Authors: Sara Rosett
I could tell he had already mentally moved on to his next patient, so I said, “Well, what about the family bed and anticipating your baby’s needs?”
“Two different philosophies. You decide what’s best for your family and your lifestyle. Finish up her antibiotic and she’ll be fine. Good luck.”
“But …” He gave a jaunty wave and was out the door.
I mulled over his suggestions as I changed Livvy’s diaper. Let her cry? Did he realize that she could cry for hours? Could I stand that? Could I stand to go on with intermittent sleep for how long? The next few months? Years? I shuddered as I finished changing Livvy and put her back in her car seat. Her cries tapered off to murmurs of protest. The nurse who worked with Dr. Stig
came in as I gathered up the car seat and diaper bag. I paused at the door and turned back to the nurse. Her nametag read
SHERRY.
I had some questions she might be able to answer. When I arrived at the clinic and lined up to check in for Livvy’s appointment, Nick had been in line in front of me, fidgeting and bouncing at the counter.
“Hi,” the nurse greeted him in a breathy voice. I glanced around him and saw the same nurse from last week, only today her blond hair was in a French braid instead of a ponytail.
Nick handed over his paperwork. After some flirting interspersed with chitchat, the nurse got down to business. “Do you want your appointment for the same time next week?”
“Sure.” Nick handed over cash. The nurse returned a receipt and a new appointment card to him. The phone on the counter rang.
“See you next week.” Nick flung his keys into the air and caught them, then he smiled and rushed to the stairs.
I stepped up to the counter. “One moment, please.” She picked up the phone. “One West.”
What would bring Nick back to a civilian doctor week after week? I tried to see the diagnosis checked on the yellow form, but the print was tiny. The tall nurse walked up to the nurse who had checked me out. “He was just in, huh?”
The nurse routed the call and hung up. “Yeah, but he’s never going to ask me out.”
“I can’t believe you! He comes in every week for his allergy shots and he talks to you every time. Just like he did today before his appointment. Maybe he’s shy. You should ask him out.”
I’d picked a seat in the waiting area and set up camp. Nick got an allergy shot every week. Could he do that? If Mitch took practically any over-the-counter medicine he had to go DNIF, meaning Duty Not Including Flying. He couldn’t fly. What were in allergy shots anyway?
And now here was a medical professional who could answer my questions. The doctor certainly didn’t have time to chat. “Ah, Sherry, I have a few questions.”
She pulled a new length of fresh white butcher paper over the examining table. “Sure.” She ripped the paper in a smooth motion, crumbled the used portion, and tossed it in the tall trash can.
“Well, I, ah, I’m allergic to tree pollen and I was thinking of getting allergy shots. Do you do those here?” I figured tree pollen was general enough for many people to be allergic to it.
“You must be miserable with all these pines around here. The lab handles the shots. You’ve been tested?”
“Umm-hum.” For once, I was glad to have bloodshot eyes from my late nights with Livvy.
“You get the referral for the shots from your doctor and then you come in every week.”
“But what’s in the shot?”
“Oh, it’s small amounts of the substance you’re allergic to. Your body produces antibodies to help fight the allergen, tree pollen for you. Over time your allergy symptoms should decrease. Check with your doctor first, if you’re breast-feeding.”
I thanked her and left. If Nick was allergic to something natural like tree pollen or cat hair it wouldn’t theoretically be going against regs to have allergy shots, but I didn’t think the Air Force would like him going outside of their system to have anything done. From what I understood pilots weren’t supposed to have allergies at
all. And I knew Nick wouldn’t want to go DNIF every week. That would cut down on his flight time.
There were too many people with secrets in this squadron. Gwen’s reaction to the police showed she had something to hide even though the police only asked a few questions and took the DVD player for fingerprinting. And now it seemed Nick got allergy shots on the sly. Not a massive infringement on regs, but probably against them, nonetheless.
“Thistlewait.”
“Umm, this is Ellie Avery.” I fanned myself with Oliver Thistlewait’s card. The kitchen suddenly seemed stuffy. “I found the Vincents’ stolen DVD player last night.” Gwen’s fierce anger had scared me. Calling Thistlewait was the right thing to do, even though I felt a little sneaky and depressed keeping everything I’d found out from Mitch. I’d wanted to talk to Mitch, but when I returned after finding the DVD player he was “chair flying.” Three-inch-thick regs scattered around him as he did a run-through of his check ride. I’d hit the highlights of finding the DVD player and let him get back to the boldface.
