Malpractice in Maggody

by Joan Hess

  “Really? How would I be able to tell?”

  “When you pull the trigger and my brains splatter out of the back of my head. Put it down—okay?”

  Mrs. Jim Bob reluctantly placed it on the newspaper she’d spread on the tabletop. “There’s really no reason to have it if it’s not loaded. Bring home some bullets this evening.”

  “Who are you aimin’ to shoot?” he asked nervously.

  She crossed her arms and gazed at him, her eyes narrowed in speculation. “I haven’t decided just yet. Do you have any suggestions?”

  Jim Bob wondered if she’d been nipping on the bottle of whiskey he’d hidden in a toolbox in the garage. Dearly hoping she wouldn’t shoot him in the back, he went into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. “Where’s that chicken we had last night?”

  “On the top shelf,” she said, “and the broccoli casserole is next to it. Does it ever occur to you to look for something before you ask me? I rarely go to the trouble of hiding food in cabinets or under the sink, you know. I put your socks and underwear in the same drawers, and hang your shirts in your closet. Clean towels, soap, and spare rolls of toilet paper are in the linen cabinet. Your fishing gear is in the garage. Your boots are in the hall closet. It seems to me that after thirty years you might have begun to figure this out.”

  “Yeah, right.” He set the bowls on the counter and got out a plate and fork. “If you don’t know who you’re going to shoot, why’d you bring the gun in here? What if Perkin’s eldest finds it and shoots herself in the foot? We could get sued.”

  “I’d rather be sued than murdered. Since you won’t do anything about the homicidal maniacs running wild here in Maggody, I have taken it upon myself to take action. Members of the Missionary Society are arming themselves and encouraging others to do the same. We will not allow ourselves to become victims.”

  Jim Bob stopped gnawing on a chicken leg and stared at her. “I ain’t heard about any homicidal maniacs running wild. As far as I know, the only time there’s any activity is when that van takes the employees over to the Flamingo Motel.”

  “If you paid more attention, you’d have heard that one of them escaped last week and nearly murdered Ruby Bee—and in broad daylight, too.”

  “Nearly murdered her? Seems like somebody would have mentioned it to me.”

  Mrs. Jim Bob shrugged. “She’s so terrified that she can hardly stand to talk about it. If she hadn’t broken down and told Lottie, none of us would have known.” She picked up the gun and gave it another spritz of Windex. “You just remember to bring home some bullets. After dinner, you can teach me how to fire it.”

  “I was, uh, planning to stay late and work on the quarterly tax estimates.”

  She gave him a beady look. “Were you? And then stagger home after midnight, stinking of whiskey and perfume? Don’t think for a minute that I don’t know what you do when you say you’re working late. Now rinse off the plate and put it in the sink. I have better things to do than clean up after you.”

  7

  Vincent beamed at his staff, who were seated around the large table in the day room. He felt very kindly toward them, since their energy and dedication were vital to his economic well-being. Someday, he thought, the name Stonebridge would be synonymous with medical breakthroughs in the field of rehabilitation, rather than tummy tucks, breast enhancements, and malpractice suits. “Well, I think our first six days have gone splendidly, don’t you? Our patients are relatively content, and we’ve established a functional routine. We should be proud of ourselves. Shall we have a toast to our initial success?” He moved around the table, filling each fluted glass with champagne. “To the Stonebridge Foundation,” he said grandly, holding up his glass.

  They all dutifully repeated the sentiment, but with varied levels of enthusiasm. He took an appreciative sip, then went on. “I’d like to thank Molly for agreeing to stay late for the meeting. I know you have obligations at home, dear, and I hope this isn’t too much of an inconvenience.”

  “Oh, no,” she said. “This is Ashton’s bowling night, so he usually has a burger with the boys.”

  Brenda put down her glass. “Let’s just get to it, Vincent. I have a pile of paperwork to do.”

  “Me, too,” said Randall, although less convincingly so.

  Walter rocked back in his chair and grinned at Molly. “What time does Ashton get home? Maybe you and I could check out a couple of clubs, see what all’s going on in the big city of Farberville.”

  Molly ignored him. “This is my very first staff meeting, Dr. Stonebridge. I hope I do okay.”

