Killer Remedy

By Julia Rohatyn

*A miraculous cure or a dangerous drug?

* A deliberate murder or an accident?

* Betsy should be at home fixing her marriage, shouldn't she?

* But she has a murder to solve. One murder or more and counting?

* A family wedding in Ireland leads her on a chase that will take her to Italy and then, Israel where cannabis and homicide are mixed. Doctors are at risk and so is she.

* What goes on in a hospital when we're not looking.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Neve Ilan Books
• Release date: Jun 17, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393674948

Julia Rohatyn

I grew up in a home full of books and I began to read them at an early age. My parents’ encouragement brought me to where I am today and I selected my pen name to honor their memory. Julia, for my mother’s nickname and Rohatyn where my father lived until he fled Europe. After years as a child psychologist in Boson and Washington DC, my life turned 180 degrees. We moved to Israel and I began a new profession managing major hotels. Finally, my sister asked me a fateful question. “If you love reading mysteries so much, why don’t you write one?” So, I did. I didn’t publish the first, or the second, or the third. They were a valuable learning experience. You may get to read them after I do a serious edit. My early books were about the world I knew best, hotel mysteries. From there...anywhere. I am fortunate to live in a small pastoral community between Jerusalem and Tel Aviv. Several of my neighbors have written and published. Some of us have banded together to form Neve Ilan Books which include mysteries, children’s stories, and musicology.

Book preview

Forward

ALMOST EVERY DAY, THE media cover a new development in the amazing ability of medical marijuana to cure or alleviate disease. The technical background of this book will be out of date on the day it is published, but the human reactions to suffering and healing will remain potent. Cannabis equals money, power, and hope, a combustive mixture.

Medical marijuana and research on cannabinoids are international businesses with surprising quirks. Over half the states in America grow medical marijuana. Some states grow for recreation. Despite this, very little research is done. The federal government is a major source of the financing of most medical research in the USA. This is the same federal government that until 2018, listed hemp on schedule I for dangerous addictive narcotics and did not approve research on cannabis.

Israel also considers marijuana to be illegal, except for limited medical use, but the country is in the vanguard of research. First in the field was Rafael Mechoulam, born in 1930 and still working at the Hebrew University. He extracted the first powerful THC (tetrahydrocannabinol, the psychoactive part of marijuana) and found amazing medical benefits. Every day more are discovered. These extracts are now used for pediatric epilepsy, autism, cancer pain, side effects of chemotherapy, and others. The researchers believe it can be effective in many other diseases including Parkinsons, Alzheimers, stroke, traumatic brain injury, and rheumatic arthritis. The pace of discovery is so fast that no novel can keep up.

At this date, only Israel, Canada, and the Netherlands have governmentally sponsored research programs and that leads to interesting phenomena. Several American companies outsource their research to Israel and until recently, even the government-funded NIH gave financing to Professor Mechoulam.

An American doctor working on cannabis research in Israel would not be an anomaly.

Prologue

A DECEPTIVE COOL BREEZE greeted the hilltop village in the late June morning. As the day progressed, the sun beat down incandescent and fiery, melting the lush Spring into Summer. Although partly engulfed by the large hospital, the hamlet remained the site where thousands of the faithful and the curious came to pray in the place where two young cousins met to gossip about the babes in their wombs.

Alan Sedgewick, dressed for the cool early morning weather and his airconditioned office, sweated in the unexpected heat. Usually, he would leave work at dusk when it was cool. The afternoon warmth surprised him.

A path led down from the parking area to the heavily wooded valley filled with birds and their songs. As always, he listened for them, but the feathered creatures were still.

He crossed the noon-silent plaza, heading for his car parked close to the church. Reaching for the door, he was startled by the scorching touch and pulled his hand back. He heard approaching steps and smiled at seeing a familiar face until he saw the blade pointed at him.

The knife plunged into his stomach and drove upwards.

His still spasming body was dragged to a hiding place under a cascade of blood-red, blooming, fiercely thorned bougainvillea next to the sanctuary.

The killer may have hoped to remain unseen, but an inquisitive apartment dweller on the side of the hill high above had seen the fatal encounter and had already called the police. Sirens sliced through the pastoral quiet. He walked quickly away and disappeared.

Alan’s tortured heart, slashed from below, beat several times, spurting blood. A brief thought of Lily and Emma waiting for him at home was his last and then he died.

Chapter 1

Florence Discovered

BETSY SAT IN THE WOODEN rocking chair she had dragged out onto the small balcony. She moved back and forth, going nowhere. She stared at the ochre, gray and sand-colored palette of the face of Florence across the River Arno and below the hill of Oltrafirenze, the other Florence. She faced the crenelated towers and medieval houses and saw none of it. Church bells rang out the hour and Miriam, her friend and temporary room-mate, called out to her but she heard nothing.

Over and over, Betsy rehearsed the conversation that she should have had with her new husband before she left for this unplanned European trip. When she finally returned home, she would say the words that she now practiced and her dilemma should disappear. He must be wondering why she didn’t call. Betsy, who usually met problems head on, had decided that she would wait until she could talk face-to-face.

