Rip Tide (A Ripple Effect Cozy Mystery, Book 2) (12 page)

I stopped laughing when, after Rip's raucous guffaw, he said, "That reminds me of you trying to eat a hotdog when you don't have your dentures in."

My laughter made a comeback when I caught Rip by surprise with a mighty shove that dislodged him from his perch on the tailgate and left him butt down on a saturated mound of sand.
That will teach him
, I thought smugly
. He never even saw it coming
.

When I saw him grimace, I instantly felt bad. What had I been thinking? Not only was Rip sixty-eight, he also had a new artificial hip joint. Panicking, I helped him to his feet, "Oh, goodness! I'm so sorry, honey. Are you all right?"

"Yes. I'm fine, dear," he replied with an impish grin. "Just keep in mind what they say about paybacks."

* * *

Half an hour later, we pulled through the entrance gate of the packed-to-the-gills RV park. We drove past a large flock of snowbirds shooting the you-know-what around an enormous fire pit, following the scheduled pot luck supper they'd all just attended. Actually, down here folks refer to them as "Winter Texans"; it sounds more welcoming, you see. "Snowbirds" kind of has a game animal ring to it, as if there was a season on them.

I'm sure each of the clusters of senior citizens was involved in a chat fest about every ailment known to man, except perhaps diaper rash. A large percentage of them were comparing their daily cocktail of medications. Now that I think about it, diaper rash might actually have been a popular topic of discussion among a few of the attendees, who appeared to be born somewhere around the turn of the century. Not this last turn, of course.

"How many different versions of potato salad do you reckon they've just sampled?" Rip asked, jokingly.

"My guess—fourteen. That's the average, if I recall correctly. And among them, they've no doubt downed enough hard-boiled eggs that, if left un-deviled, could have staged an Easter egg hunt for the entire Rockport elementary school."

"Have I thanked you recently for not dragging me to pot luck dinners and bingo parlors? They're just not my cup of tea," Rip said. "I love you dearly, Rapella, and you know I'd do anything for you. But I have to draw the line somewhere."

"No worries. Not my cup of tea either."

"Thank God for that! What do you feel like doing this evening? I thought I might sit back with a stiff drink and look for a good movie on cable."

"You just saw
Fifty Shades of Grey
around the fire pit," I replied. "Why don't we go for a walk instead? It's a beautiful evening for it, and you need the exercise for your new hip. Especially after that unfortunate tumble you took onto the sand at Tin Can Point. We both could stand to walk off a few of the calories we just consumed."

"Oh, all right," was Rip's unenthusiastic agreement.

* * *

After a long walk, circling the entire campground several times, we were back in the Chartreuse Caboose, our cramped but comfy home on wheels. Rip had indeed found a movie on the television he was interested in watching, at least for five or six minutes until he fell fast asleep on the couch. Dolly had climbed down from her customary perch on top of the back cushions of the couch and was snuggled up on his chest with a paw resting on his chin.

I made myself a hot cup of chamomile tea and sat down at the kitchen table, which also served as a makeshift bed, an office, a hobby room, and Rip's personal nest. On any given day he could amass an entire mound of dirty clothes, sorted-through mail, trash of every fashion, dirty dishes, candy wrappers, personal effects, and an ever-changing collection of odds and ends on the table. I couldn't complain, however. I had a nest of my own on the table next to the recliner.

After a couple of soothing sips from my tea cup, I opened up the iPad Regina had gifted us with the previous Christmas. When we'd attended a surprise birthday party at Lexie Starr and Stone Van Patten's, B&B, the Alexandria Inn, in August, I'd been given an eight-week course in tablet training in the space of a mere forty-five minutes. Much of the technical lingo went over my head like a rapidly-moving cloud. And I don't mean the "cloud" my instructor, Mattie Hill, had told me I could store my files in. I not only had no idea where to find this mystical cloud, I also had no clue how to stuff files into it if I did.

But I am proud to say I'd managed to learn how to obtain information on the Internet, how to play games like Scrabble and Mahjong, and, last but not least, how to ask some lady named
Siri
ridiculous questions. Her responses often provided free entertainment for Rip and me.

Rip's favorite question to date was "What should I be for Halloween?" Siri's response, "Dishes. Girls loving doing dishes." Who knew a technical device could have her chip in the gutter? Funny though, when I asked her to talk dirty to
me
she told me my carpet needed cleaning. Now, how entertaining is that? Who needed to sit around a campfire discussing their maladies with strangers when they had Siri to converse with?

Before I began nodding off at the table, I attempted to Google "Pat Rockport, Texas Attorney" and "Pat Rockport, Texas Physician" and came up with so many hits I decided my best option was to drive to 32 Third Street the following day. With any luck at all, I could locate this red-headed Irishman named Pat there.

Chapter 7

"Willow J. Bradford OB/GYN, Patrick R. O'Keefe GP, R. G. Patel MD, and James Carney ENT," read the bronze-plated plaque on the door. I was standing on the front steps of a walk-in health clinic at 32 Third Street, a recent local addition I hadn't known existed before that moment. Thankfully, I'd also learned to utilize the GPS on the truck's dashboard last summer while staying at the Alexandria Inn.

So, the Irishman was a physician. A general practitioner, to be more precise. I'd have wagered on the other option if I'd had to make a guess, because he'd practically oozed attorney vibes. I could think of at least a dozen lawyer jokes that exemplified this particular carrot-topped doctor.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, I felt a slight twitch in my right shoulder. It was probably connected to the twitch in my hand I'd experienced at the restaurant the night before. Although I'm relatively certain it was a fluke nerve tic, you just can't be too careful these days. I decided it would probably be prudent of me to go into the clinic and request a professional opinion in the event it was an issue that might worsen and plague me in the future. That was my story and I had every intention of sticking to it.

