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Retired Richmond homicide detective Michaela McPherson tapped her pencil impatiently against her iPad as she peered over her reading glasses at her friend, Dorothy Borghese. Dorothy sat ramrod straight in an overstuffed brocade chair in Michaela’s living room sipping tea, her pinkie finger raised elegantly she rattled on and on about a well-known Richmond dentist who was Richmond’s claim to fame as the “dentist to the stars.”
Mic yawned at the drone of Dottie’s well-modulated chatter as she shared everything she knew about the not-so-mysterious Dr. Nicholas Smirkowitz, Richmond’s premier cosmetic dentist. She tried to focus on the conversation as her eyes moved toward the double front windows in her living room where eight inches of freshly fallen snow dominated the small front yard of her Fan District home. It was a wet, heavy snow, and the massive pine tree in her front yard sagged under the weight.
“Boy, would you look at that snow. I thought we had our last storm on Valentine’s Day,” she said. “I was hoping so, anyway.”
Dottie pursed her brightly colored lips. "Really, Michaela, are you even listening to me?" Mic could tell she had annoyed her by the impatience in her voice. "You were much more respectful when you were a real police officer, and I needed help.”
Michaela rolled her eyes as Dottie continued. “This is important. I think something has happened to the poor girl.”
Mic snapped back to attention when she heard the alarm in Dottie's voice. She did her best to look apologetic. “Sorry, Dottie, I have a bunch of stuff in my head, and I guess my mind wandered.”
Dottie folded her hands tightly in her lap and sniffed her voice frosty as the outside air. "Well, perhaps I should come back when you're not so busy and can make some time for an old friend." She stood to leave, obviously peeved.
"No, Dottie, really. You've got my attention, I promise,” she said, hoping her good friend would sit back down.
Dottie hesitated a moment. “Well, okay, since you insist.”
Michaela smiled to herself and hoped Dottie didn’t see her. After all, Dottie was an aristocrat. She was descended from an Italian count who traced their family roots back to Papal Rome in the 1700s. Dottie was, in fact, an Italian Countess by marriage and had her own line of royal blood flowing through her veins. She looked and acted every bit the part with her silver hair styled in a lovely updo and perfectly painted nails. Her outfit was impeccable and expensive. She sported a suede skirt, cashmere sweater, and expensive leather and wool-lined snow boots. A former Olympic swimmer, Dottie at age eighty-two was in great shape. She looked as though she belonged at someone’s country estate outside of Rome or a country chateau in Provence.
Mic sighed and sucked it up, willing herself to listen. “Okay now, Dottie, what were you saying about the dentist? You’re talking about Dr. Dude, right?”
Dottie gave her a broad smile and continued eagerly. “Yes. Dr. Dude, Nicholas Smirkowitz, the man who had the high profile divorce a couple of years ago.”
Mic nodded. “Yeah, I know him. The one who is always on TV. I see his mug every night after the late news. I’ve never liked him, but go on.”
“I admit it. I'm a nosey old lady. But you know I have enjoyed a pretty successful career as an armchair sleuth - not to mention our joint ventures in crime solving. Yesterday I was having lunch at the Jefferson with my good friend Margaret, and she mentioned her granddaughter, Allison, had finished dental hygienist school at VCU and had an appointment with Dr. Dude for a job. Margaret was worried that Allison would work for such a ‘shyster’ and tried to discourage her from going to the interview. In fact, Margaret was frightened and uncomfortable about the whole thing.”
Michaela knew Margaret Massie, Dottie’s old Virginia blueblood friend. “Frightened? Why would Margaret be frightened of a dentist?”
Dorothy raised her shoulders and sat up even straighter. “Allison had a friend who told her that young women disappear from Dr. Dude’s office and never return.”
Michaela laughed. “Disappear? People just don’t disappear. There must be an explanation.”
Dottie continued, nonplussed with Mic’s matter-of-fact position. “I agree, but I told Margaret that every time I see Dr. Dude, he has an entirely new dental staff, and Margaret became more upset.” She paused for a moment. “Have you noticed that he has quite a turnover in his staff?”
Mic shook her head. “I wouldn’t know. I don’t go to him anymore. I think he’s a creep and a slime ball.” She paused and noticed the concern on Dottie’s face. “Um, so, he’s your dentist?”
