LOVE, HOPES, & MARRIAGE TROPES

by Abby L. Vandiver

  “Hi,” he sounded groggy. I glanced at the time on the computer. It was later than I thought.

  “Did I wake you?”

  “Sort of. You alright?”

  “Yep. But after I tell you what I have to say, you may not be.”

  “What Romie?” he said, his voice with a little more vigor.

  “You’re not going to like this.”

  “Like what, Romie? Can you just tell me?”

  “You sitting down?”

  “How cliché,” he said.

  I didn’t say anything.

  “Do I need to sit down?” he asked, seemingly exasperated with me already. “Because I am laying down.”

  “I guess that’ll work,” I said.

  “Just tell me.”

  “Michael ‘Bumper’ Hackett’s manner of death is probably homicide.” I wasn’t sure he knew who that was, but I had to give him the news.

  I heard a long grunt come over the line. “Oh geez,” he said. “Don’t tell me there’s been another murder.”

  “Sorry.”

  “I thought he had an asthma attack?”

  “You heard about it?”

  “Yeah, Momma told me,” Pogue said. “One of her club members told her and ain’t no telling who told them.”

  “Small town gossip train. That’s how we found out, too. Someone called Auntie. When we put him into that ambulance, we—at least I—thought he was going to be okay.”

  “But just like gossip, they didn’t have it all right, huh? Wasn’t asthma that killed him?”

  “Nope. I think he was poisoned.”

  “Poisoned? Wow.” I heard him take in a breath. “What kind of poison?”

  “I don’t know. He needs to be autopsied.”

  “So then what makes you think that?” he asked.

  “Because, his rescue inhaler would have helped him if it were asthma. Two days and a constant mist of albuterol should have done the trick.”

  “Maybe he needed something more.”

  “Like what?”

  “Heck, I don’t know, Romie. You’re the doctor.”

  “His asthma was being managed. In fact, his mother said that he hadn’t had an attack in a few years.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. And get this. After touching him, Alex’s lips, nose and fingertips turned red and he became nauseous.”

  “Who is Alex?”

  Oh yeah. He didn’t know, although I was sure it wouldn’t be long before my Aunt Julep got wind of that little rumor mill tidbit as well and bring him up to date.

  “Alex Hale,” I said. “The doctor from Chicago. Remember I told you about him.”

  “Oh my,” he said, that obviously jogging his memory. “The would-be, almost-divorced man toy.”

  “Shut it,” I said. “I never told you he was my man toy.”

  Pogue chuckled. “So, he’s here? In Roble?”

  “No. He did CPR from Chicago.”

  “Oh that’s who did the CPR at the gazebo? I’d heard about that, but didn’t know who it was.”

  “Obviously.”

  “So where is he?’

  “He was here, but he left.”

  “And?”

  “Long story. One I don’t want to go into now.”

  “Okay then. Back to the alleged murder.”

  “Not alleged. Very real. At least I think so.”

  “Okay. So someone tried to poison Alex, too?”

  “No,” I said. My tone said that his suggestion sounded ridiculous. But I guess I hadn’t done well so far in explaining the connection and I knew part of my irritation was him questioning me about Alex. “Some of the poison must have transferred when Alex gave Bumper mouth to mouth.”

  He was quiet for a few seconds, seemingly piecing together what I’d said. “Oh. I see. He got some of what poisoned Bumper?”

  “Yep.”

  “What did Bumper eat? Did anyone else get some of the food? I heard it was like five hundred people there.”

  “More like a hundred and fifty. No more than two hundred.” I shook my head remembering the crowd size. “I think that it wasn’t in any of the food.” I licked my lips, forming my thoughts. “Floneva said that the caterer wouldn’t let anyone eat.”

  “What then, an injection?” he asked.

  An injection... I mulled that suggestion over. If someone injected him with the poison, they had to be close enough to him to give him a shot. Through his clothes. And if that’s the way it happened, then how did Alex pick that up?

  Then it hit me.

  “It was the inhaler,” I said. “That’s how he was poisoned. It has to be.”

  “Wasn’t he using the inhaler to help with his asthma?” he said.

  “If I’m right, that’s what makes this so sinister,” I said. “The same thing that was supposed to save his life was the instrument of his death.”

  “That is terrible.”

  “Whatever kind of poison it was, it must present with the same symptoms as asthma,” I said then rattled off what they were. “Tightening of the chest. Shortness of breath. Coughing. He must’ve thought he was having an asthma attack, so he kept taking puffs.”

  “But for two days?”

  “Maybe at first he was really having one. I don’t know. He used his inhaler to help. But at some point, someone switched his for one that was filled with poison.”

  “Who?”

  “Good question,” I said. “Something we have to find out.”

  “I have to find out,” Pogue said. “Me. Okay?”

  “Okay.” Not sure what I said to make him defensive.

  “So. Two hundred people were there. And now there’s no telling where they all are. Right?”

  “I know,” I said. “It’s gonna make it really hard for you. Plus, it appears lots of people had access to his inhaler and some even carried a spare.”

  “What do you mean?”

  I explained to him what I had learned.

