Trudy, Madly, Deeply (Working Stiffs Mystery Series) (13 page)

“What about Dr. Straitham?”

She shrugged, her lips pressed together. “He doesn’t usually keep those hours.”

There was something about the way she said
usually
.

“You’d seen him here other nights?”

“Not really. I’d just seen Dr. Straitham’s car a couple of times when I went out for a smoke.”

“But not him.”

She hung her head. “No.”

What the hell? His car was here but she never saw him?

“Did you see his car the night Trudy died?”

“Only after Dr. Cardinale called him. I didn’t notice it before that.”

That meant that she couldn’t help me with the timeline for Warren Straitham’s whereabouts at the time of Trudy’s death.

“Cindy, what about the early morning that Rose Kozarek died? You were working that shift, right?”

She nodded.

“Do you remember if you saw Dr. Straitham anytime during your shift?”

“You’re the second person to ask me that this week.”

That was the last thing I’d expected her to say. “Who was the first?”

“Steve Sixkiller.”

Chapter Eleven

After a torturously long morning hunched over a row of filing cabinets, I made a break for Duke’s. My growling stomach hankered for one of his patty melts, but more importantly, I wanted to see how Alice was doing.

Typical for the noon hour, the savory aroma of burgers and bacon sizzling on the grill hung on the air and most every table was occupied. Not so typical, there was no sign of Alice in the cafe.

I went to the juice dispenser, poured two glasses of orange juice and set one on the counter in front of the grill.

Duke glared at the juice glass like I’d spiked it with arsenic. “What’s that for?”

“It’s good for you.” And if I knew him, he hadn’t had much to eat or drink all day.

“You paying for it?”

“Hadn’t planned to.”

“So what else is new?”

Ignoring the wisecrack, I watched him suck down the juice in three big gulps. “How’s Alice doing?” I asked.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “She keeps saying she’s fine, but she went home early. That should tell you how fine she is.”

It did, and now I was even more worried. “Do you think there’s any way I could talk her into seeing Dr. Straitham?”

“See the doc after what happened last Saturday?” Duke flipped a burger. “Pigs would have to fly out of my butt first. I’ll take her to the ER if it gets any worse.”

The ER, where Trudy and Rose had arrived a couple of days before they took their final breaths? “That might not go over real well, either.”

“I’m bigger than she is. I’ll
insist
.”

I’d been down that road before with Alice. Insisting that my great-aunt do anything she didn’t want to do met the same reception as a cat facing a sink full of sudsy water.

Lucille squeaked up behind me while I asked Duke to make me a patty melt. “So, what did you find out at the hospital?” she asked.

“What did you do—put a tail on me?”

“I have my sources.”

And if they worked at the hospital I wanted to know what else she had found out.

“Did your sources tell you where Dr. Straitham was the morning of Trudy’s death?”

“Jay-sus!” Duke rolled his eyes. “Don’t encourage her.”

Lucille glared at Duke. “All I know is that he managed to get to the hospital pretty damned quick to break the news to Norm.”

That confirmed Kyle Cardinale’s statement but didn’t shed even a glimmer of light on where Dr. Straitham had been when he received the call from the hospital.

“Order up!” Duke barked. “Some nice people would like to eat sometime today.”

“If you hadn’t noticed, some nice people are being killed off around here.” Lucille cocked her head. “Which do you think is more important?”

Glowering, Duke pointed his spatula at me. “See what you started?”

“Who me? I’m just here for my free lunch.”

I caught a fleeting smile as he plated the patty melt. “Yeah, right.”

I kissed his grizzled cheek, grabbed the plate, then surveyed the small crowd and spotted Jayne Elwood sitting alone near the door.

It seemed like a good opportunity to have some casual chitchat with Jayne so I slid onto the seat at the next table, facing her.

“Waiting for Ernie?” I asked.

She glanced out the window with a wistful smile on her lips. “He must be running a little late.”

I took a bite of my patty melt and watched her cross her legs, smoothing her pale yellow skirt over her knees. A tan leather flat dangled from her left foot. It looked new.

I wanted to keep the conversation going to hear how she’d hooked up with Ernie. Since it wouldn’t help me to appear too eager, I used what she was giving me. “Those look like comfortable shoes.”

