Shivering and wishing I’d remembered my stocking cap, I walk briskly to my old faithful pickup and fire ‘er up. Carson’s SUV is in the municipal parking lot when I pull in, which seems like a good sign to me. Noticing that the chief’s car and Luther’s cruiser are parked in front of the police station really brings my spirits up.
None of the three men I’ve been spending time with are in view when I walk in. The dispatcher gives me a friendly wave and calls out “conference room” when I hesitate at the counter. I walk through the room like I’m used to it. I’ve never been invited to the conference room before, so I’m thinking this might be a mistake. But when I walk in, no one kicks me out.
“Have a seat.” Luther pushes an office chair with a hefty dose of duct tape on its seat toward me.
I catch the chair, sit down, and roll toward the table where all kinds of documents are scattered. Sitting in the midst of them is a box of doughnuts. I think it’s quite amusing when both Carson and the chief reach to push it toward me. I obviously do a lousy job of hiding my addictions.
Hating to disappoint them, I grab a jelly-filled one and take a bite. I suppose I ought to be ashamed of my weakness after having such a heavy breakfast, but temptation is too hard to resist. Especially when it’s stuffed with strawberry goop.
Dwaine leans back in his chair and gives me a briefing on what they’re working on. I have a sneaking suspicion he’s holding something, back but I’m not about to complain. I know how lucky I am to be in the loop at all. Most cops run from news reporters; they don’t invite them to sit down for pastry.
Seems like a new charge has cropped up on Miz Waddy’s card.
“Michigan,” Luther says in disgust, tapping the document at hand. “If they’re heading for Canada, they’re taking the long-ass route.”
Hearing foul language come from Luther in that tone is an indicator of how troubling the last few days have been for him. Luther’s mama taught him to be polite, open doors, and not use profane language in the presence of ladies. Then again, considering how well he knows me, there’s a distinct possibility he doesn’t think of me as a lady. More like one of the guys in blusher and pastel sneakers.
“You sure she doesn’t have family somewhere up there?” the chief asks.
I wonder again why he thinks I have a direct link to Miz Waddy’s family tree. Investigative journalist is not part of my job description. Granted, I am nosy, but that only goes so far.
“We’ll talk to the lawyer again,” Carson announces. I’m assuming the “we” means him and me since the other men stay sitting when he rises. I feel like we’re covering old ground, but the thought remains unspoken. Carson’s the pro here.
* * * *
“Mr. Grimstead will see you in a few moments.”
Carson and I settle back in our seats under the watchful eye of the secretary. As if by mutual consent, we stare at the painting of a schooner crossing the ocean under a full moon instead of talking. The atmosphere is kinda like homeroom in high school, where you’re pretty sure whispering will result in some sort of unpleasant punishment.
Those few minutes stretch until I’ve studied the painting so long I can duplicate it and gain entry into one of those schools offering art lessons at home. Carson has given up and sits beside me with his head hanging down, hands clasped, examining the tips of his shoes. Finally, the desk phone rings, and we’re escorted into the inner sanctum.
Alfred Grimstead, Esq. doesn’t look particularly pleased to see us. The little piece of my brain that shouts, “Danger, Will Robinson!” tingles like crazy. I do believe Miz Waddy’s attorney is hiding something.
“So nice to see you again,” he says as if he means it.
“The pleasure is mine,” Carson replies.
I just nod.
“I hope you’re here to give me good news,” Grimstead says.
The conversation becomes give and take as Carson explains there’s nothing new yet. He follows that up with a question about Miz Waddy’s bank accounts, to which Grimstead gives an ambivalent answer. It shortly becomes obvious that we’re rolling fast toward a dead end.
And then Carson does a Cop Thing. “Alfred,” he says if they’re great friends, “why don’t you just tell me everything?”
Naturally, given Carson’s trust-me looks, Grimstead can’t resist. After a little fast dancing, he opens his desk drawer and hands a ring with a key on it to Carson. I study the key as my darling holds it up, my heart beginning to race with anticipation.
