A Prescription for Murder

A Prescription for Murder

Mom was really mad. She'd grounded me for two weeks because of the whole “could have been hurt” thing. She wanted to ground Gran too but, hah, as if. And she still wouldn't let me get a dog, not even one as cute as the one in the painting I'd found. She told me it was a Papillon, which is French for butterfly. Because of the dog's ears, I guess.

I still went to Gran's after school until Mom could pick me up. She'd be even madder if she knew I was hunting through that attic for anything else Gramps might have stashed up there. Gran was getting real tired of me hauling paintings down every five minutes asking if it could be a copy of one by a famous artist.

“That's one of your Mom's,” she said.

“Nope, one of your Mom's.”

“Your Mom's.”

“That's a poster. For heaven's sake, April May.” My name's April but she calls me April May for short, even though it's longer.

Turned out it was a poster from my mom's old room. Two horses nuzzled each other under a huge tree in a green, green pasture. I liked it, and Gran said I could take it home. I unrolled it for Mom when she came to pick me up.

“I remember that. Nice to see it again.” She glanced at it in passing, then took Gran's arm and led her into the kitchen. “Wait in the car, April,” she called over her shoulder.

It took me a minute to roll up the poster again, and I took my time anyways. Mom and Gran had their heads together, whispering. I crept a little closer. I was hoping they were figuring out how to surprise me with a puppy, but all I heard was my mom say “doctor's appointment.” Gran snapped, a little loud, “Again?” Mom shushed her, and they both glanced my way. I made like I hadn’t heard anything and headed out to the car.

I like to read detective books, all kinds, and I like to watch detective shows with Gran. I intend to be a detective when I grow up, or maybe a writer of detective stories. I'm not sure yet. My radar was pinging. Mom was seeing the doctor a lot. She didn't look bad, or sick. She had lost weight lately though. I worried it was cancer.

My thinking was confirmed when she took me shopping with her over the weekend and bought a bunch of new clothes. Even an itty-bitty bikini that showed off all the weight she’d lost. I was sure she was getting ready for a last hurrah before dying. Checking off her bucket list or something. Mom would get all tetchy if I asked her outright and tell me something about keeping my nose out of adult business, so I asked Gran.

We were sitting at Gran’s kitchen table like always after school. She had her tea, and I had my milk and cookies. But I didn't feel much like eating. Worrying about my mom made my stomach churn.

“You're not eating, April. Something you want to get off your chest?”

I couldn't hold it back. “Is Mom dying?” I burst out.

Gran looked surprised. Then she laughed. “Well now, that came out of left field,” she said. She stopped laughing when she saw the look on my face. “No, April May. What on earth would put that idea in your head?”

I told her about the weight loss, the pills she was taking, seeing the doctor every week, buying new clothes, and a bikini even.

Gran interrupted, laughing again. “She's trying to lose weight. Nothing wrong with looking your best.”

“For what?” I demanded.

“For who, you mean.” Gran winked at me.

“Who, then?”

Gran just shrugged. “Eat your cookies, dear.”

It was true my appetite was back after learning Mom wasn't dying, of course now I had another mystery. Who was Mom getting all pretty for? I ate a cookie and set my mind to working.

Mom was an art restorer, working at the University. Every time I'd been over there all her colleagues were at least a hundred years old. With gray beards and stuffy accents. Except for Linda. She was the only other woman in the department. She was Mom’s age, I think, and Mom’s boss, too, I think. Mom was a professor, and Linda was director. Linda and Mom were friends. Linda didn’t have any kids but mom and her went out a lot together. You have to keep an open mind if you want to be a detective or a writer, so I knew it was possible Linda and my mom were an item? But it didn't make sense. They’d been friends for years so I couldn't see that changing into dating now.

The next Wednesday, Mom was trying on her new clothes. I was at the kitchen table slurping my cereal.

“What do you think of this?” She asked, pirouetting in front of me.

The shirt totally showed off her boobs. I frowned. “Are you going on a date?”

She sighed and tromped upstairs. She was back in a few minutes. Different shirt, looser.

“That looks nice,” I said. “Who are you dressing up for?”

