Page 45 of Chosen Path
“But what do theydo?Aside from make funeral arrangements,” Molly demanded.
“Yeah, see, I don’t know. When people talk about the council, they usually mean the four officers. But the original council was made up by all the founding families of Scandia Bluff. It predates the village being incorporated as a legal entity. So, today, every family that is directly descended from one of those founding families has one seat on the council. But I don’t think they really meet as a group. And pretty much all the officers do is make funeral arrangements.”
Molly raised an eyebrow. Her wine was vanishing at a quickening pace.
“I guess that’s not entirely true. The council sometimes organizes meal chains, like if someone breaks a leg, they’ll all sign up to bring casseroles, or take turns watching someone’s kids if the mom is sick or the dad’s away in the military. Good deeds kind of stuff. And they don’t just take care of the founding families’ descendants, they take care of the whole village. Or at least they used to. They haven’t been as active these last several years. But, you know, most of them are getting up there in age. You hold the seat until you die, and then, if you have a direct descendent living in the village, they take it over. If not, the council shrinks by one.”
“How big is it now?” Bodhi wondered.
“I’m not sure. We’re not a founding family. But Kara, my sister, married into one. Her husband’s parents are both deceased, so it was Joel’s seat. When they moved to Connecticut, that seat went away. Um, Frank the mailman is on the council. Let’s see. Tammy Deerfield, Mrs. Grant from the library. I’m not sure who else. Oh, Ed Pratt, the mortician.”
She took a drink, then smiled at a memory. “It’s all kind of secretive. When I was a kid I used to imagine they were spies, secret agents, or maybe magicians. You know, something exciting and mysterious. But then I saw the casserole sign-up sheet hanging on Kara’s fridge, and there went that fantasy.”
Bodhi chuckled. He heated a wide-bottomed pan, then poured a glug of cooking oil into it.
A moment later, as the oil sizzled, he drew his eyebrows together and asked, “If the council is older than the village, why is it called the village council?”
“Oh, it’s not, not officially. The real name is the Ättestupa Council. I’m sure I bungled the pronunciation.”
“I can see why they call it the village council,” Molly muttered.
“Right? I looked it up once. It’s an old Nordic word that combines the word for kin or clan and steep cliff. There are precipices with that name in Iceland, Sweden, a couple other places in Scandinavia. So, it makes sense that the Nordic immigrants who first settled on this ridiculously high mountain named the village Scandia Bluff and the council the Ättestupa Council.”
“I can see it,” Molly agreed.
Bodhi frowned. His forehead creased as if he was deep in concentration.
“Is something wrong?” Hope asked.
“I have this sense I’ve heard that word before, but in a different context.” He pursed his lips and shook his head. “It’ll come to me. Molly, do you have any fresh garlic?”
“Sorry, no. But I have the jarred stuff in the fridge. Hang on, I’ll get it for you.”
She crossed the kitchen, opened the refrigerator door, and reached inside. “Here it is. What’s this? Oh, right.” She closed the refrigerator with her hip. In her left hand, she held the jar of garlic. In her right, Corrine’s package. “I forgot all about this. We should open it.”
Bodhi took the garlic from her. “Thanks. Are you sure about that? Maybe we should just call the pharmacy and arrange to ship it back.”
But Molly was already ripping the package open. Bodhi turned down the heat under his skillet and stopped to watch. Molly looked into the bag and screwed up her face in confusion. “What the heck?”
“What is it?”
She turned the package over and shook out three vials. They landed in her palm. “It’s insulin. But Corrine wasn’t diabetic.”
They stared in silence at the little glass bottles in her hand. After a moment, Hope ventured, “Could it be Mr. Wolf’s, somehow?”
“No way,” Molly said. “He’s been dead for sixteen years. I’d have to check his records, but I don’t think this synthetic insulin was even available then. And the dosage is wrong for an adult man with LADA. But, mainly, he’s been dead for sixteen years. You’ve seen Doctor Larson’s files. They’re nothing if not meticulous. I’m sure he stopped refilling Travis’ prescriptions right away. Plus, he died in the hospital. The insurance company would have the record of his death. And even if by some bizarre oversight, the pharmacy kept filling it, would Corrine really pay for useless insulin for a decade and a half? This stuff is expensive.”
Bodhi shrugged. “She might have. I’m not saying it’s logical, but if the insulin kept showing up after Travis died, she might have seen it as a way to maintain some connection with him. She may have been unable to break her attachment to her dead husband.”
“That’s strangely romantic,” Molly told him.
“Really? I think it’s sad,” he answered.
Their words ran over Hope like water, but she paid them no mind. Her focus was elsewhere. After a moment, she snapped her fingers. “I know. Maybe’s it’s Derek’s.”
“Derek’s?”
She grabbed the folder and flipped it open. “See. Derek had an appointment, right before his dad died. Corrine brought him in because he was complaining of blurry vision and being thirsty all the time. With Travis having LADA she was concerned. She was right, too. Doc Larson diagnosed Derek with Type 1 diabetes. Then there were a bunch of appointments where he was making adjustments to the dose. And two appointments where Doc Larson basically counseled Derek about his behavior and the dangers of huffing paint.”
