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A few days later, Joey told me that an autopsy had been performed on Harry Stokes, but he didn't know the cause of death. Either he hadn't seen Frank since the autopsy, or his brother-in-law was no longer disseminating professional information. Most likely, it was too soon for the results to be in.
I thought about the mysteries I like to read when I can't fall asleep. Sometimes, preliminary post mortem results show up quickly, but not always. It varies with the author's need to deliver red herrings before facts get in the way.
Half a dozen plots went through my mind. In a whodunit, I'd be doing some amateur detecting to catch Harry Stokes's murderer. I smiled at the thought. Which fictional sleuth would I be? I could easily identify with a V.I. Warshawski or a Kinsey Millhone. But, I thought wryly, other people would see me as Miss Marple or Jessica Fletcher. The age-old question went through my mind. Why was I, a woman who still saw herself as a thirty-five-year-old, doing in a fifty-five-year-old body?
With a sigh, I remembered that I couldn't be the amateur who brilliantly solved the Stokes case—not because of age, but because common sense told me Harry Stokes had probably died of a heart attack. He wasn't the first man who married a young wife and ... Well, there were plenty of jokes along those lines. They invoked images of the fox and the sour grapes, and that was not the way I wanted to see myself.
I looked up to find Denise at the pharmacy window. She was wearing a black-and-white geometric print with a red venetian-glass necklace and matching earrings. I marveled at the way she'd found lipstick of the same red shade. In spring and fall, she wore the same dress with a flowered scarf, a deeper red, draped over one shoulder. She had that shade of lipstick, too.
"You looked so busy, I didn't want to interrupt," she said. "Do you have a minute to chat?"
"Actually, I was just daydreaming. But don't tell anyone or they'll say I don't need technician hours and cut Joey back."
Denise still seemed different, but I decided it was because she was quieter than usual. She must have cared more for Harry Stokes than I'd guessed. Maybe I should suggest going out together after work so she wouldn't go home to brood about might-have-beens. Mall hopping sounded like a good idea, and we could cool off at the same time.
Some of my long-time friends find it strange that Denise and I socialize outside of Food Go. "But she's a waitress," they say. "What do you talk about?" Then they focus on the differences in our education and background.
At first, I explained that Denise is fun, and I need to be around someone with her lighthearted outlook. Eventually, I decided I was buying into their condescending attitude when I tried to justify our friendship.
Denise and I hadn't spent much time together before Bob died, but afterwards her matter-of-fact emotional support did more than all the bumblings of my other friends. Although her marriage had ended in divorce rather than death, she understood my early shock and inability to function.
She had married young and been divorced at the age of 40. When they divided the community property, Denise got the house and her ex-husband got everything else. After twenty-two years of marriage, she found herself alone—with no skills, no children, and no relatives in Arizona. But Denise felt fortunate to get the waitress job at Food Go that my other friends scorned. And she never told me how lucky I was to have a profession.
"Will you come to the funeral with me?" Denise suddenly asked.
I hesitated. It would be awkward because I didn't really know the Stokes family other than as customers. Then I remembered what I had been thinking about. Denise was there for me when I needed her. If she had really cared about Harry Stokes and needed support at the funeral, I wouldn't let her down. I would go with her even if I had to change shifts with Tim. And that was something I usually tried to avoid.
"When is it?"
"Monday morning. Nine o'clock. At Messinger's."
At least I was off next Monday and wouldn't have to deal with Tim's reluctant consent to any kind of change. "Okay. Will you drive?"
Denise said she'd pick me up at eight-thirty Monday morning. I wanted to ask about mall hopping tonight but couldn't decide if this was the right time.
"Can I come along with you to the funeral?" I hadn't realized Joey was listening to us, but he rarely missed anything that happened in the pharmacy.
Denise arranged to pick Joey up, too, and then drifted away when both phones started ringing. A doctor was on line one, returning my call. I'd phoned because his patient brought in a prescription for Prozac, an antidepressant, and the dosage seemed too high.
"Yes, doctor. I'm checking on that script for 15 Prozac capsules. You wrote for one cap TID." I gave the Latin abbreviation for three times a day. "The recommended dosage is one QD, one daily."
"You're right, but I want to try the higher regimen for a short time. That's why I only wrote for 15 caps." I'd expected an argument for questioning his intentions, but he thanked me for checking it out.
