The Alpine Uproar (24 page)

Milo dropped the ice into glasses. “You’re going online?”

“I think I just said that.”

The sheriff poured Scotch into his glass and Canadian into mine. “Will that bring in money?”

“It better,” I said, picking up my drink from the counter. “That’s why we’re … oops!” The glass slipped from my hand and fell to the floor. It didn’t break, but the liquor and the ice were all over the place.

“I’ll get it,” Milo volunteered.

“No.” The sheriff was a haphazard housekeeper. I wanted to make sure the floor was completely dried. When it came to walking, I was clumsy.

“I’ll fix you another drink and take it out to the living room,” he said. “I think you’re still kind of shaky from the accident.”

“Thanks.” I took some rags out of a drawer, bent down to retrieve the ice, and began wiping up the mess. Milo got out another glass for me and went through the drink-making process a second time. Somehow he managed to keep out of the way. A couple of minutes later, he loped off to the living room. I sat back on my haunches, making sure I hadn’t left any wet spots. The floor looked pristine. As I tried to stand, a shock of pain zigzagged through my lower back. Dropping back to my knees, I let out a piercing yelp and leaned against the sink.

“What the hell …?” Milo said, coming to my aid. “What’s wrong?”

“My back!” I cried. “I did something stupid. It hurts like hell.”

“Can you stand all the way up? Here,” he said, holding out a big hand. “Take it real slow.”

I had no choice. Every small movement was agonizing. Leaning on the sheriff, I struggled to get to my feet. “Oh, God,” I gasped, “I don’t think I can walk.”

“I can carry you,” Milo said. “Or should I? Maybe you ought to stay put.”

I winced from pain. “No. Park me on the sofa.” He scooped me up. I squeezed my eyes shut, trying not to moan and groan. For such a big guy, the sheriff could be surprisingly gentle. He kicked a couple of throw pillows out of the way before setting me down.

“Here,” he said, picking up the pillows. “You want these behind your head?”

I nodded. Milo put the pillows in place and glanced at my Canadian whiskey on the end table. “How in hell are you going to drink this without spilling it all over the place?”

“I don’t know,” I admitted. “I think there are some straws in the cupboard where I keep glassware.”

Milo rubbed at his chin. “Maybe you need another pillow.” He frowned. “Didn’t the medics check you out?”

“No.” I tried to lift my head but the pain intensified. “Damn! I was fine, really. The medics had their hands full with the Gross bunch.”

“
Gross
is right for that wrecking crew.” The sheriff took his cell phone out of his flannel shirt. “I’m calling Doc Dewey.”

“Oh, don’t!” But it was too late to stop him, and he was probably right. I wasn’t going to cure myself by lying helplessly on the sofa. Eyeing the drink that Milo had set on the end table, I made a couple of futile efforts to shift my body into a more comfortable position.

“Doc’s coming,” the sheriff said after a brief exchange. “Thank God he still makes the occasional house call.”

“He was trained by the best,” I said. “His father.”

“True.” Milo studied my miserable form. “You need a blanket?”

“No. Hand me the drink. Maybe I can throw it in my mouth.”

The sheriff took another pillow from the opposite end of the sofa and put it behind my head. “There,” he said, handing me my drink. “See if you can keep from dumping it all over your … chest.”

I managed to take a couple of sips. Milo had made a very strong drink. I took two more sips. Satisfied that I wasn’t going to spill the rest of the cocktail, he sat down in the easy chair. I swallowed more whiskey. The sheriff scanned the TV listings in the morning edition of the
Times
.

I’d relaxed a bit, easing the pain. Maybe I’d survive after all. “Do you think Holly has car insurance?” I asked.

“She’d better,” Milo said, lighting a cigarette. “It’s a state law.”

“And you’re running out of room in the jail.” I took another sip, actually more like a big gulp—and giggled. “Hey, how ’bout tossin’ me one of your Mar’bros?”

He reached again into his shirt pocket, but hesitated. “Maybe not. You might set yourself on fire.”

I’d downed more whiskey. “No, I won’t,” I asserted, dangling a hand in the direction of the carpet. “Jus’ pu’ ’nashtay on the floor.”

“No.” He settled back into the easy chair. “Doc’ll give you hell if he catches you smoking. I ought to know. Besides, you’re kind of … giddy.”

“Giddy?” For some reason, the word made me giggle again. “Never hear’ you say ‘giddy’ before.”

“Never had to use it,” Milo said, sounding vaguely amused.

