SUICIDAL SUSPICIONS: A Kate Huntington Mystery (The Kate Huntington Mystery Series Book 8) (10 page)

“I wonder how much action that machine gets,” Kate whispered, “now that most printers have scan and copy functions.”

Rob, the technophobe, gave her a blank look.

Kate snickered softly.

The pharmacist walked over to them.

Kate held out her hand. “Could I see the original?”

Again a moment of hesitation, then another shrug. He handed both pieces of paper to her.

She held them next to each other. There were a couple of faint lines on the original that the copier hadn’t picked up, but otherwise the copy was clear.

She handed the original back to the pharmacist. “Isn’t twenty milligrams a high dose for clonazepam?”

He nodded. “It’s the highest dose given. Is, uh, was this woman heavy?”

“No, average build.”

The pharmacist scratched his cheek and glanced at his female assistant, who once again had her back to them. “If she’d been taking it for a while, she might have built up some tolerance, so the doctor had to increase the dose.”

Kate opted to let that go. She seriously doubted that Josie had been taking the drug for any length of time. “Thank you.” She held out her hand.

The pharmacist shook it, his worried eyes not quite meeting hers. “We didn’t do anything wrong. We followed protocol.”

“No one’s saying otherwise, sir,” Rob said, also offering his hand. “Thanks for your help.”

Once out on the sidewalk, Kate stopped, took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

Rob scrubbed a hand over his broad face. “You realize he thought we were police detectives.”

“Yeah, but we never said we were. It’s a trick Skip told me about. Just say your investigating or checking into something, and people tend to assume you’re a cop.”

“Still, I’d rather Judith not know about this little visit of ours.”

Kate shook her head. What she was supposed to be keeping from whom was getting quite complicated. “I won’t tell her you were along if you like, but she knew I was coming here. I called her for the name of the pharmacy, remember? And I already told her the doctor claimed he didn’t write the prescription.”

“Okay. I’d better get back to the office.”

Kate didn’t answer him. She pulled out her cell phone and notepad. She flipped to the page with Dr. Kraft’s phone number.

When he picked up, she said, “Doctor, this is Kate Huntington again. Can I stop by your house around five-thirty this evening for a couple minutes? I have something to show you.”

A long stretch of silence, then an audible sigh. “I suppose.”

She thanked him, disconnected and pocketed her phone.

“I gotta get going,” Rob said again. “Keep me posted.” He gave her a quick hug. “And Kate, be careful!”

“What? I’m only talking to a doctor. That’s all.”

