“Confirm—like you got an idea already?”
“I didn’t say that.” Goat’s glare got stonier, and he gave his plate a desultory shove, sending it to the middle of the table with the four different kinds of hot sauce.
“Well, it’s pretty clear you do. Got something on her to make the ID, did she? One of those clever crime scene types figure it out?” Wallet, keys, medical bracelet—there were a lot of possibilities, Stella reflected, especially since the body had been wearing clothes, which implied pockets, with opportunities for personal belongings you didn’t tend to have on a naked dead person. “How you do the ident on a mummy, anyway? Do the fingerprints even work?”
Goat ignored the question as he got his wallet out and started peeling off money for a tip. Stella watched with secret admiration. Not too many folks put money on the Formica tables at Pokey Pot’s, probably because they had to do all the work themselves, from waiting around for their food to show up in the pass-through to the kitchen, to busing their own tables. It was local courtesy to take an extra Wet-Nap from the basket and give the table a once-over for the benefit of the next diners to happen along, but that was about the extent of the diner’s obligation.
A man who tipped generously was likely to be considerate in other ways as well—that was Stella’s theory. Ollie had been a first-class skinflint; she’d once seen him pocket the tips from the tables they passed on their way out of Denny’s. If Stella was ever to get hold of a new man, picking someone as far opposite of her dead ex as possible seemed like a good start.
“Tell you what,” Stella said, reining in her rogue thoughts and trying a new tactic. “How about I spring for some cobbler, okay? We can split it.”
Without waiting for an answer, she slid off her chair and went back up to the counter, and ordered a big piece with ice cream, two spoons.
Back at the table, Goat looked unaccountably glum.
“So,” Stella said, taking a big bite of the gooey cinnamon-flecked apples, catching a glob of ice cream in her spoon. “You all are thinking this was like a robbery gone bad, then. This mystery gal was loaded, so whoever it was held her up and then, what, shot her? Hit her on the head? Stabbed her?”
“I didn’t say that.” Goat ogled the dessert between them.
“Couldn’t they figure it out with all that fancy equipment they dragged down here? Hell, they looked like a bunch of Amway salesmen, Goat. ’Cept for that Detective Simmons—I notice she lets the other folks do her heavy lifting.”
“Daphne’s good,” Goat said through clenched teeth. “She’s fast-trackin’ it up there. They say she’s got a shot at sheriff when Stanislas steps down.”
The truth was that while everyone called Goat Sheriff, and Burt Knoll before him, they and the chief gunslingers at the other three branch offices, in Fairfax and Harrisonville and Quail Valley, were all undersheriffs. They all reported, on paper, up to Dimmit Stanislas, the top Sheriff of Sawyer County, who these days spent most of his time ignoring his doctor’s orders after his second stroke and smoking his way to an involuntary retirement, the kind that requires you to haul around your own oxygen.
“Hmm … that would make her your boss, wouldn’t it?”
If it was possible for Goat’s eyebrows to lower any farther, for his scowl to deepen, that did the trick.
An unpleasant thought occurred to Stella. “Hey, you don’t have a problem working for a woman, do you? ’Cause I got to tell you—”
Goat slapped the table so fast and so unexpectedly that Stella jumped. “No, Stella, I ain’t got any problems with women, except for the fact that all of you chose the same damn moment to visit all manner of torture on me.”
He looked so miserable that Stella felt a little sorry for him.
“We were having a perfectly nice dinner,” he said, picking up steam. “Least I thought we were—and then you go storming outta there like—like I tried to feed you cat food or something and then Brandy—hell, that woman can make me crazy in a New York minute and why she’s moved her ass into my house, when last I heard she hates my guts—well, that’s a mystery right there, and then I got Daphne Simmons across the conference table telling us how the team’s gonna do this and we’re gonna do that and all of a sudden her hand’s on my knee squeezing like she thinks I got the evidence stashed in my pants—”
He clamped his mouth shut and blushed a deep shade of cherry red. Stella didn’t know whether to laugh or apologize, but one thing was clear: The man had been pushed to his limits.
