The Case of the Questionable Quadruplet Read online

  The Case of the

  QUESTIONABLE QUADRUPLET

  Safe Harbor Medical Mysteries

  Book One

  by

  Jacqueline Diamond

  Published by K. Loren Wilson, Brea, California USA

  The Case of the Questionable Quadruplet, copyright© 2016 by Jackie Diamond Hyman

  Cover art copyright© 2016 by Jackie Diamond Hyman

  Cover photo of baby copyright© by Sandrinka

  Safe Harbor Medical® is a trademark registered with the U.S. Patent and Trademark Office by Jackie Diamond Hyman

  For subsidiary rights, please contact the author at [email protected] or at P.O. Box 1315, Brea, Calif. 92822.

  This is the first book in the Safe Harbor Medical Mysteries. It shares a setting and some supporting characters with the author’s seventeen-book Safe Harbor Medical romance series. More information about the books and the author is available at www.jacquelinediamond.com.

  Please respect the rights and hard work of the author by not distributing, duplicating or posting unauthorized copies of this book, except short excerpts for review or promotional purposes. Please do not download a free (stolen) copy.

  Praise for Jacqueline Diamond’s novels

  including mysteries originally published under the name Jackie Hyman

  “[In The Eyes of a Stranger], Hyman keeps the tension high ... (by) presenting each viewpoint in compelling fashion. A stunning climactic plot twist will electrify readers."

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Like the best of Dean Koontz's supernatural chillers, this novel [Echoes] forces readers to suspend disbelief… Former AP editor and veteran novelist Hyman has written a compelling tale.”

  —Library Journal

  “Touch Me in the Dark ensnared me in its roller coaster story line, entertaining and thrilling me as Ms. Diamond skillfully unraveled mystery after mystery…. Little by little Ms. Diamond built the suspense, reeling in her readers for a dynamic climax. Touch Me in the Dark continues to excite me, so much so that I recommend this fascinating book to one and all.”

  —Donna Zapf, Ecateromance.com

  “Personally I love the characters and stories in the Safe Harbor series. I worked in OB for over 25 years as an R.N. and I have to say your books are very medically correct as well as addictive!”

  —Reader Laurie Smith Bodshaug, on Facebook

  From the Author

  When I told several readers of my Safe Harbor Medical romances that I was spinning off a mystery series, they asked if the books would include my trademarks: fast-paced plotting, emotionally satisfying stories and touches of humor that unexpectedly make them laugh.

  The answer to those questions is, yes! Plus a new hero—obstetrician Eric Darcy—and a supporting cast of quirky characters.

  Although I’m best known for medical romances and romantic comedies, my one hundred previous novels—from St. Martin’s Press, William Morrow, Harlequin and other publishers—include the mysteries Danger Music and The Eyes of a Stranger. I’ve also written Regency romances, romantic suspense, fantasy (Shadowlight) and ghostly suspense (Touch Me in the Dark).

  For his invaluable feedback and advice, I want to thank Orange County Sheriff’s Investigator Gary Bale (retired). I’m also grateful to my Beta readers, Deborah Golub R.N., Brooke Hamilton, Marcia Holman R.N. and Gail Ostheller, and my critique group, Orange County Fictionaires.

  Welcome to the first Safe Harbor Medical Mystery!

  Jacqueline Diamond

  Brea, California

  2016

  Table of Contents

  From the Author

  About the Safe Harbor Medical Romance Series

  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

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  About the Author

  More Books by Jacqueline Diamond

  Chapter One

  “Dr. Darcy, someone’s breaking into your house!”

  Telephone mouthpiece jiggling in front of her face, the young receptionist stared at me wide-eyed from behind my office counter. In the waiting room, visible through a small window, half a dozen women and a couple of men peered toward us.

  My gut clenched at this threat. I couldn’t afford to overreact, however. It was the middle of the afternoon, I had to compensate for morning surgeries that had run late, and my patients were depending on their obstetrician-gynecologist to focus on their needs. “Who’s calling?”

  “Your alarm company.” Glenda’s fingers fluttered. Always excitable, she was vibrating so hard her brown curls bounced.

  Since I’d turned off my cell to avoid interruptions, the alarm company must have proceeded to my work number, which was second on their list. I picked up the handset, stated my password and name, Eric Darcy, and requested particulars.

  A pane beside my front door had set off the alarm, a young man told me. I felt a surge of relief. That pane had been loose and might have fallen on its own. “Probably a false alarm,” I told him. “Can you shut it off?”

  “Certainly.” Otherwise the alarm rings for ten minutes.

  “Shouldn’t we notify the police?” Glenda asked after I hung up. “I mean, what if it’s terrorists or something?”

  “I hardly think so,” remarked my saintly nurse, Farrah Ortiz. “Don’t worry, doctor. I’ll contact Mr. Golden. Maybe he can check on it.”

  “Thank you,” I mouthed, and continued down the hall toward Room 5, annoyed that I hadn’t repaired the window and spared myself a shock.

