“She’s on seven to three.”

“Great. Thanks so much.”

I could tell Pam was ready to take a message, perhaps already making a note of the time on one of those “While You Were Out” slips, but I hung up before she had a chance to quiz me. Now all I had to do was figure out what Eloise looked like.

By 2:30, erring on the side of caution, I parked in the lot across the street from St. Terry’s and made my way through the entrance and into the lobby. I asked for directions to CCU, and a volunteer walked me to the requisite corridor, where, with pointing and gestures, she explained how to proceed. I wondered if I’d ever be nice enough to volunteer for anything. I was hoping not.

When I reached the floor, I spotted a nurse’s aide emerging from a supply room, her arms loaded with clean linens. I flagged her down and asked if Eloise Cantrell was available.

“She’s at the nurse’s station.”

“Is she the little blonde?”

With exaggerated patience, the nurse’s aide said, “Noooo. Eloise is six feet tall and she’s African American.”

After that, it was no trick at all to pick Eloise from among the many white nurses at work. I took a seat in the waiting room within eye shot of the nurse’s station and leafed through an issue of a ladies’ magazine that was only four years out of date. I was impressed by all the uses there were for instant vanilla pudding. This homemaking business, while beyond my modest aspirations, never failed to amaze.

By the time Eloise left work, I was in the same corridor, lagging slightly behind to allow her to exit ahead of me. I followed her out of the building and tagged along in her wake. There were a number of pedestrians in the area, so she wasn’t alerted to my presence. I waited until she turned the corner from Chapel onto Delgado before I closed the gap between us. “Eloise? Is that you?”

She turned, clearly expecting to see a familiar face. Her lips parted as though she meant to speak.

“Kinsey Millhone,” I said, pausing in case she wanted to rejoice.

She was dark-skinned, her hair arranged in close lines of head-hugging braids, each of which ended in a sage-green bead that exactly matched her eyes. The hazel irises against the deep chocolate of her complexion was striking. I wouldn’t describe her expression as hostile, but it wasn’t welcoming.

“You called me a few months ago, looking for information about R. T. Dace.”

I waited to see if the name would ring a bell. “I thought you were saying Artie, remember that? But you were talking about Randall Terrence Dace . . . R.T,” I said, framing the initials in air quotes. Still no flash of recognition, so I tried again. “You asked for Mr. Millhone, thinking I was a guy.”