“Oh, they are. I could wear them all day, and they’re marvelous for dancing.”

“Dancing?” Had everyone in town taken a sudden interest in dancing?

Jayne smiled, leaning my direction. “Honey, it’s Tango Tuesday. You should put on your dancing shoes and join us,” she added as Lucille topped off her coffee.

“Dancin’ shoes!” Lucille scoffed. “Char?”

“Sounds like fun,” I said. Even more, it sounded like something I shouldn’t miss, especially if Steve was going to make an appearance.

Lucille gaped at me. “It does? Don’t you have someplace else you’d rather be than the senior center?”

“Not on Tango Tuesday.”

* * *

At two twenty-five I parked the Jag in a shaded spot near the front door of the medical building on 2
nd
Street that Warren Straitham shared with my former orthodontist.

“Ah don’t know that this is such a good idea,” Marietta said, using the passenger vanity mirror to fluff her cropped hair.

“It’ll be fine. I’m just going to ask the girls in the office a few questions while you’re in with the doctor.”

She smiled at the mirror, checking her teeth. “What’s my problem again?”

Sometimes my mother made it way too easy to take a cheap shot.

Since I needed an ally willing to play her part, not a pissed off actress, I took the high road. “You’re having trouble sleeping,” I said, stifling a yawn.

“Ah’m sleeping just fine as opposed to some people around here.”

“You’re a skilled actress. You can fake it.”

I was sure it wouldn’t have been the first time.

Marietta’s lips curled in satisfaction at the sugar-coated praise.

“Think of it as improvisation,” I added as we got out of the car. “And don’t let him leave the room before he writes you a prescription.”

She sighed. “Ah really don’t need a prescription.”

I did.

Warren Straitham’s waiting room hadn’t changed much in the twelve years since I’d been here last. Maybe an upgrade in the wall-to-wall carpeting and a few new prints by local artists. What I found most remarkable about Dr. Straitham’s office was that every chair in his cramped waiting room was occupied by a middle-aged woman with her gaze fixed on my mother.

A half dozen cell phones and cameras took aim at us, clicking and whirring.

Fans.

My mother beamed with delight as she touched the base of her throat in mock-surprise. “Oh, mah, the doctor must be very busy today.”

Yeah. Like hormone therapy was the special of the day.

“Ms. Moreau.” Claudia, the receptionist, who had been two years behind me in high school, handed Marietta a clipboard and smiled reverently. “We just need to update your history.”

“Mah history?” Marietta leaned against the reception desk. “Ah am sorry, but there’s been a little misunderstandin’. This appointment is actually for Chahmaine.”

My jaw clenched so tight I could have broken a molar. “What?”

Her gaze soft as silk, Marietta touched my cheek. The last time I’d been bathed in so much motherly affection, she’d powdered my other cheeks. “It’s the only way ah could get her to come in and see the doctor about her sleepin’ disorder.”

Claudia’s eyes widened.

I shook my head. “I don’t have a disorder.”

Marietta pushed the clipboard at me. “As you can see, she’s in a bit of denial.”

I pushed it back. “What are you doing?”

“Do you know how much one of the scandal rags would pay for those pictures?” she whispered in my ear. “I don’t need that kind of press.”

Like some dweeb at a tabloid would care about one of Hollywood’s many beauty queens whose reign had been reduced to hawking her wares on cable TV infomercials.

Claudia handed me a ballpoint pen. “If you’ll just fill out the form, the doctor will see you in a few minutes.”

Marietta sighed contentedly. “Thank you ever so much.” She leaned in, resting her elbows on the half wall. “There’s just one more teensy little thing.”

Claudia smiled. “What can we do for you?”

“If it isn’t too much to ask, is there somewhere back there that ah could wait for mah daughter? It’s a little crowded out here, if you know what ah mean.”

“Of course there is,” Claudia said, bounding from her seat.

Marietta winked at me. “Isn’t this fun?” she whispered.

“Yeah.” At least one of us was having a good time.

“It’s like that episode when ah had to wear a bikini to distract the bad guys while Josie rifled through the accountant’s safe for evidence that he was the one embezzling the funds.” Marietta shrugged. “Except for the bikini part, of course.”

And the accountant.

And the embezzling.

