I smiled.
He didn’t.
Maybe Chimacam County’s version of a security system wasn’t supposed to fraternize with the help.
Heavy oak doors with department names etched in the glass identified each county office in the four-story, red brick building. The Prosecutor’s office was no exception.
Inside, behind a half wall, two mismatched vintage desks littered with paper and stacks of file folders stood side by side. An African violet with electric blue blooms, catching filtered sunshine from a narrow window, sat atop a tan metal file cabinet with two drawers open and chock-full like an over-stuffed cannoli. Apparently, no one around here believed in going paperless.
Using her shoulder to press the telephone receiver to her ear, the middle-aged, honey-haired receptionist waved me in after I told her my name. “See Patsy,” she whispered.
I figured Frankie had arranged for me to get the fifty-cent tour of the courthouse. It was probably best to be polite and not mention that I had toured the historical landmark back in the fifth grade.
I made a left and headed down a short hallway, where Patsy Faraday, Frankie’s legal assistant, stood by her desk with her gaze set on me like a sentry training her rifle on an approaching enemy.
Her black polyester-blend slacks hugged a pair of tree trunk thighs, emphasizing a panty line that her plus-sized paisley print tunic couldn’t disguise. I knew from the gossip pipeline at Duke’s that Patsy’s husband had cheated on her for most of their twenty-year marriage. Like me, she appeared to have landed on her feet after her recent divorce, holding a fork in her hand.
Patsy flashed me a tepid smile. “Good morning. Frankie’s going to be a little late, but she asked me to show you around.”
Since we had another hour before the ferry from Seattle arrived with dozens of sun-seeking tourists eager to caravan toward the historic Old Town district in their RVs, I knew Frankie wouldn’t be late because of the usual mid-morning backup on Highway 19. “Is everything okay?”
Patsy jutted her pointy chin at me. “I’m sure I wouldn’t know.”
She knew plenty. It just wasn’t for me to know.
Patsy grabbed a thin red binder from her desk. “If you’ll follow me,” she said, leading the way down the hall. “Most of the attorneys aren’t in yet, so we’ll start with the lunchroom.”
I watched her plaited hair sweep across her back like a pendulum, keeping rhythm with the sway of her rounded hips. The tawny color had probably come from a bottle she’d purchased at Clark’s Pharmacy, but the gray roots were all Patsy’s.
At the lunchroom doorway, she flipped a light switch, illuminating a coffee machine cooking the sludge in its pot. “You should check in here periodically. Not everyone thinks to make a fresh pot when they take the last cup. Coffee and filters are in there.” Patsy pointed at the metal cabinet next to a dark brown mini-refrigerator, leaving no doubt which assistant she expected to make the coffee.
She switched off the light and I followed her down the hall to an office bullpen of five legal assistants where Patsy systematically introduced me to each woman.
Their ages probably ranged from early thirties to late fifties. I already knew the oldest lady—Karla Tate, a two pack a day smoker who lived on G Street down the hill from my grandmother. The other four I knew by sight from having served them lunch at Duke’s. Based on Patsy’s speed-dating approach to today’s introductions I could only hope there wouldn’t be a who’s who quiz later.
“And here we are … your desk,” Patsy said as she and I made our way to the windowless rear wall, where four black filing cabinets shared the dreary space with a scarred walnut desk, an empty, black plastic pencil cup, and a spindly philodendron languishing in the corner.
If this concluded the tour, my desk certainly looked like it was at the end of the line.
Patsy handed me the red binder. “You’ll find your computer login in here, plus a manual on navigating the network. When there’s time tomorrow, I’ll schedule you for some training.”
“I’ll probably have time today.” Considering that I didn’t even have any pencils to sharpen, a lot of time.
Her pale lips disappeared for a split second. “Maybe.”
That looked more like a no way. Patsy definitely knew something she didn’t want to share.
She aimed her chin at me again. “If there’s nothing else you need, Frankie will call when she’s ready for you.”
“What should I do in the meantime?”
“Make coffee.”
Swell.