Earth to Elizabeth. We didn’t rent this place to look at the view from afar. The museums we visited yesterday aren’t the whole package.

I’m sorry. What did you say?

Come on, Betsy. I don’t want to pry and I won’t. I plan to ignore your fugue, so let’s go visit the marketplace. Then. I’ll show you a restaurant I found on the internet with a view that will knock you out.

You gotta admit the view from the balcony is pretty good.

It is, but I’d rather be out there.

She pointed across the river. What’s wrong, Betsy? Stop rocking and moping. The treasures of Tuscany await us. Tomorrow, we can rent a car and go to Siena. It’s supposed to be amazing.

I like looking at the city from here.

Come on. That doesn’t sound the Betsy I know. I’d rather be out there walking through the streets than looking at them. So would you.

The tiny balcony gave them a panorama that had allowed them to plan the days by pointing to areas they wanted to tour. The trip could have been perfect.

Betsy faced a dilemma of her own making, but she did not want to share her depression with anyone. Still, her low spirits were too obvious to ignore. Miriam wanted to help her friend but had no idea how to do it.

Betsy decided to put on a smiley face and get going. She’d ended up in Italy because of petulance that was so unlike her. The error belonged to her alone. It had started small and grew and she would not be able to fix it until she got home to Boston. Until then, she would make the best of it.

It amazed her that one wrong step could be so final and unerasable. Every act led her deeper and deeper into an impenetrable tangle and more and more distant from what was familiar.

She longed to be home in Boston with her husband and family and homesickness tainted her pleasure in the trip. The voyage had begun with a family wedding in Ireland. It had been fun and meeting her previously unknown family had been interesting. Tourist magnet Florence was enjoyable, but she felt guilty about having a good time on the tour with her friend while Pete was home alone, with no idea where she was.

Miriam was a pediatric nurse in a major Israeli hospital. She had taken a course in New York where she met Betsy. She had planned to combine her husband’s conference in Switzerland with a long-wished-for trip with a friend to Florence. That friend was Betsy.

The two women set out on foot and headed down the hill to the bridge that crossed the river. A combination of map reading and Google got them to the market in no time.

In the food section, they bought over-priced early fuzzy peaches and a string bag to carry them.

By tasting slivers, they selected chunks of hard yellow cheeses to bring home.

Forgetting her black mood of the morning, Betsy laughed and savored the sight of an ocean of tomatoes. Italian cuisine had so many colors, kinds, and sizes. Oversized rippled dark ones for cooking, ruby red for salads, tiny striped cherry tomatoes, blood red miniatures, elongated purple ones that looked like eggplants. She could take her pick. Another stall was laden with tiny tangerine suns. Next door was a heap of green bananas.

We buy only what fits in this bag, Miriam admonished with a chuckle.

Outside, they whirled around while trying long silken scarfs and finally settled on black wide-brimmed hats as protection against the hot sun. Wearing them, they looked in a mirror hanging in the stall and admired their mysterious appearance.

Then, they bought leather pouches as gifts for their husbands and, dragging two bulging string bags, headed for the restaurant.

The trattoria near the white churches with the green marble inlays was a major attraction for tourists.

Betsy walked past and stood in awe at the bas relief Gates of Paradise. She found herself reaching out to touch the gilded figures that were protected by an iron grille.

Miriam walked slowly up to Betsy, looked at the one-time entrance to the Basilica, and followed with a dash of cold water.

These are just copies. Pollution ruined the real ones, but they were restored. We can see them after lunch when we go inside the main church. Come on. I’m starved.

Betsy lingered.

Copy or real, this is breathtaking.

Miriam walked across plaza to the restaurant and waited, impatient and tempted by the smells of the food, until Betsy came, looking over her shoulder at the alabaster Baptistry.

Despite having a restaurant that was full for every meal, the head waiter still was able to find a table for them.

They sat down and heard a low melodious voice say, It’s very good, thank you. I’m just not very hungry.

Chapter 2

Firenze: Emma

COMING FROM THE RIVERSIDE, Emma Sedgewick walked to the octagonal Baptistry with the Gates to Heaven entrance doors and traced the gilded bronze convoluted bas-relief carvings with her eyes, envying those of past years who could touch the biblical scenes. The new iron gates now kept her at a distance.

The trattoria opposite the churches was a favorite for her and Alan. Somehow, the impermanence of shops and restaurants in the Western world had skipped Firenze. Sitting there, not very hungry, she remembered how Alan had persuaded her to climb to the cupola in the cathedral. The views were as amazing as he had promised, but the climb could only be defined as terrifying. She smiled with sadness, remembering her panic that day. Every step was more difficult than the one before and Alan had held her hand and coaxed her higher and higher.

When they finally reached solid ground, she wasn’t sure if she would shout at him or shed tears of relief. That was the first time they had dined at the restaurant.

Emma squinted at the menu, still printed in tiny letters and remembered what they had eaten then.

She ordered a veal piccata. She hadn’t cooked the dish for a long time and felt regret that she hadn’t cooked it for so many years, even though Alan and Lily had both liked it so much.

