Rip Tide (A Ripple Effect Cozy Mystery, Book 2)

by Jeanne Glidewell

  Dr. Patel began massaging my shoulder with a firm touch, still trying to locate the area I was concerned about. If I hadn't been so intent on my mission, I'd have enjoyed the deep-muscle massage. He asked, "How long have you been experiencing this 'twitch' you're referring to? And how often does it occur?"

  To myself I answered, just once, on the clinic's doorstep, aware that even the single incident might have been an opportunistic figment of my imagination. Out loud, I evasively replied, "Enough that I felt I needed to come to the clinic to speak with a physician about it."

  "Hmmm. How about here?" He asked, pushing hard on my right clavicle. I shook my head then and after each probe that followed. As Dr. Patel increased the pressure with which he was prodding me, it actually did begin to hurt everywhere he touched. I'd be lucky if I didn't wake up black and blue the next day.

  "Not there, either," I answered, stifling a groan. Although I had no specific strategy in mind, I decided I better not waste any more time. So I plunged right in. "And, by the way, you're not the physician I was expecting to see."

  "Excuse me?" Dr. Patel look confused at first, and after my comment registered, his expression changed into one of indignation. I must say, the tall, dark and handsome doctor had the sexiest hint of a dimple in his left cheek when he frowned. So adorable, in fact, I briefly considered trying to offend him again.

  I gave myself a mental slap. Reminding myself I was there with a specific objective, I swiftly came to my senses. I made a feeble attempt to clarify my remark. "Not that you're not exceptional, Dr. Patel. It's just that a good friend of mine's husband practices at this clinic, too. I figured since he's a general practitioner, he'd be the logical physician I'd be assigned to for treatment today."

  "Oh, yes, I see. You're referring to Dr. O'Keefe, who's off this morning due to an unexpected family obligation." He smiled broadly, revealing sparkling pearly whites that contrasted so beautifully with his dark complexion. "I'm covering for him until he reports at noon. As I'm sure you noticed, I'm swamped as a result, which is why your wait was longer than usual. My apologies for any inconvenience it might have caused you."

  "No big rip," I said, using my husband's favorite saying, which should come as no surprise to anyone. I wanted to give some kind of indication I really was acquainted with Dr. O'Keefe and his ex, so I added, "Too bad about the divorce, isn't it? I'm sure you're every bit as competent as Pat. And, for the record, much easier on the eyes too, if you know what I mean."

  Dr. Patel's hands flew off my shoulder as if his skin had been singed. The wink I'd bestowed upon him at the end of my comment might have come across a little more lecherous than I'd intended. The doctor looked kind of like a condemned man having a noose placed around his neck.

  The doctor clearly viewed his oddball patient as a cougar on the prowl now, for he was easily three decades younger than I. Here was a woman who initially felt it would be too forward to use his first name suddenly turning into a wanton seductress—what's not to understand?

  "Nothing personal, of course," I felt compelled to add before he threw up in the soiled-gown hamper. "I just meant to say you're a very handsome young man as well as an extremely accomplished physician."

  The tense doctor relaxed and beamed at my clarification. The relieved smile made the cute little dimple reappear and deepen. I'd have to find a way to make him smile again before I left, I decided. I'd always been a sucker for a man with dimples, and Rip's cheeks were too plump to give a dimple a fair chance. And, although this may sound a bit like too much information, that goes for both sets of cheeks in his case.

  "So you're tight with Avery, huh?" The doctor inquired politely, as he resumed applying pressure to my shoulder, clavicle, upper arm, and embarrassingly damp arm pit. Lying did that to me, you see. I would sweat buckets if I were ever to perjure myself in a court of law. The bailiff would have to pass out flotation devices to everyone in the court room by the time I finished testifying. And, to be honest, having multiple parts of my body stimulated by this young sexy physician might have contributed to the excessive perspiration, too.

  It suddenly occurred to me the doctor's hands had stilled and he was staring at me. My hesitation had concerned him, and I knew he was waiting for a response to his query about my relationship with the ex-wife of a fellow physician who practiced at the same health clinic.

  "Well, describing our relationship as 'tight' might be a little much." It also might qualify as the most flagrant fabrication of my entire life, I thought. Even though I could feel a drop of moisture slithering between my breasts and down my abdomen, I decided to wing it with whatever white lies I felt necessary. I chose what I thought was the safest explanation. "Actually, we're co-workers."

