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  Published by Kensington Publishing Corp.

  FERN MICHAELS

  BITTER PILL

  ZEBRA BOOKS

  KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Also by

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Epilogue

  ZEBRA BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2020 by Fern Michaels

  Fern Michaels is a registered trademark of KAP 5, Inc.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.

  If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the Publisher and neither the Author nor the Publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

  Zebra and the Z logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

  First Kensington Books Hardcover Printing: September 2020

  First Zebra Books Mass-Market Paperback Printing: January 2021

  ISBN: 978-1-4201-5207-4

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4201-5209-8 (eBook)

  ISBN-10: 1-4201-5209-2 (eBook)

  Prologue

  London, present day

  Charlotte Hansen peered closely into the magnifying mirror on her vanity. “Why do I keep having these fog-like moments?” she whispered to her reflection.

  Looking down at the array of prescription bottles, she could not remember which pills she was supposed to take next. These are supposed to help me, but I feel like I’m getting worse. She had numbered the white caps of the green bottles to make it easier but had forgotten to replace the caps when she took the first three pills. She wrung her hands in dismay. I simply cannot tell Maryann that I’ve messed up my routine again. For sure, she’ll have me put under observation. And what would
they observe? A sixtysomething woman losing her memory? Nothing too odd about that. She heaved a big sigh and decided to skip the rest of her morning routine of taking twelve different pills. What difference will one dose make?

  Unless her daughter, Maryann, was counting the pills. With that thought, Charlotte flushed what was left of her morning dose down the toilet. She splashed water on her face, took another deep look in the mirror, and decided she could fake it for the day if necessary.

  Charlotte had thought a visit to London to see Maryann and her grandson Liam would raise her spirits, but instead, she seemed to be in a downward spiral. She would discuss the matter with Dr. Marcus at her next appointment. Checking her desk diary, she noted she was due to see him the next day. Charlotte didn’t care for him very much, even though he was effusive and turned on the charm. But he had been recommended by her new personal physician in Aspen—who had insisted she have a doctor on hand, particularly in a foreign country. Apparently, Dr. Marcus and her new doctor, Dr. Harold Steinwood, who had taken over the practice of her longtime physician, Dr. Robert Leeland, had studied together in Switzerland; and when Charlotte had told Dr. Steinwood that she would be traveling to London, he had insisted that she get in touch with his classmate, Dr. Marcus. In time, she would reevaluate this “miracle doctor” and his “cure” for mental acuity and longevity, but for now she was content to get dressed and prepare for the rest of her day.

  Sag Harbor

  Dr. Raymond Corbett strolled around his two-hundred-square-foot walk-in closet, deciding which cashmere blazer he would wear to the party. It was finally going to be his big night in the Hamptons. After years of being overlooked by almost every yacht club and country club on the South Fork of Long Island, he had persuaded the Longboat Yacht Club to allow him to become a member. The membership came with a very high price tag. Apparently, one could buy one’s way into the stodgy organization, which catered to old money and the nouveaux riches. One either had to own a yacht over eighty-three feet, be a power broker, or be some sort of celebrity. He was none of those. He was merely a physician who specialized in longevity wellness. Yes, he had been treating patients for almost a decade now, prescribing placebos and mind-altering drugs to women of a certain age—mostly rich widows, to be precise.

  He took one of his Tom Ford designer blazers from the rack and frowned at the brass buttons. They needed to be polished. Now. He pressed his finger down on the house intercom. “Henry!” he bellowed. “Meet me in my dressing room. Now!”

  A soft voice replied, “I will be there right away, sir.”

  Corbett tossed the Tom Ford blazer on the bed and then chose an Armani blazer to wear. He thumbed through his new collection of striped button-down shirts and picked a shirt from one of his favorite designers, Brioni. Recalling the $820 price tag, he snickered. Yes, he would almost look like a million bucks. Almost. The jacket, shirt, Gucci shoes, and Audemars Piguet Royal Oak Concept 44MM titanium watch totaled almost $160,000. He’d leave the pinkie ring home. No sense being ostentatious. He snickered to himself again. Tonight was the night he would reveal to the members of the yacht club that he would be displaying a painting at a private exhibit: one by Marc Chagall that was once thought to have been stolen and burned by the Nazis. He had made arrangements to acquire it at a private sale brokered by Christie’s. Tonight he was having a party, basically in honor of himself, at the yacht club. Once he had possession of the Chagall, he would hire a private security company, which would cost a small fortune, to deliver the artwork and keep guard over it during the gala he would hold at the club, then take it to a special locker at the Museum of Modern Art. He had made arrangements for the museum to borrow the painting in the fall. He wanted to spend his summer being known in the Hamptons as a great art connoisseur.

  Yes, his group of “longevity” doctors—and their new protocol to moderate the progress of aging—had brought him and his two partners the wealth to live an extravagant lifestyle, something he was enjoying immensely. He had a co-op in Manhattan and now this modest home in Sag Harbor.

