A Rip Roaring Good Time Page 18

  "No, I'll be okay in a minute," I gasped between groans. "I have these sudden chest pain episodes quite often. But my husband will help me out to the truck to get my nitroglycerine spray and I'll be fine."

  "Yes, that's right, dear. We need to scurry on out there before the pains intensify as they're prone to do," Rip said. He put his arm around me as if I couldn't stand without assistance. He then turned to Bobby and said, "Congratulations on your marriage, son. I need to get my wife off her feet right away, but it was nice to meet you, and we appreciate you inviting us to share your big day."

  Bobby looked bewildered, but he shook Rip's hand and told me he hoped I felt better soon.

  Rip's bad hip made his limping even more pronounced as he practically drug me to the door. Actually, he needed my assistance to walk, not the other way around. Bobby Crushnut watched our departure with great apprehension until the door closed behind us, no doubt relieved to be seeing the last of his oddball relatives from Pasadena. As soon as we exited the building, Rip looked at me and asked, "Really? You couldn't have just faked a senior moment and forgot the uncle's name?"

  I ignored his jab, mainly because I was upset with myself for not thinking of Rip's suggestion. If I had, we'd still be in there, possibly chatting with Joy or Rayleen.

  Rip went on to say, "If nothing else, I think we can now pursue other possible theories instead of your one with the Three Musketeers banding together to kill Trotter. It sounds to me like Rayleen had no burning desire to kill Trotter Hayes if they were communicating about a class reunion down the road. As far as not admitting they've seen each other recently, I'm sure Joy and Rayleen don't spread it around to strangers that they work together in a strip club. And most likely neither one of them has run into Alice lately. But Candy did mention a lawsuit between Trotter and the Piney family."

  "Candy also mentioned one between the Pineys and the fertilizer factory Mr. Piney worked for. I do recall Georgia telling me that they felt toxic fumes at the factory attributed to her husband's brain cancer. It very likely has no bearing on this murder case, but we're fixing to find out!"

  "I was afraid of that," Rip said with a sigh. "What are you planning to do now? Or do I even want to know?"

  "I'm giving it some thought. I'm sure either Lexie or I will come up with something."

  "No doubt."

  "There's a connection there somewhere to Trotter's death. I'm just sure of it. My Three Musketeer theory was just a hunch, but I'm wondering if we might not have Georgia Piney dead to rights with this latest discovery."

  "I hope you're right this time but I have my doubts," Rip replied with another sigh. "Get in the truck now, darling. I need to get you home before those chest pains escalate and you have a massive coronary on me."

  Chapter 16

  No one was home when we returned to the inn. Rip's bad hip was throbbing from being on his feet for so long at the reception and then having to drag his incapacitated spouse across the room. He went up to our suite for a nap. I unplugged my iPad from its charger and took it out on the back porch with a Miller Lite to quench my thirst.

  I Googled every applicable word combination I could think of and was only able to come up with one short newspaper article about the lawsuit between the Pineys and Trotter's family. Although it didn't say so exactly, and few details were given, it gave me the impression that the Pineys held Trotter Hayes responsible for their daughter's suicide. Trotter's mother was mentioned but not Chief Smith. Since Trotter was the chief's stepson, I reasoned the incident may have occurred before the chief married his mom.

  It also stood to reason the young girl would have had an autopsy performed on her body following the suicide. To verify my assumption, I called Wendy. She was at a male friend's house discussing his opinion of Falcon Jons. According to Wendy, the guy agreed that Falcon was more unpredictable than most. But Wendy's friend didn't think Falcon would viciously murder a person no matter how upset he was with him. It was just not in Falcon's DNA to be cruel, he had said.

  I told Wendy what we'd learned at the wedding reception and asked her about the policies regarding autopsies and suicide victims. "Yes, we're required to perform an autopsy on anyone who takes their own life. Primarily the practice is done for insurance purposes, but on rare occasions the autopsy results conclude that the death was not self-inflicted as previously declared."

  "Could that have happened in the Tori Piney case?" I asked.

