"Hey, there, Mr. Van Adder," she greeted the coroner. "This is Timmie Leary-Parker, coming to you live from Memorial."

Which is more than we can say for that little old man, would have been the answer from the guys back in L.A. Mr. Van Adder had much more style.

"Timmie?" he barked. "What the hell kind of name is that?"

Oh good, Timmie thought. And here she'd been worried that she might not have any confrontation left in her life now that she was divorced and home from the street wars.

"It's a silly-ass kind of name, Mr. Van Adder," she assured him, absently clicking away at her pen. "But I'm stuck with it. So why don't we just talk about Mr. Cleveland, who's been lying in my room for the better part of the morning? It's not that I don't enjoy his company, but I think he wants to get on with things."

"I have other priorities," Van Adder snapped.

Like rotating tires and draining oil pans. The Puckett County coroner was also the owner of Mike's Mobil, not to mention the Van Adder Private Ambulance and Towing Service.

"Wait," he said suddenly. "Leary, you said your name was."

"Leary-Parker," she amended, as if it would do any good.

He ignored her, just as she knew he would. "You wouldn't be Joe Leary's girl, would you?"

"Yes, sir."

"No kiddin'. Well, why didn't you say so in the first place? How the hell is he?"

"He's fine. Just fine."

"Good." Van Adder chuckled with real pleasure. "He's somethin', your daddy, ya know that? Made me like poetry, for God's sake. Named you for some sports guy, didn't he?"

"Yes, sir."

Another laugh, hearty and knowing. "That's right. Who else but Joe? Now, he from Restcrest?"

It took a second for Timmie to jump gears back to little Mr. Cleveland, who waited so quietly in room five.

"Restcrest. Yes, sir."

Restcrest being the unimaginatively named Alzheimer's care unit that shared a parking lot and administrative staff with Memorial Medical Center.

"Let him go, then."

Timmie found herself momentarily speechless. "Don't you want to know anything about him?" she asked.

Van Adder huffed impatiently. "What exactly should I know? He's old, he's batty as a brick, and he's dead. Lucky for his family, don't you think?"

Timmie did think, but that had nothing to do with it. "Are all the coroner's calls this easy?"

"Why not? I don't get paid more for the complicated ones."

Timmie's astonished laugh sounded more like a bark. "You've got to be kidding."

Van Adder graced her with a moment of cold silence. "You got a problem, Miss Leary?"

Oh yeah, she had a problem. No more than one county away in almost any direction, calls like this were being handled by excellent death investigation systems that ranked right up there with and far above the one she'd grown used to in Los Angeles. And here she was stuck with Goober from Mayberry.

Taking a calming second to rub the bridge of her nose, Timmie briefly considered letting Mr. Van Adder know that as a forensic nurse she knew better than to accept a half-assed response from any coroner. She ditched the idea just about as fast. She knew all about Mr. Van Adder. She'd been apprised about just what kinds of odds she'd be facing when she was hired on at Memorial to help modernize its ER. She just hadn't thought she'd have such a hard time keeping her mouth shut about it.

"It's your ballpark," she finally acquiesced ungracefully.

"Something you might want to remember," Van Adder snapped. "You could have let them take the body an hour ago. Old Man Cleveland's been sick a hundred years, he's been dead a couple hours, and he's going right to that big lab in St. Louis to have his brain chopped. It's part of the Restcrest admission requirements, or didn't they tell you that?"

"They told me."

"Then is that all?"

Timmie looked at all the information she'd garnered as a matter of long-respected practice and bit her tongue. "Guess so."

"Good. You give my best to your daddy, now."

Timmie hung up the phone, wondering just what was going to happen when she had to call the coroner with a death he should investigate. Then, because she had no choice, she signed off on Mr. Cleveland's file and let him go.

"Okay," she said, closing the chart. "He's ready."

"Dr. Raymond been here yet?" the secretary asked.

Timmie sighed. "Oh yeah, I forgot. Call him, will you?"

She'd forgotten on purpose. She wasn't ready to see Alex Raymond yet. Alex Raymond had risen from town gentry to COO of the Neurological Research Group, which administered Restcrest. Alex was also the hero of some fifteen-year-old adolescent fantasies not quite ready to be put to rest and the answer to a need not yet ready to be acknowledged.

"The Holy Man has been beeped," the secretary announced.

Timmie's head came up. "You don't like him?"

The secretary snorted. "Just a little too perfect for me, you know? What other nursing home administrator makes you wait to ship bodies until he can say good-bye? Say good-bye to what, protoplasm? Please. He'd have a more meaningful discussion with his name tag."

Timmie found that she was grinning again. Yep, sounded like the Alex Raymond she remembered. "Well, let me know. Other than him, Mr. Cleveland's ready to roll."

"Don't listen to him," Timmie heard from behind her. "Dr. Raymond really does care about his little old people."

Timmie turned to find Ellen Mayfield perching herself on the desk, alongside Mr. Cleveland's chart. Alone, Timmie noted with a little surprise. Lately, she'd been traveling mostly in a pair with another SSS devotee, Cindy Dunn. Timmie made herself a bet on how long it would take for Cindy to show up.

"So I've heard," Timmie allowed. "Why aren't you in room three enjoying the wages of sin?"

Ellen's smile was too nice, especially on a face still muddy with the leftover bruises from Billy's latest attempt to win back his place in the bosom of his family. "I figured I'd let Barb soften him up a little first. He's really sick?"

"Like a dog. He either got bad beer or good gin."

Ellen nodded with a fleeting smile. "I guess it would be ugly to say I hope his liver's finally giving out."

Heck, her voice was even too nice. Sucked out all that perfectly good self-righteous indignation that made a statement like that so worthwhile. But then, Ellen never seemed to have the energy for indignation. A wide-faced, gently plump forty-year-old with tired eyes, olive skin, and flat black hair, she smiled as if it were an effort and meant every kind word she said.

"I don't think it's ugly at all," Timmie assured her. "In fact, I was just having the same fantasies about the coroner."

Ellen just smiled. "Tucker Van Adder? Oh, don't mind him. You just keep forgetting this isn't Los Angeles."

Which meant that if Ellen wasn't going to dis her husband, she certainly wasn't going to dis the coroner. And that if Ellen had been less thoughtful, she would have suggested Timmie respect the status quo more than she obviously had since arriving.

"Ellen, there you are," Barb called from across the hall.

Timmie leaned around to see the physician shambling their way, weighted down with clipboards and trailing EKG tracings like a comet's tail. Dancing attendance, finally, was Cindy Dunn, whose smile was even more avid than Barb's.