by Linda Barnes
“Hey,” the doctor said, his deep voice warming with her arrival, “you look great. I see they’ve got you breaking in another one. You ought to earn extra as chief trainer.”
Barbara’s plain round face turned blotchy with pleasure. She chuckled while Savannah stretched her lips in a meaningless parody of a smile.
“I’ll be waiting in his honor’s office. You let him know, okay, Barbara?”
“Well, he is with a patient.” She smiled indulgently, negating any reproof.
“What else is new? I’ve got five minutes.” With a broad wink, the man sailed through. Fortyish, medium height, a narrow bony face with knife-blade cheekbones. Thick glasses. He didn’t quite live up to his pleasing baritone.
Barbara immediately pressed a button on her phone console.
“While Dr. Muir’s on the line,” I urged, “please remind him that I’m waiting.”
She mentioned only Dr. Renzel, not Sandra Everett, before hanging up.
I glanced at the black woman. She lifted her lovely eyebrows in a weary gesture of resignation. Savannah what? I wondered. A dissatisfied employee can be an information gold mine.
My scalp itched under my wig. “Where’s the ladies’ room?” I inquired.
Barbara began a complicated string of instructions that would have taken me downstairs through the lobby and halfway to the Himalayas.
“There must be one for the patients,” I murmured softly when her phone rang, commanding her attention. “I’ll only be a minute.”
She didn’t see me dodge down the narrow opening into which Renzel and the patients had disappeared. The corridor opened into a chamber decorated with gilt-framed diplomas. The name Muir appeared on no less than four. I studied his degrees, reading the parts that weren’t in Latin. Harvard. Johns Hopkins. Yale. University of Michigan. Not exactly offshore diploma mills.
I figured Sandra Everett had a fifteen-minute head start before the reception witch came hunting, and the searching-for-a-bathroom ploy is as tried and true as any, so I moseyed down the door-lined hallway.
It irked me that this Dr. Renzel had crashed the secretarial barricades so easily. Maybe I should have posed as a doctor. Sure. Easy. I’d just need to cram for eight years to carry off the impersonation.
There was an open doorway five feet down the corridor. I stepped quickly inside and shut the door behind me.
It was a small examining room, a cot against one wall, a wooden step stool leading up to it. The walls were painted, not papered. No trace of the blue-and-white lattice design Emily Woodrow had described. A scale dominated one corner. A blood-pressure cuff was secured to the wall over the cot. No trace of an oxygen mask.
I wondered where the chemotherapy rooms were located, whether they were equipped, like operating rooms, with wall outlets for oxygen and air. Were oxygen masks wall-mounted as well? I twisted the doorknob slowly, peered out into the empty corridor, and began a search for floral wallpaper. Hospitals rarely paper individual rooms; possibly all the chemo rooms were similarly decorated.
The examining-room doors featured small ledges on which to balance patients’ file folders. Rooms without ledges seemed to be offices. None bore so much as a stenciled name or number.
I passed a metal canister labeled MEDICAL WASTE in bright red letters. It had a domed top, a WARNING! label on each of its four sides. A nearby philodendron plant needed watering. A flushing sound came from behind a wooden door marked W.C.
A woman passed and nodded. A child cried and a male voice murmured soothingly.
I heard voices issuing from a room with no door ledge. One was the mellow baritone of Dr. Renzel. I assumed the lower, gruffer voice belonged to Jerome Muir.
Sandra Everett discovered that her panty hose were slipping. She bent to straighten them. I took advantage of her strategic location to eavesdrop.
At first it sounded like Renzel was reciting letters. I shifted closer and got sentences. “One Florida place has been taken over three times in six months. Started with Humana and then went to SurgiCare and then CritiCare. Drove the billing department nuts.”
I heard footsteps and swiveled to find the dragon lady in hot pursuit.
“Mrs. Everett,” she said firmly, “the restrooms in this area are reserved for patients only. You’ll have to go back to the lobby.”
Right outside Muir’s door seemed as good a place as any to dig in my heels. I made sure my voice was loud enough to penetrate wood.
