Decorated to Death (12 page)

“Yes, Chief Stevens told me my stethoscope was found at the murder scene and Dr. Loo indentified it as being the murder weapon. I’ll tell you the same thing I told the chief. I didn’t even know the darn thing was missing. I thought I’d mislaid it and without giving it a second thought, I used my uncle’s spare,” said Peter Parker, gesturing at the mountain of assorted junk, which included boxes of old files, charts, and outdated medical paraphernalia. The stuff looked as though it was ready to take over any available space, starting with Peter’s desk. Think
Little Shop of Horrors
with a medical twist.

“My stars,” Mary exclaimed to Peter, “how on earth can you find anything in this…”

“I believe the word you’re searching for is
mess
, or maybe
disaster
,” said Helen McCordle, Doc Parker’s longtime nurse and receptionist, as she stood in the middle of the tiny office with her hands on her hips.

Everything about the fiftysomething woman, from the top of her nurse’s cap down to the tip of her white shoes, was as neat as a pin. Even her hazel eyes matched her blond, brown, and gray hair. She was neither short nor tall and I didn’t detect any unnecessary poundage on her trim body. I also felt for sure that Helen McCordle’s underwear was neat, starched, and ironed. Why in the world, I thought to myself, with someone like Helen at the helm, was Peter’s office in such disarray? I was about to find out.

“I told him to use Doc’s office, you know, the one he sees his patients in and keeps all nice and tidy,” said Helen. “But did he listen? Oh no. Instead, Dr. Peter plunks himself down in this closet. Doc only uses the area for storage and the occasional poker session with the boys. The room hasn’t had a proper cleaning in maybe ten or even twenty years. Personally, I don’t think it’s very healthy in here,” sniffed Helen. “But then I’m only the nurse, not the doctor.”

With her aquiline nose pointed toward the ceiling in a show of disapproval, Helen McCordle returned to her own domain, the neat-as-a-pin cubicle that was separated from the waiting area by a sparkling-clean sliding-glass partition.

Apparently feeling the need to explain why he chose the storage-cum-poker-room over Doc’s tidy and organized office, Peter launched into what sounded to me like a well-rehearsed speech.

“I thought if I could show my uncle how well two doctors could function in relatively close quarters while still maintaining the needed privacy, then perhaps he wouldn’t mind my being around on a permanent basis. It’s something that would be beneficial to both our lives. Now all I have to do is to get the place cleaned out and shipshape before Aunt Lucy and Uncle Doc return from Hawaii. Come back in a week or so and I guarantee you won’t recognize the place.”

Thanking the young doctor for his time and his explanation regarding the stethoscope, I signaled to Mary that it was time for us to leave. We stepped out of the small, air-conditioned medical building and into the heat. We were almost to where I’d parked the van when I thought of something I’d forgotten to check out with the nurse/receptionist. Since neither Peter nor Helen had reported a break-in at the medical center, I wondered if someone might have swiped the stethoscope on Friday during office hours. With Helen McCordle manning the reception desk, more than likely she would have insisted that everyone wanting to see the doctor put their signature on the sign-in sheet. Maybe I could find a name that had a connection to my investigation. As Mary continued walking to the van, I sprinted back to the medical building and Helen’s neat-as-a-pin cubicle.

“He’s on the phone,” said Helen barely glancing up from the stack of paperwork on her desk. “Can I help you?”

“I sure hope so,” I said, “but I can see that this isn’t the best time to bother you.” Maybe my mother didn’t say it, but I knew all about catching flies with honey.

“Hey, I’m always busy, but that doesn’t mean that I can’t take time out to help someone. Now what can I do for you?” Less than five minutes later, I returned to the van with a copy of Friday’s sign-in sheet tucked in my purse.

Ten minutes later, Mary and I were sitting in Amanda Little’s chichi family room/real estate office. “I’ll be with you ladies in a minute,” Amanda crooned, placing her manicured fingers over the mouthpiece of the white and gold French-style telephone. Everything, from the carpeting on the floor to the cove ceiling, was gold and white, including Amanda Little.

Dressed from head to toe in a white sundress with gold trim, white shoes, and gold jewelry, and with her white, flawless skin and shining gold hair, Amanda Little looked absolutely beautiful. The darling of our town’s chamber of commerce, the highly repected Realtor had, not once but three times, been named Seville’s Business Person of the Year.

