Miss Julia Stands Her Ground (20 page)

He kept shaking his head and smiling, somewhat in a condescending manner, I thought. “No, we don't keep them. They're sent to the lab for analysis, along with the gallbladder. After that, they go to the patient, if he wants them. If not, they're thrown out. Incinerated, probably.”

“Burned up? You're telling me that you treat human samples with such disrespect? I can't believe this.”

“First of all,” he said, lecturing me with some amusement, “the word is specimen, not sample. And second, gallstones aren't living
tissue. You haven't heard of anybody having a funeral for them, have you?”

I could've smacked him for having fun at my expense. Why do doctors assume that because you're old and never been to medical school, you don't have good sense?

Then he leaned forward. “Now, tell me this, Miss Julia, why this sudden interest in Wesley Lloyd's gallstones?”

I couldn't answer, so deflated at losing the opportunity to have those very gallstones tested for DNA. Thrown out! Burned up! The very idea of such careless handling of body parts undid me.

Then I perked up again. “You give them to the patient? Is that what you said?”

He nodded. “Sometimes. Occasionally, a patient wants them as a souvenir of the surgery. Though it beats me why.”

“Did Wesley Lloyd want his? See if you recall giving them to him. I tell you, I need to track those things down.”

“Miss Julia,” he said, putting a calming hand on my arm. “How long have you had this on your mind?”

“Since last night. It came to me out of the blue. Or rather in the dark.”

He gave me a long, studied look. “Why don't we give you a good going over while you're here?” He rose to his feet and started toward the door. “Just sit right there and I'll call in a nurse to help you get undressed.”

“I didn't come in here to get undressed or to have a going over, good or otherwise. I came to ask a simple question, and you've answered it, so I won't take any more of your time.” I came to my feet and faced him. “But I'll tell you this, I think it's a shame the way you doctors throw things away. You ought to know that somebody might need them sometime. Now, I thank you for seeing me, but I have to be on my way.”

I reached for the doorknob, but he stopped me. “I'm a little concerned about you, Miss Julia. If you don't want an exam
today, maybe we could sit and talk a while longer. What else is worrying you, besides Wesley Lloyd's gallstones?”

“You don't want to know,” I said, softened by his tone of compassion but unwilling to burden another soul with what I was carrying. Besides, doctors can gossip as well as the next person.

“Oh, but I do. We have lots of medications now that can calm the mind and relieve some of your symptoms. You should know it's not uncommon to have these little obsessions as we get on in years.”

As his meaning became clear to me, I drew myself up and glared at him hard enough to freeze him solid. “
I'm
not the one with an obsession. Every time I come in here,
you
bring up my age. And I'm tired of it. I'm going to look for a doctor who isn't obsessed with the subject. Then maybe I'll hear something besides how old I am.”

I opened the door and marched down the hall. When I reached the receptionist I slid a ten-dollar bill under the partition. “This should cover it,” I said, “and, if it doesn't, you can bill me.”

Then I left, thoroughly disgusted with the state of modern medicine. And no better off as far as Little Lloyd was concerned than when I'd first gone in.

Halfway across the parking lot, headed for my car, I had another sudden thought, along with an equally sudden urge. Turning on my heel, I retraced my steps and went back into the office.

The receptionist looked up at me, a tentative smile on her face. “Do you want to make an appointment? I know the doctor wants to see you again.”

“He can keep on wanting, because I've seen all I want to of him. No, I need to use your telephone, if you don't mind.”

She hesitated, but then slid the window open and put a phone up on the counter. “This really isn't for public use, but if you won't tie up the line . . .”

“You can time me,” I said, scrounging in my pocketbook for the card I kept with important numbers on it. Finally finding it, I dialed the one I wanted.

A familiar voice answered. “You got the Pickens Agency, Private Investigations and Discreet Inquiries. Go ahead.”

That took me aback for a second. “Is this a recording?”

“Nope. You got the real thing. What can I do for you?”

“You can stay right there, Mr. Pickens. I'm coming over.”

 

Finding Mr. Pickens's office in the strip mall several blocks from the interstate was not easy. I'd been there a couple of times
before, but neither time had been recent. Everything had grown up so that I hardly recognized the place, what with rows of condominiums along the highway, new businesses, office complexes, and more cars than you could shake a stick at.

But I found it right where it had always been, which was a commendation for Mr. Pickens, since the businesses on both sides had changed hands. What was once a beauty supply store was now a shoe repair shop, and the erstwhile insurance office had become a bagel emporium.

