Rip Tide (A Ripple Effect Cozy Mystery, Book 2) (29 page)

"Yeah, guess so," Bob said as he swung himself into the topless Jeep.

"Hey, Bob. I was wondering—"

"Enough small talk, Rapella," Rip said impatiently. "Let's go."

"Yeah?" Bob asked, with a quizzical expression.

"Come, on. Quit gabbing. My hand's throbbing. There's nothing Bob can tell you that would be of any significance in the murder investigation." Rip was agitated and cranky, and I didn't blame him. Still, I had a question I needed to ask. So I shouted over the roar of the Jeep's motor as the huge man fired it up.

"How did you know Cooper Claypool owned a business if you'd never heard of the guy?" Big Bob graced me with a stone-cold glare before slamming his gearshift into reverse. Gravel flew as he backed out of his spot and peeled out of the parking lot. I coughed twice to quell the irritation of dust in my throat, and had to blink several times to clear the grit out of my eyes.

After I'd blotted the grime off my face with a wad of used tissue I'd stuffed in my jeans pocket, I turned to Rip. He wore a blank expression. I was certain he was reflecting back to the earlier conversation about Claypool and wondering how he'd missed the inconsistency in Bob's remarks. Despite the fact he was in pain and not in the best of moods, I had to get my licks in when I could. "Nothing of significance, huh?"

Shaking his head in bewilderment, he replied, "I stand corrected."

Chapter 17

"Doctor Shaft will be with you in a jiff." The young dental assistant clipped a drool bib around my neck before leaving the room, shutting the door behind her. I glanced at my watch. It was two minutes after nine. I'd been lucky to get an appointment early the following morning due to a last minute cancellation.

I didn't want to waste a lot of time getting my dentures replaced because it took precious time away from our personal investigation and added twenty years to my appearance. I also wasn't fond of gumming every morsel of food and wanted to limit that aspect of it as much as possible.

To pass the time, I studied the posters affixed to the walls. But looking at diagrams of impacted wisdom teeth, abscesses, and gingivitis only entertained me for a short spell. I began fidgeting in the chair, getting more incensed as the minutes ticked by.
When will a few of these doctors and dentists who are habitually behind schedule learn their patients' time was just as valuable as their own?
I wondered, irritably.

When I checked my watch for the fortieth time, it was nine thirty-three. At that point, I exited the room and tracked down the dental assistant. She was busily pecking around on her cell phone, texting her boyfriend, no doubt.

"Miss, could you please tell me when I can expect Dr. Shaft to see me? I have a busy schedule today and I've been waiting more than a half-hour already." The assistant finished her text and sent it before she looked up at me with an annoyed expression.

"I already told you he'd be with you in a jiff."

"Then I reckon I don't understand dental jargon, young lady."

"Huh?"

"Exactly how long is a 'jiff'? Forty-two minutes? Four-and-a-half hours? Three days? Give me some kind of estimate so I can juggle my schedule accordingly."

"Don't ask me," she replied, as if I were interrupting an extremely important texting session. Was she informing her boyfriend he was going to be a "baby daddy"? Letting her parents know of the devastating news she'd just received about her recent liver biopsy? In my opinion, anything less crucial should be delayed until she clocked out. Apparently, even the dental assistant's time was worth more than the patient's in Dr. Shaft's office. The unprofessional young lady turned her attention back to her phone when a beep indicated she'd received an incoming text. She read the text first, then took an abbreviated call on the office phone. She was neither elated nor devastated by the text, so I knew it wasn't critical. I felt like grabbing her cell phone and tossing it into the trashcan. With an insincere apology, she said, "Sorry, but Doctor Shaft had to run to the bank to make a deposit."

"He
ran
to the bank? Maybe if he had taken his car instead of running it wouldn't have taken so long." I began to walk away in a huff. But I stopped mid-way and turned back to face the assistant because I couldn't refrain from adding one more jab. "And maybe if he didn't charge such exorbitant prices, he wouldn't feel it necessary to make trips to the bank during office hours."

Just then, Dr. Shaft walked in the front door and down the hall toward me and his assistant. "Good morning, Mrs. Ripple. Haven't seen you in a while. What brings you here today?"

"I lost my upper plate." I smiled in case he thought I was kidding.

"And you don't know where you left it?" His tone indicated losing one's dentures was virtually impossible.
This old bird must be mistaken
. I could almost read his mind.
After all, she is at that full-blown dementia age.

"Of course I know where I left them," I replied indignantly. My mood was sliding downhill like a kid riding a trash can lid down a snowy slope. "I left them on the bottom of Copano Bay."

"All right. Let's go take a look." He guided me back to the dental chair. I opened my mouth to once again show him the empty void that false teeth once occupied.

"All we should need to do is have another plate made from the mold they used to create the original one," I informed Doctor Shaft.

"Oh, if it were only that easy." He chuckled in amusement at my apparently inane remark.

"What do you mean by that?"

"I would need a warehouse to store all the molds we've made for my patient's dentures over the years."

"So, are you saying they no longer exist?" I asked.

"Yes, that's what I'm saying. Molds are never retained after the dentures have been made. People's jaws and mouths are in the process of changing throughout their entire lives. Storing old molds would serve no purpose, you see."

"Not to mention, less profitable for dentists, I'm guessing." I may seem as if I'm intolerant of dentists, and I don't mean to sound disparaging. But we've spent more money on Rip's teeth through the years than we did on the home we sold when we retired. He was determined to keep his own teeth as long as he possibly could. But then, he always was more extravagant with money than I was. I wouldn't even be replacing my dentures now if not for the fact I truly do prefer chewing my food. I turned my attention back to Dr. Shaft who'd just instructed his assistant to take an impression of my gums.

