Cardiac Arrest, page 2
Chapter Two
“Punctuality is extremely important.” Marilyn Marshack’s sharp voice greeted Dorothy as she stepped through the office door. Dr. A’s personal assistant was clearly not pleased.
Dorothy frowned. She’d stopped to buy a pack of mints after she’d gotten off the bus, but she was still early for her nine-forty-five appointment. She always requested the first slot of the day. Then she realized that Marilyn wasn’t addressing her. She was reprimanding some poor aide behind the sliding-glass window.
The girl’s back was to Dorothy but she could tell by her slumped posture that the lecture must have been going on for a while.
“And pediatric scrubs are hardly appropriate attire for a cardiology office,” Marilyn continued, still oblivious to Dorothy’s presence. “This is what happens when Dr. A fails to consult me regarding new staff. How is it, if I may ask, that you are qualified for this position?”
The aide shrugged. “Maybe you should ask the doctor. He’s the one who hired me. I mean, he’s the boss, right?”
Dorothy hid a smile as she stepped to the window. She’d recognize that girl’s attitude whether she was wearing teddy bears or candy-cane stripes. Loudly, she cleared her throat. “Good morning, ladies.”
Marilyn looked up, her hand flying to a strand of overly large pearls. “Why, Mrs. Westin, how lovely to see you. You must be here for—”
“Nine forty-five,” the girl finished, glancing over the dark-haired woman’s shoulder at an open appointment book.
Marilyn glared at her. “Ms. Smythe—Summer, is it?—why don’t you just wait for me in the staff kitchen?”
“No problem.” Summer waggled her fingers at Dorothy and threw her a tiny smile before bounding down the hall.
At exactly ten o’clock, her high heels clicking, Marilyn ushered Dorothy from Dr. A’s extravagantly furnished waiting room to his even plusher office, motioning her to a chair. “The doctor will be with you shortly, Mrs. Westin.”
“Thank you.” Dorothy perched awkwardly on the stiff leather seat. Doctors’ offices always made her nervous, but especially this one. The room was rather dark for Florida, with its closed Key West shutters and red, gold and chocolate color scheme. Framed photos of a broadly smiling Dr. A on various hunting expeditions—alligator, lion, wild boar and even hippo—adorned the walls, alongside his medical degrees and a promo shot with the current governor.
The idea of a healing professional participating in blood sports disturbed Dorothy. Dr. A had been her late husband Harlan’s physician for a year or so before he died, and Harlan had never found the man’s adventures particularly unsettling. But still...
She leaned forward to peer more closely at another photo, this one set on the doctor’s desk. It showed a sleek, deeply tanned young woman in a white eyelet dress, posed with a glass of champagne against a bright blue ocean. Her jet-black hair was drawn back tightly and large diamond clusters adorned her earlobes. Heavy eyeliner and false lashes gave her a somewhat exotic look.
Mia, the socialite fiancée, no doubt.
“Well, well, well, Mrs. Westin,” Dr. A boomed, as he stepped into the office and closed the door. “How are we doing today?”
Dorothy quickly sat back in her chair. Why did doctors always address patients as “we” in that oddly jovial tone? The suggestion of being lumped with this man in any way was less than appealing. Perhaps it was time to find a new physician—preferably a woman.
“Just fine, thank you.” Should she mention something about his engagement, or was that too personal? “I hear congratulations are in order,” she decided, nodding toward the photo.
“Yes, indeed.” Dr. A threw a thick file folder onto the desk and dropped into his burgundy leather chair. “You just missed my lovely fiancée, in fact,” he said. “She was in quite a rush. It seems the stores at The Waterfalls are opening even earlier these days. Bad news for my bank account.” He winked.
Dorothy wouldn’t know. The brand-new outdoor retail complex, which featured upscale stores, trendy boutiques, and bayside dining, was well out of her usual price range.
She doubted that he paid his fiancée’s credit card bills, either. If she remembered correctly, Ms. Rivera-Jones was the daughter of a retired supermodel and a Gulf Coast real-estate magnate.
“I’ve gone over your latest test results, Mrs. Westin, and I have good news.”
