Rip Tide (A Ripple Effect Cozy Mystery, Book 2) (15 page)

Becky's statement that "the doctor was ready to see me now" was a gross exaggeration. It was a good forty-five minutes later before there was a light knock on the door. Without even allowing me enough time to put back a stethoscope I shouldn't have been messing with, the red-headed doctor opened the door and strolled into the room. He held my personal health folder in his left hand; a folder rapidly growing thicker. I was a little edgy about how warm a welcome I'd get from a guy I'd showered with ice water the previous evening, so was relieved when he simply extended his right hand for the customary shake. "Good afternoon. I'm Dr. O'Keefe."

"Nice to meet you. I'm Rapella Ripple." As I introduced myself, he gazed at me quizzically. He stared at me for several long seconds.
Uh-oh
, I thought.
Any moment now, the realization of who I am is going to hit him like a bolt of lightning.

"Do I know you?" He asked at last.

"No, I don't believe so," I replied without hesitation.

"You look so familiar. Are you a teller at the NavyArmy Credit Union
,
by any chance?"

"No, I'm not."

"Oh, I know. I bet you're a checker at H.E.B? The express lane, right?"

"No, afraid not."
How many Guinness Black Lagers had he downed last night before we arrived at the restaurant
? I wondered.

"Wal-Mart?" At the negative shake of my head, he tried to place me again. "Do you have a shop in the
Rockport Gallery?
I spent a lot of time there last summer when we were decorating the clinic."

"No. Not there either. At this rate, we're apt to be here all day. I'm almost positive you've never run into me in town before. Or anywhere else, for that matter." I was tiring quickly of the guessing game, but relieved he hadn't immediately recognized me.

"Hmmm. I just know I've seen you somewhere."

Well, crapola!! Why hadn't I just owned up to being a greeter at Wal-Mart
? I asked myself. O'Keefe was determined not to let this puzzle go unsolved. Suddenly, out of the blue, I thought of how I could induce him to drop the subject and get on with the matter at hand.

"Oh, wait a second," I said. "I think I've figured out where you've probably seen me. Do you ever watch any hard-core porn?"

That effectively put an end to the inquisition. Dr. O'Keefe now looked from his black shiny shoes, to the reclining examination table, to the two chairs, to nearly everything else in the room besides his patient. He avoided making eye contact when he asked, "What brings you here today, Ms. Ripple?"

I briefly described my imaginary symptoms as the physician went through his customary regimen; checking my blood pressure, listening to my heart and lungs, taking my temperature, and peering into my nose and mouth with his tiny flashlight. He looked baffled, which was understandable. I'm sure my vital signs were as good as, or better than, his. At this point, I was not even making an effort to appear under the weather.

I knew my window for questioning him was limited, so I decided it was time to dive right in. "Speaking of porn, do you know my friend, Avery Curry?"

Have you ever seen someone a split second after they'd been walloped in the face with a croquet mallet? The good doctor wore that same expression. Guess he didn't like thinking his ex-wife might have some connection with an aging porn star. I'd already raised his blood pressure with my 'hard-core porn' question, and was certain his heart rate was off the chart now, too.

No longer avoiding eye contact, he now stared at me in astonishment. O'Keefe took a few moments to recover and, with eyes as wide as bottle caps, he eventually responded. "Um, yeah, um, yeah I do. She's my soon-to-be ex-wife. How do you know Avery? She's never mentioned you that I can recall."

"We're co-workers." Considering the stir I'd created with Dr. Patel, I should have taken a moment to think before using the same explanation of my relationship with Avery.

"You are?" Spoken in the same tone he'd have used if I'd told him I was here today to take a pregnancy test.

Crapola, again!
He'd dangled the Rockport Gallery right in front of me. Why hadn't I just latched on and gone with that? I could have pretended to be an artist. It's not like he'd have asked me to draw a portrait of him to prove it.

"You're co-workers? Seriously?" His outright disbelief made the hair on my arms stand on end. Afraid to embellish on my employment at this point, I merely nodded. Why was he so surprised I worked at a topless joint, anyway? Hadn't I just insinuated I was not only a porn star, but a hard-core one, at that?

"So, I assume you're a cook at Jugs 'n Mugs instead of a waitress like Avery." Just like that, the inquisition had reignited.

"No," I answered. I'd learned my lesson when I didn't take the easy way out and claim to be an express-line checker at H.E.B. So, wouldn't you think I'd just go along with being a cook this time? Yes, you would. But unfortunately, I didn't. I'd found his stunned expression insulting. And having both doctors "assume" I was a cook rather than a topless waitress irked me, too. So, instead of using some sense and taking the easy route this go-round, I replied arrogantly, "I'm a waitress there, Doctor O'Keefe. And you do know what 'assume' stands for, don't you? It stands for 'make an ass out of you and−'"

He cut me off as he looked me up and down, shook his head uncertainly, and asked, "You're a server at Jugs 'n Mugs? No kidding? I'd have thought being a server at somewhere like Ken's Diner would be more to your liking."

"As a matter of fact, I did work as a waitress at Ken's Diner, and ironically, a cafe called Zen's Diner in Missouri." I didn't add that my employment at Zen's didn't span an entire breakfast shift, and my career at Ken's hadn't lasted much longer.

"Well, that I can believe. But Jugs 'n Mugs?"

If you read between the lines like I did, you'd know he was actually saying, "You're too frigging old and frumpy to be flaunting those saggy boobs in a place like Jugs 'n Mugs. Or any other public place, for that matter."

I decided to get in a jab of my own. And, why not? I hadn't planned on sending him a Facebook friend request, or adding him to my Christmas card list. "You know, I'm not surprised Avery's giving you the boot."

