Scar Tissue Page 9

  “Did you love your parents?”

  “I had a string of nannies and babysitters. My parents took care of us, but never actually cared about us. I looked for love in other ways. I was eleven years old when I met Greg and by thirteen, I vowed that someday I would marry him. He was a few years older than me, and the leader of a pack of us kids who hung around the club unsupervised while our parents got sloppy in the bar. He took an interest in me and I did what I needed to in order to hold onto his interest.”

  “You’re talking sexually?”

  Gwen nodded.

  “Didn’t you say you were eleven when you met him?”

  “Yes, and by the time I was thirteen we’d covered everything short of intercourse.” She said it as casually as if she were disclosing what color paint she’d chosen for the living room.

  “And Greg was how old?”

  “He was eighteen when our relationship ended.” Her eyes roamed my face watching for disapproval.

  I held steady, no reaction. Who the hell was I to judge. If I’d been dating Griff at thirteen, he’d have been twenty-five.

  “I grew up that summer,” Gwen continued. “I was thirteen in June and twenty-five by August.”

  “And that’s when the relationship ended?”

  “Greg had been accepted at Yale. At the end of that summer both he and my father left.”

  “Your father left?”

  “His new love interest was a waitress from the club. She was just ten years older than me.”

  “That must have been devastating.”

  “More for my mother. We were the talk of every cocktail party that year.

  “Was this when your step-brother was born?”

  “God no. That was years earlier. My father had some difficulty keeping it in his pants, as they say.”

  I suppressed a smile. Gwen did too.

  “It was the norm for us,” she continued. “My father came and went. But he always crawled back and like a fool my mother would open the door.”

  “Because she loved him?”

  “Because she wanted the gossip to end and she wanted back in the club. In those days, there were no single parents on the country club scene. It was all his money. She didn’t have a dime. We were nothing without him.”

  “Where’s your father now?”

  “I have no idea and I couldn’t care less.”

  “But you and Greg kept in touch?”

  “No, but I happened to run into him in the city one day. By that time, he’d graduated from Yale and was in his second year of law school. I was attending the University of Southern Maine. We began seeing each other. After he graduated we married.”

  “You were in love?”

  She looked down at her hands and rubbed her thumb across her knuckles. “When Greg showed up in the bar that day, opportunity knocked. By marrying him I would gain back what I’d repeatedly lost during childhood.”

  “The Country Club?”

  “Prestige. My children would know crystal and fine wines. They’d have Ivy League educations. And as long as he could be faithful or at least discreet, I would secure the appearance that my mother couldn’t maintain.”

  “But did you love him?”

  “For the first few years we jelled well enough, but after a while I could feel him becoming restless. Then we had Clayton.”

  “And?”

  “He was obsessed with his son.”

  “And when Clayton died?”

  “He couldn’t bear to be in the house or around Ashley and me. I suggested that we move out of state, find a fresh start, but he told me that Clayton had been the only reason he’d stayed in the marriage. It was time for him to go.”

  “But he didn’t.”

  She shook her head and looked out over her garden. “Ashley began showing so much promise in athletics that he started taking notice. I’d been attending her track events and school competitions all along, but Greg had seldom joined us. When she began winning, she piqued his interest. She was thrilled that he seemed happy again and was finally showing an interest in her.”

  “That must have put some pressure on her.”

  “You have no idea. Her anxiety went through the roof. She became terrified of losing a race, afraid he’d walk away if she wasn’t consistently first in her class.”

  “Is that when she started seeing Dr. Varkin?”

  “Yes, she’d seen him a few times after Clayton died to help her with the grief, but she started seeing him regularly as her success grew.”

  “And Greg stopped talking about leaving?”

  “It never came up again.” She looked back out over her garden. “I suppose it will now, though.”

  “And what about you? How did you feel knowing he was staying because of Ashley?”

  “He was staying, that’s all that mattered to me. My family was intact, as intact as it could be without Clayton.”

  “And where’s your mother now?”

  “Dead, finally. Suicide.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s given Greg another reason to point his finger at me over Ashley’s death. He says mental illness runs in my family. He said she got the genes to jump from me.”

  I hoped my face wasn’t betraying the disgust I felt. Though Gwen didn’t bat an eye.

  “Do you think you and Greg will survive this? I mean, losing Ashley?”

  She looked me dead in the eye. “I may have lived a life very similar to my mother’s, but mine won’t end as hers did. Greg’s not going anywhere.”

  On my way back to the office, I thought about relationships and the random criteria people have for choosing a partner and keeping them. Money, prestige, loneliness, fear…what ever happened to love? Gwen honored ego over heart, like her mother. Mike and Rhea were harboring secrets. My gut said none of them were good. And both women were someone else entirely when their husbands weren’t around. I had no doubt Greg and Gwen were going down, though she didn’t know it yet. I had every hope Mike and Rhea would too. If honesty isn’t the basis of a relationship, it can’t weather the storms. I didn’t know it as I drove back to the office, but clouds were gathering overhead. I just never saw them coming.