  "It's possible, but highly unlikely. I think I'll return to the coroner's lab for the last few hours of the workday with the excuse I don't want to fall too far behind with the paperwork stacking up on my desk. I'll tell Nate that my headache went away and my nausea cleared up soon after. And then, since no one pays any attention to what I'm doing on the computer anyway, I'll do some searching. With any luck at all I'll be able to bring up the autopsy report on Tori. You never know, something interesting might come of it."

  "Couldn't you look up Trotter's autopsy report the same way?" I asked.

  "No, not yet anyway. The findings haven't been officially recorded yet."

  Wendy promised to call if she had any luck locating the report. While I waited impatiently to hear back from her, I fiddled with the iPad. I Googled "brain cancer" just for the heck of it and read through possible causes for it. Then I Googled the name Tori Piney and found a 2005 article about the lawsuit regarding Tori's suicide, and a few old articles dating back to 2003 and 2004 that listed honor roll students alphabetically. Both she and her twin sister had made the grade, I discovered. Having been an honor roll student, you'd think Lori could have proofread her mother's badly misspelled "no soliciting" sign before Georgia hung it up on the front door.

  Then, to pass some time, I Googled myself and was horrified to find an old photo someone had posted on that Facebook thing that Mattie had told me about. It was a straight-on shot of me leaning back, trying to clear a limbo pole at a party back in the 1980s. My ratty underwear was clearly exposed beneath my skirt, my socks didn't match, and I'd had the most God-awful expression on my face you could ever imagine. The photo was obviously meant to amuse, and it had succeeded, judging by the disparaging comments beneath it and the ridiculous amount of "likes" listed. Someone had even made the comment, "This was the last time I let my alcoholic grandmother go out in public. LOL"

  At the time, I was humiliated, but at least comforted and warmed by the acronym for "lots of love". But later I'd find out from Mattie that "LOL" was also an acronym for "laughing out loud" and the warmth cooled quickly.

  As I closed the cover on the iPad, not having the stomach to check out any of the other dozen or so listings under my name, the phone rang. I'd carried the portable receiver out to the back porch and quickly answered it so the noise wouldn't wake my husband.

  Wendy was breathless, as if she'd just sprinted up all one hundred and four flights of stairs at the new Freedom Tower in New York. She told me she had actually just run to her office from the basement storeroom where all the autopsy reports from 1991 to the present were stored in file cabinets. I could sense she was anxious to inform me about what she'd discovered.

  "Guess what? Tori's autopsy report states she died of cyanide poisoning!" Wendy exclaimed.

  "Oh, goodness," I replied. "What are the odds of a coincidence on that scale? Could the same person who killed Trotter with cyanide have killed Tori Piney back in 2005?"

  "I suppose so, even though the report indicates there was no sign of foul play."

  "Are the cause of death conclusions correct one-hundred-percent of the time?" I asked.

  "No, of course not. But I'd say the vast majority are correct. And there's always the possibility it really is just an incredible coincidence."

  "It's also possible there's some other connection we're overlooking," I added. "Can you think of any conceivable reason I could use to go back to the Piney home?"

  "Not that I can think of offhand. You mean something sneaky and conniving?"

  "Um, yes, I guess so."
<
br />   "Then you need to speak to Mom. Coming up with a sneaky and conniving ploy is definitely in her wheelhouse." Wendy laughed before hanging up the phone.

  * * *

  Not even an hour later, Lexie and I were standing on the Pineys' front porch. She was holding a family heirloom that had been passed down through her family and which would one day belong to Wendy. It was an Anchor Hocking cobalt blue serving bowl her great-grandmother had purchased in 1905, the very year the dishware company was established. Lexie had inherited it when her mother passed away several years ago. She told me her beloved bowl was a very close match to the platter I'd returned to Georgia a couple of days ago. I had to admit it looked very similar to me too.

  As we approached the Pineys' front door, Peanut began growling, snarling, and gnashing his teeth inside the house. Lexie turned to walk back to the car as I had the first time I experienced the same frightening situation. "I don't believe I want any part of whatever is behind that door," she said. "The scary woman I shared a cell with would be less terrifying than a protective guard dog that might maul me to death."

