Murders of a Feather, page 9
I knew exactly what she meant, having experienced that same problem.
“Daffy always feeds us,” I said, buckling my seat belt and tossing my backpack into the back seat. I made a point to keep our conversation light. “Remind me not to eat any more chocolate, though. All this stress has been terrible for my diet. I figure I’m getting half my calories from sugar.”
“Me, too,” Mari said. “For dinner last night I had strawberry waffles and fudge ripple ice cream.”
I laughed. “At least we’re both eating some fruit.”
She stopped at a red light and turned toward me. “I’m giving myself a pass this weekend to pig out. You should too. Monday starts my return to regular food.”
The two of us had been to Daffy’s home so many times in the last few months that there was no need to look up the address in the GPS.
“So, did she tell you what was wrong with the little guy?” I asked, trying to prepare myself for the visit.
“Problems down south.”
Laughter literally exploded from my mouth. “How far south?”
“All the way,” Mari answered with a giggle. It was the first time I’d heard her laugh since discovering Babs.
Always in perfect condition, Daffy’s cottage looked like a brigade of fairies fluttered in overnight and magically cleaned every inch of it. Her sidewalk glistened with fresh rock salt, cleared of all snow. The paint on her clapboard and shutters might have been applied yesterday, while the white picket fence in front gave it a homey feeling. A cheery wisp of smoke rose from a nearby house, perfuming the outside air with a mild applewood smell. Everything appeared as normal as apple pie.
Moving along the walkway, I noticed the white dotted curtain in the living room twitch. Daffy knew our hospital truck. I wondered if she recognized Mari’s SUV?
I got halfway to the front door when it abruptly opened, and Daffy and Little Man appeared. Even though my patient was “ill,” he still had been dressed up—as a living Valentine’s Day card. Daffy wore a plush velvety white dress with cupids and hearts on it, along with a hat topped with a naked cherub flourishing a bow and arrow. The absurd sight of them brought well-needed smiles to our faces.
At least someone we knew was having a good time.
With a perfectly straight face, Daffy told me her Chihuahua, Little Man, had been having problems down south.
Oh, what a stand-up comedian could do in this situation. Instead, also with a perfectly straight face, I asked, highway Exit Number 1 or Exit Number 2?
Her unexpected answer? Both.
Meanwhile, the subject of her concern growled at Mari and me in a robustly healthy fashion.
Mari ended up coaxing the real-world symptoms out of Daffy. It seems her pet was rubbing his butt on the rug and leaving some peculiar marks, along with a dribble of pee.
“If I remember correctly,” I began, “I treated Little Man for anal gland disease a few months ago.”
Our client gave a slight nod of the head. The reminder that Little Man was a dog was a bit distasteful.
“Well,” I said. “Let’s take a look.”
Little Man revved up his growl to third gear, his eyes bulging and front fangs glistening like a doggy Dracula.
Mari glanced over at me. “Ready?” She held up her car keys.
“Ready,” I answered. We weren’t planning on taking this Chihuahua for a ride. The keys acted as a distraction while I snuck up behind him with a custom-made tiny gauze muzzle.
Practice makes perfect. We synchronized our movements like a pair of veteran ice skaters at the Olympics. Although Little Man put on a big show, I suspected he was a willing partner in our choreographed routine.
With the gauze securing his muzzle, the tiny eight-pound Chihuahua calmed down and let Mari hold him while I examined him. Periodically, he snarled for the benefit of Daffy, who nervously circled around us telling her pet, “Mommy loves you” and “Be a good boy,” in a ridiculously high voice.
It quickly became apparent that our patient needed his anal glands cleaned out, followed by a treatment plan of warm compresses and medications. He’d tried to address the problem by scooting his tush on his mommy’s living room rug.
Having worked this job before, everything moved quickly.
