“I’m sorry,” Fletcher said, “I should have just taken a message, but I knew you were so busy that I thought I could handle the situation. Mr. Cosgrove said the rule had to do with animals and he wondered if a pet’s ashes could be placed in the casket if they were properly sealed in an urn. Since cremation ashes are dispersed in a multitude of ways, I assumed that wouldn’t be a problem. Mr. Cosgrove thanked me and said he trusted us to take care of things. He said he’d be in touch before the visitation.”
“Rule 6513,” Wayne muttered. “My own dang fault.”
“Don’t blame yourself,” Fletcher said. “I should know the embalming laws of the state where I’m working.”
“There ain’t no rule 6513. I made it up. Julius Cosgrove wanted us to kill the cat and put it in the casket with Mildred. I told him it was against the law.”
Fletcher stared at the box. “We can’t give them back Fluffy.”
Fluffy’s claws scratched the cardboard at the sound of her name.
“What else can we do?” I asked.
The room fell silent for a few seconds. Then Fletcher’s face broke into a broad grin. “Have you got a barbecue grill?”
Uncle Wayne flung his arm across the top of the box. “Great day in the morning! Have you lost your mind, boy?”
Fletcher’s jaw dropped to his chin. “Ashes. I thought we’d get some ashes.”
Again, silence. Then I started laughing. Uncle Wayne chuckled, and as Fletcher looked at us in bewilderment, the two of us degenerated into howls.
A light went on behind Fletcher’s eyes. “You thought I meant to put Fluffy on the grill?”
That question brought tears to my eyes. Wayne snorted and gasped for breath. Nothing is more contagious than laughter, and Fletcher started giggling.
All of the pent-up tension—Tommy Lee’s shooting, Crystal’s death, Lincoln’s murder, my dad’s broken hip and his struggle with pneumonia—the entire list of terrible things weighing me down were, for an instant, offset by the absurd idea that Clayton and Clayton Funeral Directors would toss a cat on the Weber.
At last I caught my breath. “You’re saying we should fake Fluffy’s cremation?”
“It would serve Julius and Dot right,” Wayne said.
The thought of tricking the Cosgroves was enticing, but I knew the scheme could blow up in our faces. “They’d be getting what they want, but if we’re caught, we’d be accused of fraud.”
Fletcher shook his head. “Not if we don’t charge them anything. What’s the worst that could happen? A headline reading ‘Clayton Funeral Home Saves Cat’? And how long do you think Fluffy will last if we give her back?”
“They’ll drown her sure as I’m sitting here,” Wayne said.
Fluffy scrambled from one side of the box to the other as if she was following the conversation.
Uncle Wayne and Fletcher waited for my answer. “Well, I can’t take her. Democrat would chase her and she’d probably kill my guinea pig George.”
Wayne took his arm off the box. “I’m too old to be tied down by a cat.”
My uncle never went anywhere and his little farmhouse and apple orchard would be perfect for Fluffy, but he was set in his ways and those ways didn’t include a pet.
“I’ll talk to Mr. Mulray at Daleview Manor,” Fletcher said. “If I get Fluffy a kitty crate, he might allow me to keep her in the apartment. We won’t have to worry about the Cosgroves seeing her.”
Now that Fluffy’s new home seemed secure, Uncle Wayne regained his enthusiasm. “We’ve got some sample urns in the storage room. We’ll put the charcoal ashes in one of them.”
“I cleaned the grill after our Memorial Day cookout,” I said.
Uncle Wayne stood up. “Who wants barbecued hotdogs for lunch? I’m buying.”
“I’ll be back at the hospital,” I said. “Just show the Cosgroves the urn and ashes at the private viewing. No sense getting the whole town involved.”
While Uncle Wayne and Fletcher began the more serious aspects of preparing for Mildred Cosgrove’s visitation, I went to my office. The small room had been used to conduct the business part of the funeral business since my great-grandfather opened it in 1930. Although I’d entered the office thousands of times before, this time I was struck by the history captured within the four paneled walls.
