“Something has come up.”
“Do you mind telling me what it is?” Was it possible he’d had a falling out with Joe? Perhaps that was why he was in such a foul mood.
Franklin shifted his weight nervously. “Prudence telephoned a little while ago. She said the police stopped by the apartment this morning.”
“The police!”
“Seems one of our patients has disappeared. And the last place she was known to have been was our office.”
“Who is it?”
He hesitated. “Mrs. Moser.”
There was a tense silence while Abigail digested the news, going over the chronology of events. It had been four days now since Mrs. Moser’s last visit to the office. She had arrived at ten, undergone the corrective procedure to remove the paraffin from her face, and left in the early afternoon. She remembered that Franklin had helped her out to the hansom around two o’clock. “Did she say where she was going when she left the office?”
“I told her to go straight home and rest. She said she would.”
“I can’t imagine she wouldn’t have done as you said, not after what she’d just been through.”
“Let’s not make too much of it, Abigail,” Franklin said testily. “The procedure was a relatively minor one.”
“But she was awfully upset. Do you think—” she stopped. Surely Mrs. Moser hadn’t meant it when she’d said that if Franklin couldn’t restore her face to the way it used to be, she’d prefer to be dead!
“I don’t think anything. And I don’t want you speculating about her either, especially in front of the police. We’ll tell them what we know, and that’s all. Just the facts: she was a patient, she came to the office for a minor procedure, left in a cab. That was the end of it, as far as we’re concerned.”
“But her state of mind—it might be relevant.”
Franklin gave her a dark look. “Did you not hear me? I said no speculation.”
“But the police will ask why she was at the office. You’ll have to tell them there was a problem and that she was distraught.”
“I will do no such thing, and neither will you.”
“Franklin, you have to! She put her entire household staff on leave because she wanted no one to see her. I’m sure the police already are well aware of it.”
“Mrs. Moser was obviously a highly emotional woman. Initially, she overreacted to what was, in the end, a very minor problem. But by the time she left our office, she was feeling a good deal better. I had no concerns about her recovery or her state of mind. Otherwise, I never would have sent her home alone.”
Franklin’s assessment of Mrs. Moser’s condition seemed to differ greatly from Abigail’s, but she said nothing. She knew what he was thinking. As he’d said before, the last thing he needed now was even a whiff of scandal—an unhappy patient or, in this case, perhaps worse. Still, Abigail was sure in the end Franklin would do whatever he could to help the police find Mrs. Moser.
And, of course, so would she.
CHAPTER 17
It was half past ten the next morning when Isabelle Hadley walked through the door of the office, carrying a fresh bouquet of white roses. She was wearing a lovely pale pink frock trimmed in baby Irish lace—not unlike the dress Abigail had worn to Mrs. Chapman’s tea party once upon a time—and an extraordinary hat swathed in tulle and piled high with silk flowers. Abigail noticed immediately that there was a glow to her face and an openness to her smile—a mood that seemed in sharp contrast to her own.
At that very moment, the police were upstairs interviewing Franklin.
“Good morning, Miss Platford.”
“Miss Hadley, how wonderful to see you!” Abigail rose from her chair in greeting, but not without a touch of trepidation. Though Miss Hadley seemed quite well, might there be some problem?
“I thought you would enjoy some decoration for your desk. The roses are so pretty right now. The maid picked these from Mother’s garden just this morning.”
“Why, that’s very thoughtful of you.” Abigail took the flowers, relieved but still perplexed. Why would Miss Hadley bring such a gift?
“I just wanted to drop by and tell you the good news.” Miss Hadley beamed as she removed her glove and held out her hand to display a magnificent round-cut diamond ring. “I’m engaged!”
Abigail broke into a smile. She was relieved, but, even more, she was genuinely happy for Miss Hadley. “I’m so delighted for you! And it’s a beautiful ring! But was this unexpected?”
