Malpractice in Maggody (8 page)

“Sure can,” she said, wishing she wasn’t alone with him. She’d been held up a couple of times over the years, and she hadn’t enjoyed it one bit. Her eyes widened as he came over to the bar and sat down on a stool, but she refrained from going for the baseball bat she kept under the counter.

“Whatever you have on tap is fine,” he said, “and let me have fries with the burger.”

She filled a mug and set it down. “It’ll take a few minutes for the food.”

“I’m not in a hurry.”

Ruby Bee was sorry to hear that, since she wouldn’t have minded if he downed the beer and left. She moved an ashtray within his reach and retreated into the kitchen. It wasn’t like he’d done anything, she reminded herself. Customers came in all the time, and some of them were strangers. It was all Estelle’s fault for making those remarks earlier about the Mexicans out back, implying they were thieves and murderers just because they were foreigners. Still, it might have been comforting if someone else came by for a beer.

She fixed his plate and took it back to the barroom. He was still sitting on the stool, all innocent and smiling just a little bit. The light from the neon beer signs behind her gave him a peculiar pinkish glow, but that was hardly his fault.

“Looks good,” he said as he took the plate. “This place usually so quiet?”

“Almost never, and I’ll be real surprised if folks don’t come through the door any minute. My daughter usually comes by about this time, too. She’s the chief of police. Sometimes she complains about having to carry a gun, but it’s part of her job. She’s a lot tougher than she looks, lemme tell you. She’s always breaking up fights at the pool hall, and some of them ol’ boys are bigger than boxcars.”

He gave her a curious look, then began to eat.

Ruby Bee gave him a few minutes, then said, “Are you just passing through?”

“I plan to stay around here for a while.”

“Oh, really?” She raised her eyebrows and waited, but when he didn’t explain, said, “You have kinfolk here?”

“Not that I know of, but we’re all part of the family of mankind, aren’t we? The children of the earth goddess, the servants of the stars, the guardians of the mountain streams and gentle breezes.”

“I suppose so,” she said uneasily. From the way he was looking at her, she wouldn’t have been surprised if he was to invite her to get nekkid and howl at the moon. “What’s your line of work?”

He finished the last fry and pushed his plate aside. “I’m a personal trainer.”

Ruby Bee’s forehead crinkled. “Is that like an animal trainer?”

“In a way I guess it is, although animals are probably easier to work with.” He took out his wallet and put a ten-dollar bill on the bar. After Ruby Bee rang it up on the cash register and came back with change, he said, “Can you tell me how to find the Stonebridge Foundation?”

“Glad to oblige,” she said, trying to keep her voice from cracking. “Take a left and go down a ways until you come to where the New Age hardware store used to be before the roof collapsed a couple of years back. It’s catty-corner to what was the branch bank until it burned to the ground. These days Velveeta Buchanon parks there and sells vegetables from the back of her pickup, but she quits ’long about noon. Turn toward the low-water bridge and go about a quarter of a mile. It’s right across the road from a persimmon tree. You can’t miss it.”

He touched the brim of his hat and left. She waited until she heard the door close before allowing herself to clutch her throat. As soon as Darla Jean had told her mother about finding the psychiatrist’s name on the Internet, Millicent had wasted no time sharing the news. Now everybody in town knew the Stonebridge Foundation was a lunatic asylum. To think a patient had come into her bar & grill! Why, she could of been murdered right then and there! Arly would have come by sooner or later and found her bloodied body on the floor behind the bar. Then the sheriff and the coroner would show up, along with deputies to put up yellow tape across the front door. Her picture would be on the front page of the newspaper, and her obituary on the second page.

She was about to snatch up the phone and call Arly to tell her not to invite Estelle to the funeral when it occurred to her she was letting her imagination run wild. But she didn’t have anything else to do for the next hour, so she went ahead and dialed the number.

