Dead Pan

by Gayle Trent

  “Coincidence, my eye,” Mrs. Vincent said. “She’s the one who ruined that cake. I’m sure of it. She was furious when she arrived at the expo building and demanded to see me. One of the volunteers tracked me down—no easy feat, I assure you, as I’m being pulled in a hundred different directions during that time—and I went with her to where Ms. Logan waited, tapping her food impatiently.”

  “Based on my encounters with Cara Logan, that sounds about right.”

  “She insisted I throw David Barrows from the competition because of a silly traffic infraction that hadn’t even resulted in an accident. Naturally, I refused. When David’s cake was damaged later that day, I immediately knew who’d done it although I couldn’t prove it. The cakes are judged anonymously. No one knows whose is whose until the competition. Of course, if she was watching him unload his van, she’d have known which cake was his. Unfortunately, nobody had seen the crafty shrew actually sabotaging the cake.”

  “But you’re certain she’s the one who did it?”

  “I’m positive. In fact, she came just short of admitting it. Since I had no actual proof, I didn’t have security escort her off the premises, but I did have them keep a close watch on her for the remainder of the show.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Vincent. I appreciate your taking the time to talk with me.”

  “Anytime, Daphne. I hope to see you at next year’s show. And if you run across Cara Logan, give her a wide berth. She’s nothing but trouble.”

  “Thank you. I will.”

  After speaking with Mrs. Vincent, I did an Internet search for Cara Logan. A cake decorators’ discussion forum had a thread wherein members shared Mrs. Vincent’s conviction that Cara had purposefully ruined David Barrows’ cake.

  A blogger on an entirely different subject had referred to Cara as “Hurricane Cara,” saying, “She blew into town to cover a gubernatorial scandal and left a path of destruction a mile wide behind her when she left.” Another site had put Cara on a watch list of reporters who could not be trusted.

  I found links to some of Cara’s own articles containing inflammatory comments and suggestions like those about the van driver and his cake being damaged. Even if Cara hadn’t broken that piece of lattice off David Barrows’ cake herself, how many vindicating coincidences did one person get? Did Cara know John Holloway was not planning to propose to her and had released the bacterium as some sort of preemptive strike? Or was I simply jumping to conclusions because I’d been insulted by Cara’s warning not to get in her way?

  I logged off the computer and returned to the living room. I sat on the couch, put my feet up and covered myself with an afghan. Taking the position Cara did want to punish Dr. Holloway for not proposing: one, how could she be sure he wouldn’t propose; two, how could she get through the company’s security measures; and, three, how would she know the proper way to distribute the bacterium without infecting herself?

  No, it had to have been someone on the inside. If not one of the doctors, then someone who knew how to safely handle toxic substances . . . and how to quickly and effectively infect a room full of select people.

  *

  Thursday morning after I’d showered and dressed, I sat down in the club chair in the living room to enjoy my second cup of coffee. There were several things I wanted and needed to get done today. As I began cataloguing them in my mind, the doorbell rang. I peeped out the window and saw Fran’s car in the driveway.

  I went into the kitchen and opened the door. “Good morning. You’re out awfully early.”

  “I know.” Fran held a large gift bag out to me. “I wanted to see if you needed any baking help today, and I wanted to bring you this. It’s from Aunt Connie.”

  “What is it?” I asked, taking the bag and placing it on the island so I could hang up Fran’s coat.

  “Open it and see.”

  “All right.” I carefully opened the bag. It contained the sketch Fred had made of me, and it had been beautifully matted and framed. I clasped it to my chest. “I love it.” I looked at it again before clutching it to myself once more. “I really love it. This means so much to me.”

  “I know.” Fran nodded. “She gave me mine, too. She said it was to thank us . . . you know, for our work on Fred’s behalf.”

  “That was completely unnecessary,” I said, “but I’m happy to have this.”

  I took the sketch into the living room and hung it on the wall to the left of the armoire. I turned to Fran. “I’ll call Connie later today and thank her.” I nodded toward the sofa. “Let’s chat.”

