"Tell me any other women you know who've miscarried," I suggested "like within the last year or two. I'm trying to get some idea."
She stared into the cold black fireplace, thinking. "I don't know, Charlie, I can think of maybe one or two. Not being into all that pregnancy and motherhood stuff myself, I really don't keep very good track of it."
I knew what she meant. This was hardly my real area of interest either.
She gave me a couple of names, which I jotted down on the same napkin that I'd taken notes on at lunch. I thanked her for the lemonade and carried the empty glasses to the kitchen. She walked me out to the car.
"Now, you remember what I said about that room," she reminded. "I'd love to have you stay with me anytime."
I thanked her again and waved as I turned the Jeep around and headed out her driveway. Random drops of rain struck the windshield, forming mud spots with the road dust. By the time I reached the main road again, they had quit, although the sky looked more threatening than ever. I thought about going to the support group meeting that evening and then driving all the way home late and in potentially bad weather. Decided to get a room at the Ponderosa Inn instead.
This being a Friday night in the summer, I figured I better get my room early, just in case they might fill up. The desk clerk greeted me unenthusiastically, giving me one sideways haven't-we-met-before glance before handing me the registration card. He mechanically recited the locations of the ice and vending machines and told me where my room was. It was only two rooms away from where Sally and I had stayed our first night here.
I parked right outside the ground-floor room and carried in my small duffle containing one change of clothes, a smattering of toiletries and the pistol Ron had insisted I bring. Plopping the bag on one of the double sized beds with its faded geometric patterned bedspread, I transferred the gun to my purse, washed my face and hands and tried to decide what to do next.
My note-napkin was becoming rather crumpled as I pulled it from my purse. I took out my small spiral notebook and transferred the names and other assorted scribbles to it. All the names Laura had given me were Hispanic women. Did that have anything to do with the miscarriage rate, or was it simply that most of her friends were of her own race? My head was beginning to hurt from the oppressive heat and the sound of the wind whistling around the cheap aluminum window frames. I stretched out on the empty bed and woke up more than an hour later.
My head felt no better but I knew I had to get moving or I'd lie there the rest of the evening. I popped two aspirin from the assorted toiletries bag and bought a canned Coke from the motel's vending machine on my way out to the car.
The Family Health Clinic was only about two blocks up the road. It was nearly five o'clock and I had no idea what their hours were, but decided there was one way to find out.
The parking lot was full when I arrived. I squeezed into a space at the side of the adobe colored stucco building just as a man and woman emerged and vacated a spot right by the front door. A black plastic sign with changeable white letters was stuck to the front glass door, announcing that the clinic closed at five on weekdays. My watch showed three minutes till, and the waiting room was just as jammed as the parking lot.
A couple of the patients looked rather impatient as I walked in, probably viewing me as competition for the doctor's remaining three minutes. I approached the beige Formica reception desk. The same receptionist, Chris Smith, was on duty, her well-made-up eyes still the best feature in her pudgy face. The short-short hair had been dressed up a bit with some curl at the top, although the small head impression was still distinct. I glued the friendliest smile I could muster onto my face.
"Hi, Chris, remember me?"
She looked a little vague, although her mouth managed to mirror my smile.
"Charlie Parker, from Albuquerque? I was here the Fourth of July." I schmoozed shamelessly. "I was back in town for the day and thought I'd stop in and say hi."
Something finally clicked in and recognition flickered in her eyes. "Oh, yeah, how are you?"
"Oh, I'm fine, but my friend Sally isn't doing too great," I said. "Cynthia Martinez's miscarriage really hit her hard. Sally's pregnant, too, you know and I guess it really worries her that the same thing could happen to her."
She did some sympathetic head nods without really having the faintest idea what I was getting at.
I dropped my voice to just above a whisper and moved closer to her. "Did they ever figure out what happened with Cynthia? I mean, I heard there was a big to-do at the funeral between her husband and her boss." My eyes grew wider and hers followed suit.
