Tank woke me an hour later after I’d drooled through my sleeve and snored myself into a sore throat.
“Wake up,” he insisted.
“No.”
“Good. You are awake.”
“No.”
“Come here, Pickpocket,” said Stratton.
The next thing I knew I had a poodle with bacon treat breath licking my hair. Ew.
“Alright. Alright,” I said, propping myself up on my elbows. “What’s so important?”
Tank spun me sideways on the table and pulled me back so I could stand. “Look at this,” he said, putting a printout of Dr. McBride’s obituary in my hands.
I read it and did not find it worth waking up for. “He died of a massive heart attack. Please don’t tell me Ann killed him. I can’t handle it.”
“No. He was a seventy-year-old obese guy who decided to clean gutters. That’s on him. Natural causes.”
“Best news I’ve had all day. All week actually,” I said. “Why are we interested?”
Dallas fairly vibrated with excitement and gave me another paper. “Because I found this.”
The article Dallas found was about a lawsuit Dr. McBride’s wife filed against the local pharmacist, blaming her for McBride’s death. My old friend Barney Scheer wrote the article. He was the Sentinel editor that probably got his intern murdered because he told his WWII buddies what the kid was up to and then protected them. Scheer sucked as far as I was concerned and that article did nothing to change my mind. It was full of umbrage about how the doctor had been treated and more than a little sexism toward the pharmacist who had the temerity to be a woman and young. How dare she! The article didn’t say anything about what the pharmacist had actually done. Not one single fact on that score. Eloise—yes, he used her first name, not her last, like she was a child—had both libeled and slandered Dr. McBride—described as an eminent doctor above reproach but didn’t outline what Eloise had said or even bother to say that the doctor hadn’t done whatever it was. Eloise killed Dr. McBride by saying things that nobody denied.
“That’s super weird,” I said. “What happened?”
Dallas gave me another article, if you could call it that. It was barely a paragraph buried in the middle of a Wednesday edition. Mrs. McBride dropped the lawsuit six weeks later after motions were filed. Then the wife up and moved to the south of France.
“Motions,” I said.
Tank tapped the paper. “I bet this was about Discovery.”
“Coffee. Need coffee.”
Stratton put a cup in my hands and took a look at the articles. “I agree. I’m thinking Eloise had something solid on the doc and it was going to come out.”
“Any idea how long records of old lawsuits are kept?” I asked.
“No idea,” said Stratton.
Tank went to his computer. “I’ll check in Westlaw, but I seriously doubt there’s anything from a dropped suit. It sounds like it barely got off the ground.”
I looked back at the initial article. “The wife is probably dead, but Eloise was young at the time. She might still be around. Anybody know a pharmacist named Eloise?”
“From 1984?” Stratton laughed. “No.”
“We go to Walmart,” said Dallas. “They’re always different.”
“You should go to St. Seb Wellness,” said Tank. “Kevin and Stephanie will actually remember who you are and what your deal is.”
Stephanie!
“Are they open today?” I asked.
Stratton checked her phone. “Kreidt says we have nothing on Dr. Burke. Totally clean.”
“The pharmacy,” I said, grabbing my coat, “is it open?”
Tank turned around. “They open at noon after church. We’re not quite there yet. Why?”
“They’re pharmacists. They know other pharmacists.”
“Good point. By the way, Westlaw has nothing, but there might be something buried at the courthouse.”
I groaned and they laughed.
“I’m glad I amuse you. How far is the pharmacy?”
“Six blocks, but I’ll drive you over in fifteen. No use waiting in the cold,” said Stratton.
“Thanks,” I said. “I hope Stephanie is working. I don’t know how—”
Stratton’s radio crackled. “Chief, we got a 911,” said Kreidt.
The chief looked at me. “At least I know it’s not you for a change.”
“Nice.”
She clicked her radio. “What have we got?”
“Fire at 3131 Long Lake Terrance,” said Kreidt.
Tank jumped to his feet. “That’s my house. I have to go. I have to go.”
“Who’s home?” Stratton asked.
“The puppies!”
Stratton grabbed her coat and said, “Kreidt, are units responding?”
“En route,” he said. “ETA six minutes.”
“Dallas, take Tank! I’ll be right behind you!”
Dallas grabbed his jacket and keys and ran out toward the storage rooms. Stratton slipped on her jacket, muttering, “This cannot be happening again.”
She ran for the exit and I yelled after her, “Good luck! Save the pups!”
Stratton ran back in the door. “Shit! Come on! You’re going!”
“Me?” I asked.
“I can’t leave you alone!”
“I’m a big girl.”
“You’re a big problem!”
“Go!”
Stratton gritted her teeth and ran out. A couple of minutes later, a disappointed Dallas walked back in. “So much for that.”
“Do you have to watch me?” I asked.
“Yeah.”
A siren went past the factory and faded into the distance.
“Cheer up. You can come with me and break Kimberly’s case wide open.”
He cocked his head to the side and looked at me critically. “That is something.”
“What do you want?” I asked with a sigh. “You weren’t going to be climbing in a burning building to save the puppies anyway. You’d just be watching.”
“That’s true.” Dallas scratched the scant bristles on his chin. “When you do that interview with Tank, could you mention me?”
“Sure. Weren’t you in the paper last time?”
“No,” he said sadly. “My parents were bummed. Patton got in, but not me.”
“Well, you’re my bodyguard for the moment. It’s bound to get exciting,” I said while fervently hoping it didn’t. I could barely walk.
Dallas pumped his fist. “Alright. Let’s hit that pharmacy.”
I folded up the pertinent articles and stuck them in my purse. “Do we have the keys to lock up?”
“Gimme a break. Nobody wants to come in here.”
No sooner had Dallas said those words than a resounding knock echoed through the accounting room from the front door. We looked at each other and neither of us moved.
“Do…they knock?” I whispered.
