Death Drops (20 page)

Discouraged that I hadn’t made any progress on finding the formula, I turned my attention to a few administrative things that needed doing. First I paid a few small bills and next I ordered a few new products for the store, which thankfully were COD. One in particular, for migraines, called Migralex, which contained magnesium and aspirin in a special formulation, seemed especially promising. I decided to write a short blog about it.

After lunch, I finished up the piece on natural remedies for allergies, printed it out, proofed it, made a few changes, and e-mailed it to my editor, Katy. That done, I opened the
Suffolk Times
and checked to see which yard sales looked promising
for tomorrow. I circled a few and mapped out a rough route. By that time, it was just about four o’clock, and my stomach was grumbling. I went into the kitchen to grab a snack.

But before I could, Allie came downstairs, a huge grin on her face. “My table is here! I’m so excited. So is Hector’s, and all of our equipment, too. Looks like we’ll be able to open next week after all!”

This was good news, as I needed to pay for the new roof pronto. “Good timing. Mike the roofer is done with the job.”

“Great!” She clapped her hands, still smiling broadly. “Want to see?”

“Lead on.” I grabbed a box of organic fish-shaped cheese crackers and popped a few into my mouth as we headed upstairs.

Allie’s massage table was in place in her room, along with unopened boxes. I appraised the space. “You definitely need a few more pieces of furniture.”

Hector came out of his room. “So do I.”

I went over and looked in. His table was in the middle of the room, and he’d pinned up a chart about acupuncture on the wall. It did look a bit bare. “I checked the paper and found quite a few yard sales that have some good stuff. I’m sure you guys will be able to find what you need.”

“I can’t wait,” Allie said, ever enthusiastic.

Suddenly, my cell phone rang. I plucked it out of my pocket and looked at the caller ID. Simon, Mr. Impatient. I hadn’t called him back. I decided to get it over with and pressed Answer. “What is it, Simon?”

He groaned. “You got to come to the B and B. I’m hurt bad.”

Picking up my mobile first-aid
kit, I jumped into Allie’s Bug and headed over to the B and B. From the way Simon sounded, though, I suspected he needed to go to the ER. The picturesque two-story white-clapboard B and B was located on upper Main Street, with a wraparound porch and verdant gardens lush with lavender, cosmos, sunflowers, and roses. I parked around the corner, trotted to the front door, and rang the buzzer. After a few moments a plump fortyish woman with blond hair came to the door. “Can I help you?” she asked, giving me a nice smile.

“Hi, I’m Willow McQuade. Simon Lewis called me. Can I see him?”

She tsk-tsked. “He needs to see a doctor. But he said he needed to see you first.” I wanted to say I was a doctor, but before I could, she opened the door and pointed to the stairs. “First door on the right.”

I climbed the stairs, past framed Degas prints and assorted antique knickknacks on various shelves, to the second floor and knocked. Simon came to the door pressing a Kleenex against his bloody nose. “You came,” he said.

“Of course,” I said, trying to sound officious and keeping my professional distance. If I knew Simon, and I did, he’d use any excuse to try and wheedle his way back into my life. “Are you okay? That looks bad. What happened?”

He flopped into a comfy-looking overstuffed chair, pulled a new Kleenex from a box on the end table, and put it to his nose. “I was defending your honor.”

Sir Lancelot. “Come again?”

“I went downtown to Claudio’s and had a couple of drinks. Then I went to that bar by the water.”

I nodded. “Go on.”

“I get to talking about why I’m here and that I know you. And this guy starts in on me. He tells me that your aunt is the reason that his son almost died. I told him that just couldn’t be true and we started arguing. He just got madder and madder.
Next thing I know, he knocks me off the bar stool and onto the floor and he storms out. I caught a cab back here and called you. I didn’t want to just show up at your place.”

Simon being considerate? How strange. “Did he say what his name was?”

He pressed the Kleenex harder and thought about it. “Dan Polumbo.”

Dear Dr. McQuade,

I’ve had eczema for the past three months. My skin is dry, hot, and itchy, but sometimes I have no symptoms at all. What is going on?

