“Surgery hours are from five to seven, young man,” he said in a voice so low I could scarcely hear him. “I can’t see you now.”
“This isn’t a professional call,” I said, peering over his shoulder at the dahlia. It was a lovely thing: eight inches across if it was an inch, and flawless. “My name’s Malloy. I’m an old friend of Janet Crosby.”
He touched the dahlia gently with thick-jointed fingers.
“Who?” he asked vaguely, not interested: just a dull-witted old man with a flower.
“Janet Crosby,” I said. It was hot in the sun, and the drone of the bees, the smell of all those flowers made me a little vague myself.
“What of her?”
“You signed the death certificate.”
He dragged his eyes away from the dahlia and looked at me.
“Who did you say you were?”
“Victor Malloy. I’m a little worried about Miss Crosby’s death.”