Relief washed through Dorothy.
“It doesn’t look as if you are going to leave us. Not immediately, anyway.” Dr. A chuckled at his own tasteless joke, until he started to cough.
Dorothy stared at him with a mix of indignation and pity. Served him right. “Are you okay, Doctor?”
“Just something in my throat.” His eyes watered, as he gave another, louder cough. “I never get sick. So, Mrs. Westin, have you given any thought to what we discussed during your last visit? I think it would be an excellent idea for you to consider a personal caretaker, at least part-time. There are agencies—”
“No, thank you,” Dorothy said firmly. “I’m doing just fine on my own.”
The doctor shrugged. “It’s your life,” he said. “But that’s my recommendation. You just never know, once you reach a certain age.” He opened the file folder on his desk and quickly perused it.
“Your INR and cholesterol levels look good. Your latest echocardiogram, I’m happy to say, was much improved. We’ll do an exam today and another stress test or two, and then next week we’ll get you started on a highly effective new machine, The Fib-Away 2000, that—”
“Excuse me,” Dorothy broke in, “but are all these stress tests absolutely necessary? I feel as though I spend an inordinate amount of time hooked up to the treadmill.”
“Now, Mrs. Westin, need I remind you that you have already had one cardiac event?”
“I’d rather you didn’t,” Dorothy murmured.
Dr. A waved her off with a flash of his ruby pinky ring. “Relax, Mrs. Westin. Let me be the doctor, and you can worry about other things, such as—”
With a quick rap on the door, Summer entered the office, carrying a bilious green drink. “Here’s your protein shake, Dr. A,” she announced. “Marilyn told me exactly how to make it.”
He threw her a charming smile, revealing perfect, bleached-white teeth. “That does look delicious, Summer, but as you can see I’m with a patient right now. Can you put it in the refrigerator for me?”
“Oh, right, sure.” She quickly retreated with the oddly foaming concoction, backing straight into Marilyn on her way through the door.
“Sorry to disturb you, Doctor,” his assistant said, looking pointedly after Summer, “but Mr. Silva is on the line again. Shall I ask him to hold?”
Dr. A.’s complexion took on an odd, ruddy tone. “Please,” he said, with another cough. “Mrs. Westin, why don’t you follow Marilyn down the hall, and I’ll be right with you?”
Thirty-five minutes later, Dorothy sat shivering on a paper-covered steel table in a tiny examining room, clad in a decidedly undignified hospital gown. This was ridiculous. If one had to wait, why not do it fully clothed in the ritzy waiting room? As far as she knew, she was the only patient in the office. How busy could the doctor be?
She tossed aside a well-thumbed copy of You and Your Healthy Heart and gazed at the reading rack on the wall, hoping to find something more interesting. Other than a smattering of drug brochures and a pamphlet announcing the benefits of a tortuous new exercise machine—that Fib-Away 2000—she was plum out of luck.
The industrial clock above her head continued to tick. Dorothy stared at the dull green wall and tried to resist the temptation to check the time again, but she finally gave in.
Eleven-ten.
What on earth was keeping Dr. A?
She had just clambered down from the table with the intention of getting dressed again when a long, high-pitched scream pierced the sterile air.
* * *
Summer stared down in horror at Dr. A’s crumpled form. The man had literally fallen at her feet. And he looked...literally dead.
Behind her in the kitchen, Marilyn just kept screaming. Summer plugged her ears.
The nice lady from Hibiscus Pointe—Mrs. Westin, Summer remembered—appeared in the doorway, out of breath and wearing a cardigan thrown over her hospital gown. “Oh my. I’ll call 911. Is he breathing?”
“I’m not sure.” It definitely didn’t look good. “Dr. A, are you okay?” Summer said, loudly. She turned an ear near his nose and mouth, listening for any signs of life.
All she heard was Marilyn, who was very much alive and still hysterically screaming. On her way out the door, Mrs. Westin gave Dr. A’s assistant a generous slap to the face, which finally shut her up.
“Sorry, dear,” the older woman called, over her shoulder. Summer silently cheered.
