Downhome Crazy (12 page)

“…mind dealing with the hospital? The chief’s a nice guy, but I don’t think he has anyone who can really click with the doctors and staff.”

I swallow and shove back the disappointment flowing through me. Even as I’m agreeing, I remind myself too much is going on now for either of us to put our relationship on the front burner. Besides, a Christmas proposal would be so much nicer, especially if my mother’s around to get the news first.

“Have I told you lately how great you are?” Carson follows his words with just the right kiss, deep enough to reassure me, but not so intense I want to throw him down and jump his bones right then and there. The night is coming, after all, and the Grab ‘N Go does have a small assortment of wine. And cheese, although the choices are pretty much limited to slices of American or cubes of pepper jack.

* * * *

I’m achy and grimy by the time we reach the back of the storage unit nearly two hours later. And discouraged. The list has checked out, and so far we haven’t found a single thing that wasn’t on the inventory.

“Hey,” I say, flipping the page over, “did you see a bicycle?”

Carson frowns. “No.”

“Me either. But there’s supposed to be a five-speed women’s bike, valued at nearly $1,000.”

“Oh, come on.” Carson smacks a stack of boxes. “Do not tell me something happened to Miss Peytona because of a bicycle.”

“She might have sold it.” I offer the possibility even though I think the chances of that are slim. Miz Waddy is quite the little list maker. I can’t see her letting old Grimstead hold onto an outdated one. “Or loaned it to someone.”

“Who?” The word comes from Carson in a hiss of frustration. “I swear she’s the most complicated little old lady in the world. For all we know, she’s biking across the country photographing wildflowers.”

I refrain from reminding Carson that Miz Waddy talks incessantly about trips, before and after. No way would she have left town without everyone knowing where she was going, her daily itinerary, and her intent to bring back little trinkets for one and all. I’m also reasonably sure that with her arthritic knees, her maximum distance would be substantially under a mile a day. I lean against my own stack of boxes and let him vent.

Poor boy, they don’t teach the ways of small town folks at the police academy. Out-of-town law enforcement doesn’t have street cred in places like Fortuna. Investigators like Carson ask questions and expect straight answers. They don’t realize they need to ease into things. Ask about the photos of the grandchildren and accept that cup of coffee, put a little conversation in front of the demand for information. That’s how it works here.

But when it comes to the down and dirty of finding facts from records, he’s the man. By the time he locks the unit again, we’ve agreed on a plan of action. He’ll ask Dwaine to put out an APB on the missing bike, and I’ll make a doctor’s appointment. Or several of them, depending on how many psychiatrists are willing to talk to me.

“You know we’re taking a big chance, right?”

“Why?” Carson replies.

“I can probably fool one head shrinker into believing I’m sane, but the odds go down the more of them I see.”

His laugh is hearty, real, and reassuring. Whatever else may happen, we’re solid. Same sense of humor, same taste in food, and so far neither of us have killed Miss Priss. There’s nothing wrong with that.

Chapter Five

Even small hospitals have media relations’ directors these days, and the county hospital is no exception. Since I’ve been quite generous in providing publicity, arranging to see the doctors turns out to be easier than I expected. After assuring all involved that I’m not asking a single question that would invade anyone’s privacy, I lay out my schedule with Carson over soup and grilled cheese sandwiches at my house. I also tell him I reached an agreement with the powers-that-be at County General. For sitting on the information I have and whatever I get there, they’ll stonewall other media inquiries until after I break the story.

“You trust them?” Carson asks.

“It’s me that’s supposed to be non-trustworthy,” I remind him. “The evil fourth estate, remember?”

“Yeah, I keep forgetting you’re bad to the bone. The earrings probably.”

Okay, wearing enameled orange pumpkins may not be something a New York news anchor would do, but I believe they give a little insight into my character. Besides, I bought them from a local jewelry maker’s booth at the fall festival and in case I run into her, I want her to know I didn’t just make a purchase to be nice.

“Take them off before I go?” I ask.

“Nah. They’re cute on you.”

Cute. He thinks they’re cute. I almost giggle.

