seemed to Gretchen that time stood still, but in fact, at least one agonizing hour had elapsed between the first squeal of tires and the time when she had wandered up to the registration desk to get the Kewpie doll owner's address. By then, the police had already interrogated those closest to the accident and had encouraged the rest to move on.
She thought about the sequence of events. A call for an ambulance, the wait for it to respond, the paramedics' efforts to revive Brett before transporting their unresponsive patient, the police and their search for eyewitnesses. The ambulance pulling away, and everyone remaining in Chiggy's yard, in shock, moving aimlessly around the flatbed truck. Gretchen leaned heavily on her elbows and squeezed the bridge of her nose as she continued to search the pictures. Oh, the glory of modern technology. Digital cameras, no longer constrained by antiquated film and the costs of processing, allowed a photographer to shoot continuously, almost like movie frames, catching the action in a series of fluid movements. Photo after photo.
Viewing Finch's pictures brought back memories that would haunt her for a long time. She relived the horror of that moment when she first realized what the squeal of tires meant. When she saw Brett lying in the street. Her own father had died next to her. Again she heard the squealing tires and the impact of the other car slamming into the driver's side of her father's car.
Old memories that wouldn't fade.
She wasn't looking forward to the memorial service tonight.
"I'm an old friend of hers," Gretchen said to the administrator on the phone, after looking up the number for Grace Senior Care.
"I don't see a Chiggy Kent listed here," the voice replied, sounding young and hesitant.
"I'm sorry. I forgot. Her real name is Florence. Florence Kent."
"Just a minute."
Gretchen heard papers rustling.
"Yes, I've found her."
"Good. I'd like to drive over and visit her."
"I'm sorry . . . Ms. . . . what did you say your name was?"
"Um . . . Mary Smith." It was time to go undercover for her own extended good health.
"I'm sorry, Ms. Smith, but Ms. Kent has been moved from assisted living, and she isn't accepting visitors."
"Moved from assisted living?"
"Yes, she now requires an elevated level of care."
That translated to nursing home care. Gretchen remembered talk among the other club members of the everpresent oxygen tank.
"But she only arrived last week. Surely her health hasn't declined that rapidly." According to Peter Finch, Chiggy had been well enough a week ago to supervise the disposition of her household furnishings and arrange to auction off her collection of handmade dolls. "I was under the impression that she had some sort of apartment arrangement."
"I really can't tell you any more than that. The federal privacy act doesn't allow me to elaborate on her condition without her written consent. Would you like to speak to my supervisor?"
"I don't understand why I can't visit with her. Chiggy . . . I mean, Florence was an active member of the Phoenix Dollers Club, and I'm representing the members when I say we are all concerned about her well-being. You can't just shut her away and refuse to allow us to visit."
"It was her wish to discourage visitors. She isn't being held against her will. Can I get my supervisor?"
"How about family? Can family visit?"
"She was very clear. Absolutely no visitors. I'm getting a supervisor." The woman sounded impatient but continued to hold her ground.
"That won't be necessary," Gretchen said, glad that she had blocked her call before dialing the senior care center. She'd assumed that they would have caller ID, and she didn't want her real identity known.
"I think I'll drive over and make the request in person."
"This is a gated senior center."
It figures, Gretchen thought. The old woman had been permanently locked away.
Gretchen inched along the sidewalk while tiny Nimrod scurried along beside her. He stopped often to sniff the ground and mark his territory.
"Hello there," someone said.
Gretchen turned to see a woman around her age walking rapidly toward her, pushing two toddlers in a double stroller.
"You must be Caroline Birch's daughter," she said.
"I've seen you coming and going but haven't had a chance to introduce myself. I'm Janice Schmidt, and these are my twins, Troy and Tim. They're almost two."
Gretchen smiled at the twins and wiggled her fingers next to her face in a silly wave. "Hi, kids. This is Nimrod. We're going for his daily walk."
Not the most disciplined walking-on-a-leash trainee, Nimrod proceeded