Father Lemming nodded.
•••
Nancy was in the station when I came through the door. I meandered to the counter to see if perchance there was a rogue donut that had survived the morning foraging. The box was empty.
“Need a donut?” she asked.
“Or a stiff drink.”
“I have some news about Thelma,” said Nancy. “I talked to her doctor and her psychiatrist.”
“Psychiatrist?” I said, flopping down in one of the two office chairs. “Okay. Go.”
“Dr. Weber says Thelma called in Friday with a sore throat but otherwise, as far as he knew, was physically fine. Just had a check-up last month. Then he sent me over to the psychiatrist. It seems that Thelma had OCD—a severe case apparently—and it was worse every time Doctor Sawyer saw her.”
“Dr. Sawyer is the psychiatrist?”
“Yep. Helen Sawyer.”
“Hmm. Obsessive compulsive disorder,” I said. “I didn’t ever see any signs. Of course, I wasn’t around her very much.”
“It had very specific manifestations.”
“Which were?”
“According to Dr. Sawyer, she wouldn’t—or couldn’t—step on a line.”
“Step on a crack, break your mother’s back,” I said, repeating the children’s rhyme.
Nancy pulled out her pad to check her notes. “Like that. Apparently her OCD didn’t apply to small lines that were part of a pattern, like wood grain or small tiles. But larger lines, big cracks in the pavement, painted street markers, large tiles of contrasting colors—all these could set her off. It really sort of depended on the situation. Dr. Sawyer said that she could give us a rough idea, but she never knew exactly how Thelma would react to any one thing.”
“And how did Thelma deal with it?”
“Dr. Sawyer said that, basically, as long as Thelma stayed on her meds she was fine. Even if she was off them and found herself outside, she could walk around whatever lines she saw until she could return home. They’d put wall-to-wall carpet throughout Thelma’s house so she was fine once she got back.”
“What happened if she got stranded?”
“It only happened once, according to Dr. Sawyer,” said Nancy. “She was in the Piggly Wiggly and dropped a gallon of grape drink. It broke open and splattered purple lines all over the floor. Thelma couldn’t move until they mopped it all up. They tried to help her over to a chair, but she wouldn’t go—just stood there shaking, unable to talk. Roger called the paramedics. He thought she was having heart failure. The hospital called it a panic attack and released her the next day.”
“Have you checked her meds? Was she on them?”
“I got a list from both doctors and Kent ran a scan. She was supposed to be taking Zoloft for the OCD, but her blood work came up negative for that. She was also taking something for osteoporosis and a cholesterol medication. Those drugs were both present. Her medical doctor had called in something to the pharmacy on Monday morning for a sore throat, but Thelma never picked it up.”
“So what’s your conclusion?” I asked.
“I think she got stuck inside that labyrinth,” said Nancy. “She walked into the middle, had a panic attack and couldn’t get out. She might have been there for two days for all we know. Finally she had a heart attack and died.”
“I agree,” I said. “There are a couple of questions remaining.”
Nancy nodded. “Where’s her purse?”
“Right. And why was there a krummhorn in the bushes? Have you looked in her house?”
“Dave’s over there now.”
“Make sure he looks for her meds. Purse, too. Any prints on the krummhorn?”
“Just hers and some smudges.”
“How about Davis Boothe’s doctor?”
“What am I, three people?” said Nancy. “I’m still looking. There are one hundred ninety-two doctors or clinics in Boone. That doesn’t even include the rest of Watauga County.”
“Sorry,” I said with a grin. “I’m going to get a donut and head over to talk with the two ladies who accompanied Thelma Wingler to the labyrinth on Sunday.”
Nancy flipped a few pages in her pad looking for the names she’d gotten from Chad Parker. “Wynette Winslow and Mattie Lou Entriken.”
“I know just where to find them. I’ll stop by the Appalachian Music Shoppe, as well.”
“Have a good time,” said Nancy. “I’ll keep calling doctors’ offices.”
“By the way,” I said, “did you hear that Collette was back in town? She’s working at the Slab.”
I heard Nancy’s growl as the door of the office closed behind me.
