Murders of a Feather, page 11
Seeing the cold impersonal sterility of the room felt like a closing in a way. Lying on the surgery table tomorrow would be a furry dog having a tumor removed under anesthesia. I’d be gloved up and gowned up, a surgery pack open on the portable instrument tray. As usual, Mari would be checking the anesthesia levels and watching a bag of saline slowly drip through the intravenous catheter taped to our patient’s outstretched front leg.
The day would be noisy and slightly chaotic, and the two of us would be scrambling to get all our work done in time. We’d barely have time to think. Business as usual.
I wanted tomorrow to be loud and messy—anything except the icy sterility of our silent surgical suite.
Chapter Sixteen
As I went about my job the next day, I realized something. Usually, I am the one curious enough to investigate crimes in Oak Falls, but this time it was Cindy who was on the killer’s trail. Before we opened up, she ambushed Mari and me while we poured our coffee.
“I’ve been thinking about this all night. Someone came into MY office where Babs was working and killed her in OUR surgery suite. No way are they ever going to get away with this.”
I’d never heard Cindy so angry. Her cheeks began to flush, lips pressed together. “That’s what I told the chief, and that’s what I’ll tell you both. This means scorched earth—no prisoners,” she continued.
You didn’t interrupt an angry Cindy.
“The police better find him before I do.”
Is this coming from the person who always advised caution? But I understood her wrath. Every time we walked into surgery, in the back of our minds would be thoughts of Babs—our own group PTSD nightmare.
“You can’t do it by yourself,” I told her. “This should be a team effort, and I know that Mari and I will help all we can.”
Mari said, “Agreed.”
“Is there going to be a memorial service?” I asked Cindy.
Her face tightened. “Tomorrow night. It’s been posted on the funeral home website, and an obituary will be in the paper today. So far, no one has claimed her body,” she added, “but the service will proceed regardless.”
“Still no relatives that showed up?”
“Nope.” Cindy, uncharacteristically fidgety, pulled her sleeve.
“What’s wrong?” Mari asked her.
“The police took her purse. There was an emergency list on Babs’s phone. She’d listed a lawyer in Albany. When the chief called him, he discovered that Babs had made a will. The lawyer then contacted the identified trustee of her estate.”
Strange. I’d forgotten Babs had a life away from the office.
“Who is it?” I asked. “Whoever gets the money could be the murderer.”
Cindy’s eyes met mine. “I’m the trustee.”
Of course we had a million questions for Cindy, but they had to wait. Between morning appointments and afternoon surgeries, today had been completely booked. I, for one, was more than glad to be back to work.
My first appointment turned out to be an exam on an older cat whose owner had noticed her eyes looked “weird,” according to Mari’s brief triage history.
After knocking on the exam room door, I entered to see an elderly tabby cat struggling to get out of her owner’s arms. On top of the woman’s head sat a large faux fur hat, the same shade as her cat.
“This is Ms. Ryan,” Mari said, placing our computer tablet on the exam room desk.
“She hates being held unless it’s on her terms,” the owner explained after peeling the cat off her jacket and plunking her on the exam table.
“That’s very common,” I said, taking the opportunity to pet the thin kitty. “What’s her name?”
“Jane Austin,” the owner said. “I name all my cats after authors I admire.”
“Well, I’m a fan, too,” I admitted. Although it looked like I was simply petting her cat, in reality I had already started my exam. I could feel the bony protrusions of her vertebrae along the back and the subtle loss of fat from her ribcage.
“How is Jane’s appetite?” I asked, taking my stethoscope and placing it above her heart.
The owner beamed. “She’s got a great appetite. Not picky at all. Some of my friends have such problems getting their cats to eat, but not me.”
After listening to the rapid pounding heartbeat and palpating Jane Austin’s thyroid gland, located in her neck, I believed I knew the secret of a cat that ate everything but didn’t gain weight.
We’d worked so long together, I could see Mari anticipating my next move.
