Scared Stiff (13 page)
Chapter 20
B
y the time my head is stitched and cleaned and I’m ready to go, I realize I have no way to get anywhere. With my car totaled, I’m stranded without wheels. I also don’t have my cell phone and assume it is still inside the wreckage somewhere. I curse myself for not realizing my dilemma sooner and asking Hurley for a lift. The idea of using him as my personal chauffeur, even for a little while, is pretty appealing.
y the time my head is stitched and cleaned and I’m ready to go, I realize I have no way to get anywhere. With my car totaled, I’m stranded without wheels. I also don’t have my cell phone and assume it is still inside the wreckage somewhere. I curse myself for not realizing my dilemma sooner and asking Hurley for a lift. The idea of using him as my personal chauffeur, even for a little while, is pretty appealing.
I run through a mental list of possible rides and use one of the ER phones to start making calls. There’s no answer at Izzy and Dom’s house and I can’t remember Izzy’s cell number, which was the only number programmed into my own phone, done by Izzy himself when he gave me the thing. I call the office and Cass informs me that everyone is very busy, and that Izzy heard about my accident and called in a couple of coroners from another jurisdiction to help him with the Heinrichs’ autopsies. They are in the midst of doing them now so the good news is I won’t have to assist with the rotting bodies, but the bad news is there is no one in the office that has the time to ferry me around.
Next I try my sister, Desi, but there is no answer there, either. Fortunately the paramedics did bring my purse with me and, after cleaning off the cottage cheese and jelly remnants, I dig out my wallet and check my cash status to see if I have enough for a cab.
One of the advantages of living in a small town is that the cab service is relatively cheap. They’ll take you anywhere in town for three bucks. But the flip side is that the cab service only runs until sundown. That’s because it’s owned and staffed by a group of senior citizens whose ability to see and drive in the dark is limited. Based on the number of dents I’ve seen on their vans, their ability to see and drive in the daytime is not much better. But the risk of a fender-bender is offset by their maximum speed. Those images you see on TV of New York City cabdrivers busting speed limits and weaving in and out of traffic couldn’t be further from the Sorenson truth.
Though I’m not too keen on risking my involvement in another car accident, my choices are limited so I place the call. The cab’s office is only a few blocks from the hospital and the dispatcher assures me she has someone there waiting to go, but it takes a full half hour for my van to arrive.
Behind the wheel is Bjorn Adamson, an eighty-something gentleman I know from working at the hospital. I took care of him a few times in the ER: once when he was having problems regulating his blood pressure, once for a nosebleed, and once for a minor heart attack. I’d also cared for him in the OR twice not long ago when he had hernia and cataract surgeries. I recall how his daughter said he was having problems passing his urine because of an enlarged prostate and that she thought he might be showing the beginning signs of senile dementia.
Trying not to worry over the fact that my cabdriver’s current state of health could probably generate enough medical bills to send an internist’s kid through college, I climb into the front seat of the van. I do a quick physical assessment honed from my years of nursing and note that his white hair is much sparser since I last saw him—except for the tufts growing out of his ears and nose—and his skin has so many age spots he appears to have a tan. His clothes are wrinkled and I detect the distinct odor of stale urine.
I greet Bjorn by name and ask him how he’s doing.
He doesn’t answer my question; he just sits there staring at me. I assume he’s trying to figure out who I am and how he knows me, so I offer up a little help.
“I’m Mattie Winston. I’m a nurse here, or used to be, and I’ve taken care of you a few times. Remember when you came in for your hernia surgery a few months ago?”
I think I see a faint spark of recognition in his rheumy eyes and he smiles. “You’re a nurse?” he says.
I nod.
“Thank goodness. I could sure use some help with this dag-gummed thing.” With that he reaches down and pulls up the leg of his pants. There, strapped beside his knee, is a urinary catheter leg bag. I can see the catheter snaking its way up his pants and the bag itself is so full it’s about to burst. “Doc says I need to have this goddamned tube stuck up my wiener so I can pee because my prostrate is so big.”
“Prostate,” I correct him.
