The Remedy Is Murder

by Mary Maxwell

  Theresa Long was wheeling her shopping cart slowly down the cereal aisle at Food Town late that afternoon when I hurried through the store grabbing a few last-minute ingredients for the chicken curry chili that I was making for dinner. It was one of Zack’s favorite meals, and he’d mentioned it in passing a couple of days earlier. I figured it would be fun to surprise him with the spicy stew along with jalapeño cheddar cornbread and caramel flan for dessert.

  “What a surprise!” Theresa said cheerfully when she spotted me walking toward her. “I was just thinking about you the other day.”

  “You were?”

  She dropped a box of cereal into her cart. It plunked down beside a jumbo bag of marshmallows, a pound of butter and a few other items.

  “Rice Krispies treats?” I said, pointing at the telltale ingredients.

  Theresa laughed. “Our daughter’s visiting from down south with the little ones. They’re old enough to help in the kitchen now, so I thought it would be fun to make them together.”

  “That sounds like fun,” I said.

  “It should be,” she agreed. “I’m planning to make the classic version and then a second one with chocolate-covered pretzels.”

  “Hmmm!” I rubbed my stomach. “Those sound delicious. What time should I come over?”

  “You’re more than welcome, Katie!” she replied. “My culinary skills are on the basic side, so we could use a professional in the kitchen any old time.”

  “I’m just teasing,” I said. “I hope you do have fun though.”

  “We will.” She offered a cheery grin. “I love those grandbabies so much. We don’t see them as often as I’d like, but they’ll be here for three nights so I’m going to make the most of it!”

  She shared a few details about the upcoming visit of her grandchildren: a pizza feast from Pepper & Roni’s; a trip to the movies; a day in Denver at the Children’s Museum. When she came to the end of the list, I decided to broach the subject of her friend’s ordeal.

  “I heard about what happened to Eileen,” I said. “How’s she doing?”

  Theresa shrugged. “About as well as you’d expect. Someone from the office walks her to the parking garage now, so that helps calm her nerves a bit. She changed the locks and installed a new security system at home. It’s one of those whiz-bang versions with indoor and outdoor surveillance cameras, sirens, motion detectors and wireless connections to the company’s monitoring center.”

  “Have you talked to her about it?”

  Theresa frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “Did she tell you anything about the attacker?”

  The perplexed look on her face calmed. “Oh! I thought you were asking if I’d talked to her about the security system!” She issued a nervous giggle. “To be honest, Katie, the whole thing has left all of us at work on edge. We’d already heard about the Barry Lincoln incident, so when Eileen became a victim it just about paralyzed most of us with fear.”

  “That’s understandable,” I said.

  After a quick glance up and down the aisle, Theresa moved closer.

  “But then a few of us got to talking,” she continued, “and we realized that it wasn’t a random thing with Eileen.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “There was another threatening message,” Theresa said. “It was left on Eileen’s windshield about a week or so before the milkshake attack.”

  I made a mental note to call Dina at the CCPD as soon as I finished shopping. Then I asked Theresa to tell me about the note left on Eileen’s car.

  “Well, there’s not much to tell,” she began. “None of us knew about it until after the milkshake ambush. But that’s not really surprising because Eileen tends to keep her personal life separate from her professional life.”

  “How can you be certain the notes were from the same person?” I asked. “Did you actually see them?”

  She nodded. “I did see them. And the way I knew was from the sloppy handwriting. They both looked like a child’s printing, with wobbly, uneven letters and misspelled words.”

  “Do you remember which words were misspelled?”

  She shook her head.

  “What about the first note?” I asked. “Do you remember what it said?”

  Theresa’s mouth puckered into a dark grimace. “‘You should be more nice to people who help you.’”

  “Was that the message on Eileen’s windshield?” I asked with a smile. “Or is that for me?”

  Theresa laughed. “Don’t be silly, Katie! You’re a dear heart. You couldn’t be any nicer. What I just told you was in the first note.”