Dottie nodded. "He’s everybody’s dentist, or at least everybody who is anybody.” She sniffed. “He’s Richmond’s number one dentist, and he’s famous.”
Michaela interrupted her. “Not everyone. I haven’t seen him for five years. I quit going to him a while back. He’s not my dentist.”
Dottie ignored her and continued. “I’ve been seeing him forever. You know, I go there regularly, at least every six months, and every time I go, I hardly recognize a face in the office. Now, they all seem to come from foreign countries except for that mean, horrible bookkeeper and office manager. She’s been there forever.”
She paused, toyed with a strand of silver hair that had become loose and continued. “The rest of the staff are mostly Russian or South American, I think.” Dottie wrinkled her forehead. “I’m not sure of the accents.”
Mic pursed her lips but said nothing. “Oh, yeah, the bookkeeper. Is that the woman named Tilda? She’s pretty awful. I had a bill insurance didn’t cover and she called me and was quite rude. I said something to Dr. Smirkowitz, but I see she’s still there.”
“Yes, she’s definitely still there. I think she’s the one who runs everybody off.” Dottie kept babbling away, her hands waving in the air, her startling blue eyes flashed with emotion. She was truly in a twitter about the changes in Dr. Dude’s office.
“I see Dr. Dude’s picture all over town and he’s on TV too,” Mic remarked. “Does he still think he’s Jimmy Buffett and wear the parrot shirts in his office?”
Dottie nodded, “Yes, he does. He’s on all of the billboards on Interstate 95 with his picture and the words “Dentist to the Stars.”
Mic groaned and slammed down her coffee mug. “As I said, he’s a loser. Margaret’s probably right. Her granddaughter shouldn’t work there.”
Dottie ignored her and droned on, her hands waving excitedly. “Everybody calls him Dr. Dude because he’s such a snappy dresser. Looks like GQ, even in his dental whites.”
Mic shrugged and raised her eyebrows, “He’s all over the place, slinking around with his patients. He gives me the willies, the way he skulks around. That’s why I don’t go there anymore... that and his horrible bookkeeper.”
Dottie’s voice was indignant. “He’s a good dentist. I’ve had hundreds of compliments on my veneers! He does great work, and he never gets in my face.”
Mic laughed. “Dottie, you’re hardly a sweet young thing anymore. In fact, were you ever sweet?”
Dottie ignored Mic’s jab on her age and continued. “Dr. Dude has movie stars for patients. They come to Richmond, and he works on their teeth. Apparently, he doesn’t give them the creeps.” She shot Mic a dirty look. “And, as a matter of fact, he did bother me a few years ago, but now I’m pretty used to him. I think it’s just his way.”
Mic stared at her, as she remembered a story she’d heard about the dentist some years ago. Back when she’d worked vice, there’d been speculation that he’d crossed sexual boundaries with some of his staff. If she remembered correctly, the complaint was unfounded. Dr. Dude had been around for a long time, and his practice was booming.
“So you like him,” Mic’s voice was sharp.
Dottie nodded, her gold bracelets banging as she waved her enthusiasm, "Yes, I do. He’s a good dentist. He does turn over a lot of staff, but he considers himself an artist, or at least that’s what he told me one day.”
Mic stared as her, “He told you he thinks he’s an artist? What’s that supposed to mean?”
Dottie nodded. “Yes, he said he changes the way people look and makes them more attractive, more beautiful. He considers himself an artist.”
Mic shrugged her shoulders. “I rest my case. He’s an idiot. He’s a dentist for God’s sake. A dentist and nothing else. In fact, he’s kinda like a mechanic the way I see it. He fixes teeth.”
Dottie gritted her teeth and gave her a stubborn glare. “I think he’s more of an artist than a mechanic. Mechanics fix your car.”
“Yeah, and Dr. Dude fixes your teeth. What’s the difference?”
“I think he’s an artist, so he’s probably temperamental—you know like a surgeon—and that’s why he keeps losing staff.” She paused for a moment and looked out the window. “He probably throws things and has hissy fits, like a lot of surgeons do.”
Mic smiled at her and shook her head. “Do you know his current staff?”
Dottie shook her head. “No, but I used to love his former dental hygienist, and she’s the reason I kept going back, but now she’s gone." She paused for a moment as her smart phone lying on Mic’s glass-top coffee table vibrated and signaled a new text message.
