Clinical Trials and Death

  Clinical Trials and Death

  Fleming Investigations Cozy Mysteries: Book Eight

  Kobo Edition

  © Patti Larsen 2022

  Find out more about me at

  http://www.pattilarsen.com/

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  Kobo Edition, License Notes

  Kobo Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to the vendor and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

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  Chapter One

  I watched the orderly in blue scrubs and sneakers heading for our SUV, the wheelchair he pushed making me frown just a little. I was, after all, perfectly capable of walking, thank you. But when Crew opened my car door for me, I accepted the ride without argument, settling into the padded seat and allowing the smiling man to guide me up the walkway toward the glass entry of the Your Best Life Clinic, the beautifully manicured lawn and garden scape that made up the front face of the ultra-modern building complex a contrast to the glass and bright white boxiness.

  “Welcome to Rhode Island,” the cheery orderly said, his deep brown eyes as warm as his matching dark skin, teeth a flashing beacon in contrast. “We’re so happy you’re here, Mrs. Everett.”

  “Thank you,” I said, doing my best to be demure and restrained. “I just hope you can help me.”

  “If anyone can,” he assured me, pausing to open the main door for the chair via a push button that swung the heavy glass wide in a slow and silent motion, letting out cool, lavender-scented air as we passed through, “it’s the fine doctors here at Your Best Life.”

  We’d see about that. What, you thought there was actually something wrong with me? To the contrary, thankfully, though I did my best to maintain that slightly concerned and reserved persona Crew built for me last night as we drove the last few miles to our destination.

  “Mandy and Calvin Everett,” he said. “I’m an accountant and you’re a teacher.” At least Mom’s history at that job, along with her years as a principal in our hometown of Reading, Vermont, gave me enough insights I wouldn’t have to do a lot of research. Though what my former FBI special agent turned sheriff turned private investigator husband knew about accounting I had no idea. Not that he was bad with money or anything, but I typically handled our finances out of habit after years of running my own bed and breakfast and now supervised the books for Fleming Investigations, our family PI business.

  “That works,” I told him while he unwound our story in that almost boyishly eager way of his when he took on a new case. I loved that about him, had only begun to see that joy in his job after he left the Reading Sheriff’s Department and joined my dad and me at Fleming Investigations. “I’m just happy we finally get to work a case together.”

  “Me too.” He’d reached across the console and squeezed my hand, held it the rest of the drive, the warm and comfortable silence between us a welcome shift from the awkward discomfort and unusual silence we’d battled since our fight a few days ago. We’d made up, of course, we had. I loved Crew, admired him for his tenacity and was happy he loved his job so much. But we’d been spending a lot of time apart thanks to the growing scope of our business, Fleming Investigations now with two offices—one at home in Reading and the other in Montpelier—along with travel cases Crew took on for a client who now owed both of us, it seemed, and called on my husband frequently for assistance.

  In fact, Crew had turned down a job just yesterday for the mysterious and mega-wealthy Nelson Delamonte, to my surprise. In favor of taking this job. With me.

  I loved my husband.

  “Jill and Liz can handle it,” he’d told me as we packed our suitcases into the car. “It’ll be good for Nelson to have others in our organization to lean on. Besides, this is for the Aberstocks.”

  Right, did I fail to tell you that detail? My bad. We’d both had other plans, Crew and me, just forty-eight hours ago. Until a desperate call from Dr. Lloyd Aberstock—our favorite and not to be confused with his brother, Dr. Martin, and bane of my existence—had us both immediately agreeing to take on this case and make this journey out of state to Rhode Island and the Your Best Life Clinic.

  No, not for Lloyd. As my orderly assistant slowed my progress across the white marble floor, pausing at the reception area, the cool, pale interior of the main entry soothing with that scent of lavender and piped-in piano music lilting just above audible levels, I reaffirmed why we were really here. Because Lloyd was worried about his wife, the darling Mrs. Claus to his Santa, Bernice Aberstock. She’d confided in me months ago she’d been diagnosed with cancer, and the prognosis, from what we knew, wasn’t good. Which meant, if they needed us here? Heck, if they needed us at the North freaking Pole, I’d move heaven and earth to do whatever it took to fulfill the request.

