Rip Tide (A Ripple Effect Cozy Mystery, Book 2) Page 8

  Due to his finely tailored suit and sophisticated air, it didn't surprise me to discover he had a "practice" and was probably a physician or an attorney. Maybe it's just me, but when I have a legal or medical issue that's troubling me, I don't want an individual who's still practicing. I want someone who has his professional skills down pat.

  When the four men began to discuss the tragic death of the local construction superintendent, I had to wonder if he might be the lawyer Milo asked to see in the interrogation room. Even more so after I heard him say with his thick accent, "This case is bound to be a feather in any attorney's cap. By the way, has anyone heard if they've caught the killer yet?"

  After the others responded in the negative, the dapper dude went on to say, "Ten-to-one it's Milo Moore, that dingbat partner of Claypool's. Not that I wouldn't like to pin a medal on him now. Moore's a total loser himself. Still, I feel like I owe him a beer at the very least for getting Claypool out of my hair."

  He laughed along with the rest of the men before the bald-headed Hispanic guy facing us from across the table replied, "Yeah, that's a no-brainer. Beat you to it, didn't he, Pat?"

  I wasn't eavesdropping, I'll have you know, but the men were sitting so close to us their voices were impossible to ignore. I was disappointed that due to some clamor across the room, I'd missed the Irish fellow's response to the bald dude's question. The redhead was sitting with his left side to me, facing in the opposite direction. I could have back-handed him, and briefly considered it. But just then, Casey arrived with our drinks.

  I hadn't appreciated the way the Irish fellow had characterized my son-in-law. Even so, I swear it was entirely accidental when my hand twitched ever so slightly as Casey handed me the glass of water. With the ill-timed twitch, my drink toppled, and the water rained down on the Irishman's lap just before the glass fell to the floor and shattered.

  The rude man jumped up at the shock of the ice cold water saturating his nether regions and I nearly laughed out loud. Rip shot me his "What the hell?" look as the sodden gentleman glanced at me in disgust before giving the poor innocent waitress a tongue-lashing. I felt bad for Casey. She was not responsible for the mishap but apologized profusely to the over-bearing jerk nonetheless.

  I felt even worse about the incident when the flush-faced young lady apologized to me. She assured me she'd be back with a fresh glass of water after she cleaned up the spill and shards of glass before someone accidentally stepped on one. As Casey walked away, a clearly annoyed Rip whispered across the table, "Are you happy now? What was that all about, anyway? And you told me to keep it down?"

  "Didn't you hear what he called Milo?" I hissed back.

  "Yeah, I did. But frankly, at the moment, I'm not sure his description of our son-in-law wasn't spot-on. Besides, it doesn't mean he deserved a cold-water drenching, does it?"

  "Well, in my opinion, he—"

  "Here's your water, ma'am," Casey interrupted me as she sat the replacement glass of water on the table. "Again, I'm so sorry for the mess. I hope you didn't get too wet."

  "Oh, no, I'm fine, dear. The gentleman behind me took the brunt of it," I responded, with a polite smile, hoping it didn't look like a self-satisfied smirk.

  "I know, but—"

  "Don't worry about it, sweetie. Accidents happen," I graciously replied. "No harm done."

  Casey flashed me an appreciative smile, walking away as Rip shook his head and said, "No harm done to you, anyway. Shouldn't you at least offer to have the man's suit cleaned?"

  I shrugged, but made no such offer to the redhead. After all, his suit was wet, not dirty. Rip, still annoyed, turned back toward the window to idly watch bulky burlap bags of oysters being pitched onto the bulkhead from the aft of an old and dilapidated boat. I was getting the cold shoulder, but it's not like I hadn't gotten it from him before. In fact, the current episode was the third time that day alone. We'd be celebrating our golden wedding anniversary in May. No couple reaches that milestone without having learned which battles were worth fighting, and which should be left unchallenged. If Rip and I squabbled over every minor disagreement, we'd more aptly be known as the Bickersons than the Ripples.

  Just then, a deep voice from the table behind us caught my attention, and I'm sure Rip's as well. "Is Avery still demanding full custody of Elizabeth?"

