wings for patients who are so ill, either temporarily or permanently, that they present a danger to themselves or others.” Nona glanced up, meeting his gaze. “Did I just touch on a sore spot?”
A picture of Ceara’s face flashed through Quincy’s mind. Those blue eyes, that hint of a sweet smile, the dimple in her cheek. He guessed meeting her had made him take a mental step back. “Not a sore spot, exactly. I’m just thinking I’m probably a little nuts myself, and that all of us have our quirks.” He waved a hand. “My family is convinced I’m over the edge about my diet and workout regimens. The thought of being locked up because I’m a little weird just gave me pause.”
Nona chuckled. “Point taken, and I agree that we’re all a little crazy. It’s just that some of us need more medical intervention than others, and those who aren’t yet ready to follow a regimen of medication at home need to be in a supervised environment for a while. So let me rephrase my question. Have you checked to see if any woman in one of those places who fits your burglar’s description has taken an unauthorized outing?”
“No.”
“Get on it.” Nona adjusted the fast-forward speed of the security tapes. “But first I’d really appreciate a cup of coffee if you’ve got any.”
Quincy got the coffee for Nona while he assigned his father the task of calling Quincy’s paternal uncle Hugh, a state trooper fast approaching retirement, to check on patient escapees with red hair who’d flown the coop over the last few days. Frank took only seconds longer to complete his task than Quincy did to brew a fresh pot of coffee. He didn’t want to serve Nona the thick black sludge he’d made at four that morning.
“Hugh ran a search,” Frank informed them. “No fruitcakes have escaped psychiatric wards in Oregon in the last week.”
Quincy winced. “No name-calling, Dad. Let’s just refer to these people as confused—or something.”
Frank paused while Quincy set a mug of coffee on the built-in desk near Nona’s elbow. “Excuse me for breathin’. What put a burr under your saddle?”
Quincy had no idea why he was taking umbrage. “Sorry, Dad. It’s just— Oh, never mind. Continue with your report.”
“The most recent escape of a confused person was eight days ago, a man with tattoos all over his face. No redheaded women, period, Irish or otherwise, in over six months, and all of ’em that escaped earlier than that got picked up and taken back where they belonged. Of course, this Ceara gal could have dyed her hair.”
Quincy mentally shook his head. Ceara’s hair was a natural red. He would have bet the bank on it. “So where does that leave us?” he mused aloud.
Nona chuckled. “Well, it doesn’t leave us with a druid who’s nearly five hundred years old. We’ll get to the bottom of it. Just relax. Watching camera footage takes patience.” She took a sip of coffee, her gaze never leaving the screens. All Quincy saw were frames of the ranch during the dead of night, when nothing stirred except for an occasional horse in its stall. “We’ll see where she came onto the property, how she got into the building, and everything she did after she got inside. Trust me on it. And we’ll have the weak spots in the system fixed before a lamb can shake its tail.”
Quincy had complete faith in Nona Redcliff and in the security system she’d installed. “I’m not worried. It just baffles me how she got in. You come out to check the equipment every six months, and you know immediately at the observation center when a camera goes haywire. It’s hard for me to swallow that this happened because of component failure.”
Two hours later, Quincy still wasn’t worried, even though the camera footage had shown nothing out of the ordinary. He’d given his dad the comfortable leather desk chair while he sat on the less cushioned caster seat reserved for the occasional office visitor. He and Frank sat behind
A picture of Ceara’s face flashed through Quincy’s mind. Those blue eyes, that hint of a sweet smile, the dimple in her cheek. He guessed meeting her had made him take a mental step back. “Not a sore spot, exactly. I’m just thinking I’m probably a little nuts myself, and that all of us have our quirks.” He waved a hand. “My family is convinced I’m over the edge about my diet and workout regimens. The thought of being locked up because I’m a little weird just gave me pause.”
Nona chuckled. “Point taken, and I agree that we’re all a little crazy. It’s just that some of us need more medical intervention than others, and those who aren’t yet ready to follow a regimen of medication at home need to be in a supervised environment for a while. So let me rephrase my question. Have you checked to see if any woman in one of those places who fits your burglar’s description has taken an unauthorized outing?”
“No.”
“Get on it.” Nona adjusted the fast-forward speed of the security tapes. “But first I’d really appreciate a cup of coffee if you’ve got any.”
Quincy got the coffee for Nona while he assigned his father the task of calling Quincy’s paternal uncle Hugh, a state trooper fast approaching retirement, to check on patient escapees with red hair who’d flown the coop over the last few days. Frank took only seconds longer to complete his task than Quincy did to brew a fresh pot of coffee. He didn’t want to serve Nona the thick black sludge he’d made at four that morning.
“Hugh ran a search,” Frank informed them. “No fruitcakes have escaped psychiatric wards in Oregon in the last week.”
Quincy winced. “No name-calling, Dad. Let’s just refer to these people as confused—or something.”
Frank paused while Quincy set a mug of coffee on the built-in desk near Nona’s elbow. “Excuse me for breathin’. What put a burr under your saddle?”
Quincy had no idea why he was taking umbrage. “Sorry, Dad. It’s just— Oh, never mind. Continue with your report.”
“The most recent escape of a confused person was eight days ago, a man with tattoos all over his face. No redheaded women, period, Irish or otherwise, in over six months, and all of ’em that escaped earlier than that got picked up and taken back where they belonged. Of course, this Ceara gal could have dyed her hair.”
Quincy mentally shook his head. Ceara’s hair was a natural red. He would have bet the bank on it. “So where does that leave us?” he mused aloud.
Nona chuckled. “Well, it doesn’t leave us with a druid who’s nearly five hundred years old. We’ll get to the bottom of it. Just relax. Watching camera footage takes patience.” She took a sip of coffee, her gaze never leaving the screens. All Quincy saw were frames of the ranch during the dead of night, when nothing stirred except for an occasional horse in its stall. “We’ll see where she came onto the property, how she got into the building, and everything she did after she got inside. Trust me on it. And we’ll have the weak spots in the system fixed before a lamb can shake its tail.”
Quincy had complete faith in Nona Redcliff and in the security system she’d installed. “I’m not worried. It just baffles me how she got in. You come out to check the equipment every six months, and you know immediately at the observation center when a camera goes haywire. It’s hard for me to swallow that this happened because of component failure.”
Two hours later, Quincy still wasn’t worried, even though the camera footage had shown nothing out of the ordinary. He’d given his dad the comfortable leather desk chair while he sat on the less cushioned caster seat reserved for the occasional office visitor. He and Frank sat behind
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