  My late wife’s stepfather, Morris Golden, had offered to get it fixed, but his head is too stuffed with recipes to retain much else. A caterer, he’d occupied my downstairs bedroom since my wife Lydia’s death nearly a year earlier.

  Despite a few reservations, I’d invited him to stay with me. Never good with finances, Morris had been sleeping on a cot in his office, while I, as one of the world’s worst cooks, appreciated that he prepared tasty meals with a comforting Jewish influence. Also, having him around eased the aching void.

  On further consideration, the possibility of a break-in seemed remote. I’d lived in that house since childhood, and the worst crime I could recall on my street was dog poop left on the sidewalk.

  Then I remembered what might have tempted a burglar.

  Lydia’s possessions, in the process of being sorted for storage or donation, were spread across the front room that once had served as her art studio. The idea of an intruder pawing through them revolted me.

  Stop there.

  During training, a doctor learns to ignore hunger, exhaustion and personal issues. They must wait their turn at the end of a long line of the sick and troubled. At that moment, the head of the line belonged to—I scanned the face sheet my nurse had dispensed—Malerie Nivens Abernathy.

  Malerie was a legacy from my father’s era, before Safe Harbor Medical Center had been remodeled from a community hospital to one of Southern California’s top facilities for maternity and fertility care. She was the widowed mother of grown triplets, one of whom was also my patient.

  She stuck out in
my mind because of a family tragedy. I’d treated a second triplet prior to her murder six months earlier. Dee Marie Abernathy Tibbets had appeared initially to have died from a severe asthma attack. Then the autopsy revealed tiny hemorrhages in the eyes often associated with smothering or strangulation, as well as bruises on her arms consistent with a struggle. Ruled a homicide, the case remained unsolved.

  Since then, I’d seen Malerie once, to adjust her blood pressure medication, since she requested that I supervise her routine care. Her reason for coming in today was listed as a consult. No details.

  I knocked, opened the door and greeted the sixty-year-old woman seated on the examining table. Intensely red hair curled above a face creased from her former two-pack-a-day smoking habit. Rather than changing into an exam gown, she wore a pantsuit.

  Malerie nodded coolly. “Hello, Eric.”

  I didn’t remember her using my given name before. For a flicker of a second, even at thirty-five, I felt as if I were a kid and my late father was the real Dr. Darcy.

  I flexed my shoulders beneath the white coat. “What brings you here today?” Since she hadn’t changed clothes, she must not expect a physical exam and, according to Farrah’s notes, her blood pressure was only slightly elevated. Her records displayed in the computer terminal indicated she’d recovered well from hip replacement surgery ten months earlier.

  “I want to know what’s going on, and spare me the crap.” Her voice had a hard edge.

  In every practice, there are patients whose names you dread seeing on the schedule, people who are demanding, manipulative or quick to threaten a lawsuit. Aside from the occasional sharp tone, however, Malerie had never struck me as one of those.

  My father advised once that, in the face of hostility, I should take it slow, pay attention and avoid acting arrogant. “Please tell me what’s upset you.”

  “I trusted your father. And that other doctor.” She must mean Isaiah Levin, Dad’s partner, with whom I still practiced. “I can’t believe they lied to me all these years.”

  What a strange remark. “About what?”

  “I saw her.” In her lap, Malerie’s blue-veined hands formed fists. “Getting on a bus. Did you think you could keep her secret forever?”

  “Keep who secret?”

  Her gray-green eyes narrowed, deepening a fan of wrinkles. “Don’t take me for a fool.”

  I leaned against the counter near the small sink. “To be honest. I’m baffled.”

  Malerie released a long breath. “Maybe they didn’t tell you. In that case, I could use your help.”

  “Of course.” I awaited enlightenment.

  “My daughters weren’t triplets,” she said. “They were quadruplets.”

  I hid my astonishment as best I could. “Would you mind explaining?”

  She lifted her chin as if bracing for an argument. “Since Dee Marie died, I’ve had vivid dreams about giving birth to four girls, not three. More like memories than dreams. I suppose you think I’m inventing this.”

  “You mentioned a bus,” I said.

  “Yesterday, driving on the boulevard, I saw her boarding a bus. She had the exact same color hair as my girls, and she moved gracefully, like Danielle, who took ballet for years. When she glanced up and flashed that lopsided smile, my heart nearly stopped.”

  “Did you talk to her?”

  “There was a lot of traffic. Before I could turn my car around, the bus vanished.”

  If it looks like a duck and quacks like a duck… “Could it have been Danielle or Doreen?”

  “She was thinner and she had short hair,” Malerie said decisively. “Also, neither of my daughters rides the bus. And you know perfectly well I have no other children.”

  While it could be mistaken identity, the Abernathy triplets were distinctive. All had off-center, twist-of-the-lips smiles and hair of an unusual flame-red shade. Danielle and the late Dee Marie, who were identical—developed from a single egg—had thin noses. Doreen, the fraternal one, had slightly broader features.