“What are you doing?” Marilyn rubbed her cheek, as Summer flipped the doctor onto his back. His face was weirdly red, with gray underneath.
“CPR.” Duh. What kind of cardiology office was this, anyway? “You think you could give me a hand?”
Marilyn stared at her helplessly.
“Never mind, I’ll do it myself,” Summer muttered, between chest compressions. All those summers hanging out at the lifeguard station might finally pay off.
At least people didn’t have to do mouth-to-mouth CPR anymore. Sure, she felt bad for Dr. A, but even under the circumstances she didn’t want to put her lips anywhere near his lecherous face.
“Is it working?” Marilyn asked, anxiously. “Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”
Summer didn’t answer. She was too busy pressing and counting, and the doctor was still not responding. Luckily, the paramedics arrived to take him off her hands.
She breathed a huge sigh of relief. The EMTs in this town had to be superbusy 24-7, with so many old people around. There was a hospital on every corner, if you didn’t count the ones with a CVS. Or a Publix grocery store.
“Miss? Hello?” One of the paramedics waved a rubber-gloved hand in front of her face. “We’ll need some information from you.”
Summer snapped back to attention. “Oh, sorry.” Two other paramedics, both women, were still hunched over Dr. A. “Is he going to be okay?”
“Hard to say,” the first EMT said. “We’re taking him to the hospital now. Can you tell us what happened?”
“I believe I can answer your questions.” Marilyn stepped up, suddenly all business. “I’m Marilyn Marshack, Dr. Amoretto’s personal assistant.”
Summer backed away toward the stainless steel refrigerator, careful not to slide on the gooey remnants of Dr. A’s health shake, which had flown from his glass as he fell. The small pools of green slime made the kitchen look like something from an alien flick.
She pressed her hands to her stomach as it gave a loud gurgle. Weirdly, she always got hungry when she was superstressed. She wished she could have the last crumbs of that yummy carrot cake with Dr. A’s name on it she’d secretly sampled while she was waiting for Marilyn. It was right there on the counter, but people would think she was totally crazy if she ate anything right now. Besides, if her new boss got well, he might be mad she’d finished off his last piece.
Mrs. Westin, still wearing her sweater and hospital gown, came over and placed a glass of water under the icemaker. “How about a cool drink, dear? You must have had quite a shock, and you did very well with that CPR.”
“You think so?” Summer asked, doubtfully. “It didn’t seem like it helped a lot.”
The nice older lady handed her the water. “You did all you could.” She patted Summer on the shoulder.
The paramedics loaded a motionless, even more gray-faced Dr. A onto a stretcher, on top of what looked like a dark purple tarp. With a zipper.
That couldn’t be good. Summer gripped her glass tighter. “He’s...dead, isn’t he?”
“Goodness, I hope not,” Mrs. Westin answered.
Summer bit her lip, trying not to cry. What had happened to Dr. A was really too bad. But on top of that, now she’d have to find herself another job.
Chapter Three
Dorothy began to feel dizzy. She, Summer and Marilyn had already told the efficient young detective every detail they could remember about the morning’s misfortune—several times.
“So let me get this straight.” He consulted his iPad. “Ms. Sloan—it is Sloan, according to your driver’s license here?”
“Yep,” Summer said. “But I usually go by Smythe. It’s my mom’s last name,” she added, when the detective raised a questioning eyebrow.
He made another note on his tablet. “Interesting. And you were alone in the kitchen with the doctor when he suddenly collapsed?”
“That’s right.” Marilyn leaned forward eagerly on Dr. A’s couch, her legs primly crossed. “Just after he drank that health shake she whipped up for him.”
“He didn’t have much,” Summer protested. “And I made it exactly like you told me. One bag of that gross paste from the fridge, half a cup of the powdered junk, three drops of peppermint oil, then a forkful of the wheatgrass stringy stuff, plus a stalk of asparagus. Oh, yeah, and a cup of plain Greek yogurt.”
Dorothy shuddered involuntarily. She was all for healthy eating, but that nasty combination would have killed anyone.
