MURDER IN RETROSPECT (Allie Griffin Mysteries Book 5) Read online

  MURDER IN RETROSPECT

  Allie Griffin Mysteries, Book 5

  L E S L I E L E I G H

  Copyright © 2015

  All Rights Reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.

  For questions and comments about this book, please contact us at [email protected]

  1

  Allie Griffin was edgy.

  It was mid-November, and it was warm. Either it was due to global warming, or the editors of the Farmer's Almanac had resorted to using black magic in order to change the weather to validate their predictions. She couldn’t say which.

  Truth be told, this was Vermont warm, which meant lukewarm if you were from Syracuse, cold if you were from Long Island, and freezing if you were from anywhere more south.

  And Verdenier was suffering from all the ill effects of uncharacteristic weather.

  For one thing, the ski season had unofficially begun, and the ski resorts had to resort, indeed, to fake snow. This made the local news, because there wasn't much else going on.

  For another thing, Vermonters rely on their weather becoming really, really unbearable as winter approaches, and if it doesn’t come according to plan, folks get a bit surly—the way people get surly when their favorite sports team loses after a long winning streak. There's the initial letdown, and then, as the reality sets in, anger. The hardware store was overstocked on shovels and snow blowers, and the lack of snow made these same shop owners edgy and unpredictable.

  Verdenier rolled with the punches, as Verdenier always did.

  So the shop owners chatted it up with the leftover leaf peepers who didn't realize that the most impressive foliage was to be viewed the first week of September. These folks were to be pitied and often received discounts on maple syrup, which was already overpriced.

  Allie Griffin tried to bear with the intruders, even as they stopped her in the street and asked her if there were any restaurants open, even though it was a weekend and after nine. No restaurants in Verdenier were open weekdays after nine.

  Still, Allie Griffin was edgy.

  She wandered Main Street. Nothing seemed to stimulate her. She needed excitement in her life. The last year had brought her some amazing adventures. She felt silly calling them that, but that's what they were. She felt like she should be compiling them into a book, or a series of books. Maybe she would one day. For now, though, she was searching for anything that would occupy her.

  This restlessness was a new thing. In her years with her husband, Tom, she’d had Tom. In the years since Tom had passed, she'd been feeling more than the loss of a partner, she felt a loss of purpose. Now, her purpose seemed to be defined in the dark shadows cast by unanswered questions.

  She wandered aimlessly, enjoying the sights and sounds and smells of Verdenier, her home.

  She found herself in a tiny shop. This was more than a shop, this was a shoppe. That extra p and e added something undefinable to the wares offered within. They implied artisanship. That was part of the new Verdenier. The new money that had come pouring in in recent times afforded a whole new class of life to these tired, stoic Vermonters.

  There were coffee roasters and cheese mongers. There were shoppes with carvings from solid wood that had been treated with sweet-smelling oils. There were places that sold crystals and incense—though the college town was twenty miles away heading north on Route 7—and they did pretty well. And there was chocolate.

  And this is where Allie found herself, while hot on the pursuit of intellectual stimulation. What better substitute than chocolate?

  "Go on, try it."

  So she did.

  The 'it' in question was a piece of artisan English toffee. The instigator was Mrs. Thelma Linseed, owner and proprietor of Linseed's Fine Confections on Main Street between the florist and the vacuum cleaner repair shop.

  Allie never trusted Mrs. Linseed a hundred percent; eighty-five percent maybe, ninety-two at most. The plump, silver-haired woman with the dragon-charm necklace was always shoving sweet things at her. Allie Griffin had no trouble accepting such offerings. However, repeated answers of, "Please, I'm on a diet," had absolutely no effect on the woman, and even, Allie suspected, made her push her sugarcoated crack even more vigorously.

