Клэр Донелли - Last Licks

“Well, yeah,” Ollie said. “But—”

“And you know that he doesn’t like to admit that crimes ever happen in his jurisdiction,” Will went on.

Ollie looked so woebegone, Sunny let him have the rest of her French fries. Apparently, chewing helped his thinking process. “Do you know if it’s usual for stroke victims to throw up?”

Will shrugged.

“My dad’s doctor, Dr. Collier, may be able to help,” Sunny suggested. “His practice treats heart ailments and strokes.”

Sunny looked at Ollie’s plate. In spite of his complaints, he’d made good inroads on most of the food there. The turkey was completely gone.

It didn’t seem like there was much else to discuss about the case, so Sunny asked how Ollie’s rehab therapy was going. “Elsa had me working while I sat down,” he said. “She wants me to work my upper body and arms so I can deal with this thing.” He reached for the walker they’d put off to the side. “Now I can look forward to an hour of PT—or as Gardner used to call it, painful torture. I don’t know which is worse, the pain from my leg, or the fear of falling.”

The reminder of Scatterwell’s sometimes sharp tongue stirred a memory for Sunny. “Did Gardner ever say anything about Elsa Hogue?”

Ollie stared at the unexpected question. “No. Why should he?”

“Just wondering. Did he have a nickname for your physical therapist?”

Grinning, Ollie nodded. “He called him Jack the Gripper, from the way he steadies people by holding on to the seat of their pants.”

“Well, that one makes sense.” Sunny glanced around to see that the room was starting to fill up. It looked like the customers were mainly long-term residents and members of their families. “Maybe we should get a move on. Looks as though they could use the table.”

Sunny and Will settled their bills and then set off for the rehab ward, wheeling Ollie along. When they reached Room 114, the pungent smell of disinfectant leaked out into the hallway. Ollie vigorously fanned his hand in front of his nose. “Maybe we should go straight to the therapy room.”

“Just give me a minute.” Will stepped inside. Gardner’s bed still remained stripped, and the drawers on the chest at the foot of his bed all stood open.

“They don’t waste much time, do they?” Ollie muttered to Sunny. “A real sentimental bunch.”

Sunny just nodded. It seemed odd to erase Gardner’s presence so thoroughly, considering that the administrator here was an old friend of his. Or so Gardner believed when he was alive, she couldn’t help thinking.

Will came back out. “Looks like the Ritz, compared to some of the state police barracks I’ve lived in,” he said with a grin. “Generally, they kept out the snow but were a bit on the Spartan side.”

He took command of the wheelchair again, and they headed back to the therapy room. Jack the Gripper (as Sunny would now forever think of him) stood just inside the door. He had to be in his forties, shorter than Will but with a lot more muscle on a stocky frame, his reddish-blond hair gelled up in spikes.

If somebody had to hold up Ollie the Barnacle, this would be the guy to do it, Sunny thought.

“You can cancel the search party,” the therapist told the volunteer who was just leaving.

Then he looked down at Ollie with a smile. “How are you doing today?”

“As well as can be expected after having turkey tetrazzini for lunch,” Ollie told him. Catching the man’s inquisitive glance at his companions, Ollie said, “Sunny Coolidge here works for me. She and her friend Will took me out for lunch.”

Sunny had expected a different introduction from Ollie, but apparently he thought people might speak more freely if they didn’t know that she and Will were snooping around. Well, maybe it was better to keep their investigation on the down low—at least as long as they could.

“Jack Quentin.” The therapist extended a powerful hand to Sunny.

“We’ll leave you to it,” Sunny said, sure that Quentin and probably a lot of other people remembered the uproar from Ollie when she’d come into this room just yesterday. She patted Ollie on the arm. “Be in touch with you soon.”

“Yeah.” Ollie gave her a look. “Let me know what you hear from that doctor.”

“Will do,” Sunny promised. Then she and Will got out of there.

Will waited until they reached the parking lot before speaking. “If there had been a glass beside the bed, it’s gone now. And after the bucket-and-mop brigade got done in that room, I don’t expect there’s any trace of physical evidence left.” Cold anger made his face all sharp angles. “I didn’t think it was worth getting Ollie all riled up, especially when he’s apparently hoping we can stay undercover.”

“Thanks—I could do without another tantrum.” Sunny didn’t mention whether she expected it from Ollie or Will.

Will didn’t holler, but he obviously had someone to blame. “At least Nesbit could have asked the folks here to hold off until I’d gotten a look around.”

“Do you think he’s stacking the deck against us?” Sunny scowled at the idea. She hadn’t expected this job to be easy, but people didn’t have to go out of their way to make it harder.

“We should have probably taken that as a given,” Will said with a sigh. Then he began to look more thoughtful. “If this is standard operating procedure, Bridgewater Hall seems to make the dear departed disappear awfully quickly.”

“That could make sense among the older residents,” Sunny said. “It might upset them, being reminded of absent friends.” She shrugged. “Maybe they’re trying to be businesslike, getting things ready for the next customer.”

“Or maybe there are some guilty consciences at work, who don’t want to leave any evidence of incompetence or malpractice lying around,” Will suggested.

“When Alfred Scatterwell was trying to get his uncle to shift to a less expensive facility, he claimed that the mortality rate at Bridgewater Hall was higher than average,”

“That would be a good reason to make any evidence disappear, wouldn’t it?” Will said. “Especially if someone screwed up Scatterwell’s treatment.”

“Ollie didn’t notice anything go wrong while they were working on Gardner,” Sunny objected. “But maybe we should file the facility’s mortality rate under motive. When I first met him, Gardner Scatterwell seemed like kind of a cheerful boob, rich and clueless. Then I saw his not-so-nice side, the way he treated his nephew and Elsa Hogue. If he found out that something wasn’t up to snuff at Bridgewater Hall, I have a feeling he wouldn’t be above a little blackmail.”

Will nodded. “The problem with blackmail is that it rarely stays little. Someone could have decided to get rid of Scatterwell instead of paying up.”

Behind them, the door swung open and a tall, distinguished figure stepped out into the sunshine. But Dr. Henry Reese missed a step when he saw them. “Good afternoon, Doctor,” Sunny said. “This is my partner in this investigation, Constable Price.”

Reese didn’t offer to shake hands, but it looked as though Will was pretty used to that. “Actually, Dr. Reese and I have met before,” he said. “He’s another Saxon alum from the class of ’66 that I tracked down for fund-raising. The name didn’t spark anything, but I definitely remember the face.”

The chief administrator of Bridgewater Hall showed no trace of recognition . . . and not much in the way of manners. “You’ll have to excuse me,” Reese said, frozen-faced. “I have an appointment.” He headed for his car as if he were afraid that Will might tackle him.

*

Shadow was nothappy. He’d managed to get out while Sunny and the Old One were both busy, which was good. But the sun was hot, and even the shady patches were uncomfortably warm. He’d tried all the windows, even the ones to the Dark Place underneath the house, again without any luck. The only loose screen he found was for the little house behind, where all the boxes lived. That didn’t help at all.