Fit To Be Dead (An Aggie Mundeen Mystery Book 1) (12 page)

Eighteen

I didn’t feel like eating lunch. I stopped by the bank, which made me late for Professor Carmody’s class. He scowled at me as I tiptoed to an empty front row seat nearest the door and eased down on my concrete biscuits.

Wishing I’d wiped off excess makeup, I produced the most dazzling smile I could muster. He’d apparently never experienced having a student return after missing his first two classes. He raised his knifelike nose, sniffed the atmosphere and dissected me through thick bifocals as though weighing the significance of the event.

I checked him out. He appeared to be in his fifties. Since he was doughy above and below the belt and lacked upper body musculature, I surmised he valued eating over exercise. I wondered whether, after teaching Aspects of Aging, he’d change his lifestyle. I settled back to hear what he had to offer.

“We’ve discussed the elements of normal aging in the absence of disease and how the average lifespan increased due to improved medical care, antibiotics, sanitation and healthier lifestyles. The average life span is different from the maximum life span of approximately one hundred twenty years, which hasn’t increased, so far as we know, over centuries.” Students lounged over desks and peered at him from under droopy lids.

My hand shot up. “According to The National Center for Health Statistics, ‘if major forms of cardiovascular disease were eliminated, human life expectancy could increase by almost ten years.’ So, in addition to extending average life span, couldn’t scientists extend maximum life span by eliminating the major disease that kills people?”

Carmody opened his mouth but apparently couldn’t get it in gear.

I continued. “We know the primary risk factors for heart disease: smoking, obesity, physical inactivity, high cholesterol, diabetes, high blood pressure...” His face got redder with each item I ticked off. He probably had three or four risk factors. Students waited for his response. When there was none, they flipped their heads toward me.

“We already reduce cardiovascular disease through diet and lifestyle changes. We control cholesterol, high blood pressure and diabetes with medication.” Hopefully, Carmody’s ruddy glow didn’t indicate skyrocketing blood pressure. I was merely making observations. Students switched their attention to him.

“What you say is true, Miss...Miss...”

“Mundeen. Aggie Mundeen.”

“Ah, yes. Agatha.” He snorted. “I’m afraid your comments are simplistic.”

I didn’t care for his choice of words.

“You’re not considering Programmed Theories,” he droned. “Mr. Izumi died at one hundred twenty because his immune system failed. His hormones could have failed, or his cells could have stopped dividing. Error Theorists think external forces damaged his cells and organs so they could no longer function adequately, like wear and tear, and...” Students slumped while he babbled repetitive information.

While he blah-blahed through theories, I had another thought. When he stopped to breathe, I expressed it. “How can gerontologists separate Program Theories from Error Theories? Even if ‘clocks’ that determine aging and death are genetically predisposed, can’t they be altered by good diet and exercise, or thrown off course by disease or error?” Carmody’s bird face expanded like somebody had attached it to a bicycle pump. My classmates perked up.

“Which reminds me,” I chirped. “What about those biomarkers? Have geneticists pinpointed what they are? Why don’t scientists determine how genetics, disease and ‘errors’ affect biomarkers?” I eagerly awaited his response.

He pursed his lips and blew out a lot of air. “Scientists are trying to identify biomarkers in cells, tissues and organs but haven’t pinpointed them yet. They only recently finished mapping human genes.”

He didn’t have to shout. I merely expressed questions triggered by the reading material. Weren’t students supposed to be inquisitive?

One girl giggled, intensifying Carmody’s exasperation. Since I hadn’t achieved perfect attendance, I opted to become silent. Besides, I felt weirdly lightheaded. My stomach rumbled. I grew dizzy. I couldn’t concentrate. Some disturbance had invaded my brain.

He started blubbering about fruit flies. He said scientists had found evidence of genes in fruit flies that appeared to be related to aging. How strange was that? I pictured aging fruit flies with gray wings flitting around. I snickered. They buzzed around in slow motion, bumping into each other. I giggled and slapped my hand over my mouth.

Carmody glared at me through segmented lenses. Bug-eyed. Like a fruit fly.

He yakked about longevity genes in mice. He said somebody had isolated mice genes to gain knowledge about human aging. He used a crock of big words, but I thought it was dumb to relate mice genes to humans. He mumbled something about “death genes” in nematodes, which disoriented me. Nematodes were stupid worms. I pictured an army of worms wriggling along in unison—“Ne-ma-tode. Ne-ma-tode...” I burst out in uncontrollable giggles.

He fixed me with an angry stare, probably trying to activate my death genes. I careened toward him over my desk and leered menacingly to activate his death genes first.

Far back in my mind, fuzzy words about antioxidants danced around. Was he scared to talk about ’em? I couldn’t remember what I’d read, but whatever Flabface said about ’em, I was ready to take him on.

When he stopped blathering, I presumed class was over. When I had trouble standing up, I decided not to ask Carbuncle to share his notes for classes I’d missed. Instead, I bathed him with a syrupy smile of southern appreciation. He swayed menacingly in my direction. Bug Eye Carbuncle should focus on lowering his blood pressure.

