Looking for Peyton Place Page 13

  “Kaitlin. Where are you?”

  She blinked and looked around to find her friends staring at her. Embarrassed, she shot back at no one in particular, “Can’t I think about something myself?”

  “What was it?”

  “Had to be Kevin. She’s always thinking about Kevin.”

  “Not always,” Kaitlin replied, even in that, though, feeling pride. She was the last of her friends to be with a guy. For the longest time, she thought it would never happen. Fearful that something would screw it up now, she had an idea. “I was actually thinking of Annie Barnes. Do you know that’s her back there?”

  “I saw,” said Bethany.

  Kristal nodded. “Me, too.”

  “Annie Barnes here?” Shawna asked, twisting around to look, and in the next instant, Jen was twisting around, too.

  “No, no,” Kaitlin cried in hushed alarm. “Don’t turn around. She’ll know we’re looking.”

  “Why’s she here?”

  “That’s what I want to know,” Kaitlin declared. “Any ideas?”

  “Look. She’s with James Meade. Oh wow.”

  “Like, they’re dating, Kristal? No way. He’s too old.”

  “He isn’t so old. My mom says the gray in his hair is from grief from his dad.”

  “I think it makes him look like Richard Gere.”

  “Talk about old.”

  “Annie Barnes isn’t so young herself. They could be dating.”

  “He’s not interested. He has a little kid.”

  “What difference does that make?”

  “Are we really not supposed to know about that baby?”

  “Pu-leeze. Everyone knows. Sam Winchell didn’t say anything in the paper, ’cause Sandy Meade told him not to. Sandy’s annoyed that James went and adopted a baby. He doesn’t understand why his son couldn’t make one the usual way.”

  “Maybe he can’t.”

  “Can’t?”

  “Like, is sterile?”

  “Yeah. Right.”

  “Has anyone seen the baby?”

  “I don’t know, but it’s a girl. My mother saw James at Harriman’s buying Snow White Huggies. The baby was home with the nanny.”

  “The nanny’s from East Windham. Can you believe? He couldn’t hire someone from Middle River?”

  “Sandy probably told him not to. He doesn’t want people seeing or talking. The baby’s from China.”

  “Vietnam.”

  “Whatever.”

  “Talk about raising a kid with zero of its heritage. Does James know what he’s doing?”

  “James Meade always knows what he’s doing,” declared Bethany.

  Kaitlin agreed with that, all right. James did always know. So maybe what Kaitlin had to do was to talk with him. Maybe she could convince him not to tell. Now that he was a father himself, he might appreciate her dilemma.

  Right, Kaitlin. And pigs could fly. She returned to her original idea. Annie was the one to corner. “Is Annie Barnes staying with her sister?”

  “Yes.”

  “She isn’t very friendly,” Bethany complained. “She was running this morning and just ran right past Buzz Madigan after he said hello.”

  “Would you have stopped to talk with Buzz?” Shawna asked. “Like, I mean, he can go on and on and on. If I was running to get a workout, and I stopped to talk with him, the workout would be shot.”

  “Do you think she’ll spend much time at the store?” Kaitlin asked casually.

  “At Miss Lissy’s Closet? No. She’s going to write.”

  “Where’ll she do that?” Kaitlin asked. “At the house?”

  “Who knows?”

  “Why does it matter?”

  Kaitlin shrugged. “I was just thinking that if everyone is saying she’s come here to write, maybe she’s rented a place of her own.”

  “No. She’s staying at Phoebe’s.”

  Bethany leaned forward, eyes wide. “What if Greg Steele comes to visit?”

  “That’d be great.”

  “Omigod. He’s so hot.”

  “Could be trouble if she’s hooking up with James.”

  “Does she have any friends in town?” Kaitlin tried.

  “No.”

  “None.”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “What about the gym?” Kaitlin asked. “Your mom’s a member, Jen. Think Annie Barnes might work out there?”

  “Mom didn’t mention it,” Jen said and shot her a suspicious look. “Why are you asking these questions?”

  “I’m curious.”

  “Don’t tell me you’ve read her book.”

  “No. I’m just curious. Is there a law against that?”

