Rip Tide (A Ripple Effect Cozy Mystery, Book 2) Page 10

  Rip's expression said it all. He was asking himself why he'd agreed to assist me and trying to convince himself that having Regina live with us for an indeterminate period of time would be a rewarding experience. With all the voices in Rip's head at that moment, I can guarantee you there was a very lively and uncomfortable conversation going on in there. He shook his head again, as if to still the voices, before exiting the trailer.

  The noise from the door shutting roused Dolly from her nap. She'd been atop the couch, curled up and soaking in the sun. After yawning a couple of times, she jumped to the floor and, out of pure habit, strolled over to her empty food bowl. Searching and unable to locate a single kibble or bit, she looked up at me with pleading eyes.

  This was an oft-used ploy to evoke sympathy so I'd break down and feed her. That tactic always worked for Rip when he was sure he was on the verge of dying of starvation, and it worked for Dolly the majority of the time, too. Rip often accused me of lowering our beloved pet's life expectancy by feeding her every time she begged for food. He had yet to realize I was probably lowering his in the exact same manner.

  I poured a dab of dry food in the cat bowl and picked up the iPad. I was content to exercise my brain with a game or two of Scrabble while I waited for Rip to return with the truck and whatever news he was able to garner at the police station.

  Chapter 8

  I could sense Rip was seething internally when he walked in the door thirty minutes later. He laid his old Rockport Police ball cap on the table, and said, "Might as well pitch this out with the leftover scraps from breakfast."

  "What's wrong, honey?" I asked in concern. I knew he wasn't merely upset; he was hurt. I'd rarely seen him looking vulnerable or emotional, and he was clearly both at that moment. The look in his eyes scared me. I hadn't seen that look since he'd been forced to shoot a fifteen-year old boy. He'd stumbled across the troubled teenager, who was selling methamphetamines behind the old abandoned Wal-Mart store late one night. The young man pulled a gun out of the waistband of his baggy jeans and fired twice at Rip, intent on killing the county sheriff. The shots missed their mark, but Rip's aim was true when he returned fire before the boy could shoot again. Even high on meth, the kid could have hit his intended target on a subsequent attempt. That disturbing experience had been the final straw that ended my husband's career in law enforcement. He put in for retirement the morning after the incident.

  I watched now as Rip exhaled forcefully and sat down on the couch. He leaned his head back, staring aimlessly at the ceiling. I sat down beside him and put my hand on top of his, willing to wait quietly until he was ready to talk. Finally, he said, "I bailed out Milo. I don't think they have any concrete evidence to merit charging him with murder, but I guarantee you they're doing their damnedest to come up with something. And he still has the assault charges to deal with."

  "Is that what's bothering you?" I asked.

  "No," he said. "That was exactly what I expected to happen."

  "So, what is it?"

  "I went in to discuss the case with Sheriff Peabody with whom, as you know, I worked side-by-side for years. Mind you, I wasn't trying to interfere with the murder investigation in any way, or requesting to use any of the department's resources in order to insert myself into the homicide case. I only wanted to offer my services and detective skills honed from a lifetime of experience in law enforcement. Not only to help close the case, but also, of course, to clear my son-in-law's name, who I contended was not guilty of murder. And, after all, I have an inside track on the matter, having been present when the body was discovered."

  "The investigating team should have been overjoyed to have you onboard."

  "You'd think," he replied dryly. "Instead, I was informed that I was to keep my nose out of the case. Joe explained that any involvement from me would be an egregious conflict of interest. In fact, he had already demanded I be barred from the station during the course of the investigation. He had the balls to say, 'You know yourself you shouldn't be here.'"

  "Wow! Joe said that to you? And even banned you from the station? Has he forgotten that you're the former sheriff and the primary reason he's in that position now?"

  "Yes. Exactly my point! I'm the one who convinced Joe to apply to the police academy and then groomed him the next six years to take my place when I retired. Now he's banning me from the station I spent over half my life working in while putting my neck on the line to keep Rockport a safe place to live. How's that for a kick in the teeth?"

