P is for Peril

Merry said, "Yes ma'am," rolling her eyes at no one in particular.

For my part, I was intrigued by the opportunity to see Dr. Purcell's office, which was small and neat. Desk, swivel chair, two upholstered guest chairs, and a bookcase filled with medical textbooks and assorted health care manuals. On the edge of his desk sat the newly shorn ivy, looking like a cocker spaniel with a summer clip. I'd have given a lot for the chance to go through his desk drawers, but the chances of that looked dim.

It was clear Mrs. Stegler thought it inappropriate to sit at his desk. She perched on one of his guest chairs and I took the other, which put us nearly knee to knee. She scooted her chair back and crossed her legs, exposing a band of narrow, white hairless shin above the rim of her wool sock.

I said, "I hope this doesn't seem out of line, but I have to tell you I can't stand gossip. Even in my line of work, I never encourage anyone to talk out of turn or breach a trust, especially in a matter like this." She looked at me with a hint of suspicion, perhaps sensing the bullshit, perhaps not. "We're in accord on that."

"I'd appreciate your telling me about his last day at work."

"I explained all that to the police. More than once, I might add."

"I'm hoping you'll explain it again to me. Detective Odessa told me you were very helpful."

She peered uneasily at my shoulder bag resting on the floor by my chair. "You're not recording this."

I leaned over, grabbed the bag, and held it open so she could inspect the contents. The only thing that looked even vaguely like a recorder was my government-issue, secret, plastic tampon container with its high-powered directional mike.

"And you won't quote me out of context?"

"I won't quote you at all."

She was silent, staring down at her lap. Finally, she said, "I've been divorced for years."

She was silent again and I allowed the subject to sit there between us without comment on my part or elucidation on hers. I could see that she was struggling to speak. Her face twisted suddenly, her lips pulling together as though controlled by invisible strings. She spoke, but her voice was so tight and so raspy I could hardly understand what she said. "Dr. Purcell. . . was the closest . . . thing to a ... friend I had. I can't believe he's gone. I came into work the following Monday morning and by then everyone was whispering that he was . . . missing. I was shocked. He was . . . such a sweet man ... I so adored him. ... If I'd known that was the last time I was going to see him, I would have expressed . . . my heartfelt thanks ... for all his many, many . . . kindnesses to me." She took another deep breath, humming with the kind of sorrow that didn't lend itself to words. After half a minute, she seemed to regain her composure, though her grip was clearly fragile. She removed the cravat from her breast pocket and blew her nose noisily. The silk didn't seem absorbent. She folded her hands together in her lap, the wadded cloth between her fingers where she twisted it. I could see a tear plop into her lap and then a second, like a slow drip from a shower handle that hasn't been properly turned off.

I realized she was the first person, aside from Blanche, who'd shown any real emotional reaction to his vanishing. I leaned forward and clutched her cold hands. "I know this is hard. Take your time."

She took a deep breath. "Forgive me. I'm sorry. I shouldn't burden you this way. I just hope he's safe. I don't care what he's done." She paused, pressing the cravat against her lips. She took another deep breath. "I'm fine now. I'm fine. I don't know what came over me. My apologies."

"I understand. From everything I've heard, he was a wonderful man. My only purpose here is to help. You have to trust me on that. I'm not here to make trouble."

"What do you want?"

"Just tell me what you know."

She hesitated, her no-gossip policy too deeply ingrained to give up all at once. She must have decided to trust me because she took a deep breath and opened up. "That last day, he seemed preoccupied. I think he was worried ... I mean, why wouldn't he be? Mrs. Purcell . . . excuse me, the first one, Fiona . . . stopped by to see him, but he'd gone out to lunch. She waited for a while, thinking he might return, and then she left him a note. When he came back, he worked in his office for the rest of the day. I remember he had a glass of whiskey sitting at his desk. This was late in the day."

"Did he go out for dinner?"

"I don't believe so. He usually ate quite late or skipped supper altogether. Many evenings, he had a little something at his desk . . . crackers or fruit . . . this was if his wife was going out and wouldn't be cooking. When I tapped on his door to say good-night, he was just sitting there."