Death on the Diagonal - By Nero Blanc Page 0,47
a young, auburn-haired beauty who was studying what looked like a legal textbook. Our Ms. Davis is probably trying to figure out how far she can stretch the law, Sara surmised while fixing her target with an energetic glance.
“You’re far too young to have a bum knee!” Sara announced, wincing from a pain she didn’t feel. Emma immediately began hovering solicitously, but Sara waved her away. “I’m fine, Emma. You toddle off and read a magazine or something while I wait. You’ve been far too concerned about me these past few days, and you know I’m perfectly capable of caring for myself.”
Dawn Davis looked up. Instead of appearing disturbed by the interruption, she also smiled. She’s probably sizing me up as another mark, Sara decided. A vulnerable, old bat with a servant in her dotage. I must look as if I’d be as easy pickings as poor Walter Gudgeon.
“Oh, I’m not here on account of my knee, ma’am,” Dawn answered. “It’s my shoulder. I tore my rotator cuff.”
Ma’am! Sara heard. Oh, the little minx! She’s a good one, all right. Knows just how to be polite to us ancient crones. I wonder if Emma caught that? Sara cast a surreptitious glance toward the figure in gray taffeta before continuing with an empathetic: “Oh, your shoulder! That must be exceedingly painful. How on earth did you do such a terrible thing? I fell at the hairdresser’s—which was very foolish. If I’d been wearing trousers, I probably would have torn a cuff, too.” Sara ventured a ladylike giggle, and Dawn also tittered politely. Then her face abruptly clouded.
“I had an accident.”
“Well, I should certainly hope you didn’t tear your shoulder on purpose!”
Dawn Davis studied Sara, while the older woman gazed back in seeming innocence and friendship.
“What sort of an accident, my dear? No . . . don’t tell me. I was impertinent to ask, but aren’t we fortunate, given all the ills that could have befallen us, that we have two injuries that are so eminently treatable? You and I could be facing problems with our kidneys, for instance, or our hearts, or—”
Dawn’s face grew darker. “Kidneys?”
Sara beamed grandmotherly reassurance all the while thinking: Bingo! That got her attention! “Yes, indeed. Or diabetes, or high cholesterol—”
“What do you mean, ‘kidneys’?”
“It was just a nasty situation that popped into my mind,” Sara continued to lie. “I had a dear friend who had to undergo a kidney transplant. That was an ordeal and a half, I can tell you. I wouldn’t wish it on anyone. And it cost the very moon, as you can imagine. So, tell me, my dear—if you don’t think I’m being too nosy—what do physicians do with torn rotator cuffs?”
“I had surgery. Arthroscopic. I’m not sure how it works or what he did, but it sure feels a heck of a lot better than it did four weeks ago.”
“Ah,” Sara said as though she’d never heard of such a procedure. “And what kind of surgeon performs such an operation?”
“An orthopedist.”
“I went to one for my wretched knee! Fancy that! Mine is Dr. Arthur. Is that who treated you, by any chance?”
An emotion that looked like regret crossed Dawn Davis’s face. It wasn’t an expression Sara expected. “Your surgeon’s the best—at least that’s what I was told. He didn’t have time to deal me, so I got Dr. Bownes. He was very good, though. Very pleasant and everything.”
Something in this delivery, whether it was Dawn’s palpable sorrow or hesitant tone, began to affect Sara in ways she hadn’t anticipated. “What do you mean Arthur didn’t have time to deal with you?” she demanded. “That’s what physicians are supposed to do, isn’t it? Deal with problems.”
Dawn gave a dismissive, one-shoulder shrug. “I guess . . . but you know, how everything happened . . . the emergency room and all that ugly stuff . . . my boyfriend and his run-in with the cops on account of how bad he hurt me . . . oh, man . . .” The words died in her throat. “I didn’t mean to say that. Besides, it was a while ago. Forget I talked about him. Okay, ma’am—?”
“You can call me Sara,” was the staunch and surprisingly protective reply.
“Sara? Okay? Just forget what I told you, okay?”
Sara glanced at Emma to see what her assessment of Dawn Davis was, and observed a worried and pensive expression that mirrored her own. “Your boyfriend caused this ‘accident’?” she asked.
“I shouldn’t talk about it, okay? I shouldn’t have