W Is for Wasted km-23

by Sue Grafton

  32

  When I arrived home, there was a parking spot right in front, which I took as a good sign. As I rounded the corner, moving into the backyard, I saw Henry in the act of closing his garage doors. He turned and picked up his four heavy plastic grocery bags, two in each hand.

  “I thought you’d already done your grocery shopping.”

  “These are for Ed. I’m trying five different brands of wet food to see which he prefers. He turns his nose up at beef. He says cats don’t eat cows.”

  “Opinionated little guy, isn’t he? When I came home Tuesday, he popped in for a visit, just to have a look around. I was surprised he was out.”

  “Ed was out on Tuesday? I don’t think so. He was in when I left and he was in when I came home.”

  “That’s because I put him in.”

  “How’d he manage to get out?”

  “Beats me. Cats are mysterious. He might have transmogrified himself and slipped through the cracks like smoke,” I said.

  “You think he’s capable of doing that?”

  “How do I know? This is only the second or third cat I’ve met in my life.”

  “I’ll have to keep an eye on him,” he said. “How was your meeting with Dr. Reed? I hope he put your mind at ease.”

  “I wouldn’t go that far. There’s still a big chunk of the story missing and he’s not the one who’s going to fill me in. At any rate, talking to him was a good suggestion. I guess I should thank you for browbeating me into it.”

  “I’ll take full credit.”

  As soon as I let myself into the studio, I went straight to the phone and called Ruthie. When she answered, I said, “Hey, Ruthie. Kinsey Millhone again.”

  “Forget the last name. You’re the only Kinsey I know.”

  “Sorry about that. Force of habit. Quick question I should have asked you while I was there. The guy who bought Pete’s Fairlane pulled the junk out of the map pockets and the glove compartment. Do you still have that plastic bag?”

  “I’m looking at it. I was just about to go through it. I need the proof-of-insurance card so I can call Allstate and cancel the coverage.”

  “Could you check and see if there’s a parking ticket in there? Not a citation—from a pay lot. It’d be an ivory color with pale green stickers on the back.”

  “Hang on. I’m putting the receiver down, so don’t go away.”

  “I won’t.”

  “I’m turning the bag upside down, shaking everything out on the counter,” she called. “Ick. There’s a dead bug. What the hell is that thing?”

  “Take your time,” I said.

  She came back on the line. “Good news. I found a savings passbook I didn’t know we had. Okay, here. I’m looking at a ticket from UCST with stickers on the back.”

  “Is there a date-and-time stamp?”

  “Says July 12. Machine stamped at twelve forty-five P.M. when it was issued, but that’s it. No time stamp going out or the machine would have eaten it.”

  “Hold on to that, okay? I’ll pop over there first chance I get and pick it up.”

  “No problem.”

  I trotted up the spiral stairs to the loft, where I unzipped my all-purpose dress and stepped out of it. Then I stripped off my pantyhose with a sigh of relief. I pulled on my usual workaday rags and went downstairs again.

  There was a knock at the door and when I opened it, there stood Anna. She wore jeans and a blue knit top that made her blue eyes electric. “I need to talk to you.”

  “Sure.”

  I stepped back, inviting her in. “Sit anywhere you like.”

  She chose a kitchen stool. I moved around the counter to the other side so we were facing each other. I was aware that I was putting a barrier between us, but it felt appropriate. Given her demeanor, I wasn’t sure how cozy this chat was going to be. I’d been irritated with her. Now it was payback time.

  She said, “I called Ethan to give him Henry’s number so he’d know where I was. He has questions.”

  “And what might those be?”

  “Not for you. Ethan thinks I should talk to Daddy’s doctor directly. Henry says you have his phone number.”

  “Dr. Reed wasn’t his physician. He’s in charge of the research program your father was enrolled in at one point.”

  “I still want to talk to him if it’s all the same to you.”

  “May I say one thing first?”

  “Say anything you like.”

