to warrant a violent death. As for Magdalen, the isolated location of the Falls argued against an escape plan for an octogenarian on the run. Public transportation was limited and to my knowledge, Magdalen did not own or drive a car. More than likely she had fled to the porch or another part of the residence. I consoled myself with that thought even though I didn’t quite believe it.
“Bet ya Mags was kidnapped,” Babette said. “Good thing she gave you that envelope, Perri. There might be clues inside.”
I hadn’t considered my obligation to turn everything over to the authorities. After all, we might be in possession of evidence in a murder case. Apparently, Pruett had already thought of that. As we approached our friendly Staples store, he barked a command and scooped the evidence back into the manila envelope. “Stop. This won’t take long.” He loped out of the car, leaving Babette and me to marvel at his fast thinking.
Babette teased, “Gotta say, Perri, you are one lucky girl, my friend. Got a man who’s smart and sexy.”
I ignored the comment and reminded my pal that at thirty-two years of age, my girlhood was far behind me. Naturally Babette pooh-poohed everything I said.
“Don’t go all feminist on me,” she said. “Men like him are in short supply. Ask around. Women over forty don’t exist for a lot of fellows, even ugly guys with no future.”
Babette’s analysis rang true. Pruett often said that in the nation’s capital, power meant more than pretty especially for males.
“Mission accomplished?” I asked when he jumped back into the Suburban.
“Yep. Now we can turn this over to the cops with a clear conscience.” The sentiment was admirable but not at all like him because Pruett often skirted the boundaries of law and propriety when pursuing a story. I threw a skeptical look his way, then focused on driving. Rural roads in Virginia were poorly lit and quite treacherous for the unwary motorist. Hills, holes, and sudden curves abounded. Deer sightings were frequent and often deadly. Pruett managed to distract both Babette and me by sharing the latest exploits of his daughter, Ella, and her prize pointer, Lady Guinevere. It didn’t take much to captivate me because I savored every scrap of information and silly anecdote about that child. I loved Ella as if she were my own, even though she was the natural offspring of Pruett and photojournalist Monique Allaire. Maternal instincts had surfaced late in life for me, but they were in full bloom where Ella was concerned. Go figure.
Despite the hour, the Falls was ablaze with lights. The entrance was packed with police vehicles, ambulances, and the discreet but ominous coroner’s van. I shivered as I recalled our previous brushes with sudden death. Surely this would end up being a case of natural causes. With her age and blocky physique, Nurse Ross appeared to be a prime candidate for heart ailments. Plus, according to Babette the woman smoked. She’d detected the odor of tobacco when they first met and trumpeted it to Pruett and me. My dear pal never met a grudge worth relinquishing and she resented our shabby treatment by Carole Ross.
“Downright unmannerly,” she fumed, as if this was the ultimate social sin. “Not a nice woman at all.”
“Surely not a death penalty offense,” Pruett teased. “You’d eviscerate the ranks of Congress if that were so.”
Babette knew when she was being teased. Fortunately, Pruett got a hall pass no matter how many times he taunted her.
Initially the deputy on guard waved us off the premises, but once again Wing Pruett came through. “We have information for Sheriff Page,” he said with a specious smile. I doubted if that was true, but sure enough, after furnishing his name to the deputy, Pruett was ushered into the facility with Babette and me trailing in his wake. When I met the sheriff, everything became clear.
Aleita Page was a sheriff from central casting, assuming your territory was Hollywood, not rural Virginia. Everything about her was shipshape, from neatly braided locks and trim waist to her hourglass figure. Pruett greeted her with a familiarity that suggested a close, perhaps even intimate knowledge. They exchanged hugs and lingered just a tad longer than necessary.
“She’s gorgeous,” Babette stage-whispered. “Watcha wanta bet she and Wing had something going on?”
Sometimes I forgot that Babette was my best pal. In this instance rhapsodizing about Pruett and another woman hardly qualified her for sainthood or friend of the year. I clutched the manila envelope, squared my shoulders, and soldiered on toward the large conference room in the office complex, reminding myself yet again that both Pruett and I were free agents.
Joan Fergueson was already seated with Dr. Jethro Tully hovering behind her. Both physicians were composed but solemn. Fergueson’s complexion was devoid of color, almost bloodless, and her hands were clenched so tightly, I feared she might break a bone. Tully was another matter entirely. His manner was cold, clinical, and dare I say indifferent. He appeared to shrug off his colleague’s death without wrinkling his brow or tailored suit.
“What’s this, Sheriff?” he said. “Hardly the time for visitors, I would think.”
Dr. Fergueson raised red-rimmed eyes and looked our way. “Ms. Morgan? Is Magdalen with you?”
I shook my head but said nothing, waiting for Sheriff Aleita Page to speak. When she did so, it was with confidence and authority.
“One of your residents called Ms. Morgan. She, Mr. Pruett, and Mrs. Croy were kind enough to respond. Maybe if we pool our resources, we can find our missing person.” She consulted her notes. “Miss Melmoth, is it?”
“Magdalen.” Tully took charge and quickly supplied his patient’s basic statistics: age, physical description, and personality profile. Without explicitly saying so, he hinted that Magdalen was delusional and close to dotty.
Sheriff Page gave him a level stare. “Are you suggesting that she’s violent? Pending an autopsy, we’re treating Nurse Ross’s death as suspicious and Ms. Melmoth as a missing person.”
I gave Tully a hard stare. “We met with her and her mental state was clear as a bell.” I nodded toward Pruett and Babette. “Ask my friends if you don’t believe me.”
Babette was never one to mince words, especially in the cause of justice. “How did Nurse Ross die? We heard she was murdered.”
Joan Fergueson coughed. “We don’t know that. If the press gets wind of it…” A look of horror eclipsed her face as she recalled that Wing Pruett was a distinguished member of the Fourth Estate. Once again, Aleita Page intervened. “Nothing’s certain yet, so I think we can count on Mr. Pruett’s discretion. Right, Wing?”
Pruett said nothing, his cherubic expression a total charade. I knew from sad experience that if a hot story sprang up, all bets were off, and no person or institution would be spared. I suppressed Babette’s derisive snort by administering a sharp elbow to her ribs. Let them keep their illusions as long as possible. My concern was finding Magdalen before any harm befell her. To do that, I needed to speak with Irene Wilson as soon as possible to find out what she knew. After all, she was on the scene and was the one who had summoned us.
“Excuse me,” I said. “My dogs are locked up in the car and need to stretch their legs.” As excuses went, that was pretty feeble, but given the high drama surrounding us, it passed unchallenged. Pruett raised his eyebrows, but Babette got the message and joined me.
“Lookin’ for Irene?” she whispered.
I nodded and headed for the stairwell,