“A bit. I’ve known Mr. Pilkington, my fiancé, for over a year. But truthfully, I was beginning to think he’d never propose. Then last weekend, when we were out sailing on the Hudson, he asked me. The sun was just setting, and the sky was the most luscious shade of lavender with a touch of orange.” She averted her eyes with a flutter of lashes. “You know what he said? Look around you, Isabelle, and remember—all of this is nothing compared to your beauty!”
“How very romantic,” Abigail said, feeling a tiny bit jealous—caught up as she was in a different sort of love affair, one lacking such sweetly spontaneous outbursts of affection.
“Yes, he’s surprisingly poetic for an accountant.” Miss Hadley rotated her hand slightly so the diamond would better catch the light from the desk lamp. “We’re planning to honeymoon in France and Italy. I’ve always wanted to ride in a gondola.”
“I’m sure Dr. Rome will be sorry that he missed you and very pleased to hear about your big announcement. You don’t mind if I tell him, do you?”
“No, certainly not. But I really came because of you.”
“Me?”
“Yes, because—well, if it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t have had the courage to undergo surgery on my nose. I just had the feeling, when I first met you at Mrs. Chapman’s house, that you wouldn’t steer me wrong. If you said Dr. Rome could work miracles, then he could—and what better miracle than a marriage proposal!”
“You do look beautiful.” She hesitated. “But Miss Hadley—”
“Please, you must call me Isabelle.”
“Isabelle—I imagine Mr. Pilkington would have proposed even if you’d never done a thing to your nose.”
She seemed surprised, and immediately Abigail regretted the thoughtlessness of her conjecture. Perhaps it would spoil the young woman’s happiness to contemplate the possibility that Mr. Pilkington might not have proposed otherwise.
She was relieved, however, when Isabelle simply gave a light shrug.
“I guess I’ll never know, but it doesn’t matter. I’m just happier this way. It’s hard to explain, but changing my appearance changed me inside, too. It gave me confidence. It made me unafraid to be myself. I think that’s what Mr. Pilkington finally fell in love with—the real me. The one I’d been hiding.” She gave Abigail a whimsical smile. “Do I sound crazy?”
So it was just as Franklin had always said! Beauty surgery might not save lives, but it could change them for the better.
Some of them . . .
“No, you don’t sound the least bit crazy. In fact, you’re probably the sanest person I’ve met for quite some time.”
Just then she heard footsteps on the back stairs and the sound of voices. Franklin and the two gentlemen from the police department were on their way down.
“You’ll have to excuse me,” Abigail said hastily, coming around from behind her desk, “but there’s something urgent I must attend to in the operating room. I hate to rush off—”
“Don’t be silly. I understand you have work to do. I was about to leave anyway.”
She walked Isabelle to the door, trying not to seem as if she was rushing her. Thanking her again for the flowers, she hustled her out just as Franklin and the two men entered from the hall.
“Miss Platford, this is Detective Baldwin and Officer Gerhardt,” Franklin said as they approached her. “I’ve just been talking to them about our patient, Mrs. Moser. You remember her, don’t you?”
“Of course.”
“How
do you do, Miss Platford?” The man dressed in a dark suit flashed his badge in front of her, while the officer next to him gave her a perfunctory nod. “I think we’ve pretty much gotten all the information we need from Dr. Rome, but I just wanted to see if there was anything Mrs. Moser might have said to you that could shed light on what happened to her after she left the office. I don’t know if Dr. Rome mentioned to you that she’s not been seen since last Saturday.”
“Yes, he told me.” She licked her lips nervously. It wasn’t talking to the police that bothered her as much as the way Franklin’s eyes were boring a hole through her. “I’m afraid she didn’t say anything to me about where she was off to, though I assumed she planned to follow Dr. Rome’s instructions and go home to bed.”
“So there was nothing in her behavior that caused you concern?”
“Well—”
Franklin broke in. “Actually, Miss Platford had minimal contact with the patient.”
“Excuse me, Dr. Rome, but I’d like to hear what Miss Platford has to say, if you don’t mind.”
