“Mattie? It’s Desi. I’m at the hospital.”
“Hospital?” I echo, feeling an instant twinge of worry. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. It’s Da . . . Cedric.”
Desi’s hesitation on the appropriate term to use says everything about the state of our relationship with the man, our father. “Is he okay?” I ask, realizing I’m hoping to hear he is. I’ve been trying hard to convince myself that I have no feelings for him ever since he popped back into my life. But it’s complicated. I grew up thinking he’d abandoned my mother and me when I was a toddler. He did, but for reasons I never understood until recently. I also grew up thinking that Desi was my half sister, when it turns out my father is also her biological father, though until recently he was as clueless in that regard as we were. The deceptions came from both of my parents for reasons, I’m sure, they felt made sense at the time, but now Desi and I are left to try and sort it out and deal with it. And I’m struggling.
Desi has adapted quicker and better than I have. She is a kind and forgiving soul—though you couldn’t have proven it by me when we were kids and she was my primary torturer—whereas I have an amazing ability to distance myself from things that make me uncomfortable. In the past, Maggie has helped me to see that this trait isn’t always a healthy one, so I’ve been trying to do better. Though it seems the current state of my marriage might suggest otherwise.
“What happened?” I ask Desi.
“He was at our house helping me carry out some boxes of stuff to my car, which I had packed up for Goodwill, when he developed chest pain suddenly. We called an ambulance and he’s here in the ER now. They said both his EKG and some enzyme test they did on his blood were negative, but they want to keep him overnight to repeat those tests and then do something to stress him in the morning. I don’t know what all that means, but it doesn’t sound good. That’s why I’m calling you.”
“They’re talking about a stress test,” I explain. “It’s a normal part of the process in determining if his heart is okay, assuming the lab and EKG tests continue to be negative. Let me hand Matthew off to Hurley and I’ll be there quick as I can, okay?”
“Okay. Thanks.”
I disconnect the call and take Matthew by the hand, leading him upstairs. Hurley is in the home office, seated at the desk, working on the laptop computer. He closes the computer as soon as I walk in, an action that rouses my suspicions, but I don’t have time to fret over it now.
“I need to go out,” I say.
“Why? You’re not on call,” he says with a hint of irritation.
“I know, but Desi just phoned me from the hospital and my father is up there after developing chest pain. So far, things look okay, but Desi really wants me there.”
He arches his brows at me. “What’s with this sudden concern for your father? Just a few days ago, you were saying you didn’t know if you wanted him in your life, that he complicated things too much.” His tone is provocative, taunting, and unexpected. It’s not like Hurley to challenge me this way.
I stare at him, wondering what happened to the man I married. This behavior is so unlike him that it scares me. I don’t know what to do or say about it and there is nothing I can do now anyway. Not only do I need to leave, Matthew is at my side, listening to our conversation, and studying the two of us intently. I can tell he has sensed the undercurrents. Not wanting to escalate things in front of him, I simply say, “Matthew hasn’t had dinner yet. I’ll be back as soon as I can, but if you need to go out for some reason, call me.”
With that, I turn and leave, not giving him a chance to object. I’m angry, but I push it aside and try to shift my focus to Desi and my father. I drive to the hospital in my hearse, checking my rearview mirror regularly. There are headlights that fall in behind me a short way from my house, but it hangs back, and I can’t see the car well enough to tell what kind of vehicle it is. When I pull into the hospital parking lot and it doesn’t, I dismiss it from my mind.
I cruise through the hospital lobby on my way to the ER, passing by the gift shop. Knowing that the upcoming visit will be somewhat awkward, I stop and backtrack, peering through the glass walls at the merchandise inside, thinking I might dash in and get a little something to use as a distraction. And then I see something that takes my breath away.
CHAPTER 26
I stand outside the gift shop, gaping, my mind whirling as I take the realization that just slammed into my brain and expand on it. An older woman, one of the hospital volunteers who works the shop, sees me and smiles. I enter and head straight for the refrigerated floral display.
