The Missing Year

by Belinda Frisch

  “Perfect couples don’t push each other. Blake got physical with her, Guy.”

  “Are you sure she isn’t lying about that, too?”

  Blake shrugged. “I can’t be positive, but she has a scar.”

  “That could have come from anywhere. Did she file a police report?”

  “She said she didn’t, but I’ll check. I get the impression that if I don’t do some digging, there are things she’ll never tell me on her own.”

  “Did you try calling this doctor friend to get his side of things?”

  “Yes, just before you showed up. The man stonewalled me. Refused to take my call.”

  “Are you sure he wasn’t just busy?”

  “I’m pretty sure. His receptionist said that I shouldn’t expect a call back.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I need a couple of days off, if that’s okay.”

  “Should I ask?” Guy said.

  “Probably better you didn’t. Can I have the time off or not?”

  “Sure. Yes. With Joshua in the hospital, I can manage Lila. What’s the game plan?”

  “To confront Lila with irrefutable facts and force her into telling me the truth.”

  “And if she won’t?”

  “Then I’m afraid sooner or later she’ll get what she wanted. If Lila is released in her current condition, I don’t believe she’ll last in the outside world a week.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  “After last night, you were the last person I expected to call me.” Camille stretched out in the corner chair of Ross’s motel room, her blond hair swept back in a ponytail she twirled around her fingers. She wore a candy stripers uniform and white canvas sneakers, having come directly from a dress rehearsal. “You said you needed me right away. What’s the emergency?”

  “It’s time to put those community theater skills to work again. I need you to call an office before it closes. Considering Mattie won’t even take my calls, it’s the least you can do.”

  Camille batted her eyelashes. “If you needed my help, all you had to do was ask.”

  Ross smirked. “You know, you’re hard to stay mad at.”

  “I’ve heard that before. What’s the ruse?”

  “I need you to play my wife.”

  Camille seemed amused. “Interesting. Go on.”

  Ross handed her the phone. “I need you to make an emergency appointment with a doctor by the name of Jeremy Davis. It absolutely has to be with him, not a P.A. or anyone else in his office and it has to be within the next two days. You’ll have to come up with an urgent health issue.”

  “I think I can manage that. And you’ll be joining me for this appointment?”

  “Of course, yes.”

  “What kind of doctor is Dr. Davis?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “It does if I’m going to come up with a reason he needs to see me in the next forty-eight hours.”

  “He’s an internist.”

  “Mind telling me why you can’t call him yourself?”

  Ross had said too much already. “I wish I could.”

  “Can you at least tell me where his office is? He’s obviously not from around here because I’ve never heard of him.”

  “You know everybody?”

  “You’ve forgotten how small towns work.”

  She was right on that point. He should have known better.

  “Edinburgh, two hours away. We’ll be staying a couple of days, if you’ll come. Will you?”

  “Of course, as long as you don’t put the moves on me.”

  “Consider yourself my research assistant.”

  “A title and everything? This is turning out to be one hell of a favor. You have the number?”

  Ross held out a piece of paper with the office number written on it.

  Camille dialed and handed him the paper. “I’ll be right back.”

  “Where are you going?”

  She went into the bathroom, holding her hand on the door. “This is private medical stuff, Ross. If you’re going to keep secrets, so am I.”

  He didn’t know what she was up to, but he had a bad feeling.

  * * * * *

  Camille emerged from the bathroom the better part of ten minutes later, her eyes wet with tears.

  “What’s the matter?” Ross said.

  “Nothing. I told you I was one hell of an actress. I had to get into character. One distressed patient at your service.” She dabbed underneath her eyes with a wad of toilet paper.

  “Was that really necessary?”

  “Turns out Dr. Davis doesn’t do last minute appointments for new patients, especially ones without insurance.”

  “I didn’t even think about the insurance.”

  “No biggie. I figure you have two hundred in cash.”

  “People think psychiatrists are expensive. Do we have an appointment or not?”

  “We do, thanks to me crying. 9:00 Friday morning.”

  “That gives me tonight and tomorrow to come up with a strategy.”

  “I’m an ace strategist, Ross. I haven’t failed you yet. Are you sure you don’t want to tell me what’s going on?”

  As much as Ross hated to admit it, Camille was right. She had a way with people that he didn’t have.

  “It’s complicated. Long story short, I need information on a patient who won’t be honest with me. This doctor knew her and her husband before she transferred to Lakeside.”

  “The patient whose husband died?”

  “Yes. That one. I need to convince Dr. Davis that I know what I’m talking about, enough for him to fill in the blanks. He’s helping Lila hide something, but I don’t know what or why. If you were trying to find out someone’s innermost secret, where would you look?”

  “Facebook?” Camille grinned.

  “I’m serious.”

  “So am I. Have you seen the stuff people post on there?”

  “I’m going to go out on a limb and say I don’t think the Wheelers are the social media type. What else?”

  “What happened to their house? You can tell a lot about a person by where they live.”

  “You know, I’m honestly not sure.” Ross typed the address from Lila’s file into the computer. A dozen listings depicting a fully furnished property returned. “Bingo.”

