by Norah Wilson
Apparently, Gaetan realized this too.
Gaetan clutched his chest, “I... I swear... I didn’t know... about the heart attacks. It was supposed to be... harmless sexually-arousing pheromones! In small doses... there shouldn’t have been any harm. Don’t understand...”
Oh, crap. My suspect was apparently having a heart attack right before my eyes!
Chapter 17
YOU KNOW, I never did like hospitals. The smell of antiseptic, the too-bright lights (that everyone looks a little bit more sickly under). And that whole squeaky-shoes-on-polished-floor thing gets to you after a while. Brrr, that sound. Makes me cringe every time. And what’s up with the chairs in the waiting rooms? There just is no way to slouch properly in those things. Dozing off? Not going to happen. And lumbar support? Forget it.
(Okay, you get it, I’m tired. Hungry. A tad on the grumpy side.)
Dylan and I had driven Babe to the hospital. Ruth-Ann and Dickhead had attended to Gaetan after he’d slumped to the floor clutching his chest (Detective Head was now fully back into cop persona). Head had called the ambulance in a very efficient, police manner. And a shout-out to Marport City EMS, they were there within minutes, and depositing Gaetan in the ER less than ten minutes after that.
I figured poor Babe would be inconsolable. But, well, she was more in control than I thought she’d be. I mean, she seemed almost calm, considering her brother’s apparent heart attack. Or maybe she was just trying really, super hard to be more in control... maybe that’s where control really starts?
(Oh, and did I say apparent heart attack. You caught that, right?)
Paging Dr. Crotty. Paging Dr. Lincoln Crotty.
“He’s the cardiologist,” I said to Babe, who might not have recognized the name of Marport City’s most sought-after heart doctor.
“Any relation to Brandy Crotty, from the club?” Babe asked.
“Most likely,” Dylan answered. “All the Crottys in Marport City are connected. They have a long history as professionals, mainly in medicine—doctors, medical researchers and the like. Though a few black sheep turned out to be lawyers and politicians.”
Babe nodded, obviously only half listening to Dylan. She pulled a tissue from her purse, and again I saw the vial of pheromones. Actually, this was one of two small containers she had grabbed from the locked safe in the office. The other one she’d handed over to the ER nurse upon Gaetan’s admittance (though he’d looked at her rather skeptically as he pocketed it, once we explained what it was).
Yes, that’s right. He’d given up the pheromones. Once a chest-clutching Gaetan realized that exposure to the pheromone-laced air filter flakes in his wig had likely triggered a heart attack, he’d quickly coughed up the location of remaining vials.
There had been pandemonium back at Gaetan Land after that.
Most everyone had been astonished to learn that Gaetan was filling the air with pheromones to make everyone just that little bit more, er... cuddly. Quite a few were genuinely pissed. (And okay, I have to admit it, Elizabeth Bee looked genuinely worried as she clutched her geriatric fiancé closer.) Ruth-Ann had to sit back down again. Brandy’s eyes narrowed in that I’m-going-to-kick-someone’s-ass kind of way. Zoey mimicked Brandy’s glare perfectly. And poor Eva looked, well, down at the floor.
Babe (I’m quite sure) was the most surprised of all.
Personally, I was enjoying the fact that Gaetan had been felled by his own wig, or rather the pheromone-contaminated debris it had gathered when he’d changed the offending filter.
But a friggin’ wig. With my penchant for disguise, I really should have picked up on that.
I turned to Dylan in the seat beside me. “And you thought the pheromone was in the Cuddle-Uppies!”
Being so tall, Dylan was having an even harder time than I was with these crappy waiting room chairs (did I mention they were orange?).
“So did you, Dix,” he reminded. “But I guess we can’t blame the Cuddle-Uppies for anything, huh?”
Holy crap! He was right. I looked up and caught the melting look in those chocolate brown eyes. Oh, dear God, I’d gone up in flames in his arms that night at my condo, and there was no blaming... anything. It was all us.
He leaned in to whisper, so close I could feel his warm breath on my ear. “The question now is, what are we going to do about it?”