“I’ve seen the police report, Mrs. Avery,” Thistlewait said and brought me back to the present.
“Oh. Well. I just wanted to make sure you knew. Gwen was so angry. It seemed out of proportion.” And Nick at the clinic today. I’d tell him about that, too. Better to hand it off to him.
“Most people would be angry if they found an acquaintance sifting through their trash.”
“I wasn’t looking through their trash! The dog knocked it over.”
“Yes, I’m sure. Mrs. Avery, someone worked very hard to make a murder look like a tragic, but natural death. Unfortunately, we don’t have a lot of hard evidence to go on. Don’t make anyone else angry. I know you’re trying to help, but watch your step. We’re pursuing everything we’ve got on this.”
“Well.” A rush of words choked in my throat.
“Thank you for your call, Mrs. Avery.” He hung up. I stabbed his card into the kitchen bulletin board, thinking of what I should have said. I took a deep, cleansing breath and gulped water from my oversized cup. That would be the last time I called Thistlewait.
I folded a soft purple sweater and put it in the trash bag near my feet. Reaching back into the pile of clothes on the closet floor, I pulled out a sleek black skirt. After checking the pockets, I folded it and placed it on top of the sweater in the bag. It was Friday afternoon and I was cleaning Cass’s things from her closet. During an afternoon a few days before, a cleaning crew had swept through the house and returned it to a fairly normal state. Livvy sprawled in the portable crib. I could hear her heavy breathing from several feet away. It didn’t seem fair that she slept so hard during the day.
I worked steadily bagging Cass’s clothes until I picked up the last garment from the floor, a woman’s navy blazer. Cass’s clothes ranged from stained and worn jeans and sweats, which I assumed were her gardening clothes, to expensive designer clothes, mostly in bright colors. Hardly anything matched. No pants to go with the blazer, no coordinating sweaters and shirts. Many of the clothes still had tags on them with red discount slashes. She was a bargain shopper, maybe impulsive
when she found a good deal. What would Friona’s closet look like? I probably didn’t want to know. I wondered how Friona’s conversation had gone with Keith. She hadn’t called me and I debated calling her when I went home.
I slipped my hand into the pockets of the blazer and found a folded yellow paper. I smoothed it open and placed it on the desk on top of a stack of similar papers I had found in Cass’s other clothes. Most were receipts for a few dollars. This one was different. In fact, it looked familiar. Northwest Family Health was printed in blue in the top left hand corner. Large looping handwriting filled in the blanks on the form: “FamPrac—Office visit/copay $12.” Absently, I smoothed the fold lines. It was dated two weeks ago on Friday. Hadn’t Cass said at the barbeque she’d seen the doctor that morning? Family Practice, located on the lowest level, was right across the waiting area from Urgent Care and the lab, where I had spent the last two Friday mornings. What time had she been there?
I checked Livvy in the crib. Still on her tummy, she had scooted around from facing away from me to facing toward me. Like she was on a track, she made several scooting circuits during her REM sleep. I wondered if we would ever be able to move her to a bed. Would she stop circling in her sleep? She was sleeping now, so I retrieved Cass’s wall calendar from the top of the refrigerator and placed it on the desk beside the receipt. On Friday, Cass had written “B-B-Q” in black pen; “Dr. W—10:15” was penciled above the barbeque notation.
I sat down slowly in the desk chair and studied the calendar. Ten-fifteen on Friday might put Cass in the same waiting room as Nick Townsend. For the last two
weeks he had appointments between 10 and 10:30. And I heard him ask for an appointment at the same time next week.
Thoughtfully, I went back to the clothes, folded the blazer, and placed it in the pile. Had Cass seen him and realized what he was doing? If she knew, had he felt threatened? I contemplated calling Thistlewait, but cringed. I didn’t want to talk to him anytime in the near future. I pulled the drawstring tight, heaved the bag down the hall, and plunked it down beside seven other bags near the front door as the doorbell chimed.
I peeked out the narrow window beside the door and saw a woman who could be Mrs. Pillsbury Doughboy. The petite, rounded, sixtyish woman stood on the porch examining the porch light. Puffy blond hair framed her round face. She readjusted her blue wind-breaker over her ample white sweatshirt. I opened the door, hoping she had a cookie sheet with warm cookies hidden behind her back.
“Cass Vincent? I’m Isabelle Coombes,” she said, extending her hand.
No cookies. Bummer. “No, I’m a neighbor, Ellie Avery,” I said and shook her hand.
“Oh. Is Cass here?”
