I
t felt so good to have Matt back from the hospital. He sat in the living room wrapped in a new flannel blanket I’d ordered on-line, but his color was returning, and his appetite was excellent. Even I had a hard time eating two whole cannoli in one sitting, but he managed, within an hour of being home.
“Don’t want to insult Rose,” he said, as if she were present to witness any restraint.
Jean had left his hospital room by the time I got back from the vending machine with a coffee-colored beverage. She had a client to see in Medford, she’d told Matt, and would be back to Fernwood Avenue in the afternoon. I didn’t ask how the marriage conversation turned out. It seemed ironic that the subject had been instigated by a nurse who happened to be on duty when Matt was wheeled in.
When the doorbell rang, Matt flicked his blanket off and went to answer. The simple movement lifted my spirits, and I felt great hope that his previous listless behavior was due to the medication that had put him in the hospital. The doctors had yet to tell us what would replace those drugs, but a moment of respite was welcome.
“Looking good, buddy,” I heard George Berger say, as the two men walked toward the living room.
Berger reached down to the plate on the coffee table and scooped up the last cannoli, the one both Matt and I had avoided because of the chocolate chips mixed into the cream. Not authentic, but Berger wouldn’t know that.
He offered a treat of his own, wrapped in a blue RPD folder. “We got a transcript from the Houston PD. They had a joint interview with the party who hired Nina Martin and an FDA inspector. They’ve released the text to us.”
I made a grabbing motion, and Berger pulled the file back, teasing. “Martin was hired by a woman named Penny Trumble. That’s going to be PT in the margin. And the interviewers are just listed as HPD for Houston PD, and FDA, for …”
The last words, fortunately unnecessary, were buried under chewing sounds.
“Thanks for dropping this by,” Matt said.
“Okay, have fun. And be prepared. Nina Martin was in Revere about a horse.”
“A horse,” Matt and I said, almost at the same time, with different tones. Mine was questioning; his was more like
I thought so
.
Berger had eaten his entire cannoli standing at the table. He brushed his hands together, sending powdered sugar into the air, and gave us a wave. “I got to take my nephews to soccer.”
“If you need me to explain icosahedrons …”
Berger smiled. “Thanks, Gloria. I’ll let you know.”
I turned immediately to Matt. “You sounded as though you expected a horse.”
He shrugged. “Not exactly, but I have been asking myself what are the possibilities why Nina would have Lorna’s phone number. One would be the connection to Lorna as a scientist, and the other would be to Lorna as a horsewoman. Trouble with you is, you always think science is the only thing someone does.”
I cleared my throat. “Is that a criticism?”
“Does it matter?”
“No. Let’s get to the transcript.”
A transcript. Something official,
how different,
I thought,
from what we had so far
—a wayward email, babbling from under Wayne’s handlebar mustache, Jake’s casual remarks at dinner. I rubbed my hands together the way Elaine would do when she saw a new hardback by one of her favorite writers. Berger, who was turning into
my best friend, was smart enough to bring a copy each for Matt and me. We retreated to our reading corner and turned pages almost simultaneously, skipping the boilerplate such as time and place, and getting to the heart of the matter.
HPD: So you hired Ms. Martin when your horse died.
PT: Yes, Lucian Five. He was an Andalusian.
HPD: That’s a breed?
HPD: You have to say it out loud for the tape. PT: Yes, Andalusian is a breed. He had the most beautiful mane.
HPD: And the animal lived on the ranch with you and your niece?
PT: Yes. My brother’s girl. She stays with me and works on the ranch full-time. The Trumble X Ranch.
HPD: Okay. So you thought something was funny about how the horse died?
PT: Yes, it was horrible. He … beat himself to death, flailing around inside his stall. He tore the stall apart. We heard the noise, but thought it was just the wind since it had been stormy all evening; then in the morning, there he was. There was so much blood, and his face was disfigured …
I imagined PT was upset at reliving such a horrible scene. Nothing the transcript would pick up, however. We needed video, I thought, for a true representation of an interview.
FDA: Ms. Trumble, you said that just before this, you’d had a veterinarian install a microchip in the animal’s body?
PT: Lucian Five.
FDA: In Lucian Five’s body.
PT: Yes, on the side of his neck under the mane, so if he had a bad initial reaction, like a rash or anything, it would be hidden by the hair. FDA: Because if the rash showed, there might be points taken off at the show, is that correct? PT: Yes, dressage judges can be influenced by how well your horse appears to be taken care of, the grooming, how intricately his mane is braided, even the rider’s outfit.