  One bite of the English toffee was enough, if one could even call it a bite. It could very well be argued that in order for a bite to be completed, both jaws have to meet at some point or another and result in a severed or crushed edible. This never happened. The confection lodged in Allie's upper molar the moment the teeth were clenched, and the toffee didn’t budge. In an attempt to give it another go, she found that her jaws would not separate, causing a moment's panic. Upon separation there was a sensation she had never felt before, that of an English toffee becoming one with a human tooth.

  With a smile and an open-mouthed acknowledgement of the awkwardness of the situation, she dug a finger into the candy-tooth meld, lodged her fingernail into it like a crowbar, gave a levered turn, and left a third of the nail in there with the toffee and the tooth.

  The unmistakable sound must have given it away. And if it wasn't the sound, then the pain in Allie's upper jaw must have formed a face that could scare a herd of bison. For Mrs. Linseed's expression had transformed from one of eager anticipation to one of abject horror in a matter of seconds. "Go on, dear," she said with a tone one might use when confronted with a person who somehow doesn’t realize they are on fire. "It's ok. I'll help these other customers."

  And Allie Griffin left the little candy shop, finger in tooth, literally and partially, and drove straight to the offices of Floyd Tennyson, DDS.

  If one wanted a perfect demonstration of what it meant to "corner the market," one would not have to look any further than the offices of Floyd Tennyson, DDS. Dr. Tennyson was the dentist in Verdenier. His building, located toward the end of Main Street between the liquor store and the insurance office, was a well-oiled machine of efficiency that no one in their right mind would dare to challenge. The sheer mechanics behind the operation staggered the imagination. Day in and day out, the town of Verdenier produced the enamelly-challenged in droves, and these beat down the door precisely at nine o'clock and didn’t stop until five-thirty. In between those hours, the patients were herded with a precision that could only be rivaled by dairy farmers and county fair ticket takers. In short, there was no such thing as a walk-in with Dr. Tennyson.

  Unless you just happened to have had a story or two about yourself reported on the local news recently. In that case, the receptionist would recognize you, despite the fact that you hadn't had an appointment in six years, and would greet you with a hearty, "How are you?" as if you had. You would then be asked to wait for just one moment to see if the doctor could squeeze you in somehow.

  And as you waited there, your privilege gnawing guiltily at you, you'd become aware of the looks. The looks had been becoming more and more frequent as of late. The looks were a shy alternative to outwardly approaching you and saying, "You’re her, aren’t you?"

  The nurse called her in. At the mention of the name, Allie felt the energy in the room heighten for a moment, as if all the bodies there collectively stiffened and the ears pricked up, and a slight 'ahh!' of recognition was formed in each and every one of the throats.

  She was too aware of this to realize that she knew the nurse from somewhere. It hit her when she was seat
ed in the dentist's chair as preparations were made. The nurse had said, "How have you been?" and Allie had answered in the most perfunctory way, the mechanisms of speech having been made virtually inoperable by free candy. Now the nurse was speaking about, "You know…it's been a long time. I've been meaning to give you a call. Now your name seems to be everywhere. It must be strange. It’s strange for me. When I knew you, you were just Tom's wife. Now look at you: The Verdenier Mystery Queen."

  It was her.

  Ramona Barclay, the former Head Nurse at Verdenier General where Tom had worked as Chief of Thoracic Surgery. Her hair was still styled in a bob, but had thinned somewhat and changed from blonde to auburn. Age had added crow’s feet and wells beneath her deep brown eyes. She still had the same nose, a puggish, dainty thing, and she still had that way of speaking in soft, airy tones. But she seemed more serious now. The woman has been widowed for quite some time, thought Allie, noting the reddish mark on the finger, indicating a ring that had only been recently removed due to an inability to let go. Allie herself had gone through the same thing after Tom passed, finally allowing herself the freedom to miss him, while simultaneously, guiltlessly, moving on with her life.