  “Your father was scared to death of Dr. Reed. He thought the test drug was killing him and that’s why he dropped out of the trial. I believe he was right. His friends are convinced of it, too, but of course Dr. Reed won’t own up to that. According to him, your father was incapable of adhering to the guidelines and the clinic gave him the boot.”

  “Why would he say that if it wasn’t true?”

  “He has an agenda of his own. He came up with a proposal about a drug he thought would be effective in treating addicts. Now it looks like he’s being paid big bucks for a theory that isn’t panning out.”

  “Why should I take your word for it? You say Daddy changed his will because he was pissed off at us, like it’s our fault and we should just suck it up and let you have everything. I can see how that serves your purposes, but we’re getting screwed.”

  “I don’t have a purpose except to see that his wishes are carried out.”

  “But you never met him. Isn’t that what you said?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “So you don’t know what was going on in his mind.”

  “That’s true.”

  “How do you know he wasn’t suffering from dementia? Ethan thinks he could have been delusional or confused.”

  “And Ethan’s opinion is based on what?”

  “The crazy way he behaved. He was mixed up or unbalanced or something.”

  “Oh, I’m getting this. You’d like to think your father was mentally incompetent because that would invalidate the will. You’re hoping Dr. Reed will back you up.”

  “That makes as much sense as your claim. If that medication made him sick, why couldn’t it have affected his mental state?”

  “Always possible,” I said.

  “So how do you know Dr. Reed wasn’t trying to help? How do you know my father wouldn’t be alive today, if he’d done as he was told?”

  “I don’t know that. Nor do you. You want to talk to Dr. Reed, I can’t stop you, but I can tell you right now it’s a bad idea.”

  I crossed to the desk, checked my notes, and jotted down Dr. Reed’s number on a slip of paper. I tore the leaf off the scratch pad and presented it to her. “His schedule’s clear for the afternoon, so if you run like a bunny, you can talk to him today. Let me know what he says. I’ll be interested in his response,” I said. “Can I help you with anything else?”

  “Get stuffed.”

  “You, too.”

  I opened the door for her. This time, she’d barely made it through before I banged it shut behind her.

  I closed my eyes, fighting for self-control. I was so irritated, I could barely contain myself.

  I sat down. I took a deep breath. In a pinch, do something worthwhile, like clean the entire house.

  I let my gaze roam and the first thing I saw was Pete’s remaining cardboard box with the big X on the lid, partially covered by the folders I’d decided to keep. Where was I supposed to put the damn thing? I couldn’t leave it where it was. My studio, while charming, is a bit short on storage space. In designing it, Henry had provided any number of nooks and crannies, built-in shelves and drawers, the oddly shaped cabinet here and there where a quirk of construction created a bonus cubby. I keep my possessions to a minimum and even so, I’m occasionally forced to beg a few feet of shelf space in Henry’s garage. I wasn’t going to do that for Pete’s junk. I did a 180-degree survey and finally took my foot and shoved the box to the back of the knee space under my desk.

  I glanced down and saw the name Eloise Cantrell written on th
e scratch pad above Drew’s phone number. Under her name was a secondary note that said CCU.

  I could feel my curiosity stirring along with a flicker of interest. The meeting with Dr. Reed had done little to erase the suspicions Dandy and Pearl had raised. Dr. Reed had met with Pete Wolinsky. Eloise Cantrell was the charge nurse in the Cardiac Care Unit at St. Terry’s when Dace had been admitted delirious. Soon afterward, he fled from the hospital and took a bus to Los Angeles. If he’d been frightened of Dr. Reed, she might have known why. Surely, all of these matters were related. I picked up a pen and circled her name. I hadn’t put a date on the note because I’d assumed the call was in error, never dreaming the contact might later seem significant.

  I opened the bottom drawer and pulled out the telephone directory. I flipped to the S’s in the business listings and ran a finger down the page until I found “Santa Teresa Hospital.” There was a general number listed, a number for the emergency room, one for poison control, and then a few department numbers that could be dialed directly, including administration, billing, patient accounting, human resources, development, and public affairs.

