Miscarriages
Misdemeanors
Missing Persons
Here was Ron's topic, but curiosity wasn't going to let me pass up the other, more timely one. I jotted down the reference location where I'd find it and headed into the stacks. The most recent information was for the previous year but it was a good start.
Miscarriages. By county. DeBaca, Dona Ana, Eddy, Escondido. Within each county, the stats were broken down by factor, including the mother's age, race, blood type, and other factors such as smoking, drinking, drug use and so on. My finger trailed down the page to Escondido County. In Escondido County the number of miscarriages were significantly higher per capita than for all other counties. I went back to the preceding county listings. Why in Escondido County?
Was there some environmental factor there that didn’t pertain to the rest of the state? It didn't make much sense. I slipped the book back onto the shelf.
Remembering my real errand here, I looked up the references for missing persons cases. I didn't know Ron's real purpose in his report, so I carried the book to the copier, fed dimes into it, and copied all pages I felt might be useful.
Five o'clock. Outside, the heat felt worse than ever, like all the go-home traffic had caused a ten degree jump in the air temperature. The small speckling of shade across my Jeep hadn't made any great difference, it was still like an oven inside. I tossed the papers onto the passenger seat beside me, rolled all windows down and let the car idle until the blast of heat from the air conditioner subsided a little.
Rusty had been home alone all day, I realized, feeling a bit guilty for ignoring him. I joined the traffic flow west on Central, eager to get home where I could strip down to shorts, pull my stiflingly warm hair up off my neck, and find some iced tea. And after that? I mentally composed little tasks I could do to keep the time from dragging and the emptiness of the bedroom from getting to me.
He greeted me at the door, that red-brown bundle of energy, and after licking my hands and sniffing to see if I'd brought home any food, Rusty turned to the door expectantly checking to see if Drake were behind me. I felt my throat tighten.
"Sorry, boy, he's not here anymore."
Rusty glanced out through the screen once again, just to be sure. I went straight to the bedroom to change into cooler clothing.
The empty bed, with rumpled sheets and coverlet spilling over the edges, faced me. I sprawled on it face down, burying my nose in Drake's pillow, breathing in the scent of him. Loneliness was an emotion I'd never experienced before and I didn't like it a bit.
Rusty's nails clicked across the hardwood floor and I felt him sniffing my outstretched leg. I rolled to my side and reached a hand toward him. His large sad eyes mirrored my own.
"Come on, you," I scolded. "We can't go around like this all day. I'm going to change my clothes and we'll have some dinner."
Words pertaining to food are tops in this dog's vocabulary and the reaction was immediate. He danced around me as I smoothed the sheets and made the bed. I carried a few stray dirty clothes to the hamper in the bathroom, pulled my hair into a pony tail with a stretchy cloth band, and shed the slacks and cotton sweater I'd worn all day in favor of shorts and a t-shirt.
I opened the back door for Rusty. While he sniffed out his favorite corner of the yard, I scooped some nuggets into his bowl then poured myself a big iced tea. The back yard was pleasantly shady so I carried his bowl and my glass out to the patio. He set right to it, while I flipped through the mail I'd brought in with me. A few bills to pay would give me something to do this evening.
A noise on my right caught my attention.
"Hi, Charlie." Elsa Higgins' face peeked tentatively through the hedge.
"Gram! Hi, come on over."
I watched her negotiate the worn path between our two properties. She was looking a little older and more frail every time I saw her. At eighty-six, she's still pretty feisty, though. She lives alone, cleans her own house, and plants a garden every summer. When my parents died, my junior year in high school, she took me into her home until I was old enough to be on my own. She saved my ass a few times, while I probably gave her a lot of her white hair.
"Your beau gone already?" she asked.
I smiled at the old-fashioned word. "Yes, I took him to the airport this morning."
"I sure like him," she confided. "He's a real hunk."
Now I had to laugh out loud. "Yes, Gram, I guess you could say he's a hunk."
