“They’re fine, thanks. What brings you to the library?”
“I’m here about the surgery department’s next CME program.” He took a wrapped peppermint from the candy dish on my desk. “Do you know if Vane’s picked a topic?”
Dr. Vane Beardsley was medical director of the library and chairman of the hospital’s Continuing Medical Education Committee. Quinn signed my paycheck, but Beardsley was my supervisor and liaison to the medical staff. In addition to managing the hospital’s library and developing the forensic collection, Dr. Beardsley and I were responsible for keeping the medical staff in compliance with CME requirements. If our doctors didn’t address their problem areas by attending mandatory CME programs, the hospital’s accreditation could be jeopardized.
“There is one possibility,” I said. “The Quality Assurance Committee submitted a request for a special urologic surgery case review. When it’s finished, they want all the urologists on staff to appear together as a panel in a CME program. Indications for surgery, expected outcomes, complications, that sort of thing.”
“I haven’t heard about that. Was it discussed at the last CME Committee meeting?
“No, the written request came in this afternoon’s mail.” I pulled the letter from my inbox. It had been dictated by Dr. Ruben Frye, chair of QA Committee, and signed Cleo Cominoli for Dr. Frye. Cleo often signed letters for busy committee chairs, but coming on the heels of my lunch conversation with her, this one raised a red flag. Surely she wouldn’t have faked this letter.
“Has Dr. Beardsley seen this?” Quinn said.
“He’s out again today, but I called him at home, and he said to go ahead and schedule it since we don’t have anything else planned. We have to do something for this month’s mandatory surgery department program.”
“What prompted QA Committee’s request? Are the urologic surgery stats out of line?”
“I’ll let you know after I talk to Rocky.” Rochelle Taylor, known by everyone as Rocky, was TMC’s Quality Assurance Coordinator.
“Sounds good. And don’t wait for Beardsley. You’d better get started on this yourself.” Quinn tapped a finger on my desk. “You know, that patient who checked out against medical advice was scheduled for a urologic procedure. I’d like to know what spooked the guy. Do you recall his name?”
“Yes, it’s Cody O’Brien. I grew up knowing his family. His sister and I were friends as children.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. Have you talked to the family?”
“No, we’ve lost touch over the years.”
“Well, it’s bizarre how he checked out AMA then died the next day—from an accident in a horse trailer, of all things.”
“Umm.” I thought of Cleo’s paranoid suspicions.
“Make sure you include his case in the urology review. Maybe it’ll give us a clue about why he bolted.” Quinn twisted the wrapper off his mint “What’s the date for that meeting?”
“October thirty-first. It’s a Wednesday night, week after next. I’ll get started on it right away.”
“Good.” He walked over to the partially filled shelves labeled Forensic Collection. “How’s this coming along?”
“It’s been stalled without Dr. Beardsley to approve my suggestions, but I’ve been in touch with the major medical schools and crime labs across the country, and I’ve come up with a recommended list of resources. I’m trying to arrange meetings with the key law enforcement agencies and hospitals in the far northern counties we’re hoping to serve.”
“Is Beardsley making contact with the people you need?”
The expression on my face gave him his answer.
“Ah,” he said. “That would be no. Do you want me to light a fire under him?”
“I don’t really need him. I just need a title with more clout than Librarian.”
“Use my name. I’ll sit in when you get the meetings set up. Meanwhile, keep me posted.” He popped the mint into his mouth. “Say hello to the llamas.” He flashed his Rhett Butler smile and left.
I wasn’t thrilled with the timing of a CME program designed to address problems in the Urology Department. Officially, Dr. Beardsley was in charge of arranging the CME programs. Since his wife’s death two months earlier, he’d been passing all the routine work off to me and rubber-stamping whatever I came up with, but I’d never organized and facilitated an entire CME event on my own. Beardsley had cut back on his surgeries, made perfunctory visits to the library only a couple of times a week, and expressed little interest in how I was managing both our jobs.
