'He was very pleasant on the phone.'
'And she wouldn't talk to you, huh?'
'Her secretary said she was in a meeting, so I asked for the director.'
'He knows what's goin' on?'
'Vaguely.'
They pulled up to what appeared to be the main building, a sprawling brick barn of a place with a slate roof, and parked beside several other cars on a gravelled oval in front of the structure. Gusts of wind whined off the lake and swirled into dancing dust monkeys as they got out of the car. A young boy in his early teens was hosing down a battered old pickup truck nearby.
'We're looking for Dr Lowenstein,' Vail said to him. 'Is his office in here?' The boy nodded and watched them enter.
The lobby of the building was an enormous room with a soaring ceiling and a great open fireplace surrounded by faded, old, fluffy sofas and chairs. The receptionist, a chunky woman in her late forties with wispy blue-grey hair held up by bobby pins, sat behind a scarred maple desk angled to one side of the entrance. A Waterford drinking glass sat on one corner of her desk stuffed with a half-dozen straw flowers. Behind her, a large Audobon print of a cardinal hung slightly lopsided on the wall. The only thing modern in the entire room was the switchboard phone.
'Help you?' she asked pleasantly.
'Martin Vail to see Dr Lowenstein. I have an appointment.'
'From Chicago?'
'Right.'
'Boy, didn't take you long't'get here,' she said, lifting the phone receiver.
'The miracle of flight,' St Claire said, his eyes twinkling.
She looked at him over rimless glasses for a second, then: 'Doc, your guests are here from the Windy City, Uh-huh, I mentioned that. It's the miracle of flight. 'Kay.' She cradled the phone. 'First door on the right,' she said, motioning down a hall towards an open door and smiling impishly at St Claire.
Lowenstein was a great moose of a man with burly shoulders and shaggy brown hair that swept over his ears and curled around the collar of a plaid shirt. The sleeves were turned up halfway to his elbows and his battered corduroy pants had shiny spots on the knees. He had a pleasant, ruddy face and warm brown eyes, and there was about him a pleasant, haphazard attitude unlike the measured mien of the pipe-smoking Woodward. He was sitting at a roll-top desk, leaning over a large yellow butterfly mounted on a white square of cardboard, studying it through a magnifying glass. A cup of tea sat forgotten among stacks of papers and pamphlets that cluttered the desktop. He looked up as Vail tapped on the door frame.
'Dr Lowenstein? Martin Vail. This is Harve St Claire.'
'Well, you certainly didn't waste any time getting here,' he said in a gruff rumble of a voice.
'We have a twin-engine Cessna available when the occasion demands,' Vail said. 'An hour beats driving for three hours.'
'I would say.' He put down the magnifying glass and offered a calloused hand that engulfed Vail's.
'Pretty thing,' St Claire said, nodding to the mounted butterfly.
'Just a common monarch,' Lowenstein said. 'Found it on the windowsill this morning. Thought the kids might enjoy studying it. Can I get you anything? Tea, coffee?'
'No thanks,' Vail said.
Lowenstein sat back at the desk and swept a large paw towards two wooden chairs.
'I appreciate your help on this, Doctor,' said Vail. 'I wouldn't have bothered you except that Molly wouldn't take my call.'
'I understand the nature of your problem, Mr Vail, but I don't know a hell of a lot about the Stampler case. It's my feeling that you and Molly need to address the problem. I'm also certain she would have refused a meeting if you had reached her by phone.'
'Why?'
'Molly had a breakdown four years ago. A combination of exhaustion, depression, and alcohol. She was a patient here for a year and a half.'
'I'm sorry, I had no idea…'
