“What?” Neil stopped again as he got to the door. Ida took him by the jacket lapels and dragged him across the threshold.
“Boy!” she blasted. “I get to keep
all
the money from my papers this week, because you are an aggravating—”
Neil stuck his finger in his ear, his cast straight out, and pressed the phone closer to the other ear. “What did you say?” he asked Brian again.
“I
said
the person on the video is either a really small guy or a woman.”
“How do you know?”
“’Cause videotape—even scuzzy black-and-white overused tape—doesn’t lie. Our tech guys have done the measurements.”
Someone came in the door behind him and collided with his cast, sending a radiating pain up into his shoulder. But it had nothing on the stomach-churning feeling that shot through him. He couldn’t explain it, that feeling.
“Brian. I need to see that video.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
“P
ATRONS
,
THANK
YOU
for shopping at your local IGA, but our store will be closing in fifteen minutes.”
As Charli heard this, she yanked a grocery cart from the corral and swore under her breath. Even the blueberry yogurt was beyond its sell-by date, and she had to eat something besides hospital food, Twix and granola bars.
After the horrid meeting with Lige Whitaker, she’d dived into seeing patients just to distract herself from the doubts he’d given her about her dad. Lunch had been a hastily inhaled Twix with an orange juice—the orange juice was good for you, right? She’d fitted that two-course meal in between a screaming toddler with an almost-perforated eardrum and Mr. Hank Tolleson’s hemorrhoids.
Who said primary care physicians didn’t lead a glamorous life?
And she’d intended to get out of the office early for a change, so she could figure out what all Lige’s garbage had really meant, and if there was a way to get beyond it. Marvela, however, had slapped down a whole host of insurance paperwork for her to review, and Shelly, her nurse, had dumped about ten thousand orders for home health and medical equipment and—the saddest part of her job—hospice orders.
Plus today was payroll day, so she had to sign off on the staff hours so Marvela could write out checks.
How had her father done this for over four decades without going crazy? Maybe that was the explanation for why he’d taken Lige’s money. Why he’d hidden an outbreak.
Charli would have raced right through the produce section if she hadn’t been spotted by Julianne Brantley, who was thumping a head of cabbage.
Julianne, whose lipids panel was scarier than the first installment of
Nightmare on Elm Street,
held up the cabbage. “Hey, Doc? See? I’m following your orders! Gonna start eating those vegetables you’re so keen on. What are you getting?”
Honestly? Charli had been planning on picking up a few frozen dinner entrees. Faced with having to live out her own sermons, she brought the cart to a shuddering, squeaking halt.
Charli surveyed the small selection of basics the little store carried. This store was the only grocer in town, and an independent to boot, so prices were much higher than in the megamarts a half hour away—and the selection much more limited. Bagged lettuce. Tomatoes that looked pink rather than red. Bell peppers so expensive she’d have to take out a loan. Broccoli. Potatoes. A fairly good selection of fruit, thanks to it being the Christmas season.
Christmas made her think of Neil, which made her think of how unsubtle she must have looked in the newspaper office.
So does he think I’m just after the story or after him?
“Doc?” Julianne waved her hand in front of Charli’s face. “You in there?”
“Oh!” Charli snapped her attention back from the tiny newspaper’s office in her memory to the quandary at hand. “I was thinking about how expensive all this produce is. If health insurance companies wanted to get us healthier and spend less money, they’d do better to pay for part of the expense of eating right.”
“You got that in one, Dr. Prescott. This cabbage is about the cheapest thing going. I was wondering if you could write me a prescription for it and I could file it on my insurance.”
“I wish I could. It would save everybody money in the long run.”
Charli grabbed a couple of bags of prewashed lettuce, some of those expensive bell peppers and a pallid tomato, along with a bag of carrots. To the cart she added some bagged mandarin oranges and a head of broccoli. Yes, all of it was more expensive than junk food, but in the long run, it was cheaper than poor health. Tonight it would be quick and fast and that was what she was after.
“Whew, Doc, you’re eating high on the hog now!” Julianne told her as Charli wheeled toward the bread aisle. “That broccoli costs almost as much as steak, at least per pound. I could eat a lot cheaper if I just bought me some of those boxed dinners.”
“I’ll either pay it now or pay it later,” she called over her shoulder to Julianne. “Like I told you this morning in my office.”