Two weeks was scant time to arrange the program, but I had to make it happen, even with Cleo determined to discredit Dr. Phyllis Poole, one of TMC’s highest-grossing urologists. In spite of Cleo, this patient care review had to be impartial and follow protocol. I put in a call to Tobias Fausset, Chief of Urology, leaving a message with his office manager, who assured me the doctor would call back right away. I knew better than to hold my breath. Dr. Fausset was easy on the eyes and nice to be around, but elusive as smoke in the wind when he didn’t want to be pinned down.
My brother, Harry, had promised Amah he’d come to dinner that evening, so I closed the library at five o’clock and headed home. Our grandparents’ Highland Ranch was in Coyote Creek, a community eight miles east of Timbergate. Most of its residents raised livestock on working ranches, but there were a growing number of executive homes perched on oak-dotted hilltops with million-dollar views of Lassen Peak and Mount Shasta.
Grandpa Jack and Amah were in the former category, with livestock consisting of eight llamas and a flock of turkeys. Their house was a rambling but inviting relic from the forties, with rockers on the front porch and a sunny veranda in back.
Harry, an architect and commercial building contractor, is two years younger than me and a lot richer. He’s a volunteer jujitsu instructor at the dojo in Timbergate and always stays at least one rank above me. I’m a third degree black belt and Harry is a fourth.
A couple of months ago a local police investigator tried to pin the death of Dr. Beardsley’s trophy wife on my brother. I had a run-in with the real villain in that scenario, who eventually came clean.
Still a bachelor, Harry was rarely free for dinner, so I was sure Jack and Amah would be cooking his favorites: Jack’s freshly caught rainbow trout and marinated zucchini, and Amah’s shoofly pie.
After work I drove out to Coyote Creek and down the lane to my little studio apartment above the llama barn. Inside I checked the old-fashioned answering machine Jack had installed when I moved in. I had told him I didn’t need it, but he insisted I have a backup landline. My only message was from Jack. “Dinner’s at six.”
I changed into jeans and a T-shirt and walked up the lane to the main house, stopping on the way to offer treats to the llamas. As soon as they heard me shaking grain in a bucket, I was surrounded. I managed to give each of them a handful without starting a spitting war.
My petite Amah, my father’s mother on the Portuguese side of the family, was setting the dining room table in her company’s coming to dinner mode, just a tad slower than a hummingbird. She’s pushing seventy, but she out-hikes me every summer and races around like a teenager the rest of the year. Jack, still a strapping six feet in his early seventies, was in the kitchen combining the secret seasonings that made his fried trout so delicious. Harry had just pulled up in his Jag. Amah raced to peer out the front window, and I heard a little intake of air.
“Oh, he’s brought someone and my hair’s a mess. Here, you finish.” She shoved a handful of silverware at me and sped down the hall to primp in the bathroom.
Harry hadn’t brought a woman to meet the family since his fiancée broke off their engagement four years ago. His successful career and dark good looks made him the best catch in town, but we’d pretty much given up on seeing him settle down. I opened the front door, eager to see what remarkable creature had prompted this landmark event.
Harry stood on the porch with Keely O’Brien, Cody’s young
er sister. The last woman I’d have expected to see with my brother.
“Hi Aimee, you remember Keely, don’t you?”
Keely was my age, but she had lived a troubled life and it showed. Dark circles bruised the tissue under her eyes, and her designer jeans hung on a nearly skeletal frame. I tried to hide my confusion. “Of course. Keely, I’m so sorry about your brother.”
“Don’t be sorry on my account.” She dropped a cigarette on Amah’s porch and ground it out under a snakeskin sandal with a five-inch heel. “I haven’t spoken to him for more than two years.”
That shocked me. When we were kids in dance class together, Keely worshipped Cody. He was the younger of her two half-brothers, five years older than Keely and a star athlete. I looked to Harry for an explanation. Why had he brought her here? They had dated a couple times in high school, but that had been years ago.
“James is flying in from New York at seven o’clock tonight,” Harry said. “I’m driving Keely to the airport to meet his plane, so I figured she might as well come to dinner first.” James, the oldest in the O’Brien’s clan of half-siblings, lived in New York City.
