“There’s no history of either disease in our family.”
“Neither has to be hereditary.”
“Is it possible she had a little bit of both?”
“It’s possible.”
“What would the likelihood have been of that at her age?”
“Slim.”
Layperson that I was, I nonetheless agreed. “Could her symptoms have come from something else?”
He frowned slightly. “What did you have in mind?”
“I don’t know.” I was deliberately vague. “Something in the air, y’know?”
“Like acid rain?”
“Could be,” I granted. “Air currents being what they are, New England has become a receptacle for toxins from plants in the Midwest. But I was actually thinking about something more local, like lead.”
“Lead?”
“From lead paint. All the old paint was sanded off when Miss Lissy’s was repainted. The air had to have been loaded with lead.” Yes. I know. Sabina said Mom had been symptomatic for five years, and this work was done only four years ago. But what if Mom had been simply aging prior to then? Losing interest in daily chores? Experiencing a major postmenopausal funk? What if lead poisoning had taken over where the other had left off?
Tom smiled sadly. “Nope. Sorry. I tested for that at the start. There was no lead in her blood.”
I felt a stab of dismay. I had been sure it was lead. “Could it have been there and gone?”
He shook his head.
“My sister seems to have some of the same symptoms.”
Tom frowned at that. “Sabina?”
“Phoebe.”
“I never saw any symptoms. What are they?”
“Poor balance. Bad memory. They’re pretty new. I only saw the bare beginnings of them when I was here in June. Sabina says it’s part of mourning Mom. Sympathetic symptoms. But what if it isn’t?”
“If it isn’t, she ought to see me,” he advised. “Think you can get her in?”
“I don’t know. It might be hard with Sabina standing guard. If Phoebe were to see you, would you be able to tell whether the problem is real or psychosomatic?”
“Possibly. Your mother had no control over the symptoms. Your sister may. That would be significant. Plus, I can test for lead.”
I finished my coffee and set down the cup. “Getting back to the other thing. You know, acid rain or whatever. Do you think there’s an abnormal amount of illness in this town?”
He drank his own coffee, seeming momentarily lost in thought. Then, with a blink, he put the cup down. “There may be.”
“What do you think is the cause?”
“I’ve been trying to figure that out since I arrived.”
“How?”
“Watching. Asking questions.”
“And what are your thoughts?”
He was quiet for a minute, turning the cup round and round on the table, watching it turn. Then he stopped, paused, finally raised his eyes. “Acid rain, or whatever. But you didn’t hear that from me.”
“Why not?”
“Because I have no scientific proof.”
“You diagnose Parkinson’s and Alzheimer’s with no scientific proof,” I said.
“The other is something else. It implies a very large problem, one that has become extremely political. I can state my opinion, and even point to a pattern, but there are those who’ll say I’m crazy, and they might just be powerful enough to destroy my credibility in this town.”
“Would you sacrifice the health of the people for the sake of your credibility?” I asked, edgy again.
He sat forward, more intense now. “I lived in Washington long enough to know people there. I say things—believe me, I do—and maybe my arguments have so far fallen on deaf ears, but to some extent I’m hog-tied. I’ve had to make a choice—politician or doctor. Yes, I’m worried about my credibility. I think I’m the best doctor this town has, in part because I ask every question I know how to ask and treat my patients accordingly. If I give up my practice to crusade for the cause, who will take care of the people here?”
“A replacement,” I said, seeing his point, “but one who might be so beholden to the Meades as to disavow everything you would be down there in Washington trying to do. Have you talked to the Meades about this?”
“About what?”
“Acid rain, or whatever.”
Cautiously, he asked, “Why would I talk with the Meades?”
“Because they run the only industry in town.”
“I thought we were talking about pollution from the Midwest.”
“We were.”
Tom was silent. After a minute, he said, “They say I’m barking up the wrong tree.”
“About which, acid rain, or whatever?”
His eyes held mine. “Whatever.”
“What is whatever?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Have you done any research?”
“Some.”
“Can you give me a lead?”
“If I did that and certain people found out, I could lose my job.”
“Like, you could lose your credibility?”
“You ask a lot of questions,” he said with some irritation.
I eased up, actually smiled. “I’m more diplomatic about it back in Washington. Here, I revert to form. I always did ask questions. It didn’t go over big when I was little.”
“It may not now, either,” he cautioned. “There are some who’ll say you just need a scapegoat for your mother’s death.”
“I do. I half wanted it to be you.”
“I half wanted it to be me, too. When a patient dies, I agonize over what I might have done differently. But I’m stumped in this case. I charted Alyssa’s symptoms, consulted with colleagues, encouraged her to go elsewhere for a second opinion. I asked her every question I knew to ask to determine if she’d been exposed to something bad. Short of sending her off on a wild goose chase for a cure for a nebulous ailment, I did what I could to ease her symptoms.”
“I know,” I said. And I did. “But now I have to find someone else.”
If he was relieved to be off the hook, he didn’t let on. “Be careful, Annie. The Meades own this town. You know that better than me.”
I paused. “You heard that story then?”
“The one about you and Aidan Meade?” He nodded.
