Susan’s eyes widened. “I depend on the pharmacists to call me if they get a suspicious prescription.”
Tommy Lee grunted. “See the problem? We might have put a fox in charge of the henhouse.”
I remembered my earlier conversation with Doug Larson. “He told me he took on shifts at the hospital to help make ends meet.”
“If he’s our man, he’s meeting a lot of ends,” Tommy Lee said. “Forty bucks a pill times twenty. Eight hundred dollars for a couple of minutes’ work, and in Mildred’s case the government picks up the tab.”
Susan seemed to have tuned us out. “Pyxis,” she murmured.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“Pyxis. It’s a system of hospital inventory management. They make med stations, controlled substance safes, barcode equipment. A prescription wouldn’t be filled and billed until it had been coded and placed in a transport safe that the duty nurse would open. Most of the big hospitals have gone to it.”
“But not Laurel Memorial?” I asked.
Susan shook her head. “When Pamela was hired, one of the first things she did was form a task force to look into the feasibility of going to the Pyxis system. Doug Larson was on the task force. He wasn’t working at the hospital at the time, but as the only private pharmacist in town, it seemed natural for him to offer an outside, unbiased opinion.”
“Don’t tell me,” Tommy Lee said. “The system was too expensive and couldn’t be justified.”
“Sounds like you read Doug’s summary,” Susan said.
I saw broader implications. “So Doug could not only be writing some forged prescriptions here at the hospital, but think of how many he could be moving through his drugstore.”
Tommy Lee gave me a look like I’d announced the sky was blue. “What do you think? Doug pays wholesale and then sells at street value. A thousand percent markup. Plenty of margin for a sales force like Artie Lincoln.” He thought for a second. “Damn. I guess the acorn doesn’t fall far from the tree.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“Doug’s son Delbert’s serving an eight-year sentence at Central Prison in Raleigh. He was ordering huge quantities of cough medicine through Larson’s Discount Drugs and using it to manufacture crystal meth.”
I remembered the story. I’d been in Charlotte and Mom told me how upset everyone was. One of those things the whole town talks about and then sweeps under the rug.
“Didn’t Doug testify against Delbert?” I asked.
“Not exactly. He was subpoenaed to explain their recordkeeping. Evidence showed that Delbert had set up a separate checking account with a bank in Asheville. He paid through that account, had the order shipped to an Asheville warehouse, but used the pharmacy’s authorization to obtain the cough medicine.”
“What about prescription drugs?”
“As the licensed pharmacist, all those purchases came through Doug. There was no trace of impropriety. We considered Doug a victim of his son’s greed.”
“Maybe Doug Larson is smarter than anyone has given him credit for,” Susan said. “Maybe he set up a protective shell and let his son take the fall.”
Tommy Lee looked from Susan to me. “Maybe. He’s still innocent till proven guilty.”
My message to Roy Spring was displayed on the computer screen. “Should I add Doug Larson’s name to my email?”
Tommy Lee nodded. “But don’t go into any detail. Just ask if his name has ever come up in their investigation.”
I didn’t understand Tommy Lee’s obsession with secrecy, but I did as he said. “How are we going to prove anything? How did Doug Larson find out we were onto Lincoln? He must have been the one who killed him.”
“Find out where he was last night,” Tommy Lee said. “And then there’s Chip.”
“Who’s Chip?” Susan asked.
I saw the pieces Tommy Lee was putting together. “A meth head in Asheville. He has an alibi for the time of Lincoln’s murder, but he could have booked the room at Daleview Manor and set Lincoln up.”
“More than that,” Tommy Lee said. “He did time. I wonder if it was in Central Prison. I’ll place a call to the warden and see if Chip and Delbert knew each other.”
“What can I do?” Susan asked.
“Any ideas?” Tommy Lee asked me.
“Maybe Susan can check on her own prescriptions in a way that wouldn’t arouse suspicion.”
Susan waved the papers in her hand. “I can’t ask for these sheets. That would raise a flag.” She eyed the chart at the foot of Tommy Lee’s bed. “Unless I kept my questions within the pharmacy. Claim I saw an error on a chart and want to cross-reference a patient history.”
