Bad Medicine

by Caroline Fardig

  Hmm. I wonder if he was out with Lydia or if he was simply there alone. If someone could place Lydia there, too, she could actually be linked to a murder, since this time I’m finally not the only one who thinks it’s murder.

  “But enough about dead guys.” She sighs dreamily. “Lizzie, I think I’m in love with this one.”

  Shit. Now I feel bad. When I came up with the idea for the two of them to go out, I was only trying to keep Bethany from attempting to kill me. I thought it would be kind of funny, since they both annoy me, that they should get together and annoy each other. It’s obvious that Todd has no interest whatsoever in Bethany, especially if he pulled the “bad clams” routine. You know, though, it’s not my place to tell her. If Todd doesn’t want to see her anymore, he’s going to have to sack up and tell her himself.

  I smile uncertainly. “That’s great Bethany. I’m happy you had such a nice time.”

  “Me, too!” she cries, throwing her arms around my neck. Oh, hell. She’s going to strangle me. Wait, no. It’s a hug. She’s hugging me again, her bony body poking into me. I wish she’d go back to throwing drinks at me. At least I’m used to that. She lets me go and scampers to the door. “I have to get back to my desk. We should do lunch sometime!”

  It’s a good thing I’m sitting down, because you could knock me over with a feather. My nemesis, who hates me so much she purposely burned me once with hot coffee, just invited me to “do lunch”. My life keeps getting weirder and weirder.

  Blake pops his head in the break room. “Did I just hear McCool in here asking you to lunch with her? Did you have one of your witch friends put a spell on her or something?”

  I roll my eyes. “They don’t do stuff like that, and you know it. As for Bethany, I got her a date, so she’s my new BFF now.”

  Setting his laptop down on the table and taking a seat beside me, he asks, “Where did you manage to find a date for her? Clown College?”

  “My, you’re full of witty one-liners this morning.”

  “And you’re dodging my question about McCool’s date.”

  “Maybe a little.”

  Blake smiles at me. “Come on, tell me.”

  “Fine. I had Julia set her up with Douchebag Todd.”

  He laughs. “The guy who sent you flowers after your boring date? You set him up with McCool? What makes you think someone who was lucky enough to get a date with you would want to settle for going out with…that?”

  I blush slightly at the “lucky enough to get a date with you” part of his comment, but try to laugh it off. “I thought it would be interesting to set up a self-important douche with a bat-shit crazy lunatic. That combo has ‘reality dating show’ written all over it. Too bad I didn’t have the foresight to call in a camera crew.”

  “The person who needs her own reality show is you. That would be some TV ratings gold right there.”

  “Don’t get any ideas, pal. That’s the last thing my screwed-up life needs. So are you going to interview me or what?”

  “No, I already wrote the article.”

  I stare at him. “What do you mean you already wrote the article? Don’t you need some, I don’t know…facts when you write an article about a murder?”

  He shrugs. “I figured you’d rewrite it during your edit anyway, so why should I bother?”

  My mouth hangs open. “I can’t believe you’re still mad about—”

  Blake laughs. “I’m only kidding. I didn’t write the article. You know I wouldn’t do that, because it’s going to be so much fun having to browbeat the details out of you, copy editor.”

  I pout at him as he opens up his laptop. “You’d better be nice to me. I’m the only one who can give you the information you want. Well, except for the cops. But they’re not going to talk to you, especially Brody. He doesn’t seem to like you very much.”

  He snorts, “Like I give a shit what he thinks. Haven’t you dumped him yet?”

  I make a face at him. “I think I’d rather discuss the grisly murder I discovered instead.”

  Giving me a wry smile, Blake begins walking me through what happened last night, starting with going down in the basement and finding Jed, and working chronologically forward.

  After a while, my head is pounding. I whine, “Are we done yet? I’m exhausted.” I collapse on the table, my head resting on my folded arms.

  Chuckling, he says, “I guess we can quit for now. I’ll go through my notes, and then I’ll probably have some follow-up questions for you. Or, I could just make some stuff up.”

  “At this point, I so don’t care.”

