Midnight Voices

do about a two-year-old boy with a mother who claimed he was ‘incorrigible,’ her fingers once again began to drum.

“So here’s the deal,” Nathan Rosenberg told her that night as they sat across from each other in a little restaurant on Amsterdam. “Theodore Humphries is a doctor, but he’s not an M.D. He’s an osteopath and a homeopath, which makes him less than popular at most of the hospitals I know of.”

“But he’s licensed to practice medicine?”

“Absolutely,” Rosenberg replied. “In fact, I just might go to him myself. Our family doctor was an osteopath when I was a kid, and if she wasn’t so far out on Long Island, I’d still go to her.”

“But he’s not a medical doctor,” Andrea pressed.

Rosenberg shrugged. “Depends on your definition. The M.D.s used to hate the D.O.s. In California, they once tried to put them out of business entirely. But just because the A.M.A. doesn’t like them doesn’t make them bad doctors. It’s just a different philosophy of medicine. And as for homeopathy, there are a whole lot of people who believe in it, and even more that don’t.”

“Which means?”

“Which means that medicine is just like everything else — you figure out what works for you, and go with it. In this country, we like the medical model of germs and drugs. Other places like acupuncture, or herbalism, or all kinds of other models.”

Andrea gazed at him. “So it doesn’t bother you that the Albions aren’t using a real doctor for Rebecca?”

“Weren’t you listening? He is a real doctor. Just not an M.D.”

“What about Anthony Fleming?” Andrea asked, knowing Nate Rosenberg well enough to know that arguing over the validity of Dr. Humphries’ credentials would get nowhere.

“Not much. He has an investment firm down on West Fifty-third. That’s about it.”

“What about his former wife?” Andrea countered. “Where is she?”

Nate frowned. “What former wife? I didn’t find anything about a former wife.”

Andrea’s eyes rolled. “What did you do, look him up in the yellow pages? I know there was a wife — Caroline told me. And a couple of kids, I think.”

Nate Rosenberg spread his hands helplessly. “All I can tell you is what I found — according to his credit records, he’s golden. Only carries a couple of credit cards, and pays them off every month. No debt.”

“Not even on the place in The Rockwell?”

“Not that I could find. And no mention of a wife or kids.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” Andrea said.

“What if he didn’t marry the woman? What if they just lived together?” He chuckled at the look of disappointment on Andrea’s face. “Jesus, Andrea, I think you would have been happier if I’d told you your best friend married a mass murderer.”

Andrea laughed ruefully. “Am I that bad?”

“Not bad at all,” Nate replied. “But I have to say, in this case I think you’re looking for trouble where there isn’t any.”

“Maybe I am,” Andrea sighed. But even as she spoke the words, she knew she didn’t believe them.

CHAPTER 11

There was a soft rap at the door, which then opened just far enough for Rebecca to see Alicia Albion’s eye peek in.

“It’s all right, Aunt Alicia. I’m up.”

Pushed by Alicia’s shoulder, the door opened wider and Alicia backed in, carrying a tray with both hands. Even from her chair by the window, Rebecca could smell the aroma of a fresh cinnamon bun, and as Alicia turned around, she could see steam curling from the spout of the silver teapot that Alicia always used — and that Rebecca was always afraid she’d drop. So far she hadn’t, but anyone could tell just by looking at it that it must be very valuable.

“It’s just an old teapot,” Alicia had assured her the first time she’d brought it in and Rebecca had refused to touch it. “If it’s survived this long, I suspect you won’t hurt it even if you drop it. It was made to be used, not just to be admired.”

So Rebecca had gingerly picked it up, clutching its handle so tightly her knuckles turned white, and using her other hand to hold the top on, the way she’d seen Alicia do.

“Miss Delamond made the cinnamon roll,” Alicia said as she set the tray on the table next to Rebecca’s chair. “Doesn’t it look yummy?”

“Is she still here?” Rebecca asked, eyeing the cinnamon roll uncertainly. Even though Miss Delamond’s cinnamon rolls always smelled wonderful, there was a funny — almost bitter — taste to them that always made Rebecca feel slightly nauseous. Still, it was better to feel a little sick than to hurt Miss Delamond’s feelings, so she took a bite of the steaming bun.

Alicia shook her head. “Her sister’s not feeling very well this morning. But she says if you like this, there are lots more where it came from.” Alicia settled onto the straightbacked chair on the other side of the table, poured Rebecca a cup of tea, then eyed her critically. “I do believe you’re looking better this morning,” she pronounced. “Did you take the remedy Dr. Humphries left for you?”

Rebecca nodded. “I feel a lot better. I’ll bet by tomorrow I feel good enough to go to the park.”

“Wouldn’t that be nice.” Alicia glanced out the window. Across the street, the summer foliage was starting to look slightly faded and droopy under the late August heat, and the people in the park seemed to be moving in slow motion. Rebecca’s room was still comfortably cool though, and as Alicia picked up the worn copy of Anne of Green Gables that she and Rebecca had been reading during the last two weeks, she was almost glad that Rebecca wasn’t feeling quite good enough to go outside yet. “So where were we?” she asked, opening the book. “Ah, here we are. Chapter thirty-seven: The Reaper Whose Name Is Death. ‘Matthew, Matthew, what is the matter? Matthew, are you sick?’ ” But before she could read any more, Rebecca interrupted her.

“Don’t,” the little girl said. “I don’t like this chapter.”

Alicia frowned. “But you don’t even know what happens yet.”

“Matthew dies,” Rebecca replied. “I read it last night, after I went to bed. It made me sad — I kept thinking that Matthew was Uncle Max, and I started crying.”

Alicia set the book aside. “But it’s only a story, Rebecca.”

“I know. But it’s so awful that people have to die. If you or Uncle Max—” Her voice faltered, and her eyes glistened with tears.

“Now don’t you worry,” Alicia assured her. “We’re not going to die. Not Uncle Max, or me, or anyone else who cares about you.” She picked up the book again. “I’ll tell you what — we’ll just go right on to the next chapter. All right?”

But suddenly Rebecca wasn’t paying attention at all. Instead she was out of her chair and at the window, struggling to pull it up. “They’re here!” she said, fumbling at the latch. “Aunt Alicia, they’re here!”

“Who?” Alicia asked, dropping the book back on the table and rising to her feet.

“Laurie! Laurie and Ryan! They’re back!” Finally getting the window unlatched, she pulled it up and leaned out. “Laurie!” she called. “Laurie! Up here!”

“Rebecca, be careful!” Alicia cried, grabbing the girl around the waist and pulling her back inside.

“Can I go down and see Laurie?” she pleaded. “Please?”

Alicia hesitated only a second. “Of course you can,” she said. “But don’t stay too long — they’ll want to get settled.”