2 Multiple Exposures (3 page)

When my phone dinged with Spencer’s latest text, I decided not to tell him about the letter. Maybe that wasn’t a good idea. I don’t know, but I comforted myself with the possibility that the letter writer could just be playing a joke on me, or had developed a marketing strategy in very poor taste. Either way, I needed to verify the facts.

Although a print phone book had been left on my doorstep at some point after I moved in, I didn’t know the last time I had flipped through one. Instead, I headed over to my laptop on the corner desk to search there. Ever since the break-in and murder at my studio, I never left my laptop in the studio. Rather I maintained an area at home where I could work.

The laptop went everywhere I went, well, between the studio and the apartment. I kept backups to my backups and made sure I was able to access all files no matter where I was. Nothing, not even murder, would keep me from supplying my customers with quality photos. After all, a woman has to be able to take care of herself.

In a scant few minutes, I had Googled Dr. Zachariah Bloomberg of Briney Creek, North Carolina to find his offices were located on Vineberry Street, very convenient to the studio and home.

“Lovely,” I said with displeasure.

I phoned and got a voicemail system that directed me to press one for appointments, two for et cetera. I stabbed one feeling more and more agitated. Nothing like a prospective doctor’s appointment to ruin a mood. Then I cheered myself with the hope that maybe if the good doctor was breaking the law in some way, I could discover it within the first five minutes of entering his office and be on my way lickety-split. Yes, that seemed like a thing to hope for. At least it lifted my spirits.

“Good afternoon, Dr. Bloomberg’s office. This is Lissa. How may I help you?”

I kind of thought Lissa’s voice sounded familiar, but I was pretty sure I had never heard her name. “Hello, Lissa, this is Makayla Rose. I’d like to make an appointment to see Dr. Bloomberg if I may.”

“O-oh, Makayla. Yes, of course.”

I wondered at the stutter and how hesitant she sounded. The bright cheeriness had dimmed just a little. After all, it wasn’t as if I were the local salesman peddling insurance nobody wanted.

I dismissed the tone of her greeting after she learned it was me and asked, “Are there any openings as soon as possible? I’d, uh, like to…get it over with.”

“Was there a particular issue you wanted to discuss with the doctor?” Lissa asked.

I cringed. Here was another thing I disliked about doctor’s visits. Why must the assistants ask such personal questions? “I’d rather discuss it with the doctor directly. Thanks.”

For some reason I tensed, waiting for her to tell me very primly that if I couldn’t share with everyone, then I couldn’t share at all. Instead, Lissa said she would check her planner, which I assumed was on her computer, and sited the possible dates. I chose the following Tuesday before my visit with Edna so I could console myself with her baked goods just in case I was forced to go through with the appointment to its ultimate humiliation—me with my feet in stirrups.

Chapter Three

Tuesday rolled around way too soon for my liking, and all of the night before I didn’t sleep well. Yes, that’s how much I dislike going to the doctor, especially a gynecologist. No matter if I had been seeing the family doctor for twenty years and he had brought me into the world as a screaming infant, to my mind, it was very odd for someone other than my lover to be in intimate places.

Several times, I had almost called to cancel the appointment. After all, I had no guarantees this issue was real. Then I began to think what if Dr. Bloomberg was drugging women and doing unthinkable things to them while they were sleeping? This kind of violation had happened in the past for sure, and it was why there was always a female assistant in the room with the doctor. However, who knew if this particular doctor had gotten around the practice.

So it was with great reluctance that I showered and dressed with the thought that I wouldn’t accept any drugs or pills while in the office and would demand an assistant be present at all times. My fears might mean I would negate the circumstances the letter writer hinted to, but at least I would make the effort and could appease my conscience.

When I arrived at the doctor’s office, I found six other women waiting to be seen, one with her husband and child along. Dr. Bloomberg seemed to have a busy practice. Not that I was surprised given the size of the town. I was sure I had seen signs for other doctor’s offices in the area, but not more than one or two, and I couldn’t recall the specialties of the others.