“Yeah, Mercy, rioters knock,” said Dallas, sarcastic with me for the first time. I have to say it looked good on him.
“Well, then you better answer the door.”
“Hell, no.”
“Fine,” I said. “I’ll do it.”
“We’re not opening the door to that parking lot today.”
Another knock rang out and I put my hands on my hips. “If it’s not the 1933 guys then it’s a real live person standing in that parking lot. Today.” I pointed at my bulbous butt. “I hear that’s bad.”
“Ah, crap!” Dallas flung his hat away in a fit of temper, marched over to the door, and turned the key. He whipped open the door, ready to yell at whoever was moron enough to be in that parking lot, but he didn’t get the chance. The second the door was open, two canisters were lobbed inside. They spewed double trails of red and blue smoke, filling the room with thick, gag-worthy color.
“Son of a bitch!” Dallas ran through the fog, picked up a can, and winged it out the door. “Where’s the other one?” he yelled as it got too thick to see.
“I can’t see it!” I yelled, getting knocked sideways by a panicked Pickpocket.
“Get out!” he yelled. “Get out!”
I went in the direction of the back door as fast as the pain would let me. “Pick, come!”
“Found it!” Dallas yelled.
I got a glimpse of him through the billowing colors as he ran to the front door. There was a thunk and a piercing scream. Then he was with me, grabbing me around the waist and dragging me to the door. Pickpocket streaked by us and then we were out in the hall and he slammed the door behind us. We bent over coughing, our eyes and noses running as we leaned on the wall.
Once I stopped hacking, I pulled a packet of tissues out of my purse and gave Dallas a couple. “What was that?”
“Smoke grenades,” he said after blowing his nose straight through the tissues.
I gave him two more. “Like from a fireworks stand?”
“No.” He had another fit of coughing and then wheezed out, “More like for effects, like photography or events.”
“You better call it in.”
Dallas nodded, and called in the smoke grenades, but it took a minute for Kreidt to believe him. “I can’t send anyone,” he said. “We’ve got calls all over town.”
“For what?”
“Fires.”
“I need somebody here now.” Dallas started coughing again and I took his radio. “Kreidt, Mercy here,” I said. “Your deputy is not doing great. We need somebody.”
“You can’t be on here,” said Kreidt. “This is a police channel.”
After coughing in his ear, I said, “So sue me. We need somebody now.”
“It’s just me and I’ve got a full lineup of people waiting.”
“Kick them out,” I said.
“They won’t like that.”
“Bummer. This is an emergency. Close the station.”
Kreidt closed the station and said he’d come to the red door. We hung on to each other and made it to the main floor. We didn’t make it any farther.
“Do you see that?” Dallas asked.
“Oh, I see it,” I said.
“Maybe the grenades were filled with drugs.”
“Not painkillers. I can tell you that.”
“LSD?”
LSD sounded about right because Dallas and I were looking at the main factory floor as it was a hundred years ago and it was working. There were rows of odd upright sewing machines with big spindles of thread and cords hanging from the ceiling. Racks wheeled past us and enormous black machines thumped and rattled. We could smell the sweat, leather, and oil. And there were voices like birds twittering away just beyond our ability to understand them.
Then Kreidt was there with the poodle, who promptly latched onto my leg. “Come on, you two! What are you waiting for?”
We pointed and he grabbed us. “What a bunch of babies! Come on!”
Kreidt pried Pick off me and took us through the main floor. We didn’t go around. I wanted to go around, but instead I got bumped into by things that weren’t there. Somebody felt me up and I think I heard a catcall. A new low. I was being harassed by dead men. That crap never ended. Literally never.
We got out the back door and the icy air cleared my head, even as it made me cough more. Dallas was bent over double with drool hanging from his mouth.
“There really was a smoke grenade.” Kreidt took off his hat and ran a hand through his grey hair.
“What was your first clue?” I asked.
“The multi-colored fog spewing from the door and in the parking lot,” he said.
“Did you—” Dallas spasmed in another coughing fit.
Kreidt banged him on the back. “You guys have to go to the hospital.”
Hard pass.
“I’ve got stuff to do.” I spit into the gravel. I know, I know very ladylike. Mom would be disgusted with me and I could just hear her saying, “Mercy, you have tissues.” I did have tissues, but I was saving them for whatever came next.
“It’s not optional,” said Kreidt.
“You’ll find most things are optional if you’re willing to bear the consequences, which I am,” I said. “How about a ride?”
He stared at me and said, “To where? The nuthouse?”
“Hopefully, not, but it’s not looking good.” I leaned on his squad car and spit again. “St. Seb Wellness Pharmacy. I need some information.”
“You need a therapist.”
“Got one. You can drop me off at the pharmacy and then take Dallas to the hospital.”
“No,” croaked Dallas. “I’m sticking with you.”
“You sound terrible,” said Kreidt.
“Chief told me to stay with Mercy no matter what.”
“I don’t think she meant this.”
Dallas nodded. “She did.”
Kreidt sighed and settled his hat back on his head. “I can’t take you to the pharmacy until you stop gagging. Tell me what happened.”
We told him and he just kept shaking his head. “I guess it could be kids playing a prank.”
“What kind of kids do you have in this town?” I asked. “They get blamed for everything.”
“You got a better idea?”
I didn’t, but the whole kids thing drove me up a wall.
“Did you see anyone?” Dallas asked as his coughing finally let up.
“No. Just the smoke. Nobody running and not a car on the street.”
“I saw someone.”
“In the smoke?” I asked.
“Yeah, when I was throwing out the second grenade I saw someone running at me. I think I hit them,” said Dallas.
“You ran into them?” Kreidt asked.
“No. I hit them with the grenade when I threw it.”
“I heard that,” I said. “They screamed.”