Chapter 12
Wynette Winslow and Mattie Lou Entriken were in the church kitchen. I’d seen them earlier on my way out. They were fixing chicken salad sandwiches for the Salvation Army kitchen in Boone, something they did every Thursday afternoon.
“Afternoon, ladies,” I said. “I was sorry to hear about Thelma.”
Mattie Lou looked up and smiled a greeting. “Yes,” she said. “It was a shock.”
“It certainly was,” added Wynette. “We just saw her on Sunday.”
“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”
“Really, dear?” said Mattie Lou. “Whatever for?”
“I heard that you two and Thelma had an appointment at the new spa.”
“Yes, dear, we certainly did,” said Mattie Lou.
“Can you tell me about it?”
“I’ll be happy to tell you about it,” said Wynette. “I thought the whole thing was ridiculous.”
“Really?”
“Absolutely.” Wynette put down her knife and wiped her hands on her apron. Wynette and Mattie Lou were a pair of apple-cheeked grandmothers, both in their seventies, that had been best friends since childhood. Now their hair was snowy and their figures a good deal rounder than the pictures I’d seen of them in ancient church directories—always together, always laughing. They were two of the matriarchs of St. Barnabas.
“As you may know,” Wynette began, “I didn’t care much for Thelma Wingler. She was a mean woman. Petty and vindictive.”
“Malicious,” added Mattie Lou.
“Spiteful,” said Wynette. She looked over at Mattie Lou for help.
“Unforgiving.”
“Exactly. Unforgiving and cruel.”
“Positively malignant,” finished Mattie Lou. “Not that we wish to speak ill of the dead.”
“Of course not,” I said. “Could you tell me about Sunday?”
“Certainly,” said Wynette. “Would you care for a sandwich, dear?”
“No, thanks.”
“Are you sure?” asked Mattie Lou. “We have plenty.”
“No, I’m fine. Thanks though. About Sunday…?”
“Thelma called us up on Sunday afternoon, didn’t she?” said Wynette.
“She did,” said Mattie Lou. “She hadn’t even been to church. In fact, I hadn’t seen her in church for several weeks.” She looked at me and laid a finger beside her nose. “The reason will soon become evident.”
“She’d been having appointments at the spa every Sunday morning. ‘The Upper Womb’ she called it,” said Wynette.
“That’s the name of the spa,” I said.
“Huh,” snorted Wynette. “Anyway, Thelma had been going to her ‘appointments’ for several weeks.” Wynette used finger quotes around the word “appointments.”
“That floozy,” said Mattie Lou, under her breath. “Appointments indeed…”
“Could you elaborate?” I asked.
“Well, we don’t like to speak ill of the dead,” said Wynette sweetly.
“Oh, hell,” said Mattie Lou. “I don’t mind. Thelma had been going over there for massages every day since she saw that man in the Piggly Wiggly.”
“Chad Parker?”
“That’s him,” said Wynette. “Big, good-looking boy.”
“Very good-looking,” added Mattie Lou. “If I was forty ye
ars younger…”
“Yes, but you’re not. And neither was Thelma. That didn’t stop her though. And she didn’t mind telling us about the affair in graphic detail.”
“She was having an affair with Chad Parker?” I asked. “Thelma?”
“Well,” said Wynette, “she called it an ‘affaire de coeur.’ I’m not at all sure Mr. Parker was reciprocal in his involvement. At least not unless he was paid.”
“Let me understand,” I said. “Thelma said that she was having a tryst with Chad Parker.”
“Not exactly,” said Mattie Lou. “Oh, I’m sure she was smitten. She always fancied herself quite the siren, even in her later years. And she always lied about her age.”
Wynette nodded in agreement. “She was much older than us, of course. She married right before the war, but her husband was in the infantry and killed in Italy. Anzio, I think. She had one daughter who was behind us a few years in school.”
“Did Thelma marry again?” I asked.
“No, she didn’t,” said Mattie Lou. “And she’s been a harridan ever since. I can’t tell you the number of marriages she’s broken up.”
