Murders of a Feather, page 17
How did our crow friend do? Text me back when you can. About to go into surgery
I’d been thinking about texting Mike but had gotten sidetracked by a difficult case that came in, a radiologist needed to call me back on a consult, and seeing a ton of appointments.
“Anything I have to know?” Mari asked, assuming it was Cindy texting.
“It’s Mike. Checking on the crow I found.” There were no secrets between Mari and me. She nudged me out of my comfort zone to share events going on in my life.
“That’s Mike, as in Dr. Mike who isn’t married with twins?”
This had become a sort of running joke between us, Mari not letting me forget my first wrong impression of the large-animal vet. “Yes. No Twins Dr. Mike.”
She laughed and promised not to refer to him in that way again. “You two should go out. On a date.”
The thought had crossed my mind.
“Don’t you owe him a barn cat house call?”
“Yes.”
She took her computer tablet out and just before opening the exam room door said, “I’d get on that if I were you.”
Good advice.
The day passed in a blur. With the increase in pet adoptions nationwide due to COVID-19, veterinary offices across the country were swamped with calls for appointments. Staffing shortages meant there were only a finite number of clients we could see. Diagnosing and treating a patient properly took time, which you didn’t have if there was a new appointment every ten minutes.
I met Mike after work, and we commiserated on the subject. We were eating at Lucky Gardens, an Asian fusion restaurant at the far edge of town. There were no Valentine’s Day decorations here, just a white porcelain Happy Cat statue next to the stack of menus, waving hello and wishing us good fortune. Our table looked out over a fast-moving stream, which ran into the Esopus Creek, eventually finding its way to the wide waters of the Hudson River.
To clear the air, I told him about the Dr. Mike With Twins mix-up.
“That explains it,” he said with a laugh. “You’d put me in the married friend zone.”
“Yes.” I admitted, completely embarrassed.
Mike reached across and took my hand. “Does this mean I’ve had an upgrade into a different zone?”
“I believe so,” I replied. “You’re now in the zone of infinite possibilities.”
“Infinite possibilities. I like that.”
When our double order of dumplings came out, we pounced on them. I’d ordered shrimp, and Mike had ordered chicken.
“I’m thinking we ordered too much food,” I told him between bites.
“That statement does not compute. It is impossible to order too much Chinese food. This will make fantastic leftovers and next-day lunch.”
“Or breakfast.”
“Guilty as charged,” he said and plucked a dumpling out of the dish.
I looked at him sitting across from me and noticed a slight dimple in his right cheek. It made him appear more boyish, as if the dimple only surfaced when he relaxed.
“What?” he asked. “Do I have dirt on my face? Because that is a possibility.”
His joke made me laugh. “No. I never noticed you had a dimple.”
“I get it from my mom. Hopefully, I’ve inherited her hair too. My dad went bald in his forties.”
He continued to work on his dumplings, almost beating me. Almost. “What do your parents do?” I sandwiched the question in between bites.
“Mom is a teacher, and my dad works for IBM. They live in the same town they grew up in, near the dairy farm.”
We were interrupted by a waiter carrying the rest of our order, who thoughtfully brought a refill on our jasmine tea.
“Is that what made you go into veterinary medicine?” The food smelled heavenly. I started to roll a mu shu pancake.
Mike was busy scooping velvet chicken with broccoli onto his plate but answered my question. “From the time I was little, I helped out my grandparents. They owned a small family dairy that has been in our family for over seventy years. My sisters and I had fun doing chores like collecting eggs and feeding the calves. Idyllic for a child, but tough to make a living at it in modern America.”
“That’s what I’ve read.”
“Yep. Backbreaking work,” he said. “To modernize takes a lot of capital, and with no one stepping up to run the place, my grandparents sold to a local dairy farmer cooperative. We kept a hundred acres for our family to use. All for the best, I suppose.” He didn’t sound happy about it.
The death of the small family farm was well documented, with the small producer unable to compete with corporate dairies. One or two bad years in a row with milk prices down could wipe out profits.
