I stripped some thyme from a spindly stalk and rolled the leaves between my fingers until the sweet, sharp aroma reached my nose. It would have taken days of major-league weeding, hoeing, and pruning to get that garden looking even halfway presentable. A breeze rippled through a clump of pampas grass, suddenly reminding me of the weeds growing wild about the cistern where I had found poor Katie’s body. Where had she spent the last hours of her young life, I wondered, and, more important, with whom?
I shuddered and reminded myself that the answer might very well lie somewhere inside this house. Using my key, I let myself in through the back door.
When I returned to reception, only one patient remained in the waiting room, an overlarge woman in a loose cotton dress whose broad bottom encroached on the nearby chairs. “Have you signed in?” I asked. She nodded. I pushed through the swinging doors into the medical records room and stood there for a few seconds wondering what to do with lunch when Dr. Chase emerged from Examining Room A. He stripped off his latex gloves with a snap like a rubber band and tossed them into an oversize trash can next to the door.
I cradled the bag in my hand. “If I don’t do something with this soon, Doctor, the bag’s going to break.” I showed him where the condensation from the iced tea bottles was beginning to soak through the bottom of the paper bag. I nodded toward his private office down the hall. “Should I take it in there?”
“Oh, thanks, Hannah.” He nodded. “Just put it on my desk, will you?” He lifted the chart I had placed in the wall pocket outside Examining Room B, consulted it briefly, then tucked it under his arm. “And put Mrs. Logan in A. As soon as I finish with her, I’ll be able to take a break for lunch.”
Dr. Chase disappeared into the examining room and shut the door.
Patting myself on the back for how neatly I’d just engineered an excuse to spend a little legitimate time in Dr. Chase’s office, I hurried in. It wasn’t any neater than the first time I had seen it yesterday. Bookcases, full to overflowing with books, medical journals, framed photographs, and carved duck decoys covered the chocolate brown walls. A large wooden desk stood in the center of the room, the two legs nearest me planted firmly on the fringe of an antique oriental carpet.
I set the bag down on the desk, first clearing a space by shoving a few charts aside. I withdrew the plastic-wrapped plate holding his tuna on rye and one of the bottles of iced tea. Out of habit, I set the damp bottle down on a folded napkin to keep it from ringing the desk, although a new blemish would hardly have been noticed among the many others that marred the once highly polished walnut. Intersecting circles decorated the surface, like those on the Olympic flag. A nice ring was forming now around the perimeter of a coffee mug, half full of a viscous brown liquid that even a good nuking in the microwave couldn’t have made drinkable. I picked up the mug and used another napkin to wipe up the spill and, to be thorough, followed the liquid trail to where it disappeared under a corner of the desk blotter.
I was straightening the blotter when I realized that there was something stuck underneath it. Since I had recently spent long minutes nosing around in the good doctor’s records without a second thought, it surprised me that I now felt like a cat burglar. I glanced over my shoulder toward the door, lifted the corner of the blotter, stooped, cocked my head, and peered under it. Green, yellow, and orange tabs. Ohmagawd! I had my finger on the chart and was just beginning to slide it toward me when I heard Dr. Chase’s voice behind me in the hall.
By the time the doctor appeared in his office doorway, I had dropped the corner of the blotter, twisted the cap off a bottle of iced tea, and was busily stripping the paper wrapper from a straw. My heart was pounding so loudly in my ears that I thought he’d hear it from where he stood-without a stethoscope.
“Lunch is served.” I popped the straw into the bottle and tapped it down where it sat for a moment as if thinking about something, then floated up lazily. “Would Monsieur like the see the dessert menu?”
Dr. Chase chuckled and rubbed his hands together briskly. “Tira misu? Crême brulée?”
I pulled the remaining Milky Way out of the bag. “Will this do?”
He settled comfortably into his desk chair. “Thanks, Hannah, but I’m afraid I don’t eat chocolate.”
“Doctor, I am shocked. Deeply shocked.” I pocketed the candy. “All the more for the rest of us, as my mother used to say.” With a show of nonchalance that I didn’t feel, I backed toward the door, certain that the letters G-U-I-L-T must be emblazoned across my forehead. I couldn’t keep my eyes off the blotter. As I waited for it to rise up, point, and accuse me of snooping, I noticed that Dr. Chase probably hadn’t been in his office all morning. The Post-It messages I had taken for him were stuck all over his telephone and lampshade. He picked up one of the messages now, took a bite of his sandwich, and began to dial.
“Anything else you need?” I asked.
“No, thanks, Hannah. Eat your lunch, but stay by the phone. After lunch you’ll probably have time to pull charts for the afternoon.”
I negotiated the hallway in a daze, then sat down at the reception desk. I unwrapped my sandwich and stared at it, but my stomach was tied in such nervous knots that I didn’t feel very hungry. Please don’t move that chart! Not until after I’ve had a chance to check it out.
I drank some tea and found myself wondering why Katie’s chart had been hidden. Maybe it had been in the file room all along and Dr. Chase hadn’t given it a thought until I mentioned it yesterday. Maybe he’d found it in the files and put it under his blotter for safekeeping so it wouldn’t get lost in all the clutter. But then again, maybe he was involved in Katie’s murder right up to his scrawny little neck. I nibbled my sandwich in silence, watching as the buttons on the telephone blinked on and off as the doctor returned his calls.
Maybe it isn’t Katie’s chart at all. Lots of names start with DUN, I reasoned. Duncan, for example, or Dunnet or Dunstable. Angie had put an extra pickle on my plate, and I ate it slowly. I’d have to make my opportunity. I checked the appointment book. Beginning at two o’clock, there were six appointments plus two folks who had called in: eight patients in all. I polished off the last potato chip, washed the salt off my hands at the kitchen sink, and pulled the charts. Eight patients would certainly be sufficient to keep the doctor busy long enough for me to get back into his office and take a second look under his blotter.
As I stood behind the reception desk, lost in thought, the intercom on the telephone buzzed so loudly that I nearly jumped out of my pantyhose. “Hannah,” Dr. Chase said when I picked up, “if you’re finished with lunch, I’ve got a few prescriptions for you to call in.”
I tossed the remains of my lunch in the trash and hurried back to his office. As I reached for the prescriptions, I noticed that the blotter had been moved a few inches closer to the lamp. Blast! I flashed what I hoped was a disarming smile, told him I’d take care of the prescriptions right away, and turned to go.
“Hannah?”
Oh-oh. I held my breath.