“Is the daughter still around?”
“Dead,” said Mattie Lou.
“Dead,” agreed Wynette.
“Any other family? Next of kin?”
“Not that we know of,” answered Wynette.
“The coroner says she was eighty-eight.”
“That’s about right,” said Mattie Lou. “Eighty-eight years old and getting massages—buck naked—from a thirty year old! Scandalous!”
“Well, I think that’s the way they do it,” I said. “Massages, I mean.”
“Oh, I know, dear. I’m not a complete moron. Still, at her age!”
I laughed. “Back to Sunday?”
Wynette continued the narrative. “On Sunday afternoon, Thelma called me up after church and asked if we would go with her to the Upper Womb. I said no, of course.”
“Of course,” agreed Mattie Lou.
Wynette went on. “Ask Ruby, I said.”
“Sure, ask Ruby. She’s your best friend,” added Mattie Lou.
“So Thelma started crying. ‘Ruby’s out with Meg,’ she says. Then she tells me she’s been doing therapy with Chad Parker. Massages every day, herbal teas, some kind of aroma nonsense, the works. Now he wants her to do this labyrinth thing.”
“You see,” explained Mattie Lou, “they’ve painted this labyrinth on the concrete behind the house. In the garden.”
“I’ve seen it,” I said.
Wynette picked up a butter knife and a piece of bread. “You don’t mind if we keep spreading chicken salad while we talk, do you, dear?”
“No, of course not.”
“So,” Wynette said, “Thelma wanted us to go with her. She was scared to death of this labyrinth but told me that Chad insisted that she do it. She said that he said that it would help her overcome her fears and find spiritual renewal.”
“You know about Thelma’s…umm…disorder?” asked Mattie Lou.
“Yes. OCD.”
“Right,” said Wynette. “Can’t step on a line. So she tells me ‘you can just imagine how scared I am.’ ‘What about your medication?’ I ask. ‘Chad is teaching me how to live without it,” she says. ‘Please come with me. I’m still scared.’ I think she was lying. She just wanted to show off. She certainly wouldn’t have asked us otherwise. When we got there, she was hanging all over Chad Parker like a cheap suit.”
“It was disgusting,” Mattie Lou agreed.
“But we said we’d do it,” said Wynette.
Mattie Lou shrugged. “Actually, I was a little curious.”
“Me, too. Not that I’d get one of those naked massages or anything. Anyway,” continued Wynette, “we walked into the house and Chad and his wife…” She paused and pursed her lips, trying to remember a name.
“Lacie Ravencroft,” I said.
“Yes, Lacie. They gave us a tour of the house and then invited us into the kitchen for a cup of tea while they explained the labyrinth.”
“Then they took us into the garden,” said Mattie Lou, “and did what they called a Guided Meditation. There was this Celtic sounding harp music playing and we walked around the maze.”
“It took an hour!” exclaimed Wynette in disgust. “Lacie kept making us stop and ‘center our spirit selves,’ whatever that means! I could have been in and out of that thing in about two minutes! I mean, it wasn’t hard.”
“Well,” I said, “I don’t think it’s a puzzle.”
“Whatever it is,” Wynette sniffed, “I wasn’t impressed. The tea was good though.”
“Then you left?”
“Yes,” said Mattie Lou. “But Chad gave Thelma a key to the back gate. He told her that she should do the labyrinth every day now that she knew how. He said we were welcome to come along.”
“Did Thelma have any problem with the labyrinth? I mean, as far as her OCD was concerned?”
Both ladies shook their head.
“She was fine,” said Mattie Lou. “And on the way home, she was happy to describe her private sessions with Chad. Did you know they use scented oils?”
I nodded.
“She was getting a cold,” said Wynette. “Said her throat was hurting. Probably from lying naked on that massage table.”
“I doubt it,” said Mattie Lou, shaking her head. “That upstairs was very warm. Anyway, now that the weather’ll be warming up a bit, we’ll probably all get colds.”
Wynette nodded her agreement. “Hot, cold, hot, cold. It’ll play havoc with your sinuses.”
“It’s going to warm up?” I said.
