Destroying Angels (Leigh Girard Book 1)

by Gail Lukasik

  “Stew, some kind of stew.” That was the smell in Mrs. Peck's house.

  2

  The Door County Gazette was sandwiched between the Bay Cinema, where movies are always $1.50, and an antique shop in the older section of Sturgeon Bay. The buildings had a feeling of slow decline from better times. Whatever promise this area once had was gone; now it was simply a matter of holding on and not falling apart.

  Still, I liked the sturdy gentility of the Gazette’s limestone facade, the thick raised gold lettering and wide windows that I imagined were opened on warm summer afternoons. The lot behind the building overlooked Green Bay; I parked my car and entered through the rear entrance.

  Jake Stevens’s office was the first door on the left. He had the only office that commanded an unobstructed view of the water. Since his door was open, I tapped it lightly and walked in. One of the first things he told me about his management policy: “No one stands on ceremony around here. If you want to see me, knock once and walk in. If I don’t want to see you, my door will be closed.” Apparently there was no news around here important enough to bridge his closed door. Back in Chicago, his closed door policy would have had a very different interpretation, especially during lunch hour.

  “So what’s the story with Mrs. Peck and her daughter?” I said to Stevens’s ponytail. With his back to me, he was arched protectively over his computer, like a kid taking a test and fearful someone would copy his answers. For some reason, he still had his coat on—a black leather jacket cracked with wear and reminiscent of James Dean.

  “Punch your stuff into Martin’s computer. He won’t be back till tomorrow,” Stevens said, his eyes rapt upon his computer screen.

  “There is no stuff.” That got his attention. He swiveled around in his chair. The late afternoon sun glinted off his thick lensed, wire-rimmed glasses. I’d yet to catch the color of his eyes.

  “What happened? Couldn’t find the place?” He was trying not to smirk.

  “I found the place just fine. Even though the daughter whisked her mother out of the room before I could interview her in depth. Not, however, before Eva Peck accused the doctor and the hospital of misdiagnosing her husband. According to her, Carl Peck didn’t die of liver failure, but a heart attack. She plans to sue.”

  “Are you serious?”

  Finally, I had Jake Stevens's full attention. He took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. I noticed that he had those long, fine fingers always associated with artistic types. My fingers look like they could pull potatoes out of the frozen ground in the dead of winter. “That’s what she said,” I said, and then sat down in the only chair in his office not already full of books, magazines or papers.

  “Eva won’t do anything. Not her style.” Stevens leaned back in his chair and put his hands behind his head. “She’s in shock, that’s all. From what I heard, Peck’s death was pretty ugly. ‘He did not go gentle into that good night.’”

  I must have had a confused look on my face because he added, “You know, Dylan Thomas.” He pronounced Dylan, “die-lynn.” Stevens had this annoying habit of quoting poets.

  “The folk singer, right?” I asked, trying not to smile.

  “Only when he wasn’t hacking out words or drinking himself blind at the local pubs.” His eyes caught mine. “You should read poetry.”

  “I should also have my teeth capped. Neither one’s worth the effort.” I bristled at any advice with “should” in it. I left all those shoulds back in Chicago along with the manicured lawns, the two-story colonials, and the mini-vans.

  He smiled and looked away. “It’s good for your writing. Makes you cut stuff down to the bone.”

  “Didn’t you say the same thing about writing obits?”

  The smile was gone. “Yeah, that too.”

  “Anyway, I did get a photo of Peck. It’s pretty grainy, but this is the one his wife wants us to use.” I flipped my notebook open, pulled out the photo and handed it to him.

  He glanced at the photo. “Get a year?”

  In all the confusion, I hadn’t asked about the photo’s date. But from here, I could see faint writing on the back. “It’s on the back,” I said, hoping my hunch was right.

  Stevens turned the photo over. “December, 1952.” He handed the photo back to me.

  If he caught my bluff, he wasn’t going to mention it.

  “Call Olin Forrest. Used to work for Peck. He’ll give you some fill.” He put his glasses back on, as if he needed to get a better look at me.

