by Cindy Sample
He took my palm in his and stroked his thumb along my wrist. I could feel a throbbing in my body. And it wasn't my knee.
"You're the first woman I've been attracted to since my wife died. You also are the primary suspect in two murder inquiries. Do you realize what an enormous conflict of interest this is for me?"
The touch of his thumb was short-circuiting all the fuses in my body including my brain, but I still grasped what he was saying.
Tom grimaced. “I've talked to folks who have known you for a long time, like Ben's second grade teacher, your pastor, neighbors. I told the sheriff that everyone I've interviewed says you're a great mother and all around wonderful person. I keep hoping the favorable things I've discovered will persuade him you're innocent of either murder."
Tom had been interviewing people like my pastor? And my neighbors? I tried to digest his words but they were giving me a serious case of indigestion.
"You've been talking to my friends...about me. Without telling me first?” I yanked my hand from his grip and tried to rise. Unfortunately, I had to bend my knee in order to remove it from the top of the coffee table.
"Ouch,” I whimpered as I slipped back into the cushions. Tom slid across the sofa and tried to help me.
Forget it, buddy. I struggled to get up. Detectives must be prepared to deal with criminals who resist arrest, but I doubt Tom's normal method of subduing them is to kiss them. I didn't know what his original intent was but I responded like a woman who hadn't been in a lip lock in over three years. The kiss was hot. It was so...hot. My body had never tingled this way from just a kiss.
Or was it a hot flash?
I pulled back abruptly and glanced at him. His face mirrored the surprised look on mine.
My senses were reeling but Tom's disclosure that he was investigating me behind my back ticked me off. I pushed him away and he slid back to his end of the sofa.
"I'm sorry,” he said, “that never should have happened."
"You're darn right.” My face was flushed and my body felt like a volcano about to explode.
Tom chuckled suddenly and I glared at him. “You might want to wipe the lipstick smudges off your face before your children come home and notice,” he said, his lips curving in a smile. A smile rimmed with red lipstick. I dug into the pocket of my baggy shorts and pulled out a gigantic red and white striped hankie. Clowns are always prepared. The incriminating lipstick was removed from both of our lips seconds before the kids burst through the door, their bags overflowing with candy.
Tom stood up and checked out each of the kids’ booty. He pretended to sneak a piece of candy out of Kristy's bag. I remained seated, still stewing over his disclosure. He squatted down next to me, resting his hand on my injured knee. “Laurel, you should see a doctor tomorrow. You may need to be on crutches."
I folded my arms over my chest. “I don't need a...” my voice trailed off as my brain leapt a few steps ahead. Hmmm. There was a doctor I'd wanted to visit. And now I had the perfect excuse.
Since I continued to glower at him, Tom astutely figured out he had overstayed his welcome. He told Kristy to gather up her stuff. She grabbed her loot, thanked Jenna and me, and waved goodbye to the boys. Her father followed her out the door with a brief troubled glance at the gimpy murder suspect sulking on her sofa.
The boys probably would have stayed up all night exchanging goodies but Ben's crabby, injured mother was ready for bed. I found that if I dragged my left leg and didn't bend my knee it wasn't too painful to walk up the steps. I hoped I wouldn't need crutches. Crutches and a kitten could be a lethal combination.
After removing my smeared makeup, I put on my red puppy dog pajamas. I briefly wondered what Tom Hunter would think of my attire. If he could kiss me in clown makeup, imagine how turned on he would be by my flannel jammies.
The numbers gleaming on my alarm clock announced it was a quarter past ten. A little late, but Liz has always been a night owl. I dialed her number and listened to it ring eight times before the answering machine kicked in. She picked up just as I started to leave a message.
"Laurel, do you know what time it is?” She didn't sound thrilled to hear from her best friend. Had I interrupted some X-rated activity?
"Sorry to call so late but I need your help. I injured my leg tonight and I wondered if you could drive me to the doctor tomorrow?"
"Of course, but what happened?"
"It's a long story. I'll give you the details tomorrow."
