Murders of a Feather, page 14
“They were great together,” he said. “I envied José because he found his true love match.”
“Did your roommate have any enemies?” I also wondered when Rob would tire of my questions and kick me out.
“I suppose I can talk about it now, but José was in the middle of a contentious lawsuit pertaining to one of his patients. An older gentleman whose wife died under José’s care sued him. That’s why I prefer sports medicine to internal medicine,” Rob said. “My patients either get better or they get a referral to an orthopedic surgeon.”
“So no one dies on your watch from torn ligaments or a sprained ankle. Must be nice.”
“Exactly.” He glanced at his sports watch and stood up. “It’s been great talking to you, but I’ve got an appointment in a few minutes.”
“Thank you for fitting me in.” I rose and reached out my hand, but by that time he’d started walking out. “Can I ask you what you were doing the day of the murders?”
Rob stopped dead. “I’ll be happy to release that information to the police. Are you accusing me of something?” His annoyance toward me flared instantaneously. “I think it’s best that you leave.”
We headed down the hallway to find two people in the waiting room. Rob addressed them by name and escorted them back toward the office. Before he disappeared he gave me a dirty look.
The receptionist smiled and asked if I needed to make a follow-up appointment. Her mouth had been redrawn with a peachy toned lipstick.
“What sort of wellness services do you provide?” I asked. She reached into one of her desk drawers and handed me a pamphlet similar to the ones you get from the beauty salon. Along with physical therapy, they offered massage, yoga, reflexology—all designed to enhance the wellness experience for a price.
Curious, I checked out the lists of services, to find none were covered by my health insurance. I figured most people had to pay out of pocket for those goodies.
No wonder the office was empty.
When I called Gramps that evening to tell him about the odd vibes I got from José’s and Alicia’s roommates, he merely uttered a noncommittal sound. “I used to see it all the time in the fire department when we confirmed a death,” he said. “You’d expect loved ones to cry and sob, but sometimes they acted as if you told them they had a spot of food on their shirt.”
“Why is that?”
I heard another noncommittal sound. “Wish I knew. Some people aren’t emotionally invested in their fellow man or woman.”
“But…”
“It’s also possible they’re in denial, or the true reality hasn’t sunk in yet.”
That made more sense. “I’d expect that from José’s roommate—they barely saw each other—but not Alicia’s roommate. I suppose you never know a person or what they’re really thinking.”
“True. Most of us don’t even know ourselves.”
When we got off the phone I felt restless, no closer to understanding the victims or why they were targeted. I could see how Alicia and José might have been ambushed up there on the Lover’s Lake—but Babs? She was smart, direct, and, as Cindy said, nobody’s fool.
I lay down flat on the bed to think. Pushing the pillows to the side, I powered through some yoga stretches, ending in the final pose of most yoga classes—Savasana—or Corpse Pose. I forced my limbs to relax and closed my eyes.
Assuming the front door of the animal hospital had been closed and locked, then Babs must have let the killer in. Was it someone she knew? Going over the little I knew of our temporary receptionist, I didn’t see her inviting a stranger into the hospital. With both Mari and me out on a house call, she wouldn’t be admitting any patients either. Therefore, she recognized the person at the door. What next?
The answer shone in my face like a flashlight beam. We already figured out she’d do what she always did. Offer them some of her slightly bitter specialty coffee. Being a fastidious person, Babs drank from her own mug, the mug she’d brought from home.
And she’d pour her visitor a cup using one of the hospital’s extra mugs.
I bounded out of bed, catching poor Buddy by surprise. He sat up in his doggy bed and whined.
“Go back to sleep,” I told him. I’ll be right back.
I hoped I wasn’t too late.
Chapter Twenty
Like at many offices, each employee at Oak Falls Animal Hospital had their own coffee mug. Over the years, extra mugs had appeared. Joke gifts from clients, leftover mugs from old employees. None were thrown out. Many ended up in limbo on the shelf above the coffee maker.
