When I got up on Sunday I knew I’d turned the critical corner toward recovery. I wasn’t back to my full strength, but I felt clear-headed and energetic. The lingering depression from my breakfast with Robin resolved itself to a manageable problem—my ability to handle the Seligman investigation was in doubt, not my entire career and personality. Even my hands were better. I didn’t take off the gauze, but I could do simple household chores without feeling that the skin was splitting open to the bone.
The early detective gets the worm. Although it was unlikely that anyone would come into the Alma Mejicana offices at all on Sunday, they were less likely to do so first thing in the morning.
Before taking off I went into the living room to do a modified version of my exercises—I wasn’t ready to start running yet, but I needed to keep limber. Ralph MacDonald’s flowers dominated the room. I’d forgotten them. As I stretched my quads and tightened my glutes, I eyed the tropical rain forest balefully. Whether meant as a threat or a humorous compliment, they were overwhelming, too big a gesture from a man who scarcely knew me.
When I finished my leg lifts—twenty-five with each leg instead of my usual hundred left me breathless—I scrambled into my jeans and a sweatshirt. Straining, I carried the flowers down to my car. I drove over to Broadway and picked up a bagel, an apple, and some milk at one of the delis.
My attempts to eat and drive at the same time showed the state of my healing—two-handed, the steering wheel was manageable. With one hand my palms started smarting and my wrist ached. I pulled over at the corner of Diversey and Pine Grove to eat. The tropical flowers stained the car with their heavy scent, making it hard to eat without queasiness. I rolled the window all the way down, but the smell was still heady. Finally I gulped down the milk and started south without finishing the bagel.
Sunday morning is the best time to drive in Chicago, because there isn’t any traffic out. I made the nine miles to Michael Reese in fifteen minutes without pushing the speed limit.
Getting the massive bouquet up to the fourth floor taxed my healing palms and shoulders almost beyond endurance. When I got off the elevator a sympathetic orderly offered to take it from me.
“These are gorgeous. What room you want them in?”
I gave him Elena’s room number. He carried the pot as easily as if it were a football—as easily as I could have done a week ago. I followed him down the hall and into Elena’s room. A woman about my own age in a yellow nylon gown was sitting in Elena’s bed reading the Tribune.
My jaw dropped slightly, the way it does when you’re taken unawares. “My aunt,” I said foolishly. “She was here on Friday.”
“Maybe she checked out,” the orderly suggested.
“She wasn’t in very good shape. Maybe they moved her.” I scurried back to the nursing station.
A middle-aged woman was making elaborate notes in a chart, I tried interrupting but she held up a warning hand and continued writing.
Finally she looked at me. “Yes?”
“I’m V. L Warshawski,” I said. “My aunt, Elena Warshawski, was here—she’d been hit on the head and was unconscious for a day or so. Did they move her or what?”
The nurse shook her head majestically. “She left yesterday.”
“Left?” I echoed, staggered. “But—they told me she was in bad shape, that she ought to have a month or so of convalescent care. How could they just let her go?”
“They didn’t. She took off on her own. Stole the clothes belonging to the lady she shared a room with and disappeared.”
My head started spinning again. I gripped the counter-top to steady myself. “When did this happen? Why didn’t someone call me?”
The nurse disclaimed all knowledge of the particulars. “The hospital called whoever was listed on her forms as next of kin. They may not have felt you needed to know.”
“I am her next of kin.” Maybe she’d given Peter’s name, though—I shouldn’t push my rights as her nearest and dearest too hard. “Can you tell me when she took off?”
She snapped her pencil down in exasperation. “Ask the police. They sent an officer over yesterday afternoon. He was pretty annoyed and got all the details.”
I was close to screaming from frustration and confusion. “Give me the guy’s name and I’ll talk to him with pleasure.”
She sighed audibly and went into the records room behind the counter. The orderly had been standing behind me all this time holding the flowers.
“You want to take these, miss?” he asked while I waited.
“Oh, give them to the person who’s been here longest without any visitors,” I said shortly.