David stood as solid as a nearby stanchion. "Okay," he said, "you don't have a motorcycle." He grinned at Marsha. "You're going to the reception, I assume?"
"Yes," she said.
"Good, I'll see you there." He released the door.
At Nora and Alton Foster's, David had left Friday in the car and, inside, swayed from foot to foot, itching to have the man in the ascot take his scarf and gloves. Barely in the door, he had to wait in one of three lines this time, and while he waited, harked back to the reception for Charlie Bugles when he thought the music, the noise, the liquor, the ostensible merriment were more suited to a political fundraiser. Not now, he observed, casting his eyes into the living room, over still heads and touching shoulders. Wagner replaced Gershwin, it was church quiet and there was no bartender. Even the sweet cakes he sampled from the table in the foyer tasted bland.
"David," Alton Foster said solemnly, "glad you could make it." He had swum through the lines and he shook David's hand. David knew he hurt men when he shook hands, and that the only way to prevent it was to slacken his wrist. He reserved that for women. Kathy had called it a double standard.
"Hi, Alton, it's pretty grim in here."
"Yes, I know. It's a sad occasion. They don't … I mean didn't … come any finer than Ted."
"For sure."
"Let me take those, please," Foster said. One of David's gloves dropped to the floor and they both started to bend for it. "No, no," Foster said, "I'll get it." He picked up the glove and puffed, "It's a shorter distance for me, right?"
They made their way to a row of closets where Foster said, "Here, Boris, these belong to Dr. Brooks."
David didn't quite know why he found that amusing.
The administrator steered him into a side room. "David," he said, searching his eyes, "what's happening? Has any headway been made on the killings?"
"We're still working on it." Foster was another one David wanted to extract more information from-like why he kept his surgical training a secret. He wanted to question him, not shake as in the case of Bernie Bugles, or throttle as in the case of Victor Spritz. Just start questioning right now. But, once again, he congratulated himself for not allowing Foster's guard to be raised any higher than he thought it might be.
Foster pointed in the direction of the living room fireplace. "That Detective … Med-i-core, is it? Kathy's new boss. He's here, you know."
"He's here?"
"Yes. He's questioning people like there's no tomorrow, and I sort of resent it. It's an inappropriate time and place, really. Some of them have come up to me and complained. He hasn't gotten to me yet-I sure hope I can stay civil."
There we have it. Nick's no passive observer. Or is it a sham?
Foster went on. "I received a letter from the bunch at the Joint Commission on Accreditation office. They want a full accounting of … how'd they put it? … `the murder spree at your hospital.' Murder spree. What a shit-eating way to put it. They asked how we're coming along with our in-service educational efforts. Can you believe it? An in-service on how to outguess a murderer. And, do you know what? Our census is the lowest in our history. The bottom's fallen out. How can a backlash happen so fast?"
David was still assessing Nick's conduct but suspected he had heard the correct question and said, "Pardon me for saying so, but what do you expect? We've had four high profile murders, the killer's still at large, and there could be more."
"More?"
"Think about it. Don't just think about the census."
"But it's ruining us!"
David wondered why Foster's body language didn't match his emotion. "Look, Alton, patients are concerned, the Joint Commission's concerned, the police are concerned and, frankly, I'm concerned. Now, we can talk more later, but I must chat with some people before they leave." He wanted to range about and, eventually, to corner Bernie again. Besides, lately he felt listening to Foster was like moving a refrigerator and then having to strip floors.
"Yes, yes, of course. Go right ahead. I'll see you later. Oh, there's my wife. Go say hello."
They had edged back toward the foyer which was drained of early arrivals. David saw Nora Foster by a planter near the step to the living room and heard the click of fingernails. He moseyed over and caught the sweet fragrance of flowers he couldn't identify and had never seen in the winter except at funerals. She nipped at dead petals and placed them in the pocket of her striped bouffant skirt.
"Hello, Nora. Nipping in the bud-I mean after the bud?"
"Oh, Dr. Brooks. Welcome again. This is getting to be a habit."
Her husband, now at their side, retorted, "Getting to be? I can't take her to a flower show. We'd get thrown out."
She countered, icily, "Alton, dearest, I was referring to funeral receptions, not blossom cleansing."
She deposited a fistful of petals into a plastic sandwich bag and, shaking a finger at David, said, "Now don't forget the blood drive tomorrow. It's the staff's chance to do its duty. Remember, you missed in July."
"Yes, ma'am," he replied, in the manner of a schoolboy caught playing hooky. That's all she's got to think about at a time like this?
David excused himself when he spotted Betty Tanarlde sagging on a window seat at the far end of the living room. Several guests appeared to be offering her their condolences. He walked over, waited his turn and said, "Betty, I'm terribly sorry and I suppose it's no comfort to say he lived a full life." He took her hands and leaned over to kiss her.
"Thank you, David. Ted was one in a million," she said, her voice, wooden.
David thought it odd that whereas he remembered she had worn black at Bugles' funeral, now she was in emerald green. At least she yielded on her neckline this time, he mused.
He moved on to allow others their expressions of sympathy. Just then, he detected the scent of his favorite perfume and felt a gentle tap on his shoulder from behind. Without turning, he said softly, "Darling, I've been waiting for you."
Kathy walked around to face him and said, "It's a good thing it's me."
"Hmm, excellent point. Listen, before I forget, how come Nick's here?"
"He told me he called Foster and asked if he could come."
"Well I'll bet Foster's sorry he said `yes.' Apparently Nick's forcing himself on people. Think you ought to call him off?"
"Hey, I couldn't do what he's doing. Here, I mean. If he picks up anything, so much the better."
"Just thought I'd raise the question," David said with resignation. "By the way, you look nice."
"You mean uncop-like?" Kathy was dressed in navy blue: turtleneck blouse, opened fanny sweater, snug skirt and stiletto shoes that elevated her to the level of David's bowtie. She added, "You noticed. Thanks. I left the badge off, though."
"You look naked without it."
"I always look naked to you."
"Complaining?"
"No." She quickly shifted to a different gear. "David!" she said, "This is a funeral reception."
"So? Life goes on."
"Well, I hope it does around these parts. At the rate it's going …"
David shifted to his own gear. "Wait here," he said, "I think they're getting ready to leave." He made himself thinner as he sidestepped through a dense wall of guests toward Bernie Bugles and Marsha Gittings.
He reached down to lift up Bernie's limp hand, and shook it with all the force he would have liked to use on his narrow shoulders.
When David released the hand, Bernie looked at it as he might a fallen sparrow and, addressing Marsha, said, "What are we doing here?" He poured a contemptuous look around. "Let's go."
"Wait," David said. "May I ask you a few questions?"
"You already did," Bernie snapped.
David plowed ahead. "You know Victor Spritz?" Bernie hesitated, then answered, "The ambulance guy? Sure, why?"
"Do you know where he is?"