he would go to her. He would join her.
Then suddenly he flashed on last night. The face in the driveway at Bedford. Had he seen it or dreamed it?
He lay down and tried to fall asleep again, but he couldnât. The burn on his hand was getting messy, and it hurt a lot. He couldnât go to the emergency room of the hospital. Heâd heard on the radio that the guy they arrested for the fire had a burn on his hand.
He was lucky he had met Dr. Ryan in the hospital lobby. If he had gone to the emergency room, someone might have reported him to the police. And they would have found out that last summer he had worked for the landscaper who took care of the grounds at the Bedfordhouse. But he had lost the prescription Dr. Ryan gave him.
Maybe if he put butter on his hand it would feel better. Thatâs what his mother had done once when she burned her hand lighting a cigarette from the stove.
Could he ask Dr. Ryan for another prescription? Maybe he could phone him.
Or would that merely remind Dr. Ryan that hours after the fire in Bedford Ned had showed him a burned hand?
He couldnât make up his mind what to do.
S EVENTEEN
I had cut out all the stories about Nick Spencer in the Caspien Town Journal. After I spoke to Vivian Powers, I went through them and found the picture of the dais at the Distinguished Citizen Award dinner on February 15, at which heâd been honored. The caption listed all the people who were sitting at the table with him.
They included the chairman of the board of directors of Caspien Hospital, the mayor of Caspien, a state senator, a clergyman, and several men and women who were undoubtedly prominent citizens in the area, the kind of people trotted out regularly for fund-raising dinners.
I jotted down their names and looked up their phone numbers. What I specifically wanted was to find the person in Caspien whom Nick Spencer had gone to see after he left Dr. Broderick the next morning. It was a slim possibility, but maybe, just maybe, it was one ofthose people on the dais with him. For the present I skipped calling the mayor, the state senator, or the chairman of the board of the hospital. Instead I hoped to get one of the women whoâd been there.
According to Dr. Broderick, Spencer had returned unexpectedly to Caspien that morning and had been upset that his fatherâs early records were missing. I always try to put myself in the shoes of someone Iâm trying to understand. If I had been in Nickâs shoes and had nothing to hide, I would have driven straight to my office and started an investigation.
Last night, after I got back home from dinner with Casey, I changed into my favorite nightshirt, got into bed, propped pillows against the headboard, and spread out on the bed all the articles in the voluminous file I had on Nick. Iâm a pretty good speed reader, but no matter how many articles I read, I never saw a single reference to the fact that he had left the notes of his fatherâs early experiments with Dr. Broderick in Caspien.
It stands to reason that kind of information would be known by only a very few people. But if Dr. Celtavini and Dr. Kendall were to be believed, they were not aware the old notes existed, and the man with the reddish brown hair was not a regular messenger for the company.
But why would someone outside the company know about Dr. Spencerâs records, and, even more puzzling, why would he want them?
I made three phone calls and left messages. The only person I connected with was the Reverend Howell, thePresbyterian minister who had given the invocation at the fund-raiser. He was cordial but said he did not have much conversation with Nick Spencer that evening. âI congratulated him on receiving the award, of course, Miss DeCarlo. Then, like everyone else, I was saddened and dismayed to learn of his alleged misdeeds and also to learn that the hospital suffered a heavy financial loss because of having invested so much of its
Then suddenly he flashed on last night. The face in the driveway at Bedford. Had he seen it or dreamed it?
He lay down and tried to fall asleep again, but he couldnât. The burn on his hand was getting messy, and it hurt a lot. He couldnât go to the emergency room of the hospital. Heâd heard on the radio that the guy they arrested for the fire had a burn on his hand.
He was lucky he had met Dr. Ryan in the hospital lobby. If he had gone to the emergency room, someone might have reported him to the police. And they would have found out that last summer he had worked for the landscaper who took care of the grounds at the Bedfordhouse. But he had lost the prescription Dr. Ryan gave him.
Maybe if he put butter on his hand it would feel better. Thatâs what his mother had done once when she burned her hand lighting a cigarette from the stove.
Could he ask Dr. Ryan for another prescription? Maybe he could phone him.
Or would that merely remind Dr. Ryan that hours after the fire in Bedford Ned had showed him a burned hand?
He couldnât make up his mind what to do.
S EVENTEEN
I had cut out all the stories about Nick Spencer in the Caspien Town Journal. After I spoke to Vivian Powers, I went through them and found the picture of the dais at the Distinguished Citizen Award dinner on February 15, at which heâd been honored. The caption listed all the people who were sitting at the table with him.
They included the chairman of the board of directors of Caspien Hospital, the mayor of Caspien, a state senator, a clergyman, and several men and women who were undoubtedly prominent citizens in the area, the kind of people trotted out regularly for fund-raising dinners.
I jotted down their names and looked up their phone numbers. What I specifically wanted was to find the person in Caspien whom Nick Spencer had gone to see after he left Dr. Broderick the next morning. It was a slim possibility, but maybe, just maybe, it was one ofthose people on the dais with him. For the present I skipped calling the mayor, the state senator, or the chairman of the board of the hospital. Instead I hoped to get one of the women whoâd been there.
According to Dr. Broderick, Spencer had returned unexpectedly to Caspien that morning and had been upset that his fatherâs early records were missing. I always try to put myself in the shoes of someone Iâm trying to understand. If I had been in Nickâs shoes and had nothing to hide, I would have driven straight to my office and started an investigation.
Last night, after I got back home from dinner with Casey, I changed into my favorite nightshirt, got into bed, propped pillows against the headboard, and spread out on the bed all the articles in the voluminous file I had on Nick. Iâm a pretty good speed reader, but no matter how many articles I read, I never saw a single reference to the fact that he had left the notes of his fatherâs early experiments with Dr. Broderick in Caspien.
It stands to reason that kind of information would be known by only a very few people. But if Dr. Celtavini and Dr. Kendall were to be believed, they were not aware the old notes existed, and the man with the reddish brown hair was not a regular messenger for the company.
But why would someone outside the company know about Dr. Spencerâs records, and, even more puzzling, why would he want them?
I made three phone calls and left messages. The only person I connected with was the Reverend Howell, thePresbyterian minister who had given the invocation at the fund-raiser. He was cordial but said he did not have much conversation with Nick Spencer that evening. âI congratulated him on receiving the award, of course, Miss DeCarlo. Then, like everyone else, I was saddened and dismayed to learn of his alleged misdeeds and also to learn that the hospital suffered a heavy financial loss because of having invested so much of its
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