head. “Why are you looking into this now, after all this time? And what does our father have to do with it?”
Ben moistened his lips. “I already told you about the e-mail.”
“You haven’t told us what was in it,” Ryan pointed out.
Do you know what really happened to your mother?
Ben didn’t repeat the question aloud. His personal involvement had already clouded his usually clear judgment. If he could treat this like any other story, he’d have a much better chance of uncovering the truth. That meant not telling the Whitmores or anyone else in town he was Allison Blaine’s son.
“The e-mail asked why Dr. Ryan Whitmore wasn’t questioned about her death.” He relayed the substance of the message, substituting “questioned” for “investigated.”
“What!” Sierra cried. “Why would he be? Wasn’t her death an accident?”
“It was ruled an accident,” Ben clarified. “The e-mail casts doubt on that.”
“Who sent this e-mail?” Sierra asked sharply.
“I don’t know yet. The only fact I have is that it originated from Indigo Springs.” Ben explained how the newspaper’s IT department had tracked the e-mail to one of the public-access computers at the library.
“Let me get this straight,” Sierra said tightly, her posture as rigid as her words. She moved closer to her silent brother, as though to demonstrate they were a united front. “You came here today to accuse our father of God only knows what because of some anonymous e-mail.”
“I’m following a lead,” he said. “I’m not accusing your father of anything.”
“Before you cast stones, you should know he was a very good man with a spotless reputation.” Color infused Sierra’s cheeks even though she didn’t raise her voice. “You know the festival the town is holding next weekend? He’ll be honored for his civic work. The town is renaming the park Whitmore Memorial Park.”
Yet another fact Ben had failed to discover before rushing to Indigo Springs.
“Why are you doing this story at all?” Ryan broke his silence, his tone far less volatile than his sister’s. “Why would a Pittsburgh newspaper be interested in something that happened in Indigo Springs almost twenty years ago?”
“Allison Blaine was from Pittsburgh.” Ben ignored the second, more piercing question. “Look. I didn’t come here to upset anyone. Like I said, I’m exploring a tip. It’s probable your father knew her. Maybe she was one of his patients.”
“That’s unlikely,” Sierra said. “She didn’t live here.”
“It’s still possible. She could have needed a doctor while she was in town,” Ben said. “There’s one way to find out. You could check your records.”
“Why would we do that?” Sierra asked. “What possible benefit could it have for us?”
“It could show Mr. Nash here he’s barking up the wrong tree.” Ryan directed his comment to his sister. He straightened from the desk, laying a hand on her arm. He switched his attention to Ben. “Our records weren’t computerized twenty years ago, but it’ll only take a minute to look through our hard files and tell you if Allison Blaine was ever a patient.”
Ben had been a reporter long enough not to blindly believe the Whitmores would freely share information that didn’t clear their father of suspicion.
“Mind if I come along?” Ben asked in as offhand a manner as he could muster. Sierra seemed about to protest, so he added, “There are a number of ways to spell Blaine.”
“I don’t mind at all.” Ryan let his sister precede him out the door. They followed her down the narrow hall, with Ryan talking as they went. “I need you to understand we can only confirm whether she was a patient. Even the dead are protected by doctor/patient privilege.”
The narrow hall led to a small room with banks of file cabinets lining one wall. Ryan went directly to the first file cabinet and carefully flipped through the manila folders, then shrugged. “Nope. No Allison Blaine.”
Ben wasn’t ready to give up. “She was visiting her parents so it’s possible she came into the office with one of them. Their names were Barbara and Leonard Blaine.”
Ryan turned back to the files. “I don’t see their files, either. Did they live in town long?”
“Not even six months, I think,” Ben said.
“Must have been a healthy six months,” Ryan quipped.
Even if it meant revealing his relationship to Allison Blaine, Ben couldn’t ignore the third possibility. His mother could have brought one of his brothers to see a doctor.
“Is this where you keep the records for pediatric patients?” Ben asked, preparing to request the files be searched for the last name Nash.
“All those records are computerized,” Ryan answered. “We became a family practice when Sierra started working here two years ago. She and I are family physicians. Our father was an internist who treated patients eighteen and over.”
“Allison Blaine wasn’t treated here.” Sierra didn’t seem the least bit curious as to why he’d asked about pediatric patients. “Your lead is a dead end.”
“Not necessarily,” Ben said slowly. “He might have known her personally.”
“There’s no way to confirm that.” Ryan shut the file cabinet, almost as a signal that to the Whitmore siblings the case was closed.
“There could be.” Ben was trained to recognize other avenues that might yield results. “Your mother might know whether your father was acquainted with Allison Blaine. Is she alive?”
“Alive and well,” Ryan said.
“Mind telling me how I can get in touch with her?”
“Yes,” Sierra retorted sharply.
At the same time, her brother answered, “She moved into a retirement community after Dad died.”
“What’s the name of the place?” Ben asked.
“Hold on,” Sierra said before Ryan could supply the information. She moved closer to her brother so their shoulders were almost touching. “I don’t think we should tell him, Ryan.”
“If you don’t, I’ll find out from somebody else.” That was the absolute truth. A good reporter could always locate somebody who was eager to talk, no matter what the subject. “Why not tell me? What are you afraid of?”
Sierra stiffened. “I’m afraid you’ll upset her.”
“Then come with me,” he offered.
“Excuse me?”
“If you’re along,” Ben said, “you can make sure I’m on my best behavior.”
Ben
