by Joan Hess
“Yes, indeed. She is notoriously conservative, and an outspoken critic of anything she believes threatens old-fashioned family values. She serves on several influential committees. It is rumored that she will be offered a prestigious ambassadorship. She’s sixty-one years old, widowed, and became addicted to prescription pain pills after a riding accident four years ago. In the last month, she attempted suicide twice. Her son and her political advisers insisted that she go into a rehab program, but until now she’s resisted because she’s afraid the press might find out.”
Brenda snorted under her breath. “She advocates mandatory prayer in the schools, the abolishment of social services for low-income families, harsh punishment for unwed mothers, and lengthy prison sentences for first-time, nonviolent drug offenders. How someone can consider herself pro-family when she—”
“Her politics are not our problem,” Vincent said. “Her addiction is.”
“Wouldn’t the press love this one,” Brenda continued. “The hypocrisy of it is astounding. She’s said publicly that addicts deserve prison, not rehabilitation. Now she’s come groveling to us.”
“She’ll need heavy sedation at first,” said Randall. “Antidepressants after she’s gone through the worst of the withdrawal. We’ll have to step down the drugs, and replace them. It may well take ninety days.”
Brenda glared at him. “So again, more drugs. She should experience the withdrawal in order to better understand the powerful grip of addiction. Maybe then she won’t be so eager to condemn addicts.”
“I don’t think we want her clawing the furniture,” Randall shot back. “She can’t go cold turkey without severe symptoms.”
Vincent rapped on his desk with the pen. “If you two keep this up, we’ll be here until midnight.” He opened a folder. “Our next case is Toby Mann.”
“The quarterback?” gasped Randall, his jaw dropping. “He was All-American in high school and won the Heisman in college. He’s taken his team to the Superbowl three times.”
“The same,” Vincent said. He did not care for football himself, but he’d looked over the information provided by Toby Mann’s agent. “He makes a million dollars a year as a player, and even more from endorsements for everything from sports equipment to disposable diapers. He was arrested last month and charged with raping a woman in his hotel room after a game. He claims it was consensual; she denies it. There have been other accusations of this kind, but each time Toby’s lawyers have been able to settle the matter quietly. This time the young woman has not been obliging.”
“He’s a serial rapist,” Brenda said flatly.
Vincent flinched. “It’s a matter of interpretation, and no one except the parties who were in the hotel room knows exactly what happened. Toby has a problem with alcohol and recreational drugs, and has been taking anabolic steroids. Naturally, Toby’s lawyers are reluctant to use this as a defense, since he would be suspended by the league. The trial has been postponed while Toby goes through a ninety-day psychiatric evaluation. He’s under a court order, so if he leaves, he’ll be found in contempt.”
“I’ll need a list of the steroids,” said Randall. “He’s certainly a candidate for anger management and behavior modification techniques.”
“What? No drugs?” Brenda said in a facetiously shocked voice. “I was beginning to think you were on commission with the pharmaceutical companies.”
“We can’t rule out medication until we determine the level of his physical dependency.”
“Shall we continue?” inserted Vincent, now visibly annoyed. “Our fourth patient’s identity may amuse you. He is Dr. Shelby Dibbins, author of the best sellers Dr. Dibbins’s Diet for Longevity and Dr. Dibbins’s Diet Dogma. His use of the honorific is questionable, since his Ph.D. is in secondary education rather than medicine.”
Brenda was not amused. “That diet is unhealthy—and dangerous. He preaches eighty percent carbohydrates, and minimal protein and fats. The human body requires a certain level of protein to function. Dibbins encourages his followers to pig out on pasta, bread, and potatoes. He should be sued for malpractice.”
