“Nell, you’re the youngest ‘old folk’ I know.”
“Did you ever ask any of them pretty girls to marry you?”
“Nell!”
“I like your hair cut short like that. It’s black as your mother’s but gives your face the same lean good looks your father had. What with that hunky physique you’ve built up hiking and running all over the mountains, the girls should be falling down over you. The only problem is you’re getting that same sadness in your eyes that he had.”
“Jesus, Nell!”
“Oh, go on. Who’s more fitting to talk frankly with you than me? I watched your mother change your diapers, bless her dear departed soul. And I used to baby-sit your father when I was a teenager.”
“I know, Nell.” As they chatted he helped her down a short hallway and into the center of what used to be his parents’ living room but now served as his waiting area. It was packed as always, and she routinely saved a zinger or two for this audience, all of them nearly as old as she was, most of them women.
“Guess what’s the trouble with your generation?” she asked.
“I got a feeling you’re going to tell me,” he said, resigned to his usual role as her straight man.
“None of you want to buy a cow because you get your milk for free.”
He started to laugh, along with everyone else. “Nell, you’re wicked.”
“Maybe you should take me out.”
“I couldn’t handle you.”
“Tell me, did that veterinarian woman cook?”
He felt his face grow warm. Banter with Nell in private was one thing. In public it could get embarrassing. “We ate out a lot when she was here,” he said quickly, trying to end the conversation.
She flashed him that jack-o’-lantern smile again. “Well, you know what I always say?”
He rolled his eyes. “I’m afraid to ask.”
“If she’s no good in the kitchen, she won’t be worth much in the bedroom.”
The oldsters found this one even more uproarious.
“Oh Nell, how naughty,” yelled one of his blue-haired regulars.
“But ain’t it the truth?” she fired back.
The woman giggled. “I’ll say.”
A large lady gestured with her thumb to a distinguished, white-haired gentleman at her side.
“Fred here adores my pot roast.”
He turned beet red and fiddled with his hearing aid.
Nell proceeded to lead the rest of the room in a free-for-all of off-color innuendos about food and sex. It grew so loud that Mark barely heard the phone ring. He didn’t have a secretary. Hiring anybody locally had proved impossible. Whomever he picked, someone inevitably commented, “I don’t want that person seeing what’s in my file.” Since he knew his patients the way only a country doctor could and the practice pretty well ran itself anyway, he’d kept it a one-man operation – except when it came to all the forms for Medicare and Medicaid. They drove him crazy. His aunt Margaret used to process them for him. Now a company from Saratoga did it. They charged him a hefty commission, but he figured it well worth the price, since he could use the extra hours to run or hike.
“Dr. Roper,” he answered, blocking his other ear in order to hear over the brouhaha.
“Mark, it’s Dan. Hey, sounds like you’re in a tavern. The whole gang there, huh?”
“Yep. Everyone over seventy-five is here to party. That’s my waiting room!”
He chuckled. “Well, I hate to be the pooper, but I’ve got Chaz Braden and his father, plus Kelly McShane’s parents in my office, all of them squabbling over her remains.”
“What?”
“It started last night with phone calls from their lawyers, just as soon as Everett made it official that everything is now in our hands.”
Son of a bitch. “I’ll be right over.”
Dan’s office was in a large, colonial building that dominated Main Street. Shabby wood siding toward the back made it look as if the contractor had run out of money. Once nicknamed the White House, the building hadn’t been painted in years and was now a sooty gray. Inside, county officialdom was cut down to size. The courthouse, the jail, a records room, the fire hall, the police station – all were crammed into three floors and a basement. There was even a small coroner’s office that Mark used only during inquests or for campaign headquarters on those occasions when someone challenged his reelection.
Floorboards creaking under his feet, he walked up to a door with a clear window that had SHERIFF written across it and peeked in at the people he’d be dealing with.
Dan slouched in his chair massaging his temples. An immaculately groomed, sophisticated-looking older woman sat across from him. She wore a well-tailored black suit and hat. Lord, Mark only saw hats like that in old movies these days. She held black leather gloves in her left hand and kept tight hold with her right on the gold clasp of a black snakeskin handbag in her lap. Behind her stood a compact man, also elderly, but his tanned complexion, though creased, had a youthful tautness that was at odds with his shock of white hair. Arms folded across his chest, his mouth grim, he seemed to be studying his shoes.
Kelly’s parents, Mark assumed. He hadn’t seen them since he was a small boy. They’d moved away shortly after their daughter’s disappearance.
Charles Braden III was the only one who seemed to be at ease. Mark remembered him vividly from his days as a resident at NYCH when the man served as outgoing chairman of the Obstetrics Department prior to retirement. Still sleek, sporting the same wiry, brushed steel haircut, and dressed in a two-thousand-dollar suit, he leaned against the wall, hands in his pockets.
By contrast, his son Chaz looked anxious, though no less sartorially splendid. His wiry body was taut; dark circles underscored his eyes.
Mark took a breath, squared his shoulders, and walked in, adopting the swift stride he used to impose his authority while making rounds at Saratoga General, another arena where money tried to outrank him. “Good afternoon, everyone.”
They all looked up at him.
Before Mark had enough time to clear his throat, Mrs. McShane was on her feet, her handbag placed precisely on her chair, and standing before him. “Dr. Roper, I am Kelly’s mother-”
“Samantha, my dear-” Her husband followed on her heels, reaching out, placing his hands supportively on her shoulders.
She wrenched away from his touch. “Please, Walter, let me have my say.” She turned a beseeching face to Mark. “Do forgive me, but I simply must demand a little respect here as Kelly’s mother.” She had a tremor in her voice that reminded him of Katharine Hepburn’s performances in her later movies like On Golden Pond or A Lion in Winter. “My darling girl meant everything to me and to learn that I was right all along, that she didn’t run away from us, that someone viciously murdered her – well, I’m sure you understand how devastating, how traumatic this has been for me.”
From behind, Mark heard one of the Bradens mutter, “Garbage!”
Samantha obviously had also heard. She drew herself up to her full height, but didn’t turn around. “As I was saying, Doctor, it should be a parent’s right to bury her only child, her beloved chi-”
“For heaven’s sake, Samantha,” Chaz said, stepping forward. “You and Kelly hadn’t exchanged a single civil word in years before she-”
“That’s quite enough!” Walter said. His arm shot protectively around his wife’s shoulders. “And after all you put Kelly through during those years, how dare you say anything about us. The least you can do now is agree to let Samantha give her a proper, loving funeral.”
“I have every right to bury my wife,” Chaz shot back. “Every right. It was you two and Kelly who were estranged, but we, Kelly and I, were not. Let me repeat that. We weren’t the ones estranged, and I insist-”