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Authors: Jessica Fletcher,Donald Bain

Murder, She Wrote: Murder on Parade: Murder on Parade (23 page)

BOOK: Murder, She Wrote: Murder on Parade: Murder on Parade
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“Thank you for your courtesies, Dante. I’ll be sure to make an appointment the next time, that is, if Ms. Welch is making appointments.”
 
 
I said good-bye to MaryJane and walked to the front door, which Roger held open. I could feel Dante’s eyes on my back, and was certain he didn’t leave the lobby until he had seen me exit. The day felt warm and pleasant, especially after my cool reception in the marble halls of Lennon-Diversified. But I was not dispirited. Stopping there had been a last-minute decision since I was in the vicinity. Seth had referred me to Dr. Boyle, and it was he whom I’d come to see. Luckily, I had an appointment.
 
 
Boyle’s medical offices were a short walk around the corner from the front entrance of Lennon’s building, and a world away in interior design. Whereas the company had a virtually empty atrium clearly discouraging anyone who was not expected, the doctor’s office had been designed to impress the citizenry of Cabot Cove. It was warm and welcoming, with modern plush chairs, flowering plants, and neat wooden racks filled with the latest sports and decorating magazines. I even spotted a copy of
Modern Lobstering
on one shelf. A coffee and tea service sat in one corner, and patients waiting to see the popular doctor were invited to help themselves to something to drink and to cookies I recognized as being from Sassi’s Bakery.
 
 
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?”
BOOK: Murder, She Wrote: Murder on Parade: Murder on Parade
13.76Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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