P is for Peril (Kinsey Millhone 16)

"Joel?"

We both turned to find Dana standing in the doorway.

"Harvey's on line two. This is the second time he's called."

"Sorry. I better get this."

"Sure, go ahead. I appreciate your time. It's possible I'll want to talk to you again at a later date."

"Any time," he said. He stood up when I did and the two of us shook hands across his desk. By the time I reached the door, he'd picked up the phone.

Dana walked me to the elevator with its two-person capacity, the interior about the size of the average telephone booth. I could have run down the stairs in the time it took. During its slow, whirring descent, I said, "What's the story on Glint Augustine?"

"Simple. For the six months Augustine rented from us, Dow would go off to work and the next thing you know, Crystal would come sneaking out her backdoor, through the trees, and into the cottage. She'd be there an hour or so and then slip back home. Meanwhile, Rand minded the baby, taking him for endless walks around Horton Ravine. It got to be the talk of the neighborhood." We reached the first-floor foyer.

"Couldn't there be another explanation?"

Dana's smile was jaded. "Maybe they were having tea."

Santa Teresa Hospital-St. Terry's-is located on the upper west side, a neighborhood once devoted to open farmland, working vineyards, dairies, and stables, all with sweeping views to the mountains on the northern edge of town. Early black-and-white photographs of the area show wide, dusty roads, shanties flanked by groves of citrus and walnut trees, all leveled long ago. It's a world that appears curiously bald and flat: rural expanses planted with pampas grass and star pines that look like mere sprigs. A few unpretentious structures from that era remain, tucked like vintage treasures among modern-day buildings. The rest-churches, the original county courthouse, the wooden boarding houses, the dry goods establishment, the early mission, the trolley car barn, and numerous snazzy three-story hotels-were razed by intermittent earthquakes and fires, Nature's demolition crews.

It was not quite two o'clock when I parked on a side street and walked a block and a half to St. Terry's front entrance. The wind had picked up and the trees seemed restless, stirring uneasily. Occasionally a miniature rain shower would shake loose from the upper branches. The very air seemed gray and I was happy to pass into the hospital lobby through the sliding glass doors that parted at my approach. On my left, the coffee shop was sparsely occupied by hospital employees and visitors. I inquired at the information desk and was given directions to the office of the Director of Nursing Services. I passed a ladies' restroom and made a brief detour before I continued my quest.

I found Penelope Delacorte in a small private office with a window looking out onto the street. Overhead fluorescent lights contrasted sharply with the gloom outside. She was seated at her desk, using her pencil point to trace the lines of print on a photocopied memorandum.

When I knocked on the doorframe, she peered at me above a pair of half-glasses with tortoise-shell frames. She was in her early fifties, at that stage where she hadn't quite decided whether to dye her graying hair. I pictured her in arguments with her hairdresser, unsure of herself when it came to permanent versus temporary rinses. They likely also argued about the cut; Penelope clinging to the shoulder-length page boy she'd probably been wearing for years. Her bangs were too short and I wondered if she chopped them off herself between appointments. She removed her glasses and set them aside. "Yes?"

"You're Ms. Delacorte?"

"Yes." Her attitude was cautious, as though I might be on the verge of serving her with papers.

"Kinsey Millhone," I said. "I'm a private investigator here in town and I've been hired to look into Dr. Purcell's disappearance. May I have a few minutes?"

Without much in the way of encouragement, I'd entered her office, slipped off my rain garb, and eased myself into the chair near her desk. My shoulder bag and the slicker I left in a pile at my feet.

Penelope Delacorte got up and closed her office door. She didn't seem happy with my presence. She was close to six feet tall, slim, conservatively dressed-a navy blue coat dress with small brass buttons up the front. Her low-heeled navy blue pumps were plain and looked vaguely orthotic, as though prescribed for fallen arches or excessive pronation.

She sat down and put her hands in her lap. "I'm not sure what I can tell you. I was gone by the time he ... went missing."

"How long did you work for Pacific Meadows?"

"I was the administrator there for the past eight years, until August 23. I worked with Dr. Purcell for the last forty-seven months of that." Her voice, like her manner, was carefully modulated, as though she'd set her internal dial to "Pleasant."