The receptionist had left for the day, and the office belonging to the other lawyer was open and dark. He closed the door behind us and moved toward the sitting area, but all of us remained standing.
“Did you forget to mention you were representing Mimi Van Dorn during my first visit?”
“I don’t recall you asking me if I was or not.”
“You might have made note of it when we were discussing your decision not to represent her son.”
“I seem to recall saying how much I value attorney-client privilege during that same discussion, Mrs. Fletcher.”
“As Mrs. Fletcher, I’m sure, told you,” Mort interjected in a firm and unyielding voice, “attorney-client privilege does not extend beyond death when the commission of a crime is suspected.”
“And what crime would that be, Sheriff? Mrs. Fletcher intimated several things about my client’s passing. Since she wasn’t acting in any professional capacity capable of confirming a criminal act, I saw no reason to share any information, proprietary or otherwise, with her about my dealings with Ms. Van Dorn. And I suggest if you have any problems with my behavior, you take it up with the Maine Bar Association.”
“Why not just say that to Tripp Van Dorn when he first asked you to represent him?”
Cooper didn’t answer right away, long enough for me to resume before he had the chance.
“Did you report back to his mother on what you discussed? Did you share any information, proprietary or otherwise, with her that he shared with you in confidence?”
“There was no expectation of such confidence, Mrs. Fletcher, because he wasn’t my client and I wasn’t acting as his attorney.”
Mort’s face creased into a frown. “I suspect that’s something the bar association might find interesting, Mr. Cooper.”
Cooper bristled at that. If steam really could pour from a person’s ears, I thought it would be pumping out of his right now. “Was I party to, or did my actions precipitate, a crime, Sheriff?”
“Not that I know of, Mr. Cooper.”
“Then I suggest we end this conversation now for the good of all concerned.” He looked from Mort to me. “Have you ever been sued, Mrs. Fletcher?”
“Have you, Mr. Cooper?” I let my retort settle for a moment before continuing. “I believe a workman once sued me for payment on a fence repair to my house he never completed. Mort, you remember that, don’t you?”
“Amos Tupper was sheriff at the time.”
“Oh, yes, he was, wasn’t he?” I turned my attention back to Fred Cooper. “Anyway, the workman claimed that I—”
“I’ll take that as a no, Mrs. Fletcher. So believe me when I tell you it’s not a pleasant experience, especially when the complainant is an attorney bearing none of the requisite expenses you’ll have to bear.”
“Well, I believe I featured a courtroom scene in The Corpse Swam by Moonlight, or maybe it was in The Dead Must Sing. Any idea which, Sheriff?”
Mort was fighting back a smile, maybe a laugh. “Not off the top of my head, Mrs. Fletcher.”
“Anyway,” I continued to Cooper, “I seem to recall an especially nasty lawyer’s attempts to impeach the integrity of a police officer who’d caught him red-handed stealing from a client.”
“What are you accusing me of exactly?”
“Not being terribly forthcoming with me. Beyond that—”
“Nothing, in other words. Now, if you’ll excuse me . . .”
“You didn’t let me finish, Mr. Cooper. I’d like to know why you strung along a disabled young man for several days, when you could have simply cited a conflict of interest or confessed the truth. I find the fact that you did that odd at the very least and suspicious at most, potentially even criminal.”
“Criminal?” Cooper challenged, as if he’d never heard the word before.
“Mort, would you define criminal conspiracy for this young man? Simply stated, of course.”
“Simply stated, an agreement between two or more people to defraud another party.”
I swung back toward Fred Cooper. “So my question would be, did you conspire with Mimi Van Dorn to steal the money set aside in her son’s trust for his care?”
“You should get your facts straight before you go around accusing people of a crime, Mrs. Fletcher. Tripp Van Dorn’s trust was established with his mother as sole administrator, free to act as she saw fit at her own discretion, including the breaking of the trust should she elect to do so. I represented her in that effort and nothing more.”
“For a handsome fee, no doubt. So at least we know how you paid for all this new furniture.”
“Is that a crime, Mrs. Fletcher?”
“You could use a new interior decorator, Mr. Cooper. Beyond that, no.”
* * *
• • •
“A new interior decorator?” Mort repeated when we were back in his SUV. “Is that the best you could do?”
“Can we run the sirens and lights on the way back to Hill House?”
“That’s your answer?”
“For now. Fred Cooper’s guilty of something, Mort. I just haven’t figured out what yet.”
He started the engine and squeezed the steering wheel tighter, not ready to go anywhere yet. “What’s the latest on Chief Inspector Sutherland?”
“I don’t think it’s good,” I responded frankly. “He wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t bad.”
“Why don’t you just say ‘we’ll see about that’ again?”
I gave him a longer look. “I’m sorry. I really do appreciate you asking, Mort.”
“I’ve never had the chance to get to know him that well. This morning marked our longest conversation ever. He seems like a fine man.”