“No one. There's no harm in trying to look nice,” she said. She washed down a couple of pills with her coffee.

“It's Wednesday. Do you have another doctor's appointment today?”

Her cheeks turned red. “Yes, I'll be picking you up a little late.”

“It's him.” My eyes got wide. “You're dressing up for your doctor? Isn't that kinda weird?”

“It's not like that.” Her cheeks stayed red, though. “I mean, no! Linda's seeing him, too, you know.” She frowned at me. “It's none of your business, April. And don't slurp.”

See? Mom's always telling me stuff is none of my business. So I asked Gran.

Gran gave me a long look over her teacup. “Is this about your father, April?”

Talk about out of left field (whatever that means). My mom always said,“Your father is dead,” and she always said it in the tone of voice where I couldn't tell if she meant dead or dead to me. I’d never met him. This was so not about him. To my mind, Gramps was my Dad. I told Gran that and she pulled me to her hefty bosom and hugged me tight.

“Besides,” I said, “what do you mean about him?”

Gran brushed away a tear. “Well, I mean, maybe you think your Mom shouldn’t see anyone else because of your Dad.”

My birthday was in a couple of months. I was turning ten; I knew things. I think Gran meant like on TV where the kids contrive to get their parents back together. Like maybe I was holding out hope for that.

I nodded. “Because Dad's a spy. And we never see him because he has to stay away to protect us from the bad guys who would use us against him.”

Gran's eyes got huge. She took my hand and patted it, staring into my eyes trying to figure out if I was on the level. I let her stew a bit.

I laughed. “Joking, Gran! I got you good.”

“Oh, thank God.” Gran swatted at my head.

*

There was nothing funny about it when Linda died. Mom was in shock; that’s what Gran told me to explain why Mom had gone from looking good thin, to too skinny with her eyes bugging out a bit. Gran and I didn’t go to the funeral because we didn’t know Linda, really. Mom came back looking bad.

I held her hand as she blotted her eyes, and Gran made her a cup of tea. I couldn’t think of anything to say, and I guess Gran couldn’t either. Mom cried. Then there was a knock on the front door.

Gran doesn’t use the living room much. She likes to keep it pristine. She lives in the kitchen, and we always use the back door. So I deduced it couldn’t be anyone we knew. I was right. Gran led a police officer into the kitchen. I did recognize him, however. He was one of the officers who had arrested the art forger who had tried to take Gran’s painting.

He remembered us, too. He shook Gran’s hand and mine. “Keeping out of trouble, I hope?” he said. Mom blotted her eyes again.

“How can we help you, Officer?” Gran didn’t look friendly.

“Detective Brown.” He cleared his throat. “I, uh, need to ask you some questions, Ms. Wilkerson?” He looked at Mom.

Gran scowled. “Well, do you or don't you?”

Detective Brown looked even more flustered. I wondered how professional he could be. I thought you were supposed to keep a poker face when you're a cop.

“Please, have a seat,” Mom said. “How can I help you?”

He stood, shuffling from foot to foot. “I’d prefer we talk down at the station,” he said.

Gran went into full-on mama bear mode. “Look here, she just came from her best friend’s funeral.” She got up into his face. “There’s no way you’re asking my girl anything without me around, buster.”

“I am sorry for your loss,” he said to Mom. “We just have to cross all the t’s and dot the i’s. You know how it is.”

I nodded. “Indeed.”

They all looked at me.

“Go on upstairs, April,” Mom said.

There was no arguing, so I skipped out and thumped up the stairs. By the time I crept back down, Detective Brown had taken a seat. Mom's purse was open, with her stuff scattered on the table. Detective Brown held up two pill bottles and looked at them closely. I couldn’t hear too well because I was hiding behind Gran’s big reading chair. I sure didn’t want her to catch me, not in the mood she was in.

“…same doctor. They’re for thyroid problems, heart,” Mom was stuttering. “Women of a certain age, he said. . .” Then she was crying again.

I felt like rushing in there and chasing that Detective Brown out, but Gran was ahead of me. We’re a team, Gran and me, we think alike.