Once finished, we all breathed a sigh of relief. Mari and I rewound our synchronized routine, ending in Little Man all cleaned up and safely hugged in his mommy’s arms. He rewarded us with a fierce rolling of his upper lip, exposing his fangs. In that ridiculous Valentine’s Day costume, he’d become the anti-Cupid. After disposing of our medical waste in a separate bag, we washed up then followed our client’s voice into the kitchen.
With Mari and me in our scrubs and our client and patient dressed like valentines, it felt as though we’d stepped into an alternative universe. Daffy plied us with fresh coffee and homemade pound cake. After checking that we had everything we needed, our hostess pulled up a chair, sat down, and said, “You two have been busy this week.”
It was both cryptic and an understatement. My stomach sank.
“Three bodies in one week,” she added shaking her head and clicking her teeth.
Mari reached for the strawberry jam. “Yep.”
Daffy waited patiently for Mari to continue. When that didn’t happen, she focused her laser sights on me.
“You know I don’t get out much,” she began, “but I do still hear things.”
That was the understatement of the century. Daffy had contacts in the village like the FBI has confidential informants. Plus she spoke to everyone about everything, being the naturally curious person she was.
“Now that you’ve brought it up,” I said, taking another sip of coffee. “This has been a very rough time for both Mari and me. The worst, obviously, being Babs’s sudden death.”
Mari nodded and clenched her teeth, fidgeting in her chair.
“Did you know her?” I asked our host.
Daffy took a moment before replying. “Yes. I knew Babs through our bridge club. She joined after she retired and moved up here. Smart person, although a bit set in her ways and somewhat stubborn.”
That description also fit Daffy.
“We don’t know what to think,” Mari blurted out, “and the police have no idea either. Was it an accidental overdose of nitrous? What do her friends say?”
I turned to observe Daffy. Her hand absentmindedly petted Little Man, her face deep in thought.
“That’s a bit of a problem. Babs didn’t have a lot of friends. Acquaintances, yes; friends, not so much. No family or children to speak of. Cared for her father for a long time, then married an older gentleman who passed away after only a few years.”
“We barely knew her,” Mari said. “She was filling in for one week while Cindy took her vacation.”
“Yes. That sounds like just the kind of job she liked.”
Exactly what Babs told me, I thought. I felt sadness creeping back inside my chest.
Daffy must have sensed how we felt. “Don’t worry. Chief Garcia and Cindy will be back at work on Monday. Life will return to normal.”
Normal. What’s normal anymore?
“Daffy,” I asked, “do you have any thoughts about why Babs died? Plenty of people do nitrous for fun, but if they make a mistake, they can lose their lives.” My usually bubbly assistant sat with her hands folded, staring at the floor.
Daffy frowned, signaling what she thought of having fun with nitrous.
“These deaths have been particularly hard on Mari and me,” I continued.
Our client frowned. “I suspect Babs was murdered, and I assume I’m not the only one who thinks so.”
With still no official decision on cause of death, I didn’t answer.
“Murder. It’s love or money, isn’t it?” Daffy said. “It’s always about love or money.”
A simplistic statement but often true.
“I can definitely see love as a motive with the engaged couple,” I pressed on. “Alicia decides to end the engagement, and José kills her. Men often kill women who reject them. But why Babs?”
“Fun for women our age is not huffing nitrous, Dr. Kate. That’s a loss of control, which for many of us is the opposite of fun. And you can also probably rule out romantic love with Babs,” Daffy added. “Although I suppose you never know.”
“She once told me she had a secret admirer,” I said.
“Really?” Mari suddenly came to life. “Did Babs say who it was?”
Thinking back on our conversation, I struggled a bit. “I’m not sure of the context, and I think we were interrupted…” A vague sense we’d been discussing the murder-suicide tap danced in my brain.
“So,” Daffy continued, “that leaves money. Or her murder might have been damage control.”
Mari and I looked at each other, horrified.
Daffy clapped her hands and said, “This conversation is becoming much too sad. How do you like our costumes?”
“Nice,” Mari told her. “But Valentine’s Day is a couple of weeks away.”