“Yeah, well, I’ll wait, just get this cabbage now. My sister-in-law was telling me about some Mexicans who’ve got a vegetable stand. They have a greenhouse and everything, and they got some pretty tomatoes. Buy local, isn’t that what everybody’s saying now?”
“A vegetable stand?” Charli stopped her cart, despite another ominous warning the store would be closing in ten minutes. Surely they wouldn’t lock her in here without taking her money first.
“Yeah, out on the main highway, south of town. It’s run by some folks Lige Whitaker keeps around all year.”
Charli’s stomach twisted at the mention of Lige’s name. She’d tried to put their meeting out of her mind and, thanks to her schedule, she had—mostly.
“I’ll have to check it out,” she told Julianne. She hurried away—ostensibly because of the lights flickering on and off in warning, but mostly because she didn’t even want to think about Lige Whitaker.
As Charli rounded an endcap, she saw a big display of powdered cocoa, complete with marshmallows. Again, she had an image of Neil, with his dimples and his warm brown eyes and his apparent belief that hot cocoa could fix anything. Charli took a peek left, and then right, didn’t see Julianne or any of her patients behind her, and quickly dropped the box into her cart. It wouldn’t be as good as the real thing, but it would be a tolerable substitute.
Two loaves of whole-wheat bread, a sack of frozen boneless skinless chicken breasts, a jug of one percent and four fresh cartons of blueberry yogurt later, Charli arrived at the checkout. The high school girl who was ringing up her order glowered at her. “You didn’t hear the announcement about the store closing?” the girl asked.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t think it would take me long to grab these few things.”
“Well, I wish people realized that when they stay longer, we gotta stay longer, and I’ve got a chemistry final to study for.”
Charli winced.
I so remember those days.
“I am sorry. I hope it goes well. Do you like chemistry?”
“It’s okay.” The girl darted her eyes around, probably to ensure the bag boy had not yet returned from carrying out the last customer’s groceries. “It’s kind of neat, actually, but boys around here don’t want to take you out if they think you’re some kind of genius nerd.”
Charli remembered this phenomenon, too. “Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that. High school’s not forever.” The girl’s tag had a smiley-face sticker plastered beside the name Jen. “Jen, while they’re still scratching their backsides in a hunting stand and living with their mom, you could be enjoying driving around in a cute little BMW sports car that you earned with a megabucks job at a pharmaceutical company.”
But don’t go into family practice medicine. You’ll never pay off the med school bills.
Jen froze for a moment, the head of broccoli halfway to the scales. A bemused smile hit her expression like a ray of sun on a cloudy day. “You think I could do that? Like, work for a pharmaceutical company? Maybe find a cure for cancer?”
“If you’re good in chemistry. And biology.”
“I never thought about that. My mama wants me to go to cosmetology school. She says everybody needs a haircut. She tells me I don’t need to be worrying about getting straight A’s and I should work as many hours here as I can. B’s are good enough, she says, for cosmetology school. My friends call me lucky.” The girl rolled her eyes, weighed the broccoli and keyed in something on the cash register. The rest of the groceries beeped quickly by the scan bar.
Charli shook her head in commiseration. “Mine thought I needed to be in beauty pageants so I could learn charm. That’s kind of like putting someone in the Daytona 500 so they could learn how to drive.”
The subject of mothers reminded Charli of her worries about her mother. Her mom had been eerily silent all day—no phone calls, no messages, not even a surprise visit to the office. Charli had tried to get her on the phone after the meeting with Lige. But the phone had rung straight to voice mail.
Had Lige called her mother? Peddled some of his garbage to her? She didn’t want her mother worrying—and truth be told, Charli didn’t want to have to explain how she gave away a hundred grand of money that didn’t belong to her. Because in years past, her mother’s favorite self-medication for stress was a buying binge.
A buying binge.
Macon. I told her to go to Macon with her friends! Did I send her into temptation?
Charli blinked at the largish total that appeared on the cash register’s computer screen. She slid her debit card through the checkout’s card reader and prayed she had enough money in her account. When she saw Approved flash up on the screen, she nearly did a happy dance.
Despite med school and an M.D. after her name, Charli was a long way from that BMW convertible she’d dangled in front of the cashier.
I’m encouraging her, that’s all. We need more girls in math and science.
