Authors: Cindy Sample
Dying for a Date (17 page)
"Hey, calm down,” I said, as I noticed the speedometer venturing into speeding ticket territory. “There's no need for Brian to find out. All I want you to do is chat up the front desk staff while I'm in with the doctor. You're such a great schmoozer. Say how sorry you were to hear about Dr. Slater, blah, blah. All we need to find out is if they know of anyone who would have a reason to kill Jeremy. How hard is that?"
"I suppose I can handle it,” she grumbled, “but you're going to owe me more than a lousy cheeseburger."
By the time we arrived at the doctor's office, we both had our game plans in hand. Liz was truly concerned about my knee and she carefully assisted me into the reception area. It seemed wise not to disclose that it was barely hurting. With any luck, I would trip over something and writhe with pain when the doctor examined me.
Two women were stationed behind the reception counter. An older caramel skinned female in a lilac flowered smock and white pants was sitting at a desk, her fingers flying over her keyboard like a skilled pianist. The other significantly younger woman, dressed in a tightly fitted version of the same uniform, was filing her nails with an emery board as she held a cell phone against her platinum buzz cut. She gave me the universal “I'll be with you when I feel like it” wave.
I waited for a few minutes then stood up and walked over to the desk, announcing that I was a new patient. When buzz cut didn't respond to my “new patient status,” I raised my voice and asked whether there were any forms for me to complete. The older woman shot me a rueful look then reminded Tara, the young receptionist, that all new patients had to fill out a four-page questionnaire.
I smiled in sympathy with the older woman whose nametag read “Carol.” She could be a valuable ally. I filled in my medical history on the lengthy form while Liz sifted through the magazines on the coffee table. It didn't look like the office maintained a subscription to any beauty or bridal publications, the only reading material that interested her these days.
I looked up from my questionnaire thinking how nicely furnished the office was. Old Doc Templeton still owned the original orange molded plastic chairs he'd bought forty years before. Dr. Slater and Dr. Radovich must consider the comfort of their patients a priority. Or maybe they charged more than Dr. Templeton.
Whatever the reason, the soft cushioned burgundy and navy chairs that ranged around the perimeter of the office were comfortable. Large photos of different scenes from the snowcapped Sierras and cobalt blue Lake Tahoe lent a serene ambiance to the room.
After a wait of ten minutes, my name was called. I put down the magazine and nudged Liz. She was engrossed in an article in
Newsweek
on aging. I prodded her with the tip of my Adidas but missed, my foot connecting with her ankle.
"What's the matter with you?” She flashed me a dirty look as she reached down to rub her bruised ankle.
Some accomplice she was. I whispered to her left ear. “I'm going to try to keep this nurse occupied. You need to question the young one while I'm gone."
Carol cleared her throat. I rose and walked briskly across the room then remembered why I was in the office. I adjusted my pace and limped down a hallway lined with examination rooms. We walked into a room with light blue walls adorned with more photos depicting some beautiful views of the Sierras. I complimented the nurse on the decor.
"What a lovely room. Did you help decorate the office?” My flattery seemed to have a thawing effect. Carol produced a tentative smile as she grabbed the blood pressure thingie from a table.
"No, we had a professional decorator. Dr. Radovich didn't really care what we did to the office. He wanted to paint everything that bilious green color you find in government buildings because the paint is so cheap, but Dr. Slater insisted we have a nice ambiance for our patients.” She sighed softly. “I certainly do miss Dr. Slater."
"He was very special to me, too.” My sigh was so forceful it blew my patient questionnaire right off her clipboard.
Carol bent over and picked up the form. “Oh, yes, I forgot you said you were a friend of the doctor when you called. Did you know him well?"
"Well, we had been dating for awhile.” I guess a lunch date and an abbreviated dinner date could constitute awhile. “I was very fond of Jeremy."
I sighed again but toned it down a few notches.
"Were you with him the night he died?” she asked.
Trick question. One of these days I have to buy a
Detecting for Dummies Guide.
