In the Blood (8 page)

“We went to Keeneland in Lexington a couple years back.”

“What’s a thoroughbred horse do, Carson?”

“Run fast.”

“What else?”

“Uh…”

“Running fast is all they do, Carson. Besides being fragile and subject to temperamental fits and all manner of illnesses. Show dogs are beautiful, but also prone to all sorts of maladies. Mutts may look odd, but statistically are healthier, more intelligent and, if you ask me, happier.”

I looked down and couldn’t argue the point. I swear Mr Mix-up was grinning at me. Miz Best and I both turned to the sound of a door slamming and saw Mrs Warnock stepping from her house down the street, a ball of yellow fluff on a glittery leash. The ball of fluff saw Mr Mix-up and exploded in a frenzy of leash-pulling and yapping. It resembled a rabid yo-yo.

“Mrs Warnock’s dog, Trixie?” Miz Best whispered. “A two-thousand-dollar blue-ribbon purebred. And it has allergies, hip problems, ear infections. You can probably detect its demeanor.”

“All too easily,” I said, waving at Mrs Warnock and stepping quickly away before the yapping ball of insecurity ran over to urinate on my shoes, something it had done twice in the past.

“Need a faithful companion, Carson?” Miz Best called to my retreating back. “I know a doggie that needs a good home.”

I smiled and waved, pretending not to hear. There was ample daylight left for a run along the strand, but my remaining energy fizzled away as I tied on my running shoes. I kicked them into the corner and made a sandwich; ate half, finding it tasteless. Clair’s voice echoed in my ears.

Are you eating, Carson?

Was I fine? Was some kind of sickness making me pale? She’d said that too:
pale.
Lately, though I’d awaken with a modicum of energy, it waned as the day passed. Had it always done that?

I pulled my laptop from my briefcase, leaned back on the couch, and Googled
pale, lethargy,
and
hunger, lack.

The engine returned thousands of responses. I saw the word “cancer” in one of them and shoved the computer back into my case, trading it for the remote. I’d never been a big TV watcher, save for the occasional news update and weather info. In fact, I’d never had anything besides standard channels until last month when something in me decided to invest forty bucks a month in a dish that delivered the world to my living room.

Puffing pillows beneath my head I channel-hopped until I found a show where married couples traded spouses and families and everyone got on everyone else’s nerves until they were ready to kill each other. I’d watched it before, oddly enchanted. It was related to my work, but I didn’t have to do anything about it but laugh and drink beer until I fell asleep.

On the way to work the following morning, I stopped at a convenience store for a coffee and some aspirin to get the couch-kinks from my neck. In the checkout line I noted an example of the speed of the tabloid press, the front page of
World-Week News,
showing a photo of Scaler in one of his patented preaching stances, half Elvis, half auctioneer. The headline was direct:

Famous Preacher Found Dead in Church Camp; Heart Attack Suspected.

The subhead was,
A Fighter for Moral Values.

It was a tabloid aimed at the political right, and in the past had championed Scaler and his denunciations of homosexuality and liberalism, as well as quoting his veiled slights to people of color. The hagiographic article lifted Scaler to angelic height, ballyhooing his enterprises and advancing a contributing cause of Scaler’s cardiac arrest as the “continued assault on the ideals of Kingdom College by the Left”.

There was a brief mention of Mrs Scaler, painting her as “a quiet and supportive housewife
who often accompanies her husband on his acclaimed television show”. No mention of the good Rev’s fondness for using the missus as a punching bag, of course. I wondered how many years the abuse had been going on.

When I got to the department, Harry had checked with the hospital: Mrs Scaler was awake and stable. We’d allowed her a little time to convalesce but now needed to interview her in depth. I hoped lawyer-boy Carleton was off filing a tort or whatever.

Harry and I climbed into the Crown Vic. I took the wheel and pulled out into the streets, the sun already searing at eight thirty, haze thick in the air. When we got to the hospital, I saw a familiar face at the door of Mrs Scaler’s private room: Captain Brock Surewell, our departmental chaplain. Surewell nodded us aside and spoke in the modulated whisper that formed his duty voice.

“Mrs Scaler has her nutritionist with her, an Archibald Fossie.”

“Nutritionist?”

“I guess he’s also a personal friend.”

“How’s she taking things, Brock?” Harry asked.

