Free Requiem for a Realtor by Ralph McInerny Page A

gained by the kind of snooping she would have deplored in anyone else. But her concern was for his own good, forget the ruined hope that he would some day learn to see her for the woman and person she was. Ever since Phyllis Collins had become a patient, David seemed to be spinning toward disaster. An affair with a married woman, and such a woman! The death of Stanley Collins, despite the fact that it was portrayed as an accident, seemed the conclusion of some intricate argument that had been formulating itself over the past weeks.
    She had tried to write of these events in her diary, but after a few lines she stopped. How could any account spare her or fail to put her in the role of the rejected lovesick old maid? With little other than her hope to go on, she had persuaded herself that David would share her interests. The imagined future had been bathed in romantic tints, but the emphasis had been on their simply being together, enjoying music, discussing the books they had read. Bridget had gone into nursing for completely practical reasons, to finance her real life, her love of music and books. She had imagined David having a similarly pragmatic attitude toward his enormously successful practice. Surely he must be working himself so hard in order to free himself sooner for real life.
    When she had spoken with Edna Hospers about David, girl to girl, hardly believing that she was confiding her most intimate secret, she had not pretended that David was interested in her. Of course, Edna had dismissed the thought that David could possibly not see the merits of his nurse.
    â€œDon’t doctors always marry nurses?” Edna asked.
    â€œSome do.”
    â€œThere you are. You have a running start.”
    So she had told Edna about Phyllis.
    â€œYou’re kidding!”
    â€œI wish I were.”
    â€œThat woman is a complete airhead.”
    â€œWell, he finds her pneumatic enough. You know how she dresses.”
    Were men really such fools, a flash of flesh, a bit of bosom, and reason went out the window? Of course they were.
    â€œBut they get over it, Bridget. Anyway, she’s already married.”
    â€œBut will she stay that way?”
    â€œHe couldn’t marry a divorced woman.”
    On such slender threads Bridget’s hope depended. It was an infatuation from which David would recover, and when he did, faithful patient Bridget would be waiting for him. But the death of Stanley Collins changed everything.
    When she heard of the accident on the radio while having breakfast, Bridget’s first thought was that an obstacle had been removed from David’s path. Now Phyllis Collins was unequivocally eligible. She had half a mind to call in sick. But then she wondered if David would cancel his appointments in order to console the widow, and she could not have kept away from the clinic.
    â€œHas Dr. Jameson come in?” she asked Laura, a silly question given how early it was. But Laura’s eyes rounded expressively.
    â€œHe’s in his office,” she whispered. “He was here when I got here.”
    That would have been half an hour ago. Laura arrived early in order, as she put it, to cook the books. The clock read 7:30. David was a creature of habit and usually entered on the stroke of eight, as reliable as a cuckoo clock.
    There was a door through which David could emerge from his office into the room where the first of his trio of patients would be awaiting him. Bridget began noisily preparing for the day ahead, glancing at the door to see if he would look out to say good morning. But the closed door seemed to shut her out rather than shut him in. She went to it and knocked, moving her ear close to the panel. There was no indication that he was in there. Could Laura have been mistaken? Had she actually seen him? Bridget pushed open the door and looked into the darkened office. The light from behind her enabled her to see him seated at his desk.
    â€œAre you all