Malpractice in Maggody (19 page)

“What about your father?”

I took a few minutes to consider my reply. “I don’t have any memories of him. He took off when I was a baby and never looked back. I used to speculate about him. Had he gone to Europe to regain his lawful standing as the heir apparent? Was he running a hospital in some remote African outpost and working on a cure for malaria? Was he a Hollywood star living in a sprawling mansion with his new family? I finally acknowledged that he’d probably lost his footing while hopping a freight train and was buried in a pauper’s grave in some obscure Midwest town.” I held out my glass. “But as Ruby Bee used to say, it’s no use cryin’ over spilled chianti.”

Jack filled my glass. “She said that?”

“Not in those exact words.”

“Speaking of exact words,” he said, “it’s time for the preliminary round of the International Supreme Scrabble Player of the Millennium. This round will be played with a board, tiles, a dictionary, and a score pad, and be viewed via satellite by word aficionados on every continent, including Antarctica. It will be played according to Hoyle.”

“Meaning what?” I asked.

“You have to keep your clothes on.”

“I don’t know about the Hoyle business. What does the winner get?”

“Breakfast in bed. Maybe lunch, too.”

I could never pass up a challenge.

B
reakfast in bed was not to be, alas. Jack and I were debating the merits of muffins versus bagels when the telephone rang. He picked up the receiver, mumbled something, and handed it to me. Resisting the urge to dive under the covers, I accepted it and said, “Yeah?”

Harve Dorfer was not in his good ol’ boy mode. “Listen up,” he said in a most unfriendly fashion, “I ain’t gonna say anything about you taking off in the middle of a murder investigation—at least not right now. How long will it take you to get your ass back to the Stonebridge Foundation?”

“Why? Is the paperwork getting out of hand?”

“It’s too damn early for any of your smart-mouthed questions. Can you make it in two hours?”

I sat up and looked at the clock. “You’re absolutely right, Harve. It’s seven-thirty, and that’s too damn early for much of anything. Call me back later, and we’ll have a long chat about how you set me up to play the receptionist.”

“We got us another body out there.”

“Oh, shit.” I covered the mouthpiece of the receiver and asked Jack to start a pot of coffee. After he left the room, I said, “Who? What happened?”

“One of the doctors, fellow by the name of Zumi. All I know is that a maid found him in his office a few minutes ago and told Dr. Stonebridge, who called me. I’m heading out there now, and McBeen should be along shortly. What about you?”

“I’ll be there by ten.” I hung up and headed for the shower, trying to process what he’d told me. The previous evening Jack had opened a second bottle of wine, which had seemed like an excellent idea at the time. Now I had a dull ache in the back of my head, and my tongue felt as fuzzy as a dandelion pod. There was a bottle of aspirin in the medicine cabinet, but after the few hours I’d spent at the foundation, the idea of taking any drug made me uneasy.

I told Jack what little I knew while we had coffee. Neither of us had any brilliant insights. We agreed to try for another weekend, preferably one without complications, and then I tossed my bag into the car and drove toward Maggody. I speculated about Randall Zumi’s untimely demise for a few miles, but after I’d replayed our conversation several times, I’d bored myself silly and moved on to more entertaining thoughts (or fantasies, if you prefer).

When I arrived at the rehab facility, the gate was open. I continued around to the back and parked between Harve’s official vehicle and McBeen’s death-mobile. Along with some civilian cars, there were two other cars with the Stump County Sheriff’s Department logo and telltale blue bubble lights. At least, I thought optimistically, this time I wouldn’t be cast adrift on my own.

There were no voices from the garden, or indications of activity. All the doors to the addition that housed the doctors were closed, as were the ones across from it. No one was visible though the French doors that led to the main part of the facility. A pair of ill-tempered blue jays strutted under a wrought-iron table in search of bread crumbs; if I’d been fluent in avian, I would have sent them across the road to a particular persimmon tree. A deputy with a conspicuous case of acne stood next to the pool. I joined him and said, “I’m Chief of Police Arly Hanks. Where’s Sheriff Dorfer?”

The question seemed to perplex him, as if I’d demanded that he explain a quadratic equation or summarize the causes of the Boer War. He was scratching his chin (not a pleasant sight) when McBeen came out of Randall’s office, followed by two assistants in green scrubs wheeling a gurney.

“What happened?” I asked.

