Jan Hudson - The Cop

“His persuasive skills?”

“Yep. Seems that Cole has announced that he isn’t going to J.J. and Mary Beth’s wedding.”

“For heaven’s sake, why not?” Kelly asked.

“Search me. I think J.J.’s feelings are hurt, and Miss Nonie’s beside herself. Frank’s going to, quote, ‘try to talk some sense into him.”’

Mary Beth Parker, soon to be Outlaw, hurried in. “Sorry I’m late, gang, but it seems as if I have a million things to do. Wanted to remind you that I won’t be here next week.” She grinned. “We’ll be on our honeymoon, but Beverly will take over the class for me while I’m gone. Bev, will you get the music?”

“Listen, my friend,” Carrie said to Kelly as they lined up, “I’m going to be swamped with all the family doings tomorrow, but I’ll see you at the wedding on Saturday. I’m eager to catch up on all the latest.”

“Great.”

KELLY GOT A BEEP from the hospital about the time the exercise class was over. One of her patients was having problems, so instead of going home to shower and change first, she headed immediately to Naconiche Memorial.

She knew she was in trouble when she spotted Warren Iverson and his wife at the nurses’ station. The moment Mr. Iverson caught sight of her in sweats and damp hair, his beady eyes popped, and his bulldog jowls began to quiver. Mrs. Iverson stood beside him like a cornered mouse. Warren Iverson was one of the few human beings on Earth who she could actually say she detested. Unfortunately he was the chairman of the hospital board. And to put it mildly, she wasn’t on his Christmas card list, either.

He looked her up and down as if she were a fresh pile he’d just stepped in. “Dr. Martin!”

She forced a bit of a smile with her curt nod. “Mr. Iverson. Mrs. Iverson.”

“I can’t believe that you’re in the hospital dressed like that!”

Biting her lip to hold back a stinging reply, she simply shrugged and stepped around him to get her patient’s chart and speak with the nurse. Bedamned if she was going to make excuses to that jerk, nor was she going to be goaded into creating a scene. He would love an excuse to yank her hospital privileges.

Watching him from the corner of her eye, Kelly saw his mouth working like a hooked catfish and steeled herself for another assault. Thankfully it didn’t come. Mrs. Iverson timidly tugged at his coat sleeve, and he stalked down the hall.

Lorene Cuthbert, the middle-aged R.N. at the station, glared after Iverson. “Sanctimonious old fart!” she muttered as she and Kelly went in the opposite direction. “What does he have against you anyhow?”

Kelly chuckled. “Maybe he doesn’t like redheads.”

But that wasn’t what he had against her. Kelly knew exactly why Warren Iverson hated her. He had found the birth control pills that Kelly had prescribed for his daughter Rachel. Forget that Rachel was eighteen. Forget that she was sleeping with most of the single men in town and a few of the married ones. Forget that Kelly had talked with her repeatedly about the physical dangers of her behavior. Iverson had found the pills and gone into a rage, calling Rachel a whore and calling Kelly worse. When his daughter turned up pregnant a few months later, he threw her out of the house and blamed everything on Kelly for encouraging such abominable and licentious behavior.

Kelly shook off the effects of her encounter with him and put on a pleasant face for her patient.

Mrs. Phelps, an eighty-seven-year-old widow, smiled sweetly as they entered her room. “Now, don’t you look pretty in green?”

“Why, thank you,” Kelly said. “I hope I don’t smell like a horse. I’ve been to aerobics class.”

“With Mary Beth? I liked going to her seniors stretching class when I felt up to it. I hate to miss her wedding. She will be such a beautiful bride, and J.J. will be a handsome groom.”

Kelly only smiled and listened to Mrs. Phelps’s frail heart. This was the hardest part of being a doctor. There was very little she could do except to make her patient as comfortable as possible. Oh, how she wished the hospice program was in place already. She’d been working to get it going for a couple of years, and, if luck was with them, it would be up and running in a few months.

But too late for Mrs. Phelps.

AT SEVEN FORTY-FIVE on Friday morning Kelly heard a car drive up in front and a door slam. She lifted a slat on the miniblind to look out. Why she bothered, she didn’t know. As always, it was Gladys Sowell, her maid, climbing from the back seat of Naconiche’s only taxi and gathering her black coat around her. Taxi fare was part of her pay. There were no buses in Naconiche, but the taxi fare was nominal and the driver, Gladys’s cousin, dependable.

A stocky woman with graying hair gathered up in a bun, Gladys was in her midfifties but looked older. She arrived every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday at seven forty-five on the button to feed the cats and Kelly, do laundry and keep the house spotless. A better housekeeper than she was a cook, she also cleaned the office rooms every afternoon at a reduced rate in exchange for medical attention. Since she was a terrible hypochondriac, Gladys probably got the best end of the deal, but she was a legacy along with the retiring doctor’s practice.

Kelly finished dressing and walked into the kitchen where Gladys was feeding the cats and talking baby talk to them. Rocky and Pierre adored Gladys, and they were winding themselves around her legs as she pulled off her coat and put on her apron. Kelly had given her the coat last Christmas.

“Mornin’, Dr. Kelly. How ’bout some bacon and eggs and biscuits?”

“Just fruit and cereal this morning, thanks.” Gladys’s idea of breakfast was greasier than anything at the City Grill. “How are you today?”

“Only tolerable. I had a sour stomach all night last night, and it kept me up and down a right smart.”

“Have you been taking your medicine and watching your diet?”

“I’ve run out of them little purple capsules.”

Kelly knew it was futile to scold Gladys about her diet. “I’ll leave some samples at the office for you.”

“And I’m out of my nerve pills, too.”

“I’ll get some from my bag.” She kept a supply of Gladys’s harmless “nerve pills” in an unmarked vial and dispensed them a few at a time.

“I’ll have you some oatmeal done in just a jiffy. It’s cold as a cast-iron commode out there, and you need something to stick to your ribs. You’re likely to be busy today.”

Gladys turned out to be right. Kelly had a booger of a day. It seemed that half her patients had ailments, and two emergencies kept her at the hospital until after eleven that night. Even her cats, Pierre and Rocky, yowled at her when she walked in the door.

“Sorry, guys,” she said as she scooped some food into their dishes and gave them fresh water. “I’m pooped. Don’t wake me early in the morning or you’re toast.”

She fell into bed and slept until almost eight. She would have slept longer except that she had two phone calls. One was a patient in labor, the other was Nonie Outlaw. She returned Miss Nonie’s call on her way to the hospital.

“Dr. Kelly, I’m at my wit’s end,” Miss Nonie said. She sounded distraught and near tears. “It’s Cole.”

Kelly’s heart gave a lurch. “What’s wrong?”

“He refuses to go to J.J. and Mary Beth’s wedding. We couldn’t even pry him out to go to the rehearsal and dinner last night. Everybody in the family has tried to talk to him, but he’s a stubborn as Vick Trawick’s mule. I—I thought that since you seem to have a way with Cole that perhaps you could persuade him.”

“Does he have a suit to wear?”

“Frank was going to lend him one, but nobody would care if he came in pajamas and bathrobe.”