Gourdfellas (30 page)

I set up the transformer, connected a stylus with a tiny round tip, turned the dial so that the heat was set at six, a good setting for general pyrography on a gourd with a medium thick shell. “See this cork protector?” I said, pointing to the two-inch cylinder that encircled the stylus. “It’s like those cardboard sleeves for coffee cups. Keeps you from getting burned. So that’s where you hold the stylus. Some folks call it a pen, but that’s confusing to me, even though it looks like one. No ink. Not a pen.”

Connie reached for her gourd.

“Respirators first,” I reminded her. I reached into my box, pulled out my mask, waited until she fixed hers firmly across her nose and mouth.

I showed her how to hold the stylus. “Lightly, that’s it. The hot point is going to do the work, not the pressure. And if you want to do curved lines, I find it’s easier to turn the gourd and keep the stylus still.”

Smoke curled up from the gourd, and the peculiar and satisfying smell of gourdburning wafted through the air. Connie’s expression was familiar, a combination of transfixed wonder and utter concentration that I’d seen on the faces of most gourders when they learn a new skill. Her lips pressed together and the stylus glided over the surface of the gourd until a deep brown line nearly encircled the rim. As she was about to complete the circle, her hand jerked and a small gouge blossomed at the end of the line.

She exhaled between clenched teeth and turned to me with tears in her eyes. “I can’t do this. I’m not strong enough to hold this damn thing. I don’t know why I even try.”

I replaced the stylus in its holder and squeezed Connie’s arm. “You try because it’s who you are. You’re not one to give up. Even when things are hard.”

Her eyes, when she met my gaze, glittered with anger. “You can’t know. You just can’t know how it is. It takes so much energy just to . . .” She shook her head, covered my hand with hers. “I’m sorry. I guess I’m too tired to do this after all. I didn’t mean to snap at you. But I’m glad you’re here. I want to ask you a favor.”

I flipped off the transformer and said, “Anything, Connie. You know that. Whatever you need.”

She turned the gourd in her hands, then looked up at me. “I can’t tell anyone else. Not Mel, certainly, and not my doctor. Not until I know. I mean, I’m pretty sure, but I need proof.” She sank back in her chair, breathing hard from the exertion of her speech.

Her words were confusing, but knowing Connie, she’d get to the point in a minute. I wanted to wrap her in a soft pink cloud and pour sunshine on her head. Instead of asking questions, I waited.

“I think the pills I’ve been taking are fakes.”

“What?” I felt as though someone had punched me in the stomach. My head spun and a million thoughts clamored for attention. “Why?”

“Everything I read on the Internet, I should have had problems with my hands and feet. It’s pretty universal. Burning, itching. By the second month, I should have had some sign of that. But there’s nothing.” Her voice was stronger and her eyes glittered with anger. “I mentioned it to my doc. He said maybe I was just an exception. But I don’t think so.”

My brain calmed down enough so that I began to understand some of the implications. If she was right about the pills being fakes, then someone had given her placebos instead of the chemotherapy she was supposed to get. If it was accidental, a mistake at the drug manufacturing plant or a labeling error, then incompetence might kill her. If it was intentional, then either someone was trying to get rid of Connie or . . .

“Connie, how much do those pills cost?”

She nodded. “A lot. Eighty dollars each. And I take forty-two a month. The insurance covers most of it, but I see the bills.”

I was still trying to catch my breath. That was a lot of money to me, to anyone who didn’t have millions stashed away somewhere. Who would benefit from giving Connie pills that wouldn’t help her?

The drug manufacturer wouldn’t do it. Doctors wouldn’t keep ordering pills that didn’t work. A drug distributor? Were there such things—companies that shipped drugs from various manufacturers to . . .

“Oh, you’re saying that . . . Joseph Trent?” My voice was barely a whisper.

Connie exhaled hard. “I know. I didn’t let myself even consider it at first. But the more I looked for another answer, the more he seemed to be the only real possibility. And then I started thinking about it. His store is so shabby. He hasn’t taken a vacation in six years.”

“Since the Walgreens opened up down the road, right?”

She nodded. “His shoes have holes in the soles. His wife looks so sad all the time. I need to know, Lili, I really need to know. Can you help me?”

