Each Shining Hour (22 page)

The Calm Before

I
flipped back through the pages of the notebook, scanning to see if there was any other mention of these three men or of diamonds, but there was nothing.

“I don't know what to make of this,” I said.

Christine shrugged. “There's always been a rumor that diamonds were tied up in the Oscar Fox story.”

“But these three men . . . the way he's written their names sure points to a conspiracy.” I placed the notebook back on the table. “Okay, look,” I said. “Here's what we know. After seeing the inside of the old bakery, it's pretty clear that a lot of money was spent renovating it. And based on what your grandmother said about him loaning funds to her father, Oscar seemed to have a lot of cash. But I get the impression that it was not money that his wife, Elise, knew about. Secondly, from the scant evidence and from Elise's testimony, it appears that Oscar acted in self-defense. But for some reason this has been twisted around. The dead German's briefcase, ID, and the gun were never found. We have three elements here: money, a body, and a crime scene. That means that
any kind of cover-up of the truth would have to involve a banker, a doctor, and a sheriff. For some reason, Frank smelled some kind of conspiracy and thought these three men were in cahoots.”

“Why wouldn't he let this be known?”

“Crawford Lewis was his boss, probably his friend too. Maybe he didn't feel like he had enough to support a conspiracy and start pointing fingers.”

Christine sighed deeply. “I'm at a loss. There's just not much to go on.”

I nodded reluctantly. “Yeah. I guess you're right. But I hate not being able to figure it out.”

We were both exhausted, drained by the late hour and the evening's revelations. Despite our unspoken delight in each other's company and the wanton intimacy of moments earlier, we both knew it was time to go home.

I drove us back to Christine's house, where I walked her to the door and held her in the numbing cold.

“Call me,” she said.

I nodded and headed home.

*   *   *

T
he cold days of February continued, providing no further revelation regarding the odd findings in the old file box. One morning at the diner I pulled Lida aside to ask if she had ever read the contents of the box or remembered anything her father might have said about it. Her response was a simple no.

“I'm kind of ashamed to admit it, but Daddy and I were never close. The whole running-away-to-Woodstock thing wasn't ever completely forgotten.”

For now, it seemed, the Oscar Fox story had once again reached a dead end, leaving me with more questions and conjecture than before.

Ann continued to be a wonder at the clinic, demonstrating an incredible capacity for connecting with the variety of patients who came under our care. As well, she proved to have a substantial depth of clinical knowledge, making my job of assessments all the easier. She and Sunflower had developed a plan to schedule some community seminars on diabetes, prevention of cardiovascular disease, and, yes, proper exercise and diet. Ann had cleverly developed panels of community leaders to help promote these efforts. Admittedly, the two of them had brilliantly executed the program and attendance was overwhelming.

I also began to notice that Ann had a rather marked curiosity about two people and often mentioned them in conversation: John Harris and Oscar Fox. Ordinarily, I would have thought nothing of this. John, despite his crusty nature, was in fact a handsome, wealthy, and eligible bachelor. As well, my own fascination with Oscar Fox could easily invoke some polite inquiries just to make conversation.

Even still, conversations about both men created a certain stilted stiffness in her countenance, as if she desired to hide the depth of her interest. It puzzled me, but not enough to prompt me to ask her openly. We all had private concerns and the constant inquiries and teasing from the staff about my dating life made me sensitive to her desire to leave some topics alone.

On the last day of February, John came by the clinic in the early afternoon, walking on air. He had become a regular fixture in town, appearing at the diner or down at city hall on a regular basis. He entered my office with a large roll of blueprints tucked under his arm.

“Hey, Professor Harris,” I greeted him. “Whatcha got there?”

John was beaming. “Take a look at this.”

He unrolled the large sheets onto my desk. Before me were the details of a majestic bandstand.

“Hey, this is impressive. So, what's the scoop?”

“It's all been approved. We're going to partially rebuild and partially renovate the old bandstand. This is what it will look like . . . somewhat smaller than the original but still with a lot of classic details.”

“Well, good deal. When does construction start?”

“Monday.”

“Seriously? That soon?”

“Yep. Since it's being done with my money, the city agreed to provide the permits and inspections but let me oversee the work. The weather is fair enough, and I've had a work crew ready to go.”