I debated what to disclose but decided I would probably get more information out of her if she didn't know I was with him the night he was murdered. “Uh, he said he was having dinner with a business associate and he would see me later. I never saw him again."
Thinking about Jeremy's bruised and battered body made me tearful, and really nauseous. It was a good thing Liz and I hadn't devoured any greasy cheeseburgers before this appointment.
"Jeremy never told me who he was meeting that evening. Do you think it was Dr. Radovich?” I asked.
She shook her head. “No, it couldn't have been. He said he was at a fund raising dinner for the Boys and Girls Club that evening. The police came here to the office and questioned all of us. Don't you think it's strange they would question the staff if his death was an accident?"
"That does seem peculiar. Perhaps they suspect foul play.” Foul play? Now I sounded like a character straight out of an Agatha Christie novel.
Carol wrapped the blood pressure gauge around my right arm and pumped away like she was pumping for oil. “You know, I thought it was kinda odd myself."
She hesitated then leaned closer. “Plus those articles in the paper. Do you think he coulda been...” She pumped harder until I thought my arm would explode. “Murdered?"
"Uh, Carol.” I winced and pointed at my arm.
"Oh, sorry. Guess I got a mite distracted.” She let the air out of the gauge, looked at the reading and seemed satisfied with the results as she marked them down on my chart.
"I'd better tell Dr. Radovich you're ready to see him.” She picked up my file and walked to the door.
I hated to let her go now that she had begun opening up. “Carol, I'm sure it was murder."
Her dark eyes widened until they were almost double in size. “What makes you think that?” she asked, her hand resting on the polished doorknob.
"I got that impression from the detective who interviewed me. He questioned me about someone that Jeremy knew, a CPA named Garrett Lindstrom. Is that the name of the accountant for this office?"
"Oh, I wouldn't know about any of that financial stuff. Dr. Slater handled all the bookkeeping. I sure don't remember a patient by that name."
The door burst open and a middle-aged man dressed in a white coat entered. Astute amateur detective that I am, I took a wild guess this was Dr. Radovich.
"Carol, is there a problem? This is my last patient before I can leave for lunch.” He grabbed my chart from her hand.
"Sorry, Doctor, I was just coming to get you,” she apologized and bustled out of the room.
The doctor paused to look at my medical history before he turned to me. “So Ms. McKay, what seems to be the problem with your leg? You indicated it's difficult to put any weight on it. How did you injure it?"
I considered the question. If I told him the entire story he definitely would not have time for lunch. An abbreviated version might be in both of our interests. “My cat got loose and I tripped over her. My right knee keeps buckling when I try to get up. Last night there was some swelling although it seems to have gone down today."
I rolled my black sweat pant up over my knee to give him a better view of said injury. He sniffed then squeezed my knee. Hard. I yelped but at least I didn't scream. I am a total wimp when it comes to pain, especially my own.
"There doesn't seem to be anything seriously wrong with it. You have a little swelling but it's likely that it's merely strained. I don't think you've torn an ACL or the meniscus."
That was a good thing because I had absolutely no idea what an ABC or a missus was. A sprain or a strain I could deal with.
"Ice it every few hours, keep your physical activity to a minimum for the next couple of weeks and you'll be up skiing in no time.” Obviously he had never seen me ski—during ski season I spend more time lying spread-eagled in the snow than schussing on my skis.
He shook my hand, indicating the exam was over then walked to the door.
"Dr. Radovich, I have another question,” I blurted out before he could make his exit. He turned back with an irritated look on his face. His dedication to the sick must not extend into his lunch hour.
"When you brought up the subject of skiing it reminded me of Dr. Slater. You see, the last time I saw Jeremy, he mentioned he was buying a vacation home in Lake Tahoe. He seemed concerned about the financing. Do you have any idea what he was talking about?"
A mottled red flush formed at Dr. Radovich's neck and worked its way up to his matching shaggy red brows. “Ms. McKay, I hardly think Dr. Slater's real estate activities are any business of yours."
Considering I was the only suspect in Dr. Slater's death, I chose to differ with him. I decided to attack from another direction. “I understand you were at a Boys and Girls fundraiser the night Dr. Slater died. Where did they hold it?"
