Destroying Angels (Leigh Girard Book 1) Page 3

  “But you don’t think she’d have a case. If she did sue?”

  “From my observations and experience, I’d say no.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning, you don’t give up easily, do you?”

  A buzzer went off again at the nurses’ station. “Sorry, but I’ve got to answer that.” She smiled. “If you want to talk sometime about something else or go out for a drink, come by my shop in Fish Creek. It’s the Crystal Door. I know, it’s too cute. But hey, anything to lure the tourists.”

  “You run a shop and work here as a nurse?”

  “I see you haven’t learned about the Door system of making ends meet. Practically everybody on the peninsula has two jobs, especially if you’re a shop owner. My nursing job supports my shop habit.” The buzzer repeated. “Why don’t you come by Saturday at closing, say around five?”

  “Um, okay, I guess I’ll see you then.”

  4

  By the time I reached home it was dark, and I had missed the sun making its slow descent into the bay. The ink-black sky was crusted with stars and a three-quarters moon that looked like stage scenery. A few clouds drifted white. I had been wrong about the rain.

  As I neared the stone cottage, I rolled down the truck window so I could at least hear the faint lapping of the water. It was the main reason I had leased this cottage—that, and the reasonable rent. The owner was a snowbird widow who summered in Door and spent her winters in Sun City, Arizona. Finding a renter here in late fall and winter is almost impossible, so we'd both lucked out, and my rent was less than what I would pay for a closet in Chicago.

  As I drove up, the cottage looked cold and desolate, and I wished I had left a light on. I’d have to remember that in the future. Salinger, my Shetland sheep dog, must be knocking things over in this dark, unfamiliar house. Indeed, I could hear her howling as I walked up the stone path. I always suspected there was some wolf in her lineage. Not only did she howl, but her white-tipped tail was long and bushy, and her whiskered snout was wolf shaped. She had a bad habit of sticking her snout where it didn’t belong, such as tail pipes, flowerbeds, and under my covers on cold nights. Her reddish-brown coat also suggested some ancestor had dipped into the fox den. On more than one occasion, she’d been mistaken by suburban joggers for Princess, the Lake County Fox. But then, what can you expect from people who learn about nature from animated Disney movies?

  What distinguished Salinger, besides her bold intelligence and hybrid lineage, were uneven splotches of white on both front paws, giving her the appearance of wearing two white socks—one pulled slightly higher than the other. This asymmetry made her look somewhat roguish.

  Salinger was the only remnant from my former life that I cherished, besides my clothes, my books, and some art photos. Tom and I had bought her right before I became sick. Where he had overcompensated regarding my cancer, Salinger had instinctually struck the right balance. That first day back home after my surgery, of course, she had wanted to jump up on our bed and snuggle. When Tom yelled at her, she spent the day behind the chair in the corner, not rebuked at all but a silent guardian. Her gesture seemed to say "If I can’t touch you, I will sit here quietly sharing your sadness." For Salinger, there was no running away.

  So when I left Chicago, I had purged myself of nearly all possessions that would remind me of my former life with Tom. Though he insisted that I take one of the cars, I refused. Instead, I bought my used pick-up from our neighbor’s son. A clean break—that’s what I had wanted, and that’s what I had achieved.

  Now as I entered the dusky gloom of the living room, I could see the blinking red eye of the answering machine. It had been a long day, and the only person I could imagine calling me was Tom. I didn’t want to hear from him. I had asked him not to write or call me except in an emergency. He was so angered by my departure that he agreed. But I didn’t trust his tight-lipped concession.

  I had needed to hurt him and make him hate me, so I wouldn’t falter. What he wouldn’t see, and what I couldn’t explain, was that the cancer had taken more than a breast. He still believed if I’d only had reconstructive surgery, then we could have gone on as before. That belief seemed to deny everything I had been through: the shock of discovering the cancerous lump that left me drained and constantly vigilant; the mastectomy that rid me of the cancer but permanently scarred me as undesirable; and the chemo that seemed like a dirge of "this can still come back, maybe in forty years, maybe five years, maybe tomorrow." Tom refused to acknowledge this reality. He just wanted me to get over myself so we could move on. He didn’t understand that because my body had betrayed me, I could never count on it again. I would have to stand watch, to wait and see if it would betray me again.

