W is for Wasted (Kinsey Millhone Mystery)

fore when I’m worried I’ll wet my pants.
    “That’s not why I’m here.”
    “Oh. Well, good. Because the point is, I don’t have the pills. If I did, I’d give them to you. I certainly have no use for them myself.”
    “You led me to believe you had a simple query about a family member when all the time you sat there convinced I’d done something bad. I didn’t come here asking about the pills. You jumped to the subject yourself because you’re guilty of such deceit.”
    “I have no reason to feel guilty.”
    He ignored that comment. “I received a call from Eloise Cantrell, who says you accosted her on the street, asking questions about me.”
    “I didn’t accost her. How ridiculous. I ran into her at St. Terry’s as she was leaving for the day. I knew she worked on the CCU because she’d called me months ago when Dace was admitted. I asked if she knew you and she said she did. That’s all it was. I’d talked to you earlier and it just seemed like a happy coincidence.”
    I watched his face cloud over.
    He shook his head, frowning. “Something’s off. Let’s go back. You came to my office unannounced hoping to catch me off guard. You presented yourself in a false light, gathering information for reasons known only to yourself.”
    “I probably should have been more forthcoming,” I said. “Here’s what happened. I’m sure you know Terrence Dace was suspicious and confused. His behavior was erratic and he harbored paranoid fantasies. I thought I should look into it. It had nothing to do with you personally. I got involved because he’d drawn up a will in which he disinherited his children and left everything to me. I was concerned about a legal challenge, so I was doing my due diligence . . .”
    Wincing, he pressed the flat of his hand to the side of his face, like a child with a painful ear infection. “You keep talking and talking. You use talk as a cover for something else, but I don’t know what it is.”
    “Really, I don’t. I think you’ve misunderstood.”
    “No, I have not. You’re devious. I don’t know how else to describe your behavior.”
    “I haven’t meant to be devious.”
    “But it’s your nature, isn’t it?”
    “I don’t think so. I wouldn’t say that about myself.”
    “Do you have any idea how perilous your position is?”
    “Perilous?”
    “I have you to thank for what’s happening. It’s as simple as that. When we spoke in my office, I didn’t grasp your agenda. I was at fault there for not being quicker off the mark. My apologies.”
    In a situation like this, it’s of little comfort knowing you’re right. I was right about Linton Reed. I’d been right all along, but who was I going to tell?
    “I don’t have an agenda,” I said.
    “Yes, you do. You talk to people about me. You write things down. You think about things that are none of your concern.”
    “I haven’t done anything to you. I asked a few questions, but only to determine Dace’s state of mind when he changed the will.”
    Dr. Reed was exasperated. “You’re lying again. You’ve undercut whatever credibility you had. I was offering you a chance to explain yourself and you’re throwing off all this smoke.”
    I had a quick little chat with myself, saying: Here’s a tip, Self. Do not argue with a lunatic. Arguing with a lunatic simply ensures that you’ll climb into his craziness with him when what you want to do is take a big step back.
    He held up his right hand. “Do you see this?”
    His fingertips were black.
    “The police insisted on taking my prints. Can you imagine my humiliation? My wife was there and they took hers as well. The detective was polite, but I hated the way he looked at me. He was taking my measure. He weighed every word I said. I’ve never been treated like that in my life, but I had to maintain control of myself because I knew he’d be writing things down.”
    I was getting cold standing out on the patio in the half-light. A thought popped to mind, one of those insights that comes too late to be of any use. This felt like that game show where the contestants are given an answer and asked to frame the relevant question. I said, “Who is Sanford Wray?”
    “He’s my father-in-law.”
    I nodded, my mouth suddenly too dry to form a response.
    I caught motion on the drive. I looked over and spotted Anna just as she spotted me. She turned on her heel. Linton glanced in that direction. “Who are you looking at?”
    I cleared my throat and