A House to Die For (A Darby Farr Mystery) (2 page)

To his surprise, there were no anxious visitors at the patient's
bedside. Phipps shrugged and focused on the victim. He lay on a
gurney, still strapped to a rigid board which the paramedics had
used to transport him. One side of his face was covered in a large
purple bruise, the eye on that side swollen shut. His looks were the
least of his problems, however. Glancing on the chart, Phipps saw
that his pelvis and left femur were broken, along with a few ribs
and his neck.

His neck. Phipps gazed at it, dispassionately, trying to gauge
the extent of the trauma to the spinal cord. They'd need an MRI
to see which vertebrae were damaged, and whether the injury
could in some way be improved. Repaired, he knew, was out of
the question, but if a piece of bone was pressing on a vertebra or
a nerve, some pain might be relieved. He scrawled a note on the
chart. Methylprednisone. This medication was a corticosteroid that
reduced damage to nerve cells, decreasing inflammation near the
site of injury. It seemed to cause some recovery in patients if given
within eight hours of injury.

He looked at the man, little more than a stationary bundle
of sheets and mangled bone, and judged him to be in his early
twenties. A small diamond stud sparkled from one earlobe. His
hair was dark and curly, and needed a washing. And yet Emerson
Phipps knew that this patient would never again shampoo his own
hair, or change his earring. Without even seeing an X-ray, Phipps
sensed that the C-I vertebrae was crushed, the one that controlled
the arms, legs, and even breathing. It would be a miracle if the
poor guy found the strength to go on living once he realized his
fate.

Phipps sighed and prepared to leave the room when something-an instinct he couldn't define, an unnatural stillness in the
room, a sweet thin odor that he only now was just beginning to
notice-made him stop, and reach instead to the carotid artery for
a pulse. Phipps' trained fingers felt nothing. Puzzled, he put on his
stethoscope and listened for a heartbeat. Again, nothing. He sighed
and put the stethoscope back in his pocket. This patient was dead,
most likely by a heart attack-and, judging by the extent of his
injuries, it was probably a good thing.

Idly he wondered why an alarm hadn't sounded when the patient had stopped breathing. The ventilator was there, and the patient was on it. Just then Phipps noticed the power cord to the ventilator. It lay on the floor, unplugged.

A stab of alarm pulsed through his body. Why wasn't the guy on a
heart monitor? Some clumsy EMT knocked the cord out, he thought. It
happened, more often than any hospital wanted to admit. His second
thought was one of self-preservation. They're not insinuating I had
anything to do with this ...

Phipps knew the nurse Amanda would have noted the time she
phoned, and luckily he had been prompt in answering her page.
He'd checked in upon entering the hospital so he was covered
there, as well. Timing was everything, and this morning, Phipps
had done it all perfectly.

And yet he didn't want even a hint of a scandal. Twice he'd been
called to appear before the hospital ethics committee on charges of
negligent behavior, just because he'd started a few surgeries later
than scheduled. Both instances had been dismissed, but of course
the newspapers had carried the stories. Did Surgeon's Tardiness
Lead to Death? He swore under his breath. He was not about to let
this night create another hassle with the hospital administration.

Emerson Phipps knew how to disable the machine's built-in
recorder system, and he did it quickly and with a calm that came
from making life and death decisions every day. He checked that
no one had entered the room without his hearing, and then, taking a quick breath, he plugged the respirator back in.

While the machine made its reassuring hum and pumped oxygen into non-functioning lungs, Emerson Phipps jotted down a
time of death. Calmly, he paged Amanda in the nurses' station and
told her the patient had coded. She gasped and hurried into the
room, her pretty face puckered with worry.

He placed a reassuring hand on Amanda's shoulder and locked
his eyes with hers. "Poor guy couldn't take the trauma," he said
softly. "His body was just too battered."

Amanda bit her lip and Phipps could see tears in her eyes.

