Sharon nodded. “I understand perfectly, Chief. Thank you.”
It was a good thing the blood pressure cuff wasn’t on my arm at that moment. “Well, I don’t understand,” I went on. “I’m worried about your safety, Sharon. If I hadn’t seen that thing exactly at that second . . .”
“But you did, and I’m grateful, Elliot, believe me,” she said. “Now, you have to be reasonable and see things from Chief Dutton’s perspective. All we have is a cinder block with some nasty words on it.”
“I think those words are pretty specific. Someone has a real serious problem with you, and I can’t always be there to pull you away at the right moment.” I ran my hands through my hair, and realized the parka’s hood had done it no good at all.
Dutton stood up. “Well, I’ll get back to the office and see if the officers at the scene came up with anything else,” he said.
My jaw dropped. “That’s it?” I asked. “File a report and be done with it? How am I going to sleep tonight?”
The chief folded his arms and regarded me with a look that did not indicate a high degree of patience. “If you have any other ideas about what we could be doing for you, Elliot . . .”
“As a matter of fact, I do. What about fingerprinting the shopping cart handle?”
Dutton shook his head. “A shopping cart could have a hundred people’s prints on it. And even if we got something, it would only help whoever did this get off with an insanity defense,” he said.
“Insanity?”
“Sure. Anybody who’d go outside today without gloves on has to be crazy.”
SHARON spent the next ten minutes reassuring me that Dutton was doing everything within his power to protect her, and I was just as adamant that a nationwide APB be issued for anyone seen pushing a shopping cart. But after Dutton left, I had to admit that Sharon’s point of view made a little bit more sense.
Just a little, though.
Sharon had patients to see, but I wasn’t ready to leave just yet. I told her I’d stick around awhile, since Comedy Tonight didn’t have to open for another four hours, and she looked like she might want to dissuade me, but thought better of it and put on her white coat to go to work.
I wandered over to the reception area, where Betty was filing some medical records. Early in her employment at the practice she had been told, discreetly, to tone down her wardrobe, thus avoiding her causing cardiac arrest in some of the more fragile male patients (and to be fair, some of the female ones, too). Today she was wearing jeans that weren’t quite sprayed on and a loose-fitting V-neck sweater that made me shudder to think what she’d be wearing if she hadn’t been warned.
“How’s it going, Betty?” I asked. Not original, I’ll grant you, but it’s an effective opener.
“Hanging in there, Elliot,” she said, and wiggled back to her station. To Betty, I am Dr. Simon-Freed’s ex, and that’s about it. Which is fine, since she’s a good ten years younger than me, and I don’t actually spend my time lusting after Betty. Anymore. “How about you?”
“I’m doing better now that Sharon’s back,” I said.
Betty nodded. “We’re all relieved.” Two patients were in the waiting room: a woman in her forties and a lanky teenager utterly absorbed in his handheld video game. They were pretending to be in an elevator together, doing all they could not to make eye contact. The woman read a copy of Entertainment Weekly.
“Still, weird about Mr. Chapman, huh?” I asked.
She didn’t blink. “Yeah. He commits suicide, then he’s alive, and then somebody kills him. That’s a new one.”
I understand the way a doctor’s office operates because I’ve been around one often enough. Betty wasn’t cavalier about patients, and it wasn’t that she didn’t care. But if you didn’t build up at least some protective armor, you wouldn’t last two weeks in this job. People get sick, and some of them die. Those are the rules.
“Funny that you didn’t recognize him when he came in dressed as Tovarich,” I said, thinking out loud.
“Yeah, I thought about that. He had that coat buttoned up over his face, and the bushy eyebrows and glasses. He could have been my grandmother, and I wouldn’t have known it.”
“I hear some people around here knew him better than that,” I said quietly. Didn’t need the patients out front to hear.
Betty looked up at me. “I’m not saying anything about that,” she said.
So there was something going on. Could Russell Chapman have been dating . . . Betty? Nah. Konigsberg had said it definitely wasn’t Betty.
Then again, Konigsberg said it was definitely Sharon. Not the most reliable source of information, that man.
“I’m sorry if I’m saying anything that hits too close to home, Betty,” I told her.
Betty’s eyes widened, and she did the last thing I’d have expected: She laughed.
“Me?” she asked. “You think there was something going on with Russell Chapman and me?”
“I have no idea . . .”
But she was on a roll. “Forget that the guy was, like, ninety years old. You think that I’d go after him just for his money? I don’t like to speak ill of the dead, but—”
“I’m sorry, Betty, I just—”
“—who am I, Anna Nicole Smith? Is that the best you think I can do, Elliot?”
I leaned on one of the filing cabinets, as the salvo she’d fired was hitting me right in the face. “I meant nothing by it, Betty, believe me. I think you can do . . . that is, I think you could have . . . I think anybody who ended up with you would be a very lucky person.”
She grinned on one side of her mouth. “That’s better. No, I had no relationship with Mr. Chapman outside the office. I took his insurance information and told him when the doctor was ready to see him. That was about it.”
“I’m just confused,” I said. “This detective told me Chapman came here just about once a week, whether he had an appointment or not. Just about the time you locked up.”