“Ya know something?” McBeen said, wheezing like an old coon-hound. “Before you took over as chief of police, the only homicides out this way were either spouses going after each other with kitchen knives or damn fool hunters claiming they’d accidentally shot an in-law. The cause of death was plain as day. I’d tag ’em, bag ’em, and pack ’em off to the morgue for a quick look-see.” He paused to catch his breath and shake his finger at me. “Then you showed up, and all of a sudden, it ain’t safe to set foot in Maggody. Got any theories, missy?”

“Must be all those classified ads I put in newspapers inviting folks to come here to murder each other,” I said, glaring at him. “I mentioned that the coroner was such a buffoon that they had a good chance of getting away with it. Are you planning to tell me what happened anytime soon?”

“Appears to be a suicide.”

“Is that the extent of your preliminary report?”

“Narcotic mixed with booze most likely led to heart failure. Guy’s been dead for ten to twelve hours, give or take. Unofficially, somewhere around midnight.”

“What about the woman whose body was discovered early yesterday morning?”

“Within two hours of midnight, either side. Water in her lungs, consistent with her face being forced down. No alcohol in her blood. We ran tests for the drugs we usually encounter and didn’t come up with anything. The lab in Little Rock will test for a broader spectrum. Now why don’t you go badger the sheriff? He’s waiting for you inside.” McBeen caught up with the gurney and followed it out to the parking area.

My headache had receded, but I still wasn’t at my best and confronting Harve wasn’t going to help. I felt obscurely guilty, although I could hardly have identified the murderer the previous afternoon or stayed up all night with Randall, consoling him on the loss of his soul mate.

I went into Randall’s office. Harve was sitting on the sofa with Stonebridge; neither of them bothered to greet me. Voices and noises from the apartment indicated that it was being searched. The surface of the dark walnut desk had been dusted for fingerprints. Plastic bags, dutifully labeled, held a small liquor bottle, a drinking glass, and a piece of paper ripped out of a notepad.

“Suicide?” I said as I sat down behind the desk.

Stonebridge sighed. “Looks like it. Randall knew the danger of mixing barbiturates with alcohol. God, I don’t know what to do. First Molly, and now Randall. None of this should have happened. This was supposed to be a safe haven for the celebrities, not some kind of—of lethal madhouse. Randall and I invested more than two million dollars to ensure that it would be perfect. How could he do this to me?”

Harve kept a beady eye on me while he lit a cigar. “So what the hell happened yesterday that sent you hightailin’ it up the highway?”

“You’d know if you hadn’t gone fishing,” I said. “I was dumped out here on my own, with nothing to go on. Nobody confessed. I couldn’t interview the staff because of the language barrier. Supposedly yesterday afternoon a deputy came out and took fingerprints so we can run background checks. That takes a couple of days. I couldn’t see any reason to sit around here all weekend and wait.”

“Background checks?” Stonebridge stood up and went over to the bookshelf. After straightening a few volumes, he turned around and said, “Is that necessary? If you’d bothered to mention it to me, I would have gone through the personnel files and given you whatever information you needed.”

“Presuming everyone was candid and forthcoming,” I said. “Oddly enough, some people prefer to forget about prior convictions and outstanding warrants.”

“Impossible.” He looked at Harve with that man-to-man, condescending smile that infuriates women (or should, anyway). “Arly seems to have a volatile imagination, doesn’t she, Sheriff? Molly was murdered, yes, but it’s probable that security was breached. And as for poor Randall, well…I feel some sense of responsibility. He was in the middle of a nasty divorce, and the legal bills were suffocating him. He had to struggle to come up with his share of the investment. Initially he was eager to form our partnership, but as his financial problems worsened, he would call me at all hours of the night for reassurance. Had it been feasible, I would have bought him out. If only I’d known he was so depressed.”

“He was upset about Molly,” I said.

Stonebridge seemed bemused by my remark. “He’d only known her for a week or so. It’s more likely he was worried that the news of her death would be leaked to the press and destroy our reputation. We’d have to take a big loss just to get out.”

Harve cleared his throat. “So what’s going to happen with his death?”

“I’m not sure. We both took out life insurance policies and signed the standard documents for this contingency. I don’t think there’s a clause excluding payment in the case of suicide. As long as there isn’t, then I receive the benefit and will use it to buy out Mrs. Zumi’s interest.”

“So you’ll be the sole owner?” I asked.