"Well," she said hesitantly, "I really don't know much about it."
"One of the girls that worked with her said the rumor around the bank was that the husband abused her. That could have caused it, don't you think?"
She glanced nervously toward the double doors leading to the back. I wondered how many of the three doctors were on the premises at the time.
"I was reading something recently that said there were more miscarriages in this county than any other in the state." I was practically whispering by now. "I'm trying to figure out how that could be."
"Chris, I need this billing totaled right away." Dr. Rodney Phillips emerged soundlessly through the swinging doors. I straightened up and pretended to be engrossed in a pamphlet on lowering your cholesterol.
Chris busied herself at her adding machine, acting like she hadn't just been leaning over the counter to catch my whispered conversation. Phillips was giving me a narrow-eyed look that plainly said he was struggling to figure out where he'd seen me before. I refused to make eye contact.
He reached absently for the form Chris handed back to him, but I could tell he was still speculating about me. He obviously didn't want to appear so uncool as to come out and ask if we'd met somewhere, but he didn't have much other excuse for hanging around the reception desk.
A nurse appeared from the back and called out a patient name. About half the population of the waiting room followed, clearing the afternoon schedule considerably. She nodded toward Dr. Phillips, indicating that they were all his. He hadn't much choice but to usher them into an inner room. I breathed normally again after he'd left.
"Look, I'm not sure what you're after," said Chris, "but I got chewed on the last time you were here and I don't think I better talk to you any more."
"Really?" I tried to make my face look completely innocent and realized I failed totally.
"Yeah, really. You know I can't give out any patient information, so please don't ask." Two worry wrinkles etched themselves between her large blue eyes, pleading.
"Look, I didn't want to get you in trouble," I assured her. "I'm just trying to help a friend. I'll go."
She was visibly relieved to see me turn away. Outside again, I started the Jeep and adjusted the air conditioner fan to high, hoping to blow out most of the hot air quickly. As I shifted into reverse, I glanced up to see two faces at one of the clinic's windows. I would have sworn they were looking out at me.
A horn behind me startled my foot to the brake pedal. The driver of the car I’d almost backed into glared at me. When I looked back toward the clinic that window was dark. Within minutes I decided that I’d imagined the faces.
Chapter 20
Dinner. My stomach was beginning to talk, although after having enchiladas for lunch I knew I better keep it light. I located a diner-style place that advertised "American Food." Hoping that might mean something like soup or salad, I pulled in. In any other town it could have been a Denny's or a Big Boy or maybe a Perkins. Here it was called Sal's. I never did find evidence of whether Sal was male or female.
Padded booths upholstered in bold yellow flowers lined the walls. A salad bar filled the back third of the one main room, which pretty much answered the question of what I would order, although I did give the menu a quick browse. Most everything else was fried or sauced or gravied, so I stuck with my first instinct.
"An
d what can I git you ta drink?" She looked like the type who had grown up and spent her life in this same town, probably in the same diner, but the accent was West Texas. Her large blond hair reminded me of Dolly Parton's early years. In fact, her shape wasn't too unlike Dolly's either. She flashed a big genuine smile my way after taking my iced tea order and telling me to "hep yourself at the salad bar."
I loaded a plate with everything that looked crisp and cold and was, as nearly as I could remember, fat free. I carried the heaping platter back to the table, arriving in sync with my iced tea-bearing waitress.
"You just visiting for the weekend?" she asked. "Ain't seen you around before."
"I've been here a couple of times," I said. I explained that I was looking into Cynthia Martinez's death.
"That sure was a shame," she said, sympathetically. "I was just so shocked. She was just the nicest lady."
"Was she in here often?"
"Like just about ever' day at lunch," she said. "Always had a salad and a fruit juice. In the winter, she'd get hot soup, but only if it wasn't the creamy kind. She really watched those fat grams, you know. She was a healthy eater."
