Catalina picked up the wayward files and carried them into the adjoining study, tossing them onto Dr. Schmidt’s gray metal desk. She would instruct Mrs. Dubois to file them in the matching metal cabinet tucked away in a closet that also contained one of the doctor’s old hats and trench coats. All of his belongings looked utilitarian and tired. Perhaps they had all been new once, but their time had clearly passed. More likely they were hand-me-downs, just like the furniture in his apartment on Wood Avenue, which had been left untouched after his mother’s death — a dusty shrine of 1940s chinoiserie. Catalina had no such sympathies. The metal desk, the lugubrious sofa, and the faded brown rug would be thrown out immediately; she wouldn’t even bother donating them to charity. This would be her favor to whatever down-on-their-luck family might acquire them, giving them a chance to wait for something better to come along, something free of the accumulated dander and burdens of others.
She hesitated at the bathroom door, sniffing the air like a disdainful cat, but was pleasantly surprised to see a spotless claw-foot tub resting on a black-and-white tile floor, as well as a large pedestal sink with a shiny chrome faucet, and a modern toilet paired with a bidet. The bathroom was the only room that looked like it belonged to the town house, probably because someone other than Dr. Schmidt had chosen its fixtures. It smelled of flowery ammonia, evidence of a recent visit by the cleaning staff, who obviously took pride in buffing and polishing the one room in the office that showed the fruits of their labor. A striped bathrobe drooped on a hook behind the door, and the medicine cabinet contained Dr. Schmidt’s old razor, shaving brush, and an open canister of shaving soap that had specks of stubble trapped in its melted waves. There were also a few pill bottles: painkillers and vitamins, immunotherapy drugs for his cancer, along with a full bottle of the same sedatives that had dispatched him, which she slipped into her pocket. She would ask the cleaning staff to dispose of his remaining personal effects during their next rounds. From her inner pocket she extracted a yellow cotton handkerchief bearing the initials FS and, out of habit, wiped her fingerprints from the medicine cabinet.
While she was removing the traces of her inspection, she heard Mrs. Dubois’s feeble voice: “Hello? Sorry to disturb.”
The constant apologizing was starting to get on Catalina’s nerves — had she been truly sorry, she would not have come into the study without an invitation. No doubt the secretary’s territoriality, along with her grief and routine, meant she would be crossing boundaries all the time, which would not do. New locks would be the first order of business, this afternoon if possible: one for the main entrance, another for the door between the consultation room and the waiting room, and one for her study. This would not only prevent Mrs. Dubois and whoever replaced her from barging in, it would keep the crazies contained.
“Not a problem,” Catalina called out, stuffing the handkerchief into her pocket as she stepped out of the bathroom. The secretary was looking through the files on the desk, where Catalina’s briefcase lay perilously open.
“I’ll put these away for you.” Mrs. Dubois located the key to the file cabinet on her key ring, but didn’t apologize for leaving the files laying about. Catalina saved her reproach for a more profitable moment. “These are the clients he would have met with...” The woman sniffled and hugged the files to her bosom like a picture of a loved one, then quickly turned toward the closet to hide her latest wave of tears. She jiggled the lock on the file cabinet until it opened.
“I’ve yet to receive a set of keys from the lawyer’s office, Joan. Do you think you might leave me yours?”
Mrs. Dubois stopped what she was doing and gave Catalina a begrudging look.
“They’ll likely arrive sometime this afternoon, but I can’t be asked to wait around for them after you’ve gone for the day.” None of this was true. She’d arranged for the keys to be couriered to the hotel, and they were probably already waiting for her there, but this would take care of the invading secretary and free up her afternoon for something more pleasant than waiting for a locksmith. After tardiness, waiting was a close second on her list of dislikes, and when they coalesced, she could not be held responsible for her actions.
“Oh, that won’t be necessary. I have an extra set in my desk.” Mrs. Dubois scurried out of the study to get them, and Catalina picked up her briefcase and followed, closing the door behind her.
As Mrs. Dubois rifled through her desk, Catalina looked out the bay windows at the street below. The few people coming and going were well dressed, though not fashionable, and generally older. Women in skirt suits and designer dowager dresses were walking small, fluffy dogs or carrying large colorful bags with the names and emblems of stores frequented by the privileged class. A town car idled before a silver-haired man in a deep-blue suit — it would deliver him to his office or more likely to his mistress’s apartment, Catalina imagined. The man checked his cell phone several times, then handed the uniformed driver a small jewelry bag from Birks, which he placed on the front seat. No one seemed to be in any kind of hurry, which was unusual for Montreal. Catalina supposed men like him had enough money to hire others to hurry for them. Mrs. Dubois, on the other hand, was starting to seem frantic as she pulled out file folders, notebooks, and crumpled plastic bags from her desk drawers, desperate to find her extra set of keys so she would not have to hand over her own.
Then, as if finding a lost lottery ticket with the winning number, Mrs. Dubois held up the keys in triumph and gave a little cheer. “Here they are!” She jangled them in the air and huffed a sigh of relief.
“Brilliant,” Catalina said, taking them from the secretary and dropping them into her briefcase. “And the list?”
Mrs. Dubois handed over a few sheets of paper with names and phone numbers typed in columns, and the letter P handwritten next to the clients who would have to be called. As Catalina flipped through the list, mentally counting how many phone calls she’d have to make, she remembered a joke that she’d heard at a conference: How many hysterics does it take to screw in a lightbulb? None, because they’re all afraid of the dark. She couldn’t recall who had told it, but she refrained from sharing it with Mrs. Dubois.
“I’ve also printed out copies of the letter and addressed the envelopes,” the woman said brightly. “Our regular courier is on his way — I could wait for him if you’d like to go for lunch.”
“That won’t be necessary.” From her briefcase, Catalina extracted a red leather card wallet and handed one of her newly minted business cards to the secretary. Dr. Catalina Thwaite was printed in raised, elegant black longhand on a thick and crisp white bond. The phone number beneath it belonged to an answering service she’d hired to create a barrier between herself and her clients. She knew that other therapists provided their clients with their cell phone numbers, or — God forbid — their home numbers. But Catalina had no interest in granting such unfettered access to anyone.
“Why don’t you take the rest of the day off and do something nice for yourself, Joan? And if you don’t hear from me in the next few days, give me a ring and I’ll tell you how I’m faring here. We can then discuss setting up some appointments — first with the referrals, then with the transfers who have not yet jumped ship.” Or off a building or bridge, she thought, but kept to herself, since she was sure the old woman wouldn’t find it funny. She would laugh about it after Mrs. Dubois left.