“I knew Eli.”
“Any thoughts on the incident?”
“The death of a child is always tragic.” O’Tool’s face remained passive and utterly composed.
“Like River Brice.”
“Yes. I heard about the baby.”
“Did you know the coroner Fenton Ogilvie?”
“I did. Safe using the past tense there.”
“Ogilvie signed both the children’s deaths as accidental. Was he competent?”
“Fenton was poorly toward the end of his life.”
“Meaning he was an alcoholic.”
“Is that a question?”
“The Brices fired Cora because of health issues. What were they?”
“Really, Detective.”
“Let me lay down some facts, Doctor.” Ramsey’s voice had gone steely. “River Brice died on Cora Teague’s watch. Saffron Brice broke her arm while in Cora Teague’s care. Saffron is distressed on hearing her former nanny’s name.”
“I’m sure the child—”
“The ER physician who treated Eli Teague had reservations concerning the explanation of events surrounding his death.”
“Did he share those reservations with Ogilvie?”
“He noted them in the chart.”
Blank stare.
“Cora missed six weeks of school following Eli’s death. Where was she during that time?”
Nothing.
“Cora may be dead or she may be out there. And she may be dangerous. Dr. Brennan and I need to know what’s wrong with her.”
There was a long flatline of silence. When I was certain O’Tool would dismiss us, he spoke in a very low voice.
“Cora’s issues were primarily behavioral.”
“What does that mean?”
“I was treating her for epilepsy.”
O’Tool’s comment was moronic. “Epilepsy isn’t a behavioral issue,” I blurted. “Epilepsy results from abnormal electrical activity in the brain.”
“Yes.” Frosty. “It does.”
“Are you trained in neurology?”
“I am a GP.”
“Did you refer Cora to a specialist?” I was growing more outraged with every word that came out of his mouth.
“Cora was having seizures. An EEG showed an epileptic focus in her right temporal lobe. It did not require a specialist to diagnose TLE, temporal lobe epilepsy.”
“Did you prescribe an AED?” I referred to antiepilepsy drugs. Of which there are dozens.
“For a while the child took Depakote. It did not help. If anything, the medication made her episodes worse. Ultimately, her parents chose to discontinue use of all pharmaceuticals. To treat the condition in their own way.”
“Treat it how?” Ramsey asked.
“Cora was on a regime to ensure that she ate regularly and got enough sleep every night. John and Fatima were working hard to keep her stress levels low, and to ensure that she used no drugs or alcohol.”
“Are you for real?” This was sounding straight out of the dark ages.
“Cora had”—O’Tool stopped to correct himself—“has good periods and bad periods. During the bad periods, when she has fits, her parents keep her at home.”
Fits?
“When did you last see her?” Sensing my growing indignation, Ramsey retook the reins.
“The summer of 2011. Her puppy had died. She was very upset and blamed herself.”
“What happened to the dog?” I demanded, feeling the now familiar cold tickle.
O’Tool’s eyes leveled on mine, filled with thought, perhaps with no thought at all. “It fell from Cora’s upstairs bedroom window. I’ve often wondered how the animal managed to climb onto the sill.”
I was about to ask another question when someone knocked on the door. “Dr. O’Tool?”
“Yes, Mae.”
“Mrs. Ockelstein is growing impatient.”
“Show her into room two and take her weight and blood pressure.” Turning to us. “I have patients.”
We were dismissed.
Back in the SUV, I shared my apprehension concerning Cora Teague.
“Eli, the baby, the puppy.” I realized I was speaking too loudly, tried to tone it down. “Maybe Mason Gulley.”
“You think Cora killed them?”
“She’s the common link.”
“Could epilepsy make her violent?”
“Unlikely. But an epileptic should be taking antiseizure medication.”
“You question O’Tool’s handling of Cora’s condition?”
“That knucklehead couldn’t handle a hangnail without a manual. And I’m sure he wasn’t being fully honest with us.”
“You think he was lying?”
“Maybe. Or at least holding back.”
“Why?”
I raised my hands in a frustrated “who knows?” gesture.
“So what are you suggesting?”
“I don’t know. But every path leads back to Cora.”
While I was driving, names and faces whirled in my brain like flakes in a snow globe. Terrence O’Tool. Fenton Ogilvie. Grandma, Susan Grace, and Mason Gulley. John, Fatima, Eli, and Cora Teague. Joel, Katalin, Saffron, and River Brice. Father G and Jesus Lord Holiness church.
Again and again one name swirled to the surface.
Twenty miles down the road the thought scissored in. A wild jolt of realization.
I pulled to the shoulder and dialed my cell. And floated the name Granger Hoke.
While awaiting a callback, I diverted to Heatherhill.
As before, I arrived during supper. To my surprise, Mama’s suite was empty.
Recalling Harry’s words, I doubled back to the dining room. Through the wide arched doorway I spotted Mama at a table for two. Her dinner companion, I assumed Clayton Sinitch, was short and so bald the overheads reflected off his scalp. Round specs, plaid shirt, cardigan, bow tie. I wondered if his look was intentionally retro or just old-guy dorky.
Mama was wearing pearls and a pale gray sweater. Her face was pink with pleasure, perhaps with the wine sparkling red in a goblet by her plate.
As I watched, Sinitch reached out and placed a hand on hers. Mama dipped her chin and glanced up through lowered lashes, a flirtatious mademoiselle.
Something surged in my chest and knocked against my ribs. Anxiety? Love?
Envy?
Unexpected tears burned the backs of my lids.
Behind me, a clock chimed softly. Feeling like a voyeur, I quietly withdrew.
The return call came twenty minutes later as I was clicking my seat belt after a quick stop at a KFC. I checked the screen, then answered.
“Thank you for calling me back so quickly.” Setting the bag on the console and the phone on the dash.
“Quiet night in the rectory.”
Aren’t they all? I wondered.
“How is your mother?”
“You know Daisy.” He did. Father James Morris, Mama’s confessor the on-and-off times she viewed herself as Catholic, still served as pastor of St. Patrick’s in Charlotte. Rector, actually, though I wasn’t totally clear on the distinction. I knew his status was higher than a priest, lower than a bishop.
“I will take that to mean she is well.”
“I’m driving, Father. So I’ve got you on speaker.”
“Conversation won’t be a distraction for you?”
“I’m eager to hear what you’ve learned.”
“Sadly, not much. Because of the hour, all I could do was check the Official Catholic Directory. It’s a publication for clergy that, among other things, lists all parishes and priests.”
“You found him?” The car was a smell-bubble of fried chicken. As we spoke, I dug and scored a drumstick.
“Yes and no. Granger Hoke isn’t currently listed, so I worked my way back through old annual editions. Nothing is ever discarded around here. It took a while, but my perseverance paid off. Granger Hoke was born in St. Paul in 1954.”
“I thought the entire population of Minnesota was Lutheran.”
Morris ignored the quip. Humor had never been his strong suit. Growing up, Harry and I had called him Rigor. Even Gran had joined in the joke at times.