“My grandma kept her favorite cows, and now she and Gramps live on a small organic farm with a few horses, goats, and chickens. They sell their butter and eggs to a local restaurant where they know the chef. One of those farm-to-table places.” He went back to working on some leftover spicy eggplant.
“You call your grandfather Gramps? So do I.” I paused with my empty chopsticks in the air. “Gramps is the only family I have left. Well, that’s not exactly true,” I explained. “But I’m not close to my dad or stepmom.”
He looked up but didn’t ask me why.
So I explained how my mom and my brother, Jimmy, went out for ice cream and were killed by a drunk driver when I was fifteen. Instead of grieving, my surgeon dad moved on quickly with his surgical nurse, who became pregnant only a few months later. I was furious and showed it. Gramps offered to take me in, and my father was more than willing to get rid of me. I’d basically lost two parents.
“It must have been a terrible emotional blow, especially at that age. It’s bad enough being a teenager without those kinds of complications.” His eyes caught mine and he smiled. “But you came out the other side.”
“Thanks to Gramps and veterinary medicine. My work is a big part of my life.”
“As it should be,” he replied. “We have a fascinating profession that demands a certain amount of sacrifice on our parts. I feel it’s a calling, not only a job.”
I knew exactly what he meant. We were kindred spirits who had bumped into each other on our way somewhere else.
“Agreed, it is a calling. But we still have our own lives to live.”
Mike said, “I have to confess. Balancing my private life with my professional life hasn’t been very successful so far.”
I looked down at the black river water rushing below our window. Swirls of white broke over the rocks and boulders on the way. Our two reflections were captured in the glass, shadows superimposed over the roughly flowing stream.
“Balancing my job and personal life has been difficult for me too,” I also confessed. “I’ve just about given up.”
He reached over for the second time and gently squeezed my hand. “Don’t give up. You should never give up.”
“Never give up. Never surrender,” I quoted.
“Galaxy Quest, right?”
I smiled at him and said, “Yes.”
“Loved that movie.”
We both had to work in the morning, so we parted ways after dinner and a cautious kiss. Going slowly suited me. I’d mooned over guys, been swept off my feet, and been cheated on more times than I cared to remember.
If it was meant to be, it was meant to be.
But I hoped I’d have a date on Valentine’s Day after all.
Chapter Twenty-Three
The lab results came back for our doggy patient Booty Call. He had a urinary tract infection and crystals in his urine. This would be a complex case combining a medical issue and a behavioral problem that were intertwined. His bad habit of humping further irritated his urinary infection. And this couldn’t be solved overnight, or by a pill, as most clients wanted.
After I spoke to his owners, I had them set up a recheck appointment in ten days, when his medication would be finished. Meanwhile, Cindy sent them a list of animal behavior specialists plus information on urinary tract problems.
“Do you think they’ll follow your advice?” Mari asked. As someone who showed and trained her two Rottweiler dogs, she knew the importance of consistency.
We were on our lunch break, so I answered her between bites of my leftover Chinese food. “Reward good behavior and discourage bad habits. Easy to say, hard to follow through on.”
Mari agreed. “People think their dogs are little humans covered with fur instead of animals. Booty Call isn’t going to grow up and enroll in animal studies at Harvard.”
I laughed and took another bite of shrimp.
“On the other hand,” Mari continued. “He’d be pretty popular with the ladies. And guys. And inanimate objects.”
Our giggles were dying down when Cindy joined us at the employee table. As always, she’d brought her lunch. This time she carried some homemade soup and a healthy salad. She eyed Mari’s bag of chips and corn dogs with the usual disapproval.
“All that junk food is going to catch up with you,” Cindy told Mari.
“I think I’ve heard that before. Care for a chip?”
“No thanks.”
Cindy’s soup smelled delicious but so did my Chinese food. Mike and I had ordered an extra plate of stir-fried vegetables, and I’d taken half home. As I virtuously lifted a pea pod into my mouth, Cindy asked me which restaurant I got my takeout from.
