Last Licks

4

The large room went silent, all of the people stopping in the middle of their various exercises to stare at Ollie after his outburst. All that attention didn’t improve his mood, but at least he moderated his voice—slightly—when he spoke again. “Why’d you even come here?” he demanded. “I left the package with the nurse.”

Who of course wasn’t around when I arrived, Sunny thought. “I’ll go and get it now,” she said, heading back outside and just as glad not to have a room full of people gawking at her. Let Ollie handle them in his own inimitable way, that cynical side of her brain suggested.

Gardner Scatterwell and his nephew were still in the hallway, but they’d obviously heard Ollie’s outburst. “I’m afraid Oliver is a bit out of sorts today—he was up late,” Gardner explained. “He and his lawyer were going over those papers well after the normal lights-out.”

Having nothing to say to that, Sunny just nodded and headed for the nurses’ station. Now, of course, there was a nurse on duty, who passed over the thick envelope. Sunny checked inside and found a note in Ollie’s nearly indecipherable handwriting. It instructed her to make copies for his files and his lawyer, then express-mail the originals to Mr. Orton. She headed down the hallway and to the parking lot. No sense risking any more grief from Ollie. She’d get on the job right away.

The scenery was as lush and pleasant on the way back as it had been on her outward journey, but Sunny’s mood ruined the drive to Kittery Harbor. She then spent most of the morning taking care of that monster document, rounding out her time with routine office tasks.

When she answered the phone just before lunchtime, she was surprised to hear Ollie’s voice on the other end of the line. “Look,” he said gruffly. “I—um—I have to apologize. You caught me—this therapy stuff is rougher than almost anything I’ve ever had to do.”

“I know that, Ollie. When my dad was sick, he had a real fight to get back on his feet. And look at him now.”

“Yeah.” Now Ollie sounded embarrassed. “He called to say he was coming up. The old-line folks in town, people like my dad, would do stuff like that, even if they weren’t really friendly with someone in the hospital or whatever. I’d hate to have him hear that I’d treated you badly. I didn’t mean what I was saying.”

“Well, he won’t hear about it from me,” Sunny promised.

“Um. Good. There’s something else you can do for me. Check in the files for a couple of folders.” He described what he wanted—several real estate transactions. “These are other deals I’ve done with Orton. I want to compare them with the one you just copied.”

“Fine, Ollie.” Sunny looked longingly at the sandwich she’d just arrayed on her desk. “When do you need this?”

“We’ll do it like we did yesterday,” Ollie said. “You can leave the office a little early, and when you’re finished up here, you can go home.”

With a longer trip, longer business, and no overtime, Sunny’s unpleasant reporter alter ego piped up.

Still, she agreed, took another note, and hung up. After lunch, she dug the keys out of her desk and went to the bank of tall cabinets that lined the back wall of the office. She took the precaution of copying all the files that Ollie had specified and putting the originals back where they came from.

Don’t want him yelling at me if Jell-O gets spilled on them.

When Sunny arrived at Bridgewater Hall this time, she got a much more enthusiastic welcome. Rafe Warner was on duty now and greeted her with a smile and some chat as she signed in. And who should appear from behind the security desk but Portia, sniffing Sunny’s ankles and then peering around them as if she expected someone else to be standing there.

I don’t think she’s looking for Dad, Sunny thought. I think Shadow sent a message on me—and Portia’s certainly answering.

She spent a little time trying to pet Portia, who seemed more interested in twining around her ankles. So in the end Sunny gave up and headed down the hallway to the rehab wing. Checking with the nurse, Sunny made sure that Ollie had finished his second therapy stint of the day and then went on to Room 114. There, she discovered both visitor’s chairs were occupied. Mike Coolidge sat beside Gardner Scatterwell, and Luke Daconto, the guitarist from the other day, sat with Ollie.

“Well, this is unexpected,” Sunny said.

“I had a bell-ringing class upstairs and decided to stop by on my way out,” Luke said. “Considering Mr. Barnstable’s interest in music, I’m trying to convince him to take some guitar lessons when he’s feeling better.”

“Trying to drum up business,” Ollie said suspiciously.

“I didn’t say I wanted to teach you,” Luke replied with a good-natured smile—at least that’s what Sunny thought was going on under all that foliage on his face. “I’m just saying you could easily pick up an inexpensive guitar and find someone to get you started.”

“I was interested in music, as you put it, around the same age those two”—Ollie gestured at Mike and Gardner—“had their half-assed band.”

“It’s never too late to start,” Luke insisted.

