Mortal Remains

by Peter Clement

  He’d spent the morning in his office reading his mail and answering a seemingly endless stream of calls from patients. Most were trivial problems easily answered.

  Between calls he’d puzzled over why Charles Braden had invited Lucy and him to his home. And stared at the ceiling to the sound of creaky floorboards as Lucy prowled around her room. What was up with her? When she got back from shopping last night, she’d prepared dinner and welcomed Victor with open arms. Then she’d kept them entertained throughout the meal with stories of warlords, strange animals, and field hospital hijinks. Afterward, Victor sat down at the piano and led them through the highlights of great Broadway shows. They belted out the tunes they knew and danced to the ones they didn’t.

  Victor had left in high spirits, yet as soon as he was out the door, she’d said she was exhausted and gone directly to bed.

  This morning he’d wakened to the sounds of her in the kitchen and the smell of fresh coffee, but when he came down to join her for breakfast she retreated back upstairs, taking her cup with her, apologizing profusely that she had a ton of correspondence to answer and job applications to send out. “After all, by next July, I plan to be a working woman again.”

  Why was she avoiding him? From the creaking of the floorboards, she’d seemed to be doing more pacing than writing.

  The phone rang for the umpteenth time, bringing him back inside.

  “My knees are bothering me again.”

  Nell! Mark repressed a sigh, having no patience for their usual merry-go-round today. “When do you want to come in?” he said, trying not to sound too weary.

  “Can’t. They’re too swollen. I need one of them house calls. And you bring that young new doctor I hear you’ve been traipsing all over the county with. Maybe she can help me.”

  Despite himself, he started to laugh. “Nell, you old fraud.”

  “Who are you callin’ old?”

  He leaned back in his chair and chuckled again, feeling better for it.

  “Are you still interested in that maternity center Braden used to run in Saratoga?” she asked.

  Mark leaned forward again. “Yes.”

  “Name’s Diane Whigston Lawler. Her place is just off Route 9 toward the town. She was a local girl, good family, married one of them big shots from New York. Shortly after her first child, he divorced her for some model-actress. Bastard had the better lawyers and took the kid plus everything that wasn’t nailed down. Her own family went bankrupt during one of those big savings and loans busts in the eighties. Lives kinda’ poor now.”

  She gave him the exact address and telephone number. He recognized the street name, and figured the words “kinda poor” might be an understatement. The place was a trailer park.

  “And I’ve been asking around like you wanted,” she continued. “Seeing if anybody noticed Chaz Braden doing anything weird just before Kelly went missing.”

  “Any luck?”

  “Also checked if Samantha McShane was around the area.”

  He shot upright. “Damn it, Nell, I told you don’t do anything of the kind. In fact I gave you specific instructions not to go setting off rumors-”

  “No luck with either. But I did come up with a few other tidbits and a name you might find interesting.”

  “Who?”

  “Be here at seven tomorrow night, and I’ll tell you over dinner.”

  “Nell-”

  “Don’t forget to bring your lady friend. Do you think she’d mind helping out in the kitchen? I can see if she’s up to scratch.”

  “Nell, you stop that kitchen nonsense and tell me right now-”

  He was talking to a dial tone.

  He punched in her number.

  Busy signal.

  He asked the operator to interrupt, claiming it was a medical emergency.

  The phone was off the hook. He sighed and glanced down at the scrap of paper where he’d jotted the number she’d given him. He dialed it, figuring anything would be more productive than trying to get Nell to behave.

  A woman answered.

  “Diane Whigston Lawler?” Nell hadn’t said if she still used her married name.

  “It’s just Diane Whigston now.”

  Her voice was melodious, but deep and a touch husky, the way a smoker’s can get. It also sounded big, and he imagined he was talking to a large woman. “Ms. Whigston, my name is Mark Roper. I’m a physician in Hampton Junction. I got your name from Nell-”

  “Ah, of course. She told me you might be calling. I understand you’re interested in the maternity center Dr. Braden used to run.”