  “‘You should be more nice to people who…’” I paused. “What was the rest?”

  “‘People who help you,’” Theresa said. “‘You should be more nice to people who help you.’ Can you imagine somebody leaving that on your windshield?”

  I shook my head.

  “And then coming back to physically assault you?” she added. “It’s so…I mean, it’s so…well, it’s just scary. This is Crescent Creek. It’s not a big city with mean streets. We’re a little place with nice people.” She paused and a sad smile drifted into view. “Well, mostly nice people. There’s at least one animal out there trying to hurt folks for some reason.”

  “And hopefully the police will find them soon enough,” I said.

  Theresa sighed anxiously. “You think so?”

  “Definitely,” I said. “Trent and Dina and everyone else with the local police are the best.”

  “I don’t know,” she replied. “How many lunatics are out there stomping around in their cowboy boots tossing milkshakes at innocent people?”

  “Cowboy boots?”

  “That’s what Eileen told me,” she answered. “After they drenched her with the milkshake, she caught one quick glance of the assailant before they ran away. She said that the person was wearing boots with spurs, a black hoodie with a crown on the back and a pair of mirrored snow goggles.”

  “That’s an interesting combination,” I said. “The boots and goggles.”

  “Well, you know,” Theresa said with a nod, “those things are pretty big. They cover about half of a person’s face.”

  “True,” I said. “Which would make them a good disguise for someone who wants to remain anonymous.”

  Theresa scoffed. “Anonymous?” she said sarcastically. “That’s one word for the jerk. But I like my word better: coward!”

  CHAPTER 7

  Julia and I were in the office at Sky High the next day discussing recipes for a catering job when Harper swept into the room looking pale and worried.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “I just heard that there was another attack last night,” she said. “Don Sterling was in his tool shed at home.” She took a breath. “Somebody whacked him on the back of the head with a piece of lumber.”

  Julia gasped and covered her mouth with one hand.

  “Is he okay?” I asked.

  Harper shook her head.

  “Is he at the Med Center?” I said, feeling a tinge of dread when Harper winced at the question.

  “No,” she whispered after a long pause. “The morgue.”

  For a few seconds, no one took a breath or said a word. The news was like a roundhouse punch delivered when you’re in a deep sleep: unexpected, disorienting and horrifying.

  “He needed stitches in the back of his head,” Harper continued. “And he broke his nose in the fall.”

  “But you just told us that he was dead,” I said.

  Harper nodded. “Heart attack. While he was on the way to the hospital.” She touched one hand to her chest. “I guess it was so massive they couldn’t do anything.”

  Julia pulled out her phone and dialed a number.

  “I’m calling Jared,” she said. “He’s out of town, but maybe he’s heard something from one of the guys.” She paused when she caught the look on Harper’s face. “They don’t work together anymore, but Jared and Don still shoot hoops once
a month with the gang from the office.”

  Harper walked over and sat in the empty guest chair.

  “Did they find one of those notes?” she asked Julia.

  “I don’t know,” Julia said. “Maybe Jared will—” She stopped to listen. “It’s going to voicemail. Hang on a sec.”

  While she left a message for her husband, Harper fixed her eyes on mine and whispered, “This is nuts! Three unexplained attacks in the past few days. And now somebody’s dead! What is going on around here?”

  I waited until Julia finished leaving the message for Jared. Then I checked the time on my phone. It was a few minutes before our usual closing time of three o’clock.

  “Do you two mind if I cut out early?” I asked. “I want to check on something.”

  “What kind of something?” Julia said.

  “I left a message for Danny at Scoops of Joy,” I explained. “He sent me a text this morning that I could swing by and look at the security video from the afternoon of the attack on Eileen Lanier.”

  “Will that be helpful if you don’t know who you’re looking for?” asked Harper.