“You think?” Ollie looked hopeful for a moment, then shook his head. “I dunno. When I was sixteen, I saw a guitar in a music shop window—a Gibson. I never wanted anything more, but it was way out of my dad’s price range. Three hundred dollars, if I remember right.”

His eyes went to the ceiling, looking at something only he could see. “I spent a year doing shifts at the Sweet Shoppe for my dad, mowing lawns, shoveling snow . . . I even folded people’s wash down at the Laundromat for minimum wage, which was about a buck-ninety in those days. And when I finally pulled together enough money—”

“You went to the store and the guitar was gone,” Mike finished for him.

But Ollie shook his head, an almost heartbroken look on his big, round face. “I couldn’t bring myself to spend so much money on something so—frivolous.”

“I think you set your sights too high,” Luke offered. “You should have gotten yourself a secondhand acoustic guitar—something inexpensive—and seen how it felt to play.”

“That’s what I did,” Mike said. “Got my Rickenbacker at a pawnshop in Portsmouth for seventy-five bucks.”

“Really?” Luke swung around to look at Sunny’s dad, his eyes shining with interest. “Do you still have it?”

Mike shrugged. “Up in the attic maybe.”

“If it’s in good shape, you might be amazed at how valuable it’s become now,” Luke said eagerly. “Some Rickenbackers from that era go for a couple thousand dollars now—maybe more.”

Mike gawked for a second, then said, “Really? That old bass may be the best investment I ever made.”

While they were laughing, another visitor entered the room—a four-footed one.

“Portia, what are you doing here?” Sunny asked, kneeling to pet the calico cat. “Did you follow me?”

“Probably following Shadow,” Mike muttered, not happy to find another cat barging into their lives.

Portia amiably gave each of the seated visitors a sniff, then launched herself into a leap that landed her in Gardner Scatterwell’s lap.

“Whoa!” Luke said.

Gardner smiled, reverting to the nice old man Sunny had first met. “Hello there, kitty,” he said as Portia pushed her head under his hand.

“Hey, Sunny,” Mike asked, a little malice glinting in his bright blue eyes, “isn’t that the cat you told me about? The one who, after she visits patients, they wind up kicking the bucket?”

“Are you that cat?” Gardner stopped in the middle of petting. Portia just stared at him and purred. “I’ve heard stories. Some of the ladies who sing along with Luke are afraid of you.”

“There must be a logical explanation,” Luke said.

Sunny gave her father a look for bringing up the subject in the first place.

“Of course there is,” Gardner said, ruffling Portia’s fur. “The fact is, the mortality statistics here are a trifle high lately. My nephew Alfred found that out looking on the Internet somewhere. He’s trying to get me to move to some place with a lower death rate—and lower financial rates, of course. I think any home for the elderly is going to have its ups and downs, and they shouldn’t blame pretty kitties if a bunch of old folks decide to die in a clump.”

“Myself, I’m not so trusting of cats—they’re always hungry,” Mike said with suspicious mildness. “The one in your lap there, she may only be waiting for you to get ripe.”

That outrageous comment got some shocked laughter, especially from Luke.

“What’s going on in here?” a blue-clad aide asked from the doorway, but the smile on her broad, plain face belied her strict tone of voice. “Sorry, folks. Just wanted to check and make sure everyone was okay.” Once Sunny got past the scrubs, she realized the aide was little older than a kid. She proved it as she turned to Sunny. “Could I get you a chair, ma’am?”

If any more of the staff calls me “ma’am,” I’m going to think I should be living here. “No thanks,” she said aloud.

“Camille here does a wonderful job, taking care of Ollie and myself, not to mention a dozen or so other inmates,” Gardner said. “I’m sure you know Luke Daconto, Camille. This is an old friend, Mike Coolidge, and his daughter, Sunny.”

“How do you do.” Camille looked as though she’d be more at home working on a farm than in a health-care setting. Her big, sturdy form would be perfect for hauling around big bags of fertilizer or seed. She had a wide mouth and a diminutive nose, framed by an unflattering pageboy cut. Her best feature was a pair of soft hazel eyes, which glanced shyly around the strangers in the room. But she was quite competent when she said, “Mr. Scatterwell, you raised the top of your bed and slid all the way down.”

“I used to be a very good downhill racer—although that was some years ago,” he said.

As she stepped forward, Camille spotted the calico cat in Gardner’s lap, and her smile got wider. “Mam’selle Portia, what are you doing in this neck of the woods? Are you scaring too many of the people upstairs?”

“So you’ve heard the stories, too?” Gardner said.

The aide nodded, extending a blunt-fingered hand for Portia to sniff. “And I think it’s a shame, blaming a sweetie like Portia.”

