Malpractice in Maggody

by Joan Hess

  However, being the conscientious cop that I was, I parked in front of Ruby Bee’s Bar & Grill. The neon sign for the Flamingo Motel had lost another letter; it now read “V N Y.” I wasn’t sure, but it looked as though the flamingo had shed another feather, too. It must have been molting season in Maggody. I went inside and sat down on a stool. Ruby Bee came out of the kitchen, a dish towel in her hands, and immediately retreated. Although I knew she and Estelle were up to something, I kept a polite smile on my face as I picked up the menu to check the blue plate special for the day.

  Ruby Bee reappeared with a pecan pie and set it under a glass dome. Acting as though she hadn’t already seen me, she said, “Why, look who’s decided to grace us with her presence. I hope you enjoyed using my car without permission. You recollect what happened last time you tried it?”

  “I’d just gotten my driver’s license and couldn’t resist the temptation, even though I knew that I’d end up grounded for a month of Sundays. Which I was, but it was worth it. And you can’t ground me now, because I commandeered your car in my capacity as a duly-appointed law enforcement agent.” I caught myself before I stuck my tongue out at her. “If it’s not too much trouble, I’d like a cheeseburger, fries, and a piece of that pie.”

  “You don’t want fresh catfish? I just now put a batch in the skillet.”

  I shook my head. “I’m definitely not in the mood for catfish these days. Have there been any strangers in here today?”

  “Beebop Buchanon was in here about an hour ago, and he’s about as strange as they come. For some reason I didn’t quite catch, he put a dozen boxes of Rit Dye in his bathwater and turned hisself green. He looks like a big ol’ bullfrog, bug-eyed and all. What’s worse, he was paying a mite too much interest in a fly on the window.”

  “What about an older woman with white hair?” I asked, trying to sound casual.

  Ruby Bee gave me a suspicious look. “Someone I should know?”

  “I don’t think so,” I said. “I’m in kind of a rush, so I’d appreciate it if you start the cheeseburger.”

  “In a rush to get back to that place? Did something else happen out there?”

  I stood up. “Never mind, I’ll get a sandwich at the deli at the SuperSaver.”

  “You just hold your horses, missy. I didn’t say I wasn’t going to fix your lunch. Are you real sure you wouldn’t rather have the catfish and hush puppies?”

  “I’m very, very sure,” I said. I sat back down and turned my stool around so I could see who all was wolfing down catfish. The usual suspects were there, along with a couple of truck drivers who were vaguely familiar. The only white hair belonged to Hepburn Hartbern, who lived in a cabin way back in the mountains on the far side of Boone Creek and only came to town twice a year to load up on beans, rice, and flour. He supposedly had a wife, but no one had seen her in a coon’s age, as we say in Maggody. Jim Bob, Roy, and Larry Joe were in a booth, their heads together as if they were plotting to rob a bank. They’d have to go to Farberville to do it, though, because the local branch bank had burned to the ground a few years back. It didn’t much matter, since no one in Maggody had any money except Raz, and he buried the profits from his moonshine operation in quart jars somewhere up on Cotter’s Ridge.

  I was idly speculating about the newest location of Raz’s still when Estelle came in and slid onto her stool at the far end of the bar. We exchanged nods. She was somewhat disheveled, which was unlike her. A few tendrils had escaped her shellacked beehive of red hair. Her eyebrows had been drawn with an unsteady hand, and her firehouse red lipstick contrasted with the unnatural paleness of her complexion.

  Concerned, I moved to a stool beside her. “Are you okay?” I asked.

  “Why shouldn’t I be okay? In fact, I’m feelin’ perky as a petunia.”

  Ruby Bee honed in on us. “Good heavens, Estelle—you look like something the cat drug in. Are you coming down with a stomach virus?”

  “I was just telling Arly here that I’m fine, thank you very much,” Estelle replied, her nostrils quivering. “I had trouble sleeping last night, that’s all. If you two don’t mind, I’d prefer a little privacy so I can do some thinking.”