“What motive could she possibly have?” Gran practically growled.

Detective Brown stood. “The only motive we can find is that Ms. Wilkerson here is next in line for Ms. Baker’s job as Director of the Department. Money is always a motive. I'm sorry, Ms. Wilkerson, but I do need to ask you to come down to the station.”

Mom packed up her purse. I slunk lower down behind the chair and watched as he led my Mom out by the arm. Gran stood by the front door until the sound of his car was gone.

“You can come out now, April May,” she said, finally. Can’t pull nothing over on my Gran.

She went into the kitchen and worked her old rotary phone, calling a lawyer. Just like on TV.

“Are they going to arrest Mom?” I demanded.

“Over my dead body,” Gran snapped.

“Mine, too,” I said.

“Listen up, April May, you are doing nothing about this. Got it?”

“But we’re a team, Gran!”

“No. No team. My job is to protect you and your mom. Your job is to go to school and to not worry. You hear me?” Gran looked real stern so I couldn’t even talk to her about what I was thinking.

I stayed at Gran's that night. I didn’t sleep too well, thinking about my mom in jail. The next morning Gran told me she’d made arrangements for me to go to my friend Pam’s house after school. A gentleman from her aquafit class was taking her out to dinner, she said. Well, honestly. First Mom, now Gran. It didn’t sit right with me that she was going out to dinner while Mom rotted in jail. I didn’t say anything because I saw an opportunity, and I took it.

For my last birthday before Gramps died, he gave me a whole detective kit. It was more like a spy kit, but he told me it was the same thing, really. You’re trying to gather information or clues, to solve a puzzle, and it could be either figuring out what someone is planning to do or what they’ve already done. My Mom was all “Don’t encourage her, Dad.” I remember him muttering back, “But it’s what she likes.”

I’d left it up in Gran’s attic. While Gran was in the shower, I snuck up and found the kit in a drawer of an old desk. There was a micro listener that clipped to my ear for hearing far away sounds. A pen with invisible ink that had micro-sized notepaper that hid in the handle and a decoder light. To be honest, none of it worked. I’d discovered that when I couldn’t hear squat from the attic. It was all pretty useless. Except for the binoculars. They weren’t toys.

I threw it all into my backpack anyway and ran out in time to make the school bus. Gran, in her bathrobe, ran after me with my lunch, reminding me, sternly, to go to Pam’s after school. I smiled and nodded. I had a bad day at school. Mr. Grant kept telling me to focus. Having Mom jailed for murder focused me all right. Just not on math. I didn’t care that I was in trouble with my teacher. I was figuring to get into bigger trouble anyway. I had no idea just how much bigger.

I did go to Pam’s after school; I just didn’t stay there. I told them there was a change of plans, and my mom was home early, after all. Then I went to Mom’s doctor and waited. Of course.

There were lots of women, all around my mom’s age. Some were heavy, some thin, some thin with buggy eyes. They all came out of the doctor’s office with little smiles on their faces and made appointments with the receptionist. My mom wasn’t the only one who blushed over him.

“Can I help you, dear?” The receptionist asked, interrupting my thinking.

“I’m just waiting for my mom,” I told her. Gran doesn’t care for liars, so I always try to be at least a little truthful.

“And she is?”

“Right here,” I said cheerfully and followed a random woman out.

So then I had to wait in the parking lot. I used my deductive skills to try and figure out which car might be his. I went with the shiny black SUV parked off to the side. The license plate read: DRSLIM. That was a clue.

Finally, he came out. He was handsome, I guess. Lots of curly black hair and he was tall. The SUV whoop-whooped as he keyed the lock. He was still half-way across the lot. From my hiding place behind some nice shrubbery, I tossed my decoder pen behind him. When he turned to look, I climbed into the SUV and gently closed the door behind me. Then I dove into the second back seat. I was sure he hadn't seen me.

I was sure he hadn’t seen me ’cause I was peeking between the seats and saw him take a gold ring from his suit pocket and slide it onto his finger. He was married and hiding it. I slid down low when he started the SUV and checked his rear-view mirror. He drove a while. When he stopped and got out, he slammed his door hard. Then the rear hatch opened, and he leaned over the seat to look at me.

