The Mezzo Wore Mink (20 page)

“
That pig won’t hunt,” I said to Ginger, thinking about a pig I used to have that wouldn’t hunt, mainly because he was just a pig and not some sort of weird Chinese hunting pig. “There are only a handful of televangelists that could afford mink wigs. It’s a specialized market.”

“
That’s the beauty of their plan,” whispered Ginger, he eyes darting around Buxtehooters like a couple of humming-birds doing Tequila shooters. “They’ve found a way to make them affordable. Every televangelist in the country could buy them.”

I took a sip of my martini and considered the consequences.

Right now, there were probably only a handful of televangelists that could afford the mink wigs, but once they became available to every rapscallion hawking his wares on cable TV, the whole balance of economic power would shift. Who could resist the glistening coif glowing under the bright lights of the studio? The money would pour in like they were Democrats and Hillary wasn’t on the ticket.

“
Okay,” I said to Ginger. “I’ve got the picture. Now spell it out.”

“
I’ve decided to become a ‘hat man,’” I announced. “I’m going to single handedly bring back the fedora as a fashion statement.”

“
I affirm you in that decision,” said Meg. “I think you look great in a hat. What brought this on?”

“
Well, I have this hat…”

“
I know. It looks very fetching, but I thought you were only going to use it for writing. It’s too dangerous to wear around town. Before long, you’ll be spouting prose as bad as Jackie Collins’.”

“
Bite your tongue. It doesn’t always happen. Just sometimes.”

“
Okay,” said Meg. “Then go for it.”

•••

“
Found him,” said Nancy as soon as I walked into the station. Dave was sitting behind the desk reading the morning edition of
The Tattler
.

“
Found who?” I asked.

“
Try to keep up, boss. I found Davis Boothe’s doctor. Nice hat, by the way.”

“
Thanks. Did you talk to him?”

“
Them, actually. It’s a clinic. I have to take a death certificate over there and they’ll give me Davis’ records. The nurse said that Davis didn’t indicate any next-of-kin on his information sheet.”

“
Can you do that this morning?”

“
Sure,” said Nancy. “I can head over to Boone right now.”

“
Hey!” said Dave, thwapping the newspaper with a flicked finger. “Here’s your letter to the editor.”

“
Yeah,” I said. “I sent it in yesterday. But before you delve into St. Germaine’s political intrigue, tell me about what you found in Thelma’s house.”

“
Oh, sorry. I forgot.” Dave put the paper down and picked up a shoebox that had been resting on the counter.

“
I brought all of Thelma’s medications that I could find. There are quite a few.”

“
Zoloft?”

Dave opened the box and reached in. “Yep. That’s here. Also Zocor, Boniva, Resperate, Allegra…” He rummaged around the bottles of pills. “…Orencia, Crestor, Lipitor, Ambien, Frontline…hey, here’s a bottle of Viagra!”

“
Frontline is for fleas,” said Nancy. “Thelma had fleas?”

“
It sounds to me like Thelma was watching too many TV commercials,” I said. “At least three of those are cholesterol medications, if I remember correctly.

“
It does sound like that,” admitted Dave. “Maybe her doctor can shed some light.”

“
Who’s the prescribing physician?”

“
Dr. Sam Weber. Except for the Zoloft. That was Helen Sawyer.

“
Sam Weber’s her principal doctor, right?” I asked. Nancy nodded. “What’s he doing prescribing Viagra, for heaven’s sake?”

“
I heard that some of these patients come in and demand this stuff once they’ve seen it on television,” said Nancy. “Maybe that’s what Thelma was doing.”

“
That would explain the Frontline and the Viagra. But that didn’t mean that Weber had to prescribe them.”

“
Probably not against the law,” said Dave. “Is it?”

“
I don’t know,” I admitted. “Some combination of these drugs might have killed her though. What did Kent find in her blood? He told me, but I can’t remember.”

Nancy opened her pad and skimmed through the pages. “No Zoloft. She had simvastatin in her system. That’s the Zocor, a cholesteral drug. Also present was…” Nancy stumbled over the next word “…ibandronate sodium. That’s the Boniva for osteoporosis.”

“
None of this other stuff?”

“
Nope. I guess she wasn’t taking it.”

“
I think she was,” said Dave, shaking one of the plastic pill bottles. “Every bottle is about half empty.”

“
I’ll have a talk with Dr. Weber,” I said. “Did you find her purse?”

“
Nope. No purse.”

“
Anything else of interest?”

“
There was a rhubarb pie on the kitchen table. I guess she put it there to cool. I put it in the refrigerator, but it had been sitting out since Tuesday, I guess. She bought the rhubarb on Tuesday morning. There was a receipt for it in the grocery bag in the trash.”

