Dead Pan (13 page)

I offered Carol and Fran a decaf café au lait, but they both declined.

“I appreciate it,” Carol said, “but I’d better not. I need to get up early and go back to work tomorrow.”

“Can we help you do anything else before we go?” Fran asked.

“No, but thank you for the offer. I’m going to make a couple batches of fudge to take to the Save-A-Buck tomorrow, but then I’m calling it a night myself.” I got out my double boiler. “Speaking of the Save-A-Buck, do either of you know why Mr. Franklin sent Fred to his mother’s house the day of Fred’s car accident rather than going himself?”

“He—Mr. Franklin, I mean—told Papaw it was because his brother was visiting,” Fran said.

“So? It was their mother’s birthday,” I said. “Lots of family members who don’t get along suck it up and make nice for holidays and other events. What’s so bad about Mr. Franklin’s brother?”

Fran shrugged. “Dunno. Maybe he’s a Cullen.”

Carol rolled her eyes. “Again with the vampires? Honestly.”

Catching their reference to the popular
Twilight
series, I said, “I’m more of a werewolf fan myself. That Jacob is adorable.”

“Not you, too,” Carol said. “I’ll take Frannie and get out of here before you two start howling at the moon.”

“New Moon,” Fran and I said in unison. Then we exchanged high fives.

Carol shook her head. “I must be getting old.”

I walked Fran and Carol to the door, turned on the porch light and waved goodbye as they backed out of the driveway.

The light had beckoned to Sparrow, so she eased out of hiding to investigate. I held the door open.

“Come on, Sparrow. Come inside and get a treat.”

She gave me a look that plainly said, “What treat? I don’t see any treat. Show me the treat, and maybe we’ll pursue this further.”

Doing some movements that would make your run-of-the-mill contortionist proud, I held the door open with my foot while turning and retrieving a can of tuna from the cabinet to my right. The can had a pull-top, so I opened it and sat it on the floor about eight inches—or a Sparrow length—from the door.

“How’s that?” I asked. “Doesn’t that smell good? Come on in and have a bite.”

She looked as if she was trying to decide whether or not she was being tricked. I understood her hesitation. I’ve certainly fallen for my fair share of tricks.

For some reason, the conversation I’d had with Uncle Hal earlier sprang to mind. I shoved the thought aside and went back to concentrating on Sparrow.

“Come on,” I said softly. “It’s okay.”

She eased closer to the step, but she still debated about trusting me.

Still holding the door open, I looked away from her. The detachment ploy worked. She quickly leapt onto the step and ran inside the kitchen. From the corner of my eye, I could see her turn back to me before risking a bite of the tuna.

I continued pretending to ignore her while holding the door open and praying I would not be besieged by moths, bugs, possums, raccoons, bats, owls, bears, coyotes, skunks . . . . I was running out of critters to be concerned about when Sparrow darted back outside.

I closed the door and turned out the porch light. I smiled and did a Tiger Woods’ fist pump before tossing the empty tuna can into the trash and going to wash my hands.

One small step for Sparrow; one giant leap for our relationship.

When I returned to the kitchen, a large cricket was sitting where the tuna can had been and was chirping for all it was worth.

“Did the Blue Fairy send you, Jiminy? Oh, well, it could’ve been worse, I suppose. You could’ve been a skunk.”

*

I’d just stepped my weary body out of the bathtub when the phone rang. I wrapped myself in my robe and hurried to the bedroom to answer it. It was Ben.

“How are you?” I asked.

“I think I’ll live. I had my doubts up until earlier this evening.”

“I’m glad you’re feeling better.”

“Yeah. Me, too. I don’t think I would be if I hadn’t received a call from Doc Holloway.”

Visions of a tough but sickly Val Kilmer came to mind. No, wait, that was Doc Holliday. I shook off my musings as I leaned back against the pillows and asked, “Why did you get a call from him?”

“He was concerned because of the way I left the table last night. He said he didn’t know if I was feeling ill or if I was merely upset at his and Cara’s interruption. He told me that if it was the latter, he wanted to apologize. But I told him I’d become sick and still was. He asked me my symptoms, and I explained what was going on. Then he brought me over a dose of the vaccine he gave to the people at the Christmas party. I started feeling better within minutes.”

“That’s freaky. So does he think your illness was caused by the same bacteria?”