“And this fits where?” Carson asks.
I’m so interested in the answer I almost forget he’s butchered the English language again.
“A storage unit.” Grimstead opens the drawer again and pulls out a typed sheet. “Here is the inventory list.”
“This would have been quite useful much earlier.”
“I promised Wadelline I would only release the key after her death.”
“With this information, we may prevent her death.” Carson is on his feet, iron in his voice. “I’m sure you’re quite competent in your field, sir, and you know how devastating missing evidence can be to a case. The same holds true in my occupation.” He shakes the paper at the attorney. “This had better be the only thing you’ve held out on.”
Without a goodbye or thank you, he turns on his heel and marches out. I manage a small wave as I follow. It seems so impolite not to.
Carson’s heels are sharp as he pounds downstairs. I hurry to make sure I’m not left behind. Not that my boopsey would deliberately forget me, but he is preoccupied.
I hold onto the grab bar as he throws the SUV in gear and roars toward the police station. The cruiser is gone when we get there, but the chief’s car hasn’t moved. I follow as Carson yanks open the door and heads for the conference room, calling Dwaine’s name as he goes. Like a little mouse, I occupy a corner while the two men study the document, every so often shuffling through the other papers to compare notes.
“Tessa!” I hurry to the table when Dwaine calls my name. I am exhilarated when he asks if I will go with Carson to check out the storage unit. Can I fill in because Luther’s getting his car serviced and the chief has a dental appointment? Am I willing to be front and center if this breaks the case wide open?
“If you need me,” I murmur as if it’s no big deal. Open enthusiasm is not becoming in a reporter, or so I learned in j-school.
When Dwaine tells me which storage lot it is, I realize why Carson needs a companion. I know where it is; take the back road out of Fortuna, turn left at the old cement plant, and take the one-lane road by the taxidermy shop. It’s the most rural of the storage complexes that have popped up lately, which I suspect is why Miz Waddy picked it. For someone who’s never met a stranger and seems to be an open book, she’s turning out to have a lot of secrets.
I’m grateful we’re in Carson’s SUV on the last stretch of our ride. Money’s tough in the township, and the temporary patches placed over the potholes last spring have given up the ghost. My poor truck would be in shock if I tried to roll this pavement.
“What’s the number?” Carson asks as we drive through the opened gates.
“B-13,” I answer.
“Bingo!” Carson’s grinning.
I am so glad to see his dark mood lifted even if his little joke is silly. I point toward the appropriate unit as we slowly cruise the row. It’s one of the larger units and a sign says it’s climate-controlled. I’d say Miz Waddy pays a pretty penny to keep this one.
Seeing all those units reminds me of that TV show where people bid on abandoned ones. Not that southeastern Ohio hides the same treasures as California, but I still wonder what people have tucked away in there. Maybe that would be a great hobby for Carson and me, buying units and reselling the contents at flea markets. I mean I already have a truck and what else is there to do on a Saturday afternoon?
Carson parks the truck by Miz Waddy’s unit and hands me the list. He opens the lock and rolls up the door. I stifle a groan whe
n I realize how much stuff is in there.
Still, I am nothing if not dedicated. And luckily, there aren’t that many boxes. Many of the items are larger ones, easy to check off the list. Like an antique quilt frame, which looks like nothing more than boards and wing nuts to me. As Carson calls out, “Sewing machine,” I put an x next to Singer Serger, Model X27. Miz Waddy is an impeccable record keeper, which is probably why her fellow shopkeepers were thrilled when she volunteered to do their bookkeeping.
We flip the top off big plastic boxes, which seemed to be filled with nothing but folded fabric. Still we look all the way to the bottom just to make sure nothing odd is hidden there. We do the same with the boxes packed full of quilting patterns.