Well, nothing right at the moment—Dr. Lincoln Crotty walked into the waiting room. “Come with me, Ms. Gough.” He turned and marched out of the room. Babe followed. Dylan and I looked at each other, scrambled to our feet and followed.
True, we hadn’t been invited, but when has a lack of invitation ever stopped me?
Answer: never. (Hell, if I waited for invitations, I’d never get out.)
“Think he’s dead?” I mumbled to Dylan as we walked down the hall (squeaky shoes! squeaky shoes!) behind Babe.
“Nope,” Dylan answered.
“And how do you know that?”
He angled me a look that plainly said, Seriously? You really have to ask me that? “Same way you know, Dix,” he said tersely. “Dr. Crotty wasn’t all smiles, but neither was he looking like he was about to give the I’m-sorry-we-did-our-best news. He didn’t ask which of us was family. And of course there was the eye contact.”
“Eye contact?”
“Yeah, those weren’t sympathetic eyes, nor were they worried. If anything, I’d say he was pissed about something.”
Oh, I was smiling. “Anything else?”
“Yeah. My gut tells me—just as your gut tells you—that Gaetan Gough is still alive and kicking, or clapping. So can we just drop it now?” Dylan said, effectively cutting off any notion I might have of playing twenty questions.
Okay, Dylan was miffed. He’d get over it.
It wasn’t that I was testing him. Okay, maybe I was. Maybe it was just my insecurity showing. But he was my apprentice, for a little while longer, at least. What would I do when he was fully licensed? I couldn’t afford to pay him a full salary. Would I be losing Dylan in the next few weeks? Jesus, I didn’t want to think about that happening!
Or maybe I was doing what Dix Dodd always does, pushing away someone (not just any someone) who wanted to get close to me. Moments ago, Dylan had been whispering in my ear, now, he grumbled.
Argh! I didn’t want to think about that right now. And luckily for me, Gaetan provided a distraction as Babe pushed through the door of his private room.
He looked like shit. Even considering the hospital lighting. The top of his head was so pasty, ghostly-white, he made his light blue velour look blindingly bright. He lay back on the bed as if exhausted, or seriously hung over (been there, done that, have the T-shirt). His eyes were half-closed slits. Yes, he really did look terrible. But he didn’t look like a person having a heart attack. Another big clue—he wasn’t tethered to any sophisticated equipment that beeped or blipped or flashed.
Oh, and too, Dr. Lincoln Crotty said: “He didn’t have a heart attack.”
“Thank God!” Babe was at her brother’s bedside in a minute. Sitting on the edge of the bed, holding one of his hands.
Good idea, I thought. I really didn’t want him to start clapping. That was seriously getting on my nerves.
And where was I during this?
Ducked behind six foot four Dylan, who’d cleverly placed himself out of Gaetan’s direct line of vision. Despite their earlier bucking contests (such as they were), Gaetan liked Dylan. (Okay, everyone liked Dylan.) So I hid back here. Seeing but unseen. (Oh yes, stealth super-hero mode. Like Spider-Man, Captain America. Colonel Crossing Guard... Okay, that last one is a Canadian superhero I’m working on in my spare time.)
Dylan angled his head and murmured so low that only I could hear it: “Stop humming your theme song, Dix.”
Damn, I do that a lot.
“So what was it then, Doctor, if not a heart attack?” Still holding Gaetan’s hand, Babe regarded Dr. Crotty with confusion. “I mean, I saw my brother fall. I saw the pain he w
as in. I—”
“Panic attack. Nothing more.”
“What?” Babe’s confused look intensified. “What’s that?”
Dr. Crotty rolled his eyes, as if she were an irritant. Dude had no bedside manner whatsoever. Or maybe he had a load of it, but the whole load sucked.
“Panic attack! Stress-induced. Surely, you’ve heard of the fight-or-flight reaction?” Dr. Crotty asked, adding a condescending sigh.
Babe shook her head.
Crotty continued, “Your body goes into overdrive when it perceives a threat. For some people, when their heart goes into this overdrive reaction, it feels like a heart attack.” He turned to Gaetan, or rather turned on him, “Was something threatening you, Cuddle Man? Maybe someone cuddling you a little too closely? One of the young girls you seduce into going there? Did someone confront you about the way you fleece lonely people, creepy old men, and sweet girls out of their money?”
