Ill Will Page 15

  She didn’t ask, so I didn’t tell her about my fight with Torbin. I’d give it a few days and see if he managed a suitable apology before bringing it up. We had enough other things to worry about.

  I threw together a shrimp stir fry. Neither of us was all that hungry, so there was plenty left over for lunch tomorrow.

  Then we tried to make the night as normal as possible, watched a little TV, then read, our usual routine. But if it worked for Cordelia, it didn’t work for me. I needed to hold her hand, the comfort of her warmth. When she started to get up, I’d jump up, getting her a glass of water, then a cup of tea. The third time she told me to sit down, that I couldn’t go to the bathroom for her.

  When she came back she found me crying. The normal routine was gone. Cordelia sat beside me on the couch and pulled me into her arms, comforting me, because she might be sick and I might lose her.

  Chapter Thirteen

  A weekend came and went. I didn’t even remember until I got up on Saturday as if to go to work and Cordelia reminded me we could sleep a little later. I fed the cats as a bribe for them to leave us alone and flopped back into bed.

  But the weekend didn’t last and Monday came.

  Other than not getting killed, I hadn’t checked anything off last week’s to-do list. Not even the basics like go to my office and retrieve my messages.

  Cordelia had insisted on going to work. I hadn’t been able to manage it. The problems of Charles Williams, the McConkles, and their bottles of nostrums felt minor compared to cancer and bullets.

  Cordelia needed the distraction of other people’s illnesses to help her cope with her own. But my work—the cases before me at the moment—carried no such weight. They would be just fine sitting on the shelf for a few days. I filled the time with the necessities of life, an oil change, cats to the vet for their yearly checkup, all the things we struggled to cram in our busy days. The days and weeks ahead would be hard. I wanted all the other distractions out of the way.

  But time didn’t stop and I had to get back to what I did to pay the bills.

  Go to my office, check voice mail and e-mail, act like I was a big, bad, tough private eye. Clean my gun; maybe go to the rifle range. Like the gun had offered one whit of protection against Dudley and his monster truck.

  That decided, I cautiously pulled into traffic. And drove like a granny all the way to my office. Just to be on the safe side, I did my routine of driving around the block, checking out everything and everyone. Two neighbors sitting on their stoops drinking coffee was the only activity.

  I parked in front of my office and slowly got out of my car, as if this morning’s mayhem could repeat and I still needed to be vigilant. But the only threat was the weatherman’s chance of drizzle. No one was around.

  He’s in the hospital, I told myself as I put my key in the lock. There were some new scratch marks on the cylinder. Maybe he was trying to pick it. I shuddered at that thought. As bad as that morning was, having Dudley inside and waiting for me probably would have been worse. From the looks of it, he either hadn’t gotten very far or had no talent in lock-picking. There were a few scratches, but everything else looked okay. I had suggested to the building owner that he might consider a better lock for the street door, but he was loath to do any maintenance unless required by law. I did have a high-tech lock on my office door—which attested to Mr. Charles Williams’s locksmith skills. From now on it was going to stay locked whenever I was there.

  When I got to my office, evidence of Mr. Williams’s industriousness was present in a fax from Fletcher McConkle agreeing that Mr. Williams could act as his proxy. He’d been prudent enough—or his wife had—to add that if I felt any information was sensitive, I should check with him first.

  There were no voice messages and my e-mail ran the gamut of reasons why a client couldn’t pay my bill to ads for erectile dysfunction drugs.

  I could probably use the distraction of working on my one current paying case.

  Perhaps it was time to visit Fletcher’s fleeced aunt. I went to my closet. Sometimes being a private eye works just dandy. Others times something more subtle—some might say devious—is required.

  Much as I hated it, it seemed like this might be a pink dress one. From what Fletcher said, it sounded like his aunt was lonely, and company, even company of a commercial sort, was better than being alone.

