Snapshot by Linda Barnes Page B

combed white hair. “How extraordinarily generous of her. I thought she might have harbored some … hard feelings. You know her daughter didn’t respond to … her daughter died.” He seemed genuinely distressed, possibly more upset than a doctor who’d seen death so often ought to be.
    â€œOh, I’m sorry,” I said. “I could be mistaken. But I thought—no, I’m sure it was Emily.”
    â€œIt doesn’t matter,” Muir said, almost his regal self again.
    â€œNo,” I said hesitantly, “I guess it doesn’t. Only—well, I suppose I ought to ask. The ladies might think me rude, but please, don’t be offended. I feel I have to follow through on this. There isn’t any reason why you wouldn’t wish to be our speaker, is there?”
    â€œI’m not sure I know what you mean.”
    â€œYou’re not expecting any difficulties, uh, nothing of a legal nature, concerning Emily’s daughter’s death?”
    The sparkling eyes froze and I got a glimpse of steel. “Certainly not. Not to my knowledge.”
    â€œI’m sorry. It’s just I know that Emily’s husband’s a lawyer, and lawyers do tend to sue anytime things don’t work out.”
    He made a dismissive noise and straightened his perfect tie. “Some people believe there always has to be a happy ending. Perhaps it’s the television they watch. I don’t know.”
    â€œThe death of a child is hard to accept,” I said.
    â€œIndeed,” Muir responded. “For all of us.”
    The phone buzzed again, two short bleats.
    â€œI really must go now, Mrs. Everett.”
    â€œThank you so much for your time, and for all the good work you do.” I stood and offered my hand. He crossed to take it. His handclasp was firm and dry. He was wearing a spicy after-shave that successfully blocked the hospital smell. With his door shut, we could have been in any fancy corporate office.
    Dr. Renzel interrupted our farewells. “I could show you a couple of current construction projects, if you’re interested,” he said.
    I turned to him and he flashed a quick smile. I studied his face. Ordinary, except for the prominent cheekbones. Not quite enough chin. His voice was another story. Smooth as a well-bowed cello. Put him to work in telephone sales, he’d have a hell of a future.
    â€œMrs. Everett, this is Dr. Renzel.” Muir made the belated introduction hurriedly, then added, “Mrs. Everett’s from a local newspaper,” as if Renzel hadn’t been hanging on our every word. I wondered if Muir stressed my newspaper affiliation to remind Renzel to discuss only printable matters.
    â€œA newsweekly, really. But I’m here only as a representative of the Silver Crescent,” I reminded them.
    Renzel smiled enthusiastically. “Well, maybe I can talk you into doing a puff piece for us. Something that will get a few philanthropists to stop sitting on their wallets.”
    â€œThat’s an idea,” I said.
    â€œHave you seen any of the newer areas of the hospital?” he asked me.
    â€œNo.” I patted my phony curls. Maybe blondes do have more fun. And maybe I could talk him into a guided tour of the chemotherapy treatment rooms.
    Muir left the room before we did, his back imperially erect. We followed him like sheep, like courtiers.

13
    â€œFirst of all,” Renzel said, leading me briskly into the waiting room, taking a sharp right, then a left toward the elevators, “do you have all our literature? We do a quarterly magazine that details our progress. Scholarly articles. Chitchat. Who’s new on the staff.”
    I fumbled a notebook out of my purse: Sandy Everett, resourceful reporter, always prepared for a story. I doubted I could get him to tell me the right story, but maybe I could finesse him into tossing me a lead.
    â€œThis is very kind of you,” I said, “but first