The Perils of Peaches (Scents of Murder Book 3) (6 page)

“Well, she’s not leaving. She told me so yesterday at lunch. So don’t worry about that.”

“I probably shouldn’t have said anything. After all, it was only talk.” Eunice shook her head. “I just don’t know what’s going on. People are already calling about Dr. Bradley’s funeral. I have no idea what to do.” A stack of charts loomed behind her on top of the filing cabinet.

“Well, you could tell them to call the funeral home listed in the obituary in the newspaper, and don’t you worry about it.” Eunice tended to get in a tizzy when she was stressed, and I didn’t blame her, working for Dr. Bradley. If he were here, he’d probably be scolding her about the unfiled charts. I picked up a chart and started filing.

“Such a sweet girl you are.” Her words made me smile. I hadn’t been called a girl since the last time I got in trouble with Momma.

“Thanks. If you need more help, let me know.”

“I sure will.” Eunice blew her nose. “I’m so afraid about what’s going to happen here. I might still have my nursing credentials, but I’m not as fast as those young things. I can’t see as I’d get another job as good as this one. I have no idea what I’d do if the practice closes.”

“Don’t worry.” I tucked the last file into its place and closed the drawer. “If the office doesn’t stay open, you would make a great home nurse. Couldn’t you do that? I don’t know how it works, but I bet you could help people who are homebound by giving them shots or setting out their medicines.” I tried not to look at my watch. The hour had crawled along, and I missed Hannah already.

“What a good idea. I’ll have to look into that. But I’ve kept you too long. You go ahead and go. I can handle it here now. Just had a moment.” She blew her nose as more tears filled her eyes.

“Are you sure? I can stay for a while longer.”

Eunice shook her head.

“Okay. See you later.” I left the office. The sun outside made me grab my sunglasses once more. Eunice sure seemed upset at Dr. Bradley’s death, one of the few who did, probably. In fact, I would venture to say she cared for him, more than an employee would ever care for an employer. And the man probably never even noticed.

You can’t strangle a dead man. But I sure wanted to, the more I typed Dr. Bradley’s final recording. He went on and on about a patient’s aching back or runny nose or cough or high cholesterol. He had a horrible habit of setting the recorder down without hitting the pause button. The recorder continued to do its thing while he rustled papers on his desk until he found the lab results he was looking for. Or the phone would ring and he’d chat. Sometimes with Franklin, and those conversations usually involved him telling the guy no about something. His nephew’d had a recent fender bender, and needed money for his insurance deductible.

Or else sometimes I’d hear the door to his private restroom close and the sound of water running. No wonder he wasn’t finished dictating reports by suppertime on Friday. He took more time walking around the room than describing the important details of patient visits.

At this rate, I could let the sound file run and check on Hannah, who finally napped. I probably wouldn’t miss anything. But the clinking noise in the background had me puzzled.

Of course—the sound had to be Dr. Bradley using a spoon to scrape the sides of the glass jar of my peach baby food. Honestly, I didn’t mind people sampling a jar. After all, Gerber’s Hawaiian Delight was like eating a luscious dessert. But no one seemed to take my baby food seriously. And Dr. Bradley eating a jar as a snack? I shook my head.

He must have hit the pause button when his nephew entered his office on Friday afternoon. But then not long after his nephew left, I heard Dr. Bradley go out and snipe at Dr. Mukherjee and I while we talked in the reception area. Then he settled back down at his desk to eat and dictate. On and on went his endless chewing of whatever it was he’d ordered from Oat Grass for supper. Evidently he’d never learned not to talk with food in his mouth. The miniature grandfather clock on his desk chimed nine.

Dr. Bradley finally hit his stride, droning on about someone’s bowel problems and his intention to send them to a gastroenterologist. Then he paused and set the recorder down again. Rustling papers. He yawned. Then he drifted off to snore, the sound louder than what Ben sounded like when he had a cold. The snoring stopped when he coughed, murmured, then settled into a semi-quiet doze.

