I took little notice of Andrea Felder's murder; but had the news reports mentioned her ex-husband's name, I would have paid attention. My friend Denise Seaford was the one who enlightened me about the victim's identity.
When Denise appeared at the prescription pick-up window, my pharmacy in the Food Go supermarket was busy. I'd just filled a script for naproxen, an anti-inflammatory drug, and was counseling the patient, a thin man in his early twenties. "This is for your sore elbow, Mr. Welles," I told him. "Be sure to take it with food or milk so it doesn't bother your stomach." I handed the prescription to him. "And if you need something for headache or pain, Tylenol would be safest while you're on this medication."
"Thanks for cluing me in about the generic," he said before he walked away. "I really appreciate the savings."
His doctor had authorized Naprosyn, the brand name drug, but had signed on the "substitution permissible" side of the prescription form, meaning the patient could request a generic. I knew my customer was still paying off his student loans, so I'd mentioned the less expensive generic equivalent.
Looking down now at the badge pinned to my white jacket, "Ruth Kantor Morris, Pharmacy Manager," I felt more like a professional than I did when simply counting out pills. Then again, I reminded myself, I'd studied many years to learn which pills and how they should be used. And, of course, those early years were difficult because I'd become a registered pharmacist at a time when few women entered the profession.
I noticed that Denise could hardly wait for my customer to leave before she began to speak. "Ruthie, something terrible has happened."
Accustomed to her flair for melodrama, I wasn't too worried by Denise's words. As always, her clothes today reflected that dramatic streak: a black and white geometric print dress and, pinned to one shoulder, a scarf in several shades of green. Matching eyeshadow lent a greenish tint to her gray eyes, and dangling earrings repeated the various greens of the scarf.
Denise worked in the Food Go coffee shop where the waitresses wore bright green aprons. Although I couldn't see her apron from where I stood behind the pharmacy counter, I had no doubt it also matched the scarf. I smiled to myself. Then I looked more closely at Denise and realized how agitated she seemed.
"Is something wrong?"
"Ruthie, didn't you hear about the murder?"
"Which one?" Even in Scottsdale, murder is no longer a singular occurrence.
"Sterling's wife, of course." She hesitated for a moment. "I mean ex-wife."
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