Jen bundled up her bags and handed her the receipt. Her face was glowing with hope and dreams. “Thank you! Thank you!” she said effusively. “You’re that new doctor, aren’t you? Well, if you can do it, go to medical school, I mean, so can I. I mean, not taking care of sick people. I am
so
not a nurse. But that chemistry thing, working for a pharmaceutical company, I could do that. I can see that.”
Charli was caught up short by the cashier’s words. It occurred to her, too late, that despite not feeling like one at all, she was now a role model. Great. Something else to live up to. Fresh veggies and inspirational tidbits? Forever? She didn’t feel worthy of the frank admiration in the girl’s gaze.
Especially when, a few days earlier, Charli had wiggled out of a police interview by plying her skills with ingrown toenails. “Good for you, Jen!” Charli told her, and scurried for the automatic doors.
A cold gust of wind cut through even the wool coat Charli was wearing. The groceries would be okay for a few minutes while she drove by and checked on her mom. It was cold as a refrigerator out here, after all.
The lights at her parents’ house were dim. A few low lights from the living room lamps filtered out.
It looks so different now.
When her father was alive, every light would be on at this time of night, and by this time of year, at least according to Neil, her father would have turned it into a twinkling fairyland of Christmas lights—tasteful tiny white lights, not resembling Neil’s over-the-top display one whit, she suspected.
Funny how Neil’s lights were growing on Charli.
Growing up, the holidays had been a stressful time for Charli. Too many fights about money, too many times her mother had blown scads of cash for just the right present. Her father had wanted to ignore the holiday—and that suited Charli just fine, then and now.
Charli pushed away the sadness that welled up inside her and hurried to the front door. She could see the glow of a computer through the study window at the front of the house. As she climbed the front steps, through the living room windows, Charli could make out her mom’s figure glide through the room. She rang the doorbell.
The door opened. “Why, Charli.” Her mother’s eyes darted from Charli’s face to somewhere over her shoulder, then back to Charli. “I wasn’t expecting you.”
Weird how her mother didn’t seem all that happy to see her.
“I hadn’t heard from you all day.”
Her mother’s lips pursed in annoyance. “You’re always saying I should let you work.”
Can’t win, can’t win, can’t win.
Charli stifled the urge to scream with frustration. “I appreciate that, Mom. I was just...worried.”
Violet opened the door wider with slow, dragging footsteps. “I suppose you’ll want to come in.”
Okay. This is officially the Twilight Zone. My mother always wants company. If she doesn’t want me to come in, I definitely need to.
Inside, nothing outwardly appeared to have changed. The house was still neat as a pin, with every knickknack dusted and in its prescribed place. Charli followed her mom to the kitchen, where beside a beautifully decorated, uncut chocolate cake lay the makings of a cup of tea. Her mother’s favorite porcelain china cup, lemon, tins of herbal teas and sugar were out on the granite countertop of the island.
“Want some?” her mother asked. “This is my test sample. I just got finished decorating it. I’m practicing some new designs for the cake I’m donating to the Christmas bazaar.”
“Sure.”
While her mother busied herself with slicing the cake and preparing Charli’s tea, Charli nosed around as unobtrusively as possible. She was lucky her mother remembered her preference for Darjeeling and insisted on digging it out of the back of her cupboard.
Sidling over to the basket of mail under the phone, Charli took a sneak peek.
There it was, a corner poking out from under the power bill. A credit card logo. Charli’s heart skipped a beat. A quick look told her that her mom was still busy with finding the tea. Charli took a finger, slid the power bill aside enough to see what it was.
Congratulations on your new Chase credit card! Please keep this—
“Charli! I said, do you want honey or sugar?”
In confusion, Charli blurted out, “Honey?” and her mom took that for her answer. Crossing the kitchen to the island, Charli accepted the cup her mother offered her. She tried to think of a way to broach the subject of the card with her mom.
Directly. That was the way to go. No beating around the bush.
“Mom, you’re not having trouble, are you? With shopping?”
“Me? Oh, no. Charli, why do you think that?” Her mother took a long sip from her cup. “Oh. You must have seen that credit card paperwork. Jed thought I should build up some credit. But don’t worry. It only has a thousand-dollar credit limit on it. I can’t get into any trouble with that.”
Charli picked up a wedge of lemon and squeezed its juice into her tea. Should she demand to see the paperwork? Should she call Jed?
It makes sense. Mom does need some credit history. And a thousand-dollar credit limit is small enough.