Murder, She Wrote--Murder in Red Page 24

  “Not that I expect you to use them, ayuh,” he groused.

  I’d opted for the boot this morning, unable to get the hang of using the cumbersome crutches. I’d been up most of the night watching old movies and keeping ice on the ankle, which felt better when I awoke in a chair just past dawn.

  The man Cabot Cove knew as Fred Cooper, meanwhile, hadn’t said a word since I’d called him by his rightful name.

  “The young man in the wheelchair, the man you killed,” I resumed, instead of waiting any longer, “he was in the car with you the night of the accident. He was the one crushed and broken when it rolled over, while you were thrown free. How am I doing so far?”

  Fred Cooper, born Tripp Van Dorn, still remained silent, so I went on.

  “You must have managed to walk off, either in panic or shock. And when your mother got to the scene, she saw someone else being hauled away on a stretcher. I imagine she put the pieces together pretty fast, probably even before you approached her. The real victim was hurt so badly, the first responders likely couldn’t tell who he was or didn’t even care. All they cared about was keeping him alive, and that’s where the trip to Mass General came in, since nobody would know the difference between Tripp Van Dorn and somebody else.

  “Your mother planned the whole thing on her ride to the hospital, on the phone with Big Al for much of the time. Since they were having an affair, I’m sure he was more than willing to go along with the charade and even abet it. The ruse never would’ve worked otherwise. The medical and insurance information was yours, not the real victim’s. He effectively became you. What was it, Tripp, were you drunk behind the wheel? Were you and Mimi afraid of you spending a big chunk of your life in jail?”

  “He didn’t have any insurance.”

  I remember Alvin McCandless said it had been the right thing to do, and to a point I suppose it had been, but only to that point. “Who was he, Tripp?”

  The man Cabot Cove knew as Fred Cooper tried to smile but failed, his expression suddenly reflective. “It’s been ten years now, ever since the night of the accident, that anybody’s called me that. Even my mother disciplined herself to call me Fred.”

  “What I just said about her concocting the whole scheme—that’s true, isn’t it?”

  Cooper nodded slowly, just once. “She was trying to do the right thing, Mrs. Fletcher.”

  “The right thing would’ve been for you to have owned up to what you had done, not engage in this cover-up.”

  “And face jail? My mother wouldn’t have that, not if it meant ruining the Van Dorn name.”

  “Speaking of names, who was the man who became Tripp Van Dorn?”

  “A friend from college who wasn’t even from around Marblehead. He always hung out with us for holidays because he’d lost his own family in a boating accident a few years before.”

  That spurred a memory, something I’d lost in my second visit to Good Shepherd Manor, after the fake Tripp Van Dorn’s murder. “That picture on the wall, the one you removed after you killed him—it was of his family, not yours.”

  “That’s why I removed it,” the real Tripp said, not bothering to deny it.

  “So what happened when your friend woke up in Mass General?”

  “My mother was sitting by his bedside, playing the dutiful parent. She explained his options to him, promised to make sure he was taken care of financially. Tell the truth and he’d end up indigent, with no way of paying for the kind of quality care he was going to need for the rest of his life. As you know, Mimi Van Dorn could be a most persuasive woman.”

  “And I’m sure she made herself out to be a saint,” I reckoned. “Convinced the young man she was doing this for him, looking out for his best interests, that he really didn’t have a choice. Quite a story she must have concocted.”

  This time, Cooper’s nod was stronger. “With me cast as the villain. I was pretty much out of the picture by then, in law school, thanks to the real Fred Cooper’s academic record and college transcript. And our ruse worked for ten years, longer than anyone expected the guy to live. We provided for all of his needs, until my mother’s obsession with staying young swallowed up the trust. When a third payment in a row was missed to Good Shepherd, and he was faced with being moved to a state facility, the man the world knew as Tripp Van Dorn threatened to expose the whole ruse.”

  “I’m surprised you didn’t keep up the charade yourself instead of buying new office furniture.”

  A look that reminded me of his mother’s after she’d beaten me at a game of cards crossed his face. “Killing him was easier.”

  It was clear now why Mimi had never mentioned she had a son. I’d thought it was because she didn’t want it to tarnish her image of a hard-charging socialite, when the truth must have been that she didn’t want anyone asking questions. To all intents and purposes, Tripp Van Dorn had died in that car accident a decade ago, Fred Cooper born in his place.

  “How’d you figure it out?” he asked, his face flat with resignation.