  “Yes. I wonder if I could meet you and ask some questions about the place.”

  “Sure, but I don’t understand. It’s been twenty-nine years since my son Ronald was born there, and it’s long been closed.”

  Diane Whigston must be the only acquaintance of Nell’s who didn’t know about his investigating Kelly’s murder. Otherwise, she’d have guessed right away why he wanted to talk to her. For some reason Nell must not have told her. “Yes, it was a very long time ago, Ms. Whigston. You see, I’m looking into a twenty-seven-year-old murder, that of Kelly McShane. You probably read about the discovery of her body a few weeks ago-”

  “So that’s why you wanted to talk about the maternity center? You’re after the Bradens! Well, if Nell had told me that, I never would have agreed to talk with you.” The deep tones had suddenly turned shrill.

  “No, Ms. Whigston, please, I’m not after anyone, just trying to gather as much information-”

  “Dr. Charles Braden saved my little Ronnie’s life, period. I’ve got nothing but praise and admiration for the man.”

  “I understand-”

  “Ronnie wouldn’t breathe when he came out, and that man went rushing out of the delivery room with him, giving mouth-to-mouth as he ran, and drove him to the hospital himself. Didn’t even wait for an ambulance. One week later I first got to hold my baby when he personally transported my child back to me and placed him in my arms, just before I went home. I’ll never forget that day, or my gratitude to Dr. Braden. So I won’t be saying anything against him, ever.”

  “Ms. Whigston, please-”

  “And Ronnie wasn’t the only one he did that for. I’ve since met other mothers who say the same thing. And the nurses, they called him the miracle man when it came to saving kids. One told me he even kept an incubator in his car for just such emergencies. You won’t find many former patients or staff willing to bad-mouth him.”

  “If you’ll just let me explain-”

  He found himself once more talking to a dial tone.

  Now he understood why Nell hadn’t told her who he was. Jesus, she could have warned him Diane Whigston was so prickly. Approached properly, the woman might have at least been willing to discuss the routine of the place.

  He dialed Nell’s number again. Maybe she could make things right with her friend, and he’d get another chance.

  She picked up this time.

  “Nell-”

  And hung up.

  He thought he really hadn’t time for this when his phone rang again.

  “Nell?”

  “No, it’s me,” said Victor Feldt. “I wanted to say how much I enjoyed last night.”

  “Victor! Sorry, I just got cut off – I mean hung up on-”

  “Old Nell giving you the gears again? I’ll bet it’s about Lucy. She want to meet her, check her out?”

  “No-”

  The big man gave a low, knowing chuckle.

  It reminded Mark why he hated living in a goldfish bowl. “What can I do for you, Victor?”

  “I haven’t made much progress in tracking down who owns Nucleus, but what I found is some pretty weird stuff.”

  “Weird?”

  “Yeah. The information is buried in a labyrinth of registered ownerships. The amount of subterfuge here is really fishy. I’m staying on this. It’s too strange.”

  “Any idea how long it will take?”

  “Give me
until tomorrow. I also thought of something else we should check out. What if the sudden tightening of security has to do with a request from one of the lab’s clients? Maybe it’s somebody at their end who’s suddenly gone paranoid. Were that the case, would it help you to find out why?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’ve been talking to a few of my contacts at the companies that deal with us, telling them what happened, saying good-bye – you know, that kind of thing – and a few have said they’re not surprised.”

  “Not surprised you got fired?”

  “Not surprised that someone in their organization might be hypersensitive over an outsider seeing medical data about their staff.”

  “Well, they should be. Information like that is supposed to be confidential.”

  “What I’m talking about is above and beyond those usual types of concern.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “There are huge shakeups going on in a host of companies, thousands of high executives being laid off. It shows up in the health plans, their policies not being renewed.”

  “So? Layoffs are happening all over the country. It’s because of the economy.”