“Can I help you?” the volunteer asks in a pleasant voice. “Are you looking for an arrangement for someone?”
“Do you work here often?” I glance at her and see her name tag reads: DOTTIE.
“Three days every week,” Dottie says proudly.
I survey the floral arrangements currently on display. Three of them have carnations in them, one with white ones, the other two with yellow. “Do you put a lot of carnations in your arrangements?”
“Oh, we don’t do the arrangements. They come prearranged. But now that you mention it, they do tend to use a lot of carnations, probably because they last a long time.”
“What color do you see most often?”
“White,” she says without hesitation. “But pink, blue, and yellow run a close second. Of course there are some seasonal variations. And the blue ones are dyed. The pink and blue ones are popular for baby gifts.”
I stare at the arrangements, my brain whirring madly.
“Does one of these arrangements meet your needs?” Dottie asks.
“No. Sorry to keep you. Thanks for the information.” I leave a perplexed and disappointed Dottie behind, and start to head for the ER, but then a thought hits me and I take a detour toward the elevators.
I ride up to the third floor, a general medical surgical floor that cares for a variety of patients, and make my way to the nurses’ station, peering into patient rooms I pass along the way. Several of the rooms have flower displays sitting on the windowsills, one of them with carnations in it. At the nurses’ desk, I see Terry Bishop, a nurse I’ve known for years.
“Hey, Terry, how are you?” I say, a big smile on my face.
“Well, I’ll be. Mattie Winston. I’m just fine. How the heck are you?”
“Good as can be expected.”
“What are you doing up here? Do you have a family member in the hospital?”
“Not up here, though I might before the night is through. My father is in the ER right now with chest pain. I think they’re going to admit him for serial troponins and a stress test in the morning.”
“Your father?” Terry says, brow furrowing. “I thought your father was a mystery man.”
“He was for most of my life, but we met recently. Lots of interesting family secrets.”
“I’ll bet,” Terry says, leaning closer. No doubt she’s hoping I’ll spill the beans and give her some good gossip she can then use to elevate her social status. I’m going to disappoint her, but if my father does end up on this floor, I expect Terry will do her best to get what she can out of him and share what she can without violating the HIPAA laws. It may be harder than she thinks. My father spent a good amount of time in the Witness Protection Program, and while he left it voluntarily, he’s still pretty good at hiding secrets and keeping things to himself.
“I have a question,” I say to her, and she doesn’t even try to hide her disappointment. “Do a lot of patients who are admitted to the hospital get flowers?”
“Oh, sure. It’s a common gift.”
“And do most of them take the arrangements home with them?”
“Most do, I suppose,” Terry says with a shrug. “It depends on how much they like the arrangement and how old the flowers are. If they’ve started to wilt, they’ll often leave them behind.”
“And then what happens to them?” I ask. “Do they get thrown away?”
“It depends.
Occasionally we’ll pick out the flowers that are wilted and keep the ones that are still good and put them out here at the nurses’ station for a little morale booster. But a lot of the time, they get tossed.”
“Good to know. Thanks, Terry.”
She gives me a bemused look and says, “You’re welcome?” Her tone makes it sound like a question.
I leave and once again head for the ER, but my thoughts are racing. I stop in the hallway outside the entrance to the waiting room to call Hurley. Once again, he doesn’t answer, which irritates me, so I don’t leave a message. I think a moment and then look up the nonemergency phone number for the Eau Claire Police Department.
A chipper female voice answers.
“Hello, my name is Mattie Winston and I really need to get in touch with Detective Stetson. It’s urgent.”
I don’t expect anything more than a transfer to his voice mail; but to my surprise, the woman says, “Hold on and I’ll put you through to him.”
The hold time feels like forever, but finally I hear a ring and after the second one, Stetson answers. “Ms. Winston? Our dispatcher said you have an urgent matter?”
“I do. I had a brainstorm I wanted to share with you.”
