Royal Pains : Sick Rich (9781101559536) (4 page)

“Who was that?” Evan asked.

“Zoe and Amy. Two of our regulars.”

“Are they sisters?”

“Everyone asks that. No, but they look like it, don't they?”

“Sure do. Which one was wearing yellow?”

Stephanie laughed. “The one that kept looking at you?”

Evan felt his face redden. He nodded. “Yeah.”

“That's Amy. And she's unattached.” Stephanie leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms. “In case you're wondering.”

“Who wouldn't? She's beautiful.”

“One of the advantages of being a member. You should join. It would do you good.” She laughed again. “And not just in the fitness department.”

“Maybe I will. As long as Marcy doesn't try to kill me with her workouts.”

“She usually does,” Stephanie said.

“She usually does what?”

Evan turned to see Marcy. She was wearing tight capri pants and a form-fitting sleeveless tank top, both black. A white towel hung over one shoulder. Her skin appeared flushed and glistened with sweat from her workout. Her short black hair was damp, with a few ringlets plastered to the side of her head.

“You usually work us too hard,” Stephanie said. She handed Marcy a bottle of lemon water.

“That's what I'm here for. And when I finish hammering my clients I go out and pull the wings off small bugs.” She looked at Evan. “When are you and Hank going to join one of our classes?”

“We were just talking about that,” Evan said. “I can, but for Hank the problem is finding the time.”

“You've got to make the time. It's important.” She jerked her head toward the hallway. “Come on. Let's head down to my office.”

Her office was small and spartan. A simple office furniture megastore desk and three chairs, phone, and laptop computer. Bookshelves filled with fitness books and manuals covered one wall. A single large window, horizontal blinds cranked open, looked out onto Main Street. Marcy sat down behind her desk. She wiped her face with the towel, twisted the top off the water, and downed several healthy gulps. Evan took one of the two chairs that faced her.

Evan got right to it. “So what do you think? We're down to the last booth.”

Marcy nodded. “We're in.”

“That's great. I was hoping you would be.”

“Stephanie and I will be there most of the time. And a couple of the other instructors will be there part time.”

“You're going to love your booth. It's just down from where the HankMed booth will be. Close to the entrance so everybody will have to walk by it to get anywhere.”

Marcy pulled open her desk drawer and lifted out a checkbook. One of those large ledger types. She flipped it open and began writing. “A thousand for the weekend, right?”

“That's right.”

“I'm sure we're going to more than make it up by signing up new clients and selling our logo clothing. If not, it's for a good cause.”

She handed the check to Evan. He looked at it, folded it, and slipped it into his shirt pocket.

“Thanks,” he said. “I'll work on Hank and see if I can get him to join.”

“What about you? You could sign up even if Hank can't.”

“Of course. Evan R. Lawson was built for Pilates.”

Marcy raised an eyebrow. “I'll tell Stephanie to put you in one of my classes and we'll see.”

Chapter 5

Felicia Hecht was fifty-two, widowed, and lived in a modest home near the water in Sag Harbor. She led us into her living room, where she settled onto an intricately patterned green love seat, Divya and I on the matching sofa across a glass-topped coffee table from her. The room was pastel green. The mantel over the stone fireplace held several framed photos. One of her and I presumed the late Mr. Hecht, another of a young woman who could only be her daughter, standing with a man behind two young children. Nice-looking family.

She offered us coffee or something to drink, but we declined.

“I told Dr. Lawson about your symptoms,” Divya said. “The headaches and nausea.”

Felicia looked at me. “They're very odd.”

“Tell me about them.”

“The headaches start around here,” she said, indicating her right temple. “And then the whole right side of my head hurts. My face sometimes.”

“How long do they usually last?”

“Mostly a half hour or so, but sometimes most of the day. I just never know. When it comes on I always pray it will go away quickly. Sometimes they even keep me up at night.”

“How long has this been going on?”

She offered a sheepish grin. “A few months.”