The office door clicked open, but I didn’t recall Dr. Bradley getting up, because his chair didn’t make its usual squeak. Then came a rustle of fabric. A grunt.

“What—” Dr. Bradley’s voice.

The door slammed.

Now his chair squeaked. “No.” The sound of something heavy flopping onto the desk. Then came mumbling.

After that I heard nothing else except the soft whir of Dr. Bradley’s computer fan.

Barkha had called me about the break-in just before eleven, not quite two hours after Dr. Bradley stopped dictating. Those sounds happened a little after nine, which I knew because of the desk clock’s chimes.

Those sounds meant someone else had been in the office with Dr. Bradley, and not just pilfering the medicine locker. What if this person had done something to Dr. Bradley when he discovered the doctor was in the office?

But that didn’t make sense to me. If they saw his vehicle in the parking lot and had wanted to rob the place, they wouldn’t have gone in. Not a smart thief. They would have picked a night when no one was at the office.

The sounds in Dr. Bradley’s office and the intruder could only mean one thing. Someone had deliberately waited for Dr. Bradley. Someone had meant to kill him. And without realizing it, Dr. Bradley had probably just recorded the sound of his own murder.

Chapter Four

I stared at the medical reports exiting the printer one by one. Then I stared at the digital recorder. Maybe I’d heard wrong. The police already knew someone had broken into the office. Jerry might say I was wasting my time. Maybe Dr. Bradley had had a heart attack, or a stroke or something. The cause of death wasn’t back yet from the medical examiner, as far as I knew.

But after the scolding I’d rightfully earned by possibly corrupting some evidence a couple of summers ago when uncovering my long-lost aunt’s murder, I knew I couldn’t dismiss what I’d heard.

Of course, when I went to check on Hannah, my little angel slumbered in her crib. The one afternoon when I wouldn’t mind her waking up, she still napped.

I reached for my phone and hit the speed dial number for Jerry. For once Fleta, his guard dog of a receptionist, put me through right away.

“Andi, what’s goin’ on?” Jerry asked.

“I think I head something on Dr. Bradley’s last recording.”

“What it is?”

“I’m not sure. But I think someone came into his office.”

“So we were right to come back and check his office after he passed away. Bring that recorder back to me and let me hear what you heard.”

“I’ll be there as soon as I get Hannah packed up.”

Of course, “as soon as” turned into two hours later, and I toted Hannah into the Greenburg PD front offices. Trouble lay ahead for someone, but I wasn’t sure who. And I had to know what happened to Dr. Bradley in those moments.

Hannah’s appearance brought squeals from the reception area. Fleta made her way around to meet Hannah and me. What was it about people that made them have to touch a baby? Why weren’t they satisfied to admire at a polite distance?

“How’s our little sugar plum today?” Fleta’s voice shot up at least two octaves. A few heads swiveled to look in our direction. The office hummed today, and its activity hiccupped at our appearance.

“Fresh from her nap.” I smiled at Fleta. “Jerry’s expecting me.”

The phone shrilled behind the desk and Fleta darted back behind the counter. “Go on back. It’s been a busy day. Bye, sweety-peety!”

I knew that last squeaked-out remark hadn’t been meant for me. Jerry was on the phone, and hung it up when I entered his office.

“I have five minutes. After that I’ve got a meeting.” He looked tired.

Hannah kicked me in the ribs when I sat down in front of Jerry’s desk, covered with file folders. I winced, and she wiggled. No way would I put her down and let her roam the office. I managed to get the recorder out of my bag, and handed it to Jerry. “You just stick this in your USB port.”

“Okay.” Jerry’s desk chair squeaked as he settled onto it. “Let’s hear what you’ve got.s Um, how do I do this?”

“In the front, there’s a port.” I tugged my chair around to his side of the desk, with another wiggle from Hannah, who’d turned into a catfish on my hip. “Put that in here. And the window will come up with the sound file. It’s the one, Friday’s date, around 6:00 p.m.”

