A Diet to Die For (16 page)
Authors: Joan Hess
He made a pyramid with his fingers and studied me for a long while. “Dad’s records are stored in my garage. Give me the patient’s name and I’ll see if I can find her file.”
I scribbled Maribeth’s maiden name, my name, my home telephone number, and the number at the Book Depot. I thanked him profusely and went to my car, but as I drove home I realized I was clinging to a very thin thread. If I had found the right pediatrician, and if he’d saved Maribeth’s childhood records, and if there was anything significant in them, then … what?
I regret to say that nothing much came to mind, and I drove home in an increasingly glum mood. I collected my mail and started to go upstairs, then halted and knocked on Joanie’s door.
She waved me in and said, “I asked my daughter if she knew anything about Maribeth’s problem in college, but she didn’t. Betty Lou’s not scheduled to volunteer any time this week. I’m not much of a sleuth, I’m afraid, but I do have fresh coffee and homemade cookies.”
I shook my head and sank down on a love seat. “I may be on the track of Maribeth’s pediatrician, but I’m not sure that whatever information I get, presuming I get any, will be pertinent. What we need is motive and opportunity, not a dusty medical history.”
“Isn’t the husband always the most popular suspect?” Joanie said.
“He’s got opportunity. Maribeth most likely kept her vitamins in a kitchen cabinet or in the bathroom; he could have substituted something. He’s not fond of Maribeth, but he is exceedingly fond of her trust fund, and he wouldn’t want to murder her before she came into the money.”
“Lust can make people lose sight of more practical considerations. Could he have been so enamored of Candice that he was willing to do anything to rid himself of his wife?”
“Then all he had to do was divorce her,” I said, sinking further into both the upholstery and despair. “If he wouldn’t do so because of all the lovely money, Candice might have been motivated to take action, and she had ample opportunity to switch the potassium caplets for placebos of some kind. Damn, I wish the CID had run tests on the bottle of potassium.”
Joanie went into her kitchen and returned with a beer, a bottle of scotch, two glasses, and a glazed expression. “But,” she said pensively, “Candice met with Maribeth five afternoons a week for their consultation and weigh-in, and I’d imagine she was aware that Maribeth was developing a sense of independence as she gained control of her life. All she had to do was encourage Maribeth to continue with the program and then wait for her to dump Gerald.”
“Maribeth wasn’t making much progress the third week,” I said. I described the contents of the daily record, then added, “Maybe Candice panicked and decided to take matters into her own hands. Pretty feeble, huh?”
“No more than my son’s excuses for overdrawing
his bank account,” Joanie said with a sniff. “It’s odd, though. Maribeth told me she was losing steadily, yet she must have known otherwise. I’m surprised that she would lie to either of us.”
his bank account,” Joanie said with a sniff. “It’s odd, though. Maribeth told me she was losing steadily, yet she must have known otherwise. I’m surprised that she would lie to either of us.”
“If she was lying, she was doing it well. After all the years with Caron, I’m not the most trusting person on the planet, but I believed Maribeth, too,” I admitted. “Candice knew otherwise, as did Jody Delano. Yesterday he told me Maribeth weighed herself on his scales at the fitness center, I suppose to confirm the figures from the Ultima Center.”
“Is there any way he could be involved?”
I shrugged. “I don’t see how. He was panting after Maribeth, not trying to get rid of her. He may be perfectly sincere, or, like Gerald, he may have his eye on the trust money, but in either case he has no motive. He could hardly fiddle with the bottles of potassium in the office, for that matter. Even if he did, he had no control over which bottle was given to Maribeth. The other Ultima clients don’t seem to have any of the symptoms we saw in Maribeth’s case; they have a predatory look about them, not unlike vultures, but they’re not snarling or fainting or entering the Ultima office through a drive-in window.”
“That leaves Sheldon Winder and Bobbi,” Joanie said morosely. “Neither has any reason to try to harm Maribeth.”
“Unless …” I stared at the wall above Joanie’s head. When she made an irritated rumble, I said, “Well, what if Shelly and Bobbi are having a mad affair? It isn’t all that unlikely. The evening I stopped by to talk to him, he was up to something with a mysterious client in one of the back rooms. He claimed it was someone who was embarrassed to come in during regular hours,
but he was, as my grandmother used to say at every opportunity until the entire family wanted to throttle her, as nervous as a long-tailed cat in a roomful of rocking chairs. Maybe he made the crack about unnatural sex at the funeral to throw us off.”
but he was, as my grandmother used to say at every opportunity until the entire family wanted to throttle her, as nervous as a long-tailed cat in a roomful of rocking chairs. Maybe he made the crack about unnatural sex at the funeral to throw us off.”
“So they’re having an affair. So what?”