Kreidt looked at the sky. “I was supposed to be off today. I’m never trading shifts again.” He called the hospital and gave them a heads up about what happened. If someone wandered in with an injury from a projectile, they should give him a call. They wanted us to come in, but that wasn’t happening.
Kreidt’s radio crackled and Stratton’s voice came over, “All units, stand down. False alarm. Repeat false alarm.”
Dallas grabbed his radio. “Chief. Mosbach. No fire?”
“Correct. No fire in any reported location,” said Stratton. “All clear.”
Kreidt heaved a sigh. “That’s a relief.”
Dallas and I looked at each other with furrowed brows.
“What?” Kreidt asked.
“Bit of a coincidence, don’t you think?” I asked.
“That we got pranked after pissing off a bunch of people over old ass cases that probably aren’t even real cases? No, not really.”
“That all those calls came in and we got smoke bombed right after,” I said.
He scratched his chin. “That is weird, but shit happens in this town. You saw the main floor, right? This is St. Seb.”
“Somebody was trying to come in,” said Dallas.
“To do what? Get smoked out like you two? Genius idea.”
“Has to be an out-of-towner. Nobody local would set foot on that parking lot.”
“Get in,” said Kreidt, “and we’ll take a look at those grenades.”
I climbed in the back of his cruiser and lay face down on the back seat. It was comfortable until Dallas let Pick in and the giant poodle decided to sit on my back.
“Ow! Get him off.”
“Can’t put him in the front,” said Kreidt. “It wouldn’t be safe.”
Pick spun around in a circle and then lay down on my shoulders.
“Help.”
“Oh, you’re fine,” said Dallas. “It could be worse.”
“How?” I croaked. “He’s heavy and he has claws.”
“He could’ve sat on your butt.”
That didn’t make me feel better, but it reminded me of how much my rear hurt. So it was a lose-lose situation.
Kreidt drove around the factory and stopped.
Dallas hacked for a minute and then said, “I can’t see them well enough.”
“Open the glove box. I’ve got binoculars.”
Dallas got the binoculars and Kreidt said, “There you go. Says EG18 Smoke. We’ve got red, blue, and green.”
“There were three?” I asked.
“Yes, ma’am. I guess the green one didn’t make it inside.”
I got out my phone and googled EG18 Smoke and found Dallas was right. They were smoke grenades from a company out of Nevada and were for use in stage shows, photography, and weddings. They even had baby reveal packs. The company claimed their dyes and chemicals were non-toxic, which was good news for our lungs.
“I still don’t see a point to this,” said Kreidt. “Other than pissing Tank off. It made you cough, but it didn’t incapacitate you, like tear gas.”
“We have to canvas the neighbors,” said Dallas. “Somebody might’ve seen something.”
“Now or after the pharmacy?”
They decided that Dallas and I would get dropped at the pharmacy. Then Kreidt would fill in the chief, walk back to the factory, and canvas the neighborhood. He wasn’t holding out much hope since nobody was on the street waving us down. Apparently, St. Sebastian residents were known for doing their civic duty. He and Dallas thought there was a good chance everyone was off gossiping about our earlier incident.
We rolled into the parking lot of St. Seb Wellness a few minutes later and Pick started jumping around, excited to get out.
“Open the door! Open the door!” I yelled.
The poodle ran over my head, which was better than my butt, I know, but I still got a couple of claws to the head. If he took a chunk of hair out, I really didn’t want to know.
Kreidt and Dallas pulled me out by my arms. Totally elegant and still looking like grasshopper pie.
“Alright,” I said, straightening myself up to look just as terrible as before. “They’re open.”
Dallas held an arm out. “After you.”
“You just want to see if my butt got bigger.”
“Maybe.” He grinned at me and waited. My life is hell.
I walked into St. Sebastian Wellness Pharmacy with blood in my hair, a halting gait, and an unleashed giant black poodle. Nobody was glad to see me.
Kevin came out from an aisle and said, “Get that dog out.”
“The dog stays,” I said. “I have some questions for your wife.”
“No. Don’t even think about it.”
“You hired me to think about it,” I said, holding my arms wide, “and look what I have to show for it. I should charge you for my jeans and my butt, but I won’t because this is St. Seb and I don’t want to get into it.”
“If my mother finds out I was—”
“Is your wife here?” I asked. “I came to talk to her, not you.”
Kevin became even more wary. “Why?”
I hobbled to the counter in the back and leaned heavily on it before I pulled a script out of my pocket. “I wasn’t going to fill this, but I changed my mind.”
Kevin tried to pull me away from the counter and Pickpocket growled, showing off his very large teeth. “Go to Walmart.” His grip tightened. Pick must’ve sensed it because he bumped Kevin with his snout, hard, above the kneecap. Kevin stumbled back, letting go, but he came back fast.
Dallas stepped in front of him, coughed for a minute, and then said, “Man, you do not want to do that.”
“Officer, I’m not trying to make trouble,” said Kevin with his hands up.
“Then don’t. We’ve both had a hard day. Mercy, who you hired to do a job, is killing it and getting herself beat to hell in the process. How about you tell me where your wife is?”
“I’m right here.” Stephanie came out from behind a partition. Her face was flushed and she kept brushing at the immaculate front of her white lab coat. “I knew you’d come.”
“Come for what?” Kevin asked. “What have you got to do with anything?”
Stephanie bit her lip and I said, “Nothing. I wanted to ask her about a pharmacist from the eighties that I thought she might’ve heard of.”
“You don’t have to protect me,” she said. “I’m going to tell him.”
“Oh, well, that’s up to you,” I said. “About that pharmacist—”
“Tell me what?” Kevin asked. “Did you help Holt take Mom’s photo albums?”
“No, and they’re not your mother’s albums. They’re the family’s.”
The couple went back and forth until Dallas slammed his hand down on the counter. “She needs painkillers and I need a beer. Can we get a move on?”