We leave the few dishes for the evening. Miss Priss got her food when we did, and I remind Carson to ask about getting in Miz Waddy’s apartment refrigerator.

I wave as he goes his way and I go mine. The ten-minute drive to the hospital lets me organize my thoughts and prepare to be little Miss Efficiency as I poke and probe for information.

The first doc I see is a fifty-something woman with gorgeous silver hair and a body that has to have been honed in a gym for years. I take a seat across from her desk, feeling totally dowdy. She offers me a cup of green tea, which I accept. Tea’s not my first choice of beverage, but as she explains its health benefits, I decide it’s not going to kill me. It might even extend my existence a day or two longer than my doughnut-loving, French fry-chomping lifestyle allows for.

I grovel, saying how much I appreciate her taking time from her busy schedule to see me. I compliment the plants on her windowsill and smile and nod as she tells me about the care and nurturing of orchids. After a refill of tea for both of us, we settle down to the matter at hand.

“As you might suspect, we’ve run numerous tests on the afflicted patients and reviewed their medical histories,” she said, which I already knew, so I was hoping for a little inside dope.

“Do they have anything in common?”

The doc shakes her head. “Not really. We quickly eliminated drug interactions and we asked for five days of reports from the water treatment plant to see if there was some problem there. According to their computers, everything checked. We did, however, ask to have water samples taken after the second patient arrived. Those are at the state lab now; we expect the results today or tomorrow morning.”

As agreed, we didn’t discuss individual patients. The same was true for the next two docs, one a specialist in infectious disease and the other a researcher from some high-level federal agency.

“Let me review,” I said at the end of my time with the big muckety-muck. “No environmental factors have been found, there’s no medication duplication, and everyone’s hearts and blood seem normal.”

The big shot nods.

I thank him for his time and leave the hospital with pretty much the same knowledge as when I entered. We are all missing something. I just can’t imagine what.

I roll in to WFRT, walk quickly to Marc’s office, and shut the door. I share what I’ve learned, skimming over the most interesting details and tell him of my agreement with the hospital. He reminds me I’m supposed to talk to him first before I make deals. I remind him he was at his service club meeting, which is supposed to last an hour, but usually runs more like two. He makes a pshaw sound and waves me out.

My time in the recording booth is exactly what I need to have a fresh news report at the top of the hour. In other words, I do it in one take, pop it into the computer line-up, and head toward home. My driveway is empty, and thank goodness, there is no Eugene waiting on the porch. I gird myself to go toe-to-toe with Miss Priss and walk into the house.

Her food is warming when my phone rings. I grab it and see Carson’s number.

“Hi.” My greeting is somewhat tentative since I’m really afraid to know what’s happened now. If Alfred’s rolled his car into the middle of Main Street and is sitting on the hood waiting for UFOs to take him, that’s a scene I can miss.

“I’m running over to the Peytona place with Luther to grab the cat’s food,” he says. “The chief thinks we should look for hidden bank books, things like that while we’re there. I guess the place has a basement, too, so we’re going to check for the bike. Just wanted to let you know so you wouldn’t worry.”

His thoughtfulness warms the very cockles of my heart. I revise dinner plans. There’s time to thaw a couple of chicken breasts and make a real meal instead whatever I can scrounge up. Although if I show him I can actually cook, poor Carson may have a heart attack right on the spot.

“Need anything?” he asks.

“Nah, we’re good.” The microwave dings just as he answers with a “see ya”, which means Luther must be beside him. His usual farewell is “Love ya, babe,” which he probably doesn’t want getting around.

With a little extra time, I head back out as soon as Miss Priss hits her bowl. I drive straight to the Grab ‘N Go to buy the best of their limited selection of wine, a loaf of bread, and a couple of the roses from the counter. The total is less than ten bucks, which tells you something about the quality of their offerings.

By the time Carson makes his appearance, I have the chicken in the oven baking in mushroom soup, Brussels sprouts in their final stage of preparation, and am buttering the bread with the intent of making it into garlic toast. My poor darling looks exhausted. He tucks the bag of Miss Priss’s food into the refrigerator and comes over for a welcome home kiss.

