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Predictably, Polly opened the door only a crack. “Yes?” she said, her filmy dark eyes wary.

I identified myself, and introduced Murray. Slowly Polly undid the chain and let us in. “I know you, yes,” she said to me, her small, wrinkled face looking worried. “But him”—Polly gestured at Murray—”I never seen him before until last night. I don't talk to strangers. I tell my children, don't talk to strangers. But sometimes they do. They grow up and think they know everything.” She shrugged helplessly, a small, insignificant figure in a shapeless black dress' “You want to see my vase?”

I was vaguely startled. “How did you know?”

“Everybody wants to see it. Maybe God wants me to show it to other people. I don't know. Come, it's in the living room.” She always moved slowly, but now she was down to a crawl. Murray bumped into me as I tried not to do the same with Polly PatricellL

The heavy, worn drapes were closed, and the only illumination on this rainy Sunday came from a dozen votive candles on the mantel. My gaze flickered over the shabby furniture, much of which was covered with specimens of Polly's needlework. A small but exquisite Venetian chandelier hung from the ceiling, along with a collection of cobwebs. The walls were covered with familiar, if sentimental, religious pictures: the Holy Family, the Sacred Heart of Jesus, St. Francis, St. Clare, St, Cecilia, the Good Shepherd.

As Polly approached the fireplace with its smoke-blackened tiles, she crossed herself. I waited for her to speak, but she said nothing, merely standing there with her head bent. Murray and I stood on each side of our
mesmerized hostess, trying to examine the vase in the flickering light of the votive candles. There was definitely a crack—five or six of them in fact, all radiating from a faded cluster of flowers that might have been wild roses. There were three in number, on a background of thin, pointed leaves. The vase had cracked in such a way that the center of the flowers could have been taken for two eyes and a mouth, while the other squiggly lines might—with a great stretch of the imagination—suggest a nose, a beard, longish hair, and something across the brow that could be construed as a crown of thorns. The leaves seemed to form no part of the picture, and if anything, might have been taken for ornamental head feathers. I was reminded more of Montezuma than Jesus, and didn't know what to say.

Murray, however, wasn't so tongue-tied. “When does it cry?” he asked.

Polly didn't respond. I gathered she was praying. At last, she crossed herself again and turned slowly. “What did you say?” she asked in a hushed voice.

To Murray's credit, he was respectful. “I heard the vase cried. Does that happen often?”

Polly gave a small shake of her head. “He won't cry now.” The cloudy old eyes gazed first at Murray, then at me. “That's because you don't believe. But later, when you are gone, He will weep. For both of you.”

“I
T'S NOT WORTH
it,” Murray declared as we sat down with our beverages at a window table in Starbucks. “I couldn't see squat. My producer won't waste footage on anything that lame.”

“It was kind of obscure,” I admitted.

“Screw it,” Murray said, taking a sip of his double-tall. “It was just a side issue. I don't even know who told us about it. Probably some Catholic bleeding heart. How's your mocha?”

“Fine,” I replied, though I hadn't yet tasted it. I was still smarting from Polly's denunciation. Or so I interpreted it. Had she meant that I didn't believe in her vase? Or that I didn't believe? Either way, was she right? There were times when I wondered. But I'd never say so out loud, not even to Ben. “Let's talk about Ursula. The sheriff's not around, so you can tell me.” I'd tried to call Milo on my way from the rest room, but he hadn't answered at my house or his. I'd also phoned the sheriff's office, but Bill Blatt hadn't seen him all day. Maybe Milo was following up a lead.

Murray was giving me that engaging grin. “I lied. I do that a lot, to get people's attention. You know what I mean—ninety percent of them are brain-dead. Like, which makes you tune in—'So how are you doing?' or 'You got tits to die for'?”

“Murray …”

“Just kidding! So I'm not PC. Not in private, anyway.

Forget what I said, even if … I'm not kidding.” He sipped some more at his latte, then wiped foam from his upper lip. “As for Ursula, I'm going after this from the legal angle. Four malpractice suits have gone down so far, three settled out of court, one went to trial. The plaintiff lost that one, but the other three collected a total of five million bucks, give or take a few hundred grand. Two of those took place before Dr. Randall died three years ago. Yes, he had malpractice insurance, but only up to twenty-five mil. With eleven more cases out there totaling close to forty mil in damages, that wouldn't leave his widow with a lot of cash flow. It might not leave the plaintiffs with much, either. So who decided that revenge was better than money?”