  I assured her Peanut was not nearly as menacing as he'd have you think. "I hate to use a cliché, but 'his bark is worse than his bite.'"

  When the door opened, Georgia's daughter was standing in front of us still wearing P.J.s as if she'd just gotten out of bed. Her baby doll pajamas, with depictions of yellow rubber duckies embroidered onto light blue cotton material, were adorable. I considered asking her where she'd gotten them but decided against it. For one thing, I didn't want to deviate from the task at hand, but also, the detailed and tedious stitching on the P.J.s didn't look cheap. The nightshirt I was currently wearing to bed was plenty comfortable enough anyway. Even with the frayed hem at the bottom of my Dallas Cowboys nightshirt, I figured I could get at least another three or four years out of it.

  Lori stared silently at us for several long uncomfortable moments before asking, "Yes?"

  "How are you doing, sweetie?" Lexie asked.

  "Fine."

  "It's nice to see you again, Lori. I just love the duckies," I added.

  "Thanks!" She replied, looking down at her pajamas as if having to remind herself what she was wearing.

  "Is your momma home?" Lexie asked.

  Without responding, Lori turned away from the door and screamed, "Mother! It's for you!"

  After telling us her mother would be with us soon, Lori shut the door in our faces. It was at least five minutes before Georgia came to the door. We'd about decided to ring the doorbell again. She appeared surprised to see us and made no comment about the fact Lexie was standing on her doorstep instead of still languishing in a jail cell. She'd probably been glued to the television, waiting for updates about the murder case. She smiled politely, with just a touch of compassion, and said, "Greetings, ladies. What brings you two by this afternoon?"

  Lexie held out the bowl and said, "I found this bowl in my pantry and thought it probably belonged to you. It looked very much like the platter that Rapella returned a couple of days ago."

  Georgia reached out to grasp the bowl. I was waiting for her to examine it and make some sort of comment about how it was similar but didn't actually match her platter, or that she hadn't even taken the bowl to the party she'd been hired to cater. Instead she said, "Yes, thank you. I must have forgotten I'd taken it over there. Thanks for bringing it by."

  I glanced at Lexie, who was standing next to me with her mouth open. After thanking us, Georgia began to close the door to dismiss us. I put my hand out to block the door and said, "Are you certain that's your bowl, Georgia? I told Lexie earlier I was quite sure it wasn't an exact match to your platter. If I remember right, yours had a smooth lip where this one's clearly ridged."

  "No, I'm sure this one belongs to me."

  Lexie was still standing next to me as if she had no clue what to say or do. She had that same "deer in the headlights" kind of expression on her face that she'd had the night of Trotter's death. I wasn't ready to give up so I said, "This bowl is an Anchor Hocking piece. That's quite an impressive line of dishware, isn't it? Are your bowl and platter Anchor Hocking products too?"

  "I'm not positive, but they must be because they look alike for sure."

  "Would you mind getting the platter so we can make absolutely sure it's an Anchor Hocking?"

  I didn't expect Georgia's reply. She said, "No, I'm quite certain it's mine. No need to go get it just to verify it's an exact match to my bowl here. I really appreciate you two making sure it was returned to me. This blue bowl has a great deal of sentimental value to me. Thanks again."

  I was hoping it didn't have a "great deal" of sentimental value to Lexie, because I wasn't sure how'd we demand it back from Georgia now that's she'd adamantly insisted it belonged to her. I looked over at Lexie, who shrugged her shoulders and said, "Uh, well, you're welcome, Georgia."

  "Have a nice day, ladies," the caterer remarked.

  With that, Georgia began to close the door again and out of desperation, I stuck my right foot between the door and the frame, and said, "Oh dear! I'm in dire need of a restroom all of a sudden. I suffer from spastic colon, and for the last several days I've been so backed up I was beginning to think I was never going to poop again. I'm sure you know how your bowels get all out of whack when you're on vacation. This morning I was plugged up like a cork in a wine bottle. So, you see, I took a couple of stool softeners and now I think they might have worked even better than I'd anticipated."