“Do you need help?” Luke asked, but Camille shook her head. Her big, strong hands grasped the bed pad under Gardner, and with him pushing with his legs, she quickly had him pulled up to a more comfortable position. Portia went along for the ride with no problems whatever.

I don’t know if Shadow would do that, Sunny thought. On the other hand, he might like it.

“Are you okay, Mr. Barnstable?” the aide asked, turning his way.

Ollie shook his head. “I’m arranged just fine. No problems.”

“Okay, then.” With that, Camille left.

“Nice kid,” Mike said.

Gardner shrugged. “I suppose so.”

Guess he’s not about to fall in love with her, the reporter who lived in the back of Sunny’s head quipped.

Ollie operated his bed to sit up higher, wincing as he moved to a new position. “Did you bring those files?” he asked Sunny.

“I hope you’re not going to spend another night going over papers,” Gardner said.

Ollie paused, the stack of files that Sunny had just passed to him in his hands. “I didn’t keep you up, did I?”

Gardner shrugged. “I don’t sleep as well as I used to. Part of it is just age. And I guess you’d call it post-stroke nerves. When I went through the attack, the diagnosis and treatment and everything, it was like being shot out of a cannon, no time to think about anything. Now that I can sit back and consider—it’s enough to give you the shakes sometimes.”

“Isn’t the doctor giving you something for that?” Luke asked.

Gardner made a face. “She feels I have enough meds for the time being, and I think she has a point.”

Ollie looked up from the papers he’d already spread across his hospital table. “Did you bring the other thing I asked for?”

“Oh, right.” Sunny went back to her satchel and dug out the bag of potato chips. “Salt ’n’ vinegar—that’s what you wanted, right?”

Ollie eagerly reached for the snack bag of chips, then frowned. “Couldn’t you get a bigger size?”

“Did you want me to use petty cash for food?”

For a second, he seemed almost ready to say “yes.” But then he must have realized what a precedent that would set. Instead, he began struggling to get the bag open. “Stupid damn things. It’s bad enough that the food here is so bland.”

“Let me help,” Luke offered, grabbing hold. He tried to yank the top seam open. Instead, with a loud pop! the bag seemed to explode, showering Ollie with chips and chip dust.

“Oh, God, I’m sorry,” Luke apologized, offering Ollie the tiny box of tissues beside the bed.

“Clean up on Bed Two,” Mike snickered.

Ollie glumly tried to rescue as many chips as he could, too crushed by the loss of his snack to comment.

Gardner picked up the control for his bed. “Once those crumbs get under you, they’ll drive you crazy,” he said. “I think we’d better buzz for Camille . . . and hope that she won’t mention it to Dr. Gavrik.”

Camille came back in, and after Ollie got cleaned up, the time passed pleasantly enough—a little business, a little conversation. Gardner told a tale from his travels, and Luke contributed a story from his life on the road. By the time she and her dad headed down the hallway to the guard’s desk, Sunny was in a pretty good mood again.

“Good evening, sir.” Rafe Warner smiled as Mike came up to sign out. “Hi, Sunny.”

“Evening,” Mike said, absentmindedly reaching for the pen. Then he jumped back when he realized there was a cat clinging to Rafe’s arm. “The place is crawling with them,” Mike muttered.

“And who is this?” Sunny asked as she came up. The cat seemed a little shy, so she didn’t make any overtures.

“This is Patrick,” Rafe explained. “He’s Portia’s brother. I’m afraid he’s been sick for a while, so he’s been sticking pretty close to me.”

Patrick was a handsome cat, with white patches on his black fur. Sunny had heard some people refer to the color scheme as a tux. “He’s getting better, I hope?”

Rafe nodded. “But slowly.”

Mike glanced dubiously at the cat as he signed himself out. “Nothing catching, is it?”

Rafe surprised them by answering, “Cancer. Poor Patrick had to go through chemotherapy.”

Now Mike gave Patrick a long, thoughtful look. “I’ve had friends who went through that. Guess all I can say is good luck, Patrick.”

“Thanks, sir.” Rafe gently petted Patrick as Sunny signed out.

“I hope he’ll be okay,” she said. Mike was already ahead of her, opening the big door.

When they were outside, Sunny grinned at her dad. “Still so eager to have Rafe as a son-in-law?” she teased. “Love him, love his cats.”

“Hmmph,” Mike said, considering that unpleasant prospect.

Sunny decided to push the subject. “And speaking of prospective sons-in-law, how about Luke? He’s more my age, and a very nice guy, even if he can’t open a bag of chips without disastrous results.” He even had a nice, dark tan—probably thanks to his Italian genes. No sunburn that Sunny could spot.