  “Romaine, you are going to have to help me.”

  “Help you how?” I asked. It seemed since I’d been back that had become the favorite phrase of Auntie Zanne and Pogue. But I didn’t know what he meant, because from what I understood, he’d told me to butt out.

  “You have to be the medical examiner.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Yes you do.”

  “Why do I have to do that?” I’m sure my tone came off a little nastier than I intended. “I can’t take a job I have no intention of keeping.”

  “And you don’t have to take it permanently. But, if this is a murder, I’ve got to investigate.”

  “Yeah, I think we’ve just established it is murder. And you just told me that you can do it without me.”

  “Yes. I can. And I will. Investigate that is. That’s not the problem.”

  “Then what is?”

  “If you don’t help me then guess who will be legally obligated to do an inquest?”

  “Who?” I said, but no sooner than I let the words out of mouth, then I remembered who. “That old Hoot Owl that’s who, huh?” I said and chuckled. “Auntie Zanne.”

  In Texas, where my Auntie Zanne reigned supreme, a Justice of the Peace didn’t need a law degree, or any degree for that matter, and could be voted in–elected by popular vote. And she was popular.

  A resident of Texas since migrating with her parents from Louisiana in the forties, Suzanne Derbinay was a member of the board of directors for the Tri-County Chamber of Commerce, and ranking member in a host of ladies’ auxiliaries and clubs, including the Red Hat Society, the founding member of the Roble Booster Club, and the Distinguished Ladies’ Society of Voodoo Herbalists. And as the founder and proprietor of The Ball Funeral Home & Crematorium, where there was a natural, steady inf
lux of clients and their families, along with an abundance of calendars and refrigerator magnets to boast her services, Babet Derbinay, was a household name.

  She won the election in a landslide.

  As part of her duties as the Justice of the Peace, or “JP” in political-ese, as Auntie explained to me, she oversaw minor civil and criminal matters, and as she tried to do on that fateful day, conduct marriage ceremonies among other things.

  Those “other things,” I soon learned included conducting inquests.

  An “inquest” according to the Texas Code of Criminal Procedure meant an investigation into the cause and circumstances of a death and a determination as to whether the death was caused by an unlawful act. On top of that, she could lawfully go around and obtain evidence needed to initiate a criminal prosecution.

  The only thing that could stop her was me. That was, if I were the medical examiner.

  That same law that gave her power, limited her in counties which had one. While negotiating to help redesign the ME office, I’d learned a thing or two about the structure of Texas law as it concerned their doctors who determined whether the manner of death was natural, accident or homicide.

  The State of Texas had no say over medical examiners, it was the County Commissioners Court, and the controlling statute required that counties with a population of more than a million folks had to have a medical examiner office, while counties with a population of less than a million could opt to have one. Sabine County, where Roble was located, Shelby County and San Augustine County combined, had little more than 45,000 residents, but the three counties had decided together to have their own ME office and had hired a medical examiner. Up until a month ago that had been Dr. Harley Westin—Doc Westin to everyone who knew him.

  I thought about my feisty little auntie and how pushy and secretive she’d been during the last murder investigation. She had taken the murdered victim being discovered in her place of business as a personal assault to her reputation, and accused Pogue of having had a personal vendetta against Josephine Gail, wanting to frame her for the murder. She kept up the façade for nearly the entire investigation, and all the while contended that my poor Aunt Julep, Pogue’s mother, was the culprit.

  “What do you want me to do?” I asked.

  “The autopsy,” he said.

  “Okay,” I nodded although he couldn’t see me. “I can do that.”

  “And nothing else, Romie.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I want to solve this case myself. Last time you convinced me to go away then you took over the entire investigation.”

  “I did not,” I said defensively. “You’d signed up for that conference before I’d even come back to Roble.”

  “Yeah, you did. However it went, in the end it made me look incompetent.”

  “Incompetent to whom?” This was all in his head.

  “Everybody.”

  I took in a breath. I didn’t believe it, but evidently he did. “Okay,” I said.

  “What do we need to do now to get this started?” he said.

  “I,” I emphasized the word, “will need to call the hospital and have the body brought over to the new facility. I’ll let the County Commissioners Court know.”

  “Can’t we do like last time and I just appoint you?”

  “You really didn’t appoint me last time. I subbed for Doc Westin, he gave me permission to do it, not you.”

  “Oh. I thought I had been the one who gave the permission.”

  “No. But it’s okay. I’ve met all the people in charge. I’m on good terms—very good terms with them.”

  “Okay, then you’ll do like last time and give me the report.”

  “Yep.”

  He paused. I could hear him breathing hard. “You’re not mad are you?” he asked.

  “No, Cousin. Not at all.”

  I hung up from Pogue, opened up a browser window on my computer and pulled up my email. I clicked on old mail and found a recent correspondence with one of the Commissioners. I composed a quick email relaying my sense that there may have been foul play in Michael Hackett’s death and, in my medical opinion, deemed it necessary to perform an autopsy. I also added, since I’d been so adamant about not working for the tri-county, that if I was not deemed suitable to do it, I strongly suggested that an ME from another county perform one before burial. I sent it and stared at the ad that popped up afterward.