“Out,” he said.

Well, I could hardly pretend I was there by accident so I got out. It wasn’t hard to force some tears; he didn't look friendly.

“I lost my mom,” I cried.

He frowned at me. “In the back seat of my car?”

Before I could come up with something, the front door of the biggest house I’d ever seen flew open. A lady stood there, very thin, with buggy eyes that looked like her head was being squeezed.

“Oh, Davey, I’m so glad you’re home! There's someone in the house!” One hand clutched her chest. I gathered she was his wife. To be honest, I’d have put her as his mom. Maybe an older sister, to be nice about it.

Dr. Daveyslim looked at me suspiciously. He grabbed my arm, not gently, and pulled me inside.

“I'm sure it’s nothing,” he said to her all soothingly. “Did you take your meds today?”

She nodded. “My heart’s just pounding,” she gasped. “I called the police. They’re on their way.”

“It’s just your imagination. You know how you are.” He pulled out his phone. He patted her shoulder while he told the cops not to respond; his wife was just having an episode.

“No, Davey. There’s someone here. In your office!” She took his arm and looked at him. “I’m not imagining things.” She was practically begging. “Don’t you hear that?”

He brushed her hand off his arm. We were standing in a ginormous hallway, bigger than Gran’s whole house. The stairs curved up to the next level. We could all hear footsteps from a room up above. Footsteps that would stop, then start again. Clearly someone was creeping around up there.

“I don’t hear anything,” Dr. Davey said. “You should take your pills.”

“I already did. I told you.”

He sighed. “Take them again. For me, please.”

The penny dropped, as Gran liked to say. “I wouldn’t do that,” I told Mrs. Dr.Daveyslim.

She noticed me for the first time. “Who are you?”

“April May,” I said.

“What?” The poor woman was so confused, and I was willing to bet it was the result of those pills.

“I hear footsteps, too,” I assured her.

Dr. Daveyslim scowled at me. “Sit.” He jerked me over to a bench by the door and sat me down, hard. A little desk stood beside the bench, and he pulled out a gun from the drawer. Not a big gun, but still.

I wouldn’t have thought it possible but Mrs. Dr.Davey's eyes bugged out even more. “I’ll call the police.”

“No,” he said. “I can still make this work.” He looked kinda excited, like things were coming together for him.

He flicked the gun towards the stairs. “Go on, both of you.”

“Davey, what is this?”

“I think he’s trying to kill you,” I told her as we climbed the stairs. “The pills aren’t working fast enough so he'll have the intruder shoot you, probably.” I talked real loud so whoever was up there would hear us coming.

Dr. Davey poked the gun in my back. “Smart girl,” he hissed. “Now be quiet or you’ll be the first to go.”

I won’t pretend I wasn’t scared. You can’t talk your way around a bullet.

We reached the top of the staircase. A long hallway with wood floors and dark wood panels led away into the distance. The footsteps had stopped, and all was quiet except for Mrs. Dr. Davey’s ragged breathing. She was crying but didn’t seem all that surprised.

Dr. Davey pushed open the first door on the right and shoved me and the Mrs. in ahead of him.

It was dark in there. Heavy curtains covered the windows and glass bookshelves lined the walls. I took Mrs. Dr. Davey’s hand and ran towards the large desk in the middle of the room. I crouched down behind it and pulled her down with me. I noticed right away there was no chair there. Which doesn’t make sense for a desk.

That’s because the desk chair came crashing down from behind the door onto the bad doctor’s arm. He shouted and dropped the gun. Gran stepped out of the shadows and belted him with the chair again. He fell, reaching for the gun, but I scampered out and kicked it out of his reach. Gran sat on him. He grunted.

“Use your device, April, and call 911,” said Gran. She meant my phone. I was happy to see her. We really were a team.

The woman on the other end of the phone sounded mad. “We already had a call from this address,” she snarked, “then it was cancelled. You can get in big trouble, young lady, for wasting police time.”

“Call Detective Brown, please,” I shouted. “Tell him it’s April May and Gran.”

