A single card lay on the desktop under the blotter. I picked it up.
The logo resembled a police badge. I was about to read the printed information when the deb receptionist reappeared in the door, breathless from running up the stairs.
“I just talked with Dr. Cagle’s housemate.”
An agitated hand fanned the air in front of her face.
“Dr. Cagle’s in intensive care on life support.”
Laying both hands on her chest, the deb looked from me to Slidell and back, mascara-rimmed eyes wide with alarm.
“Sweet Lord Jesus. The doctors don’t think he’ll last out the day.”
25
CAGLE LIVED IN A SMALL BRICK BUNGALOW IN A NEIGHBORHOOD of small brick bungalows a short drive from Hamilton College. The trim was lilac, and four straight-backed lilac rockers sat in perfect alignment on the broad front porch. The lawn was mown, every border edged with military precision.
An ancient live oak shaded the right half of the property, its roots crawling below the earth’s surface like giant, serpentine fingers clinging for support. Jumbles of brightly colored annuals elbowed for room in beds along the walkway and porch foundation. As we approached the house, the odor of petunias, marigolds, and fresh paint sweetened the hot, humid air.
Climbing the steps, Slidell jabbed a thumb at a green metal holder attached to the house. Someone had coiled the garden hose in perfectly matched loops.
“Guess we got the right place.”
The bell was answered within seconds. The man was younger than I expected, with black hair that had been gelled, spiked, and gathered from his forehead with an elastic headband. I guessed his age as mid-thirties, his weight at 140.
“You are the officers from Charlotte?”
Not bothering to correct him, Slidell merely held up his badge.
“Lawrence Looper.” Looper stepped back. “Come in.”
We entered a small foyer with a covered radiator to the left, sliding wooden doors straight ahead, and an open archway to the right. Looper led us through the archway into a living room with throw rugs on a polished oak floor and Pottery Barn furnishings. A wood-bladed fan turned lazily overhead.
“Please.” Looper extended a manicured hand. “Do sit. Can I get either of you a cool beverage?”
Declining, Slidell and I seated ourselves on opposite ends of the sofa. The room smelled of artificial floral deodorizer from a plug-in-the-socket dispenser.
Looper lifted a footstool, placed it against the wall, considered the arrangement, repositioned the stool.
Beside me I heard Slidell puff air through his lips. I gave him a warning look. He rolled both eyes and his head.
Feng shui restored, Looper returned and took the chair opposite us.
“Wow. Dolores is really cross with me. I suppose she has a right to be.”
“That’d be Miss Southern Charm over at the university.” Slidell.
“Hmm. I should have called her after Wally’s collapse, but…” Looper flexed an ankle, causing his flip-flop to make small popping sounds “…I didn’t.”
“And why is that?” Slidell’s voice had that edge.
“I don’t like Dolores.”
“And why is that?”
Looper looked Slidell straight in the eye. “She doesn’t like me.”
The ankle flicked several times.
“And Wally never wants anyone to know when he isn’t feeling well. He has…” Looper hesitated “…complaints.”
“But when you two showed up, and Dolores called, well, I couldn’t lie about it.” Looper put three extra
“Please tell us what happened,” I said.
“There isn’t much to tell. I came home Thursday night and found Wally curled up on the bathroom floor.”
A hand came up, and a finger pointed through a second archway at right angles to the one through which we’d entered the living room.
“In there. He was having trouble breathing, and his face was flushed, and he could hardly speak, but I did get out of him that he felt tightness in his chest. That scared me to death. And I could see that he’d thrown up.”
The hand fluttered to Looper’s chest.