“And you haven't talked to anyone about it yet?” Divya asked.

“It was so odd I wasn't even sure who to see. I thought maybe it was all in my head. Due to stress or something like that.” She sighed. “But the other day I told Ellie Wentworth about them, and she said I should call you. That you're the best doctor in the world and that if anyone can figure it out, you can. So here you are.”

Ellie Wentworth was one of my favorite patients. Astoundingly wealthy, she lived in an East Hampton mansion and was famous for her hugely successful theme parties. She was also one of the most down-to-earth people I'd ever known, proving that rich people can be real people.

“That's nice of her to say,” I said, feeling a bit uncomfortable. Glowing praise had always done that to me.

“I trust her, so that's why I called.”

“We're glad you did,” I said. “Is there anything you can relate these headaches to? Something you do or eat or anything that might make this more likely to happen?”

“Maybe red wine. Maybe chocolate.” She looked at me, her head cocked slightly. “But if you tell me I can't have chocolate, I'll find another doctor.” She laughed.

“Hopefully that's not part of it. But—” I shrugged, my hands open. “Sometimes chocolate can make migraine-type headaches worse.”

“Is that what I have?”

“Maybe. You mentioned stress. Have you been stressed lately?”

“No more than usual.” She glanced at Divya. “But my friends tell me I worry too much.” She smiled. “I have to admit that I do.”

“Can you relate the headaches to stress?” Divya asked.

“Maybe. But to be honest I can't tell which comes first. The worry or the pain. I mean, the pain makes me worry, but I'm not sure me being stressed really causes the pain. Does that make sense?”

I nodded. “Perfectly.”

“So what is it?”

“I have a couple of ideas, but let me examine you and get some tests done first.”

Divya checked her blood pressure and pulse, saying they were normal except her pulse was slightly elevated at ninety-five. Her EKG showed the same but was otherwise normal.

“I'm nervous,” Felicia said.

“That would explain it,” I said as I stood, walked around the coffee table, and sat down next to her. “Just relax. I don't bite.”

Her lungs were clear and her cardiac exam normal, as were her carotid pulsations. I did a brief neurologic exam, which was also normal. I then palpated along the side of her head and temple.

“Is any of this uncomfortable?” I asked, my fingers pressing into the soft area beneath her jaw.

“No. And when it's hurting I'll press there, too, but it doesn't seem to make any difference. It seems deeper than that.”

Divya was taking notes, so I said to her, “I don't feel any masses or nodes. Her parotid gland is normal and nontender and there're no areas of tenderness to suggest temporal arteritis or TMJ.”

“What are those?”

“Things you don't have.” I smiled.

“So what is it?”

“Most likely what we call a mixed headache. That's one with multiple causes. In your situation they are probably due to stress, perhaps with a migraine component.”

“Migraines? I had a friend with those. They'd put her in bed for days sometimes.”

I nodded. “They can. But yours seem milder. At least so far.”

“What do I do?”

“We'll draw some blood for a few tests and I'll give you a couple of prescriptions. One for pain, and a mild tranquilizer for when you feel stressed.”

Divya drew the blood while I wrote out the prescriptions.

“Try these. They should help.” I handed them to her. “I'll call as soon as we get the labs back.”

As Divya and I worked our way south from Sag Harbor toward Shadow Pond to hook up with Evan for lunch, Evan called. He was at a sandwich shop waiting for his order to be prepared. He suggested that rather than meeting at home we meet at the high school. He needed to talk with Jill.

“Actually that works out better,” I said. “We should take a look at our booth and I've got a couple of things to talk about with Jill, too.”

“I'll meet you at the HankMed booth. Do you know where it is?”

“Jill said it was the first one on the left when you come through the entry gate. Should be easy to find.”

It was. But when we arrived there was no Evan and I didn't see Jill anywhere. I gave her a call, but she couldn't talk, saying she was in the middle of something but would be over in a few minutes. As I hung up, Evan arrived.

