Killer Sweet Tooth - By Gayle Trent Page 0,2

empty office. Empty offices always look creepy at night, don’t you think? There was only one light on in the entryway, and in the waiting area, the long, skinny windows allowed muted light from streetlamps to filter in, casting shadows throughout the room.

“Dr. Bainsworth? It’s Daphne Martin and Myra Jenkins. Would you like us to come on back?”

He didn’t answer, and I supposed maybe he couldn’t hear us.

“Let’s go on back,” I said to Myra.

She nodded slightly, and we walked toward the examining rooms.

“Dr. Bainsworth?” I called again. “Are you back here?”

I looked inside the first room. My eyes widened, and my hand flew to my throat. I turned to Myra in shocked silence.

“Wha?” She followed my gaze to where Dr. Bainsworth was lying facedown on the floor. A trickle of blood emanated from his head. “No!”

“It’s okay,” I said, putting my arms around her. “I’ll call 911. I’m sure he’ll be all right.”

“My toot! Who’ll fiss my toot!” she cried.

I heard a thud in the lobby as if someone had tripped over a piece of furniture. I froze, and Myra did too.

“Whoever did this to Dr. Bainsworth is still here,” I whispered.

She nodded.

“We have to find something to defend ourselves with.” I stepped into the examining room and grabbed a huge plastic toothbrush.

Myra armed herself with a model of a molar so big she could barely hold it. She raised it up to eye level so she’d be ready to strike someone with it if need be.

It was at that moment that we heard the sirens. Which was odd because I hadn’t called 911 yet.

I looked from my giant toothbrush to Myra’s giant molar to the dentist bleeding on the floor. “This is not good.”

I had no more than gotten those four words out of my mouth when two policemen, neither of whom I knew—which is also odd, given my past experiences here in Brea Ridge—came around the corner with their guns drawn. Had we wanted to, Myra and I could not have escaped. We’d brought a toothbrush and a molar to a gunfight.

I will say, however, that we had the element of surprise on our side. The officers were too stunned to speak. So I took the initiative.

“Hi,” I said, trying to smile but probably grimacing. “I know this looks crazy, but—”

“Be quiet and drop your weapons,” the taller, older officer commanded.

I put down my toothbrush and raised my hands.

Myra was a little slower. “Weapons?” She frowned at her plastic molar. “Hiss is no weapon; it’s a plastic tooth.”

“Drop it,” the officer said. “Now. And put your hands where I can see them.”

She shrugged and dropped the tooth. It bounced across the floor and hit the officer’s left shin before coming to rest at his feet.

“Hands,” he said.

Myra rolled her eyes and held up her hands. I silently prayed she wouldn’t get us both shot.

“My tooth,” she began. Then she looked at me. “Tell ’em.”

“Um . . . yes, Officers. Myra—this is Myra Jenkins, and I’m Daphne Martin—she hurt . . . well—” I cleared my throat. “Lost a large filling, actually, out of one of her teeth. So, I called—”

“Save it,” he said harshly. “I need you both to step away from the body.”

“Can you re-ive him?” Myra asked.

The officer looked from Myra to his partner to me. “What?” he asked.

“Re-ive! Wake him up . . . fiss my tooth!”

“Step away from the body now,” he demanded.

The other officer—shorter, trimmer, and clean-shaven—stepped forward and lowered his gun. “This way, ladies. We’ll go into the hallway until Officer Halligan can see to the victim.”

“Ought to be out catching who did this,” Myra muttered as we followed the younger man to the end of the hall near the waiting room.

I could see the road beyond the picture window, and a light blue or silver car was speeding down the road. Could that speeder be Dr. Bainsworth’s attacker?

“Did you see that?” I asked. “That car racing down the road . . . it could be whoever did this. Shouldn’t you call somebody?”

“We get our fair share of speeders on the weekends,” the officer said. “Mostly, they’re kids in a hurry to get to Bristol or Johnson City or somewhere. Did you get a good description of the car? Make? Model?”

“No,” I told him. “Do you think Dr. Bainsworth will be all right?” I hoped to show the nice officer that we were really more concerned about the dentist than about ourselves and Myra’s hurt tooth.

“Hard to say, ma’am,” he said.