  I'd already had to fork over a thirty-five dollar co-payment for an imaginary health concern, and by now you know how deeply that went against my grain. I came to the conclusion I might as well get my money's worth and try to extract as much useful information out of young Ramakant Gurcharan Patel, MD, as I could before I left the clinic.

  "Really? You work at Jugs 'n Mugs in Corpus Christi?" The dazed doctor asked.

  I have to admit I was taken aback by his response. Way, way back, in fact. If Jugs 'n Mugs was the topless bar and grill I'd read about in the Times, I knew I might have just stepped in a tall pile of poo.

  "You really work at Jugs 'n Mugs in Corpus Christi?" The doctor repeated when I failed to respond.

  "Yes, I do. Why is that so hard to believe?"

  "Are you sure you don't mean the Pottery Barn? If I remember right, Avery worked there for a while, too."

  After I shook my head, he slapped his knee, and as if he'd just solved a perplexing riddle, he chuckled and added, "Oh, as a cook at Jugs 'n Mugs, I assume."

  "You assume wrong, Doctor Patel. I'm a waitress there."

  I immediately regretted my snippy reply, made impulsively because I'd felt insulted by his assumption I could only have been hired as a cook at a topless joint. I tried not to blush as he gave me the once-over and shook his head in obvious disbelief before resuming his manipulation of my shoulder. Apparently, he'd not been overly impressed with the age and quality of the servers Jugs 'n Mugs was employing these days. Still, I was pleased to discover where I might possibly be able to locate Avery Curry, which might assist us in our investigation.

  "Sad how Avery and Patrick are fighting over custody of Elizabeth," I said in an attempt to segue into a discussion of the couple's relationship before I was forced to fabricate further about my job at Jugs 'n Mugs. I felt both Avery, the victim's girlfriend, and Dr. O'Keefe, her ex-husband, had potential motive to want Cooper Claypool out of the picture. I wanted to explore that potentiality a bit more if at all possible.

  "Silly, isn't it?" Dr. Patel replied. "It's ridiculous to make such a to-do over something so insignificant. What difference does it make who gets custody of Liz? Frankly, I'd be thrilled to be relieved of the responsibility if I were Pat, er, I mean Dr. O'Keefe. I'd turn that thing over to Avery in a heartbeat."

  Insignificant? That thing? Oh, goodness! Poor little girl, I thought. No one seemed to give a fig about Elizabeth or how her parents' divorce and custody battle would affect her, their own child. Dr. Patel's cold-blooded comments about Elizabeth were disheartening, as well. Was Elizabeth a responsibility made greater by a handicap? If so, his attitude was even more despicable. I was tempted to give the doctor an earful when he pulled away from kneading my shoulder, and said, "Well, Mrs. Ripple. I can't seem to find the precise area that's causing you pain."

  I extended my arm out and rotated it, swung it back and forth several times, folded my arm and lifted my elbow up, moving it from front to back, and finally replied, "Amazing! Great job, Doc! I believe it's just fine now. As good as new, as a matter of fact. Your therapeutic manipulations must have resolved the problem. I feel absolutely no pain now. Thank you so much! I'll be sure to tell all the girls in my bunko club about you."

  Tell them you're a heartless pig, that is,
I wanted to add. My opinion of Dr. Patel had plummeted after his callous remarks about Dr. O'Keefe's daughter.

  At the restaurant the previous evening, O'Keefe had looked to be about the same age as Reggie and Milo, early fifties or so. Reggie's children from her first marriage were in their mid to late twenties. In which case, it stood to reason Liz was likely in the same age bracket, and if still living at home, there was a reasonable probability she was afflicted with some kind of disability that prevented her from venturing out into the world on her own.

  I was appalled that two doctors who'd pledged to 'do no harm" would speak about a potentially handicapped individual the way I'd witnessed them both do. With that in mind, I sneered at Patel and hopped off the examining table. I bolted out of the room like I'd just spotted a one-hundred-dollar bill on the sidewalk and wanted to snatch it up before the wind blew it across the parking lot.

