Murder, She Wrote: Murder on Parade: Murder on Parade

by Jessica Fletcher

  I didn’t know the nurse at the front desk, but she greeted me at once.

  “I’m Mandy, Dr. Boyle’s nurse. If you would kindly fill out these forms, we’ll have you in the examination room in no time. I can tell by your face that you’re not feeling tip-top. Oh, yes, I can see those things. Dr. Boyle will have you up to snuff in no time at all.”

  She handed me a plastic clipboard, a sheaf of papers, and a pen, and disappeared into a back room.

  I waded through all the papers, wondering if I did indeed look ill, left the completed forms on her desk, and made myself a restorative cup of tea. Next to the little refreshment center was a bulletin board that held clippings of articles on Dr. Boyle that had appeared in the Gazette, as well as copies of the ads he had placed in the newspaper. A plastic bin hanging on the board was filled with leaflets showing Dr. Boyle standing beside some impressive piece of diagnostic equipment.

  I sat down with my tea and opened one of the brochures. Inside were more pictures of Dr. Boyle, a very photogenic man, and three short paragraphs describing the doctor’s medical philosophy but giving no hint of his background or where he had practiced before establishing his office in Cabot Cove. I studied his face. Unlike the photo of Joseph Lennon that I’d seen in the paper, Boyle had a pleasant expression, with no hint of anything untoward in his eyes.

  As if I’d conjured him, the door to the back room opened and the doctor himself emerged, ushering Agnes Kalisch out. She was holding a small shopping bag filled with bottles, and from what I could see, all of them had silver and red labels.

  “Miracles take time, my dear,” he said. “Just keep up with the treatment. I’m certain we’ll start to see some improvement in your blood work by the next visit.”

  “I hope so,” Agnes said, sounding less convinced and looking more wan than when I’d seen her at the pancake breakfast.

  “I guarantee it,” he said. “You can pay the nurse on your way out.”

  Mandy was back at her desk to take Agnes’s money. When she’d completed the transaction, Agnes turned to me.

  “Hello, Jessica. I’m surprised to see you here.”

  “How are you feeling, Agnes?”

  “Not too well, I’m afraid. But you heard the doctor. Miracles take time.”

  “What does he think is causing your problems?”

  “He said it might be an electrolyte imbalance. That’s what these are for.” She held up the shopping bag.

  “May I?” I said, pointing to one of the bottles.

  “I guess.”

  I read the label. The pills contained an assortment of minerals and vitamins. What was most interesting to me was the fine print at the bottom, which indicated that the pills that Dr. Boyle expected to provide a “miracle” for Agnes were manufactured by Lennon-Diversified Industries. How convenient, I thought. Help set up the doctor’s medical practice, and he can sell your products to his patients. I replaced the bottle in Agnes’s shopping bag and wished her well.

  “Mrs. Fletcher?” Mandy said from her desk. “The doctor will see you now.” She gathered up my forms and opened the door to the back of the office. “Just follow me.”

  She led me down a carpeted hall with bright white walls on which were hung framed photographs taken in Maine—picturesque scenes of fishermen mending nets, colorful coastal villages, and sunsets on the water, all looking as if they had been cut from a coffee table book. Signs off to the right pointed to DERMATOLOGY SUITE and underneath in smaller letters, MASSAGE THERAPY and TANNING SALON.

  “I see you’re another one from Dr. Hazlitt’s office,” she said, leading me into a small examination room. “We’ve been getting a number of his former patients recently.”

  I bit my tongue to keep from saying anything that might tip her off that I was not a “former” patient at all.

  “Fatigue, huh? And forgetfulness? You poor thing. Dr. Boyle has pills that will fix you right up. I don’t know why more doctors don’t provide dietary supplements. But then, they don’t have the contacts Dr. Boyle does. His are formulated to his specifications.”

  “Ah. How interesting.”

  She took my blood pressure, pulse, and temperature— “All normal. That’s a good sign”—marked them on a form in a folder, tucked the folder into a basket hanging just outside the door, and closed the door. I had spotted two documents that appeared to be degrees or certificates and hopped off the examining table to take a closer look. I had just put my glasses on when Dr. Boyle arrived. “Checking my credentials?” he said, chuckling. “Hello, hello. Nice to see you again.” He shook my hand and guided me back to the table, then went to the sink and used a foot pedal to start the water. “How’s Dr. Hazlitt feeling?” he asked as he washed his hands.

  “He’s—”

  “He called me the other day to thank me. He didn’t need to, but it was nice to hear from him.”

