I stuck my head out to observe, but didn’t move to interfere. Millie could probably handle him better than I could. Another figure in white came up behind him.

“If you go in there,” Elly said, “you might have to drop your pants and get a shot in the rear.”

“Dr. James’s office is three doors down, on the left. Why don’t you wait there?” Millie suggested.

O’Connor grunted. I ducked back inside and made myself comfortable. I could hear his lumbering steps coming down the hallway. I wanted to be here when he interviewed Cordelia.

He grunted noisily when he entered and saw me ensconced behind Cordelia’s desk. I’m sure he would have liked to have had Cordelia looking across her own desk at him sitting behind it.

“Good morning,” I said cheerily. “Or is it afternoon yet, Detective…O’Connor.” I left a pause just long enough for sergeant to fit in.

“What are you doing here?” he growled.

“My nails,” I replied, as I nonchalantly examined my left hand.

“Well, little Miss Private Investigator. Do you know how Beverly Sue Morris died?”

“Perforated uterus. Very likely a botched abortion. As did the woman whose body was found near the Industrial Canal early this morning.”

He grunted his displeasure. “Who told you that?” he barked.

“You mean I was right? It was really just a wild guess.”

“Bullshit! Who told you? Ranson?”

“No,” I prevaricated. “An old college buddy.” I let it hang.

“Who?” he demanded. Then without waiting for an answer. “This is bullshit. It was Ranson.”

“Danielle Clayton. I’m sure you know her.”

“Uh,” he grunted a vague negative.

“The Sherard murder case? The Rampart Street rapist? I thought you cops kept up with the D.A.’s with the best conviction records.”

He merely grunted again. But he knew who Danny was. And he got my message. By the book.

“Are you here to arrest me?” Cordelia stood in the doorway.

“Come in, Dr. James. Sorry, your chair’s taken,” O’Connor said with a glance at me.

I got up, motioning Cordelia to her chair. I perched on a window sill behind her, looking protectively over her shoulder. She needed to be sitting for what o’Connor was going to tell her.

“Nice to see you didn’t run away. Surprising considering what we’ve found.” And he paused. A cheap dramatic effect.

“Which is?” Cordelia cut into his silence.

“Poor Beverly Sue Morris. She bled to death. Her uterus was perforated.”

“Oh, no,” Cordelia said, her jaw clenching.

“At least Beverly’s got company,” he continued relentlessly. “Alice Janice Tresoe, age thirty-two, three kids, by the way. She didn’t like dying, it seems. Someone bound her at her wrists and ankles while she struggled. They pulled her out of the Industrial Canal this morning. Someone perforated her uterus, too. She was a patient of yours, too, wasn’t she?”

“Oh, my God,” Cordelia exhaled, turning her face from him as if she’d been hit. “She was here just last week.”

“Why don’t you tell me about them, Dr. James? It’ll make it easier on all of us.” His voice was gentle, almost kind. “Just get it over with.”

He didn’t say anything more, just let the silence invite a response.

Cordelia bent her head. She was crying. Then she straightened herself, not bothering to wipe the tears.

“The only thing I can tell you,” she said clearly and distinctly, not letting her voice break, “is that I did not kill those women. You can question me as long as you like, but that’s the only answer I can give you.” She met his gaze, not wavering as he stared at her.

“You can bet on that, Dr. James. I will be questioning you for a long time.”

“Until someone catches the real killer,” I nettled him. “And by the way, where’s the search warrant for that file?”

O’Connor pulled a piece of paper from his jacket pocket and handed it to Cordelia. He ignored me. “Maybe with a little sleep, your memory got jogged and now you remember something about that insurance form, huh?” he prodded.

“No, I don’t,” Cordelia answered, as she glanced at the search warrant.

“Too bad. How’d you get to be a doctor with a memory like that?”

Cordelia didn’t answer him, merely handed back the search warrant.

“Perhaps you should do a little research, Detective O’Connor,” I put in. “If you did, like I’ve already done, you’d find out that Dr. James sees between twenty to forty patients a day. Average, say twenty-two a day. Times five and a half is one hundred and twenty-one people a week. All with insurance forms and receipts, not to mention prescriptions and notes for school, employers and the like. That’s a lot of name signing.”

“So?” he grunted.