“Really,” I said. “Have you any idea how the ladies of the Silver Crescent might react if I can’t make our presentation to Dr. Muir personally? Today? How can we print up the invitations? How can we set the level of contributions? I understand that he’s a busy man, but good news is not to be ignored. He is certainly not the only medical man worthy of this honor—”
I could have continued, but I didn’t have to. The door swung open on well-oiled hinges.
12
Dr. Renzel appeared, staring at me quizzically. “I was just leaving, Barbara,” he said. “Hope I haven’t made a hash of your schedule.”
“What seems to be the problem?” I heard a gruff voice demand from within.
I sidestepped both Barbara and Renzel, stuck my foot in the door.
“A minute of your time, Dr. Muir,” I said.
The gruffness was age, I realized. Much older than his lobby portrait, he sat in a high-backed leather throne behind a slab of mahogany and inclined his head a fraction of an inch in my direction. I felt almost as if I’d been granted a blessing. His crisp white shirt and red speckled bow tie were hardly clerical garb, but I was vividly reminded of an old priest my father, a much-lapsed Catholic, had revered. Jerome Muir’s hair had turned beautifully white, without a trace of yellow; his moustache and bushy sideburns were elegant.
“The lady from that charity,” Barbara murmured in a low voice, as if she thought I might be hard of hearing. “I’m still checking on her. The newspaper …”
The number on my Suffolk News business card is hooked into the Green & White Cab Company’s fancy phone system, courtesy of Sam Gianelli. It’s not just an unlisted number; it’s unpublished and pretty close to untraceable. Sam’s picked up a few tricks from his mobster dad over the years. The efficient Barbara would have reached an answering machine: “All lines are currently busy. Please hold.”
“Checking!” I echoed indignantly. “Surely, Dr. Muir, you’ve heard of the Silver Crescent. We’re currently seeking affiliation with the Eastern Star.”
“Barbara, perhaps I’d better handle this directly.” Muir’s broad face was slightly florid and crisscrossed with a fine web of lines. His piercing blue eyes rarely blinked. He focused his full attention on me, and it seemed like a gift seldom bestowed, something the speaker needed to earn.
Renzel’s casual, “Can I stay?” made it sound as if there were going to be a movie screening, with popcorn and Coke.
I said, “The membership gave me very specific instructions. They wanted me to do it just so.”
Renzel said good-naturedly, “Don’t let me stop you.”
Barbara turned on her sensible heel and departed without a word.
“You’ve upset her,” Renzel said. I wasn’t sure if he was talking to me or Muir. Talking about me or Barbara.
“Oh, Jerome, I almost forgot,” Renzel went on. “Have you decided on the Portugal conference?”
While the two doctors debated the merits of meeting with colleagues in Lisbon, I inspected the office. Matching bookcases lined two walls. A marble-topped table held an ornate Chinese vase. A collection of creamy, spiraled shells filled two shelves of the right-hand bookcase. A full-rigged frigate in a bottle sailed another. Two oil paintings looked like the real thing, but who knows, what with Polaroid reproductions? Muir had covered the wall behind his desk with framed photographs. Student groups from college days, gowned graduation photos, Muir standing beside a man in flowing Arabian robes, Muir smiling while he clapped a well-known congressman on the back.
; A power wall.
In most of the photos he wore a polka-dot bow tie. As he apparently did in real life.
“I’ll consider it,” Muir said firmly. “Decision by Wednesday. Now, young lady, please sit down.” Muir nodded me into a plush blue chair. “I do hope Barbara hasn’t made your life difficult. She’s extremely protective of my time.”
I sat.
“I’m sorry if we seem to have behaved rudely,” he continued, “but we were under the impression that you were a reporter. We have strict procedures—”
He’d shifted to the royal we, but it didn’t seem ludicrous. Didn’t even seem inappropriate.
“I’m not here on a story.” I withdrew the envelope from my handbag, unfolded my precious sheet of paper. “May I read?”
“Please.” Muir carefully stifled a yawn so that only the edges of his nostrils fluttered. I wished I’d spent more time gazing at the painting in the lobby. He must have been incredibly handsome.
