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GAME ON. I didn’t believe Cissie’s never-going-to-speak-to-Eric-again proclamation for one second. Why? The tears in her eyes.
Also, I had just delivered her phone charger. She hadn’t been ignoring anything; her phone was dead. Consequently, I had no qualms about learning whatever I could about Eric Zumstein on her behalf, especially how his grandmother died.
How to proceed was the question. Chewing on that while I was driving home, what I remembered about that Serenity Prayer by Reinhold Neibuhr came to mind. Have the courage to change what you can, accept what you can’t; and good luck figuring out which is which.
The summer rainstorm held off until Fideaux and I were strolling up our street. Then with her tongue in her cheek, Mother Nature pelted my umbrella and the dog’s hide until the gutters ran like mini rivers. Fideaux dispatched his business with grit and efficiency, and we hastened back home to our dinners.
All the while, my brain alternately poked at the Eric problem and ignored it.
With my evening decaf, I concluded Dr. Quinn was key.
By bedtime I finally quit procrastinating and picked up the phone.
His answering-service person sounded unusually perky for the hour, as if she was in a western state and had just finished supper.
I said I needed to speak to Dr. Quinn.
“Is it an emergency, because...?”
“No.”
“This is his answering service,” she stated from memory. “For an appointment you need to phone the office during business hours.”
Since I’d procrastinated too long already, I let it all pour out. “I don’t want a regular appointment. I need to know whether a woman might be leaving her violent husband for a murderer.”
“Listen, lady...”
“Ginger Barnes. You can call me Gin.”
“Whatever. This is an answering service. I have real people calling with real emergencies. If you don’t hang up right now, I’m going to use another line to give the police your number.”
She had Caller ID. Of course, she did. Who doesn’t?
I pointed out that bothering the police would delay getting the information I needed from Dr. Quinn, “and I’d really like his input before my friend goes home, which might be tomorrow.” I put the odds of that happening at 50/50; but it was possible, especially if Ronald hadn’t yet been released on bail.
“Where are you?” I asked but didn’t wait for an answer. “Never mind. Wherever it is, I bet your hospital’s ladies’ room displays the phone number of a women’s shelter. Am I right?”
Silence, but she didn’t hang up.
“I just took a woman named Cissie to our local shelter. Her husband broke three of her ribs and inflicted plenty of other damage. She has a baby daughter. She also met a neighbor, a man who is attracted to her and would love to get her out of the abusive situation. However, there’s a cloud over his head regarding how his grandmother died. Dr. Quinn was the grandmother’s attending physician. I need to know whether my friend would be leaving a batterer for a murderer. Got it?”
“Yes, ma’m. I think I do.”
“Will you please relay my request for a brief meeting with Dr. Quinn at your earliest convenience?”
“Yes, ma’m, I will.”
Considering the week I’d had, I should have fallen asleep in my soup, but no. Anticipating a nasty call from Dr. Quinn, I twitched like a nervous bride until Fideaux left me for the living room sofa.
Too stressed to read the book Natalie lent me, I hunted down the lunch bag of mystery novels I’d bought for Maisie.
Back in bed, I propped myself against a couple of pillows, tucked my feet under the covers, and peeked inside the bag.
The pages of all four paperbacks looked tighter than crackers in a sleeve. Maisie hadn’t read one word.
Or else she didn’t live long enough to start. Not the sort of thought that invited sleep.
I didn’t dare start a lengthy page-turner, so I pinched the skinniest book with my fingertips and slid it out of the bag.
Ick. The bottom edge had a small, dark smear, maybe breakfast jam or gravy from Maisie’s dinner. Or, considering where she was, it might be blood. I set the short read aside and tried another.
Pristine. The cover depicted a sunny beachside cottage festooned with flower boxes. As advertised, the first page was charming and light, not too ominous...
I tossed the novel aside and curled up under the covers. Staring into the dark, I played and replayed an imaginary scenario in my head until finally I fell asleep.
Five hours later my phone rang.