“Smells good,” he says, his arms still around me.

“Air freshener or food?” I ask.

“You.” He nuzzles my neck. “Missed you today.”

I hold my breath, hoping he wouldn’t ask about my perfume. The shameful truth is my personal scent is a combination of spray-on clothing wrinkle releaser and coconut conditioner. But if my darling thinks it’s sexy, that’s okay with me. I still change the conversation.

“Find anything interesting?” I ask.

Carson moves away to lean against the table. Watching me as I dish food onto plates, he tells me not only was there no bike in Miz Waddy’s basement, there were no hidden safes or secret documents. I give him a quick rundown on my not-so-edifying meetings with the various doctors and then by mutual agreement, we decide to leave work behind for the rest of the evening.

While I know normal people eat at a table, I’ve always preferred to curl up on something comfy rather than sit on a hard wooden chair. So we take our usual places on the couch, and I bask in glory as Carson praises my cooking. I intend to keep secret that my culinary skills extend to three entrees and the world’s best mint chocolate chip cookies.

Although I’m supposed to be forgetting about Miz Waddy and the unfortunate Fortunians, my brain doesn’t seem to understand. I can’t help but wonder if there’s a connection between the events. Could Miz Waddy have gone bonkers and just taken off? But if she did, how did she get to all those places where her credit card was being used?

I long to talk it over with Carson, but my poor darling looks tired. I don’t think it’s the investigation that’s getting to him, but cooperating with the chief and Luther. Dwaine has a way about him that can be wearing. I can’t imagine what it’s like to come from a well-organized, by-the-book agency to good old Fortuna P.D.

Despite my orders to my mind to shut it down, I have trouble concentrating on the quiz show playing on the screen in front of me. Carson’s in his element, yelling out the answers before the contestant, which makes me glad I decided to keep my mouth shut. By the time a crime drama comes on, I’ve managed to switch from reporter to girlfriend mode and snuggle up with Carson. He reaches over and pulls a fuzzy throw from the floor to cover our laps. Between pure exhaustion and body heat, I drift off to sleep with my head against Carson’s chest.

I wake with a start, caught in that foggy zone that makes me wonder if I’m still dreaming. Carson’s “Good nap?” helps me remember it’s real, he’s here, and all is good. I touch the corners of my mouth, hoping I didn’t drool on him, before I lift my face toward his for a kiss. Pretty soon we’re necking on the couch like a sixteen-year-old with his first girlfriend, and Carson suggests we move to the bedroom. That turns out to be an excellent idea. I’m revitalized and Carson is motivated to make me happy, so the evening ends in an explosion of oohs and oh-oh-ohs and the two of us going to sleep in each other’s arms.

The next morning, over frozen waffles, we discuss my various ideas.

“You know, coincidences happen,” Carson reminds me. “A lot of strangers came into town for the festival. Bad guys like apple fritters and cotton candy, too, you know. Best guess right now is that she was targeted during the festival and taken for whatever reason. If she was seen taking the proceeds from the various merchants, that might have been enough.”

The very thought saddens me. Poor Miz Waddy, the first to offer help to anyone and everyone, getting snatched for her very goodness. Even though I know everything is being done that can be, I still want her back in town, caring for her own cat and yakking about her next trip with friends.

* * * *

Like it or not, I’m going to have to spend today at WFRT. Marc has been ultra-patient, but my listeners deserve something good. So after kissing Carson goodbye, I fire up the truck and head out.

Between the 8 a.m. and noon news, I drop by the high school to tape a sound bite from the principal about how much the band will be missed at this week’s football game. I am amazed how he can express his sorrow with a straight face, considering he was the one who addressed the school board with a plea to keep the band from performing in public. I suppose it’s like gossiping about someone until they die then acting like you’ve lost your very best friend.

I spot Eugene in the hall as I go to leave and wave. He makes a beeline for me. I wait patiently as he dodges groups of students. I think he’s attempting to smile, which has to be hard for him. Perpetual apathy is his usual attitude.

“My mom’s coming home this afternoon.”