“Sounds good to me,” Tommy Lee said.
“I’ll have to do it when Doug isn’t there.”
“But we’d want you to check more than one chart,” I said.
“Once I’m logged onto my patient list, I’m free to view all my prescription files. I’ll be prepared with those I think could have been likely targets.”
“How soon can you do it?” Tommy Lee asked.
Susan studied a few notes she’d scribbled on the back of the billing pages. “Doug doesn’t work in the pharmacy till after he closes his drugstore this evening. The current shift changes at three and I wouldn’t want to return before then. If I’m down there twice, someone will remember.”
Tommy Lee glanced at his bare wrist, expecting to see his watch. He swore under his breath. “Better be there between four and five. I don’t want you crossing paths with Doug.”
“And if Susan finds he’s falsified her prescriptions?” I asked.
“Then we’ll confront Doug with the evidence. By then, I hope to have word from Central Prison about any connection between Delbert and Chip. Be nice if everything comes back wrapped in a neat package.”
I walked over to the monitor. “Better check his vitals. Tommy Lee’s delusional.”
He grinned. “I can always hope, can’t I?”
“Neat package or not, promise me you won’t interrogate Doug Larson till I’m here. It’s my case too.”
Tommy Lee gave me a mock salute. “And where are you going to be?”
“At my other job. Preparing a funeral service. For a dead cat.”
My most difficult task of the day turned out to be convincing Mom she didn’t need to be at the Cosgroves’ visitation. In her heart, Mom knew she needed to stay with Dad, but in her mind, she didn’t want to abandon Uncle Wayne, Fletcher, and me. In my heart, I also knew Mom needed to stay with Dad, and in my mind, I didn’t want her anywhere near the Fluffy scam we were pulling. “Fluffygate” would be more than she could handle. I prevailed by convincing her I would be too worried about Dad to give the visitation the proper attention unless she stayed. When I added I’d ask Reverend Pace to come to Dad’s room, even though the preacher had been up all night, Mom relented.
I found Uncle Wayne and Fletcher in the Slumber Room. Doris Grimsby from Grimsby’s House of Beauty, a name more suited for a Stephen King novel, bent over the casket with her blow dryer zooming in and out like a pesky mosquito. While Doris made final touchups on her client, Wayne and Fletcher arranged the flowers that had arrived.
“Everything okay?” I asked.
Uncle Wayne winked and jerked his thumb toward Fletcher. “This kid’s a genius.”
Fletcher set down a vase of black-eyed Susans on one of the floral pedestals. “Not really. Wayne found a miniature urn sample that’s perfect. We shaved down a cork fishing bobber to seal it.”
“And you missed some delicious hotdogs at lunch,” Wayne said. “The charcoal burnt to a fine ash.”
I nodded toward Doris and put my finger to my lips.
“Oh, she can’t hear nothing with that hairdryer going,” Wayne said.
Doris wheeled around and held the blower level like a ray gun. “You’re the one deaf as a stump. I can hear just fine.” Doris turned to me. “Don’t worry, Barry. Some people might be offended by talk of food in
the presence of the deceased, but I know life has to go on—complete with hotdogs and fishing.”
“Thank you, Doris.”
She glared at Wayne. Wayne retreated with the mumbled excuse of needing something from the supply room and took Fletcher with him.
Doris stepped back from the casket. “Take a look.”
Mildred Cosgrove wore a lavender print dress too heavy for June, but appropriate for the conservative tastes of those who’d be coming to pay respects to an elderly lady. Reading glasses hung from a chain draped around her neck and all she needed was a ruler in her right hand to fit the mental image that had been imprinted in the mind of each of her former students. I felt a sense of childhood loss and a twinge of guilt at the trick we were playing on her family. If God allowed paddling in heaven, I was going to be in for it.
Doris brushed against me. “Well, do you think it’s too blue?”
Too blue for what? I wondered. The ocean? The painted face of a Duke fan? Suede shoes? Blue isn’t a word that should be used in the same sentence with hair. “Nicely complements the lavender.”
Doris bubbled. “I thought so too. Wayne showed me the dress while we were working in the back. I made the tint richer. Mildred was always worried I’d go overboard.”
