She sighed, if only to breathe out some tension. “Actually, I’d say he reminds me of my father, if anything.”
“So he’s a father figure.”
“Sure. Is that so bad?”
“No. No, that’s all right. But you’ve told him everything you’ve told me?”
“Pretty much.”
“Well, I wouldn’t tell him any more. He does deserve our gratitude, absolutely, but we need to keep your life private and you safe and secure.”
“But that’s just the thing. Am I? I’m not so sure yet.”
“I’ve been looking into it.”
She locked eyes with him, awaiting more, but he smiled like somebody hiding a secret and spread his arms toward the table. “Let’s eat before it gets cold.”
Eloise took her place at one end of the table, blown away by the care Seamus had taken with every detaiclass="underline" the fine china, the silverware—a soup spoon anda dinner spoon, a salad fork anda dinner fork, a butter knife anda dinner knife!—the autumn leaves and colors centerpiece, the lit candles, the napkins—no, the serviettes—in silver napkin rings. His dining room was like the rest of his quaint bungalow near the lake: warm, embracing, with dark wood beams and leaded windows, a setting fit for a Jane Austen novel. She’d dressed in the best blouse and slacks she owned; she should have been wearing an empire-waisted dress.
“Lovely,” she said. “Lovely, lovely!”
Seamus smiled at her over the centerpiece. He looked great. The candlelight shimmered in his eyes, and the warm glow from the wall sconces highlighted his hair. “I think I’ll return thanks.” They bowed together and he prayed, “Dear God, for all we have received and for all we will be mindful to share, we give you thanks. Amen.”
The meal was like a fireworks display for the mouth, just one ooohand aahhhafter another except she had to hum the sounds to be polite. The whole mood changed for the better, even as she brought up the same old business. “Anyway … what can I do? What if Mr. Collins doesn’t want to hassle with somebody who might be a mental case? What if Roger and Abby find out?”
He took some time to chew a bite, leaving her in suspense, then said, “I spoke with the hospital.”
She almost dropped her fork and peered at him over the centerpiece. “You didn’t! Can you even do that?”
He loved to draw things out. He stabbed another bite of turkey.
“Don’t you dare!”
He laughed and set his fork down. “I don’t worry that much about ‘can’ or ‘cannot.’ There’s always a way once you find the right people, preferably the ones who are nervous. They tried to tell me that all patient records were strictly confidential and that they had nothing more to say, but when I told them I was your attorney and confronted them with what I knew, we fell right into a discussion about what they couldn’t talk about and what they hoped I and my client wouldn’t talk about either, and from there, lo and behold, they brought up how they might make amends for any pain they may have caused you in exchange for your not pressing matters any further.”
Her mouth was hanging open. Luckily she’d swallowed just before that. “You were going to sue them?”
He smiled and shook his head. “It never came up. They wanted this whole thing kept quiet, and all I had to do was wait, just look at them until they were ready to talk about a settlement.” Now he made her wait, maybe to show how it felt. It felt terrible. She was about to break the silence when he wiggled a pointed finger. “Take a peek under your plate.”
She scrunched down and lifted the edge.
“Here’s a little piece of my magic,” he said.
There was an envelope tucked under there. She pulled it out. It had her name on it, Eloise Kramer, written in Seamus’s hand.
“Go ahead, take a look.”
She used her butter knife to slit the envelope open, feeling like a volunteer in a magic act. Her reaction was the kind every magician hopes for: wide-eyed astonishment.
The envelope contained a cashier’s check for fifty thousand dollars.
The Friday after Thanksgiving, while Christmas shoppers were going nuts at the malls, Dane drove to a Starbucks in Liberty Lake, halfway between Spokane and Coeur d’Alene, to meet a lady for coffee. He spotted her the moment he stepped through the front door. She was the one sitting at a small, round table in the corner, a bulging computer bag at her feet, a twenty-ounce coffee cup on the table between her hands, and red waves and curls covering her shoulders like lush vines in autumn. She met his eyes as he approached.
“Bernadette Nolan?” he asked.
She extended her hand and he greeted her.
They’d reached a unique agreement. She told him over the phone that she could not tell him anything because of confidentiality laws; she couldn’t even let him know whether he had found the right person. Nevertheless, once he described a particular individual they both might know—he did not name her—as an up-and-coming magician who could do card tricks and recall the words “Cadillac,” “purple,” and “zebra,” she agreed to visit with him. It seemed they both realized between the lines that even though she could not talk about the individual, he could, and given that, she was interested.
He ordered a venti café mocha, nonfat but with whipped cream—his way of splitting the difference—joined her at the table, and they began circling each other verbally. Who was he, who was she, what did he do for a living, what did she do, how long?
“Just how did you happen to call me?” she asked.
“Half shoe leather, half luck,” he replied. “I called the hospital and got nowhere; I called the Behavioral Health Unit and still got nowhere …”
“Confidentiality runs through the entire system.”
“So I discovered—and I admire that. I appreciate it. But I still had some key words: ‘Spokane County Medical Center,’ ‘designated examiner,’ and ‘cute redhead’—her words, not mine. And”—he indicated her hair—“I see you fit all three.” He reached into his shirt pocket. “Since I’m not under a confidentiality law I guess I can show this to you.”
“And of course I can’t comment on it.”
“Of course. But I suppose you can let me know if there’s any point in us talking.”
He unfolded a photo of Eloise Kramer as the Hobett, something he clipped from a poster Roger Calhoun gave him. She looked at it carefully.
“The makeup and the costume don’t help,” Dane admitted.
“No, they do obscure the likeness, if that’s what you’re trying to show me. And what’s your interest in this?”
“Management. Coaching. Producing. I’ve found a real talent here but I need to know who and what I’m dealing with.”
“So it appears she’s working.”
“Pretty steady. She has a regular gig at a coffee shop in Coeur d’Alene and then she’s booking private functions: you know, birthday parties, church youth groups, conferences. She has a trade show coming up.”
She was visibly pleased. “I am very, very glad to hear it. Really.” Beyond that, all she could do was slide the photo back across the table.
He returned the photo to his pocket. “So why don’t we talk about something outside the bounds of confidentiality?”
“Such as?”
“Such as the system you work in. The hospital, the laws, how patients are handled …”
“Okay.”
“How would a patient wind up in the Behavioral Health Unit in the first place?”
She looked down and traced little patterns on the table with her fingers. “A variety of ways. Some know they have a problem and admit themselves. A family might admit a loved one. The courts may do so.” Now she remained casual, her hands absentmindedly busy but her eyes meeting his. “Sometimes a person will appear to be in a state of mind where they could be a danger to themselves or to others, and if they’re, let’s say, homeless or wandering about and can’t identify themselves, the police can bring them in on a police hold and they can be held for twenty-four to seventy-two hours while they’re evaluated. The designated examiners are appointed by the state to examine the person and determine whether there is imminent risk, in which case the examiners—usually two—would recommend further evaluation. If the attending psychiatrist concurs, the matter would go to a judge who can extend the hold, release the individual, or have the individual sent to a state hospital.”