“Of course.” I grabbed her hand. “I’m not sure how, but I’ll figure it out. I’ll get my network going and I’ll find someone who can test one of those pills to see what’s in it. You have a couple extra?”

She reached into her pocket and handed me a pill bottle. “I need these like Bill Gates need another million.”

“Billion,” I said. “I’ll call you as soon as I know anything.”

“I’ve got a pharmacist friend. We’ll go see him together,” Karen had said after I told her Connie’s story over the phone. “Come down. Right now.”

With no traffic and a sense of urgency turning me into Leadfoot, the drive from Walden Corners to Brooklyn had taken less than two hours. We’d walked to Smith Street hissing and stomping out our anger. Mr. Kim, a man with a sweet smile and bottle-thick glasses, understood what Karen was asking right away, and agreed to help.

“Two hours,” he said, his mouth crinkling into a display of disapproval. He’d turned and disappeared through a doorway, leaving Mrs. Kim to continue smiling at us. Karen had leaned across the counter, kissed the startled woman on the cheek, and then grabbed my elbow and led me back out onto the street.

We spent the next half hour drinking coffee and pretending to catch up on the lives of mutual friends, but our hearts weren’t in it.

“Nothing’s worse than cold coffee and boring gossip.” Karen screwed her face into a frown and glared at her reflection in the mirror on the wall across from our small table. The café was practically empty, and so were our latte cups. She signaled for another round and fingerbrushed a stray turquoise hair back into place. “Tell me about your murder.”

“God, Karen, it’s not
my
murder! Although the sheriff ’s office keeps coming up with things that somebody’s doing to make it look that way.” My friend never asked a simple question when something shocking would do—I’d forgotten that. “Sorry. I don’t know if there’s a single new bit of information. The cops seem to be earnest about doing the right thing, but they have to wade through a townful of suspects. If I had to put my money on someone right now it would be Anita Mellon, Marjorie’s daughter.”

“Matricide. Usually it’s an Oedipal thing. Wouldn’t it be great if Anita turned out to be a cross-dresser and was really a guy? Then he’d be able to sell his story to
The Enquirer
for even more money.” She shook her head. “I’ve been reading too many graphic novels lately.”

“As in graphic sex and violence? I thought you hated that.”

She shook her head with an I-don’t-know-what-to-do-with-you smile. “Comics. That’s the latest thing. Although I suspect Jane Austen would turn up her sensibilities at the thought of calling them novels. And what about your guy, the one with the football player son? Last time we spoke he was on your short list.”

I glanced at my watch. Mr. Kim would be another hour. I might as well keep myself in this conversation or I’d go nuts waiting. Not that my impulse to delay answering was a form of denial or anything. Not that it meant I didn’t really want to face Karen’s question.

“He’s such a nice guy. He loves to cook, he’s interested in all kinds of music and books and stuff. He’s solvent and a good parent. Not to mention good-looking, with a great body. But he’s been acting weird since Marjorie’s murder.

He says he’s worried about me but then he turns around and cancels a dinner because he has to do paperwork and later he admits that he went to see Anita in Nashville about a business deal. And then he apologizes for not telling the truth. Dunno, Karen. I just don’t know about this guy.”

She grinned. “You sound the way you did when you were getting ready to break up with Ed Thorsen. Remember? You used to trot out all his good qualities. He was stable and compassionate and ambitious—for someone in the education field. He liked snorkeling. I can’t remember but you might have even said he had good taste in ties.”

“Oh, man, was I that transparent?” I laughed uncomfortably. “Took me months to get smart enough to see that I admired him, I respected him, but I did not, no way, shape, or form, love him. Breaking that engagement was so hard.”

“But you’re not engaged to Seth, right. And you never said you love him. He’s an attractive, available man you have a good time with, that’s all. Why do you need him to be more than that?”

“Maybe I want something I can count on.” I smiled and shook my head. “And also at the same time something that’s going to surprise me. So can I have it both ways, do you think?”

Karen studied my face and then broke out into a grin. “You know when I hear a different buzz in your words, that excitement you’re looking for? When you talk about your lawyer.”

