“Humph.” Cheryl gave her a thunderous look.
Jane glanced between her two friends and went on. “This is the most important part. What I wanted to talk to you about. He actually called the coroner here in Limerick and talked to him about Alsander’s case. He included the doctor’s address, if we want to go see him and ask questions. My contact’s paved the way for us.”
“Let’s go.” Cheryl’s voice held a command. She dropped her muffin onto her plate.
Jane shoved her tablet computer into her tote bag. “The doctor’s office might not be open yet. It’s still early.”
“Let’s find out. We should get a taxi.” Olivia deposited the last bite of her muffin into her mouth then wiped away the crumbs. Cheryl left hers half eaten on the table. When they exited the shop, out of the corner of her eye, Jane noted Mairéid ordering a drink at the counter. She wanted to pull her aside and question her, but she and her two friends were off on a mission.
****
They found the medical office—an urgent care center of the twenty-four-hour variety—and explained their business to the receptionist. She stepped through an interior door and returned, saying, “The doctor just got in. He needs a few minutes.”
They sat in the waiting room chairs. Cheryl examined her fingernails, Jane crossed her legs, bobbing her foot up and down, and Olivia ripped through a magazine. The place smelled like rubbing alcohol and antiseptics, and soft, bland music played. Minutes passed. Then the receptionist told them, “The doctor’s ready for you now,” and led them through to a hallway and an office the third door down, where the doctor sat behind an L-shaped, cherry wood desk.
Horn rimmed glasses magnified his eyes under bushy eyebrows. The hospital green scrubs and the stethoscope draped around his neck made him look like he’d stepped from an operating room. He spoke. “I’ve heard from your doctor in Colorado.”
Jane and Cheryl slipped into the two chairs in front of the desk. Olivia dragged one over from the other side of the room. All three sat at attention, listening to his unhurried, sing-song, Irish voice, as he said, “So, you’re interested in excited delirium—”
“Mr. O’Doherty’s cause of death,” Jane interrupted him.
“That’s right.” He took a long, deep breath before continuing. “I received some medical articles on the subject just last month.” Another long breath. “Mr. O’Doherty’s symptoms, as described in the police report, were classic for the syndrome.” He adjusted his glasses.
“They were? Can you tell us about the condition?” Jane chewed on a cuticle. Loud, quick footsteps clattered along the hallway on the other side of the closed office door.
The doctor provided a textbook discourse in a slow and deliberate manner, corroborating what she already knew. Finally, he concluded by saying, “It’s a rare condition, but it does explain everything.”
Cheryl said, with a slight note of reproach, “If that’s so, why are the police still asking so many questions?”
The doctor ran a finger around the neck of his green scrubs. “Mental illness can be an uncertain diagnosis.”
“Okay, and…” Jane pushed for an answer, anxious to hear something new.
“Drugs affect thermal regulation of the body. Medications can elevate the body temperature, giving the appearance of excited delirium. So, certain drugs may cause an episode that can be mistaken for the condition.” He let that sink in before continuing, “The police asked me a lot of questions about excessive force, as well.”
“What do you mean?” Cheryl lobbed a look over to Jane and Olivia, worry in her eyes.
“I told them additional physical effort was likely necessary to subdue Mr. O’Doherty, if he was indeed exhibiting the signs described in the police report.” He gave them a pointed look. “It’s lucky I’d read up on the subject recently.”
“I see.” Jane leaned back in her seat, then Cheryl and Olivia reclined in theirs, too. “Is that why the police haven’t arrested anyone? Because the force used was necessary?”
“That’s my opinion. However, the police are looking more closely into the circumstances of his death because a questionable substance was detected in his blood.”
“What was found?” Jane edged forward again. Real information at last.
“A narcotic. I’m not certain if the police have made the information public, so I can’t tell you more about it.”
She slouched backward once more. Shot down again.
He inhaled with a long, drawn-out intake of air. “And you aren’t the first ones to ask me about excited delirium.”
So-o-o, Jane wasn’t the only nosy person in town. “Who else asked?”
