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23
My first thought, relief that it wasn't Denise, was followed immediately by gratitude that I had been at work all morning. Dozens of customers and Food Go employees must have seen me there. Then I realized I didn't know the time of the accident.
"When did it happen?" I asked.
"Don't you want to know his condition?"
"Of course, I do. But the way you've been questioning me, I guess I want to be sure you don't suspect me."
"Nine-thirty this morning, near the university campus in Tempe. I suppose people can confirm you were in the pharmacy?"
He phrased it as a question and I nodded my head in agreement. Knowing I was in the clear made me feel better than I had in days. Then I remembered his questions about the various vehicles other people owned.
"You think it was deliberate, not an accident," I said. Nothing else made sense in view of his questions.
"We don't know," he admitted.
Belatedly, I asked about Scott's condition. "Will he be all right?"
"He might have been if the helmet law was still on the books. Right now, he's in intensive care. Head injuries."
I thought about Sheila, the caressing lilt to her voice when she called him "Scotty," and the way her eyes followed him. Not another widow to join the crowd, I hoped. But she would not be a widow in any case, at least not in the legal sense.
"Why would anyone want to run him down?" I asked.
"It isn't much more than twenty-four hours since he was accusing a specific person of murder. I'm not saying there's a connection, you understand, but we have to check into every possibility." He looked at the pages in his notebook again. "Will you confirm that Scott accused Michael Loring of murder yesterday?"
I remained quiet for a long time. Too long, but maybe he'd think I was trying to visualize the confrontation. "I don't remember," I repeated as firmly as I could.
"Let me help your memory," he said. "They were talking about money. About Sheila and her brother sharing in their father's estate. She wanted the money to start a business with her fiancé." Detective Moreway read from the notebook, "I remember you from Tucson. You can't keep a job, Scott." He looked expectantly at me. "Do you remember those words?"
"Those weren't his exact words." Too late I realized I'd fallen into his trap.
"So, you do remember the conversation."
"Sheila's a lot younger than me. Her memory is probably better."
Detective Moreway laughed, and while his manner remained polite, it wasn't a pleasant sound. "Good excuse," he said. "In that case, assuming she's the source of my information, would you be willing to confirm the rest of it?"
"I can only tell you what I remember."
"Scott's words were addressed to Sheila." As Frank Moreway read them from his notebook, I hoped they'd be slightly off, too. Then I could honestly say I hadn't heard them. But Sheila, if she had been his informant, and I supposed she had to be the one, had been only too accurate. "'He probably killed your father so his own daughter would get all that money.'" Detective Moreway quoted.
Is it possible, I wondered. Thank God, the police were unaware that Michael had another strong motive, wanting to safeguard his daughter's expected baby. I was silent.
"We need your help," Frank Moreway said. "You can't protect people under a mistaken notion of friendship. If your friends are innocent, nothing you say will hurt them. But have you thought about the alternative? Are you willing to take a chance, even a slight chance, that you're shielding someone who's killed twice and is ready to kill again to protect himself or herself."
"If I knew anything to help you, I'd say it."
"How will you feel if someone else gets killed? I'm convinced you have information that could make the difference. Maybe not about the conversation that took place yesterday morning. You may not even be aware of the information you hold. But you know something." His eyes darkened as he stared intently at me. "You could be in danger, too," he told me.
I laughed uneasily. "You're trying to frighten me."
"And I hope I'm succeeding."
I remembered how nervous Denise had been the night before, convinced of her own danger. It wasn't pleasant to find myself in the same situation.
He was watching my face and must have understood my reaction. "If you have anything to add, now's the time."
I shook my head and he got up to leave. At the front door, he turned and told me to contact him when I changed my mind. He seems so sure of himself, I thought, as I locked up after him. But he couldn't be right. Whatever I knew, others knew as well. The murderer could gain nothing by coming after me.
Despite the air-conditioning, I felt uncomfortably hot and perspired. I was still in my bathing suit, so I removed my wraparound housedress and went out through the patio doors and into the pool to cool down. The swim calmed me only for a short time, and when I got out and dried off, I realized how agitated my thoughts were. I sat in front of the television the rest of the evening, but I don't remember what I watched, only that the local news had nothing about Scott Robbins and his motorcycle accident.