"Call me at the office in the morning after you've made an appointment with Dr. Templeton."
Dr. Templeton is a terrific family doctor who practices in Placerville. With years of klutziness behind me, I've visited his office so many times I could have earned frequent patient points. But I had other plans.
"There's a new doctor I want to try. I'm going to call Dr. Slater's office and see if his partner can take a look at it. Then we can chat about Jeremy."
"Do you think that's a good idea?"
"It can't hurt to try a new doctor, someone younger than Dr. Templeton, in case my injury is a complicated one. Please don't say anything to Brian."
"Fine. I'm too tired to argue with you right now. Ring me when you want to be picked up.” I winced as the phone slammed in my ear. Liz was beginning to sound a lot like my mother.
Another sleepless night followed, either due to the stimulus of the detective, the pain shooting out from my left knee every time I rolled over, or the extra caffeine from all of the candy bars I scarfed down for dinner.
By morning the throbbing ache had eased somewhat but there was no way I was going to miss an opportunity to meet Jeremy's partner. I dropped both kids at the bus stop and at nine on the dot called Dr. Radovich's office. I explained to the receptionist that I was a friend of Dr. Slater's and I wished to switch doctors since my own family physician would be retiring shortly. This was an emergency since I could barely walk. She kept putting me on hold in order to answer other incoming calls but finally agreed to squeeze me in at noon, probably so she could get me off the phone and get on with her other calls.
That gave me the morning to skim through the last two days of newspapers. Fortunately the Mountain Democrat focused on the upcoming election. A tiny article about Jeremy's demise was located on the back page. Politics trumped murder.
Liz picked me up promptly at eleven thirty and I wiggled into her impractical but cute red Miata. At least my small car was roomy enough for a pleasingly plump woman.
Yes, Jeremy's quote still rankled.
We headed down the hill to Jeremy's medical practice in El Dorado Hills. I could tell by her demeanor that Liz wasn't thrilled about spending her lunch hour sitting in a doctor's waiting room. I promised to treat her to the fast food restaurant of her choice. As we drove to the office, I briefed her on her part of the investigation. Her initial response was somewhat less enthusiastic than I'd hoped.
"Are you out of your bloody mind? Brian will kill me or worse—he might break off our engagement if he finds out I'm mixed up in a case he might end up prosecuting. Did you suffer brain damage from your fall?"
"Hey, calm down,” I said, as I noticed the speedometer venturing into speeding ticket territory. “There's no need for Brian to find out. All I want you to do is chat up the front desk staff while I'm in with the doctor. You're such a great schmoozer. Say how sorry you were to hear about Dr. Slater, blah, blah. All we need to find out is if they know of anyone who would have a reason to kill Jeremy. How hard is that?"
"I suppose I can handle it,” she grumbled, “but you're going to owe me more than a lousy cheeseburger."
By the time we arrived at the doctor's office, we both had our game plans in hand. Liz was truly concerned about my knee and she carefully assisted me into the reception area. It seemed wise not to disclose that it was barely hurting. With any luck, I would trip over something and writhe with pain when the doctor examined me.
Two women were stationed behind the reception counter. An older caramel skin
ned female in a lilac flowered smock and white pants was sitting at a desk, her fingers flying over her keyboard like a skilled pianist. The other significantly younger woman, dressed in a tightly fitted version of the same uniform, was filing her nails with an emery board as she held a cell phone against her platinum buzz cut. She gave me the universal “I'll be with you when I feel like it” wave.
I waited for a few minutes then stood up and walked over to the desk, announcing that I was a new patient. When buzz cut didn't respond to my “new patient status,” I raised my voice and asked whether there were any forms for me to complete. The older woman shot me a rueful look then reminded Tara, the young receptionist, that all new patients had to fill out a four-page questionnaire.
I smiled in sympathy with the older woman whose nametag read “Carol.” She could be a valuable ally. I filled in my medical history on the lengthy form while Liz sifted through the magazines on the coffee table. It didn't look like the office maintained a subscription to any beauty or bridal publications, the only reading material that interested her these days.