“W
ould anyone care for a glass of pinot noir before we begin? It’s really quite nice, and all the rage in California.” Vincent was seated behind his impressive walnut desk. At the moment, its surface was clear except for a neat stack of manila folders, a gold pen, and a lamp. His walls, on the other hand, were covered with autographed photos taken of him with toothy celebrities and politicians.

“Not for me,” said Brenda. “I still have a thousand details to see to before tomorrow.”

Vincent gazed at her. “Shall we discuss Walter Kaiser? He is…well, he is not what I expected. Does he have any credentials, or did you find him at a homeless shelter?”

“He has a license and experience in his field. He may look a bit unconventional, but he has promised that by tomorrow he will present an acceptable demeanor. He is as eager as we are to make a success of our program. I can promise you that you will hear no complaints about him.” What she meant, of course, was that Vince would not hear any complaints if she could do anything about it. On his arrival, Walter had pulled her aside and made it clear to her that he needed the job for at least six months, as well as a substantial loan. When she’d asked if outstanding warrants were involved, he’d given her a saccharine smile. She’d seen corpses with more agreeable expressions. Several of them.

Vincent held up the bottle and glanced at Randall. “Wine?”

“No, thank you. I’ve treated too many people who abused alcohol because of stress. Ever since things…started to fall apart, I don’t trust myself. I need to keep a clear head. Maybe I’ll let Brenda talk me into one of her herbal concoctions.”

“California poppy, passionflower, and valerian capsules will help, along with several cups of chamomile or catnip tea during the day,” she said, making a note.

Vincent poured himself a glass of wine and opened the top folder. “Then let’s review the case files for our patients, all of whom are arriving tomorrow. The first will be Dawn Dartmouth. She was a child actress in a sitcom. She began when she was four years old, and the show ran for seven years. During her teenage years, she had parts in several made-for-cable movies, usually playing the role of a prostitute or a runaway. Her sister died when she was fourteen. Dawn is now twenty-two. Her mother is an alcoholic with multiple failed marriages. Her father is, shall we say, missing in action. Dawn was first arrested at the age of fifteen, when she crashed her mother’s car into a neighbor’s garage. Her alcohol level was twice the legal limit, and she had cocaine in her possession. It was hushed up, as were many subsequent charges of a similar nature.”

“A typical Hollywood brat,” commented Brenda. She turned to Randall for support, but his head was bowed as he scribbled notes with a jerky hand.

“One could say that,” Vincent said. “Recently Dawn was involved in an incident that could not be so easily dismissed. It seems she was romantically linked to a rock star who ditched her. She drove into his yard, shot out all the windows in the front of the house, and attacked his Ferrari with a tire iron. When the police arrived, she attempted to run over one of them with her car. She was quite drunk and high on a variety of drugs, and the gun was unlicensed. The judge has agreed to keep the matter out of court until she completes a rehab program. Her lawyer found a place in California, but Dawn checked herself out after three days. This is her last chance. If she does not complete our program, she will go to trial.”

Randall slapped down the pen. “Anger management, as well as private counseling for low self-esteem and conflicts with her mother. Tranquilizers until she’s through initial withdrawal, and then mood stabilizers and an antidepressant.”

“Why give her more drugs?” said Brenda. “She needs a cleansing regime and vitamin therapy. It’s obvious she has nutritional deficiencies.”

Vincent withheld a sigh. “In this situation, and in all the other cases I’m going to present, I believe a wide variety of therapies will be best.”

“You don’t dump a bucket of water on someone who’s drowning,” Brenda countered mulishly. “All these drugs Randall wants to give her are addictive, too.”

“But not as self-destructive,” said Randall.

Brenda’s eyes narrowed. “So we merely exchange one addiction for another?”

Vincent held up his hand. “Enough of this,” he said as if calming down recalcitrant toddlers. “Our next patient is Alexandra Swayze.”

“
Senator
Swayze?” Randall glanced up. “Isn’t she running for reelection?”

