Last Licks

12

It wasn’t four a.m. when the phone rang this time—it just felt that way to Sunny. After a couple of beers she wasn’t accustomed to anymore and a somewhat late night, even an eight a.m. call had her nerves jangling.

“H-h’lo?” Her voice was hoarse and raspy from yelling over the noise at O’Dowd’s. Luke had won the crowd over, even doing an encore. But congratulating him on his success had been a little difficult when the jukebox came on again. Sunny coughed, trying to clear away a film of cigarette smoke and beer in her throat—or was that just in her head? “Who is this?”

“Ms. Coolidge? It’s Rafe Warner.”

That got her eyes open. “Is there a problem? Is Mr. Barnstable okay?”

“Sure,” Rafe replied. “I was just talking with him. He gave me your number.”

Sunny slowly raised herself to a sitting position. “And why was that?”

“I’m getting off my shift now,” Rafe said, “and I’ve got something to give you.” His voice sank to a whisper. “Files.”

“What kind—” Sunny got out, but Rafe cut her off.

“I can’t discuss this on the phone,” he said. “I can be at your house in half an hour. Mr. Barnstable gave me the address.”

Thanks, Ollie, Sunny thought.

“Half an hour,” Rafe repeated. “I’ll see you then.” Obviously it wasn’t up for discussion, because he cut the connection.

Sunny stared owlishly at the receiver in her hand, hung it up, and then grabbed the handset again. She punched in Will Price’s number. When he picked up, he sounded awake and much more human than Sunny felt.

“Files?” he said when Sunny told her story. “Intriguing. Be there in fifteen.”

That gave Sunny enough time to run a shower and get the fug of O’Dowd’s out of her hair. She sat drinking a large mug of coffee when Will rang the bell. He was in jeans and a T-shirt, and so was she.

“I see we’re both dressed to spend the day sorting through files,” he said with a smile.

“The question is, what are they, and how many?”

“I’m betting this is the stuff we asked Reese for.” Will leaned against the front of the refrigerator.

“The stuff he told us it was illegal to give out?”

Will didn’t answer. He stared at the coffeemaker, noticeably inhaling the brewing smell the way Shadow savored a rare scent. Sunny sat up a little straighter. Speaking of Shadow, where was he? He hadn’t been in her room, nor was he around when she came downstairs . . . She finally woke up enough to catch Will’s hints. “Oh. Sorry. Would you like some coffee?” Sunny poured him a cup and sat at the table.

Will added a little milk and sugar to his cup, took a sip, and sighed. “I told you cops live on this stuff. Do I dare ask who makes the coffee in this house?”

“That pot was my dad’s,” Sunny told him. “I found it on when I got down here, along with a note telling me he was off for his walk. Stick around, and you’ll get to try a pot of mine.”

Now that they’d both had their caffeine fixes, the conversation began to flow.

“We know Warner has a mole in Reese’s office,” Will said. “They must have overheard us with the big guy.”

“So Rafe is just going to give us what we want?” Sunny didn’t share Will’s morning optimism. “Why?”

The doorbell rang. Will grinned. “I guess we’ll just have to ask him.”

She opened the door to find a jittery Rafe, standing with a sheaf of papers in his hands. He thrust them over to her. “You don’t know where these came from, got it?”

When he turned to go, Will caught him by the arm. “We may not know who gave them to us, but I’d like to know what they are. Come in and have some coffee.”

Rafe reluctantly accepted a cup. They all sat at the table, the small pile of papers in the middle. Rafe kept looking at them as if he feared they’d explode. “There’s a list of the people who passed away in the last year and a half. Well, cases. Their names are blotted out, but I left the dates and the cause of death.”

That should give them a long enough time period to average out any normal peaks and valleys in the mortality statistics. Sunny figured that a careful search of the obits from the Portsmouth and Portland papers could probably discover names to line up with the dear departed, but she decided to let Rafe go with a fig leaf of privacy.

Will had more practical considerations. “You mean the official cause of death.”

Rafe nodded. “The rest are staff rosters for those days. I figure that’s close enough to what you asked for.”

“What made you decide to take such a risk getting these to us?” Sunny asked.

“I think you’ll look at them and decide you can’t use them.” Rafe’s confidence seemed to come back as he upped his caffeine level. “You’ve talked about a rise in mortality rates at Bridgewater Hall, and that’s true. Right now we’re above average. But you’re suggesting that the spike is because union people are angry, or aren’t doing their jobs, or whatever, because of what Dr. Reese has done since he took over.” He took a deep breath. “Reese has definitely made trouble—I ought to know, I’ve been banging heads with him since he came in—but if you look at the deaths month by month, the spike was higher when Dr. Faulkner was in charge, and we got along better with the administration.”

