Shellshock: R&P Labs Mysteries, #3

SHELLSHOCK

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CYNTHIA E. HURST

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R&P Labs Mysteries 3

Copyright © 2011  Cynthia E. Hurst

All rights reserved

Plane View Books

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The characters and situations in this work are wholly fictional and do not portray any actual persons, businesses or organizations.

Table of Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Epilogue

Prologue

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A lone seagull swooped low over the waterfront, searching for a meal among the garbage Dumpsters that lined the alley. Experience had taught it that this was a good time of day to forage, when the lunchtime rush was over and the restaurant staff would be throwing out the leftovers.

The gull did a diving turn and came to perch on a low wall. A few French fries were scattered on it and the gull picked them up in its bill, turning them skillfully to feed them lengthwise into its mouth. Fries gone, it hopped down from the wall and investigated further.

A few feet away, a back door opened and a young man came out, carrying a bag. If the seagull had been capable of registering impressions, it would have thought the man looked furtive. He opened the top of the bag and quickly emptied the contents into the nearest Dumpster. He shut the lid before the gull could get there, and it gave an indignant squawk.

You don’t want this, the man told the gull. Shut up and go catch a fish or something. It‘s healthier.

Man and gull glared at each other for a moment. Then the man crumpled up the bag, deposited it in another garbage can and went back inside, shutting the door quickly behind him. The seagull waited hopefully, but he didn’t return. With a final squawk, the bird took off, heading out over the water.

Chapter 1

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"It’s gonna be a wet Christmas, just like the ones I used to know

With raindrops falling, and seagulls calling

Let’s just hope it doesn’t snow..."

Rob Mangan stomped over to his office door and closed it with more force than necessary. It was the day before Thanksgiving but he still had at least an hour’s work to do before he could give himself up to thoughts of turkey and football, and the cheerful yodeling from the bacteriology lab in the next room was starting to get on his nerves.

I’m dreaming of a cheap Christmas, because I haven‘t got much dough...

The telephone on his desk rang, but Rob ignored it, although he could feel his temper flaring at yet another interruption. An unexpected and unwelcome November snowstorm had kept them all stuck at home for two days, so nearly everything was behind schedule and some time-critical testing work was having to be totally re-done. He bent over the keyboard, typing furiously as he tried to finish the report he was preparing for one of his better-heeled clients, in the fond hope that he would be paid before Christmas.

The phone stopped ringing and a door slammed on the other side of the building, making him jump. His own door opened and his younger brother’s strawberry blond head appeared in the gap.

Rule number one, Phil said. We never ignore a ringing phone, because it might be someone wanting to throw some business our way.

Rule number two, Rob said, without even looking up, is that no one calls with prospective business the day before Thanksgiving. If you were that concerned, you could have answered it in your own lab. I’m trying to finish Patterson’s report, and I’m having enough trouble concentrating with Mitch’s warbling. Now please leave me alone.

Someone’s in a touchy mood, Phil said, but he withdrew, leaving the door slightly ajar. Rob returned to the report. He had recently installed a template that made this job quicker, but he still had to transfer the data supplied by the bacteriologists and then double check the figures after he had slotted them into the columns. And then he had to prepare the invoice and type a cover letter. He sometimes wondered why he had bothered to get a doctorate in chemistry when secretarial courses clearly would have been more useful.

"On the first day of Christmas my true love sent to me

My pay check from R&P ..."

Rob shot out of his chair, pushing it backwards so hard that it bounced off the wall behind it. He strode out the door of his little office and covered the few feet to the open door of the bac lab in two long steps.

At his entrance, and the expression on his face, both bacteriologists froze guiltily. Virginia McClain, the senior of the two, was holding a beaker, which she set carefully on the worktop before turning back to face Rob. She was a calm, silver-haired woman in her sixties who had never caused Rob a moment’s anxiety, at least not in a work-related capacity. Her results were always accurate; her reports meticulous. He had recently discovered that Virginia had been somewhat more adventurous in her youth than anyone in the lab had imagined, but he knew he could always rely on her professionalism.

He could also always rely on Mitch Okada, but for what was more problematic. Mitch was young enough to be Virginia’s son, or possibly grandson, a half-Japanese former street kid who favored spiky manga hairstyles, graphic t-shirts and anything relating to the 1960s, which dovetailed neatly with Virginia’s background. The fact that Mitch had acquired a university degree and was a competent bacteriologist never ceased to amaze Rob, who wondered how he had kept quiet and concentrated enough to absorb an education.

