all back in the trash can.
I got up and strode over to Dr. Bainsworth’s bookshelves. Besides your normal, everyday healthy-tooth tomes, I didn’t see much of interest. I took pictures of the shelves anyway on the off chance that we’d either need to revisit the shelves later on or that I’d someday find myself responsible for another of Myra’s tooth emergencies and need the title of a good dental reference book. I’m sorry, but that’s how my brain works on half a cup of coffee before eight A.M.
“Nineteen minutes!” Pat called.
I had a vision of the taskmaster in that famous I Love Lucy candy factory episode yelling, “Speed ’er up!” while Myra and I stuffed chocolates in our mouths, under our chef’s hats, and down the front of our aprons.
After looking under Dr. Bainsworth’s desk and the other furniture in the office for some vague clue and finding nothing, I moved on to an exam room. It gave me the willies. All those nasty tooth and gum pictures, the smell of dental stuff, the drill, remembering the sound made by the drill. . . . A quick check of the cabinets assured me there was nothing to see in there. Nope, nothing at all. I didn’t even take any pictures. I mean, who’d hide whatever it was we were looking for in a dental exam room? We didn’t even know for sure that the Elvis—or the hygienist’s ex, or the hygienist, or Bunni, or one of Dr. Bainsworth’s many other women—had even been looking for anything that night.
I stepped outside the exam room and tried to get control of my breathing. I’d always heard you’re supposed to breathe into a paper bag when you’re hyperventilating. But most people use plastic bags these days, or those eco-friendly totes. Could you stop hyperventilating by breathing into an eco-friendly tote?
“Fourteen!” Pat shouted.
“Coffee!” I yelled back. “Is there any fresh coffee here?”
“No. We’re here to clean the place, not dirty it up,” Pat responded from somewhere in the bowels of the building.
“Is there a soda machine?” I asked.
“Don’t know. You’re the one snooping around,” she said. “See for yourself.”
Across from Dr. Bainsworth’s office, there was a small kitchenette. Given my fear of dentist drills, I should’ve explored the kitchenette before venturing into an exam room. But I doubted there was anything in the tiny space except a refrigerator full of rotten food and half a pot of almost week-old coffee. And, unfortunately, I also have a fear of rotten food. Okay, that’s not so much a fear as a strong gag reflex.
As desperate as I was for caffeine, I decided to hold my nose and my breath and open the refrigerator door. I could almost hear the hallelujah chorus when I saw a single, unopened can of Diet Coke sitting there amidst the take-out containers and coffee creamer.
My eyes zeroed in on that refreshing, energizing goodness. I continued to hold my breath but let go of my nose in order to claim my prize. I snatched the soda can off that wire shelf and shut the door. I expelled a breath of victory and popped the top on the can. With the first drink, my eyes burned and I could feel the cold liquid coursing down my esophagus. Sweet, sweet nectar.
“Why’re you lollygagging?” Pat barked from behind me.
I started and dropped . . . the . . . can.
“Humph. Now you can clean that up too,” Pat said.
The insult was nearly as bad as the injury. Nearly.
“WANT TO STOP somewhere and grab a bite to eat?” Myra asked on the drive home.
I shook my head. “I need to get cleaned up and work on the quinceañera cake for Juanita’s sister.”
“Yeah. I need to get cleaned up too . . . and rest awhile.”
Her voice broke, and I turned sharply to look at her. “Myra, what is it?”
“I’m sorry I dragged you into this.”
“No,” I said. “It was good we were able to do some snooping in the dental office. We’ll upload our photos later and see what we’ve got.”
She sniffled. “N-not just today. I’m sorry I got you into this entire mess.”
“It’s not your fault. If it’s anybody’s fault, it’s mine.” She was crying now, and I felt horrible. “Do you need to pull over?”
“I’m okay,” she said. “I don’t know how you can try to take the blame for all this, though.”
“Hello? The cashew brittle? Had I made a softer snack, we wouldn’t be in this predicament,” I reminded her.
“Would you hand me