Last Licks

7

Sunny and Will thanked the doctor for his help and left the office. “So, natural causes or foul play?” she said. “It looks as if we’re coming right down the middle.”

“It would have been nice if he’d gotten something clear-cut,” Will admitted. They walked into the parking lot for the medical building and stood between their two trucks. “Guess we might as well head back to Bridgewater Hall and talk to the people who cleaned out Room 114.”

When they got back to the facility, they found Rafe Warner working the security desk. He was uncharacteristically silent as Sunny signed in. But as she turned away, words seemed to tumble out of him. “Is it true that you’re investigating how Mr. Scatterwell died?”

There goes our chance of keeping this quiet, Sunny thought.

“Where’d you hear that?” Will demanded.

“People say things.” Rafe’s eyes roved the area, checking for anyone who might overhear. “Folks in the office say Dr. Reese has them working on a big document for you to sign.”

The damned confidentiality agreement! Sunny had forgotten all about it.

“I can’t say anything about that.” She kept her voice low, too. “But we’ll want a look at the log to see who came in and went out last night.”

“That’ll be up to Dr. Reese,” Rafe said nervously.

“And he’ll agree.” Will gave him a wolf’s smile. “That’s in the big document, too.”

Then he asked for directions to Housekeeping, which Rafe was willing enough to give, but talking to the crew that cleaned Gardner’s room got them nowhere. The maintenance people weren’t withholding—they just didn’t know anything.

“We go in whenever anybody passes away,” a guy in janitorial greens explained. “We don’t do anything while the other person is in the room. That upsets them. But once they’re away, we clean and clear out as soon as possible.”

He leaned forward. “This time around, the patient had puked. So we cleaned up after that, and did a specially careful job.” He allowed himself a small smile. “They don’t like germs around here.”

Sunny and Will left the office. “Well,” he said, “should we go give Ollie a lack-of-progress report?”

“Hey, we found out a couple of things,” Sunny replied. “Can we help it that they’re things he won’t want to hear?”

When they arrived at Room 114, though, Sunny was surprised to see Luke Daconto just leaving.

“Thought I’d stop by,” he said. “Mr. Barnstable was pretty bummed to lose his friend.”

“Not just Ollie,” Sunny told him. “I’m sure you’ll miss Gardner, too.”

Luke lowered his eyes. “Yeah. It’s kinda rough. He was a great guy.”

It seemed as though Luke wasn’t as plugged in to the rehab center grapevine as Rafe Warner. He obliviously shook hands with Will. Obviously, here was another person that Ollie hadn’t let in on the investigation. Is Ollie being cagey, or did he just get hit with Reese’s confidentiality agreement? Sunny thought. She introduced Will, not mentioning that he was a constable. If that’s the way Ollie wants to play this, I’ll go along.

They chatted for a moment, and then Luke moved on.

If Ollie had been bummed out before, hearing their report didn’t cheer him up much. He sat up in bed, listening with a frown on his face. But when they finished, Ollie said, “I’ve got a suspect for you.”

“Someone here? Someone who knew Scatterwell?” Will asked.

Ollie shook his head. “Stan Orton.”

“The man you did the real estate deal with?” Sunny stared at her boss.

“The guy who threatened me—and then I beat him on that contract,” Ollie told her. “I think he got Gardner by mistake.”

“You think Orton snuck in last night?”

“Of course not.” Ollie gave her a withering look. “He sent somebody, somebody who works here. At first, he probably just hired them to spy on me. That’s when whoever it was must have overheard me talking with Gardner about brandy.”

Will looked doubtful. “So it’s someone who knew who was talking while they were eavesdropping, but couldn’t recognize who was who in the dark?”

Ollie made an impatient gesture. “Okay, maybe two people—one from the day shift, one for the night.”

“And they’d be willing to poison you?” Sunny couldn’t keep the doubt out of her own voice.

“No, no, Orton wanted to punish me, not kill me. It was probably something to make me sick as a dog. But if Gardner got it instead, well, he was in pretty bad shape. Maybe what would have just made me sick was enough to kill him.”

Sounds like the kind of story you’d find on the lamer cop shows, Sunny thought, but she kept her mouth shut.

Will, who had more professional pride, looked ready to argue. “Ollie—”

“We’ll take it under advisement,” Sunny said. The last thing they needed was to provoke a fight with her boss.