She nodded. “That’s right. But it’s not my place to say anything else about it.”
I felt my eyebrows come together in the center of my face. “Betty, the man was murdered. If you don’t tell what you know . . .”
“When the police ask, I tell. You are not the police.” The front door opened, and a patient—a short middle-aged guy with a self-satisfied grin—walked over to the window. Betty turned toward him and away from me.
I walked back down the corridor toward the conference room. But before I got there, Toni Westphal walked out of one of the examination rooms and spotted me.
“Elliot,” she said. “You going to take up residence here now?”
“Not if I can help it,” I told her. “I’ve got a theatre to run.”
“Good that Sharon’s back,” Toni said. “We were all worried. I guess you more than anyone.”
“Yeah, it’s a load off my mind, thanks. But Russell Chapman’s daughter seems to still think Sharon had some involvement with him, and she’s mad about it.” I told her our Tale of High Adventure from Edison Avenue, and Toni’s mouth dropped open.
“That’s crazy,” she said.
“Welcome to my world. But Lillian Chapman thinks Sharon had some strange power over Chapman, and undulated her way into his will. Is there any reason she’d think that?”
“Well, I do know that Mr. Chapman used to come by at night sometimes when we were closing up, but I don’t remember him looking for Sharon when he did,” Toni said.
“Why not? Wasn’t she his doctor?”
“Not really, no,” she said. “I was.”
“Then how come Sharon gave him his test results Thursday night?” Sharon hadn’t told me everything about this, which was troubling but understandable. She really respects that whole thing about privacy and the doctor/patient relationship.
“She caught him the day he came in complaining of headaches,” Toni answered. “I was at the hospital that day, so Sharon got him. And once you log in a patient that way, you see him t
hrough to the resolution, unless he specifically asks to see another doctor.”
“He’d been coming back before then?” I was trying to get the chronology straight in my head.
Toni nodded. “Oh, long before. A few months, easy. But he wasn’t seeing Sharon, as far as I know.”
“Who was he seeing?”
Toni raised her eyebrows. “Not me,” she said. “Beyond that, it’s none of my business.” She picked up the patient’s chart from the next examining room. “Excuse me, Elliot,” she said, and knocked, then opened the door and walked inside.
She was almost immediately replaced with Lennon Dickinson, who materialized from the reception area carrying a clipboard. I figured I’d make it a clean sweep and bother him, as well. How often do you get a chance to annoy an entire medical staff in one afternoon without actually being sick?
“Hey, Lennon,” I said. “How’s the unbridled nightlife going?” Lennon, although physically appealing to most living women, was about as exciting a personality as Millard Fill-more.
“Why do you think I have an unbridled nightlife?” he asked. See what I mean?
“Just kidding,” I told him. “Listen, on that subject, I hear that Russell Chapman was . . . involved with someone here at the practice. Know anything about that?”
“I’m not gay, Elliot.”
“I didn’t think it was you,” I said. “I thought maybe one of the women.”
“I don’t get involved in the personal lives of the staff,” Lennon said. He started heading for another exam room.
“You haven’t heard anything?” I figured I’d press the point.
“No.” A man of few letters.
“It’s been a blast riffing with you, you maniac,” I told him as he opened the exam room door.
“What?”
I turned to go back toward the waiting room, but another examination room door opened, and Sharon walked out, with Grace the nurse, who was taking notes on a clipboard about the patient they had just seen together. The patient, I assumed, was getting dressed and ready to leave inside the exam room.
“Elliot.” Sharon smiled, and Grace looked up from her writing to see me as they approached. “You’re still here.”
“Am I?” I looked around. “I can’t seem to find myself anywhere.” The Elliot Freed version of charm. It’s an acquired taste.
Luckily, Sharon had acquired it a while back, and she chuckled. She stopped walking, and so did Grace. “What have you been up to?” she asked.
“Just being my usual helpful self,” I said.
“Oh, dear. Did you break anything big?”
“That’s very amusing, honey. I’m starting to remember why I divorced you. Or was it why you divorced me?” I reached over and gave her a hug. Lately, I’d been just a little more clingy than usual.
“Please, Elliot. Not in front of the staff.” Sharon nodded her head at Grace, who smiled. “You don’t want to give them ideas.”
“Yeah,” Grace agreed. “I don’t want to think of you as a person, just as a doctor.”
“I’m sorry, Grace,” I said. “She’s always been like that. But I know you’re a woman with a full, full life. How’s Mike?”
She grinned. “My husband’s fine, Elliot. So are the kids. Mary started college in September. And she’s my youngest!”
I expressed the requisite amazement that time had, indeed, passed since the turn of the millennium, and we chatted for a few minutes about families and acquaintances. But I was looking for a way to grill Grace on the mysterious affair between Russell Chapman and . . . somebody. Although she was a trusted nurse, Grace was also the most notorious gossip in the office, and would know everything about everybody. There just didn’t seem to be a natural opening for the question, especially with Sharon present.
But then, my ex-wife allowed for just such an opportunity when she ducked into another exam room and let Grace know she wasn’t needed for this exam. Grace started to make her way back to the office, where Betty would probably have everything completely under control. Grace, in other words, wasn’t busy.