“Ms. Ryan, I’d like to take Jane into our treatment room, so I can perform her eye exam, plus take some blood for lab tests, if that’s alright.”
Mari picked up the kitty and scratched her ears.
“Is it something serious?” the owner asked, a note of panic creeping into her question.
“Jane has tachycardia,” I began, “which is a faster than normal heartbeat. It can be caused by several things, but I need to run some blood tests to confirm a diagnosis. For now, I’m thinking she has an overactive thyroid, which is causing high blood pressure, affecting her eyes along with a big appetite without weight gain.”
“Oh, my gosh,” the woman said and sank into one of the exam chairs. “Can you treat it?”
“That’s the good news,” I explained. “It can be treated, and the sooner the better.”
Mari calmed the cat, who’d gotten tired of being held and was eyeing the room for hiding places. “Should I set everything up?”
“Yes, please,” I answered. At this moment, the owner needed some attention. The woman in front of me looked like she was going to burst into tears. I rolled the office chair away from the small computer station and said, “Try not to worry. The best decision you’ve made for Jane is to bring her to the vet. I should have preliminary answers for you in about twenty or thirty minutes. Would you prefer to wait here or with Cindy in reception?”
“Reception, I guess,” the owner said.
“We’ve got some veterinary literature I’d like you to read,” I told her. “Cindy will bring it to you in the waiting room.”
After escorting her to reception, I turned her over to Cindy, who gathered a packet of information about senior kitties and hyperthyroidism.
When I opened the treatment area door, it sounded like Jane Austin was dictating a new book to Mari. I hoped her deep yowls weren’t carrying all the way to reception.
Mari laughed when she saw me, raising her hands up in the air. “I didn’t do anything. She’s talking up a storm.”
“Look at the shape of her head,” I commented while getting a rapid test for thyroid hormone ready. “Loudmouth, talkative Siamese genes are lurking in there somewhere.”
Jane Austin stayed fairly cooperative but didn’t stop yowling during any of her tests. She even continued in the darkened room during the eye exam. Meanwhile, her total T4 rapid in-house screening test was positive, indicating an overactive thyroid. We would send another, more sophisticated test out to the lab for confirmation, plus a metabolic panel that checked for kidney disease, diabetes, liver function, and a host of other issues. At least I had some preliminary happy news for this owner.
Mari prepared a cage for our senior kitty, while I made sure the lab requests were correct and set to go out tonight. I’d recommend that Jane Austin stay with us this evening and receive her first dose of medication.
Happily, the owner and Cindy had gone over the medical literature, and she felt relieved with her cat’s preliminary diagnosis. She did have one question. “Was that Jane yowling?” Ms. Ryan asked.
“Yes,” I answered truthfully.
“Good,” she said. “Maybe you can cure that.”
Chapter Seventeen
The funeral home in Oak Falls was located in an older, dignified building painted white with black shutters and doors. A modern addition held the meeting rooms where memorial services were held. The large parking lot had several cars parked near the entrance when Cindy, Mari, and I arrived the next day, carpooling from the office.
Inside, the atmosphere was hushed. A young woman sat in one of the lobby chairs, gently rocking a large baby carriage. Near her foot rested a gray diaper bag decorated with elephants. Farther down, an older man sat with his hat in his hands, staring at the wall.
Directly in front of us, overseeing everything, stood a funeral parlor employee, whose discreet name tag I couldn’t read. A sign guided us toward a room on the right. There, a professional photograph of a much younger Babs devoid of glasses rested on a wooden table near a sign-in book. We each took our turn while I wondered how many people attending actually knew her.
Cindy walked ahead of us, choosing seats in the front row. Before we arrived, she mentioned that she’d arranged for tonight’s memorial service. Almost as soon as we sat down, Cindy excused herself to speak to the funeral director, while I tried to casually check out the crowd. To my surprise, I noticed Dr. Mike sitting in an aisle seat and reading the card provided. Next to him a blond woman wearing a black hat blotted her eyes. Farther back, a familiar-looking man with close-cropped dark hair was texting on his phone. As I glanced around the room, several persons I recognized as clients acknowledged me with a head nod.