  “I’m sure you will.” He leaned across the table to refill her glass. “We need to review our case files, and then move on to mundane matters of fine-tuning the schedule for maximum efficiency. Brenda, I believe you have Dr. Dibbins’s file. Why don’t you begin?”

  “He is not an easy case. After his suitcase was unpacked, I had the maid bring it to the storage room, where I inspected it. It has a false bottom. The space contained three pounds of Godiva chocolates, water crackers, candied dates and figs, a package of butter cookies, a box of cigars, eighteen airplane-sized bottles of gin, four ten-ounce bottles of red wine, a jar of caviar, and cans of smoked oysters. When I confronted him, he gazed at the ceiling and pretended not to hear me.”

  “How gauche,” murmured Walter.

  Brenda shot him a look, then said, “I have him on psyllium husks for fiber, chromium picolinate to reduce sugar cravings, di-methylamino-ethanol, flaxseed oil, a high dosage of vitamin C to increase metabolism, lecithin capsules, and fifteen hundred milligrams of kelp. Despite his vocal objections, he receives a coffee enema once a day to cleanse his liver and colon. He is allowed six hundred calories daily, most of them from protein. Randall has him on Prozac and a mild amphetamine, and ten milligrams of Ambien to help him sleep. As of this morning, he has lost nine and one-fourth pounds, although much of this can be attributed to water loss.”

  “Very good,” said Vincent. “Comments, Randall?”

  “I’ve had five sessions with him, and there’s been no discernible lessening of hostility. He now calls me ‘Gunga Din.’ Although he will acknowledge that he’s overweight, he refuses to admit he needs to alter his lifestyle. He views life as a series of meals, and he associates everything, from his failed marriages to his success as a diet guru, with food.” He glanced at his notes. “His first wife was as flighty as meringue, his second as tart as hollandaise sauce, et cetera. His successes are not coups de grâce, but coups de foie gras. We need to station an armed guard outside the kitchen.”

  Vincent nodded. “He’s rather recalcitrant about the necessity for surgical procedures as well, but he’ll have to have skin tightening treatments unless he wants to end up looking like a used condom. Walter?”

  Walter propped his feet on the table. “If I badger him, he’ll do a few stretching exercises. It’s a beginning.”

  “Do you have anything to add, Molly?” Vincent asked.

  She shifted uncomfortably, then said, “When I took him some insurance papers to sign, he offered me a hundred dollars to smuggle in a bottle of some particular sort of brandy. When I refused, he called me…well, something not very nice.”

  “Son of a bitch!” said Randall.

  “Oh, it wasn’t that,” Molly protested, blinking at him. “In fact, I didn’t even know what it meant, but I could tell it was rude.”

  Brenda rumbled under her breath, then said, “Let’s move on, Vince.”

  “Indeed,” he said. “Mrs. Swayze is somewhat more agreeable. She has voiced interest in a rhytidectomy and laser resurfacing, each of which costs several thousand dollars. I gather she’s been exercising, Walt.”

  “Yeah, she said she used to work out before her accident. We’re starting slowly, focusing on muscle tone and flexibility. She’s too zoned out to do much.”

  “Because Randall insists on giving her all manner of antidepressants and antiseizure medications,” said Brenda, “as well as th
e very medications she’s addicted to. She would do better to rely on her inner resources to overcome the addiction.” She opened a file. “I currently have her on a regimen of vitamin B complex injections, with extra pantothenic acid and niacinamide, and fifteen hundred milligrams of calcium and magnesium. Burdock root and red clover to cleanse the toxins from her system, milk thistle, Saint-John’s-wort, and valerian root. When her blood pressure is under control, I’ll add Siberian ginseng. She has high-protein soy-based drinks three times a day to put her intake at fifteen hundred calories.”

  “Wow,” said Molly. “It sounds like all these patients do all day is gobble pills.”

  Brenda crossed her arms and stared at her. “This is a rehabilitation facility, Miss Foss, not a resort on a beach. If that concept is too complicated for you to grasp, you might be better off working elsewhere. Your performance here is only marginally adequate. I was up until midnight last night trying to make sense of your whimsical filing system. You are familiar with the alphabet, aren’t you?”