  The sighting might have been a delusion or a coincidence, or indicate a need for new glasses. I wasn’t about to dismiss my patient’s concerns, however. Malerie was mourning her dead daughter, and I understood from experience the insidious and unpredictable nature of grief.

  It was also feasible that her perceptions had been influenced by buried memories. “Let’s check your file.” I shifted to a position at the terminal.

  When our paper records from past decades had to be digitized, it was impractical to transfer everything. As a result, the computerized data included only basic information about Malerie’s pregnancy and the triplets’ birth. The pregnancy had occurred naturally, not as a result of fertility treatments. My father had delivered the girls by cesarean section.

  Wait—here we went—there had been a fourth fetus, early in the pregnancy. “Did my father mention Vanishing Twin Syndrome?” I asked.

  “I didn’t have twins.” Malerie waved off her own comment. “Never mind that. What is it?”

  “Sometimes a fetus spontaneously aborts—miscarries or is reabsorbed—usually during the first trimester. It’s estimated twenty to thirty percent of multiple conceptions lead to the loss of a fetus, for unknown reasons.” I hoped that was enough specifics. It’s a balancing act, providing information without overloading the patient.

  Malerie shook her head. “That wasn’t a fetus I saw getting on the bus. There must have been a fourth live birth.”

  I felt certain we could rule that out, but clearly something had happened. “Let’s eliminate a few possibilities.”

  “Such as?”

  “Have you suffered a recent blow to the head?”

  She stiffened. “No. And I don’t use drugs, except what you prescribe.” That would be blood-pressure medication.

  “Do you take it with alcohol?” If misused, BP meds can cause confusion.

  “I’m not a heavy drinker, Eric.” Her patience was thinning.

  Many conditions can produce hallucinations, including tumors, dementia, mental illness and strokes. “Any blurred vision or numbness?”

  “I am not imagining this!” she roared, loud enough to be heard outside the room. “I demand the truth, not a bunch of medical mumbo jumbo.”

  That was my cue to retreat. Not too far, though. “I promise to talk to Dr. Levin, since he was here at the time, in case he recalls anything. But I’d be happier if we could run some tests.”

  She launched herself from the table. I grabbed her arm to prevent a fall.

  “Unless your father-in-law is putting magic mushrooms in my dinners, there’s nothing to test,” she snapped as she regained her balance.

  Apparently Malerie subscribed to the meal service from Morris’s company. Golden Fine Foods had carved a niche delivering specialty dinners, including vegan, gluten-free and hypoallergenic.

  “I didn’t realize you followed a special diet,” I said, hoping to restore civility to the conversation.

  “I just enjoy his cooking.” She’d grown calmer. “I’ll hear from you soon then?”

  “Absolutely.”

  I escorted Malerie to the exit, partly as a courtesy and partly to run interference if she ran into Isaiah. I’d rather not have her accuse him of deception in front of other patients.

  When she’d gone, Farrah reappeared. Late in the day, her honey-brown hair was creeping from its bun but her controlled manner never faltered. “Mr. Golden’s at work. He wasn’t able to get away, so I took the liberty of contacting your sister-in-law.”

  “Good. She has a key.” It had been long enough since Lydia’s death for me to start discarding her clothes and art supplies, but I couldn’t. When her younger half-sister Tory offered to do it, I’d accepted.

  “She was at the detective agency,” Farrah reported. “She should be on her way to the house now.”

  “Excellent.” A former policewoman who had worked crimes against properties, Tory was the ideal person for the task. Well, not entirely ideal. She d
idn’t always respect boundaries, especially mine.

  Farrah produced another face sheet. About to hurry to the next patient, I remembered my promise to Malerie. “Is Dr. Levin around?”

  “He left early.”

  “Oh, that’s right. It’s Thursday.” My partner took off early two days a week to play golf. I made a mental note to ask him about Malerie in the morning.

  Between patients, Farrah updated me. It wasn’t a false alarm. Tory had found the window smashed and summoned the cops.

  Damn whoever had broken into my home! I loved that place, an imposing Tudor Revival striped with dark timbers and tall windows. No doubt the crook had assumed it was stuffed with valuables, but the electronics were old, except for my laptop, which I had carried to work. Aside from inherited pieces of silver cutlery and serving dishes, there were only Lydia’s things laid out in the conservatory.

  What idiot would break into a house posted as having an alarm system? Perhaps they had assumed it was a fake notice. Or they’d heard that a doctor lived there and stupidly believed there’d be drugs lying around.

  How much damage had they done? I dreaded what I might find. Too bad Vivien, our part-time housekeeper, had moved to San Francisco a few weeks earlier to be near family. She’d be better able than Tory to assess what might be missing.

  An hour later, my sister-in-law called to report. As always, I felt a jolt when she spoke, because her voice was so much like her sister’s. “It was a quick in-and-out,” she said. “It appears the perp only went through the studio.”

  “Can you tell what they took?”

  “Yes, because I’ve been photographing Lydia’s stuff.” She took a long breath.

  Even before she spoke again, I knew what was gone.

  *