“Jed Pierce doesn’t work at CVS. The pharmacist knows him, though. She says he works at the Walmart pharmacy.”
I looked back at the photo on the computer screen. “TMJ disorder,” I said.
“TMJ? I don’t get it.” Nancy looked hard at the monitor.
“Alison Jaeger said that Amy Ventura came in complaining about TMJ.”
“Okay,” said Nancy. “What’s TMJ?”
“It’s a jaw thing,” I said. “I know, because it’s a complaint among singers. I’ve known several people that had it. Look it up on Google.”
Nancy opened a browser window, typed the info into the search engine and clicked on a link.
“TMJ,” she read aloud. “More properly called temporo-mandibular joint disorder. The temporomandibular joint is the hinge joint that connects the lower jaw to the temporal bone of the skull, which is immediately in front of the ear on each side of your head. The disorder occurs as a result of problems with the jaw, jaw joint, bite, or surrounding facial muscles. Very painful.” She looked away from the monitor and up at me. “You think this has anything to do with the murders?”
I shrugged. “Maybe. Dr. Jaeger said that she prescribed some pain medication and referred her.”
“Referred her to who?” asked Nancy.
“That’s the question, isn’t it?” I said, then tapped the picture, still visible in the corner of the screen, with the eraser end of a pencil. “Look here.” Behind the bottle of Prevarin was a black case made of hard plastic. “Remember this?”
“A retainer,” said Nancy, a slow smile creeping across her face. “You think the referral was made to an orthodontist?”
“Maybe not at first,” I said, “but read this.” I tapped back on the article.
Nancy read, “Problems of TMJ are often aggravated by the lower jaw being positioned too far back so that the blood vessels and nerves of the TMJ are compressed. In phase two of TMJ treatment, neuromuscular orthodontics can relieve this pressure and reduce and pain by moving your teeth to stabilize your jaws in a new, more comfortable position. This movement of teeth can be easily and effectively accomplished by dental braces or other standard orthodontic devices.”
“There,” I said. “Do we have an orthodontist on our radar?”
“We do, indeed,” said Nancy. She used Google again and had a phone number in a matter of seconds.”
“This is Lieutenant Nancy Parsky of the St. Germain Police Department,” she said into the phone. “Oh, hi, Robin. I didn’t know you were working over there. Listen, we’re investigating those three murders you might have heard about. Yes … yes … I get it. No, we don’t need any confidential information. We just need to know if Darla Kildair, Crystal Latimore, or Amy Ventura were patients. Yes, I’ll wait.”
She looked around the room and tapped her fingers impatiently on the desk. In a minute or so, she was back on the phone.
“Uh, huh … uh, huh … okay, sure. No problem. Thanks, Robin. Thanks very much.”
Nancy clicked her phone off and grinned at me like the cat that ate the canary. A cat with very good teeth, like he’d been wearing braces.
“All three of them,” she said, “were patients of Dr. Francis Passaglio.”
* * *
An hour later we met Kent Murphee at his office and handed him the black plastic case containing Darla Kildair’s retainer. We had stopped by her place since Nancy still had the key, and retrieved it.
“Don’t touch it,” I said. “Not if aconite can be absorbed through the skin. We’re fairly sure it’s on the retainer plate. The part that fits against the roof of the mouth. I think it’s what caused the lesions on the soft palate.”
“Wow,” said Kent. “That’s a new one. Give me a couple of minutes and I can let you know for sure.” He took the case and walked out of his office. Nancy and I sat down and waited.
“What are the chances?” she asked.
“I’m thinking maybe sixty-five percent,” I said.
Nancy shook her head. “Seventy-five and going up all the time.”
Ten minutes later Kent reappeared and said, “Yep. You were exactly right. The poison was dried, probably at a very high temperature, but then reactivated with the moisture from the victim’s mouths. Reactivation might take about an hour, give or take. The retainer probably wouldn’t hurt you to touch it, but once in your mouth, it’s ‘Goodbye, Sally!’ Who did it, do you think?”