“Oh, dear,” she said. “Well, I can’t help you much with your ex, but tell you what, why don’t you hunt up the Sawyer County Services employment manual, and see what-all it has to say about sexual harassment, because if I’m not mistaken, no still means no.”
“Forget it …,” Goat said darkly. “It’s nothing I can’t handle.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means I think I can keep my pants on without your help, Dusty. Okay? So let it drop.”
He was embarrassed, and he was irritated, and he looked like he might be ready to bite her head off—but the bottom line was that he wasn’t buying what Daphne Simmons was selling. Stella had to chew on the inside of her cheek to keep from grinning.
Instead, she gave the cobbler a nudge in his direction. Men—they never seemed to appreciate the problem-solving powers of sweet buttery carbs. “Pick up your spoon,” she said. “We’ll figure this mess out. Meanwhile, you might as well keep your strength up.”
After Lunch, Stella headed over to Fairfax, a fifteen-minute drive that took twice that today when she got stuck behind a horse trailer. Pulling into town was not so different from pulling into Prosper, except everything was just a little neater, a little fresher, a little more spit-shined. The new medical complex they built out by Fairfax Municipal Hospital had a lot to do with that—now the county’s doctors and nurses and lawyers were mostly concentrated in one place, with a whole new crop of specialists in residence to drive their fancy foreign cars around and fix a host of medical problems that had previously gone untended or patched up as well as the local internist could manage. Stella didn’t have any solutions for the national health care crisis, but she figured she and her insurance carrier were doing their part by keeping her medical team occupied and paid during her recovery; she and Chrissy had become quite familiar with the maze of offices as they visited their surgeons and physical therapists and cardiologists and orthopedists and an oral surgeon to reconstruct Chrissy’s busted teeth and even a dermatologist, who was doing her best to help Stella’s scars fade into oblivion with a variety of expensive treatments.
Stella navigated the rows in the parking lot, looking for a spot with a little extra room on the sides. The spaces were so damn narrow—and she couldn’t stand the thought of some rehab patient in a cast lumbering out of the passenger seat and whacking the door into the Jeep’s green paint. Finally she found a spot between a brand-new Prius and a well-maintained Lexus.
She found Dr. Herman’s office without any trouble in one of the many wings in the cluster of buildings. There was nothing special about it. A quick glance showed the usual spread of magazines and tired silk flower arrangements. Someone had stapled paper leaves and pumpkins onto a bulletin board covered with a variety of forms and announcements.
Stella checked in with the pleasant-enough receptionist, saying that Neb was in the men’s room and, given his terrible pain, might be just a minute or two, but that was fine because as his wife, she needed just a second of the doctor’s time to speak privately with him concerning the safety of certain sexual practices for a man with a disk surgery on his record. That got her a quick pink-faced “all righty, then,” and Stella picked up a copy of Working Mother magazine and started flipping the pages.
Every doctor’s office she’d been in during the last decade, she reflected, had copies of that damn magazine, and as Stella waited for Dr. Herman, she started a low burn.
She had technically been working for only
three years, if you didn’t count the occasional hours she put in helping Ollie in the shop. In general, her departed husband preferred to run the shop by himself, so Stella had raised their daughter Noelle, and then when Noelle left the nest, turned her attentions to the community, participating in every church committee and neighborhood watch and fire department bake sale and Prosper Pride Day and garden club beautification project and on and on and on.
In all those years, Stella didn’t recall a giant surfeit of empty hours. From the early years of waking with the baby all night and running the house all day, through the seasons of church fund-raisers and campaigning for school funding and doing the books for the shop and running elderly neighbors to the grocery, Stella figured she went to bed just as tuckered every night as her office-working sisters. Glancing up at the gal behind the desk, who was peering at a monitor and tapping at a keyboard from a comfortable chair, she didn’t guess there was much point to trying to guess who was more done in at the end of the day: the desk jockeys or the carpool drivers and candy stripers.
