Malpractice in Maggody (21 page)

“She was bouncing off the walls, if that’s what you mean. She and the others are spooked by the murder and Randall’s suicide. They all know, so you might as well stop deluding yourself.”

“How do they know?” demanded Stonebridge, practically spitting out the words. “Did you tell them?”

“Good heavens, no,” Walter said. “I have no idea where they’re getting their information. If I had to pick a likely suspect, I’d put my money on Dibbins. He entertains visitors during the day, as long as they don’t criticize his taste in music. Earlier in the week I had to interrupt a conversation he was having with Mrs. Swayze about Swiss table wines. Dawn despises him, but she keeps going back for more abuse. And poor dumb Toby can’t figure out why Dibbins doesn’t ask for his autograph.”

“You didn’t bring this up at the staff meeting,” Stonebridge said as though accusing Walter of a serious crime.

Walter took a pair of sunglasses out of his coat pocket and slipped them on. “I didn’t see any harm in it. It’s not like they’re in solitary confinement. They’re all used to an adoring audience. We’ve taken that away, so now all they can do is try to impress each other.”

Water splashed Stonebridge’s face as Toby once again turned and took off. “What does he think he is—a damn otter? Come along, Arly. We need to check the drug cabinet and make sure nothing’s missing.”

I obediently stood up, nodded to Walter, and followed Stonebridge to what was referred to as the surgical suite. I’m not sure what I expected, but I wouldn’t have been surprised if Igor was hovering in a dark corner. The suite proved to be more like an exam room in a doctor’s office than an operating room with high-tech gadgets and gleaming stainless steel equipment. The fluorescent lights were no more intimidating than those at the supermarket. Everything was excruciatingly neat and undoubtedly sterile. The examination table had a paper cover, with towels and a pillow stack on one end.

“You do surgery in here?” I asked.

He smiled. “Obviously not triple bypasses or organ transplants. All of the procedures are done under local anesthesia, with a Demerol drip if indicated. Brenda has some training as an LPN, and will be able to assist me. Later, as we add more patients, I’ll have an RN on the staff.”

“You do face-lifts and tummy tucks with a
local
anesthesia? The patient is
awake
?”

“But in a pleasant haze. They can be quite gregarious. Ah, some of the shenanigans I hear about from the Hollywood set would curl your toes—and from the men as well as the ladies. If I weren’t bound by ethics, I could make a fortune from blackmail.”

I was still grappling with the idea of a patient blathering away as her facial skin was cut and stretched, or her nose was broken and reset, or a scalpel sliced across her abdomen. I stared up at the garish bright lights, then down at the table. Up and down, up and down.

And then the lights went out.

D
ahlia sat on the top step of the porch. The twins was romping in the yard, chasing grasshoppers and whoopin’ like wild Indians. She didn’t know where her granny was, and she didn’t care, neither. If she was lucky, the old bat had wandered up on Cotter’s Ridge and was sitting in a tree while a hungry bear snuffled below her. The last time her granny had gone and gotten herself lost, she’d ended up at Petrol’s shack, doin’ things that weren’t fit for a withered-up ol’ woman of her age—or of anybody’s age, for that matter. Kevin had gallantly offered to go thrash Petrol, but she knew darn well Petrol would skin him alive.

Raz’s pickup truck rattled to a stop by the gate. The twins high-tailed it under the porch. Dahlia sat, her fingers crossed that Raz hadn’t caught her granny in his barn and brought her back home.

Raz climbed out of the truck but stayed on the opposite side of the gate. “You wanna buy a mess of catfish?” he called.

“I wouldn’t buy a dollar for a nickel if it came from you, you ol’ buzzard. Don’t you be comin’ in the yard.”

He spat in her direction. “Suit yourself, but come suppertime, you may be wishin’ you had some crunchy catfish and pipin’ hot hushpuppies.”

“More than likely I’ll be wishing you was choppin’ cotton at the state prison for making that godawful swill you peddle.”

Raz bristled. “You got no call to say that, Dahlia O’Neill Buchanon. My ’shine is the best in three counties. I don’t use no rusty radiators like those boys over in Cecil County. I’ve half a mind to come over there and tan your hide.”

She held up a fist the size of a softball. “And I’ve half a mind to go out there and send you sprawlin’ into a blackberry bush, you ornery coot.”

“So you want some catfish or not?”

“You gonna gut ’em for me?”

Mrs. Jim Bob parked next to the rectory and rapped on the door. When Brother Verber didn’t open the door, she opened it herself and called his name. She finally concluded he wasn’t there and turned around. His car was parked in a patch of shade under a sycamore tree, so he couldn’t have gone too far, she thought. Sometimes he went down to Boone Creek to try to catch the teenagers drinking beer and indulging in indecent carnal activities, but she figured it was too early in the day for that.