  Pretending to be doing a survey about health care and vitamins might get me in to see his aunt and get her talking about the supplements. For that to work, I had to seem likable and non-threatening. The leather jacket just doesn’t accomplish that. I rummaged through my stack of fake business cards—ah, yes, Deborah Perkins, Research Policy Group. I could remember that I was a Deborah for a day.

  Pretty in pink. Well, not so much, but with the pantyhose—yes, one must sacrifice for one’s work—matching shoes—flats, heels aren’t good for running, or walking or standing, although my excuse was that heels made me too tall and therefore threatening—and a little makeup somewhere this side of Halloween, I was ready for my ruse.

  Maybe she’d offer me tea and crumpets. That might have to pass for lunch.

  The most annoying thing about the subterfuge—even more so than the pantyhose—I had to toss my gun into a big, pinkish purse, one that went with the character I was playing. Even if I had a suitably pink jacket, a shoulder holster wasn’t the fashion statement I was trying to make.

  So, next stop, Marion McConkle’s house. She lived in a nice Uptown neighborhood, not far from Audubon Park. Her house didn’t scream money, but it wasn’t talking poverty, either. If you were into clapboard turrets, it even had its quirky charm, with an octagonal room at three of the four corners. It was painted a nice sedate eggshell white with sunflower yellow trim. There was a short wrought iron fence surrounding the property. The money came out in the details. Both the house and the fence had been painted in the not-too-distant past. The yard had multiple flower beds, all neatly tended. The grass was perfectly mowed. Aunt Marion kept the place up.

  I parked a little way down the block, with the house just barely in view. Maybe it was paranoia, but I called it observing the scene. I wanted to get an idea of the pace of this neighborhood. Fifteen minutes passed and I only glimpsed one dog walker going past on an adjoining street. The pace of this place seemed to be staying inside.

  Time to play survey girl. I drove my car and parked in front of her house. As I got out of my car, I pulled a clipboard with a sheaf of paper and pretended to consult it. I was too old to do ingénue anymore, but I tried to channel a cheerleader who is now forty, divorced, and reduced to grunt work like door-to-door surveys.

  I rang the doorbell. And waited. I’d be so disappointed if I’d put on pantyhose only to discover that this was the day Auntie played bridge.

  I was debating whether to ring the doorbell a second time—could be considered pushy—or admit that cooking shows on TV would have been a better way to spend this day.

  I heard footsteps, fairly spry ones, so maybe Nature’s Beautiful Gift had some merit.

  A voice called, “Who is it? I’ve gone to the Baptist church for the last fifty years and I’m not about to change.”

  “Hello, ma’am,” I said. “I’m not selling anything, including religion. I’m part of a team doing surveys about health matters. I just need a few minutes of your time and it would greatly help our research.” I proffered the fake business card, holding it up to the cut glass window in the door. “Your ideas and opinions would really help us.”

  That seemed to do the trick, although I was sincerely hoping the pink dress helped because I’d hate to think all that pink was wasted. The door opened.

  I could see the resemblance to her nephew; more wrinkles, less height, no surfer attitude. Her hair, recently styled and cut, was a very real shade of brown, the dye job given away only by her age. Her clothes were Uptown casual, khaki pants smartly creased, a knit sweater that almost matched my pink dress, pearl earrings, several understated go
ld chains around her neck. And sensible shoes.

  “Why don’t you come in?” she asked.

  “How do you do, ma’am?” I asked, furiously channeling aging cheerleader. “I’m Deborah Perkins, part of the Research Policy Group. We’re conducting research on healthy living and lifestyle choices of a select group of people here in New Orleans.”

  “That sounds interesting,” she said, standing aside so I could enter.

  The house was beautifully furnished, Much of the furniture seemed old, perhaps passed down for generations. Clearly expensive and well cared for. She ushered me into a pleasant sitting room with several overstuffed chairs and a love seat arranged in front of a massive fireplace.

  “Would you like some coffee or tea?” she asked.

  “Thank you, ma’am. I don’t want to be a bother.”

  “Oh, it’s not a bother. I was about to get some for myself.”