“Miss Mundeen. Have you considered dropping this class?”

What a silly thing to say. “Of course not,” I giggled. I’d read a ton of material. I had to learn how to avoid aging. How to locate and care for my biomarkers.

Blowing him a mushy kiss, I wiggled my fingers “Bye” and bumped a desk on the way out.

Nineteen

I didn’t remember driving home. Evidently, I toppled into bed and must have conked out because when Meredith called to ask what I was wearing to Sheldon’s bash, I had barely an hour to get dressed. My recollection was hazy about disrupting Carbuncle’s...Carmody’s class. I couldn’t remember a lick of what anybody had said.

My memory was hazy about an article produced by the Alzheimer’s Association. I remembered something about foods that helped brain function. I thought I’d better review the article before eating out, especially at Sheldon’s. I found it in my file under Brain Food.

The Alzheimer group reported that certain foods, especially dark-skinned fruits and vegetables, might have protective, preventive effects against Alzheimer’s and dementia. The top five fruits were prunes, raisins, blueberries, blackberries and strawberries. Leading vegetables were kale, spinach, Brussels sprouts, alfalfa sprouts and broccoli florets. The article also recommended cold water fish that contained omega 3 fatty acids: halibut, mackerel, salmon, trout and tuna. Considering the recent state of my brain function, I planned to search for the items at Sheldon’s bash.

By the time Sam picked us up for the
Food, Fitness, and Euphoria
party, I felt great. Sitting in the backseat, I thought about the time he’d searched for Meredith’s husband. He was mesmerized by her slim, statuesque elegance, even though he was old enough to be her father. With flawless features and thick blond hair, Meredith turned heads wherever she went.

Once Sam recovered from the shock of meeting Meredith, he became rational and treated her like a younger sister. From then on, the three of us supported each other like siblings. When we found her husband, our discovery marked the end of Meredith’s two-year marriage.

On the drive to Sheldon’s house, he and Meredith were so grim that I had to chatter during the entire trip to sustain life in the car. I was relieved when Sam finally spoke.

He’d learned that Harry Thorne, after frequent bouts of vomiting, checked into the hospital Wednesday night. Sam planned to interview him on Friday. As for me, I was ready to party, even at Sheldon’s house. I’d keep my eyes peeled for healthy delicacies and for clues to Holly’s murder.

Meredith wore a slinky turquoise pantsuit with matching polished stone earrings that set off her light hair. My black pants and top were standard garb. I expected to see colorful folks at the party, but I preferred to fade into the background.

Sam had opted for a western cut jacket and slacks. He was easing into his version of Texas style dress. The brown suit complemented his doggy eyes. Purple dollops decorated his open-collared tan shirt. The blobs resembled eggplant, which seemed appropriate for Sheldon’s party. I chose not to mention it.

Sheldon’s habitat was a remodel on the fringes of the King William area, a sprawling mass of old homes which once housed San Antonio’s elite. The next generation happily refurbished the spacious houses. We heard blaring, funky music as we approached the screen door. Sheldon stood just inside, wearing a silky outfit that looked like a cross between a clown suit and a red pepper. Meredith stalled on the porch and Sam tried to turn around, but I was ready. I looped my arms through their elbows and dragged them through the door Sheldon held open.

“I’m so glad you could come,” Sheldon screeched above the music. He devoured Meredith and me with vigorously popping eyes. He led us to the bar where, in addition to recognizable drinks, vegetable and fruit drinks sprouted carrots, celery and mysterious protruding stalks. One glass had a sliced rutabaga pinched over the rim. I didn’t want to think about what the glass contained. Meredith and I asked for red wine, and Sam requested a beer. It was safer to drink something bottled.

I didn’t see Mindy, Knobs or Sarah, but Patricia Drexel flirted at full speed, honing in on attractive specimens. Pete, Mickey and Ned weren’t there. Harry was apparently still recuperating at home.

A San Antonio
Flash-News
reporter circulated. I saw two others, one from
South Texas Newsletter
and one from
La Prensa.
The owner of a Blue Star art gallery milled through the crowd. Several men wore name tags indicating they represented San Antonio’s best-known restaurants. A society columnist made rounds with her pad and pen, apparently scouting for notables. Photographers snapped pictures. Sheldon’s party was a major event. He’d probably planned the bash for a year.

Feeling clammy and irritable, I decided to locate the powder room before I checked out Sheldon’s food spread. When I saw beads hanging from a strip in front of a door down the hall, I concluded they marked one of Sheldon’s bathrooms. I knocked through the beads, found the room unoccupied and entered. The medicine cabinet door was ajar, so I peeped in and saw more pills than I’d ever seen in one place. Some drugs were recognizable: antacids, gout pills, blood pressure pills and cardiac pills. For a fan of healthy eating, Sheldon sure took a lot of pills.