The large oak desk had belonged to my great-grandfather, a country lawyer who’d come to the mountains in the early 1900s because he believed the mill towns of the piedmont weren’t a fit place to raise a family. He’d seen the need for a funeral home in the small community of Gainesboro and set his son up in the business. Photographs along the walls traced the story—from my great-grandfather and grandfather cutting the ribbon on the front porch of the Clayton Funeral Home in 1930, through my grandfather and Dad leaning against the new Clayton & Clayton Funeral Directors sign erected in 1952, to Uncle Wayne and Dad posing by our last ambulance in 1960 a few months before Laurel County took over emergency medical response.
I appeared in only one picture: my graduation from the Charlotte police academy. The color photograph hung in an eight by ten gold frame. That graduation was supposed to have stopped the timeline for Clayton and Clayton Funeral Directors, and my father had made peace with my decision. But his Alzheimer’s had changed everything.
I sat down behind the desk, swiveled away from the wall of memories and picked up the manila envelope containing Mildred Cosgrove’s release forms from the hospital. The packet felt thicker than usual. I thumbed through the contents and discovered either Cooper Ludden or the woman he had hounded for the paperwork had included more than the death certificates and release transfer. The printout of all Mildred Cosgrove’s medical expenses was enclosed. I flipped through the sheets making sure I had what I needed for our files before passing the bulk of the information to Mildred’s son Julius.
Most of the line item charges were coded with inventory numbers and brief descriptions: saline bags, IV kits, lab work, and dispensations from the pharmacy. One word jumped off the page. Oxycodone. The generic name for OxyContin. I held the fine print closer to the desk lamp. There was a twenty count number and eighty-milligram dosage. The same strength pill I had found in Lucy Kowalski’s kitchen cabinet.
But I’d learned from Julius that his mother had spent her last few days in a coma. Any painkillers should have been administered intravenously. I laid Mildred Cosgrove’s death certificate alongside the hospital’s billing data. My assumptions proved correct. The oxycodone hadn’t been given to Mildred Cosgrove while she was in a coma. She had been pronounced dead two hours earlier.
Had I stumbled across Artie Lincoln’s supplier? If so, how could I investigate without alerting the culprit? The beauty of the scam lay in its simplicity. In the volumes of patient records generated each day in a hospital, even a small facility like Laurel County Memorial, who could double check that every prescription had been given to every patient?
I thought about Roy Spring in Delray Beach and the conspiracy the DEA had just broken. How many people could be involved here? Was the racket limited just to the hospital? Were we dealing with doctors, nurses, or pharmacists, or some combination of the three? I knew only one place I could safely start. I called Susan’s clinic and told the receptionist it was an emergency.
“Did something happen to your father?” Susan’s question came in a breathy gasp. She must have run to the phone.
“No. I’m sorry to have scared you. But something is wrong at the hospital.” I shared my discovery and concern with how to proceed.
“You need to notify Hospital Security. They’ll get answers faster than anyone.”
“I don’t want to stir the pot till I know what’s in the stew.”
Susan laughed. “You’ve been hanging around your uncle too long. I’ve no idea what you mean.”
“Hospital Security will feel forced to do something immediately. I want to rule out other possibilities before making accusations.” I turned in my chair and glanced at the photog
raph of me in my police uniform. “And we might need to bait a trap to catch not only those guilty in the hospital but a wider network as well.”
“So how can I help?”
Since I’d been thinking out loud, I hadn’t gotten that far. I stared at the papers on the desk. “Would you be able to tell who requested the OxyContin from the information on Mildred Cosgrove’s printout?”
Susan hesitated. “Depends. I’m not familiar with those forms. They probably go to billing.”
“I can fax them.”
“Do it now,” she said. “I’ve got afternoon rounds. Maybe I can get an explanation at the hospital for codes I don’t understand.”
“Be careful.” The image of Lincoln’s body on the sofa flashed through my mind. “We’re dealing with people who kill anyone who threatens to expose them. We don’t know who to trust.”
I took Mom back to the hospital with me. We found Reverend Pace asleep in a chair with his broad hand resting on my father’s.
