'Bout to Dye in Birmingham, page 6
"What time are you bringing my pie?" Francis asked.
"Good grief," I said. "Did you dream about it or something?" Yesterday, Francis had stopped by with a generous amount of toilet paper while Sam was assembling the pie ingredients, so he was ready and waiting for his share of the goods.
"No," he said in that same defensive voice he used when I asked him if he planned to get something else monogrammed. "I've just got a lot to do today, and I don't want you to have to leave it outside if I'm not home."
"Francis, you gave me a key," I said before taking another bite.
"Oh, yeah. I forgot. Well, anyway, what time will you be here? Don't be riding my pie around in the heat all day."
"I've got a cooler in the car," I said, returning his defensive tone around a mouthful of flakey crust and creamy filling.
"You're eating some right now, aren't you?" he demanded.
"The breakfast of fat champions," I said before taking a sip of coffee. "I'll be over your way between noon and one."
"Okay, good," he said and hung up.
My first patient of the day was Dr. Harold Fletcher, a former college professor at the University of Alabama and a first-class jokester.
Patients tended to fall into one of five categories: sickly and subdued, scared but eager to get better, headstrong and noncompliant, jokesters, and asshats. Asshats, thankfully, were rare.
I could usually spot a jokester during the initial evaluation when I inquired if they had any hearing difficulties. Jokester patients always cocked an ear in my direction and yelled, "What?"
I loved the jokesters most of all, although half the time you couldn't tell when they were in pain or not feeling well. They were the bravest of all the patients, and Dr. Fletcher was a prime example. He'd be trying to use his last breath to make someone laugh.
I thought he looked a little ashen that morning as I set my bag down in the chair beside his hospital bed, but he looked up at me and said, "I don't think I've ever told you that I used to play for Alabama."
"What? No way!" Playing for Alabama only meant one thing around here, and Dr. Fletcher did not look like a former football player. Then again, he'd been sick a long time.
"Oh, yes," he said with a solemn nod. "I was out there on the field for almost every game from 1962 to 1966."
I put my hands on my hips and looked him up and down as he lay there, frail under the sheets. "I can't see you playing lineman," I said. "Were you a kicker? Or a quarterback?"
He pointed to a big black case leaning against the wall beside the piano. "Tuba," he said, grinning.
Mrs. Castinelli was next on the list, and I wondered if I'd have to have an awkward encounter with Brittany when I got there. The salons were closed, so she didn't have to be at work. It would be great if Lula had called her mother this morning, but my hopes weren't high.
Sure enough, Brittany answered the door of Mrs. Castinelli's small brick home. Her eyes widened as she recognized me, even with my mask on. "It's you!" she said.
"It is! Good to see you again!"
Brittany was pale with dark circles under her eyes. Her hair was lank and greasy. Even the purple tips were frizzy and dull. I saw her frantically checking out my hair, and then an expression of relief crossed her face. "Oh gosh," she said. "I was so worried I'd messed up your hair. I got so upset about Mr. Mathison that I hardly remember what I did to it."
"Well, it turned out just fine, so no worries," I said, patting Carolyn's handiwork. "My husband even says I look like Annie Lennox now."
She gave me a blank look.
"From the Eurythmics? The band from the eighties?"
She shook her head.
"Never mind," I said. "How's Mrs. Castinelli?"
Brittany swallowed and leaned close. "She doesn't know about the murder. Lula thought it would upset her, so I haven't mentioned it, and I kept her from watching the news for a few days in case they talked about it."
I frowned. "Did she know Winston Mathison?"
Brittany teared up and looked away. "I don't think so, but, you know, it happened on that back road to the salon. Lula thought she would worry, even though it was over a mile away through the woods."
I reached for her shoulder and patted it with consolation. "I'm sorry about Mr. Mathison. You must've been close to him. Did he teach you at cosmetology school?"
She nodded and dashed her hand under her eyes to swipe away the tears. "He was the nicest man. And he wanted to help me out…" She looked away and, for the briefest second, seemed ashamed.