She swallowed, feeling herself under scrutiny by all three of the men who stood before her. “She was quite agitated initially, but after Dr. Rome gave her the sedative—”
“Sedative?” Detective Baldwin turned to Franklin. “I don’t recall you mentioning anything about a sedative.”
“Possibly I didn’t. It’s more or less standard in conjunction with a procedure such as I performed on Mrs. Moser. It just provides a bit of light relaxation, that’s all.”
“But are other effects possible? Could it have caused her to become confused, disoriented?”
“No, definitely not,” Franklin replied firmly. “I would not have released her if there was any chance of that.”
“So, Miss Platford,” the detective said, turning his attention back to Abigail, “as far as you knew, Mrs. Moser was calm, rational, and had every intention of returning to her home at the time she left this office?”
She hesitated. The sedative had certainly calmed her down, but as for whether she was rational . . .
“I’m sorry, Detective,” Franklin broke in again, “but it’s unfair to ask Miss Platford to evaluate a patient’s mental status. She’s not been at this very long, I’m afraid. You see, when it comes to surgery, patients exhibit a wide range of responses—all of which can be nothing more than normal reactions to stress. In Mrs. Moser’s case, I found her to be sensitive and emotional, but no more so than many other patients I’ve treated over the years. And by the time she was ready to leave our office, she was just fine.”
Abigail noticed that Officer Gerhardt had not taken his eyes off her face the entire time Franklin was speaking. Now it was he who questioned her. “Did Mrs. Moser have cause to be concerned about her surgery, Miss Platford?”
She couldn’t look at Franklin. “I wouldn’t blame her if she were, although Dr. Rome did an excellent job, and she was expected to make a full recovery.”
“Recovery from what exactly?”
“Well—” She took a breath. “Her face, where she’d been injected, had become inflamed. It might have been some sort of allergic reaction. But whatever the cause, Dr. Rome felt it necessary to remove the paraffin.”
“I see.” Detective Baldwin produced a small notebook from his jacket pocket, opened it, and quickly scribbled something. When he was finished, he looked up at her. “Thank you, Miss Platford. You’ve been most helpful.” He turned to Dr. Rome. “As have you, Dr. Rome. We appreciate your time. If there’s anything else you think of that might assist the investigation, I hope you’ll contact me.” He handed Franklin a card, then gave a second one to Abigail. “All the information you need is right there. You can telephone the station day or night.”
He gave Officer Gerhardt a signal, and the two of them headed for the door. Abigail was dreading the moment they would leave. She had no doubt that Franklin was furious and would waste no time in telling her so.
“By the way,” Detective Baldwin said, turning once more to address Franklin directly, “you said that you personally walked Mrs. Moser to the cab?”
“That’s correct.”
“You didn’t happen to notice anything unusual about the vehicle or the driver, did you? Anything that might distinguish them? Anything we could be on the lookout for?”
Franklin thought for a moment. “There wasn’t anything unusual, not that I noticed.”
“Just thought I’d ask,” the detective said. He tipped his black fedora, again eyeing Abigail. “Like I said, give me a call.”
The lace curtains were drawn in the sitting room. Only a single lamp was lit, next to the overstuffed chair where Abigail often sat at night, reading or studying. But tonight she wasn’t doing either. She was waiting.
It was nearly three o’clock in the morning. Franklin still had not shown up at her apartment.
She knew that she had disappointed him. He had told her to say as little as possible to the two officers. But if there was any information that might help the police find Mrs. Moser, then it was her duty to provide it. Even if Franklin might be forced to admit that his patient had suffered a complication.
Perhaps he felt she had betrayed him. But how does one betray another by simply telling the truth?
Besides, if the police were to find out that either of them had withheld important facts, the scandal could be far worse. As it was, there were bound to be stories in the press. In a missing-persons case, newspapers seldom pass up an opportunity to assign motives where none exist, to destroy reputations merely on the basis of rumor. And where do reporters get their titillating inside information? Surely, she thought, most of it comes directly from the police.
