Bad Hair Day 2 - Hair Raiser (13 page)

*Chapter Thirteen*
The waiting room in Dr. Taylor's office made Marla feel like a piece of meat in an inspection plant. Furnishings were nondescript, magazine selections were unappealing, and the receptionist displayed all the charm of an ice cooler. Marla was a patient number waiting to be called, examined, and signed off on a list. Glancing at the table where magazines were tossed haphazardly, she perused the titles: _Boating, Sports Illustrated, Skiing_ (that was a good one in Florida), _Popular Mechanics,_ and a three-month-old issue of _Newsweek._ Didn't Dr. Taylor realize women had different reading tastes than men?
After relieving her boredom by studying the hairstyles and clothes of the other patients cramming the small space, she turned her thoughts inward. Spooks had been ecstatic to greet her that morning when she'd picked him up from the kennel. She'd barely had time to take him home, let him out in the yard, and drink two cups of coffee before going to work at nine. Nicole hadn't been too happy to learn Marla had an afternoon appointment which would again mean foisting customers off on her colleagues. Marla felt guilty already, having ignored the messages on her answering machine in her rush to get to work that morning. Anita was eager for a report on her progress with David. Marla couldn't help wondering what part her mother had played in Cynthia's invitation to them. Cynthia wanted to know how she and David had gotten along as well as what they'd learned. Tally was concerned about her absence, making Marla regret she hadn't notified her friend that she was going away, and Dalton Vail demanded an immediate return phone call. From the fury in his voice, she'd prefer to avoid responding to him at all.
_Bless my bones, I'm making a mess of everything._ Not only had she failed to learn the name of Popeye's heir, but she'd left David with the impression that his courtship was on track. She had been so rattled by the disastrous events on their trip that she'd clung to him through the plane ride home and weakly promised to get together with him again soon. She'd even let him kiss her goodbye. Obviously, he had mistaken her numb state of mind for something more, while part of her brain noted his embrace didn't fire her senses the same as Dalton's. Anyway, she'd sort out matters between them another time. David had a lot going for him: looks, an easygoing manner, and a secure position in life, but maybe that wasn't enough.
Or maybe she was a _schnook_ who didn't know a good thing when she saw it.
A nurse called her name, scattering her thoughts. Grasping her purse, she followed the woman into a treatment room. Another long wait followed, during which Marla had plenty of time to study the red plastic biomedical waste container, disposable latex gloves, gauze pads, metal instruments, and sterile solutions laid out on the counter.
"Marla, what seems to be the problem?" Russ Taylor asked after an overly enthusiastic greeting. The surgeon wore a white lab coat over a shirt and tie and pair of navy slacks. Fatigue lines etched his face, but they were offset by a tilt to his mouth that indicated he possessed a sense of humor.
Before her trip to the Bahamas, she'd debated what to tell him, but now she had some legitimate concerns.
"I was a _klutz_ and tripped over a curb last week." She turned her hands up to show him her skinned palms, hoping he wouldn't notice the scrapes were recent. "My wrists have been sore, so I wanted to make sure nothing else was damaged." That much was true; she'd found herself rubbing her wrists on the flight home yesterday, and today they ached. With the volume of work awaiting her, she didn't need any more delays.
His examination was brief but thorough. "Those bruises will go away with time," he said, combing his fingers through a thick head of hair. She liked his style, a reasonable length brushed off his forehead and groomed on his nape. "Your wrists are tender, but I don't see any further problems developing there. Just give your hands a rest and they'll heal."
_No, thanks. Been there, done that,_ she thought, remembering the hand injuries inflicted on her by Bertha Kravitz's killer.
"I was in the Bahamas the last few days to learn about Popeye's heir," she blurted, as he headed for the door. That stopped him cold. "David Newberg and I got word that the trustee for Popeye's estate was there on business, so we went to see him. Since Ben died, I've been wondering who's trying to sabotage Ocean Guard's fund-raiser. The heir has the most to gain."
Russ Taylor regarded her impassively. "And?"