“Orthodontist,” I said, “but keep it under your hat.”
“Francis? Really?”
“We’re going over to have a chat with him now,” I said. “All three victims were his patients.”
“The autoclave would work,” said Kent. “For drying out the poison, I mean. He’d have one there on the premises. Smear the retainer with the stuff, pop it in the autoclave, and voilà!”
Thanks,” I said.
“Let me know how it goes,” said Kent. “I’m writing a book.”
* * *
“Do you have an appointment?” asked Robin, looking very worried when she saw Nancy and I walk into the office of Dr. Francis Passaglio, DDS. The waiting room was full, mostly moms with adolescents and young teenagers in tow. Two grown women sat against the far wall reading old People magazines.
“We do not,” I said. “but we’d like to speak with Dr. Passaglio if it’s not too much trouble.”
“He’s very busy as you can see.” Robin gestured around the room. She lowered her voice to a whisper. “May I ask what this is in regard to?”
I whispered back, “This is in regard to three murders. Now we can wait for the warrant which will show up in a half hour or so, in which case, I’ll make a rude announcement and send everyone home for the day. Or, we can just talk to the good doctor for a few minutes and he might be able to clear all this up.”
“I’ll see if he can spare some time,” Robin said, then disappeared through a door on the back wall.
A minute later she reappeared and motioned us back. We went through the door into the hallway and followed her to Francis’ office. It was nicely appointed; leather furniture including a sofa and two comfortable side chairs; bookshelves containing leather-bound tomes, most of which had never been cracked; several teeth-related art prints and diplomas on the walls; and a monolithic walnut desk. Opulence. The office of a successful orthodontist pitching a twenty-thousand dollar product to a prospective customer. Francis was sitting behind the desk, his hands folded and resting on the blotter.
He was a handsome man — movie star handsome. Medium length salt-and-pepper hair, startling blue eyes, and a killer smile. He was in his early fifties and very fit, not just the kind of fit from eating right: the kind of fit that comes with working out six days a week. I knew that he was a runner as well. I’d seen him burning up the streets of St. Germaine every summer for years.
“How can I help you, Hayden?” he said, focusing on me. He ignored Nancy.
“You know about our three murders?” I said.
“Sure. Everyone knows about them. Three women found in closets. Three foreclosed houses. You know, I bid on one of those. I would have gotten it, except for that woman from Banner Elk. I made her an offer on the house a week later. A fair offer. She would have made ten thousand and walked away. She wouldn’t take it though.” He shook his head, as if disgusted by her stupidity. “What an idiot.”
“Why did you want that house so badly?” I asked.
“Good neighborhood. I could rent it out or even turn around and sell it in a year or two. It was a good property.”
“The Cemetery Cottage.”
“That’s what they call it,” he said, his gaze narrowing almost imperceptibly.
“Do you have any interest in the cemetery part of the property?” I asked. “Or just the house?”
His mouth came open for a moment, then closed, then his shoulders slumped slightly and he said, “Fine. The cemetery is a Civil War burial ground. I could have gotten state money to move those bodies over to Fayetteville or an
other Civil War memorial.”
“How much?” I asked.
“I don’t know exactly — sixty or seventy-thousand. The house would have been gravy.”
“Who else knew about the cemetery deal?” Nancy asked, and Francis looked at her as if she’d just come into the room.
“No one around here. A friend of mine from Hendersonville told me about the program. He just did the same thing. An old cemetery was on some property he’d bought so he called the V.A. and they put him onto this relocation program. You know, honoring our fallen heros. He made a lot more, but he had a lot more graves.”
Huh,” I said, not sure what to make of this information. Then I said, “You know why we’re here?”
He nodded. “The three women that were killed. Robin told me.”
“They were all patients of yours,” I said. “You didn’t think that was pertinent information you might have volunteered? You didn’t think that we would like to know that connection?”
“I can’t see how that is possibly relevant to the investigation,” Francis said, splaying his hands upward. He was nervous. I could see it.
“Hmm,” I said. “What I wonder is, whether you were having affairs with those three women.”
