by Diana Kirk
"What time is?" Krastowitcz's whisper broke into her thoughts. "My watch stopped."
"Eight forty-five," she said, shaken by his intrusion into her memories. "The service starts in fifteen minutes." Milton looked so life-like. The last few days had taken on a nightmarish quality, as if none of this was real. She waited for Milton to stop the kidding around and come to life.
But that wouldn't happen. Andrea glanced around the room. Only a few people attended, a small assortment of students, residents, and old-time faculty who'd worked with Milton. Neither Peter nor anyone else involved in this investigation was anywhere in sight.
"Pretty sad," Krastowitcz said. "Spend your whole freaking life working for someone else, then die alone."
"We all die alone, Gary. Those who are left to mourn make the difference. It seems Milton had so few who really cared." Andrea caught her breath. "I guess I loved him as much as any-one and from a distance. It breaks my--"
Krastowitcz wrapped a massive arm around her shoulders and pulled her close. Why did this gesture warm her?
"It'll be over in a few minutes. Just hold on."
"I will." She leaned into him and sighed. "Sometimes the futility of death gets me." She was so tired. Andrea scanned the darkened room. Her eyes watered from fatigue. Then she saw him.
"Look." She sat upright. "There's Peter."
Peter Mueller was slowly easing himself into one of the middle chairs. Disheveled and trembling, his reddened eyes gave him away. Head down, his gaze searched around until it met hers. Intense hatred flowed from his eyes. Fear replaced her sorrow, and Andrea reeled from the exchange.
For the first time, she realized she might be in danger. He really hated her. Krastowitcz must have noticed too; he tightened his grip on her shoulder and leaned close. "He's the one identified as Grafton's lover."
"What?" She turned and met his gaze.
"Remember the pictures?" He leaned closer. The heat from his arm burned through her dress.
"Yes."
"I took them to a local establishment."
"Where?" She gazed around the room. Could anyone hear their conversation?
"Joey's place. I'm sure you've never been there."
She shrugged. "I've never been anywhere, but that's beside the point."
"An informant identified Peter and Grafton as lovers. That's all there is to it."
Her breath left her body and she struggled to find it. "Lovers?"
"According to the informant."
"I can't believe that." Andrea covered her face with her hands. "This isn't happening. Milton never once acted as though he was involved with Peter or anyone else. For that matter, neither did Peter. They were always so professional. Except that. . .."
"What?" He leaned his ear toward her lips.
"Peter tends to be a little on the hysterical side. Although no one ever pays any attention to him."
Krastowitcz looked around the room again.
"Where's Hardwyn?"
"He won't be coming. He relieved me of duty, took over my service at the--"
"Why?"
Andrea gazed ahead. Several people were staring in their direction. She got up and motioned for Krastowitcz to follow her to the back of the room.
Seated in the corner, they resumed their whispers. "It's not what you think. He's giving me some time–a few days off to get some rest. As of ten o'clock today, when I meet with him, I'm officially on vacation."
"What are you going to do?"
"Don't know. I thought about spending some time in South Dakota, but until this mess about Milton is cleared up, I'll stick around."
"No." Krastowitcz shook his head. "I mean, what are you talking to Hardwyn about?"
"I don't know. My faculty appointment, probably."
"Faculty appointment?"
"There was a problem with it before Milton died. But everything will work out, now."
"What was the problem?"
"Milton thought I didn't have enough training, although I find that odd." She wrung her hands together. "He knew exactly what my training was and never mentioned I needed additional work. Hardwyn said he'd take care of it. He must have pulled some strings somewhere, so the appointment will go through and I can start teaching."
"So, who takes care of your patients while you're on vacation?"
"Hardwyn."
"Can he do that?"
She stared at him in disbelief. "He's the Dean. He can do anything he wants--within reason."
"Yeah, but how long since he's touched a patient?"
She smiled. "He keeps up with medicine. He takes a month of attending duty every year. He's a surgeon by training, and from what I've heard, a very good one. I watched him once--very impressive. He's considered one of the most fastidious technicians around."