She left to fill another customer's coffee cup at the far end of the room. I stabbed at my salad, picking out my favorite things first.
"Yep, she really wanted that baby." She continued the conversation right where she'd left off. "She sure took good care of herself. Went to her doctor appointments real regular an' all." She refilled my iced tea, then sat down across from me. I wondered briefly whether Sal would mind.
"One of the women she worked with told me that they saw evidence that her husband abused her," I said quietly, as if whispering would make the remark seem less tactless.
She nodded, the blond curls remaining firmly in place. "I always suspected," she said wisely. "Suspected, but you know, just didn't feel it was my place . . ."
"The doctors said her hemorrhaging was a result of the miscarriage, not anything the husband did."
"Hmph. Them. I don't go to them doctors here. I go to Santa Fe to see my G-Y-N. Don't like spreadin' my legs for the same guys I serve lunch to, you know?"
She scooted her rear to the outside edge of the booth. "Looks like we got some more customers," she said, heading toward the front.
I worked my way through the rest of the salad as I watched her lead the newcomers to a booth discreetly far from mine. She quickly took their orders, filled water glasses, and turned the order in at the kitchen. The coffee drinker at the back of the room was ready to leave. He dropped a dollar bill on the table and slowly ambled toward the cash register.
" 'Night, Sal," he said, leaving his check and some cash by the register. So, I'd been talking to the boss.
I hoped she'd come back and visit some more but the dinner crowd hit in full force. Sal bustled efficiently about, the only waitress to handle all the tables. I left enough to cover the check and a fairly generous tip so she wouldn't have to break stride to make change for me.
Six-thirty. The sun was still bright, dimming only a bit as it reached toward the western hills. It would be another half-hour before the domestic violence group met, but getting there early might give me the chance to talk with the counselor on my own. Consulting a cartoon-like tourist map I'd found near Sal's cash register, I learned that the Community Center was about two blocks off Main Street near the center of town.
Fresh black paving with bright yellow parking lines surrounded the adobe style building. A massive cottonwood tree whose trunk must have been nearly four feet in diameter had been paved around, leaving the ancient giant intact. Smaller, younger trees—sycamore, ash, and cottonwood—circled the lot and the building. Chamisa and juniper shrubs nestled in against the foundation, snuggling for protection. Only a half-dozen cars dotted the lot and I parked among them, as near to the front door as I could.
The light brown building was nearly three stories tall, towering above almost everything else in town. Blue double wooden doors, each with about a dozen glass panes, led into a small lobby. A ticket booth stood on my right, dark and empty now. A solid set of double doors stood open directly across the lobby from me leading to a small auditorium with a stage at the front facing ascending rows of blue theater seats.
To both the left and right, hallways flanked the auditorium, presumably leading to offices and other meeting rooms. A hand lettered sign on an easel said Domestic Violence Group, with an arrow pointing to the right. I eased my way down the hall until I came to a room whose door stood open, spilling light into the dim hallway.
A woman was in the process of creating a cozy circle of chairs, a dozen or so in number. She wore a multi-colored broomstick skirt and a tunic-length turquoise sweater. Strands of beads with various colored crystals hung around her neck, cluttering the front of the sweater. Her salt and pepper hair hung to the middle of her back, pulled away from her face by silver and turquoise combs.
"Hi," she greeted warmly. "I don't think we've met." She came toward me, hand extended.
"Charlie Parker," I said.
"First names only here," she said gently.
Right. Support group etiquette.
"I'm Mandy," she introduced. "It's good to meet you Charlie. You're a little early . . ." She glanced around at the nearly-arranged room.
"Well, I was hoping to talk to you a few minutes before everyone else arrives," I told her. "You are the group's counselor?"
"Yes. Sure, what can I help you with?" She looked ready to hear an outpouring about my mate's abusive tendencies.
"I'm not in an abusive relationship," I began. Just the opposite. "I'm really here for some research."
She stiffened just a little.