  Our last argument had been about the reconstruction.

  “I can’t ever be that woman again,” I told him. “So give it up.”

  “How about being a woman, period,” he snapped, his lower jaw jutting out in angry disapproval.

  Later, he tried to apologize. But I wouldn’t accept his apology. He no longer tried to touch me. I knew that it was only a matter of time before he left.

  A week after the doctors declared that, as far as they could tell, I was free of the cancer, I left Chicago. I needed to be the one doing the leaving.

  After much licking and hugging with Salinger, I let her out the back door. I watched her tear through the field of white, weedy flowers toward the water. She was bent on some mission of her own, following some buried scent only she could find. It would be a while before she came scratching at the back door. Not even hunger could deter her insatiable curiosity. Salinger and I had a lot in common.

  Determined to ignore the blinking answering machine light, I took my time lighting a fire, leisurely changing into my silky purple robe, and pouring myself a glass of chardonnay. With wine glass in hand, I settled into the moss green velvet chair nearest the massive stone fireplace. The chair’s back and seat had been previously worn to a scuffed pattern that now seemed to outline my body. I found this reassuring. When the wine had achieved its warm, relaxing effect, I reached over and pressed the play button on the machine. If it was Tom, I was ready for him.

  Instead of Tom’s deep baritone, I heard a woman’s voice. “Ms. Girard, this is Eva Peck. I just wanted you to know that I’m having an autopsy performed on Carl tomorrow morning." She cleared her throat as if she were about to say something else. Then the machine clicked off.

  “What is this woman after?” I wondered aloud. Was she angling for a discreet settlement out of court, enough to keep her comfortable for the rest of her life? She didn’t seem like the opportunistic type, though grief can make a person react in strange ways. Regardless of Mrs. Peck’s motives, if Doctor Porter and Lydia Crane were correct, she wouldn’t be coming into any large sums of money very soon.

  Salinger’s insistent scratching interrupted my thoughts. When I went to let her in, she was sitting on the back step with her ears back, grinning and panting. Wrapped round her neck like a laurel wreath was a rooted tangle of vines studded with wet leaves. She had found what she had been looking for.

  “What do you think Salinger? Greed or grief?” I asked, as I unwound the resistant vine. Salinger gave me one of her pleading looks. “Okay, you’re right, dinner is long overdue.”

  * * * * *

  March, 25 years earlier

  Now they were driving south past fields the color of chocolate. Deep furrows had already been carved into the earth and stood open, waiting for the seeds. Only occasionally, a farmhouse or small town broke the monotony of the land. And then only briefly, as if each arose from dreams.

  As it seeped into the closed car, the heavy scent of manure assaulted her nose. She sat very still, trying not to breathe too deeply.

  Soon . . . very soon, they would be past the fields, and the smell would be gone. It would disappear just as quickly as it had come.

  There were no other cars on the road, so he was able to keep a steady speed. The rhythm b
ecoming hypnotic as the car hummed softly . . . softly, and as if from a distance, she heard a voice calling her name over and over. Then silence.

  Someone was shaking her roughly. “Wake up, wake up. Are you all right?”

  When she shook her head yes, it hurt.

  “What happened?” he asked.

  She thought back. “Something, something I remembered.” Then she couldn’t tell what it was, because she had fainted again.

  5

  Thursday, November 2, Present day

  “Lydia? This is Leigh Girard.” I was sitting at Rob Martin’s desk, which faced a wall plastered with nature scenes: stags locked in combat, Ephraim Harbor dotted with sailboats, a bull moose feeding in a field of fireweed, coyotes barely visible in the snow, and iridescent orange mushrooms on a dark forest floor. Apparently Martin’s taste ran to the bizarre and spectacular. The scenes had been photographed either at sunrise, sunset, or during extremes of weather. They seemed to be at odds with Martin’s column, “Nature’s Door,” which described the area’s flora and fauna in respectful and subdued terms. Rob Martin was the resident naturalist/journalist. I’d yet to meet him. He always seemed to be working out in the field.