Of course, now I remembered that Babs said she’d worked as a temp for various companies and animal hospitals across the Hudson Valley. However fleetingly, she obviously touched many lives.
Mari leaned over and whispered, “I’m glad there are so many people here. I was having nightmares of the three of us being the only mourners.” Before I could answer, Cindy made her way back to us and sat down.
Soft music spilled from the speakers placed around the room. The lighting gave off an indirect warm glow, creating as pleasant an atmosphere as possible. A podium stood off to the left next to another, larger photo of Babs. On a small table in front of that photo sat an urn.
I swallowed hard and looked away.
The room continued to fill, including a large group of older women who entered together. Most wore black.
“That’s the bridge club,” Cindy whispered.
A well-dressed family settled into the seats behind us. The children looked to be about ten and twelve, on the cusp of being teenagers. I heard chairs creak as they squirmed in their seats. The woman greeted Cindy by name, whispering how sad this entire situation was.
A funeral home employee I’d noticed in the lobby appeared at the door with another, older man holding a black folder in his hand. The younger one glanced at his watch and then said something to his associate. The six p.m. service was about to begin.
As the older man dressed in a black suit introduced himself, my mind wandered. I tried to recall all my conversations with Babs, realizing in the five days she’d been working for us, we’d barely spoken about anything but work. Instead of socializing, I’d been holed up in my office or seeing clients with Mari. There’d been so little time.
As the funeral director asked for remembrances, Cindy stood up. At the podium, our poised office manager/receptionist spoke of a longtime friend who enjoyed gardening. Someone responsible and trustworthy. Someone who liked an occasional beer at the Red Lion Pub after work.
Someone I didn’t know at all.
More than enough people volunteered to speak of their friend, Babs. The bridge ladies joked about her insistence on being the scorekeeper and her uncanny winning streaks. Others told of a willing pet sitter, an animal lover grieving the death of her elderly terrier.
From the hallway outside, I heard the muffled cry of an infant.
The stories went on and on, including a lovely story from the couple who sat behind us. Babs lived on the same property, in what would have been the gatekeeper’s cottage. Their two children called her Auntie Babs. Together they tended a large vegetable garden in the summer and harvested apples in the fall. She often babysat or created art projects with the kids.
It sounded as though Babs had a nice life.
Until an unknown someone decided to end it.
When the service finished, Cindy stood next to the funeral director, forming a sort of thank you line. Mari and I decided to wait in the lobby for her. As the participants filed out, many of our clients came over to express condolences. Dr. Mike stopped by briefly to tell me how sorry he was and how much his office staff missed Babs. Once more I appreciated his calm voice and kind eyes. He added that anytime I wanted to talk I should call him.
About twenty minutes later it was all over. The lobby emptied out, save for the funeral home employees. Cindy thanked them all again and walked over to us, her coat in her hand.
“I’m so glad you’re here, guys,” she said. “This was tougher than I thought.”
Mari gave her a hug. “No problem. Wonderful that so many people came to say goodbye.”
The younger employee wished us good night and began closing the meeting room doors. We slipped on our coats and headed toward the exit.
“I saw you speaking to Dr. Mike,” Cindy said, wrapping her muffler around her neck. “He’s a great guy. Maybe you should go out with him.”
Mari’s eyes widened. I laughed and answered, “What about his wife and the twins?”
“What twins?” she said, stopping abruptly, her hand resting on the exit door.
It wasn’t like Cindy not to be current on the lives of everyone in Oak Falls and near vicinity—especially the surrounding animal hospital employees. “Cindy, he’s married with two kids.”
She looked puzzled then laughed, “You must have them mixed up.”