Stephanie rushed over to take my script. “I heard about the shoe factory. I’m so sorry. It must hurt terribly.”
“It’s not great. Have you ever heard of a pharmacist named Eloise?”
Kevin went behind the counter and snatched my script away from Stephanie. “Tell me what you did.”
“I didn’t do it,” she said.
“You said you did,” said Kevin.
“I didn’t.”
“You said you were going to tell me what you did,” said Kevin.
“I did not. I said I was going to tell you. Not that I did something.”
“If you have to tell me something, you must’ve done something.”
I slammed both hands down on the counter. “Your brother attacked and threatened your wife!”
Kevin’s mouth dropped open and he stuttered, “Gregory hurt you?”
“Not Gregory, ya nut ball,” I said. “Anton. Stephanie told Holt and he told me.”
“But Anton wouldn’t do that,” said Kevin, showing every sign of not believing his wife. I might hurt him. No. I would hurt him.
“Enough of this Anton was a saint bullcrap,” I said. “He kidnapped me. Violently. I was lucky to get out alive. Now somebody tell me who Eloise the pharmacist is.”
Kevin balled up his fists and said, “You’re fired.”
“I’m so sick of your family trying to fire me.”
“Tough shit.”
“Right back at ya,” I said. “I’m doing this whether you fire me or not. Now I’m looking for a pharmacist named Eloise.”
Stephanie opened her mouth, but Kevin made a slashing motion at her. “No. We’re not cooperating anymore.”
“So you can hide how messed up your family is? Got it.” I looked at Stephanie. “Does he get to decide? Is he in charge of your knowledge?”
She took a breath and her shoulders went back.
“Stephanie,” said Kevin with a warning in his voice.
“Are you going to hit me, too?”
“Anton didn’t hit you. Don’t be an idiot.”
Stephanie spun around, went into the depths of the pharmacy, and came out a minute later with a bottle in hand.
“Where are you going with that?” demanded Kevin.
She stepped out from behind the counter and handed me the bottle. “On the house.”
“You can’t do that! That’s a controlled substance!”
“But it isn’t when you hand them over like Tic Tacs to your mother?” Stephanie’s voice was calm. She looked perfectly pleasant, but she gave me a chill. “I’m leaving. Do not follow me.”
Stephanie marched out of the pharmacy and I followed. Dallas didn’t.
“Come on,” I said.
“Dude,” Dallas said to Kevin, “I don’t know how you make up for that. Your murderous brother over your wife? What the hell?”
“Dallas, we’re going to lose her,” I said.
The cop ran to open the door for me because sadly I hadn’t actually made it to the front by the time he finished with Kevin.
“What is up with this family?” he asked me.
“We’re about to find out.”
Stephanie stood next to a minivan, sobbing with her head against the window. She had her hands on the door handle, but it appeared that she didn’t have the strength to open the door.
I hobbled up behind her and tentatively put a hand on her back. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have blurted it out like that.”
Tears dripped down her nose and splattered on the packed snow. “It’s not your fault. I should’ve come out with it the night it happened.”
“Why didn’t you?” Dallas asked as he put Pick in the cruiser.
“I knew what he would do and I didn’t want to end my marriage before it started like a big fat loser.”
“He might come around.”
Stephanie straightened up, wiped her eyes, and turned to us. “He might, but I won’t.”
“You sound sure,” I said.
“I am. It’s been getting worse since you came to the farm. Kevin knows that Anton did it, but I think Ann’s getting to him. What’s going on? And does it have to do with Kimberly?”
“I’ll tell you everything when I know everything,” I said.
She blew her nose. “You think you’ll find out?”
“If you tell me who Eloise is.”
She put a palm to her forehead. “I don’t even remember what you asked me. Eloise who?”
“A pharmacist. She worked here in the eighties. I got the impression that female pharmacists weren’t a dime a dozen.”
That got a smile. “We still aren’t.”
“Any ideas about Eloise?”
“You must be talking about Mrs. Tishell. She’s the only female pharmacist I know before me. I don’t know her first name. She retired in 2012 and we moved here to take over.”
Tishell. I know that name.
“Do you know if she’s alive?” I crossed my fingers.
“Of course, she’s not that old, not even seventy, I don’t think.”
Dallas got out a phone. “Do you have an address?”
“Sorry, no,” said Stephanie. “What in the world has Mrs. Tishell got to do with Anton?”
Tishell. Tishell. Tishell.
“What do you know about her?” I asked.
Stephanie blew her nose again and said, “I don’t really know her, just enough to say hello, but I had a lot of people tell me I’m nicer than she was.” Stephanie made a face. “She was bossy, opinionated, and stuck her oar in. That kind of thing.”
“I’m guessing men said that,” I said.
“Hey,” said Dallas. “It might not be the men.”
“It was the men,” said Stephanie.
“Dammit.”
I elbowed him. “Come on. Bossy? Opinionated? That’s got sexist old dude written all over it.”
Dallas sighed. “Yeah, I know. I’m just sick of those geezers giving us young guys a bad name.”
“To be fair,” said Stephanie, “some women said it, too.”
“Ann?”
She nodded. “She hates Mrs. Tishell. Ann is a quiet person for the most part. She hardly ever says a bad word. Our church doesn’t condone that. Love your neighbor. We believe that.”
“Except for Mrs. Tishell?” Dallas asked.
She leaned against her van and crossed her arms. “I never thought about that before, but yes, you’re right and she’s been talking about her lately.”
“Since when?”
“A few weeks ago, she came back from shopping and she was upset. Mrs. Tishell was getting people worked up. Outsiders and we didn’t want people paying attention to St. Seb. Something like that.”
“What happened?” I asked.
“I don’t know. She was mad about Mrs. Tishell, but she blamed you, Mercy,” said Stephanie.
“What does she say about me?” I asked.
“Do you really want to know?” Dallas asked.