One bottle was so large, I picked it up. Valium. A huge cache of Valium. Holly had said she took Valium before getting in the pool. No. What she said was, “He gave me...I took Valium before I got into the pool.” Who was “he?” Sheldon Snodgrass? Sarah had confirmed Holly dated him. Sheldon possessed enough drugs to treat everybody on the planet. Since he didn’t mind telling people what to eat, he probably didn’t mind dispensing pills.

I looked pale in the mirror, so I dabbed on lipstick and blush. When I left the bathroom, nobody was in the hall. The next room down looked like it might be Sheldon’s bedroom, so I slipped in. His bureau stood against the left wall. I tiptoed toward the highboy to check photographs on top and was astonished to see four photos of Holly Holmgreen. I asked for forgiveness again before I moved closer. For each picture, she’d modeled a different Barbie Doll outfit. In the final photo, she wore baby doll pajamas that would make Barbie proud. Something protruded through the pajamas at her naval. I leaned closer and gagged when I recognized the tines of a pickle fork.

Close to the photos lay a small spiral notebook. Scrawled on the cover was, “Improving Holly.” I was dying to know what Sheldon had written inside, but I heard footsteps. I snatched my hand off the notebook and bounded toward the hall, ready to ask whoever I encountered for directions to the bathroom. I found the hall vacant.

Returning to the party room, I saw the dining table was the center of attention. When I came up behind Sam and Meredith, they were evaluating food like lab workers checking amoeba.

Sam read the label by one platter: “Grilled Emu Fillet with Raspberry and Blackcurrant Sauce.” The note added that emu, if not available, could be replaced with ostrich. I didn’t think there were enough healthy raspberries to offset a tough bird.

Holding his plate and fork, Sam frowned at long strips of thinly sliced emu meat. “I thought Snodgrass was a vegetarian.”

“He must make allowances for this event,” Meredith said. She moved on to read about the next selection: “Australian Poached Rabbit with Bruschetta and Lemon.” The note said the rabbit, boiled until tender, should be accompanied by Chardonnay and Chenin Blanc.

“It would take a lot of wine and bread to make me forget I’m ingesting a rabbit,” Sam said.

“I overheard someone say Sheldon’s in his Australian period,” Meredith said.

That explained the selections. She slid to the next platter. “Stir-Fried Squid with Herbs and Spinach. Keep spirits high with a well-balanced Chardonnay. It’s essential the squid be fresh and succulent.”

“Which means,” Sam said, “that you have to drink enough alcohol to tenderize the squid.”

My stomach lurched. For some reason, I thought about Dr. Carmody. I might suggest to him that dining regularly with Sheldon Snodgrass could produce sufficient under-nutrition to extend his life span.

The woman next to me bit into a mini-sausage heavily swathed in cheese. She knitted her eyebrows and held up the remaining half of the delicacy for my inspection. We peered at the round, jelled pill stuffed into the middle of the sausage. “Does that look like Colace to you?” she whispered.

“Colace?”

“Colace. You know. Stool softener. Cheese is constipating.”

Since my stomach had leapt into my throat, I could only nod. I slipped away, feigning interest in other food items. Gliding around the table, I pretended to view selections without reading any labels. When Sheldon grinned eagerly at me from across the room, I attempted to smile. He approached the other side of the table and aimed for the cheesecloth tent he’d created to cover the mysterious delicacy in the center.

He loomed behind the tent and raised his arms. I drifted closer to my side of the table, intrigued by the drama. Sheldon stood motionless, like he was preparing to conduct a symphony. The crowd grew quiet. Flashbulbs popped. With a flourish, Sheldon whooshed off the cheesecloth. There, on a mammoth platter, sat a huge upright pig with an apple in its mouth. That porker had probably weighed three hundred pounds on the hoof. Its feet, pointed forward, splayed in oblique directions. Heavy butcher twine trussed the stomach. I thought I saw something inside the cavity...a smaller animal?

Acid rolled into my throat. Before I knew what was happening, I tossed my cookies. Horrified but helpless, I stood there, aiming toward Sheldon’s masterpiece. His guests scrambled backwards like crawdads. Sheldon stayed glued to his spot, eyes bulging like they were attached to metal springs. When I finally caught my breath, Meredith stood by my side with a wet cloth, wiping my face and forehead. “It’s all right. It’s all right. We’ll get you out of here.”

Feeling faint, I careened toward the table. Sheldon gasped and threw up his hands. I think he ripped his red suit.

Sam swooped me in his arms and charged for the door through a murky sea of astonished faces. Over his shoulder, I saw Sheldon smoldering at me. He was squinting so hard, his eyes receded in the sockets. His dark expression exuded pure hatred. Maybe the creep had killed Holly.

I felt lightheaded but better. I enjoyed the heck out of being in Sam’s arms. When we got to his car, Meredith opened the back door and Sam slipped me in, ever so gently. He folded up his coat to position it behind my head. I resisted the urge to pull him in with me. It was a good thing I felt weak.

We rode quietly for a few blocks. “I’m feeling pretty normal now.” I longed for a toothbrush.

After a few more blocks Sam spoke. “That was an abominable party. But you chose a pretty drastic way to get out of there, don’t you think?”

I was nearly asleep, but I knew he was smiling.