Fifteen minutes later, while the coffee machine gurgled, laboring to spit out its last few drops, I stood at the lunchroom window and considered cleaning out the refrigerator until I saw Frankie’s Volvo roll into the parking lot. Happy to give the fridge a reprieve, I found a ceramic mug in the cabinet, filled it with some fresh brew and headed down the hall to find out what was going on.
“Charmaine,” Frankie said, standing at the doorway of her office. “What good timing.”
For both of us.
I lifted the mug in my hand. “Coffee?”
Her lips curled into a pleasant smile, but the tension in her jaw made it look forced. “You must have been reading my mind.” She gestured toward her desk with her briefcase. “Come in. I’d like to talk to you about something.”
As I stepped into her office, she asked Patsy, “Do you have Trudy’s file ready?”
Trudy? The only Trudy I knew was Trudy Bergeson, the Port Merritt library Story Lady of my youth and one of my great-aunt Alice’s oldest friends. Since Trudy had been in the county hospital with pneumonia for most of the last week, it couldn’t be a good thing if my favorite story teller had a file.
Carrying the blue folder Patsy handed her, Frankie set her briefcase on the two-drawer file cabinet to her right and eased into her desk chair. “Have a seat,” she said as I placed the steaming mug in front of her.
I took the closest of the two Georgian high back chairs facing her.
Frankie took a sip of coffee. “I know you’ve hardly had a chance to settle in, but I have something I’d like you to do.”
I was fine with ending this morning’s tour of KP duty, but I had a sinking feeling about the contents of that blue folder.
Setting the mug aside, Frankie folded her hands, her gaze soft as warm butter. “Trudy Bergeson died at the hospital early this morning.”
My sinking feeling hit bottom.
Any breaking news of a birth, death, engagement, or divorce always made a beeline to Duke’s Cafe. Aunt Alice had to have already heard about Trudy.
“And one of the doctors on duty has some … concerns,” Frankie added.
Concerns? About how Trudy died? Most everyone in town knew that she’d been in failing health ever since her stroke last year.
Even though I was well aware that Frankie had recently been elected to a third term as the Prosecutor/Coroner of rural Chimacam County, this made no sense. Why would a doctor contact her about the death of a frail seventy-seven-year-old woman?
“Dr. Cardinale called early this morning.” Frankie handed me the folder. “These are my notes. I’d like you to go with Karla and get a statement from him.”
I knew Frankie wanted me to sit in on witness interviews and be an emotional barometer for the prosecution, but after we left Ben’s office on Friday, she had talked about me shadowing a couple of the legal assistants in the office for the first week. Maybe observe the criminal case that was supposed to start jury selection tomorrow.
Obviously, with the call about Trudy’s death, the plan had changed.
“The statement is just a formality,” Frankie said as if she could sense the nervous knots in my gut twisting themselves into pretzel rolls, “but it will be a good chance for you to jump in and get your feet wet. If the two of you leave soon, you can probably catch the doctor before his shift ends.”
To avoid embarrassing myself during my first interview, I scanned Frankie’s notes. At the bottom of th
e page, three letters were followed by a question mark. “C-O-D?”
“Cause of death, which will remain unknown until we hear back from the forensic pathologist.”
“A pathologist. Like a medical examiner?”
“Exactly, and he’ll be doing the autopsy that Dr. Cardinale requested.” She leveled her gaze at me. “Of course, nothing about any of this will be shared with anyone outside this office.”
Like anything juicy could be kept quiet within earshot of Duke’s. I nodded anyway, then started for the door.
“One more thing,” Frankie said, stopping me in my tracks. “Go downstairs and get sworn in before you leave.”
“Huh?”
Chapter Three
“I’m here to be sworn in,” I said to the Julia Child lookalike in the County Clerk’s office on the second floor.
She leaned against the counter, the name placard at the bank teller-style window identifying her as Gloria. “And what might you need to be sworn in for, honey?”
“It seems that I just became a deputy coroner.” I tried to not choke on the words coming out of my mouth.