On the other hand, a visitor from another planet, picking up Working Mother and glancing through the ads, might guess there was a strong correlation between receiving a paycheck and a bursting need for Botox and Gas-X and luxury sedans and quick-dry nail polish. If that celestial visitor scanned an article or two, she’d be scratching her Martian head and wondering why the female backbone of the white-collar workforce was so all-fired obsessed with composting their coffee grounds and visiting the national parks and navigating sibling rivalry.
Someone would have to take that Martian gal out for a stiff drink and explain that a whole lot of folks, Working Mother among them, got their jollies and made their money from dividing the sisterhood, from making them figure one bunch had a leg up on the other. And that pissed Stella off plenty. She tossed the magazine back on top of the pile, just as a petite gal popped her head out the door and smiled.
“Come on back, dear,” she said with a voice like honey, even though she had at best half a dozen years on Stella, and all her annoyance retreated back down to its usual low simmer.
She followed the gal, admiring her scrubs, which were decorated with scarecrows and burnt-orange piping, down a hall to the door at the end. It was opened a crack, and she stepped deferentially aside, gesturing like Vanna White, and said, “Go on in, hon.”
Stella shouldered her way in and leaned across the big walnut desk for a handshake. “Stella Hardesty,” she said. “Pleased to meet you.”
Dr. Theodore Herman raised his ass off his chair a foot or so and shook her hand. He was a pleasant-looking man, if a little too smooth-edged for Stella’s taste. His white coat was crisp and pressed, his steel-gray hair was perfectly styled, and his teeth were as white as a dinner plate—but his hand when they shook was cool and surprisingly squishy.
Not at all like Goat’s. The sensation of his hand surrounding hers the other night popped into Stella’s mind, the warmth of his rough-callused skin, the pressure of his strong fingers as they teased at her palm.
Stella realized that Dr. Herman was staring at her expectantly. Oops.
“Oh, uh … excuse me—,” she stammered. “Could you repeat that?”
Dr. Herman raised his eyebrows but gave her a brief, chilly smile and said, “I was just saying that I was under the impression that Mrs. Donovan was bringing Neb in.”
“Oh, that,” Stella said, pouring on her most winning smile. “I’m sorry for the misunderstanding. What I said was that I am here, ah, in the capacity of, to help Donna and Neb. He’s come under attention of the, uh, certain legal agencies and I am, as their representative, that is to say, in an effort to clear up this little misunderstanding—”
Dr. Herman raised a well-manicured hand to stop her. “I’m sorry, I’m afraid I don’t completely understand. Is Neb in legal trouble?”
Stella arranged her features in what she hoped was a thoughtful, intelligent frown. “As ridiculous as this is—and I’m quite certain it’s nothing but a series of misunderstandings—it appears he may be a suspect in a possible murder.”
At this, Dr. Herman’s eyes widened in surprise. “Not that body they found out at the fairgrounds?”
Stella dipped her chin and stared at a gold pen lying at a precise angle on Dr. Herman’s desk blotter. “I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to say,” she said softly.
“Are you … a detective?”
Stella was not, in fact, until just that moment, when it occurred to her that the position might have certain advantages. “Private, yes,” she said, nodding and thinking her strategy ahead. “I would be happy to get my identification from the car, if you like—under the new codes we are required to keep a copy in the car and I haven’t quite adjusted to—”
“No, no, that won’t be necessary,” Dr. Herman said, “as long as you keep your questions general. As I’m sure you know, I cannot comment on any specifics of Mr. Donovan’s care, or any patient, for that matter, without a more compelling legal basis.” He relaxed back in his chair and smiled blandly.
“That oughtta work,” Stella said. “Here’s the thing. I know that Neb battled a powerful OxyContin addiction following his treatment, and I—”
“Hold on, there,” Dr. Herman said, raising his hand again. He sure did seem to like using hand signals to direct the flow of his conversations. “I can’t confirm that, as it has to do with the specifics of a patient’s care.”