“He knows it was. He drove me to his clinic where he took some blood and tested it for that particular strain of bacteria. It was the same stuff.”

“Then is Brea Ridge undergoing an epidemic?” I asked.

“Nobody knows . . . at least, not at this point. And, I’m asking you to keep this confidential. We don’t want to cause a panic.”

“No, of course, not. But other people need to know a vaccine is available if they do become sick.”

“That’s true,” Ben said, “but I spoke with the manager of Dakota’s. No one else who was there last night reported becoming ill. No one who works there has reported getting ill either. And, according to John, this bacterium is so aggressive, if it got on the food preparers’ hands, they’d get sick, too.”

“You hadn’t even received your food before you got sick. Frankly, I thought you were upset about Cara and Dr. Holloway, too. Then, after you didn’t come inside to finish having dinner with me, I thought you might be angry with me.”

“Daphne, I told you I was sick.”

“I know, but I thought you were simply saying that to avoid talking about what was really bothering you. That’s what I’d do if I were trying to avoid a confrontation.”

“Well, that’s great. Now the next time you tell me you’re not feeling well I’m going to wonder if it’s because you’re really not feeling well or because you’re avoiding a confrontation. You have real trust issues, you know that?”

“Maybe a few. But, given my past, I’m entitled. Back to this bacterium—where does Dr. Holloway think you encountered this junk if it wasn’t at Dakota’s?”

“We don’t know. On the one hand, John feels it would almost certainly have to have originated with me at Dakotas because I got so sick there. If you’ll recall, the people at the Christmas party had a reaction within minutes of being infected.”

“Did you eat or drink anything before you came to pick me up?”

“No, and John even asked me if I ate or drank anything at your house before we left for the restaurant.”

“At my house?” I nearly shrieked. “But I haven’t been sick. Don’t tell me they’re trying to tie this entire thing back to me and that stupid cake I took to that stupid party! That cake is being tested, and the police will see it was perfectly fine.”

“Calm down. Nobody is blaming you for anything. I didn’t eat or drink anything at your house before we left, remember?”

“Of course, I remember. I just . . . it’s been a crazy day, that’s all.”

“Tell me about it.”

“I’m sorry. I’m glad you’re feeling better.” After a rather awkward silence, I asked, “What if this is the start of an epidemic in Brea Ridge? Something has to be done before the children start back to school and especially before . . . .”

“Before other people wind up like Fred Duncan,” Ben said.

“Exactly. So what do we do?”

“I don’t know.” Ben sighed. “As I said, Dr. Holloway doesn’t want to create a panic. He wants people to think the bacteria incident was limited to the Christmas party . . . that it was just a fluke.”

“Is that wise? I mean, obviously, the Christmas party was not an isolated incident or else you wouldn’t have gotten sick from that same bacterium.”

“I know, but what am I supposed to do? Print a story about it and scare everyone in town?”

I expelled a breath. “Yeah. That’s a pickle.”

“I’ll sleep on it,” Ben said. “Maybe things will look different in the morning.”

Things definitely did look different the next morning. Cara Logan went on the local morning news show to warn people about the mysterious illness that is befalling the residents of Brea Ridge.

Chapter Ten

I was roused from a peaceful slumber Tuesday morning by the shrill ring of the phone. Before I was fully awake, I thought it was the oven timer and tried to remember what I was baking. But then I remembered the oven timer was a continuous buzz, while this sound was intermittent. That’s when the fog cleared, and I fumbled for the phone.

“Daphne’s . . . Cake . . . Delicacies.”

It was Ben. “Have you got your TV on?”

“I don’t even have my brain on. What time is it? What’s the matter?”

“Turn your TV on to Channel 2.”

Fortunately, there’s a small television on top of the chest of drawers in my bedroom. I was in no condition to be ambulatory. I propped up on my elbow and opened the drawer to my nightstand. Taking out the remote, I turned on the TV, put it on Channel 2, yawned and flopped back down in bed. The clock in the corner of the set told me it was 6:05 a.m. The station was showing a commercial for hemorrhoid cream.

I groaned. “Uh, I appreciate your concern, but I don’t currently need this particular product. Or is this your roundabout way of telling me I’m a pain in your posterior?”

“What? No. It’s coming up after the break.”