We sat quietly on the padded patio chairs, neither speaking for awhile.
"I knew he was special when you first came back from Hawaii," she said. "It just showed on your face."
It seemed everyone I knew was convinced that Drake was the right man for me. They just didn't have to deal with the distance problem.
"Have you had any dinner yet, Charlie?"
"No, but I had a big lunch," I told her.
"I have some sliced cold turkey. I could make us a sandwich," she suggested.
I still didn't feel any immediate hunger pangs, but thought about her. Old people sometimes don't eat the way they should because they don't have anyone to eat with. And I got the feeling she was offering the sandwich as an excuse for some companionship.
"Sure, let's do it," I agreed. "I'll come help you put them together."
We stepped off the porch and walked toward her kitchen door, Rusty trotting behind. Her house was stuffy-hot and smelled of burnt toast. The contrast with the outside air made it all the more noticeable.
"I guess I never turned on the air-conditioning today," she remarked.
"Gram, it was ninety-five degrees out! How could you stand it?"
"I guess I'm just getting cold-blooded," she answered. "Switch it on if you want."
"Well, you might sleep better tonight if the house is a little cooler." I located the thermostat switch in the living room and turned it on. I'd have to remember to switch it off when I left or she'd get too chilled.
Together we made the sandwiches and I suggested that we carry them out to the patio to eat. The sun was low now, casting long shadows in the gold-tinted yard. Gram began telling me about her garden and rambled into stories from her childhood with only an occasional acknowledgement from me. I wanted to listen politely, but found my mind wandering back to the statistics I'd read this afternoon at the library. Perhaps I'd suggest that Sally and I take another drive up to Valle Escondido in the next few days.
Chapter 19
The tires hummed and the scenery flew by. Grass, parched tan by the long dry spell, waved along the roadside interspersed with dust-covered pinon trees. Yesterday, Sally and I had planned this Friday trip but she didn't feel well this morning and I didn't especially want to be taking care of a puking preggie the whole time. On a whim, I decided to make the trip back to Valle Escondido by myself.
Low clouds hung on the horizon, obscuring the mountaintops as I approached Santa Fe. The air had cooled considerably and the dimness was easy on the eyes. We might just be in for some rain, finally.
I passed the turnoffs to Santa Fe, staying with I-25 on a path that was becoming routine. I thought of Mary McDonald's bed and breakfast in the mountains north of Valle Escondido. Now that would be a pleasant place to live. I wondered what Drake would think about relocating to the mainland and becoming a mountain person once again. I stopped myself, knowing that I was coming dangerously close to making plans.
I approached the little town with a familiarity that grew with each visit. A bright blue mini-van that I'd noticed on the Ford dealer's lot had been sold. The drive-in had replaced some burned out light bulbs. I realized that this was my third trip here in less than two weeks.
At the bank, the parking lot was full. Friday. I pulled in, thinking perhaps Laura would be available for lunch. I might get an update on the aftermath of Cynthia's passing before I approached anyone else in town. I still wasn't exactly sure what I hoped to find—I had some vague idea of following up on the statistics I'd read about.
; Laura was behind her teller window with a long line of customers facing her. Her short hairstyle and dark blue suit made her look businesslike and efficient. She wore a red patterned scarf at the throat and had a gold swirl of a pin on her jacket lapel. I joined the customer line, waiting a turn to speak with her. She spotted me when I was still third in line. Knowing I didn't have bank business, she waved me to the front. Several sets of eyes bored into my back.
"Hi, Charlie," she greeted enthusiastically.
"Do you have a lunch break soon?" I asked.
"Ten minutes."
"I'll wait outside. I need to talk to you." I told her.
The sun was trying valiantly to come through the clouds as an upper wind moved them briskly along. Tired petunias drooped in a concrete planter beside the walkway. I perched on the edge of it, watching the traffic as I waited for Laura. She came along sooner than I expected.
"Where's a good place for lunch, where we can talk privately?" I asked.