“I do. I want to know how much I have in common with Mrs. Tishell.”
“Now that you mention it, it was about the same,” she said. “You were nosy, disrespectful, incompetent, and stupid.”
“Your family hired her,” Dallas gasped.
“Ann didn’t want to. She was totally against it, but Kimberly insisted after we couldn’t get anyone else interested in the case. Then she pretended like she was fine with it.”
“So Mrs. Tishell and I are in the same category,” I said. “Interesting.”
“Aren’t you pissed?” Dallas asked.
I smiled. “That isn’t new. It’s my basic Tuesday. Better actually. Usually, I get slut.”
“She said that, too,” said Stephanie. “I just didn’t want to say it.”
“Well, there you go,” I said. “Can you tell me what Ann said about Kimberly’s birth?”
That took her back a minute. She wasn’t expecting it. “Nothing.”
“Nothing? No birth story. I heard she was really tiny.”
“She was. They talk about that. How little she ate compared to the boys. Her itty bitty clothes. Stuff like that.”
“But not the birth?” I asked.
She frowned. “I don’t think so.”
“How about the other ones?”
“Sure. They were difficult. Big fat boys, you know.”
“What about Kevin? Did he say anything about Kimberly’s birth?”
“No, he was little. Eight, I think.”
“He was in Kansas when she was born. Did he mention that?” I asked.
She threw up her hands. “That he talked about. He knew Ann was having a baby, but he was a boy and not paying much attention. He said they came home from a fair and Kimberly was there. Kevin described it as a kind of shock.”
“She was home when they got there?”
“Yeah. Ann brought the boys in to see her in a little bassinet in her room. She was so small he thought she wasn’t real.”
“Never saw her at the hospital?”
“No. That’s weird, isn’t it? I never thought about that. Depending on where they were in Kansas, they could’ve gotten back for the birth or right after.”
“Thanks, Stephanie. You’ve been a big help,” I said.
“I wish I knew how.”
“You will.”
She opened her door and climbed in. “Well, I’m off to have the locks changed. Wish me luck.”
“Really?” Dallas asked.
“It wasn’t the first straw,” said Stephanie, “but it’s the last.”
I closed her door and Dallas said, “Whoa, she is hard core. No second chances for Kevin.”
“He took Anton’s side and called her an idiot.”
“Sucks to be him,” said Dallas. “I guess we’ll go to the station and see if we can find that pharmacist.”
“Sounds like a plan.” I hobbled to the cruiser and Pick went nuts leaping at the window and sticking his snout out the crack. We had a discussion about opening the door and not jumping on me. I opened the door. He jumped on me. I’m so good at dog parenting.
Dallas got me down in the back and seat belted Pick in the front with the promise of biscuits. We had no biscuits and I felt surprisingly bad about that. He was being a pretty good poodle.
“I hope those nuts aren’t waiting at the door,” said Dallas. “If I have to hear one more idiotic idea about how Aunt Tilly was murdered by so and so and they know because somebody had to stir the pot, I will lose my friggin’ mind.”
Stir the pot.
“Mrs. Tishell!” I burst out.
“Holy crap! Don’t do that. I could’ve had an accident.”
“That woman at the station,” I said. “She was talking about Mrs. Tishell.”
“Who?”
“One of the nutters.”
“Oh, yeah. I remember something about that,” said Dallas.
“What? What do you remember?” I asked.
“Er…that people are coming in and saying she sent them or something.”
“About what?”
“Sorry. Patton’s been on that. They’re obnoxious. You heard them.”
I did hear them. What did she say? Her father.
“Oh, my God,” I said. “Hurry. She might still be there.”
“Do we really want that?”
“Yes. That woman said that her father wants to know who he is.”
Dallas sped up and did a hard turn. Pick yipped and I bonked my head on the door handle. It was worth it. “Two minutes,” he said.
We squealed into the parking lot in record time and startled Stratton and Kreidt who were in the lot talking. They pulled me out and unclipped Pickpocket, who danced around in a circle, excited for impending treats.
“We just got a call from Kevin Thooft,” said Stratton. “It seems you have a dangerous animal that must be destroyed.”
“Good luck with that,” I said. “Pick was protecting me.”
“He bit Thooft,” said Kreidt.
Dallas slammed the cruiser door so hard we all jumped. “He did not. Pick bumped him with his snout when he grabbed Mercy. I gotta tell you any other dog would’ve bit the crap outta that asshat.”
“Chuck trained him,” I said. “He doesn’t bite without a command.”
Stratton squatted down and gave the poodle all kinds of love. “Who’s a good dog? Who doesn’t bite asshats?”
“Are any of the nutters still here?” I asked.
“Nutters?” Kreidt asked.
“The people who want you to dig into cases that aren’t cases.”
Stratton stood up. “Don’t tell me.”
“Yeah,” I said. “One of them’s real.”
She looked at the sky. “I knew it.”
“Well, they’re gone,” said Kreidt. “I told them to beat it and it turns out they hit the road when you put them out in the cold.”
“Do you have contact info?”
“Which one?” he asked.
Dallas and I smiled at them.
“Eloise is Mrs. Tishell,” I said.
Stratton’s and Kreidt’s brows furrowed.
“Sounds familiar,” said Kreidt. “I think there was a woman here today, asking about…”
“An adoption scheme,” said Stratton. “Mrs. Tishell sent her.”
“There were others,” said Dallas.
Kreidt nodded. “Mrs. Tishell’s been”—we all said it together—“stirring the pot.”
Dallas and Kreidt got me under the arms and carried me in the station, where we found Patton in the conference room bent over a white board with a rough map of St. Seb drawn on it.
She looked up and said, “Five calls, Chief. Spread out all over town. Looks random, except given what happened at the factory, I think it was designed to get Tank out of there.”
“Where’d the calls come from?” Stratton asked.
