Snapshot by Linda Barnes

made sure my voice was loud enough to penetrate wood.
    â€œReally,” I said. “Have you any idea how the ladies of the Silver Crescent might react if I can’t make our presentation to Dr. Muir personally? Today? How can we print up the invitations? How can we set the level of contributions? I understand that he’s a busy man, but good news is not to be ignored. He is certainly not the only medical man worthy of this honor—”
    I could have continued, but I didn’t have to. The door swung open on well-oiled hinges.

12
    Dr. Renzel appeared, staring at me quizzically. “I was just leaving, Barbara,” he said. “Hope I haven’t made a hash of your schedule.”
    â€œWhat seems to be the problem?” I heard a gruff voice demand from within.
    I sidestepped both Barbara and Renzel, stuck my foot in the door.
    â€œA minute of your time, Dr. Muir,” I said.
    The gruffness was age, I realized. Much older than his lobby portrait, he sat in a high-backed leather throne behind a slab of mahogany and inclined his head a fraction of an inch in my direction. I felt almost as if I’d been granted a blessing. His crisp white shirt and red speckled bow tie were hardly clerical garb, but I was vividly reminded of an old priest my father, a much-lapsed Catholic, had revered. Jerome Muir’s hair had turned beautifully white, without a trace of yellow; his moustache and bushy sideburns were elegant.
    â€œThe lady from that charity,” Barbara murmured in a low voice, as if she thought I might be hard of hearing. “I’m still checking on her. The newspaper …”
    The number on my Suffolk News business card is hooked into the Green & White Cab Company’s fancy phone system, courtesy of Sam Gianelli. It’s not just an unlisted number; it’s unpublished and pretty close to untraceable. Sam’s picked up a few tricks from his mobster dad over the years. The efficient Barbara would have reached an answering machine: “All lines are currently busy. Please hold.”
    â€œChecking!” I echoed indignantly. “Surely, Dr. Muir, you’ve heard of the Silver Crescent. We’re currently seeking affiliation with the Eastern Star.”
    â€œBarbara, perhaps I’d better handle this directly.” Muir’s broad face was slightly florid and crisscrossed with a fine web of lines. His piercing blue eyes rarely blinked. He focused his full attention on me, and it seemed like a gift seldom bestowed, something the speaker needed to earn.
    Renzel’s casual, “Can I stay?” made it sound as if there were going to be a movie screening, with popcorn and Coke.
    I said, “The membership gave me very specific instructions. They wanted me to do it just so.”
    Renzel said good-naturedly, “Don’t let me stop you.”
    Barbara turned on her sensible heel and departed without a word.
    â€œYou’ve upset her,” Renzel said. I wasn’t sure if he was talking to me or Muir. Talking about me or Barbara.
    â€œOh, Jerome, I almost forgot,” Renzel went on. “Have you decided on the Portugal conference?”
    While the two doctors debated the merits of meeting with colleagues in Lisbon, I inspected the office. Matching bookcases lined two walls. A marble-topped table held an ornate Chinese vase. A collection of creamy, spiraled shells filled two shelves of the right-hand bookcase. A full-rigged frigate in a bottle sailed another. Two oil paintings looked like the real thing, but who knows, what with Polaroid reproductions? Muir had covered the wall behind his desk with framed photographs. Student groups from college days, gowned graduation photos, Muir standing beside a man in flowing Arabian robes, Muir smiling while he clapped a well-known congressman on the back.
    A power wall.
    In most of the photos he wore a polka-dot bow tie. As he apparently did in real life.
    â€œI’ll consider it,”