“That’s the beauty of their plan,” whispered Ginger, he eyes darting around Buxtehooters like a couple of humming-birds doing Tequila shooters. “They’ve found a way to make them affordable. Every televangelist in the country could buy them.”
I took a sip of my martini and considered the consequences.
Right now, there were probably only a handful of televangelists that could afford the mink wigs, but once they became available to every rapscallion hawking his wares on cable TV, the whole balance of economic power would shift. Who could resist the glistening coif glowing under the bright lights of the studio? The money would pour in like they were Democrats and Hillary wasn’t on the ticket.
“Okay,” I said to Ginger. “I’ve got the picture. Now spell it out.”
“I’ve decided to become a ‘hat man,’” I announced. “I’m going to single handedly bring back the fedora as a fashion statement.”
“I affirm you in that decision,” said Meg. “I think you look great in a hat. What brought this on?”
“Well, I have this hat…”
“I know. It looks very fetching, but I thought you were only going to use it for writing. It’s too dangerous to wear around town. Before long, you’ll be spouting prose as bad as Jackie Collins’.”
“Bite your tongue. It doesn’t always happen. Just sometimes.”
“Okay,” said Meg. “Then go for it.”
•••
“Found him,” said Nancy as soon as I walked into the station. Dave was sitting behind the desk reading the morning edition of The Tattler.
“Found who?” I asked.
“Try to keep up, boss. I found Davis Boothe’s doctor. Nice hat, by the way.”
“Thanks. Did you talk to him?”
“Them, actually. It’s a clinic. I have to take a death certificate over there and they’ll give me Davis’ records. The nurse said that Davis didn’t indicate any next-of-kin on his information sheet.”
“Can you do that this morning?”
“Sure,” said Nancy. “I can head over to Boone right now.”
“Hey!” said Dave, thwapping the newspaper with a flicked finger. “Here’s your letter to the editor.”
“Yeah,” I said. “I sent it in yesterday. But before you delve into St. Germaine’s political intrigue, tell me about what you found in Thelma’s house.”
“Oh, sorry. I forgot.” Dave put the paper down and picked up a shoebox that had been resting on the counter.
“I brought all of Thelma’s medications that I could find. There are quite a few.”
“Zoloft?”
Dave opened the box and reached in. “Yep. That’s here. Also Zocor, Boniva, Resperate, Allegra…” He rummaged around the bottles of pills. “…Orencia, Crestor, Lipitor, Ambien, Frontline…hey, here’s a bottle of Viagra!”
“Frontline is for fleas,” said Nancy. “Thelma had fleas?”
“It sounds to me like Thelma was watching too many TV commercials,” I said. “At least three of those are cholesterol medications, if I remember correctly.
“It does sound like that,” admitted Dave. “Maybe her doctor can shed some light.”
“Who’s the prescribing physician?”
“Dr. Sam Weber. Except for the Zoloft. That was Helen Sawyer.
“Sam Weber’s her principal doctor, right?” I asked. Nancy nodded. “What’s he doing prescribing Viagra, for heaven’s sake?”
“I heard that some of these patients come in and demand this stuff once they’ve seen it on television,” said Nancy. “Maybe that’s what Thelma was doing.”
“That would explain the Frontline and the Viagra. But that didn’t mean that Weber had to prescribe them.”
“Probably not against the law,” said Dave. “Is it?”
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “Some combination of these drugs might have killed her though. What did Kent find in her blood? He told me, but I can’t remember.”
Nancy opened her pad and skimmed through the pages. “No Zoloft. She had simvastatin in her system. That’s the Zocor, a cholesteral drug. Also present was…” Nancy stumbled over the next word “…ibandronate sodium. That’s the Boniva for osteoporosis.”
“None of this other stuff?”
“Nope. I guess she wasn’t taking it.”
“I think she was,” said Dave, shaking one of the plastic pill bottles. “Every bottle is about half empty.”