  “Yes, I’m—”

  “Not every day I get a chance to save a life so dramatically. Of course that’s what medicine’s all about—saving lives. That’s why we all go into the field, to help people, and I’ve been moderately successful, if I do say so. Got the latest equipment, and I’ve made sure to get trained on it, so it’s second nature. Not everyone bothers, you know. So, are you here scouting my practice so you can report back?”

  “Oh, I don’t—”

  “Don’t blame you. I would, too, if my practice was starting to bleed patients the way his is. But you need to keep up with the times. Can’t rely on chicken soup and hunches.”

  Hunches! Until these last comments, I had been starting to think perhaps Seth had misjudged the man, that he wasn’t such a bad fellow after all, perhaps a little taken with himself, but there was room for all kinds of doctors in a town. However, when he began to gloat about the patients he had drawn away from Seth, and belittle my good friend’s considerable knowledge, Dr. Boyle lost me altogether.

  A buzzer sounded and he pushed a button on a wall panel. Mandy’s voice came over the intercom. “You have a call on line one, Doctor.” He excused himself to me and picked up the phone, saying briskly, “Dr. Boyle here.”

  I knew from the way his voice dropped that the person on the other end of the line was not a patient or a fellow physician. It was a personal call. “I can’t,” he said softly. “I’m with a patient right now. . . . All right.” Then, aware I was listening in, he raised his voice. “Give me fifteen minutes and I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Sorry about that,” he said, rinsing his hands again and drying them on paper towels, which he tossed into a steel trash can. “Now, let’s see what we can do for your fatigue and forgetfulness.”

  Fifteen minutes later, I was carrying my own little paper bag that Dr. Boyle had filled from a sizable closet stocked with bottles bearing silver and red labels as well as the usual medicine samples that most doctors have on hand. He walked me to the front desk. “Call me anytime if you have a problem, and I’ll see you next week. If you follow a strict regimen with these pills, you’ll be feeling tip-top in no time.”

  “Thank you, Doctor.”

  “Not at all. Mandy will set up your next appointment.”

  I put the bag of pills down and took out my wallet. Mandy was typing furiously into the computer. “Your insurance will pay for the office visit,” she said. “But it’s one hundred ten dollars for the pills.”

  “One hundred ten dollars?”

  “Yes. I know they’re a little pricey, but they’re certainly worth it if they work.”

  A big if, I thought. I began to regret my charade.

  She punched some more keys. “Just give me a minute, Mrs. Fletcher. If I don’t keep the medical records up to date, he gets annoyed.”

  “Take your time,” I said.

  The phone rang. Mandy gave me an apologetic look, picked it up, and listened for a moment. “Yes, Mrs. Thomas. I’m sorry, but Dr. Boyle doesn’t make house calls. Yes, I understand.” She put her hand over the receiver and whispered to me. “I’ll be with you in
a sec.”

  “That’s okay,” I whispered back. “I forgot to ask Dr. Boyle a question. Won’t be a minute. I’ll just go find him.” I left my bag on her desk and opened the door to the hallway.

  “Wait! Mrs. Fletcher.” Mandy rose and called after me, but I knew the phone would keep her. She sank back into her seat. “Yes, of course, Mrs. Thomas. I understand, but—”

  The door closed behind me and I walked down the hall, the carpet muffling my footsteps. I could hear voices. A man and a woman. I presumed the man was Dr. Boyle. But who was the woman, and how did she get there? She certainly hadn’t come in through the front door and the reception area.

  I walked to the room in which I’d seen the doctor. The door was open. It was empty. I peered into an office just beyond it. No one was there. At the end of the hall was a large section that held some of the doctor’s modern diagnostic equipment that I’d observed on a tour when he’d first opened his practice and invited the public to see what he offered. The voices were louder. I looked around the corner. Dr. Boyle was talking to a woman whose back was to me. Dressed in a linen suit, she wore her dark hair pulled into a chignon, but I couldn’t see her face.

  “No more after tomorrow,” she said.

  “You don’t have to stop. You’re going to be in charge now.”

  “That remains to be seen,” she said.

  “Don’t play me. You can’t back out after all I’ve done for you,” he hissed. Spying me, his face changed from a frown to a surprised smile. “Mrs. Fletcher,” he said, his voice rising.

  The woman stiffened and quickly moved past him through a door on the other side of the room.

  He rushed forward. “Is there a problem?”

  “Oh, Dr. Boyle,” I said, feigning innocence, “I’m so sorry to interrupt you, but I had a question.”

  “Yes, of course,” he said, firmly taking my elbow and swiftly propelling me back into the hallway and toward the exit. “What was it?”

  He opened the door to the reception area and all but threw me into it, glaring at Mandy. “Mrs. Fletcher had to come find me. Where were you?”