My speech was brief, but I spluttered a little and made several mistakes, to make it seem as if I hadn’t just written it in the waiting room, as if I were nervous at being in the presence of JHHI’s Chief of Staff and CEO.
To my surprise, I was nervous. If I’d known Muir was going to be like this, I thought, I’d have taken more time composing my speech.
“Whereas the ladies of the North Shore Chapter of the Silver Crescent,” I intoned, “select each year a person of good character and great achievement, and whereas Dr. Jerome Muir has been duly nominated and considered for this honor, we, the undersigned, hereby name him Silver Crescent Man of the Year with all the honors and benefits traditionally accorded thereunto.”
And Mumbo Jumbo, Alakazam, I silently added.
“Charitable donations, bequests, and volunteerism,” Muir said after a long pause, “are the life-blood of the community hospital. On behalf of this institution, and myself, I thank you.” Another benediction conferred.
“The presentation copy got delayed at the printers,” I offered apologetically. “But we were afraid to wait any longer. The membership has asked me to formally congratulate you on your impressive contributions to the medical well-being of New England, and to request that you honor them by appearing as this year’s Silver Crescent Lecturer at our November twenty-fifth banquet. We feel that Thanksgiving is the true start of the giving season, and if you’d like us to direct our fundraising toward a specific hospital project, we could certainly accommodate any request.”
Renzel said, “This is great, Jerome. God knows we’ve got projects to fund.”
The phone buzzed. Muir picked up on the first bleep. His hands hadn’t aged as well as the rest of him; they were gnarled, the knuckles scarred and red. “Yes, Barbara, I know. I know. I’m on my way.”
“Do you accept?” I asked eagerly. “Can you do it?”
“I’m extremely honored,” he said solemnly. “And I’d be delighted. I’ll need to check my calendar, make sure I’m available. Hank, do we have any conferences near Thanksgiving?”
“Not that I remember,” Renzel said. “Unless that Hoffman—La Roche thing—no. That’s December in Hawaii.”
Muir smiled warmly. “Mrs. Everett, please extend my gratitude to your membership, and do leave your phone number with Barbara. I’ll have her get back to you within the week.”
“That would be wonderful. Thank you so much.” I took a deep breath and plunged on. “We were worried you’d be all booked up, and after Emily Woodrow recommended you in such glowing terms—well, we did hope you’d accept.”
Muir grew very still. “Emily Woodrow?”
“Her daughter was treated for leukemia here.”
He examined my face searchingly. “Are you certain it was Mrs. Woodrow who recommended me?”
“Yes, I am.”
He smoothed back his carefully combed white hair. “How extraordinarily generous of her. I thought she might have harbored some … hard feelings. You know her daughter didn’t respond to … her daughter died.” He seemed genuinely distressed, possibly more upset than a doctor who’d seen death so often ought to be.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” I said. “I could be mistaken. But I thought—no, I’m sure it was Emily.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Muir said, almost his regal self again.
“No,” I said hesitantly, “I guess it doesn’t. Only—well, I suppose I ought to ask. The ladies might think me rude, but please, don’t be offended. I feel I have to follow through on this. There isn’t any reason why you wouldn’t wish to be our speaker, is there?”
“I’m not sure I know what you mean.”
“You’re not expecting any difficulties, uh, nothing of a legal nature, concerning Emily’s daughter’s death?”
The sparkling eyes froze and I got a glimpse of steel. “Certainly not. Not to my knowledge.”
“I’m sorry. It’s just I know that Emily’s husband’s a lawyer, and lawyers do tend to sue anytime things don’t work out.”
He made a dismissive noise and straightened his perfect tie. “Some people believe there always has to be a happy ending. Perhaps it’s the television they watch. I don’t know.”
“The death of a child is hard to accept,” I said.
“Indeed,” Muir responded. “For all of us.”
The phone buzzed again, two short bleats.
“I really must go now, Mrs. Everett.”
“Thank you so much for your time, and for all the good work you do.” I stood and offered my hand. He crossed to take it. His handclasp was firm and dry. He was wearing a spicy aftershave that successfully blocked the hospital smell. With his door shut, we could have been in any fancy corporate office.