“Forgot to renew my driver’s license,” Keely said. “I’ll get it back in a couple weeks.” She’d most likely lost her license over a DUI, if rumors of her longstanding cocaine and alcohol problems were true.
“Come on in,” I said. “Dinner’s almost ready.”
Harry led Keely to the dining room and I followed behind, still puzzled. The municipal airport was only five miles from Jack and Amah’s place, so Harry’s explanation made sense, except for the part that didn’t. Why was he doing this? I’d heard Keely was dating Tucker Pottkotter, a farrier and part-time hunting guide who worked as an apprentice in her father’s taxidermy business. Why wasn’t Tucker driving her to the airport?
Harry anticipated the question. “I ran into Tucker at the gym this morning and he asked me to drive Keely out to meet James’s plane.” Harry and Tucker weren’t even good friends, but it was like my brother to help someone out if he was asked.
“Tuck’s working late tonight,” Keely said. “He and Daddy are keeping crazy hours. They have three different hunting outfitters who want full-body mounts. And there’s another guy who wants his dead horse mounted like that old-time singing cowboy guy did.”
“Are you talking about Roy Rogers and Trigger?” I said.
“Yeah, I guess so. Daddy said they were famous for some reason. Anyway, except for the horse, they have to get everything done in time for the SCI convention, and now Cody’s dead and he’s still getting all the attention.” Keely sniffed and dabbed at her nose with a Kleenex. “I might as well be freakin’ invisible.”
SCI stood for Safari Club International, an outdoorsmen’s organization that held its annual convention every January in Reno. Keely’s father, Seamus O’Brien, owned a lucrative taxidermy business. The top hunting and fishing guides in the west always came to him first. A trophy-winning mount in one of their booths at the SCI show could translate into big money. Hunting guide outfits competed fiercely at SCI, hoping to attract wealthy sportsmen looking for the perfect hunt.
Our conversation had come to a standstill when Amah reappeared, her short dark hair primped and her cheeks blushed.
“Hello, Keely,” she said. “I’m so sorry for your loss. How’s your father doing?”
“He’s keeping busy with his work. He seems sad, but he’s been pissed off at Cody for years about wasting his life on the rodeo circuit, so it’s kind of hard to tell what he’s feeling now.” At that, Amah excused herself to help Jack in the kitchen.
After we had all settled in at the dining room table and filled our plates, Amah tried another tack. “How is your mother, Keely?”
“Depressed as hell since Daddy dumped her.” Amah winced, but Keely went on. “I keep telling her to suck it up. It’s been almost two years. Besides, he dumped someone else before he married her, and she lasted a helluva lot longer than any of the others. What did she expect?”
Each of Seamus O’Brien’s children had a different mother. The first wife had long since relocated to the East Coast where her son James lived, and Cody’s mother had died of an overdose the year after Seamus divorced her.
“Is your mother still in Timbergate?”
“No. She’s getting pretty decent alimony so she bought a place in Tahoe.”
“That must be nice. Do you visit her often?” Amah said.
“Not really. She’s always running around with some stud from the casinos. I think she’s afraid I’d be competition.”
Jack gave Amah a meaningful look. Change the subject.
At that point Amah gave up on conversation and got very interested in her trout, so I decided to give it a try.
“I understand your father’s new wife is quite a hunter.” I looked to Jack for confirmation. “Didn’t you write about Echo O’Brien shooting a trophy blacktail last fall?”
“I might have,” he mumbled, modest as usual about his prolific career as an outdoor writer.
“Yeah, she’s a hunter all right,” Keely said. “Sniffed out Daddy’s money and tracked him down like a bloodhound.” She gripped her knife and made a savage cut in a sourdough roll. “Echo’s five years younger than me and she thinks she can boss me around. She’ll get the picture pretty soon.”
Harry had been unusually silent, but at this point he put in his two cents, trying to salvage the mess Amah and I were making of dinner conversation.
“Are you still singing, Keely?”
“A few local gigs.” She brushed her nose with her napkin. “I’d have a recording contract by now if dear, departed Cody had put in a word for me back when I needed him. His own sister, and he wouldn’t use his connections. Said I wasn’t tough enough for the music business.”
