“I’m worried about George,” I confessed.
“You ask Seth about his condition?”
“He gave it to me straight.”
“That’s Seth. His bedside manner always could use some work.”
It should’ve been no more than a ten-minute drive from Cabot Cove Hospital to the Clifton Clinic, but every route Mort tried, even the ones usually less traveled, was clogged with summer traffic. I’d lived in Cabot Cove longer than he, but both of us remembered when the town had boasted only 3,500 hearty souls, for whom summer was a time to celebrate instead of dread. Nowadays our beaches filled up by midmorning even on weekdays, those residents with cherished parking passes unable to take advantage of them because the lots were always full. Sure, business was booming, but so were the rents, and the town council had hatched many a plan to keep outside speculators from coming in and swallowing our town up entirely in a series of gulps. Court fights abounded, and so far, the council hadn’t fared too well. Now that I thought about it, Fred Cooper had likely been the beneficiary of some of that legal work.
“Well, Mrs. Fletcher,” Mort said as his SUV inched its way around the jam-packed streets, “I’ve finally found something more difficult to deal with than your interference in my cases. If I wanted traffic, I could have stayed in New York.”
“Amos Tupper used to say the same thing,” I noted. “But for him a real jam was five cars in front of him at a traffic light. We drove to Boston once, and I thought he was going to have a heart attack on the Southeast Expressway. I almost took the wheel.”
“You don’t even know how to drive.”
“We weren’t going anywhere at the time anyway.”
* * *
• • •
The Clifton Clinic had been open for nearly a year, and I’d passed by it innumerable times without ever going in. It was a modern four-story building constructed on the bluffs that rimmed the Cabot Cove coast in a location that had been inaccessible for centuries. The area had been considered protected wetlands, but the clinic had inherited an easement from the previous developer, allowing construction to proceed as long as the developer adhered to very strict environmental parameters, which were subsequently loosened. Because the land in question technically resided between Cabot Cove and our neighboring townships, the property fell under the domain of the state of Maine. So neither I nor anyone else in Cabot Cove really had a clear notion of why such an exception had been granted by a state that was normally unyielding in the protection of its natural resources.
The clinic had been constructed to conform to the contours of the bluffs, set along a narrow peninsula that stuck out like a finger into the bay that had defined Cabot Cove as a typical New England fishing village long before the rest of the world had discovered it. The building was wider at the front and narrowed as it stretched outward toward the sea. And at its narrowest point there was little more than a ledge of black rocks separating the structure from the waves crashing on the stone-laden shore at least two hundred feet below. I’ve lived in Maine plenty long enough to consider Ogunquit’s Marginal Way to be among the Northeast’s greatest architectural wonders, and this sliver of land extending out high over the ocean reminded me of the most impressive, and imposing, parts of that.
The parking lot was located on the far side, at the thickest point of the bluffs, so as not to harm a casual view of the surrounding scenery with a clutter of vehicles. I had to admit the whole structure blended aesthetically into the scene as much as any building could, but I still detested the notion that it had been allowed here in the first place.
Though it claimed our village’s zip code, thanks to some clever zoning manipulations, the clinic actually rested on the outskirts of the far less hospitable village of Rockland, which had been named for the terrain that had come to define it. According to old legend, Rockland had been the unlucky recipient of all the rocks somehow steered away from our sandy cutout of the coastline, which featured white sand beaches and crystal blue waters. I didn’t know the name of Rockland’s sheriff, but was quite certain he didn’t have to deal with the murder rate of Cabot Cove.
I remember a town council meeting in which I was speaking on behalf of the Friends of the Library when someone suggested we begin advertising our rather excessive murder rate to discourage additional expansion. My burly fisherman friend, Ethan Cragg, had turned with a wink toward me before rising.
“I make a formal motion we stop listing our out-of-date population on that ‘Welcome to Cabot Cove’ sign, and replace it with a running tally of murder victims.”
The motion, of course, didn’t pass.
The clinic featured sandy-colored shingle siding to better blend in with the world nestled around it. The construction had been environmentally friendly to a fault, Charles Clifton able to save considerable time and expense since another business looking to develop the land had already completed the voluminous stack of environmental-impact studies required to win approval from the Maine Department of Environmental Management and Coast Resources Commission. That fact had always stuck in my mind, rekindled when I’d met Clifton for the first time at the reception following Jean O’Neil’s funeral. He definitely impressed me as the kind of man who’d pay off the previous developers to take control of their land, or even find a more malicious way to make such a move, like bribing a state official or two.
Mort and I had appeared unannounced in the hope Clifton would see us anyway. Normally, the police showing up produced just that effect, even in Cabot Cove. And sure enough, we were escorted by a security guard from the reception desk up to Clifton’s third-floor office in the three-story stately building.
In contrast to the rustic exterior, the interior had all the hallmarks of a high-end medical institution, with bright lights and halls swimming with lab coat–wearing doctors. The clinic had the structural equivalent of a new-car smell. Everything about it—from the walls, to the furnishings, to the accents, to the name tags we’d been provided with—was new and unsullied by the harsh ocean elements as well as wear. We didn’t see much in evidence from a medical standpoint, other than a few doctors and other personnel in lab coats, and the elevator spilled us out on what must’ve been the hall dedicated to offices.