When I’d handed Frankie’s notes over to Karla, she explained that deputizing me simply meant that I could speak with the doctor as an official representative of Frankie’s office. No more, no less.
Since my skill set required working with people who were still breathing, I was totally counting on that no more part.
Gloria’s unpainted lips pulled back into a lopsided grin. “Weren’t you the one who sold me a cinnamon roll last Thursday?”
“That would be me.”
“Interesting career path.”
“Tell me about it.” I just prayed that path wouldn’t lead to me wearing my breakfast on my shoes before the day was over.
She grabbed a form from behind the counter and slid it toward me. “Fill this out.”
Fifteen minutes later, Gloria handed me a laminated badge with the county seal that looked about as official as my library card.
“That’s it?”
“That’s it, hon.” She patted me on the hand. “Try not to lose it or do anything to get the county sued.”
Nice. “I’ll give it my best shot.”
Since I had to make a side trip to the County Clerk’s office and Karla needed to get a registered letter out in today’s mail, we had agreed to meet up at the hospital. Figuring she had a ten-minute head start on me, I dashed to the parking lot, slid behind the wheel of my ex-husband’s Jaguar, and put the pedal to the metal to blast up to Chimacam Memorial at the crest of the hill on 6th.
Don’t get the wrong idea about the Jag. I got it as part of the divorce settlement. I needed a car and Chris was motivated to supply the wheels to fast-track me out of his life. Considering how much he’d loved the sleek, silver XJ6 he’d been driving when we met at culinary school, I was more than a little suspicious that he’d been so willing to part with it. Turned out for good reason—it overheated on my way back home to my grandmother’s house and cost me over a thousand bucks in repairs before I’d even made it out of California. The mechanic told me that for another grand he could fix the Jag’s oil leak and have her purring like a kitten.
As long as the damned thing didn’t cough up a hairball, I could live with feeding it a quart of oil every couple of weeks. Especially since that was all I could afford until I saw my first paycheck. Then I was going to unload it before it bled my bank account dry, and buy a car that wouldn’t make me feel like my ex had played me for a sucker.
When I entered the hospital lobby, I didn’t see Karla so I went to the information desk. “Where can I find Dr. Cardinale?” I asked the twenty-something who’d had her pierced nose buried in a romance novel when I served her a grilled cheese sandwich last Wednesday.
She popped her chewing gum. “Do you have an appointment?”
This seemed like a good opportunity to test drive my newly acquired plastic, so I pulled out my badge. “I just need to speak with him.”
She squinted at the badge, an uptick at the corner of her high gloss lips signaling her amusement. “You’re a deputy coroner now?”
I might have been given the county stamp of officialdom, but that obviously didn’t mean squat to anyone who’d seen me at Duke’s last week.
I pasted a smile on my face. “Yeah, I got a promotion. Dr. Cardinale … is he around?”
“Maybe. Take the elevator to the second floor and ask at the nurse’s station.”
When the elevator door opened, my cell phone rang—a local number but I didn’t recognize it.
“I have a problem,” Karla said without identifying herself. She didn’t have to. I’d have known her throaty smoker’s voice anywhere.
I also recognized the sounds of street noise and walked to a window overlooking the hospital parking lot. “Where are you?” I asked, looking for her.
“Third and Main. A tourist in the mother of all Winnebagos rear-ended me. I’m waiting for the cops to arrive.”
“Are you okay?”
“I’m fine, but my car’s not. Are you at the hospital?”
“Yes, do you want—”
“Good. This will take a while, so I want you to meet with Dr. Cardinale and take his statement.”
Me? “Are you sure we shouldn’t wait and—”
“There’s nothing to it,” she said over the rumble of a passing truck. “Just ask him the five W’s—who, what, when, where, and find out why he called to report a suspicious death. That should get him talking. Your job is to take good notes, then I’ll follow up with him later to fill in any blanks.”
“Okay.” That sounded easy enough.
“Gotta go. A patrol car is pulling up. I’ll catch up with you in a couple of hours.” Click.
I dropped my cell phone into my tote and then sucked in a shaky breath as I started down the hallway.