  He lays his hand on my arm. His unexpected touch warms me all over, and I don’t quite know what to make of it. Surely Blake shouldn’t affect me like this now that I’m (sort of) in a relationship with Brody. Blake must have noticed my reaction, because he quickly removes his hand.

  “You’re handling this really well. You know I’m here for you, if you need to talk or…whatever.”

  I nod, overwhelmed by his sincerity and caring for me. Unable to respond, I head for my desk, hoping to bury my confused brain in my work.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  I flop down into my chair. The message light on my desk phone is blinking, so I listen to my voice mail. It’s my mother, screaming into the phone, “Elizabeth! Mrs. Adler called and said someone was…MURDERED at the funeral home last night! While you were working there! And that you found…it! Are you all right?!? Do you want your father and me to fly up so we can be with you? Please tell me you had nothing to do with it! Do you want to fly down here and stay with us for a few days…or weeks? Maybe until all of this blows over? I’m sure your good name is being dragged through the mud, dear. Call me as soon as you get this message! I’ve already left three messages at your house and four on your cell phone. Your father is worried sick. Call us!”

  I let my head hit my desk with a thud and slam the phone down in the cradle. Damn Mrs. Adler, the gossipy old bag. She used to be my Sunday school teacher, and now she’s the town gossip monger. You can’t do a freaking thing in this town without her knowing about it. That’s just what I need—having to rehash this whole mess with my overly dramatic mother, or worse, my mother flying up here and seeing my life in the shambles that it is.

  Hank asks tentatively, “Lizzie, you okay? I think you hit your head on your desk.”

  Without moving, I reply a muffled, “No shit.”

  “How could things have gotten worse than finding a dead man?”

  I raise my head and glare at him. “Having to explain finding a dead man to my mother.”

  He pulls a face. “Damn. Yep, I reckon that’s worse.”

  I grudgingly get my cell phone out of my purse and check my missed calls. Sure enough, there are four from my mother, and I don’t even bother listening to the messages before deleting them. They’ll only be more of the same. I have a text from my brother, Ryan: What the hell, sis? Mom calls me screeching something about someone murdered at the funeral home while you were there and the police think you did it. Call me if you’re not busy making someone your bitch in jail.

  Ryan’s text makes me snicker out loud. He always did have a way with words. I’d much rather talk to him than to mom at this point, so I call him first.

  He answers, “I hope you didn’t waste your one phone call on me, because I am so not taking time out of my busy schedule of eating pizza and playing pinball to come and bail your sorry ass out of jail.”

  “You’d feel bad for saying that if this really were my one phone call. And by the way, the police don’t think I did it.”

  His voice grows serious. “What happened? Does this have anything to do with what you told me about last weekend?”

  “I think so. The cops are working on it, and at least I’m not a suspect.”

  “Really? You find a dead body and that’s all you have to say? You suck at storytelling, sis.”

  “I know. That’s why I was hoping you’d call mom for me and tell her I’m okay. Pl
ease?”

  There’s silence on the other end. I know I’ve just asked him to do the equivalent of dousing himself with gasoline and lighting a match. Nope, on second thought, the burning thing would be much less painful.

  I persist, “Pleeeease? I’ll buy you a couch that doesn’t look like it came from a crack house.”

  “Hmm. Throw in ten dozen cookies and you have yourself a deal.”

  I breathe a sigh of relief. “Deal. Thank you, Ryan.”

  Well, at least that’s one crappy thing I’m able to get out of doing today, although at some point I’ll have to break down and explain the entire story to my parents. Right now, I have a ton of work to do, plus Blake has his date with Lydia this evening, and we need to do some planning for that. And I’m going to have to find a way to blow Brody off tonight so I can be available to help Blake. There’s no way I can tell Brody the truth about what I’m doing, because I don’t see him going for the whole sting operation with Blake as the bait.

  I check my email, finding a ton of articles to proof before the end of the day. Maybe if I ask nicely, Julia will help me. As I’m deciding where to start, an email from Megan Boyd catches my eye. Yay! This must be the information she promised me about the other mysterious deaths in Hawthorne Grove during the time Lydia was living there. I scan Megan’s email, and there are two names she found whose deaths seemed suspicious to her—Scott Leeds and Rob Callahan. She even included links to articles about the two of them, and a link to a photo of Lydia listed as “Catherine Richmond”. Nice!