Will frowned. “So you’re saying—”

“I’m saying it’s not a job action, or people slacking off. As shop steward, I know the folks in the union. They may not all be saints, but they—we—do our best for the patients. I think this information should prove that to you. So you’ll either have to go barking up some other tree or just accept that Mr. Scatterwell died of whatever they wrote on his death certificate.”

Which is where we’d already reluctantly landed before you brought all this paper to my house, Sunny couldn’t help thinking.

“I guess we should say thank you,” she said, wishing she sounded more sincere. “It must have been a lot of work for you.”

Rafe shrugged. “A little less looking at screens, a little more photocopying. Just promise me one thing. Shred them, burn them, destroy them somehow when you’re done. I think once you see that they back up what I told you, you won’t have any other use for them.”

Rafe thanked Sunny for the coffee and went to stand up. The scrape of his chair seemed to be the cue for a gray-furred form to come through the door.

Shadow’s gotten very good at putting in an appearance just as strangers—or Toby—are heading out the door, Sunny thought with a smile.

She wasn’t sure if it was cat manners or just cat curiosity. Shadow would come over, give the guest a cursory sniff, accept a little petting if the mood was on him and the person was so inclined, and then move on.

But as Shadow approached Rafe, his standoffishness melted and he became friendly—maybe too friendly. Shadow was all over Rafe’s feet and ankles, practically clinging to him.

“Well, hello, fella.” Rafe sat back down and went to pet Shadow, but the cat surprised him—and Sunny—by veering away. It turned into a strange kind of dance. Shadow seemed magnetically drawn to Rafe’s bottom half, but repelled by his top.

Then Sunny had a thought. “Were you holding Patrick recently?” she asked.

Rafe looked surprised. “Why, yes. He was feeling a little rocky this morning, so I picked him up to help him feel better.”

“Meanwhile,” Sunny went on, “Portia was on the floor.” She laughed. “I bet Shadow’s smelling Portia from your knees down, but Patrick on your upper half. If you sit there and don’t pet him, you’ll have a new best friend all over your feet.”

Rafe did as she suggested, folding his arms and staying still. Shadow twined his way around the security guy’s legs, sniffing and purring.

“I’ve brought Portia’s scent home on me a couple of times,” Sunny explained. “And Shadow definitely likes it.”

“I guess so.” Rafe chuckled, looking down at the cat around his ankles, and then yawned. “I’d better be getting home.”

But when Rafe rose from the table and started down the hall, Shadow trotted right behind him.

“Uh-oh,” Will said. “This could be trouble.”

*

Shadow had avoided Sunny since last night when she came home late, smelling of that smoke the humans liked to breathe and the stuff they drank to act silly. He’d found that a bad combination in other homes where he’d lived.

The Old One had gotten up earlier that morning and left something out for Shadow to eat, so he’d left Sunny to sleep by herself. Then the talking-thing had made a noise, and Sunny woke up and stood under the water so the bad smells were gone. But then the human male that spent a lot of time with Sunny had come along. Shadow had learned to give them space when Sunny’s He came to visit. He was just about to come into the room and let Sunny know he was around when the noisemaker at the door sounded again—some stranger this time. So Shadow had lain low in the living room while the sound of two-leg talk had drifted down the hallway. After a while, though, he’d decided to go check out the newcomer.

The human didn’t seem scared of cats, or angry at seeing one. That was good. In fact, he seemed friendly. Then Shadow smelled the mysterious She on him. He investigated the stranger’s feet and legs thoroughly. The scent was so strong, it made his head buzz. Yes, this was definitely the She! Could this be the two-leg the She lived with?

The human bent down and offered a friendly hand—but Shadow hadn’t liked that scent at all. It was a He, and Shadow smelled sickness on him. But when the hand went away and the offending He-scent dissipated, Shadow couldn’t keep himself away from the traces the She had left.

Then the human rose from his chair again, getting set to leave, and Shadow had an inspiration. This two-leg could lead him to the She!

So, as the human went with Sunny toward the door, Shadow had followed. The scent from the other human’s pant legs was a constant distraction. He stepped a little closer, the scent filling his brain . . .

And then hands came from behind and grabbed him up. Snatched from his happy fog, Shadow found himself held helpless as the door opened and the She’s human disappeared. Flinging himself around, Shadow managed to tear himself loose, but by then the door had already closed. He flung himself at the heavy wood, scratching and crying, but the two-leg was gone, and the She’s scent was already fading.