“He is. In all the right ways. And he’s a brilliant detective, true to the heritage of Scotland Yard.”
“You sure can pick them, Jessica.”
“Men or investigators?”
Mort angled the car into summer traffic and began inching his way along toward the snarl at the traffic light. He looked back at me when we came to a stop again.
“You weren’t very precise in your answer to my question about George Sutherland.”
“Something’s wrong, Mort.”
“Well, Mrs. Fletcher, that’s why he’s here, isn’t it?”
“There’s something he’s not telling me. Why not let me know he was coming? A phone call, an e-mail, anything. If I didn’t know better . . .”
Mort’s expression softened. “Let it go, Jessica.”
“Let what go?”
“Sometimes the reason you can’t see what’s there is because there’s nothing beyond the obvious, as strange as that may seem.”
“You think I don’t want to admit that George is sick. You think I’m groping for another explanation for his coming to Cabot Cove.”
“Aren’t you?”
I was spared a response when a horn honking behind us got Mort moving again through the intersection.
* * *
• • •
I do my best thinking alone. Call it the stuff of a writer. Assembling the pieces of a real puzzle for me requires the same solitary process as assembling the pieces of my fictional ones. I often wonder where Jessica Fletcher ends and J. B. Fletcher begins. Someone once asked me if I ever confuse my fictional crimes with the very real ones in which I often find myself embroiled.
The true answer is both yes and no. No, because it’s never hard to separate reality from fantasy. Yes, because the approach to how I solve a real crime is much the same as how J. B. Fletcher solves a fictional one. I don’t know any more when I start a book than I do when an actual case presents itself and demands my attention. Indeed, J. B. Fletcher is very real to me, to the point where I ask myself, what would she do now?
I couldn’t chase the lawyer Fred Cooper’
s part in this puzzle from my mind, the sudden windfall all that new office furniture suggested. So I decided to follow up on Mort’s suggestion that his good fortune might have somehow involved real estate, and dialed up Eve Simpson, who was Cabot Cove’s number one agent.
“Jessica, I haven’t seen you in forever!” she greeted enthusiastically.
“Well, summer is your busiest season.”
“Writers don’t have a busiest season.”
“Except whenever we have a deadline looming. I was wondering if I could ask you a question about a lawyer in town, Fred Cooper.”
“What about him?”
“Has he handled any of your real estate transactions?”
“No.”
I was starting to feel vindicated in my suspicions until Eve resumed.
“He handles all of them.”
“All?” I repeated, feeling deflated.
“He’s a stickler for detail and terrific with the paperwork. I believe he’s overseen nearly twenty closings for me in the past few months alone. Was there anything else, Jessica?”
“No, that’s it.”
“Tit for tat, then.”
“Tit for tat?”
“The whole town’s talking about Mimi Van Dorn’s murder. Might your interest in Fred Cooper be connected to that?”
“Thank you very much for your help, Eve,” I said, and ended the call.
I guess maybe I wasn’t as smart as J. B. Fletcher, after all. We saw the same things, but she often proved to be a step ahead of me. Now, as I sat at the Victorian desk that was part of the furnishings in my suite at Hill House, I asked myself what I would do if I were writing this mystery, instead of living it.
Look in another direction.
I thought I heard J. B. Fletcher’s voice in my head, which was strange, because it didn’t sound like mine at all.
If the answer’s not in front of you, ask a different question.
I never experienced writer’s block, writing at a feverish pace and never letting my characters stay still. No respites. If one door led only to a wall, they found another door. If the door didn’t open, they used a window.
I needed a door now, at least a window.
Stick to what’s bothering you.
J. B. Fletcher’s voice again.
Lots of things were bothering me here, not the least of which was George Sutherland’s condition. But there was nothing I could do about that, any more than I could bring Mimi Van Dorn back to life or fully explain what had led her to take the money that assured her son a decent life. Thinking of George again brought me back to Jean O’Neil’s funeral, just one day ago, which felt like a month. Jean O’Neil had been a patient of Charles Clifton.
So had Mimi.
So was George.
The common denominator between them was clinical trials at the Clifton Clinic, the first Clifton Care Partners facility in what was envisioned as a chain across the entire country, with ground having been broken on several more already.
Clinical trials . . .
I had my phone at my ear the next moment, having dialed one of the numbers listed among my few Favorites.
“No,” the voice of Harry McGraw greeted.
* * *
• • •
“I haven’t even asked you a question yet, Harry.”
“Whatever it is, the answer’s no. Haven’t you heard? I’m retired.”
“Since when?”
“Oh, maybe fifteen seconds ago. I swore on the Bible that the next time you called, it would be time to take down my shingle.”
“You don’t have a shingle, and when was the last time you went to church?”
“Either my third marriage or my oldest daughter’s second.”
“Long time ago, Harry.”
“I do have a Bible.”
“Really?”