A woman in her mid-thirties dressed in a pink Winnie the Pooh tunic looked up at me from a computer monitor at the nurses’ station. Her face broke into a smile as I approached. “Char?”
“Hi …” Drawing a blank, I sneaked a glance at her hospital badge. “… Laurel.”
“It’s Laurel Seeger now,” she said, flashing me an emerald cut diamond ring.
I remembered a Laurel from high school. She’d been two years ahead of me, a Goth type with long, stringy black hair and thick glasses. This Laurel’s hair complemented her oval face in soft maple brown curls. “Sorry, I didn’t recognize you without your glasses.”
“Yeah, I got that a lot when I moved back to town last year.” She leaned back in her desk chair, her gaze settling on my hips. “But you haven’t changed a bit.”
Liar.
After a minute of obligatory chitchat about our families, I brought up the subject of the funeral both our grandmothers would soon be attending. “I heard the sad news about Trudy.”
Laurel shook her head, a smile frozen on her lips. A little off, but Laurel had always been half a bubble off plumb, so I didn’t make too much out of it. “Such a shame. She was supposed to go home today.”
Really. I hadn’t seen that tidbit of information in Frankie’s notes.
I leaned closer, resting my elbows on the counter. “What happened?”
“You should probably talk to Dr. Cardinale,” Laurel said, her gaze fixed on the hunk and a half walking in our direction.
Solid with spiky hair the color of espresso and an olive complexion paying homage to his Italian surname, Dr. Cardinale stood a few inches taller than me, making him around five foot ten. He wore black high tops, faded blue jeans, and had dark stubble that could give a girl some serious whisker burn. The front of his white lab coat was stained with dark smears I prayed had nothing to do with Trudy.
“Can I help you?” he asked, the tension in his square jaw betraying his wariness.
“I’m Charmaine Digby.” I showed him my badge which drew a nod, then his whiskey brown eyes shifted toward two women in green scrubs waiting for the elevator. I knew I needed t
o get him out of the hallway for both our sakes. “Is there someplace we could talk privately?”
His chiseled lips drew back, giving me the impression that he’d done all the talking he wanted to today.
“Just for a few minutes,” I added with an easy smile.
After a nod, he led me down the hall to the doctor’s lounge, where I sank my butt into an aqua blue vinyl chair.
“I’ve been asked to follow up with you about the call you made to the County Coroner,” I said, catching a whiff of deodorant soap as he took the chair opposite me.
He rested his toned, tan forearms on his thighs and steepled his fingers. “I already told her everything I know.”
“I’m sure you did.” But now you need to tell me. “This will just take a few minutes.”
I pulled out a notebook and a pen from my tote bag, then noticed a GQ magazine on the table between us. I recognized the popular actor on the cover as one of my mother’s former boyfriends. Tilting my head I scanned the text to the right of his perfectly straight, bright white teeth. Not that I was interested in anything he had to say—as long as the article didn’t mention anyone I knew.
“You can take it home with you if you’re a fan,” Dr. Cardinale said.
I covered the magazine with my tote. “I’m not.”
For the last twenty years, I’d made a point of avoiding my actress mother’s boy toys in person and in the media. Really, the less I knew about the guys boinking my mom, the better for all of us.
I opened my notebook to a clean page. “Shall we begin?”
Taking a deep breath, Dr. Cardinale leaned back and crossed his legs.
I mirrored his posture—something that I’d seen my divorce attorney do during our first meeting. When I asked him about it, he sheepishly confessed that it was a technique he used to help establish a rapport with new clients.
Since my first interview could use all the help it could get, I also shot the doctor a friendly smile. Mainly to help me relax, but if it could do the same for him, all the better.
The corners of his lips curled, then he lowered his gaze, lingering at my breasts. I was struck with an immediate sense of curiosity mixed with male awareness, like he wanted to know what I was hiding under my oversized cotton pullover. A nanosecond later, his eyes were fixed back on mine.
Wendy Delaney - Working Stiffs 01 - Trudy, Madly, Deeply Page 2