##
Lindsay didn’t have to wait long to meet the much-heralded Dr. Drew Checkoway. A few hours into her shift, as she made her way up to the oncology unit to visit a patient, Lindsay ran into Anna in the hallway. While the two women were chatting, a tall man with sparkling green eyes approached them. His black hair was collected into a trendy configuration of stacks and spikes; his face sported a calculatedly rugged amount of stubble. The precision of his grooming, and particularly the deliberate semi-beardage, reminded Lindsay vaguely of George Michael’s post-Wham! period. Lindsay’s hackles were raised.
“Hello, Dr. Melrose,” the man said, smiling broadly. It was a sweet smile, a bit lopsided. Lindsay cautiously lowered one hackle.
“Call me Anna, please. Dr. Melrose sounds old. And far more mature and responsible than I actually am.”
“Well, Anna,” he said, laughing, “I think I’m lost. This hospital is about half the size of the one I worked at in Chicago, but it’s at least ten times as confusing. I was just walking down a hall that ended in a staircase that led up to a brick wall.” Okay. He was charming and self-effacing. He glanced at Lindsay. Actually, she decided, he was more Greek god than 80s pop.
“Ah, yes,” Anna said, oblivious to the movements of Lindsay’s hackles. “That stairway used to lead to Pediatrics, but they tore it down when they built the new children’s floor. Apparently, the staircase is holding up something important, and can’t be demolished without taking half the building with it. Which way are you headed?”
“Allegedly there is an MRI machine on this floor, and allegedly I cannot miss it.”
“I’ll take you,” Lindsay said, perhaps a little too eagerly. “I’m going that way.”
“I’d better be getting back to the ER,” Anna said. “There’s probably an oozing sore or obstructed bowel down there with my name on it. I’ll catch you guys later.”
As they walked along the corridor, he extended his hand. “I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Drew Checkoway.”
She shook his hand. “Lindsay Harding. I’m one of the chaplains here.”
“Oh! Someone told me about you.”
Lindsay panicked, fearing that Geneva may have informed Drew of their imminent wedding.
“Yeah, one of the other doctors said I should always recommend that nervous patients talk to you before they have surgery, even if they’re not religious, because you calm them down. I have to say, I didn’t expect you to be so young. The community hospital I worked at in Chicago was in a mainly Catholic neighborhood, so the chaplains were usually old celibate dudes with black clothes and pot bellies. None of them looked like you, that’s for sure.”
Trying to ignore the flaming redness rising in her, Lindsay launched into a rambling chronicle of Mount Moriah Regional Medical Center’s history. It had been founded as a small rural clinic just after the First World War. Up until the 1960s, it stayed essentially unchanged, delivering the county’s babies and patching up the injured. That all changed in 1962, when the matriarch of the wealthy Richards family was stricken with bone cancer. The woman needed a lengthy, specialized course of treatment that the little clinic was unable to provide. After months of travelling back and forth for treatment, she finally died at a hospital in Boston, far from her home and family. Her husband became the benefactor of the new Mount Moriah Regional Medical Center and the family’s large endowments had kept the hospital ticking ever since.
Lindsay finished her recitation just as they reached a large glass door marked Magnetic Resonance Imaging.
“Well, this is where you get off,” she said. Normally, she wouldn’t have even registered the double entendre, but somehow in Drew’s presence, it seemed to hang in the air like an invitation. Lindsay blushed.
Drew didn’t seem to notice her embarrassment; he was already peering through the glass door. “Thanks a lot. When I heard that Mount Moriah had a 12T MRI machine, I had to see it for myself. This morning, I saw the triple-filtration hemodialysis infuser and the laser-guided robotic laporoscopy device in the operating theater. And all the reconstructive surgeries here are planned using a 320-slice CT scanner, with 16-centimeter anatomical coverage! Can you believe it?” He paused, noticing Lindsay’s blank expression. “Sorry. I usually try to hide my geeky interests when I first meet people. I sometimes test the waters first with a few discreet references to biomechanics before I unfurl the whole Über-nerd package.”
