Deadly Medicine (12 page)

After a bumpy mile, she saw the mirrored surface of the lake glistening through the trees. She didn’t see any place to pull over and room for only one car along this thoroughfare. How was she going to turn around to get out? Backing up that distance wouldn’t be much fun, and she didn’t think she could make a K turn on the narrow road. Maybe she’d just keep driving forward until she ran out of gas, or into a tree, or a ravine, or found some other good excuse for calling AAA. And then, when she called them, she’d have no idea how to tell them where the hell she was, because Melvin’s map sucked.

Stopping the car, she took another moment to lean against the headrest, and before she knew they were coming, tears were flowing freely down her cheeks, her chest heaving in great sobs that shook her body. What the fuck had happened to her life? A year before she was a successful emergency physician with a cushy job at a teaching hospital. She guided young residents, taught them the skills they needed to save lives, hobnobbed with learned colleagues and administrators at committee meetings. She was paid well to do it! And at the end of her days, she went home to a beautiful woman who loved her.

When that beautiful woman asked her to give up her career—or at least to put it on hold, Ward hadn’t hesitated. Because, truthfully, she wasn’t that ambitious. She had a good many commas after her name, but when Jess had asked her to sacrifice them for a year in Garden, working as a staff physician, she did it, not because of her own ambitions, but because of her feelings for Jess. Jess was what mattered most, not her career. Lately Ward had started to wonder if she’d somehow failed to let Jess know that, to tell her not only how much she was loved, but respected and appreciated.

Now it was too late, anyway. Jess was almost unapproachable, and it seemed ridiculous to speak of those things now. Ward thought herself pathetic. She’d spent the past months begging for attention from a woman who no longer wanted her, a woman who’d moved on and was now dating the local coroner. It had been bad enough to know she’d gone to a Valentine’s dinner with Emory, but deep inside, Ward knew he wasn’t a threat. Sure, it bothered her that the woman she loved was going out with a man, but if she needed to try dating a man, then Ward had to give her that freedom. Jess was gay and no man stood a chance.

The coroner, though, was a different story. The coroner was a sexy little dyke and just Jess’s type. If Jess wanted to date her, it meant only one thing. She didn’t love Ward anymore. She’d never said it—in fact, she’d reassured Ward of her love dozens of times in the past months. She’d used the words confused and scared and drifting and sad, but she’d also told Ward she still loved her. How could she date another woman if that was true?

It was all so strange. Jess was once the most decisive person Ward knew. She didn’t ask, she demanded. She knew what she wanted—whether it was a specific medication for a patient, or a vacation destination, or a date with Ward. Ward always thought Jess was the perfect complement for her. She tended to be quieter and to let others make plans about restaurants and travel and other nonsense. She had enough responsibility at work, so why stress about the trivialities? She let Jess make those decisions, and manage their money, and organize their lives. It made them both happy. It had, anyway. Neither of them was happy now. And this Jess who didn’t know what she wanted was a little scary. Ward didn’t know how to deal with her.

“Arrgh!” Ward yelled, then opened her eyes. The sun was shining, and in spite of her personal emotional storms, the day was beautiful. The lake was visible through the trees, and the image was picturesque. Perfect. Taking a few deep breaths, she hummed a few exhalations and put herself into a kinder, gentler reality. A few minutes of meditation did the trick. Ward wiped her tears and vowed to enjoy her afternoon in the woods.

Should she wait for Melvin or begin without him? Deciding she needed a distraction, she hopped out of her car.

Jeans and sneakers were the attire of the day, and in spite of the bright skies, Ward needed them. Here, in the shade, it wasn’t going to reach the seventy degrees the forecasters had promised. Her Phillies sweatshirt would probably not come off, and she’d brought a windbreaker, too. Just in case.

At the back of the car she pulled out her tackle box and her official fishing hat. Her license was attached, just as Zeke had taught her years before. The little box containing her portable fishing pole—another gift from Zeke—fit easily in her other hand. After stashing her valuables in the cargo bay, Ward closed the hatch and locked the car, then picked her way through branches and brush to the side of the lake.

