I remembered my former commanding officer too well. His continuous insinuations about ‘my kind’ were a large reason why I had left the Department.
“C’mon, Jess. Mrs. Calder could be innocent.”
“Or guilty. Those crystal clinkers have impure thoughts just like us earthbound types. Call the coroner.”
Click.
Damn.
* * * *
Sophia was wearing a lavender fedora when I picked her up.
“What’s this?”
She smiled mysteriously. “I decided to accessorize. Let’s go to lunch, and I’ll tell you what I detected.”
“What you detected?”
We ate at Richmond Hill on a patio overlooking the French Broad River. The twitter of birds and tourists faded into background music for my admiration of Sophia’s small chin, the delicate notch at the base of her throat, and her tiny adorable ears.
I was startled when my paragon said, “Ananda was definitely having an affair.”
“What?”
“Ananda was having an affair with Jim Bearcat. I told you I’d help. Yukio hears all sorts of things when she’s working with people.”
“Why didn’t you include me in that interview?”
She moved closer. I didn’t know eucalyptus could smell so sexy.
“Well, Lana, I really don’t look that attractive with needles stuck in me. Besides, she wouldn’t have talked in front of a stranger.”
She wanted to be attractive for me. Yippee!
* * * *
Before we headed for Bearcat’s place, I tried the coroner’s office and got a recording. We left Asheville on Hendersonville Road, passing small strip malls, barbecue eateries, and used car lots.
When we arrived, we were in the middle of nowhere. I wasn’t even certain we were still in Buncombe County. The ‘shop’ was a refurbished trailer with a rich man’s view of the mountains. A small sign at the mailbox advertised healing herbs.
With a name like Bearcat, I’d expected a Native American. Instead, a small man with thinning blond hair greeted us at the door. He recognized Sophia, and was delighted to hear I was helping Amanda. He shoved a pair of cats off the sofa and offered us a seat. Racks of smudge sticks, incense, and small plastic bags filled with capsules faced us. A bookcase housing jars of dried plant shreds sloped against the back wall.
I indicated the racks. “Tell me about these capsules you sell. ‘Heart Health,’ ‘Spring Tonic,’ “Detoxifying,’ and so on.”
“Everyone wants to know about them now, and not in a good way. There’s nothing much to tell, though. None of these herbs are harmful.”
“Maybe not, but anyone could reopen one of those capsules.”
“Yeah, I know. I keep hearing that.” He rubbed his chin. “Now the paper says they want to make the sale of homemade capsules illegal.”
“You know how it is. Someone dies from something, they make it illegal.”
“Don’t kid yourself. They want to get rid of us, Miss Fisher. The herbalists, the Pagans, the crystal healers. The residents of La-La Land.”
“Who are ‘they?’”
“Folks like the ones at Lake Junaluska and Woodridge. The religious establishment.”
I had no dog in that fight. “Then it’s in your best interest to help me. I hear that you and Amanda had a shared interest in more than herbs. Is that true?”
“Ananda is a beautiful woman. Lots of people would like to put her together with me because she visited often.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s all you’re going to get, same as the police. If I say yes, then they claim motive. If I say no, they assume I’m lying, and claim motive anyway.”
Smart man. “Did you make up something special for Henry Calder?”
“I sold her my standard detoxifying preparation. She thought it might help his constipation.”
He and Sophia both snickered; I forged on. “Did she take any of them herself?”
“No, she preferred ‘Menopause Mollifier.’” With a grin, he added, “I suppose I’m breaking herbalist-client confidentiality.”
Sophia broke in. “What if the capsules were mistaken for one another?”
“Guess he would get in touch with his inner woman. The capsules are different, though.” He indicated the column of empty capsules. “I do the Detoxifier in size 000, the Mollifier in 00.”
* * * *
My phone chirped on the drive back.
“Fisher.”
“This is Bob Levin. I got your message.”
“Hang on.” I took the Holiday exit and pulled into a parking lot. “Thank you for returning my call. I know you’re busy.”
“Thank Jess Davenport. He called me at home. I understand you’re interested in the cause of death. I will warn you that they haven’t finished the full tox screen yet. That can take a while.”
I silently blessed my old partner. “Yes. How did they conclude it was poison?”
“There were pills inside the capsules. They’d started to dissolve, but they resembled the digoxin your client’s husband was already taking. An overdose would definitely explain the death.”
Pills. I thanked him and put the phone away. So anyone could have done it, even the night nurse. I needed to learn more about the Calder family, and not from Amanda’s current clientele.
I turned to Sophia, who obviously expected an update. “The garden and the herbs were distractions. Can you give me the names of some of Amanda’s older friends?”
* * * *
Cornelia Platts volunteered at the Mountain Arts Center and was one of Amanda’s bridge partners. “Or at least I was, until she started inhaling too much incense.”
I was doing this interview alone, over Sophia’s objections. I didn’t think she’d mix well with the blue hairs. “So you hadn’t seen her recently?”
“Oh, we still serve on a few committees together. She’s a part of the arts scene, even if she doesn’t sell landscapes anymore.”
