W is for Wasted

“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 the 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.