  Eliot Rollins left the clinic early, but not to go home. While his car sat back in the lot, he walked down a block, crossed the street, and entered the low brick building that housed the police station.

  The police station. He still choked a little calling it that. Yes, the place had a holding cell—two, actually, but it was questionable as to whether either one could actually hold a person who wanted to escape. Eliot had grown up in New York, where police stations were the real thing. This one was mostly for show. Likewise the chief of police. Marshall Greenwood did what he could to give the illusion that Middle River abided by laws. The truth was that little crime occurred here that wasn’t committed by someone directly or indirectly related to the mill, and the mill took care of its own.

  Marshall was out and about three times a day, patrolling the streets in his cruiser. He stopped to talk with whomever he saw, so that what would otherwise take only half an hour sometimes stretched to two. The rest of the time he was at his desk.

  He was there when Eliot entered, and yes, indeed, he was overweight. Tom Martin had that one right, but then, it wasn’t something the man could hide. Winters, he wore a jacket to cover the gut hanging over his belt. Summers, the gut strained against the buttons of his shirt. That shirt was blue to match his jeans. He called this his uniform, which meant that he didn’t have to waste time picking out clothes in the morning. Blue shirt, blue jeans, Demerol, OxyContin, Xanax.

  He sat straight in his wide-armed, high-backed chair. It was an ergonomic one bought for him by his friend and benefactor Sandy Meade, and it probably cost more than the rest of the office furniture combined. He was doing a crossword puzzle in a fat book of crossword puzzles. A stack of others leaned against the file cabinet behind the desk. Marshall was addicted to these, too.

  He spotted Eliot. “Good timing, Dr. Rollins,” he said in his gravelly voice. “I need a word for a skin disease. Six letters, third one’s a z.”

  Eliot felt a stab of annoyance. He didn’t want to be here at all. The problem wasn’t his. He was just the man in the middle, and he didn’t do zits. “I’m an orthopedist, not a dermatologist.”

  “Come on,” Marshall coaxed. “You studied everything in med school. It can’t be real difficult if it’s in my puzzle.”

  “Put the puzzle down, Marshall. We have to talk.” He put his hands in the pockets of his slacks. “Annie Barnes is snooping around. She was at the clinic yesterday talking with Tom, and he says she didn’t raise this issue, but it’s only a matter of time. You and I could both be in trouble if she gets wind of certain prescriptions.”

  Marshall frowned. “Why in the world would she get wind of that?”

  “Because she’s here looking for dirt and this particular dirt is hot stuff. Think about it. ‘Middle River police chief addicted to painkillers.’ Makes a good headline, y’know?”

  Marshall set his pencil down. “I take painkillers for a back problem. I’m not addicted.”

  “Want to prove that by going cold turkey?”

  The look on Marshall’s face said that he did not. Then he frowned. “You’re acting like this is my fault. I didn’t ask for Jebby McGinnis to drive drunk right into my car. I was injured in the line of duty, and you were the orthopedist who headed my case. I’m just following doctor’s orders. You’re the one writing the
prescriptions.”

  “You’re the one demanding them,” Eliot shot back, because he wasn’t taking the fall here. “You’re the one who suggested I write prescriptions in the name of your wife so that insurance will pay for the stuff you take above the normal allowance. That’s health care fraud. There’s another hot topic. Want to try for that one?”

  “I don’t want to try for any one,” Marshall said in a gruff, law-and-order voice that told Eliot he had his attention. “Is there a point to this discussion?”

  “It’s already been made,” Eliot said with satisfaction and headed for the door. “Sounds like you appreciate the problem. I’m assuming you’ll do what you can to make sure nothing comes of it.”

  “What in the hell’m I supposed to do?” Marshall called, but Eliot was already on the threshold.

  “You’ll figure something out,” he said. “And it’s eczema. E-c-z-e-m-a. Don’t you wish that was your only problem?”

  Chapter 10

  I HAD MY list of people who were sick in Middle River. And I knew that paper mills produced mercury waste. Now I had to connect the two. Specifically, I needed to know whether Northwood was one of the paper mills that had cleaned itself up, or whether it continued to pollute.