Rob gave a slight shake to his head, then turned toward his car.

~~~~~~~~

At five-twenty-nine, Kate pulled up in front of a huge, brick house on a shaded side street one block off of Ruxton Road. She adored her old Victorian, that she and Eddie had so lovingly restored, but nonetheless she felt a shot of envy at the sight of the beautiful home, nestled amongst well-kept bushes and pine trees in the ritziest section of Towson.

Must be nice.

Then she chastised herself. She could be living like this if she wanted to. Eddie’s life insurance had left her a moderately wealthy woman. But she preferred to keep her brokerage account, now well over the original million dollars, just for emergencies and for the kids’ college tuition.

She wouldn’t know how to act in this neighborhood anyway. She and Skip were certainly middle class, might even be considered upper middle class. She had advanced degrees and was a professional. He owned a thriving business. But they both came from working-class roots, and she knew she would find rubbing elbows with the upper crust rather intimidating.

She opened her purse and glanced in at the copy of the prescription. Taking a deep breath, she got out of her car and walked up the brick walkway.

An older woman, somewhere in her mid to late sixties, answered the door. “Yes?”

“I’m here to see Dr. Kraft. He’s expecting me.”

The woman broke into a smile and opened the door wide. “Come on in, my dear. He’s down the hall in his study.”

Kate assumed she was the doctor’s wife. The woman led her across a living room the size of a small skating rink. It was crowded with expensive-looking furniture, most of which were probably antiques. Kate suspected some old money had supplemented the doctor’s earnings, which were no doubt substantial in their own right.

As they neared the hallway, Mrs. Kraft said in a low voice, “Try not to tire him, my dear. He’s dying, you know, of brain cancer.”

Kate managed to stop her hand before it flew to her mouth, but she apparently wasn’t able to mask her surprise completely.

The doctor had stood up from his desk chair, smiling pleasantly–another elderly man shrunken by age like Fr. Sam. The smile collapsed into a sagging, sorrowful expression at the sight of her face. He made a come-in gesture with his hand.

Kate entered the room and sat down in the chair in front of the desk.

“I’ll get you two some tea, dear,” Mrs. Kraft said from behind her.

The doctor’s face softened. “That would be wonderful, Lavada. Be careful with the hot water.”

Footsteps receded. The doctor walked around the desk and gently closed the door.

“Lavada,” Kate said. “What a lovely name. Was your wife named after someone?”

“No, her father just liked the name. He tended to march to a different drummer.” The answer sounded rote, his voice distracted. The doctor settled into his desk chair. “She told you I have brain cancer, didn’t she?”

Pain squeezed Kate’s heart. Her eyes stung. This poor man, with so much wealth, was going to die, and only a few years after retiring.

He shook his head. “It’s not me. She’s the one with cancer.”

This time, Kate’s hand made it to her mouth before she could stop it. “I’m so sorry.”

He blinked, his eyes now red-rimmed. “Thank you.” He looked away. “I’m six years older than her. The statistics say she should be the widow, not me.”

Kate nodded, not sure what to say to that.

The doctor cleared his throat. “But that’s not why you’re here. You found out more about that prescription?”

“Yes.” Kate extracted the copy from her purse and handed it to him.

He fumbled for reading glasses on his desk and put them on. After examining the paper carefully, he peered over the top of his glasses at her. “It looks like it came from my prescription pad and that’s my signature, but I didn’t write this.”

“Any idea who could have, sir?”

He held up an index finger, then leaned back in his chair and opened the center drawer of his desk. “Dammit!” He quickly searched the other desk drawers, then shook his head. “It’s gone. Most of my prescription pads are in the storage locker with my records. But I keep one here, just in case…” His voice trailed off and he stared across the room again, blinking hard.

Just in case your wife’s in too much pain later.
Out loud, she said, “In case an old patient needs a prescription.”

Dr. Kraft turned back to her, flashed a half smile, then rose from his chair. “I’ll be right back.”

Kate entertained herself by reading the titles of the books on the shelves that lined the walls. The doctor had very eclectic tastes–everything from Proust to Dan Brown–and of course multiple volumes of medical reference books.

Her cell phone chirped in her purse. She pulled it out and checked caller ID.
Carol Foster!

Heart in her throat, she answered it. “Carol, what’s up?” She tried to sound cheerful, praying the woman just needed a pep talk.

Sobbing, then a small voice, “You were right, Kate. I should’ve let you put me in the hospital. I can’t stand this, but I don’t want to die.”

“It’s gonna be okay,” Kate said. “I’m glad you called.”

The doctor came through the door. “Lavada doesn’t remember, but she must have thrown it out–”

Kate held up her hand. “We’ll get you some help. It will be okay. Just stay on the line with me.” She grabbed a piece of paper on the doctor’s desk and turned it over, then snatched up a pen and scribbled on the back,
Suicidal client. Call police. Send them to
…

Damn. Her appointment book, with contact information for her current clients in the back, was in her briefcase in the car.