Sorry, Mitch said before Rob could speak. I just got carried away with the holiday spirit. I mean, I wouldn’t be singing Christmas stuff but who ever heard of Thanksgiving carols?

It’s not what you’re singing; it’s the fact that I can’t concentrate, Rob said.

I’m sorry, Virginia said. It’s my fault. I should have stopped him. She was trying to keep a straight face, but a smile crept through. He does have a gift for parody, though. It was quite amusing. Although not, of course, when you’re trying to concentrate on work, she added hastily.

No, Rob agreed. He felt his irritation ebbing away. He could never really lose his temper with any of his staff  members, even Phil, and he’d had more than thirty years of practice with him.

Are you two actually working on something? I thought everything had been finished up, because of the holiday weekend.

We’re just plating out these hamburger samples, Virginia said. We had to start over with new ones, I’m afraid, because of the snow. We can put them in the incubator before we go and then I’ll come by on Friday and take them out and read them. I don’t mind doing it. I don’t have any other plans for the weekend after Thanksgiving Day itself.

If you’re sure, Rob said. I don’t want to wreck your time off.

No, it’s all right. I can assure you I didn’t have any plans to hit the mall at five in the morning to grab a Black Friday bargain.

No, that doesn’t exactly sound like your style. OK, then. Just make sure you re-set the security system when you leave.

Rob turned to go. Behind him, he thought he heard Mitch exhale in relief, and as he closed the lab door he heard him chanting softly.

’Twas the night before Thanksgiving and all through the lab, not a creature was stirring, not even a crab.

If it hadn’t been too preposterous to contemplate, he could have sworn he had heard Virginia giggle.

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ROB WAS glad to have a few days off over the holiday, away from the lab and the stress of running a small and not terribly lucrative business. It was the three-day weekend he enjoyed the most, as Thanksgiving itself followed the usual pattern of too much food and drink, and as far as the female participants were concerned, too much lounging on the sofa watching football games afterwards. But it was pleasant, after the solitude of his own house, to feel part of a family again; good to see his parents and sister, and to slip back into the role of a child for a few hours. He could even tolerate the squabbling of Phil’s two young children, knowing it would only be for one afternoon.

Rob wondered what the Pilgrims would think of the average modern American’s gluttony, but that didn’t stop him from filling up on his mother’s turkey, stuffing, yams and cranberry sauce. His sister had contributed a mixed vegetable dish containing several unidentifiable objects, and his sister-in-law had made two pumpkin pies topped with whipped cream. Surveying the loaded table, Rob calculated he probably wouldn’t need to eat again for several days.

After the meal, he joined his father and Phil for a long afternoon in front of the television watching endless football games and sharing several bottles of wine. Phil didn’t mention the unanswered phone call of the day before, for which Rob was grateful. He and Phil rarely argued about how the lab was run and they had an unspoken agreement that short of an emergency, they didn’t discuss business out of hours. At the moment, he thought, even an emergency wouldn’t have made an impact. They were too bloated from dinner to do much of anything except offer muttered comments on the game’s progress and pass the wine bottle back and forth.

What a contrast, Phil said at one point. A bunch of finely honed athletes out there on the gridiron and a whole nation of slobby couch potatoes watching them sweat.

They’re being paid very well to sweat, Rob said. Want a refill?

Thanks.

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THE RESULTANT hangover took Rob through Friday afternoon. He hauled himself out of bed at noon and made a half-hearted effort to tidy up the house before his ex-wife dropped their daughter off to stay with him for the remainder of the weekend. Rob adored Sophie, who had inherited her red hair, brown eyes and aptitude for science from him, and he only wished he wasn’t suffering quite so much from his over-indulgence the day before.

He had finished vacuuming and was debating whether he had time for a shower when the doorbell rang and a minute later Sophie was dancing down the hallway. She took in his rumpled appearance and said sternly, I bet you ate too much yesterday, Daddy.

I’m sure I did, Rob replied, thankful that she wasn’t quite old enough to correctly identify his problem. He stowed her overnight bag at the end of the sofa and gave her a hug. Did you have a good Thanksgiving?

Yes, kind of.

Kind of?

Well, the food was good. I ate lots and lots. But it would have been nicer if you’d been there.

I think that might have been a little awkward, sweetheart.

Sophie thought for a moment. Yes, I suppose so. Did Holly have dinner with you at Grandma’s?

No, she went to her aunt’s house.