“It’s pretty brutal, from what I’ve heard,” Harry said.
“Cody didn’t give a crap about that. He was just making excuses. He was so obsessed with DeeDee he didn’t want to bother with me.”
Cody’s late wife, DeeDee Dakota, had been a superstar in the trick riding world a few years back. She and Cody were the sweethearts of the rodeo circuit until DeeDee died after a trick riding accident.
Amah got busy dishing up her shoofly pie with scoops of vanilla ice cream while Harry and I cleared the dinner plates. Keely asked directions to the bathroom.
She returned sniffing, dabbing at her nose with a tissue.
Harry and I exchanged knowing glances.
After Harry and Keely left, I helped Amah clean up. We chatted about how my parents were doing since they retired to the island of Faial in the Azores. Dad was still teaching jujitsu, and Mom, with her nursing degree and her fluency in four languages, was enjoying a part-time job at the hospital in Horta, the island’s port city where they lived.
Later, I walked down the lane to the barn. I was looking forward to some alone time in my studio apartment, which was now a cozy little home.
The message light on my answering machine was winking when I got inside. I punched the play button.
“Aimee, this is Laurie Popejoy. Call me back as soon as possible. It’s urgent. Don’t tell anyone about this call.”
Chapter 3
With a jolt, I recalled Cleo’s story about the whistle-blowing nurse. I tried the number Laurie had left, but she didn’t answer. I left a message asking her to call back on my cellphone. Her call had come in at eight o’clock, while I was visiting Jack and Amah. Laurie was young, pretty, and single. At nine o’clock she might have gone out, but the urgency in her voice seemed at odds with her going clubbing.
I tried Laurie’s number every ten minutes, but the result was the same each time. No answer. I kept calling without success during the late television news and eventually caught myself dozing. At midnight I stepped out on my deck to take a last look at the star-filled sky. While I breathed in the clean, cool air of approaching fall, I counted eight llamas kushed for the night. Amah’s cat, Fanny, issued a short meo
w-purr and ran up the steps to my deck. She had started sleeping in my apartment shortly after I moved in. Fine with me. She was big, loud, and gutsy. A fine bodyguard. I crawled into bed and worried about Laurie Popejoy until sleep finally came. It lasted until my phone rang at two o’clock in the morning, jarring me awake. I groped for it.
“Laurie?”
“No, it’s Cleo. Are you awake?”
“I am now. What’s going on?”
“Laurie Popejoy.” Cleo sounded both sleepy and agitated. “She called me earlier, looking for you. I was at Siggy’s and didn’t check messages until now. I just got home.”
“Did Laurie say what she wanted?”
“She said to tell you that what happened to Cody wasn’t an accident.”
“Did she say why he checked out or why she resigned?”
“No, and nothing about Poole, either.”
“Did you try to call her back?”
“No. I thought I’d call you first to see if you’d heard from her.” Cleo’s voice tightened with stress. “Aimee, I’m worried Laurie’s in big trouble. She left the message at eight o’clock. That’s six hours ago.”
“She must have called you right after she called me. I’ve been trying to reach her, but she doesn’t answer. I don’t understand why she wanted to talk to me instead of the police.”
“I can think of two reasons. Your knowledge of forensics and your black belt.”
“Neither of those qualifies me to help her, but she’s smart and levelheaded. She would have gone to the police if she thought they were a safe option.”
“What do you think we should do?” Cleo’s yawn traveled through the line. “Sorry, I’m running out of steam.”
“There’s nothing we can do tonight. One of us will probably hear from her tomorrow.”
“Let’s hope she decided to go to the police.”
I had just fired up my search engine at work Wednesday morning when Cleo called to ask if I’d heard from Laurie. I told her I hadn’t.
“Maybe we should call Edna Roda. She might know if Laurie’s in some kind of trouble.” Edna had been Chief Nursing Officer at TMC for ten years. She kept tabs on the entire nursing service of a 250-bed hospital. I’d been in my job just over two months, so I hadn’t had a chance to get to know her well. She had visited the library a few times since I was hired, but she was hard to read and I wasn’t sure I’d earned her respect.
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