Murder, She Wrote--Murder in Red

by Jessica Fletcher

  “Anything but, in fact,” Tripp continued. “You see, Mrs. Fletcher, I wasn’t totally forthcoming in our meeting.”

  “No?”

  “I’m surprised it slipped past you.”

  I was still fighting to chase the sleep from my mind. “Surprised what slipped past me, Tripp?”

  He continued to ramble. I pictured him seated in his wheelchair by the window, even though it was night, speaking through the Bluetooth device clipped to his ear, perhaps eyeing the family photo hanging on the wall, which must have pictured his late mother.

  “I’ve been reading your books for two solid days. Well, not really reading—listening to them. I’m already on my third, thanks to one of the aides here helping me download the MP3s on my phone. I’m surprised you missed the same thing everybody else has for so many years.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Not on the phone. We need to do this in person. That British guy who came with you, the chief inspector or something . . .”

  “George Sutherland.”

  “He doesn’t have any authority over here, does he?”

  “No, only back home.”

  “Then you need to bring someone who does. I don’t want to have to tell this story twice, Mrs. Fletcher.”

  The fog had finally cleared from my head. I wanted to ask more, but not too much for fear of scaring the young man off. “Does it have something to do with your mother?”

  He laughed, the gesture lacking any semblance of true amusement. “Only everything.”

  The sharpness of his tone was hardly a surprise. Again, I forced myself not to push.

  “When do you want me to come down, Tripp?”

  “Would the morning be too soon?”

  “Not for me, but I’ll have to check with our Sheriff Metzger, the man in authority you requested. I don’t think it’ll be a problem.”

  “Good, because I can’t wait any longer. I’ve waited too long already. I’ve been a fool for too long, Mrs. Fletcher. It’s about time I smartened up.”

  “I think we can be at Good Shepherd by eleven o’clock, maybe even a bit earlier.”

  “I hate that name. Always makes me think of the dog.”

  “Eleven o’clock tomorrow morning, Tripp. I’ll call you when we’re on our way,” I said, but he’d already hung up.

  I clutched the phone in my hand for several moments after the call had ended, having finally identified what I was hearing in Tripp Van Dorn’s voice:

  Fear.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Seth and I didn’t talk much on the ride from the train station in Portland back to Cabot Cove. Exhaustion had finally gotten the better of me, and we’d pretty much said everything in our phone call earlier in the evening.

  “How’s Harry?” he did ask at one point, just making conversation, since he didn’t know Harry McGraw that well.

  “Harry’s Harry. But his contact at the FDA revealed that, according to their records, the Clifton Clinic isn’t currently holding any clinical trials.”

  “Did I just hear you right?”

  “You did indeed, and I know—it makes no sense.”

  He glanced at me across the passenger seat. “George Sutherland came a long way thanks to a clinical trial they’re offering.”

  “Not according to the FDA, Seth.”

  “No sense I can see in that. Clinical trials don’t happen off the books, Jess. They’re expensive and that’s even before you get to the potential legal costs if something goes wrong. No reputable pharmaceutical outfit would even consider such a thing.”

  “I never thought much about the nuts and bolts of such trials.”

  “Just consider the number of staff you’d need to keep the paper trail intact and tabs on each and every study participant. Then there’s the geographic logistics to these studies. For diversity and a wide choice of subjects, big metropolitan hospitals are almost always selected as hosts for clinical trials. Cabot Cove, obviously, doesn’t fit that bill at all.”

  “You were stark in your criticism that the Clifton Clinic doesn’t even reside in the town proper.”

  “Which puts it even farther from a reasonable center of population. You know what I’d do if I were you, Jess? I’d get a list of everyone enrolled in their clinical trials. Maybe many came from afar like George Sutherland.”

  “Hill House doesn’t have near enough rooms to host that many patients.”

  “Makes you think, doesn’t it?”

  “Everything makes me think, Seth. Maybe I write as much as I do to distract myself from all those thoughts.”

  “And what are those thoughts telling you now?”

  “That something’s wrong here. That there are some things we’re looking straight at but can’t see yet. That everything we’re dealing with is connected, but I can’t see how.”

  Seth looked across the seat at me again, this time long enough for me to detect his smirk through the darkness, broken only by the lights dotting the freeway. “You mean ‘yet,’ don’t you? Because you always end up seeing what you need to, so long as you remain patient.”

  “That’s the thing this time,” I told him. “I’m not sure George Sutherland has enough time left for me to be patient.”

  * * *

  • • •

  Loss affects everyone differently. Each one you suffer leaves you more determined not to take anything, and especially anyone, for granted. You start making more calls, fretting and worrying more, e-mailing just to check in, or getting together for lunch or dinner because you don’t want to feel the regret, even guilt, you just experienced with the loss of someone else. I think we do such things out of the godlike belief that as long as we care and we’re around, nothing bad can happen to a loved one or friend, as though death claims only those we’ve forgotten or neglected.

