Fortunately, Katie was only in the clinic for a half day on Fridays. She wanted to reach out to Beth Wixom to see how she was doing since her mother’s death. She buzzed Debra and asked her to find Beth’s phone number. Within seconds, Debra was in her office with a phone message slip. She was short and curvy with bouncy blonde curls and a sweet smile set off by dimples. Despite her propensity for gossip, she was a great receptionist, combining her love for people into a bubbly charm that kept the front office running smoothly.

“She called about ten minutes ago, wants you to call when you get a chance.”

“Oh, great. Thanks, Deb.”

“Are you okay?” Debra tilted her head to get a better look at Katie. “You don’t seem quite yourself today.”

“Just tired.”

Debra sniffed and went back out front. Katie knew Debra didn’t believe her. Debra could usually tell right away what kind of mood Katie was in. At first, it had been almost spooky. She wasn’t used to someone paying such close attention to her every move.

Debra had explained once. “If my doc is in a bad mood, the whole office is in a bad mood and nothing gets done right. If my doc is in a good mood, the day flies by and all the patients are happy. I make it my business to know what kind of a day we’re going to have. Kind of like a weatherman.”

Debra was more accurate than a weatherman. She claimed that she could tell what Emmett was thinking just by the way he hung up his coat. It was an amusing parlor trick when someone else was the target. But Katie was annoyed that she could be read so easily. Especially on a day like today when she just wanted to be left alone to do her work and then go home.

She dialed Beth’s number and waited while it rang and rang. She expected voice mail to answer, but it didn’t pick up. Katie checked the number and tried again with the same result. She was about to call Debra to check the number when Emmett poked his head around the corner.

“My first patient is tricky,” he said. “I could use a second opinion.”

Katie knew Emmett didn’t need assistance, his grin betraying his desire to cheer her up.

She rolled her eyes at him and followed him down the hall.

Mr. Kazinsky and his daughter, Sheila, sat side by side in the small examining room. Katie had seen Sheila for a routine physical a few weeks before. She remembered Sheila telling her that her father was coming to live with her because the family was worried about him living alone.

“Why don’t you explain the problem to Dr. LeClair, Mr. Kazinsky?”

“Well, ma’am, I’m not really sure there is a problem, see. My daughter, Sheila, she wanted me to come in and have my heart checked out, but as far as I can tell, it’s just fine. I just need to give it a jump-start in the morning is all.”

Katie looked at Emmett. “Jump-start?”

“Show her, Dad,” Sheila urged. “He just moved in with me, Dr. LeClair, like I was telling you. But he does this thing in the morning. Says he has to get his heart started.”

Mr. Kazinsky sat straight in his chair, crossed his arms over his chest, uncrossed them and slapped his knees, moving back and forth and gaining in speed until he was stopped by a coughing spell.

“I have a little cold right now, but that’s all it takes to get it going.”

Katie looked at Emmett again. “Chest pain? Angina? Shortness of breath?”

Emmett smiled. “No, he just needs a jump-start.”

Katie grinned. “How about a stress test?”

“That’s a great idea! What do you think, Sheila? We’ll do a stress test and see how he tolerates it. Would you feel more comfortable that way?”

“Whatever you think is necessary.” Sheila held her hands up. “But Dad doesn’t like to go to Ann Arbor. He thinks there’s too much traffic. Can you do a test like that here?”

“Sure, we can do a modified version right here,” Emmett said. He turned to his patient and held out his hands. “Mr. Kazinsky, I’ll have you stand up and take my hands. Let’s just start running in place, okay? Just go at your own pace. Let me know if you feel short of breath or have any pain.”

Katie watched as her sixty-five-year-old partner ran in place with his eighty-year-old patient. After about four minutes, Emmett slowed. Mr. Kazinsky kept on jogging.

“Okay, that’s pretty good there.” Emmett held up his hand and stopped jogging. “I think we better stop before I embarrass myself. Sheila, his heart is in better shape than mine. If he needs to jump-start it in the morning, that’s fine. Maybe I’ll start to do the same just so I can keep up with him.”

Katie excused herself and smiled on the way out the door. She could always rely on Emmett to share the “difficult” medical problems with her.

She glanced into the staff room on her way back to her office and saw Debra sitting alone and scraping the last of her yogurt out of the container. Katie hated to interrupt her during her lunch break, but she decided to take advantage of Debra’s vast knowledge of gossip.

Debra smiled as Katie entered the room.

“You look better,” Debra said. “What happened?”

“Emmett and Mr. Kazinsky.” Katie sat across from Debra.

Debra nodded. “He’s a character.”

“Emmett or Mr. Kazinsky?”

“Well, both I guess.”

How could she turn this conversation in the direction of Ellen without setting off all Debra’s alarm bells?

“I couldn’t get in touch with Beth Wixom—she didn’t answer, and there was no voice mail,” Katie said. “Do we have a different number for her? Was there any other family besides her mom?”

Debra shook her head. “I don’t think she has anyone else, poor thing. From what I hear, they were very close. I can check the number for you.” Debra pushed her chair back.