“Looks like a cellphone. We can get the closest towers. Might get lucky with surveillance footage from a house or business.”
Kreidt stepped up and looked at the map. He’d gone door to door and hadn’t gotten particularly lucky. The people that had been home at the time of our earlier incident weren’t there anymore and the smoke grenades were quiet. A Mrs. Emil Kiel, ninety-three with coke bottle thick glasses, saw the colors and came out on her porch to watch. She thought it was more of the same and didn’t call 911 because that young man deserved what he got going in the lot.
“A young man?” I asked.
“That’s what Mrs. Kiel said, although I think they need to check the old girl’s eyes. She said he had a fat head.”
“Huh?”
“I don’t know. The kid had a hood up and his head was big.” He held out his hands. “Like wide.”
“That has got to be the weirdest description I’ve ever heard,” said Dallas. “Short, tall, thin, fat?”
“Small, dark clothes, fat head,” said Kreidt. “That’s what we’ve got. Oh, and he was driving a car.”
Stratton sighed. “What kind?”
“Not a clue, but she knows it wasn’t a truck or a minivan. A car.”
“Color?”
“I’m sure it had one,” said Kreidt.
That got a round of groans.
“Patton?” I waved.
“Hey, Mercy,” she said. “Rough day.”
“Tell me about it. Do you have a list of the people who came in asking about the old crimes?”
She rolled her eyes. “Yeah, I’ve got their names and info. They insisted. Lot of good it will do. I’m not contacting them.”
“Actually, you are,” said Stratton.
I asked her about the woman who was in that morning about her father and talking about Mrs. Tishell. Patton remembered her because she was very genuine and desperate to get some answers for her father who was dying of cancer. The details were sketchy. Her father was adopted in 1955, but he didn’t know that until his mother confessed it on her deathbed. His birth certificate had his adoptive parents’ names on it. Her father had tried to find an adoption agency, some kind of trail, but had come up empty.
“What sent her here?” I asked. “Mrs. Tishell?”
“There’s a group of people who think there was an adoption scheme in the area. There’s a Facebook group. I think she googled Whiskey Ridge and that’s how she found it.”
“Whiskey Ridge?” I asked. “Why Whiskey Ridge?”
“It’s on his birth certificate,” said Patton. “I told her that’s wrong because Whiskey Ridge doesn’t have a hospital or an orphanage.”
Dallas grabbed a laptop and started typing. “I found it. Children of Whiskey Ridge.”
We gathered behind him to look. It was a closed group, but it had nearly a hundred members. To join you had to answer questions and submit a photo of your birth certificate. If they stuck to that, we had 79 people with Whiskey Ridge as their birthplace.
“Who wants to go into the attic?” Stratton asked.
All hands went up and Pick barked.
“Alright, Patton,” she said. “Find that woman’s information and get her back here. Then see who else came in talking about this adoption thing.”
“Do you want me to call them?” Patton asked. “I think there were four or five others.”
“Not yet.” Stratton looked at me. “You still got that hacker, right?”
I got out my phone and gave her a thumbs-up.
“Dallas, find Mrs. Tishell. With any luck she’s in town.”
“She is,” said Patton. “That woman, I think her name was Patty, said someone had met Mrs. Tishell in Walmart and she told them that a local doctor was selling babies.”
Selling. So much worse than a scheme.
“Did she give you that name?” I asked.
“You know, she might’ve.” Patton flushed. “I was getting yelled at about murders and snatch and grabs, I wasn’t on point.”
“No matter. We’ll get it.” I looked down and paled. My phone had blown up. Mom. Dad. Tiny. Fats. Rocco. Spidermonkey. Chuck. Multiple texts and calls.
Stratton and Kreidt went up into the attic. Secretly, I was happy not to be going. I was totally willing to dig through that crap again, but the stairs were murder. Instead, I called Spidermonkey first, because he was less likely to yell than everyone else.
“Mercy, thank God,” he said. “I was climbing out of my skin.”
“Why? It’s all good.”
“Who’s with you?”
“A bunch of cops,” I said.
He blew out a breath. “Thank goodness. Chuck’s driving down right now.”
“What for?”
“You won’t answer and he just heard that the Sentinel got hit with smoke bombs. The man is freaking out.”
“No harm done,” I said. “I need you to get into a Facebook group.”
“You suspect the bomb thrower has a group?”
“Not that. I don’t care about that. This is an adoption group called Children of Whiskey Ridge. A doctor was selling babies according to an old pharmacist.”
He started typing and said, “What do the cops say about the smoke thing?”
“An old lady saw a kid. The description is basically useless.”
I told him about the fat head and he said he’d see if he could access surveillance around the factory. He was hoping for some Nest cameras. Super easy to hack apparently.
“I’m in,” he said.
“That was fast.”
Spidermonkey snorted. “Please, Mercy. It’s Facebook, not Zurick Cantonal.”
“I don’t know what that is, but I’m guessing they’re secure,” I said.
“It’s a bank and they are.”
Dallas and Patton looked at me with suspicion. Yeah, I’m planning some kind of heist in front of the cops. People give me zero credit. Zero.
“You can’t get in them?”
“Oh, no, I’ve gotten in. It just takes a couple days,” he said. “What do you want to know about these Whiskey Ridge people.”
“Everything.”
Everything was a very short list. They knew they were adopted. Their birth certificates said Whiskey Ridge. Their parents either never told them they were adopted or were very secretive about it, giving various stories about where they came from. Only one woman had gotten the name of the doctor out of her mother on threat of never speaking to her again. Dr. Harvey McBride. Mrs. Tishell wasn’t a member of the group, but she’d run into a man at the Walmart, being friendly she asked him what brought him to town. He was wearing a NY firefighter tee and she was curious. She told him that a doctor was selling babies. Several members had tracked her down, but she had no information about any individual child. She told them to come to the station because she’d filed a complaint.