  Ramona had worked quite closely with Tom. She was younger and more seductive then, playful and waifish. Allie had confessed to a bit of jealousy regarding the woman. Tom waved it off, and that was that. She trusted him. Ramona was attractive. And she seemed always to be available...and willing. Perhaps Allie saw in her everything that she herself wished she possessed: A free-spiritedness about life.

  That was all in the past now. Before her was a person from whom time had taken a ransom of youthful energy. Recognizing her now was enough of a shock to Allie that there didn’t seem to be anything she could say that would diminish the effect of the expression she knew she had on her face.

  "It has been years, hasn't it?"

  Good enough.

  At least as good as it could be under the circumstances. She spoke as if she had, well, as if she had hard English toffee and part of a nail lodged in her tooth.

  "Well," said Ramona Barclay, "as you can see, I'm no longer in that hell pit."

  She spread out an apron and fastened it loosely behind Allie's neck.

  "Why not?" Allie was discovering that what should be even the easiest things to say were the farthest thing from.

  "One reason and one reason only," said Ramona Barclay. "Robert Hawkes, MD."

  "Ah," said Allie. Finally, an easy thing to say.

  In that "Ah" was all the understanding one needed to convey regarding Robert Hawkes. Dr. Hawkes had been Tom's boss, the Dean of the hospital. Allie remembered him as being tall and imposing with a crew cut like a drill sergeant, a stony face full of crags and thin, tight lips. You couldn't avoid the man's eyes, the narrow, black pits that bore into you when he spoke. He never raised his voice, and yet the intimidation he projected through his cold metal tone was enough. It was sheer audio thunder.

  Allie found if she just remained silent, with an "ah" here and an "ah" there, Ramona talked enough for the both of them. It was as if she needed to.

  "He was awful. Everything was wrong according to him. You could never get anything the way he wanted it. Always a criticism, and never a positive one. How he got to be Dean was always a mystery to me. Well, look who I'm talking to. Of course you know all this."

  It was true. Many a night Tom had sat in their kitchen, a glass of Merlot in hand, numbering the offenses of his Dean.

  "Well, I just couldn’t take it anymore. He'd gone one step too far, insulting me in front of everybody. I mean everybody. It was terrible. I left that day. To be quite honest, I don’t know why I put up with it that long. I know for a fact that Tom had it worse— Oh, Allie, I'm sorry— I mean, I didn’t mean—"

  "It's ok," Allie said.

  "Anyway, where was I? Oh yes. Allie, if you don’t mind me saying, I was always fond of Tom. And I always felt so bad for him having to work underneath that tyrant. Oh well, it's all in the past now, I guess. I'm talking your ear off here, aren’t I? The doctor will be in in a moment. Oh, and speaking of… It was Dr. Tennyson who saved me. He was a patient the day I got— The day Hawkes ripped into me. He was in for gall bladder surgery and was lying there in the hallway waiting to go in. He heard the whole thing. After he got out, he actually called the hospital looking for me. He had to ask around for my name, he even described me to them—the beautiful one with the bob cut, he said. I could've swooned when I found out. He'd left his number, and I called it and he offered me a job. Yes, it's not exactly Head Nurse at Verdenier General. But it's steady and it pays the bills. And I get to work for the best boss on the planet. I'd say it's an even trade, wouldn’t you?"

  "Ah huh," said Allie Griffin.

  "Well, he'll be right in. Just sit tight."

  There was not much more she could do. The role of dental patient is a submissive one. She lay there for a minute, staring at the ceiling, listening to soft jazz, when she heard a deep voice behind her.

  "The mystery girl is in my chair."

  Dr. Tennyson walked around into her field of vision.

  This was not the Dr. Tennyson she remembered. He'd always been a handsome man, no doubt, but she remembered him being, well, older, grayer. This man was...

  "His son," said the doctor. "I could see it in your eyes. And I looked at your record. Had to blow the dust off the thing. The last time you were here was my father's last year."

  "Ah," said Allie.

  "Let's have a look."