* * *
By morning, I still had no thunderbolt of revelation. Maybe it was just too hot to think straight. Fridays were always busy because people wanted their medicines before the weekend. I was on the day shift again, and I was glad to keep occupied. Without a technician, it was even more difficult to keep up with the flow of customers. Luckily Greg Blackstone passed by when the lineup of people at the window was beginning to get out of control. He was a good manager, and immediately brought over one of the clerks from the film department. Karen was a high school student, but she looked older. She was wearing shorts and a T-shirt, which wasn't good for the pharmacy's image, but I was desperate enough to appreciate any live body.
"Karen can help for a few hours," Greg told me. "What is she allowed to do?"
I explained to both of them that under my supervision, state law allowed her to take prescriptions from patients at the window. She could answer the telephone and write down the prescription number for a refill and the name of the person okaying it. But she must call me over for new prescriptions.
"I can see you're too busy to train Karen now," Greg said. "Isn't there something simple she can do to ease things for you?"
"Answering the phone would help most, Karen," I told her. "But call me over unless it's a refill."
"No problem," she said.
Although she seemed alert and happy to be away from the photo center, I was careful to keep tuned to the way she handled phone calls while I took care of everything else. Just having her to field the calls helped tremendously, and she needed no reminders to take down the numbers and prescribers' names. The first three calls were for refills, and I listened as I worked to see what would happen when a new script was called in.
"One minute, please," I heard her say. "The pharmacist will be right with you."
Maybe Greg would allow her to replace Joey, I thought. If she's computer literate, I can teach her our system, and she can enter information and do the labels. Then we can get to the more difficult tasks. Verifying the completeness of scripts, taking drugs off the shelves, counting or pouring. Joey had seemed to have a natural affinity for the pharmacy, and I remembered Mr. Franklin saying over and over that his son should have been a druggist. It was selfish to miss Joey because of his work in the pharmacy but, then again, I also missed his cheerfulness and his patience with customers.
Between phone calls, Karen asked if she could do anything else and I soon had her at the window. She was polite and efficient and, after a while, wanted to hand out the finished prescriptions. I explained that state law didn't allow anyone but a registered pharmacist to do that.
"Why?" she asked. "If you're the one filling it, what difference does it make who gives it out?"
"I'm supposed to communicate with patients as I hand the medicine to them," I explained. "To tell them the name of the drug, its strength, the directions, and any cautions."
"Cautions?"
"Not to take it on an empty stomach or with milk products or that it might make them sleepy so they should try not to drive. Whatever they need to know to avoid problems."
She was listening to me wide-eyed, and I felt like some sort of guru. I remembered how fascinated I'd been at the same age when I helped in my Dad's drug store. Fascinated enough to go to pharmacy college as soon as I finished high school.
Pharmacy college reminded me of Michael and now, busy as I was, I could no longer postpone thinking of what I'd resolutely put out of my mind last night after Detective Moreway had left. Michael seemed to be the only one with a motive for trying to kill Scott Robbins. Scott had accused him of murder and, the next day, someone had gone after Scott. No matter how hard I tried to come up with another reason for the accident, nothing else fit. Combined with Michael's antipathy toward his son-in-law and evasions concerning his whereabouts on the night Joey died, this seemed like strong circumstantial evidence. I shut my eyes and tried to explain it all away, but I couldn't do it.
Somehow I got through the morning. For a person who'd always loved her work, I was finding it increasingly difficult to concentrate in the pharmacy. These days, my mind was like a computer with insufficient disk space. And I couldn't seem to retrieve the data I needed.
Tim arrived at two o'clock and stared at Karen. "Are we running a kindergarten now?" he asked me, waiting until she was off the phone and couldn't miss hearing him.
"Karen's been invaluable and, if she's willing, I'm going to ask Greg if she can train as a technician."
"Fine, as long as you do the training."
