29 29AT FOUR-THIRTY, NURSE ZELDA MARKEY WAS RELIEVED from duty and reported as directed to the office of Dr. William Lane. She knew she was going to be called on the carpet, and she knew why: Greta Shipley had complained about her. Well, Nurse Markey was ready for Dr. Lane.
Look at him, she thought contemptuously, as he frowned across the desk at her. I bet he can’t tell the difference between measles and chicken pox. Or palpitations and congestive heart failure.
He was frowning, but the telltale beads of perspiration on his forehead told Nurse Markey exactly how uncomfortable he was with this session. She decided to make it easier for him because she was well aware that the best defense was always a good offense.
“Doctor,” she began, “I know exactly what you’re going to say: Mrs. Shipley has complained that I walk in on her without knocking. The fact is, Mrs. Shipley is doing a great deal of sleeping, much more than she did even a few weeks ago, and I’ve been a little concerned. It’s probably just the emotional response to the death of her friends, but I assure you that I open that door without invitation only when there is no response to repeated knocking.”
She saw the flicker of uncertainty in Lane’s eyes before he spoke. “Then I would suggest, Miss Markey, that if Mrs. Shipley does not respond after a reasonable period, you open the door slightly and call in to her. The fact is she’s becoming quite agitated about this, and I want to head it off before it becomes a real problem.”
“But, Dr. Lane, if I had not been in her room two nights ago when she had that spell, something terrible might have happened.”
“The spell passed quickly, and it turned out to be nothing. I do appreciate your concern, but I can’t have these complaints. Do we understand each other, Miss Markey?”
“Of course, Doctor.”
“Is Mrs. Shipley planning to be at dinner this evening?”
“Oh, yes, she’ll not only be there, but she’s having a guest, Miss Holloway, the stepdaughter of Mrs. Moore. Mrs. Lane was told about that. She said that Miss Holloway is going to collect Mrs. Moore’s art supplies while she is here.”
“I see. Thank you, Miss Markey.”
As soon as she had left, Lane picked up the phone to call his wife at home. When she answered, he snapped, “Why didn’t you tell me Maggie Holloway would be having dinner here tonight?”
“What difference could that possibly make?” Odile asked in a puzzled tone.
“The difference is—” Lane closed his lips and took a deep breath. Certain things were better left unsaid. “I want to know about any guests who are at dinner,” he said. “For one thing, I want to be there to greet them.”
“I know that, dear. I arranged for us to dine in the residence tonight. Mrs. Shipley declined rather ungraciously when I suggested that she and her guest join us at our table. But at least you’ll be able to chat with Maggie Holloway at the social hour.”
“All right.” He paused, as though there was more he wanted to say but had changed his mind. “I’ll be home in ten minutes.”
“Well, you had better be if you want to freshen up.” Odile’s trilling laugh set Lane’s teeth on edge.
“After all, darling,” she continued, “if the rules insist that the guests be dressed for dinner, I think the director and his wife should at least set a good example. Don’t you?”