T Is for Trespass

between two bushes, then more or less fell onto Henry’s patio. I probably left a telltale path of broken twigs behind me, but I didn’t stop to check. It wasn’t until I was in my apartment with the door locked that I dared take a breath. Who the hell was that guy?
    I turned the thumb lock on the door, left the lights off, and went around the kitchen counter to the blind cul-de-sac, where my sink, stove, and cupboards form a windowless U. I sank to the floor and sat there with my knees drawn up, waiting for someone to pound on the door and demand an explanation. Now that I was safe, my heart began to pound, banging in my chest like someone trying to break down a door with a battering ram.
    In my mind’s eye, I ran through the entire sequence of events: the show I’d made of tapping on the window in the front door, pretending to communicate with someone inside. I’d tromped merrily down the front steps and tromped merrily up the back. Once inside, I’d opened and closed doors. I’d slid drawers back and forth on their tracks, checked two medicine cabinets, which by all rights should have squeaked on their hinges. I’d paid no attention to the noise I made because I’d thought I was alone. And all the time, that gorilla was sleeping in the next room. Was I out of my freakin’ mind?
    After thirty seconds in hiding, I started to feel stupid. I hadn’t been apprehended like some hot prowl burglar in the process of breaking and entering. No one had spotted me going in or out. No one had called the cops to report an intruder. Somehow I’d escaped detection—as far as I knew. Nonetheless, the incident was meant as an object lesson for yours truly. I should have taken it to heart, but I was struck dumb by the realization that I’d passed up the chance to lift the passbooks to Gus’s bank accounts.

21
    On the way to work the next morning, I took Santa Teresa Street as far as Aurelia, turned left, and made a detour into a drugstore parking lot. Jones Apothecary was an old-fashioned pharmacy, where the shelves were stocked with vitamins; first-aid remedies; nutritional supplements; ostomy supplies; nostrums; skin, hair, and nail products; and other items meant to alleviate minor human miseries. You could have your prescriptions filled, but you couldn’t buy lawn furniture. You could rent crutches and buy arch supports, but you couldn’t have film developed. They did offer a free blood-pressure check, and while I waited for service I sat down and affixed the cuff to my arm. After much huffing, squeezing, and releasing, the readout was 118/68 so I knew I wasn’t dead.
    As soon as the consultation window was free, I stepped up to the counter and caught the eye of the pharmacist, Joe Brooks, who’d been helpful in the past. He was a man in his seventies with snowy white hair that eddied into a swirl in the middle of his forehead. He said, “Yes, ma’am. How’re you? I haven’t seen you in a while.”
    “I’ve been around—staying out of trouble as much as possible,” I said. “Right now, I need some information and I thought you might help. I have a friend who’s taking a number of medications and I’m worried about him. I think he’s sleeping too much and when he’s awake, he’s confused. I’m wondering about side effects of the drugs he’s on. I made a list of what he’s taking, but the prescriptions weren’t filled here.”
    “That wouldn’t make a difference. Most pharmacists handle patient consultations the same way we do. We make sure the patient understands what the medication does, the dosage, and how and when it should be taken. We also explain any possible food or drug interactions and advise them to call the doctor if they have reactions out of the ordinary.”
    “That’s what I assumed, but I wanted to double-check. If I show you the list, can you tell me what these are for?”
    “Shouldn’t be a problem. Who’s the doctor?”
    “Medford. Do you know him?”
    “I do and he’s a good egg.”
    I took out my notebook and folded it open to the relevant page. He removed a pair of reading glasses from his jacket pocket and eased the stems over his ears. I watched him trace the lines of print with his eyes, commenting as he worked his way down the line. “These are all standard medications. The indapamide is a diuretic prescribed to lower blood pressure. Metoprolol’s a beta-blocker—again, prescribed to treat hypertension. Klorvess is a cherry-flavored potassium replacement