The waiting room door closed behind my mother and ten menopausal women stared at me like I was personally responsible for sucking all the fun out of the room.

I wasn’t too crazy about the situation, either, especially when one of them snapped my picture.

At least I didn’t need to worry about landing on the cover of a scandal rag. And given the doctor I’d soon be seeing, what the mad snapper planned to do with that photo was the least of my concerns.

Three minutes later, a forty-ish nurse I didn’t recognize opened the door. “Charmaine?”

“I’m Shannon,” she said with a smile as she took the clipboard.

As I followed her down the hall, I heard several women laughing, one of them my mother.

Shannon glanced back over her shoulder. “Your mom’s a hoot.”

Not exactly the first word that came to mind when describing Marietta, but as long as she was a hoot who could be discreet for the next fifteen minutes, I could live with it.

Shannon stopped at a scale. “Let’s get you weighed in.”

I’d sooner let my mother give me a facial. Every day for a month.

I slipped off my shoes. “Every little bit helps, right?” If I could have stripped naked and kept a shred of my dignity, I would have.

“Of course.” Shannon set the bottom scale weight to one hundred fifty, and kept sliding the top weight until the scale leveled off at one sixty-four.

Holy crap!

“Okey dokey,” Shannon chirped after a little lip press. Incongruity. Words and action mismatch. Pretty typical in friends’ white lies, customer service representatives working on commission, and weigh-ins by skinny nurses at the doctor’s office.

Shannon led me to an examination room at the end of a short hallway, and I took a seat on a paper-covered padded table. She took my vitals and a few minutes later, I heard a knock on the door.

“Hello, Charmaine,” Dr. Straitham said in a businesslike manner with Shannon hot on his heels. No smile, no attempt to put me at ease.

No big surprise. Given what had happened at Trudy’s funeral it would have been a wasted effort because there was absolutely nothing he could do short of giving me an injection to help me relax. And given why I was here, especially not that.

He sat on a short black stool with caster wheels and looked up at me after he scanned my chart. “So … you’ve been having some trouble sleeping.”

I nodded.

“How long has this been going on?”

“Over a week.”

“Uh huh.” He made a note in the chart, then flashed a penlight in my eyes. He crossed his legs and jotted some more notes. “Getting enough exercise?”

“Uh … probably not.” Although I was getting a lot more now that I was chasing down anyone who might know where he had been in the early hours of last Monday morning.

“What about your diet? Sometimes the foods we eat can keep us up at night.”

“I don’t think food’s the problem.”

Dr. Straitham’s gaze transferred to my hips, then back to my eyes. “Uh huh. Looks like you’ve gained a few pounds in the last several years.” He flipped a couple of pages in my chart. “Thirty-two since you were in last.”

That meant I’d gained an average of less than three pounds a year. If I hadn’t just tipped the scales at a hundred and sixty-four pounds, I might have thought that was pretty darn good.

He pursed his mouth. “What’d you have for breakfast this morning?”

“Oatmeal.” I neglected to mention the half-cup of creamer I’d dumped in my coffee.

“Lunch?”

“A patty melt.”

“Uh huh.” He set the chart down on the desk and met my gaze. “Charmaine, I know you’re a smart girl. What are you trying to do?”

Excuse me? “I’m just trying to get a little more sleep.”
And find out what the hell you’ve been up to.

“Hmmmm.” He twisted off the stool, tapped my back, then listened to my heart. “You having headaches?”

“Sometimes.”

“You have a new job, right?”

Uh oh.
“Yes.”

“Could be stress-related.”

“Things have been a little stressful lately,” I said, watching for his reaction.

He offered up a humorless smile. “Yeah.”

“A lot is going on. You know, with Trudy Bergeson’s death and all.”

Eyes downcast, he slowly nodded. “Very sad.”

And he clearly felt sadness, which proved absolutely nothing. After Chris asked me for a divorce, he had the same exact expression. Didn’t stop the jerk from telling me he wanted out, didn’t make me feel better, and didn’t alter the outcome of the situation one iota.

“Thanks, Shannon,” he said as she clicked the door shut behind her.

Uh oh.

Dr. Straitham sat back down on the stool, leaned back against the wall, and stared at me for several ticks of the wall clock near the door.