What the fuck?
Babe’s jaw dropped. I’m guessing that Gaetan’s fight-or-flight response was kicking back into overdrive all over again. Then again, Crotty wasn’t accusing Gaetan of murder, as I had.
“Doctor,” Babe began, “Do you really think this is the time—”
He raised a half apologetic hand. “Sorry. Of course. You’re right. Mr. Gough, you’ll be fine. Just rest. No stress.” His words may have been doctorly, but...
“You must be Brandy’s father!” Dylan said.
Lincoln Crotty whirled toward Dylan, as though becoming aware of him just then. “How do you know my Brandy?” he demanded.
“I know her from Gaetan Land—the cuddle club.”
“Do you, now?” Dr. Crotty eyed Dylan with astonishment, looking him up and down. “You don’t look like a typical cuddle male. You’re not squat and ugly, for one thing. Not even a whiff of dirty old creep about you.”
At this point, I stepped out from behind Dylan and into view. I was betting Gaetan wouldn’t be too inclined to renew hostilities with me with this angry doctor so not in his corner, and me ready to tell Crotty all of what I knew about the club. I extended my hand, “Dix Davidson,” I said, still in PI persona.
He looked at my hand, nodded at my hand, but didn’t shake it. “You must be from the Club,” he said.
What? I was in that squat and ugly category?
Through gritted teeth, I said, “Friend of the Gough family. I’m just wondering about that vial of substance Babe brought in.”
“The pheromones you gave to the nurse,” he said. “What about them?”
“Well, are you analyzing them for—”
“For what? The man clearly has nothing wrong with him, physically. Does it surprise me that he fills the air with pheromones to induce a feeling of arousal? Not at all. And unfortunately, he’s not the only one to use sensory stimulation to manipulate people. Tales abound concerning casino use of pheromones to get people to gamble more. Not to mention the flashing lights in those places. Churches use high ceilings and acoustics. Christ, we paint the wall of the hospital in calming colors to induce that feeling in patients.”
(I wanted to ask him about the uncomfortable orange chairs in the waiting room, but I let it slide... for now).
The next words, Dr. Lincoln Crotty practically spat at Gaetan and Babe, “Don’t get me wrong, I think what you do is despicable. But illegal? If it were up to me, we’d damn well be finding out!”
Well, it kind of was up to me...
Ten minutes later, Dylan and I were leaving the hospital. We’d offered to drive Babe home, but she insisted on staying at her brother’s side. He’d be released in a few hours, they’d cab it home from there. No sooner had we climbed into the SUV than my cell rang.
It was Dickhead.
“What do you bet the tox results are in,” Dylan said, when I flashed him my left breast, then the phone display. (Remember what I’d said about women keeping things in their bras? See? There are advantages.)
I nodded and snapped open the phone. “What’s the good news,” I said, smiling. But that smile slowly faded as I listened to Dickhead’s words.
Chapter 18
WE MET UP with Dickhead at Perky Joes. Yeah, I’d cut the cell phone conversation short, before I could give him our end of the news. Better to make this a three-way conversation, face to face.
Yeah, the three of us. Dylan was an integral part of my operation now. Oh God, so far from a mere apprentice...
“He’s not dead,” Detective Head said even before we’d sat down with our Perky Joe’s java and day-old donuts in hand. It wasn’t even close to a question.
“No,” Dylan said. “He’s not. The Cuddle guru lives.”
Dickhead’s jaw tightened. “Fucker.” Not that he wanted Gaetan Gough dead.
Well, not dead-dead.
It didn’t take bucket-loads of intuition to read the anger Detective Head was feeling. He was an open book of four-letter words right now, and he was so not ready to wipe the slate clean where Gaetan was concerned. Dickhead did not like being manipulated. Tricked. Fleeced. Drugged.
And I suspected (oh damn, more than suspected) he wasn’t the only one of the cuddle cakes to feel that way.
“So was it a heart attack?” Dickhead asked.
“Panic attack,” I said. “Stress induced. I’m pretty sure they gave him an Ativan or two, but other than that, they didn’t even have him hooked up to a heart monitor when Dylan and I were there.”