  “Mrs. Everett,” the woman behind the desk smiled down at me, her perfect dark bob framing her olive cheeks, reminding me of Reading’s mayor, Olivia Walker, and the mess I’d left behind a little too much for my liking. I hadn’t spoken to Olivia since the O’Shea debacle over St. Patrick’s Day, but I had a feeling a reckoning was coming and life in Reading wouldn’t be the same after. A worry for another time as my greeter went on. “Welcome to the clinic. Is your husband with you?”

  “Calvin is parking the car,” I said, offering the fake ID Crew supplied (my husband had turned into quite the forger, it appeared) along with the paperwork I’d filled out on the drive.

  “Excellent,” she said, her silver nametag identifying her as Norma. “You’re taking part in our fertility program, how exciting.” Her kind and gentle smile was obviously meant to comfort me, increase my confidence, while I almost choked on the word fertility. Was this Crew’s idea? Or Lloyd’s? I managed to smile back, wondering if there was a message behind the choice of trials I’d been slotted into and trying not to read too much into it.

  Hard, though, when I’d been thinking about babies lately.

  “We’re really hoping you can help,” I said, biting my lower lip and feeling just the teensiest bit guilty (okay, a lot guilty) about lying to her. I had friends who couldn’t have children, and it was no joking matter. Yes, I was undercover, okay, but I’d seen firsthand how devastating the inability to conceive could be, so taking it lightly was not on the agenda.

  Then again, I realized as Norma signed off on my paperwork, how did I know for sure Crew and I could even have children? That thought had me chilled suddenly, hit me like a blow I wasn’t expecting. There were no guarantees, after all. Maybe this was a good thing? An opportunity to find out if we could even conceive before we decided to move in that direction?

  I was really getting ahead of myself, though my genuine reaction sold my performance, apparently, because not only did the orderly—his nametag now visible and identifying him as Henry—and Norma both sharing instant reactions of support, the woman circling to hand me the papers while he squeezed my shoulder with a gentle hand.

  “Don’t you worry even a little,” Norma said, dark eyes crinkling around the corners as she smiled. “You’re in excellent hands, Mandy. If anything can be done, it will be.”

  I nodded, surprised to find myself choked up, relieved when Crew joined us, taking Henry’s place.

  “You’re all set, sweetheart?” He gently stroked my hair, bent and kissed my forehead. “She’s been under such a strain.” Crew’s shift from confident, collected sexiness to th
is stranger wearing glasses, a button-up under a cardigan (where did he get a cardigan?) and a rather anxious and apologetic air about him had me staring a moment before I pulled myself together.

  He was better at the subterfuge thing than I was. Almost too good, because I bought it like these strangers did, despite knowing him better than I knew myself. Or did I? For the first time, as I watched my husband in action, I realized there were sides of him—and was reminded he had a history before me—I had never seen before.

  Well, being uncomfortable was a good thing, considering why we were there, so my own acting job passed, if for the wrong reasons.

  “We totally understand,” Norma was saying. “We’re here to help. Henry, if you could take Mrs. Everett to her room and get her settled, Mr. Everett and I will finish up here.” She beamed down at me. “You’ll be so happy you made the choice to come here, Mandy.”

  I didn’t comment, my weak smile a byproduct of the spinning thoughts in my head, as the orderly spun me around and headed off at a brisk walk, past the main desk and toward a sunny hallway of glass and steel, the cheery sunshine doing nothing to lift my spirits.

  I really needed to get a grip already.

