There wasn’t a round of applause, but the appreciative nods as her audience dispersed and returned to their various duties were as good a stamp of approval as a teacher could get for first-rate bedside teaching. Earl had to admit he’d not heard of the subtle nuance she was making, but it made sense, and her zeroing in on it impressed him,
“Hope you didn’t mind me putting you through that,” she said, while checking the IV bag flowing into his arm – normal saline with an added dose of potassium – “but I wanted to set them straight after the inexcusable delay they put you through.”
Be gracious, he told himself. “Hey, our residents are the same until we whip them into shape. You’ve nothing to apologize for, and thank you again for getting out of bed.” And since he had her attention: “Melanie, I’ve also been trying to call you to clear up a misunderstanding-”
“Now you just stay quiet, and I’ll have you comfortable in minutes.” She pulled a syringe out of her lab pocket, stuck it in the side portal of his IV line, and began to push in the plunger. “No allergies I take it?”
“None. What are you giving me. Demerol?”
“You, my friend, get the big M.”
“Morphine?”
She nodded.
But morphine, powerful analgesic that it was, doctors seldom used for acute abdominal pain in ER. It could obtund consciousness to the point of suppressing respiration and cause serious drops in blood pressure. Neither of which was a good thing where issues such as staying awake enough to keep breathing or avoiding aspiration of vomit or fighting a low blood pressure from dehydration were concerned. Of course there were exceptional cases, but he didn’t want to be one of them. “Listen, Melanie, I’m not that bad. Don’t give me special treatment – Whoa!”
The potent opiate affected him immediately, taking away not only his abdominal spasms but every ache and pain he had, physical or emotional. He felt his brain slip into a warm puddle, where it floated without a care in the world.
“I’ll make sure the nurses keep you well topped off,” said a voice from the other side of the universe.
Must be God talking. Sounded like his kind of woman, one who knew her business.
Chapter 14
Thursday, November 22,
11:45 A.M.
Hampton Junction
Mark stood on the back porch, sipping a cup of coffee that had come from the bottom of the pot. Along the horizon, a gray, humpbacked line of clouds strained toward the east, dragging their shaggy tendrils over the hills. The cold wet aroma of snow hung in the air.
He’d spent the morning in his office reading his mail and answering a seemingly endless stream of calls from patients. Most were trivial problems easily answered.
Between calls he’d puzzled over why Charles Braden had invited Lucy and him to his home. And stared at the ceiling to the sound of creaky floorboards as Lucy prowled around her room. What was up with her? When she got back from shopping last night, she’d prepared dinner and welcomed Victor with open arms. Then she’d kept them entertained throughout the meal with stories of warlords, strange animals, and field hospital hijinks. Afterward, Victor sat down at the piano and led them through the highlights of great Broadway shows. They belted out the tunes they knew and danced to the ones they didn’t.
Victor had left in high spirits, yet as soon as he was out the door, she’d said she was exhausted and gone directly to bed.
This morning he’d wakened to the sounds of her in the kitchen and the smell of fresh coffee, but when he came down to join her for breakfast she retreated back upstairs, taking her cup with her, apologizing profusely that she had a ton of correspondence to answer and job applications to send out. “After all, by next July, I plan to be a working woman again.”
Why was she avoiding him? From the creaking of the floorboards, she’d seemed to be doing more pacing than writing.
The phone rang for the umpteenth time, bringing him back inside.
“My knees are bothering me again.”
Nell! Mark repressed a sigh, having no patience for their usual merry-go-round today. “When do you want to come in?” he said, trying not to sound too weary.
“Can’t. They’re too swollen. I need one of them house calls. And you bring that young new doctor I hear you’ve been traipsing all over the county with. Maybe she can help me.”
Despite himself, he started to laugh. “Nell, you old fraud.”
“Who are you callin’ old?”
He leaned back in his chair and chuckled again, feeling better for it.
“Are you still interested in that maternity center Braden used to run in Saratoga?” she asked.
Mark leaned forward again. “Yes.”
“Name’s Diane Whigston Lawler. Her place is just off Route 9 toward the town. She was a local girl, good family, married one of them big shots from New York. Shortly after her first child, he divorced her for some model-actress. Bastard had the better lawyers and took the kid plus everything that wasn’t nailed down. Her own family went bankrupt during one of those big savings and loans busts in the eighties. Lives kinda’ poor now.”
She gave him the exact address and telephone number. He recognized the street name, and figured the words “kinda poor” might be an understatement. The place was a trailer park.
“And I’ve been asking around like you wanted,” she continued. “Seeing if anybody noticed Chaz Braden doing anything weird just before Kelly went missing.”
“Any luck?”
“Also checked if Samantha McShane was around the area.”
He shot upright. “Damn it, Nell, I told you don’t do anything of the kind. In fact I gave you specific instructions not to go setting off rumors-”
“No luck with either. But I did come up with a few other tidbits and a name you might find interesting.”
“Who?”
“Be here at seven tomorrow night, and I’ll tell you over dinner.”
“Nell-”
“Don’t forget to bring your lady friend. Do you think she’d mind helping out in the kitchen? I can see if she’s up to scratch.”
“Nell, you stop that kitchen nonsense and tell me right now-”
He was talking to a dial tone.
He punched in her number.
Busy signal.
He asked the operator to interrupt, claiming it was a medical emergency.
The phone was off the hook. He sighed and glanced down at the scrap of paper where he’d jotted the number she’d given him. He dialed it, figuring anything would be more productive than trying to get Nell to behave.
A woman answered.
“Diane Whigston Lawler?” Nell hadn’t said if she still used her married name.
“It’s just Diane Whigston now.”
Her voice was melodious, but deep and a touch husky, the way a smoker’s can get. It also sounded big, and he imagined he was talking to a large woman. “Ms. Whigston, my name is Mark Roper. I’m a physician in Hampton Junction. I got your name from Nell-”
“Ah, of course. She told me you might be calling. I understand you’re interested in the maternity center Dr. Braden used to run.”
“Yes. I wonder if I could meet you and ask some questions about the place.”
“Sure, but I don’t understand. It’s been twenty-nine years since my son Ronald was born there, and it’s long been closed.”
Diane Whigston must be the only acquaintance of Nell’s who didn’t know about his investigating Kelly’s murder. Otherwise, she’d have guessed right away why he wanted to talk to her. For some reason Nell must not have told her. “Yes, it was a very long time ago, Ms. Whigston. You see, I’m looking into a twenty-seven-year-old murder, that of Kelly McShane. You probably read about the discovery of her body a few weeks ago-”