Dead Pan (18 page)

“And then the company didn’t have his back either,” I said, “which makes Mr. Harper angry with both Connie and Brea Ridge Pharmaceuticals.”

*

Later that afternoon, Ben stopped by with a pizza and a movie.

“I hope you don’t have other plans,” he said.

“Actually, I have a date,” I said with a grin. “I didn’t know it until I opened the door, but hey, I’ll take what I can get.”

Ben smiled. “I’m sorry to drop in on you like this. I know it was presumptuous of me, but I’ve missed you.” He shrugged. “So I took a chance that you’d be home and wouldn’t be busy.”

“Well, you’re in luck,” I said, grabbing a couple plates, sodas and forks. I turned back to Ben. “I’ve missed you, too.” I cocked my head to try to read the title of the movie on the DVD spine. “What’re we watching?”

“It’s an adventure movie. I know how you like Nicolas Cage.”

“Great. Would you like to eat in here in the kitchen, and then I’ll make us some popcorn to have with the movie? That way, we’ll have more of an opportunity to talk.”

“All right. Sounds like a winner to me.”

We sat down at the kitchen table with the pizza box between us.

“Thanks for cooking,” I said.

“Anytime.” He opened the box and put a slice of the meat pizza on each of our plates.

“You look good,” I said. “You must be feeling better.”

“Good as new. What’ve you been up to these past couple days?”

I’m not sure he didn’t regret opening that flood gate. I told him about my trip to Brea Ridge Pharmaceuticals, what Fran had learned from Connie and about running into Dr. Holloway at the mall.

“I’d no more than got home when Cara called and warmed me not to get in her way,” I said. “Can you believe that? I mean, Dr. Holloway was asking me to help him come up with a Christmas gift
for her
, for goodness’ sake.” I started to continue but realized I must be sounding like Fran. I’d spent quite a bit of time with her this week, and her rapid-fire machine gun style of storytelling was starting to rub off on me.

“It sounds like you’ve had quite a week. Unfortunately, I went back to work and had a ton of paperwork on my desk. Besides that, I’ve had a number of articles to edit—all on a tight deadline, naturally—so I haven’t had much time to investigate Fred’s death.”

“I told you Myra and I went to the medical research clinic in Haysi, didn’t I?”

Ben nodded, cutting into his second slice of pizza with his fork. “But I thought they wouldn’t tell you anything.”

“They wouldn’t, but I’m more positive than ever that Fred was a test subject there.”

“Why’s that?”

I told Ben about Hilda, the Fremonts’ housekeeper, saying she’d met Fred at the medical research clinic in Abingdon. “They were both in a trial there for a medicine used to treat migraines. She told me, Carol and Fran about meeting Fred when they were both there for their appointments.”

“Fred had migraines?” Ben asked. “Were they because of his accident?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t discuss it with Connie; and if Fran or Carol did, they didn’t mention it to me. But later that night, I did an Internet search for medical drug research trials and learned there are people who do that on a regular basis.” I took a bite of my pizza. I was still on my first slice, and it was starting to get cold.

“What do you mean a regular basis?”

“There are people who submit themselves for drug research on a regular basis. Some even make part-time or full-time jobs out of it.”

“But why?” Ben asked.

“Some of the research trials pay really well.”

“Still, isn’t that dangerous?”

“It can be. The drug testers—often referred to as guinea pigs—move around so they’re not always at the same research center. I think there are some strict rules about how long they’re supposed to wait before engaging in new trials and things like that, but the professionals know how to get around the rules.”

Ben frowned. “Do you think Hilda is one of these professional drug testers?”

“No, no, no . . . not Hilda. She was merely seeking treatment for her migraines. From the information I read, there are many Hildas in the system—people who are seeking help for their specific problems. On the other hand, some academic-based research centers even test on medical students; and some of the trials are bizarre. For example, one study I read about tested how cocaine was metabolized by the human body. Tell me that isn’t dangerous.”

“You have to be kidding,” Ben said.

“I’m afraid I’m not.”

“And people actually sign up for things like this to make a profit?”

