“Sometimes she can, sometimes she can’t—depends on whether her mind’s fixed or not,” the woman informed them. “She’s got a rare form of brain cancer. Lately she’s more out than in, if you know what I mean. The doctor’s wife ain’t in, ain’t in her right mind.”
“Are you her caregiver?” Ben asked, his disgust growing with every word she uttered.
“As much as I can be. Heaven only knows I’m more of a guard most of the time.”
“A guard?” Carolyn asked.
“She’ll get it into her head that she’s going to drive her car, and if I so much as turn away for a second, she’s out there behind the wheel, angry at the car because she can’t get it to go. I hid the keys, but still she tries.”
Carolyn looked at Mrs. Benton for a few more seconds, her gaze searching the woman’s profile. After a moment, she said, “We’re looking for some records. Is there anyone in charge of the doctor’s records?”
“Just her,” the woman said. “She was his nurse, and his office manager, I suppose. They pretty much worked as a team. You’re not from around here, are ya, or you’d know that.”
“I’m not,” Carolyn said. “This is Ben Mulholland, and his daughter, Lucy. We think that Dr. Benton assisted Ben’s mother in her delivery. We’re looking for Eileen Mulholland’s records.”
“I can’t give you none of that,” the caregiver said, “even if I knew where they were.”
Mrs. Benton turned her head. “Eileen?” she asked in a quavering voice. “Eileen?”
“Eileen Mulholland,” Carolyn repeated softly. Ben’s heart seemed to pause.
Mrs. Benton frowned, obviously trying to sort through something in her mind. “Eileen.”
“Mulholland,” Carolyn said again.
The woman scratched at her hand. “Is she here?”
“No.” Carolyn’s voice was soft. “She died.”
“Oh, no,” Mrs. Benton said. “She didn’t die. She’s a healthy farm girl. I took her vital signs.”
Carolyn’s gaze met Ben’s in triumph, but all he felt was a keyed-up sense of fear. He wanted answers, but how were they going to get them out of this addled woman?
Mrs. Benton turned toward the television again, apparently finished.
“Won’t get much out of her,” the caregiver informed them. “You’re lucky you got that much. Say, if this Eileen Mulholland is dead, what are you wanting to see her records for?”
“Eileen Mulholland is not dead,” Mrs. Benton disagreed without taking her attention from “Hollywood Squares.” “I took her vital signs myself.”
“Her health history could help us determine whether little Lucy here is predisposed to any medical problems.”
Ben admired Carolyn’s quick and logical answer. If nothing else, she was managing to squeeze some water from a very difficult stone. He’d have walked away with an empty cup if he’d been in charge of the questioning.
Carolyn took Lucy from Ben’s arms and brought her near to Mrs. Benton, as if to engender a bond between them. To his surprise, Mrs. Benton glanced at the child—then drew back as if she were afraid.
“Is there something wrong with her?” the caregiver asked bluntly, her voice hard as she stared at Lucy. “She looks sick to me.”
Ben took Lucy back from Carolyn and held her more tightly to his chest, willing his anger to burn itself out. Let Carolyn handle this, he reminded himself. If you give this old witch a righteous ass-chewing, you’re going to blow any chance of learning what you need to know.
“I think I’ll go for a drive,” Mrs. Benton said. “I need to drive.”
The caregiver sighed. “No, Mrs. Benton, no drive for you. But if you be quiet, I’ll push your wheelchair in the garden.” She brought a wheelchair over from a side room and helped her charge up, then glanced at the guests. “I think you’ve gotten all you’re going to out of her. Could you see yourselves out? If I leave her while she’s taken a notion to go driving, I’ll come back here and find her gone. One time she walked down the street and tried to get into someone’s house. She kept repeating over and over that she was an orphan and needed a home. Poor devil.”
“We can see ourselves out,” Carolyn assured her. “Thank you for your time.”
“But—“ Ben began, but Carolyn shook her head.
The wheelchair moved toward the back of the house, and they heard a door open and shut.
“I’ll bet she tells everyone she sees that she’s being kept prisoner. She’s probably ‘out’ a lot more of the time than she’s ‘in’ just to survive living with that battle-ax.”
“No,” Carolyn disagreed. “Mrs. Benton’s suffering is real. The interesting thing was, she totally clicked in when anything was mentioned about patients or nursing. Did you notice how that really caught her attention? I have a feeling she was a very competent nurse. It’s the part of her life she seemed very cognizant of. She remembered your mother had been a patient, and that she’d taken her vitals.”
“Great, so Nurse Ratched was a nurse down to her cuticles. How does that help us?”
“It’s something to go on.”
He followed Carolyn as she moved to the front of the house.
“Daddy, can we go yet?” Lucy asked.
“We’ll go, sweetie. I know you’re getting tired.” He was frustrated by the lack of information they’d found, but he injected his voice with kindness for Lucy’s sake. Inside, he cursed, hating the brick wall they’d hit.
Carolyn walked into another room off the hallway, her gaze on the steel filing cabinets lining one wall. “There’s probably a gold mine of information hidden in those steel drawers.”
“I think you need a search warrant or a request or something, Carolyn,” he said worriedly. He’d hired her for her tenacity, but he didn’t know if this much was a good thing. She had a determined gleam in her eye that hinted at her intentions. “Carolyn, if you go through those cabinets and the harpy catches you, she may call the police on us. I wouldn’t put it past her.”
“We don’t have a lot of time for legal dancing,” Carolyn said. She pointed to the garden, where they could see the wheelchair being pushed by the unenthusiastic caregiver. “Why don’t you go settle Lucy in the car? I’ll be right behind you.”
“Getting fired from your job isn’t something I want to have you do on my behalf,” Ben said, watching as she walked into the office.
Carolyn ignored him as she opened the first set of steel drawers. “I’m not doing this on your behalf,” she said, her voice preoccupied as she looked into some files. “These files are in a feminine hand, rather than
