I squinted at the handset. “Who’s this?”
“My name is Eloise Cantrell. I’m the charge nurse in the CCU. The patient’s name is Artie Dace.”
This time, I’d picked up a pen and pulled over a scratch pad, making a note of the nurse’s name. I added CCU. “I don’t know anyone named Artie.”
“The last name is Dace, initials R. T.”
“I still can’t help you.”
“But you do know the gentleman. Is that correct?”
“No, and I don’t understand why you’re calling me. How did you get my name and number?”
“The patient was brought in through the emergency room and one of the nurse’s aides recognized him from a prior hospitalization. Medical Records located his chart and the doctor asked me to get in touch.”
“Look, I wish I could help, but I don’t know anyone by that name. Honest.”
There was a stretch of silence. “This isn’t in regard to his hospital bill. He’s covered by Medicaid,” she said, as though that might soften my stance.
“Doesn’t matter. I don’t know anyone named Dace and I certainly don’t know what medications he’s on.”
Her tone turned cool. “Well, I appreciate your time and I’m sorry to have troubled you.”
“No problem.”
And that was the extent of it.
I opened my eyes and looked out at the ocean. Maybe Dace had tried to reach me, but he’d been ill at the time. The doctor whose name I’d missed and the charge nurse, Eloise Cantrell, had probably discovered my name and number in his trouser pocket the same way the coroner’s office had. His handwritten note had said Millhone Investigations along with my office number. Both callers had erroneously assumed that Millhone was a man. Dandy had just told me Dace carried the information with him for months, hoping to sober up before he asked for help.
Though there were still gaps in the story, I was feeling better about the string of events. There’s something inherent in human nature that has us constructing narratives to explain a world that is otherwise chaotic and opaque. Life is little more than a series of overlapping stories about who we are, where we came from, and how we struggle to survive. What we call news isn’t new at alclass="underline" wars, murders, famines, plagues—death in all its forms. It’s folly to assign meaning to every chance event, yet we do it all the time. In this case, it seemed curious that Pinky Ford, whose life had touched mine six months before, had made another appearance, this time connecting me to the man in the morgue. It did help me to understand how some of the lines connected. Dace’s choosing me wasn’t random. He was acting on the recommendation of a mutual acquaintance. The referral hadn’t netted me a job, but there was always the chance that a casual mention would result in future employment. In the meantime, the two phone calls regarding him and my name and number on that paper in his pocket were no longer mysterious in the overall scheme of things. I paused to correct myself. There had actually been three calls, the last one being from the coroner’s office.
Now that I thought about it, I’d had a number of hang-ups on my office answering machine. There must have been six in all, someone calling while I was out and electing not to leave a message. There was no reason to assume that the caller was the same in every instance and no reason to imagine it was R. T. Dace on the other end. But it was possible. Nothing to be done about it at this point, and I felt a momentary, formless regret.
As long as I was only three blocks from home, I decided to stop off and see what kind of luck Henry was having with the cat. I’d left that morning long before William’s appointment with the neurologist, and I was interested in an update on his condition as well. I found a parking spot across the street from Rosie’s place and noticed that the tenting was down. I could see a workman closing the downstairs windows, and I assumed that both the restaurant and the apartment upstairs had undergone a thorough airing out.
I locked my car, walked the half block, and made my way into the backyard. There was no sign of Henry, no sign of the cat, and no sign of William. Henry’s kitchen door was open, and when I tapped on the frame, there was a lengthy delay and then William hobbled into view from the direction of the living room. He held the door for me and I stepped into the kitchen.
“Henry’s not here, but he’s due back momentarily. Have a seat and don’t mind me if I stand. Hurts too much to get up and down. I’m better off on my feet.”
“I see the termite tenting’s down. Will you be staying here or going home?”
“I’ll go home if I can manage it. I’m sure Henry will be glad to see the last of me.”
“What about all the kitchen equipment and supplies? Won’t they have to be moved back in?”
“I suppose that can wait until Rosie gets home.”
“I’ll be happy to help. If you’ll direct our efforts, Henry and I can do the work.”
I pulled out a kitchen chair and settled my shoulder bag on the floor nearby. William leaned against the counter with his cane to provide balance. I could see past him into the backyard, so I knew I’d spot Henry as soon as he appeared. “How’d your doctor’s appointment go?” I asked.
“Dr. Metzger did a thorough examination and didn’t seem to think an MRI would be necessary for now. He made a point of saying ‘for now.’ ‘Always have ammunition in reserve’ was the way he put it. He prescribed an anti-inflammatory, pain medication, and a muscle relaxant. I’m also to do physical therapy three times a week. I have a heating pad that I’m to use before therapy and an ice pack for after.”
I sensed William’s discomfiture that his medical prognosis had been downgraded from near death, past acute, down to the mundane level of pills, ice packs, and PT. Added to that shame was his miscalculation with regard to the cat. I said, “Well, thank heaven you came home when you did. If you’d stayed in Flint four more days, no telling how bad your sciatica would have been. At least you’re under the care of a specialist.”
“The doctor said so as well, that I’d done exactly what he would have done in my shoes.”
“Absolutely. Good for you,” I said. “When do your physical therapy sessions start?”
“Tomorrow afternoon. I believe the facility is not far from here. Of course, I don’t want to be a burden, so I might take a cab. I hate to put Henry out.”
“Where’d you sleep last night? I thought both his guest rooms were stacked with items from the restaurant.”
“He offered me the couch, but I thought it best that I sleep on the floor. Once I managed to get down, which was no easy task, I kept my knees elevated so my back remained flat and properly supported. I slept as well as I could under the circumstances.”
“What’s the situation with the cat?”
“Henry caught the cat and he’s taken it to a veterinarian who has an office not too far from here. He tried everything to persuade the cat to come out of the bushes, but I’m afraid he didn’t have much success. He finally looked up the vet in the yellow pages. He was hoping she had a Havahart trap he could borrow, but hers was on loan to a group that rescues feral cats. She recommended a bit of cooked chicken and it worked like a charm. The cat even allowed itself to be tucked into the carrier for transport. I don’t know if I mentioned it, but the poor cat has no tail. Just a stump covered with a tuft of hair. I have no idea what happened to him. Henry says the cat’s pathetic—ugly, bad tempered, and uncooperative.”
“Not too uncooperative or Henry couldn’t have gotten him in the carrier.”
“You’re right. I hadn’t thought of that,” he said. “I don’t mind Henry being mad at me, but I don’t want him to take it out on the cat.”