Worked to Death (Working Stiff Mysteries Book 2) (6 page)

BOOK: Worked to Death (Working Stiff Mysteries Book 2)
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CHAPTER SIX

 

"You can get glad in the same pants you got mad in." —Things We Say in the South

 

The B Positive Clinic had been like a Godsend to me. In that it had come out of nowhere. One day the strip mall on Main Street had consisted of a variety of businesses and one vacant office.

First, you had the Tipsy Turtle Bar and Grill, which I had not yet tried out but was eager to sample if for no other reason than the cute and clever name. Then you had Byrone's Hardware Shop, which I admired for staying in business despite the huge Home Depot and the similarly huge Lowe's that were both currently in business just five miles down the road in Prattville.

Next door to that was the Elmore County Probate Office—which had been conveniently remodeled into a Tag and Title satellite office from an old beauty shop, and the old plumbing for the hair washing sinks made for interesting conversation while you waited in line for your car tag renewal. And let's not forget, Vanity Fur, which hosted glamorous animal care including manicures and hair styling for your pooches. I had not signed up our dog, Pickles, just yet as I wasn't sure if he would accidentally drown the stylists in his voluminous drool.

So, that's why one day, when I'd stopped off to pick up a new drain zip from Byrone's that I was both shocked and intrigued by the new blood collection and lab office inventively and appropriately named B Positive Clinic. Even more noticeable was the large sign posted in the window announcing that help was indeed wanted.

My hours at the towing company were hit and miss. Sometimes, when we were busy, I'd work a full day. But often I'd only get in a few hours before Scabby would send me home. There was only so much towing that needed to be done in a small town after all.

I'd applied for a second job that very day and had gotten a call back for an interview almost immediately. And the job had not only fallen into my lap, but I'd soon discovered that I could use the lab hours at the clinic as the necessary lab hours for wrapping up my still needed clinic hour credits for med school—as long as I had a doctor sign off on them. And I just happened to know a physician who was willing to help out.

It had truly been a miracle for me to step into such a much-needed break.

Of course, every job comes with complications. And my current complication was my boss, Mr. Charles "Chuck" Andrulis. He wasn't a bad guy. In fact, he was more than lenient with my Paget-related emergency calls. And he was more than willing to help me schedule my shifts around both family obligations and my other job with Hollon Brothers.

But, he was a bit of a micro-manager. And by that, I mean…

He closely supervised my every lab test to the point that sometimes I felt like we were tied together like an awkward set of kids in a back-to-back relay.

There was something to be said for cautiousness and thoroughness. And I understood the need for following OSHA guidelines when it came to medical doings. Except his attention to detail was borderline obsessive compulsive and my personal space—well that was non-existent when it came to Mr. Andrulis.

And as I drew my first vial of blood serum for the day on a pair of young newlyweds who were purchasing their very first life insurance policy, Mr. Andrulis appeared around the door to the draw room like a mythical creature slinks up on an unsuspecting victim.

"Oh, Mandy, were you able to complete the printing of those results from yesterday? I couldn't find them in the green file folder. You know the green file folder, where the lab results are supposed to be—in the morning—when I arrive to start a new day."

The woman whose arm was exposed in front of me with a needle pressed deeply into her vein, flinched slightly at the interruption, but I held steady and switched out the last of the vaccu-tubes before I responded.

"No. I'm sorry. I didn't complete printing them all. But I will do that just as soon as I wrap up with these nice folks."

"I see," he said. There was no doubt in his voice. He'd known the answer before he'd asked it. And I'd known better than to leave without wrapping up my paperwork. Only, something had distracted me, and I'd left without checking the file.

What had it been? Oh yeah, the new season of
Downton Abbey
had premiered last night, and I'd wanted to see it. I cleared my throat. Knowing my truthful response wouldn't fare well with good old Chuck.

I looked up to find him bent over at the waist, studying the paperwork that I had lain out on the metal cart behind me.

"This form says that you only needed to draw three vials from each of these patients. Why have you drawn four vials?"

I returned focus to my current patient and smiled at her as I held pressure to the inside of her elbow with my gloved hand.

"The Micklesons have asked me to run a type and cross-match on their blood. They wanted to know what their blood types are—you see they are newlyweds—and—"

"But the insurance company won't pay for that test. It is not relevant to the life insurance application. We cannot submit that on the invoice to the company."

He rattled off the reasons behind why I shouldn't have run the test, and the couple exchanged looks with one another.

"Yes, I understand that. But they wanted to know, and so I drew the blood. It is not a big deal, really."

"Uh, young lady, who is going to pay for this test?" He spun around on his Sperry-covered feet and gave me a good stare down.

The couple looked petrified of him.

"I'll pay for it." The words came out of my mouth in a slow cadence.

Everyone in the room silently waited—it was awkward to say the least. Just then the door chime from the clinic entrance sounded. Mr. Andrulis narrowed his eyes at me and then slipped out of the room as quickly and silently as he'd appeared.

"Ma'am, we can't let you pay for that. I'll…uh, I'll bring you a check for that on Friday. Would that be okay?" The young man who worked as a brick mason sputtered out the words. He looked embarrassed, and his wife began to study her feet as they waited for my response.

"No. Look, this was my fault. I didn't really think about the company not covering it. I'll just handle this. Don't worry about it. I'll e-mail you the results as soon as I have them. Okay?" I said encouragingly.

They looked relieved and thanked me as they gathered their jackets and made a hasty retreat back through the hallway and into the waiting room.

I rotated my neck in a semi-circle in an effort to work out the kinks. When three o'clock arrived, Mr. Andrulis would leave for the day, and I'd have the clinic to myself until seven when I would close up shop. But for the next hour, I'd be supervised to the most minute detail.

