Page 39 of Not a Word

“That’s why he did it. That’s why he shot himself. He’d talked about it, and . . . and the guilt overcame him!”

Catherine did not look convinced. “I don’t think so, Holden.” She sighed, took her phone from her purse, and started looking through her contacts for a number.

“Who are you calling?” he asked.

“I want to get you some help.”

“You calling Sharnwood?”

She raised a finger in the air.

“Are you? Because I’m not going! I’m not!”

“Hello?” Catherine said into the phone. “Yes, could you put me through to Dr. Memphis, please? It’s Catherine—”

“I won’t go back there,” Holden said, pushing past his mother as he left the bedroom, heading back to the living room.

“—Chartwell? Holden’s mother? He’s had a relapse at a very difficult time and needs—Holden, stop!”

She took the phone away from her ear and went after him. The front door was open. She ran out in time to see him get into his Honda CR-V and take off down the street.

She shook her head in frustration, then put the phone back to her ear. “I’m back, is the doctor— Yes, I’ll hold.” She waited a moment, then, “Hello, Dr. Memphis? Catherine here. It’s Holden . . . yes, he was doing well for a while, but we’ve had a family tragedy and . . . okay, that’s good to know. I’ll bring him in . . . but he’s going to take some convincing.”

Fifteen

1999

“God, I can’t believe it,” Brent Chartwell shouted. “What a party! You ever seen anything like this?”

Catherine, elegant in a sparkling, floor-length red gown, had to admit she had not. “What must this have cost him?” she replied, raising her voice to be heard over the band that had set up on a temporary stage.

Brent laughed. “Whatever it was, it’s just a drop in the bucket. Graham’s raking in more money than God.”

“Thanks to you,” she said, slipping her arm around him.

“Thanks to a lot of people,” Brent said, growing hoarse as the evening progressed.

They were standing out on the lawn to better enjoy the band, having emerged from under the massive tents that had been set up over the dining tables, their stomachs filled with lobster and caviar and risotto and champagne.

Graham Wiffel had hired Chicago, the jazz rock band that had burst onto the scene in the late sixties, for a private engagement. They’d set up out in front of the Wiffel mansion and were in the middle of belting out “Saturday in the Park,” having already performed “25 or 6 to 4,” “Does Anybody Really Know What Time It Is?” and “If You Leave Me Now.” Brent and Catherine had done a slow dance to that one, Brent whispering into her ear how much he loved her.

“Saturday in the Park” could not have been more appropriate. This venue felt like one, with its expansive lawns and towering trees, but it was actually Wiffel’s private estate, a rambling ten acres in the rocky Bruce Peninsula, on the western shore of Georgian Bay, a more than two-hour drive north of Toronto.

The property had been in the Wiffel family for generations, but recently, Graham had renovated the main home, expanding it from ten thousand to fifteen thousand square feet. There were four guesthouses, each with ten rooms, on the property now—Brent and Catherine would be staying in one of them that night—plus a tennis court and two swimming pools, even though the estate was on some of the cleanest, bluest waterfront to be found anywhere in the country. Guests who didn’t make the cut to stay on-site were in motels and B&Bs in nearby Wiarton and Owen Sound.

The last three years had been especially good ones for Wiffel-Smith. (The “Smith” was a nod to the other founder of the pharmaceutical giant, Isaiah Smith, now deceased, his half of the empire subsumed by Wiffel more than a decade ago.) Their new wonder drug, Oxy-Mirac, was being heralded by medical journals around the world as the greatest advance in the treatment of pain since aspirin. It certainly didn’t hurt that Wiffel-Smith had made major contributions to these journals, as well as to key people at various federal agencies in countries around the world who had influence over which drugs were approved and which were not.

Brent guessed there were more than two hundred people at this party, which was being held to celebrate the company’s year-end results. Top salespeople like himself were in attendance, of course, but so were doctors from across the continent who were true believers in what Oxy-Mirac could do and were prescribing it for patients who’d found no relief with other pain medications. GPs, specialists, heads of clinics and hospitals, so many of them here, taking a much needed break from the pressures of their jobs to accept Graham Wiffel’s gratitude and largesse.

Brent recognized several in the crowd. There was a doctor from Vancouver, Arthur Kilgallen. Brent had first dropped in on him two years ago, getting to know all he could about him beforehand, that his wife’s name was Julie, he had two children named Jeremy, eleven, and Sally, fourteen, he enjoyed boating, his father had served in the military. Sally was learning to play the violin, and Jeremy had won a local spelling bee championship. Most important of all? Kilgallen liked Kentucky bourbon. Never show up without a bottle of Bondstone Triple Oak.

And over there, nuzzling the neck of one of several “hostesses” whose services Graham had engaged for these festivities, was Oscar Winsome, who ran a clinic outside of Buffalo. Married to Lisa (clearly not accompanying him on this trip), father to Ian, who had at one point expressed concern that a few of his patients taking Oxy-Mirac were finding their pain gradually returning. Not a problem, Brent had said. He shared with Winsome several new studies by Wiffel-Smith that had concluded it was perfectly safe to increase the dosage without any addictive side effects.

“They’re just building up a slight tolerance,” Brent had explained. “Totally expected. Prescribing three pills a day instead of two should correct that.” He brought his voice down to a whisper, and with a sly grin, said, “And I meant to mention, you remember Tandy, from the convention we had in Chicago? She’s very much looking forward to seeing you again next time you’re in town.”

Next, he spotted Miriam Blade, formerly of the Federal Drug Administration south of the border, who had not been terribly supportive of approvals when she worked there. Now she was a Wiffel-Smith consultant and a believer, making three times what the FDA had paid her. Between them, she and her husband were able to afford to send their son, Jason, to Yale. Brent would have to say hello at some point before they left, tell her how happy they all were that she’d come aboard.

You got to know these people. You became their friends. You insinuated yourself into their lives. You learned what their appetites were, and fed them.