“Both Mairéid O’Doherty and Sean Smithwicket. This, of course, was after Mr. O’Doherty’s death. They wouldn’t have known of the condition before then.”
Jane looked upon the doctor, as her suspicions of Mairéid and Sean flitted across her brain. “Why’d Sean ask you about it?”
“He wanted to know if Mr. O’Doherty died of natural causes, same as you.” The doctor ran his hands over his stethoscope.
Jane shivered because the office was cold, as all examination rooms were. “What did you tell him?”
“We talked about stress deaths, which is what this was.”
Olivia raked her chair forward. “How’s he involved?”
The doctor scrunched his eyebrows together. “I suppose it’s because he’s always been interested in the castle. You see, his family owned it about a century ago.”
“Yes.” Jane threw up her hands. “I knew it.”
“How’d you know that?” Cheryl tapped her elbow.
“The name on the tombstone in the graveyard, Jane Smithwicket.” Jane crossed her arms. “But, so what? I mean, what does that matter now?”
The doctor quit tugging on his stethoscope. “Everyone around here knows Sean Smithwicket would like to buy back the property.”
They’d found Sean’s motive. An expression of understanding passed between the three women.
“Is there anything else I can help you with?” The doctor moved his chair back.
“No. That’s it. And thank you for talking to us. We appreciate it very much.” Jane stood up, and the others did, too. They walked out the front door onto a busy road, pedestrians skirting around them and cars hurtling along the pavement.
“Did I hear him right? This whole thing can be faked?” Olivia’s eyes were wide with excitement.
Jane directed her friends down the cobbled sidewalk. “Let’s walk as we discuss this.”
“Nothing to discuss.” Cheryl wiped her long bangs off her forehead. “Bruce is in the clear. If anyone faked Alsander’s condition, it wasn’t him.”
Olivia said, “I know it wasn’t Bruce, but what about Ryan? He could’ve done something to the old man’s prescription, causing the elevated temperature and all that other stuff the doctor said.”
“What’s his motive?” Jane asked, wrinkling her nose.
“I don’t know. But he does have a temper,” Olivia pointed out.
“You’re forgetting Ryan’s our cousin.” Cheryl’s voice hit a few high bars. “And he did nothing to the prescription!”
Olivia flapped her hand in dismissal. “I didn’t forget. There are certainly a lot of cousins around. I don’t have any at all, but here, they’re everywhere you look.”
“Ryan doesn’t have a motive.” Cheryl’s face was starting to turn red.
“Sean does.” Jane stopped in her tracks and rested a page from her notes on top of a flat brick windowsill.
“What’s that? What are you writing?” Olivia peeked over her shoulder.
“Sean Smithwicket had a motive. He wants the castle.” Jane’s pencil moved across the page.
Olivia wagged a finger. “It is weird that Sean talked to the coroner.”
“Well, we did, too. Is that suspicious?” Cheryl ran jerky fingers through her chestnut colored hair.
“Don’t worry. I’m going to prove Bruce had nothing to
do with it. He’s above suspicion.” Jane was determined more than ever to get to the bottom of the matter.
Cheryl gave her a terse nod of agreement, and they resumed their long walk back, each in their own thoughts, until Olivia halted in front of a tourist shop that had just opened. “I want to pop in here while we’re at it.” Olivia went inside, and the other two followed her. Fifteen minutes later, the three women emerged with packages under their arms. Olivia tucked her wallet inside her pocketbook. “I’ve got all my gifts covered now. I’m not bothering with this value-added tax, though.”
“I haven’t spent enough to qualify for a tax refund. I’m not bothering either.” Jane had purchased an itty-bitty, ceramic shamrock for her printer’s tray at home where she kept her souvenirs.
Cheryl spied the time on her watch. “We should head back. The guys will be done fishing by now since they left at dawn. Let’s catch a cab.” She watched down the bustling road for a taxi. As the three women stood with their toes to the curb, Mairéid materialized from a side street. Olivia bumped Jane’s arm, and Jane elbowed Cheryl.
