Beach Thriller(69)
Were Dr. Hill and Conrad discussing a different patient? If so, who?
Either way, Maeve doesn’t look well to me at all. She sprawls out on her chaise, feet up, back of her hand pressed to her forehead as if she’s suddenly spiked a fever. “Take a break, Jade,” she orders. “I’m going to rest for a while.”
I check the time. Normally at this hour, Maeve would be getting ready for her daily swim. But not today. Her swimsuit is nowhere to be found. Sadness washes over me as I wonder if she’ll have the strength and vitality to dive into the salty waters of her beloved ocean ever again.
Chapter 37
Holly
Shortly after lunchtime, Holly arrived at a small but neat doctor’s office. Gail’s influence was remarkable. Even though Holly had no prior relationship with Dr. Vernon Hill, a single phone call from the real estate maven was enough to get her an appointment that very afternoon. It was fortunate—her headache was worsening by the minute. It had passed the knocking-to-get-in stage. Now it was downright pounding.
The doctor’s office was close to Allen Spellman’s legal practice. The proximity reminded her to follow up with Shae. Since she was a fraud examiner, Holly had asked her to dig into those mysterious transfers from the house account to two unknown recipients. But she hadn’t given any updates yet. Either way, Holly could handle that when she was feeling better.
The office was unlike any medical facility she had visited before. The waiting area featured a collection of antique leather chairs and ornate wooden tables. The floor was covered with uneven wide pine planks. An intricately carved walnut grandfather clock, tucked into a corner, displayed the current time, though it looked like it was from the past. Nearby stood a freestanding coatrack, unusual in this era of wall-mounted hooks. The artwork on display consisted of framed advertisements for old-fashioned medicines from the 1940s and earlier, including products like Carter’s Little Liver Pills, Geritol, and Phillips’ Milk of Magnesia.
While the place gave off vibes of a bygone era, it operated with modern efficiency. Five minutes after checkin, a nurse led Holly to an examination room in the back. The flat, stainless steel exam table—upholstered in a pretty seafoam green—creaked as Holly climbed onto it. There were no levers or hydraulics to adjust for her comfort. A thin paper sheet crinkled under her weight. Even the wall-mounted instruments looked slightly yellowed with age. The familiar antiseptic smell carried a faint, musty undertone.
The nurse who escorted her took her vitals. Dr. Hill arrived shortly afterward. Holly was glad no one had made her change into one of those flimsy johnnies that would expose her backside.
Dr. Hill glanced at his clipboard—no digital tablet for him—which held her intake information. “So, Holly, what brings you in today?” he asked with an affable smile, his big, bushy mustache offering a salutation of its own.
Holly didn’t particularly love doctors. She didn’t go as often as she should and couldn’t say what her triglyceride levels were—or what that even meant—but she immediately liked this man. His friendly nature put her at ease, and she appreciated how he dressed—dapper, with a paisley tie and wide, button-on suspenders attached to his high-waisted trousers.
She described her headaches, explaining how they had been progressively getting worse. He didn’t seem surprised when she talked about the zigzag lines and flashes of light—what she called an aura—that preceded the most intense pain.
“Those visual disturbances can be associated with migraines. Nothing to be alarmed about. Any idea what triggers them? Bright lights? Loud noises? Stress?” He shone a penlight into her eyes.
Holly flinched as if she’d peered into the sun. “No, not really.” How could she admit that proximity to a handyman with a personal connection to her sister’s potential killer might bring them on? She wanted headache pills, not psychiatric meds.
Dr. Hill asked her to look up, down, left, and right. “Looks good,” he said. Using a handheld scope, he examined the back of her eyes. When that checked out, he palpated her head, neck, and shoulders, checking for muscle tenderness, which was absent. Her blood pressure was good, and her reflexes were normal. Overall, she received a clean bill of health, but Dr. Hill had his prescription pad at the ready.
“I’ll write you two prescriptions—one for a painkiller with a little codeine, another for a high-dose ibuprofen. If the headaches continue, just come back to see me so we can increase the dosage or try new medications.”
The outcome surprised Holly, who didn’t expect to leave with a permission slip for controlled substances. She needed to stay alert and focused to write, not be dazed and confused, but she gratefully accepted the prescriptions. It seemed Dr. Hill lived up to his reputation as the Candy Man, making it even more likely that he knew about lesser-known pharmaceuticals as well. She could look up the medication online, of course, but right now she had an expert in front of her. She opened her phone to remind herself of the name of the drug listed on the evidence inventory sheet.
“May I ask if you’ve ever heard of a medication called Lypotrel?”
Dr. Hill squinted as if squeezing out a memory. “Lypotrel … Lypotrel.” His blue eyes brightened. “Oh yeah, that’s an older weight-loss drug,” he said. “But it got pulled from the market, maybe ten or fifteen years ago. I never prescribed it, so it wasn’t on my radar, but why is it on yours? Looking at your chart, you have a perfectly healthy weight and great blood pressure.”