tables, and began reading. As she put aside the front section and picked up the Metro, our eyes met. She pulled away quickly. I gulped down the rest of my coffee.
Without rising, she said, “Anything else?”
“No, thanks.”
She brought me the check. I handed her a credit card. She took it, stared at it, returned with a slip, and said, “You’re a doctor?”
I realized then how I must have appeared to her: clothes I’d slept in, unshaven.
I said, “I’m a psychologist. There’s a clinic across the street. I’m on my way over there to talk to one of the doctors.”
“Uh-huh,” she said, looking doubtful.
“Don’t worry,” I said, putting on my best smile. “I’m not one of the patients. Been working a long shift- emergency case.”
That seemed to spook her, so I produced my license and med school faculty card. “Scout’s honor.”
She relaxed a bit, said, “What kind of things do they do over there?”
“Don’t really know,” I said. “Had any problems because of them?”
“Oh, no. It’s just that you don’t see too many people going in and out. And there’s no sign telling anyone what kind of place it is. I wouldn’t have even
“I don’t know much about it myself. My specialty is working with children. One of my patients is the child of a woman who used to be treated there- maybe you noticed her. She used to come in an old Rolls-Royce- black and gray.”
She nodded. “I did see a car like that a couple of times, but I never noticed who drove it.”
“The woman who owned it disappeared a few days ago. It’s been pretty hard on the child. I came over to learn what I could.”
“Disappeared? What do you mean?”
“She set out for the clinic, never showed up, and hasn’t been seen.”
“Oh.” A new kind of anxiety, one that had nothing to do with balance sheets.
I looked up at her, fingered the credit slip.
“You know…” she said, then shook her head.
“What is it?”
“Nothing… It’s probably nothing. I shouldn’t mix in, in things that don’t concern me…”
“If you know anything-”
“No,” she said emphatically. “It’s not about your patient’s mother. Another one- of their patients- the customer I mentioned. The one who told me what kind of place it was. She used to come in here, didn’t seem as if there was anything wrong with her. She said she used to be afraid of going places- phobic- that’s why she was going for treatment, but she’d gotten a lot better. You would have thought she’d like the place- the clinic- be grateful. But she didn’t seem to- not that you should quote me on that. I really don’t need any headaches.”
She touched the credit slip. “You still need to total and sign.”
I did, adding a 25 percent tip.
“Thank you,” she said.
“My pleasure. What made you think this woman didn’t like the clinic?”
“Just the way she talked- asking lots of questions. About them.” Glancing across the street. “Not right away. After she’d been coming for a while.”
“What kinds of questions?”
“How long they’d been here. I had no idea, just moved in myself. Did the doctors or any of the other patients ever come in here- that was an easy one. Not even once. Except Kathy- that was her name. She didn’t seem afraid of anything. Kind of aggressive, actually. But I liked her- she was friendly, liked my food. And she came in all the time. I really liked the idea of having a regular. Then one day, out of the blue, she just stopped.” Snapping her fingers. “Just like that. I thought it was strange. Especially because she hadn’t mentioned anything about being finished with her treatment. So when you said this other woman disappeared, it kind of reminded me of that. Though Kathy didn’t really
“How long ago was this?”
She thought. “About a month ago. First I thought it was something to do with the food, but she stopped going over there, too. I knew her car. She’d been on a regular schedule: Monday and Thursday afternoon, like clockwork. At three-fifteen she’d be in here for angel hair pasta or scallops, cappuccino royale, and a raisin croissant. I appreciated it because, to tell the truth, business has not been booming yet- we’re still establishing our presence. My husband has been I-told-you-soing for three months. I started Sunday brunch last week, but it hasn’t exactly raised the dead.”
I clucked my tongue in sympathy.
She smiled. “I called this place La Mystique, for mystery. He says the only mystery is when I’m going to fold- so I’ve got to prove him wrong. That’s why I especially appreciated Kathy’s patronage. I still wonder what happened to her.”
“Do you remember her last name?”
“Why?”
“I’m just trying to contact everyone who knew my patient’s mother. You never know what little detail might tell us something.”
She hesitated, then: “One sec.”
She pocketed the credit slip, went back into the kitchen. As I waited, I looked over at the clinic building. No one entered or exited. Not a hint of life behind the windows.
She returned with a square of yellow message paper.
“This is Kathy’s sister’s address. She gave her as a reference at the beginning, because she used to pay by check and her own checks were out-of-state. I actually thought of giving a call, but never got around to it. If you speak to her, give her my best- tell her Joyce said hi.”
I took the paper and read it. Neatly printed letters in red felt-tip marker:
KATHY MORIARTY
C/O ROBBINS
2012 ASHBOURNE DR.
S. PAS.
A 795 phone number.
I put it in my wallet, got up, and said, “Thanks. Everything was great.”
“All you had was berries and coffee. Come back sometime when you’re hungry. We’re good- we really are.”
She walked back to her table and the newspaper.
I got up, looked out the window, saw movement. A stately-looking gray-haired woman getting into the Lincoln. The station wagon already pulling away from the curb.
Time for a chat with Dr. Ursula.
But I was disabused of that notion as I reached the sidewalk. The Saab shot backwards out of the driveway, came to a short stop, and sped northward. So fast, I barely had a glimpse of the driver’s tense, beautiful face.
By the time I got behind the wheel of the Seville, she was out of sight.
I sat for a while, wondering what had drawn her away. Opened the glove compartment, took out my Thomas Guide, and looked up Ashbourne Drive.
The house was a generously proportioned used-brick Tudor on a wide, ungated lot shaded by maples and firs. A Plymouth van in the driveway shadowed a scattered collection of toy bikes and wagons. Three brick steps and a porch led to the front entrance. The door featured a tiny brass replica of itself set at eye level.
