about the Bradford Clinic than another doctor? Claire reached for her backpack, which was hooked over the bed post. She’d started carrying a backpack when she rode the bus. It held more and kept her hands free. People teased her about it, but they always came to her for what they needed - moist towelettes, a sewing kit, Band-Aids, aspirin. Her hand closed around her little red address book. With a slow series of hitches, she scooted backward until she could reach the phone on the bedside table.
It was answered on the fourth ring. “Hello?” The voice was draggy with sleep. Claire looked at her watch and realized it wasn’t even eight yet.
“Dr. Gregory?”
“Yes.” He wasn’t sounding any more cheerful.
“This is Claire Montrose. I’m sorry to be calling you at home, but I remembered that you gave me your number and said I could call any time...” She was talking too fast.
“Claire Montrose? You should have said so in the beginning.” His voice had warmed up. “What’s up? You know I always enjoy a call from a famous sleuth.”
“Oh, my fifteen minutes of fame are long over.” Claire’s discovery of the long-lost painting had been just the kind of thing the tabloid TV shows loved - especially when her efforts to find its rightful owner had inadvertently resulted in further thievery as well as kidnapping and murder. “Anyway, the reason I’m calling you is kind of embarrassing....”
“It can’t be as bad as some of those license plate requests you used to ask me about. All those slang words for body parts. Or is that what you are calling about? Have you gone back to work at Specialty Plates?”
Michael Gregory, MD, was Claire’s doctor. To take her mind off her Pap smear a few years back, Claire had cast about for a source of conversation. On the counter she caught sight of the New York Times crossword puzzle - completed in ink. Dr. Gregory revealed that his avocation was all kinds of word puzzles: crosswords, puns, Scrabble. He also told Claire that he collected heteronyms, which were, he explained, words that were spelled the same, pronounced differently and had a different meaning. Sow as in pig and sow as in plant. Claire thought for a minute, then asked if wound was on the list - and made a friend for life.
In return, Claire had asked if she could add Dr. Gregory’s name to her Rolodex. Vanity license plate requests often contained what turned out to be slang or Latin for various bodily parts, functions or secretions. More than a few words and phrases had been added to the department’s Vulgar List after Claire had found out from Dr. Gregory exactly what they meant.
“No, I’ll never go back to Specialty Plates,” Claire said now. “This is more in your capacity as my physician.”
“Is that all I am to you?” Dr. Gregory was a consummate flirt, but since he seemed to treat any female between sixteen and ninety-six the same way, Claire didn’t take it personally. He gave a mock-tragic sigh. “Ask away.”
“I sprained my ankle running yesterday afternoon, and it seems that it’s gotten a lot worse overnight. In fact,” Claire looked at her ankle dubiously, “it seems to be getting more swollen by the minute. I can’t put any weight on that foot and my toes feel sort of tingly. I’m beginning to wonder if I might have broken something. Charlie’s not going to be back for a couple of hours. Do you think I should call an ambulance - or can it wait until she gets back? I don’t know how much more give my skin has in it.”
“Don’t call an ambulance. You don’t want to have to pay seven hundred dollars out of your own pocket. I’ll come by and take a look at it. If it looks broken, I’ll take you in for an X-ray.”
After some protesting, Claire agreed. Even though he wasn’t much over forty, Dr. Gregory was the last of the old-time physicians, the ones who made house calls and treated three generations of one family. He probably even accepted sacks of potatoes
It was answered on the fourth ring. “Hello?” The voice was draggy with sleep. Claire looked at her watch and realized it wasn’t even eight yet.
“Dr. Gregory?”
“Yes.” He wasn’t sounding any more cheerful.
“This is Claire Montrose. I’m sorry to be calling you at home, but I remembered that you gave me your number and said I could call any time...” She was talking too fast.
“Claire Montrose? You should have said so in the beginning.” His voice had warmed up. “What’s up? You know I always enjoy a call from a famous sleuth.”
“Oh, my fifteen minutes of fame are long over.” Claire’s discovery of the long-lost painting had been just the kind of thing the tabloid TV shows loved - especially when her efforts to find its rightful owner had inadvertently resulted in further thievery as well as kidnapping and murder. “Anyway, the reason I’m calling you is kind of embarrassing....”
“It can’t be as bad as some of those license plate requests you used to ask me about. All those slang words for body parts. Or is that what you are calling about? Have you gone back to work at Specialty Plates?”
Michael Gregory, MD, was Claire’s doctor. To take her mind off her Pap smear a few years back, Claire had cast about for a source of conversation. On the counter she caught sight of the New York Times crossword puzzle - completed in ink. Dr. Gregory revealed that his avocation was all kinds of word puzzles: crosswords, puns, Scrabble. He also told Claire that he collected heteronyms, which were, he explained, words that were spelled the same, pronounced differently and had a different meaning. Sow as in pig and sow as in plant. Claire thought for a minute, then asked if wound was on the list - and made a friend for life.
In return, Claire had asked if she could add Dr. Gregory’s name to her Rolodex. Vanity license plate requests often contained what turned out to be slang or Latin for various bodily parts, functions or secretions. More than a few words and phrases had been added to the department’s Vulgar List after Claire had found out from Dr. Gregory exactly what they meant.
“No, I’ll never go back to Specialty Plates,” Claire said now. “This is more in your capacity as my physician.”
“Is that all I am to you?” Dr. Gregory was a consummate flirt, but since he seemed to treat any female between sixteen and ninety-six the same way, Claire didn’t take it personally. He gave a mock-tragic sigh. “Ask away.”
“I sprained my ankle running yesterday afternoon, and it seems that it’s gotten a lot worse overnight. In fact,” Claire looked at her ankle dubiously, “it seems to be getting more swollen by the minute. I can’t put any weight on that foot and my toes feel sort of tingly. I’m beginning to wonder if I might have broken something. Charlie’s not going to be back for a couple of hours. Do you think I should call an ambulance - or can it wait until she gets back? I don’t know how much more give my skin has in it.”
“Don’t call an ambulance. You don’t want to have to pay seven hundred dollars out of your own pocket. I’ll come by and take a look at it. If it looks broken, I’ll take you in for an X-ray.”
After some protesting, Claire agreed. Even though he wasn’t much over forty, Dr. Gregory was the last of the old-time physicians, the ones who made house calls and treated three generations of one family. He probably even accepted sacks of potatoes
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