“Are you gonna check that?” Mic asked, eyeing the phone.
Dorothy smoothed her updo and removed a pearl earring as she massaged her earlobe. “In a minute, hold your water; I’m in the middle of talking to you. I have a rule that a cell phone never interrupts a real conversation.”
Mic shrugged her shoulders, and her eyes returned to the front window. She got up, walked across the living room, and looked outside. It was a winter wonderland. The snow contained fine particles of ice that pinged the window as it fell. It looked as though another inch had fallen.
“It’s sleeting out there. The roads are gonna be a mess,” she told Dottie.
Dottie turned and stared out of the window. “Yes, it’s a mess. If I need to, I’ll have Henry pick me up. Anyway, as I was saying, the old dental hygienist was great. She really knew her stuff, and I spent most of my appointment time with her.”
“So what happened? Did she leave?” Mic didn’t much care. She was becoming bored with the conversation.
Dottie ignored her question. “For me, it’s generally a quick in and out with Dr. Dude. He comes in, peeks in my mouth and says stuff like, ‘Hello, my dear, how are we today?”
Michaela frowned. “How are we? What does that mean? Doesn’t he know how he is? I hate stupid talk like that. It’s like talking to a five-year-old kid. That’s just crap.”
Dottie continued, non-plussed. “Sometimes he says, ‘Your x-rays look good for your age.’ Now that angers me.” Dottie raised her eyebrows in contempt.
Mic laughed. “I’m sure that did make you mad, Dottie. You still think you’re forty.”
Dottie shot her a dirty look and said, “I’m in better shape than most forty-year-olds. Most of the time Dr. Dude says something like, ‘Hello Countess, you need this and that done, and it will cost somewhere around $10,000.’” Dottie sniffed with distain. “He is a bit more expensive than anyone else.”
Mic nodded. “No kidding. Guy’s a rip-off. Where'd your hygienist friend go? Did she leave or did you ever hear anything about her?”
Dottie shrugged her shoulders. "I’ve no idea. I asked everyone where she went last time I was there, and they said they didn't know—just that one day she didn't show up for work. I thought that was pretty strange because of all the staff in that practice, she was the oldest and seemed to be the most responsible, at least of the clinical people."
"Oldest? What does that mean? I've never seen anybody in there over thirty— the few times I’ve been there. I always thought that was pretty strange, particularly in view of his media profile and that scandalous divorce.”
Dottie nodded and said, “That was a nasty bit of business. You know, Mic, I was concerned about my hygienist friend, so I called the state agency that manages her license and according to them, she still lives here in Chesterfield. The next time I went in, I asked Dr. Dude himself where she was and guess what he told me?"
"I can hardly wait to hear,” Mic said, a touch of sarcasm in her voice. “But first of all, did he have on his parrot shirt and was Jimmy Buffett playing in the background?"
Dottie gave a quick laugh. “Of course, he had on his parrot shirt, and he sported a spray-on tan. I have never seen him without a parrot shirt or some island wear, rope bracelets, shell necklaces and stuff like that. Margaritaville radio was streaming through the speakers."
Mic shook her head in disgust. “I couldn’t stand the guy. Isn’t he a bigwig in that Holy Roller church in the west end?”
Dottie nodded. “He is. I think he paid for the new wing or something like that.”
Mic was thoughtful. Dude was just plain gross and icky and suspicious. "So, what did he say about the dental hygienist?"
Dottie raised her eyebrows, “He said she called him up one day and told him she was in North Dakota and that she had gotten married. Said she wouldn’t be back. I think that’s nonsense. Do you believe it?" Dottie glared at Mic.
Mic considered the story for a moment. "So... she’s supposedly in Chesterfield, but she lives in North Dakota. I guess she’s not practicing as a dental hygienist.”
“Probably not, but what do you think?”
Mic turned away from the window and returned to her chair. “Well, I don't know. I guess it’s possible, but it sounds strange. Did you say anything about it to the other dental technicians or the office staff?"
“Yes, I did. None of them believed the story. None of them thought she went to North Dakota. One of them said she wouldn’t have gotten married because she didn’t like men. In fact, she had a girlfriend, and they were getting married in D.C. as soon as they could.”