  “That’s all I can do,” I said to the screen. “And it appears that’s all that Pogue wants me to do.”

  “You talking to your computer?” Auntie had come into my room and stood in the archway that separated the sitting room from the sleeping area.

  “It’s better than talking to the dead,” I said.

  “That’s a matter of opinion,” she said.

  I didn’t answer her. I stared at my monitor and thought about Bumper. He was so young. So much promise ahead of him. Why would someone want to take that away?

  “I see you’re lost in thought,” Auntie said. “I just wanted to come and check on you, make sure you were alright.”

  She turned to walk away, but I called her name, stopping her. I thought maybe I should tell her my idea of what happened to Bumper. Pogue just wanted to keep it official. It would be nice to have someone to bounce around ideas with. “Can you keep a secret?” I asked.

  “Oh heavens no!” She let her eyes roll upward. “As soon as you tell me all of Roble will know. Heck all of East Texas.” She patted my head. “When it comes to you telling me secrets to keep, best thing for you to remember is mum’s the word.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  There were mums all over the kitchen table when I came down for breakfast the next day. Big. White. Fluffy.

  “Homecoming,” I muttered.

  The silk chrysanthemum scattered about were used to make “mums” for girls and arm garters for boys, a tradition worn during homecoming for as long as anyone could remember. Mostly exclusive to Texas, the adornment was virtually unknown anywhere else. Sporting one, most Texans believed, began at Baylor University in Waco (others erroneously believe the tradition started in Missouri) and began with live mums worn as a corsage but morphed, like most things Texas, to something huge.

  Now the mum flower was just the base and they were made with trailing ribbons and feather boas that when pinned, could cover half the chest and were long enough to reach the floor. Festooned with personalized trinkets of the kind seen on charm bracelets, popular with people of all ages, it had borne a lucrative industry with mum businesses popping up everywhere.

  “I guess there’s no bacon,” I said. Josephine Gail and Auntie Zanne were sitting at the table, mums up to their elbows. The weekend before it had been wedding decorations I had to wade through. Catfish had warned me that homecoming was coming, I should have figured it was going to interfere somehow with me.

  “Looks like you’re going to have to go for a bowl of cereal on the back porch today,” Auntie Zanne said. “Can’t have all that bacon grease popping all over my mums.”

  “Why are you making them here?” I asked.

  “We’re not making them, we’re dismantling them.”

  “You’re dismantling them?” I asked. “Catfish said homecoming was this weekend.”

  “It is. But these are the ones we made for the wedding party to wear.”

  “Bumper and Jorianne had been homecoming king and queen during their senior year in high school,” Josephine Gail said, “and they were going to be honored.”

  “Not you too, Josephine,” I said. “I didn’t know you were part of the booster club.”

  “I’m not. Just giving Babet a helping hand.” She was all smiles, having come out of her last depression soon after we solved the first murder. I looked at her. Bad dye job on her probably gray, but now yellowish-colored hair. Her eyes bright, cheeks
rosy, I hoped that the murder that was starting to brew in my mind, didn’t give her flashbacks and send her over the edge again.

  “I could use as many hands as I can get,” Auntie Zanne said and patted the chair next to her.

  “We’re only about halfway finished,” Josephine Gail said. “We’ve still got to make the new ones.”

  “You’re making more?”

  “Yes,” Auntie said. “More somber. Less festive.” She held up the one she was working on. “I had even thought of using black mums.”

  “Oh my goodness,” I said. “That would be morbid.”

  “That’s what I told her,” Josephine Gail said. “I had to stop her from picking them up at Michael’s when we went up to Houston.”

  “Why do you need to redo them, anyway?” I asked.

  “The wedding party is still coming to Homecoming, only now we’re doing a tribute to Bumper.”

  “Couldn’t you just reorder the ones you need instead of trying to do this yourself?” I knew she must’ve used one of the many mum companies to get the ones she had for Homecoming.

  “The JOY Club made them,” Auntie said.

  JOY, an acronym for, Just Older Youth, was a Tri-County’s senior group. The club had a hand in most of the annual activities that happened. Manning booths, decorating, making phone calls. They had been in existence since I could remember, even before it was popular to show that people could still be active in their sixties and beyond.

  “It was the first thing they’d done after Doc Westin died, and you know he was more than just a member, he was their doctor and leader,” Auntie Zanne explained. “This homecoming was hard enough for them, because it was his favorite time of year. He loved football. I just didn’t want them to know that we were taking apart all the work they’d put in while they were grieving, and what had been done in his honor.”

  “They really miss Doc Westin,” Josephine Gail said. “Maybe you could see to them?”

  “Me?”

  “Not join the club,” Josephine Gail said and chuckled. “I know you’re not that old. But you could be their doctor seeing that you’re taking over his practice.”

  My brow creased. “Doc Westin had a practice?”

  “Not really,” Auntie Zanne said. “He just cared for the members of the JOY Club, or if they sent someone to him. A lot of them couldn’t afford all the doctoring they needed. He just supplemented.”