Timmie swept up over the bridge, the river stretching somnolent and silver out beneath her and St. Charles tucked behind the bluffs beyond. St. Charles had been the first Missouri state capital. Its downtown area by the river still boasted cobbled streets and rows of period brick buildings that now housed antique shops and restaurants. Quiet and shady and as slow-moving as the river, it was a lovely place to visit on an autumn morning. Especially if Conrad was waiting for you in the street.
Timmie parked the car, grabbed purse and bag, and ran to greet him, already smiling at the new white Panama hat he had affected with his white Armani suit.
"Timothy Ann, mi amore!" he sang like an opera singer. "You look like... madre mia, you look like a terrorist!" He laughed, crowed, swung her around in a hug that could have crushed ribs, and deposited her back on the street again. "And you've brought me something to nibble on, haven't you?"
They sat together on the glassed-in balcony of an open-brick-and-hanging-plant kind of restaurant that overlooked Main Street and enjoyed lunch and final diagnoses and gossip. Within ten minutes Timmie had forgotten the acrimony she'd carried across the river. After ten more, she'd lost herself in Conrad's bubbling laugh and rapier-sharp intelligence.
"Conspiracy?" He hooted, turning heads all across the high-walled tea room. "Tucker Van Adder? Bella donna, you watch too much television. Tucker Van Adder doesn't have the brain power to conspire against his breakfast, much less the community. He's vain and stupid and locked into the politics of that town like a tick on a whippet's ass. If there is an evil plot afoot, the best they could do is keep it from him, so he doesn't screw it up."
"You don't think he'd need to be in on this?"
"I think they know they can count on his laziness. Now, exactly what do you think is going on?"
Timmie leaned forward so the people at every other table didn't hear, and she told him. While he listened, eyes focused entirely on Timmie, Conrad sipped tea and juggled cutlery and hummed faintly familiar arias. And then he laughed.
"But this is wonderful!" he insisted, slamming the spoons down with a clash.
Timmie blinked. "Wonderful."
"Of course! If we can prove it, we can ride Van Adder out on a rail."
"If we prove it, I'll be tied to the tracks right in front of him, Conrad. Nobody wants to know."
"Bah! They'll live. You're sure about this problem, now?"
So she pulled out the printout and showed it to him.
And he tapped and hummed and read, and finally nodded.
"Your friend the doctor is right, carissima. There's something here that bears looking into. What can I do?"
"Make sure Van Adder doesn't close the file on any Restcrest patient who gets turfed to God. Demand postmortems."
He nodded. "Absolutely. Well, I do have friends, you know. We'll try. Even better, I'll talk you into taking his place."
Timmie grimaced. "Better yet, talk yourself into it."
"Absolutely not!" he was shouting again, his method of gentle emphasis. "I want you as coroner! That way," he said with a grin, "I can consult, and we could work together frequently."
Timmie leaned close, laughing. "Caro, the last man who propositioned me like that ended up needing stitches." She didn't bother to say that he'd needed the stitches before propositioning her.
It didn't make any difference. Conrad laughed. "It's why I love you so much. You don't take any crap off anybody. But most of all, you don't take it off me!"
"What should I look for, Conrad?" she asked, deadly serious.
His expression didn't change a bit. His words, however, were quiet and professional. "The agent that's being used?" he asked. "If I were to do this to harmless old people, I would do it with digitoxin. One of the paralytics, maybe, succinylcholine. Or just zap them with too much of any of their prescribed medication. It probably wouldn't take much, and nobody would notice."
Timmie's scowl was heartfelt. "Thanks. You've really narrowed it down."
"I'd also find out why these people in particular died. What do they have in common?"
"They were all Restcrest patients... I think. I'm asking Barb Adkins to do some checking on the computer for me to make sure."
Conrad lifted a finger in exception, and Timmie noticed the perfectly manicured nail. "Even if all the victims were Restcrest patients, not all Restcrest patients were victims. Why these?"
Timmie nodded. "Maybe the families can tell me. I'll talk to them. I'm also doing a couple of shifts at Restcrest."
Conrad grimaced for her and patted her arm, knowing perfectly well what that meant. "Bellissima, you come see me. I'll comfort you. In the meantime, why don't I just trundle this little gem of a list off to my friends in the FBI and see if they have something familiar in their famous computer?"
"Ooooh," Timmie answered, her eyes lighting for the first time. "A pattern? You'd do that for me?"
"I'd slay neurosurgeons for you, mi amore. Now, eat your pasta. The garlic will protect you from doctors." And he laughed, as if everything they had discussed were light and silly.
Timmie couldn't remain quite so sanguine. "Don't be too noisy about it, Conrad. I don't know who's all involved. I know it's enough people to spare at least three of them to beat up a reporter who's helping me, and some of them might have been cops."
Conrad nodded vigorously and attacked his soup, his attention still on the printout. "Well then, we'll be as quiet as church mice until we find something. And then I'll personally call some very trustworthy people and have them sweep in like the Valkyrie and clean up that town. How's that sound?"
"Distressingly operatic."
Conrad dropped his spoon. "You must love opera, bella donna. Don't break my heart."
Timmie found she could laugh again. "Conrad, I'd rather sit through a four-day hemorrhoidectomy marathon."
First Conrad grimaced, hand to chest. Then, in typical fashion, he threw back his head, laughed, and finished his soup.
* * *
By the time Timmie began to wend her way back home, she was humming. She had an ally. Not that Murphy wasn't an ally, but Conrad was a known quantity. He was an official with enough pull in the state to take care of matters once they were brought to his attention. He'd given her hope that she could get out of this fairly unscathed. All she had to do was survive a shift over at Restcrest, a furtive dig through the lives of patient families, and her regular shifts down in ER with Angie, one of which she was due for in less than three hours.
That three hours gave her enough time to take the scenic route home. Instead of whizzing out the very uninspiring Highway 70 with all the other harried commuters and over-the-road truckers, she turned off onto Highway 94 and drove the north bank of the Missouri River.
It was worth it. The sun was high and the clouds moving fast. The fields still held their green and rolled away toward a horizon of trees that sparkled with their last clinging leaves. Farm buildings gleamed where they sat tucked into the folds of land, and around some corners, the Missouri appeared, glistening and grand and silent.
Once away from the heavier suburbs, the road twisted and climbed and dropped like a rural roller coaster, the only sounds filtering past Timmie's rock and roll birdsong and church bells. Altogether a lovely reward for the trip. Timmie cranked up the radio, this time to accompany the choreography of the road, and reacquainted herself with the joys of a stick shift.