  I click on the first link about Scott Leeds, which is his obituary. He was married with two kids, but there isn’t much info other than that, except for his job, which was working with underprivileged kids at a local rescue mission. The second link is to an article detailing the public outrage that a man working with underprivileged kids at a local rescue mission would be caught with his pants down, dead from an apparent drug overdose. Ouch. Sounds an awful lot like how Brad died to me.

  The first link for Rob Callahan takes me to his obituary, but I stop dead in my tracks before I even read a word. An eerie chill washes over my entire body, and I can’t rip my eyes away from the familiar blue eyes staring at me from the photo on my computer screen. Not being able to breathe for a moment, I start feeling nauseous…and angry.

  I’m interrupted by a text from Brody that says: Can I take you to lunch? I’m in the parking lot.

  Oh, he’s going to get a lot more than he bargained for during lunch. With a shaking hand, I click the print button and walk slowly to the community printer, my head spinning with shock. I pick up the page and read through the obituary on my way out the door, increasing my speed and my rage as I go.

  I march directly toward Brody’s car and slam my paper against his window. He looks up with a start and his eyes grow big when he sees my livid face. After taking a look at the paper, his mouth sets in a grim line, and he gets out of the car.

  I throw the obituary at him. “You knew! You’ve known all along that Lydia was a murderer, you ass! She killed your own brother, and you never thought it was necessary to tell me?!?”

  Brody’s expression is dark and dangerous. “Let’s talk about this somewhere else. This isn’t a conversation we want to have out in the open.” He tries to grab my arm, but I yank it away from him.

  “Oh, quit acting like you care about me! You’re using me, you bastard! You let me poke around in Lydia’s life so you could get the information out of me.” The wheels begin turning in my head, and I gasp aloud. “I bet you were following me the night I broke into Lydia’s office! That’s how you got there so fast, isn’t it? You’ve been using me this whole time.” My voice breaks at the end of my rant, and I struggle desperately to hold back the tears.

  “I’m not using you,” he asserts, taking hold of me again to steer me closer to the building, which I resist, so he picks me up by the waist, and drags me, literally kicking and screaming, under a tree near the Chronicle building.

  As I’m struggling against him, I cry, “You went with me—you even freaking drove me—to Hawthorne Grove, and not once did you tell me that you were from there! No wonder you didn’t want to go with me to that reporter’s house—you probably thought she’d recognize you!”

  “I’m not from there. I lived in Nashville. The reason I didn’t go with you is because I wanted to stop and visit my nephew.”

  Angered, I flail around as I’m yelling at him. “And you couldn’t be bothered to tell me any of that stuff? You know what I think? I think you’re the one who has the problem with telling other people what you’re feeling. All this time you’ve been bitching at me to open up to you, and you’re the one who’s holding back and lying about his past!”

  Brody is holding onto my arms, trying to keep me from thrashing. “Stop! Would you listen to me for a minute?”

  “Why? So you can lie to me some more? Everything you ever said to me was complete bullshit.”

  He growls, “No, it wasn’t. Look, I didn’t tell you about it because I’ve been working this case for six months—hell, I even moved here to continue working on it—and I couldn’t have it blow up in my face. I didn’t know whether or not I could trust you.”

  “You couldn’t trust me, but it was okay to sleep with me?”

  He looks stunned at my words and lets me go, taking a step back. Stupid move, buddy. I take a step toward him and slap him in the face. His jaw clenches, but he says nothing.

  I continue, “And you wonder why I have a problem with commitment? It’s because of dickheads like you.”

  “I’m sorry. I wanted to tell you, but I thought I should wait until I had some concrete evidence against her and could arrest her. I didn’t want you to slip and say something that would make her come after you and hurt you.”

  “You mean like killing someone right under my nose so she could try to pin it on me? You were so worried she’d hurt me, so you decided to hurt me instead. My body heals, Brody, but my heart doesn’t. Damn you for making me care about you.”