“Yes, indeed. She is notoriously conservative, and an outspoken critic of anything she believes threatens old-fashioned family values. She serves on several influential committees. It is rumored that she will be offered a prestigious ambassadorship. She’s sixty-one years old, widowed, and became addicted to prescription pain pills after a riding accident four years ago. In the last month, she attempted suicide twice. Her son and her political advisers insisted that she go into a rehab program, but until now she’s resisted because she’s afraid the press might find out.”

Brenda snorted under her breath. “She advocates mandatory prayer in the schools, the abolishment of social services for low-income families, harsh punishment for unwed mothers, and lengthy prison sentences for first-time, nonviolent drug offenders. How someone can consider herself pro-family when she—”

“Her politics are not our problem,” Vincent said. “Her addiction is.”

“Wouldn’t the press love this one,” Brenda continued. “The hypocrisy of it is astounding. She’s said publicly that addicts deserve prison, not rehabilitation. Now she’s come groveling to us.”

“She’ll need heavy sedation at first,” said Randall. “Antidepressants after she’s gone through the worst of the withdrawal. We’ll have to step down the drugs, and replace them. It may well take ninety days.”

Brenda glared at him. “So again, more drugs. She should experience the withdrawal in order to better understand the powerful grip of addiction. Maybe then she won’t be so eager to condemn addicts.”

“I don’t think we want her clawing the furniture,” Randall shot back. “She can’t go cold turkey without severe symptoms.”

Vincent rapped on his desk with the pen. “If you two keep this up, we’ll be here until midnight.” He opened a folder. “Our next case is Toby Mann.”

“The quarterback?” gasped Randall, his jaw dropping. “He was All-American in high school and won the Heisman in college. He’s taken his team to the Superbowl three times.”

“The same,” Vincent said. He did not care for football himself, but he’d looked over the information provided by Toby Mann’s agent. “He makes a million dollars a year as a player, and even more from endorsements for everything from sports equipment to disposable diapers. He was arrested last month and charged with raping a woman in his hotel room after a game. He claims it was consensual; she denies it. There have been other accusations of this kind, but each time Toby’s lawyers have been able to settle the matter quietly. This time the young woman has not been obliging.”

“He’s a serial rapist,” Brenda said flatly.

Vincent flinched. “It’s a matter of interpretation, and no one except the parties who were in the hotel room knows exactly what happened. Toby has a problem with alcohol and recreational drugs, and has been taking anabolic steroids. Naturally, Toby’s lawyers are reluctant to use this as a defense, since he would be suspended by the league. The trial has been postponed while Toby goes through a ninety-day psychiatric evaluation. He’s under a court order, so if he leaves, he’ll be found in contempt.”

“I’ll need a list of the steroids,” said Randall. “He’s certainly a candidate for anger management and behavior modification techniques.”

“What? No drugs?” Brenda said in a facetiously shocked voice. “I was beginning to think you were on commission with the pharmaceutical companies.”

“We can’t rule out medication until we determine the level of his physical dependency.”

“Shall we continue?” inserted Vincent, now visibly annoyed. “Our fourth patient’s identity may amuse you. He is Dr. Shelby Dibbins, author of the best sellers
Dr. Dibbins’s Diet for Longevity
and
Dr. Dibbins’s Diet Dogma.
His use of the honorific is questionable, since his Ph.D. is in secondary education rather than medicine.”

Brenda was not amused. “That diet is unhealthy—and dangerous. He preaches eighty percent carbohydrates, and minimal protein and fats. The human body requires a certain level of protein to function. Dibbins encourages his followers to pig out on pasta, bread, and potatoes. He should be sued for malpractice.”