  After we were both seated—Fran on the sofa and me on the club chair—I began our conversation.

  “Did you really come over to bake today or did you come to relay the information you gleaned from your Aunt Connie yesterday evening?”

  Fran gave me a sheepish grin. “Both.”

  “All right. So tell me what you’ve got.”

  “Well, first of all, I want you to know she loved the cake balls. My whole family did. They loved all the treats I brought home last night. In fact, Mom had to put some in the freezer because she was afraid Dad would eat them all, and we wouldn’t have any for Christmas.”

  “That’s great.”

  “Plus, they were really proud of me for helping to make them, and I had to promise my mom that I’d show her how to make cake balls. And, do you know what else?”

  She didn’t breathe long enough for me to ask what else.

  “The football player I was telling you about—the one who’s a total HAG—I took your advice and called to thank him for coming to Fred’s funeral, and he’s stopping by tomorrow afternoon. How cool is that?”

  This time she did pause long enough for me to interject. “That’s really cool. Did your Aunt Connie happen to mention whether or not she believes Dr. Broadstreet and his wife are on good terms?”

  “Aunt Connie said the Broadstreets are really odd birds and, like, complete opposites as a couple. He’s big and sloppy and kind of . . . what was the word she used? Repugnant, I think is what she said. Mrs. Broadstreet, on the other hand, is Kate Moss thin, a vegan and as twitchy as a nervous rabbit.” She giggled. “I’m not kidding—that’s exactly how Aunt Connie described this lady. When I asked what she meant about the twitchy thing, she said, ‘Her eyes are always darting everywhere like she’s afraid someone or something is about to jump out at her.’ Aunt Connie said she believes if anyone were to look at the poor woman and say ‘boo’, she’d either pee her pants or faint dead away.” Fran giggled again. “I know that’s kinda sad, but Aunt Connie’s description was funny, too.”

  “Wonder what Mrs. Broadstreet is so nervous about?” I asked.

  Fran shrugged. “Who knows?”

  “Maybe we can visit her soon and get a better read on her. Did your Aunt Connie say anything about any of the other doctors or anyone else she works with?”

  “Not a lot. She mentioned this—Fred’s death, I’m sure is what she meant but she just wasn’t able to say that exactly—is a major roadblock to the drug hitting the market and Brea Ridge Pharmaceuticals getting the financial boost it so desperately needed. She said most of the people she works with are walking on egg shells around her because they seem to be afraid she’ll sue the company and they’ll either be called to testify or that the suit will bankrupt the company, and they’ll all be without jobs.”

  “Poor Connie.” I thought a second. “But you said most of the people are walking on egg shells. Who isn’t?”

  “Don Harper. She said he’s treating her the same as always and is even acting like nothing ever happened.”

  “Did your Aunt Connie say it was hard to work with Don given the way she felt about his behavior after Fred’s wreck?” I asked.

  “She told me the first couple months after the accident, she and Don shared a hostility that was always just below the surface. Of course, that made it almost impossible for them to work together, and they’re in the same department. Their supervisor noticed it and said if they
couldn’t learn to work together again, they’d both be fired. Aunt Connie said that ever since then, she and Mr. Harper have worked together with a begrudging tolerance.”

  “It’s odd the supervisor was threatening to fire them both,” I said. “Wouldn’t the supervisor normally blame the subordinate for making all the trouble and simply fire the one person?”

  Fran shook her head. “Some employers might try to do that—after all, we learned in government class that Virginia is an at-will employer state and that anyone can be let go at any time—but Brea Ridge Pharmaceuticals detests law suits and avoids them at all costs . . . which is why they didn’t fire Aunt Connie, who is below Don Harper on the basis of seniority.”

  “Do you think that’s the outcome—firing Connie—Don Harper was hoping for?”

  “Sure, he was. I mean, playing devil’s advocate here, wouldn’t you? The guy did what he thought was a good deed only to have a person he works closely with on a daily basis believe he caused her son’s brain injury.”