I nodded. “Yeah, one guy said he signed up for the cocaine test in college where he was a medical student and thought, ‘Hey, I’m getting paid to take illegal drugs.’”

“Unbelievable.”

“Fran said Fred wanted to buy Connie something really nice for Christmas. I think he somehow got into this as a way to make money on the side,” I said. “And I think it might be—at least, in part—why he’s dead.”

Chapter Fourteen

After Ben had gone home to Sally—his golden retriever—I couldn’t get Fred, Cara and the entire Brea Ridge Pharmaceutical situation out of my mind. I began to wonder if Cara was reporting on the events yet. If her newspaper was footing her travel bills, then she should be reporting on them. After all, she’d been down here most of last week and had told me she’d be back tomorrow. Even if she couldn’t tie the entire case up into a tidy little bow, she had to be giving the publisher and editor something. Why else would they let her come back and expend their resources for a story going nowhere?

I made myself a mug of sugar-free cocoa with mini marshmallows and went into my office. As I waited for the computer to boot up, I thought about my promise to Violet and my upcoming shopping trip with Leslie and Lucas.

I do not need to be involved in this investigation.

I logged onto the Internet and typed
West Side Messenger
+ Richmond, VA
into a search engine. I rationalized that this did not constitute investigating. I was merely satisfying my own curiosity about what Cara was reporting with regard to Brea Ridge Pharmaceuticals and Fred’s death.

I clicked on the link for the
West Side Messenger
home page and then typed Cara’s name and “Brea Ridge” into the site’s search engine. I sorted the results by “most recent.” At the top of the list was the headline “Brea Ridge Reporter Latest Victim of Mystery Illness.”

I opened the document. The report stated that “the illness which besieged Brea Ridge residents at a holiday party earlier this month has resurfaced.” The article went on to hint that Brea Ridge might have an epidemic on its hands but that, fortunately, the good doctors at Brea Ridge Pharmaceuticals were available with their miracle cure, which enjoyed a 99 percent success rate.

So my paraphrasing is facetious. You still get the gist of the article. The others were pretty much more of the same.

The first article dealt with the party and how a large number of guests became ill. Cara reported that one young man with a history of brain injury had gone into a coma and had not yet recovered. The article had a sidebar explaining campylobacter bacteria, how it is believed to be spread and how it is treated. Since that part was practical and not overly dramatizing, I figured someone else had written it and put it in at the suggestion of the editor.

Cara’s article didn’t mention where the party had taken place but stated that doctors involved in the development of a new drug treating the effects of campylobacter bacteria were on hand to take charge of the situation. She went on to sing the praises of Brea Ridge Pharmaceuticals and especially Dr. John Holloway.

I closed the article to read the next one and caught sight of the date again. The article ran the day after Fred died. Had Cara simply missed the deadline to amend her article and report Fred’s death? Or had she sat on the information in order to provide herself another article with a dramatic “new” development the next day?

The next article was indeed relaying the “tragic” news of Fred’s death and painting a maudlin word portrait of a community in mourning.

Yet, none are more devastated by the news than the doctors of Brea Ridge Pharmaceuticals who so desperately tried to save this young man’s life
.

My jaw literally dropped.
None
are more devastated? Tell that to Fred’s mother.

My fingers itched to write a letter to the editor telling him or her and the entire Richmond area what a load of hot air Cara Logan is and what inaccurate articles she was writing. Oh, and that the “devastated doctors” are terrified Fred Duncan’s mother is going to sue their pants off.

I unclenched my fists. While a letter to the
West Side Messenger
editor might be in order, I didn’t need to do it tonight . . . in anger . . . via e-mail.

I closed that article and scrolled on down the page. Apparently, the only article Cara had written dealing with Brea Ridge other than detailing the current events surrounding the campylobacter outbreak was a fluff piece she’d done last October on supposed haunted sites in Brea Ridge, Abingdon and Bristol. That must’ve been in the days before her rise to super journalist.

Still disgusted about Cara, I typed the search engine URL into the destination box again. This time I searched for
Robert Franklin + retail management + Boone, North Carolina
. I wanted to see if Robby was as big a deal as his brother Steve had made him out to be. Maybe he was just a big deal in Steve’s eyes.

