Read Online A Minister's Ghost by Phillip Depoy - Free Book Online Page B

interrupted impatiently. “But I didn’t really get a chance to finish everything. That’s what’s got me worried.”
    â€œYou think the girls had taken some sort of hallucinogen?” I didn’t even take the question seriously, knowing the girls.
    â€œNot exactly,” he admitted. “It’s a tricky thing. Elevated 5HT levels
can mean anything from schizophrenia to psychosis, autism, Alzheimer’s disease, anorexia, even blood clotting.”
    â€œI see,” I responded contritely. “What was your conclusion?”
    â€œAfter careful reconstruction of what I believe was their blood chemistry before the accident,” he droned on, “it appears that both girls had a rush of endorphins and neuropeptides, blood vessels were dilated, and blood pressure went down in addition to high levels of serotonin.”
    â€œYou can tell all that?”
    â€œOr infer it.”
    â€œAnd that indicates?”
    â€œExtreme, prolonged laughter.”
    â€œReally?” I hadn’t meant to sound so surprised. “They were laughing when they died?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œI can see that you’d want to know why.” I nodded.
    â€œI mean, I’ve asked around. These girls weren’t the type to have been experimenting with hallucinogenic drugs, but it’s not unheard of that someone might have slipped them something in a soda pop. These teenagers do it all the time at their parties.”
    I realized then that his demeanor reminded me of Jack Webb from the old Dragnet television series. That, in turn, reminded me of my friend Dr. Andrews. Tall, blond Manchester native, a great Shakespeare scholar and a vicious rugby player, Andrews never failed to find himself perpetually fascinated by American television. He had forced me to watch dozens of episodes of that police drama, each, to him, more hilarious than the last.
    â€œWhat was your final ruling?” I asked him point-blank. “I mean about the death?”
    â€œAccidental,” he sighed. “But the boys at the funeral parlor were in such a rush to get their job done for the family, and they can be intimidating. I’m not entirely happy with the finding. I told the sheriff I’d like to run some more tests. Why would they have been laughing like that? I mean, wouldn’t you like some kind of answer that’s better than that?”

    â€œFor example?”
    â€œWell,” he suggested casually, “if, in fact, someone slipped them a drug at a party, say, then my finding might change from accidental death to murder, you understand. The drug being the actual cause of their untimely demise.”
    Millroy got a phone call then, before I could ask him anything more about his theories. I excused myself with a wave. The phone call was from Skidmore.
    Â 
    I spent the rest of that Saturday with Lucinda. She had called in sick to her hospital duties. The rain kept her from gardening, so she turned to her indoor variant of the same impulse: cooking. I sat in the kitchen, helping when I could. Mozart French-horn concertos filled the house; we played them over and over, round, golden sounds that were perfect for November rain. We didn’t speak, the music and the rain eased us of that obligation, and I saw no reason to upset her with Millroy’s suspicions until I was more certain of things.
    She was making apple tarts. The pastry was so simple I always marveled at the luxury of the final product. How a cup of flour, an eighth of a teaspoon of salt, a stick of butter, and three tablespoonfuls of ice water could accomplish perfection was beyond me. I attributed it to Lucinda’s touch.
    The apples were fresh-picked, rock-hard Red Delicious, cut in paper-thin crescent slices. Two drops of vanilla and two tablespoonfuls of sugar were added, along with a tiny squeeze of lime. The tarts themselves were less than half an inch thick, cooked to gold. The production of these miracles