  “Well, excuse me,” said Ruby Bee. She banged down my plate, then stomped back into the kitchen and began to rattle pots and pans so loudly we could hear the noise over the atonal angst coming from the jukebox.

  I slid my plate down the bar and moved to another stool. Between bites, I watched Estelle in the mirror on the wall behind the bar. She was certainly doing some thinking, and the subject was disturbing her. She took a compact out of her purse and inspected her lipstick, then sighed so forcefully that the mirror was in danger of fogging up. Her hand was shaking so badly that she could barely take a sip of sherry. A dribble ran down her chin and landed on the bar.

  When I couldn’t stand it anymore, I abandoned my last few fries and went over to her. “You need to tell me what’s wrong,” I said softly.

  “I think I must be going crazy, if you must know. I’ve been racking my brain for over an hour, trying to remember if I ate the pickle. I don’t think I did, but I can’t swear I didn’t. Maybe I got up in the middle of the night and made myself a cheese and pickle sandwich. That’d account for the bread. I used to sleepwalk when I was a child. Once my mother found me out in the barn carrying on a lively conversation with the cows. She led me back to bed, and I didn’t remember a thing about it. If I hadn’t found straw in my hair the next morning, I wouldn’t have believed her.”

  “And the pickle?”

  “They ought to haul me off to that nursing home in Starley City. What if I was to forget how to mix a perm solution and cause one of my clients to end up balder than a walnut? I ain’t fit to hang my diploma from the cosmetology school above the mantel.” She hung her head and blinked back tears. “I’ll be a disgrace to the profession.”

  “Because of the pickle?” I persisted, justifiably bewildered.

  “And rightly so.” She sighed again. “I might as well tell you and get it over with. I went to the SuperSaver this morning, same as I always do. When I got home, I had this eerie feeling that someone had been in my house. There wasn’t anything I could put my finger on, but it didn’t feel right. I went on into the kitchen to put away the groceries, and that’s when I saw the pickle was gone.”

  “Did you lock your doors before you left?”

  “I’m not sure. I had my hands full, since I was taking some chicken soup to Edwina Spitz, who’s been ailing of late, and a bag of fabric scraps to Joyce for a quilt she’s working on for the county fair. And of course I had my purse, and at the last minute I decided to take an umbrella just in case. You know how the weather can be in June. One minute the sun’s shining, and the next minute black clouds are rolling in over Cotter’s Ridge. The last time I got caught in a storm, I was drenched to the bone and came darn close to coming down with pneumonia.”

  Not all crimes committed in Maggody were of the magnitude of murder and mayhem, I reminded myself. Pickle theft was apt to be a misdemeanor. “Was anything else missing?” I asked.

  Estelle began to fidget. “Well, two slices of bread—unless, like I said, I made myself a sandwich. I read in a magazine that sleepwalking can be caused by stress. It ain’t easy knowing there’s a loony bin across the pasture from my house.”

  “Was anything else missing?” I repeated.

  “Last night I got to worrying on account of the murder over at the Stonebridge Foundation, so I—”

  ”How do you know about that?”

  “LaBelle heard about it from one of the deputies. Yesterday afternoon she went to a Tupperware party at her first cousin’s niece’s house and happened to mention it. You probably don’t remember Dilys Podd that lives in Hasty with her good-for-nuthin’ husband, who must weigh six hundred pounds and had to buy a special-made wheelchair so he could—”

  ”So LaBelle told Dilys, who told you,” I said wearily. “You got to worrying and then what?”
r />   “Actually, Dilys didn’t tell me. She called Edwina, who used to attend the Pentecostal church over there before her arthritis started acting up, and Edwina called me. That’s why I knew Edwina was feeling poorly and took her chicken soup this morning.”

  “Ah, yes,” I said, “now it’s perfectly clear. As much as I’d like to stay here all afternoon and discuss purloined pickles and Edwina’s arthritis, I’ve got other things to do. For the last time, was anything else missing?”