Michaela was quiet. Now that was a bit suspicious. “She was gay? Wow. That puts a new light on things.”
Dottie nodded. “Yes, that’s what they said. She was a beautiful girl, though.”
Mic’s detective instinct flared. “So, Dottie, you’ve got my attention. Let’s go over this again. You know Dr. Dude, and he’s your dentist, right?” she questioned in a patient voice.
Dorothy arched her sculpted, patrician eyebrows and gave Mic the haughty look she’d honed to perfection. “Yes, Michaela, yes, I know Dr. Dude. His real name is Nicholas Smirkowitz. I just told you that, and by the way, now who’s treating who like a five-year-old?” she asked in an icy voice.
Michaela smiled. “Come on, Dottie, you know I’m just getting my facts straight. Cut me a break.”
Dottie glared at her. “You are apparently the only person in town who doesn’t go to him. He has his office over on Monument, and he charges an arm and a leg for everything he does.”
Mic shrugged her shoulders. “Yeah. We already established that. All dentists cost a fortune. He’s not the only one, I promise you.” She dismissed that as unimportant. “I need to go into the kitchen for a second. I’ll be right back.”
Mic rose from her chair and went into her kitchen where a beef stew simmered gently in a stainless steel Dutch oven.
The luscious smell permeated the dining room and living room. Dottie’s stomach grumbled with hunger. “Mmm, that smells divine, Michaela. Whatever are you cooking?” Dottie hollered from the other room.
“What? Come in here,” Mic called out.
Dottie made her way into Michaela’s beautifully sedate, newly remodeled kitchen and commented, “I just love this kitchen, Michaela. The remodel is beautiful.”
“What do you like best, Dottie?”
Dottie’s eyes surveyed the kitchen. A fifteen-foot wall of wooden hand-rubbed cherry cabinets, lined the long wall in the kitchen. Black polished granite glistened on base counters, and a stained glass Tiffany fixture surrounded by polished copper and antique pots and pans hung from the ceiling.
“Well, I think I like everything the same, but particularly what’s cooking on the stove,” Dottie smiled.
Mic grinned at her. “Okay, enough about Dr. Dude and his disappearing dental technicians,” Mic said, still stirring the pot. “This Irish stew is special, a new recipe I just tried. I want to try it out it at Biddy’s this weekend, and I need a taste-tester.”
Dottie peered into the stainless-steel Dutch oven and sniffed. “Wonderful. I’m your girl,” she said and smiled happily. “It looks great. Irish stew, you say?”
Mic smiled broadly. “Yeah, but not just any Irish stew. This is an Irish stew made with Guinness. I am serving it at Biddy’s on St. Patrick’s Day, but first I’m testing it in a few weeks at Shamrock the Rock. It’s a new recipe for me but an old one from my father’s recipe books. He served it in his pub for eons in Dublin.” She ladled a serving for Dottie, who accepted it graciously.
“So I’m the guinea pig, but that’s okay. Smells divine. If it’s as good as your other stews, it’ll be a winner.”
Michaela smiled and turned back to the stove and served herself a generous portion. “I also made some brown soda bread. It’s great with the stew,” she said, as she handed Dottie the ceramic basket full of piping hot bread.
Dottie carried her stew and the basket of bread toward the massive blond oak claw foot table adjacent to the bay window in Michaela’s kitchen. “By the way, Michaela, how are things down at Biddy McPherson’s? Did you get your problems with the waitstaff worked out?”
Dottie loved to hear Mic’s restaurant stories and gossip about the array of young waiters and waitresses who provided great entertainment. Often Michaela was ready to pull out her Glock and shoot them a few times every day, which only added to the drama of the storytelling.
Mic groaned. “I’d rather chase, or be chased by two murderers and a mugger, than handle disputes between my waitresses. Honest to God, they make me crazy,” she sighed as she joined Dottie at the kitchen table, a bowl of stew in one hand and a wooden bowl filled with a green salad. She sat the salad next to the homemade Irish soda bread.
Dottie laughed. “Yes, I’m sure, but I know you love mediating. You should give yourself a pat on the back. You haven’t killed any of them yet.”
“Yet. Yet is the important word in that sentence,” Mic said as she poured a glass of Virginia Cabernet for them.