Once in the clearing, Ward took a moment to just look. To listen. To smell. In thirty seconds her troubles were forgotten as she saw a bird—she had no idea what kind—swoop down toward the shimmering surface of the lake, then pull up, gliding back around and disappearing into the trees. All around the lake sentinel trees watched, their arms branching over the water, the lowest limbs flirting with its surface. To her left a patch of blueberry bushes hugged the shoreline, and beyond them, lily pads littered the lake’s surface. Ward tended to measure everything in golf terms, and the lake was big. Wider across than two par fives, perhaps a thousand yards. She couldn’t determine its length from where she stood—it disappeared around a bend to the right, five hundred yards from where she stood.

She was impressed that such a large body of water remained undeveloped, but Melvin had told her his family had owned it since they settled here in the mountains two hundred years earlier. The family vowed to keep the land whole, and Ward suddenly felt privileged for her invitation. She thought of Towering Pines and how wise Jess’s grandfather and his friends had been to preserve that area for this generation.

She stood gazing, her arms resting on a low-hanging tree branch, relaxing for the first time in days. This had been a good idea, the fishing. She only threw her catches back, but it wasn’t about hooking the fish. It was about the tranquility of the woods and the beauty of a silver-topped lake.

A ratchety-clicking noise, one she’d heard many times in the mountains, caused Ward to freeze. She’d been just about to bend down and begin assembling her rod, but instead she raised her hands in the air and turned slowly toward the sound.

The shotgun was expected. That ratcheting noise was unmistakable. But it was the woman holding the gun that stunned her. She was tall, with leathery skin battered by the sun and a shock of white hair. Intense blue eyes peeked out from behind prescription eyeglasses. She wore a loose, button-up work shirt, jeans, and fishing waders. A fishing hat dangled on its cord behind her head. Ward guessed she was in her seventies, but the gun she had pointed at Ward made her seem much younger.

“You speak English?” the woman demanded.

Ward couldn’t find her voice. What the fuck?

“
Habla spanol
?”

Ward shook her head.

“Oh, Christ Jesus!
Spreken dutch
?”

Ward didn’t move.

“
Per lay voo friend chase
?”

Ward cleared her throat, looked at her shaking hands, and willed them to stop. “I speak English,” she said at last.

“Well, can’t you read it? There are twenty-five signs posted along that road, missy, and all of them say ‘stay out.’”

“I…I…I’m a friend of the owner. He’s supposed to meet me here.”

The woman cocked her head and looked at Ward through squinty eyes. “What owner? Who the hell are you?” she asked, turning her head but keeping the gun trained on Ward.

“My name is Ward Thrasher. I have my driver’s license in the car, over there.” Ward gestured with her head. “I’m supposed to meet Melvin here.”

At the mention of that name, the woman looked heavenward and then shook her head. More importantly, she lowered the gun. “Why the hell does that old bugger do this to me? Can’t he just pick up the telephone and call? Tell me he’s sending a guest over?”

Why does he do this to
her
? You should be me, Ward thought. “I don’t know. Sorry,” Ward said, her vocal cords more relaxed now that she wasn’t in the crosshairs.

The woman approached and held out her hand. She shook Ward’s enthusiastically, as if she hadn’t been aiming to shoot her a few seconds earlier. “I’m Frieda Henderfield. Melvin’s sister. It’s nice to meet you, Dr. Thrasher. I’ve heard good things about you. All the town says you’re doin’ a good job over at the hospital, so it’s a pleasure to welcome you to my lake.”

It didn’t surprise Ward that Frieda knew her. Not anymore. Having a new doctor in town was kind of like having a celebrity. Someone special, and even with a shotgun in her hand, Frieda managed to make Ward feel welcome. “Thanks. Those are kind words.”

“So you fish, do you?”

“A little,” Ward confessed.

“Well then, follow me. You’re not going to catch much over here.”

Frieda bent and picked up Ward’s equipment. All of it. Then she turned and began walking, pushing aside low branches and high bushes as she wove her way silently along the bank of the lake. Ward had no choice but to follow. A fleeting thought caused her to pause—will they ever find my body if I follow this woman deeper into the woods?—but she pushed it aside and decided it didn’t matter. Her day couldn’t get much worse.