Stella blew out a breath, frustrated, and thought of another angle to come at things. “Well, how about this,” she said. “If a person is addicted to OxyContin, I mean they got it bad, popping them things for breakfast, lunch, and dinner … is it possible they could do something, like a violent act, and not remember it?”
The question seemed to take Dr. Herman by surprise. He regarded Stella thoughtfully, and then his gaze drifted up near the ceiling for a few moments while he tented his fingers and swung his chair in a small, lazy arc for a bit.
“OxyContin is a derivative of heroin, as you may be aware,” he finally said.
“Yeah, I know. They call it the hillbilly heroin and all that.”
“And as such, like heroin and, for that matter, all narcotics, an excessive dosage can cause a benumbing or deadening effect. Which makes it effective as a pain treatment, of course.”
“Huh.” Stella fought the urge to roll her eyes at the doc’s long-windedness. She’d seen this happen often enough with her own physicians that she knew it was easier to just let him run his course than to try to hustle things along.
“Now, of course, the effect of any narcotic—or actually we prefer the more precise term opioid—on an individual depends on the dose and the route of administration, and what other medications he might be taking, and several other factors. And some of the potential side effects are contradictory, like drowsiness and sleeplessness, for instance, or constipation and diarrhea.”
“No kidding. But as for remembering—”
“There’s some evidence that short-term memory may be impaired in some patients in some situations. Perhaps you’ve heard people under the influence of psychotropic substances claim a certain clarity of thinking, a so-called mind-blowing experience—”
“No, not personally,” Stella said hastily. “But I’ve, you know, heard stories.”
“Yes, well. Frequently what is experienced as a heightened sensitivity to one’s surroundings is actually accompanied by lowered awareness of events and the passage of time. In addition, normal behavioral checks and balances, which are quite complex in terms of brain chemistry but might be summarized in lay terms as inhibitions and social filters, do not function normally in these conditions.”
“So you’re saying that a fella could get himself high as a kite and—well, let’s just come up with a for instance. Could he get in an argument with someone, and—in a fit of violence, uncharacteristic violence, as this hypothetical fella generally wouldn’t hurt a fly—could he kill someone?”
Dr. Herman bent forwar
d, his bland, handsome features working themselves into a show of enthusiasm. “Not only could he, but the literature includes many documented cases of uncharacteristic behavior, frequently characterized by bursts of activity. It might take the form of acts of superhuman strength, or self-inflicted injury, or, as you say, violence. I mean, it doesn’t happen every day, and it would have to be a situation of pretty heavy use, but yes, it’s been known to happen.”
Stella felt a chill start up along her spine. “And have no recollection of doing it?”
“Partial recall, in some cases, and in others, no recollection at all,” Dr. Herman concurred.
“But—what about—” Stella thought about the mystery mummy woman, encased in her concrete resting place. It struck her as pretty unlikely that Neb had gotten himself loaded up, gone out to the site, cranked up the mixer, readied the frame, and all of a sudden got a hankering to commit a cold-blooded murder. No, if—and it was a mind-boggling if—he had killed the unknown woman, he would have had to come up with the plan to sink her in the foundations afterwards, not to mention get himself sober enough to carry out the plan without falling in himself.
“Here’s the thing,” she said, choosing her words carefully. There was no way she was about to give out details of the case; Goat would have her head on a platter. “What I’m wondering is, whether a person could commit this act of violence, this murder, and then figure out a complicated plan to, uh, cover it up and dispose of the body—a plan that would take a bit of complex scheming and some physical labor, maybe even some dead-of-night-type sneaking around—I mean we’re talking a plan without a lot of margin of error—could a person all hopped up on Oxy do that and later not have any memory of it?”
Dr. Herman pursed his lips and looked even more earnest in his cogitations. He picked up a pair of half-moon glasses off the desk and slipped them on his nose, and peered at Stella over the top. The effect was a little bit condemning, and Stella had the uncomfortable memory of standing before the judge in his chambers the day he dismissed the case against her for killing Ollie.
A Bad Day for Pretty Page 9