The angry vein pulsing in his temple looked like it was going to explode. I shrank back as his menacing form approached the table. “I think you'd better leave now.” He snatched my file and strode out of the office without a backwards look.
I caught a glimpse of the back of his head. A bald spot. And he was about the same height as the man I saw along the river the night Jeremy was murdered. If this was an episode of
Law and Order
I'd say that was a very peculiar response to some innocent questions.
I liked him as a suspect. Now all I needed was a motive.
I waited a full minute before jumping off the examining table. Purse in hand, I stepped into the corridor, cautious as I approached the reception area. Both nurses seemed enraptured by a magazine Liz had spread open on the front counter. By the time we left the office, my pal would undoubtedly have arranged a spa day for at least one of them.
Since both women were occupied, it seemed like a perfect opportunity to examine Jeremy's office. I scooted past the doorway to the reception area and race limped to the end of the hallway. One door was closed. Probably Radovich's office. He seemed the secretive type.
Across the hall was an office furnished with a large polished mahogany desk and a navy blue leather executive chair. My head swiveled back toward the reception area. The coast was still clear.
Bookshelves lined with leather tomes covered two walls. Diplomas and licenses hung on the third wall. I remembered that Jeremy received his BS at the University of California at Davis, one of many things we had in common. I graduated from UCD a couple of years after him with a completely useless degree in history. His diploma from medical school hung on the wall. Stanford. Impressive. But not helpful.
Photos in matching silver frames rested on the shelves. One photo was of an attractive man, his arms around a pretty blonde woman and a very young girl. The man bore a slight resemblance to Jeremy. I picked up a picture of some young men dressed in caps and gowns. Could be either high school or college. I tried to locate Jeremy. There he was. The skinny kid at the end of the last row. A few of his curls had managed to escape from the tight fitting mortarboard cap.
I turned to the scrupulously neat desk. Nothing that shouted out “clue.” I left Jeremy's office and tiptoed back down the corridor. The muted sound of voices indicated that Liz and the nurses were still chatting.
I opened the closed door of the other office. Diplomas hung lopsided on the walls. Files were stacked in haphazard piles on the floor and papers were scattered all over the desk. How did a man this sloppy end up practicing medicine? I certainly wasn't coming back to him for my annual pap. Who knows what tortuous metal instruments he might leave behind?
I brushed against a stack of documents and the paper on top floated down to the floor. The sound of approaching footsteps in the corridor warned of an impending visitor. I snatched the paper and quickly glanced at it. The first page of a real estate contract for a property on Ski Run Blvd. in Lake Tahoe. The purchaser. Jeremy Slater.
Carol walked in just as I shoved the document back on top the messy pile. “Ms. McKay, what are you doing in here?” She gave me another one of those suspicious looks. At least I think it was a suspicious look. I had a feeling Carol used that look a lot.
"Uh, I just wanted one last memory of Jeremy. I thought there might be some photos of him in here. Is this Jeremy's office?"
She pointed in the opposite direction. “No, his office is over there."
I followed her across the hall and entered Jeremy's office once again. Carol walked around the desk and stopped in front of the framed photos. I pointed to the family picture I'd noticed in my previous foray into the office. “Is that his brother and his family?"
"Yes, that's his younger brother Mark, and Mark's family. Since Jeremy didn't have any children of his own, he was real fond of his niece, Sammie.” She leaned against the credenza, her face pensive. Once again she seemed to be missing the presence of her boss.
I lifted the group graduation photo from the bookcase. “Did Jeremy keep in contact with many of his friends from Davis?"
She shrugged. “I don't know. He went to some type of reunion last summer, but I can't remember if it was high school or college.” She took the frame out of my hands and returned it to the shelf.
"Tara and I are going to lunch now. I assume you've seen enough to satisfy you?"
Not really. I wondered why the real estate contract for the Tahoe property that Jeremy was purchasing was in Dr. Radovich's office. But I knew if I asked Carol, I would definitely get one of those “suspicious” looks.
