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8
I was on the day shift again on Wednesday, and I arrived at Food Go early, resolved to look up Harry Stokes' prescription file right away. Although our pharmacy doesn't open until nine in the morning, customers often show up as soon as I turn on the lights. So this time I went through my opening routine in the dark to avoid interruptions. Then I typed in Stokes, Harry and looked at his prescription history. At first, I found just what I expected to see. On July 29th, only four days before his death, he had renewed his Rogaine and Viagra prescriptions.
The previous entry showed Micronase, 5 milligrams, which I hadn't remembered at that dosage. Well, no wonder; Tim had filled it. Up until June, Harry was getting 2-1/2 milligrams for his diabetes but, in July, his doctor had increased the dosage. It looked like Harry hadn't been controlling his diet and exercise. His doctor had also increased the Lopressor, and the higher strength indicated Harry's blood pressure must have been climbing.
I sat there in the dark and thought about what the little screen showed. Was Harry worried that his health was deteriorating? Was depression a possible side effect of his medications? I would have to read the package inserts and remind myself about any side effects.
But then I got up and looked at those white letters on my blue computer screen again. Would a man who was depressed and about to commit suicide care about growing more hair? He had refilled his Rogaine prescription only a few days before his death. It didn't make sense to me, but it wasn't enough to build theories on.
I looked up at the clock and saw I still had twenty minutes before opening, so I thought about Michael. Should I discuss the record with him? He already knew about all four prescriptions, and he must surely have seen the fill dates on the vials. But did he know about the increased dosages, and had he considered the psychological implications?
Someone was rapping on the pharmacy window. I looked at the clock again; it was still too early to open, but I told myself that the customer is always right and stepped over to the light switch.
This customer was wrong. He wanted his wife's Premarin refilled, and he wanted it now. "I have to get your doctor's okay," I told him. "But he doesn't take calls before nine."
"You're the only one who has to call the doctor," he told me. "The other lady never bothers me."
"The other lady?"
"Yes. She just fills it and doesn't give me all this crap."
"Sir, I'm the only woman at this pharmacy."
"Don't tell me that. I want my wife's medicine."
"Sir, I'll try to reach your doctor and have it for you as soon as possible." I suppressed a sigh, hoping this encounter didn't presage a difficult day. "Do you have some shopping to do elsewhere in the store?" I asked him. "Why don't you try us again at about nine fifteen?" I turned away and picked up the phone before he could say anything else, but I could hear him just the same.
"Damn lady druggists," he muttered.
Can't win, I thought, and held the phone through a recorded message that told me the doctor's office would open at 9:30.
When Joey arrived two hours later, I had filled about a dozen prescriptions and had five more lined up on the counter, waiting for him to run them through the computer, print the labels, and stack them with the scripts ready for me to fill. He was shouting to me as he came through the door to the pharmacy.
"They arrested her!"
"Oh, no," I said. "Not Betsy Stokes." Poor Michael, I thought.
"Not her. Denise."
"What?" Now I was the one to raise my voice. "How could Denise have anything to do with Harry Stokes's death?"
"I don't know the details," Joey said. "But Frank told my sister, and she called me just before I left for work."
I sat down, my mind racing. Denise lived next door to the Stokeses, and I knew she'd been infatuated with Harry. I certainly had heard enough diatribes against Betsy after the marriage. But murder ...? I thought about Denise and how she had looked and acted since Harry's death. Subdued, yes, but that seemed natural enough in light of her infatuation. Denise had not been acting like someone with murder on her conscience; in any case, I was convinced she couldn't commit murder.
The stock comment of parents, friends, and acquaintances everywhere: I don't believe it. She was kind, quiet, a good person—you name it. And yet, I really couldn't believe it.
I remembered our conversation after the funeral when Denise seemed to be complaining because the Scottsdale police hadn't questioned her. She'd admitted hating Betsy, but what did that have to do with Harry's death?
For the rest of the day, I tried to concentrate on doing my job without making mistakes. I triple-checked each prescription because I knew I wasn't thinking clearly.