“Is this about the Ulrich case?” he asks in a tired voice.
“Yes, but please hear me out.” I know he’s going to be closed to any suggestions that someone other than Ulrich committed the murders, at least initially, so I decide to approach things from that angle for starters. “You said the flower petal evidence didn’t come out during the trial because you couldn’t connect the flowers to Ulrich. But did he have a connection of any sort to the hospital?” There is a long pause, long enough that I think the call might have dropped. “Detective?”
“I’m thinking,” he says. “I’m not aware of any connections, but I’d have to look into it. Why?”
“Carnations are frequently used in flower arrangements used for hospital deliveries. I’m at the hospital here in Sorenson right now, and I just talked to someone in the gift shop who said that carnations are frequently used in the arrangements they sell there, and the yellow ones are common. That means anyone working in or even visiting a hospital regularly would have access to them without ever having to order them. They wouldn’t even have to buy them. They could remove them from arrangements in patient rooms, or in the trash even. Heck, there might be flowers in the Dumpsters that are still good, since carnations tend to last longer than some other flowers.”
“Interesting idea,” Stetson says. “I’ll have to look into it.”
“While you’re looking into it, would you consider looking into Todd Oliver as well?”
“Todd Oliver? The morgue assistant?”
“Yes.”
“Why would I look into him?”
“If Ulrich isn’t guilty”—I hear Stetson let out a sigh and I talk faster—“I know you don’t want to go there, but please indulge me for a moment. Let’s assume he isn’t guilty. Who else makes a likely suspect? Todd Oliver.”
There is a long silence and I start to think Stetson has hung up on me. But then he says, “Fine. Why would Todd Oliver be a suspect?”
“Well, he has easy and ready access to the hospital, and he came to Eau Claire around the time the killings started. He told me that he had a girlfriend in Milwaukee and things with her didn’t end well. I don’t know what she looks like, but it would be worth checking to see if she was tall, blond, and blue-eyed. He also knew about the flower petals, not just that they were present, but the symbolism behind them. He was able to monitor the investigation you did up there, and he could have easily set up Ulrich. Plus, he has inserted himself into our investigation down here.”
“What do you mean he’s ‘inserted himself’ in your investigation?”
“He’s here,” I tell him. “Or at least he was. He showed up here yesterday and came to my office, asking to help. We let him review the evidence as a professional courtesy.”
“Do you know where he is now?”
“No, but I can find out.” Then I remember something. “Wait, I might know where he is, because he booked a room at the Sorenson Motel for two nights, last night and tonight. I don’t know how much time he spent in our office today. I’d have to check with my coworker, because I spent the day in your town, as you well know.”
“Hunh,” Stetson says.
“It might be a long shot, but don’t you think it’s worth checking?” I say.
“I’ll look into it, Ms. Winston. Thanks.”
I start to ask him if he’ll let me know what he finds out, when I realize I’m talking to dead air. Stetson has hung up on me.
My next call is to Christopher, who answers after three rings and in a breathless manner. “Christopher . . . puff . . . Malone . . . puff.”
“Chris, it’s Mattie. Did I catch you at a bad time?” Before he can answer, I hear a familiar female voice in the background: Brenda Joiner. And I have a good idea what I just interrupted.
“No problem, Mattie,” he puffs, recovering quickly. “What’s up?” There are some grunting noises from Christopher, and some rustling sounds. I feel my face grow red with the images filling my brain. Then I hear a loud, long fart and Brenda’s muffled giggle in the background.
“How long was Todd Oliver in the office today? Did he say anything about the case? And do you know what he did while he was there?” I fire the questions at him, eager to end this call.
“He didn’t stay long at all. I think he took off, right after you did. He didn’t say where he was going, just that he wanted to investigate some things outside the office. Why?”
“Nothing major,” I lie. “There was something I wanted to ask him and he’s not answering his phone. Sorry to bother you. Have a good night.” With that, I hang up and let him and Brenda get back to whatever fun shenanigans they’d been up to when I called.