  “You sure you don’t want me to go ‘a callin’ at Mr. Forrest’s homestead? Introduce myself, bring a cherry pie to show that I’m down home, country folk?” Usually, I wouldn’t be so flip on the first day of a new job, but I sensed some weird chemistry between us. Not sexual, more like “Didn’t I know you in another life?” I was sure he sensed it too. He’d hired me the day after I walked into his office. Although I’d never worked on a newspaper, small town or otherwise, he told me my ten years teaching experience meant I had good instincts about people. He joked that my Masters degree in English might be a liability. I told him I’d do my best to overcome it.

  Now he grinned a slow smile. He was enjoying this chemical mix as much as I was. “Not enough time. We’re on deadline. And you didn’t get any stuff from Eva Peck.”

  I was about to defend myself, but thought better of it. Chemistry or no chemistry, I didn’t want to push my luck. As pitiful as it was, this was the only income I had at present. I couldn’t afford to get on the boss’s bad side, no matter how much we both enjoyed this sparring.

  He picked up on my mood change. “Look, Girard, this is how it works here. The Door villages are like those medieval hamlets, you know, where every full moon a witch got burned to keep the peasants happy. Maybe because she pissed someone off, or maybe because her nose was long and pointy with a big wart on it, or maybe because her husband croaked suddenly. As a journalist, you walk a thin line. People here know you’re after the story, but you have to make them think that’s not what you’re all about. You have to make them think you want to be their friend. And the thing is, before long, you start to believe it. So if you haven’t figured it out yet, nothing ever happens here, bad or otherwise. There’s no news, just events. We write about church bazaars, speeding tickets, and the largest trout caught in Kewaunee Harbor. And we do obit features on the local carpenter. Even if he was as dull as dust.”

  “I take it this paper won’t be winning a Pulitzer anytime soon.”

  “Pulitzer? What’s a Pulitzer?”

  “Okay, I get your point. I'm not to sully the waters and will try not to be burned as a witch.”

  “Good. I know a fast learner when I see one.” He stared at me as if he were trying to memorize me for a police line up. It took all my will power not to put my right arm over where my left breast should have been. Suddenly, he turned back to his computer, as if whatever he was looking for, he had found.

  “And about the,” Before I could ask him again about following up on the Peck lawsuit, he interrupted.

  “Peck’s doctor’s name is Porter.” He kept his eyes on the computer screen. “Whatever you do, don’t say anything about a lawsuit. Just find out what you can about how Carl Peck died. My hunch is Eva Peck’s blowing smoke.” He paused. “And that obit better be in before five p.m., or you’ll be writing the upcoming events section.”

  “Is that a threat?” I asked, getting up to leave.

  “Think about it.”

  3

  I tracked Doctor Charles Porter to the fourth floor of the Bay Hospital. The duty nurse, a pinched-face woman with a missing lower tooth and penciled eyebrows that formed two inverted U's, confirmed that he was making rounds. She refused to page the doctor, and suggested that I wait for him by the nurse’s station.

  “He should be by in about 15 minutes.” She faked a smile, sat down behind the white partition of the station, and turned her back to me.

  “Nurse?” I leaned over the partition.
She swiveled slowly around in her chair. “How about pointing him out to me?”

  She raised one of her penciled-in eyebrows. “Oh. You don’t know the doctor? Well . . .” She paused and took a deep breath. “If I’m here when he comes by, I suppose I can do that.”

  I left Nurse Ratchet to her charts, and sat down in one of those molded plastic chairs meant to survive a nuclear blast. Several tattered magazines, circa 1998, were scattered on the table next to me. To keep myself from thinking about the fact that I was in a hospital, I picked one up. It was a Women’s Circle with the usual assortment of ten-minute recipes, tummy tightening exercises, and “affordable” family vacations. I was just getting into a photo spread on bathing suits that promised to hide my problem areas when someone addressed me.

  “You, there. Miss?”

  I looked up.

  An elderly man dressed in a white coat stood at the nurse’s station. “I’m Doctor Porter. You wanted to see me?”

  “Yes.” I stood up and walked toward him, as he handed a chart back to the charge nurse.