“Landscapes?” I couldn’t imagine ‘Ananda Calling’ doing anything that pedestrian.
“Amanda always wanted to support local artists, provide a venue for their work. One day, she came into the Center, all atwitter. She’d gone to a show in Hendersonville with her crazy neighbor and saw all the New Age ‘art.’” I could hear the quote marks. “She said it was a new style, like Cubism. Next thing I knew, she’d reinvented the store. Herself, too. You can’t talk to her nowadays without wondering what’s in those capsules she takes.”
I ignored the ‘crazy neighbor’ remark. “When was the last time you heard from her? Or from Mr. Calder?”
“About two weeks ago, both of them. First he called, wanting to know about the place I’d put Mother when she got sick. It sounded like his dad was having problems. Is PawPaw still at home?”
“Yes, he’s still there.”
One withered cheek quivered as she smiled. “Amanda must have won that one. She called me the next day, telling me not to encourage Henry.”
“Mr. Calder was looking into assisted living for his father, then?”
“Something more than that. They’d hired a nurse, but Henry was concerned that he might need more care.”
* * * *
When I returned to my suite in the Rhododendron Shopping Center, I closed my office door to block out young Ava’s gurgling and rebooted my laptop. Time to review my notes and do some heavy thinking, not something I could easily do near Sophia.
PawPaw had been headed to a nursing home before the murder, whether he knew it or not. But why? As far as I could tell, the Calders had enough money to hire full-time nursing if the old man needed it.
The thought brought back bad memories. When my grandmother got too feeble—and addled—to live without a keeper, we didn’t have as many choices. My parents and I tried sleeping in shifts, but somehow Gran managed to get out of eyeshot and fall down, put food on the stove to burn, or leave the tap running to flood the bathroom. After several argumen
ts, we surrendered and put her in senior care. I would never forget the smell, the sounds—disoriented old people shrieking—or the warehoused patients, waiting for Death to drop in along with the relatives.
PawPaw wasn’t nearly that bad off, though. I could understand the night nurse, but why round-the-clock care? Maybe something else was going on. Mrs. Platts said Calder had never taken an interest in his father’s upkeep. Perhaps his sudden change of heart was due to another change . . . of address.
* * * *
When I returned to the Calder house, a fellow about my age opened the door.
“You must be the grandson,” I said. His face was grooved with the same lines I had noticed in Amanda’s face. The resemblance would be even greater in another decade.
“Ted. And you are . . .”
“Lana Fisher. Your mother hired me to—”
“Come in!” He stepped back from the door. “PawPaw was telling me about you. Did you learn anything yet?”
“A few things. May I speak to PawPaw? Privately, if possible?”
* * * *
The old man was in a wheelchair. He must be having more trouble today. I sat on an antique love seat and faced him.
“I finally figured it out. Your daughter-in-law didn’t kill your son. She planned to divorce him. She was keeping the house, since it was hers to begin with. Jim Bearcat would have been hers and the store would be hers. The only thing she would no longer have would be you.”
The old man shifted in the chair and turned his bad ear towards me. I leaned closer and raised my voice, although I was certain he heard me quite clearly.
“Mrs. Calder hired you a night nurse, but your son thought that was too expensive. Especially since you would soon be entirely his responsibility. I spoke to her friends at the craft center. Henry asked about recommendations for your relocation. You knew that, didn’t you?”
“Relocation is one way of putting it.” PawPaw didn’t look me in the face. “Nursing home.”
“With him dead, you knew you could live here until the end of your natural life. Even in jail, she worried about your welfare.” I thought of my grandmother, restrained in that aluminum bed, and sighed. “Some things are worth risking prison for, aren’t they?”
I got a flash of denture. “You know, even if Amanda is into that New Age stuff, she’s more old fashioned than Henry. She knew it was wrong to treat your parents like that. Not if you have a choice. They thought I couldn’t hear them, but I hear real well when it’s about me.”
“You were fine until they told you they were getting divorced. You probably hated Jim Bearcat for that. Was that why you used the capsules? So the blame would fall on him?”
“Oh, I don’t blame him for the divorce. It was me they argued about the most.” His hand trembled, and he stilled it with the other one. “The doc says I might be getting Parkinson’s. Henry wasn’t going to hire no full-time nurse, he was going to put me away. I took those capsules and opened them up while I still could. Damned if my heart pills weren’t a custom fit. I never thought they’d blame her. I am sorry for that.”
His story sounded right, but that didn’t mean it was true. Amanda had clearly been on PawPaw’s side, and the old man could be agreeing with me to save her. “Weren’t you afraid she might accidentally take the pills instead?”
“No, she kept those herbal thingies separate. Beside, the capsules were different sizes.”
Good enough for me. “Mr. Calder, you know I have to tell the police. It would really be best if you told them yourself, though. I’m sorry.”
“I am too, but I’m not sorry I did it, Missy. I hoped they’d think it was a heart attack. I was his age when I had my first. But prison or a nursing home, it won’t make much difference to me. Not for very long. If I need to talk to the police, though, you’d better take me to the jail. I’m too old to make any more stops than I need to.”
