The Jezebel Remedy

by Martin Clark

  “Dr. Dubois from Greensboro has already faxed me the tests from yesterday,” Withers said while he was pushing up Brownie’s black lips to expose his gums. “I got your message this morning and went ahead and called Greensboro so I wouldn’t be behind.”

  “Thanks,” Joe said.

  “Absolutely,” he replied. He was looking at Joe and Lisa, two fingers gently scratching behind the dog’s ears.

  “What do you think?” Lisa asked.

  “Well, I’m going to run his blood again, but it seems pretty clear Brownie has a significant liver abnormality.”

  “Not a brain tumor?” Joe inquired.

  “I seriously doubt it. You’d see many of the same symptoms, but with these numbers in his blood work, it’s a safe bet we’re dealing with the liver.” A blaring overhead light illuminated the table, and some of the fluorescence blanched the vet’s face and shirt. “So this isn’t the worst news, okay?”

  “Well, I mean, what’re his chances if it’s liver failure?” Lisa asked. The lighting bleached Withers so much he seemed drained and powdered, like a black-and-white-movie actor cooking up experiments in his madman’s laboratory. “Will he be okay?”

  “Yeah, I’m optimistic we can give him a really good quality of life.”

  “Damn,” Joe said. “That doesn’t sound promising. Quality of life usually means boatloads of intravenous narcotics and making sure your power of attorney is notarized.”

  “No, no, no. Not at all. He’s just going to require daily medication and some extra attention from you and Lisa, and he’ll be chasing squirrels again.” Withers moved away from the table and the electric light, and the color returned to his features and clothing. “Now, honestly, it’s probably a progressive disease, but we can arrest it, treat it, and he’ll perhaps have several healthy years left. That’s what I meant to explain. He might very well die of something else.”

  “Or he might not,” Joe said quietly.

  “True, but let’s see what we can do,” Withers answered.

  He summoned a round-faced girl in a festive smock, and she shaved a small patch on the dog’s front leg. She tied a blue band tight just above the patch and the vet drew blood into a tube. Brownie lifted his head and yelped when the needle pierced him. Lisa couldn’t help thinking of Brett Brooks and his gold stars and bonus points.

  As they were leaving the room, Joe paused at the door. “We want to do everything possible for him,” he said solemnly. “Please make sure he gets the absolute best.”

  —

  Driving them from the vet’s to their office, Joe mentioned the bizarre visit by Dr. Downs, though he didn’t let on to Lisa that he’d enlisted his pal Toliver Jackson to investigate the matchbox plate number.

  “Seriously?” she replied when he finished. “Interesting. And this Downs character was loony?”

  “Yeah, he has some issues. Probably a genius and very sincere, but obviously touched.” Joe looked across the bench seat at his wife. “Still, I…” He slowed for a poking car they’d caught.

  “Still what?” Lisa asked.

  “Nothing. I doubt we’ll hear from him again. No big surprise there were some genuine characters in Lettie’s orbit.”

  “I suppose.” Lisa studied the car creeping along in their lane. “How could Benecorp be involved in killing Lettie? You don’t think there’s anything to it, do you?”

  “No.”

  “Joe?”

  “No. Why would I?”

  They returned for Brownie after work, around five, and Withers repeated what he’d told them earlier, assured them there was every reason to believe the dog would gain strength, and he gave them two prescriptions, one to treat the liver disease, the other—phenobarbital—to keep the seizures in check. It required several wretched days of trial and error, but they fine-tuned the correct amount of medicine to use, enough to suppress Brownie’s horrible seizures, not so much that he was zonked and virtually unconscious. Twice a day, they fed him a pill and three-quarters of another hidden inside a ball of Kraft cheese or a wad of bologna. Sure enough, as Dr. Withers promised, Brownie recovered, to the extent he seemed mostly normal, and by the time the buttercups popped through the dirt and the trees budded, he was healthy enough to dart into the pasture and bluff and bark at the horse’s hooves and then scamper away, hugging the ground as he belly-wiggled an exit underneath the lowest fence board, same as he’d done since he was a pup.

