Pickin Clover (6 page)

The truth was, Raymond’s duplicity could affect every aspect of Michael’s life, because he now knew the accountant had all but cleaned him out.

Up since dawn, Michael had called investment companies in the East, and his worst fears had been realized. The final tally wasn’t in because the companies needed time to gather all the details, but it appeared that Stokes had, over the past few weeks, cleverly liquefied a sizable portion of Michael’s investments. A few he hadn’t been able to touch, but they were insignificant compared with the mammoth amounts he’d filched.

Raymond had been extremely clever. He’d paid some of the bills for the month, but only the ones that might have alerted Michael to what was happening. Most of the monthly bills were still outstanding, with no cash to cover them. Michael had had to swallow his pride and negotiate a sizable loan from the bank to meet his immediate expenses at home and at the office.

His stomach churned at the memory. In light of what Stokes had taken and the staggering amount of Michael’s unpaid accounts and monthly expenses, Arthur Berina was very reluctant to extend the already substantial line of credit; it had taken a great deal of persuasion to convince him to authorize the loan, and the manager had made it clear Michael would have to find another source of credit if any further funds were required.

When Michael asked about extending the mortgages on the house, Berina had cited the drop in real-estate prices in North America, which were already being reflected in Vancouver. He’d said the mortgages Michael was already carrying were actually more than the assessed value of the property.

Valerie’s voice interrupted such troubled thoughts. “There've been a number of calls this morning, the names and numbers are all here. And you have about twenty minutes before your first appointment. That’ll be Mrs. Nikols and her new baby. Here’s her chart.”

Valerie placed the chart and the neat list of callers at his elbow, and when she left the room, Michael scanned it.

Constable Roper, R.C.M.P., was the first person on the list. Michael grimaced, realizing he would have to talk to the police right away. Also, several representatives from the various investment firms he’d spoken to earlier that morning had already called back. Three patients requested that he phone immediately. Next on the list was a social worker, Garth Silvers, who worked for Community Services. He and Michael had met several times regarding a child Michael suspected was being mistreated.

Concern about the little girl made him call the social worker first. He dialed the number, wondering what new catastrophe might have befallen his small patient, but Garth reassured him the child was fine; her grandmother had taken her to stay with her for a time.

Embarrassment tinged Garth’s voice as he added, “The reason I called is personal, Doctor. I heard of a complaint the ministry received about property owned by an Isabelle Rafferty, who I believe is your mother-in-law?”

Wondering what was to come next, Michael confirmed the relationship.

“Well, a number of neighbors have signed a petition insisting something be done about the garbage in Ms. Rafferty’s yard,” Garth reported. “They feel that things have reached the stage where the yard is a fire hazard as well as a potential breeding ground for rats, and they claim that’s lowering their own property values. Several of them have indicated that unless the yard is cleaned up promptly, they’ll take legal action. I wanted to notify you first and see if something could be done before that happens.”

Michael looked at the framed pastoral print on his office wall and wondered what the hell else could possibly go wrong in his life today.

“I appreciate your call, Garth, and I promise you I’ll take care of this right away,” he said with far more confidence than he felt.

Polly and Norah had been trying for months to get Isabelle to do something about her yard, to no avail. “Assure the neighbors that the garbage will be gone within a week.” He hung up and expelled a long, weary breath. Exactly how was he going to manage that? He’d have to talk to Polly to figure out a course of action. She’d be mortified when she heard about the petition.

The police constable was next on his list, and Michael dialed the number, relieved to hear that Constable Roper was out for the morning and would return the call that afternoon. This would give Michael more time to fully assess what Raymond had stolen.

In rapid and efficient order, Michael dealt with the three patient calls. He’d just finished when Valerie tapped on his door and announced that Mrs. Nikols was waiting in examining room one. Valerie silently pointed at the untouched muffin, and Michael quickly devoured it and gulped the now-lukewarm coffee before he hurried in to the new mother and the baby he’d delivered just days before.

This was the part of his workday he liked best, office hours with one patient after another requiring his full attention and no time lapses in which to think. Today, however, keeping his mind on his patients was difficult.

He worked steadily, and at twelve-thirty there was a short lull. He hastily ate the sandwich and fruit Valerie put in front of him, then dialed home. Polly often slept past noon, drugged by the sleeping meds she’d become reliant upon. He’d tried to wean her off them, but it hadn’t worked.

She picked up on the third ring, and she sounded wide-awake. “I’m just reading this article in the paper about Raymond,” she said as soon as she knew it was Michael. “It says here that some of his clients have nothing left, that he stole all their investments.” Her voice telegraphed her anxiety. “Did that happen to us, Michael?”

He knew he ought to say yes. Instead, he reassured her. “We did lose a substantial portion of our portfolio, but there’s no major damage done, Polly. I figure I can make up the shortfall in no time.”

And maybe what he was saying wasn’t way off the truth. As far as their day-by-day expenses went, he could certainly earn enough to pay what was owed. But now they had no comfortable cushion behind them, no investments to rely on should an emergency arise.

Another emergency, he thought bleakly. He was relieved when Polly shifted the focus of the conversation away from their situation. “Why would Raymond Stokes do a thing like this, Michael? Apparently he even took his wife’s money,” she was saying in a scandalized tone. “It says here that all she’s got left is their house, and Raymond even had a large mortgage on that. It must be terribly hurtful for her, his going off with another woman. How could he do those things to the person he was married to?”

It wasn’t just a rhetorical question. Polly was honestly puzzled.

“I guess we never really know anyone all that well, Pol.” Michael saw her in his mind’s eye, sitting on a stool at the kitchen counter, wrapped in her white velour robe, coffee and newspaper close at hand. He adjusted the image to include the new hairdo, and felt a pang of regret.