Signed,

Itchy and Twitchy

Dear Itchy and Twitchy,

Eczema affects over 15 million Americans, so know that you are not alone. You may have a family history of allergies or hay fever. Detergent, fabric, and cleaning products (another reason I say go natural) can all irritate the skin and cause eczema. To eliminate any food allergies, try Doris Rapp’s Multiple Food Elimination Diet (
www.fibroandfatigue.com/files/elimination_diet.pdf
). You’ll also want to add omega-3 essential fatty acids, found in cold water fish like salmon and mackerel, to ease inflammation. Oatmeal baths also soothe inflammation because oatmeal contains beta-glucan, which forms a gel that keeps moisture in the skin. It’s also important to learn how to ease stress, since it can cause eczema flare-ups. Try the Relaxation Response, created by Herbert Benson, MD, which can be found at
www.relaxationresponse.org
.

Signed,

Dr. Willow McQuade

Saturday morning I woke up with a vague sense of dread, like something bad was going to happen. Something new and different from what had already gone down. Last night, I’d taken a good look at Simon’s nose and determined that it was broken. We’d gone to the ER, where he was x-rayed, bandaged, and given an RX for hydrocodone. Obviously, Simon didn’t tell the doctor about his addictive tendencies.

We picked up the prescription and he popped two at the checkout. By the time we grabbed a sandwich and a Coke for him—he missed dinner because he’d been drinking—at 7-Eleven and returned to the B and B, he was just starting to feel the effects. This led to him trying to kiss me, but I nixed that and left.

I wished he hadn’t called, although as a doctor I felt I had to be available whenever I was needed. The only good thing about last night was that it confirmed for me that I’d made the right choice in dumping Simon. He was immature, with poor impulse control. Jackson, on the other hand, was a man, and I liked that. But I pushed those thoughts aside. Romance was the last thing I was interested in right now.

Ginkgo, Ginger, and Qigong slept peacefully at the foot of Aunt Claire’s bed while I mulled over Simon’s interaction with Sue’s husband, Dan. Obviously, they had a whole lot of hate for Aunt Claire, an emotion that could lead to very bad things, maybe even murder. I thought about the possibility that Dan had turned his anger toward me, and I shivered.

I reached over to the dressing table, grabbed my iPhone, and called Jackson Spade, intending to leave a message, but he picked up.

“It’s Willow. Did I wake you? I was just going to leave a message.”

“I was just dozing. The muse struck last night, and I was up late painting.”

My, my, Jackson was a man of surprises. First, the organic gardening, then the rescued dachshunds, and now this. “I didn’t know you were a painter. What are you painting?”

“A table.”

“A table? A painting of a table?”

“Nope,” he said, and chuckled. “I hand paint furniture I find at yard sales and on the side of the road. I sell them in Annie’s Antiques on the North Road. It doesn’t add up to much, but it keeps me busy.”

“What about your back?”

“I can’t explain it, but I lose myself in the process. Time just zooms by. It’s good therapy.”

“You are a true Renaissance man,” I said, liking him more and more by the minute.

“Thanks for noticing, McQuade. So what’s going on?” His voice sounded husky. Sexy.

Stop it, Willow. Focus.
I told him about the anonymous phone call, Sue Polumbo’s e-mails and texts, and Simon’s incident. He listened and then went quiet.

“Jackson?”

“Just thinking,” he said.

The world rotated on its axis. Moments moved by at a glacial pace. Finally, I said, “And?”

“What are you planning to do today?”

“Speaking of yard sales, Allie and Hector need some furniture, so we’re hitting a bunch. They want to open next week. You’ll be their first client.”

He grunted. His way of saying thank you, I guessed.

“I’ll do some checking,” he said finally. “Call me later. And, McQuade?”

“Yes, Jackson?”

“Watch your back. I’d miss you if you were gone.” He hung up.

Gulp. So he
did
like me. After that, it was difficult to focus, but I reached over to grab the
Suffolk Times
from the night stand and turned to the yard sale section.
Concentrate, Willow
. I’d circled the ones that looked most promising in Orient, East Marion, Greenport, Southold, New Suffolk, and Cutchogue. We had a lot of ground to cover. If you wanted to get the best bargains, you had to be an early bird. We’d agreed to be out the door by no later than 8 a.m.

I got out of bed, which disturbed Ginger, Ginkgo, and Qigong. Although initially the cats were skittish around Qigong, once they realized he wasn’t a threat, they’d warmed to him. Now they were best buddies. Ginger and Ginkgo jumped off the bed, and I helped Qigong down. The three of them immediately began to play, the cats rolling over on their backs while Qigong tried to give them little kisses.