  I whirl around and run through the back door of the office just in time, before the torrent of tears streams out of my eyes. I dart straight for the ladies’ room, where I can be somewhat alone—away from men, anyway. I sink down onto the floor and hold my head in my hands, letting the tears flow.

  The door opens slightly, and I bark, “Whoever it is, get out. If you have to go, use the men’s room.”

  “Honey, it’s me,” says Julia softly from the other side of the door. “Can I come in?”

  I sob, “Yyyessss.”

  Julia comes in and awkwardly lowers herself down next to me on the floor. She takes my hand. “I saw you run in here. What’s wrong?”

  I shake my head, unable to stop crying enough to speak.

  Starting to tear up herself, Julia says, “You’d better stop it, before you make me cry.”

  I whisper shakily, “Brody lied to me. He’s been using me.”

  “What? Brody? Surely you two had a misunderstanding.”

  “He’s known Lydia’s a murderer all along, and he never told me. She killed his brother. He hid that from me, too.”

  “What?!?” she cries, appalled.

  “He followed her here all the way from Hawthorne Grove. Once he realized I could be of help to his case, he seduced me and used me to get my information.”

  She gasps, “Did he say that?”

  “No, but he didn’t have to.”

  Shaking her head, she says, “Just because he didn’t tell you about his investigation doesn’t mean he purposely seduced you to get information.”

  I sniff. “Looking back, it’s so obvious what he did. He wasn’t the least bit interested in me until he knew I had some information on Lydia that he didn’t. I am so stupid. Damn, I hate being played.”

  She puts her arm around my shoulder. “You’re not stupid, and we’ve all been played. But I think Brody’s feelings for you are real. Don’t be so quick to turn your back on him.” I open my mouth to obj
ect, but she stops me. “Get all of your facts straight before you kick him to the curb.”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  “No more crying. Now, get up and let’s go have lunch. I’m starving,” Julia says, heaving herself up off the floor.

  I frown, hopping up also. “I don’t feel much like going anywhere.”

  “Then I’ll order in. My treat.”

  “Okay, thanks. But no pickles and ice cream or whatever it is you preggos eat.”

  She giggles. “It’s chocolate and potato chips for me. Now fix your makeup and go talk to Brody.” She sails out the door, leaving me staring at my messy face in the mirror.

  I can’t talk to Brody right now. Maybe later, but not now. I’m much too hurt and mortified. Sure, I’d love to think his interest in me has nothing to do with Lydia’s case, but come on. It’s way too convenient that he just happened to be passing by when I was breaking into her office, and then he somehow started showing up everywhere I went, managing to worm his way into my life, and into my bed. Ugh. My gut is usually a little better at spotting trouble, but when it comes in such a handsome package, maybe it’s harder to see. I splash some cold water on my face, but it does nothing for the heinous blotchiness and puffiness I have going on. Oh, well. I can’t stay in the bathroom all day.

  Ducking my head to let my hair cover most of my face, I quickly make my way back to my desk. It’s days like this when I yearn for the solitary confinement of office cubicles instead of the three-ring circus we have here at the Chronicle. Privacy is out the window, and everyone knows your business. Yeah, I guess it makes work more interesting, but sometimes a girl just needs to be alone! I get out my makeup and try to touch myself up as best I can, but I still look a fright.

  I busy myself with reading through the other article Megan sent me about Brody’s brother, Rob. This one is about a fund set up in his memory to create a bike trail throughout Hawthorne Grove. There is nothing in this article or the obituary that points to how Rob died, but when I re-read the email carefully, I find some notes from Megan that I must have skipped in my angst over finding out the devastating truth: I think the article on Scott Leeds speaks for itself. He was a stand-up guy, and it’s a shame that his death reflected otherwise. Rob Callahan died of a drug overdose. As far as anyone knew, he didn’t have a drug habit, and his brother was a vice cop no less. Rob was an avid cyclist and seemed very health-conscious. I don’t know if this is what you were looking for, but I thought the circumstances for both of their deaths were odd.