John flashed an irrepressible ear-to-ear smile. I had never seen him so happy. Then, as if on cue, Ann came in carrying some patient files. Normally she would feign some level of surprise that John was here. Apparently, she had moved past this. She spoke indifferently.

“Hello, Dr. Harris. Who let you off your leash?”

John cut his eyes at me with a wry grin. “Ah, Nurse Patterson. By all means, call me John. I mean, we're not old friends, but at least we're old enemies. Besides, today is a grand day. It's almost a delight to see even you . . . almost, that is.”

“You know, John, I'm tired, which means I don't have the energy to pretend I like you.”

John chuckled. “Well, that's not fair at all. You don't know me well enough to know you don't like me.”

“Let's just say it's a working theory.”

“I have a better idea. Go out with me. Then at least you can be certain you don't like me.”

Ann was thrown off-balance by this offer. She hesitated. I
could see John's eyes tighten. He was a clever old fox. Her pause had told him everything. He already had his answer. To use a crude analogy, the hook was set. Now he simply had to be patient and slowly wind the reel. Ann gathered herself and did her best to pretend indifference.

“Gee, let's think about this. You're rude, insulting, and self-consumed. I can't imagine why I'm not jumping at the chance.”

“I know, I know. You're just a mere mortal and I'm sure the thought of a date with me is a little overwhelming. But do it anyway. Go out with me.”

Ann studied him for another moment. John's euphoria had increased the full weight of his good looks and surprising charm. She nodded cautiously.

“Okay, but only on the condition that you spend lots of money on me, continuously compliment me, and let me talk about myself all evening.”

John shrugged. “Works for me.”

“I'm only agreeing to the idea of a date in principle. I need time to mull it over, you know, think through all the downsides.”

“Sure. Pick you up at the B and B at seven?”

“Make it seven thirty.” By now Ann had a delightful, mischievous grin firmly in place. There was a crackling electricity between them: sly, furtive, expectant. I now realized that both of them had been casting their nets, and admittedly, I wasn't sure who had caught whom. Ann turned to me with a raised eyebrow, discreetly signaling a suppressed delight. With that, she turned and departed. All the while John, as had become his habit, was admiring her backside.

“Jeez. That was a pretty thick display of hormones,” I said.

“Yeah, seems to be my lucky day.”

“Well, Casanova, spare me any further details about how lucky your day gets, if you catch my drift.”

John laughed. “Yeah, I understand. Anyway, it's been a good day on another front too.”

“How so?”

“Because of another piece of business I've been discussing with Walt.”

“And what would you and our good mayor be talking about?”

“Randall Simmons. After that stunt he almost pulled in January regarding the bakery, I intend to make good on my promise.”

“Which is?”

“To can his ass. Walt and I have been privately talking with several of the board members and I think they will go along with a no-confidence vote at the stockholders' meeting in a couple of months.”

“That's pretty strong medicine.”

“Yeah, and I plan on being the pharmacist.”

I nodded, noting his determined stance on the matter, and had nothing to add to this announcement.

“Well, John, enjoy your evening. And remember, whatever happens between you and Ann . . . I don't want to know about it.”

John's gaze sharpened on me. “Speaking of which, how are things going with my niece?”

“Wow. What part of the ‘don't ask, don't tell' policy are you failing to understand here?”

“Oh, get over yourself, sawbones. I'm just looking for the headlines.”

“Fair enough. I guess the answer would be good. We seem to be enjoying each other's company.” This was, of course, a major understatement.

“Well, watch yourself. Like I said before, that one will have you crying like a little girl.”

I laughed and brushed him off. “Yeah, so noted.”

John soon departed. My work was done, but I sat in my office for quite some time staring out my windows at the blustery day. Tomorrow would be the first of March and more things than just the season were getting ready to
change.

The Ides of March

W
inter gave a final performance in the first days of March, spitefully blowing a bitter wind that leached into your bones. This was followed by a few gray days of cold rain that teemed upon the saturated earth. But by the second week, milder air began to pour over the valley and spring began to arrive. On my morning runs out Summerfield Road, the low hum of tractors could be heard in the distance. The countryside was beginning to come alive with the clamor of chirping birds, the drowsy smell of flowers, and patches of green clover conquering their old domains.

Despite John's determination and enthusiasm, the renovation work on the bandstand had made only modest progress. Rot had been found in a few of the piers, requiring delays until they could be properly inspected and replaced. Connie and Estelle finally had all the permits needed for the remodeling of the bakery, although no actual work had begun.