Mairéid, looking as witchy as ever in a long, black shawl, ran up to a stranger near a storefront sign, Herbal Blend. They had a quiet conversation, then Mairéid handed him something, and he transferred a little package into her palm. He ducked inside the herb store and Mairéid started to head in their direction, when the cab pulled over.
“What was that all about?” Cheryl asked, jumping into the back seat.
“Drugs. It was drugs.” Jane raised her eyebrows to hover near her hairline as she hopped in next.
“Drugs? Really?” Olivia clambered in last and slammed the door shut.
Jane lost sight of Mairéid as the cab nosed away from the curb. “I wish we could’ve seen exactly what they were doing, though.”
“It sure did look like she was buying drugs. She gave him money and he gave her a little package of something.” Olivia wore a broad smile, like she’d just received one-hundred percent marks in a pop-quiz. Jane told them she’d seen Mairéid up to something similar on the road to Ballysimon, and the three friends continued to discuss the apparent drug deals during the brief taxi ride.
Chapter 12
“What are you planning to do, Jane? You were going to spend the afternoon with Dale, while the rest of us golfed.” Cheryl led the way into the castle.
Crossing the entryway behind the other two, Jane flushed hot at the reminder. Originally she had plans to go to Cong Village with Dale, but once again her plans had been spoiled by his leaving. Cong was quite a distance. Would she venture so far by herself? She managed to say, “I’ll keep busy.”
Just then the men sped down the hall in an animated conversation, voices loud and arms waving. Olivia interrupted them. “How was fishing? Catch anything?”
Doug puffed out his chest. “I caught six trout to Bruce’s four.”
“Well, a couple of mine got away.” Bruce’s face fell, but Doug punched his shoulder and gave him a half hug, the kind men give to each other—a quick squeeze-and-let-go. “It was catch-and-release. We had to throw the fish back in anyway.”
“Was it fly fishing?” Jane asked, glad for the change of subject. “I heard that’s hard.”
“Yes. The guide showed us how to tie some flies.” Doug’s hands held an invisible fishing rod, one fist stationary, the other fist winding an imaginary reel. “As I was saying, spin the bobbin counter-clockwise so it doesn’t come undone. That way the bobbin hangs correctly.”
“I always have Cheryl give my bobbin a spin.” Bruce winked at Doug. “So that it hangs straight.”
Doug brayed out a long laugh. Ignoring the joke, Olivia tugged on her husband’s arm. “We need to change. We tee off at ten o’clock. Even if you don’t want to golf, do you want to come with us and ride in the cart, Jane?”
“Nah. See you all later.” She barely got her answer out before they ran into their rooms.
She went to her suite to drop off her packages. She organized her souvenirs, the sweaters for her daughters-in-law, the knickknacks for herself…then washed out a couple of tops in the sink and hung them over the shower to dry. She freshened up with both a swift teeth and hair brushing. What to do next? She had extra time on her hands…to…do…what…snoop around?
Tiptoeing down the steps and along the first floor hallway, she came to room seven, Alsander’s room—the one she’d gone into by mistake their first night at the castle. She tried the knob on the door and it opened. Glancing around, but not seeing anyone, she entered in.
It was deathly silent. She shuddered at the thought.
The room opened directly into the bedroom, but was larger than Jane remembered, almost the size of a mini apartment. A shut-in, closed-space smell with a hint of citrusy soap permeated the suite.
The bed was neat and tidy with a pair of brown slippers sticking out from under the chenille bedspread. On the other side of the bed were a couch, chair, kitchenette, and then beyond that an open door to a bathroom. She’d check there first. White fingerprint powder clung to the counter near the sink and adhered to the edges of the medicine cabinet. She opened the cupboard with the tips of her fingers and was assaulted with a strong scent of mouthwash. Dusty circles the size of quarters marked the shelves. If any medicine phials were once there, they were long gone. Back in the kitchenette, she found nothing but boxes of bitter-smelling tea and packages of stale potato chips, with “crisps” written on the wrappers.