Dr. Renzel interrupted our farewells. “I could show you a couple of current construction projects, if you’re interested,” he said.
I turned to him and he flashed a quick smile. I studied his face. Ordinary, except for the prominent cheekbones. Not quite enough chin. His voice was another story. Smooth as a well-bowed cello. Put him to work in telephone sales, he’d have a hell of a future.
“Mrs. Everett, this is Dr. Renzel.” Muir made the belated introduction hurriedly, then added, “Mrs. Everett’s from a local newspaper,” as if Renzel hadn’t been hanging on our every word. I wondered if Muir stressed my newspaper affiliation to remind Renzel to discuss only printable matters.
“A newsweekly, really. But I’m here only as a representative of the Silver Crescent,” I reminded them.
Renzel smiled enthusiastically. “Well, maybe I can talk you into doing a puff piece for us. Something that will get a few philanthropists to stop sitting on their wallets.”
“That’s an idea,” I said.
“Have you seen any of the newer areas of the hospital?” he asked me.
“No.” I patted my phony curls. Maybe blondes do have more fun. And maybe I could talk him into a guided tour of the chemotherapy treatment rooms.
Muir left the room before we did, his back imperially erect. We followed him like sheep, like courtiers.
13
“First of all,” Renzel said, leading me briskly into the waiting room, taking a sharp right, then a left toward the elevators, “do you have all our literature? We do a quarterly magazine that details our progress. Scholarly articles. Chitchat. Who’s new on the staff.”
I fumbled a notebook out of my purse: Sandy Everett, resourceful reporter, always prepared for a story. I doubted I could get him to tell me the right story, but maybe I could finesse him into tossing me a lead.
“This is very kind of you,” I said, “but first things first. Like who exactly are you?”
He lowered his lashes and gave me a little-boy-lost look. His thick-lensed glasses microscoped his brown eyes.
“Probably most of the people around here know who you are and what you do,” I said. “But I’ve got to start with the basics: who, what, when, where, why.”
“Just because people at JHHI may know who I am,” Renzel said contritely, “is no reason to
come off as a self-important windbag. I’m sorry. I get carried away. My enthusiasm for the hospital takes off.”
The legendary Muir, I thought, might rate as a self-important windbag, but so far Renzel, with his great voice and his willing tour-guide offer, certainly hadn’t.
“I’m Chief of Pharmacy,” Renzel declared. After a brief pause, he added, “Everybody calls me Hank.”
“Not Doctor?”
“Oh, that, too. I am a doctor. A Ph.D. doctor. A scientist, not a clinician.”
He pressed the elevator call button. “I’m going to show you the new floor,” he said, the way a doting father might say “I’m going to show you the new baby.”
“And how long have you worked here?” I asked.
“Four years or so. It surprises me I’ve stayed this long. I’m an academic at heart.”
“Chief of Pharmacy certainly sounds impressive,” I said. “If Muir can’t give the Silver Crescent lecture, maybe you can pinch-hit for him.” I was trying to figure how far I could push my reporter ruse. Why had Renzel volunteered so cheerfully to show me around? Was he lonely? Underworked?
“Well, it may sound impressive,” he said ruefully, “but it would be a lot more impressive if I held a key chair at a medical school as well. You know what it costs to endow a university chair these days? Two biggies. That’s two million dollars.”
I whistled. “More than the Silver Crescent could raise.”
“And, admit it, your ladies would be disappointed if they had to put up with a relative nobody like me. Around here, Jerome Muir’s pretty much the show. Rightfully. He deserves it. I’m more the professorial type. I’m used to people calling me Professor, not Doctor. What are you used to?”
“Huh?”
“I mean, do people call you Mrs. Everett or what?”
I almost confessed to Carlotta. He had a way about him, an engaging bedside manner. “Sandy,” I said.
He reached over and formally shook my hand. “Pleased to meet you, Sandy.” He was slow to end the handshake. Close up, his bony face seemed interesting rather than homely.
“You seem fond of Dr. Muir,” I said. “Do you see him as kind of a role model, a father figure?”