Just like I promised, the window popped up. Jerry moved the mouse and clicked on the sound file. Dr. Bradley’s voice boomed from the speakers.

“Here, he kinds of goes on and on for a while, before he dozes off.”

“Dozes off?” Jerry shook his head.

“Yes. Here. I heard it right about here . . .”

“What exactly am I listening for”

“Listen for the chimes from his desk clock—then Dr. Bradley puts the recorder down. And listen to what happens next.”

The rustling papers. His yawn. Some snores and the murmuring. Quiet, followed by the opening door. Rustling fabric. The grunt. Dr. Bradley crying out. A slamming door. Then nothing. Jerry kept silent.

“Jerry, he wasn’t alone in that office. Someone did . . . did . . . something to him. I don’t know what.”

He clicked the mouse to stop the sound file and looked at me. “You could very well be right.”

I tried not to gape. He agreed. I don’t know why I thought Jerry might balk when he heard my idea, but all the same, I knew I was right about the recording. Hannah wiggled from my lap once more, so I fished in my bag for a cracker. She’d have it all over herself inside of thirty seconds, but I had Wet Wipes in the mammoth bag at my feet.

“So what next?”

“I’ll pass this recording along.”

“There’s private medical information on that.”

“I only need the sounds you mention, and the time. Anything else will not be part of this investigation.”

He gave me the opening I needed. “Do you have any news about the cause of death yet?”

Jerry shook his head. “Too early. And you know I couldn’t tell you if I did.”

“I was just wondering if there was anything suspicious about the way he died.” I glanced down. Hannah had started grinding what was left of her crackers into the carpet.

“Thanks, Andi. This recording will help build a case against whoever did this. I’ll need you to sign a statement, too.”

I grabbed some tissues from my bag and tried to clean up Hannah and her mess. “Sure, not a problem. Glad I could help. I know you have a meeting . . .” Hannah whimpered and spit part of the cracker out of her mouth.

“Um, is everything okay over there?” Jerry glanced at me as I worked on damage control.

“She’s teething, and likes to have something in her mouth. Sorry, Jer, about the crumbs.” My face flamed as I anticipated chiding words about bringing a baby to the police station.

“You got any of that peach baby food in that bag?” He licked his lips.

“What?” I tossed the tissues and soiled wet wipe into Jerry’s trash can, and wrangled Hannah onto my lap.

“I, um, could sort of use a snack.” He looked sheepish.

“Jer, it’s baby food.” Good thing I didn’t have a jar with me. I’d be tempted to chuck the thing across the desk. But then that would be bad, and I’d probably get arrested. Or at least fined. Or Jerry’d call Ben and ask what in the world had gotten into me.

“But it’s so good. It’s not just for babies. That could be your marketing slogan.”

“Marketing slogan?”

“You should make preserves, too. Take the baby food thing on the road.”

“You sound hungry, Jer. You really need to find someone to cook for you.”

Jerry shrugged. “They’d never know what time I’d end up getting home. I, oh, never mind. But peach preserves would be good, you know?”

I tugged Hannah up onto one hip as I stood, and reached for my bag. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

I left Jerry picking up his phone. One day he’d have to slow down long enough to let someone into his life. Because Ben and Hannah and I didn’t count. But if I had Barkha help me do a little sleuthing, maybe she and Jerry would be forced to eventually face the fact they were perfect for each other.

Once I had Hannah strapped into her car seat and halfway decrumbed, I decided she needed to pay a visit to her daddy. We crossed town to Honey’s Place, which still bore the name of its deceased flamboyant owner. Ben was probably getting ready for the supper rush but he might be able to sneak a few minutes with us before we went home. Hannah might not talk yet, but she loved everything I said.

We arrived at Honey’s Place and found a convenient parking spot next to a sleek red pickup. Terrance Higgins’ truck always made Ben drool, and the parking place within view of the glass double doors meant Ben could probably see the extended cab truck from the dining room. One day, I told him, we’d get one. But I definitely didn’t want to have to fill that thing with gas every couple weeks or so.