After returning to the bedroom, she revolved in a circle, taking everything in. Could the room reveal something more about Alsander? Was nosing in a person’s things an invasion of privacy if the person was dead? Stuffing down pangs of conscience, she told herself it wouldn’t matter if she caught his killer.
The bedside table might hold some clues. The top drawer contained sports magazines, and the bottom drawer held a photo album. She flipped through the album to find snapshots of people she did not know, until she came to a picture of Griff and Kate with their arms around each other sitting next to Alsander. All were smiling. All looked happy. Alsander did not appear to be in his grumpy mood.
Sinking into a chair next to the bed, she discovered it rocked, so she swung back and forth for a few minutes. Perhaps the photo album was several years old; it was hard to tell. But Griff and Kate sure looked cozy. You would never know from the picture Alsander had a mental problem. She slid the album back into the drawer and drew out the notes from her purse to read through again…and jot a few more words…including the question, Kate & Griff?
Pounding footsteps echoed from the hall.
The doorknob squeaked as it turned.
The papers flew out of her hands and fanned out on the floor.
Griff stepped inside the room. “What are you doing in here?” A frisson of fear went through her body, as Griff crossed his arms and stood with his legs apart, waiting for her answer.
“I’m sorry. The door wasn’t locked so I came in.” She was sure she had on a guilty expression.
“Oh, were you looking for me?”
“Yes.” She grasped at that straw, holding her breath. Sorrow flitted across his face, and he frowned in a strained, sad way, a frown that spoke of loss, of time wasted, of life ended. “Are you all right, Griff?”
“I am.”
“You sure?”
“I’m getting by all right. Thanks.” Griff glanced over the room.
Jane’s gaze followed his. “It’s a little spooky, isn’t it? Like your uncle could walk right in, like he could pick up those newspapers over there.” They both took in the spectacles nestled in the papers on the bedside table, the slippers under the bed, and the bathrobe hanging on the back of the door. A very personal space, but a room now uninhabited, hollow sounding, empty. “You must miss your uncle so much.”
“I can’t believe he’s gone.” He strode into the room, sat on the edge of the bed, and hung his head.
“It’s okay to feel the pain. You need to let yourself grieve. It’s
normal.” She sat forward in the chair.
“I’ve heard that.” He clasped his hands together and clamped his lips shut, as if not wanting to say more.
“You told me your parents died when you were young. Did you only have your uncle left?”
“Just him. When he sold his business and bought the castle, I moved here, too. He’s my only family. Well, he and Mairéid.”
Jane rocked back in her chair, her toes nudging the carpet. “What was he like? I’m sorry I didn’t know him.”
He turned his neck to gaze at her. “I admired him for most of my life. Then he got old.”
She stopped rocking, planting her feet on the floor. “It’s pretty amazing that a man could purchase a castle like this. He must have been successful.”
“Uncle was a self-made man. He started his company from scratch. Sold his business for a nice profit and bought the castle.”
She rocked a few more times, back and forth. “And you never married, you said, never had kids.”
“I lived with a woman for a while. We didn’t tie the knot, though. That was a long time ago.” As an orphan and never married, Griff certainly knew what it was like to be alone.
“Yes, I remember you saying that.” And Jane had already told him about the death of her first husband, Craig, the two sons they’d had together, both grown and married now, and that she’d only been wed to her second husband, Hugh, for a short time before he, too, had left her a widow. “It’s hard at first to get over the grief. I know how you must feel, since your uncle was like a father to you.”
She stood and the chair rocked back by itself. She leaned over to put her hand on his, squeezing his fingers. He rose as she also straightened up and their hands fell apart. He dove in and kissed her, so she kissed him back. His arms went around her.
A pang of guilt sliced through her as she thought of Dale, then Kate, too. Was this flirting to get clues? But whatever was happening between them felt natural. Finally, they drew apart, but only a little.
A crinkling sound came from the floor. Griff lifted his foot and plucked a page of her notes off the sole of his shoe. “What’s this?”
A Stewed Observation Page 12