“If there’s such a thing as reincarnation,” Mary whispered to me, “I want to come back as her.”

“Really? Not me,” I whispered to Mary, “I want to come back as her interior designer. Whoever it was must have laughed all the way to the bank. Throw in a couple of gold-painted cupids and some rose petals and you’ve got yourself a Vegas wedding chapel.”

In less time than it took to convince the dynamic Amanda Little that I wasn’t interested in buying, selling, leasing, flipping, trading, or any other options she claimed were tailor-made for people in my age group, I learned that no one, not even squatters, were interested in the old cottage or in the land itself. I had come to another dead end. Or so I thought, until Amanda revealed the latest gossip that was making the rounds in the real estate world. I believe the aggressive Amanda mentioned it on the chance that I might have picked up some additional information from the Deville people. She let it be known that the Hershfield Corporation, one of the largest hotel chains in the Midwest, was interested in acquiring Dona’s Den. The health spa was situated on what Amanda described as a hot piece of prime real estate in the heart of downtown Indy.

“With Indianapolis pushing to become the place for conventions, all the major hotel chains, especially Hershfield, are anxious to get in on the action,” said Amanda, tossing her mane of golden hair over her shoulder.

Lowering her voice as if the walls had ears, she hinted that even a certain New York multimillionaire known for his marriages and distinctive hairstyle had already approached Ruffy Halsted with a really sweet offer.

“Ruffy Halsted? Why him and not Dona?” I wanted to know.

“Apparently, he was tired of dealing with Dona. Since the property was jointly owned by Dona and her ex, he felt once he got Ruffy on his side, then it would be easier to convince Dona that it was time to sell. You throw Hershfield into the mix and it stands to reason that somebody is going to make megabucks on the deal,” Amanda informed me, twirting a lock of her golden hair.

I could tell from the tone of her voice, along with the look she gave me, the woman was having second thoughts about my ability to grasp the importance of what she’d just revealed. I really didn’t care what she thought, I was just pleased that I now had a pretty good idea what Ruffy discussed with Ellie on their ride down to Seville Friday night.

The ringing of Amanda Little’s phone brought our visit with her to an end, which was fine with me. The overabundance of white and gold on the walls, floor, furniture, and on Amanda Little herself was starting make my head ache.

There was one thing left on my Tuesday to-do list and it involved Horatio. I wanted to find out if he’d come up with anything on the bodyguard, Vincent Salerno. Rather than risk another run-in with the “happy housekeeper,” Mrs. Daggert, I decided to call Horatio on his cell phone. I also decided that the call could wait until after lunch and my afternoon visit with Charlie.

While other cities and towns experience traffic congestion in the early morning and late afternoon, Seville’s traffic congestion occurs at lunchtime.

Lunchtime in Seville can start as early as eleven a.m. or as late as one p.m., but it can’t be missed. In our town, a person can be forgiven for a virtual laundry list of things but failing to show up for lunch, be it served at home or on the job, in a small cafe or at a fancy restaurant, is tantamount to stomping on the flag. In other words, it just isn’t done, at least not in the heart of popcorn country. As a result of the residents of Seville’s devotion to their midday meal, driving through the town at lunchtime can be as challenging as traversing Germany’s autobahn in a homemade go-cart.

Seeking to avoid the traffic buildup on Main Street, I made a quick left-hand turn into a small half street and then a right-hand turn onto Lincoln Avenue. If I had all the twists and turns straight in my head, and I believed that I did, a short trip down the alley behind England’s Fine Furniture, followed by a right-hand turn onto Washington, and I would be only a half block away from the Koffee Kabin with its adjoining parking lot.

With my right-hand turn signal blinking, I was about to make the turn onto Washington when Mary let out a loud whoop followed by her command that I stop the van, which I did.

“Jeez, Mary, what on earth are you yelling about?” I asked in about as pleasant of a voice as you can imagine under the circumstances.

“Really, Jean,” huffed Mary. “I was merely trying to save you from having a head-on collision. You were about to enter the wrong way on a one-way street.”

“One-way? Since when?” I asked. “Where’s the sign?”

