Malpractice in Maggody by Joan Hess

residents. Perkin was the worst of the offenders whenever he plunked his behind in the chair and carried on about obscure issues concerning his dawgs or trespassers. Raz was also a contender, but he was keeping a low profile lately.
    “I’m Arly Hanks,” I said.
    “Brenda Skiller,” the woman responded without enthusiasm.
    She elbowed the man, who gulped and said, “Randall Zumi. It’s very kind of you to offer this. I hope we’re not intruding.”
    I shrugged. “No problem, since the local troublemakers respect my office hours. Can you tell me a little bit about”—I thought for a moment—“this Stonebridge Foundation? It’s not in my jurisdiction, but I’m as curious as everybody else in town. The rumors have been pretty far-fetched.”
    Brenda shook her head. “As you said, it’s not in your jurisdiction, and it will in no way disrupt the town. That’s all you need to know.”
    “Are you doing research on chemical weapons or something?” I asked. “Should we all be stocking up on duct tape and bottled water? We deserve some sort of explanation.”
    “I don’t see why.” Brenda went into the back room.
    Randall shrugged apologetically, looking as though he wanted to dive into a corner and hide with the dust bunnies (some of which were impressive after three weeks of negligence on my part). “Let’s just say we’re helping people. Our success depends on the anonymity we guarantee them.”
    “Helping people do what?” I persisted.
    “Get better.”
    “Better at what? Tennis? Poetry?”
    “Randall,” Brenda called, “bring the laptop and the folders in here. Miss Hanks, I hope you won’t object if I make a few long-distance calls. I can assure you that we’ll cover the cost when you submit the telephone bill. I’d use my cell phone, but there doesn’t seem to be any reception because of the mountains.”
    I felt as though I should apologize for geological upheavals in the distant past. “You’ll have to use the phone in here,” I replied.
    She came to the doorway. “My calls are of a private nature. If it’s not too inconvenient for you, could you possibly leave us here until the power is restored? All of our phones at the foundation are cordless and require electricity. Randall, call the number. If you get the answering machine, we can return.”
    “Do whatever you want,” I said as I moved toward the front door. “Just turn out the lights when you leave.”
    “Don’t we need to lock the door?” asked Randall.
    I shook my head. “Don’t bother. Anyone who bothers to break in here deserves whatever he can find. It won’t be state-of-the-art technology, not by a long shot. If for some reason you need me, I’ll be in the apartment above the antiques store. Let me write down the phone number so”—I stopped as the lights flickered and went out, leaving us in a distinctly dim room. “Hell, I guess that means the power company’s digging up lines to repair your problem. If I were you, I wouldn’t go back to Ruby Bee’s.”
    Randall stepped outside with me. “I can assure you that I’m not a terrorist, Chief Hanks. My parents live in Delaware. My father’s a lawyer, and my mother’s a high school chemistry teacher. My family is originally from India and are Hindus, not Muslims. The only thing any of us have ever blown up is a balloon.”
    “I’m afraid you’re going to find that this is not what you’d consider an open-minded community. Our only foreigners are a family from Mexico, and they’re tolerated only because they keep to themselves. The father owns the Dairee Dee-Lishus across from the high school. Outside of Ruby Bee’s and the deli at the supermarket, it’s the only place in town to grab something to eat. The food’s greasy, but the cherry limeades are heavenly.”
    He squinted at the sole traffic light, which was out. “We’ll have a chef at the foundation, so that won’t be a problem. I can promise you that you won’t even know we’re