  I think instinct steers us in that direction because it provides the impression that we’re in control of our environment. The problem is the resolve wears off, sometimes in direct alignment with our grief. As it subsides, as we grow used to the loved one or friend being gone, those visits and calls to other friends and loved ones slowly diminish until we’re back where we started, ready to repeat the process all over again the next time a call comes with the kind of news no one wants to hear.

  I felt so comfortable when I was with George, the most comfortable I’d ever felt with any man outside of my husband, Frank. I’d lost Frank and, subconsciously, was afraid of losing George. So I hadn’t stayed in touch nearly as much as I should have, because it was easier to forget what made me uneasy than remember what made me happy.

  As luck would have it, George Sutherland was seated in the Hill House lobby, reading a newspaper, when I entered after waving good-bye to Seth.

  “Waiting up for me?” I asked lightly, taking the chair next to him.

  “How’d you guess, dear lady?”

  “So, how’d your day go?”

  “Well, it turns out my test results indicate I’m an excellent candidate for the particular protocol the Clifton Clinic is testing.”

  “That’s wonderful news,” I said, even though my suspicions kept me from fully believing it.

  “Too bad I couldn’t enjoy it. You gave me an awful fright, my dear lady, disappearing for such a stretch, no doubt looking into the murder of your friend.”

  “Mimi’s son, the young man we visited yesterday, called me this evening, by the way.”

  George’s eyes scorned me. “Don’t go changing the subject.”

  “I wasn’t. You just reminded me that Mimi’s son called and I wanted you to know about it.”

  “And what did the poor lad have to say?”

  “I’m not sure. He asked to see me, so I thought I’d drive down with Mort in the morning.”

  “Replacing me on the case so fast, are you?”

  �
�I think you have more important matters on your mind, George.”

  He smiled. “More important perhaps, but not nearly as much fun. Have I ever told you how much I enjoy our little adventures?”

  “If you call solving murder little.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “I think I do. I’m sorry for always showing you up.”

  “Hmmmmmm . . . From my recollection, I’m always holding back to give you a chance to catch up.”

  “That’s because I’ve already lapped you and am closing in again.”

  He gave me a closer look, approvingly, I think, as he folded the newspaper and tucked it in his lap. “Well, you are in remarkable shape. All that bicycling and walking have done their wonders, and the sea air clearly agrees with you.”

  “It agrees with anyone, even more so when there aren’t so many about to share it with.”

  “Me included?”

  “Cabot Cove was nothing like this the last time you visited.”

  “That was over Thanksgiving, I believe. Far from your busy summer season. Must mean it’s your turn next.”

  I managed a smile. “I was thinking of making a trip to Ireland, pay my respects to whatever’s left of the MacGills,” I said, speaking my maiden name for the first time in longer than I could remember.

  “I could meet you there.”

  I reached out and took his hand. I half expected George to pull away for some reason, but he didn’t. “If attitude is as important as most say it is, I give you a great prognosis.”

  “Nothing wrong with defying the odds.”

  I felt my stomach sink. “Why here, George, why the Clifton Clinic?”

  “Because it’s the only place in the world where this new drug is being tested. It’s actually an enhanced version of a more well-known drug called Torimlisib, which is used to fight breast cancer. Turns out those nasty tumors of mine grow through the secretion of estrogen, of all things. This offshoot of Torimlisib blocks that secretion and starves the tumors in the process.”

  “Making them far less nasty.”

  “Thanks to the clever researchers at LGX Pharmaceuticals.”

  I hated the thought of what I knew I needed to say. His hand felt so good in mine I was tempted to leave things as they were and my hand where it was. But I couldn’t, of course.

  I pulled my hand from his, the gesture enough to tell him I had something on my mind before he got a look at my taut expression. “I need to share something with you, George.”

  “Uh-oh . . . Pertaining to the investigation, I suspect?”

  “Pertaining to the Clifton Clinic. I was in Washington earlier today.”

  “I know. Sheriff Metzger told me.”

  “He probably didn’t tell you I was visiting the Food and Drug Administration to educate myself on clinical trials.”

  George forced a smile. “You could have just asked me. I’ve become quite the expert on them myself.”

  “I’m sure you have. I was curious as to the general process and, specifically, how an institution as small and new as the Clifton Clinic could have landed trials for at least two drugs and maybe three.”

  “Well, there’s me, of course, and you mentioned that dear librarian who recently passed. Who’s the third?”

  “Mimi, perhaps. The autopsy turned up a drug in her system normally used to fight cancer. Only Mimi didn’t have cancer.”

  “Interesting.”

  “I was thinking suspicious,” I couldn’t stop myself from saying. “You see, according to the FDA, none of these trials are actually being conducted at the Clifton Clinic, because no trials are.”

  George swallowed hard, his expression giving up nothing of what he might be thinking. “Any chance they might be wrong, Jessica?”

  “This is the Food and Drug Administration, the government.”

  “I know. That’s why I asked. Wouldn’t that be the simplest solution, the one our fictional counterpart Mr. Sherlock Holmes would find himself considering?”