  The doctor leaned in and gently poked and picked around. He had soft eyes and a voice to match. The youthfulness of his appearance was pronounced, but there was the hard edge of adulthood there too, as if he'd seen the battlefield—or one too many bleeding gums.

  "Congratulations," he said. "You've earned yourself a root canal."

  She picked her head up. "Today?"

  The doctor turned around. "Mm hmm. I'm not letting you leave like this. I'll remove that mess in there, but you've done more damage than you think. You're going to be in a lot of pain if we don’t take care of this today. It won’t take long."

  She leaned her head back an exhaled.

  "Don't worry," Dr. Tennyson said calmly, "I'm going to save your tooth today. You’re lucky too. It's in a good location. I love doing this procedure. It's actually my favorite one."

  Great, Allie thought. I'm glad to have made your day.

  He leaned in again to have one more look.

  Glasses, she thought. For distance.

  The marks on the sides of his nose told her that. They indicated prolonged usage. If they were for reading, he'd be wearing them now, staring into her toffee-ravaged tooth. He could've been wearing contacts. But in his line of work, he needed to see up close more often than far away. At night, he replaced his contacts with glasses for distance, since he no longer needed to peer into the molars of his victims. And medical professionals, Allie knew, just don’t have time enough to read for leisure. And she doubted he was up all night reading the Journal of American Dentistry or whatever they called it. Not long enough anyway for those two near-permanent marks to reside on the sides of his nose.

  Ergo, glasses for distance.

  She gave herself a mental pat on the back, and then stiffened with unbridled horror.

  Dr. Tennyson approached with the Novocain needle.

  2

  "Vicodin?" said Del Collins.

  "Ibuprofen."

  "No Vicodin?"

  "No, ibuprofen."

  "You didn't ask for Vicodin?"

  "He gave me a script but I threw it away."

  Del gave her a look of reproach that her mother used to give her.

  "What?"

  "Some friend you are."

  "Excuse me?"

  "Nice to share the wealth."

  "Oh, please."

  "Next time, fill the script, and then keep the stuff on hand. You never know when you're going to need it. Or when your friends will need
it."

  "I need it now to dull the effects of this conversation."

  They were standing in line at Walgreens, waiting for the prescription-strength ibuprofen script to be filled. In her peripheral vision, Allie caught a couple of eyes darting in her direction. She was beginning to understand why celebrities had assistants to run their errands for them.

  "Allie Griffin?"

  Oh God, thought Allie. Tomlin.

  She knew the voice anywhere. Like a camper recognizes

  the hiss of the coral snake or the mating call of the grizzly.

  "Detective, fancy meeting you here," she said.

  "Indeed. Getting some medicine?"

  "No," she said, "I come here for the free blood pressure machine and the Twizzlers in the impulse aisle. You know how it is."

  "Uh huh. Cute."

  The bald man's face was harder than ever before. Allie had really done some damage to the department where he worked by exposing the corruption of his former chief. According to Allie's friend, Sgt. Frank Beauchenne, the new chief played by the rules to the point of being almost ruthlessly fair. According to Beauchenne, it was almost as if the letters the rules were written with were revered more so than the concepts they defined. If it didn’t conform to the books down to the cross of the t and the dot of the i, Chief Fraser was implacable.

  But if all this was necessary to keep Tomlin and his suspicion of Allie Griffin at bay, so be it.

  "No murders to solve, Griffin? Or you just haven’t committed them yet?"

  "Ah," Allie said, smiling. "Good one."

  The detective smiled and nodded. "Thank you."

  "So, Chief Fraser keeping you busy?"

  The detective's smile disappeared. "He is."

  "Glad to hear it."

  "Yes," said Tomlin, "in fact, he's been very receptive to new ideas. I would even go so far as to say he's better that way than Dupond ever was."

  "Really?"

  "Yeah, he is. In fact, you know, it's funny, I was just telling him the other day that I couldn’t understand how you seemed to know so much about the last few murders we've had here."