I opened the door to his reception room and had to stop to take in the redecoration that Hazel Marie had done for him. The dark paneled walls were now painted a bright aqua, or maybe it was a teal, and mountain scenes hung on the walls instead of NASCAR posters. The same heavy sofa and matching chairs with wide, wooden arms lined the room, but
Field & Stream
had been replaced with
Town & Country
on the coffee table.

“Mr. Pickens?” I called, since he didn't have a receptionist to announce my arrival. “I'm here.”

And there he was, coming out of the back office and down the short hallway toward me. “Come on in, Miss Julia. Good to see you.”

He escorted me to his tiny office filled with one desk, two chairs, file cabinets, computer paraphernalia, stacks of papers, used coffee cups, and other kinds of clutter. “Sit right here, and tell me how I can help you.” He pulled the client chair closer to the desk, got me seated, and went to his own chair. He put his arms on the desk, looked at me with a quizzical glint in his black eyes, and smiled. “I assume this is not just a friendly visit.”

I declare, the man could melt a heart of stone and addle the mind of the most rational and determined woman. But I took myself in hand and kept my eyes on his and away from his broad chest and muscular arms, although I couldn't help but note the tail end of that unfortunate tattoo peeking out from under his
rolled-up shirtsleeves. And in the glare of the overhead light, I could see a sprinkling of silver in that black head of hair of his.

“No, it's business,” I said, clutching my pocketbook in my lap. “I just need some information. I want to know how, well, more to the point,
where
one can get a DNA sample from somebody who's unavailable for testing.”

His expression was a mixture of surprise, interest, and, suspiciously, humor. I could tell from the way his mustache twitched. He pushed away from the desk, turned sideways in the chair, and crossed one leg over the other. Propping one arm on the chair arm, he rubbed his mouth with the hand of the same arm. He looked at me sideways, the hint of a smile in his eyes.

“How unavailable?” he asked.

“Very, so don't even consider it. Look, Mr. Pickens,” I said, leaning forward, “the only thing I could think of that might still be around was his gallstones. You know how some people save them? Well, but wouldn't you know, they've been thrown away and incinerated, so I have to think of something else. It just upsets me so bad that the doctor did away with them.”

He waved his hand in a dismissive fashion. “Wouldn't've done you any good, anyway. Gallstones don't have DNA.”

“They don't?”

“No, but tell me this. Why do you need an unavailable person's DNA in the first place?”

My eyes darted around the room, taking in the folders on his desk, the open file drawers, the overflowing waste can, the florescent light on the ceiling, as I searched for an answer that wouldn't give away too much.

“Well, it's like this,” I finally said. “I'm, ah, researching my family tree, and, since I have no living kin that I know of, I'm having a hard time of it.”

“Okay,” he said, nodding, as I felt a great relief that he was accepting my answer. “So, let's see, you want to figure out how you
can get DNA from a deceased person without going to the source, namely, without digging him or her up—is that it?”

“That's it exactly. This is important to me, Mr. Pickens. I'm not just playing around trying to find a distinguished ancestor so I can put a family crest on my wall. Besides, the DAR has already established my credentials. It's just that, well, . . .” I paused, searching for a seemingly legitimate reason for my interest. “Well, there's some question about one of my father's acquaintances.”

There,
I thought, sitting back in my chair,
that's close enough,
and hoping that my stern and rectitudinous father wasn't spinning in his grave.

“Okay,” Mr. Pickens said, with another nod of his head. “DNA can last a long time, but it does degrade over time. It's found in what are called DNA receptors like epithelial cells, mucous membranes—any kind of body tissue—blood, of course, saliva, teeth, and bone.”

“Teeth? I don't guess a partial would work, would it?”

He grinned. “ 'Fraid not. Has to be real teeth.”

“Oh, well, I threw that thing out anyway.” Then, fearful that I'd said more than I intended, added, “When I helped my sisters close up the house.” Then, realizing that I'd just admitted to living relatives, quickly tacked on, “They're both dead, too.” And hoped to my soul that lightning wouldn't strike me down for such a blatant story.

“I declare, Mr. Pickens,” I said, somewhat pitiably, “I guess I haven't saved anything of his. That's why I came to you, hoping that you could think of something I'd forgotten or hadn't thought about.”

“I think you're out of luck, Miss Julia. But why do you care what your daddy did? I assume he's been dead and gone for some time now.”