"Oh, anyplace," she said. "Rosa's?"
We took my Jeep and were soon settled at a corner table that offered some degree of seclusion. The preliminary rituals of placing our order and getting iced tea delivered to the table took only a few minutes.
"Well, is anything new going on around here?" I asked.
"Haven't heard a thing. Cynthia's name is very carefully avoided around the bank. Richard was out of town for a couple of days—I haven't heard where."
"I was at the library in Albuquerque recently and I read some unusual statistics," I told her. "Maybe you can help me with this."
Our waitress arrived with steaming plates of enchiladas just then and we paused conversation long enough to watch her set them down using potholders. She inquired as to whether everything was okay and I assumed she meant at the table, since I doubted she wanted to hear our entire life stories.
"Laura, can you give me the names of anyone else you can think of who's had a miscarriage in the past year or two?" I pulled out a pen and jotted names on my paper napkin.
"Well, Cynthia, of course. Um, let's see." She chewed on her lower lip. "A woman my sister works with . . . Pauline . . . Pauline Baca. And, um, Rosemary Garcia. She lives down the street from me. And, well, you know that I did—well two times actually, but the first one was about four years ago."
I took a bite of cheese enchilada dripping with green chile sauce. Laura was still thinking. I didn't want to interrupt her thoughts. She gave a couple more names.
"And did all the women go to the doctors here in town?" I asked.
"I'm pretty sure they did," she said, wiping her mouth. "Although there are some people here who'll drive to Santa Fe for medical treatment. Well, our clinic is so small, you know."
"Who was your doctor?"
"Dr. Phillips. Evan Phillips."
"He's the older of the two brothers, isn't he?" I asked.
"Yes, I feel a little funny going to Rodney Phillips, since we were in the same class in school. I mean, not for a cold or that kind of thing, but, . . . you know."
Female stuff. I really couldn't blame her.
"Rodney treats mostly older patients. He's really good with them. And the new one, Doctor Fisher, he mostly sees kids. He's new here, I mean, didn't grow up here."
"How long has he been in town?"
"Oh, probably two or three years. Everybody seems to like him. He always has a smile for you when you go in."
"Is there a domestic violence facility here?" I asked. "Not that all these miscarriages were caused that way," I hastened to add. From observing them, I felt sure that Laura's husband Bobby was a kind and gentle man.
She looked upward, thinking. "I think a group meets a few times a week at the church. You could check the classified ads in the local paper. They run a little listing there."
Our waitress refilled our tea glasses and tucked the check between the salt and pepper shakers. Rosa's enchiladas were as wonderful as before, but I had to admit I was feeling stuffed.
"Did your doctor give any explanation for your two miscarriages, Laura?"
She shrugged, her face becoming a little tight. "Just that these things happen sometimes."
"I sure would like to talk to the doctors about all this." Even as I said it, I knew the chances of getting any real information were slim. No doctor in today's litigious environment would give out patient information, especially to a stranger.
Laura nodded agreement, but didn't give any suggestions as to how I might get them talking.
"Maybe I'll drop in on Richard Martinez, too," I mused. I still wasn't convinced that he didn't have something to do with Cynthia's death.
I dropped Laura off at the bank and stopped at a convenience store to buy the latest issue of the Valle Gazette. It was a small weekly paper, slightly bigger than tabloid size. Page four carried a brief mention of the Martinez funeral without commenting on the outburst Richard had directed toward Barbara Lewis. I skimmed it before flipping to the classifieds. The ad read:
Does your partner threaten, belittle, or hit you? Get help in a confidential, caring atmosphere. Meetings M-W-F eves 7:00 Community Center.
There was a number to call for more information. I didn't think I'd learn anything much different at this group than the one I'd attended in Albuquerque, but it might be interesting to see who else was there.