Cindy used two mugs from home—one for tea and one for coffee. She swore she could taste the remnants of coffee, even if the cup was washed. We didn’t dispute her claim.
I started by examining the mugs next to the coffee machine. There were five. Cindy’s mugs had floral designs, one with daisies the other with irises. No BEST MOM or joke phrases for her. Mari’s personalized mug displayed a posed picture of her two Rottweilers, Lucy and Ricky. My mug, a Christmas gift from Gramps, said, “Take time to smell the roses.” This was the third mug I’d used, the first two being casualties on the ceramic tile floor.
The last of the five mugs on the countertop said, “Cats Rule, Dogs Drool,” a Christmas gift from a client. It currently held two teaspoons, a pen, a Sharpie, and a few wooden tongue depressors, which we used as stirrers. As far as I remembered, no one used it for any beverage.
Where was Babs’s mug?
Something rubbed against my legs. Mr. Katt demanded my attention. His cat eyes stared up at me. When I bent down to pet him he took off, bounding off the countertop and climbing to his favorite spot—six feet high on top of the bank of cages. From that kingly perch, he turned his back and ignored me.
I continued my search, this time on the shelf directly above the coffee maker. Just in case, I slipped on a pair of exam gloves. As I searched for Babs’s lemon-yellow mug, the one I’d seen her use for coffee, I found it pushed behind another joke cup. Odd. I slid the cup toward me. Immediately I noticed about a half inch of old coffee in the bottom of the cup. A slight scum hovered on the top layer.
With my gloved hand lightly touching the bottom, I placed it back on the shelf, in the same position I found it.
I’d only worked with Babs for a week, but in that time I never saw her leave any mugs or utensils dirty. She rinsed her cup out right away like Cindy did.
Why would she hide a dirty cup?
As soon as Cindy arrived I told her about Babs’s coffee mug.
“I’m going to call the chief, although he’s probably sick of hearing from us,” Cindy said. “Maybe it tasted funny, or she realized she’d been drugged.”
Remembering Babs, I figured that was a good possibility.
I’d given this some thought. “I read that Xanax is bitter. Maybe the killer put it in her coffee. That dark roast she drank had a bitter aftertaste.”
Cindy frowned. “Do you realize her murderer probably stood right where we are standing? Kate, please put the alarm system on when you’re here alone,” she said. “And make sure the new outdoor cameras are activated.”
Our alarm system was a bit temperamental. None of the inside motion sensors could be used because of Mr. Katt and his gymnastic leaps. Doc Anderson didn’t think an alarm necessary in my apartment, so the only safety features hooked up were the motion detector lights above the door leading to the side parking lot and the light over the front entrance. The connecting door to the animal hospital had a deadbolt, but the door itself was flimsy.
I didn’t want to think about my personal danger at the moment, but I vowed not to take a cup of coffee from a stranger—or any other beverage. Or food. Or chocolate.
A bit of paranoia went a long way.
I met Linda, the wronged wife of Alicia’s dead husband quite by accident. Mari and I stopped at the supermarket after our last house call that evening. Mari needed flour for a biscuits recipe, and I was following a resolution to eat healthier. My basket contained asparagus, a quick-cook jasmine rice, and boneless, skinless chicken breasts. It took all my willpower not to add some chips and ice cream.
“Let’s get out of here,” I told Mari, worried that the longer I stayed near the freezer section the worse my resolve would be.
“Almost ready,” she said. “I need more baby wipes and cleaner.”
“Puppy mess?”
“Yes. It’s been a lot of fun and a big headache both at the same time. The puppy we kept from the litter doesn’t like to go in the snow, so it’s wee-wee pads and cleanup until spring.”
We pushed both carts to the cleaning product aisle, where I picked up dish detergent and a sleeve of plastic scrubbies.
“Hey,” Mari whispered, “don’t stare, but I believe that’s Linda Ramsey and her mother.”