  “And then the company didn’t have his back either,” I said, “which makes Mr. Harper angry with both Connie and Brea Ridge Pharmaceuticals.”

  *

  Later that afternoon, Ben stopped by with a pizza and a movie.

  “I hope you don’t have other plans,” he said.

  “Actually, I have a date,” I said with a grin. “I didn’t know it until I opened the door, but hey, I’ll take what I can get.”

  Ben smiled. “I’m sorry to drop in on you like this. I know it was presumptuous of me, but I’ve missed you.” He shrugged. “So I took a chance that you’d be home and wouldn’t be busy.”

  “Well, you’re in luck,” I said, grabbing a couple plates, sodas and forks. I turned back to Ben. “I’ve missed you, too.” I cocked my head to try to read the title of the movie on the DVD spine. “What’re we watching?”

  “It’s an adventure movie. I know how you like Nicolas Cage.”

  “Great. Would you like to eat in here in the kitchen, and then I’ll make us some popcorn to have with the movie? That way, we’ll have more of an opportunity to talk.”

  “All right. Sounds like a winner to me.”

  We sat down at the kitchen table with the pizza box between us.

  “Thanks for cooking,” I said.

  “Anytime.” He opened the box and put a slice of the meat pizza on each of our plates.

  “You look good,” I said. “You must be feeling better.”

  “Good as new. What’ve you been up to these past couple days?”

  I’m not sure he didn’t regret opening that flood gate. I told him about my trip to Brea Ridge Pharmaceuticals, what Fran had learned from Connie and about running into Dr. Holloway at the mall.

  “I’d no more than got home when Cara called and warmed me not to get in her way,” I said. “Can you believe that? I mean, Dr. Holloway was asking me to help him come up with a Christmas gift for her, for goodness’ sake.” I started to continue but realized I must be sounding like Fran. I’d spent quite a bit of time with her this week, and her rapid-fire machine gun style of storytelling was starting to rub off on me.

  “It sounds like you’ve had quite a week. Unfortunately, I went back to work and had a ton of paperwork on my desk. Besides that, I’ve had a number of articles to edit—all on a tight deadline, naturally—so I haven’t had much time to investigate Fred’s death.”

  “I told you Myra and I went to the medical research clinic in Haysi, didn’t I?”

  Ben nodded, cutting into his second slice of pizza with his fork. “But I thought they wouldn’t tell you anything.”

  “They wouldn’t, but I’m more positive than ever that Fred was a test subject there.”

  “Why’s that?”

  I told Ben about Hilda, the Fremonts’ housekeeper, saying she’d met Fred at the medical research clinic in Abingdon. “They were both in a trial there for a medicine used to treat migraines. She told me, Carol and Fran about meeting Fred when they were both there for their appointments.”

  “Fred had migraines?” Ben asked. “Were they because of his accident?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t discuss it with Connie; and if Fran or Carol did, they didn’t mention it to me. But later that night, I did an Internet search for medical drug research trials and learned there are people who do that on a regular basis.” I took a bite of my pizza. I was still on my first slice, and it was starting to get cold.

  “What do you mean a regular basis?”

  “There are people who submit themselves for drug research on a regular basis. Some even make part-time or full-time jobs out of it.”

  “But why?” Ben asked.

  “Some of the research trials pay really well.”

  “Still, isn’t that dangerous?”

  “It can be. The drug testers—often referred to as guinea pigs—move around so they’re not always at the same research center. I think there are some strict rules about how long they’re supposed to wait before engaging in new trials and things like that, but the professionals know how to get around the rules.”

  Ben frowned. “Do you think Hilda is one of these professional drug testers?”

  “No, no, no . . . not Hilda. She was merely seeking treatment for her migraines. From the information I read, there are many Hildas in the system—people who are seeking help for their specific problems. On the other hand, some academic-based research centers even test on medical students; and some of the trials are bizarre. For example, one study I read about tested how cocaine was metabolized by the human body. Tell me that isn’t dangerous.”

  “You have to be kidding,” Ben said.