“Just right,” I lied. Just right for Bozo the Clown.
Doris made one more pass with the blow dryer in case a strand had gone untortured.
“Are you coming to the visitation?” I asked.
Doris wrapped the cord around her dryer. “Oh, yes, an artist must always face her critics.”
I helped Rembrandt carry her tools out to her station wagon and gave a wave as she drove back to the House of Beauty. Four-thirty. Julius and Dot would be here at six. Plenty of time to be finished. I wondered if Susan was doing as well in her race against Doug Larson’s arrival.
Uncle Wayne met me at the front door. “Doris gone?”
“Yes.”
“She suspect anything?”
“No. She was too anxious to show off Mildred’s hair.”
“Best thing for Mildred’s hair right now would be a sombrero.” Wayne shouted back into the house. “Coast is clear!” He put a bony hand on my shoulder. “Wait a second.”
At least half a minute passed before Fletcher called, “Okay.”
I followed my uncle to the Slumber Room. Fletcher stood at the foot of Mildred’s casket. He had lowered the bottom half of the split lid. On the flattened crest sat a small urn and a gold-framed eight by ten photograph. Fluffy stared out from a ring of black-eyed Susans. I looked from the picture to the vase of flowers and realized Clayton and Clayton had become a feline portrait studio.
“How’d you get her to sit still?”
“Hotdogs,” Wayne said. “I’d hold a chunk above Fletcher’s camera and he’d snap the shutter.”
“You guys are dangerous together.”
Wayne pointed at the frame. “Mildred wanted to be buried with her Fluffy and now she will be. That was Fletcher’s idea.”
“Where’s Fluffy?” I asked.
“Up in the bathroom,” Wayne said. “She’s got a saucer of milk and a whole pack of hotdogs. That’s one lucky cat.”
“What about Mulray at Daleview Manor?” I asked Fletcher.
“I haven’t asked him yet. The answering machine says the rooms are all rented and Mulray won’t be back till six.”
“I don’t want that cat in the house when Julius and Dot get here.”
“I’ll take care of it,” Fletcher said. “Check out the urn.”
I picked up the four-inch-high plastic replica some supplier had sent as a sample. A fresh coat of brass spray paint sealed the cork stopper in place. A few smudges of ash darkened the rim. I tilted the urn toward Fletcher. “For effect?”
He shrugged. “We want them to draw the right conclusion, don’t we?”
Very clever. I would have enjoyed the ruse more if I didn’t know Fletcher was under investigation for cleverness that might have led to murder. A light went off in my head. “Damn it.”
“We can clean the ashes off,” Uncle Wayne said.
I realized I’d spoken out loud. “No. This is great. I left something at the hospital. I need to call.”
I walked to my office, closed the door, and collected my thoughts. Fletcher had been in Crystal Hodges’ hospital room when she died. That fact was one of the reasons he was a suspect. Now Doug Larson was a prime suspect. We knew he had enough pharmaceutical knowledge to kill Lincoln with anything from air to insulin. But we’d neglected to think about his connection to Crystal. What if Crystal had been murdered? Doug Larson didn’t even need to be in the room. He could have learned about Crystal’s progress from any nurse at the hospital and when it looked like she might recover, tampered with the medication being sent to her room.
The intensive care nurse could have hooked up any poison to Crystal’s IV, and unless a toxicology report was ordered, no one would ever know. Given her injuries, the prospect of dying had been a statistical reality—a tragic, but not unexpected outcome. I wanted to know if Doug Larson had been anywhere near Crystal’s medications.
Susan didn’t answer her cell phone. I left a message for her to call. Then I dialed the hospital switchboard and asked for the pharmacy. Maybe Susan had turned her cell phone off while in the bowels of the hospital complex or was shielded from a signal.
“Pharmacy. Larson speaking.”
I slammed down the receiver and looked at the desk clock. Four-forty-five. Doug Larson had come to the hospital over an hour ahead of when we’d expected him.
Susan called ten minutes later. “I couldn’t talk. Larson came in the pharmacy as my cell was ringing.”
“I know. Did he believe your story?”