"You're welcome, doctor," I said, pleased to be treated as a fellow professional.
We were so busy for the rest of the day that I was surprised when Tim, on nights this week, came in at four to begin his shift. We overlapped for an hour, not usually the most pleasant hour of my day. But today, I was glad to relinquish the computer to him and concentrate on customers at the window.
A young woman, carrying a baby who looked no more than six months old, handed me a prescription for prenatal vitamins. A toddler hung onto her mother's leg with both arms. I felt sorry for the mother, but warned myself not to jump to conclusions. Maybe she wanted this third child.
When the baby started crying, I held up two lollipops, making sure only the mother could see them, and raised my eyebrows in a question.
"Wonderful!" she said, as she unwrapped and delivered one to each child. "Now Terri Sue, thank the nice lady for the sucker," she told the little girl, who released her mother's leg to grab the lollipop. Meanwhile, the baby stopped crying and the mother smiled happily at me. Mother and little girl both said, "Thank you."
I gave the prescription to Joey, who took the vitamins off the shelf, handing script and bottle to Tim to generate the paperwork on the computer. Then Joey went on break so he could be back to help Tim when my shift ended.
My next customer, also with two small children in tow, had the opposite viewpoint. She was there to refill her birth control pills.
"Do you have the number?"
"Number?"
"Prescription number."
She had no idea what the number was or what kind of birth control pills she used, but I got her name and asked Tim to find her in the computer. It's easier if we have the number because then I can quickly locate the hard copy of the prescription. Otherwise, we've got to sort by name on the computer. If the name is a common one or if the computer is in process of spitting out records and labels for someone else, it takes that much longer to help the customer.
I offered lollipops, again out of the children's line of vision.
"Don't you know how bad sweets are for children?" she asked. "You ought to be ashamed of yourself."
Can't win them all, I thought, and apologized. Half an hour and five scripts later when my shift ended, I was glad to check out.
Denise was clocking out at the same time, and we walked into the Food Go parking lot together. A blast of hot, humid air contrasted sharply with the highly air-conditioned interior of the store. My relatives back east think we have a dry climate and, most of the time, they're right. But not in August.
"Any plans?" I asked Denise.
"Just to get home and collapse. We ran out of chocolate ice cream at three o'clock. And then everyone wanted chocolate and only chocolate."
I made sympathetic noises. Then I mentioned my idea about going to the mall.
"Which one?"
One thing about Scottsdale—we've got malls. Some of them are in adjoining cities and towns, but still only minutes away. Denise suggested Paradise Valley Mall, which was actually in Phoenix, but not too far from home for either of us. We agreed to meet in front of Dillards and got into our respective cars.
I took the sunshade off the windshield of my white Accord and folded it away. Then I removed the bath towel from the steering wheel and inserted the ignition key. I turned the air to its strongest setting, but the bath towel hadn't helped much. The steering wheel was so hot, I could barely force myself to get going.
Denise drives faster than I do, so I'm used to arriving second whenever we go out together. I found her right where she said she'd be, and we walked into the mall, savoring the cool air.
"Are you looking for anything special, or are we window shopping?"
"I guess I just didn't feel like going home yet," I said.
Although we both stood on our feet all day at work, walking around the mall seemed to relax us. But we still hadn't made the transition from the workday. Denise was detailing her manager's incompetence. "He knows it's hot and it will keep on being hot. And he knows chocolate is our best-selling ice cream."
Since the Food Go coffee shop only offers chocolate, vanilla, and strawberry, I could see her point. Besides, I had heard this complaint before. Denise, who worked hard to keep her customers happy, hated it when she had to disappoint them because of her manager's failures.
"You'll never believe what happened today, Ruthie. I was so angry, I finally asked why he didn't order more chocolate since we always run out. You know what that guy said?"
She didn't wait for me to guess but smiled, looking more like herself than she had since Tuesday. "He said, 'If I order more chocolate, I won't sell the other flavors.'"
We were passing a toy store when Denise grabbed my arm. "Look." She nodded toward the shop without slowing her pace. "There's Betsy Stokes."
I barely had time to wonder what a widow of three days was doing in a shopping mall toy store, when Denise whispered, "Slow down. I want to stand here until she comes out."