I couldn’t blurt out that Cass was dead, so I said, “You’d better come in.” She followed me into the living room. “You’re a friend?”
Isabelle Coombes plopped down on the sofa and planted her hefty beige bag beside her laced-up rubber-soled shoes. “Not really. We’re more e-mail correspondents. Cyberfriends, isn’t that the proper lingo? I knew her from her newspaper column, ‘Clippings with Cass,’ you know?”
I was relieved she wasn’t a close friend. “Mrs. Coombes, I’m afraid I have some bad news. Cass died two weeks ago.”
“What?” She dropped the purse strap and pressed short, plump fingers against her lips. “She died?”
“Yes. I’m afraid so. Mrs. Coombes, can I get you something? A glass of water?”
She pulled her fingers away from her mouth and shook her head. “Please call me Isabelle. I don’t need anything. I’m a nurse, after all. It just surprised me. She was quite young, wasn’t she?”
“Yes. Midtwenties, I think. It was anaphylactic shock. She was stung by wasps and had a severe reaction.”
“Oh, my. How terrible. I’ve been moving, so I didn’t realize. I haven’t seen the paper in a few weeks. Were you a close friend?”
“No, I’d just met her. I’m here today because her husband asked me to sort through her things. I’m a professional organizer.” I realized it was the first time I’d identified myself as a professional organizer. It felt good.
“Well, I guess you’re the one I need to talk to. Cass was helping me with—. Well, it’s a long story. I wanted to buy back my father’s land. He owned a piece of the valley.” She gestured to the right, but I realized she meant the valley to the west of Vernon below the dropoff on Rim Rock Road.
“Dad sold to a neighbor down the gravel road when I finished school and moved to Portland. That finally convinced him I wasn’t going to live on the land. He used to tell me it was the finest spread in the inland Northwest and someday I’d realize that. I’d told him for years I couldn’t wait to get out of Vernon.” She paused, then smiled a bit self-consciously. “Turns out Dad was
right. I was a nurse anesthesiologist and I loved my job at the clinic in Portland. But I’m retired now and I want to move back here. To a slower pace.”
This was way more information than I needed—or wanted—to know, but Isabelle was rolling along in her explanation and I couldn’t cut her off and shove her out the door without being rude. She’d just had a shock, after all.
“Anyway, a few months ago I called a real estate agent and asked him to track down the current owners, so I could make an offer. I subscribed to the
Vernon Dispatch
—had it mailed—so I could see what the real estate market was like here. I was never so surprised as when the agent called back and said the property didn’t belong to the Norwoods anymore and a big subdivision was going in. He said something about an easement. I wanted him to look into it for me, but he wanted a quick sale. He had several ‘nifty’ condos in an assisted living complex.”
Isabelle sniffed. “Assisted living. ‘Nifty,’ indeed. I’d seen Cass’s column and read in the other articles about how she protested that Wal-Mart construction, so I e-mailed her and told her about the subdivision. I just don’t see how they could put a subdivision on it. Dad loved that land and he kept saying I’d want to come back to it someday. So before he sold it he put an easement on it. Cass was interested and said she’d research it. Have you seen any paperwork about that?”
“No, I haven’t. But you’d need to talk to her husband, I think. He’s out of town and hard to reach, but I can give him a message.”
“Thank you. That is so nice.” Isabelle scooted to the edge of the sofa and dug through her purse. “Here’s my new phone number.” She scribbled it on the back of a
business card and held it out. “I’ve rented an apartment here until I can find out about my land. I’ll be out of town for the next week or so—going down to see my grandson get married—but you can leave me a message.”
Isabelle levered herself up and hooked the purse’s strap into the crook of her elbow. “I surely appreciate it.” She stopped at the door. “Please tell her husband I’m sorry.”
I pulled out my cell phone, called Joe’s parents’ number, and left him a message about Isabelle Coombes, then I returned to the bedroom and sorted through shoes, belts, and a few purses. There was a gym bag, which I left for Joe, a large black leather purse with long handles and a small glittery black beaded bag. I remembered Cass’s large woven bag on the front seat of her van. I found it under the bed’s dust ruffle. Lipstick, sunglasses, pens, notebook, wallet, gum, hair clips, and antihistamine tablets spilled onto the bed when I up-ended it. I ran my fingers over the items, separating them. No EpiPen. Had Cass lost it? Or was it removed? Had Thistlewait looked through her purse when he looked around their house? Probably not. I couldn’t see him shoving it back under the bed.