“It’s not like you’ve got a theory of your own,” Ollie griped. “So get out there and dig into Orton. Maybe he’s pulled a dirty trick or two before. And don’t sign anything with these people. I’ve got my lawyer going over their so-called agreement.”

“Okay,” both Will and Sunny promised. They said good-bye to Ollie and got out of there before he opened another can of craziness on them. As they walked down the hall, Will lowered his voice, looking up and down the hallway. “Do you know where the john is around here? I know Ollie’s room had one, but I didn’t want to stay in there.”

Sunny spotted Camille the aide walking toward them, and directed Will’s question to her. “Four doors down on the other side.” The girl pointed.

Will thanked her and hurriedly headed away.

“There was quite a lot of excitement here early this morning,” Sunny said when they were alone.

Camille nodded. “Poor Mr. Scatterwell.”

Sunny decided to do some gentle information gathering. “Do you lose a lot of patients from this ward?”

Camille shook her head. “It happens more in the resident wards, where people are older and sometimes frail. But here? This is the first I know of. But then, I’ve only been here a couple of months. Bridgewater Hall took me on right after I finished my training.”

“Do you like the job?”

An embarrassed smile appeared on Camille’s plain face. “I wanted to help people—and make a living. Everywhere I looked, they kept saying that health care was one of the only growing career fields. So I went for a training course, and at least I got a job.”

“Is it all it was cracked up to be?” Sunny asked.

Camille gave her a shrug. “It’s kind of a look into a different world. Most of the people here, I’d say they have money. Not like where I grew up.”

“So are the rich really different?” Sunny grinned. “That’s what one writer said.”

“They’re used to having people take care of them, I’d say.” Camille looked a little put on the spot. “Some of them are nice. Your friend Mr. Barnstable isn’t that bad, once you get past the grumpiness.”

“He’s my boss,” Sunny said. “And if you say he’s being nice, I’ve got to find out what kind of pills you’re giving him.”

“He’s . . . honest,” Camille said. “That usually happens when people are sick or in pain.” Her smile slipped a little. “Not with Mr. Scatterwell, though. He liked people to think he was a nice guy, but he wasn’t.”

Sunny nodded. “I saw a little of that.”

“He was really sick, but he wouldn’t do the work to get better.” Camille seemed upset at the waste. “But even though he was badly off, he still liked to chase women. Not that he’d be able to do anything if he caught them.” Scorn turned into something else on her face. “If you weren’t pretty or rich—”

Like Camille, for instance, Sunny thought.

“You might as well be a piece of furniture,” Camille finished.

“That doesn’t sound very nice at all,” Sunny said.

Camille shook her head. “It could be worse if he noticed you. Ms. Hogue found that out.”

“The occupational therapist?”

“She kept trying to get him to do more, and he didn’t want to.” Camille lowered her voice. “He got really mean, calling her names, telling her she wouldn’t have a job, that his big buddy Dr. Reese would fire her—I even caught him feeling her up when he thought no one was looking.”

Camille looked a little wistful. “Ms. Hogue used to look really pretty, but the longer she worked with him, she stopped wearing makeup, or nice clothes, she just sort of hunkered down.”

“Couldn’t she have gotten Mr. Scatterwell assigned to someone else?”

“She tried, but he went over everybody’s head.” Camille’s tone got more guarded. “Things haven’t been the same around here since Dr. Reese took over. With Dr. Faulkner, you felt as if the boss cared. But with Reese, well, he and Rafe Warner have been at each other’s throats.”

Why would it matter what the security guard thought? Sunny wondered.

When Camille saw the baffled expression on Sunny’s face, she explained. “Rafe is the shop steward for the union, and Reese wants to tear up the whole contract.”

I’m beginning to wonder what kind of an investigator I am, Sunny thought. All this intrigue going on in front of me, and I don’t catch any of it. I guess if Rafe is at war with Dr. Reese, no wonder he’s getting news of what goes on in the administrator’s office.

“And it’s getting worse.” Camille’s voice sank to a whisper. “When Rafe’s cat Patrick got sick, Dr. Faulkner said that because he’s a therapy cat, Bridgewater Hall would cover his treatment. But Dr. Reese said it wasn’t in writing, and he’s not paying for vet bills.”