“What? Who mixed up?” Mari asked her, pulling on red knit gloves.
“The Hudson Valley Animal Clinic and Equine Center hired two Dr. Mikes. The hospital staff refer to them as Dr. Mike C and Dr. Mike M, so no one gets confused. It’s Mike C who has the twins. He sat in the back tonight, balding guy wearing a tan coat. Didn’t you see his wife sitting in the lobby with the baby carriage, waiting for him?”
My mind blanked.
“So the Dr. Mike Kate met…” Mari paused midsentence.
Again Cindy laughed, only to blush with embarrassment as the funeral home attendant cleared his throat.
“Your Dr. Mike is available.”
Considering we were coming from a funeral, there was way too much laughing in Mari’s SUV, at my expense.
“You must be wrong, Cindy,” I said, although she most often was right. “Even Judy asked him about the babies.”
“Fur babies,” she replied. “They’re fostering some stray kittens, I think. The info is on the office website.”
It never occurred to me to check out his bio on the office website.
“Hey, nothing ventured, nothing gained,” Mari quoted. “Although I’m not quite sure what it means in this case.”
Cindy turned toward me from the passenger side of Mari’s SUV. “It means they can go out on a date. Finally, some good news.”
I leaned against the aromatic fifty-pound bag of dog food on the seat next to me. “He’s a friend, guys. Just a friend.”
“Valentine’s Day is coming up,” Mari reminded me. “Maybe Cupid’s getting the good bow and arrow out for you.” Cindy made a faint sound, like an edited giggle.
“So you haven’t been flirting with him?” Mari added.
“Of course not,” I said, slightly offended at the suggestion. “He’s married. Or at least I thought he was married.”
Again both of my friends dissolved into laughter.
“What about Babs?” I asked them, trying to change the subject. “We still don’t know if her killer is wandering around Oak Falls.”
Cindy turned around again. “I haven’t forgotten. As the executor of her estate, I received the keys to her house from the lawyers. I’ll be going through it tomorrow night, right after work. Does anyone want to join me? I’m cataloging and packing up some of her more valuable things. The estate lawyer suggested we store everything for six months or until an heir is found.”
“I’m in,” I told her.
“Can’t,” said Mari. “The Schutzhund club is meeting.”
“I thought I read that competitive Schutzhund is now called IGP?” Another bit of information gleaned from my veterinary journals.
“It will always be Schutzhund for me,” Mari answered. “I’m not competing anymore, anyway. This is more social.” She slowed down to make the turn into the parking lot. Spotlights illuminated the animal hospital name but kept the rest of the property in a puddle of darkness.
The giant bag of dog food next to me was for Mari’s two Rottweilers, who were both trained in Schutzhund, which highlights obedience and protection. Her one hundred-pound male was built like a doggy battering ram. Mari always bragged about how safe she felt with her dogs.
My dog, Buddy, only weighs twenty-five pounds. Not quite the same level of security.
“Home sweet home,” I said, sounding more sarcastic than I meant to.
Cindy and I climbed down, our feet hitting a dry spot on the asphalt. The motion detector lights above clicked on. We wished Mari a good night before she sped away.
“It’s only seven thirty,” Cindy said. “How about a sneak preview of Babs’s place? I’ll get a quick idea of how much work there will be.”
Although she’d never admit it, her voice sounded tremulous, a bit emotional. After all, she’s suggesting entering the home of a dead friend at night. Cindy might uncover things best left hidden.
“Please?” Cindy asked again.
The thought of her facing this alone was too much. “Of course,” I answered. “I’ll drive my truck, though, so you don’t have to bring me back.”
“Good thinking. Thanks again. I’d hate to have to do this alone.”
She smiled a soft grateful smile and started her truck. After I’d gotten into mine, she called out, “Follow me” and took off with a roar.
I had no expectations of how Babs lived. At the memorial service, a family with two children indicated she lived in the guesthouse on their property. Sure enough, what amounted to the gatekeeper’s place was what Babs called home.