"What do you mean?" Krastowticz flipped through his notes and pulled out a pen.
"You know. Clean. Neat, almost to the point of quirky. All the organs carefully in place."
"I thought all doctors were that way."
"If they were, there wouldn't be anything called malpractice, would there?"
Krastowitcz laughed. "I guess not. So, tell me about you and this McNaughton?"
"What?" She stiffened. Who'd been talking to him? It was none of his business. "Here?"
"Why not? This is as good a place as any."
She stared at him. His gaze was steady and trusting. Was he merely gathering information? "There's nothing much to tell. We were involved for a while during his internship year. It didn't work out. That's about all there is. There's an old saying: `Don't shit where you eat.'"
"Yeah."
She slid down in her seat and buried her head in her hands. "I'm so tired of all of this."
"Wait a minute," Krastowitcz said. "Who's talking? What happened to the woman ready to do battle with me a couple of nights ago?" He slid his hand across her back and rubbed.
"She's just tired, sad and--" Andrea smiled weakly. "I'll be fine once this mess is over with."
"Andrea?" His hand stopped and he pulled it away.
"Yes?"
"I know this isn't the place, but let's try dinner once more. You can even pay your half."
A chauvinist trying to compromise. The thought and his sincerity brought a smile to her face. "Sounds great. I'll even pay for yours."
"Hey, I'm not ready to go that far. I only take your bullshit in small doses."
A sarcastic retort bubbled in Andrea's throat, but a stranger in a dark suit stepped up to the podium.
"Good morning ladies and gentlemen. Thank you for coming to pay your respects to Milton Grafton."
"The funeral director?" Andrea asked. Milton didn't even have a friend to give his eulogy? She should have done it, but what did she know about the man? Nothing, really. Especially in light of Krastowitcz's latest revelation. All she knew about Milton was work-related. He was a fantastic clinician, researcher, and teacher. She hadn't known about his homosexuality or his taste in pictures. There must be more she didn't know. Even if she wasn't the one to sing his praises, why the funeral director? It was so degrading, almost as if Milton was a transient. Someone who hadn't really existed, someone who hadn't devoted his whole life to medicine and the well-being of others. Why couldn't Peter have done it? Especially if he loved Milton as much as he professed. God, she wanted this over.
". . . and we must remember his many professional accomplishments at Dorlynd University. His research has marked him as one who unselfishly gave for others. For this reason, we shall not forget Milton Grafton.
"You may now come up to view Dr. Grafton before he is taken to his final resting place in Forest Lawn Cemetery. For those wishing to accompany him, we will leave at nine forty-five."
Andrea, Krastowitcz directly behind, slowly approached the casket. Even in death Milton was a marvel. He looked like he was sleeping, even up close. Morticians managed to do in death what physicians couldn't do in reality--give the illusion of life.
"I'll give y
ou a ride back to the hospital." Krastowitcz dangled his keys.
"No thanks, Gary. I brought my car. Besides, I've got to meet the Dean. I'll fill you in on it tonight."
"Around five? Meet me at headquarters?"
She nodded. A dark figure crouched in the back of the mortuary. Father Jamison!
Slumped in the seat, he was hard to see. Of course, he was Milton's friend! Why hadn't he given the eulogy?
"Andrea? Andrea?"
"I, ah--sure, Gary. Why not? I won't be on rounds or anything."
"What's the matter?"
She leaned in confidentially. "Look over my shoulder. See that priest back there?"
Acknowledging her request, Krastowitcz turned his head. "Yeah?"
"Well, he's Milton's friend." Her breathless voice was barely audible.
"Was."
"Okay, was a friend of Milton." She punched him in the arm. "Don't make me lose my train of thought. He's also Suzanne's psychology teacher and, according to her, a little on the strange side."
"What do you mean?"
"He watches her all the time. Stares at her. She told me she expects him to start drooling any time she's around."