We take a break when we reach the halfway point. Carson rolls down the door, snaps the lock on, and takes my hand. You wouldn’t think the middle of nowhere could be romantic, but it turns out the walk along the creek behind the concrete pad is kinda pretty. Yes, the water is brownish, and there’s an odd smell coming from the direction of the taxidermy shop, but still.
“I want to ask you something.” Carson stops, leans against a tree trunk, and pulls me against him.
My heart starts to bang like the marching band’s bass drum, and I hope he can’t feel it. This is so sudden. Yeah, I’ve considered the possibility of our marrying—okay, I’ve already picked out colors and found a sudden affection for Brides magazine—but we’ve only been dating a few months. Yet, we’re not kids and when you know it’s the real thing, you just know.
“Yes?” I sigh, my eyes locking on his.
“Would you…”
I’m finding it difficult to breathe, and oh, so aware of his hands locked at the back of my waist, the blueness of those eyes as I wait for him to finish.
“…mind dealing with the hospital? The chief’s a nice guy, but I don’t think he has anyone who can really click with the doctors and staff.”
I swallow and shove back the disappointment flowing through me. Even as I’m agreeing, I remind myself too much is going on now for either of us to put our relationship on the front burner. Besides, a Christmas proposal would be so much nicer, especially if my mother’s around to get the news first.
“Have I told you lately how great you are?” Carson follows his words with just the right kiss, deep enough to reassure me, but not so intense I want to throw him down and jump his bones right then and there. The night is coming, after all, and the Grab ‘N Go does have a small assortment of wine. And cheese, although the choices are pretty much limited to slices of American or cubes of pepper jack.
* * * *
I’m achy and grimy by the time we reach the back of the storage unit nearly two hours later. And discouraged. The list has checked out, and so far we haven’t found a single thing that wasn’t on the inventory.
“Hey,” I say, flipping the page over, “did you see a bicycle?”
Carson frowns. “No.”
“Me either. But there’s supposed to be a five-speed women’s bike, valued at nearly $1,000.”
“Oh, come on.” Carson smacks a stack of boxes. “Do not tell me something happened to Miss Peytona because of a bicycle.”
“She might have sold it.” I offer the possibility even though I think the chances of that are slim. Miz Waddy is quite the little list maker. I can’t see her letting old Grimstead hold onto an outdated one. “Or loaned it to someone.”
“Who?” The word comes from Carson in a hiss of frustration. “I swear she’s the most complicated little old lady in the world. For all we know, she’s biking across the country photographing wildflowers.”
I refrain from reminding Carson that Miz Waddy talks incessantly about trips, before and after. No way would she have left town without everyone knowing where she was going, her daily itinerary, and her intent to bring back little trinkets for one and all. I’m also reasonably sure that with her arthritic knees, her maximum distance would be substantially under a mile a day. I lean against my own stack of boxes and let him vent.
Poor boy, they don’t teach the ways of small town folks at the police academy. Out-of-town law enforcement doesn’t have street cred in places like Fortuna. Investigators like Carson ask questions and expect straight answers. They don’t realize they need to ease into things. Ask about the photos of the grandchildren and accept that cup of coffee, put a little conversation in front of the demand for information. That’s how it works here.
But when it comes to the down and dirty of finding facts from records, he’s the man. By the time he locks the unit again, we’ve agreed on a plan of action. He’ll ask Dwaine to put out an APB on the missing bike, and I’ll make a doctor’s appointment. Or several of them, depending on how many psychiatrists are willing to talk to me.
“You know we’re taking a big chance, right?”
“Why?” Carson replies.
“I can probably fool one head shrinker into believing I’m sane, but the odds go down the more of them I see.”
His laugh is hearty, real, and reassuring. Whatever else may happen, we’re solid. Same sense of humor, same taste in food, and so far neither of us have killed Miss Priss. There’s nothing wrong with that.
