They have no idea of my strength, my power. My roots are strong and deep. They are already coiled and ready to defend me.
The arrogance of these beings is amazing—to believe that they are any match for me!
Why the female and not the male, I’m asking myself. What female property does the fig alter with such disastrous results? I need data, evidence. I watch Gwen’s animated replies to Dott’s questions about Lucerne and consider her apparent immunity to the figs. I have a feeling—gut-level type—a strong one.
I don’t believe it. It isn’t real. What am I missing here?
I have to know more about Gwen. What is she really like? Maybe she’s on drugs, so high all the time the woman doesn’t realize she’s come to hate her husband. Unlikely. Still, it wouldn’t hurt to have a fast look at her medicine cabinet. That would, at least, tell me more about her.
I ask to use the bathroom and excuse myself. Thankful there’s apparently just the one, I open the door and go into the small room. I wait a moment and then flush the toilet to cover the sound of my opening the cabinet. It contains the usual deodorants, skin creams, mouthwash, and toothpaste. There’s Tylenol, insect repellent, styling mousse, eye drops, dental floss, and sun block. There are also five containers of prescription drugs.
Two are for Ed and three for Gwen. Ed is taking Flexeril for back pain and Restoril for occasional insomnia. For Gwen I see Dicyclomine for abdominal discomfort, a very strong Motrin, and a large plastic bottle of Adrena Test capsules.
Mmmm … Adrena Test. As in adrenal?
As in adrenal gland, the one that produces and secretes hormones?
I feel a small thrill, almost a rush. I run water in the basin to cover any sound of my removing the plastic container for closer examination. Under the word Adrena Test the label reads: Synthetic Androgen—full strength—200 mg. I notice several pharmaceutical inserts jammed behind the Motrin and find the one for Adrena Test.
Each 200 mg capsule contains: Testosterone Cypionate … 800 mg., Benzyl Benzoate … 0.2 ml, Cottonseed oil … 560 mg., and Benzyl alcohol … 9.45 mg. The directions read: One capsule daily as directed by physician. One hundred capsules, two refills remain. The doctor’s name is Lance Pruitt, and the drug store is Sherman’s in Diablo.
I don’t know what this means, if anything, but I pocket the insert, shake out two of the capsules, and slip them into my jean pocket.
“I’m confused as hell,” I say as we drive away from the Schwartz’s. I tell them about the capsules I’ve taken. “Maybe that Adrena Test stuff is protecting her somehow.”
“I have to tell you, Cass,” Dott says, “I have my doubts. You’re asking me to believe that sweet lady back there is just a pill or two away from knocking off her husband. Without Adrena Test, Ed would be a dead man? After seeing them together, I have a real problem with that.”
“I don’t,” Lester says from the back seat.
I check him out in the rear view and see that his face is covered with sweat. He’s sitting as close as humanly possible to Shelly who seems to be enjoying his presence immensely.
“I can believe it easily,” he says. “Can’t trust how folks seem to be. Maybe she’s just coasting, you know? Maybe she’s getting ready to haul off and—”
“Did it bother you that you reminded Gwen of her dead son?” Dott asks.
“Well, maybe a little. I’d like it better if I reminded her of somebody alive.”
Shelly giggles and snuggles closer to him.
“She didn’t actually say he was dead,” I say. “She said ‘long gone.’ Maybe he just left … or something.”
Of course he’s dead, I’m thinking. Men all over this valley are dropping like flies.
“I still think the medication she’s taking is shielding Gwen in some way from the effects of the figs,” I say, trying to steer the conversation back to the puzzle.
“Okay,” Charlotte says, “so what’s in it?”
I fish the insert out of my pocket and pass it to her.
“Testosterone Cypionate seems to be the main ingredient,” she says. “It’s listed first. And there are 800 mgs of it. That’s a male hormone. Why would a woman probably somewhere in her sixties be taking a large dose of a male hormone? And on a daily basis, at that.”
“I don’t know why she’d take it at any age,” I say. “We need knowledgeable input. From an expert.”
“A druggist—that’s who we need!” Dott whacks her knee in excitement. “And I just happen to know one. He’s at Sherman’s Pharmacy.”
