Murder, She Wrote--Murder in Red Read online

  “Hiding, Seth?” I said, tossing a smile his way.

  “If I wanted to hide in a library, Jess, I’d take up post in the science section, since nobody reads science anymore.”

  “There are far too many who don’t read anything at all these days.”

  He toasted me with his cup. “Then it’s a good thing for you that there are enough that still do, ayuh.” Seth hesitated, his entire demeanor seeming to stiffen. “She fired me, you know.”

  “Who fired you?”

  “Jean O’Neil. I’d been treating her MS for years, even consulted with experts down at the Brigham in Boston for the latest treatments and protocols. Then she fired me.”

  “I didn’t know a patient could fire a doctor.”

  “Okay, replaced. With that clinic the zoning board approved for some ungodly reason.”

  “Technically, the Clifton Clinic is a private hospital, Seth, and they didn’t need anyone’s permission in Cabot Cove because they set up shop outside our boundaries.”

  “Still claim a Cabot Cove address, though, don’t they, Jess?”

  “Like I said—technically.”

  Seth took another sip of his coffee. “I think they killed her.”

  “Multiple sclerosis killed Jean. She credited them with buying her another year, thanks to that clinical trial.”

  Seth’s expression was hovering somewhere between a snicker and a snarl. “A clinical trial Brigham and Women’s Hospital knew nothing about.”

  “It’s a big world out there.”

  “Not in medicine, it’s not. I may be an old country doctor, but I’ve been working the Internet since I delivered the Mercer twins back in 1996, and I can’t find anything about this experimental protocol anywhere.”

  “It bought Jean another nine decent months, Seth.”

  “Which I couldn’t buy her.”

  “I didn’t say that,” I said, the loudening hum of voices in my ear telling me the lobby was starting to fill up.

  “You didn’t have to,” Seth Hazlitt said, in a tone I’d never quite heard him use before. “Jean did when she fired me. Go on now, Jess. Leave an old man to his misery and continue with your hosting duties.”

  “Maybe I’d rather talk to you.”

  He drained the rest of his coffee. “I need a refill,” he said, and walked off.

  No sooner had Seth Hazlitt taken his leave than Mimi Van Dorn appeared in almost the very spot he’d occupied, looking none the worse for wear after nearly being struck by that Jeep Cherokee.

  “You certainly know how to throw a bash, Jessica,” she said, as the many residents of Cabot Cove continued to stream in to pay their respects.

  “I think the credit for that belongs to Jean.”

  I reached out and brushed some stray crumbs from the jacket of Mimi’s designer suit. “Don’t want anything to make you less becoming, especially while wearing black.”

  Her eyes scorned me. “Such a keen eye for observation, and yet the suit is charcoal gray.”

  “So it is,” I said, still not able to tell the difference.

  “And if it hadn’t been for you, it would be stained with red right now and plenty of it. And I’d be somewhere else entirely.”

  “When you write about murder for a living,” I said, making light of the situation, “it’s always nice to save a life from time to time. I was going to get a tea, but it’s coffee for you, of course.”

  She smiled smugly. “Why, Jessica, you know I’ve given up caffeine.”

  “Since when?”

  “Since she became my patient,” I heard someone behind me say.

  Turning, I saw a tall man with a silvery mane who looked vaguely familiar. “I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure.”

  The man lifted his hand, about to introduce himself, when Mimi cut in between us, giving him a small plate bearing a cookie identical to the one she was holding.

  “Jessica, this is Dr. Charles Clifton, director of—”

  “The Clifton Clinic and Clifton Care Partners,” I completed, extending my hand to meet his. “I recognized you from your pictures in the local paper, Dr. Clifton.”

  Clifton’s expression tightened. “Oh yes, those. And, please, call me Charles.”

  He looked down at his cookie, as if to wonder where it had come from.

  “Both gluten and sugar free, Doctor,” Mimi said, lowering her voice. “I checked with the waitstaff.”