“She’s devastated. But holding on. It’s the grace of God; her faith is as strong as iron. Still, go easy with her, guys.”

We entered the room slowly. Mrs Scaler was abed, looking like she was sleeping. Her face remained a mask of bandages. The room smelled
of salves and disinfectants. A man sat beside her, making notes on her chart. He looked up at my approach.

“Police,” I whispered.

He nodded and pointed to the door, meaning,
I’ll come to you.
We stayed in the hall. Archibald Fossie looked less like a nutritionist than a retired sixties activist: slender as a rope, salt-and-pepper hair going bald up front, long behind the ears, frameless bifocals. He wore a cockeyed red bow tie against a rumpled denim shirt, suspenders holding up khaki pants. His eyes were faded blue against a tan so smooth and even it looked like a table job. He owned a deep and consoling voice, conveying a bedside manner even after leaving the bedside.

“How is she doing?” I asked after he introduced himself.

“As good as can be expected, I suppose. I’m not sure if the horror has connected yet. I’m hoping she…doesn’t feel like hurting herself.”

“She’s suicidal?”

He pushed back his hair, frowned. “Not any longer. At least, I don’t think so. There was an attempt four years back. She chased a bottle of Xanax with a pint of Southern Comfort. She was alone in the house, no one expected for hours. It was certain death.”

“What saved her, Mr Fossie?”

“She staggered drunk through the patio door. When it broke it activated the burglar alarm. The
cops rushed her to the emergency room for a stomach pumping.”

“She’s improved?”

“Her faith saved her by giving her the strength to continue. But I think there’s not much left of her spirit, if you know what I mean. Do you have to question her?”

“We didn’t get to talk much yesterday. She was in pain. Do you know why, Doctor?”

“She said she fell down the stairs. Something about high heels.”

“Do you believe her?”

Fossie turned away.

“Sir?” I said.

“God help me, I don’t believe her. I think her husband beat her. I think he’s done it before. But all I ever got from Patricia was denial. She stumbled over a hose in the yard, tripped in the garage, walked into a door…Damn him.”

“You didn’t get along with Reverend Scaler?”

“He thinks of nutritionally oriented health as akin to New Age crystal therapy, or maybe even witchcraft. Since her, uh, incident, Patricia’s become very nutritionally oriented, part of a regimen I’ve designed to keep her body healthy. When the body’s in balance, the mind follows. Richard tolerated me because keeping Patricia healthy potentially helped him avoid embarrassment.”

“You don’t sound like a big fan of Richard Scaler.”

“Everything was his.
His
home.
His
cars.
His
ministry.
His
television network. God gave it to him for being Richard Scaler. Patricia was just an object to him.” He paused and blinked through his lenses. “Do you really have to talk to her today?”

“Yes. We’ll go as easy as possible.”

“Thank you.” Fossie walked down the hall toward the waiting room.

Harry leaned low. “You want to go in solo?” he asked. “You think that’s better?”

I did and entered the room, cleared my throat. Patricia Scaler’s head turned to me, eyes open, frightened. I re-introduced myself, said, “I’m sorry for your loss, ma’am. Did the chaplain explain a few things?” I meant the grim details of Richard Scaler’s death. “Or Mr Fossie?”

She avoided my eyes. “Both men spoke of unsavory topics, while trying to be gentle. I suspect Archie – Mr Fossie – of hiding uglier aspects of my husband’s final evening. It’s his way.”

“Then you know your husband went to Camp Sonshine after he left you. He met someone who may have been there when the heart attack occurred. Do you know who Richard might have met?”

“I have no idea. I never want to know.” She turned away, as if that would make the ugliness disappear.

“Mrs Scaler…I want to help. And I won’t go telling what you say to anyone who doesn’t absolutely
need to know. They’ll keep the information tight and confined. What happened that night?”

Her eyes turned inside. The second hand swept round the clock twice before her lips moved.

“Richard was having one of his bad times.”

“Bad times?”

“The stress of his work sometimes caught up with Richard. He’d have these moments. He’d question his works, his life. The moments never lasted more than a day or two. It’s been said Mother Teresa had terrible doubt.”

“Your husband’s, uh, episodes of doubt. They were infrequent?”