Michael had said he'd be in that afternoon, but he hadn't shown by the time Tim arrived to relieve me. We had no overlap today, and I didn't wait; I removed my white jacket, hung it neatly on a coat hook, clocked out, and walked over to the coffee shop.
As I did, I tried to remember Denise's schedule for this week, but hers was more confusing than mine. Then I mentally formed questions for the other waitress to extract information without giving anything away.
Even before I reached the coffee shop, I could see a chubby young woman resetting one of the tables. What was her name again? Ellen, and she didn't want to be called Ellie.
"Ellen, has Denise left for the day?"
"Left? She hasn't even been in. They called me early this morning." Her round face took on an aggrieved look. "I wasn't supposed to be here until four, but I had to get the kids to the sitter and rush over here."
"Is she sick?" I asked cautiously.
"What do I know? My manager told me it was an emergency, and I'd better get to the store right away. So I did."
I tried to sound casual. "Oh, well. I'll catch her tomorrow."
Ellen was still talking as I walked away. "Didn't even say please. Just wanted me to drop everything and work two shifts."
All the way home, I wondered whether to call Denise. Ordinarily, I wouldn't have hesitated. I'd phone to see how she was feeling and whether she needed anything. But after Joey's news, maybe it would be better to reach Michael and see what he had heard. No, he might think I was looking for an excuse to call him, and I didn't want that.
I arrived home without reaching a decision. Kicking off my shoes, I turned the air down to 70 degrees and went into the family room to check my answering machine. The light was blinking, and the digital readout showed three messages. After pitches from two salesmen, evidently not deterred by the machine, I heard Denise's voice.
"Ruthie, I know you'll be tired and hungry when you hear this, but I need to see you. Please come right over."
I was so relieved to realize Denise must be at home that I put on my shoes and rushed out the door. It didn't take long to reach her house. Despite my concern for her, though, I couldn't help wondering about Michael again as I passed the Stokes's place and saw his Lexus in the driveway. I pulled into Denise's carport.
Denise answered the door within seconds after the chimes sounded. She was wearing a T-shirt, white shorts, and running shoes—the summer uniform in Arizona, except on the job. It's also the winter uniform, but only for tourists. Her long hair, usually so carefully curled and brushed, looked uncombed. No eye shadow today and no earrings. Her eyes were red, but I couldn't tell whether it was from fatigue or from tears.
"Thank God you're here," she said. "I didn't know who to turn to."
She led me from the small Mexican-tiled entryway into her living room. Denise's furniture, unlike Betsy's, brought the southwestern style of the house indoors. I sat down on her sofa, trying to make myself comfortable against a trio of throw pillows with sandpainting motifs.
"What happened?" I thought it better not to repeat Joey's story that she'd been arrested.
"The police were here at seven this morning. I was getting ready for work and they waited while I finished dressing. Then I had to call Food Go to say I wouldn't be in." Denise stopped and her face reflected the surprise she must have felt. "They wanted to question me." She sounded indignant rather than upset.
My role should have been to dispense sympathy, but I was so relieved to hear she hadn't been arrested that I blurted, "Well, only the other day you complained because they hadn't questioned you."
"People say a lot of things when they're upset."
"Yes, I know."
"They started questioning me, and they sounded like they thought I killed Harry. So, before I realized what I was saying, I told them they were wrong. That I loved Harry."
Uh, oh, I thought.
"Then the questioning got worse. Hell hath no fury and all that."
"It got worse?"
"They asked me how long Harry and I had been sleeping together."
I gripped the carved wooden arms of the sofa in shock. Could they be right? Then I was angry at myself for doubting Denise. My expression must have revealed that first reaction.
"It's not true," she said. Her voice was stiff.
"I know."
"But you wondered if there was fire along with the smoke. Ruthie, if you doubt me, what chance do I have with everyone else?"
She was right, and the knowledge made me uncomfortable. We were friends; but for a brief moment, I'd thought the police must have evidence of an affair. How odd that Joey's news didn't make me believe she could commit murder, but this had nearly changed my mind.
