Bonita Palms Page 15

  * * *

  His wife’s funeral had been held in Buffalo, New York, on a cold, snow-driven day. The Presbyterian church, laden with floral arrangements, was almost filled to capacity with relatives and friends. Barbara had attended here as a child in the neighborhood where she grew up.

  The soprano’s voice reverberated against the walls, and the lilting melody of Barbara’s favorite hymn, How Great Thou Art, brought several mourners to tears.

  “Please rise,” the minister intoned.

  Bill had a problem getting to his feet, but he fought his discomfort. The last thing he wanted was to show weakness.

  A prayer was recited, and the congregation was asked to be seated once again. What followed was laudatory praise from Barbara’s peers with both amusing as well as poignant anecdotes. Next, the minister’s review of Barbara’s life: the schools she’d attended, her brief career as a nurse, her marriage and eventual move to Florida.

  “Wherever she went,” the minister read from his notes, “no matter whom she encountered, Barbara Miller left an indelible mark. It says much about her—the way she made us feel good about ourselves.”

  Yeah, right … like when she cheated on me? Bill thought bitterly. He brought his attention to his wife’s coffin positioned near the alter. He wished he could feel something meaningful instead of the cold emptiness in his heart. He wondered what there was that prevented him from making a clean sweep, to simply admit the error of his ways, to meet his Maker with a clear conscience.

  But my conscience is clear. That’s the ironic part. I don’t feel guilty at all. Frank and June will get what they deserve. If I have to leave this earth under a dark cloud, so be it. I don’t even care if it means being cursed to eternal damnation.

  * * *

  Bill sighed, sat up straighter and peered out the window of the van. His stomach was inflamed. To be expected, he figured, with the cancer spreading and his constant intake of prescription medicines. Pills to slow the disease’s progression, pills for the pain, pills to offset the harmful effects of the other pills.

  The garage door at Frank’s house began to rise finally, and Bill’s tracking device came to life with a beep. There was Frank, behind the wheel of his BMW, accelerating away at a surprisingly fast clip.

  Bill followed—from the Bonita Palms complex, north on 41, then east on Corkscrew Road. By the time Frank entered Interstate 75 heading north, Bill had fought off his pain and was fully alert.

  It was only when Frank passed Sarasota, then Tampa, that he grew concerned. Bill hadn’t planned on a trip this long. And he cursed himself for having skimped on a cheap monitor as he’d now have to stay close. No matter what Frank tried, he kept up. When Frank changed to the passing lane, or slowed down and returned to the inside lane, he did the same, always remaining four car-lengths behind.

  There were stops for coffee and gas, then the journey continued. Frank’s moves soon became a little too deliberate, and Bill knew he was made. Not that it mattered. The minute Frank entered Interstate 24 and headed west, Bill figured out exactly where he was going. For this reason, when the man abruptly pulled onto the shoulder of the road, Bill drove past him.

  “See you soon,” Bill mouthed aloud. “Much sooner than you think…”

  36

  March 21

  Evening

  I forced myself to sit on the couch and wondered how far I should take my newfound theory: the harm a prescription drug was doing to people, including myself.

  Cathy Sinclair had been killed at approximately 6:43 p.m. on January 4. I couldn’t remember where I was at the time. Was it possible the pill I was taking caused me to have one of my blackouts? Mrs. Sinclair knew me well. She would’ve invited me into her home without a moment’s hesitation.

  I moved on the next victim, Cynthia Gladstone, and tried to think back.

  Where was I at the time of her homicide? Yes … Sara Churchill and I were having dinner. If I was blameless for the Gladstone murder, wouldn’t I be blameless for the others? Unless… Unless there were more than one perp? Me and someone else?

  The Derbyshire and Miller murders also drew a blank. I didn’t have a clue where I was or what I’d been doing on either day.

  Face it! I warned myself. This isn’t something to be ignored. Even if it ends up implicating me.

  * * *

  I was looking down and my attention went to the copies of Golf Digest, Entertainment Weekly, and Time sitting on my coffee table. I skimmed through the periodicals, searching out the ads I remembered seeing.

  Relianz, a pill from the Pritzer company, was used to treat moderate to severe rheumatoid arthritis. The very small print cautioned that taking the medication could lower one’s immune system, thereby hurting its ability to fight infections and might also lead to an increased risk of certain cancers, including lymphoma.

  I shook my head in disbelief.

  Loquis treated blood clots. But for some patients the tablet could result in bleeding from the gums, or heavier than normal menstrual bleeding which, although rather rare, could lead to death.

  Bayo, a drug for asthma, carried with it the risk of vomiting, sudden breathing problems, serious allergic reactions, increased blood pressure, a fast or irregular heartbeat, and the possibility of adrenal insufficiency that could get worse or, in extreme cases, even kill you.

  I flipped from an advertisement for Leftix, to one for Myloca, each including a warning on possible suicidal thoughts. And finally, one called Delarian, to treat vaginal symptoms of menopause such as dryness, burning, and painful intercourse. The warning suggested that the medicine could cause bloating, stomach cramps, as well as dizziness, mental depression, mood disturbances, dementia…

  I closed the final magazine in disgust, having read enough. Why would anyone dare take these drugs?