  “Simplest doesn’t make it the most accurate, George.”

  “What, then, my dear lady?”

  “Did you discuss any of this with Charles Clifton?”

  George laid the newspaper on the floor by his feet. “You mean, did he admit I was enrolled in an unregistered clinical trial?”

  “Did you ask him how many other subjects are included in this particular trial or how those from earlier in the study have fared?”

  “I don’t believe he’s allowed to share such proprietary information with me.”

  “Even though it would seem more proprietary to you than anyone else?”

  He rose stiffly from his chair. “I think I better turn in. Long day tomorrow. I start treatment.”

  I joined him on my feet, looking up into his eyes, although he seemed a bit shorter than his six feet two inches. “I thought you should know, George. I had an obligation to tell you.”

  He took my shoulders in his hands. “And now you’ve done your duty, my dear lady, and can sleep easier because of it.”

  “Then Clifton made no mention, provided no inkling, that this trial was unregistered and thus, well, illegal. That he’s treating you like a lab rat.”

  “Why, Jessica, all those chosen for clinical trials are lab rats. It’s the nature of the beast.”

  “What about the illegal part?”

  George looked deeply into my eyes. I expected any number of reactions from him in that moment, though not the one I got.

  He took me in his arms and hugged me tight, his smile genuinely warm and inviting after we finally separated.

  “That’s what I love about you, Jessica. You have my back—you have everyone’s back. Always looking out for someone else, even if it means sometimes looking in the wrong direction.”

  “And this is the wrong direction?”

  “Would you mind doing an ill man a favor?”

  “George,” I started to protest.

  “I apologize for playing that card, my dear lady. But I simply need you to let me answer your question and be done with it. Can you do that?”

  “I’ll try.”

  He nodded. “Yes, I knew I came here, to the Clifton Clinic, to take part in an unregistered clinical trial.”

  “But how could—”

  George silenced me with two fingers against my lips. “You promised.”

  “No, I said I’d try.”

  He smiled again. “You need to try harder this time, Jessica, and leave me to my business.”

  * * *

  • • •

  Nothing’s worse than lying restless and awake in bed, despite being exhausted. I blamed the bed, the noises coming through the open window, even the unfamiliar surroundings I’d been living in for months now, when the truth was I should have blamed myself. I had ruined a wonderful moment with a man I cared deeply about, taken his privacy from him and involved myself in a part of his life George Sutherland had every reason to want me excluded from. I’d forced him to share something he much preferred keeping to himself, and the price I paid for that was a restless night when I desperately needed a long, deep sleep.

  I always have the most trouble falling asleep when I know I have to awaken early, in this case to call Mort with the news that Tripp Van Dorn wanted to see me and, thus, us. I had no idea what he had to tell us. . . . Needing to probe deeper, I replayed parts of our conversation in my mind, through my fitful night’s rest, in search of something he’d said that might give me some notion as to the source of the fear I’d detected in his voice.

  I’m surprised it slipped past you.

  What had slipped past me? What was it Tripp Van Dorn knew that he was surprised I didn’t know as well? Something about Mimi, perhaps, as suggested by an exchange from our last phone call:

  “Does it have something to do with y
our mother?”

  “Only everything.”

  He’d laughed as he said it, with no trace of amusement whatsoever.

  There must’ve been more to what was going on here, more to the story, than even I’d anticipated. Clearly this indicated, not surprisingly, the level to which their relationship had deteriorated. I can only imagine what Tripp must’ve felt upon learning that the trust fund ensuring his care, the one truly stable element of his tragic life, was gone. Certainly it would be cause for considerable angst that could end the relationship between mother and son forever. Something was starting to occur to me on that front, something connected to my strained conversation with George Sutherland the night before. It was just starting to form, and I didn’t push for fear of losing the tighter focus I so needed right now.

  Which brought me to the last part of my conversation with Tripp Van Dorn, which came at me like an itch I couldn’t reach.

  I can’t wait any longer. I’ve waited too long already. I’ve been a fool for too long, Mrs. Fletcher. It’s about time I smartened up.

  I tried to recall his precise tone as he’d said that. Determined was the first word that came to mind, as if there was something he should’ve dealt with long before but had not. Because he had “smartened up,” as Tripp had put it. And what exactly made him feel like he’d been a fool?

  There must be some secret, something shared only by mother and son, that might answer those questions.

  When it reached eight o’clock, with the summer sun streaming through my Hill House window, I figured it was finally time to give Mort a call and alert him to the day’s plans.

  “Mrs. Fletcher,” he greeted, “I was just going to call you.”

  “‘Mrs. Fletcher’ again? Really, Mort?”

  “Just trying to recapture simpler times.”

  “We’ll have plenty of time to do that in the car. Hope you’re up for a road trip, because we’re meeting with Tripp Van Dorn, who sounds like he’s got quite a story to tell.”

  “Well, Jessica, you can consider the meeting canceled,” Mort said in his official voice. “I just learned Tripp Van Dorn was found dead this morning.”