  “Make sure you increase the dosage for Mrs. Gardner as I’ve indicated,” he told her.

  “I’m Leigh Girard from the Gazette,” I said, extending my hand. “I’m writing an article on Carl Peck.”

  He looked at my hand a second too long before shaking it. His hand felt like damp socks. Doctor Porter appeared to be in his seventies. He was small, with a wiry build and a full head of white hair. There was a vitality about him evident in his clear blue eyes.

  “If you have a few minutes, I’d like to ask you some questions about Mr. Peck.”

  “Young lady,” he cautioned me, “if you’re inquiring about Carl Peck’s medical treatment, I’m afraid I can’t tell you anything. I’m sure you know about doctor-patient confidentiality.”

  I was well aware of doctor-patient confidentiality. That’s why I was not only going to mention the lawsuit, but it would be my first question. I wanted to spring it on the doctor and watch his reaction hoping in defending himself he would reveal something about Peck’s death. It was worth a try.

  “Eva Peck plans on suing you and the hospital,” I told him.

  “Suing me?” He looked totally at a loss.

  “She claims you misdiagnosed her husband. She says he didn’t die of liver failure, but a heart attack. And she was pretty adamant about his not being an alcoholic.”

  Doctor Porter took a deep breath. “Let me explain something to you about certain kinds of diseases. It’s the old story of the elephant in the living room that no one wants to acknowledge.”

  “So you are saying Carl Peck died of alcoholism?”

  “The official cause of death, which you already know, is liver failure.”

  “So you have no idea why Mrs. Peck would believe her husband died of a heart attack?”

  “None whatsoever. Except . . .” he paused. “Generally speaking, sometimes in the case of chronic alcoholics, the cause of death is listed as ventricular fibrillation affecting the nervous conduction system of the heart. Which just means the alcoholism causes the patient to have a heart attack. However, that’s not a common occurrence; more often patients exhibit severe and massive liver failure. The body fills with fluid, causing the person to drown in their own fluids. This is a painful death. Having to watch it is extremely hard on the family.”

  Porter leaned toward me slightly. “Miss, you’re new around here, right?” He didn’t wait for my answer. “I don’t know how much you know about small town living. So let me give you a little advice. We like to spare people’s feelings when we can. There’s no need to mention in that article of yours how Carl Peck died. That way Eva can hold her head up. For some people, that’s extremely important.”

  A buzzer went off behind the nurse’s station. Nurse Ratchet, who had been hanging on our every word as if her next raise depended on it, let the buzzer go two more times before she got up to answer it.

  “Was Mr. Peck hospitalized very long before he died?” I thought I’d take another run at the doctor.

  Porter crinkled his forehead in annoyance. “The Gazette actually announced when he entered the hospital and the day of his death, as I recall, he was in the hospital about a day or so.” Then he suggested abruptly, “Well, I’ve got a house call. So if you don’t mind.” He held out his hand for a dismissive shake.

  I returned his handshake, somewhat perplexed. Why the sudden change? He didn’t seem to want to discuss Peck’s hospital stay.

  “If I have any other questions, would you prefer I call you at your office or at home?” I asked. Doctor Porter wasn’t getting off so easily.

  “The office. In fact, why don’t you come by my office. You look like you could use a B-12 shot.”

  Not a chance in hell, I thought to myself. I’d had my fill of doctors, thank you. As he departed down the hall, I turned to leave and noticed a patient coming toward me in the opposite direction and awkwardly dragging along her IV bag. My eyes froze on her. She wore a pink satin robe over her hospital gown—the familiar attempt to attach some semblance of normalcy to things beyond your control. As she approached, I focused on her one hand, the one that held the metal IV stand. Across the back was a white tape, which kept the IV needle in place. Around the tape’s curling edges flared a yellowish bruise. As she moved past me, I saw that the back of her hair was flat and matted. Automatically, I looked down. There on the hem of her hospital gown was a trail of smudged blood. The old panic rose up from the pit of my stomach. It had a metallic taste.

