“I need some advice. There’s someone who is very important to me, and I’m worried about their health.”
His expression was patient, and he wasn’t fidgeting, but I could see the tiny shift in his gaze that said Why are you talking to me about this?
“Anyway, since you’re Fair Haven’s only pharmacist, I figured you’d seen people with a lot of different conditions and you might have some tips for me on how to talk to my friend.”
“You want me to help you figure out how to get your friend to take your concerns seriously?”
Taken on its own, his reply could have implied I was being ridiculous, but his tone said he was merely trying to make sure he’d understood me correctly. I nodded.
He ran his hands back and forth along the top of his wheels in the same way someone else might pace while thinking. “I don’t know that I can advise you as a pharmacist, but maybe I can as someone who lost a person they cared about to a health condition.”
I finished replacing the sunscreen and sat cross-legged in front of him. I felt a bit like a student with a mentor. “I’m grateful for whatever guidance you can give me.”
“My only sister had anorexia. I tried to talk to her, but her husband liked his women skinny, and she was willing to do anything to keep him from leaving her for someone thinner or younger or prettier.”
I bit down on my bottom lip. He’d used the past tense. It could be that he meant it in the sense of my sister once had anorexia and now she doesn’t, but the undertone of anger in his voice told me that wasn’t where this was headed.
“It eventually killed her. Her heart couldn’t take the strain anymore and gave out.”
His voice was calm, but he rubbed his thumbs along the tips of his fingers, leaking the emotions that I was sure were rolling around inside. I had a theory that you never really got over the death of someone you loved. You re-learned how to live your life in a world where they didn’t exist, and you found joy again, but you never stopped missing them.
Even a year later, I still had a lot of moments where I wanted to ask my Uncle Stan’s advice on something, or talk about the latest mystery novel I’d read to see if I’d guessed the murderer before him, or just hear his laugh because I couldn’t remember what it sounded like anymore.
I couldn’t lose Russ too soon as well. I just couldn’t. Not if there was anything I could do to prevent it.
Saul flattened his palms on his knees. “So I can’t give you advice as a professional, but I can tell you what I wished I’d done. If I could do it over again, I wouldn’t have tried to talk to her alone. I’d have collected a group of people who loved her. And I would have tried to convince her to go to counseling.”
I crawled to my feet and brushed off my knees and bottom. Then I held out my hand to Saul. Granted, you didn’t normally shake hands with your pharmacist, but this was a bit different. “Thank you.”
Saul took my hand. “I won’t say it was my pleasure, but I hope it helps.”
As soon as I was back in my car, I called Mark and told him about Stacey’s text and what Saul recommended.
“You’re really starting to be a local, you know,” Mark said. “You know almost more people than I do in the town at this point.”
I highly doubted that since Mark was not only the county medical examiner, but also a Cavanaugh, and his family ran the local funeral home. But I took it as a compliment anyway. “Do you think an intervention might work? You, Stacey, and I aren’t the only people who care about him and are worried.”
In the silence, I could hear him moving papers around, so he must be in his office. I’d gotten good at knowing where he was based on the noises in the background and whether he answered his phone immediately or not. If I had to leave a message, he was either at a crime scene or in the middle of an autopsy. Mark was very careful about being professional about his cell phone use.
“Russ is extremely private,” he finally said.
Russ was someone who eschewed the small-town gossip mill. He didn’t like to discuss any local news, and he was extra-careful not to say anything about anyone that could make its rounds of the town and come back warped. He certainly hadn’t reacted well the few times I’d tried to pry into areas he felt I didn’t belong.
But I was out of other ideas if Mark shot this one down. “I’m worried about him.”
“I know. I am, too. We just can’t rush in. Why don’t you set up a time for you and me and Stacey to meet and talk about it? If we approach it wrong, or invite too many people, it’ll backfire on us. If we embarrass him rather than making him feel loved, he’ll take worse care of himself, not better.”
11
When the guard ushered me into the private visiting room reserved for inmates meeting with their lawyers, Clement was already waiting for me.
Based on the visits I’d had with him in the Fair Haven police station, I’d expected to be brought down to his cell and have to talk to him through the bars while all his neighbors listened. Though perhaps that wasn’t allowed here or Clement hadn’t wanted anyone to overhear us or both. I wasn’t complaining. Going into the actual cell block wouldn’t have been a safe or smart idea.
Clement looked a little better than the last time I’d seen him. His skin wasn’t as translucent, and the dark circles under his eyes were more smudges than purple paint smears now. It’s amazing what a little hope would do for a person. Knowing I had a lead on another possibility for what happened to Gordon should bring his spirits up even more.
The guard let me know he’d be outside the door and showed me how to contact him when I was ready to leave.
The door closed with a clang, and Clement and I were alone. My mind tried to freeze. Because if he decided to hurt me, my odds of notifying the guard in time weren’t good.
I gave myself a mental shake. That was the PTSD talking. I could recognize it now. Recognizing it didn’t stop the jittery feeling in my body like a nest of spiders was trying to crawl out of my stomach, but it meant I could keep it from controlling me.
We haven’t proven Clement is a killer, I reminded myself. You don’t need to be afraid of a potentially innocent man.
The little fear devil that liked to sit on my metaphorical shoulder and whisper in my ear tried to remind me that, if Clement was guilty, he was the kind of person who couldn’t control his actions, and no one was safe with him.
One of the things I’d been talking about with my counselor was techniques I could use to make myself feel safer. Planning an escape route was one of them. I’d found it especially helpful in situations where I didn’t have the time to repeat Bible verses to myself.
I edged my chair back so that I could evacuate it quickly and use it as a barricade to buy myself time, just in case. “I spoke with Leonard Albright and his wife. They told me a few things about Gordon that could point to other people who might have had a motive for hurting him.”
I left out the question floating on the back of my tongue about why he and Darlene hadn’t mentioned it. It would have sounded accusatory no matter how I phrased it. My dad had drilled it into me that you had to keep your client feeling like you were their ally. The worst thing you could do was to make them feel like you were attacking them as well.
“They weren’t as forthcoming with details as I needed, though,” I said, “so I was hoping you could fill in the gaps.”
Clement scratched at the bottom of his beard with his knuckles. “He and Gordon haven’t spoken since right after their mother passed. I’m surprised Leonard had anything useful to tell you.”
The way everyone kept saying that, it made me think they’d been close before. Not all families were. Some people only saw their relatives at weddings and funerals and felt that was too much. “Leonard told me about Gordon’s drug addiction.”