  “That’s enough,” Vincent said coldly. “Molly is working hard to learn the system. Randall, your sessions with Mrs. Swayze?”

  “She’s in textbook denial,” he said. “Claims she’s not really addicted and can stop any time she chooses. She reluctantly admitted to frequent mood swings, restlessness, loss of appetite, and emotional outbursts. The only reason she’s here, she says, is that she was sick and tired of her inner circle harassing her. I’ve already started her withdrawal, and am monitoring her for depression, irritability, insomnia, and disorientation. She’s experienced some hot and cold flashes, excessive sweating, and diarrhea.”

  “I’ll add raspberry leaf tea and cayenne capsules,” said Brenda, writing a note in the file.

  Vincent nodded. “Let’s move on to our star quarterback. Walter, would you like to go first?”

  Walter refilled his glass. “Toby’s all gung-ho to work out. I literally have to drag him off the machines and out the door, and then he heads for the pool and does a hundred laps. The other night at eleven, I caught him in the exercise room, lifting weights. When I told him he was supposed to be in his room, he took a swing at me. He scares me, to be frank.”

  “He’s not that bad,” said Molly. “He comes down to my desk when he doesn’t have anything else to do, and we talk. He’s real sweet when he talks about his mother. His father was a high school coach, and that’s why Toby—”

  “Leave the psychiatric evaluations to Dr. Zumi,” Brenda said. “You have no business chatting with the patients. If you have free time, spend it mastering the computer.”

  Molly sank back in the chair, her eyes welling with tears. “I was just trying to participate, Dr. Skiller.”

  “‘I was just trying to participate, Dr. Skiller,’” Brenda echoed in a honeyed voice.

  There was a long moment of silence in the day room. All three of the men looked annoyed, but none of them ventured a rebuke. Molly sniffled.

  “As for the psych evaluation,” said Randall, “Toby Mann has been taking both anabolic steroids and androgens since he was fifteen years old. Some were given to him by the team doctors, others he bought online. As with all addictive drugs, he needed to increase the dosage, which then forced him to rely on opioids to counteract insomnia and depression. No one knows if these steroids are dangerous in the short term, but they create serious health concerns over a longer period of time. Toby simply refuses to acknowledge the possibility of liver disease, decreased sperm count, testicular degeneration, and psychotic episodes. Either because of his exalted status or the drugs, he’s convinced he is invincible, the epitome of the supreme macho athlete. Anyone who begs to differ may be in real danger of physical retribution. So, Walter, if I were you, I’d let him work out. He is highly resistant to the idea of reducing his daily steroid regime, but since his stash was confiscated, he has grudgingly agreed to use less destructive supplements.”

  “Did he rape that woman?” demanded Brenda. “We have female employees, as well as patients. Their safety is our responsibility.”

  Randall shrugged. “We haven’t gotten into it very far. In his mind, he did not because he cannot conceive that any female would object to his sexual advances. He’s been praised and fawned over since he was in high school. He claims to have slept with more than a thousand women in the last eight years.”

  There was another moment of silence as each of them did the arithmetic.

  “Not bad,” said Walter, smirking.

  “You’re disgusting,” said Brenda. “He is allowed two thousand calories a day from lean protein, soy, grains rich in fiber, fruits, dairy products, eggs, and fresh vegetables. No processed foods or sugar, of course. He’s also taking lemon balm and ephedra for depression, as well as ginkgo biloba, oat straw, and kava kava. To counteract these episodes of rage, I’ve added an amino acid complex, vitamin B compounds, zinc, and copper.”

  “No wonder he clinks when he walks,” commented Walter. “All that metal.”

  Vincent rubbed his temples with his fingertips. “There is one thing I need to bring up. One of the maids found a bottle of bourbon hidden in a cabinet in his bathroom. He has denied any knowledge of it, but I’d like to know how he got it.”

  “I did a thorough search of his bag when he arrived,” said Brenda, “and confiscated some pills and a plastic baggie of marijuana. There was no bottle of bourbon.” Her gaze traveled around the table, then settled on Molly. “Someone must have smuggled it in for him.”