  “Good luck?”

  “The house is on the market. What are the chances?”

  “Since one owner died and the other’s been institutionalized, I’d say they are pretty good.”

  Ross scribbled down the realtor’s number.

  “Phone, please.” Camille held out her hand.

  “This call, I can make.”

  “I’m already in character, darling. This is a job for a professional.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  A spilled bag of chocolate-covered pretzel melted in the center console of Ross’s rental car, which, after two hours with Camille, smelled like coffee and beef jerky.

  “Tell me about this couple.” Camille put her feet up on the dashboard as though she wasn’t wearing a dress. With her blond hair tied back in a French twist, she looked every bit the proper doctor’s wife, even if she didn’t act like it.

  “I told you, I can’t talk about them,” Ross said.

  “You told me you can’t tell me about their medical issues. We’re looking at their personal ones. How am I supposed to know if something’s out of place if I have no idea who they are?”

  “I don’t know much. The husband was an up and coming surgeon killed in a botched convenience store robbery.”

  “And the wife?”

  “Her husband had a trust fund and a high paying job.”

  “So she was a housewife?”

  “As far as I know.”

  Ross pulled into the driveway of the six-year-old, five thousand square foot Colonial that had been Blake and Lila Wheeler’s home. A “For Sale” sign sat in the center of an overgrown island of plants and bushes. Fresh grass clippings lay in clu
mps on the lawn, the chewed up leaves scattered, as though someone had done flyby landscaping for the perspective buyers.

  A late-sixties woman with thinning hair and lipstick as much around her lips as on them waited at the front door.

  Ross could see the white hair on the woman’s black pant suit from the driveway. He guessed she had cats.

  Camille stepped into her heels, straightened her dress, and checked her hair and makeup in the vanity mirror. “Follow my lead,” she said, getting out of the car.

  Ross had been so preoccupied with Lila that he hadn’t thought to ask Camille about their cover.

  “Good morning,” Camille said to the realtor with the southern drawl the actress side of her seemed to favor.

  “Good morning,” the old woman extended her hand, her knuckles thick from arthritis. “I’m Valerie North.”

  “Cletus and Adele Clements,” Camille said. “Doctor and Mrs. Clements.”

  “Nice to meet you both.” Valerie struggled to work the lock box.

  “Mind if I try?” Ross said.

  “Be my guest.” Valerie stepped aside.

  The key slid easily enough in place, but turning it took some work. Ross banged the box against the door and it popped open.

  “There,” he said proudly.

  “It’s been a while since the last showing.” The old woman led them inside. “You say you’re a doctor, huh?” Valerie said. “The previous owner was a doctor. A surgeon, I believe.”

  “Oh, he was?” Camille said. “What happened to him?”

  “I couldn’t say.” Valerie wandered off.

  “Don’t they have to disclose dead people?” Camille whispered.

  “Not if the people didn’t die in the house,” Ross said. “And what’s with ‘Cletus’? Do I look like a Cletus to you?”

  The smile on Camille’s face had him worried the name wasn’t the only joke she planned to pull on him.

  Valerie went into the kitchen and flipped every switch on the wall. “The place has been vacated the better part of a year, but the owners haven’t moved their things. They’d be out in no time if you were interested.”

  “Mind if we have a little look around?” Camille hooked her arm through Ross’s. “My husband can be so picky.”

  “Go right ahead.” Valerie handed her a flyer from the counter. “If you have any questions, please ask.”

  “Will do.”

  First on their private tour was the great room.

  Ross’s gaze settled on a dusty wedding photo in the center of an oversized stone mantle.

  “She’s pretty,” Camille said.

  And she was. Twenty-something-year-old Lila was stunning.

  “They look happy.” It was all Ross could think to say.

  “Who doesn’t look happy on their wedding day?” Camille opened the door to a first floor half-bath the size of the full bathroom at Peak View. “Nice place, huh?”

  Ross explored, turning door knobs to keep up appearances.

  “That’s the garage,” Valerie said, coming seemingly from out of nowhere. For as old as the woman was, she was stealthy. “Plenty of storage, and there’s a shed out back.”

  Ross looked at the cars parked inside: a Volvo and a vintage 1960’s Corvette. “How about carbon monoxide detectors?”

  He couldn’t help himself. He made inappropriate comments when he was nervous.

  “I believe there are several,” Valerie said.

  “Why don’t we have a look at the upstairs bedrooms?” Camille leaned her head on Ross’s shoulder.

  “There are three,” said Valerie. “And a first floor master suite.”

  “That’d be perfect for Mom.”

  Ross played along. “Yes. Yes it would.”

  Camille pulled him toward the stairs and only let go when they started climbing them.

  Ross breathed a sigh of relief, thankful Valerie wasn’t following.

  “See anything?” Camille asked.

  “Nothing but dust and sadness. You?”

  Camille sneezed. “Lots of dust for sure. This realtor needs a housekeeper.”

  “At least it doesn’t look like anything’s been moved.” Blake and Lila’s things seemed to be exactly how they had left them.

  The first room at the top of the stairs looked to be a spare bedroom, minimally furnished other than a neatly made bed and a nightstand. The closet was piled high with boxes.