“Lucky Gardens,” I told her, deliberately skipping over the not-takeout part before I realized she’d been there when I’d taken Mike’s call.
“So, how did it go last night?”
I knew I’d end up telling my friends everything, but I wanted to make them work for it.
“Fine.”
Mari handed me a couple of chips and winked at me.
“What did you and Mike talk about, if you don’t mind me asking?” This time Cindy gave me the famous you must tell me glare.
“Work.”
Mari broke out in laughter.
I decided to put Cindy out of her misery and said, “It went well. We have a lot in common, but it’s too early to say that we’re anything but friends.”
“Well, it’s a start.”
“Guys,” I said, “I don’t need a man to be happy.”
Cindy seemed to be in agreement. “Tell me about it. Half the time I want to hit my hubby over the head and bury him in the backyard.”
“Can I quote you on that?” Mari asked.
“That’s the problem with relationships,” Cindy reiterated. “Don’t mind me. I need to blow off some steam. The rest of the time I love him to pieces and don’t want to live without him.” She paused to take another spoonful of soup. “Sorry, but I’ve been pretty up and down lately. My hubby knows how much Babs’s death upset me, upset us all.”
At the mention of Babs, the room turned silent.
Cindy was right. We were all joking and laughing, but barely ten feet away was our surgery room—where a friend was murdered.
We were all traumatized, the three of us, something I shouldn’t forget. No wonder Cindy wanted to talk about something else, in this case, my love life. Anything but the fact that someone murdered our temporary receptionist in our surgery suite.
After lunch, Cindy pulled me aside. I thought she was going to ask me more questions about Mike, but she wanted to update me on the coffee mugs.
“The forensic guys found Babs’s full handprint on her mug, the one with the traces of Xanax. The only other prints were smeared. The results on that other mug that the killer might have used are still pending. The chief decided to send some samples out to some kind of specialized DNA lab to see if they can capture anything else. But don’t tell anyone. Not even Mari. Promise?”
“Of course, I promise. What about Alicia and José? Any luck there?”
“Nothing. José was killed with his own gun. He bought it legally only a few weeks ago. No trace evidence could be found on either body. They think the killer wore gloves and probably ski clothes, goggles, and a hat.”
I remembered that Bruce, the fellow who flagged down our truck, wore a ski jacket, so I asked her if he was considered a suspect.
She frowned and shook her head. “I’m not sure. The chief’s interviewed him several times, but so far they haven’t uncovered any evidence to tie him to the murders. His record is clean, no arrests.”
“Maybe I should check up on Bruce myself.”
“Go ahead. I’ll help you any way I can, but I’m so busy with my kids and the house and being the executor of Babs’s estate right now that I’ve got no time left over. I feel bad, but I’m sure you can understand.” Cindy, who always appeared upbeat, looked anything but.
“Don’t worry,” I told her. “Between all of us we’ll figure it out.”
“I certainly hope so,” she answered before telling me to get back to work.
From my initial searches on the Internet, I thought Bruce appeared pretty good on paper. He’d relocated from New York City a few years ago and made his living as an accountant. I remember how condescending he sounded and wondered if he acted that way with his clients. Just because he was an a-hole didn’t mean he was guilty of murder. A local search revealed an office number, as well as an address. Where should I start? Dare I book an appointment with him? Taxes weren’t due until April 15, and this was the beginning of February.
Unsure how to proceed, I logged on to Facebook again. I’d read it was the first thing an employer looks at when hiring someone—and you could peruse it from the comfort of your home. My friend request to Bruce was immediately approved. I wondered if Bruce even recognized my name. The two “girls” who called the police and waited with him in the snow were probably off his radar by now. He’d really spoken more to Mari than to me.
What I discovered was a shock.
Bruce had been Alicia and José’s accountant.
What? Why hadn’t the chief of police released this information?
