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13
After Michael left, I could only replay our conversation. I'd expected him to calm my fears; instead, my turmoil had increased. I changed into a bathing suit, grabbed my Mace canister, and went out to the pool, hoping some exercise would help.
As I opened the patio doors and stepped outside, a blast of hot air made me gasp. I reached for one of the beach towels hanging on the patio and carefully placed it and the Mace on the stone bench beside the pool. Some of my friends tease me about the Mace, but since Bob's death left me alone, I worry about someone climbing the back fence into the pool area.
The pebbled surface around the pool, supposedly cooler than cement, was too hot to walk on in bare feet. I ran quickly to the deep end, jumped in, and did thirty laps before I had to rest. Thirty laps sounds terrific, but for my pool size, it's not much. I once read about a 78-year-old man who swam his age in laps every day, but I've never reached my own magic number without long breaks in between.
Although the pool water must have been about 100 degrees, it revived me and I sat on the patio, more relaxed than I'd felt in days. Suddenly, my fears seemed exaggerated. The sudden death of someone in his sixties with diabetes and high blood pressure was more likely to be a natural occurrence than suicide or murder. It wasn't surprising that the police thought in terms of the latter, but I refused to go along with their scenario.
I decided it was foolish to worry about Michael. There was no murderer, so the trap he intended to set would never spring. I understood Michael's anxiety for his daughter, but it was misplaced. Nothing would happen. Police inquiries would go nowhere, and eventually Michael would return to Tucson.
That certainty stopped me for a moment. If you want to daydream, I told myself, go ahead. But know that it's only a pleasant way to pass a sultry summer afternoon.
After a time, the heat drove me into the water again, and I passed the rest of my day off alternating between pool and patio. I spent most of the evening in front of the TV, my usual Saturday night pattern since losing Bob. Sunday was a workday for me, so I turned in early, with only a brief thought about Harry Stokes's death before I fell asleep.
At the pharmacy, Sunday was usually a quiet day. Unlike the rest of the store, it was only open from nine to five. I worked alone, but was able to catch up on paperwork and transmit a huge order to the wholesaler for delivery the next day. Mondays were always busy, and anything I could do in advance would make life easier.
I didn't see any of the people involved in the Stokes case, if you could call it a case. Denise was working the late shift in the coffee shop, and none of Harry's relatives showed up demanding confidential prescription records.
I still felt relaxed when I opened up on Monday. My first customer shattered this calm mood. The problem was her insurance plan, which wouldn't accept her card when I ran it through our machine. I sympathized with the customer until I became the target of her anger. She was a thin woman who didn't look like she had the lung power to explode the way she did.
"What do you mean it won't take?" she screamed. "I've got a sick child out in the car, and I need his antibiotic."
"Out in the car?" I couldn't contain myself. "Surely not in this heat."
"You mind your own business and give me the medicine."
I explained again that I couldn't put it on her insurance plan, but she could pay for it now and try to collect from the insurance company later. While I tried to straighten out this problem, more customers arrived at the window. Both phones rang continually, and I tried to keep sane until ten o'clock when my technician would arrive. One thing about Joey, he never wasted a moment when he came in or waited for me to tell him what to do.
The next time I glanced at the clock, it was close to eleven. Where was Joey anyhow? He was hardly ever late, and I really needed him today.
By noon, I was convinced he'd caught the summer cold that was going around, but why hadn't he phoned in? I called Greg Blackstone, the store manager, on the intercom.
"I think Joey's sick," I told him. "Can you get me one of your people to fill in?"
He promised some help and eventually sent a young woman from the cosmetic counter. She'd never worked in the pharmacy before but quickly took over the phones and the cash register, which allowed me to concentrate on filling prescriptions. From time to time, I wondered about Joey and whether I should call him at home. Better not, I told myself. He's responsible enough to call in as soon as he can.
Just before one o'clock, Denise appeared at the pharmacy. "Where's Joey? I wanted to talk to him before I clock in."
"I don't know where he is."
"Did he hear anything new from his brother-in-law?"
"I couldn't tell you," I said impatiently. "He hasn't shown up today."
"Okay, don't get upset. I recognize busy people when I see them." She turned to leave.
I assured Denise I'd see her later at the coffee shop and returned to the prescription backlog, without time to spare her another thought. When she reappeared a few minutes later, I tried to hide my annoyance. I noticed she was dabbing at her eyes with a tissue.
"Ruthie, let me into the pharmacy. Hurry!"
I unlocked the door for her and had just time enough to guess that her allergies must be acting up before she grabbed both my arms. She was sobbing now, the tears running unchecked and ruining her makeup.