  “I’m afraid I’m not.”

  “And people actually sign up for things like this to make a profit?”

  I nodded. “Yeah, one guy said he signed up for the cocaine test in college where he was a medical student and thought, ‘Hey, I’m getting paid to take illegal drugs.’”

  “Unbelievable.”

  “Fran said Fred wanted to buy Connie something really nice for Christmas. I think he somehow got into this as a way to make money on the side,” I said. “And I think it might be—at least, in part—why he’s dead.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  After Ben had gone home to Sally—his golden retriever—I couldn’t get Fred, Cara and the entire Brea Ridge Pharmaceutical situation out of my mind. I began to wonder if Cara was reporting on the events yet. If her newspaper was footing her travel bills, then she should be reporting on them. After all, she’d been down here most of last week and had told me she’d be back tomorrow. Even if she couldn’t tie the entire case up into a tidy little bow, she had to be giving the publisher and editor something. Why else would they let her come back and expend their resources for a story going nowhere?

  I made myself a mug of sugar-free cocoa with mini marshmallows and went into my office. As I waited for the computer to boot up, I thought about my promise to Violet and my upcoming shopping trip with Leslie and Lucas.

  I do not need to be involved in this investigation.

  I logged onto the Internet and typed West Side Messenger + Richmond, VA into a search engine. I rationalized that this did not constitute investigating. I was merely satisfying my own curiosity about what Cara was reporting with regard to Brea Ridge Pharmaceuticals and Fred’s death.

  I clicked on the link for the West Side Messenger home page and then typed Cara’s name and “Brea Ridge” into the site’s search engine. I sorted the results by “most recent.” At the top of the list was the headline “Brea Ridge Reporter Latest Victim of Mystery Illness.”

  I opened the document. The report stated that “the illness which besieged Brea Ridge residents at a holiday party earlier this month has resurfaced.” The article went on to hint that Brea Ridge might have an epidemic on its hands but that, fortunately, the good doctors at Brea Ridge Pharmaceuticals were available with their miracle cure, which enjoyed a 99 percent success rate.

  So my paraph
rasing is facetious. You still get the gist of the article. The others were pretty much more of the same.

  The first article dealt with the party and how a large number of guests became ill. Cara reported that one young man with a history of brain injury had gone into a coma and had not yet recovered. The article had a sidebar explaining campylobacter bacteria, how it is believed to be spread and how it is treated. Since that part was practical and not overly dramatizing, I figured someone else had written it and put it in at the suggestion of the editor.

  Cara’s article didn’t mention where the party had taken place but stated that doctors involved in the development of a new drug treating the effects of campylobacter bacteria were on hand to take charge of the situation. She went on to sing the praises of Brea Ridge Pharmaceuticals and especially Dr. John Holloway.

  I closed the article to read the next one and caught sight of the date again. The article ran the day after Fred died. Had Cara simply missed the deadline to amend her article and report Fred’s death? Or had she sat on the information in order to provide herself another article with a dramatic “new” development the next day?

  The next article was indeed relaying the “tragic” news of Fred’s death and painting a maudlin word portrait of a community in mourning.

  Yet, none are more devastated by the news than the doctors of Brea Ridge Pharmaceuticals who so desperately tried to save this young man’s life.

  My jaw literally dropped. None are more devastated? Tell that to Fred’s mother.

  My fingers itched to write a letter to the editor telling him or her and the entire Richmond area what a load of hot air Cara Logan is and what inaccurate articles she was writing. Oh, and that the “devastated doctors” are terrified Fred Duncan’s mother is going to sue their pants off.

  I unclenched my fists. While a letter to the West Side Messenger editor might be in order, I didn’t need to do it tonight . . . in anger . . . via e-mail.

  I closed that article and scrolled on down the page. Apparently, the only article Cara had written dealing with Brea Ridge other than detailing the current events surrounding the campylobacter outbreak was a fluff piece she’d done last October on supposed haunted sites in Brea Ridge, Abingdon and Bristol. That must’ve been in the days before her rise to super journalist.