  "I'm sure it wasn't a personal decision on his part, honey." I was trying to soothe his wounded pride. I knew Joe Peabody's respect for Rip was unmatched. He'd said more than once how much he'd appreciated the way Rip had taken him under his wing and helped him become the person and lawman he was today. I reminded Rip of that, and then said, "He's probably only following protocol, like you always did. In fact, I remember you preaching to the men on the force the importance of always going by the book in order to avoid giving a criminal a loophole in which to walk free and avoid punishment."

  "I know, I know," Rip relented. "You're right. I don't blame Joe. I'd have probably done the same thing if our roles were reversed. I just feel useless. I guess my feelings were bruised. It was mighty humiliating, too, being thrown out of the station like a door-to-door encyclopedia salesman."

  "I know, honey. It's only natural you'd feel the way you do. After all, you've always treated Joe as if he was your own son, and I know it's hard to accept those words coming from him. But put yourself in his place. If he'd welcomed you into the case with open arms, knowing full well standard procedure classified you as having a conflict of interest—and the fact you're just a citizen now—what would be your opinion of him? I'm sure Joe wants you to respect him as the new sheriff, not make you wonder if grooming him to replace you had been a mistake."

  "Yes, I guess you're right. Joe was actually pretty kind and considerate about it. And he did have his arm around my shoulders as he escorted me out of the station. I'm sure I'm just over-reacting to the situation. But after talking to Milo on the ride home from the station, I really do believe he is innocent. And I've always been a good judge of character, you know. Of course, you might have been that rare exception but—"

  He laughed and I joined him, knowing he was only kidding me. I was giddy in relief that Rip's mood had lightened. He quickly turned serious again when he said, "They might be able to ban me from the station, by God, but they can't stop me from looking into the murder on my own."

  "Our own," I corrected him.

  He glanced at me with a blank expression. He clearly was not overly confident of my detective prowess, and I didn't believe it was the proper time to remind him of my crucial role in helping exonerate our friend, Lexie Starr. After a few long seconds, he nodded and said, "You look pale, my dear. Could you be coming down with something?"

  I smiled broadly, delighted to have his consent to return to the health clinic. This time I'd request to be seen by Dr. Patrick O'Keefe. I'd be danged if I was going to shell out another co-pay for no good purpose.

  * * *

  By the time I pulled the truck into the clinic's parking lot for the second time that day, I was actually beginning to feel a little queasy. I'm not sure if I was really falling prey to a virus, just reacting to an overabundance of jittery nerves, or perhaps being reprimanded by God for my deceitful actions. I chose the middle option.

  "You again?" The receptionist asked as I approached the check-in counter.

  "Been one of those days," I replied. "I think I've contracted a bug. Maybe that twenty-four hour flu that's going around."

  "Oh, that's too bad." I could tell her insincere response was out of habit from speaking to dozens of ill patients every day.

  "To be honest," I replied, being anything but honest. "I'm thinking I might have picked it up in the waiting room when I was here earlier. That Asian fellow sitting next to me looked feverish, didn't you think? If I recall correctly, he coughed several times and
blew his nose once or twice, as well."

  "Mr. Nguyen was here to have a broken finger set."

  "Doesn't mean he couldn't also have a virus, does it?"

  "Okay, ma'am. Whatever you say." It irked me that this snooty lady clearly didn't agree with me. Granted, it was a total cock-and-bull story. But it's still rude to infer a patient is lying about her ailment. She told me to have a seat in the waiting room "once again," and said, "A doctor will see you soon, ma'am. Dr. Patel is just finishing up with his previous patient and—"

  "I'd prefer to see Dr. O'Keefe, even if it means I have to wait a spell."

  "But you saw Dr. Patel just a couple of hours ago. Did you have a problem with him?" She looked befuddled at my request.

  I winked at her as if it was apparent we shared a bad opinion of the Indian physician, and whispered, even though there was only the two of us in the room. "Well, let's just say we didn't exactly see eye-to-eye on the diagnosis."

  Not knowing what to make of my response, she stared at me blankly and said, "Please take a seat once again and the nurse will call you when Dr. O'Keefe is available."