“If it had reached epic intensity, one or the other might decide to get rid of Maribeth in order to make Gerald available. Then Candice would sacrifice her interest in the Ultima Center to expedite a divorce in order to marry him. Then they could get married, too. For all we know, Bobbi may have nurtured a girlish dream of a double ceremony. I admit I’m stretching, but if we’re presuming someone wanted Maribeth out of the way, then we’re going to have to stretch like a pair of queen-sized panty hose.”
A tap at the door stopped further speculation. Caron stood in the hallway, her lower lip thrust forward and her eyes narrowed. “I came downstairs to give you a message,” she said to me accusingly. “I saw you drive up, but I presumed you’d come upstairs out of consideration for Other People, who might be tired of walking up and down the stairs all day long.”
“What’s the message?” I asked.
“The guy had to spell it out so I could write it down. It took me five minutes to find a pencil.” She handed the paper to Joanie and stomped upstairs, conveying disapproval with each thud.
Joanie frowned at the smudged note. “‘Acute rheumatic fever, carditis, antibiotic therapy. Age ten. Hope Beatrice is better.’ What does this mean, Claire? Who’s Beatrice?”
“Beatrice is a malevolent child inclined to tantrums.
What’s important is that Maribeth had rheumatic fever as a child and most likely later developed heart problems that caused her to drop out of school.”
What’s important is that Maribeth had rheumatic fever as a child and most likely later developed heart problems that caused her to drop out of school.”
“And?” Joanie said, leaning forward in anticipation of my next astounding revelation.
“I don’t know,” I said helplessly.
T
he following morning, after Caron had wolfed down a large breakfast (in order to increase endurance and build muscle tissue, I was told huffily), and then filled her purse with cookies (quick energy and blood sugar, huff, huff) and left for school, I called the CID and asked for Lieutenant Rosen.
he following morning, after Caron had wolfed down a large breakfast (in order to increase endurance and build muscle tissue, I was told huffily), and then filled her purse with cookies (quick energy and blood sugar, huff, huff) and left for school, I called the CID and asked for Lieutenant Rosen.
After we’d exchanged pleasantries, I said, “Are you aware that Maribeth Galleston had rheumatic fever as a child, and a relapse of some kind while in college?”
“I am. Are you aware you’re once again meddling in official police business?”
“I’m doing no such thing,” I said, offended at the very idea. “You’re the one who said the case was closed, that the CID was no longer interested in the so-called accident. You couldn’t be bothered to run tests on the potassium or find out who was having affairs with whom. You’re more interested in football players taking illegal substances to make their biceps bulge and their triceps triple.”
He grumbled for a moment, then said, “I told you that in confidence, and then asked you to butt out of the Galleston investigation. It is closed. Hold a vigil
beside her bed at the hospital, send her flowers, read her one of those fanciful mystery novels in which the busybody amateur sleuth outwits the plodding policeman, or, if none of that appeals, mind your own business.”
beside her bed at the hospital, send her flowers, read her one of those fanciful mystery novels in which the busybody amateur sleuth outwits the plodding policeman, or, if none of that appeals, mind your own business.”
“Why didn’t you tell me about the rheumatic fever?” I inserted, tiring of the drift of his remarks. “Do you realize what I went through to get that bit of information? I’m apt to come down with chicken pox or diaper rash, all because you couldn’t bother to mention it to me.”
“Claire,” he said in a drawn-out sigh, “it’s against department policy to keep civilians informed of our every move. If we didn’t prefer a little privacy, we’d issue bulletins every evening on the six o’clock news.”
I blinked at the receiver. “You would?”
“I’m joking.”
“I know that. It’s just that …” I blinked once more, then told myself to stop being foolish. “Did you find out anything about Sheldon and Candice Winder?”
“Nothing of great interest. He went to medical school in Guadalajara, but a lot of Americans do, when they can’t get accepted anywhere else. He finagled an internship at a small hospital but was terminated during the first year. Shortly thereafter he proclaimed himself an expert in the field of nutrition and weight problems and opened the Ultima Center.”
“Why was he terminated?”
“It took some digging; the profession’s closed-mouthed about its malpractitioners. Winder was supposed to be on call one night, but he was occupied handily in the linen closet with a winsome nurse. There was an emergency; the patient requiring attention
died. The director was irked enough to kick Winder out of the program, but not enough to disturb the licensing board.”
died. The director was irked enough to kick Winder out of the program, but not enough to disturb the licensing board.”
“The nurse being Candice?”
“Yes, and she received the same treatment. One of her more garrulous roommates said Candice was hot to marry a doctor, even one with uncertain earning power. She demanded Winder marry her to justify the grand passion that led to her termination and badgered him continually until he gave in.”
“And ended up in a diet center, fawning over obese women and shrieking with glee when one of them lost a pound.”