Uh-oh
, I thought.
Hope she didn't take any of my spiteful remarks personally. If so, I'll be lucky if she doesn't let me gag to death before yanking the tray full of what feels like Sakrete out of my mouth.

"So, I'm afraid we'll need to start from scratch and make a new set of molds. But first, we'll need to take x-rays to ensure there are no underlying problems," he said, with a self-satisfied smile.

"Of course you will," I replied. I wasn't proud of my foul mood, or my malicious retorts, but I had a good reason to feel as if I was being taken advantage of. "Whatever it takes to keep the lights on."

With a wink, he countered with, "I guess this is what one gets when one doesn't take every precaution with their dentures."

Dr. Shaft is a very appropriate name for you, smart ass
.

* * *

I was standing at the check-out counter in the lobby, which had numerous people sitting around in hard, uncomfortable chairs awaiting their turn to be given the
shaft
. I paid no attention to the faces of the unfortunate people occupying those seats. However, I was not surprised to discover the dentist was behind schedule, inconveniencing six or seven members of his faithful clientele.

I was writing a check for the over-padded amount I was being charged when the snobby assistant opened the door into the lobby and motioned for the next patient to follow her to the room I'd just exited.

More out of habit than anything, I looked over my shoulder and saw Big Bob unfold his tall frame from a wooden chair. I turned to him and said, "Small world, isn't it? I had no idea we used the same dentist."

Big Bob showed no sign of wanting to converse with me. In fact, he walked past me as if I were a life-sized cardboard cut-out depicting a dental hygienist holding a container of some dental floss being advertised. As he silently passed by me, I sarcastically said, "It was nice to see you again, too."

I'd always thought there was no such thing as coincidences, and that things happened for a reason. The receptionist was hanging up the office phone, after notating a name in her appointment scheduling book, when I nonchalantly said, "Don't you just hate when you run into someone you've known for ages and can't recall their name? Just like that fellow. His last name is on the tip of my tongue. Johns, Jones, Johnson, or is it—"

"Chrisman," the receptionist politely volunteered. She could give lessons to Dr. Shaft's dental assistant on how to deal courteously with the public. "And I know what you mean, Mrs. Ripple. That happens to me all the time, too."

"Oh, yes, of course. Bob Chrisman. Silly of me to forget." I thumped the side of my hand with my palm to emphasize my charade of a memory lapse.

"Bob?"

"Yes. Wasn't that Bob?" I asked, mystified by the receptionist's confusion.

"Well, I can't say for positive, but I don't think so. It says Royce Chrisman here in my scheduling book." She turned the book around and pointed to the name, as if she thought I might not take her word for it.

"Oh, of course," I said, with a laugh. I thumped my temple again." I'm sure he uses his legal name for situations like business contracts, utility bills, and, of course, dental appointments. But all of his friends call him by his nickname. Which is Bob, of course." Even as I lied through my missing teeth, I had to wonder if he'd been using an alias for nefarious reasons. Because, seriously, who would give a guy named Royce a nickname like Bob? Did Philip Bean know Big Bob's real name was Royce Chrisman? Or, on the other hand, had Bob given an assumed name to the office receptionist? On the third hand, was his given name something else entirely?

I could have left it at that and exited the medical building without uttering another word. But, as you surely realize by now, that would have gone against every grain in my body. I wanted more information if I could figure a way to weasel it out of the receptionist. I spoke with a nostalgic tone to appear as if I was reflecting back to an earlier time. "Rip and I have known Bob, I mean Royce, for ages. After all, we used to live across the street from him on Harbor Oaks Drive. No wait, that wasn't it. It was actually when we lived on Spruce, I believe."

"He lives on South Pearl Street now," the kind-hearted, unsuspecting lady replied after briefly scanning her computer screen. "He must have moved since then."

"Yes, he apparently has." I returned her smile. If Dr. Shaft could overhear this conversation, he'd be convinced I really did suffer from full-blown dementia.

"I'm surprised he didn't let us know he'd relocated. Must have been tied up at work, or something. I assume he still works at the marina?" I asked.

"I don't know about him working at a marina. I didn't realize he'd worked anywhere but the DMV office. In fact, he's the one who assisted me last month when I went in to get my license renewed."

"Oh goodness," I said, as if something important had just occurred to me. "Thanks for the reminder. I need to get my driver's license renewed too, before it expires on Saturday. Well, have a nice day, dear. I'll be back on the twenty-fourth to pick up my new choppers."

The receptionist advised me to go to the DMV in a neighboring town, which just happened to be the office where Royce worked. See what I mean about things happening for a reason? The DMV in Aransas Pass was always so busy that people would often have to get there at the crack of dawn to get their license the same day. And I didn't have that much time to wait in line. As I walked away, the receptionist gleefully remarked, "Plus, it'll give you and Mr. Chrisman a chance to catch up."

We're going to catch up, all right
, I thought, as I stepped up into the truck. Driving back to the RV park, I was trying to devise my next move. Due to his evasive actions, I felt confident that Royce Chrisman, a.k.a. Big Bob, was involved in Claypool's murder, if he hadn't actually done the dirty deed himself. My driver's license actually
was
set to expire on my birthday, December eighteenth. I had several weeks to have it renewed, but there was something to be said about not letting grass grow under one's feet. Especially when time was of the essence and one had an ulterior motive not to waste it.