"I telephoned," she said. "They told me ... Oh God, I can't believe it ... they told me he's dead."
Without conscious thought, I knew who she meant, but the words wouldn't form. I waited.
"He drowned in that damn fountain. How could it happen? Little children drown in swimming pools here. It's in the papers all the time." Her sobs were louder now. "But Joey was twenty years old. He couldn't drown like that!"
Even though I'd known, her words hit me so forcibly that I doubled over, holding onto the counter for support. I cried along with Denise, the customers at the window forgotten.
"When?" I whispered.
"Sometime during the night. The maintenance crew found him this morning." She choked up and couldn't continue.
I pictured that beautiful fountain at the Franklin's condominium complex. How would Joey's parents ever be able to look at it again? I thought of Joey—so eager to learn, so avid to be a part of everything.
But I couldn't grieve for him now; I had to help all the people who needed their medications. Many of them were in pain, too. I had to pull myself together.
Motioning to the relief technician, who was staring at us helplessly, I asked her to take Denise to the employees' lunchroom. Once again, I called Greg Blackstone on the intercom.
He appeared almost at once, breathing as if he had run all the way. "Ruth, what's happening here? At least three customers reported something wrong in the pharmacy."
I explained briefly, trying not to break down again. His shocked expression showed he hadn't yet heard. "Okay, I'll try to get someone here. When is the other pharmacist due in?"
He turned to the waiting customers. "Folks, the pharmacist isn't feeling well. There'll be a slight delay in filling your prescriptions, so why don't you do your grocery shopping meanwhile. We'll take care of you as quickly as we can."
Some of the customers murmured sympathetically and handed their prescriptions to the store manager, but I heard one grumble that he couldn't wait. "You go and take a break," Greg told me. "I'll stay here and run a holding operation."
Legally, a licensed pharmacist must be in the pharmacy at all times, but I didn't argue with the manager. I grabbed my handbag and ran to the customer restrooms, not wanting to see other Food Go people in the lunchroom. By now, Denise would have told everyone. I couldn't bear to hear them discuss Joey's death over and over, adding details even if they had no real information.
The shocking news and Denise's abrupt way of relaying it made me feel as if I'd been kicked in the head. And every minute my head ached more as I thought of poor Joey. I splashed cold water on my face and reached into my handbag for aspirins. After a while, I forced myself to return to the pharmacy.
"I phoned your staff pharmacist. He'll be here as soon as possible," Greg Blackstone said when I let myself into the pharmacy. He had a telephone receiver in each hand and looked more harried than usual.
"Thanks. Why don't I take one of those calls?"
He handed the nearest receiver to me, and I took down a prescription for Erythromycin, an antibiotic. "Look, I don't want you giving out drugs while you're in this shocked condition. You take the phone calls and I'll be the people person."
I was trying to regain some semblance of my professional self and at least hold on until Tim could arrive, but my mind wasn't functioning clearly and I realized Greg was right.
Tim Barnard came rushing into the pharmacy shortly afterwards. "What's wrong?" he asked. "You said we had an emergency."
"I didn't want to break it over the telephone," Greg told him. "We've had terrible news—it's Joey Franklin."
"Joey? Is the kid sick?"
"No, Tim. He's dead."
Tim looked as shocked as I felt. Maybe I should have suggested that Greg Blackstone call in a relief pharmacist from another Food Go, one who didn't know Joey. But I hadn't been thinking clearly.
"What happened?" Tim asked. "Was it a traffic accident?"
"We don't have any details, only that he was drowned."
"Those kids are always rafting on old tires. I told Joey a couple of times it's too dangerous."
"Don't jump to conclusions," Greg said quietly. "The main question is whether you feel up to taking over here. I want to send Ruth home."
"I feel terrible, too, but Ruthie is—was a lot closer to Joey. I can manage okay." He turned to me. "Can you drive yourself home? Maybe the store could spare someone to drive you."
I assured both Tim and Greg that I could get home by myself. "But I'm worried about Denise," I told the store manager.
"That's my next job. I figured the pharmacy's needs had a higher priority than the coffee shop's."
I wanted nothing more than to go home alone, crank up the air-conditioning, and burrow into the bedclothes. But I couldn't desert Denise. "If you can spare her, I'll take Denise to my house."
"Go ahead." Greg looked toward Tim Barnard, who was already at the window, talking to customers. "It looks like the pharmacy is under control."
He took my arm and walked me to the employees' lunchroom where we found Denise, crouched over one of the lunch tables, her head buried in her hands. Two other Food Go employees, a woman from the bakery and one of the meat cutters, were trying to calm her.