“A musician?”

From the tone of his voice, it might as well have been, “An ax-murderer?” Sunny thought.

“Why not?” she said, rubbing it in. “Isn’t that what you wanted to be, back when you were with the Cosmic Rays?”

“The Cosmic Blade,” Mike corrected. “And I quickly gave that up.”

“Mom loved music,” Sunny pointed out.

“And your mom knew how hard it was to make money from music,” Mike replied testily. “She was always giving lessons to pay for that piano we got.”

“Sorry, Dad.” Sunny took his arm, genuinely penitent for upsetting him. “I was just teasing.”

For a second, Mike looked at her and then shook his head. “You had me going for a little while.”

“So I guess I’m stuck with Will for the time being.” She put her head on Mike’s shoulder with a wicked grin. “Unless Gardner Scatterwell offers to make me a rich widow.”

“If he ever became my son-in-law, I guarantee you’d soon be a widow,” Mike said in his sternest voice, but he was grinning, too.

*

When Shadow arranged himself for his afternoon nap, he’d draped himself along the top of the sofa. That way he could keep a drowsy eye on all the comings and goings along the street. So, even before Sunny and her father parked, Shadow was at the doorway. The Old One, as usual, held no scents of interest. But Sunny . . . he worked his way around her ankles, inhaling deeply. The mysterious She had marked Sunny very thoroughly.

For a second, Shadow wondered if he should worry about that. He’d been in a lot of homes during his wandering days—before he’d found Sunny and decided to settle down. Sometimes, in those other places, when a new pet came in Shadow had found himself out on the street. Then he caught a whiff of that intoxicating fragrance again, and he stopped thinking at all.

Even when Sunny almost tripped over him, he couldn’t stay away. The scent kept drawing him. While she prepared food and even while she ate it, Shadow couldn’t keep himself from under her feet.

She actually scolded him, and the Old One rumbled at him, too.

But Shadow couldn’t stay away.

*

Sunny began to suspect there might be a problem when Shadow arranged himself across her feet under the dinner table and just lay there, breathing deeply and purring. She reached down to stroke his fur, but he didn’t even raise his head to be petted.

Of course, I never got my hands on Portia today. She concentrated on my ankles—and now, so is Shadow.

He only stopped pestering her when she went up to her room and changed from the khakis she’d been wearing into a pair of shorts. And then he disappeared while Sunny and her dad watched some television in the living room.

Sunny decided on an early night, heading up the stairs to her room and yawning. Maybe she could make up some of the sleep she’d lost this morning.

She opened the door to her room and froze. Her khakis, which she’d hung from the back of a chair, were now on the floor in a heap. And lying on top of them, his head on the hems, was Shadow.

“Well, I guess I’m not wearing them again this week after all,” Sunny said. But the surprises weren’t over. When she tried to pull the pants out from under him, he looked up and actually hissed at her.

“Okay, buddy,” she told the cat, “you can have them for tonight. But after that outburst, don’t think you’re getting into bed with me.”

*

Sunny had a dreadful night, her dreams confused and disturbing. She stood at the doorway to a church—or was it the splendid entranceway to Bridgewater Hall? Sunny wasn’t sure, but she knew she was in a wedding gown. Her father stood beside her, a look of disapproval on his face. She was getting married—but to whom?

Rafe Warner came up, dressed in his guard’s uniform. But he walked by, into the church. So did Luke Daconto, carrying his guitar case. Gardner Scatterwell came rolling up in a wheelchair pushed by Alfred. Both of them smirked at her as they went past. Then came Will Price in his constable’s uniform. But he only looked at her sadly as he went into the church, too.

So who was the groom?

A limousine pulled up, and the chauffeur hustled round to open the door.

Shadow hopped out.

Sunny tried to say something, but there was no time. Shadow ran past her, and then the organ music started and her father took her arm.

And all the way down the long, long aisle, Sunny watched as Shadow kept going from bridesmaid to bridesmaid, sniffing their ankles.

Then the wedding bells began to peal.

No, wait a minute, that wasn’t the sound of wedding bells. It was the telephone. Sunny’s eyelids seemed gummed together, but she finally got them open. Woozily, she groped around for the phone. The bedside alarm read a few minutes after four.

“H’lo?” she managed to croak into the phone. If this turned out to be a wrong number—

“Sunny, that you? It’s Ollie—Oliver Barnstable.” His voice was tight and trembling. “I need you up here right away. Something’s going on. Gardner is dead.”