“Since yesterday,” said Mary, readjusting the slack in her seat belt, “and the new sign is being put up today. According to what I read in this morning’s newspaper, the juvenile who painted the word
no
over the word
one
on the original sign has already fessed up to the prank and will have to pay for the new sign.”

Clicking off the turn signal, I drove around the block and ended up parking the van in the same space I’d parked it when Mary and I visited Peter Parker earlier that morning. My driving, like my investigation, seemed to be going in a circle.

“Hello, Horatio? What? Wait, I’m having a hard time understanding you. No, there’s nothing wrong with my hearing. Let me walk out on the patio. Sometimes the reception is better out there. What? No, I didn’t say anything about a wedding reception. I said…Hello, hello.”

Sitting on the back steps of Kettle Cottage and glaring at the cell phone in my hand, I wasn’t sure if I’d lost the call or the call had lost me. After three attempts to reconnect with my friend Horatio Bordeaux, I gave up and returned to the kitchen and deposited the cell phone in my purse.

“There’s something to be said for the old days when Ma Bell was in charge,” I said to Pesty, who was busy ridding the kitchen floor of crumbs. “Back then, a dropped call only occurred when your mother or father got on the extension and told you in no uncertain terms to get off the phone.”

The little Kees wasn’t particulary interested in what I had to say since nothing I’d said contained any of her favorite words such as cheese, cookies, curly fries, or taco chips.

Venturing out from under the kitchen table, Pesty made the short trip over to her bowl, where she used the tip of her pink tongue to test the temperature of the water. Finding that the ice cubes had melted, she turned away in disgust, picked up the running shoe and deposited it, along with her pudgy self, at my feet.

“I hate to bother you with my problems, my furry friend, but right now you’re the only one available to listen to my woes. Take this afternoon for instance. I went over to the hospital to visit Charlie only to find his bed empty. I was told it was his bath time. As usual, no one knew when he left or when he’d be back. I waited over half an hour before giving up. I left him another note. This one said:
Roses are red, violets are blue. I hope you miss me as much as I miss you.
I signed your name. Pretty clever, right?”

Pesty responded with a yawn. Some dog experts claim that’s a sign of anxiety. This Kees wasn’t anxious; she was bored.

Leaving the pampered pooch to work it out, I let my fingers do the walking through the yellow pages, got the number I needed, and using the kitchen phone, called Twall and Sons Mortuary.

Mr. Twall Sr. informed me that the service for Dona Deville would be held the next day, Wednesday, in the Morning Glory Room at eleven fifteen a.m., and it would be followed by a catered luncheon at Birdwell’s Bed and Breakfast on Blueberry Lane.

“Shall I tell the family that you will be joining them?” inquired the senior Mr. Twall in his soft, dry-as-dust voice. “Or would you prefer it be a surprise?”

I was tempted to tell him that when it comes to wakes and funerals, especially my own, I would prefer to be a no-show. Suspecting the elderly undertaker wouldn’t see the humor in my personal preference, I politely informed him that I’d been invited by a close family member.

The next person I called was Mary, who agreed to accompany me to Wednesday’s service and luncheon. I followed my call to Mary with one to JR.

“Sorry, Mom, no can do. With Matt spending practically every waking minute on an investigation I’m not at liberty to discuss, I’ve been doing double duty around here. Tomorrow is going to be another supermom day, if you know what I mean,” said JR, sounding tired and tearful.

I was immediately overcome with guilt. I didn’t need my Irish intuition to tell me that my pregnant daughter was in need of some TLC and that I needed to get my priorities straight.

“I understand completely, JR. Now that that’s out of the way maybe we can talk about the main reason for my call,” I said, thinking fast.

“Oh? Is something wrong?” JR asked.

“Only if you and the twins turn down an invitation to have dinner with me and a certain Kentucky colonel tonight. I’ve got peppermint ice cream and butter cookies for dessert.”

“Name the time and we’ll be there,” said JR, sounding better already.

“Give me time to phone in my order and a little extra to run out and pick up the ice cream and cookies. How about I see you here in thirty minutes or so?”

“It all works for me, Mom, especially the dessert, but if you already have it, how come you have to stop at the store to pick it up?”

“Because, Missy Smartypants, I fibbed about the dessert. See you and the twins in a little bit.”

“Right, and Mom,” JR said, catching me just as I was about to say good-bye, “thanks.”