“I’ll have a talk with Dr. Weber,” I said. “Did you find her purse?”
“Nope. No purse.”
“Anything else of interest?”
“There was a rhubarb pie on the kitchen table. I guess she put it there to cool. I put it in the refrigerator, but it had been sitting out since Tuesday, I guess. She bought the rhubarb on Tuesday morning. There was a receipt for it in the grocery bag in the trash.”
“So, we know she was alive on Tuesday, anyway,” I said. “Nice work.”
“Here you go,” said Nancy, handing me a piece of paper. “Dr. Samuel Weber’s address and phone number.”
“Thanks.”
The door of the police station opened and Pete Moss walked in carrying a copy of The Tattler.
“I just saw your letter to the editor,” he said with a grin. “I hope it keeps Cynthia at bay long enough to get through the debate next week.”
“Here, let me see,” said Nancy. She took Dave’s newspaper, flipped to the second page and started reading.
Dear Editor,
It has come to my attention that Cynthia Johnsson, one of our mayoral candidates, has been casting aspersions on her worthy opponent, Peter Moss, for declining to wear underpants. This is an unfair obloquy of a public official whose moral guidelines, at least as applied to the donning of unmentionables, come directly from the Holy Scriptures. In fact, most of Mayor Moss’ convictions concerning his wearing of underpants are based on Biblical precedents.
When looking for a spiritual guidance on this matter, we need go no further than Genesis 24. Abraham said to the chief servant in his household, “Put your hand under my loins. I want you to swear by the Lord, the God of heaven and the God of earth.”
It’s fairly obvious that, unlike most politicians today, when someone made a promise in Genesis, that promise was taken seriously. I’m not saying that Mr. Moss is in the habit of swearing “loin oaths,” but I am saying that if he did, the level of intimacy that this oath entails would not be possible if our mayor wasn’t unencumbered.
Isaiah says it best in Chapter 33. “Your rigging hangs loose: The mast is not held secure, the sail is not spread.” Can this scripture be taken blatantly out of context to make a point? Of course it can! As can many others!
We should strive to judge our public officials on their merit and talent—whether it be belly dancing or playing saxophone in a jazz club—rather than dangling their shortcomings in public.
Signed,
Hayden Konig, voter
“Excellent work,” laughed Nancy. “And Mr. Mayor, I would ask that you not dangle your shortcomings in public.”
“Don’t you worry,” said Pete.
•••
“Dr. Weber?” I asked.
“Speaking.”
“This is Chief Konig.”
“Yes, Chief. My nurse said you’d be calling.” On the phone, Dr. Weber sounded as if he was as old as Thelma Wingler. Maybe older.
“Did she tell you why I was calling?” I asked.
“Yes,” said Dr. Weber. I could hear some pages being ruffled. “Thelma Wingler, right?”
“I’m afraid so. She was found dead on Wednesday morning.”
“I heard. I’m very sorry. Thelma’s been a patient of mine for fifty-some-odd years.”
“Listen, Doctor, the reason I’m calling is because we found several…no, change that…we found many bottles of medication in Thelma’s house.”
Dr. Weber sighed over the phone. “Yes, I know.”
“Could you explain? It’d help us out.”
“I guess there’s no reason not to. Thelma didn’t have any next-of-kin. Her only daughter died many years ago.”
I waited.
“Thelma was one of those patients who…” He paused. “Let’s just say that, although she wasn’t a hypochondriac in the strictest sense of the word, she was easily swayed by television advertising.”
“That’s sort of what we thought.”
“She was in here every month or so telling me she needed Ambien or Minoxidil or Viagra or some such thing. Finally, we did what we do for several of our patients.”
“What was that?” I asked.
“Sugar pills. We put a label on a bottle of sugar pills. If you look closely, you’ll see that the labels simply have the name of the drug. The instructions say to take one a day. There’s no dosage, there’s no RX number.”
“Is that legal, Doctor?”