  “Not when they immediately turn around and rehire thousands more new staff. There’s an equal number of new policies on replacements for the people they fired.”

  Obviously Victor was off on some wild-goose chase, probably as a way to avoid dwelling on his own firing. “And how would all that make someone freak at my visit to the lab?” Mark asked, attempting to nudge him back to the reality of their current problem.

  “I don’t know. But if it were the case, would you want me to find out more about it?” he continued, sounding as eager for approval as a fawning puppy. “Tomorrow, when everybody is back to work from the holiday, I can call some additional contacts and try to get specifics on what’s up, if anything, that might have spooked one of these organizations. If you like, I could even reach a few other people at home today, where they might feel freer to talk.”

  “Why not?” Mark said, thinking the whole thing was light-years removed from any connection to Kelly’s murder or Chaz Braden, but even following up leads doomed to go nowhere could be the best thing for Victor right now. Despite his obvious capacity to enjoy good company and be the life of a party, he was so very solitary out here.

  “And while I was going through all those records, I found a handful of doctors in New York who had a small account with us much like the one I arranged for you.”

  “I don’t follow.”

  “You know, puny bits of business from a few private office patients – they stand out amongst our usual giant-sized contracts. What’s really unusual, the master record of all test results ordered by this group isn’t stored here. The system’s flagged to forward them to another terminal, presumably back in New York. The point is, someone high up made the arrangements. That’s head office territory – not like out here, where a guy like me has a certain amount of leeway to pull off what you and I had going, at least, until yesterday. I was thinking you could phone some of these doctors and ask, physician to physician, who they’d made their special deal with in order to set themselves up that way. It might get us closer to the actual owner of the place.”

  Not likely, Mark thought as he took down the names. He recognized some of them – a surgeon, a few internists, a gynecologist, and three very prominent family physicians who had taught him at NYCH during his residency. These were top drawer people. Yes, they would have professional ties with Chaz through the hospital, but he couldn’t imagine why they’d need to make a private arrangement with an out-of-the-way facility. Their use of Nucleus Laboratories, even if it turned out Chaz owned the place, would likely be for mundane reasons, probably having to do with the patients’ insurance companies insisting they use a specific testing center. “That’s a fabulous idea, Victor,” he said, continuing to hide his skepticism that any of it would pan out. “I’ll try and contact them tomorrow. Thank you for coming up with it. Believe me, I’m grateful for everything you’re doing.”

  As he hung up, Mark made a mental note to call the phone company. The clicks on his line, a recurrent joy of country living, had become annoying.

  5:35 P.M.

  Snowflakes the size of cotton balls floated onto Lucy’s black hair, where they sparkled like points of a tiara before vanishing. “Battle stations,” she said to Mark under her frosty breath, a gleam in her eye as they climbed the freshly shoveled steps to where Charles Braden stood just behind his butler, who’d swung open front door.

  “Lock and load,” Mark muttered back at her.

  In seconds they were shaking hands with their host, and the butler took their coats.

  Lucy looked stunning in a floor-length, black, body-hugging sweater. “Good evening, Dr. Braden,” she said. “Thank you for inviting me along.”

  “Lucy O’Connor. Why, I had no idea you were the beauty the whole town’s been talking about. What a pleasure to see you again.”

  “You already know each other?” Mark asked.

  “Yes,” Braden said quickly. “I had the pleasure of chatting with Lucy shortly after her arrival at NYCH. A year ago, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes, it was.”

  “My, how time flies. Now come on in, and meet my other guests.” He took her arm and led her into the living room.

  Mark followed, surprised at the exchange and wanting a chance to ask why she hadn’t mentioned meeting Braden Senior before. At the same time he was overwhelmed by the memories of arriving here as a small child, with Kelly greeting them at the door and leading them in to meet the guests.

  “I didn’t think my having met Braden was important,” Lucy whispered, apparently reading the puzzlement on Mark’s face.

  They entered a massive room full of young and middle-aged men. Braden introduced them to the nearest group and beckoned to one of the numerous waiters circulating through the room.