“Yes. But terrible to behold and coming more often of late. It was like the Devil was spearing Richard’s soul. Richard never made sense when he was like that. One time he spent a whole night yelling about serpents, following me around like he was preaching a sermon. I hid in bed, terrified, until Richard passed out on the floor downstairs.”

“You have no children?”

“God made it impossible for me to bear children. He thinks I would be an unworthy mother.”

I nodded, unable to argue with a thought process I could not understand. I put my hand over hers. “I’m sorry, ma’am. For all that happened.”

Her other hand fell over mine as soft as a falling leaf. She started to weep. I pulled the chair as close as the bed would allow.

“We were happy once,” she said through her tears. “But for the last few years it was like we lived separate lives in the same house. The more famous and successful he became, the less I was to him. I didn’t try hard enough. It’s all…my fault. Everything.”

“It’s not your fault, Mrs Scaler. Not a bit.”

“I must have driven him to such women. Made him need such terrible things.”

“Please, Mrs Scaler, Patricia, you need to –”

“I’m no good. I should have died long ago.”

Tears continued to flow from her closed eyes. I held tight to her hand. “As a cop I’ve seen every possible kind of relationship, Mrs Scaler. I think you were trapped in a marriage that had become loveless. But I suspect you stayed because you thought leaving would hurt your husband. That’s not a failing, that’s devotion to an ideal. You performed a great kindness at a terrible price.”

Her eyes fluttered open. She stared at me for a long moment. “Thank you,” she whispered. “Thank you so much for that.”

“May I ask for your help over the next few days, ma’am? Could you think about people you might have seen with your husband. People he didn’t usually associate with. Can you think about that for me?”

“I’ll try, sir. But I, uh…”

“But what, ma’am?”

Hands fluttered beneath the blankets. She
swallowed hard. Her head turned away with shame.

“I stopped thinking a long time ago, sir. I believe it was part of my job as Mrs Richard Scaler.”

Harry was waiting at the nurses’ station down the hall, talking to an intern. Fossie was on a couch outside the door, reading a book on herbal supplements. He saw me and set the book aside.

“How’s Patricia?” he asked.

“She’s feeling guilt at not being the perfect little wife. She thinks she didn’t contribute enough to holding the relationship together. What kind of life did she and her husband have, Mr Fossie?”

Fossie shook his head. “The marriage was like a play, I think. But like almost everyone, I only saw the performances, not what was happening behind the scenes.”

I nodded, started toward Harry, stopped.

“You’re a nutritionist, sir?”

“Nutritionalist is the actual term. I have a practice on the southwest side of town. And, of course, I advise several institutions.”

When I was in college I dated a woman who was studying nutrition. Some of what she said
about vitamins and whatnot seemed over the top, but a lot of it made sense and, I’d noted, it had been borne out by subsequent research. My then-girlfriend had used the word
holistic
like a mantra, but now medical doctors used the word; score one for her.

And just maybe I needed a little holism or whatever. “Are you taking any new patients?” I asked Fossie. “Is that what they’re called?”

“Clients. And I’m actually seeing fewer and fewer clients – my glide path into retirement. Are you talking about yourself, Detective Ryder?”

“I’ve been feeling a bit off,” I confessed. “Just recently.”

He studied me for a moment, the blues eyes moving from feet to hair. He took my hands and studied my nails. Put a thumb against my neck and felt my pulse.

“Where do you live, Detective?”

“Dauphin Island.”

He smiled, clapped my shoulder. “You’re in luck. I have a private patient on the west end of the island, an invalid, we go back years. I’m due to see her this evening. How about I stop by and give you a little work-up?”

I gave him my address and he returned to Mrs Scaler’s bedside. I briefed Harry on the interview, said not to depend on much from Patricia Scaler, the woman about as beaten down as anyone I’d ever seen, except maybe for my mother. I started back to the car.

Harry said, “Gimme a couple minutes. I want to see the kid.”

“She’ll look just like she did yesterday.”

“Which is fine with me.”

I jammed my hands in my pockets and lumbered toward the PICU a few feet behind my partner. Harry nodded to the nurse at the station, a heavyset young woman with a country-singer mane of artificially red hair that needed a prettier face to pull off the rural-hip statement. She was penning information on charts, sucking a can of Mountain Dew, and nibbling from a bag of FunYums. She’d seen us there before and gave a wiggle-fingers wave.