Bitter Pill
Books by Fern Michaels
The Brightest Star
Fearless
Spirit of the Season
Deep Harbor
Fate & Fortune
Sweet Vengeance
Holly and Ivy
Fancy Dancer
No Safe Secret
Wishes for Christmas
About Face
Perfect Match
A Family Affair
Forget Me Not
The Blossom Sisters
Balancing Act
Tuesday’s Child
Betrayal
Southern Comfort
To Taste the Wine
Sins of the Flesh
Sins of Omission
Return to Sender
Mr. and Miss Anonymous
Up Close and Personal
Fool Me Once
Picture Perfect
The Future Scrolls
Kentucky Sunrise
Kentucky Heat
Kentucky Rich
Plain Jane
Charming Lily
What You Wish For
The Guest List
Listen to Your Heart
Celebration
Yesterday
Finders Keepers
Annie’s Rainbow
Sara’s Song
Vegas Sunrise
Vegas Heat
Vegas Rich
Whitefire
Wish List
Dear Emily
Christmas at Timberwoods
The Sisterhood Novels:
Bitter Pill
Truth and Justice
Cut and Run
Safe and Sound
Need to Know
Crash and Burn
Point Blank
In Plain Sight
Eyes Only
Kiss and Tell
Blindsided
Gotcha!
Home Free
Déjà Vu
Cross Roads
Game Over
Deadly Deals
Vanishing Act
Razor Sharp
Under the Radar
Final Justice
Collateral Damage
Fast Track
Hokus Pokus
Hide and Seek
Free Fall
Lethal Justice
Sweet Revenge
The Jury
Vendetta
Payback
Weekend Warriors
The Men of the Sisterhood Novels:
Hot Shot
Truth or Dare
High Stakes
Fast and Loose
Double Down
The Godmothers Series:
Far and Away
Classified
Breaking News
Deadline
Late Edition
Exclusive
The Scoop
E-Book Exclusives:
Desperate Measures
Seasons of Her Life
To Have and To Hold
Serendipity
Captive Innocence
Captive Embraces
Captive Passions
Captive Secrets
Captive Splendors
Cinders to Satin
For All Their Lives
Texas Heat
Texas Rich
Texas Fury
Texas Sunrise
Anthologies:
Home Sweet Home
A Snowy Little Christmas
Coming Home for Christmas
A Season to Celebrate
Mistletoe Magic
Winter Wishes
The Most Wonderful Time
When the Snow Falls
Secret Santa
A Winter Wonderland
I’ll Be Home for Christmas
Making Spirits Bright
Holiday Magic
Snow Angels
Silver Bells
Comfort and Joy
Sugar and Spice
Let It Snow
A Gift of Joy
Five Golden Rings
Deck the Halls
Jingle All the Way
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?