He heard Sunny’s voice. How dare she close the door on him, letting the She’s human get away! Shadow was so, so angry. With his back to the door, he hissed at her, one paw up and claws ready—

And then he remembered the scent of Sunny’s blood. He couldn’t do that again. Conflicting impulses all but paralyzed him. He jammed himself up against the door, the unyielding wood, right at the space where the faintest traces of outside air came in. But it didn’t bring the scent he most desired.

Sunny spoke, but she didn’t touch him. Maybe that was a good thing. Shadow couldn’t trust himself not to draw blood again. He just stayed where he was, letting out his feelings in mournful yowls.

*

“I’ve seen people going through detox who didn’t look or sound as bad as that,” Will said as he and Sunny sat back in the kitchen. “Looks as though Shadow has a real case for Rafe’s Portia.”

“I don’t know what to do about it,” Sunny said as another disconsolate moan came from the front door. “So I guess we may as well ignore him.”

They sat together, reading down the list of names Rafe had left. Will ran a finger down the page. “I count twenty-three people here. That’s like a third of the beds in Bridgewater Hall, isn’t it?”

“That shouldn’t be so surprising. My dad told me the other day that the average life expectancy for a person in a nursing home is about three years.” She held up a hand at the look on Will’s face. “Hey, those are the kinds of statistics Dad keeps dredging out of the newspapers.”

Will pointed to the lower part of the list. “So, for the past twelve months, there are seventeen cases. But in the six months before that period, I count only six deaths. If that held as the average for the previous year, we’re looking at a big jump, almost fifty percent.”

“Yes, but remember, you’re working with a universe of only seventy-five beds,” Sunny pointed out. “A couple of very old or very sick people would cause a big swing in the statistics.”

Will divided the files into two piles, and gave one to Sunny. “I think that’s all we can get from the deaths. Let’s see what the rosters tell us.”

By the time she got to the third sheet, she said, “I keep seeing the same names.”

“Well, that stands to reason—it’s the night shift. Bridgewater Hall isn’t like the Sheriff’s Department, where people move around every couple of weeks. Soooo . . .” Will drew out the word. “Maybe we should look for names that don’t turn up all the time.”

“Makes sense, I guess,” Sunny said. “If the regular staff is a constant, regardless of when the mortality rate was low and when it got higher, we want to look for anomalies.”

Will nodded. “Pinch hitters who are hurting the team’s batting average.” It was boring work, looking over roster after roster, ignoring the names that were always there and marking the ones that stood out. The problem was that they didn’t really stand out. They were just tucked in among the same-old, same-old people.

They switched lists and went back to searching. It wasn’t exactly a needle in a haystack effort, but it was tedious.

The exciting world of plodding police work, Sunny thought.

After they had each gone through the entire set of lists twice, Sunny said, “Are you hungry? It just struck me that I never ate breakfast.” She put a hand on her stomach. “And Dad’s coffee, good as it is, is beginning to feel as if it’s burning a hole in my innards.”

She left Will to tabulate the results while she went to check the contents of the refrigerator. “Looks like I could do sandwiches, if you don’t mind the dreaded roast turkey with lettuce and tomato,” she reported, after seeing what Mike had picked up on his latest shopping trip. “I could put a little honey mustard on them.”

“Sounds good,” Will said, still staring at the papers.

“And to drink there’s seltzer, or I could make a new pot of coffee.”

“Seltzer, please.” A low rumble came from Will’s middle. “Maybe coffee on top of old beer wasn’t such a good decision.” Eventually, Shadow came back into the room, heading for his bowl of dry food. Sunny checked her impulse to go to the cat. If he wants company, he’ll show it, she reminded herself. Let’s see what kind of mood he’s in.

Shadow was definitely in a bad mood when it came to Will. He elaborately circled around, far out of reach, from the chair where Will sat working. Even so, Shadow kept a wary eye on his new nemesis—at least that was the way it seemed to Sunny, given all the tail lashing that was going on.

Sunny herself he seemed to regard with more sorrow than anger. When she got the glasses from the cabinet over the sink, she discovered Shadow at her feet, gazing up at her. Sorry, she silently told the cat. I’m not sure if this is a love-of-your-life kind of thing, or if it’s simple biology. Some days I really wish you could talk and tell me.

She deposited a plate and glass in front of Will and then did the same for herself. He held up a piece of paper. “As you no doubt noticed, there were a few names that appeared once. Three names appear more than once. I’ve got one turning up twice, another three times, and a C. Thibaud five times.”