“Call up to the chief,” I said to Patton. “Mrs. Tishell filed a complaint about Dr. McBride.”
“When?”
“His wife claimed Mrs. Tishell killed him in 1984, so before that, but I’m guessing not long before or something would’ve happened to him.”
Patton nodded and called.
“You’re right on the money, Mercy,” said Spidermonkey. “Eloise Reed graduated from Drake in 1980. She worked one year in Chicago, became Mrs. Tishell, and then moved to St. Seb.”
“So it took her a while to put two and two together,” I said. “I wonder what took so long.”
“The question for me is how did she and why didn’t anyone else,” he said.
“Can you find out where Dr. McBride lived?” I asked.
“I’ll call you back.”
I went and got a cup of coffee, mulling those questions over, when my phone lit up. Tiny. He was a sweetheart. It wouldn’t be too bad.
“Hey,” I said. “Sorry I haven’t been answering.”
My cousin’s voice exploded out of the phone. “Did you call Aunt Willasteen?”
I could’ve lied. Honestly, that was my go to, but in this case, I could split a hair, so I did.
“No, I didn’t.”
He took a deep breath and on a man as big as Tiny it sounded like fireplace bellows. “You didn’t?”
“I didn’t.”
It was true. I did not call Tiny’s Aunt Willasteen, the holy terror of New Orleans, ‘cause she scared me. I called Aunt Miriam, who was equally scary, but I knew her moves. She might whack me with a cane, but I expected it. The devil you know and all that.
“She’s coming up here right now,” he said. “She’s on a plane.”
“Is your mom coming?” I liked Tiny’s mom. She was nice and didn’t look capable of putting a hex on me. Aunt Willasteen muttered things that made me think she could and would.
“No, she has to work,” he said with incredible regret. “What did you do? I know you did somethin’.”
“Well…”
“Mercy, gawdammit. You know she scares Fats. She doesn’t need that. The woman is in the hospital throwing her guts up right the hell now.”
“Did she take the meds for nausea?” I asked.
“You know she didn’t. She won’t. She’s gonna power through.”
“When does Aunt Willasteen get here?”
“She lands in a half hour and Sister Clarence is picking her up. How did—you told Clarence to call her and now she’s coming up here to take care of us.”
“I didn’t call Clarence. She’s a bonus. You can thank me later,” I said.
Patton waved at me and I nodded. “I have to go.”
“I’m not thanking you. Aunt Willasteen freaks Fats out. You know how tiny and relentless she is.”
“Yes, I do. As a heads up, Aunt Miriam’s coming, too.”
Tiny cussed in the politest way possible and asked, “Are you crazy? Do you hate me?”
“I love you. I love Fats. But most of all, I love that baby.”
“Oh…I know that,” he said softly. “But then why?”
“Because I can’t get her to take those meds. You can’t. The doctors can’t. Her mom’s a drug addict. We gotta play the cards we’re dealt. Aunt Willasteen combined with Aunt Miriam and sweet Clarence, that’s a royal flush. Nothing beats that. You asked me to do something. I did.”
“Mercy, I don’t…there’s gonna be hell to pay. You know she can take me, right?”
“I’m so not worried about that,” I said. “Are we good?”
“I’m never asking you for anything again.”
“Sold,” I said. “Bye.”
I hung up with an exaggerated sigh and Dallas asked, “What did you do?”
“Called in reinforcements.”
“Will it work?”
“Yes. What do you have?”
Dallas had Mrs. Tishell and she was chatty. She couldn’t drive because she’d just had cataract surgery and her husband was bowling, so he was going out to her house in Augusta to pick her up. Patton tracked down Patty Horowitz who had cried on the phone and was coming over from The Landing Hotel.
“Maybe we should go up and help search the attic,” said Patton. “It’s a huge mess. We tried to work on it, but so many people showed up, pummeling us for answers that it pretty much stopped our progress.”
“Isn’t that always the way,” I said. “Yeah, let’s go up.”
“By the time you get up there,” said Dallas, “it will be time to come down again.”
I considered my painkillers and decided against it. The last thing I needed was to be muddled. I took a couple of Advil instead and said, “I’m good.”
“That’s not enough,” said Patton. “You have stitches.”
“I don’t. I’ve got glue and butterflies.”
They recoiled and I laughed. “It’s fine.” I hobbled toward the door, but only made it halfway there when someone pounded on the front door of the station.
“That was fast,” said Dallas and then he looked at me with suspicion.
“You’ve been with me the whole time,” I said. “What could I have done?”
“I wouldn’t put anything past you.”
He’s catching on. Dammit.
“Well, I didn’t do anything.” I hobbled for the door, but Patton jetted by me to get it amid more pounding. Then a woman’s voice, frantic and high-pitched, resounded off the walls of the St. Seb police station, “Did you change your mind? Please don’t. Please.”
Patton said something we couldn’t make out and led a disheveled woman wearing workout gear and no coat into the conference room. She laid eyes on me and burst into tears. “My dad said it would be you. He always knows.”
Dallas got her a box of tissues and then left to pick up Mrs. Tishell. Patton sat Patty down and we listened to her story. Her father, Harold Horowitz, a construction manager, had always known something was off about his life. Not unlike Kimberly, he didn’t look like anyone else in his family. He was shorter with heavy features and large blue eyes. His parents were professors at Northwestern, but he liked working with his hands. He rebuilt car engines for fun and was, in Patty’s words, rotten at school, but it wasn’t until Patty was in college that an idea sparked up. She decided to do a semester abroad in France and her mother, Shelly, was desperate to visit, so her parents got their first passports. That’s when Shelly noticed that Harold was born in Whiskey Ridge, Missouri. Harold’s dad had already passed away, but he asked his mother about his birthplace and she said something he would never forget, “Don’t think about that. Have some brisket.”