“Well, it’s not illegal. You see, with these type of older patients, if we don’t placate their hypochondria, it’s been our experience that they’ll go to several different doctors to get what they think they need. This can result in patients taking medications that cause adverse effects when taken together. They don’t often confide in each of the doctors.”
“Makes sense. Can you tell me what she was actually supposed to be taking?”
I heard the papers rustling again. “I had her on a very low dosage of Boniva. That’s for osteoporosis—just a preventative measure in her case. Of course, she’d seen Sally Field touting the benefits on television. The only other thing that I prescribed was taking a drug for cholesterol. Zocor. She wouldn’t take the generic equivalent. Had to be Zocor.”
“What about the Frontline?”
“I remember that day,” laughed Dr. Weber. “I just shook my head and had the nurse give her a bottle of ‘Frontline.’ I have a note here from her psychiatrist…”
“Helen Sawyer?”
“Yes. Dr. Sawyer had her on Zoloft. That was for her anxiety disorder. Have you spoken with her?”
“We’ve talked to her.”
“Then you know about her OCD?”
“Yes.”
“Anything else?”
“No. Thanks, Doctor.”
•••
“Okay, I talked to Davis Boothe’s doctor,” said Nancy when she finally found me. I was in Sterling Park having an afternoon cup of coffee. “Well, actually his clinic. He didn’t actually have one doctor. He was going to a walk-in clinic in Banner Elk. There were several doctors who saw him.”
“A walk-in clinic?” I said, tipping my hat and motioning to the spot beside me on the bench. “Have a seat. It’s a lovely day.”
Nancy was a female cop that every egg who thought he was tough had on his Ten Most Wanted list until he was left hammered and spent like a punch-drunk boxer on the ring ropes of love.
“Yep. He didn’t have any health insurance.”
“Huh?” I said.
“Health insurance. He didn’t have any health insurance.”
“Oh. Sorry. I was thinking of something else.” I took off the hat, smoothed my hair with my free hand, then replaced it at what I hoped was a rakish angle. “So what did the clinic say?”
“I talked to the nurse. She said that Davis knew about the embolism, but was waiting to see if it went away with the medication he was on. Blood thinners.”
“Wasn’t that dangerous?”
“Very. But he didn’t have the money for the operation.”
“Still, hardly a reason to commit suicide. Especially since he was on the blood thinners. He hadn’t given up on the treatment.”
“That’s what I think,” said Nancy, getting back to her feet. “I guess I’ll head back to the station.”
“Why don’t you take the rest of the day off?” I suggested magnanimously.
“It’s already 4:30,” she said. “I was off half an hour ago.”
•••
Billy and Elaine Hixon were coming out of St. Barnabas when they spotted me and walked over. Billy was the senior warden, but more important to most of the members, had a lawn service that was responsible for the upkeep of the grounds.
“Hayden,” called Billy. “How you doin’?”
“Pretty well. What are you two up to?”
“I had a meeting with the new priest,” Billy said, making a face. “What a….”
“Billy,” interrupted Elaine. “You’re the senior warden.” She waggled a finger at him. “Be nice.”
“It’s okay,” I said. “I’ve met him. I know what you mean. Did he tell you about The Living Gobbler?”
“I should have known that was your idea,” said Elaine.
I shrugged modestly.
“I’ll bet you haven’t heard this,” said Elaine with a smirk.
“I don’t know,” I said. “I hear a lot of stuff.”
“Really? Did you know that the Christian nudists have a contract to buy the old summer camp in Grinder’s Mill?”
“Camp Possumtickle? I thought the camp was still open. Who told you?”
“Well, Noylene spilled the beans, but she didn’t have any particulars.Anyway, Camp Possumtickle closed up in June. The nudists have a retreat scheduled for the fourth week of November. Thanksgiving weekend.”
