Murders of a Feather, page 16
“Did you get a chance to set up a slide for me?” I asked.
“I did.”
“Where did you put Mr. Humpty Dumpty?” I said, almost ashamed of my lame joke but not enough to take it back.
Mari giggled and answered, “He’s cooling his heels in an upper cage. I thought he was going to ask Mr. Katt out on a date.”
“Let’s stop, shall we?” I slid one of the chairs over and positioned it in front of the microscope. “Did you set up a full urine sample for the lab?”
“Ready to go.”
“Can you add a culture and sensitivity to that? Also, I’d like to run a full blood panel on this little guy. Let’s make sure his kidneys are okay.” I turned my attention back to the sample of urine waiting under the microscope. It was packed with crystals.
Except for his behavior issues, Booty Call was a friendly happy little dog who managed to hold still long enough for me to draw his blood tests.
“How clean is this urine sample?” I asked Mari.
“As clean as I could get, given the circumstances. There’s no more up there though.”
“Okay. This will have to do for now. We can get a sterile sample by urinary catheter on recheck.”
There was a lot to explain to this dog’s parents, and I hoped they’d listen instead of fight about it. Maybe the urinary tract infection and crystals precipitated his behavioral problem or vice versa. A burning sensation on urinating could be part of it. At this point, it didn’t matter. We had to treat all the symptoms at the same time.
As I moved him down to the ground, he grabbed onto my leg so tight I felt his nails dig in. Booty continued doing his thing until Mari peeled him off me.
“Don’t say it,” I warned her to no avail.
“Happy almost Valentine’s Day,” she said with a laugh.
“Same to you,” I retorted as Booty locked onto her shoe.
Preliminary tests indicated that the fluffy white dog’s kidney and liver functions were normal. For now I felt comfortable sending him home with a special urinary tract diet while we waited for more laboratory results.
Even in reception they continued their fight.
Cindy texted us: I’m guessing no booty call for that husband tonight.
Booty Call and his owners were our last clients. When they finally left the animal hospital, Cindy locked the front door, pulled down the blinds, and turned off the lights. She’d already tidied up and was ready to leave.
“Sorry, I’ve got to run,” she said. “Parent-teacher conferences at the high school, and I don’t want to be late.”
“Good luck,” Mari said.
“I’ve got a teenage boy. I’m going to need it,” she answered before walking out the door.
Mari and I cleaned the exam rooms and straightened up the treatment room. “I’ll take care of the microscope and centrifuge if you put the samples out.”
“Deal,” she said. Because of the freezing temperatures outside, we couldn’t put lab samples out early. Mari always texted our driver to see what time he was picking up.
“We’ve got fifteen minutes,” she said. “I’ll set the timer.”
“Fine. I’ve got a few callbacks. You okay?”
“Sure. I’ll poke my head into your office before I leave.”
“Mari. Have you noticed a pattern in the problems of some of our dog patients lately?”
She scratched her head. “No.”
Maybe I’d taken to heart Daffy’s list of the eight types of love. “We’ve had a dog with fake testicles, one named Cupid, and now Booty Call. Doesn’t that seem strange?”
“Nothing seems strange anymore,” she concluded. “Not even that guy kissing his pig.”
I always helped Mari at night, even though I didn’t have to. She worked hard all day, just like I did, and this way she could get home a little earlier. Before going to vet school and even while I was in training, I worked as a veterinary technician. Cleaning was only one small part of the hard work technicians did. Being a doctor didn’t stop me from helping straighten up and making things easier for us all.
Cindy had left a list of callbacks for me to make on my desk. I also needed to check the incoming lab reports, update the results in the client records, and discuss a treatment plan based on what the lab tests said. My job didn’t end once the last client left the building.
No wonder I felt so tired at the end of the day.
Mari left while I was still in front of the computer. Then Mr. Katt decided to join me in my office and sit on my lap, trapping me in my seat. Anyone who lives with a feline knows how psychologically difficult it is to disturb a sleeping cat, so I resigned myself to being a kitty accessory for a while.
The news sites were so depressing that I found myself scrolling through the celebrity news instead. I took a break from rational thought to peruse those rich and richer individuals and their lives. A text message from Cindy saved me from ordering a very expensive moisturizer used by a gorgeous actress guaranteed to make my skin appear dewy.
FORENSIC LAB FOUND XANAX IN BABS COFFEE MUG.
LOTS OF IT.
I closed the celebrity page and looked up Xanax and how quickly it was absorbed into the body. An antianxiety medication, it worked rather quickly, with most people falling into a relaxed or sleepy state within thirty to forty-five minutes, or sooner.
Leaning back in my office chair, I closed my eyes and thought back to the day Babs died. Mari and I were out of the office all afternoon, doing house calls. We usually left around twelve thirty. Mari typically loaded all our medical notes into the office laptop we brought with us, which then updated into our main computer. I reviewed and added my notes once we were back in the office. Only at the end of the day did Mari usually contact the office manager with our return time and to see if any cases needed a follow-up phone call.
Our regular routine had been disrupted by Cindy going on vacation. That Friday, if I remembered correctly, Mari only became worried after she couldn’t find the address Babs sent us to. That gave the killer at least a four- to five-hour window when only Babs would be in the building.
