MURDER IN RETROSPECT (Allie Griffin Mysteries Book 5) (2 page)

              This was not the Dr. Tennyson she remembered. He'd always been a handsome man, no doubt, but she remembered him being, well, older, grayer. This man was...

              "His son," said the doctor. "I could see it in your eyes. And I looked at your record. Had to blow the dust off the thing. The last time you were here was my father's last year."

              "Ah," said Allie.

              "Let's have a look."

              The doctor leaned in and gently poked and picked around. He had soft eyes and a voice to match. The youthfulness of his appearance was pronounced, but there was the hard edge of adulthood there too, as if he'd seen the battlefield—or one too many bleeding gums.

              "Congratulations," he said. "You've earned yourself a root canal."

              She picked her head up. "Today?"

              The doctor turned around. "Mm hmm. I'm not letting you leave like this. I'll remove that mess in there, but you've done more damage than you think. You're going to be in a lot of pain if we don’t take care of this today. It won’t take long."

              She leaned her head back an exhaled.

              "Don't worry," Dr. Tennyson said calmly, "I'm going to save your tooth today. You’re lucky too. It's in a good location. I love doing this procedure. It's actually my favorite one."

             
Great
, Allie thought.
I'm glad to have made your day.

              He leaned in again to have one more look.

              Glasses, she thought. For distance.

              The marks on the sides of his nose told her that. They indicated prolonged usage. If they were for reading, he'd be wearing them now, staring into her toffee-ravaged tooth. He could've been wearing contacts. But in his line of work, he needed to see up close more often than far away. At night, he replaced his contacts with glasses for distance, since he no longer needed to peer into the molars of his victims. And medical professionals, Allie knew, just don’t have time enough to read for leisure. And she doubted he was up all night reading the Journal of American Dentistry or whatever they called it. Not long enough anyway for those two near-permanent marks to reside on the sides of his nose.

              Ergo, glasses for distance.

              She gave herself a mental pat on the back, and then stiffened with unbridled horror.

              Dr. Tennyson approached with the Novocain needle.

              "Vicodin?" said Del Collins.

              "Ibuprofen."

              "No Vicodin?"

              "No, ibuprofen."

              "You didn't ask for Vicodin?"

              "He gave me a script but I threw it away."

              Del gave her a look of reproach that her mother used to give her.

              "What?"

              "Some friend you are."

              "Excuse me?"

              "Nice to share the wealth."

              "Oh, please."

              "Next time, fill the script, and then keep the stuff on hand. You never know when you're going to need it. Or when your friends will need it."

              "I need it now to dull the effects of this conversation."

              They were standing in line at Walgreens, waiting for the prescription-strength ibuprofen script to be filled. In her peripheral vision, Allie caught a couple of eyes darting in her direction. She was beginning to understand why celebrities had assistants to run their errands for them.

              "Allie Griffin?"

             
Oh God
, thought Allie.
Tomlin.

              She knew the voice anywhere. Like a camper recognizes

the hiss of the coral snake or the mating call of the grizzly.

              "Detective, fancy meeting you here," she said.

              "Indeed. Getting some medicine?"

              "No," she said, "I come here for the free blood pressure machine and the Twizzlers in the impulse aisle. You know how it is."

              "Uh huh. Cute."

              The bald man's face was harder than ever before. Allie had really done some damage to the department where he worked by exposing the corruption of his former chief. According to Allie's friend, Sgt. Frank Beauchenne, the new chief played by the rules to the point of being almost ruthlessly fair. According to Beauchenne, it was almost as if the letters the rules were written with were revered more so than the concepts they defined. If it didn’t conform to the books down to the cross of the t and the dot of the i, Chief Fraser was implacable.

              But if all this was necessary to keep Tomlin and his suspicion of Allie Griffin at bay, so be it.

              "No murders to solve, Griffin? Or you just haven’t committed them yet?"

              "Ah," Allie said, smiling. "Good one."

              The detective smiled and nodded. "Thank you."

              "So, Chief Fraser keeping you busy?"

              The detective's smile disappeared. "He is."

              "Glad to hear it."

              "Yes," said Tomlin, "in fact, he's been very receptive to new ideas. I would even go so far as to say he's better that way than Dupond ever was."

              "Really?"