He thought for a moment. “You know, five would be exactly the number of extra deaths.”

Sunny frowned, staring at the list. She’d only paid attention to the last names, not the first initials. C. Thibaud, she thought. Could that be Camille?

Aloud, she said, “I guess our next step is to head over to Bridgewater Hall and talk to this Thibaud person,” but inside, she really, really hoped that friendly, helpful Camille wouldn’t turn out to be their latest suspect.

Sunny closed her eyes, trying to recall the surrealistic scene that night as she rushed down the long, dim corridor to Room 114. The staff had all seemed gathered at the nurses’ station . . . Sunny tried to bring that into sharper focus. No, she definitely didn’t recall seeing Camille. But it was still possible that the girl had been somewhere else on the floor, tending another patient, or even somewhere mundane, like the ladies’ room. Or hiding out.

Will’s voice interrupted her thoughts. “We never got a chance to talk to Luke, either, what with all his new fans mobbing him.”

Sunny managed a laugh. “I hope he didn’t take too much of his pay in beer.”

The doorbell rang. Over by his food dish, Shadow brought his head up suddenly, but at the sound of barking outside, he slowly brought it down again.

“I’m going to go get that,” Sunny said as the bell sounded again, accompanied by more barking. She opened the door a crack, pretty sure she already knew who the visitors were.

Sure enough, she saw Mrs. Martinson wrestling with a leash as Toby tried to stick his nose into the house.

Sunny shot a quick, nervous glance over her shoulder. No Shadow waiting to make a dash for freedom. And no hisses and screams from the kitchen. She relaxed a little and opened the door wider. That got an inquiring canine nose thrust at her and an apologetic smile from Helena.

“Sorry about the delay in answering,” Sunny said. “We had a little incident with Shadow trying to get out earlier, and—” She fluttered her hands. “And here I am. What can I do for you?”

“Toby and I were out for our walk, and we heard two very odd stories,” Mrs. M. said. “One was from Florence Gaddis. She was driving back from town last night, and she swears that she saw you, Will, and Mike standing in the parking lot of O’Dowd’s.”

“Well,” Sunny admitted, “she’s right. We were actually there last night.” She hurried on at the shocked expression on Mrs. Martinson’s face. “A friend was playing some music there, the therapist I’d told you about from Bridgewater Hall.”

“The young man.” Now Helena’s expression looked disappointed. Not only had she not been included in an outing with Mike, but she’d missed a chance to meet possible matchmaking material for Sunny.

“We couldn’t think of asking you there,” Sunny said desperately. “I’m sure you’ve heard what a cesspool it is.”

“I went to O’Dowd’s once . . . years ago,” Mrs. Martinson said. “If your friend does another show there, let me know.”

Sunny knew when she was licked. “Of course,” she promised.

Helena nodded and tightened her grip on Toby’s leash, not meeting Sunny’s eyes.

“You, ah, said there were two odd things?” Sunny finally prompted.

Mrs. M. looked as though she’d been roused from a reverie. “Goodness, where does my mind go sometimes? That’s right, another friend mentioned that Alfred Scatterwell is having a memorial for his uncle at the mansion tomorrow evening.”

“Oh, really?” Sunny said.

Mrs. Martinson nodded. “It will be the first time the place will be open since Gardner stopped giving parties—which has to be twenty-five years now. With all his absences, traveling and so on, I wonder how the old place has held up.”

“You should go and see,” Sunny suggested.

But Mrs. Martinson shook her head and looked down.

A simple headshake might have meant that the event was invitation-only and good manners prevented Helena from going. But Sunny knew why Mrs. M. didn’t want to meet her eyes. She didn’t want Sunny to see the struggle going on inside—between the Kittery Harbor Way, which demanded that everyone’s passing be marked; Helena’s negative history with Gardner and her desire to have nothing to do with him; and of course, a curiosity as lively as Shadow’s own over what had become of what had once been one of the swankiest homes in Piney Brook.

“I know I’m going to see what I can find out about Gardner and Alfred, even if it means crashing, and so is Will,” Sunny told her neighbor. “As for Dad, well, if he was visiting Gardner when he was laid up, I’m sure he’ll feel obliged to go to the memorial. I don’t want to put words in his mouth, but I suspect he’d be glad to have you come along, too.”

Helena finally looked up, her eyes shining with gratitude. “Thank you, dear.”

“No problem at all,” Sunny assured her. “I’ll have Dad call you.”

Mrs. Martinson got Toby back from the door and waved good-bye.

Sunny waved back. Isn’t that part of the Kittery Harbor Way? she asked herself. Helping your neighbors?