  I think I liked him more now, with his guard down and showing no airs. “Started with something Alvin McCandless said about two lives being ruined, not one. At first, I thought he meant you and your mother. Then I started to realize he was talking about a second person in the car. A second person who couldn’t possibly be Mimi’s son because of his blood type. But it was you who provided the final clue, Tripp, when you handed me your business card the other day.”

  “DNA,” he realized. “You must have tested it against my mother’s.”

  “Your father’s actually, John Jessup,” I said, not bothering to elaborate further. “When it came back a match, all the remaining pieces fell into place.”

  “It was my mother’s fault,” Tripp said in more of a hiss.

  “She had to have that antiaging drug, didn’t she, no matter the cost? Of course, it didn’t matter to her that breaking the trust would hurt her son . . . because he really wasn’t her son at all. And Mimi wasn’t your client, as I originally thought; she was your mother, which must’ve been what brought you to Cabot Cove in the first place. You kill fake Tripp and there’s no one left who can hurt you, who knows the truth. Too bad you left that bruise on the back of his head. Otherwise his death would’ve gone down as a suicide and we probably wouldn’t be having this conversation. You knew that building like the back of your hand from visiting the fake you regularly. I’m guessing during one of those visits you even unlocked the window through which you gained entry the day you killed him.”

  “Rory Tait,” the real Tripp Van Dorn said softly.

  “Who?”

  “My friend’s name.”

  “The one you murdered at Good Shepherd, ten years after the accident paralyzed him,” I elaborated. “You tried to talk your mother out of breaking the trust, didn’t you, Tripp? You knew what would happen if she did that in order to get into that fake clinical trial.”

  “She never gave me the chance,” Tripp admitted. “By the time I found out, it was too late. The money was gone.”

  “And once Rory Tait, who’d effectively become you at Good Shepherd Manor, found out . . .”

  I let the rest of the sentence dangle in the air.

  Cooper left it there, unsure about going on himself, until he stole a glance at Mort and then back at me. “Who killed her, Mrs. Fletcher?”

  “They’re in custody, too, Tripp.”

  “It was Charles Clifton, wasn’t it?”

  I looked at Mort, who nodded. “He had an associate as well,” I confirmed. “It’s a long story.”

  “With an unhappy ending.”

  “For most.”

  “There’s an exception?”

  I pushed myself up to my feet as Mort bent Tripp Van Dorn’s hands behind his back. “You know, I believe there is.”

  * * *

  • • •

 
“Well, my dear lady, I guess this is so long,” George Sutherland said, sliding up to me with luggage deposited at his feet.

  “I’m glad you said that instead of good-bye,” I told him, tightening my grip on the front porch railing outside Hill House. “I hate the word ‘good-bye.’”

  He grasped my shoulders and eased me around to face him. “With us, it’s never good-bye. You should have figured that out by now.”

  “It was almost good-bye the other night on the bluffs.”

  “Speaking of which, I was quite impressed with your skills.”

  “Which skills would those be?”

  “The ones that kept you from falling to your death, of course.”

  “You kept me from falling to my death, George.”

  He shook his head, grinning again. “You’d still have me believe that you confronted Clifton and Archibald just to flush me out?”

  “Which wouldn’t have been necessary if you’d told me the truth of what you were up to beforehand.”

  “I was under strict orders.”

  “So you were hoping to slip in and out of Cabot Cove without me knowing?”

  George held my gaze. “I thought I might surprise you once my job was done, dear lady.”

  “Well, you certainly did that.”

  He let go of my arms, our gazes dipping to his luggage.

  “You can’t stay any longer?”

  George’s smile suddenly looked forced. “I’ve had enough excitement to last me quite a while, and I’ve lengthened my stay in your wonderful town as long as I could. But the Yard wants me back in the office tomorrow.”

  “I’ll write you a note,” I offered. “Should I address it to your boss or the queen?”

  “Well, you’ve met the queen, but not my boss.”

  “We need to plan a get-together not connected to murder,” I suggested.

  “Then what, pray tell, would we have to talk about?”

  “We could rehash this case for starters. For instance, how exactly did Scotland Yard get wise to what was happening at the Clifton Clinic?”

  “Two Londoners died there, both under mysterious circumstances, one of whom was a friend of mine, as I mentioned before. The Yard chose me to do the dirty work for any number of reasons, mostly my familiarity with the area and my age.”