Lindsay laughed. “No, it’s great that you’re so enthusiastic. You sound like a kid on Christmas morning.”
“That’s why I took this job. My hospital in Chicago was grossly under-funded. I was tired of trying to perform brain surgeries using a spatula and a piece of fishing line. I can’t get over the money that flows through this place.”
“A century and a half of exploited labor and a whole lot of lung cancer will buy you some pretty cool gadgets,” Lindsay said.
Drew raised an eyebrow.
“The Richardses, our generous benefactors, come from a long line of tobacco farmers and cigarette oligarchs. They were the ‘R’ in R&G American Cigarettes. The current generous benefactor, Silas Richards IV, sold his stake in the company and is now the distinguished state representative from the 64th District. The Richards family’s money, plus Silas’s political position, keeps the spigot of funding flowing freely to the hospital.”
“A hospital funded by cigarette money. Like the mob building cathedrals in Sicily.” Drew shrugged. “Well, I’d better get going. Hope to see you around again. If I ever find my way back to my office from here, that is.”
Lindsay walked back down the hall and through the doors of the oncology ward. “Lindsay Checkoway,” she whispered to herself. Geneva was right; it didn’t sound half bad.
Chapter 5
As Lindsay walked out to the hospital parking lot after her shift that evening, Rob called her cell phone.
“What are you doing tonight? We’re taking Old Joe to the Mex-itali.”
The Mex-itali was the best Mexican restaurant in Mount Moriah. It was also the best Italian restaurant in Mount Moriah. It was also the only Mexican or Italian restaurant in Mount Moriah.
“I wish I could. You know how I love eating tacos marinara while listening to Joe Tatum’s views on al-Qaeda’s involvement in the moon landing conspiracy. But I have to stop in and see Kimberlee Young. You know, Vernon’s wife? She’s asked me to do the memorial service.”
“Your life is just a nonstop party, Chaplain Harding. Let the good times roll!”
Lindsay walked toward her car, an ancient, electric blue Toyota Tercel. Twilight was just beginning to descend over the wide expanse of parking lot. Visiting hours were winding down and the lot was half empty. She could see a piece of folded paper tucked under the windshield wiper. Her first thought was that it was an advertisement. The local dry cleaning place was always papering parked cars with 2-for-1 deals. She idly plucked it from the windshield with one hand while fishing in her purse for her keys with the other hand. Rather than the glossy advertising paper she expected, though, she found herself holding a piece of lined notepaper. A bit of the edge was frayed where it had been torn from a spiral-bound notebook. She stopped rummaging in her purse and opened the folded sheet. In small, cramped handwriting, she read the message:
WE KNOW YOU GOT THE MONEY HONEY. WHEN THE TIME COMES NOBODY NEEDS TO GET HURT. NOBODY EVEN NEEDS TO KNOW.
Lindsay had no idea what the note meant. She had no money. She could barely afford her monthly student loan payments. Even more than the strange content, though, it was the writing itself that unsettled her. It wasn’t so much the implied threat. It was the way the words were etched so violently into the paper that in places they tore right through it.
With rising panic, Lindsay looked around her. At the edge of the parking lot, in the shadow of a tall tree, a lone man stood. He was tall and whip-thin, wearing a denim jacket despite the heat. He stared straight at her, unmoving. He raised his hand to light the cigarette that was perched on hi
s lips. He was only about 30 feet from her, but Lindsay couldn’t make out the details of his face. When he brought the lighter toward his mouth, she gave out an involuntary gasp. The light from the flame made his large, round eyes glitter an iridescent green, like the eyes of an insect. Lindsay and the stranger stared at each other for a long moment. He continued to smoke his cigarette, drawing the smoke deep into his lungs with each inhale. Lindsay didn’t take her eyes off of him as she frantically rifled through her purse, still searching for her car keys. She found them at last, and, with trembling hands, unlocked the car door. She hurtled her body inside and locked the door behind her. She cranked the engine and peeled out of the parking lot, trying to put some clear distance between herself and the green-eyed stranger.