Camp Possumtickle had been struggling financially for several years. It had started out in the 1950s as a summer camp for privileged city kids, but, as fancier camps had sprung up in the mountains of North Carolina—camps with indoor plumbing—Camp Possumtickle had failed to keep up. I remembered a run-down lodge, about ten individual cabins, a bath-house and a small dining room. The camp was located on Possumtickle Lake, about three miles from town.
“Could be cold out there,” said Billy. “I mean, if you’re nekkid.”
“They’ll be here for a week in November,” said Elaine, “but after the first of the year, it’ll be a full-time Christian nudist retreat. They’re planning improvements.”
“How do you find out this stuff?”
“Well, after Noylene filled me in on what she knew, which wasn’t much, I went over to the Upper Womb and asked Chad Parker. He told me that the Daystar Naturists for God and Love are purchasing the property. They’ll be having Bible studies, bonfires, singing, playing games, hiking, and there will be revival services at night in the lodge. The public is invited to the services.”
“Will the services be clothing optional?” I asked.
Elaine smiled and said in her sweetest voice, “What do you think?”
Chapter 14
The Slab Café on an autumn Saturday morning was generally packed to the rafters and this morning was no exception. Pete had saved a table so Meg and I didn’t have the half hour wait that most of the patrons endured. The smell of coffee hung in the air mixed with various other wafting scents that I had no trouble identifying: country ham, cheese grits, bacon, waffles, pancakes and scrambled eggs. Noylene, Collette and Pauli Girl McCollough were working the floor and had everything under control. The six booths were full, as were all the tables and the four red-vinyl upholstered stools at the counter. We walked across the big black and white tiles, greeting folks we knew, nodding cordially to those we didn’t, and made our way to Pete’s table. I gave him the bad news.
“The Daystar Naturists for God and Love?” Pete was despondent. “They bought the camp? Maybe they’ll change their minds. Maybe we’ll have a monsoon or an earthquake or something.”
“Maybe,” said Meg, looking toward the door as the cowbell jangled against the glass. “Do you mind if Mother joins us? I texted her that we would save her a seat.”
“Fine with me,” said Pete.
“You texted her?” I added. “Is that even a word?”
“I texted her on your BlackBerry. She texted me back that she had news.”
“She texted you back?”
“Sure.” Meg gave me a demure smile. “After all, this is the 21st century.”
“Well, I hope it’s good news,” I said. “We could use some good news.�
��
“Ask her yourself.”
I looked up and saw Ruby approaching. Then I stood and pulled out a chair, still practicing to be the good son-in-law.
“Thank you, Hayden,” said Ruby with a delightful smile. Ruby was an older version of Meg. Her hair was still black, although now, as she neared seventy, it was streaked with silver. She was a striking woman, slightly taller than Meg, statuesque and elegant. “I have news.”
“We heard,” I said. “Do tell.”
“Well,” started Ruby, “you know that Thelma Wingler died on Wednesday.”
“Tuesday, actually,” I said. “But we found her on Wednesday.”
“Of course, you’re right,” said Ruby. “Now don’t interrupt, dear.”
“Sorry,” I said.
“Well, apparently Thelma had no family.”
Meg, Pete and I nodded.
“Also, I suppose she had no friends.”
We nodded.
“I used to have lunch with her once a week. I didn’t much care for her, but I thought it was my Christian responsibility.”
We nodded again.
“Anyway, it seems that when she made out her last will, she left everything to me. She didn’t have any family. Did I mention that?”
Ruby looked at us. We nodded.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, say something.”
“That’s great!” said Meg. “The house? Everything?”
“No. Not the house. She left the house to the church.”
“All her money?” said Pete. “She was loaded! Man, what a windfall!”
“No, not the money,” said Ruby, scrunching up her nose in that wonderful way that reminded me of Meg. “The money goes to the Humane Society. Well, most of it anyway. Five thousand dollars goes to Upper Womb Ministries.”
“Really? The Upper Womb?” said Pete. “Now there’s a surprise.”
“Definitely worth looking into,” I said. “Let’s see then. Not the house. Not the money. That leaves…”
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