A light over one of the doors down the hallway began blinking.

“That’s one of my patients needing help.” Camille excused herself and hurried to respond.

Sunny turned back to find Will standing beside her. “Uncover any clues?” he asked with a smile.

“No, but we dug up a lot of dirt—I’ll tell you once we’re outside.”

They headed around the nurses’ station and down the long corridor to the front door. When they got to the security desk, Sunny asked Rafe, “Where’s Portia?”

“Patrick wasn’t feeling all that well, so Portia is keeping him company.” He pointed in the corner behind him. Sunny leaned over the chest-high security desk to see a cat bed in the tiny space. Patrick sat up, his head hanging and his fur out at all angles while Portia carefully and gently groomed him with her tongue.

“Does he often have bad days?” Sunny asked.

“It comes and goes,” Rafe replied. “The vet says that with chemo, the cure can feel as bad as the disease. But Patrick’s hung in there, and so have I.”

Sunny noticed that Rafe wasn’t in a uniform shirt today, but a plain, short-sleeved number starting to fray at the collar. Hanging in there, but looks to me like you might be having trouble making ends meet, Sunny thought. She and Will signed out but got a surprise when they opened the door. Mike was about a step away, reaching for the handle.

“Thought I’d stop by and see how Ollie was doing,” he said.

Sunny smiled. The Kittery Harbor Way strikes again.

“Luke Daconto was in to see him, too,” she said. “I’ll see you at home for dinner, Dad.” Sunny gave her dad a quick kiss on the cheek, and then she and Will went to their trucks.

“I’m dying for a cup of coffee. Do you know some place in the area that won’t cost us an arm and a leg?” Will asked.

“Another mistake,” Sunny sighed. “I should have held Ollie up for an expense account.” She got out her cell phone and called the MAX office. Nancy answered, sounding reasonably cool and calm.

“Hi,” she said when Sunny identified herself. “Everything went pretty well. Quitting time is coming up soon.”

“Remember to lock up the office,” Sunny told her. “But first, I want you to check our restaurant database for any places near Bridgewater or Levett.”

Nancy quickly gave her the names of a couple of places. One struck a bell.

“Thanks,” Sunny said, and then turned to Will. “There’s a sandwich place that opened this summer. They’re supposed to make a mean panini, and the coffee’s good.”

She gave Will the address, and soon afterward they pulled up in front of a small strip mall. The shop was small but clean, and the staff was enthusiastic. Sunny and Will both came out with paper cups of coffee.

Will sipped his and let out a sigh. “Ah, the four cop blood types: A, B, O, and Morning Mud.” While he got his caffeine infusion, Sunny passed along what Camille had told her.

“Sounds as though this therapist was having a real problem with Scatterwell. If what the aide says is true, he’d actually progressed to physical harassment.” Will frowned.

“But I guess she wouldn’t get very far making a complaint if Gardner had a friend at the top of the pile.” Sunny silently contemplated her cup of joe for a moment. “A person could get mighty desperate in a situation like that.”

“Then there’s Reese himself,” Will suggested. “Apparently he was brought in as a new broom, expected to cut operating costs. How do you think the staff has reacted?”

“Camille said it’s not the same,” Sunny said.

Will nodded. “And maybe the care isn’t as good. That would explain the spike in the mortality rate.” He frowned down into his cup.

“Nothing wiggling in there, I hope?” Sunny peered over.

“Just a nasty little thought niggling at my brain,” Will told her. “Your friendly aide essentially said that there’s labor strife going on at Bridgewater Hall. What if some of the union people are taking it too far?”

“You think they’re killing patients?” Coffee slopped out of Sunny’s cup, landing on the hood of Will’s truck. She dabbed at the splotch with her napkin, trying to hide how upset she was. “From what I see, most of the people in that place are like Camille. They want to help people.”

“But if they get stepped on often enough, maybe they don’t go the extra mile anymore.” Will gave Sunny his napkin, too. “There’s something else. You say that Scatterwell wasn’t very backward about telling people how tight he was with Reese. What if someone picked up on that and decided to make a public example out of old Gardner?”

“Striking at Reese through Gardner? Sounds kind of extreme.”

“It would rub Reese’s nose in the problems going on in the facility,” Will argued. “And maybe there’s a personal side to it, too.”