"Morton Riley was dead when we arrived. Murdered." She'd hoped by offering information, Taylor would react, but his heavy silence prompted her to continue. "I was there. I saw ... the body." She visualized Riley stretched out on the floor, a knife protruding from his chest. The coppery scent of blood fouling the air. David's reassuring presence as they stumbled through the night to reach their hotel and safety.
"Aren't you wondering who killed Ben?" she demanded. "Don't you want to know who's been obstructing our efforts for Ocean Guard? Someone dangerous is out there, killing people to get his way. Any one of us might be next."
He lifted his nose. "You're not a member of the board, so I don't see why you're so concerned."
"Cynthia asked for my help. Did she tell you someone is dumping medical waste in the mangrove preserve next to her estate? That contamination diminishes Ocean Guard's chances of fulfilling the terms of the trust."
Casting a glance at the red sharps container on the counter, she lowered her voice meaningfully. "Whoever is guilty must have access to the stuff."
"I have no idea what you're talking about. My other patients are waiting." With a brusque movement, he thrust open the door and marched out.
Well, he'd sure given her the shaft. She still needed to know something about his personal background to determine if he might be the heir. Then there was the matter of his financial health. Maybe his staff could provide information.
Outside in the hallway, she asked a nurse the way to Dr. Taylor's office. "He wants to discuss my condition," she confided with a bewildered expression designed to gain sympathy.
Directed to the end of the corridor, she hooked around a corner and entered a spacious room overlooking tropical greenery beyond a wide picture window. Mahogany and leather dominated the furnishings, while her shopaholic-trained vision noted expensive accessories. Even if Dr. Taylor's investment in the outpatient clinic was doing poorly, his practice must be doing well, she thought. Other doctors had been forced to give up their solo practice to join groups because managed care had reduced their income so drastically. Or maybe Dr. Taylor cut his expenses by dumping medical waste illegally. That would only make sense if he paid high fees to the waste disposal company, she repeated to herself, anxious to confirm or eliminate the prospect.
Drawn to the photographs on his desk, she studied a picture of Russ Taylor flanked by an attractive brunette she assumed was his wife, and a girl about fifteen. Other photos showed happy family scenes with the three of them. In orderly fashion, the frames marched across his desk like troopers lined up for inspection. Two pens, black and gold, were aligned parallel to the desk blotter in neat precision with a mechanical pencil. Like soldiers on patrol, she observed.
A cough from behind alerted her to someone else's presence. Whirling around, she saw one of the nurses eyeing her curiously.
"May I help you?" the nurse asked. She was a pleasant-faced young woman with gold-highlighted hair that needed a good trim.
"I was just waiting for Dr. Taylor, thanks. These are lovely photographs, aren't they?"
The nurse, smoothing her uniform, smiled. "Dr. Taylor is very devoted to his children. I -- I mean his family," she stuttered, looking faintly alarmed.
"Really? He's fortunate that the HMOs haven't affected his business. It's expensive having a teenage daughter these days."
"No kidding. I've got two preteens myself." She seemed amenable to chatting, for which Marla was grateful.
Marla kept a careful eye on the doorway while she kept the conversational ball rolling. "The doctor is involved in that outpatient surgical clinic that's near here, isn't he?"
"Sure, a lot of the doctors in the building were invited to participate. From what I hear, things aren't doing so well over there because managed-care plans don't want to pay. But Dr. Taylor has been doing all right, thank goodness. After all, he has to cover our salaries and benefits. He's got a family to support, and then there's his ... well, he has quite an extra expense every month."
"How's that?" Marla's pulse accelerated. Now she was getting somewhere!
"The poor man, he never talks about it. You know how he is, such a perfectionist about everything. That's why he's such an excellent surgeon. But it must break his heart to have -- "
"Ladies, what are you doing in here?" Dr. Taylor's icy tone interrupted them.
The nurse's hand flew to her mouth. "Oh, I'm sorry, sir. This lady said she was waiting to speak to you."
"That will be all, Sheila." He waited until she left before letting an ugly scowl betray his emotions. "I thought I was finished with you," he said to Marla.
Feeling like a rat caught in a trap, she floundered for a response. "I, uh, had another question."