That remark bounced right off our client’s cupid hat. “Since we mentioned love as a motive, are you ladies aware that the Ancient Greeks classified love into eight distinctive categories?”
I covered my eyes with my hands, dreading some sort of bizarre story.
“There’s romantic, platonic, selfless, family love, obsessive love, affectionate, mature, and narcissistic love,” she recited. “Obsessive is the most dangerous, of course. The obsessive lover feels that if he can’t have her, then no one will.”
I sat up straight. Obsessive love. Once again, I pictured Alicia’s pale face staring up at me from under the ice. “They kill the thing they love.”
Chapter Fourteen
I felt very frustrated after leaving Daffy’s place. What secrets might be lurking under the surface in our picturesque town?
“The village of Oak Falls has had three suspicious deaths in one week. We sound like Detroit,” I muttered.
Mari came alongside, her puffy coat undone and floating behind her. I was happy not to be driving. Daffy’s Ancient Greek definitions of the eight types of love made a home in my brain. I detoured to the passenger side of the vehicle. Once inside, I continued speculating relentlessly.
“Is it alright if we walk through these three deaths again? So the first victims, Alicia and José, are thought to be a murder-suicide, plain and simple, don’t you agree?” I asked Mari. “He killed her. Then shot himself.”
“If murder-suicide can be simple,” she answered me. We stayed parked outside Daffy’s while Mari opened up our laptop and began updating our client’s record.
Despite her less-than-interested answer, I persevered. “We can look at Babs’s death in the same way. An easily explained isolated incident. A rigid older woman with a secret addictive nitrous habit. Maybe she usually snuck in a few puffs where she worked. But this time she forgot to turn the O2 on and passed out. Simple.”
“Whatever.” My assistant frowned and closed down her computer. Once it was stowed away, she started the SUV.
Sensing a lack of response from Mari, I let her get on with the business of driving, wondering why I tried to tie all these deaths together—maybe to make some kind of sense of events that made no sense? Or perhaps because I secretly agreed with Mike that law-and-order Babs didn’t seem the type to use the office drugs to try to kill herself.
Which made me curious about the deaths of the engaged couple, José and Alicia.
Another early morning text the next day summoned Mari and me to the office. Our leader had returned. Sunday morning, and Cindy arrived like a tornado, sweeping up everything and everyone in her path.
She herded us into the employee lounge.
“Did you have a nice time in Florida?” Mari asked, trying to start the inevitable conversation on a positive note.
Cindy raised an eyebrow. “We had a fabulous time. Fresh fish, hot sand, and salt-rimmed, shivery-cold margaritas. Strangely enough—no dead bodies.”
“You should have brought Kate with you,” Mari said. “Wherever she goes, people turn up dead.”
“Thanks, Mari,” I replied. “You’re a good friend.”
Cindy ignored our banter, tossing her head back, eyes resting briefly on the closed surgery suite doors.
“How am I going to tell Doc Anderson that Babs died on our surgery table?” Cindy cried out. “That we had the police in here searching our hospital. Our hospital.”
“Well, technically…” Mari started then stopped dead at the expression on Cindy’s face.
“This is serious,” Cindy continued. “Her passing is terrible for the hospital’s reputation and a personal tragedy for everyone who knew her. Doc Anderson and I worked with Babs several times over the last few years. She was very professional. That’s why I felt comfortable going on vacation and leaving her in charge of the front office.”
Mari and I listened, our heads down. There wasn’t much for us to do except let Cindy get everything she wanted to say off her mind.
Our receptionist paced back and forth, her sneakers scrunching against the floor in a menacing way. “I know the preliminary report is pointing toward accidental overdose, but I can’t believe it. Babs was…formidable in her ideas of right and wrong. I can’t see her using any of our hospital drugs at work, much less any other drug.”
“What do you mean hospital drugs?” I asked. To my knowledge, Babs had died of nitrous oxide poisoning.