  As I brushed past the doctor, his mouth was gaping and his head shaking in wonder. Evidently he didn't know quite what to make of me, a now wringing wet anomaly who had wandered into his health clinic with a worrisome figment of her imagination.

  * * *

  "Where have you been?" Rip asked as I entered the trailer. "I thought you were just going to run to the pharmacy and pick me up some hearing aid batteries."

  "And I did. See, they're right here." I had stopped by the pharmacy on my way to the clinic. I swung the small plastic bag in front of his face and sat it down on the counter, hoping to end the conversation. As usual, it didn't work.

  "It surely didn't take you two hours to drive to Walgreens and back. It's no more than five minutes from here."

  "Yes, I realize that. But you should have seen how packed the store was this morning. There must have been some kind of special sale today."

  "You don't say!" A disbelieving Rip remarked.

  "Yes. In fact, I'm sure that's what was going on. And speaking of batteries, I saw a pack of two nine-volts on a rack for only three dollars. Three bucks for two name brand nine-volts? That's just unbelievable, when they're usually—"

  "You've got the 'unbelievable' part right. So, tell me. Where is the bag of these unbelievably-priced batteries you purchased?"

  "Um, well. I didn't, um, I didn't actually say I bought any of the nine-volts. I just picked up some batteries for your hearing aids, as you requested." I stuttered, knowing he was on to me. He stood there in his know-it-all stance; hands on hips, glaring at me over the top of his reading glasses. Still, I was too stubborn to give in that easily.

  "Come on, Rapella. You know as well as I do you'd have bought some of the nine-volt batteries if you'd found them that cheap. Not only bought some, you'd probably have brought home a lifetime supply of them so you'd never be forced to pay full price for—"

  "Oh, all right." I surrendered grudgingly. "I had to make another stop on my way home. Are you happy now?"

  "By 'another stop,' do you mean the walk-in health clinic on Third Street, by any chance?"

  "Uh, well, yeah. Yeah, that's the place."

  "Break an arm in the band-aid aisle at the pharmacy?" He asked, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Trip over a gum wrapper in the parking lot?"

  "Mockery does not look good on you, buster!" I said, annoyed by his ridicule.

  "So I've been told," Rip quipped. He added, "Let me use my psychic powers. On the way home from the pharmacy, you experienced one of those dreaded shoulder twitches and feared you might need immediate surgery. You feared putting off seeing a doctor might result in having to have the entire arm amputated at a later date."

  "Okay, okay, smartass. I truly did experience a troublesome twitch and needed to have the shoulder looked at, you see. And then a spur-of-the-moment inspiration, you might even call it an epiphany, made me decide to see if I could obtain some useful information pertaining to the murder case. You know, since I was there anyway."

  "Wow! An epiphany, no less!"

  "That's what I said," I replied haughtily. "And, by the way, my shoulder didn't twitch on the way home. It happened as I was entering the clinic."

  "But of course! My bad! Makes perfect sense to me why you'd stop at the clinic, knowing a horrific 'twitch,' as you called it, might conceivably occur at any second. Woman's intuition, I think it's called. And lo and behold, your sixth-sense was well-founded!"

  I silently glared at Rip, unable to come up with a reason I'd stop for treatment before the twitch occurred. Regrettably, this gave him another opportunity to rag me unmercifully.

  I gritted my false teeth, fed up with his condescending attitude. Rather than this unrelenting dressing-down treatment, I really wish he'd just yell and scream at me when I've upset him and get it over with. I began to seethe as he continued his scornful remarks. "So, you say, you experienced one of those annoying instances when you felt perfectly fine getting out of your vehicle at an emergency clinic, but developed an acute health issue by the time you got through their door. Don't you just hate when that happens?"

  "Can you give me some kind of guesstimate how long I can expect this charade to go on? I haven't got all day. And just how did you know I went there?" I asked. "Did you have one of your cop buddies tail me? Am I on twenty-four-hour surveillance now for some reason? I want to know why I'm being followed! Let me guess: the homicide detectives think I had something to do with the murder and are keeping me under observation in case I decide to flee. We aren't that far from the border, you know. If I thumb a ride out on the Interstate, I could easily be in Matamoras by suppertime."

  "Don't be melodramatic, sweetheart. It's tiresome and it doesn't suit you."

