nodded at Avery. “The tampering must have taken place before then.”
Sean riffled through her briefcase, then pulled out a folder and handed it to Gene. “This is a list of employees from both the clinic and Kurtis Labs. The ones with stars by their names have either quit or been fired since Avery and his wife started going to the clinic.”
Wiping his fingers on his napkin, Gene took the list and studied it.
“If you think anyone there might have been responsible for making the switch, it would really help us a lot. We think it’s someone ultra-ultra right wing. Do you know what I mean?”
Reaching for a pen in his pocket holder, he nodded. “Yeah, off the scale. Just on the sunny side of white supremacy. Can I mark on this?”
“Go ahead,” Sean replied.
While he scrutinized the list, the waitress returned with their meals. Avery paid the check, then pushed his plate away. He’d lost his appetite. “What about your boss as a possibility, Gene?” he asked. “I mean, he lied to Dr. Nathan about the lab results.”
Gene shook his head. “He’s too stupid. I read Keefer pretty well. He went into a total tailspin when I told him the results of my tests on those samples. He was genuinely surprised. No, he lied to avoid a lawsuit.”
“I’ll need you to testify about this lab report,” Sean said. “Will that get you in trouble with Keefer?”
Gene grinned at her. “Hell, ma’am, that’s why I’m here. I want to show him for the worthless, lying scumbag he is. Maybe I’ll even get him fired. The S.O.B. doesn’t do a damn thing around there except give me crap about my weight. He calls me ‘UFO,’ says it stands for
Between sips from his soft drink and picking at his fries, Gene Clavey studied the list and mumbled to himself. “Hmmm, no way is it Maggie Freeman, and not Mitch, he’s too P-C….” He glanced up from the paperwork. “You know who you guys should be looking for? The part-timer who was holding down another similar job. Probably a nurse working at another clinic, where he or she had access to these unhealthy specimens.” He shrugged. “Just a theory.”
“It’s a good one,” Sean said, nodding. “A part-timer who quit around mid-September. That’s very good. Thanks, Mr. Clavey.”
He reached for his second chili dog. “You’re welcome.”
The head of administration at Dr. Nathan’s clinic had a thing for frogs. A stout woman in her mid-fifties with short blond hair, she wore black-rimmed glasses and a frog pin on her blouse. The bookcase behind her desk was adorned with ceramic frogs, a philodendron in a frog-shaped planter, seashells glued together to look like frogs, and a frog made out of pipe cleaner and bottle caps. She also had a wall poster of a toad on a lily pad, with a slogan beneath it in script: LEAP AHEAD TO SUCCESS!
The frog lady’s name was Brenda Dreyfus. She wanted Avery’s autograph for herself and three friends. While he scribbled his personalized Best Wishes on Brenda’s frog stationery, Sean persuaded her to dig out records on two part-time employees who had quit the clinic in September: Bob Donnellon and Lauren Schneider, both nurses.
“Bob Donnellon worked here as a nurse for three years,” Brenda said, consulting his file. “Though some of the guys prefer ‘medical assistant.’ He worked part time for both Dr. Nathan and Dr. Konradt. He gave us a month’s notice, and his last day here was September third. He now works full time for the Visiting Nurses Association.”
She took out another tablet of frog stationery and started writing. “I’ll jot down the number at the VNA for you.”
“And his current address and phone,” Sean said. “If you have it.”
“I sure do,” Brenda said, scrawling on the pad. “Oh, by the way, Avery, could I have one more autograph? This one for Marlys. M-A-R-L-Y-S. Thanks.” She reached for another folder. “Okay, onto the next. Lauren Schneider. She worked part time for Dr. Jans and Dr. Nathan. She was here from May twenty-seventh until September fourteenth.”
Avery looked up from his writing. “May twenty-seventh?” He turned to Sean. “That’s only three weeks after my TV movie aired, the one that ticked off so many people. Joanne and I had been seeing Dr. Nathan for about two months. Hell, we could have bumped into her.”
“Do you have a photo of this Lauren Schneider?” Sean asked Brenda.
The frog lady shook her head. “No, I’m sorry—”
“How about her age? Is her date of birth listed?”
Brenda glanced at the folder. “Um, yes, she’s thirty.”
Sean turned to Avery. “Any help?”
He shrugged and shook his head. “Joanne might remember. I—” He caught himself, and tried to smile. “I’m sorry….”
Sean patted his arm.
“She worked part time,” Brenda said. “And she gave us a week’s notice. I don’t show another employer listed.”
“What about her address and phone number?” Sean asked.
Studying the records, Brenda Dreyfus frowned. “I have a Linden Avenue address in Beverly Hills, but it’s no longer current according to this note my assistant jotted down here. Her last paycheck was sent to a post office box in Opal, Idaho.”
While none of the network newscasts yesterday had focused on such a gossipy item as the Dayle/Elsie war, the local affiliates went crazy. Most stations seemed to take Dayle’s side. Channel 8 even had an editorial, blasting Elsie and suggesting that she make a public apology.
As Dayle turned off the shower in her trailer bathroom, she could hear Dennis in the next room. He was singing “Do You Know the Way to San Jose?” in a falsetto.
“Hey, Dionne,” she called, slipping into her bathrobe. “Where’s Ted?”
“Outside, on the phone, making security arrangements for that citadel that used to be your home.”
“Have there been any public rejoinders from Just-Call-Me-Elsie?”
“No, not a peep from The Scary Widow,” Dennis answered from the other side of the door. “I hear from a couple of sources that she’s mega-pissed. Seems no matter how it’s served, fried or fricasseed, Elsie won’t eat crow. You came out ahead yesterday.” She heard him laugh. “‘The widow Marshall,’ I loved the way you kept saying that to the press. They ate it up too.”
“Yeah, it was pretty good, wasn’t it?” Dayle said, emerging from the bathroom. She sat at her vanity and vigorously worked a towel over her wet hair. “Did Nick Brock call today?”
Dennis was ensconced on the sofa with the ever-present clipboard in his lap. He munched on a Kit-Kat bar. “Nope, no messages from Opal, Idaho, and Mr. Golden Buns.”
She turned to him. “Did I tell you Nick was in Opal?”
“Sure did.” He glanced at his clipboard. “Listen, The Hollywood Walk of Fame Award dinner next week, it’ll be packed with press folk. Might be a good idea to attend. John McDunn indicated he’s available, if you’d like.”
She stopped drying her hair for a moment. “I’ll think about it. Thanks.”
“There are several events coming up, and it wouldn’t hurt to be seen with John at your side. It’s good for appearances—for the movie, I mean.”
She caught his eye in the mirror. “I know what you meant, Dennis.”
“Just trying to help.” He consulted his clipboard. “Um, a reminder. I’ll be here Monday, but I’m not working Tuesday. I have to help Laura move. She’s getting an apartment closer to mine.”
“That’s nice,” Dayle replied. “Listen, you can go over all this with me on Monday. It’s late. You don’t have to stick around.”
Dennis stood up. “Oh, before I forget, a friend of my parents is coming from out of town. He’s like an uncle. I’ve cleared it with security and Ted. He’s visiting the set Tuesday.”
“Remind me on Monday. Let me know what time so I can look for him.”
“Midmorning. But that’s okay, Dayle. Don’t make a fuss. I only wanted to let you know that he’ll be on the set. No biggie.”
She shrugged. “Okeydoke. No biggie.” She started to brush her hair and smiled at him in the mirror. “Now, go