Greg Blackstone went to the water fountain, filled a paper cup, and walked over to Denise. "Here, drink this," he said in an authoritative voice he seldom used.
She took the cup and stared at it. I thought she must be in shock, but when Greg repeated, "Drink this," she drained the cup.
"Give her something stronger when you get her to your house," Greg said. "If she still seems dazed, call a doctor."
As disturbed as Denise was, his decisive manner produced results, and I realized, not for the first time, why he was an effective manager. Denise got up and, with one of us gripping each arm, walked out of the store.
At her first exposure to the bright sunlight, she pulled her arms away from our supporting grip and covered her eyes. "Her pupils must be dilated enough to be painful," I told Greg Blackstone. We led Denise to my car and Greg helped her in, even buckling her seat belt for her. Then he helped me into the driver's seat, asking again if I were sure I could manage. I tied my own seat belt and reassured Greg, but I was finding it hard to believe I could drive the five miles to my home.
Take it slowly and concentrate, I told myself. There won't be much traffic. You can do it. I pulled out of my parking space carefully, knowing Greg was watching, and headed for the shopping strip exit.
The drive home seemed interminable. I tried to turn my thoughts away from Joey and my friend, who sat beside me whimpering. I couldn't understand why Denise had reacted so strongly. Unbidden, the idea leaped into my mind that feelings of guilt motivated her response. Quickly suppressing that thought, I avoided questioning Denise. I really didn't want to know the answer.
When I pulled into my driveway, I wondered how I'd get Denise into the house without help. She was in the same trancelike state, but she followed me inside without resistance.
It was cooler in the house, but not cool enough and I started toward the thermostat to lower it. "I'm cold," Denise mumbled before I moved more than a few feet.
Shock, I thought. I led her to my guest bedroom, opened the sofa bed, and helped her off with her shoes. "I'll be right back with some blankets," I told her.
The blankets were packed away for the summer, and it took me a few minutes to collect two of them. I put one over Denise and told her to let me know if she was still cold. "I'm going to make you some hot tea."
"Thanks," she said.
I figured it was an encouraging sign; she wasn't completely out of it. My own shock was mitigated by the need to help Denise, and I quickly heated two cups of tea in the microwave. While the microwave was going, I found some pillows and propped her up so she could drink the tea. I added lots of sugar to both cups, put them on a tray and returned to her.
She sipped the tea, and I saw some color return to her face. "Thanks," she repeated.
"Should I try to get you to a doctor?"
"No, I'm doing better. I'm not so cold anymore."
I observed her closely. She wasn't shivering, which I took as a good sign. Her eyes seemed more focused, although she kept them closed most of the time. But they were probably still hurting; she'd been crying for the better part of an hour.
"It was the way they told me. I was so unprepared. Well, I guess you're always unprepared." She picked up the cup of tea again. I noticed she'd moved the covers back a little, so she must be warmer. The perspiration was running down my own face, and I mopped at it with a tissue, wishing I could adjust the thermostat.
"Some stranger answered the phone, not one of the Franklins. I thought it must be one of Joey's friends, and I asked to speak to him." Denise started to cry again. I silently passed along the box of tissues I was using.
"There was no warning, no attempt to lead up to bad news. 'Joey's dead,' he said. 'That's a stupid joke to play on me,' I yelled. But I think I knew. 'It's no joke, lady. I wish it was,' he said. And that was that."
I wondered if it was better to keep her from reliving that telephone call, but I realized she had to talk. "How did you get the details?" I asked quietly.
"I don't know. He must have told me."
"His parents were so proud of him," I said. The lump in my throat seemed to thicken, but I controlled the tears that threatened. It would only make everything worse for Denise.
I thought about Joey again. When Bob died, my world had fallen apart. But in its own way, this death was as devastating. A young man of twenty, and one that I would have been delighted to have as a son. I felt bad when Harry Stokes died, but he was really only a casual acquaintance. Joey and I had worked side by side for nearly two years.
Something flashed into my mind when I thought of Harry Stokes. Was it too much of a coincidence for Joey to die so soon after Harry? I pushed the thought away, convinced there was no connection. Harry's death, as far as anyone had been able to prove, resulted from natural causes. From what Denise had discovered, Joey's death was a terrible accident.
The connection between Harry Stokes and Joey was too tenuous. Now, if Michael had been the victim of a drowning accident, I told myself, that would be suspicious. Michael had been setting himself up to trap a nonexistent killer. His death would have made murder a plausible assumption.
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