TEN

TWO days later, Blanche was exiting the hospital’s elevator. Peeking around a corner, she peered down the long, antiseptic-scented hallway.

On this rainy afternoon, all seemed quiet on the floor. Several nurses occupied the station in the center of the corridor, and a bored janitor mopped the shiny waxed floor. There were no doctors present, and no visitors, save for a bald, hard-faced man with a mustache and a tweedy brown sport coat.

Blanche easily spotted Clare’s door halfway down the hall—it was the only one fully closed, and she prayed it wasn’t locked.

Beside her, Dante Silva tugged at his green hospital scrubs. To calm his obvious tension, Blanche patted the young barista’s tattooed arm. “I know you’re nervous, Dante, but we can do this!” she said, doing her best to impersonate an octogenarian cheerleader.

“I’m not nervous,” Dante informed her. “You forget, I’m wearing these so-called scrubs inside out, because the outside is covered with glue-on sequins.” He scratched again. “And those shiny little buggers are rubbing me in all the wrong places!”

Blanche sighed. “It was all Tucker could come up with on such short notice. He dug them out of his theatrical trunk. I believe they were used in a cabaret send-up of some soap opera.”

“Glittery Hospital,” Dante said. “Tuck already told me. Somehow that knowledge does not soothe the irritation.”

“Grin and bear it. We can’t have a medical doctor fiddling with his pants in public. And you had better pull down those sleeves, too.”

“Oh, right,” Dante said. “Esther warned me that she never met a doctor who had more skin art than a sailor with a drinking problem.”

“Well, don’t take her criticism to heart, dear boy. I find your tattoos fetching.”

Five minutes passed. This time it was Dante who peeked around the corner. “Where is our diversion?” he wondered. “Ah, there he is.”

On cue, Tucker emerged from a door at the far end of the corridor. Blanche and Dante watched him stroll up to the nurses’ station and make the big announcement.

“Good afternoon, everyone! We’ve laid out a delicious spread on this floor’s visitors’ lounge, so come and enjoy! It’s an array of goodies from the Village Blend menu.” Tuck offered the nurses a flirty wink. “Our way of thanking you fine medical professionals for the care you’ve been giving our manager.”

Tuck’s volume went up a notch, to catch the attention of any staff members still working the rooms.

“Come and eat. We’ve got fresh-baked Blueberry Shortbread, Glazed Strawberry Scones, and warm Pistachio Muffins. Plus a whole vacuum pot of our famous Kona Peaberry, straight from the Waipuna Estate in Hawaii!”

Like the Pied Piper of pastry, Tucker led the delighted nurses to the snacks. Esther waved at the janitor to join the culinary conga line, and he happily set aside his mop to do just that.

“Let’s give the staff a little time,” Blanche cautioned Dante.

“I know the plan. When they’re all busy noshing, we make our move.” He raised a blue clipboard thick with official-looking papers. “I’ve got my prop.”

Three minutes later, she nudged the young barista.

“It’s showtime.”

After warning Dante not to be nervous, Blanche suddenly felt butterflies in her own stomach. But there was no turning back. This was their last chance. Dr. Lorca was transferring Clare to his upstate facility in the morning.

So, side by side, Blanche and Dante walked around the corner, and literally crashed into a young nurse rushing out of a patient’s room.

“Oh, excuse me,” she cried, embarrassed. Then she noticed Dante’s scrubs. “Are you new here?”

Blanche panicked. Though she kept a smile plastered on her own face, she feared Dante wouldn’t be quick enough to think on his feet.

But Dante replied with an appropriate degree of hubris. “I’m Dr. Glitter . . . Kildare Glitter, Department of Psychiatry.”

Blanche wanted to smack her forehead—or Dante’s.

Fortunately, the nurse was too smitten to notice Dante’s stammer, or his absurd moniker. Instead, her gaze was appraising.

“You’re pretty young to be a psychiatrist,” she observed, more impressed than suspicious.

“Top of my class at Harvard,” Dante said, pouring it on a tad thick, in Blanche’s opinion.

Dante glanced at the nurse’s name tag. All charm, he offered her his hand.

“Nice to meet you . . . Nurse Fischer. I hope we meet again.”

“Me too. Hey, there are refreshments in the floor lounge. Would you like to join me?”

“I’ve got to check on a patient,” Dante replied, in a tone of genuine regret.

“Okay, I’ll see you around, Dr. Glitter.”

As the nurse departed, Dante smiled. “She’s cute.”

“And you’re never going to see her again. Focus, my boy. Focus.”

A moment later, they reached Clare’s door. With Dante standing guard, pretending to read his clipboard, Blanche gripped the door handle. For a panicked second, she feared it was locked. But (thank goodness) the latch clicked!

“Wish me luck. Here I go . . .”