“So it seems.” Peter then said he had to go play with his police band radio and I said I needed to mind my own business: the bookstore. I replaced the receiver and tried to find a spot in the puzzle for the latest tidbits of information. Winder was a lousy doctor. Candice was not my choice of Nightingales. If she’d grown tired of her husband, she might have set her black-striped cap for Gerald. Who would refuse to divorce his heiress. Who was terrified she might divorce him. Who would prefer to have his heiress committed. Who might have mentioned as much to Candice, who obligingly suggested a plan. They couldn’t kill her, but they couldn’t arrange for her to become increasingly incapable of normal functioning. Once she was stashed for life, they could do almost everything except marry each other.
I went downstairs and knocked on Joanie’s door. When she opened it, I said, “Will you call Betty Lou Kirkpatrick and find out the name of her law-professor daughter, then call the daughter and ask
when there’s a faculty meeting or whatever where attendance is mandatory?”
when there’s a faculty meeting or whatever where attendance is mandatory?”
“I have to fire in ten minutes.”
“A gun? An employee? Off a memo?”
“I have to fire a particularly exquisite hand-built vase, Claire, and you’re blocking the doorway. I’m going to have to run across campus as it is, and it won’t be a pretty picture. Why don’t you call Betty Lou and ask all those things?”
“I don’t know her. Can you call her after you’ve fired the vase?” I persisted.
“I’ll catch Betty Lou later in the morning and call you at the Book Depot.” She gave me a shrewd look. “Shall I pass the vase to raise bail?”
“Good idea. Remember to remove the money before you fire it.”
I walked to the Book Depot and called the hospital to check on Maribeth. Her condition had not changed. I sold a few books, agreed to order one not in stock, paced up and down the aisles, and finally snatched up the feather duster to vent my impatience on Chaucer, Dante, and the rest of the freshman lit gang. I was so edgy that I nearly knocked down a customer when I glanced up and saw a face peering through the window. The disembodied head disappeared, but it cost me a sale and a goodly amount of professional pride. As a rule, proprietors try to avoid scaring off customers. Plays havoc with sales.
I picked out a self-help on stress-related disorders, sat on the stool behind the counter, and waited for Joanie’s call. By noon I was reduced to glowering at the telephone, and I almost shrieked when it rang.
Pleased by my psychic powers, I grabbed the receiver and said, “Did you get through to Betty Lou?”
“Any relation to Peggy Sue?” Peter answered, humming a few bars so I could fully appreciate his quick wit.
“No, it’s … someone who goes to basketball games. Joanie was going to see if I could use her ticket for the next game.”
“In two months, when basketball season opens? How clever of you to plan ahead so carefully.”
I scowled at the receiver, but in a properly modulated voice, said, “Thank you. It’s been lovely chatting with you, but I’m waiting for Joanie to call and it’s rather urgent.”
“I know how fond you are of basketball. Listen, I’m going to violate department regulations to share—voluntarily, mind you—some information about the Galleston case.”
“You are?”
“I’m doing this so you’ll stop nosing around, Claire. The tests done at the hospital turned up a certain amount of heart damage from childhood rheumatic fever. Maribeth shouldn’t have been on a stringent diet, but she shouldn’t have suffered any serious complications from it as long as she took all the vitamins and supplements prescribed. Apparently she didn’t; we found three bottles of potassium caplets in a kitchen cabinet, and they were unopened.”
“Did you test them to see if they really were potassium?” I asked politely … for the third or fourth time.
“Yes, they had been packaged for Ultima and consisted of precisely what the label described. The truth is that for some unknown reason she wasn’t taking them, and that led to the dizziness and vagueness.”
“Oh,” I said, somewhat sad to see my lovely theory
deflate. “Then the self-induced potassium deficiency was responsible for everything, from the outbursts to the heart attack? Maribeth simply didn’t follow the program, and it resulted in her coma and Candice’s death?”
deflate. “Then the self-induced potassium deficiency was responsible for everything, from the outbursts to the heart attack? Maribeth simply didn’t follow the program, and it resulted in her coma and Candice’s death?”
“That’s right,” Peter said. He wished me luck getting basketball tickets on the fifty-yard line and hung up.
I kept the receiver in my hand, staring at it as I replayed the conversation in my mind. Everything had sounded fine until I’d mentioned the outbursts and the heart attack. And heard the damn omnipresent siding salesman once again.
I found the telephone directory, called the pediatric clinic, and asked to speak to the helpful young doctor with the big black ears.
“He’s with a patient. Do you need to make an appointment?”
“No, I need to speak to him for a minute. Maybe not even that long. Thirty seconds. Forty-five, tops.”
“If you’ll give me the child’s name, your number, and the nature of the child’s illness, I’ll have Dr. Brandisi’s nurse call you when she’s free.”