##
Lindsay was still shaken by the strange note and the man with the insect eyes as she pulled off the main road into the Youngs’ neighborhood. She had briefly toyed with the idea of reporting the incident to the police, but she realized that, in fact, there was nothing to report. A bizarre unsigned note. A bug-eyed man who may well have just stepped into a shady spot for a smoke break. Creepy, yes. Criminal, no.
The Youngs’ street—a block over from the high school that Kimberlee and Lindsay had attended—was filled with identical-looking houses, each fronted by a well-tended patch of lawn. Kimberlee lived in a modest two-story colonial that was painted the color of fresh-churned butter. Kimberlee answered the door smiling broadly. “Lord almighty! It’s hotter than Matt Damon in a pair of tight jeans out here! Get yourself on into the air conditioning.”
Lindsay was grateful for the cheerful greeting. It helped to banish the lingering unease brought about by the strange note. However, when she looked closer, she observed Kimberlee’s vacant-eyed exuberance: tight smile, carefully styled hair, bright makeup. Her expression brought to mind dance music that continued to play long after everyone had left the party.
Kimberlee pulled Lindsay inside and gestured to the pink overstuffed leather sofa that took up the better part of the living room. “Have a seat. I’m so glad you could do this. Our family has never been real religious. Growing up, Sunday was our only day off from the restaurant, so we always went down to the lake or out to the movies. I guess pulled pork and sweetcorn fritters were our religion.” She laughed feebly at her own joke. “I thought we should have some kind of preacher to do the service, though, to make it seem more, you know, official.” She laughed again, a tinny, mirthless laugh. “Can I get you anything? Some sweet tea? My sisters came by this afternoon, and they brought some berry cobbler. Do you want a piece?”
“No, I’m all right, thanks.”
“Have some fruit, then,” Kimberlee said, extracting a fruit basket from among the vases of condolence flowers that covered the massive coffee table. “One of Vernon’s reenactor friends sent this over.”
“Thanks.” Lindsay reluctantly took a small bunch of grapes. She knew from long experience that it was rare to escape the home of a fellow Southern woman without facing an artillery barrage of cakes, sandwiches, and sweet tea—the Southern version of iced tea that involved adding as much granulated sugar as the laws of physics and chemistry would allow to the beverage before chilling it. It was better to surrender as quickly as possible rather than risk the full hospitality assault. To resist was to invite confrontation with a cold ham and three kinds of pie. Plucking a grape from the bunch, Lindsay asked, “How is your family doing? I could see how close you all are when they came by to visit.”
Kimberlee had three sisters and a brother. They all lived in the area, and they all worked, in one capacity or another, at the family’s barbecue restaurant. Keith, at forty the eldest of the clan, was the general manager. Kimberlee’s sisters, Kathilee, and the twins—Kristalene and Kennadine—were busy with their young children, but they found time to wait tables, bake pies, or deliver catering orders. Kimberlee’s parents, Versa and Buford Bullard, did the lion’s share of the cooking.
“I can’t tell you how shocked everybody is. The restaurant has been closed since it happened. It’s the first time I ever remember Momma and Daddy closing when it wasn’t a Sunday or Christmas. They all loved Vernon. He didn’t have any family of his own, really, just some cousins up in Philadelphia, so Momma and Daddy were like parents to him. And he was so good with all the little nieces and nephews. They just worshipped the ground he walked on. They can’t believe their Uncle Vernon is gone.”
“And you? How have you been holding up?”
“I think I’m okay. Or, I should probably say, I’m okay unless I think. If I can just manage to keep moving every minute for the rest of my life, I’ll be fine.” Kimberlee tried to laugh, but her voice cracked and the sound emerged as more of a squeak. “Speaking of which, let’s get down to business. We’ll have the memorial service and a luncheon in the atrium at the country club. Silas Richards arranged that for us. He and Vernon were buddies from the reenacting group. I’ve put together some songs and poems and things for the service.” She picked up a small stack of papers and laid them out on the coffee table. “Vernon liked old-timey songs and poems. But I don’t want any of those Jesus-y, ‘everything is great now because you’re up in heaven’ hymns. Everything is not great and I want him here with me, not up on a cloud strumming on some golden harp. That’s a giant crock of...” She caught herself and looked across at Lindsay. “No offense.”