"Do the police have any leads or suspects?" I asked.
She shrugged and studied her feet.
Before I could ask any more questions, Mrs. Castinelli called hello from her usual spot in the living room in front of Good Morning, America. As I turned to go to her, Brittany caught my arm. "Would it be okay if I run home and get a few things while you're here? I'll be quick."
"Sure," I said. "I'll be staying about an hour." She was gone before I could ask if they'd heard from Lula, but I could tell they hadn't as soon as I saw Mrs. Castinelli's face. Her usually lively features were all drooping, as if the burden of her worry was too heavy of a weight for them to hold.
Suddenly, the phone rang. Mrs. Castinelli's face morphed into a heart-wrenching expression of hope, and she frantically dug through the folds of her nightdress for the receiver as it rang from her lap.
Instead of hello, she pushed the button and blurted, "Lula?" but her face fell again as she listened. "Hold on." She held the phone out to me and said, "This is my new doctor's office. Can you talk to them? I don't want to right now."
"No problem," I said, taking the phone and putting it to my ear. "This is Mrs. Castinelli's home health provider, '' I said loudly through my respirator mask. Can I help you?"
"Oh, hi," said a young woman. "I'm calling to get her pre-registered for a phone visit with Dr. Morris next week. Can you get me some information?"
I covered the mouthpiece. "Mrs. Castinelli, they need some medical information to get you registered for your appointment."
She pointed vaguely towards one of the bedrooms across the hall. "Lula keeps all the medical records in there," she said. "Top drawer of the file cabinet. My Medicare card is in the middle desk drawer." She suddenly noticed my new hair style, and her eyelids fluttered. "I see you made it to your hair appointment on Friday," she said. Then she went back to staring at the television with a distraught expression.
I carried the phone with me and crossed the hall. When I turned the light on, I realized this must be where Lula slept. Judging by the floral wallpaper and white, small-framed furniture, I'd bet it was her childhood bedroom.
Everything was neat and orderly, except the desk in the corner. On top, papers were stacked in haphazard piles. Some of the drawers stood partially ajar. A large file folder was open on the edge of the filing cabinet, with documents strewn across the surface. A few papers had even fallen to the floor. It stressed me out just looking at it.
I checked the middle desk drawer. One folder inside had "Mama's Medical" scrawled across the top. Bingo. I pulled it out and relayed the info to the nurse on the phone. As I hung up, a yellow sticky note that had been stuck to the side fell off and floated to the desk chair. It said, Meet with Winston 1/5/20 @ 3pm. That was two months ago. Unless there was another Winston, Lula definitely knew Winston Mathison.
Oh, Lordy. This was none of my business. But my eyes scanned the desktop without meaning to, which is when I noticed that much of the mail that had been opened and strewn about had Delinquency Notice stamped on the pages. Bank of America, Home Depot, Allegro Wholesale Beauty Supply, Marco's Plumbing. I slammed my eyes shut. Lula had big troubles, and I shouldn't be seeing this. I cracked one eye half open and slid a few pages around with one fingertip, just to see if anything else odd popped out…like maybe something else with Winston Mathison's name on it.
"Did you find it?" called Mrs. Castinelli.
I jumped up and hurried back out of the bedroom with the phone, relieved to be saved from my own nosiness.
We got started straight away with swallowing exercises. Most people didn't know this, but speech therapy wasn't just about speech, which was why so many of my patients were perfectly capable of talking just fine but still required my services.
Mrs. Castinelli's therapy goals were all about strengthening her throat muscles so that what she ate wouldn't go down the wrong pipe and end up giving her pneumonia, which had happened too many times already. Lula was well aware of her mother's fragile health. I just didn't see how she could go from checking in every hour to not calling for days.
"What time did Lula leave for Florida on Friday?" I asked with a casual tone while we took a break. "It's a long drive."
