Sue Grafton - P is for Peril

I walked past the front desk, which was located in a small alcove, and cruised down the corridor, guided by signs indicating the services of a dietary supervisor, a nursing supervisor, and a clutch of occupational, speech, and physical therapists. All three doors were open, but the offices were empty and the lights had been doused. Across the hallway I saw a sign for Admissions. That door was closed and a casual try of the knob told me it was locked. Next door was Medical Records, which apparently shared space with Administration. I thought I'd start there.

The overhead lights were on and I moved through the door. There was no one in evidence. I waited at the counter, idly staring at the wire basket filled with incoming mail. Casually, I surveyed my surroundings. Two desks back-to-back, one with a computer, the other with an electric typewriter humming faintly. There were numerous rolling file carts, a copy machine, and metal file cabinets on the far wall. There was also a big clock with a clicking second hand I could hear from fifteen feet away. Still no one. I rested my elbow on the counter, dangling my fingers near the basket full of mail. By fanning the corners and tilt-ing my head, I could read most of the return addresses. Bills, the usual gas and electric, a lawn and gardening service, two manila envelopes from Santa Teresa Hospital, better known as St. Terry's.

"Can I help you?"

Startled, I straightened up and said, "Hi. How're you?" The young woman had emerged from the door connecting Administration to Medical Records. She wore glasses with red plastic frames. Her complexion was clear, but she looked like she'd suffer a contagion of zits at the least provocation. Her hair was a medium brown in several irregular lengths; a layered cut grown out now and badly in need of a trim. Under her green smock, she wore brown polyester pants. The name MERRY and PACIFIC MEADOWS were machine-embroidered on the breast pocket above her heart.

She crossed to the counter, passing through a hinged door, and took her place on the far side. At first glance, I'd thought she was in her early thirties, but I quickly revised that downward by a good ten years. She wore metal braces on her teeth and whatever she'd eaten for lunch was still embedded in the wires. Her breath smelled of tension and discontent. Her expression remained quizzical, but her tone had an edge. "Can I ask what you were doing?"

I blinked one eye in her direction. "I lost my contact lens. It might have popped out in the car. I only noticed it just now. I thought it might have fallen in the basket, but there's no sign of it."

"Want me to help you look?"

"Don't worry about it. I have a whole box of 'em at home."

"Are you here to see someone?"

"I'm here on business," I said. I removed my wallet from my shoulder bag and flipped it open. I pointed at my P.I. license. "I've been hired to look into Dr. Purcell's disappearance."

Merry squinted at my license, holding up the postage stamp-sized photo for comparison with my face-sized face. I said, "Are you the office manager?"

She shook her head. "I'm temping here on weekends while the other girl's out on maternity leave. Monday through Fridays, I'm Mrs. Stegler's assistant."

"Really. That's great. And what does that entail?"

"You know, typing, filing. I answer phones and distribute mail to all the residents, whatever needs doing."

"Is Mrs. Stegler the one I should be talking to?"

"I guess. She's Acting Associate Administrator. Unfortunately, she won't be back until Monday. Can you stop by then?"

"What about Mr. Glazer or Mr. Broadus?"

"They have an office downtown."

"Gee, that's too bad. I was driving through the neighborhood and took a chance. Well. I guess it can't be helped."

I saw her gaze stray to her computer. "Could you excuse me a minute?"

"Go right ahead."

She moved around to her twelve-inch monitor with its amber print on black. She was probably using office hours to do her personal correspondence. She pressed keys until she'd backed out of the document. She returned to the counter, smiling self-consciously. "You have a business card? I can have Mrs. Stegler call you as soon as she gets in."

"That'd be great." I took my time fumbling through my handbag to find a business card. "How long have you been here?"

"Three months December 1. I'm still on probation."

I put my card on the counter. "You like the work?"

"Sort of, but not really. You know, it's boring, but okay. Mrs. S. has been here forever and she started out just like me. Not that I'll stick around as long as she has. I'm two semesters short of my college degree."

"What field?"

Elementary ed. My dad says you shouldn't job-hop because it looks really bad on your resume'. Like you're shiftless or something, which I've never been."

"Well yeah, but on the other hand, if you're interested in teaching, there's no point hanging on to a job that doesn't suit."

"That's what I said. Besides, Mrs. S. is real moody and gets on my nerves. One day she's sweet, like butter wouldn't melt in her mouth, and then she turns around and acts all crabby. I mean, what is her problem?"

"What's your guess?"

"Beats me. They're still looking for someone to fill the position, which gritches her but good. She thinks she should be promoted instead of just being used is how she put it."

"If she did get promoted, who would she replace?"

"Mrs. Delacorte. She's the one who got canned." I kept my expression neutral. Not only was she bored, but she hadn't learned the basic rules, the most compelling of which is never, never, never confide company secrets in the likes of me. I said, "Golly, that's too bad. Why was she fired, has anybody said?" My lies and fake behavior are usually heralded by "Gollys" and "Gees."

"She wasn't fired exactly. It's more like she was laid off."

"Oh, right. And when was that?"

"The same time as Mrs. Bart. She's the bookkeeper since way back when. They were interviewing for her position the same time I applied for this one."

"How come?"

"How come what?"

"I wonder how the bookkeeper and the administrator got laid off at the same time. Was that coincidence?"

"Not at all," she said. "Mrs. Bart was let go and Mrs. Delacorte got upset and raised a stink. Mr. Harrington suggested she might be happier finding work somewhere else, so that's what she did. This is all stuff I heard." She stopped what she was saying and her eyes seemed to widen behind the red plastic frames. "You're not taking notes. I'm not supposed to gossip. Mrs. S. is hell on that."

I held up my hands. "I'm just making conversation 'til the rain lets up."

She patted her chest. "Whew! For a minute, I got nervous. I wouldn't want you to get the wrong impression. I mean, it's like I told her, I'd never blab anybody's private business. It's not in my nature."

"You and me both," I said. "So who's Mr. Harrington? I never heard of him."

"He works for the billing company in Santa Maria."

"And he's the one who hired you?"

"Kind of. He interviewed me by phone, but only after Mrs. S. had already approved my application. That's the way it works around here. Make the guys think they're in charge when we're really the ones who do everything."

"I thought Dr. Purcell did all the hiring and firing."

"I don't know anything about that. I was here less than two weeks when he, you know, ran off or whatever. I think that's why Mr. Harrington was forced to step in."

"Where's Mrs. Delacorte work now? Has anybody said?"

"She's over at St. Terry's. I know because last week she stopped by to visit with Mrs. S. Turns out she found a great job so it's worked out fine. Getting laid off can be a blessing, though it didn't seem like it at the time is what she says."

"What about Mrs. Bart?"