  Noticing my woeful expression, which was only used as a last resort, Rip backed off abruptly and his voice mellowed. Unfortunately, it "un-mellowed" more and more with each word he spoke. "The receptionist at the clinic called to inform you she'd forgotten to give you back your insurance cards. Naturally, I was concerned about why you were there requesting medical attention in the first place, so the gal explained your life-threatening health crisis. She went on to say you'd been treated by Dr. Patel and the issue seemed to resolve itself. Imagine that! It must have been a miracle brought forth by the doctor's magical healing powers. You can't imagine how relieved I was. Here I was, visualizing the Jaws of Life being utilized to extract you from burning wreckage on some side street between here and Walgreens and—"

  "Cut the crap," I interrupted, disappointed his softer side had surfaced for less than a nanosecond. "All right. I'll tell you why I concocted a fictional health concern to give me a reason to stop by the clinic."

  Once again, Rip put his hands on his hips and looked at me over his glasses as he waited for my explanation, one I knew would sound weak, even to me.

  "I remembered the address where that rude red-headed dude told the waitress his practice was. I'm sure you recall the man I accidentally spilt water on last night. So I decided to drive by there and see what kind of 'practice' he was referring to. Just out of curiosity, you know." Rip had rolled his eyes at my use of the word "accidentally" and then again when I mentioned it was pure curiosity that had tempted me to drive to 32 Third Street. I truly hoped his eyes would stick in that position next time he rolled them. Kind of like my momma always warned me would happen if I crossed my eyes too often.

  I told Rip exactly what had happened and then went on to tell him why I thought it was important to do our own detective work in order to help clear our son-in-law of murder charges. Okay, let me back up. "Exactly" might have been an over-statement. I should probably have said, "I told him exactly what I wanted him to know about what had occurred."

  I pleaded with Rip, prepared to pull out the never-failing foot massage offer if everything else I threw at him landed like a lead balloon. "We went to great lengths to exonerate Lexie, and she was merely a good friend. Milo is family, for goodness sakes!"

  Rip was unmoved. Even with several more persuasive appeals, he remained stoic; unconvinced we should put everything on the line for a grown man who was behaving lik
e a full-blown idiot. I had to admit Rip had a point. Even so, I persisted.

  The plea that finally hit pay dirt was, "Think about it, Rip. If Milo goes to prison, what's going to happen to Regina? Do you want to risk being forced to sell this trailer and buy another home here in Rockport so she can move back in with us?"

  "Just tell me what you want me to do, and I'm all over it," he replied zealously after he quit choking. "I'm not sure why, but all of a sudden I agree with your assessment of the matter. I even approve of your health clinic visit this morning."

  "Good. I'm glad to hear you say that, because my stomach is beginning to cramp and I'm feeling a wee bit nauseated. I probably should return to the clinic at noon to see if Dr. O'Keefe can make certain I haven't contracted some nasty bug going around."

  Rip shrugged and said, "Whatever it takes! Remember to pick up your insurance cards while you're there."

  With that, he turned, picked his truck keys up off the counter, and opened the trailer door to leave. He looked like a man on a mission.

  "Where are you going?" I asked.

  "Down to the station to speak with Detective Reeves again. You were absolutely right, sweetheart. We need to beat every bush until we flush out the real killer, even if, God forbid, it turns out to be our son-in-law. It's imperative we do whatever we can to clear Milo of the charges, provided he's not deserving of them that is. Just do me a favor and keep me in the loop next time. I'll be back in time for you to return to the clinic, even though I think you're barking up the wrong tree when it comes to O'Keefe. There's no evidence whatsoever indicating your Irish doctor has killed, been in contact with, or even been anywhere in the vicinity of the victim in the recent past."

  "We'll see," I said, reluctant to quit barking up that particular tree until I was convinced O'Keefe had nothing to do with the murder of Cooper Claypool. "Has he been at least questioned by the investigating team? Has he even provided them with an alibi to prove his whereabouts at the time of the death? For that matter, what about Avery Curry? Has she been interrogated? How can we be certain she wasn't somehow involved in her so-called boyfriend's death? I know where she works, and I think we should drive to Corpus for supper tonight. I want to get some answers out of her so I can cross her off my suspect list if she passes our scrutiny."