  The first deluxe, bells-and-whistles spring day hit in early April. By midmorning it was almost seventy degrees. Infant leaves swarmed the oak and maple branches, Bradford pears were stacked with white blossoms and dogwoods were ready to unfold their Good Book crosses. The forsythia was gaudy yellow. Croaks, chirrs, flutters, squeaks, trills, whirs, clicks and screeches had once again started kicking up around sunset, animating the hollows. Pond frogs had emerged from the mud. Hummingbirds were scouring the vines and new flowers with their needled beaks. Ladybug hordes crawled on windowsills. Hornets and wasps and bees appeared. Moths had begun their spry jigs around outdoor bulbs. Deer were everywhere. The creeks were full and vigorous, undercutting their own banks.

  Driving to work, Joe cracked the Jeep’s window so Brownie could ride with his head poked out, and the dog loved it, occasionally barking into the wind just for the hell of it, exuberant. Joe left his office soon after arriving and began walking to the Daily Grind for a cup of coffee. He made the trip more to enjoy the spring surroundings than to buy coffee, so he was wandering along, hands in his pockets, his tie already loosened, no jacket. Even uptown Martinsville, with its vacant storefronts and destitute streets, seemed briefly enlivened. Near the barbershop, he heard someone call his name. He stopped and checked over his shoulder and waited for Toliver Jackson to catch up with him. Toliver didn’t hurry, continued walking normally until he reached Joe.

  “What in the world do you have on?” Joe asked his friend.

  “A suit,” Toliver answered. He was wearing a dark blue suit, a white carnation in the lapel.

  “No shit. I see that. Why the flower?”

  “Why not, Joe? It’s spring, and I’m in a fine-and-dandy frame of mind. Pages have turned.”

  “You look like a pallbearer. Carnations are for funerals. I hope somebody didn’t die. Then I’d feel bad about making fun of you.”

  “You should feel bad anyway. You’re a damn killjoy. Here I am celebratin’ for no reason, just because, lovin’ life, and you’re poor-mouthing me.” He smiled.

  “Seriously?”

  “Yeah,” Toliver replied. “Adding a little flair. A little cheer. Simple as that.”

  “More power to you.”

  “So I got your car information.” Toliver pulled a small, wire-bound pad from his coat pocket. He flipped through several pages.

  “I have to admit, Toliver, I’m still impressed by the midget’s notebook. Nice and old school. I’ll bet it really unsettles the criminals, especially when you flick it open with extra policeman’s emphasis.”

  “Remember your punk client Sherm Duggan? Two-day jury trial, and you badgered me about my notes and his statement and how accurate my investigation was? Ring a bell? And who was the boss of that case, Esquire? I seem to recall me and my notebook got him found guilty and a nice, fat penitentiary sentence. I put an ass whippin’ on you like you were Hamilton Burger.”

  “Even the blind hog finds an occasional acorn.” Joe smiled. “What about my plate?”

  “Yeah, sorry I took a while to check it. I had some actual police business to do. Okay: The plate belongs to a Hertz rental. A Nissan Altima, red in color. September of last year, relevant to your dates, it was checked out from the Roanoke airport counter. September third, to be exact. Rented to a lady by the name of Jane M. Rousch. Because I’m good at my job, I tracked down a little more for you. The clerk’s fairly sure the renter had a man with her. I got an operator’s license photo of the Rousch lady. I checked, and she has no entries in the criminal records exchange.”

  “Where
’s she from?”

  “Wisconsin. Or so her license says.” Toliver made a show of shutting his pad, thumbing back through every page until he reached the blue cardboard cover. “See, the license is bogus, my friend. When I ran the DMV on it, Wisconsin tells me the identifiers all belong to some lady by the name of Jane Pendry, who looks nothin’ like our woman at the airport. Basically, somebody pasted the Rousch photo on this other license.”

  Joe and Toliver were blocking the newspaper racks and had to crab several steps toward the barbershop entrance so a burly man could buy a Martinsville Bulletin. They both apologized to him while he was inserting his coins.

  “Does the Jane Rousch name produce anything at all?” Joe asked.

  Toliver frowned. “Nope. Not a thing.”

  “So the lady who rented the car using the name Rousch isn’t in fact Rousch or even Jane Pendry, and we have no idea who she is, just a picture?”