It’s odd the things that strike you when you walk into a room. The quiet. A slightly musty smell. My eye immediately focused on the windowsill. In front of it sat some plants that desperately needed water.
The day would be noisy and slightly chaotic, and the two of us would be scrambling to get all our work done in time. We’d barely have time to think. Business as usual.
I wanted tomorrow to be loud and messy—anything except the icy sterility of our silent surgical suite.
Chapter Sixteen
As I went about my job the next day, I realized something. Usually, I am the one curious enough to investigate crimes in Oak Falls, but this time it was Cindy who was on the killer’s trail. Before we opened up, she ambushed Mari and me while we poured our coffee.
“I’ve been thinking about this all night. Someone came into MY office where Babs was working and killed her in OUR surgery suite. No way are they ever going to get away with this.”
I’d never heard Cindy so angry. Her cheeks began to flush, lips pressed together. “That’s what I told the chief, and that’s what I’ll tell you both. This means scorched earth—no prisoners,” she continued.
You didn’t interrupt an angry Cindy.
“The police better find him before I do.”
Is this coming from the person who always advised caution? But I understood her wrath. Every time we walked into surgery, in the back of our minds would be thoughts of Babs—our own group PTSD nightmare.
“You can’t do it by yourself,” I told her. “This should be a team effort, and I know that Mari and I will help all we can.”
Mari said, “Agreed.”
“Is there going to be a memorial service?” I asked Cindy.
Her face tightened. “Tomorrow night. It’s been posted on the funeral home website, and an obituary will be in the paper today. So far, no one has claimed her body,” she added, “but the service will proceed regardless.”
“Still no relatives that showed up?”
“Nope.” Cindy, uncharacteristically fidgety, pulled her sleeve.
“What’s wrong?” Mari asked her.
“The police took her purse. There was an emergency list on Babs’s phone. She’d listed a lawyer in Albany. When the chief called him, he discovered that Babs had made a will. The lawyer then contacted the identified trustee of her estate.”
Strange. I’d forgotten Babs had a life away from the office.
“Who is it?” I asked. “Whoever gets the money could be the murderer.”
Cindy’s eyes met mine. “I’m the trustee.”
Of course we had a million questions for Cindy, but they had to wait. Between morning appointments and afternoon surgeries, today had been completely booked. I, for one, was more than glad to be back to work.
My first appointment turned out to be an exam on an older cat whose owner had noticed her eyes looked “weird,” according to Mari’s brief triage history.
After knocking on the exam room door, I entered to see an elderly tabby cat struggling to get out of her owner’s arms. On top of the woman’s head sat a large faux fur hat, the same shade as her cat.
“This is Ms. Ryan,” Mari said, placing our computer tablet on the exam room desk.
“She hates being held unless it’s on her terms,” the owner explained after peeling the cat off her jacket and plunking her on the exam table.
“That’s very common,” I said, taking the opportunity to pet the thin kitty. “What’s her name?”
“Jane Austin,” the owner said. “I name all my cats after authors I admire.”
“Well, I’m a fan, too,” I admitted. Although it looked like I was simply petting her cat, in reality I had already started my exam. I could feel the bony protrusions of her vertebrae along the back and the subtle loss of fat from her ribcage.
“How is Jane’s appetite?” I asked, taking my stethoscope and placing it above her heart.
The owner beamed. “She’s got a great appetite. Not picky at all. Some of my friends have such problems getting their cats to eat, but not me.”
After listening to the rapid pounding heartbeat and palpating Jane Austin’s thyroid gland, located in her neck, I believed I knew the secret of a cat that ate everything but didn’t gain weight.
We’d worked so long together, I could see Mari anticipating my next move.
“Ms. Ryan, I’d like to take Jane into our treatment room, so I can perform her eye exam, plus take some blood for lab tests, if that’s alright.”
Mari picked up the kitty and scratched her ears.