  I picked up one of the pamphlets I'd already thumbed through on my first visit. Pretending to be absorbed in an article about the importance of dietary fiber, I made sure to cough and sniffle in convincing intervals. I'm allergic to dust mites and was pleased with an unfeigned sneeze just as the tubby nurse, Becky Winslow, opened the door and said, "Mrs. Ripple, the doctor is ready to see you now."

  Becky's statement that "the doctor was ready to see me now" was a gross exaggeration. It was a good forty-five minutes later before there was a light knock on the door. Without even allowing me enough time to put back a stethoscope I shouldn't have been messing with, the red-headed doctor opened the door and strolled into the room. He held my personal health folder in his left hand; a folder rapidly growing thicker. I was a little edgy about how warm a welcome I'd get from a guy I'd showered with ice water the previous evening, so was relieved when he simply extended his right hand for the customary shake. "Good afternoon. I'm Dr. O'Keefe."

  "Nice to meet you. I'm Rapella Ripple." As I introduced myself, he gazed at me quizzically. He stared at me for several long seconds. Uh-oh, I thought. Any moment now, the realization of who I am is going to hit him like a bolt of lightning.

  "Do I know you?" He asked at last.

  "No, I don't believe so," I replied without hesitation.

  "You look so familiar. Are you a teller at the NavyArmy Credit Union, by any chance?"

  "No, I'm not."

  "Oh, I know. I bet you're a checker at H.E.B? The express lane, right?"

  "No, afraid not." How many Guinness Black Lagers had he downed last night before we arrived at the restaurant? I wondered.

  "Wal-Mart?" At the negative shake of my head, he tried to place me again. "Do you have a shop in the Rockport Gallery? I spent a lot of time there last summer when we were decorating the clinic."

  "No. Not there either. At this rate, we're apt to be here all day. I'm almost positive you've never run into me in town before. Or anywhere else, for that matter." I was tiring quickly of the guessing game, but relieved he hadn't immediately recognized me.

  "Hmmm. I just know I've seen you somewhere."

  Well, crapola!! Why hadn't I just owned up to being a greeter at Wal-Mart? I asked myself. O'Keefe was determined not to let this puzzle go unsolved. Suddenly, out of the blue, I thought of how I could induce him to drop the subject and get on with the matter at hand.

  "Oh, wait a second," I said. "I think I've figured out where you've probably seen me. Do you ever watch any hard-core porn?"

  That effectively put an end to the inquisition. Dr. O'Keefe now looked from his black shiny shoes, to the reclining examination table, to the two chairs, to nearly everything else in the room besides his patient. He avoided making eye contact when he asked, "What brings you here today, Ms. Ripple?"

  I briefly described my imaginary symptoms as the physician went through his customary regimen; checking my blood pressure, listening to my heart and lungs, taking my temperature, and peering into my nose and mouth with his tiny flashlight. He looked baffled, which was understandable. I'm sure my vital signs were as good as, or better than, his. At this point, I was not even making an effort to appear under the weather.

  I knew my window for questioning him was limited, so I decided it was time to dive right in. "Speaking of porn, do you know my friend, Avery Curry?"

  Have you ever seen someone a split second after they'd been walloped in the face with a croquet mallet? The good doctor wore that same expression. Guess he didn't like thinking his ex-wife might have some connection with an aging porn star. I'd already raised his blood pressure with my 'hard-core porn' question, and was certain his heart rate was off the chart now, too.

  No longer avoiding eye contact, he now stared at me in astonishment. O'Keefe took a few moments to recover and, with eyes as wide as bottle caps, he eventually responded. "Um, yeah, um, yeah I do. She's my soon-to-be ex-wife. How do you know Avery? She's never mentioned you that I can recall."

  "We're co-workers." Considering the stir I'd created with Dr. Patel, I should have taken a moment to think before using the same explanation of my relationship with Avery.

  "You are?" Spoken in the same tone he'd have used if I'd told him I was here today to take a pregnancy test.

  Crapola, again! He'd dangled the Rockport Gallery right in front of me. Why hadn't I just latched on and gone with that? I could have pretended to be an artist. It's not like he'd have asked me to draw a portrait of him to prove it.