“Now, I’m sure you don’t think Dr. James fills out all that paperwork. If she’s lucky, she has time to glance at it. The patients do a lot of it. The nurses, Millie Donnalto, Betty Peterson, Elly Harrison, some and Bernice LaRoue most of the rest of it.”

“Yeah, right. None of this is news to me,” he said.

“If you’d been around here as often as I have,” I continued, “you’d notice that, at times, it can be very busy here. A lot of people about. And that the reception desk is easily accessible from the waiting room. And…well,” I stood up and reached into my back pocket, “I had no problem lifting two receipts and an insurance form. No one saw me.” I walked around the desk holding out my purloined goodies for O’Connor to see.

“Doesn’t prove anything,” he remarked.

“And neither does the evidence you have,” I returned.

“You could have stolen them last night.”

“Give me ten minutes and I’ll do it again.”

“We’ll see,” O’Connor said, standing up. “Just don’t go anywhere, Dr. James,” he said as he went through the door. “And take very good care of your patients,” he added.

“Asshole,” I said loudly.

“What was that?” O’Connor asked from out in the hallway.

“Hemorrhoids. I’m taking advantage of Dr. James and getting some free medical advice,” I called after him.

He grunted and continued down the hall.

“Now, about this asshole I’m having a problem with…” I continued, watching the door to see if O’Connor would storm back. He didn’t.

I turned to face Cordelia. For a moment I thought she was crying again, but she wasn’t. She was laughing, covering her mouth so she wouldn’t do it out loud.

“Thanks, Micky,” she finally said. “God, it’s good to have people like you around at a time like this.”

“Wish I could do more,” I replied. I wanted to walk over to her and put my arms around her. Knowing O’Connor was lurking around the corner stopped me. Also not knowing if Cordelia would want me to hold her.

“Hey, Micky, I thought I heard your voice,” Elly said as she came in. “Oh, honey,” she continued, seeing Cordelia’s tear-streaked face. She went over to Cordelia and put her arms around her. “It’s been rough, hasn’t it?” She stroked Cordelia’s hair gently.

I wondered why I hadn’t had the courage to do that.

“I’m okay,” Cordelia said. “What are you doing here this early?”

“Reinforcements,” Elly answered, letting go of Cordelia and perching beside her on the arm of her chair. “I was finished with my visits early, Danny reached me and said you might like some company.”

“What does Danny think I am?” I interjected. “Chopped crawfish?”

“No, of course not,” Elly replied. “She just expects you to have this thing solved by quitting time and she figured you might have to run around a bit to do that.”

“No problem,” I bantered back.

“I’m okay,” Cordelia said, standing up. “I have patients waiting.”

“Millie’s doing prelim,” Elly said. “Go wash your face.”

“Thanks,” Cordelia said. “Both of you.” She headed for the bathroom at the far end of the hall.

“Are you going to the meeting?” Elly asked me.

“What meeting?”

“For the building. In about forty-five minutes. Evidently the police presence has upset some people.”

“You’d think it would have been the body in the basement,” I replied.

Elly grimaced. “I think that’s what ‘police’ is a euphemism for.”

“Yeah, I’ll be there.”

“Good, I need the moral support. Nuns always intimidate me. Back to work,” she said.

I let her lead me down the hallway. Elly branched off to one of the rooms and I continued out to the waiting room It was almost empty, whether because of lunch or the ominous police presence, I wasn’t sure.

“Micky, did you really steal some forms off my desk?” Bernie asked.

“Guilty as charged.”

“Could I have them back? Those things disappear so quickly I was always sure someone was taking them,” Bernie continued.

I handed the forms back to her, somewhat the worse for being in my pocket. I glanced at O’Connor to see if he had heard Bernie complain about the missing forms. He was too close to have missed it, but he was ignoring me.

I sat back down, unable to find my magazine of hot sex tips. I settled for one that promised to tell me how to eat chocolate and lose weight.

O’Connor finished questioning the staff, using the storeroom to, I presume, prevent me from overhearing him ask about the things I had told him earlier.

After that he and the other officers went down into the basement. I had heard noises and knew there were a couple of other cops down there.

Emma Auerbach walked into the clinic. She looked as surprised to see me as I was to see her.

“What are you…?” I asked.

“I’m on the board of directors for the clinic. I thought Cordelia could use some support,” she explained.