              "Yeah, he is. In fact, you know, it's funny, I was just telling him the other day that I couldn’t understand how you seemed to know so much about the last few murders we've had here."

             
Here we go.

              Tomlin continued, "Yeah, I say, 'Chief,' I say, 'we got this girl here, this Allison Griffin, and she's a real pain in the butt. And the funny thing is, she's always there, you know?' And he says, 'Is that so?' And I say, 'Never fails. Every time there's a murder, you can find Allie Griffin a few steps away from it. Every time.' And he says, 'Well that
is
interesting.' and I say, 'I know, isn’t it?' And he says, 'You ever look into it?' And I say, 'Well, sir, I would love to look into it. The truth is, I've never really gotten the opportunity.' And he says, 'Really?' And I say, 'Ay-yup.' And so he says, 'Well, you got any leads? Any suspicion? Any cause?' And I say, 'Funny you should mention that, because there was some wonky stuff that came up in the death of her husband some time ago.' And he says, 'Really?' And I say, 'Ay-up.' And he says, 'What kind of wonky stuff?' And then I say, 'Welp, Chief, let's just have a look, shall we?' And that's when I laid it out for him. And that's why I'm here now: To tell you that I wouldn’t be planning any trips out of town any time soon if I were you, Allie Griffin. Ok? Little warning."

              At this, he winked at her. "See you soon, mystery girl."

              The pain in her tooth had been flaring up, and now she welcomed it. She wanted the pain.

              "Easy does it," said Del.

              Allie breathed heavily through her nose.

              "I'm serious," said Del. "You look like you’re gonna blow any minute. Just take some breaths. Be calm."

              "That man is an infected blister on the neck of humanity."

              "Glad to see you're channeling the anger well. Looks like your meds are ready. It's not too late to ask the dentist for another Vicodin script, by the way. Just sayin'."

              She got her meds, and without another word, stormed out to her car while Del followed.

              Once in the car, she said, "Where does he get off? Honestly. I killed Tom? Really? Is that really where he wants to go?"

              "Relax, darling, this isn’t the first time you've heard this out of Tomlin."

              "No. But at first I thought, 'Aw, isn’t that cute. He's like a kitten who thinks he can scratch and bite hard.' I thought maybe one-upping him every time would make him realize that I—"

              "That what?" said Del, ever the pragmatist. "That you can solve murders? That you have this uncanny ability to do so? Don’t you realize—and I'm so not blaming the victim here, so don’t even—but don’t you realize that a guy like him sees you as a threat? And not for nothing, but from everything I know about this guy, he's not exactly the sharpest crayon in the pack."

              "So what are you saying? I should just ignore him?"

              "I'm saying that maybe you can beat him at his own game."

              "What are you saying?"

              "Allie Griffin, you are the smartest woman I have ever known in my life. You're ditzy and brilliant and kooky and wonderful. But you can’t see this."

              "See what?"

              Del looked at her friend. "Solve it for him."

              "What?"

              "Tom."

              "What? What are you saying?"

              "Didn’t you ever wonder about Tom's death?"

              Allie thought for a moment. "I—" she started to say, and then it hit her: She'd never really thought about it. Of course, there was the usual bargaining process that takes place during the stages of grief. But she'd trusted in the authorities. She was used to doing so back then, which was long before she'd awakened the skeptical inquirer that had lain dormant within her. She wasn't in the habit of asking questions back then. It was time to revisit the circumstances surrounding his death, if only for a short time. Maybe they'd bring back painful memories. It was a chance she'd have to take. After all, Tomlin wasn't bright, but Chief Fraser wasn't stupid. If the chief saw a reason to reopen the case, then maybe there was something there. If so, Allie had to find it. It was the only way to get Tomlin off her back for good. But moreover, it would be doing justice to Tom's memory. He would've wanted it, she told herself. She'd always considered that chapter of her life closed, but maybe, just maybe, there was a scene or two in that chapter that had not been closed altogether. If so, she'd find it. And she'd clap it shut once and for all.

              "Where are you right now?" said Del.

              "What? I'm in my car with you."

              "No, in your head. You've been silent for the last two minutes and you missed our turn."

              "No, I haven't," said Allie. "I didn’t miss it. We're going to Verdenier General."

              "Everything ok?"

              "Everything is wonderful," she said.