  Next to it, a second floor bathroom.

  Next to that, the second floor master with an en suite. Almost no sunlight came through the navy blue drapes.

  “I’m sorry. I have to open these.” Dust motes swirled in the air as Camille parted the heavy curtains.

  The walk-in closet door hung open, separated into his and hers. Like Ross in the wake of Sarah’s death, Lila hadn’t been able to pack Blake’s things.

  Camille picked up a picture on the nightstand. “Take a look at this.” It was one Ross had seen in the paper, from the most recent Huntington’s fundraiser Blake and Lila had attended.

  “Want to guess who that is?” Ross said.

  “Would that be the illustrious Dr. Jeremy Davis?”

  “One and the same.” Ross opened the nightstand drawer, which was packed nearly to capacity with medical journals. “This must have been Blake’s side of the bed.”

  Camille shook her head at the mess and kept looking.

  “Hey,” she said. “Check this out.” She took something from under the other nightstand.

  “What is it?”

  “You said this woman was a housewife, right?” Camille’s lips curled into a half-smile. “That these people had money to burn?”

  “From what I understand, why?”

  Camille produced a textbook from behind her back and pulled a class schedule from between the pages. “Then why was she enrolled in nursing school?”

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  Camille waved to the obviously disappointed realtor as Ross backed out of the driveway.

  “That was interesting,” he said.

  “She seems a little eager to offload that house.”

  Valerie had insisted Dr. and Mrs. Cletus Clements have a second and third look.

  Ross felt a bit bad about being dishonest with someone who either needed the Wheeler house gone or needed the commission.

  Valerie didn’t mention Lila’s attempted suicide or Blake’s tragic death, but there was a sense that she knew about it and that it was affecting potential sales. Her hopes had been a little too high for the out-of-towners.

  Halfway down the road, Ross’s cell phone vibrated in the cup holder. He reached to grab it and jerked the wheel.

  “I got it,” Camille said. “You drive.” She tapped the screen. “Who’s Mark?”

  “He works at the center. Why?”

  “He’s called seven times.”

  Ross pulled into a nearby gas station and parked. “Let me see that.” He took the phone and played the messages, the last of which said, “Check your e-mail.”

  Ross refreshed his inbox and downloaded an attachment that had him promptly returning Mark’s call.

  “Hello?”

  “Mark, it’s Ross.”

  “Dr. Reeves, where are you?”

  “I had to take a couple of personal days. What’s going on?”

  “Did you get the file?”

  “I did, but I told you not to worry about that.”

  “And I told you I’d do what I could.”

  Mark had sent digital copies of Blake Wheeler’s hospital records.

  “How did you get them?” Ross said.

  “Doesn’t matter. Did you read the chart?”

  “The print is too small on my phone. Can you give me the abbreviated version? Is there something in there I can use.”

  “I’d say, but I think it is better if you read for yourself. When will you be back?”

  “Monday at the latest.”

  “Lila’s asking for you.”

  “Tell her I’ll be back so
on.”

  “Will do.”

  “And Mark, thanks.”

  “I wouldn’t thank me just yet.”

  * * * * *

  Ross checked into Sutherland’s Bed and Breakfast a half hour later under his assumed name, Cletus Clements, which is how Camille had reserved the room as a gag.

  “Honey, I just love this place,” Camille said in her southern belle accent. “Isn’t it darling?”

  An elderly woman with the tea-stained teeth handed Camille the room key with a smile. “Honeymoon Suite’s at the end of the hall on the second floor.”

  Ross waited until they were out of the innkeeper’s earshot. “You booked the Honeymoon Suite?”

  “It’s not like we haven’t slept in the same bed before.”

  “When you play a role, Camille, you really commit. This place has Wi-Fi, right?”

  “You said to make sure it did, so yes, it does.” Camille dragged her suitcase down the hall, its wheels silenced by a worn carpet runner. “Honeymoon Suite comes with a Jacuzzi tub, you know?”

  “Perfect for keeping you busy while I do some reading.”

  “You’re at least going to take me to dinner, right?”

  “This isn’t a vacation, Camille.”

  “That’s Mrs. Cletus Clements to you,” she said, back in character.

  “In that case, of course I’m taking you to dinner.”

  Camille unlocked the door and pushed it open.

  Ross made a face. “I haven’t seen a canopy bed since ’92.”

  Camille shook her head, her eye on the two-person tub in the center of the room. “It’s a good thing you’ve been through medical school because I didn’t bring a bathing suit. Still,” she shrugged, “it’s nicer than your room at Peak View.”

  Ross set his suitcase on the bench at the foot of the bed and opened his laptop on the desk. “You okay for a bit?”

  “I think I can manage.” Camille took a white robe and a pair of one-size-fits-most slippers into the bathroom.

  Ross called the front desk for the Wi-Fi password and downloaded the seventy page PDF Mark had sent him.

  “How long are you going to be?” Camille sat on the side of the bubble-filled tub, book in hand, ready for her bath.

  “A while.” The mix of handwritten and typed reports was hard to read, even on his laptop.