Meanwhile, the clouds had thickened and the wind whipped tree tops into swirling tangles of green. Dust snaked up the main street, sidewinding until it hit the curbs. Bits of trash and dried weed pieces spiraled upward in a traveling dust devil. I cranked up all the windows on my Jeep and waited it out.
I thought about talking to Richard Martinez once again, but wasn't sure what I'd say to him. He hadn't exactly been open with me when I'd visited the home before. Jennifer Lang had pretty well filled me in on Cynthia's movements on the day of her death. Besides, I was a little uneasy about being alone with Richard. There was still something about the man I didn't trust.
I started the Jeep and began driving.
Without planning, I found myself on the north edge of town where I seemed to be watching for the turnoff to Mary McDonald's place. The wind was hardly a breeze here as I wound my way farther down the dirt lane between steep hills. The summer flowers raised their heads as if hoping for a cool shower from the sky. The cloud of dust from my tires settled on them as I passed. I slowed sympathetically.
Mary stood in her yard, aiming a hose at the planter boxes beside the porch railing. She stared, squinting at my vehicle as I pulled into the drive, then broke into a smile when she realized who it was. She shifted the hose to a different planter as I got out of the car.
"Hey, Charlie," she greeted, "where's the rest of your bunch?"
"Well, Drake is on his way back to Hawaii," I sighed. "I left Rusty home with my neighbor this trip. Didn't know how long I'd be and I felt guilty about making him stay in the car a lot while I talk to people."
"Shoot, you could have brought him out here to romp with mine," she assured me.
"Next time I'll remember that."
We both stared at the spray of water as she guided the hose over the thick heads of columbine, washing the road dust off them and turning their leaves a cool green once again. She carried the hose across the meandering lawn to a winding flower bed on the other side.
"This ground is so dry, I think I'll let this just soak awhile," she said. She laid the sprayer down, aiming it downhill. At the side of the house, she adjusted the water volume to a slow trickle.
"Now," she continued, wiping her damp hands against her jeans, "let's go inside and have a lemonade."
I followed her into the kitchen while she pulled two tall glasses from the cupboard and a large pitcher from the refrigerator. "I wish I had a bed to offer you for the night, Charlie," she said, "but I've got the rooms all full up. The people ought to be here around six."
"Oh, I didn't mean to . . ."
"But anytime you're in town, I want you to check with me. If I've got an empty room,
it's yours."
She handed me a full glass and we clicked them together. We each took a long sip.
"Whew," she continued. "I been out in that yard all morning and I'm ready for a break. Let's sit in the living room and put our feet up."
"Mary," I began, as we were burrowing into the deep sofa cushions, "I'm still curious about Cynthia Martinez's death. I'm not really sure why I came to you, except to find a friendly face."
"Good enough reason for me," she said.
"Well, I'm still not convinced that Richard didn't somehow cause the miscarriage. I just can't figure out how. I understand there wasn't evidence of any new injuries."
She drank again from her glass, then set it down on a coaster on the coffee table. "It's a puzzle, isn't it?"
"A couple of days ago, I was in the Albuquerque Library and found some really strange statistics on miscarriages in this state. And Escondido County was by far the highest per capita."
"Really? That does seem odd."
"You've never heard this before? No investigative reporter has grabbed onto it and done stories for the newspaper?"
"Not that I've ever heard," she answered.
"I thought I might go to the domestic violence support group meeting tonight," I told her. "See if I can find any correlation between the women there and this particular health risk."
The two dogs were whining at the door so Mary got up to let them in. They trotted over to me and sniffed me carefully to be sure I belonged.
"You told me that you were friends with the older Dr. Phillips, didn't you?" I asked. "Suppose there's any chance he'd be candid with you about Cynthia's death?"
"We weren't that good of friends even in school," she said. "More like acquaintances, I'd say. Even so, I doubt Evan would tell me anything. It's not like we're social equals, you know."
"Umm." I had known that would be the answer. Even Linda Casper, with whom I was good friends, probably wouldn't open up with any details on a patient's case.
Small Towns Can Be Murder Page 12