“I suspect I’m more familiar with the intricacies of malpractice than you, my dear,” Vincent said drily. “Dr. Dibbins is merely exercising his freedom of speech. What’s more, there are plenty of quacks within the medical profession and some of its associated fields.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Brenda stood up, her fingers curled. “Are you implying that I—”

“I meant nothing by it, nothing whatsoever. Now sit down and control yourself. I still have some unpacking to do.” He waited until she obeyed, then went on. “It seems Dr. Dibbins does not adhere to his own or any other diet plan. He currently weighs over four hundred pounds, and has difficulty walking. Although he has not yet been diagnosed with diabetes or heart disease, he is a perfect candidate. He drinks to excess, smokes, and obviously overeats. He has a new book coming out in the fall, but his publishing company has threatened to cancel it if he can’t go on tour and make the talk-show circuit. His literary agent has promised us a bonus of twenty-five thousand dollars if Dibbins loses a hundred pounds in ninety days, and a thousand for each pound after that. He’ll need a series of surgical skin tightenings, as well as liposuctions, an abdominoplasty, and eventually a rhytidectomy. A severely limited caloric intake, as much physical activity as he can handle, and therapy.”

“He’s agreed to this?” said Randall.

“To some extent. According to the agent, Dibbins is tyrannical, egotistical, and verbally abusive. He’s been divorced three times. No children, which is good, since he probably would have eaten them before their first birthdays. He is coming here only because of the pressure being applied by his agent and editor.”

“I’ll make sure he has a very
special
diet,” said Brenda.

Randall nodded. “We can enhance his metabolism and disrupt the absorption of calories with medication. That ought to speed up his weight loss.”

“All right, then,” Vincent said as he closed the folder, “I believe that covers it. Randall and I need to inspect the surgical suite. Brenda, I’ll see you in an hour to review the drug inventory lists and tidy up any details you’ve overlooked. Did you arrange for local motel rooms for the employees?”

“Of course. The van has already delivered them, so they can unpack and get settled in.” She handed a typed page to each of her colleagues. “I’ve scheduled all four maids from seven in the morning until two, and then split shifts until after dinner. The number of orderlies on duty at any given time throughout will vary, depending on need. Guard duty at night will rotate. The chef and his assistants will arrive in the morning in time to prepare breakfast, and leave in the late afternoon. They’ll have their meals with the employees in the break room behind the kitchen.”

Randall raised his eyebrows. “Are you sure he’s a chef?”

Brenda folded her arms and sat back, staring at him. “Let’s not get into semantics. He may not have had any formal training, but I’ve instructed him on garnishes and presentation. We’re not competing for stars in the Michelin guide. The food served here will be healthy, with an emphasis on raw fruits, whole grains, and vegetables. Portions will be rigorously controlled.”

“Sprigs of parsley and artfully sculpted radishes can cover a multitude of sins,” added Vincent.

She nodded. “That’s everyone except Miss Foss. Did she find you?”

“Oh, yes,” he said blandly. “I think she’ll make a splendid addition to the staff. We wouldn’t want our new patients to be greeted by a sullen, unattractive receptionist, would we? I suggest we have a celebratory dinner this evening, with the steaks and champagne I brought specifically for the occasion. There’s no need to dress.”

“You don’t look all that dead,” I said as I slid onto a stool and lifted the glass dome to gaze longingly at a cherry pie.

Ruby Bee glowered at me. “It’s about time you showed up, Miss Chief of Police. I must have left the message more than two hours ago. It’s a miracle you didn’t find me hacked to death on the kitchen floor—or worse. There I was, all by my lonesome, when that homicidal maniac came right up to the bar and ordered a hamburger.”

“Was he packing a machete?”

“He could have been, for all you care!”

I replaced the dome and leaned over the bar to pour myself a mug of beer, since the proprietress wasn’t at her most hospitable. “Tell me exactly what he said.”

“For one thing, he said he was a personal trainer. I found that mighty suspicious.”

I was definitely paddling upstream after a heavy rain. “All that means is he puts together exercise programs. What else did he say?”

“He asked for directions to that lunatic asylum. I figure he’s one of the patients who escaped.”

“Or he has a job there,” I said. “And nobody said it was a lunatic asylum. It’s more likely to be a genteel retreat for very rich women who want to lose a few pounds. A spa, or something similar.”