  Thirteen

  Griff eased the Rover through the State Street intersection in downtown Portland and took a right toward the west end. Gina Wellington had called. The toxicology report was in. The fact that she’d asked us to come to her office said it wasn’t clean.

  “I’m not feeling it,” I said.

  “Let’s just wait and see what Gina has to tell us.”

  “Wait and see? That doesn’t sound like you.”

  “It’s Zen to be calm. Allie told me.”

  “I like you better as a hothead.”

  He raised his eyebrows.

  We entered Gina’s practice through her outer office door. It was lunchtime and the waiting room was empty.

  “In here,” she called and we followed the voice to her office.

  She was sitting at her desk surrounded by neatly arranged stacks of paperwork. She caught me eyeing it.

  “I try and play catch up during lunch, but today, it’s not in the cards.” She smiled, shoved a couple of stacks aside and motioned for us to sit down. “Thanks for coming. I assume you’re still investigating Ashley Lambert’s suicide?”

  Griff nodded. “And?”

  “Toxicology came back this morning.”

  “Anything out of the ordinary?”

  “Before I answer, let me get the file. With two kids and a full time practice some days I can’t remember my own name.” Gina went to a gray metal file cabinet and pulled open the second drawer. She set the file on the desk and sat down. “Amphetamine,” she said looking from Griff to me.

  Specifically, Dextroamphetamine, the primary component in Adderall and Dexedrine.”

  “Aren’t they similar?” I asked.

  “Yeah, the Dexedrine is stronger, but it’s a little odd that she was taking both unless she was using them at diffe
rent times and for different things. I wasn’t surprised to find Adderall. It was a trace amount. I mean I’d be hard pressed to find a college student at the end of the term who didn’t have Adderall in their system.” She gave a faint smile. “Given Ashley’s life at the time with finals and graduation, that doesn’t seem like a big deal. It certainly wasn’t what killed her.”

  “What does an amphetamine do exactly?” I asked.

  “They’re primarily used for people with ADHD or narcolepsy. They promote wakefulness and focus, hence the appeal to college kids during finals. They’re also used as appetite suppressants. Given Ashley’s obsession with her weight, it makes sense. And amphetamine use increases energy, mental focus, stamina, confidence, the list goes on…”

  “So they’re attractive to athletes.” Griff said.

  “They are, but there are better things out there. I wouldn’t consider amphetamines the drug of choice for professional athletes.”

  “What about nonprofessionals?”

  “Possibly, I suppose if you’re a college student, you’re not really in the realm of the professional athlete, and things like Dexedrine and Adderall might be readily available on campus.”

  Griff shook his head. “Do you really think Ashley was into this? I mean, she was pursuing a Masters in Ethics. I can’t see her going to these lengths no matter how pleased Greg was with her success.”

  “Science doesn’t lie. She could have been using Adderall on a regular basis to decrease appetite and increase her academic focus. The Dexedrine could have provided an added boost on race days.”

  “How fast would they leave the body?”

  Gina took a massive hardbound blue book from the shelf beside her desk. Physician’s Desk Reference it said along the spine. She flipped through the pages until she’d found her answer. “That would depend on how often she took them, but in general they can be detected 12-24 hours after use with a standard blood test, longer with hair and urine.”

  “But if she was using either or both for racing and she hadn’t had a race within the few days prior to her jump, neither one should have been in her system.”

  “That’s the thing with any amphetamine. In the U.S. they’re considered a Schedule II drug, which means highly addictive with a high potential for abuse. She may have started using solely for an athletic edge, but because of the addiction factor, it became hard for her to stop. A lot of people think they’ll just use an amphetamine for quick weight loss or during finals week and before they know it they’re serial users.”

  “Coach Massett said the NCAA did random drug tests at races. Wouldn’t it have been picked up?”

  “Not necessarily. If she was injecting, the drug’s response rate is immediate. She could have done the test then hit the locker room right before the race for an injection and if she’d laid off of it for a few days prior to the race, then she’d test clean.”

  “Jesus,” I said. “That seems crazy.”

  “Crazy, but doable,” Gina said. “If she had her timing down. It would have been out of her body before the test and then she injects it just before race time.”

  “But you didn’t find injection sights on autopsy, did you?”

  Gina shook her head. “No, but drugs were not in question at that time and due to the condition of her body, let’s just say any injection site would have been close to impossible to find. Amphetamines can be swallowed, snorted, smoked and mixed with water to take intravenously. My guess is she was shooting it, because the timing would be right, but I could be wrong. Regardless, the fact remains that it was getting into her somehow. For Ashley, it would have been a miracle drug. It increased her physical activity, kept her alert and awake, and provided a sense of confidence. While it was doing all that to enhance her running, it also increased the Dopamine in her brain giving her a sense of euphoria. It must have felt like a little piece of heaven, given the stress she was under.”

  “And long-term effects?”

  “Anxiety, confusion, insomnia, motor excitation, poor balance, psychosis…I can keep going.”

  “That everything?” Griff asked.

  “Isn’t that enough?” I said.

  “Not exactly.” Gina let out a sigh. “There is one other thing, but it’s practically impossible to prove.”

  I groaned.

  “What’s that?” Griff asked.