  ***

  Chapter Two

  The short walk (ride) through the sunny hall ended in another doorway, this time a double swinging affair that felt a little more clinical, the far side with a spa-like atmosphere and that same music offering soothing (but landing in irritating, to be honest) accompaniment to the light, bright and cheerful colors of this part of the clinic. From the subtle gray of the floor to the pale yellow walls and pops of color on the occasional sofa, collection of chairs and even the doorways to what had to be rooms, I took note of how hard the designer had worked to ensure everything was not only perfectly placed and encouraged confidence and happiness, there were enough pictures of women holding babies, families playing (traditional and non-traditional alike) and adorable cherubs all on their own I felt my ovaries flutter.

  Oh, dear.

  My room stood at the far end, another set of white, swinging doors just past the red-painted joviality of the entry to my suite.

  “What’s past there?” Being nosy was going to be hard if I wanted to stay on the down-low, but it seemed an innocuous enough question and Henry didn’t balk.

  “That’s the cancer wing,” he said, still as cheery as ever while he palmed the button to automatically open my door, rolling me inside while he spoke. “We have one of the best clinical trials in the country going on right now.”

  So he said, but was the source of Lloyd Aberstock’s concerned contact and supposed to be the focus of my attention. Ahem. Back to work, Fleming.

  “How exciting,” I said, one hand artfully pressed to my heart, wide eyes clearly getting the innocent point across.

  Henry chuckled, locking my wheelchair and offering his own hand to assist me. I accepted the help, despite the fact I was in excellent physical condition, thank you. Clearly pampering the client was part of the service.

  “It really is,” he said. “Dr. Ian Linder is running the trial and we couldn’t be happier to have him here.” Was that a hitch in Henry’s voice? A flicker of something not-so-happy? Whatever it was I thought I saw, it vanished with another of the orderly’s flashing smiles. “Now, you get settled and I’ll make sure your husband knows where to find you.” He unlocked the wheelchair before pausing one more moment. “You need anything, don’t hesitate. The staff of Your Best Life is here for you, Mrs. Everett.” With that, he turned and headed out at the same brisk stride, gone in a moment, leaving me to survey my new home.

  There was certainly nothing hospitalish about it, though hints of clinical touches gave jarring reminders I wasn’t in a luxury hotel room, from the metal handrail in the tiled shower stall and what looked like some kind of hoist system attached to the ceiling. And while there weren’t rails on the bed or anything, the cupboard next to it contained a variety of medical machines I could identify as heart monitors, a CPAP mask and even what looked like a portable ultrasound.

  The door opened while I closed the panel over the equipment, faintest sound and air displacement turning me to the entry, though the face I was expecting didn’t appear, instead replaced by the familiar and dear one I’d come to miss in the last year or so since his wife’s diagnosis. Dr. Lloyd Aberstock’s perpetually cherubic and compassionate kindness had taken a beating in that time. He’d not only lost weight, his cheeks now seemed somewhat shrunken, bright blue eyes heavy-lidded and rolling, jolly walk reduced to slightly hunched and anxious instead. But the moment he saw me, his face lit up, the man he used to be making an appearance.

  I surprised myself by hurrying to him with a low cry, hugging him tight, fighting tears and a thickening of my throat I could only banish with a deep, shaking breath and rough clearing of it. But when I pulled away, it was obvious to me I wasn’t the only one in an emotional state, his blue eyes blinking rapidly and lower lip trembling as his smile lifted the gloom from his face and gave me hope my Dr. Aberstock wasn’t gone just yet.

  Hopefully to return completely in short order.

  “Fiona,” he said, squeezing my hand after letting me go, “thank you so much for coming.” He waved off my attempt to speak, leading me to the sofa under the tall windows, seating me beside him and patting my knee before sitting back with a gusty sigh that sounded like he’d let out all the stress he’d been holding in one giant exhale. “I know, you must think I’m overreacting or overthinking, but I’m still grateful you and Crew could come.” He turned as if only then realizing my husband was absent, smile fading just a little.