“None taken.”
“It’s just that if one more person tells me that Vernon is in a better place now, I’m gonna set my hair on fire. I’d rather keep the service light and fun. You’ll be like an emcee,” Kimberlee said brightly, as if she were asking Lindsay to read the announcements at the Rotary Club Fourth of July Picnic.
The diminished role Kimberlee envisioned for her did not bother Lindsay. In fact, she would have been greatly relieved not to have to try to think of profound words that would somehow encapsulate the grief and turmoil caused by Vernon’s untimely and violent death. However, she felt compelled to press Kimberlee on the issue. She had seen too many bereft people try to rush through the grieving process. They would just keep patching the cracks in the concrete of their psyches until one day the weight of their loss would crash down and crush them.
“I agree that a celebration of life is appropriate,” Lindsay said gently. “But I wonder whether you might want to slow down a little? Including prayer or meditation in the service, along with a nice eulogy, might give you and others a chance to engage with your loss.”
Kimberlee threw Lindsay’s words back at her. “I don’t want to ‘engage with my loss.’ I want the whole thing to be uplifting. Like a party, without mentioning about the way he died. That’s all just too ugly to talk about and my husband doesn’t deserve a memorial with ugliness.”
Lindsay decided to continue the conversation later; there was a steeliness in Kimberlee’s expression that was going to be tough to break through. “The tone will be a reflection of the life he lived.” Lindsay changed the subject. “Have you planned the burial yet?”
“No. The coroner still hasn’t told me when they’re going to release Vernon’s body. Could be another week yet, and I’m not waiting on them. Whenever that comes, we’ll just do something small. Just with the family.”
Kimberlee paused and took Lindsay’s hand. “I’m really glad that we are getting to know each other. Funny that we didn’t socialize very much in high school. It’s a real shame. I guess we moved in different circles.”
“Yeah.” Lindsay smiled. “You were popular and on homecoming court. My extracurricular activities were smoking and sulking under the baseball bleachers. Different circles.”
“I don’t know why you hung out with that crowd, honey. They were losers.” Kimberlee paused for a moment noting Lindsay’s raised eyebrows. “Don’t act like you don’t know that. They didn’t have one single thing going for them, bless their hearts. I always thought you were destined for better things. You had brains. And you were a lot better looking than the other gi
rls in that group. Like Hunchback Heather or that Dracula girl. What was her name?”
“Julee Rae Janson,” Lindsay said. “She dances at the Commodore’s Lounge down by Statesville now, and I think that Dracula cape is part of her, um, act.” Lindsay started peeling the skins from her grapes, piercing each one with her thumbnail and extracting the flesh inside. “I think my daddy being who he was had something to do with how I acted back then. And the whole thing with my parents. It wasn’t exactly a recipe for social acceptance in a small-town school. I guess I identified more with the ‘losers’. They didn’t ask questions.”
Before Kimberlee could reply, there was a sharp knock at the door.
Kimberlee leaned back and parted the vertical blinds on the window behind the couch with her fingers. She let out a startled little gasp. “Oh gosh. It’s the police.”
Chapter 6
Kimberlee walked quickly to the door, muttering half to Lindsay and half to herself. “My brain has up and removed itself from my head. I completely forgot they were sending someone around tonight.” She fluffed her already-voluminous hair and arranged her heavily made-up features into a smile before opening the door. “Well knock me down with a feather! If it isn’t Warren Satterwhite! Don’t tell me that you are the police. Look at you, all handsome and grown.” She let out an appreciative whistle. “Still skinnier than a snake on stilts, though. Look who it is, Lindsay. This is turning into a regular high school reunion!” A pale, red-haired man loped into the room. He was thin and slightly gangly, with even features and warm brown eyes. Kimberlee gestured to the couch. “I know you remember Lindsay Harding. You two knew each other back in the day, as I recall.”
A Murder in Mount Moriah Page 3