For a moment, I can’t decide what to do, or where to go next, but when my phone buzzes and I see a text message from my sister, the decision is made for me. I enter the ER waiting area and check in with one of the registrars, who then buzzes me through to the back. Before going to my father’s bedside, I scan the staff members on duty, searching for a familiar face. It’s been almost ten years since I left my job here in the ER and many of the folks I used to work with have since moved on. There is a high level of burnout among ER staff. Fortunately, I recognize one face, Mitchell Hough, sitting behind a computer at the nurses’ desk.
“Hey, Mitch,” I say, walking up to him.
He smiles when he sees me, but then looks confused. “Did we have a death I don’t know about?”
“No, I’m not here on official duty. My father is a patient here. Cedric Novak?”
“Your father?” he says, his confusion growing. Mitch knew enough about me back in the day to know my family history.
“Yep, it’s a long story,” I say with a tired smile, hoping he’ll let it go at that. “Can you tell me how he’s doing?”
Mitch shifts awkwardly and looks uncomfortable. “Given your, um, relationship, or lack thereof, I need to ask him if it’s okay first.”
“Of course,” I say with a sigh.
Today’s HIPAA laws make it doubly difficult to get information that at one time was easily obtained. My feelings on this are mixed. In some ways, I think it’s a good thing. There are complicated relationships where a patient might not want a close family member to know anything at all about their physical condition. They might not even want anyone to know they’re in the hospital. And many people don’t want their friends, coworkers, or employer knowing they are ill or in the hospital, particularly if it’s for a condition or treatment they consider embarrassing. It does protect people’s privacy to a degree. Unfortunately, in situations like mine, it can also put the staff and occasionally the patient in awkward positions.
“I didn’t mean to put you on the spot, Mitch. Do you have time to come with me to his room, so we can ask him if it’s okay for you to update me?”
“Sure,” he says, looking relieved.
He leads me to my father’s room, and when we enter, I find Desi sitting in a chair at the bedside. My father, a tall, large man with dark hair he wears in a comb-over, is sitting in the bed, looking as healthy as his naturally pale complexion will allow.
“Mattie!” he says happily, breaking into a smile.
“Mattie,” my sister says at the same time, though hers comes out more like a sigh of relief. She hops up and hurries over to give me a hug.
“Hi, Cedric,” I say, and I see Mitch shoot a curious glance my way. “I asked Mitchell if he could give me an update on what’s going on with you, but we need your permission for him to do that. Do you mind if the staff here talk about what’s going on with you in front of me, or with me?”
“Hell no,” Cedric says. “I not only don’t mind, I welcome it.” He looks over at Mitch. “My daughter Mattie is one sharp lady and she knows her stuff. Anything you guys want to do with me or to me, you run it by her first.”
“Good enough,” Mitch says. He looks at me. “Should I do it here in the room?”
I shrug and nod.
“Okay, then, here’s the scoop.” Mitch switches into his professional mode. “He came in with substernal chest pain, rated six out of ten, onset with activity, no shortness of breath, no diaphoresis, but some radiation into the left arm. His initial EKG and troponin level were okay, and the pain subsided with the administration of four baby aspirin and one nitro. Since his symptoms were apparently brought on during an episode of physical exertion and alleviated with nitro, the cardiologist recommended admitting him for serial enzymes and a stress test to make sure his pain isn’t heart related. We’re waiting on the results of his second troponin now and his repeat EKG was unchanged. He has a small bundle branch block, but otherwise his EKG is normal. He’s being admitted upstairs to the fourth floor, and as soon as I can get a bed assignment, we’ll get him up there.”
“Sounds good. Thanks, Mitch.”
Mitch nods and leaves the room.
“What does all that mean?” Desi asks, looking worried. “What’s that ‘tree branch’ thing in his EKG? Is that something to worry about?”
Dead Ringer Page 26