Clifton himself was waiting outside the elevator when it slid open. “Sheriff, Mrs. Fletcher,” he greeted.
“Thank you for seeing us, Doctor. Mrs. Fletcher and I wanted to give you an update on our investigation in person.”
“I appreciate that,” he said. “Come right this way.”
He closed his office door behind us. The clinic might be ultramodern, but Clifton’s office looked like an ad for the traditional. Wood paneling covered walls dominated by a library of medical books bound in leather. Leather-upholstered English pub–style chesterfield furniture formed a sitting area atop a dark Oriental rug, set before a beautiful hardwood desk that looked too big to even get through the door. A gas fireplace was built into the far wall, and it was easy for me to imagine Clifton keeping a fire going through much of the winter that would be upon us before we knew it.
He led us to the sitting area and took one of the stiff leather chairs, leaving Mort and me to take seats side by side on the matching couch. I noticed he was wearing a fresh suit, having likely sent out the one he’d been wearing that morning to have the tears in the knees repaired.
“Now, Sheriff, to this update,” Clifton started.
Mort leaned forward. “This isn’t easy to say, Doctor. It’s never easy for me to tell a person someone they knew was murdered.”
Surprise flashed across Clifton’s stately features, stopping short of ruffling his shock of white hair. “Are we talking about Mimi Van Dorn here?”
“We are indeed, sir. I’d like to say it was just an assumption, but from what we’ve been able to learn today, it’s more than that. A virtual certainty, in fact.”
Clifton stole a glance my
way, as if expecting me to chime in, but I remained silent.
“These clues you’re speaking of, Sheriff . . .”
“I can’t go into the specifics—us cops have a certain code we live by, too. But everything we’ve learned suggests that Ms. Van Dorn was murdered early this morning, right around five thirty-five, just before the code alarm went off in her room.”
“How terrible,” Clifton reacted, shaking his head.
“I hope you don’t mind me accompanying Sheriff Metzger here, Doctor,” I chimed in finally, “or assisting his efforts in general.”
“Not at all, Mrs. Fletcher. Given how close you were to Mimi, I’d expect nothing less. In fact, I’m grateful for it, since you enjoy a unique level of expertise in such matters.”
“Well, I have written a lot of books.”
“And solved a lot of crimes.”
“Helped solve, Doctor,” I corrected politely.
“And what does your keen sense tell you about Ms. Van Dorn’s passing?” he asked me, as if Mort weren’t in the room at all.
“The sheriff already made it clear we didn’t come here to mention specifics.”
“Then why did you come?”
“A duty nurse mentioned you showed up in the ICU shortly before Ms. Van Dorn’s passing,” Mort said before I had the chance to.
Clifton’s eyes darted between Mort and me, as if he was trying to gauge our intentions. “Just checking in on her, that’s all. She is a patient of mine, after all.”
“I didn’t mean for my comment to sound threatening in any way,” Mort told him. “I was just wondering if it’s your practice to visit patients in the wee hours of the morning.”
“I couldn’t sleep and felt utterly helpless. I thought checking in on Ms. Van Dorn might help me feel better.”
“And did it?”
“Not at all, actually. It made me feel worse, in fact, since her prognosis wasn’t positive. I think I went there hoping for otherwise, but that’s not what I got.”
“Well,” I interjected, “that certainly explains one thing, Doctor.”
“What’s that, Mrs. Fletcher?”
I glanced at Mort before answering him. “Well, it would seem you left Mimi less than an hour before the code was called. The call I got from Dr. Hazlitt came about a half hour after she was declared dead, and Mort picked me up just minutes after that.”
“I’m not sure if I see your point.”
“You were in the ICU when we arrived. Given the driving distance to the home you’re renting in Kennebunkport, I have to assume you never left the hospital after you stopped into Ms. Van Dorn’s room.”
“The ICU had my cell phone number. What if I told you they reached me while I was driving back home?”
“I’d tell you they only informed Ms. Van Dorn’s physician of record, who was still Seth Hazlitt. He called us, Dr. Clifton. No one called you, but they didn’t need to, did they? Because you were still in the hospital.”
Clifton nodded, meeting my eyes the way a caged predator does sometimes through the bars of a zoo. “I was,” he admitted, “again, because—”
“You felt helpless. Yes, you mentioned that already. I find myself curious as to exactly what you were treating Mimi Van Dorn for.”
“I thought I had mentioned the escalating prediabetes she was suffering from.”
“You did. I was wondering if there was something else you might’ve been treating her for, perhaps as part of another of these trials your clinic seems so adept at landing.”
Clifton turned toward Mort, trying very hard to pretend I wasn’t there. “Any further questions, Sheriff?”
“If you don’t mind, I’d like to hear your answer to the one Mrs. Fletcher just posed.”
“Doctor-patient privilege prohibits me from sharing that with you.”