I went to the window and looked out at the harbor. Over the water, the sun glinted from behind a tumble of white, fluffy clouds. Usually the clouds would clear, but they could also mean rain. You never really knew on the East End. I opened the door, padded across the hall to my old room, and knocked gently. Allie mumbled, “We’re up.” I told them I’d meet them downstairs.

We ate a breakfast of organic apple pancakes with lots of butter and turkey bacon on the porch. Eating right doesn’t mean it can’t be yummy. It was also comfort food, which I needed because my grief was still painfully fresh.

As we were finishing up, Viv Colletto, the owner of the Good Green Earth, waved to us from the street and headed up the path. “I’ve got that list you wanted. I was just going to leave it in the mailbox, but since you’re up . . .”

I went down the stairs to meet her. “We were going to hit some yard sales,” I said. But that might change now, depending on what she told me. “What did you find?”

She unfolded the piece of paper and pointed to the three names. “They all have local addresses. But they could be summer people or weekenders, I’m not sure.”

I glanced at the list, feeling my heart go pit-a-pat. Was Aunt Claire’s murderer’s name there? I quickly read the names: Walt Scott, Timothy Milton, and curiously, Sean Nichols, Claire’s lawn man, all from Greenport. I had to call Jackson right away, especially about Nichols. It’s possible that his T-shirt ripped while he was working here, but what if he was the one who broke in and stole the formula, not to mention hit me on the head and set the fire? He may have used the ruse of taking care of her landscaping to learn where she stored the formula.

Before I called Jackson, though, I thanked Viv and walked her inside to the herbal supplement shelf. I found a bottle of thunder god vine pills and plucked it off the shelf.

“Thank you so much, Viv. I really appreciate it.”

She took the bottle, then looked at me, a serious expression on her face. “Tell me you aren’t going to do anything dangerous with that list.”

I patted her on the arm. “Don’t worry. I’ve got people for that.” We said our good-byes and she headed out the door. As she did, I grabbed the office phone and quickly called Jackson. When he answered, I told him I had three new possibilities, based on a piece of orange T-shirt fabric I’d found. “I’m particularly interested in Nichols, because he did some lawn work for Aunt Claire just last week.”

He whistled. “Wow, McQuade, you are something. Talk about playing a long shot. But give me all the names. I’ll check them out this a.m.”

I rattled off the names and said, “I want to go with you.”

“You have yard sales to attend to.”

“This is more important.” I needed answers.

“Yes, McQuade,” he said, “but it’s also more dangerous. Let me handle it. I’ll call you later.”

“Jackson . . .”

“Later.” He hung up.

Allie, Hector, Qigong, and I
headed out for our yard sale/treasure hunt. We picked up the fixed Cruiser and Allie drove, since I still was incapacitated by my severely sprained left wrist. We decided to start in Orient and work our way west. The first yard sale was being held at a house on Navy Street owned by an artist who had advertised household goods, furniture, canvases, and artist’s tools. Most of the action was out back in a big, rustic-looking red barn.

After putting Qigong on a harness that Merrily had thoughtfully purchased and that didn’t touch his still sore neck, we followed the signs there, dodging a man on a ride-on mower. The smell of the freshly cut grass was fantastic. We poked our noses into the barn, the aroma dusty and damp.

Allie immediately spotted a cupboard she liked, and Hector a small table. They bargained with the owner, a man with paint smudges on his clothes and in his hair and a bad cough that sounded like bronchitis. He sipped on a glass of juice, but I knew he could do better.

I pointed to the glass. “Is that helping with the bronchitis?”

He shrugged. “Not really. I’m hoping the antibiotics I’m taking will kick in soon.”

“You know, a great way to coat and soothe mucous membranes and ease inflammation and congestion is by sipping warm licorice tea. Licorice is a powerful herbal demulcent. And cherry-bark tea can help with that cough.”

Hector smiled. “Dr. McQuade is a natural doctor. She knows these things.”

The man arched an eyebrow. “A natural doctor? You mean a naturopath?”

“Yes,” I said.

He smiled. “I used to see an ND in New York. He was very helpful. Thanks for the tip. I’ll have to try that.”