She interrupted the sobbing from the other end of the line. “Carol, what’s your address? I’m coming over to help you.”

“I don’t want to interrupt your evening.”

“I hadn’t even gotten home yet. Out running errands. I’m happy to stop by.”

Sniffling. “Okay.” Carol gave her the address and Kate wrote it on the paper and handed it to the doctor.

He glanced at it and nodded, understanding in his eyes.

Kate mouthed
thank you
and bolted for the door. “I’m headed your way, Carol. Stay on the phone with me while I drive. Keep me company, okay?”

Another soft “Okay.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

Kate heaved a sigh as she buckled her seatbelt. She started the car. The clock on her dashboard read seven-forty. Skip would be frantic.

But she hadn’t dared try to call or text him before this. Any reminder that Carol was keeping her away from her family would have heaped guilt on top of depression and sunk the client even lower into the pit.

She’d arrived just in time to keep the police officers from forcibly hauling Carol off. She’d showed them her therapist’s license and told them she would take it from there. She’d called Dr. Montgomery and he’d started the machinery moving to get Carol hospitalized.

She sat with Carol, making awkward small talk, until the call came through that the doctor had found her a bed at Sheppard Pratt.

“I can get myself there,” Carol said.

“But then your car will be in their lot, racking up parking fees.” Kate didn’t want it to be too easy for her to leave the hospital prematurely. “It’s on my way home. I can drop you off.”

And so she had broken yet another of her rules separating her professional and personal lives and had chauffeured her client in her own car to the hospital. Fortunately Dr. Montgomery had met them in the admissions department and had taken charge of Carol.

Kate put her car in gear and pulled around to the parking attendant’s booth. She handed over her money, contemplating how parking was never free in Towson, even when you were doing someone a good turn.

Once out on Charles Street and headed toward home, she instructed her Bluetooth to call Skip.

“Where the hell have you been?”

Kate tamped down a surge of irritation. “I’m sorry I couldn’t call sooner. I was trying to keep another client from committing suicide.”

Silence. “Did you succeed?” Still testy but not as angry.

She exhaled slowly. “For now. She’s being admitted to the hospital as we speak. I’m ten minutes away.”

“You scared the crap out of me.” She suspected the kids were in earshot or he would have said something stronger than
crap
. “Your message from earlier said you’d be a little late because you were checking something out. I figured that it was related to the case you’re investigating, and I started freaking, thinking you’d stumbled on the… person responsible.”

“No. I went to see the doctor whose name is on–” She shook her head slightly and sighed. “It’s complicated. I’ll explain when I get home. But no, I wasn’t in any danger.” Her throat tightened. “And I’m sorry. It didn’t occur to me that you’d think that.”

A half-beat of silence. “Maria made a plate for you. It’s in the fridge.”

“Be there in a few minutes. Love you.”

She was pretty sure she imagined the slight hesitation before he said, “Love you too.”

The lingering fragrance of popcorn hit her as she walked in the door. Disappointment clogged her throat. She’d missed Friday night family time, when they all snuggled together to watch a video or played a board game on the floor of the living room.

Toby insisted on romping around her feet, almost tripping her as she made her way toward the sofa. She wasn’t in the mood for his antics. She patted him once on the head, then pointed to his favorite spot by the sofa. “Go lie down.”

He gave her a mournful look. She pointed more emphatically. “Go!” He slunk away.

Good. Now I can add guilt for hurting the dog’s feelings to the heap.

Sighing, she dropped her briefcase and purse on the sofa and followed her nose to the kitchen. Peaches appeared beside her, her own nose high in the air, sniffing.

Skip was pulling a plate out of the microwave. He set it on the table with a flourish. “Your dinner, madame.”

The cat tilted her head up at him and meowed loudly.

“Not your dinner, little miss. Yours is over there.” He pointed to the cat’s dishes in the corner of the kitchen.

Kate gave him a tired smile. Apparently her easy-going husband had gotten over his anger.

Kicking off her shoes, she dropped into a chair. “Thanks.”

He sat across from her as she dug in. Maria’s delicious chicken enchiladas were gone in record time. It had been a long stretch since lunch.

Wait, she’d never eaten lunch. The styrofoam container was still on the backseat of her car, the food now garbage since it had been off ice for too long.

“Judging by your appetite,” Skip said, “your client is okay now.”

“Not okay, but safe.”

He grimaced. “That had to be scary, having a close call like that so soon after…” His voice trailed off as he watched her face with worried eyes.

“Very scary. But there have been some new developments in Josie’s case.” She told him about the visit to the pharmacy and then the doctor’s home.

She suddenly realized she’d left the prescription behind when she’d raced off to Carol’s place. “Crap.”

“What?”

She shook her head. The police could always get another copy from the pharmacy. “Never mind. The doctor’s wife has early-stage dementia. He thinks she threw a prescription pad away.”

“But maybe somebody swiped it from his desk,” Skip said. “Hey, since things are slow, let me assign Manny to look into who has access to their house.”