“Lucky,” I say. “That’s where Gwen’s prescription is from. But we’re wasting time! That Tree is growing. She’s getting stronger by the minute.”
“There’s no other women eatin’ those figs now, though,” Frank says. “Nobody’s been by to pick any up. Not since Gwen yesterday morning.”
“That’s good news,” I say. “If Adrena Test is a deterrent, we could buy up a bunch to pass out to any woman who has eaten those figs.”
“That’s a big ‘if,’” Dott says. “And, we’ll need a prescription.”
“I don’t think that will be a problem,” Frank says. “Once I fill him in, I’m pretty sure my doc will do it.”
“Okay,” I say. “But we need more data.”
There he is, that arrogant son-of-a-bitch! He thinks I forgot he was supposed to come in to see me yesterday—all that “I wanna cooperate” bullshit. I guess I beat all that phony cooperation right outta him!
Al had forgotten, though, damn it all to hell. And he’d had that fuckin’ Cassidy right there in his office too, tellin’ him about that Victor Hammond guy. He was there, all right, but had those asshole buddies with him.
Al brakes quickly and pulls into the spot right next to the wagon Cassidy’s driving. He secures his vehicle, climbs out, and hikes his belt up. He doesn’t want to appear nervous or hurried, so he takes his time and walks slowly toward Cassidy and his passengers who are heading toward Sherman’s Pharmacy.
Acting Sheriff Schmidt feels a welcome rush of adrenaline as he saunters after them—the big lesbo, the village idiot, old man Murphy, the Russo girls, and the smart-ass-punk. He grins.
“Hold up there, Cassidy Murphy,” he says in a booming voice. They’re right at the entrance to the pharmacy. Cassidy’s shoulders flinch at the sound of Al’s voice, and he spins around to face the sheriff. Surprised, the others turn as well.
“I’d like a minute of your time,” Al says. He hooks his thumbs into his belt and lets a slight smile play over his lips. Music should be playing along with this, he thinks, enjoying himself. Something with a funky beat.
“Al,” the punk says, his face growing red. “We’re in a giant hurry. Can I catch up with you later?”
Al shoots his right hand out and grips Cassidy’s arm. “Now, Cassidy, not later.” He puts his left hand on the head of the baton at his belt. “Excuse us,” he says curtly to the others and pulls Cassidy a few steps away.
“Jesus, Al, what’s the problem?” Cassidy says and pulls his arm out of Al’s grasp.
“You’d do well to cool down, boy,” Al says. “Have you forgotten already that I’m the law around here?”
What is it with this kid? Doesn’t he notice my badge and gun? Doesn’t he know the clout that comes with these items? Do I have to prove that to him again?
“You and I had a date at the station yesterday, you remember?” Al says.
“I came in; I was there.”
“Yeah, with that hair-brained idea about diggin’ up Victor Hammond.” Al scowls.
“Well, I was there. Anything you needed to know …” Cassidy shrugs his shoulders, and Al wants to deck him again.
With a mind of its own, Al’s hand fondles the smooth head of his baton. He takes a deep breath. “I need to know why both you and your uncle are packin’ side arms, for one thing. For another, I need to know if they’re registered, and when you tell me they are, I’ll need to see the papers that bear that out.”
“Done. D
one, Sheriff.” Cassidy shakes a cigarette out of a crumpled pack and lights it. Al is pleased to see the young man’s hand shake. “This is Saturday afternoon. I’ll have the papers on your desk first thing Monday morning.”
Al frowns.
“We can talk about the ‘why’ of it then, Sheriff, if you like. You have my word on that.”
Al is silent, thinking.
“My God, Sheriff, it’s not like me and Frank are leaving town.”
“8:00 a.m. Monday morning—that clear to you?”
“You got it, Sheriff.”
Al turns and starts for his car.
“Sheriff?” the preacher lady calls after him. The big woman begins to lumber toward him. She’s wearin’ some kind of logging boots and walks just like a guy.
“What’s happening with the women?” She speaks so softly he has to lean toward her to catch her words. “Carla and Lindee?”