  Mandy colored. “I’m so sorry, Doctor. I had a phone call and she went into the back before I could catch her.”

  “Next time, make sure our patients’ questions are all answered before you take phone calls,” Boyle said, barely containing his anger.

  “Of course.” She looked at me, stricken. “Mrs. Fletcher, I’m so sorry I neglected to ask if all your questions were answered.”

  “That’s all right, dear,” I said, picking up my bag from her desk.

  “What was it you wanted to know?” she asked.

  “Oh, dear me,” I said, looking from one to the other. “I’m afraid I’ve already forgotten.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  I’d been remiss in not writing up my report for Mort on the attempted mugging, and when I got home, I went straight to my writing room, meaning to give him a detailed account of the incident, at least as much as I could remember. I powered up the computer and clicked on my Internet browser. It opened on Google. I’d meant to bring up my word-processing program. Instead, I stared at the search engine, my fingers hovering over the keys. At last I typed in Warren Boyle’s name and waited for the results. There were lots of Warrens and many Boyles, but no record of a Dr. Warren Boyle in Massachusetts, site of the previous headquarters for Lennon-Diversified, or anywhere else that I could find.

  Next, I typed in “Lennon-Diversified” and scrolled through the listings that came up. One article from our own Cabot Cove Gazette was an interview with Joseph Lennon. I’d read it when the paper first came out, but now I gave it more attention in light of what I knew, and didn’t know, about our new corporate neighbor. Give Evelyn credit, I thought. She’d asked lots of questions about the company, but it was clear from her piece that Lennon was intent on discussing his community contributions and gave short shrift to his corporate activities. I wondered why. The possible answer came several pages into Google, when a reference to Lennon-Diversified showed up in a legal document filed by the Food and Drug Administration. The privately held company had been investigated for fraud, but nothing had been proven, and Lennon-Diversified was never charged. Obviously, its owner preferred to talk about his good works rather than any flags raised about his company’s past.

  There were several more references to Joseph Lennon’s civic philanthropy—indeed, the man gave away a lot of money—in other communities where his company had offices, but aside from offers to buy him out that had been rejected, I found little of interest.

  Chastising myself for procrastinating, I closed Google and focused on finishing the write-up I’d promised Mort. It took less time than I had anticipated, and when I completed it, I printed out the one-page report, tucked it in my shoulder bag, turned off the computer, and went into the kitchen to put on the kettle for tea. It was only then that I noticed the light on my telephone answering machine. I pushed the button and heard a message from Jill Thomas, who with her husband, Craig, ran the Blueberry Hill Inn.

  “Jessica, I’m so sorry to put this on you, but one of our maids entered Mr. Allcott’s room this morning to clean it and found him shivering under the covers. We think he has the flu. When he checked in, he told me he was a friend of yours. I’m not sure what to do. I called, but couldn’t get a doctor to come see him this morning—I guess house calls are a thing of the past—and Craig is out of town, so I can’t leave the inn to drive Mr. Allcott myself. Would you please call me back when you get this message?”

  I dialed the number Jill had left, and she picked up immediately. “Oh, thank goodness it’s you, Jessica.”

  “How is he?” I asked, realizing it must have been Jill who’d called Boyle’s office while I was there.

  “I think he’s gotten worse since I left you the message.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “I ran in to check on him. He’s burning up with fever, and he’s mumbling. I can’t understand what he’s saying.”

  “We have to get him to a doctor.”

  “Even if I could get someone to cover for me, I’m not sure I could manage to get him dressed and in the car. And if he’s contagious . . .” She trailed off.

  “I understand,” I said. “You did the right thing by calling me.”

  “We always take care of our guests, but I’ve never had someone so ill staying with us.”

  “It sounds as if he’s too sick for you or me to handle,” I said. “Let’s get the EMTs to take him to the hospital. I’ll call Seth Hazlitt and ask him to meet me there.”

  “Seth. Of course. I should have thought of him. I called that doctor that advertises in the paper. Thank you, Jessica. I’ll call 911 right away.”

  We said good-bye, and I called Seth, explained the situation, and agreed to wait to hear from him before calling a cab to take me to the hospital. “No use in Nick haulin’ you over there if Allcott’s contagious and you can’t see him,” he said.

  “You’ll call me as soon as you know something?”

  “Ayuh. You’ll be the first to hear.”

  I poured my tea and set it on the kitchen table, but I was too agitated to sit. I was sorry Rick was under the weather, of course, but there were some things that had been nagging at me ever since he arrived in Cabot Cove. I’d been meaning to corral him for a talk, but we’d almost never been alone. The one instance when we had an opportunity to talk was right after Joe Lennon’s body had been found, and it was not the appropriate time to express what was bothering me.