  “He’s finishing the paperwork,” I said, Lloyd’s expression flickering with relief and then a renewed happiness. “And no, we don’t think anything of the sort.” When his phone call outlined his concerns about the trial—the very one I’d just talked to Henry about, in fact—and Bernice’s participation, Crew and I both immediately took the job (pro bono, though the Aberstocks would fight us on it, naturally, but that was for later) and dug into research the moment we accepted. “From what we uncovered, clinical trials like this one can be fraught with issues, so you have every right to be worried.” While most trials were on the up-and-up, there was enough evidence of tampering in this particular industry—oh, and it was big business, make no mistake—it was hardly a reach for Lloyd to be concerned.

  He seemed even more relieved, shaking his head, full, white beard brushing the collar of his t-shirt under his plaid button-up. “It’s Bernie,” he whispered, voice low and cracking. I held quiet and let him gather himself, holding still and giving him space until he cleared his own throat and flickered that smile again. “How are things at home?”

  He didn’t want to get into that with me. “Let’s focus on the case,” I said. Because the giant mess that was the remains of the cutest town in America would only stress him out, I had no doubt, and he needed to focus on Bernice. “She’s more important right now.” More important than the fact almost every small business in our hometown was now shuttered and under investigation thanks to the infiltration and overtaking of the O’Shea crime family, with only a handful, like French’s Handmade Bakery and The Iris, still operating. It might have only been just past the middle of March and not quite yet the spring shoulder season, but summer was fast approaching and with Reading on the edge of bankruptcy thanks to criminal interference, even Olivia’s ambitions might not be enough to pull us up and out of hardship in time to salvage the tourist season.

  I highly doubted visitors were interested in our kind of ghost town.

  And without a sheriff’s department, we were at the mercy of the state police, replacement staff as yet unhired, a new sheriff likely in the offing if Olivia had her way. But without the funds to hire, we instead had Officers Brown and Williams patrolling our streets, with the occasional stop-in visit from BCI Detective Rowan Mallory to keep things official.

  “I read Pamela’s expose,” Lloyd sa
id then, meaning the cat was already not just out of the bag, it was screeching its unhappiness at being shoved into one in the first place.

  “You know Pamela,” I said, a weak attempt to deflect. “She’s so hard-hitting sometimes she forgets there are people on the other end of her story.” The former Boston Globe investigative reporter turned managing editor and writer for the Reading Reader Gazette hadn’t pulled a single punch, even calling out Eve O’Shea and my own godfather, Malcolm Murray, for turning state’s evidence against the Goth girl’s family. Her feature had been picked up by major newspapers around the country, so I wasn’t surprised he’d heard the gorier details, if out of full context, though Lloyd Aberstock was never one to leap to conclusions or judge others without his own extensive investigation into matters.

  “Our dear little town is once again the center of attention,” he said, voice low and sad, “but not for reasons Olivia would like, I dare say.” He sighed again, shrugged. “Things will be what they are. You and I, my dear Fiona, have done our best by Reading all these years. As have your father and mother, your husband and yes, even Pamela Shard.” I nodded. “I can only hope there’s a Reading to go home to when all of this is over.”

  I caught my breath, couldn’t help it. “Over?” As in…

  His blue eyes met mine, serious and quiet. “I need you and Crew to find out if the trial is valid or not,” he said, voice vibrating with anxiety despite his level look. “Because if it’s not, if it’s all a lie…” he looked away, swallowed. “If I let Martin talk me into this trial and it’s a fraud, Fee, when I could have enrolled Bernice in another, I’ll never forgive myself.”

  Or him, I assumed, though it wasn’t spoken. The fact Lloyd and his brother had been estranged for over thirty years, only coming together again thanks to Bernice and her illness—and a quick job on my part as requested by Lloyd’s wife—meant there was already a strain on their relationship dating back decades. A strain I’d never learned the history behind, as it turned out. But regardless, I had no doubt if something did happen to Bernice, if this trial she was in ended badly, my Dr. Aberstock wouldn’t be in the most forgiving frame of mind.