  "You're co-workers? Seriously?" His outright disbelief made the hair on my arms stand on end. Afraid to embellish on my employment at this point, I merely nodded. Why was he so surprised I worked at a topless joint, anyway? Hadn't I just insinuated I was not only a porn star, but a hard-core one, at that?

  "So, I assume you're a cook at Jugs 'n Mugs instead of a waitress like Avery." Just like that, the inquisition had reignited.

  "No," I answered. I'd learned my lesson when I didn't take the easy way out and claim to be an express-line checker at H.E.B. So, wouldn't you think I'd just go along with being a cook this time? Yes, you would. But unfortunately, I didn't. I'd found his stunned expression insulting. And having both doctors "assume" I was a cook rather than a topless waitress irked me, too. So, instead of using some sense and taking the easy route this go-round, I replied arrogantly, "I'm a waitress there, Doctor O'Keefe. And you do know what 'assume' stands for, don't you? It stands for 'make an ass out of you and−'"

  He cut me off as he looked me up and down, shook his head uncertainly, and asked, "You're a server at Jugs 'n Mugs? No kidding? I'd have thought being a server at somewhere like Ken's Diner would be more to your liking."

  "As a matter of fact, I did work as a waitress at Ken's Diner, and ironically, a cafe called Zen's Diner in Missouri." I didn't add that my employment at Zen's didn't span an entire breakfast shift, and my career at Ken's hadn't lasted much longer.

  "Well, that I can believe. But Jugs 'n Mugs?"

  If you read between the lines like I did, you'd know he was actually saying, "You're too frigging old and frumpy to be flaunting those saggy boobs in a place like Jugs 'n Mugs. Or any other public place, for that matter."

  I decided to get in a jab of my own. And, why not? I hadn't planned on sending him a Facebook friend request, or adding him to my Christmas card list. "You know, I'm not surprised Avery's giving you the boot."

  The barb hit home. The doctor's reaction to my remark was frightening. I could see that he could be very intimidating when riled. He retorted with a lame attempt to get under my skin, "And I'm not surprised she's never told me she was a friend of yours. She was probably too embarrassed to admit it."

  I wondered if he was surprised she'd never told him she was involved in pornography either? Was he thinking, "Has Avery been making porn movies behind my back, or is this old lady in my office certifiably bat-crap crazy?"


  I laughed and added, "I'm sure she would have been too embarrassed to tell you something that shocking. And, actually, I really shouldn't discuss our relationship. It's kind of personal and probably something she'd rather keep hidden away in the closet, if you know what I mean." Naturally, I ended my last remark with a seductive wink.

  Dr. O'Keefe could not have looked any more staggered than if he'd walked into his grandfather's bedroom and caught granddad wearing grandma's brassiere and panties. And by now I had him deliberating over the possibility Avery was bi-sexual and attracted to some whacked-out geriatric of the female variety.

  I realized I was having way too much fun agitating the doctor. But, much like blathering, I just couldn't seem to quit. O'Keefe stood silently studying me like a medical abnormality, his mouth quivering. I decided to take advantage of his inability to think straight or form a full sentence. "Yes, and Avery told me about the custody battle over Elizabeth."

  "Oh, well, yes, um, I guess we, um—" The bewildered doctor nodded, still unable to come up with the words to express himself.

  "Shame to put the child through such a tug-of-war. I'm sure you know, it's always hardest on the—"

  "Child? What child?" The doctor asked, suddenly able to speak not only coherently, but remarkably loud and angrily.

  "What do you mean 'what child?' Are you so disinterested in your own daughter you can't even recall her name? Shame on you! That poor girl." I shook my head in disgust and practically hissed when I said in clarification, "I'm referring to Elizabeth, Dr. O'Keefe. Your daughter! Remember her?"

  "What? Are you nuts?" He exclaimed. "Elizabeth's not a child. She's a pet lizard!"

  "A pet lizard?" Embarrassed, my voice was much more subdued when I asked. "You named a lizard Elizabeth?"