One bite and she was transported to the first time he had come to visit her in Florence.

Her husband was dead, but she saw him proposing to her on the Ponte Vecchio. Ignoring the crowds, he had knelt in the middle of the jewelry shop laden medieval bridge and held out the sapphire ring he had secretly bought earlier. She cried, the multitude of tourists applauded, and he grinned.

The hovering waiter, noticing that her food was untouched, asked,

Madam, is your meal all right?

It’s fine, thank you. I’m, um, not very hungry.

Adrift in memories, she hadn’t paid much attention to the two women seated behind her.

Chapter 3

Finding Emma: Miriam

PART OF MIRIAM’S HOSPITAL job had been as Alan’s Sedgewick’s nurse. She had not accompanied him on his many forays out of the hospital. Then, he traveled to visit the children under his care, but he also saw patients in the wards together with her.

She knew that Emma’s parents lived nearby but she didn’t expect to bump into her in the very place where she and Betsy were eating fettuccini.

When she heard Emma’s voice, she knew that Alan’s wife would be in no mood for meeting friends and acquaintances. She guessed that the widow had come to relive a better past in the city where she and her husband had spent so much time. If Emma had created a bubble of reminiscence, she would not want to break it.

Miriam had no wish to cause pain or tears with perfunctory condolences. She wanted Emma to know what she had seen and did not know how to bring it up.

Oh, Emma. What a surprise. You must be visiting your parents.

Oh, yes, Emma answered in a dull voice. How are you. How nice to find you here.

I wanted to come to visit you and Lily, but my flight was the next day.

That’s all right. I don’t remember much about those first days after. How did you find out?

Miriam wrinkled her brow, puzzled.

About what? He told me the day before I left that you three planned to visit your parents.

"No, I mean, if you flew to Italy, how, who, um, I mean about Alan.

Miriam gulped.

I left work early to get ready for my trip. I was standing out on the balcony playing with my cat. I saw it. I saw the whole horrible scene.

Emma could not utter a syllable. She opened and closed her mouth like a gasping fish.

Miriam watched quietly as she seemed to collect her flurry of thoughts.

I didn’t know that there was a witness.

Oh, yes. I screamed but that maniac didn’t pay attention. I called the police. I called the ambulance, but it was too late.

The police treated us horribly. They implied that it would have been possible for Alan to kill himself because only his prints were on the knife.

Miriam was open mouthed. They hinted that maybe I had done it. They fished and dug and scratched away at us.

Appalled, Miriam lowered her voice to a whisper. That’s outrageous. What did you do?

I think that I just disappeared into my bed. I stayed in a deaf and dumb cocoon for around a week. My mother and my daughter combined forces and got me out of it.

Oh, poor thing.

Yeah, I guess. Lily poured ice water all over me. That got me up fast.

Oy. That’s not funny.

Actually, it was.

She smiled in reminiscence of her shock and surprise.

Now I’m trying to put myself back together again.

Is there anything that I can tell you? Is there any way I could help?

I want to find out who did it. I want to know why. I’m sure it had something to do with the company. You work there, don’t you?

I do. I’m one of the hospital nurses assigned to work with the ACRF. I don’t know anything about a threat to Alan.

Something there got him killed.

You sound so convinced. What makes you think so?

The killer left a sign saying ‘Poisoner’. I don’t have to tell you that some people consider THC and CBD to be dangerous drugs. That’s what your company does. It develops medical marijuana. I went to your boss, to Rittenhouse, and he stonewalled me. I have trouble sleeping. I can’t eat. I can’t stop thinking about it.

She pointed at her food.

This isn’t really eating. It’s a trip down memory lane, but believe me, I feel tortured by questions. I don’t see any way that you could help. I’m no detective and neither are you. That’s what I need.

Miriam had been twisting around in her seat to talk with Emma. Now, she invited her to bring her food to the next table to talk more easily.

Emma rose slowly, balancing her filled dish and silverware.

Hmm. Okay. I guess.

Let me introduce you to my friend.

She pointed to Betsy who noticed that the woman Miriam had spoken to was taking stock. Betsy was used to the look of evaluation. She was often mistaken for a teenager. She was petite, dressed in young clothes, and wore her long dark braid hanging over her shoulder.

Please meet Emma Sedgewick.

Betsy nodded. Miriam had told her about a murder that she had witnessed and she had mentioned Emma.

This is Betsy Connolly.

Betsy Connolly Blick.

Sorry. Newlywed Betsy Blick. She studied nursing when I did some advanced courses in New York. We’ve become good email friends.

She pulled at the air with both hands as if producing a magical rabbit.

Betsy isn’t a nurse anymore. Betsy is just what you need. Betsy is a detective.

Emma stared at a woman who looked young enough to be Lily’s classmate and was pretty in a tiny understated way. Betsy hid a smile. The doubt in Emma’s eyes was clear. How could this slip of a thing cope with the lifting and carrying done by a nurse? A detective? No way.

While Emma looked at her to evaluate what Miriam had offered, Betsy scrutinized the woman who had joined them. She saw a thin, haggard woman in her forties with blue eyes marred by red veins