Despite her frustration, Cindy appeared well rested with a healthy light tan, her hair sprayed into submission. Mari and I looked like we’d been lost in the woods for a week. Maybe seeing us this way made her feel bad enough to share what she knew.
“The chief received a preliminary toxicology report. In addition to the nitrous, they found ketamine in her blood, as well as Xanax.”
Ketamine, a veterinary anesthesia, had been getting a lot of press lately as a helpful tool for treating humans with PTSD, among other things, when used under strict guidelines. It also had an illegal street use as a date rape drug. One of the older veterinary anesthetics often used in cats, ketamine can be unpredictable, as anyone working with it in surgery would attest to. With over thirty years of veterinary experience as a technician and receptionist, Babs knew all about the injectable drug we stocked.
“That doesn’t sound likely to me,” I said.
Cindy plopped down in one of the chairs, her left foot tapping on the floor. “I did know Babs. For that reason, and some I can’t go into, the chief might change her death to suspicious.”
Suspicious? What could Babs have done to get herself murdered?
That thought stayed stuck in my mind. Mari and Cindy needed to go over next week’s schedule, so I ducked out to call Gramps like I’d promised. While I tried to eat a microwaved frozen pizza slice, I envisioned him hanging out with his firefighter buddies at Sunday brunch. At first, I hesitated to bother him, then realized he and Cindy most likely were heating up Facebook and Messenger with postings.
He picked his cell phone up after two rings.
“Sorry, Gramps. I don’t have much time to chat. What do you think about Babs’s death? Why would someone kill her at the Animal Hospital?”
“Not so fast, Katie.”
I didn’t realize I blurted out my questions without even a hello.
“First, how are you and Mari doing? You should be getting some kind of counseling, you know.”
True statement. I’d already had one nightmare about death, but, like always, I tried to tough it out. “We’re okay, but I’ll mention it to Mari.”
“Cindy is pretty upset,” he added. “We talked for quite a while last night. I told her to take it easy with you and Mari because you’re both victims too.”
Cindy and Gramps had bonded over the last few months by using social media and keeping watch over me. He was easy to talk to. It didn’t surprise me that our office manager would turn to him for impartial advice.
I snuck another bite of pizza and burned the roof of my mouth.
“I’ll tell you what I told Cindy. Look for someone who cared about her,” Gramps said. “The killer arranged her body neatly, hands folded, legs straight in a proper ladylike manner, or so I’ve been told.”
While searching for ice to put in my glass of water, my memory pulled up that same vision of Babs lying still on the stainless-steel table.
“I see what you mean.” No point in asking him where he got his information. “But why did someone kill her? And why pick the animal hospital to do it?”
“Good questions,” he said, “and dangerous ones. Let me think about it and meanwhile please be extra careful, Katie. Keep that pepper spray handy at all times.”
“I promise.”
“One thing I can say is that from all indications, Babs let her killer into the hospital. You might, too.”
I joined Cindy and Mari in the employee lounge. Given the circumstances, we decided to keep appointments light over the coming week and close a half hour early. Personally, I would have preferred working every day until I dropped from exhaustion.
“Do you mind if I ask you both some questions?” Cindy sat upright in the least comfortable chair we owned.
“Go ahead,” Mari said unenthusiastically. I waited, debating on zapping another slice of frozen pizza.
“So what kind of forensics work did the police do here?” Cindy asked.
“It was pretty chaotic,” Mari began, “because when the EMTs arrived they inserted a line, started their protocol, and loaded her into the ambulance. From what I gather, things went badly quickly en route, and she was pronounced DOA at Kingston Hospital. The police arrived later, but we mostly stayed out of their way.”
“Then what?” Cindy sipped some herbal tea, bypassing the potato chips Mari had poured onto a plate. The roof of my mouth started to blister from the lava-temperature pizza.
“We were escorted into Kate’s office and told to wait. One of the newer deputies, Paulie, I think, spoke to us first. At that point, he mentioned accidental death or suicide.”