Harold came from a family of thinkers. Thinking was their favorite thing. He’d spent his life being encouraged to think. So he ate the brisket, but he didn’t stop thinking. He started searching. Whiskey Ridge was a blank slate. He couldn’t find any answers or interest. His mother said he was her son and got upset if he broached the subject. After ten years of trying, Harold Horowitz decided to stop. He was a Horowitz. But then he was diagnosed with cancer and a month ago, his mother went into congestive heart failure. As she lay dying, she confessed the truth. He was adopted out of Missouri. She couldn’t have children and since his father had had chronic health problems his whole life, a regular adoption was out of the question. No one would approve them. So they saved up and bought him in March of 1955 from Dr. McBride of Whiskey Ridge. Harold Horowitz cost two thousand dollars and his adoptive mother said it was money well spent.
“That was a lot of money then, right?” Dallas asked.
“Over ten thousand dollars,” said Patty, wiping her cheeks. “Dad thinks it was probably their life savings.”
“What else did your grandmother say?” I asked. “Any specifics on his birth mother?”
“She said she heard about Dr. McBride through the grapevine from someone else that got a baby from him, but she didn’t remember who that was.”
“How did it work?” Patton asked. “They wrote him a check or what?”
“The doctor called and said he had a baby. They drove down and got him. It was cash.”
“Where?” Patton asked. “Here in St. Seb? At the hospital?”
“She said out in the middle of nowhere,” said Patty. “She was on painkillers and fading in and out. A big house she said.”
“Did she meet the birth mother?” I asked.
Adele Horowitz said she had met the mother, but she was vague on the facts. Her name was Betty or Barbara. She didn’t remember what she looked like other than she was very young. Adele was shocked that she was probably no older than fifteen, but she didn’t ask her age because it didn’t matter, other than it made her feel better about adopting Harold. She said that little girl couldn’t take care of a baby.
“Did she want to give up the baby?” Patton asked.
Patty shrugged. “Adele seemed to think so. She agreed to put their names on the birth certificate instead of hers.”
“What about the father?” Dallas asked.
“She didn’t ask.” A tear ran down Patty’s cheek. “She said she was so happy to get my dad she didn’t care about anything but getting him home and loving him. I want you to know my dad has had a great life. My grandparents loved him so much and they loved us. I remember her saying so many times that her life would be empty without us. My dad isn’t mad. He forgave her on the spot. He just wants to know who he is before he dies.”
“That’s not too much to ask,” I said. “Have you tried DNA on Ancestry?”
She nodded. “Dad was so excited. We were sure we’d get somewhere with DNA, but his closest matches were so removed, sixth cousins and they were nice but didn’t have a clue who he might be. Other members of the group have tried that route, too. Some got closer matches, but people don’t always want to talk to them. There’s a lot of shame.”
“Do you have your dad’s birth certificate?”
Patty opened her enormous handbag, emphasis on bag, and pulled out a fat folder. “When I told the group I was coming, some of them gave me copies of their birth certificates.”
She gave me the top one and it was pretty much identical to Kimberly’s, except for the height and weight. Harold would have been full term at twenty-one inches and eight pounds. We laid out the other certificates, thirty-two in all, ranging from 1950 to 1982. Dr. McBride had been a busy boy. Assuming he charged the same for every baby—which he didn’t—there was at least half a million dollars sitting on that table, considering inflation and whatnot. No wonder Mrs. McBride retired to Provence. She had the bucks to do it.
Only two of the certificates had prices attached, Cherylanne Stoltz in 1975 for 3000 and Nicolas Peterson in 1982 for a hefty 7000.
“What does this mean?” I asked, pointing at Nicolas’ sticky note. “Special order?”
“Yeah, I know that’s not a great way to put it, but it was the best way I could come up with.”
“Enlighten me.”
“Nick’s parents were a bi-racial couple. They asked for a bi-racial boy and that cost extra.” Patty looked a little sick. I certainly felt that way. A child to order was repugnant, but I had no doubt most of the kids on that table were the same. Ann certainly wanted a girl after three boys. I doubted she was alone in that desire.
“How did he find out?” Patton asked.
“A letter in his father’s will. His mom had already died,” said Patty. “It gave all the information they had.”
I looked at the sticky note. “So not much.”
“No. His birth mother was twenty-two, in college, and white. His father was twenty-five, in college, and black. Nick said college was important to his dad and he thinks that would’ve been part of the deal, even though the letter didn’t say that.”
“That the parents be smart?”
“He thinks so. Achievement was very important to his dad. He was a judge.”
Nick’s parents were older than most parents at the time of his birth and I supposed if they were going to have one egg in their basket they wanted some assurance it would be a good one. His father was fifty-seven and his mom forty-eight. I went through the certificates and found that to be a common trend. About seventy percent of the parents were over thirty-five. That doesn’t sound so old, but even now the average is thirty-one. I knew that because Fats told me. She’s competitive about everything. Average isn’t her favorite.
More importantly, in 1982 the average parental age would’ve been a lot younger. Probably twenty-five or so. That made Nick’s parents geezers. A lot of those parents were geezers and that made sense to me. My parents couldn’t have afforded jack to buy a baby when they were young. Now, they could fork over plenty and Dr. McBride clearly wasn’t running a charitable organization.
“Will this help?” Patty asked.
I couldn’t lie. I really didn’t know.
“I hope so.” I looked over the table. So many babies. So many mothers. “Somebody had to know what was going on. This is a lot.”
“We have more. 79 total.”
“There’s more than that,” said Patton. “There has to be.”
I nodded. “I’d guess at least double that.”
“That’s like five kids a year.”
“That’s what we’ve been saying,” said Patty. “Somebody had to know.”
Dallas walked in with an elderly woman wearing sunglasses and a huge smile. He guided her to the table by an elbow and she dropped a file box on the table. “Somebody did know.”