* * * *
After I took PawPaw downtown, with a bewildered Ted following me in his own car, I had to break the news to my client. I brought Sophia in case Mrs. Calder needed support. When I told the story, though, Sophia was the one to cry.
“That poor man,” she said. “So afraid he’d be put away.”
Amanda was more practical. “What happens now? What will they do to him?”
“Your attorney would know better than me. His illness may be a consideration.”
“You think that he wasn’t himself anymore? Dementia, perhaps?”
“No, I think he knew exactly what he was doing.”
* * * *
I’d hoped to speak to Sophia after the case was over, suggest that we get to know one another better, but the situation made that grossly inappropriate. I thought about calling her several times during the next week, but was afraid to punch in her number (which, I confess, I had optimistically put on speed dial). Maybe Sophia had some psychic sensitivity after all, though. She called me.
“Hello,” she sang into the phone, as if nothing had happened. “How are you?”
“Um . . . I’m fine. And you?”
“I was thinking . . . Ananda paid your expenses, but I’m the one that really engaged you. And I didn’t pay anything.”
“Consider the lunch your payment.”
“Still, I thought I should do something . . . so, I was wondering. How would you feel about sitting for a portrait?”
“A . . . portrait?”
“Yes. I think you have a really nice aura. I’d love to capture it on canvas. Perhaps we could discuss the best approach . . . over dinner?”
My faith in her perceptions immediately took an upturn. “Sure.”
__________
Sarah E. Glenn was born in Asheville, North Carolina, and her family has deep roots there. She now lives in Lexington, Kentucky, where she has befriended ducks of lower income. Information on her first novel, All This and Family, Too, can be found at sarahglenn.com.
THE SHADOW OF THE RIVER, by Gigi Pandian
I arrived ten minutes early outside the office of Dr. Omar Khan, professor of history at the university. That’s when everything started to go wrong.
My knock was greeted with silence. That surprised me. In spite of my early arrival, I had been confident Omar would be there.
I knocked again.
“Omar? It’s Tarek. I’m here for our appointment.”
A faint groan sounded from behind the door.
“Omar?”
I hadn’t imagined that sound.
Omar was getting on in years. I knew he took medication for his heart. He’d made a big discovery earlier this week. An ancient map depicting three sacred rivers in India. It was a huge find. Could the excitement have been too much for him?
I tried the door handle. Locked.
Calling out again, I pressed my ear to the door. Nothing. But I was sure of what I’d heard.
I ran down the hallway. Skidding to a stop, I pounded on the door of the corner office. It gave way, swinging open to reveal Dr. Lydia Reynolds, Chair of the History Department. She looked up from her desk.
“Tarek, what on earth—”
“Do you have keys to the department offices?” I asked. “I think Omar is having a heart attack.”
Lydia sprang up from her chair. “No. With those manuscripts of his, only the campus police have keys.”
“But—”
“I know.” Lydia rushed past. “There’s no time.” She disappeared into the office next to hers.
Lydia emerged from the office moments later with a young professor, Bradley Atkins, who was new to the department. Lydia’s gray hair bounced as she trotted down the hall with her colleague jogging after her—all 6-and-a-half feet and 250 pounds of him. Watching his sturdy frame, I realized what Lydia had in mind. I sprinted after them.
“You sure?” Bradley said to her, stopping in front of Omar’s office.
“You’re certain what you heard?” Lydia asked, turning to me.
“Positive.” I hoped.
“I ta
ke full responsibility,” Lydia said.
Bradley shrugged helplessly, which under other circumstances would have been amusing coming from a man who looked more like a linebacker than a history professor. He breathed deeply, and then took a few steps back from the door. He ran towards it, lifting his foot just in time to make contact with the edge of the door. A loud thwack echoed down the hallway. The door didn’t budge.
At the noise, several heads poked out of doorways. One was that of my friend Jaya Jones.
Bradley hurried several paces further back, allowing for a bigger running start. This time the door splintered. He faltered, almost falling onto his hefty back, which would surely have broken several bones of whomever he landed on. Based on my location, they would probably have been mine.
Luckily for me, a stocky professor who’d emerged from one of the offices steadied Bradley. With one more heave, the two of them together broke down the door and spilled inside the office. The other man landed on the floor at Omar’s feet.
Jaya and Lydia stood at my side, but as soon as the door was broken open, the three of us rushed inside. We stopped just inside the doorway.
Omar lay on the floor of his office. But the problem wasn’t his heart. A large patch of blood covered his thinning hair. His large green eyes stared up at the ceiling, unmoving. There was no life left in Omar Khan.
A thick wooden figure lay next to the floor next to his body.
The statue of a smiling Buddha.
A shrill voice screamed. A deep one did, too. Somebody shouted about calling 911. It might have been me, but I honestly can’t quite recall.
Jaya squeezed my hand.
“I thought he’d had a heart attack,” I said. “I heard him cry out. That’s why we needed to get in.”
“Wait,” Jaya said. “He doesn’t look like he could have—”
“What’s all this?”
I started at the deep voice next to my ear. Jaya jumped a little as well. She relaxed when she saw the man in the tweed jacket.
Fish Tales: The Guppy Anthology Page 10