Typical of Tim, I thought. He wanted to replace me as pharmacy manager but would never do any of the tasks that went with that job. Unfortunately, I hadn't warned Karen about him, an awkward business anyhow. I couldn't denigrate a colleague to her, but I should have told her not to worry about his outward manner. A caution like those on prescription bottles!
Karen was on the telephone again, carefully taking down information about another refill. Since Tim had stationed himself in his usual position at the computer, I spent my time at the window, trying to catch up with paperwork whenever the flow of customers eased. I watched to see Karen's reaction to Tim's gruffness, but she simply avoided him as much as possible in the confined space of our small area. When she left to return to her own department, she agreed to put in as many hours in the pharmacy as Greg Blackstone allowed.
As soon as Karen was gone, I rounded on Tim. "You know we need a replacement for Joey. Please try to get along with her."
"I get along with everyone," Tim said.
To see ourselves as others do, I thought, and changed the subject. "Did you hear the latest about the killings?"
"They caught him?"
I was afraid to ask which "him" he meant. "No, it's something else. Scott Robbins was in a motorcycle accident. Hit and run."
Tim did an exaggerated double take. "Are you going to find connections between everything that happens to any of those people?" His skepticism showed in his voice and raised eyebrows.
"There is a relationship," I insisted.
"Sure," he said, with the same tone of disbelief.
I wasn't surprised. It was pointless to argue with Tim. His opinions were always the only right ones, so I don't know why I wanted to convince him. Maybe because I was avoiding Denise and needed to talk it over with someone.
We both got busy, but I was determined to continue the conversation. Since Tim's knowledge of Michael was more recent than mine, I had to find out what I could about the Michael Loring of today.
Just before my shift ended, we had another quiet spell and I brought the subject up again. "You may not believe it, but there's a definite chain of events." I didn't want to say anything about the conflicting reactions of Michael and Harry Stokes to Betsy's pregnancy, but I felt the pregnancy was an important factor.
"I think that chain begins with Betsy Stokes's visit to her obstetrician. You know I don't gossip about customers, but I think this is important. I keep going over the sequence in my mind. Betsy finds out she's pregnant. Next thing, her husband's dead. Maybe it's natural causes, maybe suicide, maybe murder. But then Joey, who works in the pharmacy where Betsy and Harry both get all their medications, is killed. And now Sheila Stokes's fiancé, a young man who knew most of the key players in Tucson, is seriously hurt in a hit and run." I said "key players" deliberately, to avoid mentioning Michael by name. I looked at Tim, wondering if he realized which key player I meant.
"You want to ramble on, it's okay with me. But what makes you think you're smarter than the police?"
"I never said that," I protested.
"Obviously, you have a suspect. Who is it? Betsy? Her father?"
He was getting too close now, and I didn't want to answer. But he persistently added names. "Harry's kids? Me? Denise?" He grinned at me. "What about you?"
"Now you're being ridiculous," I said.
"Why should you be any less of a suspect than anyone else?"
"And what's my motive?" I asked tartly, although I didn't mind the game if it led him away from Michael.
"Unrequited love."
I laughed uneasily. "For Joey or for Scott?"
"For the old man," he said and turned back to the computer screen, too quickly to see me wince at his words.
Don't be a fool, I told myself. To Tim, Harry Stokes was an old man, and the epithet helped him to belittle Betsy's choice. I wondered if I should tell him about my alibi for the time of Scott's accident, but decided his accusation hadn't been serious; there was no need to defend myself.
Although Tim was finished with the subject, I wasn't. Just before my shift ended, I began again. "Tim, you know these people better than I do. Seriously now, who do you think is responsible for what's going on?"
"I told you. Nothing is going on. You know as well as I do that Harry Stokes had all sorts of health problems. He died of natural causes."
"That's what we were supposed to think, but I know better."
His set expression showed his disagreement, but that didn't stop me because I was used to Tim taking the opposite point of view to mine on every possible occasion. "As for Scott," he went on. "Do you know how many motorcyclists land in Tempe emergency rooms every day?"
I persisted. "And how will you explain away Joey's death?"