“Is it something serious?” the owner asked, a note of panic creeping into her question.
“Jane has tachycardia,” I began, “which is a faster than normal heartbeat. It can be caused by several things, but I need to run some blood tests to confirm a diagnosis. For now, I’m thinking she has an overactive thyroid, which is causing high blood pressure, affecting her eyes along with a big appetite without weight gain.”
“Oh, my gosh,” the woman said and sank into one of the exam chairs. “Can you treat it?”
“That’s the good news,” I explained. “It can be treated, and the sooner the better.”
Mari calmed the cat, who’d gotten tired of being held and was eyeing the room for hiding places. “Should I set everything up?”
“Yes, please,” I answered. At this moment, the owner needed some attention. The woman in front of me looked like she was going to burst into tears. I rolled the office chair away from the small computer station and said, “Try not to worry. The best decision you’ve made for Jane is to bring her to the vet. I should have preliminary answers for you in about twenty or thirty minutes. Would you prefer to wait here or with Cindy in reception?”
“Reception, I guess,” the owner said.
“We’ve got some veterinary literature I’d like you to read,” I told her. “Cindy will bring it to you in the waiting room.”
After escorting her to reception, I turned her over to Cindy, who gathered a packet of information about senior kitties and hyperthyroidism.
When I opened the treatment area door, it sounded like Jane Austin was dictating a new book to Mari. I hoped her deep yowls weren’t carrying all the way to reception.
Mari laughed when she saw me, raising her hands up in the air. “I didn’t do anything. She’s talking up a storm.”
“Look at the shape of her head,” I commented while getting a rapid test for thyroid hormone ready. “Loudmouth, talkative Siamese genes are lurking in there somewhere.”
Jane Austin stayed fairly cooperative but didn’t stop yowling during any of her tests. She even continued in the darkened room during the eye exam. Meanwhile, her total T4 rapid in-house screening test was positive, indicating an overactive thyroid. We would send another, more sophisticated test out to the lab for confirmation, plus a metabolic panel that checked for kidney disease, diabetes, liver function, and a host of other issues. At least I had some preliminary happy news for this owner.
Mari prepared a cage for our senior kitty, while I made sure the lab requests were correct and set to go out tonight. I’d recommend that Jane Austin stay with us this evening and receive her first dose of medication.
Happily, the owner and Cindy had gone over the medical literature, and she felt relieved with her cat’s preliminary diagnosis. She did have one question. “Was that Jane yowling?” Ms. Ryan asked.
“Yes,” I answered truthfully.
“Good,” she said. “Maybe you can cure that.”
Chapter Seventeen
The funeral home in Oak Falls was located in an older, dignified building painted white with black shutters and doors. A modern addition held the meeting rooms where memorial services were held. The large parking lot had several cars parked near the entrance when Cindy, Mari, and I arrived the next day, carpooling from the office.
Inside, the atmosphere was hushed. A young woman sat in one of the lobby chairs, gently rocking a large baby carriage. Near her foot rested a gray diaper bag decorated with elephants. Farther down, an older man sat with his hat in his hands, staring at the wall.
Directly in front of us, overseeing everything, stood a funeral parlor employee, whose discreet name tag I couldn’t read. A sign guided us toward a room on the right. There, a professional photograph of a much younger Babs devoid of glasses rested on a wooden table near a sign-in book. We each took our turn while I wondered how many people attending actually knew her.
Cindy walked ahead of us, choosing seats in the front row. Before we arrived, she mentioned that she’d arranged for tonight’s memorial service. Almost as soon as we sat down, Cindy excused herself to speak to the funeral director, while I tried to casually check out the crowd. To my surprise, I noticed Dr. Mike sitting in an aisle seat and reading the card provided. Next to him a blond woman wearing a black hat blotted her eyes. Farther back, a familiar-looking man with close-cropped dark hair was texting on his phone. As I glanced around the room, several persons I recognized as clients acknowledged me with a head nod.