  "Yeah, but I'm going to fight for joint custody." Responding to the question was the man I'd accidentally given a crotch dousing.

  "Well, of course. I would too," the other man laughed and replied in what seemed to me as inappropriate amusement. "She's as much yours as she is Avery's. I don't blame you for wanting your share of time with Elizabeth."

  I didn't know how common the name Avery was, but had to wonder if he was referring to Avery Curry, Cooper's live-in girlfriend. Could the dripping redhead be her ex-husband? That might explain why this high-faluting dude had a bone to pick with Cooper Claypool, and why his friend implied he'd have liked to whack him himself if someone else hadn't done it before him. Also, the Irishman had claimed earlier he'd wager ten-to-one that "someone else" was Milo.

  I admit I was purposely eavesdropping at that point, but only because the men's discussion was relevant to an active murder investigation. I tried to catch the response to the man's comments. The noise level in the room had increased substantially, as one would expect during the dinner hour in a popular eating establishment. I was forced to scoot back within an inch of the redhead's chair to hear him say, "As you guys know, I could care less about spending time with Liz. I'm pressing the custody deal just to tick Avery off more than anything."

  I was disturbed by the cold, calculated way he spoke about Elizabeth, evidently his and Avery's daughter. It seemed to me he only wanted to use the child as a pawn in his divorce proceeding. My stomach roiled at the man's callousness. My heart went out to poor Elizabeth.

  Just then, Casey set our plates down in front of us. If I hadn't been so hungry and already had an irked dinner partner, I might have considered trying for an encore with my plate of chicken, linguini and grilled veggies. But prompting another ass-chewing for Casey from the hotheaded bloke behind me would have been inconsiderate to such a gracious hostess, so I'm glad I didn't attempt to upset her tray of food. As Casey walked away, Rip signaled me silently with his fork to eat, and, by his mannerisms, to extract my nose from the heartless man's business.

  Suddenly it occurred to me. I now had a starting point for an investigation. It might take a lengthy foot massage to get Rip to agree to assist in my quest to clear our son-in-law's name, but it'd be worth my while.

  Chapter 6

  After we finished our supper and debated about how much of a tip we thought Casey deserved for her service, we decided to take a relaxing drive along the coastline. For the record, Rip won the battle with the line, "And just how pathetic a tip would you have left a waitress whom you hadn't used as a weapon against a diner at another table, and whom you also forced to clean up a mess she didn't create?"

  We drove down Fulton Beach Road toward Copano Bay Bridge, admiring the view and abundant waterfowl, including two blue herons, a snowy egret, and a flock of white pelicans being fed fish carcasses by a fisherman who'd apparently just finished filleting his day's catch at the nearby fish-cleaning station.

  We continued on down to a sandy beach area called Tin Can Point, where Milo had claimed he went to cool off after his "dust-up" with Cooper. We could hear the clatter of construction taking placing on the Copano Bay Bridge adjacent to us.

  We sat on the tailgate of the truck, watching with amusement as several brown pelicans plunged head-first into the water after their suppers. Chuckling, we observed one successful pelican struggle with a small but uncooperative sheepshead, an odd-looking fish that had teeth very similar to those of humans and a sharp prickly dorsal fin. The diving bird fought to get his catch situated correctly in his pouch to swallow it headfirst while a flock of seagulls were dive-bombing him in an attempt to steal his meal. The pelican's efforts fin
ally paid off as it tipped its head back to drain the water from its pouch and consume the sheepshead. The gulls flew off to try their luck somewhere else.

  I stopped laughing when, after Rip's raucous guffaw, he said, "That reminds me of you trying to eat a hotdog when you don't have your dentures in."

  My laughter made a comeback when I caught Rip by surprise with a mighty shove that dislodged him from his perch on the tailgate and left him butt down on a saturated mound of sand. That will teach him, I thought smugly. He never even saw it coming.

  When I saw him grimace, I instantly felt bad. What had I been thinking? Not only was Rip sixty-eight, he also had a new artificial hip joint. Panicking, I helped him to his feet, "Oh, goodness! I'm so sorry, honey. Are you all right?"

  "Yes. I'm fine, dear," he replied with an impish grin. "Just keep in mind what they say about paybacks."

