P is for Peril (Kinsey Millhone 16)

I backed away from the dining room and crossed the hall. A second set of doors stood open, revealing a day room, currently empty, furnished with mismatched couches, upholstered chairs, a piano, two television sets, and a cluster of game tables. The floors were done in a glossy beige linoleum, the walls painted a restful shade of robin's egg blue. The ready-made drapes were a blend of yellow, blue, and green in a vaguely floral pattern. Countless throw pillows had been needle-pointed, cross-stitched, quilted, and crocheted. Perhaps a clutch of church ladies had been afflicted by a fit of stitchery. One pillow had a saying embroidered across the face-YOU'RE ONLY AS OLD AS YOU FEEL-a disheartening thought, given some of the residents I'd seen. Metal folding chairs were stacked against the near wall for quick assembling. Everything was clean, but the "decorating" was generic, budget-driven, falling somehow short of good taste.

I walked past the front desk, which was located in a small alcove, and cruised down the corridor, guided by signs indicating the services of a dietary supervisor, a nursing supervisor, and a clutch of occupational, speech, and physical therapists. All three doors were open, but the offices were empty and the lights had been doused. Across the hallway I saw a sign for Admissions. That door was closed and a casual try of the knob told me it was locked. Next door was Medical Records, which apparently shared space with Administration. I thought I'd start there.

The overhead lights were on and I moved through the door. There was no one in evidence. I waited at the counter, idly staring at the wire basket filled with incoming mail. Casually, I surveyed my surroundings. Two desks back-to-back, one with a computer, the other with an electric typewriter humming faintly. There were numerous rolling file carts, a copy machine, and metal file cabinets on the far wall. There was also a big clock with a clicking second hand I could hear from fifteen feet away. Still no one. I rested my elbow on the counter, dangling my fingers near the basket full of mail. By fanning the corners and tilt-ing my head, I could read most of the return addresses. Bills, the usual gas and electric, a lawn and gardening service, two manila envelopes from Santa Teresa Hospital, better known as St. Terry's.

"Can I help you?"

Startled, I straightened up and said, "Hi. How're you?" The young woman had emerged from the door connecting Administration to Medical Records. She wore glasses with red plastic frames. Her complexion was clear, but she looked like she'd suffer a contagion of zits at the least provocation. Her hair was a medium brown in several irregular lengths; a layered cut grown out now and badly in need of a trim. Under her green smock, she wore brown polyester pants. The name MERRY and PACIFIC MEADOWS were machine-embroidered on the breast pocket above her heart.

She crossed to the counter, passing through a hinged door, and took her place on the far side. At first glance, I'd thought she was in her early thirties, but I quickly revised that downward by a good ten years. She wore metal braces on her teeth and whatever she'd eaten for lunch was still embedded in the wires. Her breath smelled of tension and discontent. Her expression remained quizzical, but her tone had an edge. "Can I ask what you were doing?"

I blinked one eye in her direction. "I lost my contact lens. It might have popped out in the car. I only noticed it just now. I thought it might have fallen in the basket, but there's no sign of it."

"Want me to help you look?"

"Don't worry about it. I have a whole box of 'em at home."

"Are you here to see someone?"

"I'm here on business," I said. I removed my wallet from my shoulder bag and flipped it open. I pointed at my P.I. license. "I've been hired to look into Dr. Purcell's disappearance."

Merry squinted at my license, holding up the postage stamp-sized photo for comparison with my face-sized face. I said, "Are you the office manager?"

She shook her head. "I'm temping here on weekends while the other girl's out on maternity leave. Monday through Fridays, I'm Mrs. Stegler's assistant."

"Really. That's great. And what does that entail?"

"You know, typing, filing. I answer phones and distribute mail to all the residents, whatever needs doing."

"Is Mrs. Stegler the one I should be talking to?"

"I guess. She's Acting Associate Administrator. Unfortunately, she won't be back until Monday. Can you stop by then?"

"What about Mr. Glazer or Mr. Broadus?"

"They have an office downtown."

"Gee, that's too bad. I was driving through the neighborhood and took a chance. Well. I guess it can't be helped."