Corpse Suzette

been
absent, too. But she had been fortunate enough to have Granny Reid. And she
knew her life would have been sadly much different without Gran’s loving care
and input.
    Without Gran, she might
have been a lot like Abigail... without the dancing.
    “Enjoy the old mission,”
Savannah told Tammy. “There’s a great bookstore in the museum next door to the
church. Abby might like that. I’ll bring home something good for dinner.” Tammy
smiled. “Thanks, Savannah.”
    “No problem. And don’t
worry about how long she stays. I’d like the chance to get to know her better.”
     
    * * *
     
    Savannah resisted the urge
to hold her breath the entire time she was in the vet’s office. The odors of
pet urine and medicines made her remember every time she had showed up here, a
sick or hurt pet in tow, and the associated traumas. The last time she was
there, Cleopatra had something stuck in her throat, a piece of plastic from the
seal around a water bottle. One hundred and fifty dollars, and five painful
scratches later, Cleo was plastic-free but Savannah’s nerves had been shattered
and her monthly budget left in tatters.
    Yes, going to the vet’s
office was only slightly less stressful than a Pap smear.
    So, she didn’t waste time,
but strode up to the receptionist’s window.
    The young woman behind the
desk recognized her instantly. “Hi, Savannah. How’s Cleopatra?”
    “You remember our names.
How sweet.”
    “I remember the patients
who give me scars.” She held up a forearm, exposing a inch-long white mark.
    “Oh, sorry. Cleo’s fine,
thanks, but not any better about taking pills.”
    “Do you need a refill on
her methimazole?”
    “Thanks, but we’re set with
that.” Savannah glanced around and, although she could hear conversations and
occasional barking down the hall, there was no one else around. “Actually, I’m
here in sort of a professional capacity.”
    “Professional?”
    Savannah flipped open her
investigator’s ID. “I’m a private investigator. I just want to ask you a couple
of quick questions... totally off the record, of course.”
    The receptionist looked
skeptical. “What do you want to know?”
    “Just one little tiny
thing.” She leaned into the window and lowered her voice. “Can you tell me,
when was the last time Dr. Suzette Du Bois filled Sammy’s prescription?”
    The receptionist squirmed
in her chair. “Well, we aren’t really supposed to reveal confidential
information like that.”
    Savannah flashed her
brightest, warmest, down-homiest smile. “I know. And as one of your patients, I
really appreciate your discretion. But I’m a little worried about Sammy. We’re
trying to find Suzette, and I know he needs that phenobarbitol twice a day.
He’s such a sweet little dog, and...”
    “You won’t tell anybody
that I said anything?”
    “Honey, wild horses
couldn’t drag it out of me. I just need to know for myself... and Sammy, of
course.”
    After a quick glance down
the hallway, the receptionist whispered, “Four days ago.”
    “She came in here four days
ago and got a refill?”
    “Well, not Dr. Du Bois. She
never comes and gets it herself. She sends her secretary.”
    “Her secretary?”
    She nodded. “Blonde gal,
lots of makeup, late fifties maybe. I can’t remember her name.... It might
start with an M.”
    “Myrna?”
    “That’s it. Myrna. She came
in and got the new bottle.”
    “Thanks a bunch. And I’ll
do you a big favor in return.”
    The receptionist
brightened. “Really?”
    “Yeah, I’ll send you a box
of Godiva chocolates, anonymously, of course, and the next time Cleo or Di
needs a shot or to get something pulled out of their throats... I’ll take them
somewhere else.”
    “Really?”
    “Cross my heart and swear
to swallow my bubble gum.”
    “You got it!”
     
    Myrna, the receptionist,
was the first person Savannah saw when she stepped through the doors of Emerge.
She greeted Savannah with a warm but curious “hello” as Savannah walked up to
her desk.
    “Hi,” Savannah replied,
taking her first close look at the woman Dirk had described as “trampy
looking.” And while it was obvious by her too-high eyebrows, too-pronounced
cheekbones, too-plump lips, and too-bleached hair that Myrna had fought the
losing battle against aging a bit too vigorously, she seemed like a nice
person. Her smile—though suspiciously white and perfect—was sweet enough.
    “My name is Savannah,” she
said, “and I have an