Terminal Therapy Read online

  TERMINAL THERAPY

  A Dr. David Calder Mystery

  Daniel Reinharth

  Copyright ©2017 Daniel Reinharth

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 9781796782165

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2019902514

  To my sons, David and Jonathan – may your children give you as much joy as you've given me

  This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual people or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  Table of Contents

  SUNDAY

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  MONDAY

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  TUESDAY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  WEDNESDAY

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

  CHAPTER SIXTY

  CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

  CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

  CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE

  CHAPTER SEVENTY

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO

  THURSDAY

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER EIGHTY

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-ONE

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-TWO

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-THREE

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-FIVE

  FRIDAY

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-SIX

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Praise for First Do No Harm

  Praise for A Catskill Slay Ride

  SUNDAY

  CHAPTER ONE

  “So where is the late Dr. Singer?” the man asked.

  I froze--until his female companion slapped his arm, sloshing his Martini. “That's not funny,” she said.

  Was this typical psychologist banter, I wondered? At their own party, no less.

  “Well, he is late, isn't he?” the jokester persisted.

  Jonathan Singer, Ph. D. The psychologist who founded the Singer Institute. Couldn't have gone too far, I thought. His rented party boat, whose deck we were on, could hold “only” fifty people according to Paula.

  “He loves to keep everyone guessing,” the man went on. “And then we reward his behavior with curious looks on top of respect.”

  “As if he needed the extra attention,” the woman joined in.

  I couldn’t help grinning. But Paula Hirsch, standing by my side, was frowning. Before I could ask her why, an attractive woman in a purple suit walked by. “Probably in some closet with his latest groupie,” the woman muttered.

  “Yeah,” the first woman agreed. “Along with his latest aphrodisiac.”

  “Can you blame him?” the man chimed in. “He's 90 years old. And still living the good life.”

  Paula glared at him, and murmured to me through clenched teeth. “Say something, David. They're insulting Dr. Singer.”

  I groaned. Asserting myself in tricky social situations is neither my forte nor my inclination. “What can I say?” I asked. “I know nothing of Dr. Singer’s personal life.”

  She turned aside, but I could see her neck muscles tense. She turned back to the couple. “If you don't respect Jonathan Singer for who he is, at least remember that this is his party.” She stormed away, her footsteps drumbeats on the wooden deck.

  I couldn't believe that we were clashing already. Paula had invited me to attend this week-long conference on the Cape. After our latest break-up we'd have an opportunity to re-connect. The conference had sounded interesting, too. It was about integrating mental health care with primary medical care by the year 2000.

  OK, so 2000 was only 3 years away. Too short an interval to effect real change. Harmless hyperbole. And bringing psychologists and physicians together in this jointly-sponsored conference was laudable. Although it was more likely to generate conflict than collaboration, I feared. No problem. I'd just stay out of the way--until Paula roped me in, of course.

  And then I'd slipped up by telling my parents about my plans. Who'd promptly reserved a waterfront cottage at their favorite Cape lodging, Anchorage on the Cove: for themselves, for my autistic sister Rachel, and for Rachel's aide, Griselda. Perfect.

  I shivered, the chill and damp suddenly obvious in Paula’s absence. An early summer evening on the Cape should have been sunny, but cloud cover had brought premature darkness. Although we were moored to the dock at the back of Singer's property, I couldn't have seen his house if it hadn't been lit up. I could discern a beach and dune fences, but not much more.

  Time to rejoin Paula, who was probably networking with her fellow psychologists. All right, she wasn't really a psychologist until she completed her Ph.D. dissertation, worked under supervision for a couple of years, and passed her licensing exam. But why cloud the issue with facts?

  I entered the boat's main room through an open door. Sixties rock music, which I love--along with folk/protest and classical--was blaring. The room wasn't heated, but the body warmth was enough to quell my chill. I noticed a podium in the front and buffet tables along the sides. A boisterous crowd swirled around the dark wood floor like bumper cars.

  And then I saw Paula. My fear--or hope?--that she might mope in my absence was clearly unfounded. She was laughing, and alternately sipping and waving a glass of red wine. Wow. Her dark, full-bodied brown hair. The way she dressed up her casual pale green outfit. The graceful curve of her arm holding the wine glass, reminding me of her dancing days.

  Paula gravitated to a buffet table. The man she was with followed her, sporting a smile and a girth that were Paula’s times two. He wore a heavy tweed sports jacket with brown elbow patches,
apparently playing the college professor. As I watched he retrieved an unlit pipe from a jacket pocket and closed his teeth on it, only to return it to its niche. Evidently remembering that smoking was prohibited on the boat.