“Swiped it from the desk drawer of a hotel. A faster read than whatever you’re working on.”
“How do you know if you haven’t read it?”
“Educated guess.”
“I need your help,” I told the best private investigator I’d ever known.
“Of course you do. And I need a new place to live.”
“What happened?”
“My building got bought up and with that went my rent control.”
“Do you neglect to send bills to all your clients or am I the only one?”
“I don’t have clients. I have friends who I occasionally do favors for.”
“You mean like Travis McGee?”
“Who’s that, your new boyfriend?”
“A kind of detective created by John D. MacDonald.”
“Is that your new boyfriend?”
“He’s dead, Harry.”
“Sorry to hear that, Jess. I never even got to meet him.”
“Can I ask the question now?”
“Go ahead, but my answer’s not changing.”
“Do you still have that contact at the Food and Drug Administration?”
“Yes. Oops, does that make me a liar?”
“No, Harry, a friend. I need you to call him for me.”
Chapter Fourteen
Harry was waiting for me early the following afternoon when I stepped off the escalator into the cavernous waiting area of Union Station in Washington, DC.
“Look at this—what a coincidence,” he said, his trademark scowl plastered over a face that looked like it was cut from clay that had never quite hardened.
“Really, Harry, really?”
“You didn’t think I was going to leave you alone down here. By the way, I’m expensing my train ticket. Don’t worry—I took the Regional, not the Acela like you.”
“How’d you know what train I’d be on?”
“Simple: This was the first one that could’ve gotten you here if you rode the late-night train out from Portland to Boston.”
“Am I that predictable?”
“Maybe I’m just a much better detective than you give me credit for.”
“I give you plenty of credit.”
“An occasional tip would go a longer way.”
“I can’t tip you if you never send me a bill to pay.”
“Maybe I’m independently wealthy.”
“Are you?”
“Closer to homeless. I’d move in with you in Cabot Cove, except I’d feel much safer living on the streets of New York.”
I started walking across the sprawling waiting area, and Harry quickly joined me in step.
“Did you arrange for my appointment at the FDA?”
“You mean our appointment, Jessica?”
“Do I?”
The scowl flashed again. “Only way my guy will see you.”
“You tell him what this was about?”
Harry nodded. “Turns out clinical trials are right up his alley.”
“Really?”
“No. But he’s a big shot there at the FDA. I think maybe they dedicated one of the letters to him.”
“F, D, or A?”
“H for here we go again.”
* * *
• • •
We rode the Metro not into Washington proper but to the station in Silver Spring, Maryland, home of the Food and Drug Administration’s White Oak campus, where many of its departments were housed. The FDA had so many employees, it had branched out from its main-headquarters facilities in Montgomery and Prince George’s counties, also in Maryland. The overflow of workers staffed a warren of office buildings in Greater Washington, making the FDA truly labyrinthine in more ways than one.
The White Oak campus, as luck would have it, handled oversight of the vast number of clinical trials ongoing at any given time through the FDA’s Center for Drug Evaluation and Research. I’d really never given much
thought to the nature of clinical trials before the Clifton Clinic moved into Cabot Cove, and I was determined to do a deeper dive as to how a relatively new and little-known facility could have landed so many studies aimed at determining the fitness of therapeutic medications to be made available to the masses.
Located on New Hampshire Avenue in Silver Spring, the White Oak facility resembled the Pentagon in its sprawl and design, the interconnected swath of buildings uniformly beige in color and fitted with blackened windows that looked like the kind that never opened. It wasn’t like this was the Centers for Disease Control, in Atlanta, where this or that microbe might launch a determined escape at any time. No, these were strictly administrative offices where analysis ruled the day, as opposed to actual experimentation, which took place under the auspices of the pharmaceutical companies hoping to bring the next miracle drug to fruition.
“You haven’t told me your friend’s name,” I said to Harry, after we checked in at the security station in the lobby.
We hadn’t been given our building passes yet, and a uniformed security guard’s gaze never seemed to leave us, perhaps because we were the only people seated in the waiting area.
“Arthur Noble,” Harry answered. “Way back when I actually had a career, he was a trusted source, working out of the FDA’s field office in Jamaica.”
“The country?”
“No, Jess, the New York City neighborhood. I got him out of a scrap once.”
“Did he pay you?”
“He’s still paying me. That’s what today’s visit is all about.”
No sooner had Harry said that than a tall, wiry man emerged from an elevator.
“And here he is now.”
I’m not sure I’d ever seen Harry hug anyone, and Arthur Noble was no exception. They barely shook hands, while I hung back, waiting for my cue to approach, when Harry nodded my way.
“And this is Jessica Fletcher. Be nice to her, Art, or she might write something bad about you in one of her books.”
“Is that why you’re here, Mrs. Fletcher? Research?”
“I am indeed, Mr. Noble,” I said, not bothering to add that it wasn’t for a book.
Murder, She Wrote--Murder in Red Page 10