"Look, I can assure you that no names will leave here. That I won't approach anyone personally."
"What kind of research?" Her voice was firm without being cold—barely.
"Cynthia Martinez was a friend of a friend of mine," I began. I briefly outlined the situation. "I'm just wondering whether Cynthia ever came to this group."
She started to protest and I held my hand up. "I know you probably don't want to tell me that. But a woman has died under very suspicious circumstances. Her friends say she was abused. I just wonder if she was trying to get help or not."
She fidgeted from one foot to the other. Her eyes darted around the room. "Some women . . . well, some women come for awhile then feel they have everything back under control. It usually means that the man has crawled back to them, begging forgiveness, promising never to hit again, and they want to believe that he means it."
I waited while her eyes darted some more.
"Sometimes," she continued, "women believe that having a baby will make everything in the relationship all better. It rarely does, in fact usually makes everything worse, but they cling to that hope."
"And Cynthia believed that?"
She shrugged and resumed arranging the chairs. I set my bag on the floor and grabbed a couple of chairs to help.
"Have there been any other women in the group, say in the past couple of years, that have fit the same profile?" I asked.
She met my eyes with a straight-on look, a nod just barely tilting her head.
"Have any of them miscarried?"
"Some." Her answer was so soft that I barely caught it.
Voices in the hall disrupted my thoughts before I could formulate the next question. Mandy slipped to my side.
"You can stay for group," she murmured, "but don't ask any direct questions. Most of these women are really scared when they get here. Anything that makes you sound like a nosy reporter is going to send them running."
Women filed into the room, sometimes in twos and threes, but usually alone. They ranged in age from late teens to around sixty. Some were clearly friends, greeting each other with hugs and words of concern. I picked up my purse, wanting to sit at the back of the room. With the chairs in a circle, there were no invisible seats, so I braced myself for playing the role of an abused woman.
Mandy
began the meeting with a few words of welcome. I gathered that most of the group had been here before, but she didn't single out anyone, namely me, as a visitor. She nodded to the woman immediately on her left, a silent cue.
"Hi, my name's Sara," the woman said, "and I live with an abusive man."
The ritual continued around the room until they came to me. My mouth went dry and my heart pounded visibly under my shirt.
"Hi, my name's Charlie . . ." I began.
Chapter 21
Two hours later, I was happy to get outside into the fresh night air. Pink-gold lights illuminated the parking lot. Beyond them, a pure black sky was dotted with thousands of white pin-pricks. I breathed deeply, shaking off the tension that had built in my shoulders since the meeting started. I had behaved myself, introducing myself in the prescribed way, strange as it felt. I hadn't contributed a sad story but had listened intently to the others.
The meeting had gone very much the same way as the one I'd attended in Albuquerque, but somehow this one left me feeling depressed. In the big city, I wanted to blame the fast life for the high tension and flaring tempers that led to the women begging for help. Here, though, in a little rural town with the clean air, the tranquil pace, and the towering mountains within touching distance, I wanted to believe that such things as men beating their wives behind closed doors didn't happen. I felt deflated.
A couple of the faces looked vaguely familiar. I didn't believe I knew them, but may have seen them around town. The bank, the wake, the doctor's offices, the variety store—I couldn't say. None of the women at the meeting had been pregnant. When one mentioned her miscarriage as the turning point when her husband had hit for the first time, Mandy flashed me a tiny warning look. I was not to pursue it here.
I breathed again of the clean air before unlocking my Jeep and heading back toward the motel. There was no way I'd settle down enough to sleep for awhile yet. I stopped at a drive in and ordered french fries and a large Coke, undoing all the good I'd accomplished with my salad at dinner. The evening was warm and I sat in the car, methodically dipping each potato stick into a puddle of catsup on my serving tray, consuming them in tiny bites and savoring every greasy morsel. Indigestion would probably hit me at three a.m. but at this point I didn't care.
Small Towns Can Be Murder Page 13