“Yeah, that’s right, my prostrate. Anyway, my arthritis has gotten so bad these days that my fingers don’t always work like they should and managing this little cap thingy here about drives me nuts. Every time I try to empty this bag I end up with piss all over my hands and my shoes, everywhere but the toilet. See, it’s supposed to just pop off here when you grab this little tab but I never can seem to. . . .”
With that, he manages to pop the cap off just fine and nearly half a liter of urine starts draining out onto the van floor.
“Aw, dammit!” he whines. “See what I mean?”
I do indeed. It’s pretty hard to miss a river of urine flowing toward your feet. I manage to open the van door and hop out before the flow reaches me. It spreads across the floor in a giant pool.
“I’ll be right back,” I tell him. “Let me run inside and get some stuff so we can clean that up.”
He nods, pulls a tissue—one individual, two-ply tissue—from his shirt pocket, and starts dabbing at the urine pool. It’s like trying to wipe up the Mississippi River with a single roll of paper towels.
Inside the hospital I round up a bunch of towels, some sanitizing cloths, some isolyzer powder—a nifty substance that will turn any liquid into a dry, sweepable solid—and some linen, and trash bags. Ten minutes later the cab is as clean as it’s going to get—though the stale urine aroma is still present—and Bjorn’s bag is empty and recapped.
Since I never did get to eat lunch, I ask Bjorn if he’d mind taking me to Dairy Airs before he takes me home. I’m hoping Jackie Nash’s mother might be there. He is so grateful for my assistance with his catheter and the parting of the yellow sea that he offers to take me to Dairy Airs for free. When he finds out that my car was totaled in an accident and I have no idea when I’ll be able to get a replacement, he tries to work out a deal with me.
“Tell you what,” he says. “If you’ll empty this dag-gummed bag for me a couple of times a day, I’ll take you anywhere you want to go for free in return. Whaddaya say?”
I give his proposition some thought. It does offer me an alternative means of transportation temporarily, but I’m also afraid of Bjorn getting a little too used to the idea of me caring for him and getting stuck doing it for a lot longer than I’d like. So I counter his offer with one of my own.
“Tell you what, Bjorn. We can try that for a few days but then I want to reevaluate things. I’m pretty sure I can get you a different kind of leg bag, one that has an easier gizmo for opening it. It might cost a little more and it’s something I’ll have to order so it will take a few days to get here, but I think it will solve your problem. In the meantime, we can help each other out.”
He thinks about my offer for a few seconds and then says, “Okay. But if this newfangled bag doesn’t work any better, will you help me out a little longer?”
“We’ll deal with that when the time comes,” I answer evasively, hoping it never will. He seems satisfied with that answer and we finally pull out into the street at a blistering ten miles an hour.
Dairy Airs is just over a mile from the hospital but it takes us nearly fifteen minutes to get there. Along the way at least ten drivers honk, yell obscenities, and make rude gestures as they pass us by in a cloud of disgust.
Unsure how long I will be here, I suggest to Bjorn that I call for him when I’m done but he insists on coming in with me, saying the length of the wait won’t matter. “They have the best cheesecakes in this place,” he says, pulling into a parking place and nudging the van’s front tires into the curb. “I try to get a slice at least once a week.”
Cheesecake sounds pretty darn good to me, too, and Bjorn and I spend a few minutes at the cake case, staring through the glass at the day’s choices and trying to decide what to get. Finally we settle into a booth and moments later our treats arrive: caramel pumpkin for Bjorn, and for me a delicious, melt-in-your-mouth lemon chiffon with a grilled cheese sandwich yet to come for dessert.
Jackie is the waitress again. I’m relieved when she greets Bjorn by name, letting me know that the two have met and I don’t have to worry about any awkward comments from Bjorn. When Jackie asks him how his health is doing, he dodges the question with a polite “Fine, thanks.”
I ask Jackie if her mother is on duty and she shakes her head. “She’s a little under the weather today,” she says. She hesitates a moment, looking nervous, then slides into the booth beside me and asks in a low voice, “Anything new on Shannon’s case?”
“Nothing concrete. They’ve arrested Erik but most of the evidence is circumstantial. He’s retained Lucien as his lawyer.”