  I nodded. “Since we’re getting up there in age, it makes sense that we’d need some new drug available only in clinical trials. But how did you fake your illness?”

  George didn’t answer my question right away. “Cabot Cove Hospital kindly substituted the fake test results I brought with me for the real ones, making it appear I was as sick and desperate as advertised.”

  “Cooperation agreement,” I mused. “Hmmmmmmm, why is it I get the feeling you’re not the only one who deceived me? You never intended to start treatment, of course. I’m guessing you faked the fever as a stall tactic. Do you have an app for that, too?”

  A playful look flashed across his face. “By that time, I was suffering from something far more perilous than a deadly disease.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You, dear lady. Our association had been noted by too many, raising Clifton’s suspicions that something was wrong about my presence.”

  “So I was right about the cell phone! It was a signal to me you were alive, wasn’t it?”

  “Indeed it was. Can you believe I was afraid you might not catch it?”

  “No, I can’t.”

  “And I owe you more than a bit of thanks, Jessica. The Yard had no knowledge of LGX Pharmaceuticals’ role in all this or the exact nature of the conspiracy between Clifton and Jeffrey Archibald. I’m sorry to have deceived you, but I’m sure you understand.”

  I moved in and hugged him tightly as the cab that would be taking him to the airport pulled up on the street. “Rain check?”

  “Rain check.”

  I kissed him lightly. “Promise?”

  “Promise.”

  * * *

  • • •

  The sudden closing of the Clifton Clinic brought many patients back to Seth Hazlitt, both young and old. So many that, to manage the flow, Seth was keeping office hours into the evening. He even spoke of bringing on a young associate for the first time in all the years I’d known him.

  But he made time to join us at Mara’s Luncheonette two weeks later to finish the celebration for Jean O’Neil, whose reception at the library had been postponed after Mimi’s seizure. I entered still limping but having shed the boot after only a single week. I also no longer looked as if I’d gone a few rounds with a rosebush or had come down with chicken pox.

  We had commandeered the whole coffee shop for the occasion, and because of Cabot Cove’s deep affection for our longtime librarian, the turnout was strong. I moved toward a table currently manned by Mort, Seth, and Harry McGraw, who’d made the trip from New York even though he’d never even met Jean O’Neil.

  “Hey, it’s a free meal, right?” he said after I’d mentioned the celebration to him in passing and ended up inviting him out of guilt.

  Only to the extent that the Friends of the Library organization was footing the bill up to a certain point. I had agreed to cover anything in excess of that to allow anyone who’d attended the library reception to come to this one as well.

  I reached the table and stowed a shopping bag I’d lugged along with me on an empty chair next to the one I’d taken.

  Seth Hazlitt looked up from his plate, impressed. “Getting around better and better every day, Jess.”

  Harry McGraw didn’t look up at all from his overstuffed plate, courtesy of the buffet line. “You should get yourself something to eat. After all, you’re paying for it.”

  “Don’t forget the Friends, Harry.”

  “I don’t have any, save for the people at this table.”

  I looked at the empty chair where I’d stowed my shopping bag and thought of George Sutherland, who would’ve been occupying it if he’d been able to remain in Cabot Cove for a bit longer.

  “Anything you forgot to tell me regarding the investigation, Mort?” I said across the table.

  “Just tidying up some loose ends, the kind of stuff you never have to worry about in your books.”

  “From where I sit, you and George Sutherland teaming up against me doesn’t really qualify as a loose end, does it?”

  “He told you?”

  “I didn’t leave him much choice.”

  “Well, Scotland Yard didn’t leave me much of one either. I was under strict orders not to say a word to you about the truth behind George’s presence in Cabot Cove. Apparently, your exploits are as well-known as your books over there.”

  “Should I take that as a compliment?”

  “I’m sorry, Jessica, truly sorry, for keeping you in the dark.”

  “You can make it up by doing me a favor.”

  “Anything. Just name it.”

  “I’ve got a loose end of my own,” I said, tapping the shopping bag alongside me.

  Mort narrowed his gaze. “What’s in the bag, Mrs. Fletcher?”

  “Six boxes of Girl Scout cookies for Big Al McCandless,” I told him. “And I know you won’t mind giving me a ride so we can deliver them in person.”

  About the Authors

  Jessica Fletcher is a bestselling mystery writer who has a knack for stumbling upon real-life mysteries in her various travels. Jon Land, author of more than 50 books, coauthors this bestselling series.

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