Read Online Murder on a Bad Hair Day by Anne George - Free Book Online
Authors: Anne George
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honey.” She smiled and picked up a chart.
I was almost at the elevator when I realized I had no wayto get home. I didn’t even have money for a cab. Or to call Fred. I was about to turn around and throw myself on the mercy of the nurses when the elevator opened and Officer Bo Mitchell stepped out.
“Ms. Hollowell,” she said. “How’s Ms. Moon?”
“She’s sleeping. They’re going to run some tests.”
“She by herself?”
“There’s a lady in the room with her. Another patient. Why?”
“She’s telling the truth. Somebody’s after her, all right.” Bo Mitchell pointed to some chairs by the elevator, and we sat down. “I just came from her place and it’s a mess. And a slice in the door a couple of inches deep where the knife hit it. Just like she said.”
“My God!” I could feel my heart racing.
“Some of the boys are over there now, but I thought I better check on Ms. Moon.”
“She’s asleep,” I said. Then the light dawned. “You’re afraid whoever it is will come after her here?”
“We’ll fix it so they can’t,” Bo Mitchell said. She got up and I followed her down the hall.
“Room 492,” I said.
“I know.”
We entered a room which had been quiet when I left and which was noisy and crowded now. The woman in the far bed was the center of attention of at least five various and sundry medical personnel. One of them saw us enter and smiled brightly. “She’s fine,” she said. “She just quit breathing.”
In the bed nearest us, beautiful Claire slept.
Five
B o Mitchell had Claire’s name removed from all admittance records and had her transferred to a private room in the psychiatric section in the basement. Surprisingly, it was light and airy down there, with a large open atrium that seemed to be filled with natural sunlight where plants and even a couple of small trees flourished.
“They can watch her better here,” Bo said. Judging from the number of personnel in the halls, I could tell she was right. “We do this sometimes when we aren’t sure what’s going on.”
“It looks like an expensive hotel,” I said.
“Hnnn.” Bo Mitchell started toward the nurses’ station.
“Hey, Bo Peep.” A small, blond woman in a red nylon jumpsuit came up behind us. “You bringing us a customer?”
Bo Peep? I cut my eyes around at her.
“Hey, Connie. This is Mrs. Hollowell.”
“I’m not the patient,” I assured Connie. “Though of course, it would be all right if I were, wouldn’t it? I mean, an illness is an illness. Right?”
“Right.” Connie and Bo Peep spoke at the same time.
I could have kicked myself. I was protesting entirely too much. But how could these two young women who had been raised in the age of lithium and tranquilizers and antidepressants know the fear of mental illness that my generation had known? My grandfather’s sister, Aunt Josephine, had “spells” when she would be unable to carry on with her everyday life. She would lie in the bed and cry, sometimes raging at her husband and children. And there was nothing anyone could do for her. Her spells, in fact, were looked upon as a weakness.
I still remember going with my grandfather, who was not an insensitive man, to see his sister as she lay facing the wall in her darkened bedroom. “Get up, Josie,” he said, “and quit putting on. You’ve put us all through enough.” This was just a few weeks before she slit her wrists.
I shivered, but Connie and Bo weren’t paying any attention to me. They were talking about Claire.
“Good as done,” Connie said.
“Thanks. We’ll be checking.”
The elevator opened and two orderlies pushed Claire’s bed out.
“That her?” Connie asked.
Bo Mitchell nodded.
“Bring her in here, then.” Connie motioned to a room directly in front of the nurses’ station.
“Good,” Bo said.
“Bug in a rug,” Connie agreed.
After leaving my number at the desk in case Claire should awaken and want me, I asked Bo Mitchell if she could
I was almost at the elevator when I realized I had no wayto get home. I didn’t even have money for a cab. Or to call Fred. I was about to turn around and throw myself on the mercy of the nurses when the elevator opened and Officer Bo Mitchell stepped out.
“Ms. Hollowell,” she said. “How’s Ms. Moon?”
“She’s sleeping. They’re going to run some tests.”
“She by herself?”
“There’s a lady in the room with her. Another patient. Why?”
“She’s telling the truth. Somebody’s after her, all right.” Bo Mitchell pointed to some chairs by the elevator, and we sat down. “I just came from her place and it’s a mess. And a slice in the door a couple of inches deep where the knife hit it. Just like she said.”
“My God!” I could feel my heart racing.
“Some of the boys are over there now, but I thought I better check on Ms. Moon.”
“She’s asleep,” I said. Then the light dawned. “You’re afraid whoever it is will come after her here?”
“We’ll fix it so they can’t,” Bo Mitchell said. She got up and I followed her down the hall.
“Room 492,” I said.
“I know.”
We entered a room which had been quiet when I left and which was noisy and crowded now. The woman in the far bed was the center of attention of at least five various and sundry medical personnel. One of them saw us enter and smiled brightly. “She’s fine,” she said. “She just quit breathing.”
In the bed nearest us, beautiful Claire slept.
Five
B o Mitchell had Claire’s name removed from all admittance records and had her transferred to a private room in the psychiatric section in the basement. Surprisingly, it was light and airy down there, with a large open atrium that seemed to be filled with natural sunlight where plants and even a couple of small trees flourished.
“They can watch her better here,” Bo said. Judging from the number of personnel in the halls, I could tell she was right. “We do this sometimes when we aren’t sure what’s going on.”
“It looks like an expensive hotel,” I said.
“Hnnn.” Bo Mitchell started toward the nurses’ station.
“Hey, Bo Peep.” A small, blond woman in a red nylon jumpsuit came up behind us. “You bringing us a customer?”
Bo Peep? I cut my eyes around at her.
“Hey, Connie. This is Mrs. Hollowell.”
“I’m not the patient,” I assured Connie. “Though of course, it would be all right if I were, wouldn’t it? I mean, an illness is an illness. Right?”
“Right.” Connie and Bo Peep spoke at the same time.
I could have kicked myself. I was protesting entirely too much. But how could these two young women who had been raised in the age of lithium and tranquilizers and antidepressants know the fear of mental illness that my generation had known? My grandfather’s sister, Aunt Josephine, had “spells” when she would be unable to carry on with her everyday life. She would lie in the bed and cry, sometimes raging at her husband and children. And there was nothing anyone could do for her. Her spells, in fact, were looked upon as a weakness.
I still remember going with my grandfather, who was not an insensitive man, to see his sister as she lay facing the wall in her darkened bedroom. “Get up, Josie,” he said, “and quit putting on. You’ve put us all through enough.” This was just a few weeks before she slit her wrists.
I shivered, but Connie and Bo weren’t paying any attention to me. They were talking about Claire.
“Good as done,” Connie said.
“Thanks. We’ll be checking.”
The elevator opened and two orderlies pushed Claire’s bed out.
“That her?” Connie asked.
Bo Mitchell nodded.
“Bring her in here, then.” Connie motioned to a room directly in front of the nurses’ station.
“Good,” Bo said.
“Bug in a rug,” Connie agreed.
After leaving my number at the desk in case Claire should awaken and want me, I asked Bo Mitchell if she could
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