  I reached for the handset and punched in the general number. When the operator picked up, I asked to be connected to Cardiac Care. I did this without conscious thought, thinking a plan might work to my detriment. Sometimes it doesn’t pay to be too well prepared.

  The ward clerk answered, saying, “Cardiac Care. This is Pamela.”

  “Oh, hi, Pam. Is Eloise working today?”

  “She’s in a staff meeting. Can I take a message?”

  “Do you know what time her shift ends? She told me, but I can’t remember now what she said.”

  “She’s on seven to three.”

  “Great. Thanks so much.”

  I could tell Pam was ready to take a message, perhaps already making a note of the time on one of those “While You Were Out” slips, but I hung up before she had a chance to quiz me. Now all I had to do was figure out what Eloise looked like.

  By 2:30, erring on the side of caution, I parked in the lot across the street from St. Terry’s and made my way through the entrance and into the lobby. I asked for directions to CCU, and a volunteer walked me to the requisite corridor, where, with pointing and gestures, she explained how to proceed. I wondered if I’d ever be nice enough to volunteer for anything. I was hoping not.

  When I reached the floor, I spotted a nurse’s aide emerging from a supply room, her arms loaded with clean linens. I flagged her down and asked if Eloise Cantrell was available.

  “She’s at the nurse’s station.”

  “Is she the little blonde?”

  With exaggerated patience, the nurse’s aide said, “Noooo. Eloise is six feet tall and she’s African American.”

  After that, it was no trick at all to pick Eloise from among the many white nurses at work. I took a seat in the waiting room within eye shot of the nurse’s station and leafed through an issue of a ladies’ magazine that was only four years out of date. I was impressed by all the uses there were for instant vanilla pudding. This homemaking business, while beyond my modest aspirations, never failed to amaze.

  By the time Eloise left work, I was in the same corridor, lagging slightly behind to allow her to exit ahead of me. I followed her out of the building and tagged along in her wake. There were a number of pedestrians in the area, so she wasn’t alerted to my presence. I waited until she turned the corner from Chapel onto Delgado before I closed the gap between us. “Eloise? Is that you?”

  She turned, clearly expecting to see a familiar face. Her lips parted as though she meant to speak.

  “Kinsey Millhone,” I said, pausing in case she wanted to rejoice.

  She was dark-skinned, her hair arranged in close lines of head-hugging braids, each of which ended in a sage-green bead that exactly matched her eyes. The hazel irises against the deep chocolate of her complexion was striking. I wouldn’t describe her expression as hostile, but it wasn’t welcoming.

  “You called me a few months ago, looking for information about R. T. Dace.”

  I waited to see if the name would ring a bell. “I thought you were saying Artie, remember that? But you were talking about Randall Terrence Dace . . . R.T,” I said, framing the initials in air quotes. Still no flash of recognition, so I tried again. “You asked for Mr. Millhone, thinking I was a guy.”

  I could tell she remembered because she shut her mouth.

  “I was curious where you picked up my name and number.”

  I could see her weighing the pros and cons of a reply.

  She said, “You were listed in his hospital chart as next of kin.”

  “Are you aware he died ten days ago?” I asked.

  Her tone was neutral. “I’m not surprised. He was in bad shape when I saw him last.”

  “I was hoping you might answer a question or two.”

  “Such as?”

  “Did you know he’d enrolled in a drug trial?”

  She thought about her answer briefly and then said, “Yes.”

  “Are you acquainted with the physician in charge?”

  “Dr. Reed. Yes.”

  “Did he come into CCU while Terrence Dace was a patient?”

  “Once as a visitor, yes. What makes you ask?”

  “Someone told me Dace signed himself out of CCU without the doctor’s okay.”

  Her stare was unyielding.

  “Was there any discussion about why?” I asked.

  She dropped her gaze, which made her impossible to read.

  I plowed on. “His friends tell me he was scared to death of Dr. Reed. I wondered what the problem was. You have any idea?”

  She turned and began walking away from me.