  "Um, well—"

  "Hurry, dear, before I make a very unpleasant mess on your porch."

  With that vision now in her mind, Georgia swung the door open wide and pointed down a hallway. "It's the second door on the left, Mrs. Ripple."

  "Call me Rapella, please," I mumbled as I hurried down the hall. I told Lexie she might as well wait inside while I used the restroom, because it was apt to take me a while. I considered asking for a magazine, but decided that might be over-playing the part. Georgia had little choice but to invite Lexie into her kitchen and offer her a chair at the table.

  I'd done all I could do to get us inside the house so we could chat up its owner and see if she had any interesting details to relate. But, with me stuck in the john, it was up to Lexie now to probe for any possible motive Georgia Piney might have had to kill Trotter Hayes, a man she'd told me the last time I visited her "deserved to have his throat slit if anyone did."

  I was followed down the hallway by Peanut. I had to push him away with my foot to keep him from joining me in the head. When I stepped into the tiny bathroom, I realized there wouldn't have been room for both of as anyway. After I closed the door, the massive dog whined for a short spell and then plunked down against the other side of the door. Every twenty seconds or so Peanut whimpered to remind me he was still patiently waiting to have his head caressed.

  The first order of business was to use the facilities. I wasn't kidding when I told Georgia I needed to use the restroom. I'd been regretting my last three cups of coffee ever since I'd left the inn with Lexie. My short-lived vow to restrict caffeine was only a faint memory now, and I was already anticipating withdrawal symptoms when Rip and I headed north.

  I had to waste as much time in the john as I could to give Lexie ample time to grill Georgia. It's not normally in my nature to be nosy, but then I'm not normally trying to prove a friend of mine is not guilty of murder, either. So I opened the medicine cabinet door and sifted through its contents. On the bottom shelf there was a bottle of Xanax prescribed to Georgia by a Dr. Melbourne. It was the same medication Rip had been prescribed by the police force's physician to treat his anxiety when he was involved in a particularly disturbing case involving a serial pedophile. The case took all his time and attention the last year of his career in law enforcement and played a major role in his decision to put in for early retirement.

  I was tempted to filch one of the pills. I was feeling a little anxious myself. Compared to the priceless antique bowl Georgia stole from
Lexie, one little pill would hardly even register on the theft scale. But even if I'd been seriously considering pinching the pill, my sense of propriety would have never allowed it. I had no desire to lower myself to that level despite the low bar I'd set for myself regarding my involvement in this current situation.

  Behind the Xanax bottle I found a prescription bottle of Wellbutrin, which I would later Google and discover was prescribed as a mood enhancer, and also sometimes for help with smoking cessation. I was relatively sure Georgia wasn't a smoker, so I assumed she suffered from depression.

  Behind it was another bottle of the exact same medication. First I thought it was the remaining pills of the previous refill. Then, just as I was placing it back on the glass shelf inside the cabinet, I noticed this bottle wasn't prescribed for Georgia, but rather for her daughter. Apparently, Lori suffered from the same troublesome issue as her mother. The penny-pincher in me was hoping they were on some kind of family discount plan.

  Two other medicine bottles on the top shelf belonged to Georgia. One was for cholesterol control and the other for lowering blood pressure, neither of which would seem out of the ordinary for a woman Georgia's age. Although not the same brands, Rip regularly took medications for the exact same health issues.

  Under the sink, I discovered a large box of Depends. That indicated a bladder-control problem, but I couldn't see how incontinence could play a part in the man's death. I guess everything is within the realm of possibility. But if there was a connection there, I'd be dying to know what it was.

  Having securitized everything in the bathroom, I still felt it was too soon to rejoin the ladies in the kitchen. I took a metal file out of my bag and smoothed some ragged edges on both my right thumbnail and the fingernail on my left pinky. Finally, I sprayed the tiny bathroom with a can of Jasmine air freshener I'd found under the sink. It wasn't to cover up a stench resulting from an angry colon, but rather to mask the fact that there was no stench.