  I smiled. “I just want to do something,” I told her. “I felt that way before the news about Don, but now it’s even more urgent to stop whoever is behind these attacks.”

  “What about Dina?” Harper asked. “Wouldn’t she normally ask for the video?”

  “She contacted him about it,” I said, deciding to skip over Danny Lamott’s contentious response to Dina’s inquiry. “But it’s kind of a long story. I won’t be stepping on any toes.”

  “Have you discussed all of this with her?” Julia said.

  “We met yesterday to talk about the first two incidents,” I answered.

  “Did she have a theory?” asked Harper.

  “Not yet,” I replied.

  “But isn’t it obvious that they’re somehow related to Dr. Whistler?” Julia said.

  “It looks that way based on the notes,” I said. “But what if those are subterfuge?”

  “Do you mean like a trick?” Harper asked.

  I nodded. “They could be a diversion, but it’s too soon to know. At this point, you can certainly speculate, but you might also unnecessarily complicate the case by considering things that aren’t even factors in the motive.”

  “For example?” Julia said.

  “Well, say someone is staging these attacks because they went to Dr. Whistler for help with an issue but don’t feel like they’re getting better.”

  “Why would they hurt other people?” Harper asked.

  “Jealousy,” I said. “If they’re aware that some of his patients are doing better, they might be resentful.”

  “But how do they know if someone is his patient?” she said.

  “That’s not hard to find out,” I answered. “Maybe they ran into the other people at Whistler’s office.”

  “It just seems so fishy,” Harper said. “Out of the blue, some lunatic starts attacking a therapist’s patients. And one of them dies. Don’t you think Whistler has to be involved?”

  “If I tell you something in confidence,” I said, “will you guys promise to keep it quiet?”

  They both nodded in unison.

  “Heck, yeah!” Harper said.

  “What is it?” asked Julia.

  “There was a break-in at Dr. Whistler’s home office,” I said. “Twenty confidential patient records were taken from the filing cabinet.”

  “Bingo!” Harper said. “That explains it! Whoever broke in and took the files is behind the attacks.”

  “Probably,” I said.

  Harper frowned. “Probably? Why the hesitation?”

  “The police will be cautious until they have a confirmed link between the burglary and the attacks,” I said. “At this point, it’s circumstantial.”

  “Well, whoever it is,” Julia said, “I just hope the police catch them soon. People around town are getting really freaked out.”

  “Particularly Dr. Whistler’s other patients,” I said.

  CHAPTER 8

  When the phone rang that night as we were getting ready for bed, Zack smiled and bet me twenty bucks that it was my mother calling to see if we’d tried the squash and kale casserole recipe that she sent the previous day.

  “Really?” I laughed. “You think she’s that impatient?”

  He answered with a wink.

  “Well, you’re too late anyway,” I said. “She called at noon.”

  A triumphant grin flashed beneath his mischievous gaze.

  “Okay, then technically I’m right,” he said. “How about we split it?” He held out his hand. “Ten bucks?”

  I picked up my phone and checked the display.

  “Am I right?” he asked. “Mama Reed calling to check in again?”

  “No, it’s Viv,” I answered. “And this might take a minute. Why don’t you head for bed? I’ll be there as soon as we finish.”

  After a quick kiss, he shuffled down the hall and I went into the kitchen.

  “Hey, neighbor,” I said to Viveca. “How was Puerto Vallarta?”

  She cooed into the phone. “I could live there,” she said. “Except then I wouldn’t see you or have the luxury of walking next door for the best sweet treats in town.”

  “There’s always Federal Express,” I said.

  She laughed. “For you or the baked goods?”

  “Maybe both,” I answered.

  “Well, it’s a moot point,” Viveca replied. “I’m not moving anywhere, but the trip was really amazing. My client’s condo is beyond gorgeous! It has an amazing view of the beach, four giant bedrooms and an elevator in case you can’t manage to climb up three flights of stairs.”

  “Sounds nice,” I said. “When do you start on the remodel?”