  “Hi, Leigh. Now what makes me think you’re calling for something other than my special this week, quartz crystals from Colorado.” She laughed. “How are you doing?”

  “Okay. And you’re right, I didn’t call about your special. Though you’ll have to enlighten me sometime on the benefits of quartz crystals. What I’m calling about is information on the Peck autopsy.”

  Uncertain about Lydia’s schedule at the hospital, I had called the ICU floor around 11 A.M. and found out that she was on the evening shift. A nurse suggested I try her shop. I wasn’t sure if the autopsy results were privileged information, and I wasn’t about to ask Jake Stevens and have him spot the gaping hole in my journalistic experience.

  “How did you find out about that? Doctor Porter wanted it kept hush hush.”

  “I got a hot tip." Despite wanting Lydia to reveal what she knew, I was keeping my source confidential.

  “Had to be Eva. You don’t have to answer that. Just a minute.”

  I could hear her talking to someone in the shop. But couldn’t make out what she was saying.

  “Sorry. Where were we?”

  I was getting the feeling that she was being purposely cagey. “Look, I don’t want you to get in trouble, Lydia. All I really want to do is verify if an autopsy was, in fact, performed.”

  “Don’t worry about me. I don’t get in trouble, unless I want to. If Eva told you, probably half the county knows by now that the autopsy was indeed performed. Nothing around here remains secret for long.”

  “I’m getting that impression. So did Carl Peck die of a heart attack like his wife claims?”

  Without my realizing I wasn't alone in the office anymore, a man appeared and stood over the desk, looking annoyed. He had blazing red hair, which also enflamed his mustache and goatee. If it wasn’t for the color of his hair, he would have been described as average in build and appearance. I smiled my most charming smile, which caused him to raise a fiery eyebrow.

  “Leigh, you know I can’t tell you that even if I knew. Besides, it takes at least several days for the written report. If the Medical Examiner sent tissue and blood samples to the State Crime Lab, you’re looking at six to twelve weeks for results. Even in Chicago it takes that long, if not longer.”

  “Well, it was worth a try anyway.”

  “You might talk to the family, though. That’s nineteen-sixty-five.” I heard a cash register ring. “One of my friends, who works for the Brown County ME, where autopsies are performed, told me Carl's daughter, Sarah, argued with the Medical Examiner after the autopsy. She said Sarah seemed pretty upset. The M. E. kept saying, ‘If that’s what your mother wants, my hands are tied.’ Sarah’s in the directory under her maiden name. But give it some time.”

  “Thanks, Lydia.” I smiled up at the glaring man, who crossed his arms in annoyance.

  “No problem. Us outsiders have to stick together. Don’t forget about Saturday.”

  “Okay.” I hung up and turned to the blazing satyr. “Can I help you?”

  “My desk.” His index finger was a little too close to my face.

  I know I should have immediately popped up from the chair and offered some form of apology. But Rob Martin’s attitude irked me. He had to know that I was the new reporter. Yet he showed no signs of acknowledgment. So much for professional courtesy. “I’m working on a story, and yours is the only desk with a computer,” I explained. In fact, only Rob Martin and the newspaper's production editor/office manager, Marge Lindquist, had computers, and there was only one other desk in the office, which was now mine. This was a newspaper run on a shoe string budget, barely covered with a band-aid, and here I was computerless on the job.

  “I’m on deadline. So if you don’t mind.” He leaned over me and pressed save on the computer.

  My face flushed with anger as I unceremoniously pushed back the chair, grabbed my notes, and got up. “Nice to meet you too, Mr. Martin.” I held out my hand in defiance. He reluctantly shook it with a little too much pressure. Marge, who I’m sure heard every word, was pretending to shuffle through some papers on her desk.

  “I see you two are getting acquainted.” In my anger, I hadn’t noticed that Stevens had emerged from his inner sanctum. He immediately picked up on the tension.