  “Well then, in that case, thank you,” Clifton said, taking the plate and leaving his cookie untouched. “No cheating, remember?”

  My eyes darted between the two of them. “Mimi, you never mentioned that you were—”

  She touched a finger to her lips, lowering her voice to a whisper. “Prediabetic? Because I didn’t want anyone to know about that or any other treatment I’m receiving.”

  I left it there, understanding now what was behind Mimi’s more youthful appearance. Clearly, that “other treatment” referred to another of the Clifton Clinic’s well-advertised wares, specifically something called regenerative medicine, aimed at restoring more than just the appearance of youth and actually turning back the clock. I’d long laughed off the possibility of it working, but now, looking at Mimi . . .

  “Well, I’d better continue my rounds,” I said, forcing a smile while hoping Seth Hazlitt hadn’t spotted us in the company of Charles Clifton.

  I waited for the line to go down a bit and made myself a cup of tea, joining Sheriff Mort Metzger in front of a display of pictures of Jean O’Neil, most of them with the Cabot Cove Library as a backdrop with a variety of its patrons filling out the shots.

  “She really made a difference in this town, didn’t she?” Mort said, without acknowledging me.

  He’d come, appropriately enough, in uniform, leaving Deputy Andy to make the two of them a plate over at the serving tables.

  “I’ll say she did, Mort.”

  He finally turned my way. “Wish I’d known her better,” he offered.

  “She built this place into a real library. Used to employ a fleet of volunteer high school students to deliver books to those in town who had trouble getting out.”

  Mort frowned. “And now our biggest problem is keeping people out period,” he said, his eyes narrowing on a pair of men who’d just entered the reception, one well below average height and the other well above it. “Thanks to Mutt and Jeff over there,” he continued.

  Known pretty much only by those monikers, they had been elected to the zoning board a few years back, helping to spur the building boom in our town, which had boasted only 3,500 residents when I’d first moved here and for many years after. Now that number had swelled to nearly three times that many year-round, and as much as ten times during the woefully crowded summer months that were upon us now. I half expected the crowd of relative blue bloods to greet the practically inseparable pair with a chorus of boos, given the antipathy with which true Cabot Covers had come to view any of those responsible for the traffic jams that dominated even the side streets this time of year. Mutt and Jeff’s well-timed entry, though, had kept most from noticing their presence.

  “They didn’t create the tide, Mort. They just drove the boat.”

  “You use that language in your books, Jessica?”

  “No.”

  “Good,” he said, accepting a plate of snacks from Deputy Andy and going on his way.

  Freeing me to approach Mutt and Jeff, who’d retreated into the same corner in which Jean O’Neil had stuffed unruly kids.

  “Gentlemen,” I greeted, smiling at the two men who’d spearheaded the movement to relocate this very building, “how good of you to come. I know how happy Jean would’ve been, given the board’s acceptance of my proposal to deem this building part of the historic register.”

  They looked at each other, then back at me.

&nbs
p; “Surely you recall our conversation and the petition I submitted, finishing Jean’s work. All the t’s crossed and i’s dotted, you said.”

  Mutt and Jeff seemed to melt into the old wallpaper.

  “You said you’d take the matter under advisement,” I continued, “and when I didn’t hear back from you, I took the liberty of informing the Friends of the Library of the zoning board’s magnanimous gesture in Jean’s honor, including that wonderful plaque proclaiming this as the Jean O’Neil House. Of course, if I’ve exceeded my bounds . . .”

  “No,” Mutt said.

  “Of course not,” Jeff added. “But we really should—”

  “And I thought I’d make the announcement here, while we’re honoring Jean. Unless you object, of course.”

  “No,” said Jeff.

  “We don’t object,” Mutt added.

  “That’s wonderful! Oh, and I’ve penciled you in to oversee the unveiling. I hope you don’t mind.”

  “We’re flattered,” from Mutt.

  “Just let us know when,” from Jeff.