  “One of the orderlies?” said Randall.

  “Highly unlikely,” Vincent said, shaking his head. “Even if Toby could get around the language barrier, none of them has access to a liquor store. The only alcohol for sale in this place is moonshine. I checked, and the bourbon did not come from my personal supply.”

  Brenda smiled smugly. “Well, I don’t have a personal supply. As far as I’m concerned, alcohol is a poison only slightly less lethal than cyanide.”

  “I brought nothing like that,” Randall said.

  Walter flashed his palms. “I stick to wine. I’ve got a couple of jugs in my van, but nobody’s messed with them.”

  Molly stood up. “I can see just where this is going—and I don’t like it one bit! Sure, I’m friendly with the patients. That’s my nature. If you don’t believe me, just call the girls at the office where I used to work, and they’ll tell how nice I was to everyone. That doesn’t mean I’d break the rules, Dr. Stonebridge. Didn’t I already tell you all how Dr. Dibbins tried to bribe me, and I told him under no uncertain terms that I—”

  “I’ll have a word with the chef,” interrupted Brenda. “I don’t see how he or his helpers could be guilty, though. They come in through the back gate at seven every morning, go directly to the kitchen, and leave at five. They have no contact whatsoever with the patients. Even if Toby hid a note on his tray, I don’t see how it would be possible for any of them to get the bottle to him.”

  Vincent sighed. “All of the patients’ suites will be searched tomorrow. I will personally oversee it, since our reputation is at stake, and I’ve invested too much to allow even a hint of failure. Should I determine that one of you is responsible, you will be dismissed immediately. I can assure you this is not a threat, but a statement of fact. Now, shall we move on to Miss Dartmouth?”

  Brenda flipped open a file. “Didn’t I say she was a typical Hollywood brat? Not only did she bring cocaine concealed in a baby powder container, she brought excessive quantities of makeup, hair products, and jewelry. There are enough clothes crammed in her closet to dress all the residents in town, although this would require some sort of charitable impulse on her part.”

  “She looks like a zombie,” said Molly. “Poor thing stumbles around all day in her bedroom slippers like some kind of bag lady. She offered me a real pretty bracelet if I’d let her check her e-mail on my computer, but I told her she couldn’t. She asked all kinds of questions about the other patients, too. Do you know her boyfriend was the drummer fo
r the Sick Suck Six? I’ve got two of their CDs.”

  “How fascinating,” drawled Brenda. “Perhaps you can share your insights into popular culture at a later time.”

  Vincent held up his hand before Molly was again reduced to tears. “Randall?”

  “She’s an alcoholic, probably since she was fourteen or so. She’s done a lot of cocaine and Ecstasy, and has experimented with heroin and crack. A classic addictive personality, due in part to the pressure of her earlier years as an actress and her clashes with her mother, who’s also an alcoholic. Dawn claims she was molested at the age of eight by the producer of the TV series. She was sexually active by twelve, and already drinking and taking tranquilizers. She says she was also raped by various therapists and psychiatrists, her stepfathers, male employees in the household, and a long list of boyfriends. It’s too early to determine the veracity of these claims. She does, however, have a very fragile and unstable self-image, and is capable of violent outbursts. Currently, she’s on heavy antidepressants, stimulants so she can function, and sleeping pills. She takes pain pills at night because she claims to have sore muscles from exercising.”

  “That doesn’t mean she’s not a brat,” said Brenda. “I have her on a free-form amino acid complex, L-cysteine, three thousand milligrams of glutathione to reduce the cravings, pantothenic acid for detox, gamma-aminobutyric acid to prevent anxiety, alfalfa, burdock root, dandelion root and milk thistle extract, and valerian root at bedtime. She’s lost six pounds this week.”

  “She’ll work out for a while,” said Walter, “but then she insists on soaking in the hot tub. This morning she…uh, tried to get personal. She kept rubbing her breasts against me and making suggestions about what we could do in the sauna. I didn’t know what to do.”

  Randall shrugged. “You can’t bluntly reject her. She’s already stressed about being here. As she entered adolescence, she realized that she was no longer considered darling and adorable. She’s very conflicted.”