I filled out the necessary paperwork while the receptionist scanned my Medicare and insurance supplement cards. Then I sat in a chair next to an end table that had a stack of magazines and pamphlets piled on it. I sifted through a recent edition of
Arthritis Today
while I waited to be seen, along with a dozen other patients in the clinic's lobby. The magazine wasn't particularly relevant to my condition, but chances were good it could be in the future. These old bones weren't getting any younger, you know, and I'd put a lot of miles on them.

After scanning through several other health-related pamphlets, including one regarding the importance of routine prostate testing, I made a mental note to hound Rip about this recommendation at a later date. An hour and fifteen minutes later, a nurse called my name and led me back through a maze of hallways to a room in the rear of the building. She took my vital signs and entered the results into a laptop computer on a rolling cart she'd brought into the room with her.

The I.D. tag hanging around the nurse's neck indicated her name was Becky Winslow. Becky was quite chunky for a young woman of short stature. She'd weigh in at around two-hundred and fifty pounds, I estimated. For a woman who chose the medical field as a vocation, she didn't seem to be overly concerned about her own health risks.

I had to bite my tongue to stop myself from reminding Becky about the pot calling the kettle black when she chided, "You really should speak to the doctor about your border-line hypertension. And speaking of which, have you had a lipid profile test performed lately? I'd guess you're overdue for an EKG and chest x-ray, too."

Obviously, I had no way of knowing this young, but entirely too plump, nurse's actual blood pressure and cholesterol levels, but would have put mine up against hers in a heartbeat. No pun intended.

It was probably fortunate that a medium-height Indian gentleman with a stethoscope around his neck walked in before I could respond to the nurse with a snarky comment of my own. After the long wait to be seen, I wasn't in the mood to be lectured by a nurse who'd be lucky to make it to my age at the rate she was going.

The well-groomed physician who'd just entered the room introduced himself, and said, "Feel free to call me R.G., Ms. Ripple."

"Nice to meet you, Dr. Patel," I said politely, because I felt even freer not to reply so intimately to a man I'd just met. Using his initials felt too personal for my liking, particularly after he'd just addressed me by my surname. Having read his I.D. tag, however, I completely understood why he went by R.G. in lieu of his given name, Ramakant Gurcharan Patel, MD.

"What have we got going today?" He asked with a toothy smile.

"Me, shortly," I wanted to say, disappointed I'd drawn the short straw and wasn't being seen by the physician I'd hoped to get an audience with. But I realized I couldn't just walk out of the room without an explanation, so I explained my current malady. "I've had this twitch in my shoulder that's bothersome."

He immediately began to probe my shoulder, stimulating the nerves and muscles in an attempt to find out where the unusual twitch originated. He advised me to let him know when he touched a sore spot. "Does this hurt?"

"No."

"How about here?"

"No, not that spot either." If I indicated he'd found the root of my problem, he'd give me some advice on how to eliminate the issue and the appointment would be over before I had a chance to question him on how, when, and where I could meet his colleague. "No, a little to the left. No, that's not it. Maybe a little more left. Just keep searching and I'll let you know when you hit the exact area that's bothering me."

Dr. Patel began massaging my shoulder with a firm touch, still trying to locate the area I was concerned about. If I hadn't been so intent on my mission, I'd have enjoyed the deep-muscle massage. He asked, "How long have you been experiencing this 'twitch' you're referring to? And how often does it occur?"

To myself I answered,
just once, on the clinic's doorstep
, aware that even the single incident might have been an opportunistic figment of my imagination. Out loud, I evasively replied, "Enough that I felt I needed to come to the clinic to speak with a physician about it."

"Hmmm. How about here?" He asked, pushing hard on my right clavicle. I shook my head then and after each probe that followed. As Dr. Patel increased the pressure with which he was prodding me, it actually did begin to hurt everywhere he touched. I'd be lucky if I didn't wake up black and blue the next day.

"Not there, either," I answered, stifling a groan. Although I had no specific strategy in mind, I decided I better not waste any more time. So I plunged right in. "And, by the way, you're not the physician I was expecting to see."

"Excuse me?" Dr. Patel look confused at first, and after my comment registered, his expression changed into one of indignation. I must say, the tall, dark and handsome doctor had the sexiest hint of a dimple in his left cheek when he frowned. So adorable, in fact, I briefly considered trying to offend him again.

I gave myself a mental slap. Reminding myself I was there with a specific objective, I swiftly came to my senses. I made a feeble attempt to clarify my remark. "Not that you're not exceptional, Dr. Patel. It's just that a good friend of mine's husband practices at this clinic, too. I figured since he's a general practitioner, he'd be the logical physician I'd be assigned to for treatment today."

"Oh, yes, I see. You're referring to Dr. O'Keefe, who's off this morning due to an unexpected family obligation." He smiled broadly, revealing sparkling pearly whites that contrasted so beautifully with his dark complexion. "I'm covering for him until he reports at noon. As I'm sure you noticed, I'm swamped as a result, which is why your wait was longer than usual. My apologies for any inconvenience it might have caused you."

"No big rip," I said, using my husband's favorite saying, which should come as no surprise to anyone. I wanted to give some kind of indication I really was acquainted with Dr. O'Keefe and his ex, so I added, "Too bad about the divorce, isn't it? I'm sure you're every bit as competent as Pat. And, for the record, much easier on the eyes too, if you know what I mean."