“Huh.” I took a deep breath. “Well, the thing is, I’m a different person now from the one I was then. Middle River power isn’t the only power in the world. You may be hog-tied, but I’m not. I know how to get things done. Look,” I said calmly, “it could be that Mom’s symptoms truly were from Parkinson’s or Alzheimer’s, but now Phoebe’s showing the same symptoms, and you say it’s not from lead. I have a month, I have energy, and I have an incentive to use both. So think of it as me doing your dirty work. I don’t care about my credibility here, and I certainly don’t have a job to worry about. You took care of my mother, so I’m here to thank you for that. That’s what I told your secretary. It’s probably well on its way around town by now.” I leaned over the table toward him and half whispered an urgent, “Point me in the right direction, Tom. I’ll be forever in your debt.”
He finished his coffee and rose, took my empty cup, and deposited both in a nearby receptacle. I was beginning to think that was the end of it, when he returned, slipped back into his seat, and said with deadly quiet, “I’m wondering about mercury.”
I sighed. “It can’t be. The mill stopped using mercury long before my mother got sick.”
“But mercury is unique,” he said. “It enters the body, settles in an organ, and waits. Symptoms may not surface until years after exposure. That’s what makes the possibility of mercury poisoning in Middle River an intriguing one.”
I was feeling a rush of adrenaline. “Intriguing is an understatement. Are you sure that’s what it does?”
“Lies dormant? Very sure. The problem is that I’ve never been able to connect one of
my patients with an incident of actual exposure. Do that, Annie, and you’d top Grace.”
Chapter 3
THAT QUICKLY, I shifted gears. Not lead. Mercury—and not the planet Mercury or the cute winged god of Greek mythology. This mercury was the slinky silver stuff found in thermometers. It was a metal. I was no expert on the subject, having explored it and quickly (if erroneously) dismissed it. But it was virtually impossible to live in Washington and not know of the controversy. Rarely did a week pass without an article on the mercury problem appearing in the Post, and a problem it was. Mercury emissions were a serious health hazard, environmentalists said. The other side, whose profits depended on the output of mercury-emitting plants, adamantly fought regulations.
As villains went, mercury would be perfect and, if the mill was the polluter, all the better for me. True, Northwood didn’t currently use mercury. That had put me off the track. But Tom put me right back on with his claim that mercury could lie dormant in the human body for years before manifesting itself in symptoms. So what if something had happened way back when? The Meades had to know the potential for harm. If the mill had contaminated the town without the Meades’ knowledge, shame on them. If they did know it and had either done nothing or, worse, covered it up, they could be criminally charged.
With deliberate effort, I reined in my thoughts. Mercury was a more explosive issue than lead. For that reason alone, caution was the way to go—not that I would have always taken that route. Once upon a time, I would have barged ahead with accusations. But I was a grown-up now and—I liked to think—responsible. Credibility rested on being cool-headed and deliberate. I knew not to draw conclusions before I had information, because there were, indeed, immediate questions. If mercury was the problem and the mill was its source, it remained to be seen why my mother, and perhaps my sister, was affected. Neither of them worked at the mill. Downriver from it, yes. But not at a place of immediate exposure. And why my mother and sister, and not my grandmother before them? After a life of consistently good health, Connie had died of an aneurysm.
Surely, there were answers to be had. I didn’t want to get excited until I made a few connections. That meant going back to the drawing board to catalog the symptoms of mercury poisoning, the methods of exposure to mercury, and the kinds of plants that emitted it. Tom had been unable to connect any of his patients with exposure to the metal. I had to try.
First, though, I had to drop by the dress shop to see Phoebe. I had promised I would, since I was driving her van, and she might need it. I had also promised to bring lunch.
Armed with salads from Burgers & Beans, I went back down Cedar, crossed Oak, and drove on to Willow. This time, rather than making a right toward our house, I made a left and passed more Victorian homes. Quickly, though, residences ended and stores began.
If Oak Street offered necessities such as food, health products, and town services, Willow filled needs that were one step removed. Here were shops selling books, computers, and antiques. There were two beauty salons, a day spa, and the nail shop. There were stores that sold used furniture, office supplies, and candles and lamps. There was a workout place. And a picture-framing store. And an autobody shop. And there was Miss Lissy’s Closet.
Miss Lissy was my great-grandmother, Elizabeth, who had first opened the shop. My grandmother, who ran it after Lissy died, might have changed the name to Connie’s Closet, which had a certain cachet, had it not been for her obsession with keeping a low profile. By the time Connie passed on and my mother took charge, Miss Lissy’s had become too much of a fixture in town to risk a change of name. Besides, with my mother being Alyssa, Lissy’s Closet fit.
So, surprisingly, did her stewardship of the shop. She had wanted to be a writer, not a shopkeeper. Her move to the latter came after we girls started school, when it was clear that she could earn more money working for Connie than selling stories to regional magazines. And we did need the money. As a sales rep for the mill—yes, the very same Northwood Mill—Daddy earned a reasonable income, but not enough to save for our education. Mom’s income was earmarked for that. Then Daddy died, and Mom’s income was all we had.