Sunny looked at him, not sure she wanted to hear what Will had in mind. “How?”

“You told me that Reese went out of his way to screw over your friend Rafe.”

“He’s not my friend.” For a second, Sunny felt like she was arguing with her dad. “He just seems like a nice guy.”

“Who has a sick cat that might die if Rafe can’t keep up the payments for chemotherapy,” Will said. “Did you see his shirt today?”

Unwillingly, Sunny nodded her head.

“I’d say he’s pretty close to the edge. Maybe he wanted Reese to find out how it felt to lose someone close to him.”

“But to kill someone?” Sunny objected.

“A not very nice person.” Will’s lips tugged into a sort of smile. “I’ve seen how people act around their cats. You can’t call it strictly rational.”

She gave him a look. “So what do you want to do about it?”

“I’ll ask some friends to check and see if Rafe Warner or Elsa Hogue has ever turned up on the Sheriff Department’s radar screens,” Will said. He stepped around to open the door on Sunny’s Wrangler for her. “We still have Alfred Scatterwell to see tomorrow,” he said.

She nodded. “The guy with the money motive. I vote that if he offers us anything to drink, we say no.”

“I should say not,” Will told her. “If he offers us anything to drink, we take a sample before pouring the rest down the drain.”

*

Sunny arrived home to find an empty driveway. Guess Dad’s still visiting with Ollie, she thought as she parked and walked to the door. No sooner did she step into the house than a four-footed rocket came flying from the living room to orbit around her ankles. Shadow circled her once, then twice, and then drew away, looking almost affronted.

“What’s your problem?” Sunny asked as she walked down the hallway to the kitchen.

Sunny opened the refrigerator and began rummaging in the chiller compartment for salad makings. She brought out a head of romaine lettuce, some tomatoes, a container of mushrooms, a couple of leftover carrots, some radishes, and a jar of marinated peppers. As she closed the door and stood up, she found herself face to face with Shadow, who had somehow gained the high ground on top of the fridge. He lay with his paws primly together, giving her a reproachful look.

“I haven’t forgotten to feed you,” Sunny told him. “I just want to get supper ready.” She washed the vegetables in the sink, tore the lettuce leaves into smaller pieces, chopped the vegetables, and placed all the rabbit food in a large wooden bowl. All the while, she was aware of Shadow’s eyes on the top of her head.

“Dressing,” she said, getting a packet of low-sodium Italian and mixing it with water, olive oil, and balsamic vinegar. Shaking it vigorously in a bottle, she put it aside and looked at the cat.

“All right!” Sunny burst out. “Dinner for you. Happy now?” She went to the cabinet and got a can of Shadow’s regular food, pulled the pop top, and dug the delicious chicken and tuna dinner into his bowl. It had to be delicious, it said so right on the can. Then she refilled his water bowl.

But Shadow remained on his perch, silently regarding her.

“Fine, fine, have it your way.” Sunny ignored the cat, and dug around in the freezer section for more dinner fixings. The previous weekend, Mike had fired up the grill and cooked up a mess of boneless chicken thighs, which he’d had marinating in the refrigerator for two days before. Sunny had packaged all the leftovers, two to a freezer bag, and frozen them. Now she pulled out a bag with a pair of bigger pieces of meat, put them in a microwavable bowl, and nuked them on Defrost.

When Mike came home a little while later, Sunny heated the chicken in the microwave and tossed the salad with the dressing she’d made. Splitting the greens between two bowls, she sliced the hot chicken, put it on top, and doused it with the remaining dressing.

“Looks good,” Mike said as he came into the kitchen and took a bottle of lemon-lime fizzwater out of the fridge.

Sunny got the glasses, and they sat down to eat. She glanced around the kitchen, noting that Shadow no longer guarded the top of the fridge but was finally paying attention to the food she’d laid out for him.

But while she—and Shadow—ate, Sunny noticed that he kept looking over at her as if something was wrong.

*

Shadow kept giving Sunny puzzled glances. This wasn’t fair, not after all he’d gone through today, nearly killing himself climbing that tree, nearly getting killed by that crazy bird, getting trapped on the roof, and finally escaping . . . into the Old One’s room. He knew the Old One usually kept his door tightly closed, just to keep Shadow out. Shadow didn’t mind because it also kept the scent of the Old One in. He feared he’d be stuck in there, and Old One smells weren’t particularly interesting or pleasant. The scent of the human’s sickness was fading away, which was good. But the Old One had one pair of shoes that let off such a terrible stink, Shadow was surprised that Biscuit Eaters weren’t showing up to roll on them.