  Lucy requested champagne.

  Mark asked for a beer.

  Within moments they had their drinks in hand and Lucy was receiving the lion’s share of attention from the men around them. She acted fascinated with every single one.

  Mark recognized the names of at least four or five heads of the Fortune 500 whose firms were headquartered in New York. The ingrained resentment he’d always had for the silver-spoon set stirred deep within him.

  Other men walked over to introduce themselves. He barely paid attention, until:

  “… Freddy Lawler II, and this is my boy Ronald…”

  Mark started at this name, and found himself staring at a small-statured man with delicate features and short-cropped blond hair. He reappraised his audio impression of the kid’s mother, downsizing his mental image by about 50 percent. But he wasn’t curious enough to go over and ask Ronnie if he carried a picture of the woman to be sure. He did wonder if this well-heeled son ever visited Diane Whigston in her trailer park, and if he drove up to her front door in whichever fancy car parked outside was his, or arrived in a taxi to save them both embarrassment at the difference in their economic stations.

  He slipped away from where Lucy continued to hold court and parked himself beside a table of hors d’oeuvres, making it a point to be alone and accessible.

  He and Lucy suspected Braden wanted a private word with Mark, perhaps to suggest subtly that it would be wise to leave Chaz alone during the investigation. But while Mark went one-on-one with Charles, she would work the crowd, and perhaps succeed at prompting somebody to make a slip about Chaz’s real whereabouts at the time of the ambush. Judging by how readily they fell under her spell, Mark figured she just might pull it off.

  At least that had been their plan.

  “And you all hunt, do you?” Lucy asked the men arrayed around her. “I have a huge weak spot for venison. My four brothers used to bring in enough to feed our entire family for a winter, and nothing, but nothing, could surpass the taste of that meat prepared in my mother’s marinade…”


  Her enthusiasm was so convincing that Mark figured her every word to be true. In any case she had her audience eating out of her hand.

  “… so if any of you gentleman are willing to share some of your catch with me, I’d be pleased to remunerate-”

  “Love to, Doc!”

  “How much do you want?”

  “I’ve got a dozen steaks in the freezer with your name on it – my gift to you…”

  Mark chuckled at how she’d captivated these weekend hunters.

  “… why, thank you gentlemen,” Lucy continued. “But which of you has bagged the most? I wouldn’t want to deprive someone of their sole catch?”

  “We could show you later.”

  “Yeah, it’s all down in the meat locker.”

  “Just at the foot of the back steps.”

  “Really? It isn’t bloody, is it? I can’t stand the sight of blood.”

  “Oh, of course not,” reassured a very earnest young man with blow-dried black hair. Chipper he’d said his name was. “It’s all been cut into steaks, just like at the meat market-”

  Lucy burst out laughing and, laying her hand on his, gave him a wink. “Chipper, you forget what I do for a living.”

  He flushed.

  The rest roundly laughed.

  “Now you quit teasing me, Doc,” Chipper said, breaking into a good-natured smile.

  Mark looked around, but Charles didn’t appear to be in the room. Spotting a group of men in a small parlor with sliding doors, he thought his host might be there, and sidled over. As he drew near, he picked up snatches of the conversation.

  “… shareholders will bale at the slightest rumor…”

  “… exercising my options…”

  “… if it gets public…”

  But no Charles.

  Nevertheless, he strained to hear, thinking he might at least get a tip on which stocks to dump.

  “… other CEOs have had worse problems…”

  “… the SEC filed charges against Bob last week…”

  “… Christ, everyone’s going down like flies these days…”

  At that moment Charles appeared out of nowhere, stepped over to the doors, and drew them closed. He turned around and, seemingly only then, spotted Mark. He smiled, and shrugged, almost apologetically. “Businessmen are like doctors,” he said, walking over to take him by the elbow and lead him away. “You can’t even invite them to a party but they clump together and talk shop.”