  “Correct. And the picture’s sorry even by DMV standards. She paid cash money for the rental. Gave them a credit card with the same Jane Rousch name for the security deposit.”

  “Huh,” Joe said. “I’ll be damned.”

  “Definitely some trickeration in play,” Toliver noted.

  “How about the mileage?”

  “Car was checked out in the morning, odometer showed it traveled a hundred and sixteen miles, returned later the same day.”

  “Which is pretty close to round trip from the airport to here.”

  “Yep.”

  “Great googly moogly,” Joe said.

  “Did you know I have the highest clearance rate in the department? Third best in the state?”

  “I didn’t realize the state kept rankings.”

  “Well,” Toliver replied, “I researched it and calculated it myself.”

  “Now there’s a surprise. Hardly like you to showboat and wave your own self-promoting banner.”

  “Well, here’s another surprise for you, courtesy of some exceptional Toliver Jackson sleuthin’: Records show our Miss Rousch was in Roanoke for another rental on November twenty-second, right before Thanksgiving. She was supposed to return the car like she did before, okay? The same day. This time it’s a white Ford.”

  “And?”

  “She doesn’t. In fact, she never brings it back to the airport. Nine days later, the cops find the car in Charlotte.”

  “Is it wrecked or anything? Damaged?”

  “Nope. Abandoned in a commercial parkin’ deck. The attendant noticed it didn’t have a proper sticker and hadn’t paid the fee, so he called the cops. Virginia had it in the computer as stolen, reported missin’ by Hertz in Roanoke.”

  “How about evidence of a crime? You know, blood or signs of a fight or whatnot?”

  “Signs of a fight? Like, oh yeah, people leave notes sayin’ ‘We’ve been scuffling here, please excuse the damage to the upholstery’? Nothin’ strange that anyone recalls, but the report came in as an abandoned vehicle, so there wasn’t much focus on the car as a crime scene.”

  “You have any theories?”

  “I don’t. Usually an airport rental car and a fictitious identification mean obvious drug deal. But these people flew to Roanoke; your dealers and mules, they rent the car then drive the wheels off to make the delivery. Savvy criminals don’t risk airport security and try to hide dope in their luggage or undershorts. If it was a drug deal, I’d expect a Florida or West Coast rental, then a long-ass trip. Not one hundred and sixteen puny miles. Still, I wouldn’t rule out narcotics.”

  “Yeah. I agree.”

  “But I can give you a last, showboatin’ puzzle piece. Hertz was paid for the extra days. Penalties, mileage, the full tab.”

  “By whom?” Joe asked.

  Toliver toyed with a grin. He adjusted his flower. “By Jane Rousch, naturally. She sent a money order.”

  “Too strange.”

  “You think?” Toliver teased him. “Of course, right now there’s really no crime and nobody’s been ripped off or injured. Worst I see is a Mickey Mouse identity theft, but it’d be a bitch to put the pieces together for a prosecution, and we’d still have to locate our buddy Miss Rousch. Like I say, no harm, no foul. She used a fake ID but paid the bill, so Roanoke ain’t gonna waste resources pursuing this, especially with no victim complainin’.”

  “Thanks, Toliver. All kidding aside, I appreciate it. Damn thorough investigation.”

  “You mentioned a connection with Lettie,” Toliver reminded him.

  “Yeah. This certainly gives some support to my tip.” Joe noticed a nondescript bird land on top of a mildewed awning across the street. The bird didn’t stay long, touched down for an instant and then fluttered off.

  “You want to share this valuable nugget with your police pal who busted his hump and traded favors on your behalf?”

  “No more than to say that my source is not too stable. I will tell you there’s a theory that Lettie’s death wasn’t accidental.” Joe looked at Toliver, moved closer and lowered his voice. “You’ll keep that between us? Confidential?”

  “Okay,” Toliver promised. “Unless and until we open a case, this is just me and you shootin’ the shit on a pretty spring day.”

  “Thanks,” Joe told him.

