Forcing myself back to sleep, I rose again at nine a.m., not refreshed, exactly, but swooning in the bliss of our powerful love. I showered slowly, holding onto the memories of the day before and Lance’s brilliant ending, hoping that Christmas would prove to be a denouement of our scattered life and the beginning of something more sane and comforting. I wanted nothing else for myself and for us.
Allowing myself a relaxing morning at home, I tossed on a robe and headed to the kitchen to make my usual pot of coffee. Lance had also left a note at the coffeemaker, a heart doodled on the front.
Sweetheart,
I hope that Christmas was both a surprise and a comfort to you. I hope you didn’t mind my strategy yesterday, but I wanted to invite your friends to share the moment with us. That, and it was the only way I could get you into bed at a reasonable hour. Thanks to you (and you were amazing BTW!) I’m back on the beat, working another shift in total exhaustion. Again! But you are worth it. Please have a wonderful day at home without a cadaver!
Love,
Lance
I read the note twice before I brewed my coffee, fully enjoying the scroll of his handwriting—his high “T’s” and swirling “F’s” and compact, nearly-illegible signature. Perhaps it was simply the surprise, or perhaps the ubiquitous use of texts and tweets, but I found that a handwritten note, especially from Lance, always filled me with delight, a kind of euphoria. The scrawl of ink on paper somehow inviting me to embrace some part of our history that he had left behind. I was in love with the letters and the thought of love.
Of course, the coffee settled me and I padded over to the kitchen window to check the reading on the outside thermometer. The mercury, solid on “0”, was an ominous sign, and I poured a second cup, black and boiling hot, to steel myself from any curiosity about the cold. I also eschewed a tempting bagel on the counter, trying to hold my weight in check and balance it against the calories I had consumed on Christmas day, especially my third helping of Rose’s peanut butter fudge.
Unlike years past, when I had longed for a fleeting Christmas, this year was different. I wanted the spirit to hang in the air, for Christmas to sound no retreat. Sitting at the table, I studied my engagement ring, admiring Lance’s thoughtfulness and, for the first time, considered how much Lance had sacrificed to purchase it. It was beautiful—a half carat teardrop set in a while gold band—the facets sparkling in the light much like the shimmering snow on the tree limbs. The promise stirred me, enticing me for the first time to begin my daydreaming, a long-winded consideration of a wedding day . . . perhaps not long in the making.
At any rate, we would discuss it.
I was making my third round with the ring when my cell phone rang, and when I picked up I heard Blanch’s voice on the other end. Her rasp, not nearly as heavy as I had remembered in person, didn’t keep her from pressing forward with her findings. She spoke from the stark echo of the morgue and, as I listened to her voice, I could almost taste the latent film of antiseptic in my mouth, the vapors of hydrochloric acid burning my eyes.
“I think you can sign a death certificate for Sheila Carrington,” she told me.
“You determined cause of death?” I asked.
“I believe so,” Blanch answered. “But I did find a deadly combination of sorts.”
“Oh?”
“First off, this woman was dehydrated. She’d been vomiting. Signs of severe diarrhea. She was also a long-time smoker, so her lungs were compromised—and her heart. She was taking medications and had ingested some over-the-counter acetaminophen not long before she died. She had consumed some liquor, too. Might have thought it was going to settle her stomach, but alcohol dehydrates ever more. She had a lot going on inside.”
“Good Lord.”
“And get this, Mary,” Blanch continued. “Her stomach lining indicates that she had been vomiting for some time—probably days. This wasn’t the sudden onset of an illness. No doubt she had been feeling bad for some time, maybe even weeks. And here’s another thing. I also found traces of Listeria.”
“What’s that?”
“Listeria? It’s a bacterium, not as common as salmonella or E coli. But it can be severe.”
“Yes.”
“I don’t get it,” I said. “Why didn’t she go to the hospital?”
“Looks like she was trying to hold her own with alcohol and painkillers,” Blanch said. “Or perhaps she was so dehydrated from the fight with the pain her weakness overtook her and she couldn’t move. Maybe she wasn’t thinking clearly. Did she have any family?”
“Her husband was there, but he was sick too. At least he looked sick when I arrived to pick up the body.”
“I see. You might follow up with him. He might have the same illness. Of course, I can have the body transported over later today if you’re ready to start the embalming.”
“I haven’t called the husband yet,” I said. “I was making rather merry last night.”
Blanch gave no sign of acknowledgment. I could picture her working through the night with the cadavers, holding up beakers of blood and tissue to the light, examining cells under a microscope. I hoped she would not hold a grudge—but I was not about to mention my engagement.
“There’s one more component to this . . . because it’s the cause of death,” Blanch said. “I think we’ll have to report this to the health authorities.”
“Why is that?”
“The listeria. It’s usually food-borne. Could be a health risk.”
“Tell me more,” I said.
“It’s a food-born pathogen. Doesn’t usually affect people who are healthy. But pregnant women and older folks are more susceptible. In the case of Sheila Carrington, the Listeria had migrated into her blood, and that can be deadly. She might have been dehydrated and already compromised by smoking and heart disease. But the Listeria did the trick. She had some clotting in her stomach, too.”
“Doesn’t this combination strike you as odd?” I asked aloud, hoping to receive the confirmation of Blanch’s expertise.
“I’ve seen a little of everything over the years,” Blanch told me. “And although listeria isn’t found too often, it’s not third world. The clotting might be a mystery. But there’s no doubt we’re looking at a source that is food-borne.”
I didn’t know how to respond. I sighed, “It’s a food-borne death, then.”
“You can sign a death certificate,” Blanch said. “And if you think there’s anything to investigate, I know the police can handle it.”
“Okay, go ahead and send the body,” I said. “But wait a couple of hours. Let me catch up to the world. I’m still at home. And my secretary won’t be at the funeral home, either. Thanks for the good work.”
Blanch grunted on the other end of the line and gave a clicking sound before hanging up. I finished my coffee and wondered how long I could linger around the house in my robe before making the move to return to the office. And I wasn’t about to call Rose. She was probably still sleeping off her glasses of sweet wine.
Meandering into the living room, I picked up the vestiges of the previous night’s celebration—the Christmas wrapping, the empty boxes, and bows and ribbons and sticky residues of tape. I scooted the last of the charred embers into the back of the hearth, rearranged the furniture. But all the while I was thinking about Sheila Carrington and her deadly cocktail of indecision. Or, perhaps, an amalgam of death that she had consumed without even knowing it. I pondered my meeting with Phil Carrington and began to formulate certain questions. Delicately phrased questions. And potentially probing.
I was gladdened, however, by the promise of sunshine cross-hatching a plane of translucent winter clouds. And though bitter cold—and getting colder by forecast—my heart was warmed yet again by the thought of Lance working out of his office instead of on the mean streets.
I turned off the coffeemaker, headed up the stairs, and considered yet another wardrobe change. I had hoped for a day of rest…but already it seemed as if the night had come.