Even the ones we think we know best, he added to himself. “I thought Raymond and I were friends, but this shows I didn’t really know him at all.”

“They didn’t have kids, did they?”

“Nope, no kids.” Michael tightened his fingers on the phone. “He said once that his wife didn’t want any.” This subject could be explosive with Polly, and he didn’t want to get into it.

She didn’t respond for a moment and when she did he was relieved that she didn’t say any more about children. “Did you know Raymond’s wife? Jennifer, isn’t that her name?”

Michael relaxed. “Jennifer, yes. I was introduced to her at a luncheon Raymond and I were both attending.”

“What’s she like?”

“Short, rounded. Pleasant. We didn’t talk much. I remember thinking she was a good balance for Raymond, because he talked a lot and she was quiet.”

“Sort of like us.” There was humor in her tone. “I talk, you listen. So apart from getting robbed, how’s your day going?” She was cheerful now, and Michael hated to change that, but he had to tell her about the situation with Isabelle and the neighbors.

He did and, predictably, Polly was upset. Michael knew she also felt humiliated.

“It’s horrible having my own mother live this way,” she moaned. “Sometimes I swear she does it just to embarrass me. She knows I care what her neighbors think, I grew up in that house.”

Michael glanced at his watch. “I know, love. We’ll talk it over later and figure something out, but I’ve got to go now, Pol. My next patient’s waiting.”

“So is there any point in making dinner?” Her voice was suddenly brittle, an unnecessary reminder that more often than not, he’d been absent for the evening meal. He knew it was wrong of him to extend his workday into the evening, but sitting at the dining table alone with Polly was agony. He couldn’t bear the empty space at his right, where Susannah had always sat.

So get over it, Forsythe. It’s been over a year. You ’re a man. Your job is to be strong. What the hell’s the matter with you?

“I’ll be there about six.”

“I’m not sure I even remember how to cook.” Polly probably intended the words to be humorous, but they came out snappy instead, and he felt annoyed at her, as well as guilty for all the dinners he’d canceled or avoided.

But he had no right to be annoyed at Polly, did he? He was the one who’d screwed up. The call ended and Michael shoved the disturbing issues it raised back into the shadows of his mind as he concentrated on one patient’s problems after another.

It was after five and Valerie had just left for the day by the time Michael saw his last patient, a four-year-old girl named Clover Fox. Her father, Jerome, had walked into the office an hour earlier without an appointment, assuring Valerie he’d wait as long as necessary if only Michael would see his daughter. He’d moved to Vancouver from Saskatchewan several months ago and didn’t have a family doctor.

Valerie had felt sorry for him and of course Michael had agreed to see the child.

The pale thin girl squirmed on her father’s knee, nose and defiant pale-blue eyes red and runny, coughing at intervals from deep in her chest. Michael glanced over the detailed history Valerie had asked Jerome to fill in, then looked up and smiled at the little girl.

“So, Clover, it says here you’re not feeling so hot.” He winked at her and added, “You’re sure a big girl. How old are you, anyhow?”

She gave him a baleful look, then hesitantly held up four fingers.

“Four, huh? Well, four is a really good age to be,” Michael said approvingly, turning to the handsome young father and asking him about the child’s general health.

“She catches everything going,” Jerome Fox reported with a sigh, stroking a big hand across his daughter’s fine hair.

Michael noted that Jerome had the tough, scarred hands of someone who did manual labor.

“She coughs at night, and she feels really hot to me. Then this morning she broke out in this rash on her back and chest.”

“Is she in day care, Mr. Fox?” It helped to know a child’s routine, who she might be in daily contact with.

“No, I’m taking care of her full-time right now.”

“Your wife works?”

Jerome shook his blond head, and lines of strain showed around his eyes. “Nope, Tiffany left us. Two weeks ago now. But we’re making out okay on our own, right, Clover?”

The girl nodded, then hid her face on her father’s chest.

“I see.” Michael felt compassion for this man and his sad-eyed little girl. No job, no wife, a sick child...it must be really tough.

“I’m looking for a job, Doctor.” Jerome sounded defensive. “I work on construction as a laborer. I moved out here because a local company hired me, but right after I got here they folded. As soon as I get another job, I’ll find good day care for Clover,” he assured Michael. His shoulders slumped. “It’s just tough to get out and look for work and take good care of her at the same time, especially when she’s sick.”

“I can imagine.” Michael smiled again at the little girl and gestured at the examining table. "How about sitting up on here for a minute, honey, so I can have a look at you and figure out what’s making you feel bad?”

Clover scowled, shook her head and clung to her father. He spoke to her in a gentle tone and lifted her firmly up to the examining table. She struggled against him and her mouth bunched as if she was about to cry, but no sound came out.

Michael, familiar with children, took his time, trying to reassure her. He showed Clover the stethoscope and gave her a tongue depressor of her own. When he tried to examine her throat, though, she bit down hard, narrowly missing his fingers. At the same moment, she kicked out her foot in its sturdy little runner, connecting hard with his thigh. A few inches closer to center and she’d have decked him, Michael reflected. It was obvious Clover was a fighter, and that endeared her to him. It was the passive, quiet children who concerned him.

“She’s running a low-grade fever, but her lungs are clear. A viral infection is causing the rash on her back and tummy.” Michael watched as Jerome helped his daughter back into her jeans and slipped her faded purple sweatshirt over her head.

“Does she need a prescription?” Real anxiety colored Jerome’s voice. “It’s just that I’m really short on cash. Tiffany pretty much cleaned out our bank account. I’ve applied for unemployment insurance, but there’s a waiting period.” Jerome sounded close to desperate. “I’ve put my name up in different places, offering to do any odd jobs, but so far nothing’s happened.”