“I have no idea what ‘it’ is; but unless a meteorite fell on the Save-A-Buck during the middle of the night or confectioner’s sugar has been deemed an illegal substance, I’m not sure I care.” I could suddenly see myself in a black trench coat meeting a seedy-looking character in a dark alley to buy a ten-pound bag of confectioner’s sugar, dampening my ring finger and tasting the sugar to make sure it was “pure” before handing over the money.

Mental note: Lay off the cop shows.

“Oh, I think you’ll be interested in this,” Ben said.

“What time do you get up anyway?” I asked. “You do realize it’s barely six o’clock, don’t you? The sun isn’t even up.”

“Shhh. Here it is.”

Before I had time to go all indignant on him for calling and waking me up only to shush me, Cara appeared onscreen. She looked lovely in a gray pinstriped suit, pink blouse and gray spectator pumps. Wonder what time
she
got up this morning? I had to admit the girl was a natural for the news desk.

The anchorman was a Ken-looking type of guy—you know, Ken . . . as in Barbie and—whom I’d seen on the noon show a few times. He was saying something grave to the viewing audience. I turned up the volume to I could make out what he was saying.

“Cara, fill us in on this latest development.”

“Thank you, Doug.” The camera zoomed in on Cara. “As you mentioned earlier, we had all hoped—and indeed thought—the outbreak of an isolated strain of campylobacter which triggers intense gastrointestinal distress was limited to that suffered by those attending the Brea Ridge Pharmaceutical Christmas party several days ago. Unfortunately, another case has been reported.”

The camera panned back out to include both Cara and Doug in the shot.

“And that has occurred here in Brea Ridge,” Doug said.

“Precisely. Ben Jacobs, a reporter and editor for the
Brea Ridge Chronicle
, fell ill suddenly Sunday evening. When Dr. John Holloway of Brea Ridge Pharmaceuticals, learned of Mr. Jacobs’ illness, he treated Mr. Jacobs with the same drug used successfully on ninety-nine percent of the people stricken by this strain of campylobacter at the aforementioned party. A blood test confirmed Jacobs had been infected with the same illness.”

“Cara, after Fred Duncan’s death following the administration of the experimental campylobacter drug, Campylophine, was there any hesitation on the part of Dr. Holloway or Mr. Jacobs in employing this remedy?”

“Not at all. It’s apparent Mr. Duncan’s death was an anomaly. There’s currently nothing definitively linking his death to the drug. In fact, Dr. Holloway is encouraging anyone who shows symptoms of being affected by campylobacter to contact Brea Ridge Pharmaceuticals.”

“A list of those symptoms will be displayed onscreen prior to our next break, and it will also be posted on our website,” Doug said. “One last thing, Cara, do we know where Mr. Jacobs contracted the campylobacter?”

“We haven’t a clue. However, no one else has shown symptoms. We’re urging residents of Brea Ridge not to panic—we don’t think there’s any cause for alarm—but to simply remain vigilant.”

“Again, that’s Cara Logan of the
West Side Messenger
speaking with us this morning on behalf of Brea Ridge Pharmaceuticals. Thank you, Cara.”

“My pleasure, Doug.”

I’d almost forgotten Ben was still on the phone when he asked, “Can you believe that?”

*

I dropped four containers of chocolate fudge and four containers of peanut butter fudge off at Save-A-Buck as I drove to Carol’s house to pick up her and Fran. I beeped the horn, and they quickly came outside.

Carol was looking nicer than I’d ever seen her. Her brown hair had been curled, she had on makeup, and she was wearing a royal blue wool suit and black knee-length boots.

Fran was wearing black pants, a white ruffled shirt and a teal blazer. She looked fresh and beautiful. But, then, she always does.

Fran allowed her mother to take the front seat, and she hopped in back with the baked goods.

“Carol, we’ll make this as quick as possible,” I said. “I don’t want your lunch break to run too long.”

“That’s all right,” she said. “Fran and I have already talked about that. If I go over my lunch hour, I’ll stay after work to make it up; and she’ll start dinner.”

“Yeah, that way dinner will be ready when she and Dad get home,” Fran said.

“Right. Pete will be late getting home tonight anyway,” Carol said.

“Did he go back to work today, too?” I asked.

“No,” Carol said. “He took an extra day to spend with his dad. They both needed it.”

I nodded. “I spoke with my Uncle Hall the other day. He said Walt was taking Fred’s death awfully hard.”