I pop over to the hospital, I can catch him before he starts and be the one to break the news. That way I’ll have a chance to see the expression on his face when he hears about Karen’s murder.
But first I have to take care of the evidence from my nocturnal spy mission.
I dress and head off through the woods, searching for my scarf along the way. When I near the clearing I freeze and mutter a curse under my breath. David’s car is gone, as I hoped, but another one is parked in its place. And beneath the same window where I was last night is Detective Hurley, standing beside the wheelbarrow, my scarf in his hand.
I hide behind a tree watching his ponderous expression and trying to decide how the hell I’m going to lie my way out of this one. As soon as Hurley wanders around to the far side of the house, I tiptoe back through the woods, hop in my car, and lead-foot it out of there.
I’m not too crazy about the idea of showing my face at the hospital, but I hope that if the Fates are with me, I’ll be able to slip in, do what I need, and slip back out again. Unfortunately, the OR is a limited-access area, and because I no longer work at the hospital, I won’t be able to get in there on my own. And I’m not sure I want to go in there alone anyway; some of my ex-coworkers will undoubtedly consider my presence as an open invitation to ask painful, probing questions under the guise of social duty. I need an escort who can not only get me in, but also effectively deter any attempts at chitchat. And I know the perfect person for the job: Nancy Molinaro, the director of nursing.
Unfortunately, my plan goes awry as soon as I set foot in the hospital lobby. There, off to one side being interviewed by a news crew from one of the local network TV stations, is Gina Carrigan, wife of Sidney Carrigan, one of the surgeons at Mercy Hospital. Gina is a tiny, pretty woman with huge blue eyes, short blond hair, and the sort of camera-loving aura that drives paparazzi wild. She is well-known, well liked, and highly respected in Sorenson, in part because her husband, Sidney, comes from money—lots of it. The Carrigan family have been big shots in Sorenson for several generations.
Sidney and Gina live in the family home, a beautiful old house that sits on a gazillion acres of land just outside of town. I’ve been there several times for parties and have often admired the understated but obvious wealth. Even with my limited knowledge of the art world, I know that the paintings they have hanging in one room alone are worth about ten times my yearly salary.
Despite all that wealth, or perhaps because of it, Sidney is very generous. He’s a great philanthropist, donating money to several worthy causes within the community. Gina gives too, but of her time more than her money, leaving the checkbook in Sidney’s hands. She volunteers for all sorts of community projects, regularly heads up task forces designed to promote some worthy cause or another, and can always be counted on to take an active stance on any issue that affects Sorenson and its citizenry. Her efforts, combined with her movie star looks, have made her a media darling locally and have even segued into the national news a time or two. Wherever Gina goes, a newspaper reporter or TV camera often follows. The woman gets the sort of ink and airtime any politician would envy.
Consequently, running into her now is like my worst nightmare. I lower my head and hurry across the lobby, hoping I can sneak by without being noticed. But Gina sees me and immediately hails me down, right in the middle of her on-camera speech.
“Mattie! Yoo-hoo! Over here.”
I see the camera swoop in my direction and want to duck my head and run. But I know the cameraman already has me in his sights and that my best bet at this point is to try to turn the moment into nothing more than a hideously boring social encounter.
So I paste on my best smile and walk over. “Gina! How good to see you,” I say, giving her a hug. I hate hugging tiny women. It always makes me feel like some sort of genetic accident. “You look great as always,” I tell her. And it’s true. Gina always looks stunning no matter where she is or what she’s doing.
“You look pretty good yourself,” Gina lies. “What brings you to the hospital today? Are you coming back to work?”
“No,” I answer with a nervous laugh, keenly aware the camera is still running. “Not today anyway.” I turn to give the film guy a dirty look and he finally lowers the camera, though I notice he hasn’t bothered to turn it off.
“I hope you’re not here because of any health problems,” Gina says, looking prettily stricken.
“No, nothing so dramatic. I’m just here to…um…visit a friend. What are you up to?” I add quickly, eager to change the subject.
“Well, it is breast cancer month, you know. So we’re doing a public service spot to remind women about the importance of regular self-exams and mammograms. You know the drill.”
“Of course.”
“Say,” Gina says, her eyes widening with excitement, “want to be on TV? We need to film someone having a mammogram. Would you be willing to volunteer?”
Oh, yeah, that’s my idea of stardom. Getting my boobs squished between two plastic plates on network TV. “As fun as that sounds, Gina, I’m afraid I’ll have to pass. I’m in a bit of a rush.”
“Okay,” she says with a pretty pout. “Another time then. It sure is great to see you, Mattie. Don’t be such a stranger. And take care of yourself.”
“Thanks. You, too.” I make a hasty departure and manage to get to the nursing office without any further delays.
When I enter the outer office, Celia Watson, the main secretary and Nancy Molinaro’s personal guard dog, is sitting behind her desk, typing at a stunning ten-word-a-minute rate. Celia is about as suited for her secretarial job as elephants are for flight. I once asked her to type up a memo for the OR that was to go to a public health department. The memo was less than a page long, yet it had taken Celia an entire eight-hour shift to type it. Then the thing had seven errors in it, including the phrase, “in the interests of pubic health,” something I would later discover Karen Owenby had a special interest in. We all figured the only way Celia had managed to keep her job for the past five years was that she had some sort of dirt on Molinaro.
“Morning, Celia,” I say.
“Mattie!” Celia’s face breaks into a beaming smile. “Never thought I’d see you around these parts again.”
That made two of us. “Molinaro in?”
“She is, but she’s on the phone. Is this an emergency? ’Cause if it’s an emergency, I can stick my head in there.”
Part of Celia’s perceived job description is the spreading of whatever rumors might be circulating, embellishing whatever and whenever she can. The hotter the gossip, the more excited she gets, and I can tell she is bursting at the seams to deliver the news of my arrival. For Celia, the sight of me is like the scent of a fresh kill to a hyena.
I’ve never really liked Celia so I decide to be spiteful just for the hell of it. “I’m in no hurry,” I lie, easing myself into one of the molded plastic chairs that line the wall. “I’ll just wait.”
I grab a nursing magazine that’s four years out of date and start flipping through the pages as Celia watches me. After thirty seconds, she starts fidgeting in her chair, a tentative expression on her face. Beads of sweat pop out on her forehead and run into her eyes, dampening the twenty pounds of mascara she has on her lashes. Three blinks later she has a trail of tiny black dots below her lower lids, as if a bug has run through an inkwell and then across her face. After