“I need to speak to him personally.”
“Is this Beatrice’s mother?” the voice said so coldly I could almost see icicles forming on telephone wires across the city.
“No,” I said truthfully, “my child’s name is Caron.”
“And what is the nature of Caron’s illness?”
“Usually it’s mental, but these days I’m wondering if she’s developing an eating disorder. Last week she insisted on nothing but popcorn and grapefruit juice for most of a day. Could I please speak to Dr. Brandisi?”
“If you’ll give me your name and telephone number, I’ll put a note on his desk. However, his schedule is very, very busy, and he won’t be able to call until late in the afternoon.”
After I’d rattled off the information and repeated several times that I wanted to speak to Dr. Brandisi personally, I hung up and resumed pacing. Peter’s call was peculiar; unlike Betty Lou, he did not volunteer anything, including information from his investigation. Furthermore, it didn’t make any more sense than my muddled theories that someone had tampered with the potassium. Maribeth had no reason not to take the potassium. Sighing loudly enough to startle the roaches, I reminded myself that she didn’t have a reason to lie about her progress, either—but she had.
I finally gave up on Joanie, put the CLOSED sign on the Book Depot door, and walked back to my apartment for lunch. I went halfway up the stairs, stopped, went back down and around to the garage and got into my car, although I wasn’t quite sure where I was going.
By the time I reached the street, I’d figured out that I was going to the Ultima Center to have a word with Sheldon Winder. Which word remained to be seen, but I was decidedly unhappy with the tidy conclusion to the untidy mess. I preferred my conspiracy theory; Winder might find something in the daily record to confirm it.
As I drove down the hill beside the football stadium, I was smiling at the image of Peter and the feds skulking under the bleachers, armed not with deadly assault weapons but with little glass bottles. The stadium was empty, as was the practice field below it; I supposed the players were obliged to attend a class or
two in the morning. Some of them, no doubt, shared Bobbi’s classes in joints and ankles, along with demanding courses in recreational opportunities, recruitment violations (Evasion 101), and athletic department budget management.
two in the morning. Some of them, no doubt, shared Bobbi’s classes in joints and ankles, along with demanding courses in recreational opportunities, recruitment violations (Evasion 101), and athletic department budget management.
The car ahead of me slowed and its blinker began to imply a turn was imminent. I agreeably put my foot on the brake pedal. The pedal hit the floor. My emergency brake had ceased working several years ago. I would have pumped the brake pedal, but it remained flat against the floorboard. All the while my car was picking up speed on the steep slope. I whipped around the right side of the car ahead of me, only to be confronted with the brake lights of a pickup truck. No one was coming toward us in the other lane. I passed the truck on the left and swung back to the proper side. Fighting an inexplicable urge to giggle, I eyed the next challenge—a lumbering white garbage truck. In that there was a convertible in the left lane, I couldn’t pass on that side. On the right was a slight valley and an upward incline with a few scattered trees and a stern sign to those who might entertain the idea of parking on the grass.
I wrenched the wheel to the right, bounced over the curb (bouncing my head off the top of the car hard enough to bring an instant gush of tears and an expletive of Anglo-Saxon origin), veered around a tree, sucked in a breath, and veered around yet another tree. I tried to downshift, but the gears squealed so painfully I could almost see the teeth being stripped. I felt as though I had been dropped inside a maniacal video game, but the trees were very three-dimensional and my thudding heart very much in my throat.
I was on an upward incline now. If I could avoid
a few more impediments, the car would yield to the laws of gravity. I did not avoid a metal trash receptacle, but I missed three more trees and eventually, after a mere eternity, came to rest two feet from a concrete picnic table.
a few more impediments, the car would yield to the laws of gravity. I did not avoid a metal trash receptacle, but I missed three more trees and eventually, after a mere eternity, came to rest two feet from a concrete picnic table.
As I cut off the engine, the giggles caught up with me. I leaned my forehead on the steering wheel, tears forming in my eyes, and tried to combat what I sensed was impending hysterics. My heart eventually sank back into its proper cavity. The shrill giggles gave way to moist hiccups. My breathing steadied, and my shoulders stopped jerking as if an electric current was running through them.
A rap on the window interrupted my internal assessment. I turned my head and gazed blankly at a man in stained overalls and a baseball cap. He twirled his finger until I rolled down the window. “No parking on the grass, ma’am,” he said, pointing with his thumb at a nearby sign.
“I’m not parking.”
“Looks like parking to me, ma’am. Your car’s on the grass. Planning a little picnic?”
“There’s something wrong with my brake pedal. It went all the way to the floorboard without slowing me down. I managed to avoid an accident by coming this way.” Wondering if my knees could be trusted, I opened the car door and managed a wobbly posture on the violated grass. “Look for yourself.”
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