A heart reader, that’s what she was. Karen always knew, even before I did, what I felt. I thought understanding my secrets was my brother Charlie’s province, but Karen could read my heart with a precision that spooked me. Once again, she’d gotten it right.

“Okay, all right. I haven’t said it out loud to myself but you’re right. He’s not like anyone I’ve ever met. He’s . . . I don’t know, he’s . . .”

“Old?” She toyed with her coffee cup. “And also new. Listen, you need to make sure you’re not turning into one of the girls who likes a guy for three, six, nine months and then when the novelty wears off you get restless and move on to something else.”

“Me? Not a chance. But it takes that long to get to know a person beyond the surface, right? Anyway, I don’t really have the energy for a relationship until a couple of other things are cleared up. Like the possibility of someone intentionally giving my friend phony pills instead of the expensive drug that’s supposed to keep her alive.” I looked at my watch. Another twelve minutes had passed.

“Then let’s go back to the drugstore. Mr. Kim’s going to know in ten minutes, I can feel it. He said it would take two hours, but he’s going to know sooner.”

Relieved, I grabbed my purse, threw a five and two ones on the table, and followed her out into the gray and chilly drizzle. I’d learned not to question Karen when she
knew
something.

“You know, the sidewalks have that smell. Dampness and dust. When I lived here, that’s what rain smelled like.”

Karen frowned. “Well? That’s what rain does smell like. Oh, wait, I forgot. You’re a country girl now.”

“Earth and grass, right? I can tell you what ugly smells like.”

She practically growled her agreement as she pushed open the door to Kim’s Pharmacy.

I followed her inside.

“You back too soon.” Mrs. Kim shook her head. “He say three o’clock.”

I pivoted and grabbed the door handle, but Karen tugged at my sleeve.

“I know, but I had this feeling that—”

Like magic, Mr. Kim appeared from the back of the store. I felt like a defendant when the head juror first files back into the courtroom. His face gave away nothing at all, and I couldn’t find my voice to ask what he’d found.

“So, Mr. Kim, what did you find?” Karen asked sweetly.

Mr. Kim pushed his glasses up so that they rested on his shiny bald spot and he thrust his clenched fist forward. “Phony,” he declared.

Even after the room stopped spinning, I was dizzy. Dizzy with anger and disbelief. Dizzy with questions. I was only vaguely aware of Mrs. Kim’s warm hands on my arm, leading me to a chair beside the counter.

“Here,” she said as she handed me a cup that was warm to the touch. “Drink this. Go ahead, won’t hurt you. Tea. Green tea. Good for you.”

Karen knelt beside me. “You okay?”

I nodded and sipped the tea, then took a long swig and swallowed. “He’s killing her,” I whispered. “I have to do something. I have to get back there. Mr. Kim, do you know what it is?”

“Baking soda and something to make it hold. That’s all.” Splotches of red dotted his cheeks and he shook his head. “What I can do—what else? That’s so bad, bad. I can’t believe. A pharmacist to do such a thing? I can’t believe.”

“If it’s the guy I think it is, then you’d never guess. Mr. Perfect Upright Pharmacist. Head of the town council. Used to be on the school board. His wife volunteers at the local nursing home, reading to the old folks. A pharmacist, for crying out loud.” It was still hard to wrap my mind around the possibility.

I held onto the counter to keep from zigzagging all over the store. Slow down, I warned myself. There was nothing to be gained from driving back into town in my blue charger with sixshooters blazing unless I could prove my theory.

Other people might be in danger. I had to go slow in order to do this right. If I rushed, I’d make mistakes. Besides, I couldn’t go accusing Trent of anything to anyone until I knew more. I didn’t want to forever be snickered at—there’s the crazy woman who made up a story about the head of the town council being a murderer, they’d whisper to their children.

“You can write a note on your stationery saying what you found. I’ll need the rest of these, so that I can turn them over to the police.” Of course I had to call the police. I couldn’t, shouldn’t wait until I got home to keep Trent from poisoning another victim. The first step would be to call B. H. Hovanian. As soon as I could stop my hands from shaking.

Joseph Trent’s mild features swam before me, a little disapproving, a little tense with annoyance when the crowd wouldn’t quiet down in response to the pounding of his gavel. How could he possibly have done such a hideous, unthinkable thing?