“Debra, wait,” Katie said.

Debra scooted her chair closer and leaned her elbows on the table.

This wasn’t going well. She had the same look she got when discussing the latest Hollywood divorce.

“Do you know if Ellen Riley had any close friends in town?”

“Are you trying to figure out if she confided in someone about her suicide plan?”

Katie’s shoulders slumped. There was no way to be circumspect with Debra. Her brain automatically jumped to conclusions. Unfortunately, this one was on the nose.

Katie nodded. “Beth doesn’t think her mother would have killed herself, and I thought I could talk to some of her friends. Maybe they would be more open with me than with Ellen’s daughter.”

Debra pursed her lips. “You could be right. Let’s see.” Debra looked to the ceiling as if the list of friends could be found there. “I didn’t want to say anything, because once people are gone, it’s best to let their trouble go as well. But she was very close to Cecily Hawkins when they first moved here. Something happened between them.” Debra held her hand up. “I don’t know what, but they haven’t been as close for a few months. Patsy Travers is probably your best bet.”

“How can I get in touch with her?”

“She lives across the street from the Rileys. Well, from Mr. Riley now. I can get her phone number if you like.”

“Thanks, Debra. That’s a good place to start.”

Debra leaned forward and lowered her voice even though they were alone in the room.

“She’s a bit . . . unusual. Try not to get distracted by the exterior. I’ve never been able to tell whether it’s an act or the real deal, but her woo-woo persona disguises a very smart lady.”

Katie returned to her office to finish her charts. Because part of her brain was mulling over what she had learned—or, more accurately, not learned—about Ellen Riley, it took twice as long as usual. At three o’clock, she brought her completed pile of charts to the medical records room, grabbed her bag, and headed out the door. She was on call this weekend, so the elation that usually accompanied a Friday afternoon was dulled a bit.

Katie had one stop to make before she was done for the day. One of her nursing home patients had been transferred to hospice care the evening before with urosepsis. He was ninety-two years old and frail. The urinary tract infection had rapidly led to a much more severe infection, and he wasn’t expected to live.

The double doors whooshed open as she approached. She wound her way along the dark, low-ceilinged hallway toward the patient care unit. While an ICU was noisy with the muted beeps and gurgles of the machinery designed to keep the human body alive through any number of assaults to its functioning, a hospice unit was often strangely quiet, a place where the regular routines were allowed to run their course.

Katie greeted the two afternoon-shift nurses who were busily charting vital signs, consciousness, and various indicators of the patients’ statuses. They pointed her toward Mr. Foster’s room.

He was asleep when she entered and would likely stay that way. Katie briefly examined him, recalling the first time she had seen someone who was about to die. A medical student on rotation in her third year, Katie had been on an overnight call with a junior resident. They had been called to a patient’s room to evaluate the reddish-purple blotches appearing on her face and hands.

She had been old. Katie did not remember how old, but she had looked ancient. The only indication of life had been the slight movement of her chest up and down. Her face had been drawn and immobile. This had not been the blissful sleep of a child. This sleep had looked painful and unnatural. The resident had pointed out the blotches. Not that anyone could have missed them. The end of her nose had been bruised-looking and purple. Her fingertips had been dark at the end of her curled fingers. He’d explained that she’d had what was called disseminated intravascular coagulation, or DIC. Tiny blood clots throughout her body had been cutting off the oxygen to vital organs. Her entire system had been shutting down, and there had been no way for them to stop it. Infection combined with age and general frailty, a weak heart, kidney disease, and a litany of other medical problems had contributed to her demise.

He had talked about her as if she was already dead. Perhaps she had been, to him. If there was nothing more to do, you had to move on to help those that could be helped. There was no time in residency to dwell on those who couldn’t be saved, no time to even acknowledge their passing sometimes. That was what the nurses were for, she was told. Katie had once been reprimanded for getting a patient a drink of water. It was obviously nurse’s work. The teaching physician had been disappointed that she would “waste her time” with such activities. The message was, doctors are too important and too smart to be engaging in such small acts of human kindness. She remembered the lesson, but not in the way it was intended. After visiting the dying woman, they had had lunch and never mentioned her again.

She pulled up a chair and took Mr. Foster’s hand. He was a funny old guy. An incurable flirt, he liked to chase the nurses down the hall in his wheelchair. Katie had once asked him what he planned to do if he ever actually caught up with one.

“The fun is in the chase, Dr. LeClair. I’ll never catch one.”

He loved jazz, and there was an unsubstantiated rumor that he had played in his own band when he was a young man. He referred to it all as “ancient history” and refused to talk about it. But he and Katie had bonded over their shared love of big band music.

The night nurses used to bring in all sorts of music for him to listen to. He loved it all and always wanted to hear whatever had been released that week.

“I like to hear the new stuff almost as much as I love the old stuff.”

Katie stood up. “I’ll miss you, Mr. Foster.”

She thought she felt him squeeze her hand, but it was probably just a reflex.