Of course, now I remembered that Babs said she’d worked as a temp for various companies and animal hospitals across the Hudson Valley. However fleetingly, she obviously touched many lives.
Mari leaned over and whispered, “I’m glad there are so many people here. I was having nightmares of the three of us being the only mourners.” Before I could answer, Cindy made her way back to us and sat down.
Soft music spilled from the speakers placed around the room. The lighting gave off an indirect warm glow, creating as pleasant an atmosphere as possible. A podium stood off to the left next to another, larger photo of Babs. On a small table in front of that photo sat an urn.
I swallowed hard and looked away.
The room continued to fill, including a large group of older women who entered together. Most wore black.
“That’s the bridge club,” Cindy whispered.
A well-dressed family settled into the seats behind us. The children looked to be about ten and twelve, on the cusp of being teenagers. I heard chairs creak as they squirmed in their seats. The woman greeted Cindy by name, whispering how sad this entire situation was.
A funeral home employee I’d noticed in the lobby appeared at the door with another, older man holding a black folder in his hand. The younger one glanced at his watch and then said something to his associate. The six p.m. service was about to begin.
As the older man dressed in a black suit introduced himself, my mind wandered. I tried to recall all my conversations with Babs, realizing in the five days she’d been working for us, we’d barely spoken about anything but work. Instead of socializing, I’d been holed up in my office or seeing clients with Mari. There’d been so little time.
As the funeral director asked for remembrances, Cindy stood up. At the podium, our poised office manager/receptionist spoke of a longtime friend who enjoyed gardening. Someone responsible and trustworthy. Someone who liked an occasional beer at the Red Lion Pub after work.
Someone I didn’t know at all.
More than enough people volunteered to speak of their friend, Babs. The bridge ladies joked about her insistence on being the scorekeeper and her uncanny winning streaks. Others told of a willing pet sitter, an animal lover grieving the death of her elderly terrier.
From the hallway outside, I heard the muffled cry of an infant.
The stories went on and on, including a lovely story from the couple who sat behind us. Babs lived on the same property, in what would have been the gatekeeper’s cottage. Their two children called her Auntie Babs. Together they tended a large vegetable garden in the summer and harvested apples in the fall. She often babysat or created art projects with the kids.
It sounded as though Babs had a nice life.
Until an unknown someone decided to end it.
When the service finished, Cindy stood next to the funeral director, forming a sort of thank you line. Mari and I decided to wait in the lobby for her. As the participants filed out, many of our clients came over to express condolences. Dr. Mike stopped by briefly to tell me how sorry he was and how much his office staff missed Babs. Once more I appreciated his calm voice and kind eyes. He added that anytime I wanted to talk I should call him.
About twenty minutes later it was all over. The lobby emptied out, save for the funeral home employees. Cindy thanked them all again and walked over to us, her coat in her hand.
“I’m so glad you’re here, guys,” she said. “This was tougher than I thought.”
Mari gave her a hug. “No problem. Wonderful that so many people came to say goodbye.”
The younger employee wished us good night and began closing the meeting room doors. We slipped on our coats and headed toward the exit.
“I saw you speaking to Dr. Mike,” Cindy said, wrapping her muffler around her neck. “He’s a great guy. Maybe you should go out with him.”
Mari’s eyes widened. I laughed and answered, “What about his wife and the twins?”
“What twins?” she said, stopping abruptly, her hand resting on the exit door.
It wasn’t like Cindy not to be current on the lives of everyone in Oak Falls and near vicinity—especially the surrounding animal hospital employees. “Cindy, he’s married with two kids.”
She looked puzzled then laughed, “You must have them mixed up.”
“What? Who mixed up?” Mari asked her, pulling on red knit gloves.