“Mr. Pickens!” I said with some asperity. “It's a matter of paternity.”

Those black eyebrows sprang up. “Yours?”

“Of course not, and I'm surprised you would even think to question my lineage.” I got to my feet, disappointed that my quest was not over. “I must say that I expected more from you, but thank you for your time anyway. How much do I owe you?”

He stood, too, as he should have. “No charge,” he said, still with that twitch of his mustache that usually preceded a laugh. “Let me take you to lunch. There's a nice little place close by.”

“No, thank you, I don't care for bagels. I need to get home. I've been gone all morning, and they'll all be wondering where I am.”

I turned to leave the office, my mind racing now to come up with a likely story to tell Lillian and Hazel Marie about my morning absence.

But halfway down the hall, I stopped and swung back to Mr. Pickens, who was close on my heels. My breath caught in my throat at the vibrations or aura or whatever the current term was for the masculine magnetism that emanated from him.

Stepping back so that I could get out of range, and remembering my manners, I said, “I hope your friend in Atlanta is doing better. Mr. Tuttle, was it?”

“Yes, but it's Forida,” he said. “He works out of Palm Beach, that area. He's managing, I think. Thanks for asking.”

“Certainly. I knew some Tittles once, but it's probably not the same family. Now, Mr. Pickens, I must caution you. Please don't say anything to anybody about this little visit. None of them understand my interest in genealogy, and they'd just laugh at my pursuit of it. Can I trust you to keep this quiet?”

He stepped forward and put his arm around my shoulders, making me step out smartly toward the outside door. “Don't give it another thought. Let me know if there's anything else I can do.”

I smiled and thanked him, but since he hadn't done anything to begin with, I didn't know why he was offering more of it.

 

“Miss Julia!” Hazel Marie popped up from the sofa and ran toward me before I'd gotten in the door good. “Guess what's happened. It's just awful.”

I stood stock still, struck dumb by the fear that she'd heard about Brother Vern's accusation or that she'd actually heard it from the horse's mouth, specifically, that he'd been there in my absence.

Steeling myself to reassure her, I managed to say, “Oh, Hazel Marie, you can't believe everything you hear. You mustn't listen to gossip and ignorant speculations.”

“Well,” she said, frowning, “it's not that I
listen
to gossip, exactly, but sometimes I can't help but hear it.” She stopped to consider the difference. “Especially when that's all anybody's talking about.”

“Oh, my,” I moaned, my hand fumbling for the back of the sofa to keep myself upright. “That's what I was afraid of.”

Hazel Marie leaned toward me in concern. “Please don't get upset, Miss Julia. It's all right.”

“Well, of course it's not all right, Hazel Marie.” I took a deep breath, determined to face this as stoically as I'd done every other misfortune that had come my way. “But don't you worry. I don't believe a word of it. He's after something, even though we don't know what. But mark my words, that's why he's doing it.”

“Oh, everybody knows what he's after. Because, see, they're saying that he said if he took away his wife, he's going to get recompensed.”

I stared at her, wondering what in the world she was talking about. She seemed to be doing the same thing.

“Recompensed,” she said, getting a far-off look on her face. “That means getting paid, doesn't it?”

I nodded, unable to speak as I tried to figure out whose wife Brother Vern had taken away and who was going to get paid for it.

“So,” Hazel Marie said with a note of triumph, “that's why he's suing him.”

The mention of a lawsuit nearly stopped my heart. My words catching in my throat, I said, “Who's suing who, Hazel Marie?”

She frowned again. “It may be whom, Miss Julia, but I can never keep them straight. Anyway, Dub Denham is suing that electrician. His lawyer's already filed papers and everything.”

I didn't know whether to laugh or cry out in relief. It took me a moment to get on the same page, but when I did, I could only manage a weak, “Why?”

“For ‘alienation of affections,' ” she said, as a smile played around the corners of her mouth. “Come sit down, Miss Julia, you look wiped out. But have you ever heard of such a thing?”

“Well, yes, I've
heard
of it, but I didn't know anybody actually did it in this day and age.”

“Well, Dub can and he is. For a half a million dollars, too.” Hazel Marie caught her lower lip in her teeth, then she said, “I'd think a wife would be worth a whole million. Wouldn't you?”

“I don't know, Hazel Marie.” I finally gained the sofa and eased myself down on it. “It would depend, I guess.”

“Well, I mean, if you're going to sue somebody for something, looks like you'd go for a big, round figure. At least, I would, if it was me.”