"He's just a few years younger than me," she whispered. "A college kid. Way too young to die"

Dr. Phipps nodded gravely. "Ask Dr. Chan to notify the family,"
he said, putting the chart back in its holder. "I've been called out
on urgent business."

He saw the look of dismay cross the young nurse's face.

"I hate to leave you with all this," he said, his eyes dropping
down to the pink ribbon she wore on her scrubs and lingering
there a moment before once more meeting her gaze. "You organized the cancer walk back in the fall, right?"

She nodded, blushing again, and he smiled. "Make sure you see
me for a check next time. I'm happy to help." He glanced at his
watch, the pink gold glinting under the fluorescent lights. "Look, if
I didn't know how competent you are..."

She exhaled quickly and shook her head. "You go, Dr. Phipps.
Go and do what you need to do. I'll handle this and track down
Dr. Chan."

He smiled. "You're an angel, Amanda."

Twenty minutes later he was seated in his BMW, speeding
north to Maine.

The sun rose just as he crossed the bridge from New Hampshire, a
rosy ball rising up out of the blue water and climbing effortlessly
into the sky. After stopping for coffee and a stale blueberry muffin,
Phipps climbed back into his car and drove an hour or so more,
up the coast to the working-class city of Manatuck. He waited with
the fishermen in the line for the first boat of the day, noticing the
admiration of the ferry workers as he purred past them and onto
the ramp. "Get used to it," he said softly. "You're going to be seeing a lot more of this car." Twenty minutes later, he steered the sedan
off the ferry and onto the island of Hurricane Harbor.

He drove slowly past the trim little cape that served as the ferry
office. A few clumps of people stood waiting to board the ferry, but
Phipps paid them no attention. Instead he headed up the hill, past
the little cafe with its window boxes crammed with flowers, the
dingy little bar, and the hotel, a stately Victorian structure upon
whose wide porch a few tourists were already perched. Beyond
the few buildings that served as the island's center was a crescentshaped piece of land called Long Cove, a sheltered inlet of water
dotted here and there with lobster buoys and one or two small sailboats. At the fork in the road, Phipps turned right, where a small
wooden sign said simply, "Pemberton Point" and beneath that, in
capital letters, "PRIVATE"

His heart quickened as he drove down the wooded road. He
knew he shouldn't have come-Mark had advised him to lay low
-but he couldn't help himself. His longing to see the estate again
was so intense, he was willing to drive three hours for a ten- or fifteen-minute look. The buyer won't be at the property, he reasoned.
Not this early in the morning...

The buyer. Let her enjoy the feeling, because it wasn't going to
last. If all went according to plan-and it would-he would be the
one with the keys to Fairview sometime Monday afternoon. She's
about to be broadsided and she doesn't even know it. The thought
filled him with the same adrenalin that flooded his veins in the
operating room.

Phipps knew that his purchase of Fairview was a gamble, but
he was a man used to taking chances and having them go in his
favor. As he turned down the curving, tree-lined driveway that led to the Trimble estate, he felt a surge of anticipation. Nevertheless,
he drove slowly on the dirt road, careful to keep the rocks from
spinning up and damaging his paint job. I'll have it paved next
week.

He slowed to a stop and looked up at the main house, as impressive as any English manor or French chateau. Fairview, he
whispered. The very sound filled him with a longing that was almost unbearable. He said it again, letting it roll off his tongue.

The property was as beautiful as it had been the previous Saturday when he'd raced up from Boston and submitted his offer,
as breathtaking as the first time he'd laid eyes on it, all those years
before. It was more than the house, or the staggering view, or the
formal gardens landscaped to perfection. It was the whole idea
of an island retreat and what it represented. A mini-kingdom, his
mini-kingdom, with tennis courts, an airstrip, and an indoor pool.
It was an estate that rivaled any along the Atlantic coast, a property
that was the envy of everyone who knew tony Hurricane Harbor,
of anyone back in Boston who knew exquisite taste. It represented
everything he had ever worked for, the life he had carefully crafted.
Mine, he thought. It will soon be mine.