Trying to put aside my spiritual quandary, I turned a perplexed face to Murray. “I don't get it. Why kill Ursula? She didn't perform botched surgeries.”

“Hey—did I claim people are rational?” Murray leaned back in his chair. “Let's say you've got a kid with spinal problems. You send Junior to Dr. Randall, who screws up and the little guy ends up walking on his hands. You're number ten on that list of eleven plaintiffs, and if you've got more than four brain cells, you figure you're not going to get enough to buy Junior a pair of padded gloves. Then you find out that Wheaton's eatin' dirt in some cemetery, so who do you go after? Mrs. Randall, that's who. It's human nature.” Murray gave me a smug look.

“So Mom or Dad waits until Ursula moves to Alpine, follows her up here, has a few drinks with her, and hauls her off to the Sky. Glub, glub.” I shook my head. “No sale, Murray.”

“Emma!” Murray gazed at me with mock astonishment. “I thought you had brains to match those tits! Just kidding!” He put both hands in front of his face as if he needed to fend me off, which wasn't a bad idea on his
part. I was feeling fairly dangerous. “How many surgeons have you got in Alpine?” Murray asked between his fingers.

The question took me aback. “Both Doc Dewey and Dr. Flake perform some surgeries. But they aren't surgeons per se,” I admitted.

Murray allowed his hands to fall back onto the table. “You got it. I'm heading back this afternoon since the babelicious Carla isn't around and the vase is a dud. But I'll keep in touch. Meanwhile take a hint from Felton's Fabulous Files and find out who got fucked over by Dr. Randall. There are four thousand people in this town, and I'll bet you a hop in the hay that at least one of them got a referral to Wheaton's Wacky Weed-Whacker.”

There was some merit in Murray's argument. Maybe I'd look into it. I had nothing better to do on this drizzly Sunday afternoon.

But even as Murray rose from the table he was off on another tangent. “Look at it from another angle—who benefits from Ursula's death? You know anything about her will? Rich people always have wills.”

“There were no children,” I said as we went outside and stood under the shelter of the green Starbucks marquee. “There are her two brothers here in town, of course. But maybe Warren Wells gets everything.”

“Assuming there'll be anything left to get,” Murray said with a grim expression. “If Ursula had been smart, she'd have left the country, not the county. That's what doctors—and their widows—usually do when they're faced with big lawsuits.”

My gaze traveled across Alpine Way to Old Mill Park, where the Labor Day picnic banners sagged in the rain. Several people were braving the weather to work on preparations for Monday's event. Red, white, and blue bunting decorated the original mill, which dated from World War I and now housed the local museum.

I looked again at Murray, who seemed indifferent to
our little festivities. “Money is always a good motive,” I remarked.

“Money, revenge, sex, fear,” he said with a nod. “There's not much else. But I'm betting on revenge. Trust me.”

I didn't, not completely, but I waved him off with a show of cooperation. As the red Mazda Miata headed down Alpine Way for the bridge over the Sky, it seemed to me that the money motive would be a hard one to track from this end. Undoubtedly' Ursula had an attorney in Seattle. On the other hand, she had consulted with Brendan Shaw about her insurance. Maybe I could do some nosing around after the holiday.

But I didn't need to wait that long to start working on the malpractice angle. Doc Dewey and his wife, Nancy, had taken off for part of the weekend, and I didn't want to disturb Peyton Rake, who was on call. Consequently, I phoned his nurse, Marilynn Lewis, who also happens to be Carla's roommate. Marilynn is originally from Seattle. She is Alpine's token African American—along with Father Den—and is rumored to be engaged to Dr. Flake, who is Caucasian by ancestry and a retro hippie by choice. My question about referrals to Wheaton Randall stumped Marilynn, and with good reason: “I've only been here a little over two years. Hasn't Dr. Randall been dead longer than that?”

Marilynn was correct. “But I thought you might have noticed the referral on somebody's chart,” I said. “Of course it could have been a patient of Doc Dewey's.”

“Some days I handle both,” she replied in her usual thoughtful manner. “I know I've seen Randall's name, but I can't remember where off the top of my head. Do you want me to check Tuesday if I have time? I can't promise much, because we'll be really busy after a three-day weekend.”