Oh. Sophie looked disappointed and Rob knew why. She was very fond of Holly Baird, whom Rob had been dating for several months, and since Sophie liked fairy tales, she couldn’t understand why Rob and Holly didn’t immediately get married and live happily ever after. It was difficult for Rob to explain, since in some ways he didn’t quite understand it himself. But Sophie wasn’t giving up that easily.

How about Christmas? Can she come over then? Mom says I can spend Christmas Eve and Christmas morning here with you; won’t that be great? I can even bring my presents along and open them here.

That will be wonderful, Rob said truthfully. The previous Christmas, the first one since the divorce, Sophie had spent the holiday miserable and bewildered in the company of her mother and her mother’s new boyfriend. He hadn’t realized how unhappy she had been until she had arrived at his house on the day after Christmas in floods of tears, thinking she wouldn’t be allowed to give him the present she had painstakingly made for him. It was a slightly crooked bowl fashioned from modeling clay and painted in bright colors, and Rob wouldn’t have exchanged it for one of pure gold.

So can Holly come, too? Sophie persisted.

If she wants to, of course she can.

Having Sophie around always cheered Rob up, and by the time they had played a fiercely contested game of checkers and taken a walk in the cold autumn air, he felt fully recovered. That evening, he tucked Sophie into bed under her pink comforter on his foldout sofa and kissed her good night. He stood in the doorway watching her for a few minutes, feeling that, over all, he did have something to be thankful for. 

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ON MONDAY morning, mind and body  more or less back in working order, Rob was checking his e-mails when Virginia tapped on his office door, holding a sheet of paper.

Do you have a minute, Rob?

Of course. What is it?

You know I came in over the weekend to finish the hamburger samples?

Yes. Make sure you put in for overtime.

Don’t be silly. I volunteered, so I don’t expect anything extra. But while I was here on Friday, there was a phone call. She glanced at the paper. A Mr. Cornell. He said he called on Wednesday but there was no answer.

No, Rob said. I was busy and I wasn’t answering any calls.

Virginia looked at him reproachfully.

He was quite agitated. He says someone is targeting his business – he runs a restaurant called The Quarterdeck – by accusing him of poisoning his customers.

Rob lifted his eyebrows. Poisoning, or food poisoning?

Food poisoning. Now you know as well as I do, Rob, that probably at least  three-quarters of all  alleged food poisoning incidents turn out to be viruses or too much alcohol or somebody trying to wangle a free meal, but Mr. Cornell’s point is that the accusations alone are ruining his business. That’s even if no one has actually been taken ill.

Have they?

He says not that he knows of. And customers aren’t usually shy about making accusations.

So what does he want us to do about it? We’re not Environmental Health. I assume he’s gone to them. Or they’ve come to him, if there have been complaints. Has the restaurant been inspected recently?

According to him, yes. And it passed with no problems noted.

So if no one’s been ill and the inspection didn’t find anything wrong, what’s the problem?

The problem is that someone keeps posting anonymous comments on the internet concerning the restaurant. They stop just short of actual accusations – they’re more insinuations – but obviously rumors are getting around. His bookings are down by half, he says.

We aren’t exactly in a position to police the internet, Rob pointed out. I can sympathize if he’s being targeted, but I can’t very well stop it. What does he think we can do?

Conduct independent testing of his food, as I understand it. Then he can quote us as having given him a clean bill of health. If, of course, we do. Which leads me to something else.

Yes?

He seemed to be saying that if he was being targeted in a deliberate effort to hurt his business, it would stop if he could prove his food was all right. I did try to explain that would depend on the test results, but he wouldn’t listen.

Rob thought it over. Extra income was always welcome at R&P Labs, balancing as it did on a knife edge of solvency. But there was an aura of manipulation about Cornell’s request that he didn’t like. It was too much like being held responsible for the success or failure of someone else’s business, and he had enough problems keeping his own afloat. He made his decision.

Did you get his phone number? he asked, knowing that she would have.

Yes, it’s on this paper.

I’ll call him back, but I don’t think we should get involved. If he can find someone else to do it, fine.

Surprisingly, Virginia nodded. I thought you’d say that. It’s your decision, naturally, but there was something ... not quite right about him.

Rob tried not to show his astonishment. Virginia dealt in facts she could quantify and rarely ventured an opinion that was not backed up by statistics or evidence. But she also had an unerring instinct for spotting liars, and if Cornell had aroused her suspicions, he was clearly untrustworthy.

OK, leave it with me, he said. Did you have a good Thanksgiving?

Yes, thank you. Mitch and his mother had dinner with my brother and me.

How is she?