He’d had a bad time for a while but the door hadn’t latched, and he’d managed to get it open, escaping out into fresh air. The first thing he’d done was go downstairs to the kitchen and drink some water. Then he’d taken a nap. And then, when Sunny came home, he’d rushed to her with an eager nose, hoping to erase all the bad things that had happened, the unpleasant smells he’d endured, by sniffing around her. She carried the same scents that he’d detected for the past few days, scents of illness and, in this case, a particularly nose-twisting odor he hadn’t liked. She also smelled of car, and the He who was often around her, and several kinds of food.

But the scent he really wanted, the scent he’d been looking forward to . . . there wasn’t a trace! For days now, Sunny had brought back traces of the mysterious She. The thought of filling his nostrils with that intoxicating aroma had brought Shadow at a run, only to be disappointed. Was the She teasing him? Or was Sunny?

He sullenly made the cat food disappear, all the while doing his best to give Sunny a cat’s version of a dirty look.

*

The next morning, Sunny dressed with a little more care than usual. Maybe it was silly; she’d crashed New York’s swankiest enclaves of the rich and famous as a reporter. But today she was heading for Piney Brook, the fanciest neighborhood in her old hometown, to beard Alfred Scatterwell in his den, or stately home, or whatever. That seemed to call for special armor. She got out the dusky blue lightweight suit she saved for the biggest interviews. Will seemed to have had the same thoughts, turning up in dark gray slacks, a slightly lighter shirt, and a sport coat with a very fine houndstooth pattern. “Do you mind riding with me?” he asked. “I’ve got a couple of things to discuss before we tackle Alfred.”

As they drove over, Will said, “I got some files from my friends this morning—figured the night shift was the best time for them to go and look.”

“Anything that helps us?” Sunny asked.

He shook his head. “Nothing on Elsa Hogue, not even a traffic ticket. Her husband passed away about seven years ago—severe heart attack. Rafe Warner was involved in a confrontation once, but it won him a commendation, not an arrest. He once apprehended a guy who grabbed a tourist’s wallet in a restaurant and headed for the door. Warner put him on the floor and kept him there until the cops arrived.”

“So he’s a good citizen,” Sunny said.

“A good citizen who has no problem putting a bad guy down,” Will replied. “I added Alfred Scatterwell to my wish list, just to see if anything came up. He’s never been accused of a crime, but he’s been a complainant in several cases, usually for assault.”

Thinking of Alfred’s attitude when she met him, Sunny wasn’t exactly astonished.

“Of course, given the present administration’s stand on crime statistics, the charges all became harassment,” Will went on.

“Which is probably what they were in the first place,” Sunny said. “Alfred strikes me as the kind of guy who’d claim assault quickly to defend his dignity.”

“You mean have other people—like the cops—defend his dignity.” Will drove on for a moment, then said, “Would it surprise you to hear that Gardner Scatterwell, on the other hand, had been in some kind of trouble stretching back to his high school days?”

“What kind of trouble?”

“Drunk driving, disturbing the peace, harassment—female division, this time. It all stayed pretty low-level, fines and suspended sentences, probably due to him having expensive lawyers. Usually there were fairly long gaps between charges, so I guess he tried to behave himself.”

“Probably he took his bad behavior out of town. My dad mentioned that he often traveled,” Sunny said.

They were getting close to Alfred’s address, but as Sunny looked out the window, she didn’t see the picture of gracious living she’d expected. The houses were nice and well kept, but they weren’t much bigger than the one she lived in, and they were rather close together. “Wait a minute, I know this neighborhood,” she burst out. “My dad used to call it ‘the servants’ quarters.’”

“Sort of Piney Brook by extension.” Will grinned.

“A dump, by Piney Brook standards. If this is where the Scatterwells come from . . .” It took Sunny a minute to find the words. “Well, let’s just say they put the ‘pretend’ in ‘pretentious.’”