"Yes?" His suspicious gaze traveled from her to his desk, as though he were afraid she might have moved one of his precious possessions.
She decided to be bold. "How much do you pay per month to the waste disposal company? I'm just trying to get a handle on who might be polluting the preserve. Any information would be helpful."
His eyes hardened. "I have no idea. Why don't you let your cousin deal with that problem?"
"She's got enough to do. We're having Thanksgiving at her house this year. Normally, my cousin Julia has the family over in November, and Cynthia does Passover in the spring. But Julia and her husband will be away on a cruise during Thanksgiving week. Cynthia volunteered to switch even though Taste of the World is next month." A nervous chuckle bubbled from her throat. "If she's smart, Cynthia will keep the tables set up for the few weeks in between."
His lips tightened in response to her prattle. "I see. Well, if you want information on who picks up our red containers, ask the girls at the front desk."
"Thank you." Scurrying away, she was surprised by his apparent cooperation. Maybe she was looking in the wrong direction to think him guilty of dumping the waste in the preserve. But then again, according to his nurse, he had some major expense every month that he didn't like to talk about. And Lance had said the clinic's financial balance was faltering.
Unfortunately, none of his staff could provide the information she needed. She had to find out if the disposal fees were significant enough for her to pursue this tract. That left one alternative; she needed to speak to someone in the waste disposal company itself.
In her car was the information given to her by the dentist. Sifting through the papers, she found a local address in Davie, about fifteen minutes from her current location. Checking her watch, she cursed at the time that had elapsed. Her clients must be stewing by now. She'd just have to make it up to them later. Offering a discount on the next appointment might be useful.
Driving by a warehouse district, she searched for the street address for UFO Medical Waste Systems. She found it in a two-story white concrete building with green trim. Pulling into a parking lot, she watched a large truck with the company's insignia rumble by from a yard in the back.
A receptionist sat at a desk in the front office. On one side, a closed door led to an inner sanctum. On the other side, a stairway climbed to the second level. A couple of roughly dressed men were chugging Cokes and chatting in a corner. Furnishings were sparse, mainly a threadbare couch, a Formica table, and a soda machine of an early vintage.
Ignoring the men, who had broken off their conversation to stare at her in blatant interest, Marla got to the heart of the matter. "I work for Ocean Guard, a beach preservation society," she told the girl at the desk. "We're having a problem with medical waste washing up on the shore, and I'd like information that may help us pinpoint the culprit. Would you be able to tell me how much the monthly disposal fee is for a doctor's office and for a surgical clinic?"
The girl tapped a painted fingernail to her chin. "I don't have a clue, honey. If you've got a few minutes, I'll ask Woody upstairs."
"Okay." Marla paced idly while the girl made the call. Color warmed her cheeks when one of the men winked at her.
"If anyone can help you, doll, Woody is the fellow. He knows everything that goes on this place."
"Great." She hoped they were right. Time was rushing by, and she needed to get back to work.
The receptionist signaled. "Woody can talk to you. Go on up those stairs, hang a right, and go to the room at the end."
After passing a row of cubicles where workers toiled diligently, Marla entered the room indicated. Instead of an office, it was a conference center, complete with a long polished wood table and stately chairs with space enough for about twenty people. At the far end sat a man in shirtsleeves and tie. Concentrating on a stack of papers spread out on the table, he didn't look up until she cleared her throat.
"I appreciate your taking the time to see me," she began.

"Please, take a seat. What can I do for you? My name is Woody Erikson, and I'm a major account executive."
They shook hands, then Marla lowered herself into a chair at a ninety-degree angle from his. "I'm Marla Shore, and I represent Ocean Guard. We're concerned about someone illegally dumping medical waste on a private beach owned by our organization. We think we have a lead on the individual who might be responsible, but I need more information. How much does a doctor's office pay per month to your disposal company?"
Woody leaned back in his chair, exposing a paunch. "Well now, that depends. A private office may pay seven dollars per reusable sharps container or twenty dollars per thirty-gallon box for general medical waste. Say they use eight boxes per month. That's one hundred sixty dollars."