“Don’t thank me, thank the colonel, Ben and Jerry, and Nabisco,” I answered, gathering up my purse and keys in preparation for my chicken, ice cream, and cookie run.

“Mother,” said JR, sounding more like her old, spunky self, “I’m not thanking you for that. I’m thanking you for being my mom. Love ya. Bye-bye.”

Tuesday night’s dinner with the colonel, JR, and the twins was a great success. While Kerry and Kelly watched TV in the den, JR and I spent some quality time together. I listened while she talked about everything from national politics to the lack of fashionable maternity clothes and everything in between. JR’s problem wasn’t that she needed a shoulder to cry on but rather she needed to share her thoughts with another grown-up. Explaining that to a man is like trying to explain Einstein’s theory of relativity to the Three Stooges.

It was close to eight p.m. when a talked-out JR and a restless set of twins kissed me good night and returned to their house on Tall Timber Road. If I hurried, I’d be able to get to the hospital before evening visiting hours were over.

Not bothering to stop at the desk in the lobby for a visitor’s pass, I pressed the button for the elevator and was instantly rewarded with an empty car and a quick ride to the third floor. Dropping off a box of assorted chocolate creams, along with a note of thanks to the hospital staff, at the seemingly deserted nurses station, I made the now-familiar trip down the hall to Charlie’s room.

The door to his room was closed, which is generally not a good sign in a hospital setting. As I stood there weighing the pros and cons of pushing the door open, I was startled by the head nurse who seemed to appear out of nowhere.

“Mrs. Hasting, how did you get up here?” she demanded. “The volunteer at the desk in the lobby was given strict orders not to issue any visitor passes for room 321.”

“Why on earth not?” I asked. Then I had a thought so terrible the words seemed to stick so tight in my throat and it actually hurt when I finally got them out. “Oh, dear God…Charlie…is he…is he…”

“Dead?” the nurse finished for me. “No, he’s fine except he has a rash all over his chest, neck, and arms. Dr. Parker was in to see him at suppertime and ordered some tests to be run. Until we know what we’re dealing with, your husband’s been quarantined,” she said, lifting my hand from the middle of the door so that I could see and read the posted notice.

I left another note for Charlie. The head nurse, obviously a World War II buff as is my husband, smiled as she read the one word message:
Nuts!
If Brigadier General McAuliffe thought it an appropriate response to the German demand that he surrender at Bastogne rather than fight on, then it was good enough for Charlie. I didn’t bother to sign the note.

I was walking toward where I’d parked the van in the hospital’s brightly lit parking lot when I heard someone call my name. Turning around, I spotted Horatio Bordeaux sitting behind the wheel of a new, fire-engine-red van that had been modified to fit his special needs.

“Pretty neat, huh,” said the well-educated, well-mannered Horatio, sounding like a young boy with his first two-wheel bicycle.

“Why, I think it’s even better than neat. Dude, you got yourself some real cool wheels. When did you get it?”

“I was over at Stanford Motors picking it up when you called me. Incidentally, I want to apologize for our abbreviated conversation. I think it was my fault. I was in Cord Stanford’s office signing papers and writing checks and all that kind of stuff. I guess I was rather excited and was all thumbs. I tried to call you back but somehow managed to goof that up as well.”

“Horatio, stop with the apology. I’m the one who should be saying I’m sorry. You told me that as soon as you had something for me on Vincent Salerno you’d let me know. But you know me, I want to know everything, even before it happens. By the way, what are you doing here? You’re not ill, are you?”

The thought that Horatio, a diabetic, might be in for another bad time with his health made my heart hurt. After Mary, he is probably my closest friend. I was relieved when he explained that he’d stopped at the hospital to drop off some reports he’d been working on for the hospital’s office of security.

“I was about to head over to your place when I noticed you walking across the lot,” he said as he reached across the seat and snapped open his briefcase, removed a large, unmarked envelope, and handed it to me.

I didn’t have to ask what was in the envelope. I knew it was the report on Vincent Salerno.

“Oh, Horatio, you’re something else. Have you got time for a cup of coffee? I’m buying. Or if you prefer, we can have tea at Kettle Cottage.”

“Any other time I’d say yes, but with the tornado warnings and all, I think I better get home. You, too, Jeannie. From the looks of that sky, we’re in for some really nasty weather.”