  “That would be most kind. I’ll have whatever you’re having.”

  She smiled at me, the smile of someone who was lonely and bored and had just reeled in a person who clearly had to stay until the tea was finished.

  “I’ll be right back,” she said and exited down the center hall.

  I stood up and discreetly peered after her. She went to the back of the house. I would have some footsteps warning before she reentered. I quickly scanned the room. There were several built-in bookcases on one side and two massive windows on the other with window seats under both. But this room was clearly single purpose—sit and have tea. There was no desk or sign of anything that wouldn’t be presentable for a stranger who happened on her doorstep. The books were old, classics or reference, and seemed to be arranged more by color than content. A pleasing picture, but it didn’t invite reading. There were photographs on the mantel and bookshelves, but they were all posed like men with big prized fish. I did notice several of Fletcher, mostly younger ones, including one of him with a surfboard and a trophy.

  I heard footsteps in the hallway and quickly scurried back to my seat. When Aunt Marion returned, I was sitting, making notations on my clipboard. She carried a tray with a small pot on it and a plate of an expensive brand of shortbread cookies.

  “Help yourself,” she said.

  I did. It was the blackest, strongest, bitterest coffee I’ve ever tasted. So much for my herbal tea fantasy. I’m a black coffee drinker, even chicory black. That was probably the only thing that saved me from choking and spitting it out.

  “Thank you so much. This will be a great perk-me-up.” I wondered if I would sleep tonight. “Now, let’s get started.” I asked the usual demographic data, age, sex, race, did a delicate dance around income, “You don’t need to answer this if you don’t want to,” but she had no qualms about putting herself in the “over $150,000” category.

  “Now, I’m going to ask you some open-ended questions. Please answer them as honestly as you can. The first question is, what’s your biggest health concern?”

  That was either the absolute wrong question or the perfectly right question to ask. It certainly got her talking. From her bunions to her prolapsed uterus, head to toe.

  I did try to direct the flow and broke in around flatulence, “But which of these would you say is your major one?”

  “Oh, honey, they all bother me. Just let me give you the list and you tell me which one seems the most important.” Because she’d been interrupted mid-fart, she started her bowel problems from the beginning. I didn’t interrupt again, just scratched down random words so it looked like I was taking copious notes.

  “So, which of these would you say is the big one?” she finally finished up.

  “Well, ma’am, it seems to me that it would be the combination of everything you’re dealing with. One problem is bad enough, but if you’ve got a whole bunch of them, that’s a big challenge. How do you deal with all these problems? Do you see a number of doctors?”

  “You know all that’s a conspiracy? The drug companies don’t want anyone cured. They want you hooked on pills all your life. They can cure just about everything known to man, but they won’t because it would hurt their profits.”

  It was another five minutes of more of this before she took enough of a breath for me to ask, “So if you don’t go to doctors, how do you manage? Do you take any herbal supplements or engage in natural healing?”

  “Yes, that’s what they don’t want you to know about. There are cures out there, and some people are courageous enough to find them and bring them to us. The only reason I’m alive and as well as I am today is because I’ve done exhaustive research, found out the truth, and searched out what the drug companies and government don’t want us to know.”

  “What kind of stuff do you take?”

  “Ah, you just want to find out my secrets, don’t you?”

  “No, ma’am, not at all. This is for research purposes only.”

  “How do I know you’re not part of them? Sent here to spy on me?”

  When you wear a tinfoil hat, people tend not to flock around you. Perhaps that was part of Marion McConkle’s loneliness.

  “No, ma’am, I’m not a spy. Just a not very well-paid mother of two. My husband ran off after Katrina and I’m trying to make ends meet.” I was being as pink as I possibly could be, hoping to fly below her paranoia. “And, ma’am, I have to admit that I have gas problems as well, so if you have any advice for me that you’re willing to share, I’d sure appreciate it.”