Virginia frowned. Not very well, I’m afraid. I didn’t honestly think the nursing home would let her come out, because of the oxygen tanks and so on, but you know Mitch, he can charm the birds out of the trees when he wants to, and he brought her over with all the equipment. She’s in a wheelchair and very weak, but she managed to eat quite a bit and I think she enjoyed herself.

I’m glad. I know it means a lot to Mitch.

Yes. It’s such a shame. She’s a lovely person. Virginia was quiet for a moment, and then she said, I’ve been speaking to Janet.

About Mitch’s mother, I assume?

Yes. She says if Melanie – that’s her name – was her patient, she wouldn’t be very optimistic. It’s Class IV congestive heart disease, which is the most serious, and you don’t generally recover from that. It’s probably a matter of when, not if.

Does Mitch know?

I’m not sure. I don’t dare bring the subject up. But he’s bright and inquisitive; I’m sure he’s done his research and come to the same conclusion. And if he wants to talk about it, I’ll listen, of course. I’m not very maternal, but I’m fond of Mitch.

Rob sighed. Sometimes he felt as though he could add social worker to his professional job description, along with scientist and secretary. 

Well, I’m glad you told me. I knew she wasn’t well, of course, but I didn’t realize it was quite that serious. We’ll have to keep an eye on Mitch if – when – she deteriorates. I have a feeling he might go off the rails. Meanwhile, I’ll try to let Mr. Cornell down gently.

He took the paper from Virginia and looked at it. His eyebrows went up. "Virginia, does this say Ken  Cornell?"

It was a rhetorical question, since Virginia’s handwriting was as clear as print.

Yes. Didn’t I say? He says he knows both you and Phil from high school.

Good God. Talk about the ghost of Christmas past. Yes, we know Kenny Cornell. I only wish we didn’t.

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LATER THAT evening he was stretched out on the sofa, watching the television news. Holly was in the kitchen, putting together a meal out of Thanksgiving leftovers. Between what his mother had sent home with him – along with pointed comments about not eating properly – and the grander leavings from Holly’s family meal, he reckoned he wouldn’t have to buy any food until well into December.

Rob, what’s this? Holly asked him, her head in the refrigerator.

Is it green, or brown?

Multi-colored, I’d say.

Animal, vegetable or mineral?

I’ll take a chance and say vegetable. I can see carrots.

That’s my sister’s vegetable dish. We told her if she made a green bean and mushroom soup casserole we’d feed it to the dog, so this is her alternative. You get a prize if you can identify all the ingredients.

Is it edible?

Yes, it’s surprisingly good.

Right, we’ll try it. I’d better microwave it first.

He listened to the sounds of Holly’s food preparation wistfully. He would have loved to have her living with him on a permanent basis, but there was a problem that wouldn’t go away, an elephant in the room with them always. Holly was rich, the result of wealthy, deceased parents, a generous settlement from her ex-husband and her own earnings as a research botanist. Rob was perpetually hard up, a fact that had led directly to his ex-wife‘s decision to decamp with Mister Fish, the man who cleaned their aquarium. It made no difference how many times Holly insisted the disparity in their bank accounts didn’t matter. It mattered to him.

Holly brought the plates to the table and Rob pulled a chair up. Besides the vegetable surprise, there was sliced turkey, stuffing and a red sauce he didn’t remember as being in his fridge.

Red currant and port sauce, Holly said, noticing his puzzled expression. My aunt has it sent over especially from England. She’s such a snob. But it’s good.

Rob tasted it cautiously. Mm, he said in surprise. You’re right, it is.

They ate in silence for a while and then Holly said, How’s it going at the lab?

Not too badly. We have some new business, a seafood restaurant we’ll be testing on a regular basis. And I have another contract on the verge of signing.

That’s good. It’s helpful to have some regular income you can depend on.

Nothing of a botanical nature, though, I’m afraid.

That’s all right. I miss you all, but I’m happy playing with my pine needles.

Holly had worked for Rob on a temporary basis earlier in the year, but her involvement had ended rather abruptly and dramatically, and he hadn’t been able to find anything further for her to do. Holly hadn’t wanted to just hang around waiting – although she could easily afford to – so she had accepted a temporary research post at the university, studying how an extract from pine needles might be used in treating skin diseases.

Rob missed having her at the lab, but he was willing to concede the separation might actually be good for their relationship, just as the fact that she didn’t spend every night with him made it all the better when she did. 

In fact, I actually had to turn down some business today, he said.

Oh?

It’s a restaurant manager who wanted some samples of food from his kitchen tested.

Why did you turn him down?

"Because he wanted a guarantee of the test results in advance.