"Early," she said. "It was the strangest thing. The phone rang just after we went to bed Thursday night, and I could've sworn I heard her crying. She was up packing at four a.m. and said she had to go help Hal and Sarah with the kids in Florida. They needed to go to work, but the babysitter had come down with something, and they were concerned it might be that new virus. I asked her why she'd been crying the night before, and she denied it." Mrs. Castinelli looked away and reached for a tissue from the coffee table. "My girl is a good mama to her kids," she said, looking miserable. "I know what it's like to worry about your adult children."
Speech therapists also helped patients with cognitive problems. Mrs. Castinelli was ninety-three, but she'd never needed a drop of help with memory, thought organization, problem solving, or anything that meant your mind wasn't as sharp as it used to be. She looked me straight in the eye. "What about Lula's Locks? She's just going to abandon her own business? The salons weren't shut down yet when she left." She raised one eyebrow, and a bit of the loud, Italian lady I knew so well was suddenly back. "And why in the world won't she answer the phone?"
"Have you thought about going to the police?" I asked.
She shook her head. "Brittany says she's talked to her and she's fine. They'll think I'm a senile old lady."
"Who cares what they think? You have a mother's intuition, right?" Frankly, I was pretty sure the police already knew Lula wasn't answering her phone, but what would it hurt for Lula's mother to let them know what was going on from her perspective?
The doorbell rang, and we both startled. "I'll get it," I said and headed through the dining room, which was when I saw that Mrs. Castinelli wouldn't need to bother calling the police.
They'd come by for a visit.
CHAPTER SEVEN
They told her about the murder.
I was standing behind Mrs. Castinelli, widening my eyes and making tiny "shut up" motions, like unnoticeably pressing my lips together behind my mask. I also pretended to lock my mouth with a key, but neither Officer Reynolds nor his partner caught on.
"I'm sure you know about the body that was found along the back road behind your daughter's salon? It was quite a distance away, but it was the road that eventually leads to her back parking lot," Officer Reynolds said.
Mrs. Castinelli made a gurgling noise but recovered quickly. She answered all their questions matter-of-factly, asked a few of her own, and demanded to know if Lula was a person of interest. All those daily episodes of Blue Bloods she watched had paid off. There was no way they would think she had even a smidge of dementia.
"We need to speak to Lula," Officer Reynolds said. "We think the victim had only been dead a few hours when he was found late Friday afternoon, and according to these reports, Lula wasn't in town at the time. But we still need to follow up on who might've been affiliated with Mr. Mathison. He was an instructor at the cosmetology college."
"Who found the body?" asked Mrs. Castinelli. "Was it Brittany? She would've known him. She went to school there."
"I've got to go," I said, standing to pick up my bag. "I'm late for my next patient." I'd realized that due to the new hairstyle and the mask, Officer Reynolds didn't recognize me.
"A customer who was on the way to her appointment," he told Mrs. Castinelli.
She got a shrewd look on her face, turned her head slowly, and narrowed her eyes at me. "Maggie, didn't you have an appointment on Friday afternoon?"
I sighed and felt my shoulders droop.
Busted.
"Lula told Brittany it would only upset you," I told her.
"Well, of course it would upset me," she snapped. "But you can't shield people from things just because it might upset them. Finding out my roof got blown off by the tornado in 2011 upset me too, but facts are facts." She gave me a hard stare that made me ashamed. "You should've said something."
I shook my head. "But how would it have helped?"
"At least I could be worrying about the right things," she said.
I understood that. It was mother logic. Deep inside I'd always felt that if I directed enough worry at the things that deserved it, I could erect some type of barrier between the bad stuff and my kids' well-being. The more specific the better, almost like a negative version of prayer. I apologized again, hoping she'd forgive and forget.
She didn't tell me good-bye.
I actually didn't have a patient scheduled right after Mrs. Castinelli because that's when I'd planned to deliver Francis's pies. I stopped at the Piggly Wiggly, masked up, and went inside to pick up a container of chicken salad and a little tub of pimento cheese from the deli. I also grabbed a variety package of fancy sesame crackers, some fresh mixed fruit, and a jar of marinated asparagus. While I shopped, I tried to shake off my feelings of guilt about being dishonest with Mrs. Castinelli. A little lunch date with Francis would be just the thing. Maybe he'd even give me a slice of his pie.