              She sort of meant it.

              "Ever see
Jaws
?" she said to Del as they pulled into the hospital parking lot.

              "Yeah, once. When I was a teenager. That was the last time I ever went swimming at the beach."

              "Yeah? Well there's a scene where Quint, the character played by Robert Shaw, is describing a shark he encountered once. He says something about its eyes, and he says they're dead eyes, 'like a doll's eyes,' he says."

              "Ok, and?"

              She stopped the car and turned to her friend. "You're about to come face to face with a Great White."

              Verdenier General had that hospital smell: A mixture of pea soup and iodine. Tom had come home smelling like it a number of times. It had been a gorgeous, state-of-the-art facility when he'd worked here six years ago. Now it looked to be even more so. The air buzzed with activity. It seemed everyone had at least two things to accomplish at once. Receptionists worked feverishly at entering data while speaking on the phone about entirely different matters.

              Allie approached the desk and waited. The girl on the phone was engaged, Allie observed, and probably recently, for her nails were done up in French manicure, which is what women do to show off an engagement ring, and what hospital receptionists engaged in constant data entry rarely do for fear of chipped polish.

              She hung up the phone. "Can I help you?"

              "Congratulations," Allie said, pointing to the ring finger.

              "Oh, thank you. Two days ago."

              Another win for Allie Griffin.

              "Wonderful. Best of luck to you. Um, I was wondering if I could possibly speak to Dean Robert Hawkes?"

              The woman's face changed at mere mention of the name. In less enlightened times, Allie would have thought there to be some magical power in the utterance.

              "Can I ask who it is that would like to speak with him?"

              "Allie Griffin. My husband Tom used to work under Dean Hawkes."

              The girl's face changed again. Perhaps there was some power in the utterance of the name. Or perhaps Dean Hawkes was walking behind her right at this moment, which was the case. The girl motioned and whispered, "He's actually right over there."

              Allie smiled. "Thank you." Then she turned and called out, "Dean Hawkes?"

              The man turned and Allie caught the image of a Bluetooth device in his ear. "Excuse me," he said to the device, then to Allie, "Can I help you?"

              He was every bit as imposing as Allie remembered. Age and the years had done nothing to diminish the effect. He was officious, professional, and important. His suit was dark and tailored to perfection, and he smelled of expensive aftershave, and when he reached up to mute the device in his ear, his cuff slipped down and a Rolex watch glistened in the fluorescent light.

              However, for all his imposing presence, Robert Hawkes looked pale and tired. His commanding presence was all in how he carried himself. Strip away the determined gait, the Bluetooth, the expensive clothes, and here was a man who was not in the best of health. The gait, she'd noticed, was off slightly. She then remembered that Robert Hawkes suffered from gout.

              "Hi," she said, "Allie Griffin." She held out her hand.

              Robert Hawkes refused it. "I'm sorry?"

              Allie found herself taken aback. "Allie Griffin, Tom Griffin's wife?"

              "Griffin..." he searched the air for the name.

              "Doctor Tom Griffin was your head of thoracic—"

              Recognition splashed across the man's face. "Griffin! Of course. Allie Griffin, yes. How are you? Hang on a moment, will you?" He touched the device in his ear. "Listen I'm going to call you back. How are you?"

              "I'm good. My memory is still good. How about yours?"

              "Oh, I see so many people every day, you can't possibly take offense."

              "No, of course not. I'm only the wife of the guy who served as your very own head of thoracic surgery for, what, eight years? Nine? I was here all the time. I went to your grandson's Christening. Now why would you remember little old me?"

              The man glared at her. "I'm beginning to remember you more and more, Allie Griffin. You haven’t changed."

              "Thank you. And neither have you."

              "Yes, well, anything I can do for you?"

              "For starters, you can tell me why you never came to Tom's funeral."

              "Excuse me? I was at the funeral."

              "No, I mean afterward. We all came back to my place for lunch, and, you know, to comfort each other. That's what you do when someone you've known for a long time passes."

              "Is there a point to this, Allie?"

              She stared at him. "No, there isn’t. See you around, doc."

              Without a word, he turned and walked away.

              Del came up beside her. "Oh. My God. What a complete and total—"

              "Yes he is."

              "I meant you."

              Allie felt her jaw drop.