"That's easy. When you stop trying to connect three distinct events, Joey's death will turn out to be a mugging that went wrong. Or maybe a gang killing."
"If he'd been shot from a moving car rather than drowned, I might agree. But I don't believe in this kind of coincidence, and the way the police have been questioning all of us, I can see they don't either."
"What do they know?" he muttered and reached for the stack of new scripts I put next to the computer. I reminded him to transmit the order to the wholesaler before closing. To make sure he didn't forget again, I put the order machine where he couldn't miss it, and left for the day.
* * *
Sundown was more than two hours away, and it was at least 110 degrees outside. I'd been early enough to find a parking spot under a bottlebrush tree, and my car was hot but not unbearable. Even so, I was ready for a few laps in the pool before dinner.
Determined not to spend another agitated evening, I considered going to the movies. Only two weeks ago, I'd been at the mall with Denise and seen Michael for the first time since college. But I didn't want to call Denise even though I knew she probably had the same shift as I did today. As to my other friends, sometimes they included me in family outings, but I felt uncomfortable as the proverbial third wheel.
There was always television. It hadn't helped last night, but I turned on the set and mindlessly watched reruns for hours. At nine-thirty, I put on a dry bathing suit, turned on the patio lights, and went back to the pool. I was just drying off when someone knocked at the back gate.
This is such an early-to-bed city that I never expect late visitors. But it was Friday night and, although I had to work the next day, most people were off for the weekend. It must be Michael, I thought. A variety of emotions surged through my mind with that certainty. I wanted to see him again, but would it be safe to open the gate for him? I reminded myself that this was Michael, the man I had nearly married. Wrapping the huge beach towel over my bathing suit, sarong fashion, I walked over to the gate and looked out. I was surprised to see Tim but somewhat relieved that it wasn't Michael.
"I tried telephoning, Ruthie, but no one answered."
"It's hard to hear the phone when I'm swimming," I explained as I unlocked the gate. "What's happening?"
"I need your advice about a strange conversation I had with Greg Blackstone tonight. He sounded like he's ready to transfer me."
This was surprising. I couldn't remember Tim ever asking my advice before. In any case, I was glad to have this opportunity for a talk with him away from the busy pharmacy. Our conversations in the store had left me edgy, because I couldn't shake the feeling that some things he'd said should be followed up and clarified.
Tim sat at the glass-topped patio table across from me and refused my offer of iced tea, while I thought about this development. I'd been hoping for months that Tim would transfer out. From a selfish point of view, this wasn't the right time because I'd have a new technician and a new staff pharmacist to contend with simultaneously. Surely Greg was aware of this problem, so why would he suddenly try to send Tim to another Food Go store? I wondered if Karen had complained to the manager about him.
"If you want to make a change, I wouldn't stand in your way," I told Tim, giving him a chance to put a positive spin on the transfer. Now I sound like a politician, I thought. Why does Tim always make me feel like the old-fashioned, stereotypical female boss?
"You were asking me about Betsy Loring tonight," he said. "Why?"
"Why?" I echoed and hesitated. I certainly was not going to tell him my suspicions about Michael.
We heard the click as my pool cleaning system started up. I realized it was ten o'clock, the hour I'd set the timer for. Tim stood and sauntered over to the pool. "What kind of cleaner is that, anyhow?"
It was an odd change of subject, but I was used to friends watching my little robotic system in action. I walked over and joined him, ready to point out the pros and cons of the new pool cleaner, wondering why I felt so uneasy.
Suddenly I sensed the terrible danger I faced. But before I could react, Tim grabbed me. I could feel his arms tighten painfully around my body. He was edging me closer to the pool. The shock was so intense, my mind refused to accept what was happening. My thoughts were jumbled from pain and terror. I was afraid I'd black out. I could feel his relentless grip as he dragged me along the pebbled pool deck. They would find me floating face down in my own swimming pool. Despite the overwhelming fear that engulfed me, I realized I must act quickly or face certain death. I knew that Tim was younger and stronger than I, but desperation drove me. I was determined to save myself.
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