  “My gun.”

  “Your what?” I gasped. “Please don’t tell me you went out and bought a gun after what happened yesterday. I swear, I’m going to—”

  ”I didn’t go buy a gun.” Estelle plucked a napkin from a holder and dabbed her upper lip as if she fancied herself to be Scarlett O’Hara confronting the Yankees. “Back when I lived in Little Rock, a gentleman friend gave it to me on account of how I had to drive home so late at night. I thought he was being silly, but I accepted it as a token of his concern for my welfare. Yesterday afternoon I dug through my cedar chest, and there it was, along with some bullets. I didn’t see any harm in putting it in a drawer next to my bed in case one of those lunatics escaped. After all, one of them murdered that sweet little girl from Starley City.”

  I sat down on the nearest stool and rubbed my face. “Let me get this straight. You found the gun and put it in a drawer in your bedroom, and now it’s missing. Am I right?”

  “Unless I put it someplace else. I have to admit I had some wine last night, more than I’m accustomed to. I’m not much of a drinker, as I’m sure you’ve noticed. But I was real worried about the murderer getting loose, and I kept staring out at the pasture, and before I knew it the wine bottle was empty and I was trying to make a long-distance call to Italy. Maybe I just imagined I got the gun out, and maybe I forgot about eating the pickle.”

  “Italy?”

  “That is none of your business, and I don’t appreciate you prying into my private affairs.”

  I gave up and left. One of these days I might be able to make some sense of the conversation, but I had my doubts. On the other hand, I had a pretty good idea who might have slipped into Estelle’s house to eat the pickle—and taken the gun. It was time to talk to Harve. I drove to the PD and went inside. The evil red eye of the answering machine was blinking, so I hit the play button and sat down behind my desk.

  The first few calls were from Ruby Bee and concerned her car and ungrateful daughters who behaved like they were raised in a barn. Mrs. Jim Bob, who apparently was on Edwina’s call list, wanted details about “the cold-blooded murder that mocks the Christian values of our community.” I presumed the reference was to the Old Testament commandment: “Thou shalt not mock Maggody.” The manager of the Pot O’ Gold trailer park reported that a woman named Divine had trashed a double-wide and left in the middle of the night, owing a month’s rent. Elsie McMay was in a dither because two teenagers had trampled her pansies when they cut through her yard on their way to the high school. Kevin wanted to know if I’d had an update on his ma’s whereabouts. Dahlia called to say her granny had run off and was armed and dangerous, so I should shoot her on sight.

  I was hoping that someone would mention a trespasser with white hair when the door opened and Harve came in, huffing and puffing as though he’d scaled Mount Everest (as opposed to walking fifteen feet). He crossed his arms and stared at me until I turned off the tape, then said, “Were you planning to call me back any time soon?”

  “You want some coffee?”

  “No.” He plopped down on the chair and took out a cigar. “What I want is to be fishing on this fine, sunny afternoon. Instead, I’m sitting here, wishing I was fishing. It ain’t the same thing, is it?”

  “Is that a trick question?” I asked. “Did you drive all the way out here to ask me that? You could have called, you know.”

  Harve kept an eye on me as he lit the cigar. “I came to tell you about those folks out at the Stonebridge Foundation. I’d have sent a deputy, but I can’t trust any of them to keep their traps shut. This has to stay confidential. If the reporters get a whiff of it, I’m going to be collecting unemployment come the next election.”

  “What about them?”

  “Maybe I will have some coffee.” He flicked ashes on the floor, knowing it would irritate me, then said, “For starters, Dr. Stonebridge got caught prescribing way too many narcotics in Connecticut and lost his license. He moved to L.A., finagled a new license, and opened a practice. Seems some of his wealthy patients back in Connecticut were so grateful not to have their names mentioned in the investigation that they referred him to all their rich friends. He was doing real well for himself out there until he was accused of malpractice once too often. A lot of his patients developed complications, and one lady died after an infection set in. I couldn’t follow all the jargon, but he used some drugs and techniques that aren’t approved by the FDA. He ended up losing his license and coming here.”