  “Rob Martin, this is Leigh Girard, the new reporter. She’ll be covering general stuff. Leigh, as you know, Rob is our celebrated naturalist. His book on Door County flora and fauna was awarded the Aldo Leopold prize for non-fiction last year.”

  I looked where Stevens was pointing. How had I missed it? Beside the photo of the orange mushrooms sat a gold plaque.

  Martin nodded his head in my general direction and sat down in his chair, dismissing both of us. I merely nodded in return, keeping my expression grim. Fine by me if he needed to think he was the big fish in a small pond. Probably also felt we should all kiss his plaque.

  “In my office, now.” Stevens jabbed one of his long fingers at me.

  Like a kid sent to the principal’s office, I slunk down the short hallway after his lanky frame.

  “What was that about?” Stevens plopped down in his swivel chair and propped his sneaker-clad feet up on the desk.

  Words of frustration and anger bubbled up inside of me. Ever since the cancer, I often experienced moments of incredible rage, and I was having one right now. I crossed my legs to steady myself. My right foot was circling round and round like a berserk helicopter blade. “The man attacked me for sitting at his desk.” I also tended to exaggerate when I was this angry.

  Stevens leaned back in his chair and stared out at the grey water. He seemed to be weighing what he wanted to tell me. "How’s your follow-up on Peck going?” So he decided to tell me nothing.

  I filled him in on what I had found out at the hospital yesterday, and Eva Peck’s phone message.

  “She went ahead with it. The autopsy was performed this morning. And her daughter was upset enough about something to argue with the M. E. I’ll find out what and why.” My foot circles slowed.

  “How are you going to do that?” He kept staring at the water, as if I wasn’t physically in the same room with him. He seemed uncharacteristically preoccupied, almost somber.

  “I’ll call her and . . ." I was going to say interview her on the telephone, then remembered Gazette standard procedure. “And make an appointment to see her.”

  “You can try that. But go easy.”

  I know he wanted me to ask what else I could try. But I was still angry, and my anger now included all members of his gender. I wasn’t going to give him or any man the satisfaction of my asking for their help. “Is there anything else?”

  He put his feet down and leaned toward me in his chair. “There’s another obit feature I want you to write. Woman named Joyce Oleander. She was a fixture at t
he Egg Harbor library. Start there. Talk to Ida Reeves. She runs the library.” He rummaged through some papers on his desk until he located a pink memo pad. “Here’s her number.” He tore off the top sheet and handed it to me. There was a tightness in his face that I’d seen before. I suspected it had less to do with a brooding poetic temperament and more to do with some inner demons. Which I guess could amount to the same thing.

  I snatched the note from him. “Are these obits some kind of initiation rite? Or have I been permanently slotted as the Gazette’s ghoul reporter?”

  “For now.” He avoided my eyes and looked at the note I held in my hand. “There’s some question about this woman's cause of death. Possible suicide.”

  I started to ask, “Possible? What do you mean?” But remained stubbornly pissed off.

  “Talk to Ida Reeves. She found the body last night.” He leaned back in his chair and looked out at the water again. “And I made some minor changes in Peck’s obit feature. It’ll be in tomorrow’s paper.”

  Other than a difference of opinion about a comma or two, I couldn’t see what changes needed to be made. I’d even talked to Olin Forrest who had supplied me with enough info about Peck and his restoration work to fill two articles.

  “You’re the boss,” I said, getting up to leave.

  “Just remember that.” He pulled his eyes away from the monochromatic bay view long enough to give me a chiding look.

  I was about to execute my best military salute, but he looked away toward the window again. Rain began pinging the glass and slowly blurring everything.

  6

  “Joyce was scared to death of the hysterectomy,” Ida Reeves explained. “And with good reason, considering her history. She delayed it as long as she could. Kept thinking it would go away. I told her it wouldn’t. Classic denial. And in the end, I was right. Anemia from loss of blood.” She stared at me through her large round glasses. The thick lenses magnified her sea-green eyes, distilling their color and making them look watery and unfocused. Ida continued. “As it turned out, there were no surgical complications, and she was home within the week. She seemed to be recuperating nicely. A little depressed, but I told her work would cure that.”