How Like an Angel by Margaret Millar

but I talked her around. She’ll meet you at noon in the cafeteria at the hospital. It’s on C Street near Third Avenue. The cafeteria’s in the basement.”
    â€œThanks very much.”
    â€œDid you get in touch with Haywood?”
    â€œNo. He’s in bed with a cold and his mother refused to let me talk to him.”
    Ronda laughed as if at some private joke he didn’t want to explain. “What about Willie King?”
    â€œShe’s out of town.”
    â€œBad timing all around, eh?”
    â€œFor me,” Quinn said. “For Willie and George Haywood it’s very convenient timing.”
    â€œYou have a suspicious mind, Quinn. If the incident in the café last night happened as you said it did, Willie will cer­tainly have some legitimate explanation for her actions. She’s a respectable businesswoman.”
    â€œEveryone in Chicote seems respectable,” Quinn said. “Maybe if I hang around long enough some of the respect­ability will rub off on me.”
    The hospital was new and the cafeteria in the basement was light and airy with wide windows looking out on a plaza with a fountain. Beside one of the windows Martha O’Gorman was waiting at a small table. She looked neat and attractive in her white uniform. Her face, which Quinn had last seen twisted with anger, was now composed.
    She spoke first. “Sit down, Mr. Quinn.”
    â€œThank you.”
    â€œWhat’s your pitch this time?”
    â€œNo pitch,” Quinn said. “The umpire hasn’t thrown the ball in yet.”
    She raised her eyebrows. “So you expect umpires in this dirty game? You are naïve. Umpires are to make sure of fair play, to protect both sides equally. That isn’t how it’s worked out for me and my children, let alone for my husband.”
    â€œI’m sorry, Mrs. O’Gorman. I wish I could—well, help.”
    â€œI’ve suffered more at the hands of people who tried to help me than I have at those of indifferent strangers.”
    â€œThen allow me to be an indifferent stranger.”
    She sat stiff and uncompromising, her hands folded on the table. “Let’s not beat around the bush, Mr. Quinn. Why did some woman hire you to locate my husband?”
    â€œThat information was given to John Ronda in strict con­fidence,” Quinn said, flushing. “I didn’t expect him to repeat it.”
    â€œThen you’re a poor judge of people. He’s the town blab­bermouth.”
    â€œOh.”
    â€œNot that he intends any harm—blabbermouths never do, do they?—but he dearly loves to talk. And print. What about the woman, Mr. Quinn? What’s her motive?”
    â€œI really don’t know. Ronda probably told you that, too, didn’t he?”
    â€œOh, yes.”
    â€œI took the job because I needed it,” Quinn said. “She didn’t ask me for references, I didn’t ask her. I assumed that Mr. O’Gorman was a relative or an old friend with whom she’d lost contact. Naturally, if I had known I was going to run into this kind of situation I’d have asked her more questions.”
    â€œHow long has she been living with this cult, or whatever it is?”
    â€œShe claims that her son sends her a twenty-dollar bill every Christmas. She gave me a hundred and twenty dollars.”
    â€œSix years then,” Martha O’Gorman said thoughtfully. “If she’s been living apart from the world that long, it’s possible she never found out Patrick is dead.”
    â€œQuite possible.”
    â€œWhat does she look like?”
    Quinn described Sister Blessing as well as he could.
    â€œI don’t remember Patrick knowing anyone like that,” Mrs. O’Gorman said. “We were married sixteen years ago, and his friends were my friends.”
    â€œMy description of her isn’t very good, I’m afraid. When a group of people all wear the same