Chapter Five
Even small hospitals have media relations’ directors these days, and the county hospital is no exception. Since I’ve been quite generous in providing publicity, arranging to see the doctors turns out to be easier than I expected. After assuring all involved that I’m not asking a single question that would invade anyone’s privacy, I lay out my schedule with Carson over soup and grilled cheese sandwiches at my house. I also tell him I reached an agreement with the powers-that-be at County General. For sitting on the information I have and whatever I get there, they’ll stonewall other media inquiries until after I break the story.
“You trust them?” Carson asks.
“It’s me that’s supposed to be non-trustworthy,” I remind him. “The evil fourth estate, remember?”
“Yeah, I keep forgetting you’re bad to the bone. The earrings probably.”
Okay, wearing enameled orange pumpkins may not be something a New York news anchor would do, but I believe they give a little insight into my character. Besides, I bought them from a local jewelry maker’s booth at the fall festival and in case I run into her, I want her to know I didn’t just make a purchase to be nice.
“Take them off before I go?” I ask.
“Nah. They’re cute on you.”
Cute. He thinks they’re cute. I almost giggle.
We leave the few dishes for the evening. Miss Priss got her food when we did, and I remind Carson to ask about getting in Miz Waddy’s apartment refrigerator.
I wave as he goes his way and I go mine. The ten-minute drive to the hospital lets me organize my thoughts and prepare to be little Miss Efficiency as I poke and probe for information.
The first doc I see is a fifty-something woman with gorgeous silver hair and a body that has to have been honed in a gym for years. I take a seat across from her desk, feeling totally dowdy. She offers me a cup of green tea, which I accept. Tea’s not my first choice of beverage, but as she explains its health benefits, I decide it’s not going to kill me. It might even extend my existence a day or two longer than my doughnut-loving, French fry-chomping lifestyle allows for.
I grovel, saying how much I appreciate her taking time from her busy schedule to see me. I compliment the plants on her windowsill and smile and nod as she tells me about the care and nurturing of orchids. After a refill of tea for both of us, we settle down to the matter at hand.
“As you might suspect, we’ve run numerous tests on the afflicted patients and reviewed their medical histories,” she said, which I already knew, so I was hoping for a little inside dope.
“Do they have anything in common?”
The doc shakes her head. “Not really. We quickly eliminated drug interactions and we asked for five days of reports from the water treatment plant to see if there was some problem there. Accord
ing to their computers, everything checked. We did, however, ask to have water samples taken after the second patient arrived. Those are at the state lab now; we expect the results today or tomorrow morning.”
As agreed, we didn’t discuss individual patients. The same was true for the next two docs, one a specialist in infectious disease and the other a researcher from some high-level federal agency.
“Let me review,” I said at the end of my time with the big muckety-muck. “No environmental factors have been found, there’s no medication duplication, and everyone’s hearts and blood seem normal.”
The big shot nods.
I thank him for his time and leave the hospital with pretty much the same knowledge as when I entered. We are all missing something. I just can’t imagine what.
I roll in to WFRT, walk quickly to Marc’s office, and shut the door. I share what I’ve learned, skimming over the most interesting details and tell him of my agreement with the hospital. He reminds me I’m supposed to talk to him first before I make deals. I remind him he was at his service club meeting, which is supposed to last an hour, but usually runs more like two. He makes a pshaw sound and waves me out.
My time in the recording booth is exactly what I need to have a fresh news report at the top of the hour. In other words, I do it in one take, pop it into the computer line-up, and head toward home. My driveway is empty, and thank goodness, there is no Eugene waiting on the porch. I gird myself to go toe-to-toe with Miss Priss and walk into the house.
Her food is warming when my phone rings. I grab it and see Carson’s number.
“Hi.” My greeting is somewhat tentative since I’m really afraid to know what’s happened now. If Alfred’s rolled his car into the middle of Main Street and is sitting on the hood waiting for UFOs to take him, that’s a scene I can miss.
Downhome Crazy Page 9