  How to find out? That was the dilemma I grappled with as I stood at the kitchen window with my coffee early Friday morning. The window was a bay with a three-sided view of the yard. I saw a soft stretch of lawn, bordered by my mother’s flowers—the purple, orange, and white of asters, daylilies, and hostas, respectively. Deeper into the yard, gangly black-eyed Susans swayed in the breeze along with the low-hanging willow limbs farther behind them. And farther yet, the river flowed, a rippling swath of gray-blue.

  The day was overcast, seeming torn between rain and shine, and the indecision mirrored my mood. Yes, the state environmental agency would have information about the status of the cleanup at Northwood Mill, but going there wasn’t my first choice. All it would take was one tattletale phone call by a person there with Meade ties, and the you-know-what could hit the fan.

  An alternative was to talk quietly with a mill insider, but my choices were limited. Whoever it was had to be high enough up the mill ladder both to have legitimacy and to know the truth about what the mill did. I wouldn’t put it past Sandy to tell rank-and-file workers that the mill was clean, when it might be anything but.

  As candidates for mole went, I could think of four. One was Alfie Monroe. If he had an ax to grind against the Meades after being passed over for the position for which he had worked all his life, he might help me out. Another was Tony O’Roarke. He would have an insider’s knowledge of the workings of the mill, without a history of Middle River ties to make him beholden to the Meades. Suppose, just suppose, he had found something amiss at the mill, had complained to Sandy Meade and been rebuffed. He might become my ally simply to save his own skin down the road.

  Aidan Meade was another possibility. That’s right. Aidan Meade. Aidan had a huge ego, always had, always would, and it was common knowledge that he was concerned about his rightful place at the mill. If he was fed up with playing second fiddle to James, I might goad him into staging a coup around the issue of mercury. Would he listen to me? Oddly, I think he would. I had the distinct impression that he was intrigued, perhaps even excited, by where I lived and what I had become. Perhaps I was deluding myself—or buying into my own hype—or simply thinking too Washington—but I half suspected that I could seduce him if I chose to.

  I wouldn’t, of course. Even aside from the ethical issue of his being married, I despised him too much to want his skin touching mine. But I could lead him on, right up to the brink. I could get what I wanted from him, then drop him when I had enough dirt on the mill. I could use him the way he had used me. That would be poetic, don’t you think?

  And then there was James. He had hinted that he stood for what was right. But if that was so, and mercury waste was a problem, he should have acted on it already. He was first in line for the throne. Did I really think he would risk that position by bucking his father? No, I did not.

  A loud thud came from the hall, then two more fast thuds. Terrified, I set my mug on the table and ran. I found Phoebe halfway up the stairs, sitting upright, rubbing her elbow. Relieved that she hadn’t fallen far, I quickly climbed the steps. I pushed up her pajama sleeve to see the elbow. There was nothing protruding.

  “I don’t think it’s broken,” I said. “Does anything else hurt?”

  Phoebe looked awful, more washed-out and disheveled than ever. She stared at me fuzzy-eyed and asked in a feeble voice, “Why do I keep forgetting you’re here?”

  “Can you bend your elbow?”

  She did it, albeit gingerly. “I banged it on the banister. I don’t know what happened. My foot just slipped.”

  Had she been wearing slippers with a smooth sole, I might have bought her explanation. But her feet were bare, like mine, and the carpeted stair was textured. “You lost your balance. Were you feeling dizzy?”

  “No. I’m just slow waking up.”

  “You never were when we were kids.”

  “It’s my cold.”

  “The cold sounds better,” I argued. Her voice was far less nasal than it had been. “How did you sleep?”

  “Like a log,” she replied.

  It was not the truth. I had woken up to the sound of floorboards creaking not once, but twice in the night. I didn’t think she was lying. She simply didn’t remember.

  “Here,” I said, taking her other arm. “Let me help you down.”

  We started slowly; she was shaky. By the time we reached the kitchen, though, it was clear she was unhurt. I poured her a cup of coffee and sat with her.

  Gently, I asked, “Does it worry you that you have some of the same symptoms Mom had?”