There was no way for her to tell how far they’d walked when they reached their destination. They’d turned toward a mountain and climbed a bit, through densely packed trees and across a shallow stream, then headed back toward the lake and into the woods again before coming to the clearing where Frieda finally stopped. The vegetation had given up, and bare soil and rocks covered the ground here, at the edge of a quiet cove lined by more blueberry bushes and fallen trees.

Frieda sat on an old, overturned wooden crate and motioned toward a rowboat pulled into the woods. “Sit in there, if you want.”

Opting for a socially appropriate response, Ward retrieved a crate for herself and positioned it a few feet from her hostess. “Will Melvin find us here? I figured he’d look for me near my car,” Ward asked.

“I’ll bet you a bottle of beer he’s fast asleep by now.”

Ward raised an eyebrow. “You mean I’ve been stood up?”

“Don’t take it personally. He’s older than he looks, and he needs his nap or he gets cranky.”

Frieda nodded toward the crate as Ward sat. “I’m sorry, I’ve forgotten my manners. I should have gotten that for you. Can I give you a hand with your rod?” Frieda asked.

Shaking her head, Ward declined the offer. It was the little rituals of fishing, like assembling her rod, that made Ward like the sport so much. They shared bait but not much conversation as they pulled in fish after fish over the course of a few hours. Ward landed a few sunnies and trout, and one impressive bass. Of course, since Ward was releasing her fish back into the lake, she might have just caught the same fish over and over.

As Frieda had predicted, Melvin was a no-show.

When Frieda’s bucket was full, she stood and locked her hook into the line to prevent it from snagging, and announced the end of the day. “You hungry?” she asked Ward.

Ward nodded. The peanut-butter sandwich she’d had for breakfast had worn off, and she’d left her lunch in the SUV, miles and miles away. “Come back to my place. I’ll fry up one of these fish and teach you why you shouldn’t throw ’em all back.”

“What about my car?” she asked.

“I’ll drop you off, and you can follow me home.”

Ward was stunned that they were only a hundred yards from another dirt road, and she put her gear in the back and hopped into the front of Frieda’s pickup. In seconds they were back on the main road and then on the grassy lane that led to her car. She hopped out of Frieda’s truck and into her car and drove forward, and when the road curved around the next bend, it widened enough for Frieda to take the lead. After a few more turns, the trees cleared and plowed fields dominated the landscape, until a large barn and a silo took over. Beyond that, a classic farmhouse came into view, white and wooden with a stone foundation that matched the chimney that ran along the side from the ground, erupting through the roof as if trying to touch the clear blue sky. A chocolate Lab greeted Frieda’s truck and followed the vehicles the length of the driveway.

She showed appropriate stranger anxiety, barking and jumping in the direction of Ward’s car, until Frieda told Ward it was safe to exit the vehicle. Ward offered a hand, and after a few sniffs, the dog lost interest and went back to her owner for kisses.

Frieda held the door with one hand and her fish with the other, and Ward walked through a large sun porch into an equally spacious kitchen. With nimble fingers, Frieda filleted the fish and discarded the waste into a plastic bag, which she double tied, and then proceeded to batter and fry them as they talked.

“This house was built around 1810, when my great-grandfather came here from Scotland.” Her ancestors had been farming the land for generations, until this one. Small farms, she explained, were expensive to run. She kept a large garden, and someone leased the land, but the majority of it sat unused.

Ward wandered the kitchen as they talked, looking at the variety of art and pictures hanging on the plank walls. Frieda identified a man in uniform as her father. He’d landed on Normandy Beach in 1944 and managed to survive. Beside his picture was the framed flag that had adorned his casket and the pocket bible that had saved his life by stopping the bullet still lodged in its pages. A picture of a younger Melvin, also in uniform, hung a few boards down. And then there was Frieda, with dark hair and no wrinkles, squinting in the sunshine beside a lovely young woman, fair and thin and carrying about two feet of hair teased straight up on her head. Ward laughed. She’d seen many such pictures of her grandmother and great-aunts, but they were usually buried in photo books and not displayed proudly on the walls. “Who’s the girl with the bouffant do?” she asked.

Frieda didn’t need to turn from the stove. “That’s Ursula.”

“Who’s Ursula?”

“My friend. Okay, this is ready. Can you pour the lemonade?”