I looked up from my questionnaire thinking how nicely furnished the office was. Old Doc Templeton still owned the original orange molded plastic chairs he'd bought forty years before. Dr. Slater and Dr. Radovich must consider the comfort of their patients a priority. Or maybe they charged more than Dr. Templeton.
Whatever the reason, the soft cushioned burgundy and navy chairs that ranged around the perimeter of the office were comfortable. Large photos of different scenes from the snowcapped Sierras and cobalt blue Lake Tahoe lent a serene ambiance to the room.
After a wait of ten minutes, my name was called. I put down the magazine and nudged Liz. She was engrossed in an article in Newsweek on aging. I prodded her with the tip of my Adidas but missed, my foot connecting with her ankle.
"What's the matter with you?” She flashed me a dirty look as she reached down to rub her bruised ankle.
Some accomplice she was. I whispered to her left ear. “I'm going to try to keep this nurse occupied. You need to question the young one while I'm gone."
Carol cleared her throat. I rose and walked briskly across the room then remembered why I was in the office. I adjusted my pace and limped down a hallway lined with examination rooms. We walked into a room with light blue walls adorned with more photos depicting some beautiful views of the Sierras. I complimented the nurse on the decor.
"What a lovely room. Did you help decorate the office?” My flattery seemed to have a thawing effect. Carol produced a tentative smile as she grabbed the blood pressure thingie from a table.
"No, we had a professional decorator. Dr. Radovich didn't really care what we did to the office. He wanted to paint everything that bilious green color you find in government buildings because the paint is so cheap, but Dr. Slater insisted we have a nice ambiance for our patients.” She sighed softly. “I certainly do miss Dr. Slater."
"He was very special to me, too.” My sigh was so forceful it blew my patient questionnaire right off her clipboard.
Carol bent over and picked up the form. “Oh, yes, I forgot you said you were a friend of the doctor when you called. Did you know him well?"
"Well, we had been dating for awhile.” I guess a lunch date and an abbreviated dinner date could constitute awhile. “I was very fond of Jeremy."
I sighed again but toned it down a few notches.
"Were you with him the night he died?” she asked.
Trick question. One of these days I have to buy a Detecting for Dummies Guide.
I debated what to disclose but decided I would probably get more information out of her if she didn't know I was with him the night he was murdered. “Uh, he said he was having dinner with a business associate and he would see me later. I never saw him again."
Thinking about Jeremy's bruised and battered body made me tearful, and really nauseous. It was a good thing Liz and I hadn't devoured any greasy cheeseburgers before this appointment.
"Jeremy never told me who he was meeting that evening. Do you think it was Dr. Radovich?” I asked.
She shook her head. “No, it couldn't have been. He said he was at a fund raising dinner for the Boys and Girls Club that evening. The police came here to the office and questioned all of us. Don't you think it's strange they would question the staff if his death was an accident?"
"That does seem peculiar. Perhaps they suspect foul play.” Foul play? Now I sounded like a character straight out of an Agatha Christie novel.
Carol wrapped the blood pressure gauge around my right arm and pumped away like she was pumping for oil. “You know, I thought it was kinda odd myself."
She hesitated then leaned closer. “Plus those articles in the paper. Do you think he coulda been...” She pumped harder until I thought my arm would explode. “Murdered?"
"Uh, Carol.” I winced and pointed at my arm.
"Oh, sorry. Guess I got a mite distracted.” She let the air out of the gauge, looked at the reading and seemed satisfied with the results as she marked them down on my chart.
"I'd better tell Dr. Radovich you're ready to see him.” She picked up my file and walked to the door.
I hated to let her go now that she had begun opening up. “Carol, I'm sure it was murder."
Her dark eyes widened until they were almost double in size. “What makes you think that?” she asked, her hand resting on the polished doorknob.