              "Don’t give me that look. He may not be Mr. Congeniality, but he doesn’t owe you any explanations."

              "The jerk didn’t even remember me!"

              "How long has it been?"

              "I can't. If you don't want to stick up for your best friend, then I'll be seeing you."

              "Ok," Del said calmly. "I'm only gonna say this once. Tom's death still brings back painful memories for you. And I'm sorry I called you out over feelings you don’t really have any control over yet. I'm sorry you lost your husband. You're not the only one who misses him. I liked Tom a lot. So there's that. So I'm going to excuse your anger at me for what it really is. And I love you. And I hope you can feel better because I hate to see you upset. There."

              Allie's eyes welled up. "I'm sorry," she said with half a voice.

              "I know. I don't like being sweet, just so you know."

              Allie laughed. "I know you don’t."

              "I actually want to throw up. But I need you to remember how I feel about you."

              Allie nodded and gave her friend a hug.

              "Now," said Del, "the ladies' room."

              "Wait, you were serious about that throwing up thing?"

              The sudden dart to the ladies' room was enough for an answer.

             
If you're going to be sick
, thought Allie,
the hospital is a pretty good place to do it
. She waited outside the bathroom door, thinking she could grab someone if necessary.

              Coming down the hospital hallway was a familiar figure.

              "Lucy Wainwright?"

              The woman turned around, and there was the spark of recognition that Allie expected.

              "Allie? Hi! Oh my gosh, it's been a long time. How are you?"

              "Hanging in there."

              "I'll say. You're famous now. Gosh, how long has it been?"

              Allie wondered for a moment why she hadn’t seen anyone here in so long. Small towns were nothing if not crammed with the same old people day in and day out. Why hadn't she run into anyone she knew from back when Tom worked here? The answer was obvious: She wouldn’t recognize any of these people out of their scrubs.

              "It's been a while. Um, do you remember Delaney Collins?"

              "Of course. I've seen her in a couple of shows down at the theater."

              "Yeah, well she's in there," Allie jabbed a thumb toward the bathroom, "and I don’t think she's feeling too hot."

              "Uh, ok," said Lucy Wainwright. "Is she alright?"

              "I think so." She knocked on the door. "Del?"

              "
Just finishing up.
"

              "She's just...finishing up," said Allie.

              "Well, we can have someone take a look..."

              "We'll see."

              The awkward silence was palpable. But it did give Allie a chance to size up this person she hadn’t seen since...

              Lucy Wainwright was at Tom's side the day he collapsed in the middle of surgery. She was the first to try to revive him. She was at the funeral. And she came to lunch afterward.

              She was a diminutive woman. With a posture that declared self-assurance, and a kind face with a sprinkling of freckles. This latter feature, when coupled with long blonde hair, tends to render the bearer perennially childlike in appearance, which probably accounts for the way she wore her hair now: Short, tucked behind the ears, wisps of it feathering out around the upper part of her neck. Her eyes were bright green and just wide enough to let certain people in.

              "Well," said Lucy Wainwright, "I guess we should probably get together soon."

              "I'd love to," said Allie, and she thought for a moment. "As a matter of fact, you may be the perfect person for me to talk to right now."

              At this point, the bathroom door opened. And a ruined figure peered out.

              "I may need to get checked in."

              "Oh my," said Allie. "What happened?"

              "Chinese food happened. Last night. Or rather, leftovers this morning...pork lo mein...oh God..."

              She quickly closed the door.

              A moment later it opened again. "As I was saying."

              "Del, you remember Lucy Wainwright?"

              "Yeah," she said in monotone, "how are you?"

              "Ok. Listen Del, we're going to get you in to see someone ok. Can you make it on your own to the ER?"

              "Yeah."

              Lucy looked at Allie. "I'll give them a buzz and let them know you’re on your way. Listen, Allie it was good to see you. We'll be in touch."

              "Sure," said Allie. She turned to Del. "You sure you can make it?"             

              "Yes, just don’t talk about food. Or politics."

              She took her friend by the arm and began leading her toward the ER. "I can’t believe this. You should've told me you weren't feeling well."

              "I thought it would go away. It just got worse and worse. Blah."

              "I love you too, by the way."

              "Stop it, I'm feeling terrible."

              There wasn't another word between them.