FDA: And you took very good care of Lucian Five? Had regular checkups, that kind of thing?
PT: Of course. I know what you’re getting at. Lucian Five had the best in medical care. I’m telling you it was that chip.
FDA: Can you tell us why you had that chip implanted?
PT: One of the vendors at a show I was at was offering a very good deal. And I’d read about how it was important for identification in case Lucian Five was lost or stolen. We’d be able to prove it was really Lucian Five.
FDA: What makes you think the microchip was responsible for your horse’s death?
PT: Lucian Five was fine before the implant. He’s an older horse, and he’s allergic to a lot of things he could take when he was younger. Some common sedatives act as a stimulant for him. He can’t even take bute, except in very small doses. He didn’t react right away, so maybe the chip was like those time-release cold capsules. I’m not a vet, but I’ve been around horses and vets all my life, and I know there was something strange about that chip.
Bute. It might as well have been written in red. I highlighted it on my copy of the transcript, so it was at least in pink. I looked over at Matt, who seemed engrossed, and not sleepy. And anyway, Trumble had mentioned bute only peripherally. Nothing to stop for right away.
FDA: So you hired a private detective. Why not report the incident to whoever takes care of medical regulations for shows?
PT: They just care whether some competition rule was violated. I wanted to know what happened to my horse. I wanted some proof that the chips were responsible, so I hired Ms. Martin to find out what they were made of, or something—without alerting the vet who put it there. She specializes in crimes against animals, and she said she would take care of reporting her findings to the proper authorities, once she figured out what happened.
I put the transcript on my lap and stared up at the ceiling, as if the textured white paint swirls were the repository of all my knowledge.
Matt stopped, too. “Here’s one big loop closed,” he said.
I nodded. “From a dead horse in Houston to Nina Martin in Revere with horsewoman Lorna Frederick’s phone number in her pocket.”
“So it’s possible her murder and all the other side problems have nothing to do with the Charger Street lab. It could be just Lorna the equestrian who’s involved,” Matt said.
I was only too eager to dismiss Lorna the scientist from wrongdoing. I hated having members of my profession caught at being less than perfect. Much more acceptable if Lorna the horsewoman committed the crimes.
“The FDA link is strange,” I said.
Matt nodded. “I see your thinking. According to Jake Powers, the regulating body for drugs in show horses is USA Equestrian. So why did Nina have an FDA card in her pocket?”
“Presumably, USA Equestrian monitors drugs that are already approved by the FDA, and they would only care about certain dosages that would affect a horse’s performance.”
“I’m thinking Nina Martin must have stumbled upon something bigger than a horse show,” Matt said.
“A drug that’s regulated not only by horse show rules, but by the US government.”
“Then how do Wayne Gallen and his warnings and pranks fit in? Was he just blowing smoke to get close to MC?” Matt asked.
I blew out my own smoke, in the form of a loud, confused sigh, and shook my head. “And the Alex Simpson email? And the reference to bute in the transcript?”
“But according to what Jake said, bute is almost like aspirin, so who knows?”
“Has Houston been able to connect Rusty Forman to anyone?”
“Negative. It’s like he walked out of prison and flew to Revere to kill Martin.”
We both shrugged and returned to the transcript.
FDA: You said the vet who did the implant was a Dr. Owen Evans?
PT: Right. He’s new, but my old doctor retired and recommended him.
FDA: And Ms. Martin told you she was going to investigate Dr. Evans.
PT: Yes, when she made her initial report to me. She said she planned to look into other deaths of Dr. Evans’s patients, and also the people who made the microchip. Next thing I knew she was off to Houston Poly. She was such a nice lady, born right here in Houston, a real Southern
lady, if you know what I mean, even though she was in a kind of unladylike line of work. Do you really think she was murdered because of this investigation?
HPD: Is there anything else you can tell us about the circumstances? Anything else you think we should know about? PT: I don’t think so.
“Well, there it is,” I said.
Matt looked up. “Yes?”
“Nina was looking into a vet, and that took her to Houston Poly where we know she signed up for MC’s class. So her vet investigation must have led her to the Houston Poly buckyball people. Remember she asked MC to put her in contact with someone who could help her with her fullerene paper.”
Matt nodded in a way that said he was with me, and maybe ahead of me. “And there’s a vet on the payroll at the Charger Street lab.”
“Vet plus scientists in Houston and vet plus scientists in Revere.”