"I got that impression from the detective who interviewed me. He questioned me about someone that Jeremy knew, a CPA named Garrett Lindstrom. Is that the name of the accountant for this office?"
"Oh, I wouldn't know about any of that financial stuff. Dr. Slater handled all the bookkeeping. I sure don't remember a patient by that name."
The door burst open and a middle-aged man dressed in a white coat entered. Astute amateur detective that I am, I took a wild guess this was Dr. Radovich.
"Carol, is there a problem? This is my last patient before I can leave for lunch.” He grabbed my chart from her hand.
"Sorry, Doctor, I was just coming to get you,” she apologized and bustled out of the room.
The doctor paused to look at my medical history before he turned to me. “So Ms. McKay, what seems to be the problem with your leg? You indicated it's difficult to put any weight on it. How did you injure it?"
I considered the question. If I told him the entire story he definitely would not have time for lunch. An abbreviated version might be in both of our interests. “My cat got loose and I tripped over her. My right knee keeps buckling when I try to get up. Last night there was some swelling although it seems to have gone down today."
I rolled my black sweat pant up over my knee to give him a better view of said injury. He sniffed then squeezed my knee. Hard. I yelped but at least I didn't scream. I am a total wimp when it comes to pain, especially my own.
"There doesn't seem to be anything seriously wrong with it. You have a little swelling but it's likely that it's merely strained. I don't think you've torn an ACL or the meniscus."
That was a good thing because I had absolutely no idea what an ABC or a missus was. A sprain or a strain I could deal with.
"Ice it every few hours, keep your physical activity to a minimum for the next couple of weeks and you'll be up skiing in no time.” Obviously he had never seen me ski—during ski season I spend more time lying spread-eagled in the snow than schussing on my skis.
He shook my hand, indicating the exam was over then walked to the door.
"Dr. Radovich, I have another question,” I blurted out before he could make his exit. He turned back with an irritated look on his face. His dedication to the sick must not extend into his lunch hour.
"When you brought up the subject of skiing it reminded me of Dr. Slater. You see, the last time I saw Jeremy, he mentioned he was buying a vacation home in Lake Tahoe. He seemed concerned about the financing. Do you have any idea what he was talking about?"
A mottled red flush formed at Dr. Radovich's
neck and worked its way up to his matching shaggy red brows. “Ms. McKay, I hardly think Dr. Slater's real estate activities are any business of yours."
Considering I was the only suspect in Dr. Slater's death, I chose to differ with him. I decided to attack from another direction. “I understand you were at a Boys and Girls fundraiser the night Dr. Slater died. Where did they hold it?"
The angry vein pulsing in his temple looked like it was going to explode. I shrank back as his menacing form approached the table. “I think you'd better leave now.” He snatched my file and strode out of the office without a backwards look.
I caught a glimpse of the back of his head. A bald spot. And he was about the same height as the man I saw along the river the night Jeremy was murdered. If this was an episode of Law and Order I'd say that was a very peculiar response to some innocent questions.
I liked him as a suspect. Now all I needed was a motive.
[Back to Table of Contents]
SIXTEEN
I waited a full minute before jumping off the examining table. Purse in hand, I stepped into the corridor, cautious as I approached the reception area. Both nurses seemed enraptured by a magazine Liz had spread open on the front counter. By the time we left the office, my pal would undoubtedly have arranged a spa day for at least one of them.
Since both women were occupied, it seemed like a perfect opportunity to examine Jeremy's office. I scooted past the doorway to the reception area and race limped to the end of the hallway. One door was closed. Probably Radovich's office. He seemed the secretive type.
Across the hall was an office furnished with a large polished mahogany desk and a navy blue leather executive chair. My head swiveled back toward the reception area. The coast was still clear.
Bookshelves lined with leather tomes covered two walls. Diplomas and licenses hung on the third wall. I remembered that Jeremy received his BS at the University of California at Davis, one of many things we had in common. I graduated from UCD a couple of years after him with a completely useless degree in history. His diploma from medical school hung on the wall. Stanford. Impressive. But not helpful.