"Denise, I don't think that's a good idea."
"I just want to see who the old guy is."
"What guy?"
"Don't you see the man with her?"
I glanced through the shop window. Betsy Stokes, whom I hadn't been able to picture when we talked about her, now looked familiar. But then so did the man at her side. They were standing at a display table of windup plush animals, all in motion. The man seemed to be in perpetual motion, too, picking up each toy and inspecting it in turn.
As we watched, Betsy scooped up a toy elephant and took it to the cashier at the front of the store. When she turned, I got a better look at her. She was a tall blonde with crimped hair; even through the shop window, I could see how attractive she was. Now that I saw Betsy Stokes, I remembered that to me she always had seemed the archetypal blonde.
I hadn't filled many prescriptions for her. When she picked up Harry's various medications, my few attempts at friendly conversation had met with brief responses.
Until the moment that Betsy approached the toyshop counter, I wasn't sure if the man was with her or just another shopper. But now I saw him hurry to her side and take out his wallet to pay for the elephant. Betsy was shaking her head and reaching in her purse, but he put his hand on her arm and smiled at her.
The smile made my pulse race, and I couldn't figure out why. "I know him," I said aloud. And then quickly, again without knowing the reason, I thought, and I like him.
Denise had pulled me over to a bench opposite the toy store, where we could seem to be in casual conversation when Betsy and her gentleman friend exited the store. "She sure likes them older," Denise muttered just as our quarry came by.
For a moment, I hoped they hadn't seen us. But Denise was determined to be noticed. "Betsy. Betsy Stokes."
Betsy turned toward us. She had green eyes that now mimed surprise. "Oh, hello Denise," she said without enthusiasm.
I remembered that they were neighbors, but maybe Betsy was embarrassed to be seen at the mall so soon after her husband's death. Denise nodded toward me and reminded Betsy that we were acquainted. "You know Ruthie Morris, from Food Go."
"Yes, of course. I'm sorry. I didn't recognize you without your white coat."
I couldn't tell if this was a putdown. Don't be so sensitive, Ruthie, I thought. People do associate you with the white jacketed figure behind the pharmacy window. You know they rarely look at you as an individual.
It was absolutely necessary to come up with words of condolence, shopping mall or no shopping mall. I summoned up appropriate sentiments, and Betsy thanked me graciously. She was not so gracious about introducing the gentleman with her; Denise's maneuvering, embarrassing as it was to me, seemed to be in vain. However, he held out a hand to each of us, saying, "Michael Loring."
And then I knew. Was it only a few hours ago that I told myself I felt like a thirty-five-year-old? Now I was twenty again.
Michael Loring. And even without consciously recognizing him, my reaction had been the same as it was all those years ago, down in Tucson at the University of Arizona. His eyes were the same electrifying blue. As I looked into them, I thought, I should have recognized him by that overwhelming vitality, as though he were bursting with energy. He hadn't even changed so much in physical appearance. I saw some gray at the temples, but since his hair had always been light, it blended well. His face had lines that hadn't been there when we were young. They made me realize how much I'd aged, and I quickly looked away.
I wondered if I should say just two words: "Ruthie Kantor." Did I want to remind a man who was only three years older than me, a man who was with an attractive young blonde, that I was Ruth Kantor?
Two widows, I thought ironically. But what a difference. And then I was ashamed because I realized I was feeling sorry for myself, and I'd vowed never to do that again.
Denise was talking. The elephant had evidently been difficult to wrap, and its trunk stuck awkwardly out of the shopping bag. "Is that for one of Harry's grandchildren?" she asked.
"No, it's for me."
I could see Denise struggling to hide her surprise, or maybe she was trying to think of a response to Betsy's unfathomable comment. Was it possible that someone would go to the mall to buy herself a toy three days after her husband's sudden death? In my religion, the bereaved didn't even leave the house for seven days after the funeral. I had no idea what Betsy's beliefs were. But I remembered Michael Loring's religion. Oh yes, I remembered.
Denise sketched an awkward goodbye and I mumbled something, too. I couldn't concentrate on anything but my own turbulent thoughts. I hadn't seen Michael in thirty years. Closer to thirty-five years. And now he was escorting a young widow whose stepchildren believed had caused their father's death.
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