“Lorna the scientist
and
Lorna the horsewoman.”
“I love it when we’re both right,” I said.
When the phone rang, neither of us wanted to stop the momentum.
“I’m weak,” Matt said, flipping back through the transcript.
I let him get away with the ploy and took the call. The message made
me
the weak one in the house, sending a disturbing wave through my body, turning my muscles to plasma. Except for my mind, which whipped across the city to MC on Tuttle Street and then back across town to Revere High’s young Science Club students.
Jake Powers was dead. His body had been found in Rumney Marsh by one of Daniel Endicott’s students.
Another eruption in a case—a life—that was full of priority interrupts.
M
C hung up the phone and stumbled back to bed. She tossed around for hours, it seemed, throwing off her blankets, tucking them back under her chin when she felt chilled, throwing them off again when a cold sweat came over her. She rolled onto her back, then to her left side, then to her right side. She got up several times to straighten her oversized T-shirt, a souvenir from one of Jake’s shows, and her holey black tights. She went to the window and peeked out, for a reason she couldn’t remember, then finally cried herself to sleep.
MC hears the bells from St. Anthony’s Church. Since when do they chime all night long? The digital clock on her nightstand flashes on and off, running backward. Three A.M. Blink. Two A.M. Blink. One A.M. Blink.
She hears a thumping noise at the door of her bedroom. Why had she closed it tonight? She never closes it. And there’s a peephole in the door. How did that get there, an enormous peephole on an inside door? She stumbles out of bed and looks through the peephole. She can see all of Houston through that peephole. All of Revere Beach. She sees Jake and the spotted gray Spartan Q sail over the brush jump. Then a trot half-pass right. Then a fan oxer.
Good Spartan Q
. But why are dressage movements and jumps all in the same show? No matter. Spartan Q will get treats tonight.
She squints as Jake and Spartan Q do the final halt and salute, then ride away. She looks again. There’s Rumney Marsh right outside
her bedroom. Jake and Spartan Q ride into Rumney Marsh. She strains to see them.
Buzzzzzzzz!
MC jumps back as her buzzer rings. Why is there a doorbell at the threshold of her bedroom? It must be Aunt G’s bell. She lives in Aunt G’s apartment now, she remembers. She hears a low moan, and then soft scratching on the lower part of the door. A puppy? She’s always wanted a dog but Jake won’t let her have one.
The scratching continues; the moan grows louder.
“Who’s there?” she yells.
It’s Jake,
she thinks. She’ll ask him again for a puppy.
“MC.”
She can just make out her name, and now she’s sure it’s Jake. He sounds drunk. Or hurt. That’s it; Jake is hurt.
MC opens the door, ready to rail at him for getting into some bar fight again.
Jake falls onto the threshold; his bleeding head touches her soft brown carpet.
MC gets on her knees, cradles his head in her hands. Blood is pouring out of his head; his rusty leather jacket is sticky with blood and dirt. She wants to ask him what happened, but when she opens her mouth, no sounds come out.
MC sees a trocar sticking out of Jake’s stomach. When she was a little girl, she begged her father to let her watch while he showed Robert how to use it. The trocar is sticking out from the right side of Jake’s stomach. MC knows this is the last step, after Jake has been embalmed. He doesn’t look embalmed. She sees her father injecting a fluid and hears him tell Robert, “We need to pay special attention to the bowels and the liver. We don’t want any problems upstairs in the parlor.”
She hears Jake whisper her name. He’s alive; he can’t be embalmed. She bends low to hear, but she can’t tell what he’s saying. She knows he’s telling her who did this to him, who put him on the embalming table, but she can’t hear. She is useless. Jake is dying and she is useless.
She brushes her hair back; it’s sticky where it has fallen over Jake’s wound. She swallows and tastes frittata with chilies. She pulls the phone off the table near Jake’s body and pushes 911, but the buttons don’t move. She presses hard; they won’t budge.
When she turns back to Jake, he seems to have fallen asleep. He’s curled up, his breathing faint. She stuffs a pillow from the couch under his head and goes to her bathroom. She finds a box of gauze, scissors, and alcohol, and carries them back to the living room.
MC kneels down by Jake. He’s rolled partway onto his back. His face is pasty, but he looks strangely relaxed. Her heart clutches as she reaches for his wrist.
She lays her head on his shoulder and goes to sleep with him.
MC woke up crying and shivering, all the covers on the floor. Her clock had stopped.