"Or nineteen hundred twenty dollars a year," said Marla, doing a quick mental calculation. Hardly an amount of money worth committing an illegal act to save. "And a surgical clinic?"
"There you're talking from five hundred to three thousand a month. Hold on, let me give you a copy of the regulations."
While he left the room, Marla pondered the implications. Would Dr. Taylor risk exposure for up to thirty-six thousand dollars a year? It sounded substantial to her, but that might be peanuts to his purse. She wasn't sure if saving money was a valid enough motive in this case. And that brought her right back to Popeye's heir who had more to gain.
"Here's a copy of the Florida Administrative Code for biomedical waste," Woody said, handing her some stapled papers. "That one lists rules and gives definitions. The waste acceptance protocol are the instructions we give out to our generators. It explains the types of waste we accept, how it should be packaged and labeled, and describes transportation and treatment facilities. Generators must use only registered transporters to remove biomedical waste. Our company provides a receipt for each service."
"Can this receipt be a way to track the user?"
Woody scratched his jaw. "Maybe. A tracking document accompanies all waste transported from the generator. This gives the type and quantity of waste products; the generator's name, address, and phone number; information about the transporter and the medical waste treatment facility. The customer retains a signed copy. We file them for at least three years."
"So if I can find a labeled biohazard bag or sharps container, you might be able to trace its origins?"
He nodded. "It's more likely that your culprit is using unauthorized containers to haul the stuff wherever it's being dumped. In that scenario, you wouldn't have means to trace its source. May I offer a suggestion?"
"Of course."
"I wouldn't ask you to touch the stuff, but maybe you can take photographs and bring them to me. That might give us some hints of where the material is originating."
"How so?" She regarded him in puzzlement. Wasn't all biomedical waste the same syringes, bandages, and such?
He rolled his shoulders as though stretching his muscles. "Some items are peculiar to the type of generator. For example, nursing homes dispose of a lot of diapers. If you've got those in your waste, I'd look in that direction."
Marla grimaced. "Next time, I'll inspect the debris more carefully." Definitely not a prospect she anticipated with any glee. Rising, she smiled and extended her hand. "I really appreciate your help, Mr. Erikson. If I get those photographs, I'll be sure to bring them to you for your expert opinion."
She'd pass on the advice to Cynthia as soon as she could spare the time to make return phone calls. After finishing off her last two customers for the day and wrapping things up in the salon, she picked up a few groceries and went home. Having let Spooks out the back door, she headed into her office where the blinking red light on her answering machine made her groan. Too much to do, not enough time!
Fielding questions from her mother about David and filling Tally in on recent events took over an hour. Her conversation with Cynthia was brief but more upsetting.
"David told me about Morton Riley," Cynthia snapped. "I can't believe you didn't give me the news right away. Where have you been all day? I'd half a mind to drop in at your salon, but I wasn't near that end of town this morning."
"Sorry, I had a lot to do." Feeling remorseful, Marla stooped down from her desk chair to scratch Spooks behind his ear. His yapping had compelled her to let him back inside the house after her first phone call. His affectionate presence brought her comfort as she sought to appease her cousin.
"Riley was the only one who could tell us the identity of Popeye's heir," Cynthia replied. "Now what are we going to do? That disgusting waste is still washing through the preserve, and we've lost our only chance to learn who's responsible."
"Not necessarily," Marla replied soothingly. "Your husband may still connect with Ben's legal assistant and get the answers we need. Or there's another alternative. If you can get me photos of the debris, I'll show them to a man at the waste disposal facility. He may be able to help us pinpoint the source."
"I'll try." An exasperated sigh came across the line.
"How's it going with Annie?"
"Don't ask."
"Things will turn out okay. Have faith, cuz."
Hanging up, Marla considered whom to call next. The hell with it. She'd rather take a bath than talk to anyone else.
Soaking in the tub surrounded by sudsy bubbles, she sifted through the mental list of chores for the next day. Babs had an afternoon appointment, meaning Marla would be able to question the woman about her deceptive trip to Orlando. That encounter should prove interesting, but she wasn't as eager for the other item on her list. Interviewing Stefano Barletti about Pre-Need funeral arrangements would be a somber affair.