“That doesn’t mean I’m pleased about the prospect. Randall was able to acquire our license because he was certified by the state and had some friendly contacts on the board. I have no idea what our legal status will be after his death is reported. Furthermore, it’s vital that we have an experienced psychiatrist on the staff if we’re to remain an acceptable option in court-mandated psych evaluations and treatment programs.” He sat down in the chair across from me and crossed his legs. “I don’t suppose I can convince you to go undercover as a shrink, can I?”

Harve was getting tired of being ignored. He came over to the desk and looked down at me. “Unless McBeen says otherwise, we’ll assume this Zumi fellow committed suicide. Molly Foss did not, so you need to get that tidied up. I’m going back to my office to see if I can dig up a translator by this afternoon. I’ll kick some butt and get the names and prints off to the FBI. Think you can manage to hang around for the rest of the day, or am I gonna have to put out an APB every time I got something to tell you?”

“I left the number with LaBelle, Harve. Just how hard was it for you to find me? But let me warn you—if you don’t get off my back, next time you’ll need Interpol to put out that APB.”

I had hopes that I might spot steam coming out of his ears, but he clamped his lips together, then went to the doorway and began to bark at the deputies searching Randall’s apartment. “What’s with this baby booze bottle?” I asked Stonebridge.

“Randall isn’t—wasn’t—much of a drinker. I’m surprised he had it. There was an odor of grapefruit juice in the glass, so he must have mixed the vodka with it.”

“And the note?”

“Sheriff Dorfer has assumed it’s a suicide note, which seems likely. Illegible handwriting is a required course in med school. Randall must have received a high grade.”

I picked up the plastic bag and squinted at the note. It could have been anything from a plea for forgiveness to hieroglyphic doodles. Shaking my head, I put it down and said, “So what’s going on with the patients? Haven’t any of them noticed they’re not having their scheduled sessions?”

“I told them Randall was ill,” Stonebridge said. “Brenda and Walter have agreed to stick to that story.”

“Did either of them have anything to say?”

He thought about it for a moment. “Walter just shrugged and went off to the gym. Brenda was upset, but she swore she could pull herself together and carry through with her duties. I have to admit I’m worried about her. She needs to feel as though she’s in control of a highly organized operation, and that she alone must take responsibility for even the most minute glitch. If I allowed it, she’d insist the patients arrive exactly five minutes prior to their sessions and wait in the hall like docile sheep. She suggested daily evaluations that we could discuss every evening. I told her we’d have one staff meeting a week, and that was all. I’m truly not interested in how many leg lifts someone did or if they bitched during acupuncture. If I let her have her way, we’d have been sitting around a campfire in the parking lot, holding hands and singing ‘Kumbaya.’”

Harve came back into the office. “The boys didn’t find anything except a couple of over-the-counter remedies for diarrhea and heartburn. Nothing I don’t have at home. Guess he didn’t have to go far to find the hard stuff.”

“I’ll do another inventory of the drug cabinet right away,” Stonebridge said. “I refuse to believe Randall would steal anything.”

“I doubt he was thinking too clearly,” I said, then smiled at Harve. “So when do I get the translator? You going to wait until Mrs. Dorfer makes you a big breakfast before you start making calls?”

“You are trying my patience, young lady. One of these days you’re gonna be real sorry.”

“Gee whiz, you’re not going to get me fired, are you? Whatever would I do without this high-salaried, glamorous, fascinating job? If you want to call Jim Bob, you can use this phone. I’ll look up his number for you.”

He rumbled under his breath. “Like I said, one of these days. Now you get your ass in gear and start trying to do some detective work. Soon as I get back to the office, I’ll see if I can hunt up somebody of a bilingual persuasion. In the meantime, stay out of Missouri. Got that?”

“You bet your booties, boss,” I said. I would have tugged on a forelock if I’d had one, but I had to settle for blowing him a kiss as he stomped out the door. Seconds later, Les and another deputy came out of the apartment.

Les gathered up the plastic bags. “You’re in quite a snit.”

“I’d rather be in Missouri. Did you find prints on the desk?”

“Oh, yeah, but everybody was in and out of here—patients, staff, maids, orderlies, maybe the guys who delivered the desk in the first place. I’ll do what I can, but don’t expect much. The deputy out by the pool, Quivers, is gonna hang around if you need him for something.”

“Any relation to the catfish farmer in Belle Star?”

“His second cousin. Don’t…uh, expect too much from him. I’ll call you later.”