Friday had been split between hospital appointments in the morning and house calls and/or emergencies in the afternoon, a fairly common end to the week. Cindy usually kept the Open sign on the front door of the hospital while we were gone, but the door locked. Our clients were welcome to call the office for refills of medications, to schedule a recheck, or just schmooze.
Did Babs do the same thing?
I texted Cindy and asked her. Her reply was not what I wanted to hear.
Left it up to her.
Back to square one. When I bent forward to reach for my water bottle Mr. Katt stretched, opened his eyes briefly, and gifted me with a loud purr.
Trapped for a while with a purring cat on my lap, I closed my eyes again and thought through a possible scenario.
Babs looks up from her desk, surprised to see the visitor at the front door. A friend or close acquaintance—someone she felt comfortable letting into the building. Did she unlock the front door, turn the sign to Closed and escort him or her back to the employee lounge? Was she fearful at that point? I didn’t think so. That must have come later.
Whoever this visitor was, they most likely came ready to kill her, bringing the human anesthesia mask and Xanax with them.
What about the ketamine? Because it’s a controlled substance, our injectable ketamine was always locked up. Like all modern drugs, it carried the possibility of abuse, in this case being well known as Special K. It induced a dissociative state. When combined with an opiate, it can cause a fatal overdose.
According to a manufacturer, ketamine was now available in a nasal spray and in lozenges, both of which needed a doctor’s prescription. Cindy performed a drug inventory when she got back and found all our controlled drugs accounted for. How did the murderer have access to it?
Once again I shut my eyes and thought about Babs inviting her killer to have some coffee with her. Babs unapologetically brewed a very strong coffee. Even I occasionally added milk to cut some of the bitterness. At home, she explained, she only drank espresso.
It was likely her killer knew that, too. Distracting Babs for a moment he or she slid the powdered Xanax in her coffee, stirring it with one of our stirrers or a spoon.
Babs must have figured something was wrong as soon as the drug began to kick in. Before it knocked her out, she’d experience a wave of tiredness or dizziness. I admired her quick thinking and leaving her coffee cup for us as evidence. Did she offer to wash out the killer’s cup along with hers, before surreptitiously storing it in the cabinet unwashed?
I’d forgotten something important. We’d all forgotten.
What cup did the murderer use?
I catapulted out of my chair. Poor Mr. Katt shot me an evil glare from the floor, hissing his anger. Rushing into the treatment room, I tried to remember how many mugs in total we had. No dice. In desperation, I called Mari.
“Can you remember how many coffee mugs we have?” I asked as soon as she answered the phone.
“Hello to you, too. I take it this is important.” The tone in her voice sounded doubtful.
“I think Babs’s murderer used one of our cups.”
Barking noises began to dominate our conversation. “Wait a minute,” she said, and then I heard footsteps and a door slamming. “Someone took someone else’s toy,” she explained.
“Did you rehome all the puppies?” I knew every one of her puppies had homes, many with Mari’s relatives.
“The last one left with my cousin a few days ago. I’m glad we’re keeping one. I have to say I got emotional.”
Mari assisted with their birthing and had been there every day of their lives. It was always sad to say goodbye to babies, even if you knew it was coming.
“Okay. Sorry for the interruption,” she said. “You asked how many mugs we have? Is this a trick question?”
“Well, it’s more like how many mugs do we really use. Including coffee for visitors. It’s important.”
“Can you send me a picture?” she asked. “It’s easier to visualize.”
“Sure.” I placed a glove on my hand and carefully lined up all the mugs side by side on the countertop. The police already had Babs’s coffee mug, and I easily recognized mine, Mari’s, and Cindy’s.
“There’s one that’s badly chipped. The one with the horse. I’m not sure why we keep it, but you can eliminate that.”
“You sure?”
“Babs told me no one should be forced to drink from it.”
“Okay. One down. Next?”
The remaining assorted mugs were left by various former employees or had been gifts from clients.
“I think we can also get rid of the Santa Claus as a golden retriever mug and the GREATEST MOM cup. Not her style.”
“Agreed.”
“That leaves the solid blue cup and the raining cats and dogs one.” There was a silence before Mari started debating out loud. “The raining mug is whimsical, very appropriate for an animal hospital. The blue mug is sturdy, the shape of the mugs you used to get in old diners. Kate, which do you think Babs might offer a visitor?”
“The blue one?” The plain no-nonsense cup seemed the obvious choice.
“I agree.” Mari waited for me to say something else, but I was lost in thought. Had anyone used that mug since Babs was murdered?
As if reading my mind, Mari said, “I don’t think anyone has used either of those cups. Certainly not Cindy or me. What about you?”
A memory of someone else drinking coffee in the treatment area circled in my consciousness. “Nope. I can’t think of anyone specific. Okay, I’m going to hang up and call the chief.” I didn’t want to disturb Cindy again and felt I needed to speak to the chief directly this time.
I decided not to bag the mugs in question but instead waited for the police to arrive. The more I thought about it, the more I convinced myself we were on the right track.