“Hey, Grace,” I began, with as original an opening as I could muster, “I need to ask you a question.”
“I’m married, Elliot.” She smiled.
“Not that kind of a question.” I can play along with a joke—when it’s convenient. “I need some inside info, and you’re the person to ask.”
Grace saw the expression on my face and wrinkled her forehead, surprised. “I think the break room is open,” she said. “Come with me.”
I followed her into the small break room, where a coffee-maker, microwave oven, tiny refrigerator, and a table and chairs indicated this was not really what you’d call a medical procedure area. It was about as warm and cozy as the delousing area at a small prison, but it served its purpose.
She took a cup of coffee from the pot and offered me one, which I accepted. Today, anything warm was worth exploring to the fullest. We sat in the cold chairs and leaned our elbows on the Formica tabletop.
“What’s our topic today?” Grace asked.
“Russell Chapman,” I started.
“The poor man’s dead,” she answered. “Isn’t that enough?”
“Not when he was murdered, and there are people who think Sharon might have been involved,” I said. “There are all sorts of rumors flying around, and I’m willing to bet you know which ones are true and which ones aren’t.”
“What rumors?” The tone was noncommittal.
“First of all, there was a ridiculous suggestion that Chapman was having an affair with Sharon, and had left her money in his will to build a children’s clinic.” I watched closely for the reaction.
It came in the form of a raucous laugh. “Sharon?” she said. “Somebody thinks Russell Chapman was having an affair with Sharon?”
I nodded. “I’m not saying I believe it; I’m saying it was suggested.”
Grace shook her head. “I’m surprised at you, Elliot. You should know your ex-wife better than that.”
“I do. But I needed to hear it from you.”
“Well, now you’ve heard it. Are we done?” Grace started to stand up.
“No,” I said. “Just a second.”
She sat back down. “Okay. No, there was never any suggestion I heard about that we’d be getting some of Chapman’s money if he died. I can’t imagine Sharon would even accept it if it were offered.”
I nodded. “She wouldn’t. But someone here was involved with Chapman, at least as more than a patient. A private detective saw them go to a hotel together, and saw Chapman drop the woman off at Sharon’s house.”
Grace’s eyes widened a little. “A private detective?” she asked.
“Yeah. What do you know?”
She took a moment to think, seemingly about how much she could tell without betraying a serious confidence. “There was someone here who saw Mr. Chapman about once a week or so,” she said. “I can’t say how intense it got, but I know it was a regular thing. Now, what they’d be doing at Sharon’s house, I have no idea.”
I leaned forward. “You know I wouldn’t push it if this weren’t unbelievably important, but I have to ask, Grace: Who was it?”
“Don’t ask me that, Elliot.”
“I’m asking.”
Grace’s expression spoke of serious pain; she loves to talk, but hates not being trustworthy. She considered her words very carefully. “If I were forced to name names,” she said, “I’d have to say it was Toni Westphal.”
29
The difference between life and the movies is that a script
has to make sense, and life doesn’t.
—JOSEPH L. MANKIEWICZ (SCREENWRITER, All About Eve)
WEDNESDAY
“IT’S all tied together,” said Sandy Arnstein.
Sandy, the electrician Dad had called to deal with the electrical problem at Comedy Tonight—which had resulted in three flickers and two outright blown fuses the night before—was a guy who had been an elec
trician since roughly ten minutes after Ben Franklin came in with the kite. He was standing in the doorway to the theatre’s basement, holding a pair of wire cutters and trying (in vain) to explain himself to me in a way that my techno-challenged brain could somehow understand.
“What’s all tied together?” I asked for the fifth time.
“The problems with the plumbing and the electricity,” Sandy answered. “One causes the other, which causes the first one again. It’ll keep up this way until someone breaks the cycle.”
“So break it,” I suggested.
“You can’t,” Sandy said, with a tone that indicated a third grader would have grasped this by now. “If I break it now, it’ll just come back in the plumbing.” I would have sworn I saw Jerry Lewis play this guy in a movie once.
I rubbed my eyes with my thumb and forefinger, and contemplated putting a sign on the front door that read BEST offer. “So what needs to be done, and how many banks do I have to rob to pay for it?” I asked.
Sandy didn’t so much as smile. It was possible I really would have to go into a life of crime, after all. “I think you need a whole new electrical service, and it’s possible I’ll have to rewire a good portion of your theatre.”
“You can’t kill me with words, Sandy,” I told him. “Just tell me how much time and how much money.”
“Time? Impossible to say—I have to see how much wiring is burned out already. Money?” Sandy reached into a pocket in his overalls and pulled out a calculator, on which he started punching buttons. It took considerably longer to reach a sum than I would have preferred. “About six thousand dollars.”
“I was wrong. You can kill me with words.”
Dad, who had been leaning on the wall next to the men’s room door, walked over. “Come on, Sandy,” he said. “Give him the family discount.”
“That is the family discount, Art,” he said.
“Pretend it’s your family.”
Sandy pursed his lips, stared at my father for a moment, and said, “Lemme check.” Then he walked back down the basement stairs.
A Night at the Operation Page 18