“Doctor-patient privilege doesn’t extend beyond death,” Mort reminded him.
“That’s a legal issue, not a medical one. The Clifton Clinic prides itself on both its discretion and maintaining the confidentiality of our patients, living or dead.”
“In other words, you want me to get a court order.”
“I would prefer not, but whether to go through the considerable expense and legal headaches is totally up to you.”
“Thanks for acknowledging that, Doctor.”
“And if you have questions you’d like answered in a more expeditious fashion, I’d suggest contacting Ms. Van Dorn’s lawyer. Much of the business side of our relationship was conducted through him,” Clifton continued. “You may save yourself time and trouble, Sheriff, if you reach out to him instead. I have his name and number here somewhere.”
He moved to his desk and fished a hand about until he came to a small slip of paper wedged into a side of his old-fashioned desk blotter.
“Here you are,” Clifton said, returning to the sitting area and handing the paper to Mort.
Mort looked at me for a long moment before handing it over. I never regarded the number, my focus locking on the name:
Fred Cooper.
“Would you like to see Mr. Sutherland while you’re here, Mrs. Fletcher?” I heard Charles Clifton offer, breaking my trance.
* * *
• • •
George was seated in a lavish reception area reserved for patients; it resembled one of those high-end membership-only airline lounges I’ve frequented from time to time. He looked up from reading a book at my approach, and drawing closer, I saw it was a paperback reprint of one of my books from a couple years ago.
He smiled and made a show of trying to tuck it under the seat. “Bollocks! Caught in the act!”
“Since when did you need to hide a book at my appearance?”
“Since I fell several titles behind and didn’t want you to know. If nothing else, this treatment will help me catch up on my reading.”
I took the chair next to his. “Did you sit down with Clifton about all the test results?”
He snatched the paperback back out from beneath the chair. “Yes.”
“And?”
“He’s in the process of determining if I’m a candidate for a clinical trial not actually associated with my specific disease at all.”
“Is that good or bad?”
“It could turn out to be miraculous if the fates are with me, Jessica. Besides, I don’t have a lot of treatment options to choose from.”
“What can I do to help, George?”
He smiled. “Just what you’re doing now. And make sure they don’t give away my room at Hill House.”
“Consider it done.”
Something was plaguing me about the Clifton Clinic, a combination of things actually, from Mimi Van Dorn’s extraction of money from her son’s trust, to Seth Hazlitt’s musings on how a facility this small could attract so many clinical trials.
“George, I need to ask you a question.”
He held that recent paperback in his lap. “I’m listening.”
“How did you learn of the clinical trial you’re hoping to be admitted to?”
“Why, from my oncologist back in London, of course.”
“And how did he learn about it?”
“Research, I suppose.”
“Because it occurs to me that—”
Before I could finish, a well-dressed woman approached casually, smiling. “Chief Inspector Sutherland, Dr. Clifton is ready for you now.”
He rose a step ahead of me. “As they say, dear lady, to be continued.”
“Let’s hope so,” I said, looking toward the woman.
* * *
• • •
I didn’t tell Mort anything about my exchange with George Sutherland. As we headed toward his SUV in the parking lot, though, I thought back to one of the last things Charles Clifton had said to us:
And if yo
u have questions you’d like answered in a more expeditious fashion, I’d suggest contacting Ms. Van Dorn’s lawyer.
According to his records, that lawyer was Fred Cooper, which explained why Cooper had rejected Tripp Van Dorn’s overtures to take him on as a client. If that were the case, though, such a conflict of interest would have been obvious from the start, in which case Cooper would’ve had no reason to lead him on for the days it had taken to ultimately turn Tripp down.
“You still have Mimi’s phone, don’t you?” I asked Mort as we approached his department-issue SUV.
“In an evidence bag, where it belongs.”
“Want me to put on evidence gloves before handling it?”
“Given how much you’ve handled it already, that’s hardly necessary.” I watched Mort remove the plastic pouch containing Mimi’s phone from a small safe he kept in the spare tire well of the SUV’s rear compartment. “Have at it,” he said, handing it over.
I immediately brought up the recent calls Mimi had made or received. One number flashed repeatedly, over and over again, lit up in both red and black to denote incoming and outgoing calls.
I pointed it out to Mort. “That’s Fred Cooper’s office number. Looks like Charles Clifton was telling the truth.”
“Anything else I should be seeing here?”
I pointed out one of the calls. “Mimi made this one to Cooper just before the reception for Jean O’Neil at the library put on by the Friends. Not long after she had that argument with her son.”
“Care to tell me what I’m missing?”
“What was it about that call with Tripp she needed to share with her lawyer so fast?”
Chapter Thirteen
We caught Fred Cooper just as he was locking his office door behind him.
“Back so soon, Mrs. Fletcher?” he said, spotting me before he noted Mort’s presence.
“I thought I could save some time by bringing the sheriff around with me, Mr. Cooper.”
Cooper nodded in what looked like defeat and threaded the key back into his lock, opening the door for us.
Murder, She Wrote--Murder in Red Page 9