But it was no use worrying. Maybe by tomorrow Franklin would forgive her. He could not hold it against her forever.
Weary of her sitting-room vigil, Abigail went into the bedroom. She changed into her nightclothes, climbed into bed, and turned out the light. She tried to fall asleep. But she couldn’t. She kept going over her interview with the police, trying to remember exactly what she had said. Frustrated, she sat up and lit the bedside lamp. There it was on the night table—Detective Baldwin’s card. Why had she placed it so conspicuously, where Franklin was bound to see it? Where she would be forced to think again about the detective’s parting invitation. But there was no reason she should give him a call; she had already told him everything she knew.
She opened the nightstand drawer and tossed the card inside.
She lay back down, the light still on, and stared up at the ceiling. How eerily quiet it was, lying here in bed, without the sound of Franklin’s breathing and the warmth of his body next to hers. She had grown accustomed to it, as if he belonged there and it would always be so. Yet she had to admit that sometimes she felt as if she didn’t know him at all. His behavior this morning, with those two policemen—how could he have neglected to mention that Mrs. Moser had been given a sedative?
Obviously, his thinking was not clear. He was too upset by Mrs. Moser’s condition even to follow up with her as he should. Yet wasn’t Mrs. Moser partly to blame? She had alienated him so completely with her threats of a lawsuit. No wonder he dreaded another encounter.
But, of course, it was his duty. And, to be fair, it was not Mrs. Moser’s fault. Not in the least bit. She was the victim in all this. The unfortunate victim of a terrible mistake . . .
Suddenly she heard the sound of the front door opening, then footsteps in the sitting room. They were fast approaching. It had to be him.
She sat up, clutching the comforter to her chest. She longed to see him, and yet she dreaded it. She wasn’t sure why, but she was terribly afraid.
The bedroom door flew open, slamming against the wall. Franklin stood in the doorway holding his gray bowler in his hand. He looked morose and strangely wicked.
“You’re in bed,” he said, stating the obvious.
“I had given up on you.”
He tossed his hat on top of the dresser and, wobblin
g slightly, walked over to her. He stood next to the bed, looking down on her as if from a great height, as if she were a speck that he could barely see. Without a word, he ripped the comforter from her arms.
“Listen to me, Abigail, and remember this well,” he hissed, bringing his face within an inch of hers. “A doctor who attempts to save a dying patient often fails, but he cannot allow that failure to utterly consume him.”
She could smell liquor on his breath, not the sweetness of brandy but something much stronger.
“If he did, he could no longer function as a doctor. And if other doctors were similarly affected by their failures, then who would there be to assume the risk of treating our sick and injured? Confronted with failure, a doctor has no choice but to remain stoic. It is his duty.”
“Franklin, please—”
He took a step back, still with that intense look about him. “There are always going to be failures, Abigail. Every doctor, in every field of medicine, experiences that awful pain, that loss when you’ve let a patient down. You probably think that I should have been more indulgent with Mrs. Moser. That I should have told her how upset and sorry I was. But no, it doesn’t work that way. A doctor can’t allow himself that luxury. A doctor has to seem in control, even if he’s not. He can’t let his patient sense any weakness. That would be the worst thing possible, don’t you see? A doctor has to appear fearless.”
“Of course you’re right,” she said, her heart pounding. She wondered if he even knew what he was saying. Yet there was something in his words, even as incoherent as they seemed, that had struck a chord so deep within her, so painful it was staggering. He didn’t know. She had never told him what happened. “Why don’t you come and lie down? It’s late, and you need to rest.”
“You’re not listening, Abigail. I’m trying to explain to you how a doctor behaves, how he never lets down his guard—no matter what, no matter who might try to break him. He just keeps going. He puts his head down and charges ahead. He never looks back. That’s how a doctor remains a doctor.”
The Beauty Doctor Page 25