I casually turned my head. Standing in front of the spray disinfectants stood a tired-looking woman with two grumpy children. Next to her loomed a large older woman, built like a linebacker with frizzy gray hair, who scolded the kids and threatened them with no candy if they didn’t behave.
The ex-wife and her angry mother? Could this be Crystal, the grandmother who, according to her roommate, had been harassing Alicia? We were about the same height, five-ten, but the granny had about eighty pounds on me. She must have felt my eyes on her because she stopped dead, turned, and glared at us.
Her eyes rested on me first, then took in Mari, who was busy putting wipes in her cart.
“Do you think that’s enough?” I asked my vet assistant, deliberately turning my back to the family only a few feet away.
“I certainly hope so,” she said. “Ready to check out?”
“Ready.” I pointed the shopping cart toward the front of the store. Mari’s cell phone chimed, and she stopped to reply with her own text. I took the opportunity to glance back over my shoulder.
The linebacker grandmother was still staring at me.
After saying goodbye to Mari, I carried my groceries into the apartment, trying to dodge Buddy, who was celebrating my return by yipping and twirling around. The only vehicle in the parking lot was mine. Cindy always put the alarm on if I was out, but with the way I was feeling, I needed to double-check it myself. Buddy went with me, a bit nervous about being in the same room as his nemesis, Mr. Katt. I’d never uncovered a reason for their ongoing feud, which was more a case of cat against the dog than vice versa.
Cindy had locked up, but I decided to double-check her.
I checked the hospital windows, doors, and even the bathrooms before going back into my place. An app on my phone allowed me to monitor the outdoor cameras, something I normally didn’t do. The one over my door kept blinking on and off. Maybe the crows foraging around the dumpster set it off. I’d mention it to Cindy in the morning. Buddy was a good little watchdog and barked when a stranger came near the place, so I wasn’t worried someone would creep up on me.
But what if the killer wasn’t a stranger?
After a very healthy dinner, I felt restless. The memory of Babs lying still on the surgery table kept intruding in my thoughts. To break that thought pattern, I decided to work on the computer and focused on a search of Linda Ramsey and her mom, Crystal. Place number one to look? Facebook. Their profiles and picture walls were vastly different. It appeared that Linda posted infrequently, usually pictures of her kids doing cute things. Her mother, on the other hand, used social media in a completely different way.
Cindy was a mutual acquaintance of both women, which didn’t surprise me. I called her up and asked if she’d mind me going on her page to do some snooping.
“Go ahead,” she said. “I’ve been too busy to do much of anything. No posting as me, though.”
“I promise.” There had been a time in college when I’d been on Facebook a lot, but now I mostly used it as a forum to catch up with what my friends were doing.
“Let’s rock and roll,” I told Buddy, who was snuggled next to my feet. I didn’t even get a wuff of approval back. Maybe he’d been talking to Gramps.
Facebook is an odd conglomeration of cat and dog photos, fun updates on what your friends and their families are doing, and rants, both personal and political. I am always amazed at what people will reveal to their Facebook friends, many of whom are essentially strangers. Revealing my thoughts in public didn’t appeal to me since my personality tends toward the private and guarded, which I wouldn’t necessarily recommend to anyone.
Like most of us, Cindy had a public page and a private page. Scrolling through the postings would be daunting and probably useless. Instead, I did a search for Linda and Crystal. I wondered how candid they’d be on social media about Alicia, the object of their mutual hatred.
Reading through their conversations, I noticed two things. One was that Linda, the ex-wife, seemed exhausted, often depressed, and quick to ask her friends for help. She took joy in her children and their accomplishments. I found no mention of any boyfriends or date nights, no pictures of desserts at restaurants. No fun recipes. Maybe she’d learned to keep her private life private.
Her mom, Crystal, on the other hand, shot from the hip and didn’t bother to censor herself in any way. She’d been in Facebook jail numerous times, she joked, and expected to wind up there again in the near future.
