How did you learn about the water?”
“Public knowledge.”
“Really? Who’s the informant?”
“I believe Channel 5 stopped by the clinic yesterday with Kathi Scott. Was the TV station interested in helping the folks here like my investor?”
Anger tramped through her body. “Are you the one who posted signs about paying cash for houses?”
“I am.”
She bit her lip to keep from lashing out even more than she’d already expressed. “Your investor didn’t waste any time.”
“No, ma’am. Opportunity knocks. If we can’t do business, then I’ll be on my way. Contact the number on the business card to speak to me directly.”
“I think you’re full of garbage. I’m really disappointed in your investment firm attempting to capitalize on the less
fortunate, so, Mr. . . . ?”
“Smith.”
She huffed. Why was she not surprised? The more she learned, the more she smelled a bag of lies. Jake Johnson from the health department and Mr. Smith. “Thank you for stopping by, but I’m not about to promote your propaganda.” She took a breath. “If you are correct in your claims, I’ll be happy to apologize for my rudeness.”
His smile was . . . slick. “I have several appointments today in your neighborhood. Thank you for your time.” He walked to the door. “Don’t imagine your clinic will stay in business when folks move out. Hate to see you file bankruptcy.”
“I’m sure it would distress you immensely.”
“Even if you learn the water’s safe, who would ever be interested in purchasing property here?”
Ace McMann threatened to burn her to the ground, and now Mr. Smith indicated her clinic would be ruined. Time for a fact-finding mission.
As Mr. Smith left the parking lot, she wrote down his license plate number. First on her agenda was pulling up the official website of Houston’s health department.
She spoke to a Mr. James Nisse and explained the situation. Two minutes into the conversation, she learned the people of her subdivision had been duped.
“If the health department suspected a problem with your water, we’d have people there immediately,” Mr. Nisse said. “The public needs to be aware of possible criminal activity. If you’ll give me your address, I’ll be there in the next hour to handle this unfortunate incident. In the meantime, I’ll contact HPD for their assistance.”
“Thank you so much. Finally I’m getting help and answers.” She sat at her desk and stared at the landline. Another thought came to mind, and she typed into her computer for a large, nationwide real estate company with offices in Houston. Finding their number, she called for possible commercial real estate information. They were unaware of a developer interested in her subdivision or the surrounding area. A certain amount of trickle-down information occurred at the highest level of management among real estate companies, but they knew nothing.
So why had someone chosen to scare those in her neighborhood, and were they connected to the investment company buying out the home owners?