  “With a track record like that, how did he lure in the current celebrities?”

  “Beats me,” said Harve. “I wouldn’t let him clip my toenails. You gonna make coffee, or do I have to do it myself?”

  I went into the back room and started a pot. “What else?”

  “You’d better sit down before I tell you.” He waited until I handed him a mug (black, heavy on the sugar) and returned to my chair. “We got a bigger problem with Brenda Skiller. For starters, she’s dead.”

  I rocked back so hard I banged my head against the wall. “When? I left there less than an hour ago. What happened to her?”

  “She died sixteen years ago, when she was eighty-two.”

  “Would you care to explain?”

  “Miss Skiller was a retired piano teacher living in Phoenix. When she got so feeble she couldn’t take care of herself, her niece put her in a private nursing home. There were only five other old folks, all retired and living on their Social Security checks. The home was run by a woman by the name of Alice Cutchens, who kept them fed and bathed and on their medications. Miss Skiller was the only one who had any relatives to keep track of her. Well, after not hearing from her aunt for several months, the niece went to visit and was told the old lady had been moved to a state-run nursing home. Only there weren’t any records of which one. The niece finally got fed up dealing with the bureaucratic runaround and hired a private detective to locate her. Eventually, the private detective got a glimmer of what was going on and called in the police. Turned out that whenever this Alice Cutchens found herself with a dead resident, she was reluctant to notify the government and cut off the monthly Social Security checks. Instead, she just buried them in her backyard.”

  “And Brenda Skiller was under the roses?”

  Harve took a slurp of coffee. “In a manner of speaking. The police found three more bodies. All of them were found to have died from heart attacks and other natural causes, so Alice Cutchens wasn’t charged with murder. She was charged with illegal disposal of the bodies, failure to notify the authorities, polluting the environment, theft, and other pesky things. Luckily for her, the feds didn’t get all fired up about the Social Security fraud. She did ten years at the Arizona women’s prison and was released a few years back.”

  I couldn’t think of a damn thing to say. My mind was overwhelmed with images of a woman dressed in black in her backyard at midnight, digging a hole, while the moon glinted on the blade of her shovel. Quietly, so that no one would hear. Methodically piling up the dirt nearby so that she could dump the shrouded body and cover it up. At dawn, planting the marigolds she’d purchased the previous day. Then going into the kitchen to wash her hands, turn on the radio, and make scrambled eggs and toast for her remaining residents.

  Harve cleared his throat. “You want me to go on?”

  “Yeah,” I said, although I didn’t.

  “So Alice did her time, and used it wisely. She managed to get a bachelor’s degree online in psychology, and then a master’s degree. Not from accredit
ed schools, of course, but the kind that give you credit for what they call ‘life experience.’ In her case, I don’t reckon they asked for details. She knew she couldn’t ever get past a background check if she applied for a job, so she used Brenda Skiller’s name. All she needed was her Social Security number, and she had that. The day she walked out of the prison, she was Brenda Skiller.”

  “Jesus H. Christ,” I muttered. “Does anyone else know this?”

  “Might be. The private detective that the daughter hired was named Winchell.”

  “As in Walter…?”

  “No, as in Winchell Kaiser. His brother’s name is Walter. Their parents must have had a real odd sense of humor.”

  My head, which had already had its fair share of abuse, began to pound. “Go ahead, Harve—tell me Walter’s an alien from a distant planet who’s collecting specimens for their zoo. Don’t hold back on me.”

  “Nothing much on Walter. He was arrested a few times on drug charges, but weaseled out of them by claiming the drugs were part of a religious ceremony. It seems Taos is some kind of artist colony, which means it has more than its fair share of old hippies who get stoned and go wandering all over the desert. The police in Amarillo are kinda unhappy about how he slipped out the back door before he could be arraigned for speeding and possession of marijuana. Seems he managed to take the evidence with him, too. Slick as a whistle, they said.”