The barb hit home. The doctor's reaction to my remark was frightening. I could see that he could be very intimidating when riled. He retorted with a lame attempt to get under my skin, "And I'm not surprised she's never told me she was a friend of yours. She was probably too embarrassed to admit it."

I wondered if he was surprised she'd never told him she was involved in pornography either? Was he thinking, "Has Avery been making porn movies behind my back, or is this old lady in my office certifiably bat-crap crazy?"

I laughed and added, "I'm sure she
would
have been too embarrassed to tell you something that shocking. And, actually, I really shouldn't discuss our relationship. It's kind of personal and probably something she'd rather keep hidden away in the closet, if you know what I mean." Naturally, I ended my last remark with a seductive wink.

Dr. O'Keefe could not have looked any more staggered than if he'd walked into his grandfather's bedroom and caught granddad wearing grandma's brassiere and panties. And by now I had him deliberating over the possibility Avery was bi-sexual and attracted to some whacked-out geriatric of the female variety.

I realized I was having way too much fun agitating the doctor. But, much like blathering, I just couldn't seem to quit. O'Keefe stood silently studying me like a medical abnormality, his mouth quivering. I decided to take advantage of his inability to think straight or form a full sentence. "Yes, and Avery told me about the custody battle over Elizabeth."

"Oh, well, yes, um, I guess we, um—" The bewildered doctor nodded, still unable to come up with the words to express himself.

"Shame to put the child through such a tug-of-war. I'm sure you know, it's always hardest on the—"

"Child? What child?" The doctor asked, suddenly able to speak not only coherently, but remarkably loud and angrily.

"What do you mean 'what child?' Are you so disinterested in your own daughter you can't even recall her name? Shame on you! That poor girl." I shook my head in disgust and practically hissed when I said in clarification, "I'm referring to Elizabeth, Dr. O'Keefe. Your daughter! Remember her?"

"What? Are you nuts?" He exclaimed. "Elizabeth's not a child. She's a pet lizard!"

"A pet lizard?" Embarrassed, my voice was much more subdued when I asked. "You named a lizard Elizabeth?"

"Actually, Avery named her. We usually call her Liz. You know, Liz, as in
liz
ard. I'm surprised Avery never mentioned her to such a close friend." It probably goes without saying that the words "close friend" were spat out sarcastically.

"Oh." Now I was the one at a loss for words. The steaming doctor was probably not far off when he asked if I was nuts. I was thankful he was able to calm down before he continued with his explanation.

"Liz is a chuckwalla that originally came from the Mohave Desert. She was Avery's pet before we got married. But now I'm fighting for joint custody, anyway."

"Oh, I see. You've understandably grown attached to Liz over the course of your marriage." I spoke with insincere sincerity, in a lame attempt to atone for my own errant assumption.

"Oh, hell no!" He looked at me as if I'd implied he'd grown fond of a hairy wart on the tip of his nose. "Did you not hear what I just said? It's a lizard, for God's sakes! I can barely stand to look at the ugly thing."

"Huh? So why are you—"

"Fighting for joint custody of a big, repulsive reptile?" He broke in, finishing my question for me. "The truth is I think that kind of arrangement would be beneficial to my future relationship with Avery. For starters, joint custody would ensure we stayed in con—"

Dr. O'Keefe stopped speaking abruptly. It no doubt had suddenly occurred to him that he should not be discussing his divorce or revealing too much information about his covert intentions to his estranged wife's friend. A friend of such questionable affiliation with her, no less.

He trembled anxiously as he picked the folder up off the counter that held bottles of Q-tips and cotton balls, along with several boxes of different sized latex gloves. He opened the door to signal it was time for me to go. As I stood up to leave, he said, "I see no obvious signs of a virus, but you can pick up a script for antibiotics on your way out."

"Thank you." I'd pick up the prescription along with my insurance cards at the check-out desk so as not to look like an imposter, but had no intention of filling it.

"By the way," Dr. O'Keefe added. "The doctor/patient confidentiality clause works both ways. I expect you to keep our conversation to yourself. I'm having a rough enough time dealing with Avery as it is. Because of her, I had to go give a statement at the police station this morning."

There was no need to ask why he'd been called to the station. It was in regards to the murder of Cooper Claypool, not his dissolving marriage, I was certain. His last remarks also explained what "unexpected family obligation" had caused him to be a late arrival at work that day. But, most importantly, the red-headed doctor with the strong Irish brogue had presented me with a motive that put him high on my list of murder suspects.

Chapter 9

"I haven't been resting on my laurels either," Rip said, after I told him about my health clinic visit. "I was limited to what I could do to further our progress without wheels, since you needed to take the truck. But after you called me from the clinic's parking lot, I managed to speak with the manager at Jugs 'n Mugs. He told me Avery was off on Saturday, a normal working day for her, and took off again Sunday and Monday on bereavement leave. But she's expected to report for the evening shift later on this afternoon. I don't know about you, but I'm craving some hot wings."

"Me too! Let's go out for supper tonight. I'd planned on cooking liver and onions, but—"

"Liver and onions? Then it's most definitely a date, my dear!" He quipped playfully. Fixing liver and onions was an inside joke. Knowing Rip despised liver, I used the liver-and-onions ruse on the rare occasions I wanted to go out for supper.

I was tickled to see his morning funk had dissipated and he was looking forward to our dinner date as much as I was. But I had to wonder if Rip's enthusiasm was based on the possibility of obtaining useful investigative information from Avery Curry, snarfing down a boatload of hot wings, or being served by some young topless broad with bazookas the size of coconuts.