"That's understandable. I caught myself mid-drool first time I met her, too. Can't imagine facing that in class several times a week."
"God! You're all alike. There's no hope for the male of the species. Now listen, I'm serious. I think this is important."
"Okay. Sorry."
"I think you should have a talk with him and find out what his connection to Milton was." She glanced at her watch. "I've got to go, or I'll be late."
"Okay. I'll check out this Jamison character. Good luck with Hardwyn," he called to her.
"Good. See you at five."
THE DEAN'S office always made Andrea feel out of place. All woody and carpeted, with a pungent leather-smell that bore no resemblance to her familiar clinical surroundings. Even the secretaries spoke in hushed whispers, and everything moved at a slower pace here.
So academic. So--so "ivory tower." Not the hurried, pressure-cooker atmosphere of the hospital. Not life or death. Just a stagnant state of being.
"Hey, Teresa," she whispered. "I have a ten o'clock appointment with Dr. Hardwyn. Is he in?"
"Yes, Dr. Pearson. He's expecting you, go right in."
"Thanks." She knocked softly on his door and entered at his call.
Hardwyn looked up. "Andrea." He smiled broadly. "Please, sit down."
"Thank you." So what was this all about?
He shoved aside the stack of papers he'd been working on. "I'm sorry for the surprise this morning, but I wanted to make things a little easier for you. I love the clinical aspects of medicine, there's something exhilarating about rounds I miss. I enjoyed it. I hope you don't mind."
"No, that's all--"
"I should've called to let you know what I was doing." He lowered his voice. "How were the services? I'm sorry I couldn't make it."
"Really, Dr. Hardwyn. It's all right. I appreciate all your help." Andrea leaned forward and pulled a caramel from his candy dish. Stress made her hungry.
"The services?"
"Very sad. There weren't very many people there. I just can't imagine all this happening. I was wondering--" She opened and closed her purse, gazing everywhere but in his eyes.
"What, Andrea?"
Her gaze met his. "Did you know Milton was homosexual?"
Hardwyn looked away, reached for the papers, and shuffled through them. "I suspected, but Milton never really said and it wasn't my business." He glanced up and caught her gaze. "Why do you ask?"
"The police think an angry lover may have murdered him."
He smiled. "What do you think?"
"I don't know." She reached for another caramel. "He seemed to have so many enemies. Peter was his lover."
"No." He put down his pen, turned, and stared at the wall.
"Someone identified him from one of Milton's photographs."
He turned back to her. "Do the police suspect him?"
"I don't know, but I think so. Peter and Milton must've quarreled. Peter's been acting so strange lately. He was out of control when I visited the laboratory yesterday."
Hardwyn stood, moved around to where Andrea sat, and leaned against the desk. "You were there?"
"Yes, looking for the journal."
"What journal?"
"Dr. Grafton's. It may have some answers. You know he wrote everything down. I don't know. Maybe there's a note that'll tell us who he was?" She covered her face with her hands. "Sergeant Krastowitcz asked me to look for it." She clasped her hands in her lap and gazed straight into his eyes. "I hate to change the subject, but--"
"What, Andrea?"
"I was wondering if you had any information about my faculty appointment?" She knew her timing was awkward, but there would never be a better chance than now, when she had the Dean's full attention.
"Why?"
"Would it be possible, now, to see the letter Milton wrote to you concerning my appointment?"
He stood straight and glanced around the room. "I don't see why that would be a problem."
Hardwyn went toward his file cabinets lining one entire side of the room. Opening the second drawer, he searched through the files and pulled out a file marked `pending'. "Let's see. Here's your faculty application."
He flipped through the papers. "Wait a minute--what the?--I can't find Milton's letter."
"What?"
"It's gone."
"How could that--?"
"I'm sure it's been misfiled." He put the file back in the drawer. "Don't worry. I'll have Teresa look for it."
"What now?"
"What do you mean?"
"With my faculty appointment. I was hoping to start July first. That's next week."