“She probably could,” I agreed, thinking that Emma was excellent support. Then I told her what I was doing lurking about.

“I’m glad to see you,” she said when I finished.

The last patient came out and after the requisite paperwork at Bernie’s desk, left. Elly and Millie joined us. I made introductions. Then Cordelia emerged. She and Emma hugged.

“Meeting time,” Millie said.

Bernie agreed to stay and guard the fort, as it were. The rest of us headed up the stairs to one of the larger classrooms where we would be meeting.

People were already there, Sister Ann and two other nuns, some civilians. They were arranging tables in a square. We helped them finish up, then sat down on the window side. Most of the church people sat on the opposite side. Sister Ann compromised and sat at one of the middle tables.

A priest that I’d never seen before entered. Followed by Aunt Greta. She sat down next to him, arranging a notebook and some papers in front of him.

He started the meeting by introducing himself as Father Flynn from blah, blah, blah parish, I didn’t catch it. He evidently considered himself in charge of the meeting, ably assisted, of course, by Aunt Greta.

“This is, needless to say, a trying time,” he intoned. “We are all upset by events of the past few days. Are you planning to close the clinic or keep it going part time?” he ended by asking, looking vaguely at our side of the table.

“It will continue full time,” Cordelia answered.

“But how will you manage, with only two part-time doctors?” Father Flynn asked.

“One full-time and two part-time,” Cordelia replied shortly.

“But I understand that,” and he looked at a piece of paper that Aunt Greta was holding under his nose, “that your full-time doctor…a Dr. James was responsible for that poor young girl’s death. Surely you don’t plan to keep him on?” He looked at us as if it were a settled question.

Cordelia and Emma exchanged glances. I could almost see them counting to ten before they spoke. I kept myself under no such restraints.

“Your information is wrong,” I stated. “Dr. James has not been proven responsible. Nor will she be.”

“But the police…” he started.

“The police have chosen convenience over truth,” I cut him off. “What evidence they have is highly circumstantial and very easily faked.”

“Who are you?” Father Flynn asked, not very thrilled with my rebuttal of his prepared argument.

“Michele Knight. I’m a private investigator,” I said. “I’ve been looking into the threatening letters and phone calls to the clinic and I’m the one who found the body.”

“But the police…” he repeated.

“Not the police I’ve talked to. O’Connor’s is by no means the only opinion on the matter. I’ve discussed the case with a detective sergeant and an assistant D.A. and they both think it stinks.” He had his police and I had mine. At least whatever he said now, the police wouldn’t be a monolith coming down against Cordelia.

“This is ridiculous. This girl doesn’t know what she’s talking about.” Aunt Greta wouldn’t be quiet very long. “You must do what you know to be right.”

“Yes, thank you,” Father Flynn said.

“The clinic is not under your control, Father,” Cordelia spoke up. “Any decision concerning its operations is ours and ours alone to make.”

“But surely you cannot allow a doctor under suspicion of murder to continue treating patients. Unless and until he is proven innocent…”

“That is our decision, not yours,” Emma interjected.

“It cannot be solely an isolated decision,” he retorted. “The reputation of your clinic affects us and our actions. It is insupportable that we be seen to support and condone a murderer.”

Both Emma and Cordelia started to talk, but Father Flynn, hitting his full moral vigor, overrode them.

“Because I know from the police, and this is a fact, not an opinion,” he thundered, “that what killed that unfortunate young woman was an incompetent abortion. One way or another a murder was committed. A child and a young woman have both died. We cannot be perceived as supporting that.”

“I made a commitment to provide medical care for this community and I will not be hounded out by rumor and innuendo,” Cordelia angrily shot back. “I don’t know what happened to the young woman in the basement. I do know that I did not perform an abortion on her and I most certainly did not kill her.”

“You’re Dr. James, I take it,” Father Flynn brilliantly deduced.

“Yes, I am.”

“It would be best for all concerned if you quietly stepped aside until the police clean this thing up,” he told her.

“If they do,” I added.

“That’s not possible,” Cordelia quietly stated.

He shook his head sadly, as if faced with a recalcitrant child. Aunt Greta tsked dryly. A weighted silence fell, people shifting uneasily.