“Just for a bit,” said Mattie Lou. “Don’t you watch the Weather Channel?”
“Nope,” I admitted.
“Well, you should.”
•••
Ian Burch was in front of the Appalachian Music Shoppe, locking the front door, when I walked up.
“Dr. Burch,” I said, “I wonder if I might ask you a few questions before you lock up?”
Ian Burch, PhD, gave a huff and a shrug of resignation and unlocked the door to the shop. “Come in, if you must,” he said. “But I really must leave in about half an hour.”
“That’s not a problem. I just need a couple of minutes.”
“All right then.” Ian folded his arms, chewed on his lower lip and stood in expectation of the third degree.
I had stopped by the police station and picked up the krummhorn on the way to the Music Shoppe. Now I opened the plastic bag and took it out, making a production of holding it carefully in a handkerchief.
“Do you recognize this?” I asked.
“It’s a krummhorn.”
“Yes,” I said, “I know. Is it from your shop?”
“Umm. It could be, I suppose.”
“Let me help you out, Dr. Burch. Did you sell a krummhorn to an eighty-eight year old woman on Monday morning?”
“I’d have to check my records.”
“You’re not in any trouble and you only have a half hour,” I said. “So, let’s start again. How many instruments have you sold since you’ve been open?”
Ian Burch’s shoulders slumped. “Umm…that would be one.”
“Was it a krummhorn?”
“Yes.”
“Did you sell it on Monday?”
“Yes.”
“To Thelma Wingler?”
“Yes.”
“Is this it?”
“I suppose so. I mean, how many krummhorns are floating around? But it was in a box. Brand new.”
“Can you tell me why it doesn’t work?”
“Doesn’t work?”
“We tried to play it down at the police station. No luck.”
“Let me see.” Ian took the krummhorn with the handkerchief. “Can I touch it?”
“Sure.”
Ian handed me back the handkerchief, put the krummhorn to his lips and blew. As I expected, there was a burst of air but no sound.
“Huh,” said Ian. He pulled the mouthpiece off the instrument and looked down the barrel. “Well, here’s the problem. There’s no reed.”
“No reed?”
“I showed the woman how to play it. Well, how to make a sound anyway. But we used the one here.” He took an identical krummhorn off the wall and pulled off the mouthpiece.
“See?” He pulled a reed loose and handed it to me.
“So what happened to the one in Thelma’s krummhorn?”
“I have no idea. Maybe she didn’t put it in.”
“Excuse me?”
“The reed comes separately. It’s in the box in a small plastic case. You have to put it in the instrument.”
“Did you tell Thelma this?”
“Well, no,” he admitted. “But it’s all right there in the instructions.”
“What time did she come in?”
“It was about ten o’clock Monday morning.”
“Okay. Thanks.”
•••
“They came and got the Minque,” said Pete. “Took ‘em long enough. I had to leave it in the walk-in till they got there. The stupid thing ate about a case of lettuce.”
“Well, I’m glad it’s back at the farm,” I said.
“Oh, sure,” said Pete. “That one. Unfortunately, it wasn’t the only one to escape.”
“No?”
“No.”
“How many?” I asked, dreading the answer.
“One hundred eighty-seven.”
“Holy Moses! How did this happen?”
“Roderick Bateman said that one of the employees left the gate unlocked after feeding. It didn’t take them long to scatter.”
Chapter 13
Liturgical hairpieces. It was the best idea for televangelists since Oral Roberts got his makeup tattooed on. Making them out of mink was a stroke of genius. Mink had a sheen that showed up under television lights like six pounds of pomade without the stink. The only problem was the cost. Tel-evangelists usually went through four or five wigs a week and I didn’t see them dishing out the big money when regular squirrel wigs could be had for seven bucks apiece.
“That pig won’t hunt,” I said to Ginger, thinking about a pig I used to have that wouldn’t hunt, mainly because he was just a pig and not some sort of weird Chinese hunting pig. “There are only a handful of televangelists that could afford mink wigs. It’s a specialized market.”
The Mezzo Wore Mink Page 11