  I followed six feet behind, my voice embarrassingly plaintive even to my own ears. “I heard Dr. Reed terminated him for noncompliance, but he was sober when he died. No alcohol or drugs in his system, so what was going on?”

  She glanced back at me. “I work for the hospital. I’m not affiliated with the university. You want information about Dr. Reed’s work, talk to him. In the meantime, if you’re hoping I’ll sink to the level of rumor and gossip, you’re out of luck.”

  She turned on her heel.

  I stopped in my tracks and watched her walk away from me. What had she said? If I was hoping she’d “sink to the level of rumor and gossip”?

  “What rumors?” I called after her.

  No answer.

  • • •

  I wasn’t giving up on this. Henry had said that if I met with Reed and didn’t feel he’d leveled with me, I should talk to someone else. Obviously, in approaching Eloise Cantrell I was searching too far afield. Anything she knew would be hearsay. I needed someone more directly involved with him. The obvious answer was Mary Lee Bryce. She’d know what was going on behind the scenes. The problem was, I had no way to get to her without going through Willard. I could call her directly, but how would I explain who I was or why I was so interested in the work she did? I only knew about her because Willard had hired Pete. The notion of approaching him created a mild thrill of uneasiness. It wasn’t my job to keep his dealings with Pete a secret from his wife. I wasn’t responsible for protecting either of them. Willard wasn’t my client and Pete was dead. There was a certain, subterranean moral code in play, but surely, I could think of a way around that old thing.

  When I got home, I sat down at my desk and pulled out the two folders. After a brief search, I found Willard’s address scratched on a piece of paper. Cherry Lane in Colgate. I locked the studio, hopped in the Mustang, and headed for the 101.

  Next thing I knew, I was knocking on Willard’s door. I carried a clipboard, looking (I hoped) like my business was legitimate. In my heart of hearts, I did pray Mary Lee wouldn’t answer the door. I wanted to talk to her, but I had other matters to cover first. I knew nothing about Willard. I’d seen photos of Mary Lee, but none of him.

  The man who responded to my knock struck me as strange the minute I laid
eyes on him. His complexion was ruddy and his skin looked dry. His ginger-colored hair was clipped close to his skull and the tips of his ears were pink. I’d once seen a litter of newborn mice who’d exhibited the same naked characteristics. His eyes were pale blue and his lashes light; white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up, baggy trousers.

  He rested his weight on forearm crutches and one leg was gone. “Yes?”

  “Mr. Bryce?”

  He didn’t own up to it but he didn’t deny it, so I moved right along. I held up my clipboard. “I’m a former colleague of Pete Wolinsky’s.”

  Again, no verbal response but his complexion shifted, white patches appearing on a ground of pink. His mouth must have been dry because he licked his lips. I hoped the man wasn’t a serious poker player because I could see now he might be a textbook study in physiological tells. “You knew Pete was killed?”

  “I read about it in the papers. Too bad.”

  “Terrible,” I said. That out of the way, I went on. “His wife asked me to go through his business files for tax purposes and I came across his report. I wonder if you could answer some questions.”

  He shook his head. “I can’t help. I don’t have anything to say.”

  “But you were a client of his.”

  “Um, no. Not really. I mean, I knew him and we talked a couple of times, but that was it. More like friends.”

  Baffling, wasn’t it? I looked down at the paper on my clipboard and allowed that little crease to form between my eyes. “According to his records, he collected approximately . . . I can’t read his writing here. It looks like two thousand dollars, which you paid him to follow your wife . . .”

  He glanced over his shoulder and then eased out the door.

  I leaned sideways and peered over his shoulder. “Oh, wow. Is she home?”

  “No, she’s out. I don’t want to talk about this. My wife doesn’t know anything and I’d just as soon she not find out.”

  “Is she at work?”

  “She quit her job, if it’s any business of yours. She’s off at the supermarket. Look, I’ll tell you what I can, but you have to be gone by the time she gets back.”

  “Then we better be quick about it. In Reno, she met twice with a man named Owen Pensky. I gather he’s an old high school friend. Do you have any idea what they talked about?”