Miss Lissy’s occupied both floors of a small frame house in a row of other small frame houses, each with a tiny front yard and a porch, and just enough room between houses to allow for parking, loading, and fire prevention. The Meade family, which owned this entire end of the street and leased it to shopkeepers, took pride in this foresight. Having lost part of the mill to fire in the fifties before brick replaced wood, they knew what could happen when August turned hot and dry and the town grew parched. This summer was moist enough, but Middle River never forgot the acrid smell of smoke that lingered in the air for days after the inferno.
The shop was on the river side of Willow. The rents were higher on this side of the street, but the ambience was worth the cost. Each house had a back deck perfect for lunches, featured displays, and, in the instance of Miss Lissy’s Closet, trunk sales. Moreover, these back decks were connected to the river walk, the scene of the fabled October stroll, when fall foliage was at its height and Christmas shoppers first set out to buy gifts. Those on the landlocked side of Willow, in true sour-grapes fashion, reasoned that they were spared having to look across the water at “th’other side,” as Middle River’s poorest neighborhood was called. The Meades owned that land as well, and dressed up the riverbank with flowers and trees. Once leaves fell, though, nothing could hide the shabbiness of the homes there.
This August, the earth was moist, the willows grand, and the river world green.
As for Miss Lissy’s, it was green every month of the year, inside and out, every shade of green imaginable, all of it blending surprisingly well. Prior to the painting done four years ago, it had been green, but monochromatically so. Now it was variegated in the way of a woodland glen. The shingles on the outer walls were painted celadon, with shutters and doors forest green. The inside walls were painted by room—one room sunshine green, one celery, one sea green, one olive. Wrapping tissue was sage, shopping bags were teal, dress and suit bags a distinctive apple green, and no purchase at all left the shop without a cascade of assorted green ribbons attached. Over and around it all was the store’s logo, also redone during my mother’s watch when marketing and modernizing came to the fore. It was a closet door done in brushstrokes, with a zippy font presenting the store’s name in grass green.
I parked the van in the driveway and walked around to the front. The look was handsome, I had to say. As fearful as I had been that so many shades of green would be overkill, here on the outside, the celadon, grass, and forest greens worked well. Likewise the hydrangeas that grew in profusion against the front of the shop. They were the palest green imaginable.
Climbing two steps, I crossed the porch. The front door was already open. With the tinkle of a bell, I pushed the screen and went inside. For a minute, I just stood and looked around. I couldn’t remember when I had been here last, surely not at the time of the funeral, since the store had been closed out of respect for my mother. I was in the front room; doors straight ahead and to my right led to other rooms. A staircase, farther back on the right, led to the second floor, where there were yet other rooms. Each was a department, so to speak—underwear, outerwear, partywear, even makeup, to name a few.
Marketing and modernization? Oh yes. This front room was a perfect example of that. When I was a child, this room had held racks of the kinds of day dresses that the women of Middle River wore at the time. Now the room held blue jeans and slacks, T-shirts, polo shirts, and sweaters, all popular brands. It was definitely my kind of room.
“Annie, hi,” said Phoebe, coming in from the room on the right. She seemed less groggy than she had earlier and sounded less stuffed. Dressed all in ivory—camisole, slacks, and slides—with her hair brushed and her makeup fresh, she looked elegant and in control. She also looked so much like Mom that I felt a catch in my throat.
As she headed for the checkout desk, she was
trailed by a pair of customers who had to be mother and daughter. Though the mother was shorter and slimmer than her daughter, their features were nearly identical. Likewise their focus on me—even the daughter, who couldn’t have been more than fifteen and therefore wouldn’t remember me from before. But she knew who I was now. No doubt about that. Despite the long fall of hair that half covered her eyes, I saw recognition there.
I winked at the girl—why not give her a thrill? my perverse self thought—and nodded at her mother. “How’s it goin’?” I said in passing as I slipped into the room from which they had come. This room held shoes. Again, though, the difference between these shoes and the ones that had been for sale the last time I was here was pronounced. There wasn’t a leather pump in sight. Here were sneakers and casual sandals, flats and sling-backs and strappy things for evening wear, though surely those evenings were spent in places other than Middle River. I couldn’t imagine anything dressy being worn here. Church events, weddings and anniversary parties, birthday bashes—they weren’t terribly dressy unless they were held out of town, which they were now more often than not. From what I read, even the school proms were held elsewhere.
“May I help you?” asked a gentle voice.
I turned to face a woman in her late twenties. Dark-haired, she was tall and slim, wore a silk camisole, slim black pants, and black sandals. Classy and composed, she showed no sign of recognizing me.
Nor did I recognize her, for which reason I was able to smile easily. “I’m Phoebe’s sister, Annie.”
Her eyes did widen then. “Phoebe said you were in town, but she didn’t say you’d be coming to the store.” She put out a hand. “I’m Joanne. I work here.”
“Full-time?” I asked as we shook hands.
“Yes. I started working weekends and summers when I was in high school, but I’ve been full-time since I graduated from college. Phoebe made me manager last year.”
“Then I owe you thanks,” I said. “The past month has probably been difficult here.”
Looking for Peyton Place Page 5