Approaching the window to sign in, I realized right away why I felt I’d heard Lissa’s voice before. The petite blonde with a trim figure was almost the spitting image of Reeza Maxwell, the woman who worked at Beautiful Nu U, the gym across from my studio. Reeza had run off to marry one of Spencer’s officers, but I had heard she had returned a couple weeks ago and was able to get her old job back. Lissa must be her sister, and she confirmed it when she introduced herself as Lissa Maxwell.

“Hello, Lissa, I have a one thirty. I’m Makayla Rose.”

Lissa smiled. Today, there was no hesitation in her voice, so I put the phone impression down to her being busy. “Good afternoon, Makayla. Welcome. If you can fill out these forms and bring them up when you’re ready, that would be great. Also, if I can have your insurance card now, I can copy it and get that information in the file I’m making for you.”

I handed over the card and took the clipboard. So far, so good. As I sat down, I surveyed the office. Nothing jumped out at me. Fake potted plant in the corner that had seen better days, a TV mounted to the wall and displaying a soap opera, and an assortment of women’s magazines available for perusal in a rack beside me and across the room beside another bench.

A couple of the other patients met my gaze and smiled. I offered a polite nod and looked down at the paperwork. The crazy notion that I might be slipped a secret message in the pile came over me, so I flipped through the small stack and checked the back of each sheet. Nothing. This wasn’t a TV drama, darn it all.

As I sat wondering if and when I would learn anything of importance about Dr. Bloomberg, or if I would need to wait until I was left in a vulnerable state such as in one of those horrid hospital gowns, I decided it might be a good idea to let Spencer know where I was. I texted him and waited for his response. Usually, if he wasn’t on a call, he answered right away. When I didn’t hear back, I assumed that was the case. At least he would see the message later when he got a chance to check his phone.

The wait to be called was excruciating. I grabbed a magazine and flipped through the pages. What stars did to lose weight, the personal trainers and eating plans they swore by, did not appeal to me. I sighed and put that magazine back to grab another.

“Makayla.”

Sighing, I stood. Lissa had been replaced by another assistant at the front desk. Now she stood in the doorway leading to the back of the office to guide me in. “Is the wait usually so long?” I asked, hoping I didn’t sound whiny.

She offered me an apologetic look. “I’m sorry. We’re just a little behind today. Dr. Bloomberg isn’t up to his usual speed.” We stepped into a hall with a row of doors, and she lowered her voice. “He’s not getting any younger.”

I smiled. “I guess he’s the exception to the rule in Briney Creek.”

She seemed confused my comment alluding to the youthful senior population, but I didn’t bother explaining.

“Let’s get your weight and vitals. Then we can get you into a room.”

I bit off a groan.
Weight.
I had stuck to my rigid schedule of only eating two donuts, once a day since I arrived in Briney Creek, and since Peony’s place was closed, I had eaten less than that. However, too frequently Spencer and I ordered in. I was not looking forward to what the scale had to say.

“Don’t tell me,” I said, chickening out as I stepped on the offensive equipment. “I’ll do better. I promise. The next time.”

Lissa laughed. “Every one of our patients is exactly the same way. Some face the music, but none like what they see. You’re in good company, Makayla, and you’re not doing too badly. We can all be healthier no matter what our size.”

“You’re very kind, Lissa. Tell me, are you Reeza Maxwell’s sister?”

She brightened. “Yes, actually, Reeza is my younger sister. You met her?”

“At the gym.” I didn’t realize I would groan until after it tumbled out. Lissa chuckled. She scratched down my weight, and I hopped off the scale, averting my eyes. “I’m sure it was a surprise when she decided to run off and elope rather than go through with the wedding your family was planning.”

“I don’t blame her, really. Mama can drive anyone crazy. I just want my sister to be happy, and I think she made a good choice in that.”

The wistfulness in Lissa’s voice made me take note of her ring finger. The simple band indicated she was married, but the attitude said maybe not as happily as she would hope. I felt for her.

“I’m sure she did,” I agreed.

We moved from the hall with the weight machine—because one wanted to be weighed openly before any and everyone—to a private room. Lissa took my blood pressure, which was normal thank goodness, and went over my medical history to be sure she had everything correct in the computer.

“Now, you can change into this gown. Take off your bra and underwear, please. The doctor will be in soon. I’ll be here as well, or one of the other assistants. If you have any questions, please don’t hesitate to ask.”