  Americans were essentially being poisoned. Women, men, and—I had no doubt—children. Yes, the warnings were there, but how often were they followed? If a doctor prescribed a medication it was human nature for most patients to accept it as being safe. We trust our medical practitioners, and we count on the FDA to safeguard us.

  But are we truly being protected?

  37

  March 23.

  Late afternoon

  A jagged little pill, bringing back memories of Alanis Morissette. A small orb that you placed on your tongue and swallowed with water. As always, a change occurred, seldom quite the same. Lethargic mind and body at first, then the opposite. Unpredictable. Not easy to comprehend.

  Fifteen minutes later a voice began to rattle in your head, it hurt. Each word sounded harsh; clipped and insistent. You were unable to block it out. Fighting it was pointless. It was best to give in, roll with the tide, go with the flow.

  Against your will you frowned. The pain increased exponentially with each wrinkle of your forehead. Still, you left the house and got into your car, with no idea where you were going. The vehicle drove as if on its own volition, then it stopped.

  You made your way onto the sidewalk. The sun might’ve been shining. There was heat on your face and upper body, and the warmth felt good. But the feeling didn’t last. The throbbing in your skull was unyielding; it took great willpower not to scream.

  * * *

  Joan Ward, wearing a blue pantsuit, was surprised to see you. “Seth is playing golf,” she said.

  You remained silent.

  “To what do I owe the pleasure? Would you like to come in?”

  She was already leading the way, so you followed.

  “Can I get you a drink?”

  You weren’t thirsty, but you said you’d appreciate a glass of water with ice.

  “Just water? Okay. Coming right up.”

  The urge to do harm was overpowering. You started to follow Joan toward the kitchen, eyes roaming every which way. There was nothing useful in sight. No hammer or
knife; not even a pot or pan. You’d been counting on at least the heft of a heavy skillet. You figured there’d be one in the lower cabinets but how would you get to it without arousing suspicion? Confusion reigned. You quickly moved away, ending up in the great room.

  “Just be another minute,” Joan called from the kitchen. “I’m putting a few hors d’oeuvres together.”

  About sixty seconds to find a suitable weapon. You began counting to yourself as you stealthily searched the room, reminding yourself that a decision was necessary.

  Nothing! you cursed inwardly.

  The only option left was to strangle her with your bare hands. It was tempting, but could you do it? You heard Joan’s footsteps approaching. Too many variables. Too many things could go wrong. You’d seen enough cop shows on TV to know that touching the victim in any way meant telltale DNA could be left behind.

  Time was up. You moved quickly from the great room to the hallway, to the front entrance. You fled the house. Mission aborted.

  It didn’t dawn on you until you were halfway home that you’d forgotten to close the door behind you.

  38

  March 24

  On Saturday I joined Sara on the lanai at the back of her house. The old-fashioned metal table was set for two. We took a seat on cushioned, wrought-iron chairs. The temperature was comfortable, hovering in the low eighties.

  “I missed you,” Sara said, looking deep into my eyes.

  “I missed you as well.”

  “How’s the investigation going?”

  I brought her up to speed, then offered my theory on the possible connection between a prescription drug and criminal behavior.

  I expected her to scoff, but Sara grew serious. “My God, I had a cousin who went off the rails after taking Fenox to treat her arthritis. Previously, she’d never done anything unlawful in her life. Then she began shoplifting—cheap items she didn’t even need. I agree that what you’re saying is a possibility, Miles. This hits close to home.”

  I hesitated, knowing there was a second part to my theory, something I really wanted to share with her, about the chance of my own culpability. But no matter how I imagined vocalizing it, it always came out wrong. Was I guilty? Could I be satisfying a hidden impulse locked deep inside my psyche, unaware of what I was doing, becoming violent during a drug-induced blackout?

  I’d done my research. My Narvia medication was proven to be effective in treating anxiety, but what were the real side effects? Uncovering what those might be was my challenge.

  And where will it lead? There was at least one killer out there. I was convinced I was on the right trail. But I needed more solid evidence to prove my theory … even if it came back and pointed a finger at two killers, one of them being me.

  * * *

  I asked Sara, “What are we having for lunch?”

  “Brunch,” she corrected. “What’s your preference?”

  “I leave it up to you.”

  She returned about fifteen minutes later with eggs Benedict. I accepted the plate and thanked her for going to so much trouble.

  “No trouble at all,” she said.

  Her own dish was a cheese omelet and we started in on the food.

  “Tell me more about your game plan,” Sara requested between mouthfuls.

  “Game plan? Who said I have one?”

  “You always have one.”

  I went back to eating.

  “Miles?”

  “There’s a drug called Narvia that, when taken in excess of the prescribed dosage, could cause a person to enter a blackout state and become violent. I need to find out who’s taking it.” I paused, feeling a pang of guilt in not mentioning I was on the same drug. “Anyway, there’s a fine legal line asking people what medications they’re on. FBI Agent Diggs is getting a ruling for me.”