Granted, Oak Falls was a pretty small town. Bruce worked for an accounting firm with offices in Oak Falls, Kingston, and Rhinebeck, so he might have been handed the couple as clients of the firm.
That made me wonder if Bruce mentioned finding José. I scrolled back through his pages and sure enough, Bruce posted this.
SO I CAN’T BELIEVE IT BUT I FOUND A BODY TODAY IN THE WOODS. NO LIE. I DECIDED TO DO SOME ICE FISHING AND STUMBLED ACROSS THIS GUY IN SKI CLOTHES LYING FACE DOWN IN THE SNOW.
Scrolling forward he posted this:
UPDATE ON THE BODY IN THE WOODS. NOW IT’S TWO BODIES AND I KNOW BOTH OF THEM. THEY WERE CLIENTS. AND NO—I DIDN”T KILL THEM WHEN I GAVE THEM MY BILL. LOL
His final post regarding José and Alicia was:
SORRY IF ANYONE TOOK OFFENSE WITH MY POST. I DIDN”T MEAN TO BE INSENSITIVE. SOME OF YOU GUYS ON FACEBOOK NEED TO LIGHTEN UP. PEACE. OUT.
Ice fishing? I didn’t remember him having a fishing pole, but his gear could have been in the trunk of his SUV. Another question to ask Cindy.
What about a motive?
We knew that José had a wrongful death suit pending against him, possibly for several million dollars. Many doctors, dentists, and veterinarians carried their own malpractice insurance, or the company they worked for paid it. American medical facilities long ago figured out they’d save money by hiring doctors as “subcontractors” not directly employed by the hospital. Corporate medicine was all about the money and profit. Perhaps José and Alicia wanted an accountant’s opinion on the lawsuit. But what did that have to do with murder?
When I realized I didn’t remember who was suing José, I shot Cindy a message. She immediately answered.
Greg Owens, Doris Owen’s husband. Doris died of pancreatic cancer that he says José completely missed.
Pancreatic cancer can present with vague symptoms. That’s why it’s usually diagnosed so late in the course of the disease.
It appears Greg doesn’t think that way. It took months before José referred her to a specialist. I’m not sure if the lawsuit will continue with both parties dead.
Me either. But my cynical side bet it would.
As I scanned Bruce’s Facebook pages, I noticed plenty of angry posts about dating and women. He believed most women lied about their #MeToo accusations to get back at guys. Pretty girls were only after your money. Women trapped men into marrying them so they could have a free ride. Skipping down, I saw he posted his likes as superhero movies, weed, and some popular conspiracy theories.
I assumed Police Chief Garcia knew all this. Bruce’s Facebook page revealed no obvious motive for murder, but it was interesting he knew both the victims.
That ice fishing alibi sounded fishy, too.
Trying to be efficient, I looked up the ice-fishing season in New York state parks. You would think it would be simple, but there were several schedules depending on what type of fish you wanted to catch. Most ice fishing takes place on a solidly frozen large lake. The fisherman cuts a hole in the ice and usually brings a chair or small shelter to fish from. Lover’s Lake, where Alicia’s body was found, was fairly small, maybe three Olympic-size pools large? Not a classic ice fishing spot.
Bruce bore further investigating. But first I needed to pump Cindy for anything else she knew about our not-so-Good Samaritan.
This time Cindy answered her phone after five rings. In the background, it sounded like a war was raging.
“Just the guys watching some disaster movie. Let me move into the other room so we can talk,” she said.
The explosive noises faded and stopped after a door closed.
“That’s better,” I told her. “Sorry to bother you again, but do you have time to talk about Bruce, the guy who hailed us down and found José’s body?”
“Ahh.” A grunt of contentment was followed by, “I’ll tell you what I know. Then I’m taking a nap in this recliner.”
“I’m ready.”
“My sister told me that Bruce is a piece of work. He’s dabbled in that male supremacy thing, banning books, survivalist stuff, and a bunch of other things I can’t remember at the moment.”