“I suspect I’m more familiar with the intricacies of malpractice than you, my dear,” Vincent said drily. “Dr. Dibbins is merely exercising his freedom of speech. What’s more, there are plenty of quacks within the medical profession and some of its associated fields.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Brenda stood up, her fingers curled. “Are you implying that I—”
“I meant nothing by it, nothing whatsoever. Now sit down and control yourself. I still have some unpacking to do.” He waited until she obeyed, then went on. “It seems Dr. Dibbins does not adhere to his own or any other diet plan. He currently weighs over four hundred pounds, and has difficulty walking. Although he has not yet been diagnosed with diabetes or heart disease, he is a perfect candidate. He drinks to excess, smokes, and obviously overeats. He has a new book coming out in the fall, but his publishing company has threatened to cancel it if he can’t go on tour and make the talk-show circuit. His literary agent has promised us a bonus of twenty-five thousand dollars if Dibbins loses a hundred pounds in ninety days, and a thousand for each pound after that. He’ll need a series of surgical skin tightenings, as well as liposuctions, an abdominoplasty, and eventually a rhytidectomy. A severely limited caloric intake, as much physical activity as he can handle, and therapy.”
“He’s agreed to this?” said Randall.
“To some extent. According to the agent, Dibbins is tyrannical, egotistical, and verbally abusive. He’s been divorced three times. No children, which is good, since he probably would have eaten them before their first birthdays. He is coming here only because of the pressure being applied by his agent and editor.”
“I’ll make sure he has a very special diet,” said Brenda.
Randall nodded. “We can enhance his metabolism and disrupt the absorption of calories with medication. That ought to speed up his weight loss.”
“All right, then,” Vincent said as he closed the folder, “I believe that covers it. Randall and I need to inspect the surgical suite. Brenda, I’ll see you in an hour to review the drug inventory lists and tidy up any details you’ve overlooked. Did you arrange for local motel rooms for the employees?”
“Of course. The van has already delivered them, so they can unpack and get settled in.” She handed a typed page to each of her colleagues. “I’ve scheduled all four maids from seven in the morning until two, and then split shifts until after dinner. The number of orderlies on duty at any given time throughout will vary, depending on need. Guard duty at night will rotate. The chef and his assistants will arrive in the morning in time to prepare breakfast, and leave in the late afternoon. They’ll have their meals with the employees in the break room behind the kitchen.”
Randall raised his eyebrows. “Are you sure he’s a chef?”
Brenda folded her arms and sat back, staring at him. “Let’s not get into semantics. He may not have had any formal training, but I’ve instructed him on garnishes and presentation. We’re not competing for stars in the Michelin guide. The food served here will be healthy, with an emphasis on raw fruits, whole grains, and vegetables. Portions will be rigorously controlled.”
“Sprigs of parsley and artfully sculpted radishes can cover a multitude of sins,” added Vincent.
She nodded. “That’s everyone except Miss Foss. Did she find you?”
“Oh, yes,” he said blandly. “I think she’ll make a splendid addition to the staff. We wouldn’t want our new patients to be greeted by a sullen, unattractive receptionist, would we? I suggest we have a celebratory dinner this evening, with the steaks and champagne I brought specifically for the occasion. There’s no need to dress.”
“You don’t look all that dead,” I said as I slid onto a stool and lifted the glass dome to gaze longingly at a cherry pie.
Ruby Bee glowered at me. “It’s about time you showed up, Miss Chief of Police. I must have left the message more than two hours
ago. It’s a miracle you didn’t find me hacked to death on the kitchen floor—or worse. There I was, all by my lonesome, when that homicidal maniac came right up to the bar and ordered a hamburger.”
“Was he packing a machete?”
“He could have been, for all you care!”
I replaced the dome and leaned over the bar to pour myself a mug of beer, since the proprietress wasn’t at her most hospitable. “Tell me exactly what he said.”
“For one thing, he said he was a personal trainer. I found that mighty suspicious.”
I was definitely paddling upstream after a heavy rain. “All that means is he puts together exercise programs. What else did he say?”
“He asked for directions to that lunatic asylum. I figure he’s one of the patients who escaped.”
“Or he has a job there,” I said. “And nobody said it was a lunatic asylum. It’s more likely to be a genteel retreat for very rich women who want to lose a few pounds. A spa, or something similar.”