  * * *

  Half an hour later, we pulled through the entrance gate of the packed-to-the-gills RV park. We drove past a large flock of snowbirds shooting the you-know-what around an enormous fire pit, following the scheduled pot luck supper they'd all just attended. Actually, down here folks refer to them as "Winter Texans"; it sounds more welcoming, you see. "Snowbirds" kind of has a game animal ring to it, as if there was a season on them.

  I'm sure each of the clusters of senior citizens was involved in a chat fest about every ailment known to man, except perhaps diaper rash. A large percentage of them were comparing their daily cocktail of medications. Now that I think about it, diaper rash might actually have been a popular topic of discussion among a few of the attendees, who appeared to be born somewhere around the turn of the century. Not this last turn, of course.

  "How many different versions of potato salad do you reckon they've just sampled?" Rip asked, jokingly.

  "My guess—fourteen. That's the average, if I recall correctly. And among them, they've no doubt downed enough hard-boiled eggs that, if left un-deviled, could have staged an Easter egg hunt for the entire Rockport elementary school."

  "Have I thanked you recently for not dragging me to pot luck dinners and bingo parlors? They're just not my cup of tea," Rip said. "I love you dearly, Rapella, and you know I'd do anything for you. But I have to draw the line somewhere."

  "No worries. Not my cup of tea either."

  "Thank God for that! What do you feel like doing this evening? I thought I might sit back with a stiff drink and look for a good movie on cable."

  "You just saw Fifty Shades of Grey around the fire pit," I replied. "Why don't we go for a walk instead? It's a beautiful evening for it, and you need the exercise for your new hip. Especially after that unfortunate tumble you took onto the sand at Tin Can Point. We both could stand to walk off a few of the calories we just consumed."

  "Oh, all right," was Rip's unenthusiastic agreement.

  * * *

  After a long walk, circling the entire campground several times, we were back in the Chartreuse Caboose, our cramped but comfy home on wheels. Rip had indeed found a movie on the television he was interested in watching, at least for five or six minutes until he fell fast asleep on the couch. Dolly had climbed down from her customary perch on top of the back cushions of the couch and was snuggled up on his chest with a paw resting on his chin.

  I made myself a hot cup of chamomile tea and sat down at the kitchen table, which also served as a makeshift bed, an office, a hobby room, and Rip's personal nest. On any given day he could amass an entire mound of dirty clothes, sorted-through mail, trash of every fashion, dirty dishes, candy wrappers, personal effects, and an ever-changing collection of odds and ends on the table. I couldn't complain, however. I had a nest of my own on the table next to the recliner.

  After a couple of soothing sips from my tea cup, I opened up the iPad Regina had gifted us with the previous Christmas. When we'd attended a surprise birthday party at Lexie Starr and Stone Van Patten's, B&B, the Alexandria Inn, in August, I'd been given an eight-week course in tablet training in the space of a mere forty-five minutes. Much of the technical lingo went over my head like a rapidly-moving cloud. And I don't mean the "cloud" my instructor, Mattie Hill, had told me I could store my files in. I not only had no idea where to find this mystical cloud, I also had no clue how to stuff files into it if I did.

  But I am proud to say I'd managed to learn how to obtain information on the Internet, how to play games like Scrabble and Mahjong, and, last but not least, how to ask some lady named Siri ridiculous questions. Her responses often provided free entertainment for Rip and me.

  Rip's favorite question to date was "What should I be for Halloween?" Siri's response, "Dishes. Girls loving doing dishes." Who knew a technical device could have her chip in the gutter? Funny though, when I asked her to talk dirty to me she told me my carpet needed cleaning. Now, how entertaining is that? Who needed to sit around a campfire discussing their maladies with strangers when they had Siri to converse with?

  Before I began nodding off at the table, I attempted to Google "Pat Rockport, Texas Attorney" and "Pat Rockport, Texas Physician" and came up with so many hits I decided my best option was to drive to 32 Third Street the following day. With any luck at all, I could locate this red-headed Irishman named Pat there.