Was it my imagination that she emphasized the
don’t hesitate
part? So far I had seen nothing out of the ordinary, but then I hadn’t met the doctor as yet.

“Will do, Lissa,” I said with a smile. “Thank you.”

When she left, I stared at the gown she had placed on the bed as if it was covered in plague. Perhaps I shouldn’t be thinking of the word “plague” in the doctor’s office, but such was the mental trauma I endured at that moment.

Realizing I had no choice but to wear the gown if I was going to go through with this madness, I began to undress. A knock sounded nearby followed by a male voice, and I figured the doctor was now seeing the patient next door. I groaned. The wait would probably not be as short as Lissa tried to lead me to believe.

Since another of my fears involved someone entering the room while I raised clothing over my head with my bare bum sticking out, I shed my clothing in a hurry and donned the gown. I sat on the papered table and swung my feet over the side. Reading and rereading the advertisements for drugs provided a little diversion. Then I moved on to examining the inside of the female uterus. Lovely.

I looked around for a magazine and spotted one on the counter. Cure thinning hair. Might be stimulating reading, I thought, even though I didn’t have the problem. Not yet anyway. I hopped off the table and grabbed the magazine. Several additional articles later, no one had come along, and I heard no more activity next door. Engrossed as I had been in dropping belly fat, I couldn’t be sure when the doctor might have finished with that particular patient.

After nearly an hour, I had had enough. I snatched the gown tighter around my form and opened the door a crack. No sounds reached me, and I took a chance to stick my head out. Up and down the hall, no one stirred, and I eased into the hall. Feet bare and naked as a jaybird beneath the gown, I longed to return to the room and get dressed. However, I didn’t want to run the risk of Dr. Bloomberg being ready for me then making me wait while he saw someone else because I wasn’t undressed.

“Lissa?” I called out in a low tone. How embarrassing if one of the patients walked out and saw me in this state. Even if the doctor or one of the assistants did, I would be just as mortified. One didn’t walk the halls in the hated gown even if this was a doctor’s office.

I turned right and tiptoed down the hall a few steps and called for Lissa again. Still no answer. Now, I was beginning to think everyone had gone to a late lunch and forgotten about me. In New York, I had heard about stories such as that and couldn’t imagine how it was possible.

At the end of the passage, I came to a junction. Dr. Bloomberg had more space than I thought, and I wondered if other doctors shared the office. I assumed they must, but still I hadn’t run into anyone. A sound like a door opening and stumbling feet caught my attention. A thud made me stop cold. What was that? My heart thundered in my chest, and I pressed a hand to it.

Calm down, Makayla. This isn’t some haunted house, and you’re not alone. It’s the middle of the day.

My pep talk managed to pull me together to some extent, and I got moving again, if slowly. I had meant to return to the front of the office, but had forgotten the direction Lissa and I took to get to the room where I had waited.

Pivoting on the ball of my foot, I started to retrace my journey but froze. At the end of another hall was something very odd. I hadn’t seen it when I first entered this intersection because just an inch or two stuck out past the wall. Now I noticed, and my stomach dropped. I wanted to jet back to my room, scramble into my clothes, and leave as if I had seen nothing. My feet wouldn’t hear of it. They propelled me forward.

I reached the end of the hall, and my fears were confirmed. A closet door lay open. Next to it a shorter passage, and at the end another closed door, above it an Exit sign. What was important though was the closet, or rather what lay half in, half out of the closet. An elderly man with a head full of white hair was slumped face down and unmoving. He wore a white lab coat and a stethoscope around his neck, brown slacks with neat cuffs at the ends, brown worn shoes. Near his hand as if he had let loose of it when he fell was a very expensive looking black pen.

No, I thought, nausea assailing me. The knowledge came through to my befuddled mind that this man was not merely unconscious. This man, who must surely be Dr. Zachariah Bloomberg, was dead, and beside the “good” doctor wasn’t just an ordinary pen. That innocently-looking device was in fact a camera.

Now I knew why the person who had written the mystery letter contacted me of all people. Just what had Dr. Bloomberg been up to with his camera that looked like a pen?