G Is for Gumshoe

manner, while not actually rude, was on the abrupt side of businesslike. We didn't waste a lot of time on pleasantries. I stood at the short counter and filled her in on the situation, keeping my account brief and to the point. She listened intently, without comment, and when I finished she picked up the telephone. She called the local hospital, Pioneers Memorial, and asked for the patient billing and accounting department, her voice wanning only slightly in her conversation with someone named Letty on the other end. She pulled a yellow legal pad closer and picked up a pencil sharpened to a perfect point. She made a note, her handwriting full of angular down-strokes. I was sure that, even at the age of twelve, she'd never been the type to make a little happy face when she dotted an i. She hung up the phone and used a straightedge to tear off the strip of paper on which she'd written an address.
    "Agnes Grey was admitted to Pioneers on January 5, through emergency after the paramedics picked her up outside a downtown coffee shop where she collapsed. Diagnosis by the admitting physician was pneumonia, malnutrition, acute dehydration, and dementia. On March 2, she was transferred to Rio Vista Convalescent Hospital. This is the address. If you locate her, let us know. Otherwise you can come back in and fill out a missing persons report. We'll do what we can."
    I glanced at the paper, then folded it and put it in my jeans pocket. "I appreciate your help." By the time I got the sentence out, she'd turned away, already back at work on the report she was typing. I used my proffered hand to scratch my nose, feeling the way you do when you wave back at someone who turns out to be waving happily at someone else.
    On the way to my car, it occurred to me that the admissions officer at the convalescent home might be reluctant to give me information on Agnes Grey. If she was still a patient, I could probably get a room number and whip right in. If she'd been released, things might get trickier. Medical personnel aren't as chatty as they used to be. Too many lawsuits over the right to privacy. Best not blow my chances, I thought.
    I went back to the Vagabond, where I unzipped the duffel and removed my all-purpose dress. I gave it a shake. This faithful garment is the only dress I own, but it goes anyplace. It's black, collarless, with long sleeves and a zipper down the back, made of some slithery, miracle fabric that takes unlimited abuse. You can smush it, wad it up, sit on it, twist it, or roll it in a ball. The instant you release it, the material returns to its original state. I wasn't even sure why I'd brought it-hoping for a hot night on the town, I suppose. I tossed it on the bed, along with my (slightly scuffy) low-heeled black shoes and some black panty hose. I took a three-minute shower and redid myself. Thirteen minutes later I was back in the car, looking like a grown-up, or so I hoped.
    The Rio Vista Convalescent Hospital was set in the middle of a residential area, an old two-story stucco building painted a tarnished-looking Navajo white. The property was surrounded by chain-link fence, wide gates standing open onto a parking lot. The place didn't look like any hospital I'd ever seen. The grounds were flat, unlandscaped, largely sealed over in cracked asphalt on which cars were parked. As I approached the main entrance, I could see that the brittle blacktop was limned with faded circles and squares of some obscure sort. It wasn't until I'd passed through the main doors and was standing in the foyer that I knew what I'd been looking at. A playground. This had once been a grade school. The lines had been laid out for foursquare and tetherball. The interior was nearly identical to the elementary school I'd attended. High ceilings, wood floors, the sort of lighting fixtures that look like small perfect moons. Across from me, a water fountain was still mounted on the wall, white porcelain with shiny chrome handles down low at kiddie height. Even the air smelled the same, like vegetable soup. For a moment, the past was palpable, laid over reality like a sheet of cellophane, blocking out everything. I experienced the same rush of anxiety I'd suffered every day of my youth. I hadn't liked school. I'd always been overwhelmed by the dangers I sensed. Grade school was perilous. There were endless performances: tests in spelling, geography, and math, homework assignments, pop quizzes, and workbooks. Every activity was judged and