“I heard his voice and slipped out another door. I had to leave the computer logging out so unless he walked straight to that terminal, we should be home free. Why were you calling?”
“I wanted you to see if there was any way Doug could have laced the medications that went to Crystal Hodges.”
Susan took a sharp breath. “You think he murdered Crystal?”
“If we think he murdered Lincoln, then why not Crystal? At that point he was trying to protect Lincoln’s identity. When we found Lincoln anyway, Doug had to take him out.”
“I can’t go back to the pharmacy now,” Susan said. “We’ll have to check after he leaves tonight.”
“Did you have any luck with your prescriptions?”
“Yes. Some of my surgical patients had been prescribed unauthorized painkillers. I didn’t have time to plot them against Doug’s work schedule, but I couldn’t find any irregularities beyond six months ago.”
“Why’s that important?”
“Because six months ago Doug started working at the hospital.”
“Good job, Nancy Drew. If you ever get tired of cutting people up, you’ll make a hell of a detective. Tell Tommy Lee what you learned. I’ll be there as soon as I can leave the Cosgroves.”
At ten till six, Julius, his wife Nora, and daughter Dot arrived to preview Mildred. I guided them from the front door through the foyer to the Slumber Room. Fletcher had started a CD of soft piano hymns. Wayne had dimmed the lights except for the far end where the casket rested. Julius held his wife’s hand and I gently took Dot’s arm as her pace slowed. As we walked through the arched doorway, Julius gasped and Dot started crying. The photograph and urn gleamed in the spotlights.
Julius stopped, mesmerized by the sight. “It’s, it’s—”
“Silly,” his wife muttered.
“—beautiful,” Julius whispered. “It’s perfect.” He broke free of his wife and hurried to the casket with Dot right behind him.
Nora looked at me and shook her head. “How much did this nonsense cost?”
I gave her my best funeral director smile. “Nothing. Your mother-in-law was my teacher.”
Nora seemed to calculate how much she thought the nonsense could have cost them, and then returned
my smile.
Julius and Dot were so engrossed in examining the photograph and urn that Mildred Cosgrove could have been dressed in a burlap sack. Wayne and Fletcher stood at either end of the casket exchanging sly glances.
Nora came up beside me and peered into the casket. “Doris finally got her way. My mother-in-law looks like a grape popsicle.”
By seven-thirty, the Slumber Room was filled with visitors and a line stretched out the front door. People reminisced over forty years of first grade adventures in Mrs. Cosgrove’s class. The photo of Fluffy drew compliments while only Julius, Nora, and Dot knew about the urn discreetly tucked under the casket cushions, and only Wayne, Fletcher, and I knew Fluffy had used one of her nine lives.
The long day of sunlight and the logjam of mourners raised the temperature in the funeral home above the cooling capacity of our old central air conditioning system. A little after eight, I left Fletcher with the “Guests Who Called” signature book and Wayne in charge of moving folks through the receiving line as fast as possible. Rather than swim upstream, I ducked out the rear and down the hall to the work rooms. The evening air was now cooler and I wanted to open the back loading door to create cross-ventilation.
The sun had set behind the high ridges and thrown the valley into murky shadows. As I propped open the outside door, I saw a blur of motion in the parking area where we keep the hearses and our personal cars.
An ear-piercing shriek drowned the sound of crickets and katydids. Before I could move, a man yelled in pain and stumbled from the far side of Fletcher’s Honda. His arms flailed around his face and he spun like a drunken ballerina. Then he hurled something toward me. A white streak flew through the floodlights, landed on the concrete driveway, and accelerated like a torpedo aiming to blow me out of the water.
Fluffy shot between my legs and into the funeral home. The bloody face of Reece Hutchins registered for a split-second by Fletcher’s car before I whirled around and chased after the cremated cat. I burst into the Slumber Room as a blood-chilling scream hit me with the force of a sonic boom. Dot Cramer toppled backwards in a dead faint. Julius fell to his knees calling for “Sweet Jesus.” I looked at the casket, fully expecting Mildred Cosgrove to sit up, blue hair and all. If Dot’s scream didn’t wake the dead, nothing would.
Final Undertaking: A Buryin' Barry Mystery (Buryin' Barry Series) Page 18