  “I’ll do that, gentlemen,” I said, backing away. “And the Friends will be picking up the cost of the plaque to spare you the expense.”

  I swung away, not about to give them the chance to change their minds. I turned toward the post Doris Ann now manned behind the circulation desk and could picture Jean smiling at me in approval.

  There you go, Jessica, I imagined her saying, behind that big smile she flashed even when she had little to smile about.

  The plaque and the historical record made for a fitting testament to her legacy, to the point where I wasn’t about to let politics intrude on the process.

  I couldn’t help but smile, too, as I returned to the role of unofficial host of the festivities.

  And that’s when I heard the scream.

  Chapter Three

  I swung around in time to see Mimi Van Dorn dragging the tablecloth covering what was usually a display of recently released titles, taking all the baked goods with her to the floor.

  “Help, somebody! We need some help over here!”

  I wasn’t sure if whoever had cried out was the same person I’d heard scream. Either way, I pushed myself through the clutter across the room, reaching a convulsing Mimi, in the throes of some kind of seizure. Charles Clifton followed a few steps behind me, starting to kneel over her with spoon in hand when Seth Hazlitt shoved him out of the way.

  “Good idea, if you want her to swallow it. Let a real doctor do this.”

  He replaced Clifton alongside Mimi’s frame and checked her pulse at the neck, turning her gently onto her side.

  “That’s in case she vomits, which is common during seizures,” he advised Charles Clifton. “Watch and learn.”

  Clifton tried to roll with the punch. “If I didn’t know better,” he said, crouching by Seth’s side, “I’d say it was an epileptic seizure.”

  Seth didn’t so much as turn his head to regard him. “You don’t know better because you’re not her doctor—I am.”

  Across the library lobby, I spotted Mort with radio at his lips, calling for the paramedics, no doubt. Seth, meanwhile, checked Mimi’s neck again. His finger moved up and down, then dropped to her wrist instead. The next instant found Mimi’s seizure stop with a final jolt, her features pale white and lips turning blue.

  Seth rolled her back faceup and began performing old-fashioned CPR, alternating between breathing air into Mimi’s lungs and compressing her chest. I’d seen Seth in action before, but never like this, his face taut in grim determination and resolve, as if he were holding on to a rope he wasn’t about to let go of. Mimi’s body had stilled save for an occasional spasm. The color continued to bleed from her face, and her eyes seemed to be twitching beneath the closed lids.

  Mort joined Seth on the other side of Mimi’s body, waiting for instructions that never came. Seth kept up with CPR right until the moment the scream of sirens announced the arrival of the Cabot Cove Fire Department, led by our chief, Dick Mann. A pair of paramedics I recognized from my own brush with death a few months back rushed past him, taking over the resuscitation efforts seamlessly, as two firemen wheeled a gurney across the lobby between the guests, who’d separated to create a route down the middle.

  “I’m going with her!” Seth insisted as the paramedics eased Mimi atop the gurney and then raised it.

  His comment drew no response from Charles Clifton, who remained stoic and still as she was wheeled right past him.

  * * *

  • • •

  Mort and I were waiting when Seth emerged from behind the curtain where Mimi was being treated in the emergency room of Cabot Cove Hospital. We both rose from our seats as he approached.

  “An allergic reaction of some kind is what I’m thinking, or maybe an adverse reaction to some medication that quack prescribed her,” he said, his tone sharp and biting. “She’s critical but stable. Comatose at the moment.”

  “Oh no,” I heard myself say. “I was just speaking with her and she seemed fine.”

  “Nobody knows better than you, Jess,” Seth told me, “that these things come on fast without any warning. Treated it a bunch of times myself, almost always with children.”

  “Could Clifton have been right about an epileptic seizure?”

  Seth stared at me instead of answering. “Mimi had become a patient of his, too, hadn’t she?”

  “Seth—”

  “That answers my question. Man’s poaching all my patients. I ought to . . .”