Nope. Turns out, Robby was indeed a fairly big deal.

He was easy to find because of his status as Appalachian State University alum. Their alumni newsletter regularly sang his praises with an enthusiasm that had escaped Steve Franklin.

Robert Franklin was a successful manager of a chain of high-end jewelry stores. In addition to that, he was an accomplished pianist who sometimes gave free piano lessons at a local boys’ and girls’ organization. He was married to the lovely Patricia, nee Fuller, who was a teacher at a private school where the Franklins’ two lovely daughters were in attendance. Lovely.

There was a photograph of Robby, and I had to begrudgingly admit that he, too, was lovely. Normally, I’d have called him a HUG—Hot Unavailable Guy—but knowing how unlovely he’d treated his brother and his brother’s intended fiancé made me feel Robby didn’t deserve the title.

I clicked out of the love fest to see if there were any other articles on Robert Franklin. There were some older pieces on his athletic achievements while at ASU. I didn’t open those. Further accolades being heaped on Robby Franklin might make me gag on my hot cocoa.

There was another article, though, that did catch my eye. Two years ago, Robert Franklin had been arrested on suspicion of driving while intoxicated. The charge had been reduced to improper driving. Robby had paid a fine and had been given a suspended sentence.

A chill not even hot cocoa could dispel ran down my spine. Was there something Steve Franklin had failed to mention about his brother? It would make sense the other person involved in Fred’s accident was never found because he lived somewhere other than Brea Ridge.

*

After a relatively sleepless night, I got up with one goal in mind—I was going to Save-A-Buck and asking Steve Franklin if his brother was the one who caused Fred’s accident. I once again told myself this was not investigating, merely satisfying a curiosity. Besides, it had already been determined that Fred’s accident had no bearing on his death so this could not even be remotely considered investigating Fred’s death. Right? Right. And, I needed cake flour, confectioners’ sugar, butter, eggs . . . the usual stuff.

When I got to Save-A-Buck, I went straight to Steve Franklin’s office. His door was open, and he looked up and smiled when he saw me standing there.

“Good morning, Ms. Martin. Your candies have been a hit. Any chance you can make some more of them this weekend?”

“I’ll see what I can do.” I walked inside the office. “Have you got a minute?”

“Sure.” He pushed his chair away from his desk and leaned back, clasping his hands behind his head.

I closed the door to his office. “I hope this won’t have any bearing on our professional relationship, but I have to ask you this.”

He raised a brow and I got the feeling he thought I was getting ready to ask him for a date or something. I spoke quickly.

“Did your brother cause Fred Duncan’s accident last year?”

Everything dropped: Mr. Franklin’s jaw, his clasped hands, and the foot he had resting on one knee. I was afraid he was going to fall completely out of his chair.

“A-are you . . .? W-what?” he asked.

I sat down in the chair by the door. “Last night I looked up your brother to see if he was really all that big a deal.” I shrugged one shoulder. “China York had mentioned you and your brother had been estranged for several years over a girl, and I suppose I wanted to check him out so I could tell you I didn’t think he was all that great.”

Mr. Franklin rolled back up to his desk and stared down at his calendar. “We did go our separate ways. The girl was only part of it.”

“I’m sorry.”

He tilted his head. “Me, too. I really loved that girl . . . thought we had a future together, you know?”

“Still, sometimes people aren’t who we think they are. And it’s better to find that out sooner than later.”

“Are we talking about your ex-husband now?”

“I don’t know. I think I always knew he was a jerk, but I hoped maybe I could change him . . . or . . . something. Anyway, as the Big Dog shirt says, ‘Better to have loved and lost than to live with a psycho the rest of your life.’”

“I guess.”

“Anyway,” I continued, “Robby’s life looked pretty impressive at first glance. But then I saw he was arrested for DUI two years ago.”

Mr. Franklin nodded slowly. “He was. And I have to admit when I heard about that, I gloated to myself over it a little. Robby’s party-boy lifestyle was finally catching up to him. I thought it was high time. But then the charge was reduced and, as always, Robby walked away smelling like a lavender sachet in a drawer full of expensive lingerie.”