I could make it. It wasn't really that bad. After all, this was a great job, and I was getting in much needed practice with both patients and clinical testing. My favorite part was the actual lab work. I'd been sort of a chemistry geek back in college.

"Miss Murrin, are you going to check the sign-in sheet and do the next blood draw?" Mr. Andrulis said as he peered at me from around the doorframe. His hair stood up on the top of his head in tiny spikes. His glasses had slid down his nose slightly, and he shoved them back up with his right index finger as he waited for me to get on the move.

I never moved fast enough or efficiently enough for him.

"Yes, let me just label these vials, and I'll be right there." I grinned at him.

"After you do this blood draw, be sure to print out those results for me. I'd like to sign off on those before I leave. And we have some things for you to do in the lab tonight if you're not too busy up here. And be sure that you clock out no earlier than seven o'clock p.m. Not six fifty-five like you did last night."

His words were crisp, and again he disappeared in an instant leaving absolutely no sound in his wake.

I wrote the patients' names and dates of birth on the vial stickers as well as the date and time of collection. We already had the same information printed out and placed on each vial, but Mr. Andrulis made me write it and stick it on the back of the vial again. This was "in case the original label comes off," or so he'd explained. I thought this was a little bit of an overkill, but I'd never tell him that.

I placed the samples in the lock box and discarded my gloves in the hazardous waste bin before making my way to the lobby to find my next patient waiting.

There I found a large, bear-like man dressed in an expensive business suit. He looked up from the latest issue of Sports Illustrated and beamed at me.

"Randall Jamison, what brings you here?" I asked, returning the smile of my father's long-time friend and local attorney.

He stood up, made his way over to me, and enveloped me in his gargantuan hug. I struggled a little to breathe. It was a toss-up as to whether the heavy cologne or his tight grip was to blame the most.

I coughed a little in recovery as I backed up and motioned for him to follow me to the back, snagging a clipboard from the front desk as I led the way.

"How are you doing, sweetheart? How's our girl?"

"Oh, I'm working hard. And Paget is doing well." I gave the standard answers that people expect when they ask you these types of questions. I couldn't exactly respond with—oh, I hauled a dead body across town today, and it turned out to be an old friend of mine. Or, Paget threw a tantrum in the café when the new cop wrestled her to the ground.

I offered him a playful grin as he loomed over me. The draw room suddenly seemed a lot smaller with him in it.

"Have a seat here, and fill out this form for me, if you don't mind. What kind of lab work do you need?" I asked as he squeezed his body into the small chair with the large, extended armrest and gazed down at the paperwork.

"Uh, I'm going to just fill out this personal information section and leave the insurance part blank, if you don't mind. I'd like to pay cash for this." His voice dropped in volume as he spoke.

"Okay. Sure. What do you need me to test for?" My voice thickened up a little at the question. Sometimes, when folks didn't want you to put it on their insurance, it was because the test might reveal something awkward like an STD or something. I didn't like even knowing the possibility of something like this when it came to people I knew.

But then again, if I was going to be a doctor, I had to keep a stoic face, keep my judgments out of the room, and my opinions impartial. It was part of the life and career of a medical professional. God only knew what things Dr. C. had seen and heard about in his long career here in Millbrook.

"Well, I'd like you to do a paternity test for me."

My breath caught in my throat. "A paternity test to see if you are really a Jamison?" I was trying to follow along as to why a fifty-something-year-old man would have this type of concern at this point in his life.

"No." He shook his head, and I noticed a bead or two of sweat drip down and around his ear—which held a rather bushy growth inside it at the moment.

Ick.

I rubbed my tongue over my teeth as I tried to keep my face emotionless.

"I want to know if my daughter is really mine. I have reason to believe that her real father is Mick Thibault."

Oh, heavens to Betsy.

 

*  *  *

 

Despite his shocking revelation, I found myself moving right on to normal southern chitchat.

"How old is your Teensy now?" I asked, trying to remember the tiny, blonde waif of a girl I'd seen in the local junior pageants once upon a time. I sort of knew "of" her but never really knew her, but as I recalled she was at least a decade younger than I was.

"She just turned nineteen." His voice cracked on the last word. And he grasped the pen in his hand so hard that his knuckles began to turn white.

"Okay, wow. I can't believe it has been that long since I've seen her." The last I remembered of the frail girl was her picture on a pageant poster. I'd never liked pageants, but she was one of those whose mother put her up for every title in the county.

I never could stand it when parents dressed up their kids and plied them with tons of garish make-up, stuck their delicate little feet in high heels, and paraded them out in front of the town in order to win trophies and tiaras. It made me feel weird, and I always wondered whether it helped or hurt the girls' confidence and sense of self-worth.

My brain kept screaming, "Mick Thibault is dead," but I continued to try and stay on topic. I just couldn't be sure if he knew that Mick's body had been found this morning. Or if his appearance for a paternity test was just an unlucky coincidence. I wasn't sure I believed in this type of coincidence, but I sure as heck knew that I didn't want to be the one to reveal the information one way or another.

Collect the forms. Collect the blood.

That was my job as taught by and daily reconfirmed by Mr. Andrulis.

I slipped on a pair of nitrile latex-free gloves and removed the paperwork from Mr. Jamison's sweaty palms. Then I rolled up his shirt-sleeve and tied a tourniquet on his upper arm.

My silence seemed to push him forward to talk.

"My wife has informed me that she had an affair with Mick Thibault years ago." His voice broke into a sob, and his body vibrated beneath my hands as I rubbed his inner arm in search of a stickable vein.

BOOK: Worked to Death (Working Stiff Mysteries Book 2)
11.22Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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