“With a psychiatrist and a trainer,” Ruby Bee said, unwilling to relent. “All you have to do is drive up to the front door and find out for sure. Put on some lipstick before you go. Your cheeks are so rosy these days, your lips are almost invisible.”
“As I’ve said several hundred times, it’s not in my jurisdiction. Furthermore, the guard has been replaced with an electric gate and a speaker box. I couldn’t drive up to the front door if I wanted to—which I don’t.” I looked down the row of empty stools. “Where’s Estelle?”
Ruby Bee sniffed. “I don’t know, and I don’t care one whit.”
“You and she had a disagreement?” I said carefully.
“A sight more than that, but I don’t want to talk about it. What if this crazy man kidnapped Eileen and has her tied up in a shack up on Cotter’s Ridge?”
“I went over to Earl’s earlier today and talked to him. It’s pretty obvious Eileen got fed up with him, or with Dahlia, and took off of her own free will. She’ll come back when she’s ready to, although it may be a while.”
“That ain’t like her,” said Ruby Bee, shaking her head.
“You’ve never seen Earl in an undershirt.”
“I’d like to think not. So is that where you were all day? I was beginning to think you’d run off to Springfield.”
I politely overlooked her remark. “No, I had to see a man in Belle Star about a fish, and that took half the afternoon. When I got back to town, Perkin came in to complain about something or other involving Raz. I never did quite figure it out. Just another exciting day in Maggody.”
“Well, maybe tomorrow that maniac will come back and slice my throat, just so you’ll have something to do,” Ruby Bee said snippily. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to see to some customers out back in the motel, then get ready for happy hour. Feel free to sit there, but keep your fingers out of the cherry pie.”
She flounced into the kitchen, mumbling under her breath. I finished my beer, and after some thought, went back to my apartment to open a can of soup, watch the news, and perhaps call a certain telephone number in Springfield.
Saturday morning should have been sunny, with birds singing from the treetops and butterflies flitting over the flower beds in front of the Stonebridge Foundation. The scent of honeysuckle should have welcomed the new arrivals with a redolent embrace. However, this sky was low and dingy, and the steady drizzle had driven away the birds and butterflies. The flowers, lacking incentive, remained closed.
Dawn Dartmouth’s lawyer, dressed in a dark suit, muted tie, and pricey Italian shoes, stepped into a puddle as he got out on one side of the limo. The driver opened the passenger door on the other side and waited.
Sid Rookman, a junior partner in the firm and therefore resigned to being stuck with the least appealing assignments, waited alongside the driver for several minutes while rain slithered down his back. Finally, he leaned over and said, “Dawn, we’re here. You have to get out of the car sooner or later. Let’s get it over with, okay? You either do the program here, or you do prison time—and it won’t be in any minimum-risk facility with private rooms and tennis courts. You’ve got felony charges pending. What’s it going to be?”
“Fuck you.”
“Whatever,” he said wearily. He’d been up since five o’clock to make the seven o’clock flight on the corporate jet. Dawn had refused to speak the entire trip, which suited him fine. She’d snapped once at the limo driver, but other than that, she’d been sullen, her lower lip extended in a pout, her eyelids puffy and red. “We can go back to the airport, if that’s what you want. In a couple of days, we can try for a plea bargain so you won’t have to do more than ten years.”
“It wasn’t my fault. If that scumbag hadn’t been such a lying bastard, none of this would have happened.”
“That may be, but the reality is that you committed a lot of felonies, including the attempted murder of a police officer.”
“He was in my way.”
“Then tell it to the judge,” said Sid, shrugging.
Dawn emerged from the car. Her few remaining fans, most of them from her sitcom days, would have been aghast. She was bloated and pasty, as though she’d been living in an underground bomb shelter. Her once curly hair was limp and had faded to a dull oatmeal hue. She stopped to stare at the front of the building. “My God. Shouldn’t there be hillbillies on the porch playing fiddles and drinking moonshine? Where are the mules?”
Sid forced himself to take her arm. “Dr. Stonebridge has assured me that it’s very nice inside. You remember him, don’t you? Didn’t he work magic on your face after you rear-ended that school bus a few years ago?”