He let his eyes linger for a moment more on the weathered
shingles and listened to the crash of the surf beyond the house.
Phipps had made arrangements to get inside, but the person with
the key wasn't due until eight o'clock. Phipps looked at his watch
with impatience. Twenty minutes before the hour. He thought
fleetingly of the elderly real estate broker upon whose frail shoulders the whole deal rested, and wondered if she was the one meeting him. What the hell was her name? Jean? Joan? Jane. Jane Farr.
She still had all her marbles, he had to give her credit for that. And those penetrating eyes ... It was as if she'd seen right through him,
and known, somehow, that Fairview was something he would acquire at any cost. She'd come up with the whole thing...

Phipps looked at the time again. I wish to hell she'd get here.
Jane Farr hadn't wanted this meeting, but with nearly six million
dollars on the table, she'd been easy to convince. The whole thing
had been easy, which was just the way Phipps liked it.

He decided to walk to the back of the house, stretch his legs
before he began driving once more.

He strode across the verdant grass, damp with the morning dew.
A few gulls cried out as he rounded the corner, their shrieks like
screams against the early morning stillness. A rabbit darted from behind a clump of beach roses, and Emerson Phipps jumped. I'm not
used to peace and quiet. I'm used to life or death.

The cove was calm, save for the sound of a gentle swell buffeting the rocks below. Phipps peered over the craggy cliffs that
jutted out like fingers and saw a path winding down to the small
beach below. He'd hire a landscaper and put in stairs, so that his
nephews could scamper down there and not break their necks in
the process. His thoughts wandered back to the emergency room
and the unfortunate patient he'd seen hours earlier. Poor Amanda
had seemed rattled by the whole thing. I'll call her later. She may
want to talk. The memory of the young nurse and her bouncy little
ponytail made him smile. She was pretty, in a wholesome, earnest
way, not like the angular models he usually dated. Maybe I'm ready
to give all that up. Be the kind of person my sister thinks I am ...

He glanced again at his watch and noted that it was nearly
eight. With one last look at the cove, he turned and started back to
the front of the house. There was a small orchard on the southern side of the estate, and Phipps wondered what fruit he would soon
be harvesting. He wished he'd brought his PDA, but it was tucked
in the glove compartment of the BMW. That, too, could wait for
the journey back to Boston.

As he approached the orchard, he heard what sounded like a
low moan. He turned in the sound's direction, expecting to see the
elderly real estate agent, perhaps with a sprained ankle, hobbling
toward him. He saw no one, but a shingled garden shed with its
door ajar caught his attention. He listened intently. There it was
again: a cry of pain, and it seemed to be coming from the shed.

Phipps shook his head. He was off duty, for Chrissakes, and
the last thing he wanted to do was play hero doctor. Nevertheless,
he strode across the lawn and entered the shed, stepping gingerly
on the old wooden floor. The smell of compost, oil, and cut grass
mingled into a pleasing mixture he associated with summer. Inside it was dark, and dusty, and he waited for an instant so his eyes
would adjust, all the while listening keenly so he could locate the
victim. "Hello?" he called out. "I'm a doctor. I can help you."

A crackling sound split the silence and Phipps felt a jolt run
through his torso. Without warning his legs buckled beneath him,
and an instant later he was collapsing onto the floor of the shed.
He heard the soft thud of his bones against the worn wood, felt the
floor rush up to meet his face like a slap. He tried to speak, to wonder aloud what had happened, but his tongue was fat and heavy
and he couldn't move his lips. I'm paralyzed, he told himself with
surprise. I've had some kind of stroke or something...

He heard a muffled movement, the sound of something heavy
being dragged across the wooden floor. His brain was scrambling
to figure out what was happening: the moan of pain, the sudden crackle, his quick collapse. Not a stroke, he realized, some kind of
attack! Before he could follow this line of reasoning further, he
heard a grunt of exertion and saw the blurred outline of a body
just beyond his line of vision. Another grunt, and then a searing
pain as the weight of something very heavy came crashing down
on his skull.