Francis went pale as a ghost, sputtered for a couple of seconds, then jumped to his feet and said, through clenched teeth, “How dare you!”
“Judging by your reaction, Francis, I think we’ve hit the molar on the head.”
“You have no right … you … you … you get out of here this instant!”
“Tell him about Crystal’s diary,” said Nancy. “The one we found under her mattress.”
“What?” said Francis, panic now in his voice. “Diary? Crystal kept a diary?”
“More like a journal,” I said, waving it off. “But never mind about that. Tell you what. Dave is getting a search warrant and we have good cause to believe that this office is where the murders took place. So if you wouldn’t mind waiting outside, we’re just going to clear everyone out and wait for Dave to show up.
“You can’t just paw through everything,” said Francis, losing his color again. “Patient records are confidential!”
“Never fear. We won’t infringe upon anyone’s rights.”
“You’ll regret this,” said Francis, but there were no teeth in his threat.
“Did you kill these women, Francis?” I asked. “Some sort of lover’s pique?”
“Of course not!”
“But you did have affairs with all three.” It was a statement, not a question.
“That’s not a crime,” said Francis, then, “I want to call my lawyer.”
“Just one more question,” said Nancy, showing him her teeth. “Do you think I need braces? I’ve got this slight overbite.”
Chapter 28
We executed the search warrant and came up empty. The warrant specified that we were granted access to the entire office, but only to the records of the three murdered women. Nancy went through them in Robin’s receptionist cubicle while Dave and I searched the rest of the building. Kent was right about the autoclave. There was one in the workroom, along with molds, dental plaster, and various other tools of the trade. In the corner was a large box strapped to a refrigerator dolly, shipping straps still in place. On the outside of the box was a label from Ross Orthodontic Supply and the words “Wehmer’s Pro Vacuum Mixer,” and “No Forks,” and “This End Up.” The walls of the office were lined with different machines, presumably all with an orthodontic purpose. We didn’t find any poison.
The victim’s records indicated that they all had retainers, although the only one we’d found was Darla’s. As far as definite proof of Francis’ guilt though, there was nothing. He as much as admitted the affairs, but he was right about one thing. That wasn’t a crime. Everything else we had was circumstantial. A competent lawyer would argue that anyone might have access to Darla’s retainer.
“Found something,” said Nancy, walking into the workroom where Dave and I were finishing up. She had a sheet of paper in her hand. “Darla, Crystal, and Amy all had appointments on January 10th. That was a Monday. Darla’s was at eleven o’clock. Crystal and Amy were back to back at 2:30 and 2:45.”
“Those appointments are close together,” I said.
“That’s the way they’re scheduled. Every fifteen minutes.”
“What did they come in for?” I asked.
“It just says ‘adjustment’ in the calendar. There isn’t anything in any of their records.”
“They all showed up?”
“Looks like it,” Nancy said. “They’re checked off and I found the sign-in sheet. There’s a problem though.”
“What?” I asked.
“According to the same calendar, Francis was in Raleigh on the 10th through the 12th at some orthodontic conference.
“You’re kidding.”
“I wish I were,” said Nancy. “Easy enough to check.”
“Well, I doubt that Francis is going to be talking to us anyway. Let’s keep looking. Maybe we’ll find the poison in the bottom drawer of his desk.”
But we didn’t.
* * *
Evensongs at St. Barnabas are rare. During my twenty year tenure, we might have average one a year depending on the priest in charge. When Gaylen Weatherall was our rector, and before she went away to be a bishop, we did a few more — one in Advent, one in Lent, maybe another — but these were just standard fare. A Solemn Candlemas Evensong and Benediction would be something to see. This was my thought, as well as the thought of many of the parishioners. There was a good crowd in Sterling Park across the street, most of whom I thought were planning to attend. Father Dressler and the Chevalier had put up posters advertising the service around the downtown area. Nice posters, printed at OfficeMax in full color and featuring the Virgin Mary looking down from heaven in her holiness upon St. Barnabas.