Estelle was still living at Connie's house, an arrangement that seemed agreeable to both sisters. The three of us would often have dinner together several nights a week. Watching the two of them
spar over everything from renovation plans to recipes to disagreements about long-ago events, dates, marriages, and children's names proved to be wildly entertaining.

Altogether, though, I was seeing less and less of Connie. Her sister and the bakery project were steadily consuming more of her time. I was able to manage fine on my own and magically, the house remained orderly and spotless, proving she was still tidying up during the hours when I wasn't there, but I missed our conversations. Little had been said between us about the Randall Simmons incident and I wondered if she was aware of John's plans regarding his fate. Yet, given our limited time together, I chose not to broach the subject and churn up the deep well of hurt surrounding the incident.

On Friday I walked out my front door to the intoxicating smell of warm grass. It was one of those charmed days. I breathed in a deep draft of the fresh, vibrant, living air. A fragrant wind from the nearby hills washed over me. Spring was still a while away from full splendor, but the promise was there, of sunshine and scented blossoms and balmy days to come.

I walked to the clinic and entered through the back door. As was my usual routine, I peeked down the hall to the waiting room to get a sense of how busy the day might be. It was something of a marvel to me that often the waiting room actually held people who were there simply to provide moral support to an ill friend. Such was Watervalley. Maybe the free coffee drew them. I worried about patients hacking away in the waiting room, fearing that along with some pretty good gossip their benevolent neighbors would also pick up a virus or two.

My first patient of the day was Oni Kinser. His wife, Florence, had come with him. She was a squat, tough, fortysomething woman with a raspy voice, bushy black eyebrows, and a hard, mean
face. I guessed Florence hadn't smiled in twenty years and was proud of it. She struck me as a woman who chain-smoked Marlboros and started fistfights with other moms at Little League games.

Oni was a short, portly fellow with a ruddy face and red hair. He was generally quiet with a perpetual worried look on his face. No doubt, living within backhand range of Florence had done this to him. His actual name was Oneciferous, making it understandable why he was always on the defensive and spent a lot of time trying to compensate. Ann and I followed them to the exam room. Oni remained hunched over as he walked, making pathetic grunting sounds at even the slightest motion.

Florence maintained a sour, bulldog face, her large jowls drawing her mouth into a fixed frown. She regarded Oni with a narrow-eyed scrutiny, looking for all the world like she might pop him one just for good measure. Once settled in the exam room, I asked Oni what might be the problem. Florence answered for him.

“Last night was our anniversary, so we went to the Alibi for a few beers, you know, to celebrate.”

I nodded, doing my best to keep a straight face at their choice of a roadhouse as a destination date.

“Well, we got a little loopy and decided to hit the dance floor. They were playing ‘Boot Scootin' Boogie.' It's kind of our song. So I made the big mistake of telling Fred Astaire here to dance like no one was watching. He took me seriously. I thought he was having a seizure.”

I pressed my lips together, hard, doing my best to suppress the laugh that was threatening to erupt. Ann was doing a better job of it, standing completely poker-faced.

“Anyway, the next thing I know, he's all hunched over grabbing his back. It sure put a damper on the romance, I can tell you that.”

I nodded thoughtfully, still fighting the terrible urge to cackle outright. The edges of Ann's mouth were beginning to curl upward, which wasn't helping. Thankfully, Florence had finished and I was able to examine Oni and ask him questions directly, eliminating Florence as interpreter. His injury proved to be tissue related, so I prescribed some muscle relaxers along with some medication for the pain. After the exam, Ann and I retreated to my office, where we instantly exploded behind the closed door. Admittedly, I felt a little guilty about laughing at the Kinsers' expense. Sometimes the clinic stage provided more comedy than drama.

As it turned out, all the drama occurred in the afternoon.

By two thirty we were through with all the appointments and walk-ins. The clinic stayed open until five. Typically, a few pediatric cases would show up after school let out or someone would stop by to get a prescription updated. Ann had asked to leave early, noting that she was going out that evening and had some errands to run first.

Shortly before three there was a timid knock on the door. It was Nancy, who normally had no qualms about barging in unannounced. She cautiously approached my desk and spoke in a conspiratorial whisper.

“Dr. Bradford, you have a visitor.”

“Okay. And?”

“Well, it's a pharmaceutical rep and she says she knows you.”

