W is for Wasted (Kinsey Millhone Mystery)

just like it when I was pulling the crap out of Pete’s glove compartment. I looked sharply at Reed, but the phone rang just then.
    He picked up. “This is Dr. Reed.” He listened for a moment and looked up at me. “Can I call you back on this? I have someone in my office.”
    He listened. “Five minutes,” he said. As he hung up, he shot me an apologetic smile as though embarrassed to have to hurry me out the door.
    I lifted a finger. “You’re the one who called me.”
    “Come again?”
    “June or July. Somebody called me looking for R. T. Dace. I don’t know how my number came to light, but I had a brief conversation with a doctor somebody. I didn’t catch the name at the time, but I recognized your voice just now.”
    He shook his head. “Don’t think so. Not that I recall. I don’t believe we ever had a contact number for him. It might have been someone in the lab.”
    “Oh. Well, maybe so. It stuck in my mind, but I guess it could have been anyone.”
    I got up and slung the strap of my bag over my shoulder. “I better let you get back to work. Thanks for your time.”
    “I’m not sure how much comfort I’ve provided. If the family have any other questions, I’d encourage them to get in touch. For peace of mind if nothing else.” He stood and we shook hands across the desk. This time his grip was ice cold and his palm was damp. “Again, my condolences. I liked him.”
    “I appreciate your saying so,” I replied. I held up the booklet. “Thanks for this.”
    “My pleasure.”
    He smiled and resumed his seat, probably already thinking about the call he’d be returning as soon as I was out of earshot.
    It wasn’t until I reached the door that I hesitated. “One more question if you wouldn’t mind. I know this is out of line and if you can’t or don’t want to answer, please say so.”
    He watched me and then made a little gesture, indicating his willingness.
    “You said you checked on his medications. Was he taking Glucotace or the placebo?”
    There was a silence during which he regarded me without expression. I didn’t think he’d answer and I could see him weigh the issue in his mind. Finally, he said, “I don’t see any harm in telling you. The placebo.”
    In the corridor, I paused for a short debate. Instead of heading for the exit, I returned to the clinic office. No sign of Greta. I reached over and picked up the appointment book, leafing back through the weeks as though I had every right. August: nothing. Tuesday, July 12: Pete’s name was penned into the 1:00 P.M . slot.
    Walking back to the parking lot, I gave careful consideration to the exchange. Dace had signed himself out of St. Terry’s in June, after which he’d fled to Los Angeles. Dr. Reed had called me in hopes of finding him. Now he dismissed the incident. Plausible deniability is the term, I believe. Covering his ass was my take on it. What he couldn’t disguise was the shift from a warm to an icy hand. Slick as he was, he couldn’t control the physiology of fear.
    •   •   •
    I gave Ruthie’s front bell a twist and waited. She came to the door in a sweatshirt and jeans with a scarf knotted around her head. She had a dust rag in hand. “Woo. Come in. I could use a break.”
    She stepped back and I moved into the foyer, saying, “I see you’re getting life in order.”
    She closed the door behind me and I followed her down the hall. “I don’t know about that. I have two closets emptied, which I consider a triumph. I don’t suppose you have any use for forty-six neckties. I gave him every one of those and he wore the same two all the time.”
    “No neckties. Sorry ’bout that.”
    “Too bad. Some are nice. You got my message.”
    “I was off to an appointment or I’d have picked up right then.”
    “I hope I didn’t sound too cryptic.”
    “I was properly intrigued.”
    We’d reached the kitchen by then, which was much as it had been when I’d seen it last. Stacks of boxes, brown paper bags, and plastic bags filled to capacity, the counter littered with odds and ends.
    She picked up the sack of birdseed I’d dropped off the day before. She held it in her right hand as though to illustrate a point. “So here’s how this went. I decided I’d fill the bird feeder. That was always Pete’s job, but I thought what the heck. Poor little things must be starving to death. I had a chickadee bang into the window glass yesterday and it about knocked itself out. Anyway, I get into