She decided to try the Assembly Hall on the off chance he was rehearsing his sermon for the following day. If he was, she would remind him that there were more pressing concerns, like sorting through the boxes of clothing and household goods that had been donated for their summer rummage sale.

The door to the vestibule was locked. Stunned, she yanked on the knob and then pounded her fist on the wood. The very idea of the Voice of the Almighty Lord Assembly Hall being locked was an insult to her, and an affront to the Lord. What was a sorry sinner who’d dragged his drug-ridden, crippled body to the door supposed to think when he was denied entrance to salvation? Would he crawl back into Satan’s waiting arms and eternal damnation?

She returned to her pink Cadillac and sat for a long while, trying to remember when the door had last been locked. Years, maybe. Her forehead furrowed as she concentrated. There’d been rumors one summer that devil worshippers were planning to sneak inside and defile the church with their depraved midnight rituals. Brother Verber had been taking a refresher course at the seminary in Las Vegas (which had seemed curious to her, since it was a mail-order operation) and she’d taken it upon herself to lock the door every evening. But that had been a long while back, before Hiram’s barn burned, and she couldn’t remember what had happened with the key afterward.

She was still puzzling over it as she drove away.

Brother Verber watched her departure through a dusty window above the forsythia bushes alongside the building.

I cautiously opened my eyes and realized I was lying on the examination table. Dr. Stonebridge was looming over me, looking concerned. “I guess I fainted,” I said with a weak smile.

“Would you like a glass of water?”

“No, thank you.” I sat up but held on to the edge of the table. “That was pretty stupid of me. I got these horrible images of blood and exposed muscles and—”

Stonebridge squeezed my shoulder. “Stop thinking about it. Breathe in deeply and let the images fade as you exhale. I’ve had plenty of patients who were equally surprised that most cosmetic procedures are done under local anesthesia. It’s really much safer this way, since general anesthesia always poses a risk, however minor. I can increase or decrease the pain medication as dictated by the patient’s reaction.”

I eased off of the table. “I apologize for my lack of professionalism. I’ve seen bodies in all stages of decomposition, and attended autopsies. I’ve hooked floaters in the reservoir, and been the first on the scene of some pretty damn gruesome car wrecks. I went frog-gigging with some friends one night when I was in high school, and sat on the bank of the river until dawn, cleaning the frogs. I had frog blood all over my—” I stopped before I made an even greater fool of myself, which at that point would have been a challenge. “Shall we have a look at the cabinet with the drugs?”

He led me into the second room. There was a basin where I assumed the doctor scrubbed his hands before surgery. One set of open shelves held a boggling array of Brenda’s herbal remedies and vitamin supplements, all packaged in bottles with labels. A second set of shelves held boxes of supplies ranging from rubber gloves to rows of antiseptic lotions, cotton bandages, disposable hypodermic needles, tape, and rubber tubing. A tray with surgical instruments had been set on a cart, and a sterilizer on a stand in the corner.

The serious drugs were kept in a cabinet with a deadbolt that required a key. Stonebridge opened the doors and gestured at the tidy rows of bottles and vials. A clipboard hung from a hook and held a pad with columns for name of drug, date, quantity, patient’s name, time administered, and by whom.

“As you can see,” Stonebridge said, “we keep very concise records in accordance with state regulations for controlled substances.”

“How can you tell if a bottle or a box is missing?” I asked.

He took a file from the top shelf. “This is the list of our original inventory. I can compare it to the list of what’s been administered, and account for every pill and tablet.”

“How often do you do that?”

“I was planning to update the inventory tomorrow. Later, when I expand the staff, I’ll probably check it every three or four days. Health-care workers have been known to develop drug dependencies, too. Their jobs are stressful and their hours can be erratic. Constant switching from day to night shifts is fatiguing.”

I wasn’t interested in commiserating about anyone else’s job description. “Please go ahead and make sure nothing’s missing. I’d like to search the rest of the facility on my own. I’ll need your key.”

“What about Mrs. Swayze? We can’t have patients wandering around the countryside, especially medicated. We have liability issues.”

I almost told him we had a local resident wandering around Wyoming. “I don’t think anybody will shoot her on sight. If she knocks on someone’s kitchen door, she’ll be served coffee and cinnamon rolls. After she’s been obliged to listen to an hour of mind-numbing gossip, she’ll probably head right back here. I’ll call the sheriff’s department if you want me to, but I’ll have to give them a name along with a description. That may attract some unwanted attention from the media. We don’t get a lot of newsworthy figures around here. The ordinary folks won’t recognize her name, but the media will.”

“Then what do you suggest?”

“Let’s just sit on it until I’ve done a thorough search here and make sure she’s not tucked in a laundry hamper or a closet. It shouldn’t take me long.”