  By the time she finished with her advice, I knew more than I wanted about Marion McConkle’s colon, up to and including when she had her last enema—“weak coffee”—last bowel movement—“every morning regular as clockwork, except when my system is upset,” and how often she had flatulence in public, especially the funerals, “they had just lifted the coffin up.”

  I was no longer a spy, instead had become a co-conspirator. I wasn’t sure that was an improvement.

  Then she said, “Wait, I’ve got something you should try. It’s worked great for me.”

  She got up and left the room and I again peeked down the hall. She went to a different place than the kitchen, but returned much more quickly, barely giving me time to sit down again.

  She handed me a bottle of Nature’s Beautiful Gift that promised to help improve digestion and regularity.

  I gave it my best wonderful-gift-that-I-never-would-have-given-myself look. “So, this is what you use? And it’s really helped?”

  “Oh, yes. Now I’ve always been pretty regular, but this really stepped it up. And there is still an occasional burp from the back end, if you know what I mean, but it is so much better. I’m not confined to home because I’m worried my gaseous outbreaks will embarrass me.”

  “Let me write this down,” I said, peering at the label.

  “Oh, you can have that. You’ve been so nice to me.”

  Right, my nice amounted to being trapped in her lair and asking the kinds of questions that allowed her to wax lyrical about farting at funerals.

  Her doorbell rang.

  “Oh, my,” she said. “Time has gotten away from me. But you’re in luck. That’s Vincent. He’s the one who told me about these miracle herbal supplements. He comes by about once a week to make sure I have everything I need. You can meet him and maybe he’ll have some suggestions for you.”

  Oh, goody, not only was I in pink, but I’d get to discuss my faux flatulence problem with a stranger.

  Marion hurried out of the room, not wanting to leave Vincent and his magic potions waiting.

  I heard his voice from the hallway. “Hi, Marion, I’ve got some great new stuff for you if you’re interested.”

  Great new stuff? These were supposedly old remedies discovered by a doctor in the 1930s. Maybe another serendipitous find in an attic? Just in time to add a new product line.

  “Come into the sitting room, Vincent, dear. There is someone I’d like you to meet.”

  Vincent was in his late twenties, wearing a white polo shirt with a Nature’s Beautiful Gi
ft emblem on it. The shirt was tight, showing up his well-muscled arms. He was on the short side, although well within a normal range, probably around five-six. He looked like someone who spent a good part of his free time in a gym. His dark hair was a conservative cut and he had big, brown puppy-dog eyes. He’d do okay in a gay bar, but he wasn’t a head turner. In short, just good-looking enough that an elderly woman like Marion McConkle would be flattered at his attention instead of knowing he was too good-looking to bother with her save for the money.

  “Hi, Vincent, I’m Deborah Perkins of the Research Policy Groups.” I hoped that was the right name. It wouldn’t do to look at my business card. “I’ve been doing a sample of opinions about health and well-being and Mrs.—” Almost tripped. I wasn’t supposed to know her name. She hadn’t told me and I hadn’t asked.

  “Mrs. McConkle,” she supplied, “but please call me Marion.”

  After what I knew about her colon, we should be on first name terms. “Ah, yes, Mrs., I mean, Marion, has told me how helpful your products have been.” I acted appropriately embarrassed at the bottle in my hand, the one for “regularity.”

  Marion led us back to our seats—perhaps I was too close to the door and escape—before allowing Vincent to launch into his sales spiel. It was pretty much the same story I’d read on the website, but he told it in a sincere manner, making copious eye contact with his puppy-dog eyes. Even with all my years of cynicism, I began to wonder if maybe some of this stuff could help and maybe these were about bringing relief from suffering and not making money. Yeah, he was that good.

  I didn’t dare look at my watch. I had to keep a look of rapt fascination on my face, but I’d bet it was a good fifteen minutes before he finally got through the “basics.”

  “Wow, that all sounds so wonderful. You have a great job,” I told him with as much pink as I could put into my voice.

  He had a large sample case with him and he started aligning pill bottles on the coffee table, some the new stuff for Marion and some he thought I might be interested in.