I pulled into my usual spot under the magnolia tree beside the carriage house and noticed Francis standing near the short hedge in the backyard. I left our bag of lunch on the wrought-iron patio table beside the back door and walked in his direction.
I was surprised to see Dean on the other side of the hedge. He and Francis seemed to be having a fine time. Francis was telling him something with lots of gesturing, and Dean was grinning, his smile broad in his pink face.
"Hi, fellas," I said, walking up beside Francis but keeping my distance since I wasn't masked.
"Guess what!" Francis said. "Dean's decided to stay and get the house ready to go on the market!"
"Wow!" I said. "You changed your mind?"
Dean shoved his hands in his pockets, still smiling. "Businesses are shut down, and I don't really want to go home to New York right now. Looks like I've got a few weeks of downtime, so I figured I could just stay here and take care of things. Kill two birds with one stone, you know?"
"Sounds like a good plan," I said.
"And he says I can help!" blurted Francis.
Dean nodded. "I'll take all the help I can get," he said. "I'm not really handy around the house."
"Well, you can't go wrong with Francis's opinions," I told him. "He's really got an eye for decor."
Dean gave an admiring nod in the direction of Francis's house. "I can certainly tell," he said, jingling the change in his pocket.
"I brought some lunch," I told them. "It's just some chicken salad and sides from the Piggly Wiggly deli. Come over and eat with us, Dean. We can stay outside and sit six feet apart on the patio. I even have pie."
"That sounds perfect," Dean said. "I haven't gotten to the grocery store yet."
We found a small break in the boxwood hedge, and he slipped through. Francis hurried ahead to go inside for some drinks, plates, and utensils while Dean and I strolled across the yard chatting about the nice weather in Birmingham and how cold it still was up north. We avoided talking about the obvious global situation until he said, "I guess if I have to be in social isolation, Francis would be a nice neighbor to isolate with."
"Absolutely," I said. "He's always fun, although I'm warning you, if you're in his company long enough, he'll try to convert you into an Auburn fan. Do you have any family in New York?"
Dean shook his head. "I'm a widower," he said. "Fifteen years now. I have some stepchildren, but we're not close."
"I'm sorry," I said. "That's tough."
He shrugged. "I'm used to traveling now. I'm not sure I could've survived if I hadn't stayed on the go with work after my wife passed."
"Francis's a widower, too," I said. "He's been one for over thirty years."
Dean gave me a stunned look as we strolled. "That's a long time."
"He's taken it in stride and stays busier than anyone I know. I'm not sure what he'll do without all his meetings and volunteer work to go to every week, though."
Dean chuckled and poked his thumb over his shoulder towards the yellow house. "I assure you, I can find plenty for him to do."
Francis came back with a wicker tray carrying polished silver forks, three plates of Royal Sheffield fine bone china, and lavender linen napkins that matched the floral design of the plates.
"Very nice," Dean said, looking impressed.
"Get used to it," I said. "Francis likes to live on the finer side of life."
Francis cut his eyes at me. "I like quality things," he said. "So what? Oohhh, look at that chicken salad! Is it the kind with walnuts and cranberries?"
Dean held the plate up and inspected the design, looking pleased. "I've eaten so much take-out from Styrofoam boxes, I've almost forgotten what it feels like to eat off of real china."
"Well, we're gonna fix that!" Francis said, opening the containers as I went to the sink in the carriage house to wash my hands. By the time I came back, they were deep into a discussion of paint colors.
As I ate from six feet away, I watched them talk. It warmed me that Francis might have a new friend to hang out with during this craziness. Being an extrovert, he'd be more likely to stay home where he was safe if someone was with him and if he had a project to work on. I'd drop in, of course, but with my potential to be a carrier, I'd probably only get to visit on the porch or patio.