“Giddy, kiddy, widdy, Bo Diddly,” I muttered before finishing my drink. “Tha’s
funny.”
I hiccuped. And hiccuped again.

The phone rang. The sheriff gestured at the end table. “Do you want me to answer it?”

I shook my head. The phone rang two more times. I changed my mind. “Sure.”

Milo got up as the fourth ring sounded. He was halfway across the room when the call trunked over. “It’s three
AM
, and do I know where my Emma is? I can’t sleep without her,” the voice on my machine said. “I’m heading for the Loire Valley tomorrow. Are you coming with me or shall I jump off the balcony at Chenonceau and drown myself in the River Cher?”

Milo glared at me. “Is that the asshole from the AP?”

I nodded—and hiccuped.

The sheriff retrieved his cigarette and drink from the side table by the easy chair. He loomed over me. “I thought you dumped him.”

I nodded again—and hiccuped.

“Where the hell
is
this bozo?” Milo demanded. “If you dumped him, why are you supposed to be wherever he is?”

I waved an impatient hand. A fresh twinge of pain consumed me. I winced and hiccuped at the same time. The sheriff turned away sharply, going to the front window. “Here’s Doc. Try not to make a complete fool of yourself, okay?”

I couldn’t respond. I was still hiccuping. Milo opened the front door. Doc Dewey, who was wearing a rain hat, came into the living room. I thought the rain hat was absolutely hilarious. I giggled and hiccuped and dropped the almost empty glass onto the carpet.

Suddenly I felt utterly debilitated. The hiccups stopped as soon as Doc took off his hat. He and Milo were both a blur. Their voices seemed to be coming from far away, echoing as if they were talking through a drainpipe.

“… in the kitchen … couldn’t get up …”

“… broken? Then probably a muscle … take a look …”

While Doc opened his medical case, Milo scooped up my glass and took it out to the kitchen. When Doc started asking me questions, I tried to focus on him. Everything was still fuzzy. I thought I heard him tell Milo that at least the liquor had relaxed me, which, I gathered, was good. Doc did some poking and probing before requesting me to make several movements that ordinarily would’ve been simple. I had difficulty understanding what he wanted, and when I finally got the gist of his instructions I discovered that bending, stretching, and whatever other requests he made caused me to hurt.

“It’s not serious,” he said, “though I want to take some X rays tomorrow or Monday if you’re not better.” Doc paused and wagged a finger at me. “No more booze for you tonight. It might give you temporary relief, but liquor masks the pain.” He paused, apparently waiting to see if his words had sunk in. I nodded, probably looking sheepish. Doc turned to Milo. “Did you hear that?” Milo, who had refilled his glass while he was in the kitchen, answered that he understood and asked Doc if he’d like a drink.

“No thanks,” Doc replied, taking a medicine bottle out of his case. “If you mixed the one Emma drank, I’d never be able to drive home. I’m going to give her some Demerol and write a prescription for more along with methocarbamol to relax the muscles. You can get them filled at Parker’s before they close at seven.”

“Will do,” Milo said, looking faintly chastened.

“Do it now,” Doc ordered the sheriff. “If you drink the rest of whatever you’ve got in your glass you’ll have to arrest yourself for a DUI. Now go get Emma a glass of water.” As Milo loped back to the kitchen, Doc called after him: “Just
water,”
he repeated loudly before looking at me again. “How bad is it right now?”

“Not so bad,” I said, wondering where my euphoria had gone.

“Try not to do much for the rest of today and tomorrow. If,” he went on as Milo returned with the water, “it gets worse, call me. Day or night. Got it?”

“Yes.” I took the water from Milo and the pills from Doc.

“They work pretty fast,” Doc said.

“Good.” I swallowed them both at the same time and managed not to choke. Or hiccup. For the first time since Doc walked through the door I studied his face. He looked tired and drawn. “You better take the night off,” I said.

“I can’t. The last week or so Elvis and I’ve been working long days and almost as long nights. This is a bad time of year for flu and colds and every other bug that comes along. Not,” Doc added, “to mention people getting themselves killed or injured in highway accidents.” He stared at Milo. “Well? Why are you standing there? It’s almost six-thirty. I’ll stay with Emma while you’re gone.”

“Okay, okay,” Milo said, taking his jacket from the small coatrack by the front door. “I’m on my way.”