“How was I supposed to know the damn bus was going to stop like that?” She looked at the limo driver. “Be careful with my luggage this time, you clumsy asshole. If anything is broken, I’ll make sure you end up on unemployment.”
Sid hustled her across the porch and into the reception room. A stunning blonde in a white lab coat came across the room, beaming at them. “You must be Dawn Dartmouth. Welcome to the Stonebridge Foundation.”
Dawn stepped back. “Who’re you?”
“Molly Foss. I’m so pleased to meet you, Miss Dartmouth. I hope you had a pleasant trip.”
“Where did they get this bimbo?” Dawn asked Sid. “Central casting?”
He sensed a tantrum developing. It would not be pretty. “Perhaps you could show Miss Dartmouth to her room?”
“Yes, of course,” said Molly, her smile slipping. “One of the maids will be along shortly to help you unpack.”
“And search my luggage? Want to pat me down now and paw though my purse?”
Sid tightened his grip on her arm. “It beats a cavity search and a hosing for lice,” he said to Dawn.
She jerked free of his hand and followed Molly down a corridor. Sid held open the front door for the limo driver, who was struggling with three heavy suitcases and a cosmetics case. Once the suitcases were deposited in a corner, Sid followed the driver back out to the car and told him to head for the airport. To hell with Dawn Dartmouth, he thought as he lit a cigarette and opened his briefcase to retrieve a flask of gin.
“Is there any ice?” he asked the driver.
“This is ridiculous, Lloyd,” Alexandra Swayze said as they drove by mile after mile of bleak forests and overgrown fields. The few houses they passed were mean little hovels with rusted cars and scrawny chickens in the yards. Toddlers in baggy diapers waddled through the weeds, their faces streaked with dirt. Faded work shirts and torn jeans hung on clotheslines. “All I need is a vacation on some island. As I’ve said many times on the floor of the Senate, rehabilitation programs are a waste of the taxpayers’ money. They’re nothing but a sham to mollycoddle drug addicts. I am not an addict, Lloyd. I am capable of dealing with this myself.”
“By overdosing?” said her son. “By sitting in the car with the engine running and the garage door closed?”
“I was not myself,” Alexandra said coldly.
“And you won’t be until you’re off these medications. Several of your colleagues have asked me privately if you’ve been having health problems. Have you forgotten the luncheon last month when you stormed out after someone asked you a question? It was a blind item in all the gossip columns.”
“An impertinent question. I was invited to speak, not to be heckled.”
“You can’t continue to behave like that. The polls look good now, but they’ll start slipping if you get a reputation for irrational outbursts. You have a heavy campaign schedule in the fall. You’re going to have to be able to control yourself and play by the rules. Your opponent is already clamoring for a series of debates.”
“He can go to hell—which is likely to be just around the next curve.” Alexandra snatched up the map and peered at it. “What’s the name of the town?”
“Maggody. You might as well put away the map, since it’s not on it. That’s why your doctor recommended this place.” Lloyd slowed down as they came upon a tractor chugging along at ten miles an hour. He tried to hide his impatience until at last he had a chance to pass. His mother had been bitching the entire trip, from the moment he’d carried her bag and briefcase out to the taxi double-parked on the narrow Georgetown street until they’d arrived at the dinky airport. Although the Stonebridge Foundation had offered to provide a limo, she’d insisted that he rent a car. He wouldn’t have been surprised if she’d also demanded that they disguise themselves with wigs and sunglasses. Senators, he’d long since concluded, were burdened with a peculiar mix of egotism and paranoia. But if his mother hadn’t been a senator, he would not have been a lobbyist with a high six-figure salary.
Alexandra tossed down the map. “I do hope these people understand that under no circumstances will I be coerced into sitting on a metal chair and spilling my soul to a group of strangers. These group therapy sessions are for chronic losers like alcoholics and battered women. I have always believed that we are responsible for our own choices, Lloyd, and must live with them. That is exactly why I allowed you to marry Patricia, even though she’s quite stupid.”