  “Mom’s symptoms? Oh, I don’t have those. I have a cold.”

  “With symptoms just like Mom’s. Phoebe, what if Mom didn’t have Parkinson’s disease at all? What if something else was making her sick—something environmental like, say, mercury?”

  Phoebe eyed me as if I were crazy. “Where on earth would she have found that?”

  “The mill.”

  “Our mill?”

  I nodded.

  “There’s nothing wrong with our mill. Besides, Mom and I don’t go near the mill.”

  “You don’t have to go near it,” I said, speaking hypothetically. “If the mill is polluting the river and you eat fish—”

  “Not from the river. We buy our fish at Harriman’s. Besides, Sabina works right there at the mill, and she’s fine. They’re all fine. I was at her office a few weeks ago, picking her up from work. We were going to plant flowers at Mom’s grave.”

  Mom’s grave. My heart lurched at the words. It was one thing to think about Mom being sick or Mom falling down the stairs or Mom visiting the mill. It was another to think of her buried in the graveyard on the hill behind the church. I felt a great yawing inside.

  It grew worse when Phoebe’s eyes drifted to the window. “We need rain, it’s been a horribly dry summer,” she said in a voice so uncannily like Mom’s that even she looked quickly back at the stove, where Mom should have been. When there was no Mom, she started to cry. She bowed her head and covered her eyes, and for the life of me I didn’t know what to do. We weren’t a touchy-feely family, and I was grieving, too. But Phoebe needed something.

  Tissue, I decided and made a dash for the bathroom. I returned with several, which she instantly took. While she pressed them to her eyes, I pulled a chair close, sat down, and rubbed her arm. It seemed paltry comfort to offer. When her crying slowed, I said, “I’m sorry, Phoebe. The past few weeks have been hardest on you.”

  “It’s just that I don’t know what’s wrong,” she cried in a broken voice, holding the tissue to her eyes. “I keep tripping and losing my train of thought and doing all the things Mom did, but I’m too young to have what she had, aren’t I?”

  “Yes,” I said. Suddenly I
was thinking that it might not be mercury poisoning or anything else at all. My sister could well be clinically depressed. “I think you should see Dr. Martin.”

  Phoebe shook her head at that. Uncovering her face, she drew herself up and seemed to calm. “No. I’m really all right,” she said as she wiped her eyes. “It’s only natural that I worry sometimes. Summer colds hang on forever.”

  “Maybe you need to take time off from work.”

  She looked alarmed. “And do what?”

  “Rest.”

  “No. I’d only sit here and worry more. Besides, the store needs me.” She blew her nose and managed a wobbly smile. “There. I’m better now.”

  I was feeling helpless again. “Can I get you anything? Eggs? Cereal?…Pizza?”

  Phoebe smiled more naturally then. “Mom hated it when we ate pizza for breakfast, didn’t she?”

  I smiled back. “She did.”

  “You were never into it as much as Sabina and me. We would deliberately leave slices from dinner so we could have it for breakfast the next day.”

  “I haven’t seen any in the fridge.”

  “No. No pizza. But that’s okay. Food tastes lousy to me lately.” Her eyes met mine. “Even coffee doesn’t do it the way it used to. What does that mean?”

  “I don’t know. Dr. Martin might.”

  “I’m not seeing Dr. Martin.”

  “If you’re afraid of what he might find, that’s self-defeating.”

  “Fine for you to say. You’re not the one feeling lousy.”

  No. Not lousy. But in need of fresh air. I glanced at the clock. It was nearly eight. “Are you going to sit here a bit?” I asked.

  Phoebe nodded.

  “Mind if I go for a run?”

  “Why ever would I mind?” she snapped.

  I didn’t answer, just drained the last of my coffee and went up and changed. When I returned to the kitchen, Phoebe hadn’t moved. She was staring at her coffee mug, just as I had left her.

  “Can I get you anything before I leave?” I asked.

  She looked up and frowned. “Where are you going?”

  “Running,” I said, though I had already told her that. “I’ll be gone forty minutes. Don’t have breakfast. I’ll make it when I get back.” I went out the door before I could worry, stretched quickly, and set off.