“Well, that’s good,” she says, looking unconvinced. Mention of Lucien triggers a mixed reaction in most people. She leans closer to me and whispers, “Do you think he did it?”
I shake my head, swallowing a bite of my cheesecake. I look over and realize Bjorn has already scarfed down his slice, and decide I need to try to get him to drive as fast as he eats.
“No,” I tell Jackie. “I don’t think Erik did it. But there are some things that don’t add up.”
Jackie chews on her lip looking worried for a moment. Then she sees that my sandwich is up and goes over to get it. As I watch her walk, I’m once again struck by the feeling that something about her is different.
Before I can ponder it much, Bjorn says, “Do we have to talk about dead people? When you get to be my age, it’s kind of an uncomfortable subject, you know.”
“Sorry,” I say.
“Besides, I thought you just came here for some cheesecake. Speaking of which, when am I going to get mine?”
“You already ate it.”
He turns and glares at me. “I think I’d know if I just ate a piece of cheesecake, missy.”
“You did, Bjorn. Look, there’s your empty plate in front of you. See the crumbs?”
Jackie returns and hands me my sandwich. Bjorn, who is staring at his plate with a puzzled expression, shrugs and says to Jackie, “Best bring me another piece then.”
Jackie leaves to fetch Bjorn’s second piece of cheesecake while I bite into my sandwich, relishing the mixed flavors of fresh cheese and butter.
As soon as Jackie brings Bjorn his second piece of cheesecake, he stabs a chunk of it onto his fork and waves it at us. “If you ask me,” he says, “the husband did it. I watch that crime channel on cable all the time. You know the one, with all the court cases and forensic shows? It’s fascinating stuff, but the outcomes are pretty predictable. Nine times out of ten it’s the spouse.”
“Erik
was
pretty jealous,” Jackie adds, sounding as if she’s trying to convince us. “So I guess it would be foolish to rule him out too quickly.”
was
pretty jealous,” Jackie adds, sounding as if she’s trying to convince us. “So I guess it would be foolish to rule him out too quickly.”
She turns to leave but I say, “Wait a second,” and grab her arm to stop her. I can feel the ridges of her scars beneath her sleeve, and when she looks back at me with an expression of panic, I release my grip. “Sorry,” I say looking apologetic. “But there’s one more thing I wanted to ask you. Do you know that new psychiatrist in town, Luke Nelson, the man Shannon was dating?”
Jackie glances nervously over her shoulder and I’m not sure if it’s to see what’s going on in the rest of the place, or if it’s to see if anyone else is listening. Finally she nods and says, “He’s been in here a few times. He likes our Very Berry ice cream.”
Maybe there’s hope for the guy after all, I think, finishing off the first half of my sandwich and grabbing the rest. The Very Berry is excellent.
“How did he and Shannon get along?”
Jackie frowns. “Okay, I guess,” she says with a shrug. “I never saw them argue or anything. But they never showed much affection, either,” she adds quickly. She looks around again, her eyes blinking fast, her hands stuffed inside the pockets of her apron, jingling her tip change. “If you’ll excuse me,” she says biting her lip again, “I need to make a dash to the ladies’ room. You guys have a good one, eh?”
She is gone in a flash and her reaction to the last line of questioning leaves me wondering if there is more to her knowledge of Luke Nelson than she let on. Determined to find out, I fish some cash out of my purse, slide it across the table to Bjorn, and ask him to pay for our meal. Then I head into the ladies’ room, eating the remains of my sandwich along the way.
I find Jackie standing in front of one of the sinks, staring at herself in the mirror. I move beside her and check out my own reflection, horrified when I see what a mess my hair is and the faint reddish discoloration on my right cheek—most likely from the strawberry jam—that looks like a faint port-wine stain birthmark.
“I thought you might come in here,” Jackie says, as I dampen a paper towel and try to wash the red off my face.
“I’m sorry, Jackie. I don’t mean to impose, but I want to find out what happened to Shannon and make sure it doesn’t happen to anyone else.”
She nods wearily, squeezes her eyes closed, and sighs heavily. Her hands have a white-knuckled grip on the edge of the sink.
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