“There’ll never be another like Lester Pace,” my mother whispered.
“The shepherd of the hills.” I gently shook Reverend Pace’s shoulder, mimicking the action he’d used to wake me earlier. “Hey, old timer, don’t you have a home?”
Pace took a deep breath and looked up at me. “Yep. A home over yonder. I’m surprised the Good Lord hasn’t called for me yet.”
“You’re still too ornery. Why don’t you get some real sleep?”
Pace pushed up from the chair and steadied himself on the armrests. “Your dad’s slept peacefully this morning. Nurse told me they’re going to cut back on the sedation.”
“Any word on when he might have surgery?”
Pace clapped a hand on my shoulder. “One step at a time.” As if to illustrate his words, the old preacher walked carefully to the corner behind Dad’s monitor and retrieved his rhododendron stick. I’d not noticed it before.
He pointed the worn end at me. “You fetch me if there’s anything I can do.” Then he went to Mom and leaned close over the walking stick. “I’ll be praying, Connie, but whatever happens, God’s with him.”
Mom could only blink back tears. Pace turned, straightened his back, and strode out the door.
I left Mom with Dad and went up to see Tommy Lee. He sat at the computer, the IV pole beside him, and his pants belt cinched around his hospital gown.
“You look like Spartacus in that getup.”
“I don’t give a damn what I look like as long as it shuts off any unwanted summer breeze.” He nodded to the computer screen. “Take a gander at this.”
A head-on and profile mug shot were positioned side by side.
“That your boy?” Tommy Lee asked.
I recognized Chip’s weasel face. The border beneath his picture read Buncombe County Sheriff’s Department. “Great. They got him already.”
“They got him too already. He was nabbed in a meth bust yesterday evening.”
“Before Lincoln’s murder?”
“Time stamp on the photos is 6:13 P.M.”
“He still could have fingered Lincoln.”
Tommy Lee clicked the mouse and a booking sheet appeared on the screen. “Possibly. But according to the arresting officer, Oswald Winters, aka Chip, has been living in his car the past two weeks. Not exactly the pedigree one would expect for someone in a well organized conspiracy.”
“We have informants that aren’t much above pond scum, why not the other side?”
Tommy Lee laughed. “This guy gives pond scum a bad name. I’ve been on the phone with Sheriff Wilkins, and his boys are going to lean on Chip about the murder.” Tommy Lee shifted in his chair and his face got serious. “You don’t have a photo of Fletcher Shaw, do you?”
“What for?”
“I thought I’d have them show it to Chip and say Fletcher had turned on him. See what shakes out.”
“No. Clayton and Clayton doesn’t use photo IDs yet. Maybe when we have more employees than I have fingers on one hand.”
Tommy Lee held up his hand. “Don’t get testy. We agreed Fletcher was a fair suspect.”
“Did you try his college?”
“Yes. They want the request in writing and on official stationery. Fletcher had expressed a desire for privacy regarding any information beyond what the career placement office needed to arrange his internship.”
That struck me as odd and I struggled for an explanation. “We’re in the age of identity theft.”
“Murder’s the ultimate identity theft. I’ve instructed Reece to fax the request and have them email Fletcher’s student photo.”
My stomach turned at the thought of Reece’s involvement. “To show Chip?”
“To make sure Fletcher’s who he says he is.”
I let the subject drop. “Mildred Cosgrove might have given us a lead.”
Tommy Lee’s eye opened wide with surprise. “Mildred? I heard she died.”
“Yeah. And two hours later got twenty pills of OxyContin.”
I gave him the background on my discovery and Susan’s efforts to track down any leads.
Tommy Lee shook his IV pole. “Damn. I wish I wasn’t stuck to this glorified water fountain. That’s the best news we’ve had on this case.”
“And what would you do?”
He thought for a moment, and laughed. “Come to the hospital. Ask Susan to do some quiet checking on who prescribed Mildred’s medication.”
“Good plan. I see why you’re the sheriff. Now I realize you got yourself shot just as an excuse to go undercover. Brilliant.”
Tommy Lee rose from the computer, turned around, and mooned me.