I started to say yes, but decided to press my luck. It was a long shot, but there was something in Murray's
argument that was compelling. “If we could go into the office now, I'll treat you to dinner at Cafe Flore.”

Marilynn laughed. “Now that's an offer I can't refuse. You must have some hot leads on this story. How did you know I was dying of boredom this weekend?”

“Just a guess,” I said glibly.

Marilynn agreed to meet me at the clinic at four. I called Cafe Flore to make a reservation for six o'clock. Then I wondered if I should include Vida. I didn't believe her assertion that she was abandoning the story as a hopeless Catholic cause.

I was right. When I reached her at home five minutes later, she was annoyed. “If you wanted to check the medical records, why didn't you call me? You know perfectly well that my niece Marje Blatt is the clinic's receptionist. She could have searched the files and saved Marilynn the trouble.”

“Well,” I replied, “why not ask them both? It'll save time. Then you can treat Marje to dinner while I pick up the tab for Marilynn.”

Vida emitted a beleaguered sigh. “Because Buck and I are going to dinner in Marysville at The Village,” she responded. “And Marje has a date. Or so she told me at church. Really, I think your Catholic notions are contagious. We have some very queer ideas going 'round among some of our younger Presbyterians. Criticizing John Knox, indeed! Why, the man's a veritable saint! Or would be, if we had them.”

I decided not to rise to the bait. John Knox was the least of my religious problems. I started to tell her about Murray Felton, but decided against it. Vida would see Murray's intrusion as big-city meddling. Worse yet, she might be jealous of any cooperative ventures I shared with the TV reporter. If—when—she heard that Murray had been nosing around Alpine, I'd dismiss his involvement as trivial. It wouldn't do to anger Vida again. When
describing my visit to Polly's house, I omitted mentioning that I hadn't gone alone.

“I must see that vase,” Vida murmured. “I have some spare time now….” Her voice trailed off.

“Maybe you'll be more receptive to the vision or whatever than I was,” I said with a trace of asperity. Polly's comment still rankled.

“I'll try to keep an open mind,” Vida promised, and rang off.

An hour later I was watching Marilynn unlock the clinic door and marveling at, as well as envying, her cool, classic beauty. Most of all I admired her courage. She'd traveled some rough roads in recent years, but had emerged stronger and wiser.

The first thing she did was to check both doctors' referral lists. “I don't expect to find Wheaton Randall,” she admitted, “because Marje tries to keep these current.”

“Does that mean that if you don't find him you'll have to check all the charts?” I asked, staying on the other side of the reception desk in order to give Marilynn professional privacy.

“Not exactly,” she replied, then shook her head. “No, he's not here. Let me look him up in one of the older King County medical listings. It'll help to see what kind of surgery he did.”

It turned out that Wheaton Randall was an orthopedic surgeon who had practiced out of a prestigious address on what is known in Seattle as Pill Hill. He had performed his surgeries at a reputable hospital in the same neighborhood, specializing in knee replacements.

“Let me think,” Marilynn said with a thoughtful expression. “Who's got new knees?” She started writing names down on a notepad. “Offhand, I can recall at least a dozen patients, but not all of them were referred to specialists.” She paused, then jotted a few more names. “Now I'll look at the charts and hope for the best. Frankly I don't know all the possibles. Does it matter?”

It did, but I decided not to say so. As it was, I had asked a big favor of Marilynn. While she searched through charts I opened a copy of
Sports Illustrated
and caught up on the pro football exhibition season. I was becoming depressed by the Seahawks' prospects when Marilynn leaned back over the counter.

“There were four referrals to Dr. Randall, one in 1989, one in 1990, and two in 1991,” she said. “I can't give you their names, but they're definitely locals.” Marilynn's beautiful face conveyed apology. “There may be more earlier, but I might not know the patients. Let's face it, they're often elderly, and they could be deceased.”

I was silent for a few moments. “Dr. Randall died in 1993,” I finally said. “Or thereabouts. Is it odd that no referrals were made after 1991?”

“Not necessarily,” Marilynn replied, “but it could indicate that our doctors lost confidence in Randall. Is that what you're thinking?”

I nodded. “There were a bunch of malpractice suits filed against him. They'd be a matter of public record. I suspect someone is already checking out that angle.” I thought of Murray Felton.