  Time to intrude. No, first a stop to pick up food and drink of my own.

  Paula turned and met my gaze. “Come join us!” she cried and beckoned.

  On second thought, food could wait.

  “Dr. David Calder, internist,” she introduced me. “This is Dr. Mitchell Singer, psychologist. He's the son of our host, Dr. Jonathan Singer. And a major figure in his own right.”

  I smiled. “Major” seemed the perfect word for him.

  “A physician crashing the enemy's party, I see,” he said.

  “No. Paula-” I stopped when I saw that he was smiling.

  “I told my father not to limit his invitations to psychologists. After all, the whole point of this conference is to promote cooperation among all the relevant professionals.”

  I couldn’t help smiling. I liked Mitchell already. His good humor, his openness to people...and to food. He looked at his right hand, saw that it held a drink, found a table on which to rest the glass, and extended his hand to me.

  As his beefy hand encircled and crushed mine, my smile changed to a wince. Before withdrawing my hand, however, I felt something crusty on the back of his. I turned his hand over, and saw thick scaly patches with red and yellow areas.

  “Is anyone helping you with your psoriasis?” I asked.

  He narrowed his gaze. “Is that why you’re here? To drum up business?”

  “No, I'm just-” I stopped again when I noticed his smile return, and avoided looking at Paula. She'd made clear what she thought about my penchant for public, and unsolicited, medical diagnoses.

  “No problem,” Mitchell said. “My psoriasis doesn't bother me, so I don't bother it.” He patted his bulging abdomen. “If I ever enter a swimsuit competition it will be one of several cosmetic challenges I'll have to overcome.”

  We all laughed this time. A lull in the conversation and enticing culinary aromas drew our attention back to the food. I filled my plate. Paula refilled her glass. And Mitchell refilled both. The seafood was so delicious that I restrained myself from giving him a dietary lecture.

  While I ate there was a pause in the music, followed by a spreading hush among the room's occupants. As I wondered why I heard shouting.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The shouting came from somewhere out of my sightline. I heard a man, then a woman. Paula gripped my arm. By the time I localized the sounds to behind the back of the room the “conversation” had ended with a door slamming. The snippy, purple-suited woman I'd noticed earlier emerged. The music resumed but the crowd stayed mute.

  “What are you all looking at?” the woman asked. “It's just Jonathan being Jonathan. Now this is a party. Get back to partying.”

  She made her way to the buffet table and grabbed a flute of champagne. The crowd murmured, conversed for a minute in fits and starts, then resumed its previous volume. Paula tugged at my arm. “Let's talk to her. I think I see tears.”

  I resisted just long enough to deposit my plate on the nearest table. Paula dragged me as I waved good-bye to Mitchell Singer and swallowed the last of my shrimp. The tug of war between my “don't get involved” and Paula's “help when you can” philosophies was no contest.

  The crowd made way for us, as if sensing our destination. The woman was facing away. Paula dropped my arm and tapped her on the shoulder. “Are you all right?” Paula asked.

  The woman tensed but didn't answer. She downed the last half of her champagne in one gulp, set the glass on the table, then turned around. The makeup on her dark-skinned face was smudged. Tear tracks bisected both cheeks. She moved her mouth as if to speak, but instead drew a deep breath.

  “I'm Paula Hirsch, soon-to-be psychologist,” Paula said.

  The woman exhaled, and relaxed her shoulders. She put on a wry smile as she extended her hand. “I'm Andrea Peterson, wish-I-were conference coordinator. I've got all of the title but none of the power.”

  All three of us grinned. The crowd noise continued unabated, but I saw people watching us. Paula spoke. “This is David Calder, kind-of-”

  “Hey!”

  “All right, full-fledged internist,” Paula said. She stepped aside to let me shake Andrea's hand.

  Andrea pulled her head back when she saw me. As I wondered if food were showing between my teeth, she fingered her corn rows and flashed me a smile as genuine as a Miss America's acceptance speech. I sensed that she'd turned on her P.R. switch. I also sensed Paula shifting her gaze from Andrea to me.

  “I'm so pleased to meet you, Dr. Calder.”

  “Call me David.” We shook hands.

  “Would you like to talk about what happened?” Paula asked.

  Andrea looked at me for an extra beat before shifting her attention back to Paula. I felt uncomfortable, as usual, intruding into a person's private life when there was no medical issue involved.

  “Thank you,” Andrea said. “I'm fine. I was just trying to get Dr. Singer to cooperate with Dr. Rincon. For the good of the conference, of course. I should have remembered that the direct approach never gets him to change his mind.”

  “Same as my experience in political debates,” I muttered.