“The Hudson Valley Animal Clinic and Equine Center hired two Dr. Mikes. The hospital staff refer to them as Dr. Mike C and Dr. Mike M, so no one gets confused. It’s Mike C who has the twins. He sat in the back tonight, balding guy wearing a tan coat. Didn’t you see his wife sitting in the lobby with the baby carriage, waiting for him?”
My mind blanked.
“So the Dr. Mike Kate met…” Mari paused midsentence.
Again Cindy laughed, only to blush with embarrassment as the funeral home attendant cleared his throat.
“Your Dr. Mike is available.”
Considering we were coming from a funeral, there was way too much laughing in Mari’s SUV, at my expense.
“You must be wrong, Cindy,” I said, although she most often was right. “Even Judy asked him about the babies.”
“Fur babies,” she replied. “They’re fostering some stray kittens, I think. The info is on the office website.”
It never occurred to me to check out his bio on the office website.
“Hey, nothing ventured, nothing gained,” Mari quoted. “Although I’m not quite sure what it means in this case.”
Cindy turned toward me from the passenger side of Mari’s SUV. “It means they can go out on a date. Finally, some good news.”
I leaned against the aromatic fifty-pound bag of dog food on the seat next to me. “He’s a friend, guys. Just a friend.”
“Valentine’s Day is coming up,” Mari reminded me. “Maybe Cupid’s getting the good bow and arrow out for you.” Cindy made a faint sound, like an edited giggle.
“So you haven’t been flirting with him?” Mari added.
“Of course not,” I said, slightly offended at the suggestion. “He’s married. Or at least I thought he was married.”
Again both of my friends dissolved into laughter.
“What about Babs?” I asked them, trying to change the subject. “We still don’t know if her killer is wandering around Oak Falls.”
Cindy turned around again. “I haven’t forgotten. As the executor of her estate, I received the keys to her house from the lawyers. I’ll be going through it tomorrow night, right after work. Does anyone want to join me? I’m cataloging and packing up some of her more valuable things. The estate lawyer suggested we store everything for six months or until an heir is found.”
“I’m in,” I told her.
“Can’t,” said Mari. “The Schutzhund club is meeting.”
“I thought I read that competitive Schutzhund is now called IGP?” Another bit of information gleaned from my veterinary journals.
“It will always be Schutzhund for me,” Mari answered. “I’m not competing anymore, anyway. This is more social.” She slowed down to make the turn into the parking lot. Spotlights illuminated the animal hospital name but kept the rest of the property in a puddle of darkness.
The giant bag of dog food next to me was for Mari’s two Rottweilers, who were both trained in Schutzhund, which highlights obedience and protection. Her one hundred-pound male was built like a doggy battering ram. Mari always bragged about how safe she felt with her dogs.
My dog, Buddy, only weighs twenty-five pounds. Not quite the same level of security.
“Home sweet home,” I said, sounding more sarcastic than I meant to.
Cindy and I climbed down, our feet hitting a dry spot on the asphalt. The motion detector lights above clicked on. We wished Mari a good night before she sped away.
“It’s only seven thirty,” Cindy said. “How about a sneak preview of Babs’s place? I’ll get a quick idea of how much work there will be.”
Although she’d never admit it, her voice sounded tremulous, a bit emotional. After all, she’s suggesting entering the home of a dead friend at night. Cindy might uncover things best left hidden.
“Please?” Cindy asked again.
The thought of her facing this alone was too much. “Of course,” I answered. “I’ll drive my truck, though, so you don’t have to bring me back.”
“Good thinking. Thanks again. I’d hate to have to do this alone.”
She smiled a soft grateful smile and started her truck. After I’d gotten into mine, she called out, “Follow me” and took off with a roar.
I had no expectations of how Babs lived. At the memorial service, a family with two children indicated she lived in the guesthouse on their property. Sure enough, what amounted to the gatekeeper’s place was what Babs called home.
It’s odd the things that strike you when you walk into a room. The quiet. A slightly musty smell. My eye immediately focused on the windowsill. In front of it sat some plants that desperately needed water.