  “Erythropoietin or EPO, a protein hormone produced by the kidneys. Released into the blood stream, it binds with receptors in bone marrow and stimulates the production of red blood cells. A performance enhancer.”

  “Since my performance is already extraordinary,” Griff looked at me and winked. “I’m not well versed in enhancers. How does EPO provide an edge?”

  I rolled my eyes and caught the smirk on Gina’s face before she got serious again and answered. “Red blood cells carry oxygen, so the more RBCs in your body the more oxygen you have, which increases stamina and endurance. An athlete will give themselves an injection right before a race.”

  “Seems a little out of Ashley’s league,” Griff said.

  “I would have said the same thing about amphetamines until the tox screen came back,” Gina said.

  “Did this EPO stuff show up?”

  “It’s not that easy. The way it was originally detected or more accurately, suspected, is when an athlete’s hematocrit level was too high, over 50%. Now there’s an accurate urine test, but we only have Ashley’s blood to work with.”

  “And?”

  “Her hematocrit was well over 50%, making me suspect EPO in her system. It’s something else to think about.”

  “Like you haven’t given us enough,” I said. “She would have had to inject right before a race. That would mean her time and privacy were limited. Could she have mixed the two? Like a syringe full of EPO and Dexedrine? A two for the price of one injection?”

  “I don’t see why not.”

  We thanked Gina and stepped out onto the sidewalk.

  “Talk about not knowing someone.” He checked his watch. “It’s almost six o’clock. Better head home and see how far Allie’s come with the unpacking.”

  “Not before some fortification. After hearing all that from Gina, I need to process with a glass of wine…maybe two. And there’s no food at the house. We can get take-out for Allie.”

  “Twist my arm,” Griff said.

  At Gritty’s Brew Pub, we seated ourselves at a table on the deck. Within minutes the waiter set a Black Fly Stout and a Pinot Grigio in front of us. It’s good to be known. Gritty’s is our other stomping ground. Where Conundrum is a skirt and heels, Gritty’s is shorts and flip-flops. It depends on our mood.

  “So?” Griff said, taking a drink.

  “Hard to believe.”

  “Coach did say she seemed a little high strung lately, talking incessantly. I think he called it, rambling.”

  “Yeah, but that wouldn’t make one think drugs.”

  “Mitzi said she’d seemed anxious and didn’t sleep.”

  “Again, neither screams drugs. It’s like Dr. Varkin said. If she was using, it was buried so deep no one knew.”

  “I keep thinking about Carole saying, she was too good,” Griff said. “Miles ahead of the competition. I guess now we know why.”

  “Where was she getting it? Dr. Varkin said he’d never prescribed anything for her.”

  “We need to ask Greg who her family doctor was.”

  “But they wouldn’t have been giving her EPO. That’s the trail we need to follow. She could have gotten Adderall or Dexedrine on campus, but EPO is in a different league altogether.” I took a long swallow and motioned for the waiter.

  “How the hell are we going to deliver this news to Greg Lambert?”

  “Very carefully. But, hey, he’s human. He’s gotta know everyone’s got secrets.”

  “You keeping anything from me?” Griff asked.

  I thought about what I hadn’t told him regarding Mike McKenzie, but that was still a suspicion. “I’ve told you all
there is to know about me.”

  “Let’s keep it that way,” he said.

  We raised our glasses and toasted the promise. What I didn’t know then, was how tough that promise would be to keep.

  Fourteen

  Allie surprised us with a box-free kitchen. Everything was put away and organized.

  “Ahh, payment,” she said lifting the take-out containers we’d brought from Gritty’s from my arms.

  “Looks great.” Griff walked around the kitchen opening and closing cabinets. “Must have taken you all day.”

  “Almost, except for when Rhea McKenzie came over.”

  “What did she want?” I asked between spoonfuls of chili.

  “She stopped by to say hello and see how the move was going. She brought a lemon pound cake.” Allie pointed to a small square of tin foil on the counter.

  Griff picked it up peeling the tin foil back. “This all of it? Looks more like a cupcake.”

  “It was the only food in the house. I ate it for lunch and again later for a snack.”

  Griff raised his eyebrows and bounced the ball of tin foil in the palm of his hand.

  “What? I was hungry. I’ve been working hard putting your kitchen together.”

  He laughed and dropped the foil ball on the counter. “Guess I forgot about groceries. Take care of that first thing tomorrow.”

  “What else did Rhea have to say?” I asked.

  “Not much, but she was on crutches. Sprained her ankle. Must suck to be on crutches when you’re pregnant.”

  “What happened?”

  “Said she slipped on the stairs.”

  “I’ll go over in the morning and thank her. If we’re going to the market maybe I can pick up a few things for her.” I knew when I asked about the crutches Rhea would give me another inadequate explanation just as she had about the bruises. And we’d both known she was lying.

  “It’s her left one,” Allie continued. “She can probably still drive. Unless she has a stick shift.”

  “She had a couple of bruises on her back last time I saw her. She said she’d slipped then too.”

  “Sounds like our neighbor’s a little accident prone,” Griff said.

  “Or not,” I said.