  I had to find a focal point, anything to regain my composure. I didn’t think I could make it back to the nest of chairs and magazines. Just then, someone entered the nurse's station behind me. I turned quickly toward the person. A nurse was standing there, reading a chart. I stared at her, trying to bring her into focus. But it was too late. The white hospital walls slipped into sudden blackness.

  * * * * *

  “How are you feeling now?” A nurse was bending over me, waving smelling salts under my nose.

  It took me a few seconds to place myself. The hospital . . . the IV bag . . . the smudged blood. This nurse became my focal point. “I’m fine.” Yet I was sprawled across a row of chairs. I tried to sit up, but the dizziness was still there. Somehow I had either fallen back on the chairs, or the nurse had lifted me onto them.

  “Maybe you should just sit here a few minutes until you feel better.” She had thick chestnut hair in a French braid, and two deep dimples. She smelled like lavender. “I saw you talking to Doc Porter. I hope it wasn’t bad news.”

  “No, I'm just not crazy about hospitals.” I sat up. The blood was returning to my brain.

  “Most people feel that way. Do you want some water?”

  “No thanks, I’m feeling a lot better.” My sense of purpose was coming back. “My name’s Leigh Girard.”

  “I’m Lydia Crane. You’re new here, right?” She looked down at my suede boots, the ones that had cost me $150 on sale. “My guess is Chicago.”

  “Is it that obvious?”

  We both said it at the same time. “The boots.”

  “Really, a suburb of Chicago. Ever hear of Libertyville?”

  “Hometown of Marlon Brando, or so they claim. I grew up in Lake Forest. Well, welcome to Door. What brings you here?”

  “I’m writing a feature, sort of a tribute to Carl Peck.”

  “No, I mean Door County. Decided to drop out like the rest of us outsiders?”

  “Yeah, sort of.”

  “Well, there’s enough of us to keep the place diversified. If there is such a thing as diversification in Door.” She smiled, and her dimples deepened, giving her a carefree look.

  “Yeah, I’ve noticed.” I sat up straighter in my chair. “As I was saying, I’m writing a feature on Carl Peck. Did you happen to see Mr. Peck while he was here as a patient, before his death?”

  “I guess you don’t need this anymore.” She tossed the smelling salts into a nearby trash bin. “As a matter o
f fact, I was on duty the morning they brought Mr. Peck in.”

  “I understand that it was his liver.”

  She tilted her head sideways. “C’mon. You know I can’t say anything about his medical condition.”

  “I already know about his alcoholism. And that the cause of death was liver failure.” I said, reassuringly.

  She shrugged. “Sure makes you think about that extra drink.” She ran her index finger back and forth across her lower lip. “I guess that wasn’t very discreet. Don’t quote me on that, okay?”

  “No problem.” I decided to take another tack. “Have you ever seen someone die of alcoholism?”

  “Yeah, back in Chicago. I worked at Cook County Hospital for awhile. Saw a lot of alcoholics die there. And it wasn’t pretty.”

  I must have looked surprised.

  “I get it, you're thinking, ‘What’s a nice girl from Lake Forest doing working at a place like Cook County?’ I’m the family’s social consciousness. It’s a dirty job, but someone has to do it. Couldn’t stand the country club life, you know, those debutante balls, junior league luncheons, clothes one-upmanship, etcetera, etcetera.”

  I was liking Lydia Crane more and more. “So you’d recognize the symptoms. Was there any chance Mr. Peck died of a heart attack and not liver failure?”

  “Why?”

  “Mrs. Peck is under the impression that her husband died of a heart attack.” Stevens wouldn’t like this second revelation of the widow's doubts about medical competence, but you can only die once for the same crime.

  “Really? I can’t imagine where she got that idea.” Lydia considered for a moment. “She isn’t thinking lawsuit, is she?”

  “Maybe thinking, not acting.”

  “I’m surprised. That would be very out of character for Eva Peck.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “She’s one of those martyr types. I can spot them a mile away. Says things like, ‘God never gives you more than you can bear,’ and ‘Suffering builds character.’ Which in my opinion is a lot of bull. Anyway, even if she believed her husband had been misdiagnosed, I would have thought she’d find a way to accept it as God’s will.”