“
So, we know she was alive on Tuesday, anyway,” I said. “Nice work.”

“
Here you go,” said Nancy, handing me a piece of paper. “Dr. Samuel Weber’s address and phone number.”

“
Thanks.”

The door of the police station opened and Pete Moss walked in carrying a copy of
The Tattler.

“
I just saw your letter to the editor,” he said with a grin. “I hope it keeps Cynthia at bay long enough to get through the debate next week.”

“
Here, let me see,” said Nancy. She took Dave’s newspaper, flipped to the second page and started reading.

Dear Editor,

It has come to my attention that Cynthia Johnsson, one of our mayoral candidates, has been casting aspersions on her worthy opponent, Peter Moss, for declining to wear underpants. This is an unfair obloquy of a public official whose moral guidelines, at least as applied to the donning of unmentionables, come directly from the Holy Scriptures. In fact, most of Mayor Moss’ convictions concerning his wearing of underpants are based on Biblical precedents.

When looking for a spiritual guidance on this matter, we need go no further than Genesis 24. Abraham said to the chief servant in his household, “Put your hand under my loins. I want you to swear by the Lord, the God of heaven and the God of earth.”

It’s fairly obvious that, unlike most politicians today, when someone made a promise in Genesis, that promise was taken seriously. I’m not saying that Mr. Moss is in the habit of swearing “loin oaths,” but I am saying that if he did, the level of intimacy that this oath entails would not be possible if our mayor wasn’t unencumbered.

Isaiah says it best in Chapter 33. “Your rigging hangs loose: The mast is not held secure, the sail is not spread.” Can this scripture be taken blatantly out of context to make a point? Of course it can! As can many others!

We should strive to judge our public officials on their merit and talent—whether it be belly dancing or playing saxophone in a jazz club—rather than dangling their shortcomings in public.

Signed,

Hayden Konig, voter

“
Excellent work,” laughed Nancy. “And Mr. Mayor, I would ask that you not dangle your shortcomings in public.”

“
Don’t you worry,” said Pete.

•••

“
Dr. Weber?” I asked.

“
Speaking.”

“
This is Chief Konig.”

“
Yes, Chief. My nurse said you’d be calling.” On the phone, Dr. Weber sounded as if he was as old as Thelma Wingler. Maybe older.

“
Did she tell you why I was calling?” I asked.

“
Yes,” said Dr. Weber. I could hear some pages being ruffled. “Thelma Wingler, right?”

“
I’m afraid so. She was found dead on Wednesday morning.”

“
I heard. I’m very sorry. Thelma’s been a patient of mine for fifty-some-odd years.”

“
Listen, Doctor, the reason I’m calling is because we found several…no, change that…we found
many
bottles of medication in Thelma’s house.”

Dr. Weber sighed over the phone. “Yes, I know.”

“
Could you explain? It’d help us out.”

“
I guess there’s no reason not to. Thelma didn’t have any next-of-kin. Her only daughter died many years ago.”

I waited.

“
Thelma was one of those patients who…” He paused. “Let’s just say that, although she wasn’t a hypochondriac in the strictest sense of the word, she was easily swayed by television advertising.”

“
That’s sort of what we thought.”

“
She was in here every month or so telling me she needed Ambien or Minoxidil or Viagra or some such thing. Finally, we did what we do for several of our patients.”

“
What was that?” I asked.

“
Sugar pills. We put a label on a bottle of sugar pills. If you look closely, you’ll see that the labels simply have the name of the drug. The instructions say to take one a day. There’s no dosage, there’s no RX number.”

“
Is that legal, Doctor?”

“
Well, it’s not
illegal.
You see, with these type of older patients, if we don’t placate their hypochondria, it’s been our experience that they’ll go to several different doctors to get what they think they need. This can result in patients taking medications that cause adverse effects when taken together. They don’t often confide in each of the doctors.”

“
Makes sense. Can you tell me what she was actually supposed to be taking?”

I heard the papers rustling again. “I had her on a very low dosage of Boniva. That’s for osteoporosis—just a preventative measure in her case. Of course, she’d seen Sally Field touting the benefits on television. The only other thing that I prescribed was taking a drug for cholesterol. Zocor. She wouldn’t take the generic equivalent. Had to be Zocor.”

“
What about the Frontline?”

“
I remember that day,” laughed Dr. Weber. “I just shook my head and had the nurse give her a bottle of ‘Frontline.’ I have a note here from her psychiatrist…”

“
Helen Sawyer?”

“
Yes. Dr. Sawyer had her on Zoloft. That was for her anxiety disorder. Have you spoken with her?”