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Authors: Linda Lovely
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stun gun. That perfume atomizer
holds pepper spray.”
Ross chuckled. “What’s with the gas mask, gloves and
binoculars?”
“Worried about anthrax in your mail? Bio gloves are the
answer. The binocs are night vision goggles—all the better to spy on neighbors.
Not sure about the gas mask.”
A note from Steve was tucked in with the goodies. I read it
aloud: Marley—Finally found a cell phone to your taste. P.S. Does the gas mask
bring back fond memories?
Ross arched an eyebrow. “Huh?”
I smiled. “We tested chemical warfare battledress at Fort
Bragg. The suits had two defects: one, you couldn’t pee; two, the built-in com
systems made everyone sound like Donald Duck on helium. Orders were
unintelligible. We had to resort to charades.”
My cousin rolled his eyes. “Sorry I missed the fun. Sounds
right up there with belly-crawling through swampland.”
“Guess I’d better find a discreet location to try out these
gizmos. Your mom doesn’t need neighbors phoning the cops about a gas-masked mad
woman. I unnerved them enough taking my Tae Bo routine on the balcony.”
I stuffed the gloves, mock cell and atomizer in my shoulder
bag and returned the bulky gas mask and night vision goggles to my suitcase.
A phone rang. By the time I re-entered the living room, May
had the receiver plastered to her ear. She cupped a hand over the
mouthpiece—“It’s Darlene”—and handed me the phone.
A short cord afforded no privacy and May and Ross made no
bones about eavesdropping. I tried to ignore them and keep my side of the
conversation cryptic.
“Uh huh. Uh huh…You’re kidding!…How could they get lab
results so fast?…Does the sheriff have a suspect?”
The receiver wasn’t back in its nest before May insisted on
details. “Was Jake murdered?”
No point stonewalling. May and Ross would unearth the
answers with or without my help. Spirit Lake’s a small town.
“According to current theory, someone filled Jake’s Visine
bottle with something called cyclogel. When he put drops in his eyes, it shut
his lungs down. Jake suffered from MG, an autoimmune disease, so he was
especially vulnerable.”
My cousin leaned forward. “Wait a minute. This is Spirit
Lake not L.A. We have no magical CSI lab to provide instant results. What
gives?”
“The results aren’t official. Jolbiogen’s CEO offered
expedited lab analyses. The M.E. gave Jolbiogen autopsy tissue samples, swabs
from Jake’s champagne glass, and samples from a Chapstick tube and Visine
bottle, the only items in Jake’s pocket. Gertie also sent samples to the state
lab for parallel testing. It’ll be weeks before the official results come
back.”
May’s forehead wrinkled. “Cyclogel. Well, I’ll be. Pretty
ingenious, getting the victim to do himself in. Took me a minute to work it
out. Never would have if I hadn’t taken care of a couple MG patients. ”
Ross sighed. “Okay, Mom, stop looking like the cat that
swallowed the canary. What are you talking about?”
“Optometrists use cyclogel to paralyze and dilate patients’
eyes. That’s why Jake’s pupils looked so big. Did Jake use eye drops a lot?”
“He had allergies.” Ross shrugged. “Always carried a bottle.
But back up—are you saying optometrists can kill patients with this stuff?”
May harrumphed. “Keep your britches on, I’m getting there.
Marley said Jake had MG, a disease that tends to afflict men over fifty.”
I held up a hand. “But Darlene told me Jake’s MG was under
control.”
My aunt gave me “the look” and I shut my trap. May didn’t
cotton to audience cue cards. As a nurse, she’d spent years translating medical
mumbo jumbo for dazed patients. Sooner or later, she’d dumb down an explanation
for us.
“MG fries muscle receptors. It shrinks the number of healthy
ones available to respond when the brain sends a message, like reminding the
lungs to breathe. Undiluted cyclogel would muddle communication with the
remaining receptors.
holds pepper spray.”
Ross chuckled. “What’s with the gas mask, gloves and
binoculars?”
“Worried about anthrax in your mail? Bio gloves are the
answer. The binocs are night vision goggles—all the better to spy on neighbors.
Not sure about the gas mask.”
A note from Steve was tucked in with the goodies. I read it
aloud: Marley—Finally found a cell phone to your taste. P.S. Does the gas mask
bring back fond memories?
Ross arched an eyebrow. “Huh?”
I smiled. “We tested chemical warfare battledress at Fort
Bragg. The suits had two defects: one, you couldn’t pee; two, the built-in com
systems made everyone sound like Donald Duck on helium. Orders were
unintelligible. We had to resort to charades.”
My cousin rolled his eyes. “Sorry I missed the fun. Sounds
right up there with belly-crawling through swampland.”
“Guess I’d better find a discreet location to try out these
gizmos. Your mom doesn’t need neighbors phoning the cops about a gas-masked mad
woman. I unnerved them enough taking my Tae Bo routine on the balcony.”
I stuffed the gloves, mock cell and atomizer in my shoulder
bag and returned the bulky gas mask and night vision goggles to my suitcase.
A phone rang. By the time I re-entered the living room, May
had the receiver plastered to her ear. She cupped a hand over the
mouthpiece—“It’s Darlene”—and handed me the phone.
A short cord afforded no privacy and May and Ross made no
bones about eavesdropping. I tried to ignore them and keep my side of the
conversation cryptic.
“Uh huh. Uh huh…You’re kidding!…How could they get lab
results so fast?…Does the sheriff have a suspect?”
The receiver wasn’t back in its nest before May insisted on
details. “Was Jake murdered?”
No point stonewalling. May and Ross would unearth the
answers with or without my help. Spirit Lake’s a small town.
“According to current theory, someone filled Jake’s Visine
bottle with something called cyclogel. When he put drops in his eyes, it shut
his lungs down. Jake suffered from MG, an autoimmune disease, so he was
especially vulnerable.”
My cousin leaned forward. “Wait a minute. This is Spirit
Lake not L.A. We have no magical CSI lab to provide instant results. What
gives?”
“The results aren’t official. Jolbiogen’s CEO offered
expedited lab analyses. The M.E. gave Jolbiogen autopsy tissue samples, swabs
from Jake’s champagne glass, and samples from a Chapstick tube and Visine
bottle, the only items in Jake’s pocket. Gertie also sent samples to the state
lab for parallel testing. It’ll be weeks before the official results come
back.”
May’s forehead wrinkled. “Cyclogel. Well, I’ll be. Pretty
ingenious, getting the victim to do himself in. Took me a minute to work it
out. Never would have if I hadn’t taken care of a couple MG patients. ”
Ross sighed. “Okay, Mom, stop looking like the cat that
swallowed the canary. What are you talking about?”
“Optometrists use cyclogel to paralyze and dilate patients’
eyes. That’s why Jake’s pupils looked so big. Did Jake use eye drops a lot?”
“He had allergies.” Ross shrugged. “Always carried a bottle.
But back up—are you saying optometrists can kill patients with this stuff?”
May harrumphed. “Keep your britches on, I’m getting there.
Marley said Jake had MG, a disease that tends to afflict men over fifty.”
I held up a hand. “But Darlene told me Jake’s MG was under
control.”
My aunt gave me “the look” and I shut my trap. May didn’t
cotton to audience cue cards. As a nurse, she’d spent years translating medical
mumbo jumbo for dazed patients. Sooner or later, she’d dumb down an explanation
for us.
“MG fries muscle receptors. It shrinks the number of healthy
ones available to respond when the brain sends a message, like reminding the
lungs to breathe. Undiluted cyclogel would muddle communication with the
remaining receptors.
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