“Where's Jill?” Evan asked.

“Busy. She'll be here in a minute.”

Evan placed a bag on the table. “Lunch is served.” He began pulling plastic containers out and setting them on one of the two exam tables that were in the booth.

“Where did these come from?” Evan asked.

I stared at him. “What do you mean? You bought them. Just a few minutes ago.”

“I didn't mean the sandwiches; I meant the exam tables. And that desk.”

A desk and a single chair sat toward the back of the canvas-covered booth and an exam table along each wall. I also noticed there were bright orange electrical cords stretching across the grass near the back of the booth and disappearing under the canvas in each direction. Two multi-plug outlets nestled among the electrical cables. Jill's work, I was sure.

Divya popped open one of the plastic containers and lifted out half a sandwich. She took a bite.

“These are excellent,” she said. “Where did you get them?”

“You know that little sandwich shop over in East Hampton? The one on the corner?”

“Yes, but I've never been in there.”

“I go there all the time,” Evan said. “They also make great soups and pastries.”

I bit into a sandwich. It was good. And big. Ham and Swiss with crisp lettuce and fresh tomatoes stuffed between two slices of homemade wheat bread, it was a meal and then some.

Jill showed up.

“Sorry I'm late. I had a meeting with the EMS director. He'll have a couple of his crews here throughout the weekend and we needed to go over some things.”

I handed her a sandwich and she took a bite.

“Thanks. I haven't had anything since coffee early this morning.”

“I take it this is all your doing?” I waved a hand toward the desk and exam tables.

“These were stored in the hospital's basement, collecting dust. I figured you could use them. Better than renting.”

“And cheaper,” Evan said.

“It's so nice that our CFO is fiscally responsible,” Divya said.

Evan pointed a pickle spear at her. “Just looking after the bottom line.” He took a bite of the pickle. “I have some good news.”

“Like what?” Jill asked.

“I rented the last booth. To Marcy Davidson.” He removed two checks from his pocket and handed one to Jill.

“That's great. I was afraid half the booths would be empty.”

“Not with Evan R. Lawson on the case.”

“You're a case, all right,” Divya said.

“But I keep you in business. Jill, too, apparently.”

“You've been outstanding,” Jill said. “You know that, don't you? I could never have pulled this off without you.” She looked at me and then at Divya. “You two also.”

“It's even better.” Evan handed her the other check. “This is from George Shanahan over at Hamptons Savings and Loan.”

Jill looked at it. “This is even more than he promised.”

“He couldn't resist the old Evan R. Lawson charm.”

Divya rolled her eyes. “Spare me. He probably gave you the extra to get you out of his office.”

“Wish I could afford that,” I said.

“Tease all you want,” Evan said, “but this brings our total to fifty percent more than our goal.”

Jill looked stunned. “You're kidding. That much?”

“I would never lie about money.” Evan laid one hand on his chest as if reciting the Pledge of Allegiance.

“How on earth did you pull that off?”

“I guess I'm a salesman extraordinaire. You might even say a supersalesman.”

“Silly me. I thought you were a superspy,” Divya said.

“That, too.” He picked up his cell phone.

Evan R. Lawson is a superspy.

Divya glared at him. “I swear I'm going to steal your phone and flush it.”

Evan R. Lawson is right.

Divya shook her head. “Unbelievable.”

Jill took a final bite of her sandwich and wadded up the paper around the little bit that was left. She stood. “I need to get back to work. What are you guys up to?”

“A couple of patients to see,” I said.

“Dinner still on for tonight?” Jill asked while rummaging in her purse for her sunglasses.

“Around seven.”

She looked at Evan. “This is becoming a habit with you. Are you going to cook every night?”

“It's my domestic side,” he said.

“Too bad you don't have a domesticated side,” Divya said.

Jill settled her sunglasses in place. “I'll bring some wine. What do you plan to cook?”

“I'm not sure yet. Just bring red.”

My cell phone rang.