  “Oh—”

  “Exactly. Do you see my dilemma? There’s no time to waste, yet I can’t do anything until I hear back from him.”

  We finished the rest of our meals in relative silence. Then I stood from the table. “Thanks for brunch, but I have to go to my office, now.”

  “On a Saturday?” She came to her feet and put her arms around me. “Are you sure you have to go?”

  “Sara—”

  She planted a sweet kiss on my cheek.

  I broke free, though it wasn’t easy. “I’ll call you later,” I said, then left before I changed my mind.

  * * *

  Halfway to my car the hairs on the back of my neck felt like they were standing on edge. It wasn’t all that long ago—at my wife’s gravesite in Chicago, to be exact—when I was struck by a similar portent of misfortune, and I ended up being fired not long afterwards.

  This felt much worse. I suspected it was due to my feelings for Sara; feelings I hadn’t admitted to myself let alone her. There was no reference point, nothing specific I could put my finger on. I couldn’t even define it, though I was certain there was something I hadn’t yet thought about, something that was destined to effect Sara’s future as well as my own.

  39

  March 25

  Denise Gerigk was in her kitchen nibbling on barbecue potato chips and sipping a glass of Chardonnay. She had no plans to step outside, yet she had blow-dried her hair and dressed smartly in a silk blouse and skirt. Wedding ring on her left hand, cocktail ring on the right; tanzanite bracelet with matching necklace. This was just her way. She worked at her appearance and she did it for herself; not to show off, and definitely not to draw attention.

  Tom had promised to call at 4:30—fifteen minutes from now—and she was anticipating their conversation. He was back in Toronto, still negotiating with their bank, still suffering from the fallout of Arrow pulling out of Canada, and now worrying what their further loss will be what with Toys Galore just declaring bankruptcy.

  The poor man’s kidneys were flaring up again, not to mention his back. Was it any wonder, with all the pressure he’d been under? Tom would never admit it but being in his late sixties made it tougher to handle everything. Plus, there was prejudice related to age. Not everyone put relevance in experience. The majority consensus, Denise surmised, was that someone as old as him should have been put out to pasture long ago.

  Tom’s siblings, a brother seventy-one and a sister sixty-three, lived in Montreal, which left Tom alone in Toronto. This was another reason Denise felt guilty about remaining in Florida while he took on the heavy slogging with their business. But he’d been insistent that she do so, and here she was, grateful but deeply concerned. She placed another chip in her mouth and chased it with a sip of wine.

  The portable house phone rang exactly at 4:30; Tom’s Germanic precision coming into play. Denise took the receiver in hand and said hello.

  “Is it warm?” he asked.

  “Warm and beautiful. When’re you coming back?”

  “I’m not sure. Not for a while yet.”

  “How come?”

  “Too much to do. You know how it is.”

  “Can’t Adrian handle it?” She was referring to Adrian Roche, their VP-Sales, a longtime employee and more than capable of running things on his own.

  “I’m afraid not in this situation.”

  “You mean Arrow?”

  “Well—more so the bank.”

  Denise sighed. “Giving you a hard time?”

  “It’s this new guy—Bob Cairncross. Robert, he likes to be called. A first-class bastard if ever I saw one.”

  “What’s he saying?”

  “Acht! it doesn’t matter.”

  “Acht?”

  “Yeah. That’s my Teutonic word for the day.”

  “So, what did Herr Cairncross tell you?”

  “Denise—c’mon. No more business. I’m calling to see how your golf game is doing. Are your friends still upset that you hit the ball s
traight?”

  Denise heard the hitch in her husband’s voice. “What are you not telling me, Tom?”

  “It’s … nothing.”

  “Menteur! I hate it when you lie to me.”

  “Denise—”

  “No. You listen to me. I’m worried about you. Okay? You can’t keep your problems bottled up inside. It’s not healthy. What’s going on?”

  He sighed. “It’s worse than I said. With the way the bank is talking, it’ll take a miracle to save our business.”

  Denise felt a twitch in her neck unlike anything she’d experienced before. She moved the phone away from her ear and tried breathing through her mouth. It didn’t help. Her neck was locked, the pain intense. Tears came to her eyes.

  “Honey?”

  She couldn’t speak. If she did, Tom would immediately know something was wrong.

  “Denise?”

  She quick-tapped the off-button on the phone, hoping it’d give the impression of a sudden disconnect; then kept it pressed until she was sure the line had disengaged.

  * * *

  A few minutes later she recovered sufficiently to text her husband. She lied saying the battery on the phone was near dead and she’d get back in touch sometime the following day.

  She spent a fitful night, unable to sleep. In the morning, the pain, while not gone, had eased barely enough for her to function. Denise found she could look left without a problem but not right. To view anything in that direction she had to move her entire body; not an easy or comfortable thing to do.

  The more Denise thought about the problem with Tom’s business, the more her anxiety level spiked. She paused in the great room by the couch, beside the statue of Jesus on its pedestal, and rubbed it for luck before heading for the bathroom. She stepped inside, filled a glass with water and gulped down a Narvia pill. Then, ignoring the recommended dosage, she swallowed two more.