“That wasn’t the recipe at all,” Marilyn told the detective, sounding indignant. “And then, after poor Tony—I mean, Dr. A—fell to the floor, that girl just stood there. She did absolutely nothing, until I—”
“Perhaps she was simply in shock,” Dorothy broke in. Marilyn’s shrill insistence that Summer was somehow to blame for all of this was grating on her nerves. “That would be quite understandable, under the circumstances. And she did a very good job of performing CPR.”
“Forgive me, Mrs. Westin, but I hardly think you have the medical expertise to give an opinion on that.” Marilyn reached for the box of tissue on the doctor’s desk and blew her nose, loudly.
“Hey, maybe the guy had a heart attack,” Summer said. “Right? He made these funny choking sounds, and then he started falling on me. I stepped back so I wouldn’t get crushed, that’s all.”
“I noticed that he was coughing a bit earlier, as well,” Dorothy put in.
“Dr. A was never sick,” Marilyn said, haughtily.
“Yes, he mentioned that,” Dorothy murmured.
The detective, whose gold badge read “Donovan,” ran a hand over his dark brush cut. A very handsome young man, Dorothy couldn’t help noting, who had gazed intently at Summer several times during the interview. And from the way Summer twirled her hair as she rather obviously stared back at him, she’d noticed. Dorothy wasn’t sure the detective was interested in a personal sense, though.
“So, Ms. Smythe-Sloan, you received an offer of employment from Dr. Amoretto in a bar?”
“Yeah, on Friday night,” she said. “It was Waverunner, I think. No, wait. Milano Metro. He bought me some drinks.”
Beside her, Dorothy heard Marilyn gasp.
“And you’d never seen him before?” Detective Donovan spun the stylus he was using to make notes. “Did you two...become better acquainted?”
“No way,” Summer said. “To both questions.”
Detective Donovan, Dorothy observed, did not seem convinced. Abruptly, he stood up. “I think maybe we have enough information for now. Please stay around town, all of you—especially you, Ms. Smythe-Sloan—and we’ll be in touch.”
Somehow, Dorothy got the distinct impression that would be sooner rather than later.
* * *
From their bayside table overlooking the dock, Dorothy gazed out over the sparkling water. Sailboats keeled gently in the breeze, their brightly colored sails contrasting with blinding-white yachts of all sizes. “What a beautiful day, considering everything that’s happened,” she told Summer. “I haven’t been to this restaurant in ages.”
Summer speared an avocado in her Mexican salad. “I applied for a hostess job here,” she said. “No dice.”
Dorothy had suggested that they have lunch, her treat, before they taxied back together to Hibiscus Pointe. She wasn’t eager to head home immediately, and she’d sensed correctly that Summer shared the feeling.
The girl did have quite an appetite, considering the disturbing ordeal she’d just been through. So far she had polished off most of the sour-cream-topped salad, half an order of sweet potato fries and four orange rolls. She was also working on her second piña colada.
Perhaps, with her financial difficulties, the poor thing hadn’t been eating much lately. She certainly looked healthy enough, though.
Dorothy stirred her pink lemonade. The last thing she wanted to do was bring up the unfortunate fate of Dr. A, at least for now. “So where are you from, Summer?”
“Cali,” she answered, her mouth full of pineapple. “Santa Monica, actually. But I moved here from New Jersey. My sister kicked me out.”
Her tone was offhand, but Dorothy saw the fleeting hurt cross the girl’s face. She wasn’t sure of her age—mid-twenties, perhaps—but she suddenly seemed much younger. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
Summer shrugged. “That’s okay. Joy and I are really different. She’s an accountant. My dad inherited our grandma’s condo and he’s letting us rent it from him. We have to send him two thousand bucks a month. Otherwise, he says he’ll find somebody else to live there who’ll pay him more. I’m supposed to pay the maintenance and Residents Association fees myself, though. Daddy and Joy want me to learn financial responsibility.”
“I see.” Dorothy had no idea what the going rental rate was for the Towers these days. Most of the condos were owned, as far as she knew. The monthly fees did include jacket-and-tie dinners in the Canyons dining room in the main building, every night except Sunday.