  Chapter 7

  "Willow J. Bradford OB/GYN, Patrick R. O'Keefe GP, R. G. Patel MD, and James Carney ENT," read the bronze-plated plaque on the door. I was standing on the front steps of a walk-in health clinic at 32 Third Street, a recent local addition I hadn't known existed before that moment. Thankfully, I'd also learned to utilize the GPS on the truck's dashboard last summer while staying at the Alexandria Inn.

  So, the Irishman was a physician. A general practitioner, to be more precise. I'd have wagered on the other option if I'd had to make a guess, because he'd practically oozed attorney vibes. I could think of at least a dozen lawyer jokes that exemplified this particular carrot-topped doctor.

  Suddenly, out of nowhere, I felt a slight twitch in my right shoulder. It was probably connected to the twitch in my hand I'd experienced at the restaurant the night before. Although I'm relatively certain it was a fluke nerve tic, you just can't be too careful these days. I decided it would probably be prudent of me to go into the clinic and request a professional opinion in the event it was an issue that might worsen and plague me in the future. That was my story and I had every intention of sticking to it.

  I filled out the necessary paperwork while the receptionist scanned my Medicare and insurance supplement cards. Then I sat in a chair next to an end table that had a stack of magazines and pamphlets piled on it. I sifted through a recent edition of Arthritis Today while I waited to be seen, along with a dozen other patients in the clinic's lobby. The magazine wasn't particularly relevant to my condition, but chances were good it could be in the future. These old bones weren't getting any younger, you know, and I'd put a lot of miles on them.

  After scanning through several other health-related pamphlets, including one regarding the importance of routine prostate testing, I made a mental note to hound Rip about this recommendation at a later date. An hour and fifteen minutes later, a nurse called my name and led me back through a maze of hallways to a room in the rear of the building. She took my vital signs and entered the results into a laptop computer on a rolling cart she'd brought into the room with her.

  The I.D. tag hanging around the nurse's neck indicated her name was Becky Winslow. Becky was quite chunky for a young woman of short stature. She'd weigh in at around two-hundred and fifty pounds, I estimated. For a woman who chose the medical field as a vocation, she didn't seem to be overly concerned about her own health risks.

  I had to bite my tongue to stop myself from reminding Becky about the pot calling the kettle black when she chided, "You really should speak to the doctor about your border-line hypertension. And speaking of which, have you had a lipid profile test performed lately? I'd guess you're overdue for an EKG and chest x-ray, too."

  Obviously, I had no way of knowing this yo
ung, but entirely too plump, nurse's actual blood pressure and cholesterol levels, but would have put mine up against hers in a heartbeat. No pun intended.

  It was probably fortunate that a medium-height Indian gentleman with a stethoscope around his neck walked in before I could respond to the nurse with a snarky comment of my own. After the long wait to be seen, I wasn't in the mood to be lectured by a nurse who'd be lucky to make it to my age at the rate she was going.

  The well-groomed physician who'd just entered the room introduced himself, and said, "Feel free to call me R.G., Ms. Ripple."

  "Nice to meet you, Dr. Patel," I said politely, because I felt even freer not to reply so intimately to a man I'd just met. Using his initials felt too personal for my liking, particularly after he'd just addressed me by my surname. Having read his I.D. tag, however, I completely understood why he went by R.G. in lieu of his given name, Ramakant Gurcharan Patel, MD.

  "What have we got going today?" He asked with a toothy smile.

  "Me, shortly," I wanted to say, disappointed I'd drawn the short straw and wasn't being seen by the physician I'd hoped to get an audience with. But I realized I couldn't just walk out of the room without an explanation, so I explained my current malady. "I've had this twitch in my shoulder that's bothersome."

  He immediately began to probe my shoulder, stimulating the nerves and muscles in an attempt to find out where the unusual twitch originated. He advised me to let him know when he touched a sore spot. "Does this hurt?"

  "No."

  "How about here?"

  "No, not that spot either." If I indicated he'd found the root of my problem, he'd give me some advice on how to eliminate the issue and the appointment would be over before I had a chance to question him on how, when, and where I could meet his colleague. "No, a little to the left. No, that's not it. Maybe a little more left. Just keep searching and I'll let you know when you hit the exact area that's bothering me."