Gran is heavy but Dr. Davey was strong, and it looked like he was going to throw her off. Mrs. Dr. Davey scuttled out from behind the desk and grabbed the gun. She pointed it first at Gran, then me, then her husband.

“What’s going on here?” She demanded. “Get off him,” she yelled at Gran.

Dr. Davey stood and spread his arms, grinning wide. “Honey, these people are crazy. Give me the gun. The police are on their way.” He scowled at me, then ducked as Gran swung the chair at his head.

He danced out of reach, toward the gun. Mrs. Davey put the desk between her and him, the gun shaking in her hand.

“Just give me the gun and everything will be all right,” he said.

The two of them faced off over the desk. Gran had hold of me right quick and all but tossed me out of the room. My Gran is strong.

“Run, April,” she ordered. “Out of the house.”

“What about you?”

“I’m right behind you.”

She was huffing and puffing behind me as I booked it down the hallway. Footsteps pounded after us. We made it to the bottom of the staircase when a heavy hand fell on my shoulder and spun me around. Dr. Davey had hold of Gran, too. She tried to wallop him again, but he was too quick for her. His eyes looked wild; things were getting out of hand. I don’t know what he was going to do next because the front door banged open, echoing in the hallway.

Detective Brown strode in, looking very coppish and impressive. Especially when he looked up the stairs and pulled out his gun. I turned around and Mrs. Dr. Davey was coming down the stairs holding Dr. Davey's gun. She sure looked like the crazy lady from someone’s attic: Rail thin, frizzy hair, eyes bulging.

“Put down the gun,” Detective Brown ordered.

“Shoot her!” Dr. Davey yelled. “She’s crazy; she’s having an episode.”

The gun trembled in Mrs. Dr. Davey's hand. She was staring at her husband when a very un-crazy look crossed her face. She raised the gun at him.

“Drop it!” Detective Brown said again, keeping his gun levelled at her.

I jumped in front of her. “No, it’s him,” I shouted.

Gran jumped in front of me. “She’s right,” she said. “Arrest this man for the murder of Linda Baker. And the attempted murder of his wife.”

Dr. Davey made a break for it, but Detective Brown didn’t hesitate. He tripped him and handcuffed him. Gran held her hand out for Mrs. Dr. Davey’s gun. She held on to it, still pointing it at her husband.

“You’ll never prove anything,” she whispered. “He always tells everyone I’m crazy.”

“Oh, I found the proof,” Gran said. “He’ll rot behind bars for a good long time.”

Detective Brown stepped over and took the gun. He looked at Gran and me. “Why am I not surprised to find you two here?” he sighed.

Mom met us at the station. She clutched me tight and didn’t let go while Gran laid it all out for Detective Brown. Dr. Davey was trying to kill his wife using a mix of medications for low thyroid function and high blood pressure. Not uncommon problems in women of a certain age, she said. I took that to mean my mom’s age. She had discovered evidence that he had been experimenting on his patients to get the doses right for murder. And, his motive? That huge house belonged to Mrs. Dr. Davey. I reconsidered my career choices and was thinking about maybe becoming a DRSLIM myself. So my mom wouldn’t have to say all the time that everything I wanted was too expensive, and so Gran wouldn’t have to count her pennies. Detective Brown was right; money was always a motive.

“Gran,” I whispered. “Did you lie to me? You were supposed to be at dinner.”

“I did go to dinner,” she answered. “I just didn’t stay very long. You were supposed to be at Pam’s.” She frowned.

“I was. I just didn’t stay very long.” Before Gran could lose her temper, I added, “What were you doing in the house with the Mrs. in there?”

“I thought it was empty. I called and hallooed, but I guess she was in another wing.”

Mom dropped her head into her hands. “I feel so stupid,” she said.

Detective Brown reached out awkwardly to pat her back, then stopped, shuffled his feet, and coughed. I had an idea he kinda liked her, and that explained why he didn’t seem so professional.

“Sometimes we don’t see what’s right under our nose,” Gran said. She rolled her eyes at Mom then tossed me a wink.

I grinned. I was glad we were a team again, Gran and me.