If I hadn’t been in such a mess, I would’ve smiled. Doc—and occasionally Vida—were the only two people I knew who could give the sheriff orders. Gerald Dewey was a few years younger than Milo, but somehow Young Doc, as he had been known in his father’s time, had managed to channel Old Doc’s command along with his compassion. A minute later Milo was gone and Doc sat down in the other easy chair.

“Is he going to stay with you tonight?” Doc asked bluntly.

I made a face. “Are there
any
secrets in this town?”

“Not many,” he said. “I’m asking the question from a medical standpoint. It’s not a good idea for you to be by yourself.”

I sighed. “I hadn’t planned on an overnight. I invited Milo for dinner—just dinner—last night, but his ex-wife came to town.”

“Oh—yes, Tricia.” Doc smiled and shook his head. “Tanya Dodge. I delivered her. It seems like it was only a few years ago. My dad delivered their other two kids. Where have all those decades gone?”

“You’ve saved several lives in those years,” I said.

He frowned. “And lost some, too.”

“But you’ve also delivered a lot of babies.”

“True.” Doc turned melancholy. “Mike O’Toole was one of them.”

“Oh.” No wonder Doc looked sad. “Do you know what happened? I mean, the medical reason he didn’t pull through?”

“Cardiac arrest,” Doc replied, his usually kind face hardening.

“But,” I persisted, realizing that as the Demerol began to ease the pain, the fuzzy feeling was coming back, “he was so young and apparently fit. What triggered cardiac arrest?”

Doc took off his glasses and leaned forward in the easy chair. “Why are you asking me that?”

I shrugged, causing the pain to intensify. “I don’t know. It just … bothers me. I thought maybe you talked to the doctors in Monroe.”

“I did.” He stood up, walked over to the side table by the other chair, and took a big gulp of Milo’s Scotch. “Damned fool thing to do,” he muttered, setting the glass back down. “Let’s say I’m not the only fool in town.” He went back to his chair. “How do you feel?”

“Better. Sleepy.” I tried to smile. “I don’t get it. About being a fool, I mean. Am I being dense?”

Doc shook his head. “No. I’ll be quiet and let you drift off.”

“Th-th-thanks … for … c-c-coming.” The words stumbled out of my mouth.

“Not a problem.”

A few minutes later, I heard Milo return. He and Doc talked
for what seemed a long time, but probably wasn’t. I couldn’t hear what they were saying. The words were disjointed and immediately floated out of my brain. My log cabin grew silent. I assumed Doc had left. The sheriff was in the kitchen, probably trying to find his dinner. I didn’t remember anything else until I woke up almost three hours later.

Milo had the TV on, but the sound was very low. He was watching ESPN’s baseball experts rehash an American League divisional play-off game between the Yankees and the Twins.

He clicked off the TV. “You’re awake?”

“Uh-huh. Who won?”

“Yankees in the eleventh, end of series, and on to the ALCS against the Red Sox. How are you doing?”

“I’m stiff,” I said, making an effort to move around a bit. “I hurt, but not like I did earlier.”

The sheriff checked his watch. “It’s after ten. You’re almost due to take that pain stuff I got at Parker’s.”

I nodded as I got into a semi-sitting position and studied the directions on the methocarbamol. “I’ll take this muscle relaxant now. I’m hungry. What’s left of the crab?”

“Not much.” Milo came to rearrange the pillows behind my head. “A couple of legs and part of the stomach. There’s some of both salads. You want to eat now? I can bring the food out here.”

“Please,” I said after swallowing a methocarbamol.

He started for the kitchen but stopped. “Cal Vickers called. He can’t do that job on your car and he doesn’t have your kind of tires in stock. The Honda dealership might have some on hand.”

“So what do I do? Have the car towed to Bert Anderson’s place?”

“That’s what Cal suggested. Bert doesn’t work Sundays, though.”

“Damn.” I considered my options, which were few. I couldn’t drive to Sunday Mass. I couldn’t drive to work Monday. Maybe I couldn’t even walk. I had to use the bathroom, so I’d find out if I could stand up.

“Oh,” Milo said leaning through the kitchen doorway, “you’ve got to fill out that accident report. I want it dated today.”

“Great,” I muttered. Heaving a sigh, I threw off the afghan Milo had put over me while I slept. Taking my time, I managed to get into a sitting position, set both feet firmly on the floor, and steadied myself on the sofa arm. I hurt, but the pain was bearable. It took me a couple of minutes to walk the short distance from the sofa, past the end table, into the hall, and on to the bathroom. I refused to look at myself in the mirror. It was one thing to feel miserable. There was no point in confirming what I already knew: I must have looked frightful.