"Fantasies are one thing," Denise said. "You know about them. I used to talk to you because you were so sympathetic."
"Yes, I remember." I also remembered my own daydreams about Harry and was glad I'd never mentioned them. Suddenly I had a terrible fear that the police would suspect me of an affair with Harry. Would they believe my denials any more than Denise's? I could feel the throw pillows digging into my back and reached behind to adjust them.
"They questioned me for hours," she said. "I could have called a lawyer, but I know I haven't done anything wrong. I work too hard to throw money away on a lawyer."
"I still don't understand why they suspect you."
"Could be someone told the police I hang around the pharmacy a lot. They think I had access to something."
"What?" I was outraged now. Yet an inner voice reminded me that I could be suspected for the same flimsy reasons that had momentarily made me doubt Denise.
"They wouldn't even tell me what drug. I said I've never gotten anything from you without a prescription."
"Of course not. They must know I can't just hand out drugs to my friends."
Denise looked away as if to gather her courage. She was sitting next to me on the sofa and had thrown one of the pillows on the floor. Picking it up now, she pulled at the piping, getting more agitated by the minute. "I don't know about that. Don't you remember the day I forgot my hay fever pills? You know which ones I take. You gave me two to tide me over."
"Seldane. Yes, I remember now. But it doesn't mean anything. We do that all the time and when the prescription comes in, we just deduct the two tablets we advanced to the customer."
Denise ran her hand through her long hair in a nervous gesture. No wonder she looked unkempt today. "They questioned me about that day over and over. After a while, I started to feel guilty. Then they got me to admit I wanted Harry for myself and that I never liked Betsy. Hated her is the way they put it."
"Denise, you told me many times that you hate her. You probably said the same thing to other people, and one of them must have mentioned it when they were questioned. But I don't understand what this is all about. Harry is the one who died, not his wife."
"They think I killed him so Betsy couldn't have him."
If the situation hadn't been so serious, I would have laughed at the melodramatic implications. "That's ridiculous," I said. "Do they think it took you all this time to make up your mind to kill him? It must be at least a year since they married."
"It was last October."
"All right. October. Do they really believe you brooded about their marriage for ten months and then decided to kill him?"
"But you see, Ruthie, they think we remained lovers and I couldn't stand it any more."
"And that's even harder to believe. Why would he marry a beautiful young woman—excuse me, I have to be brutally frank now—and continue an affair with you?"
Denise laughed and came out with the kind of impish remark that usually made her such good company. "Ask Princess Di's biographers that one."
"Yes, but you're free. If their assumptions were true, Harry could have married you any time before last October."
"I think we're both too exhausted to think straight. Let me make some coffee." I followed her into the kitchen where she quickly put two cups of instant coffee into her microwave and a plate of chocolate chip cookies on the table. I was glad to get the coffee; even instant would help tonight.
As I drank my coffee and munched on cookies, I thought about the entire bizarre story. It just didn't make sense to me.
Denise sat across the table, stirring sweetener into her coffee. "I don't understand it," she said. "Why do they suspect me when Harry's children and Betsy all have motives?"
"Maybe the police are questioning everyone the same way. Maybe that's what they do when they have no leads."
"What happened to innocent until proven guilty?"
Since I assumed the question was a rhetorical one, I didn't try to answer her. I started to worry that the police would be waiting for me at the pharmacy in the morning. But I had nothing to hide except some long ago daydreams. I was thankful I'd never said anything against Betsy, not only because of Denise's experience today, but also because she was Michael's daughter. Michael's daughter—I still hadn't come to grips with that knowledge.
I pulled myself together, realizing the selfish turn my thoughts had taken. "Did the police say anything about further questions for you?"
"No, but I'm worried. I always believed if you kept your nose clean, you'd be okay. Now I'm not so sure about that."
"Denise, you know you didn't harm Harry," I said firmly. "And I know you didn't. You can't be a serious suspect."
She was twisting strands of her hair now. "I haven't told you everything," she said. "There's something I just can't talk about."
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