“But, Dr. James,” I jumped in, “a reputation is an important thing. So what if a few hundred people are suddenly left without access to a doctor? A few cancers not caught early enough, blood pressure unmonitored, some undernourished babies. Hey, we all die sometime, but a bad reputation is forever.”

“You don’t care about reputation because you don’t have one,” Aunt Greta hissed at me.

“Sure I do. A bad one. It took a lot of work, but it was worth it.”

Aunt Greta was getting her white, splotchy look. For a moment, I thought of backing down, apologizing, anything to protect myself, but then I realized—there’s nothing she can do to me anymore. I stared defiantly at her.

“You were a difficult child from the start.” Fury started creeping into her voice. “I gave you a righteous and Godly path to walk on” (and clichés into her speech) “but the minute you left my house, you deviated from it. I have only controlled myself for your dear, departed father’s sake…”

“Hypocrite!” I lashed out at her.

“For his sake! You tramp!” she exploded, as if she’d been waiting years to call me that. “Thief! No shame. Sleeping with women, you lost your reputation the minute you left my house.”

“Not true,” I retorted defiantly. “It was before I left your house. It was so much easier to fuck strangers than be with my ‘family…’”

“How dare you!” Aunt Greta screeched back. “Using such—”

“Pharisee. You self-righteous bitch,” I shouted at her. Other voices were raised and shouting. Never say “fuck” in front of a bunch of nuns unless you want to create a commotion. Aunt Greta was calling me every name her prissy vocabulary would allow. And I was screaming back at her.

Suddenly there was a very loud bang and the cacophony ceased. Sister Ann had taken a large book and dropped it on the table.

“This is getting us nowhere,” she said into the sudden silence. “The purpose of this meeting is to constructively deal with the murder of a young woman and its consequences. Not solve family disputes.”

“This is hardly—” Aunt Greta fumed.

“Silence, please,” Sister Ann cut her off. “Cordelia is right. This community needs medical care and unless we can find a full-time replacement for her and a method of paying that person, she cannot just stand aside.”

Father Flynn started to speak, but Sister Ann continued before he got past his first “but.”

“At the same time,” she said, “rightfully or wrongfully, people are afraid and rumors are spreading.” She turned to Cordelia. “Would you agree to some compromise? Perhaps to have a nurse or other attendant always with you? I know your staff is overworked and I would certainly volunteer a few hours of my time, if that would help.”

“If any patient requests it. Usually one of the nurses is there,” Cordelia replied.

“And I think we should, jointly, come up with some public statement that will calm things down a bit and allow us to continue our work here. Any objections to that?” She looked around the table.

“I would have to review any statement that concerns this parish,” Father Flynn stipulated.

“It will, of course, have to be acceptable to all concerned,” Sister Ann replied. “I suggest we meet again to hammer out the main points. Perhaps the same time Friday?” She again looked around the table. Heads nodded, some readily, others reluctantly. “Now, is there anything else, before we adjourn?”

“Yes,” Aunt Greta spoke up.

I turned my back and looked out the window.

“I demand an apology,” she said. “I will not leave this room without one.”

I started to say, “Then rot here, bitch,” but stopped myself. It would accomplish nothing, only make me sound childish. I was already feeling abashed at my earlier behavior, like I was a kid in a room full of grown-ups, out of place and unsure of the rules. My only consolation was that Aunt Greta had behaved as badly as I had. I kept my back resolutely turned.

“Apologize, child. You’ll feel better,” Father Flynn said.

“No,” I replied, not turning. “I will never apologize.”

“I should have called the police when you snuck out of my house,” Aunt Greta said.

“I was of age,” I answered.

“For the money you stole,” she replied.

I turned to look at her. The self-righteous smirk was in place. “I didn’t steal any money.”

“Yes, you did. Over a thousand dollars. That’s why you had to sneak out in the middle of the night.”

“I didn’t steal any money,” I repeated, not for Aunt Greta, but for the others listening. Probably Bayard had taken advantage of my sudden departure.

She continued her litany. I turned my back to her, refusing to listen. I had thought that screaming at her, calling her all the names I had always wanted to say, would cleanse me, release some of the stored fury, but it hadn’t. There would be no cathartic shrugging off of the years spent with her.

“Come on, Greta, let’s go. ‘Charity suffereth long and is kind,’” Father Flynn cut into her tirade. I heard them leave. Only distance silenced her.