“Oh, this is just Alfred’s place,” Will assured her. “The old family manse is a big, dilapidated pile right on the banks of the Piney Brook itself. That’s where Gardner used to live, although he closed the place up when he wound up in Bridgewater Hall.”

“I wonder if Alfred looks forward to moving up to the big house,” Sunny said.

Will grinned and sang, “‘Movin’ on up . . .’”

They stopped in front of a house not that different from its neighbors. Sunny wasn’t expecting Jeeves the butler to appear when they rang the doorbell, but the apparition that answered went way too far in the opposite direction. In a knit polo shirt and plaid Bermuda shorts, Alfred Scatterwell definitely hadn’t dressed for the occasion. Seeing his knobby knees and scaly elbows was bad enough, but his potbelly seemed to bobble with every step.

“So you found the place,” he said. “What do you want?” Apparently while he was only the all-purpose heir, Alfred had held himself back around his uncle. Now that he expected to rake in Gardner’s money, Alfred was letting his true nature out.

“First, we’d like to offer our condolences—” Sunny began, but Alfred waved her off.

“You saw how well the old man and I got along. Do you really think I’m bereaved?”

Smelling the brandy on his breath, Sunny had another description in mind.

“I think you should be concerned about the way your uncle died,” Will firmly told him. “There are some unusual circumstances.”

“The people at Bridgewater Hall told me Uncle Gardner died of a stroke, and his personal physician concurred,” Alfred replied. “Considering he had a stroke three months before, how unusual is that?”

“There’s a situation you’re not aware of.” Sunny told Alfred the story Oliver Barnstable had recounted to her and Will.

Scatterwell looked incredulous. “You’re taking the word of that flabby-faced loudmouth? The man is on pain medication, for heaven’s sake.”

“You yourself complained about the mortality rate at Bridgewater Hall,” Sunny pointed out. “Don’t you feel any responsibility to find out what happened?”

“I felt responsible enough to the family fortune to look into the possibility of suing for malpractice.” Alfred shook his head. “The outlay in lawyer’s fees didn’t match the uncertain chances of winning a settlement.”

Sunny didn’t know what to say to that. She looked over at Will, who was eyeing Alfred as if he’d encountered a strange specimen. “Mr. Barnstable raised enough concern that we’re looking into what happened to your uncle.” Will tried to appeal to Alfred’s penny-pinching side. “It needn’t even cost you anything. If you just approached the medical examiner and asked for some test—”

“Why should I?” Alfred interrupted. “If there was a policy with a big payout, the insurance company may want to quibble, but I don’t. My uncle always sneered at me for inheriting family money. But what did he do? He received the lion’s share of my grandfather’s estate and spent his life wasting it. There aren’t many Scatterwells left, thanks to people like Uncle Gardner who never had children. If I can amass enough money, invest it intelligently, there may be something for the next generation—and we could repair the mansion that’s going to rack and ruin. I was down in the big house yesterday trying to see if we could use any of the public rooms for a memorial. They’re all going to need work.”

Sunny couldn’t get over this attitude. “So you’d wink at murder to get your inheritance?”

“I reject any culpability for my uncle’s death.” Alfred drew himself to his full height. He might have looked impressive, if he’d been dressed better and his belly didn’t jiggle. “But if—if—someone hurried his demise along, it stopped him from wasting money on that overgrown home for the senile.” He glared at Will. “Just as his stroke stopped him from throwing money away on a high school he’d barely thought of in the last fifty years or so. When you called yesterday, I knew I recognized your name—so I looked in Uncle Gardner’s papers to find the connection. What did you do to get his money, sing the school song?” Alfred put his hand over his heart and croaked, “‘Saxon, Saxon, onward, upward,’” his expression looking as if he wanted to spit. “Oh, yes, I went there, too. A few years before you did. Family tradition, sending the males to that ridiculous place. And I hate to disappoint you, Mr. Fund-raiser, but they won’t get one thin dime from me.”

He finally led them into the house from the doorway, along a hallway toward the living room. “I was from the same family as Uncle Gardner, went to the same stupid schools. But for my entire life, he lorded it over me, mocked me, belittled me. Well, he’s not so superior now.”

Alfred pointed at the coffee table, which held a waxed cardboard box with a metal handle, the sort of thing that might accompany a large order of take-out Chinese food. “It’s just like that old joke he liked to tell—all men are cremated equal.”