He gave me the key. “Come to my office when you’re done. You, Brenda, and I can have lunch by the pool while we discuss the situation.”

I nodded and left, although I had no intention of dining on some concoction of tofu and bran when I could have a cheeseburger and fries at Ruby Bee’s. And it wouldn’t hurt to find out how the disarmament program was going. If I’d had the time, I would have hunted down Mrs. Jim Bob for a long lecture on the idiocy of encouraging the local women to buy handguns—and god knows what else. I suspected that for once I’d even have Jim Bob’s support. At the moment Estelle was the only victim of the I-didn’t-know-it-was-loaded club, but I was afraid she wouldn’t be the last.

I started at the far end of the building on the other side of the pool. The kitchen was filled with all manner of stainless steel appliances, pots and pans hanging from hooks above the stove, open shelves of dishes, and unfamiliar (but undoubtedly utilitarian) utensils. The aroma was pungent with exotic spices. The so-called chef, a squat man in a stained apron, had greasy red hair and a cigarette clamped between crooked teeth. He looked as though he’d done his apprenticeship at a truck stop. He glanced at me, then resumed pulverizing vegetables with a heavy cleaver. His two subordinates careened around the central island, sliding on the wet floor and threatening to drop trays and serving bowls. A radio blared country music.

I waited for my chance, then hurried around the island to a door at the back. It led to a pantry that also served as a break room for the employees, a few of whom were seated at a table with bowls of some lumpy gray substance. We exchanged looks, but I couldn’t bring myself to wish them
bon appétit.
Beyond that was another door that opened onto the outside. I picked my way through bits of rotting garbage and emerged by the archway. Deputy Quivers was back on duty. Walter had disappeared, but Toby was still swimming. I glanced at my watch and realized he’d been at it for more than an hour. Even Flipper would have taken a break.

I told Quivers to do a thorough search of the garden. After he trudged out of sight, I let myself into the gym. Unlike the exercise clubs I’d known in Manhattan, the room was sunny and free of the subtle stench of sweat. There was a faint smell of chlorine from the hot tub in a glass-enclosed area. The closet-sized sauna was empty. A massage table held stacks of white towels and terry-cloth robes. The main room had all the customary equipment: stationary bicycles, weight machines, and a treadmill. The floor was covered with blue pads to lessen the impact of old-fashioned calisthenics.

I moved on to the day room. There were groupings of leather furniture at each end, and a gleaming conference table in the middle. Smaller tables supported brass lamps and fresh flowers. The walls were decorated with framed maps and prints of ducks. It reminded me of a gentlemen’s club, although there was no discreet butler to raise his eyebrows at my feminist incursion. When the weather was less hospitable, it might be used, I thought, but it seemed rather pointless at the present. I ascertained that Senator Swayze was not hiding there, then went into the main building.

The reception desk was occupied by an orderly, who was reading a paperback with a lurid cover. He was older than some of the others, with a harsh, leathery complexion and irregular features. A puckered scar above one eye suggested he’d been in a few brawls and knife fights in his life. He hastily shoved the book into a drawer and stood up.
“¿Puedo ayudarle, señorita?”

I managed a small smile and said, “No problem.” I went past him and peered down the wing that had not yet been remodeled. It was as gloomy as an attic. Scraps of lumber and fragments of wallboard were scattered on the floor. A ladder was propped against the exposed insulation. Dust motes hung in the sunlight. There was no light at the end of the tunnel, although I knew there was an exterior door that had once provided Petrol Buchanon with a handy exit whenever he felt the need to spend some quality time with a quart jar of moonshine. To the previous director’s chagrin, fire laws precluded locking the door from the inside.

The current crop of patients in the opposite wing had access to the door at the end of their corridor, too, but it would lead them no farther than the shrubs and trees along the interior side of the fence. I waggled my fingers at the orderly, then squared my shoulders and went into the unchartered territory, where I might encounter ferocious dragons and fire-breathing right-wing politicians. The latter was appropriate; since had I come through the front door, this would be the right wing. In my case, however, it would then be the wrong wing, and the left wing would, by default, be the right wing.

It occurred to me that I might have bumped my head when I’d keeled over in the surgical suite. I couldn’t feel a lump, though, and the only twinges of pain came from my fanny. I still couldn’t figure out why I’d reacted as I did. I was trained in emergency first aid. I’d made temporary splints, kept pressure on spurting arteries until paramedics arrived, cradled teenagers who’d been thrown from the backs of motorcycles. I may not have been the friggin’ Florence Nightingale of Stump County, Arkansas, but I wasn’t a weak-kneed wimp. Then again, I’d been out of whack lately, oddly off balance with myself, and admittedly on the testy side. I’d have to think about it when I had time. At the moment, I did not.