  “Well, it’s mostly for my own protection and sanity. Can you imagine the number of suspects, right from the drop, I’d have to interview if Lettie didn’t actually blow herself to smithereens? Can you? Who in Henry County didn’t carry a grudge where she was concerned? Hell, right before she died, I got dispatched out to the convenience store on Spruce Street, and she’s in a fracas with the clerk, raisin’ holy hell. Lettie claimed she’d been cheated at the gas pump. That there was gas still in the hose, gas she’d paid for but wasn’t allowed to take. She’d bought three whole bucks’ worth of unleaded but wanted them to allow her another quarter’s worth to drain the hose. I’ll never forget it, long as I live. She was threatenin’ the clerk with an electric carving knife. Wavin’ it around. One of those monstrosities your parents had way back in the seventies to slice the Christmas ham. She’d push the button and the blades would take off. Zzzzzzzzz.” Toliver mimicked the sound and waved an imaginary knife. “The clerk wanted her gone but didn’t want to press charges. Who the hell totes around an ancient electric knife in your purse?”

  “Huh. I hadn’t considered that. Is there still gas in the hose? You could argue that it’s been run through the pump and registered against your total but is stranded in the hose.”

  Toliver snorted. “Yeah, well, why don’t you grab your electric knife and go investigate it?”

  —

  Two days later, on a cloudy Friday, M.J. was in Martinsville for business. She was buying another apartment building, and no matter what the deal involved or where it took place, she always had Lisa review every jot and tittle of the contract. After they’d discussed a thirty-four-page draft agreement between M.J.’s company, Goldbricks, Inc., and the struggling, cash-strapped owner of the South Carolina apartments, and after Lisa had spotted and corrected a mistake M.J.’s silk-stocking South Carolina lawyers had missed, they left the office for a late lunch at the Binding Time Café. They drove separately, Lisa leading.

  They sat at a corner table, and the waitress brought their water and wrote down their orders. The café was quiet, a few stragglers still finishing lunch. M.J. mentioned that she’d joined a new gym, and that she’d had to fire a lazy assistant at her equipment business. Lisa listened and sipped ice water and asked how old the assistant was. “I’m worried about you,” M.J. finally said. “The new eye shadow and Stepford smile aren’t fooling me. You going to be okay?”

  “Well,” Lisa sighed, “not any time soon. The Caribbean thing.”

  “Yeah, I assumed that was it. I could’ve faxed the contract to you, but—”

  “Thanks,” Lisa said. She sipped some more water.

  “I can tell it’s still upsetting you. You’ve been awful quiet lately.” Since the Nassau trip, with the exception o
f their first frantic exchange, Lisa’s e-mails and phone calls to M.J. had been short and blasé, cordial enough, but so bland they telegraphed a much bigger message, the relative silence a second language easily understood between friends.

  “I don’t know what to do,” Lisa told her.

  “Can we smoke in here? We can’t, can we?”

  “Of course not,” Lisa said.

  “It’s a café, right? By definition, it ought to be allowed.”

  “Anyway, I’m miserable. Ashamed.” Lisa hesitated. Their waitress, a young girl with frizzy red hair, approached the table and brought them soupspoons. “I’m afraid there’s no answer,” Lisa said once the girl was gone. “No remedy. I’d hoped a few weeks might make it better, the ‘time heals all wounds’ theory, but I have a tumor, not a paper cut, and I feel worse and worse every day. Sometimes it completely saturates me, like the flu—I physically feel icky and achy.”

  “At least you’re still able to do your job. Thanks again for the sharp eye on the apartment deal.”

  “Work is a wonderful distraction. I’m glad I could help. It’s a great buy. I’m happy for you.” Lisa pushed her water glass to the side. It left a wide, wet path.

  “Maybe, just maybe, you’re overreacting to some heavy petting and a hand job. Wouldn’t this be a misdemeanor and not a felony?” M.J. glanced toward the door, where a gaggle of elderly ladies was leaving, most of them carrying purses and wearing Alfred Dunner wind suits.

  “You can go to jail for either. I’m just so pissed at myself and not sure how to fix my mess.”

  “You think you should tell Joe?” M.J. asked.

  “I’d certainly like to. I’d feel better about myself. He’s entitled to know, and a confession would sort of wipe the slate clean. But, god, the risk. I don’t think he’d take it well, and I don’t want to lose my husband and my marriage. The bottom line is I cheated on him. If it was only the drunk night in Roanoke he might get past it, but the Bahamas is so calculated, so plotted, and he’ll probably never believe I didn’t screw Brett.”