It took Police Chief Bobby Garcia an hour to get to the animal hospital. I gave up waiting in the treatment area and went back to my place. Buddy and I were enjoying a snack when he knocked on the door. My dog sprang up and started barking ferociously at the stranger in the parking lot.
After a quick look I let him in.
Our chief of police always had dark circles under his eyes, but they’d gotten more pronounced since I’d last seen him—that Florida vacation tan a faded memory. Trying to solve three murders had taken its toll.
“Dr. Kate,” he said as he knocked some snow off his boots.
“Chief Garcia,” I answered, handing him a towel. Without a mudroom to keep mud and snow confined, I had to rely on two doormats and several towels to keep things clean.
The chief and I often ended up sparring with each other, but today felt different. Not only was the chief tired, but he also seemed…preoccupied.
“Good idea about the coffee mugs,” he told me as he followed me into the hospital, with Buddy trailing along. “We should have thought of it.”
I kept my remarks to myself. Everyone I knew connected with these crimes was under pressure from their friends, relatives, and the general public to solve them. He didn’t need any added criticism from me.
“Is that it?” he asked, seeing the blue mug sitting on the countertop.
“It’s either that one or the one that says ‘Raining cats and dogs’. Mari and I eliminated all the others.”
He didn’t bother to ask how. Instead, he sat on one of the office chairs and asked, “How is Mari doing? I’m worried about her.”
“She seems better. A bit thrown by everything, but so are all of us. We’re trying to carry on as best we can. Work helps. But it’s still tough walking into the surgery suite.”
“I can imagine.” He sat slumped over and rubbed his face with his hands. “I just came from a domestic abuse call. Had to turn three kids over to Child Protective Services. The kids were begging us to please let them stay with their mom, who was on her way to the hospital. Dad is in custody for assault. Couldn’t reach any relatives.”
As I listened I realized I’d forgotten what police have to deal with on a daily basis.
“Do you ever get the feeling the bad guys are winning?” the chief asked. “Never mind, don’t answer that.” He got up and walked over to the mugs. “So, just these two?”
I watched him bring out two separate evidence bags, glove up, and then take them into his custody for forensic testing.
“I’d check the cup handle and rim specifically. I think Babs tried to save what evidence she could,” I said.
As soon as he turned toward me, I regretted telling him what to do. I expected a sarcastic retort, but instead he laughed. “Anything else?”
“Take care of yourself,” I answered. “You look tired.”
“I am tired, but that comes with the job. When the shit hits the fan this many times, the whole office feels it. Add these crimes to our usual caseload, and you can see where these bags under my eyes come from.”
“Can’t you ask for help?” Like most local police departments, the Oak Falls Police Department hated calling in the Feds.
“It might come to that,” he admitted. “We’ve got some irons in the fire.”
He left it up to me to interpret what that meant.
After the chief left, I pondered my choices: Sit back and let the overworked police force do their job, or do a little snooping on the side?
Buddy came and put his chin on my knee in sympathy. “Need to go out?”
The word “out” was celebrated by my dog like it was his birthday. He twirled and danced and yipped as I slid on my coat to face the winter weather. First, I made sure there were no more birds on my doorstep, then opened the door wide for Buddy to rush out. He made straight for his exercise area, probably hoping the squirrels had stopped their hibernating and were ready to play.
Instead of squirrels, we did have a visitor who stayed far away from Buddy—a single crow flew out of the trees and landed on the truck hood.
The feather sticking out on one wing identified him as my patient from the other night. He cawed at me then stared as if expecting me to caw back. Food, I guessed, was both the question and the answer.
“Just a minute,” I told him and dashed inside. I made a mix of dried cat food, birdseed, and peanuts. No mealy worms today. If he kept showing up, I’d have to be a bit more prepared.
I placed the used mat on the truck hood again. There was no snow for me to push off, but I expected the crow to fly away. He didn’t. Instead, he intently stared at the ziplock bag in my hand.
“Want a snack?” I asked. I wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d answered, “Yes, please.”
Buddy was busy with a toy he’d abandoned and found, so I poured out the bird dinner and stood back. The crow cawed and scratched at the mat with his pointed beak. From one of the trees near the dumpster I heard a noise, as first one then another crow flew down, landing as far away from me as they could get and still eat.
“I suppose I’ll be feeding you three until springtime,” I said. “You still have to forage for yourselves, though. This is a bonus snack.”
The crows looked up and then went back to work on what was left. Their feathers shone a blue-black, their ebony beaks as shiny as their eyes. The Internet was full of firsthand reports of how clever these birds were. I knew they could imitate sounds and other birds, but I didn’t want this crew getting too used to humans.
“Come on, Buddy,” I called to my dog. “Let’s leave these fellows to eat in peace.”
Once inside, I fed Buddy his biscuit, cleaned his feet, and poured myself a glass of white wine. Did I want to get on the computer and spend the night investigating the three murders? No.
Or think about the chief’s comment about the bad guys winning? No again.
What I’d have liked to do is relax and daydream about flying unencumbered high into the sky, catching a contrail with the tips of my black wings, and gliding over the earth below.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Mari and I were between appointments when my phone’s text message alert chimed.
