Hedging (A Smith and Wetzon Mystery)

library.
    She felt immediate comfort in the library. It was cozy and warm. People were browsing in the stacks. Others were sitting at tables reading. She requested a book on dogs, with pictures. If she saw a dog that looked like hers, it might bring everything back.
    The books about dogs were all together on one shelf. She picked out the one that listed the breeds with photographs and took it back to a table. It was Wednesday. Did she have a job? Had someone fed her dog? No one had reported her missing. Where was her husband or lover? Why wasn’t he looking for her?
    “You can take it out and look through it when we get back.” Barbara Bullard relieved her of the book and went to the desk, where Candy had an Agatha Christie waiting.
    In the tunnel, they followed a small group of well-dressed men and perfectly coiffed women, led by another woman who was talking about the design of the new building.
    “Who are they?” Candy asked.
    “Trustees, probably, philanthropists, whatever. Deep pockets,” Barbara Bullard commented. “They’re getting a tour of the new psychiatric floor, so we’ll just follow along behind them.”
    Every footfall grew more laden. The hum of the voices of the trustees surrounded her. Almost there, almost there. When they arrived at the bank of elevators, the visitors had filled one entirely.
    Bullard motioned them to wait for the next one.
    As the doors were closing, a man called out, “Wait!” Too late, the doors closed.
    Another elevator arrived. They got on. Up they went to the fifth floor. Off on the fifth floor.
    A man in a dark gray pinstripe was waiting. Under his thin, styled gray hair, his face alive with expectation. He didn’t look at Barbara Bullard or Candy Pandolfi. He was looking at her.
    “My dear,” he said, “don’t you know me?”

8
    “W HAT HAPPENED ?”
    “It’s one of the trustees. He knows her. When he spoke to her, she fainted.”
    I didn’t faint. I’m awake. I hear you. She tried to force the words into the open, but her brain wouldn’t connect.
    “Mary Lou ... ”
    “Excuse me, sir—”
    “What’s wrong with her?”
    “Let’s get her back to bed. Someone call Dr. Hirsch.”
    “Dr. Hirsch. And you are—”
    “I had no idea. I was getting the tour when I saw her.”
    “You know who she is?”
    “Of course. Her name is Mary Lou Salinger. She’s my niece. What is she doing here? She looked right at me and didn’t seem to know me.”
    Mary Lou Salinger .
    “She came in Friday night. She was found in a bus shelter on Fifth. She was hypothermic and has dissociative amnesia—”
    “Amnesia? How could that happen?”
    “Memory loss that’s not drug induced, and hers wasn’t, can come from a trauma of some sort, either psychological or physical. It’s usually a short-term condition.”
    “My God. She didn’t know me.”
    “Possibly she had a spark of recognition. Whatever, she’s very fragile right now.”
    “I want to talk with her.”
    “Well, let’s see how she’s doing. Please stay outside, Mr. ... ”
    “Gold. Lewis Gold.”
    Mary Lou .
    The hazy cotton cocoon kept her ensnared. But she could hear what they were saying and they weren’t even in the room. When she tried to open her eyes, the room careened like a carousel gone nuts. The woman was singing, high and sharp.
    Nuts. That’s what she was. The man who knew her, what had he called her? Mary Lou something. Mary Lou. Yes. Mary Lou Salinger. Easy as pie .
    She opened her eyes. The spinning slowed, then drifted to a halt. The singing stopped. Dr. Hirsch was standing beside the bed, taking her pulse.
    “Mary Lou?”
    “Yes.”
    “You know your name?”
    “I think so. That man knows me. Is he a doctor?”
    “He’s a big donor. His name is Lewis Gold. He says you’re his niece, Mary Lou Salinger.”
    She shook her head, eased herself up. The room did not spin. “I didn’t recognize him.”
    “He wants to talk to you. Do you feel up to it?”
    She was afraid, patted her hair nervously—did she need a comb?—bit her lips. “Will you stay with me?”
    “Yes, I’ll be here with you.”
    He had a thin smile and cold brown eyes, was younger than she expected. His gray suit was expensively tailored. Her fingers worried the rolling rings.
    “Mary Lou, my dear,” he said, pulling a chair close to the bed. His black Gucci loafers looked out of place with his suit. “What happened to you?”
    “How do you know me … Mr.  … Gold?”
    He looked at Dr.