“What's her name?” Nancy handed me the card. “Michelle Herzenberg,” I read. I thought for a moment. “I can't place her.”

Nancy was still staring at me, frozen in a state of speechless timidity. “Nancy, what's wrong?”

“She's just, well. She's different.”

“Different how? She have a third eye or something?”

“No. But she certainly has everything else.”

I had no idea what Nancy was talking about and chose not to ask. It was a pharm rep. They stopped by from time to time. This was nothing unusual. “Nancy, why don't you show her in?”

She nodded and left, and within seconds, there appeared in my doorway the explanation for Nancy's trepidation.

Michelle Herzenberg was a stunning, beautiful blonde. Tall and graceful, she carried herself with an energetic assurance. Professionally dressed in a snug skirt and tall heels that accented her long legs, she had a crisp designer look about her, a kind of Madison Avenue class and style. Coupled with her long hair and sensuous facial features, she was one of those mesmerizing people who seemed to drag an invisible cape of glamour behind them. She electrified the air as she entered.

“Luke Bradford. I bet you don't remember me.”

“I'd like to say we have met, but I'm afraid I can't put you in context.” I had responded with a controlled confidence and not with the wide-eyed, slack-jawed wonderment that I suspect she normally received.

“I saw you at a number of the parties at Vanderbilt. I graduated from pharmacy school this past year.”

“Well, there you go. That makes perfect sense. I knew I had seen you somewhere.” I paused, adding hesitantly, “Sorry, though. I still don't remember meeting you.”

“Oh, we were probably never introduced. But I knew who you were. Everyone knew who you were. My gosh, you were the med school phenom.”

“Well, thanks. I mean, you're probably stretching the truth, but you're doing a really nice job of it. So, for heaven's sake, don't stop.”

She laughed and we stood chatting for several minutes, catching
up on familiar names and old haunts. Aside from being dramatically beautiful, Michelle Herzenberg had the incredible ability to look at you with total engagement. She laughed warmly and had a breathy, seductive voice that could be sweet and low, conveying an inviting, captivating charm. Even still, while it was delightful to talk with her and enjoy the full attention of such a striking woman, her magic was largely lost on me. As shallow and clichéd as it sounds, I simply wasn't fascinated by blondes.

In hindsight, I guess she sensed this. And that made her try all the harder.

I directed her to one of the tall leather chairs in front of my desk and took the other one next to her. Sales reps handed you a ton of brochures and I had learned it was easier to sit adjacent to them. She took off her coat, revealing a rather ample and blousy figure, and then sat, crossing her long, lovely legs in my direction. Nestled in the privacy created by the two wingbacks, she leaned in toward me, speaking confidentially.

“I have to ask a question. I know I heard somewhere along the way that you were going to stay at Vanderbilt and do research. How did you end up here?”

“Kind of a long story, but the short version is that Watervalley is paying off my student loans. It's a three-year gig.”

“Wow. That must be tough. All I saw as I was driving to get here was cows. What kind of social life is there?”

“Actually, the cows can be quite entertaining once you get past the language barrier.”

She laughed. “Well, I don't want to be too forward before we talk business, but I got in town later than I intended and thought I might spend the night at the local B and B. If you aren't busy, I thought we could grab some dinner later.”

I paused. It was a flattering offer, but not one that I was
interested in accepting. “Candidly, I have tentative plans, so I probably need to take a rain check.” It was an honest response. Christine and I had fallen into a routine of spending our weekend evenings together, even though we had made no specific arrangements.

Not missing a beat, Michelle smiled warmly, unfazed by my rejection. “Sure, perhaps another time.” No doubt, she was confident about her capacity to attract. I suspect, in her thinking, time was on her side.

She spent the next minutes articulating details about several new drugs as well as enhancements to some existing ones. I had to admit, she knew her stuff and answered my questions thoroughly. Yet there was a certain sensuous side to her movements, a skillful use of the casual touch, a curious and tender yielding in her eyes as she spoke. Her allure was effortless, enticing, and made it easy to be drawn in.

While I was reviewing the final brochure, she rose from her chair and stood beside me to point out some specifics on the drug's possible side effects. Before I realized it, in a subtle, seductive manner, she had bent over at the waist with her long hair falling gently on my shoulder and her drooping, low-cut blouse affording an inspiring view of some of God's most wonderful creations.

That was when Christine walked
in.