Civilians. Always wantin’ to know stuff they got no business knowin’.
He has to stop and think.
“Far as I know, they’ve both been arraigned and both incarcerated with no bail. No trial dates as yet for either one.” He removes his hat and scrubs at his hair with the heel of a hand. Al is suddenly very tired.
“Do they have representation?”
“Sure, of course they do,” he says. Al slaps his hat back on, turns away from this big nosy broad, and strides purposefully to his car.
We have to kill some time, because Richard Bloome, the pharmacist, is out but expected back shortly. The store clock reads 12 noon I had no idea we had spent so much time at Ed and Gwen’s. I’m bushed and madder than hell at Sheriff Al.
The drug store features an old-fashioned soda fountain in the back near the pharmacy counter. It’s manned by a skinny white-haired old lady who suggests we “sit a spell” while we wait for Bloome. I order a chocolate shake, and the others choose root beer floats. The old lady serves us and then retires to the far end of the counter where she flips through pages of a newspaper. We all sit quietly nursing our drinks.
“That Schmidt guy—seems like he’s just got to make noise,” Lester says.
I nod and suck down the last of my shake. It tastes so good, I consider ordering another.
“How do you think we should proceed?” Charlotte asks.
“Whatever we learn here,” I say, rubbing at my eyes, “we have to kill The Tree. Fire, I guess. Frank, you got any explosive type stuff? Gun powder?” He’s quiet, looking at me as if I’m speaking a foreign language.
I shake a Marlboro out of my pack. “You think I could light a cigarette in here?” I ask Dott.
“Try it and find out,” she says, shrugging her shoulders.
I light up and look around for an ashtray.
“We’re here for answers,” Dott says. “But what we really need is a good question—one that doesn’t tip our hand.”
I nod, taking a deep drag. It’s wonderful, and a refreshing calm comes over me. But it doesn’t last long.
“Are you out of your mind?” a high-pitched, impatient voice asks. “This is a pharmacy, for heaven’s sake!”
I swivel my stool around and see a short, portly man of fifty or so. The word cherubic comes to mind—a word I’ve never had occasion to use. Red lips, tiny blue eyes, and a button nose. What mouse-colored hair the man has is meticulously combed over his florid pate. He wears navy slacks, a short-sleeved white shirt, and red leather suspenders. His red bow tie has to be a clip-on.
“Richard!” Dott booms. “It’s good to see you! These are friends of mine, Cass Murphy, and Frank—”
“Out,” Richard says, glaring at me.
“Wha—”
“Your cigarette. Out.” He slides a saucer toward me.
I stub my cigarette out in the saucer. I feel my cheeks grow warm.
“A pharmacy, for heaven’s sake,” he says again, slurring his words slightly.
He snorts his disgust, and I catch the scent of booze. Apparently Richard’s lunch break has included a belt or two of bourbon. A talk with this man will require diplomacy, and I wonder if I have any left.
“Thoughtless of me,” I say to Richard nodding toward the saucer. “My apologies.” I stick out my hand. “I’m Cass Murphy.” Lester rises and extends his hand as well. Frowning, the little man shakes hands with the two of us.
“Hello Dott,” he says, offering her a small, tight smile.
“We have some questions, Richard,” Dott says. “Of a chemical nature. I told Cass you’re the man to see.”
A tough nut, I think, as the man regards me with a somber stare. “We want to ask you what sort of substance—chemical, I guess—could cause a person to experience a profound emotional change? A change that’s not only deep but totally out of character?”
I watch with fascination then, as Richard proceeds to do exactly that. He changes. His hostile look becomes a gaze of intellectual interest. Instead of an irritated drunk, Richard now appears to be a calm and focused man of science.
“I’m assuming the chemical you’re inquiring about would be other than the obvious one of alcohol?”
“That’s right.”
“And the person to whom you refer—male or female?”
Even his enunciation is different now—precise and flawless. “Female,” I say.
A moment of thoughtful silence then as Richard strokes his chin. I’m thinking he needs a goatee.
“You said ‘profound emotional change.’ You mean an actual transformation?”