  Paula elbowed me. “We're talking about Andrea.”

  “Sorry,” I said. I wanted to believe Andrea's story, but didn't see how her makeup could be smudged during a discussion about the conference. A bejewelled young woman entered the back of the room.

  “Thank you for your concern,” Andrea said. “But there's something else I have to do.” She swiveled, and left in the opposite direction.

  Like Andrea, the new character was a magnet for the audience's attention. Unlike Andrea, she had long flowing blonde hair, and wore a clingy silk blouse which highlighted her thin frame and large breasts. The anti-Andrea stopped to question people in the crowd. They all shook their heads, no. Her cell phone rang twice during her meet and greet; she kept the conversations short.

  When she reached us she looked at Paula, then at me--and then spoke to Paula, as people are wont to do. “Have you seen Jonathan’s pill-box? It's a white plastic thingie with letters on it for days of the week. He's overdue for his medicine, and I can't find the stupid thing. I always keep it in my pocket-book, but it's not there now.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Paula hesitated before responding--but I knew she couldn’t resist an opportunity to help someone in need.

  “Ms. Carstens is Dr. Singer’s wife,” she told me, then turned back to her. “I'm Paula Hirsch. Are you saying that your pocket-book is missing?”

  Carstens shook her head. “No. I'm sorry. I meant that the pill-box is missing. The pocket-book is where it's supposed to be. Lying on the table in our back room.”

  “Where did you last see the pill-box?”

  “In the pocket-book.”

  “When was that?”

  Carstens' mouth opened as she thought. “I'm not exactly sure. Maybe a half hour ago, when I fished around for my lipstick.”

  “You didn't take the pill-box out and put it down somewhere? Maybe to remember to use it?” I reminded myself that Paula likes to solve puzzles as well as to help people.

  “No, I don't think so. Well, maybe. No, I don't think so.”

  “Think again. There are only two possibilities. Either you took it out, or someone else did.”

  “What? Why would someone do that?”

  “I don't know,” Paula said. “What about Dr. Singer?”

  “No. He leaves his medicines to me. Pretty much the only thing I'm in charge of.”

  “What if he were overdue for his medicine, and you weren't there?”

  “He'd look for me. I don't think he'd have any idea where to look for his medication. His vision is pretty bad, you know.”

  “Was anyone else in your room? And who else has access to your room?” It
was beginning to sound like an interrogation. I knew better than to suggest that Paula should stop, though.

  “We never lock our doors,” Carstens replied. “One of his little compulsions. Allows for a quicker exit in case of a fire, he says. And now leaving doors unlocked is our norm.

  “But I know better,” she snorted. “Anyway, thanks for your help. Patricia, was it? But I want to ask other people before they disappear.”

  “Paula,” Paula corrected with a frown.

  When Carstens turned toward me light reflected off her whiter- and straighter-than-human teeth. Something clicked.

  “I hope you're being treated for your bulimia,” I said. Carstens glared at me.

  Paula elbowed me again. This time it hurt. “David!” she said. Then, in a whisper: “Stop it. Apologize to her.”

  I grimaced, but marshaled my machismo to avoid rubbing the sore spot. “I'm sorry, Ms. Carstens. I know it's none of my business. But I'm a doctor. How can I not help people whenever possible?”

  Carstens shook her head, mumbled something, and moved into the crowd.

  “I'm sorry, Paula. One of these times I could save, or at least change, someone's life. How could I live with myself if I didn't speak up?”

  “I understand. But there's a way to do it.”

  “Don't you do the same thing?” I asked.

  “Kind of. But again, there's a way to do it.”

  The whole situation was ironic. In every other aspect of life Paula and my father want me to get more involved.

  “I have to admit, though, you were pretty sharp,” Paula said. “That was Stephanie Carstens, Jonathan Singer's trophy wife. Before that she was Mitchell Singer's wife. Think about it. I heard that she was a professional model before she was a professional wife, so bulimia would fit. How did you guess?”

  “She has a skinny body with large breasts, so those could be implants.”

  “You're so observant, David. I'm so proud.” She smiled. “And speaking of models, don’t think I missed Andrea batting her eyelashes at you.”

  “What are you talking about?” I asked, but then felt my face warm. Women don’t often flirt with me. Or is it that I don’t usually notice?

  “Let me finish,” I said. “About Carstens. The implants highlighted her thin body. And then I saw her perfect teeth, and remembered that self-induced vomiting can damage the teeth. Which she clearly has enough money to repair. She also has discoloration over her knuckles, which may be due to such vomiting. Skinny body, tooth damage, knuckle sign. Bulimia leaped into my mind.”