Chapter Sixteen
With Tommy Lee back in bed, I took over the computer and read Chip’s file. He’d been caught selling meth on the street, and given his prior conviction, would be headed back to prison. Facing that prospect, Chip might want to deal if the Asheville D.A. would give us some leeway. Usually, competing jurisdictions yielded to the more serious crime and closing a murder case trumped a meth charge. But I had to agree with Tommy Lee that Chip seemed an unlikely prospect to be deeply involved in something as sophisticated as a prescription drug scam.
I moved on from Chip and checked email. A message had arrived from Lieutenant Roy Spring in Delray Beach. I turned to see if Tommy Lee was awake. He stared at the ceiling lost in thought.
“Roy Spring wants to know if we’ve found Lincoln. Guess I’d better bring him up to date.”
At first I thought Tommy Lee hadn’t heard me because he kept studying the tiles in the drop ceiling. Then my question must have registered. “Tell him about the murder and that we don’t have any leads.”
“But we do have some leads.”
Tommy Lee shook his head. “Do you want the DEA stomping through our flowers? I guarantee you Spring has been told by his superiors to pass along any information.”
I hit reply to compose my message. “Whatever you say.”
“Wait.” Tommy Lee raised the back of the bed so he could talk easier. “Ask him if the name Fletcher Shaw has surfaced in their case.”
“Jesus, give the kid a break. And I don’t want the DEA swarming over the funeral home.”
“Leave it vague. Just his name. If Fletcher’s innocent, then we need to clear him as soon as possible. The DEA’s resources will do that in short order.”
“And what about Mildred Cosgrove’s prescription?”
“Let’s wait a little on that and see what develops.”
I’d finished my report to Spring and was reading it back to Tommy Lee when Susan opened the door.
“I can come back if you’re in the middle of something.”
Tommy Lee waved her in. “You’re our leading lady and you’re on stage. Everything else can wait.”
Instead of the smile Tommy Lee and I expected, Susan nervously moistened her lips and closed the door behind her. She held the sheets I’d faxed.
I stood up. “You found something, didn’t you?”
“Ma
ybe nothing more than a coincidence.”
The word “coincidence” pricked like a burr and I glanced at Tommy Lee. His face froze.
“Something about the pills?” I asked.
“The pills and the time.” Susan stepped closer to both of us. “There were several prescriptions on that list I consider inappropriate for a patient in Mildred Cosgrove’s condition.”
“Were they all narcotics?” Tommy Lee asked.
“Yes.”
He nodded. “Who was the doctor?”
“Nick Foster.”
I turned to Tommy Lee. “I can’t believe Nick Foster would be mixed up in this. He’s practiced here for over thirty years.”
Tommy Lee ignored me and focused all of his attention on Susan. “Nick Foster prescribing medicine for his patient is not a coincidence. What’s the coincidence?”
Susan lowered her voice as if the walls had ears. “I checked all the medications on the printout that seemed irregular to me. There were five over a seven-day period. They were filled on different shifts, one even on a Sunday evening, but they all had one thing in common.” Susan paused as if whispering had exhausted her breath. “The same pharmacist. Doug Larson.”
“Doug?” I couldn’t hide my surprise. “I’d sooner expect Nick Foster.”
“That’s why it must be a coincidence,” Susan said. “His family’s had that drugstore as long as your family’s had the funeral home.”
“Is there any cross-reference between the hospital pharmacy and the patient’s actually taking the medicine?” Tommy Lee asked.
“You mean does the duty nurse report back to the pharmacy?”
“Or some way the medications are tracked from the pharmacy to the patient.”
Susan laughed. “That’s why we have a chart. The nurses mark everything down. It’s my job to review the chart, see that my prescriptions are being administered, and note any effects they might be having.”
Tommy Lee rubbed his fingers over his chin. I could tell her answer didn’t satisfy him. “And if a pharmacist forged a prescription, how would the dispensation of the medication be traced? How would you know a phony prescription had been written in your name?”
Final Undertaking: A Buryin' Barry Mystery (Buryin' Barry Series) Page 17