  “Careful there,” Mort said, smiling thinly as he squeezed Seth’s shoulder. “I don’t want to be looking at you from the other side of my jail cell.”

  “It’s Clifton you should be arresting.”

  “On what charge?”

  “Quackery!”

  “I don’t think that’s a crime, Seth,” I noted.

  “How about practicing medicine without a license?”

  Mort scratched his scalp through his still-full head of hair. “Think I read in the Gazette that he graduated from Harvard Medical School.”

  “Sure, where he specialized in salesmanship.” Seth swung abruptly toward me. “What was Clifton treating her for, Jess?”

  “Mimi didn’t say exactly.”

  “How about not exactly, then?”

  “Well,” I said, not wanting to get Seth any more riled up than he already was, “I think she may have been diagnosed with type two diabetes.”

  “Of course, she was—by me. I’ve been pushing her to do something about that for years, but her A1c just kept climbing like a fireman up a ladder.”

  “Well,” I started, instantly regretting it.

  “Well what?”

  “I think Mimi may have also been a patient at Clifton’s Regenerative Medicine Department.”

  Seth shook his head, scowling. “Regenerative medicine . . . It’s a fake, a folly, a sham, a joke. And if Mimi had bothered telling me what she was up to, I’d have told her as much.”

  “It was her decision,” I said to him, my hand replacing Mort’s on his shoulder, remaining in place this time. “And she does look wonderful for her age.”

  “She looked just as wonderful when I was treating her.”

  “Well,” I followed, trying to lighten his mood, “you never have to worry about losing me as a patient to regenerative medicine.”

  “Pardon my ignorance,” Mort said, “but what exactly is regenerative medicine?”

  “Which one?” Seth asked him. “Because there are actually two. One based entirely on science and the other quackery.”

  “Let’s start with the science.”

  Seth continued to grouse. “In a perfect world, the goal is to find a way to replace tissue or organs that have been damaged by disease, trauma, or genetics, as opposed to merely focusing on treating the
symptoms.”

  “What about in a not-so-perfect world?” I asked him.

  “It’s just a fancy phrase used by the rejuvenation clinics that have sprung up around the country, almost strictly cosmetic,” Seth explained, his tone clearly disparaging. “Patients seek out the likes of Charles Clifton and his Clifton Care Partners to make them feel and look younger. Doctors like Clifton will claim they’re using never-before-tried methods when all they’re really doing is packaging promises aimed at wrinkle reduction, cosmetic cell treatment, body sculpting, and the like in a fancy new box. Lots of Botox, new approaches to face-lifts, the use of lasers, dermabrasions, face peels, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera,” Seth finished, sounding like he had tired of reciting the list himself.

  “In other words,” I picked up, “antiaging, which fits Mimi Van Dorn to a T.”

  “And now she’s in a coma. Do the math.”

  “Hold on there, Seth,” Mort chimed in. “All we know now is that Mimi had a seizure. There’s no indication whatsoever at this point that it had anything to do with whatever treatments she was receiving at the Clifton Clinic.”

  “Use your imagination.”

  “I prefer to deal in facts.”

  I cleared my throat, forming the words I needed to break the tension between two of the best friends I’d ever had.

  “If you’ve got something to say, Jess,” Seth started, but let the sentence dangle there.

  “You were treating Mimi for diabetes, right?”

  “Type two.” Seth nodded. “If you want to call it treating her, since everything I said went in one ear and out the other. But I had her on meds and doing reasonably well, so don’t you go telling me she started some newfangled treatment at that charlatan’s clinic.”

  “Not at all. I was merely pointing to a possible cause of her seizure.”

  “So now you’re a doctor, too, Mrs. Fletcher?”

  “You want to tell us what’s really bothering you here, Jessica?” Mort chimed in.

  “Isn’t it enough my friend’s in a coma?”

  “It would be normally, but I’m guessing you’ve got other thoughts on the matter.”