"Everything's on hold--you know that. Now that Milton is gone, I'll present your application to the executive committee. Once it's approved, it'll go to the Dorlynd Promotion Board and on to the president for signing."
"Sounds like a long time."
"Not too long. Three months at the most."
Her heavy heart sank in her chest. "Three months! What do I live on until then?"
"Don't worry about funds. We'll continue your present con-tract as Chief Resident until the faculty appointment goes through." He moved around and took her hands in his. "Now, stop worrying. Do you hear me?"
Relieved, she took a deep breath. Today, for the first time in weeks, her lungs felt good. "Yes. I can't thank you enough, Dr. Hardwyn. You've been too kind. First, helping with rounds, now, this. I can never repay you."
"Of course you can," he said, returning to his chair. "Now, you go home and get some rest."
Yes. That's what she'd do. Go home and sleep it off, like the whole thing had been a bad dream. The Dean was right. She'd been traumatized more than she realized by what'd happened to Milton. Sleep would take care of everything. But first she'd clear up a few things in her office, then meet Krastowitcz for dinner. She'd make some excuse to leave early, go home, and snuggle up with a good non-medical book.
"HELLO, TRENT?" Suzanne tucked the phone under her chin and applied red polish to her toes. "I'm glad I caught you."
"What's up?"
"I miss you." She missed and dribbled polish down her leg.
"Are you crazy? We just said good morning about three hours ago."
"I know. But, I already miss being next to you."
"Speaking of that," Trenton said with a grin she could visualize through the phone. "How about tonight?"
"Mmmm, love to, but I promised Andrea we'd have supper and have a good old girl-talk session." She put down the polish and curled up on her bed.
"Why? You two live together don't you?"
"Sure, Sergeant. But, if you'll kindly remember, I've spent the last three nights with you and haven't even told Andrea what's going on."
"So why does she need to know? Is she your mother?"
"Don't get testy. She's been my b
est friend ever since we were children. She's more like a sister than a friend and I want to share my good luck with her."
"What good luck?"
Suzanne giggled. "Meeting you, silly."
"You're not sharing me with anybody, sweetheart. I'm all yours."
She tucked her knees under her chin. "Tell you what, if I can cut the evening short, I'll make it up to you. That is, if you can take it."
"Try me. I'll show you what I can take."
"I've already tried and I want more. Listen, Trent, if I can't get away, I'll see you tomorrow. Then I'll spend as many nights as you want."
"I don't think there are enough nights."
She sat up straight and leaned into the phone. "Yes, there are. You sound pretty serious. Be careful. I might just believe what you say."
"Well, start believing."
"What do you mean?"
"Come over tonight and I'll show you."
She lay down and cuddled the phone against her ear. "I'll try, okay? I'm on my way over to Jamison's to see if I can drop his class."
"You are?"
"Yes. Then we'll have an extra night to be together and you'd better not disappoint me."
"Perish the thought."
Suzanne showered, dressed, and hurried to Jamison's quarters. She'd be late, again, for work. Another trip to the bookstore. At least, that's what she told the Surgery receptionist when she'd called.
WAITING IN THE clergy residence hall for Father Jamison, Suzanne reminisced about the last several days with Trent. She couldn't believe her good luck. Finally, closing in on thirty, she'd found love. Maybe grades weren't as important as she thought.
"You can go in now," the receptionist said. "Down the hall. First door to your left."
She padded along the quiet hall rehearsing her story. She had to get out of this class.
"Hello, Suzanne." The priest nervously held out his hand. She grasped his cold, clammy appendage. Why was he always so nervous?
"Hi, Father. I was hoping you could help. I want to cut back to only one class per semester, so I was wondering if you'd sign my drop slip. I've only got six hours to go until I graduate and I'd like to take it as easy as possible. Would that be okay?"
"Do you think it's wise to drop this class? Especially since you need it to graduate?"
"It's a summer class and I can pick it back up again this fall."
