Cheri Amos, Nurse Sleuth – A Serial Novel

I was looking for a change (I'm often looking for a change), and on impulse I took a job in the ED at Saints Peter and Paul Medical Center. It was a good job, the only drawback being the parking situation. The Saints (as it is affectionately called) had just torn down its old garage, and until the new one was constructed, I'd be parking two or three inner-city blocks away. I bought myself a little can of pepper spray and signed on.

After I signed on, I learned that the new supervisor in the ED was none other than Edna Leary, the battle-ax I'd worked with at Union Memorial 15 years earlier, the one who'd told me (after she fired me) that I was too "impulsive" and needed to grow up.

It was unlikely Edna would have forgotten me – Cheri Amos, the little redhead she caught in the linen closet with the cute lab tech (Ron, if I remember correctly). Sure enough, first day on the job, Edna looked me in the eye and said, "Well hello there, Cheri."

It was unnerving how little she'd changed – the crisp white uniform, the eyeglasses hanging to the flat bosom by a gold chain, the mousy hair glued into a French roll and topped with an organdy Dixie-cup cap. She looked like a head nurse right out of the fifties. In fact, she was right out of the fifties. Miss Edna Leary had graduated from The Saints in 1960 and now – after all those years at Union Memorial – she'd returned to her alma mater intent on running the ED like a tight ship.

"Hello Edna," I said, smiling bravely.

*   *   *   *   *

Truth is, Edna had changed since I'd last seen her. Or maybe it was I who had changed. I saw that though Edna still demanded a lot from her staff, she gave even more of herself. Meanwhile, neither of us acknowledged that unfortunate episode years before. I got the impression that she might actually like me, and things were looking up in the ED at The Saints. But nothing lasts forever.

This time it wasn't a kiss that got me into a tight spot, but my need for a smoke. The Saints had declared itself smoke-free. Employees were not allowed to smoke anywhere in the building or around its entrances. In other words, unless you wanted to brave the elements and dash to the sidewalk across the busy street, you might as well leave the butts at home. But being the resourceful smoker that I am, it wasn't long before I found out about the loading dock. Apparently employees had been slipping down there for a quick smoke, and no one seemed the wiser. So one evening after my dinner break, I tucked a cigarette in my pocket and went to investigate.

The Saints is a sprawling institution made up of modern buildings attached by tunnels and glassed-in bridges to an ornate old brick building at the center – the original hospital the good Sisters of St. Francis built almost a century ago. Apparently the Sisters have several very rich patrons, because there's always some kind of construction going on. At the time I was hired, it was the new garage, a messy project that required demolishing the old one. And so, when I took the elevator down to the basement that evening, I got lost at once in maze of ramps and knocked-out walls, all of it draped in heavy plastic.

I passed no one as I searched for the loading dock, and suddenly I got to thinking about the latest development: the bulldozers had unearthed some human bones, believed to be the remains of a long-dead Franciscan sister – a grave they must have missed when the old cemetery was moved years ago. The dimness of the old basement was giving me the creeps, and I was about to turn around when I saw a sign for the loading dock. As I contemplated whether or not I wanted to step through that six-foot slash in the construction plastic, I realized there were two people on the other side – a man and a woman.

"We've got to set things right, Charles," the woman was saying – desperate, almost weeping. "I won't keep secrets anymore."

The man muttered something angry.

And then, before I could get my feet to move, the drape parted, and there was Edna Leary. Behind her was a tall handsome man in an impeccable navy suit.

"Excuse me," I squeaked. "I'm lost."

As I ran for the elevator, I admit I was thinking: Well, well – the old battle-ax, caught in the act herself. But really I didn't much savor the discovery. I had seen the tears on Edna's face, and I was genuinely sorry.

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