“Shit!” Head said. “Of course it wasn’t a heart attack.”
All things considered, it was worthy of a grumble.
As he’d informed me on the phone and I relayed to Dylan, the tox report was back from the lab. That vacuum bag contained lots of things: good old-fashioned dust, a few pet hairs, a couple of dimes, and one gold stud earring. Yes, there were traces of pheromones in there mixed in with the white particles from the air filters and the dropped ceiling tiles, just as we’d suspected. These were the same particles that had snowed down from Gaetan’s blond wig and freaked him out. But though the pheromones were strong and powerful, there was nothing—nothing—in them that would induce a heart attack.
“So nothing deadly.” I put forth. “Is that what you’re telling us, Detective?”
We—all three of us—let that question hang.
Maybe they weren’t directly responsible for the deaths. But indirectly?
It started as a chill. A very thorough and very real chill on my shoulders. It crawled along my scalp and it crawled along my spine. It lasted just seconds, but these were the most real seconds for me—this you’re-on-to-it nudging sensation.
On that thought, I stood. “Gentlemen, I bid you adieu.”
“Where are you going, Dix,” Dylan said.
“To see a man about a crime. Wanna come?”
Oh, of course he did.
“You going to see a man about the murders?” inquired Dickhead. “You got an idea, Dodd?”
I answered with a sly smile (and yes, I know it was a sly one, I’ve been practicing in the mirror). “No, not about the murders. About a different crime, blackmail. And yeah, I got an idea.”
“I’m coming along too,” Detective Head said. Oh, yeah, he was in total cop mode.
“I’m going undercover,” I answered. “And you, officer of the law, just don’t—”
“Let me guess, Dix,” he interrupted. “And I just don’t want to know.”
He was right on that.
“Paging Dr. Crotty. Paging Dr. Lincoln Crotty...”
I glanced at my watch (Actually, it was Dylan’s watch; we’d swapped) under the low lighting of the broom closet as the monotone voice sounded through the PA system. It was after midnight and Crotty was still on duty, or at least still hanging around at the hospital. I’d heard he was a workaholic. Maybe it was his weekend covering emergency? Whatever the reason, Lincoln Crotty was still in the building.
Perfect.
My cell phone buzzed. I knew it was Dylan even before I pulled it out of my bra, and glanc
ed at the call display. “Mission accomplished?” I inquired.
“Yeah hi, Sis, I’m having coffee with a friend. Would you mind letting the cat out?”
“Meow,” I well, meowed. “Letting the cat out.” I clicked the phone shut.
That was the signal. Dylan was in place. Now, it was go time for me to get in place.
Squeak, squeak—damn these floors!
I edged myself carefully out of the closet, then proceeded down the hospital hall with my head down, as if studying the floor. Blue tile, white tile, blue tile, white tile—I was a quick study.
Visitors were gone, of course, but naturally, there was still staff around.
Though, who would recognize me? I was in amazing PI disguise mode. Yes, yes, I was employing my famous transformative powers. It was past visiting hours, so I couldn’t just stroll through as a worried mom, and there was always that risk in feigning sick (Ms. Dodd! It’s time for your enema!). And yeah, picture it, me running down that hall with that stupid hospital gown flapping out behind me. Been there! And as I’ve said, I have this rule against posing as anything that might necessitate real medical intervention. That’s right, I wouldn’t be delivering any babies tonight.
So... what was my disguise?
“Excuse me, Father, is the cafeteria on this floor?”
“Damned if I know.”
The young woman looked at me strangely.
I lowered my voice. “Er, I mean, yes. Yes it is. Go in peace my child.”
“Um, okay...”
That’s right, I was disguised as a priest.
As for the obvious gender difference: I had on a killing-me sports bra to flatten my already not-so-ample chest, and a fake mustache that would make even the most well-endowed 70s porn star jealous. My blond locks? Pinned tight and tucked up under a black padre hat I got for twenty bucks on eBay. (Pfft... and Rochelle thought I’d sober up to regret it.) So yeah, I was well and spectacularly undercover as I made my way to Gaetan Gough’s room, and hurrying like a demon to get there.