“Right,” I say. We’re all staring at this man, hanging on his every word.
“Such internal changes,” he begins, walking back and forth with small quick steps, “are directed by the pituitary gland which produces hormones in both men and women. In the female those hormones are estrogen and progesterone.
“The bloodstream carries them to the organs they affect and act as triggers that set off events in the female body. Emotional events. The production and dissemination of these hormones is determined by the physiological needs of the organism as a whole. The organism being,” he stops pacing, an index finger in the air “the woman in question.” Richard flashes us a brilliant smile. He has the whitest teeth I’ve ever seen, except perhaps in a comic book.
“Did you know the word estrogen is derived from the Latin meaning frenzy?” He hooks his thumbs behind his suspenders and continues grinning at us, his eyes all but disappearing as his cheeks rise to meet them.
“The point I’m making is that it’s likely there’s an over production of estrogen going on within the woman, resulting in her aberrant behavior. You see?”
“Yes, Richard, I think so,” I say. “Would this over production of estrogen cause really crazy behavior? Like an attack?”
“Physical, you mean?”
“Yeah.”
“Hmmm. That would be unusual.” He resumes the pacing. “Oh my goodness!” He stops in mid-stride, his small eyes fixed on me. “You’re talking about the murders aren’t you? Those women …?”
I sigh, nodding. I realize I’ve been stupid to think the druggist wouldn’t stumble to the truth. But no harm’s done. Perhaps the truth will make him even more interested in answering our questions. “We’re trying to make some kind of sense out of the situation.”
“Are you officially involved?”
I notice the respect Richard gives the word “officially,” and I decide to run with it. “That depends,” I say, looking around the store. I decide the figs are simply stacking harmlessly up under The Tree, and we need to get more data from this man. We have to take the time to do that. “Is there somewhere we could … ah, talk?”
Richard hesitates, narrowing his eyes in a calculating squint.
I decide to press. “Somewhere for coffee, or perhaps a drink?”
Richard didn’t mull that invitation for long. “You’re in charge, sweetheart,” he calls to the old lady. He favors us with a smile and leads us all out of the pharmacy and across the street to the Main Street Dair
y Lunch and Lounge.
She tries to open her eyes, but they’re crusted shut. Carla rubs a hand across her forehead, drops her fingers to her closed eyes, and massages them. With gentle pressure she forces an eyelid up and open. Too bright! Oh Lord, she must have slept late! The sun is streaming into the bedroom, right into her eyes. Why hasn’t Dante awakened her?
Carla is so tired though, she feels like just drowsing in bed, letting the sun wash over—
Dear Lord! Carla’s mind suddenly serves up a palette of alarming reds, waves of bloody color so bright and horrific that she presses her fingers hard against her eyelids to stop them. Her mind’s eye looks down and sees a bloody meat cleaver clutched in her right hand. And Dante … he’s kneeling with his back to her, his shirt bloody and torn. He’s hurt himself somehow.
This is not real. It can’t be.
She’s ill, hallucinating. Carla moans, puts hands to her pounding head.
Oh Dante, where are you?
She hears footsteps.
Oh thank you, Lord!
“Dante?”
A metallic sliding sound. She can’t see, the sun is still too bright.
“Lunch, dearie,”
It’s a female voice—not Dante’s. Definitely not Dante’s.
We sit with Richard at a wooden table in a dim, garden-like area. It’s well after the lunch hour, and there’s just one other table occupied by an older couple. There’s a full bar, and we’re seated at the edge of a wooden plank dance floor.
The waitress, a pretty young brunette in a tank top, denim cutoffs, and cowboy boots, takes our order. Beer for everyone except Richard who tells the girl he’ll have his usual. In a flash she’s back with the beer—a large pitcher of it on a tray with six glass fruit jars—along with a shot glass filled with straight bourbon that she places near Richard. She pours the beer and leaves.
“Too much estrogen,” I begin. “Could that really cause a physical attack?”
Richard downs his bourbon with a practiced motion. “Might,” he says.
“But how?” Dott asks.
Richard ignores Dott and fixes me with a probing stare. “What’s your role in this investigation?”
The Matriarch Page 15