No ticking of fingers on keyboards, no huffing and snorting from Dory’s jealous nose. No reassuring timbre of Norman’s gentle voice on the phone or over Mazie’s shoulder. Dory had taken the afternoon off — thank God for small mercies — and Norman was at a client meeting. The phone receiver was cool in Mazie’s hand. She put it to her ear and cradled it against her shoulder. Fresh pain in her knotted muscles coursed down her arm. The mouthpiece smelled of cabbage and coffee, a scent that wafted through the office each time hurricane Dory rolled through. Mazie took a deep breath and punched ten digits on the number pad. “Saint Lawrence Psych.” The woman’s clipped voice reeked of efficiency. Mazie cleared her throat. “I’m looking for a patient.” “We have patients. Lots of ‘em. Do you have a name?” “Elizabeth Wardell.” The woman put her through to a nurse’s station and Mazie repeated her request. “Betty Wardell?” The nurse snickered. “She doesn’t talk much.