The principal reason for the gathering across the street was the Garden Club’s Winter Festival. This wasn’t really a festival, but an excuse for the club to get everyone in town together and celebrate Groundhog Day by selling raffle tickets for bulbs, bare fruit trees, and lawn services to be used when spring had finally sprung. The money raised by the Garden Club was used to beautify the downtown area. They had put up flower boxes in all the windows a few years ago. They were responsible for the baskets bursting with color that hung from the lampposts every summer. They maintained the gardens in Sterling Park. The club consisted of a dedicated group of gardeners that took their mission seriously.
There were colorful striped tents set up all across the park; the girl scouts selling hot chocolate; a food tent; some vendors hawking mountain crafts. Dr. Ian Burch, PhD had his display of replicated Renaissance instruments. Noylene was advertising the Dip-n-Tan, although it was much too cold to do such a thing outside. She was pointing patrons into the Beautifery to get their bronze on. The Blue Hill Bookworms were selling used books, and with every book came a certificate for a free cupcake from Bun in the Oven. Patrons were going in and out of the bakery like ants.
The main feature of the Winter Festival was the groundhog. The “official” groundhog, Punxsutawney Phil, had already predicted six more weeks of winter, but we had a groundhog of our own, so why would we listen to some Yankee groundhog? Our groundhog lived in a box in Penny Trice’s bedroom though, so seeing his shadow was a matter of turning on the lights. At 4:30 in the afternoon, the sun was just beginning to dip behind the mountains. It was a brisk and beautiful late winter afternoon.
I was at the central tent, the one selling raffle tickets. I didn’t buy any since where I live I have no need of free gardening. I did donate a hundred bucks to the cause and Georgia was happy to take my check.
“How come you’ve been skipping choir?” I asked her. “Meg says you missed Sunday as well as the Monday night rehearsal.”
“Cold,” croaked Georgia. “I can’t sing a lick. This happens to me every January. From what I hear about the rehearsal Monday, I
didn’t miss much. I’ll come to the service though.” She gave me a wink and a smile. “I wouldn’t miss it.”
“I take it by your evil grin that Kimberly Walnut didn’t explain her predicament to Father Dressler.”
“She did not. She did talk to me about it, though. She seems to have come to the conclusion that it’s always better to ask for forgiveness than permission. That’s what Rosemary Pepperpot-Cohosh impressed upon her.”
“That was Rosemary’s mantra, sure enough,” I said. “But I wonder why Kimberly Walnut would think that playing the forgiveness card was the best approach with this particular priest.”
“I’m sure I don’t know,” said Georgia with a shrug, then pointed toward the front doors of the church. “There she is. Why don’t you ask her?”
“Nah. How’s she going to get the groundhog inside the church?”
“Probably she’ll have it smuggled into the front row in a baby blanket. Not that I would know anything about that.”
“Of course not. Probably we’re speaking of Penny Trice’s little groundhog.”
“Oh, probably,” said Georgia. “I believe his name is Pig Whistle. Where’s Meg, anyway?”
“Oh, they were required to show up at four o’clock. They have to get their choir ruffs on.”
Georgia laughed, but thanks to her cold, it came out more like a bark. “Choir ruffs?”
“Yeah,” I said, “and they look ridiculous.” Then I asked, “How have you, or rather the Garden Club, managed to keep all this from Father Dressler?”
“He doesn’t really talk to anyone,” said Georgia. “I mean, he talks, of course, but he doesn’t listen. It’s like he’s in his own little world.”
“I understand.”
“Not that anyone would want to talk to him anyway. I think the Garden Club just assumes that he’s good with it. I’m the only member of the club in the choir and so Kimberly Walnut has been our only contact, not Father Gallus Dressler. Since she’s doing the opening sentences, it might have been suggested to her that she motion for Penny to bring Pig Whistle up during this time, then do a quick blessing before Father Dressler knows what’s going on. Penny and Pig Whistle will exit, the Solemn Evensong will continue, and everyone will be happy.”
Mark Schweizer - Liturgical 12 - The Cantor Wore Crinolines Page 20