C Is for Corpse

equivalent of naughty lingerie. The whole place smelled like cold carnations in a florist's refrigerated case.
    The decor had been designed to soothe and pacify, especially over in the area marked "cashier." I moved to the information desk, where a woman who resembled my old third-grade teacher sat in a pink-striped pinafore with an expectant look on her face.
    "Hi," said I. "Can you tell me if Kitty Wenner's been admitted? She was brought into the emergency room a little while ago."
    "Well, now let me just check," she said.
    I noticed that her name tag read "Roberta Choat, Volunteer." It sounded like one of a series of novels for young girls that was now sorely out of date. Roberta must have been in her sixties and she had all sorts of good-conduct medals pinned to her bib.
    "Here it is. That's Katherine Wenner. She's on Three South. You just walk down this corridor and around these elevators to the bank on the far side. Third floor, and you'll be turning to your left. But now, that's a locked psychiatric ward and I don't know that you'll be able to see her. Visiting hours are over, you know. Are you family?"
    "I'm her sister," I said easily.
    "Well now, dear, why don't you repeat that to the charge nurse up on the floor and maybe she'll believe you," Roberta Choat said just as easily.
    "I hope so," I said. It was actually Derek I wanted to see.
    I moved down the corridor, as instructed, and rounded the elevators to the bank on the far side. Sure enough, there was a sign that read SOUTH WING, which I found reassuring. I punched the "up" button and the doors opened instantly. A man entered the elevator behind me and then hesitated, eyeing me as if I were the kind of person he'd read about in a rape-prevention pamphlet. He punched "2" and then stayed close to the control panel until he reached his floor and exited.
    The south wing looked better than most of the hotels where I've stayed. Of course, it was also more expensive and offered many personal services that didn't interest me, autopsy being one. The lights were all on and the carpet was a blaze of burnt orange, the walls hung with Van Gogh reproductions; a curious choice for the psycho ward, if you ask me.
    Derek Wenner was sitting in a visitors' lounge just outside a set of double doors that had small windows embedded with chicken wire and a sign reading PLEASE RING FOR ADMITTANCE with a buzzer underneath.
    He was smoking a cigarette, an issue of National Geographic open on his lap. He glanced at me blankly when I sat down next to him.
    "How's Kitty?" I said.
    He started slightly. "Oh. Sorry. I didn't recognize you when you came around the corner. She's better. They just brought her up and they're getting her settled. I'll have a chance to see her in a bit." His glance strayed toward the elevators. "Glen didn't come down with you by any chance, did she?"
    I shook my head, watching a mixture of relief and momentary hope fade out of his face.
    "Don't tell her you caught me with a cigarette," he said, sheepishly. "She made me quit last March. I'll toss these out before I go home tonight. It's just with Kitty so sick and then all this stuff –" He broke off with a shrug.
    I didn't have the heart to tell him he reeked of tobacco. Glen would have to be comatose not to notice it.
    "What brings you down here?" he asked.
    "I don't know. Bobby went off to bed and I talked to Glen for a while. I just thought I'd stop by and see what was happening with Kitty."
    He smiled, not quite sure what to make of it. "I was just sitting here thinking how much this felt like the night she was born. Waiting out in the lounge for hours, wondering how it was all going to come out. They didn't let fathers in the delivery room in those days, you know. Now, I understand, they practically insist."
    "What happened to her mother?"
    "She drank herself to death when Kitty was five."
    He lapsed into silence. I couldn't think of a comment that didn't seem either trivial or beside the point. I watched him put out his cigarette. He worked the hot ember loose, leaving an empty socket like a pulled tooth.
    Finally, I said, "Is she being admitted to Detox?"
    "Actually, this is the psychiatric ward. I think the detoxification unit is separate. Leo wants to get her stabilized and then do an evaluation before he does anything. Right now, she's a little bit out of control."
    He shook his head, pulling at his double chin. "God, I don't know what to do with her. Glen's probably told you what a source of