  Corbett knew that he and his partners would have to retire soon—before the world learned the truth. There were two old biddies who could ruin it all. Lorraine Thompson had died of an accidental overdose, and Marjorie Brewster had had an incident that sent her into convulsions, the treatment for which put her in a semiconscious state. Even with the waivers and nondisclosure agreements their patients had agreed to, those incidents would eventually pop up on someone’s radar. They had been lucky enough to fly under the radar for a good long while. These were simply a couple of mishaps. He, Marcus, and Steinwood had made a killing. He smirked. No pun intended.

  But enough of that. He picked a silk ascot, which added an additional three hundred dollars to his already ridiculously expensive ensemble, and left for the party.

  Chapter 1

  Pinewood

  Myra Rutledge repositioned herself on the antique settee on the terrace of her farmhouse. The letter she was holding in her lap was disturbing. Looking around at the luscious flowers overflowing their Italian terra-cotta pots, she inwardly smiled at their beauty, but that did not change the gloom that had descended on her.

  “Good morning, love,” Charles, her husband and partner, said, giving her a peck on the cheek. “Why so glum? It’s a spectacular day!”

  Myra picked up the letter and handed it to Charles. “It’s from Charlotte.”

  “What seems to be the problem?”

  “This letter. She sounds very depressed and a little disoriented,” Myra answered.

  Charles began to read. “My dear Myra, I am visiting Maryann in London. I thought it would be a good change of scenery for me, but I’m feeling rather low. I’ve been somewhat forgetful lately and get a little ‘foggy’ at times. I am seeing a doctor here, Dr. Julian Marcus, who has me on a boatload of medications. He was recommended by my doctor in Aspen, Dr. Harold Steinwood, who took over Dr. Leeland’s practice. I was wondering if I could come by for a visit on my way back to Aspen. You always cheered me on . . . even when my first book submission was turned down! Don’t want to intrude, but I could really use a friend right now.”

  Charles stopped reading. “Well, old girl, there doesn’t seem to be anything else to do except get her here as soon as possible.”

  “Oh, Charles, you are such a dear. I know all the people coming in and out can be disruptive at times, but things have been very quiet for a while, and there doesn’t seem to be anything on the horizon to change that. I know you were relishing our having time alone, but I have a bad feeling about this thing with Charlotte. Back in the day, she was always the Pollyanna.” Myra took his hand and brushed her lips along his fingertips.

  “Keep that up, and we’ll have to lock the doors!” Charles chortled. Then Myra playfully slapped his hand away.

  “Please make the travel arrangements for her. I’ll send her an e-mail telling her to expect a full itinerary by the end of the day.” Myra was feeling more like herself—giving Charles orders, which he gladly acted upon.

  “Will do, love. But do you suppose we should check on her availability first?”

  “My instincts are telling me we need to do this pronto!” She gave him a pat on the bum. “Now go!”

  Charles took a small bow. “At your service, my lady.”

  * * *

  Charlotte’s father had been the groundskeeper for Myra’s family’s farm when she and Charlotte were teenagers. She and her father had lived in one of the small cottages on the property, and Charlotte, Myra, and Annie would explore the vast farm and make up stories together. Charlotte had gone on to become an author of children’s books. She had made a tidy sum of money, though it was nowhere near the size of Myra’s fortune. Not to mention Annie’s. The Countess Anna Ryland de Silva was thought by many to be the richest woman in the world.

  Charlotte had had a few best sellers early in her career, and toy manufacturers had licensed some of the characters. She’d been able to put her daughter through
a pricey prep school and an equally expensive college. She had also established a trust for her grandson’s education, but this still left more than enough money for her to lead a very comfortable life. Her lifestyle was not really extravagant, but she could travel when and where she wanted and could play a round of golf whenever she felt like it in Aspen during the summer. She usually spent the winter months visiting friends in Florida, Arizona, Saint Thomas, and Barbados, and she made regular trips to the UK, where her daughter, Maryann, lived with her husband and Charlotte’s grandson.

  Several days after she had sent the letter, she received an e-mail from Charles, husband and confidant to her friend Myra.

  Greetings from across the pond. Myra and I

  have arranged for you to join us at Pinewood.

  Please review the attached itinerary and let me

  know if it meets with your satisfaction.

  Charlotte could almost hear the British accent in Charles’s e-mail. And she wrote back:

  Sounds divine! Hope I am not putting anyone out?

  Absolutely not! We are very excited to have you as our guest. Please let us know if there is anything else you need before you embark. Happy landings. See you in two days.

  Charlotte reviewed the itinerary:

  9:00 A.M. Private car pickup at 1223 Mulgrave Rd., Croydon

  12:00 P.M. United Flight 919, first-class ticket from Heathrow to Dulles. Open return. Private car service to greet at airport and take to residence. Driver’s name Edward. Cell: 703-555-1987

  Charlotte smiled as she read the e-mail. “Leave it to Myra and Charles to take care of everything.” She immediately felt a weight lift from her shoulders.... Or was it from her mind?