  Viveca groaned. “Like, yesterday. I love my client, but patience is not a virtue. It’ll be a beast to get the whole thing done in time, but I’ll manage.”

  “I love your optimism, Viv! You’re a true inspiration.”

  “Ugh!” She grumbled again. “I’m a disaster! Why didn’t anybody tell me on the flight that my mascara was smudged from my eyes to my chin?”

  We shared a laugh and then Viveca switched gears.

  “Hey, I know it’s late,” she said, “but I didn’t quite understand your message. Since you sounded a little anxious, I thought that I’d check in tonight to see if you’re okay. You wanted to know what I thought about Dr. Whistler or something? Are you thinking of going in for a session?”

  “It’s complicated,” I said. “I didn’t want to leave the details on your voicemail, but three of Whistler’s patients have been attacked in the past few—”

  Viveca screamed. “Oh, my gosh! I heard about Eileen! But I didn’t know anybody else had been assaulted.”

  “It’s actually worse than that,” I said. “Do you know Don Sterling?”

  She repeated the name a couple of times. Then she said, “Is he on the tall side with a bushy mustache?”

  “That’s Ron Sterling,” I said. “He’s Don’s cousin.”

  “Okay, then I haven’t met Don,” Viveca confirmed. “Why’d you ask if I know him?”

  “He was one of the victims,” I said. “Someone hit him on the head with a two-by-four. He survived the blow, but suffered a fatal heart attack on the way to the hospital.”

  She gasped. “The poor man. That’s horrible, Katie.”

  “It’s also a homicide,” I told her. “The police are investigating the incidents as the work of one person, but they don’t have much to go on at this point. Since you’re one of Dr. Whistler’s patients, I wanted to—”

  “To warn me?” she blurted. “I didn’t even think of that when I heard about Eileen. Alma didn’t mention the other people who were attacked. She just told me about Eileen because of our painting class.”

  “What painting class?”

  “Didn’t I tell you about that?” she said.

  “I don’t believe so.”

&n
bsp; “Hmmm,” she mused. “Probably because things have been so crazy getting ready for Mexico. But anyway, I’d been thinking that a hobby would be nice. Just, you know, for a change of pace. So when I saw the flyer at Java & Juice, I decided to signup.”

  I’d known Viveca long enough to recognize the subtle infection in her voice and the change in volume to realize that I was being hoodwinked. She’d been unlucky in love so many times that she occasionally avoided the subject when I asked a direct question. In this case, it was obvious from her behavior that she’d met someone new.

  “What’s his name?” I said when she finished.

  “Sorry?” Viveca’s voice shuddered slightly. “What was that?”

  “The guy in your painting class,” I said. “Your voice just did that thing it always does when you’re fudging the truth.”

  “I wasn’t fudging anything,” she said. “I really did enroll in a painting class. And that’s where I met Alma and Eileen.”

  I counted to ten. Then I repeated my original question.

  “Oh, alright,” Viveca answered with a huff. “His name is Antonio. He’s the new art teacher at the high school, and he started the class at the community center as a way to meet new people in town who aren’t pimply teenagers or fellow teachers.”

  “Uh-huh. Tell me more.”

  “What?” She sounded flustered. “I saw him at the store one day and asked somebody who he was. Her daughter’s one of his students, and she said that all of the kids just love him.”

  “Go on,” I said.

  “Oh, stop it! I know what you’re thinking, Katie.”

  “You do?”

  “Yes! You’re thinking that it’s too soon. You’re thinking that it’s only been a few weeks since Vincent dumped me with that awful text message. And you’re thinking that—”

  “Slow down,” I interrupted. “I was actually thinking about something very different from all of that.”

  “You were?”

  “I was.”

  “Tell me.”

  “I was thinking that you sound really happy,” I replied. “When you mentioned the painting class, I heard that little hitch in your voice that always comes out when you’re upbeat or happy or excited about something new.”