Not only did she berate Alicia for going after a married man and breaking up a “perfect” marriage, but she also posted pictures of Alicia’s workplace, her work schedule, her home, and even a link to her Facebook page. She bragged that she may even have initiated a few “dirty tricks” to make her life miserable.
Buried in all the postings, I found something important. Crystal, the ex-mother-in-law, was a nurse, part of a surgical team. Someone who worked in a surgical suite every day.
The most revealing item turned out to be a post titled “Ten Ways to Get Even,” which redirected the user to multiple websites. I had no idea these sites existed. Dedicated to making someone’s life difficult, it included mild pranks—putting wet ink on the inside door handle of a car—to downright dangerous suggestions. It took a specific kind of personality to entertain trying even one of those things.
Someone with few boundaries.
Someone who might have no problem killing?
Reading all of the spewed hatred postings on page after page of these revenge websites depressed me. I’d been through my share of difficult relationships, but I’d found the best thing is to cut your losses and move on. Obsessing about being wronged didn’t help move your life forward. I closed down my computer and absently stared at the wall in front of me. Buddy stretched himself, groaned, and went back to sleep.
I thought about Alicia and José, madly in love, planning to leave Oak Falls and all the drama surrounding their lives behind. Did someone hate the couple so much that they murdered them both? Was Alicia the primary target? Or was the motive something different altogether?
And what about Babs, a smart resilient woman who curated her orderly life, devoid of a family but full of friends? Why did she have to die?
There was only one reason I could think of. She knew something about Alicia’s and José’s murder. With her strong sense of right and wrong, she wouldn’t keep quiet. She’d tell the cops.
A thump on my door broke my concentration. Buddy raised his head, not barking, but interested. I peeked out into the parking lot. Empty, except for the hospital truck. Odd. By now Buddy was up and asking to go out. I slipped on my coat, checking to see if I had my pepper spray with me, and opened the door.
Lying on the step was a crow.
At first glance the crow looked dead, but as soon as I picked it up, glittering black eyes opened. The bird must have misjudged his flight or was escaping a predator when he flew into my door. I wrapped him in my coat and brought him inside. If he didn’t recover quickly, I’d need to bring him to a wildlife rehabilitator.
Birds become stunned when they fly into things. The best treatment for now was for the crow to rest in a dark quiet space, as you’d do for a person with a concussion. A small cardboard Amazon box proved the right size. I lined it with paper, poked air holes in it, and placed the bird inside. My last glimpse showed it struggling to right itself, a good sign.
I wondered what had drawn it to my door? We did have all new outdoor cameras, thanks to Cindy, which looked bright and shiny instead of pitted and rusty. Crows are curious. Perhaps that was its focus, although I’d been taught in vet school that it was usually captive crows that craved metallic objects.
Then I had a thought. The Dr. Mike I’d met mentioned he’d worked for an exotic animal practice. Maybe he’d have some suggestions? Finally, I had a good excuse to contact him.
Especially since he didn’t have a wife or twins to take care of.
Although I genuinely wanted his advice on the injured crow, I also found Mike easy to talk to. Surrounded by Valentine’s Day stuff every day in the hospital, I was acutely aware of the holiday coming up.
I texted him before I could overthink this. I’d put him in the friend zone from the day I’d met him, thinking he was taken. Could I adjust my thinking now?
At least twenty minutes went by without a response. Oh, well, I thought and researched some additional information on crows on an ornithology website.
Crows were very social, able to recognize people, and particularly smart birds. Here in upstate New York, many flocks migrated, while others stayed put. They’d survive the winter by foraging wherever they could. The month of March, the article said, was their normal time to nest and mate. A baby crow often hung around till the following year to help raise the next year’s brood.
My cell phone rang as I started reading about crows mating for life.
“Hello?” I already knew who it was from my caller ID.
“So how did you end up with a crow?” Mike asked.
“Short story. I heard a thump, opened my door, and saw him lying on my front step.” Mike’s straightforward question and caring voice was a relief to hear. Why had I been so nervous about contacting him?
