Клэр Донелли - Last Licks

“As a matter of fact, she saw Gardner at his worst, going after Elsa Hogue,” Sunny had to admit. “But we’re talking cold-blooded murder. Is that enough to make someone go so far?”

“Put it all together . . .” Will let the words hang in the air.

“Put it all together, and do we have enough to persuade Frank Nesbit that he ought to look into this case officially?” Sunny looked around at the others. “He’s the one we have to convince, after all. What do you think? Do we have enough to convince him of foul play?”

Mike stopped playing with Portia to offer his two cents. “Admit that he let someone kill patients under his nose at a ritzy rest home? Oh, no.”

That got a sour laugh out of Will. “To convince him, we’d have to catch the killer cutting someone’s heart out. And even then, he might call it emergency surgery.” Will hesitated for a moment, and Sunny could sympathize with him. He’d made a case for some bad things going on here. But he had to face reality. “No,” he admitted.

“I could push him, but . . .” Ollie sat still, making the political calculations. “No.”

That pretty well killed the conversation. They sat for a moment or two in defeated silence.

“Hey, what’s going on, folks?” Luke Daconto came into the room. He was obviously still riding the high of last night’s performance, genial and grinning. “With a concert next week, I’ve been rehearsing my bell ringers pretty hard.”

“After all the free beer those folks at O’Dowd’s bought for you last night, you were able to listen to bell ringers this morning?” Will stared at him. “You’re a tougher man than I am.”

“Well, more like the afternoon after,” Luke admitted.

“The music was good,” Mike said, “but what really impressed me was the way you stared down that crowd to shut them up. That was really something, Luke.”

The guitarist shrugged uncomfortably. “It’s just something I learned from an old pro when I was on the road, playing in joints a lot worse than the one last night.” He grinned at Sunny, a flash of white teeth in his heavy beard. “If you thought that bar was scary, I could show you a few—”

Will rolled his eyes. “That’s all we’d need.”

Remembering some hair-raising episodes from Sunny’s other investigations, everyone laughed—even, after a moment, Sunny herself.

Luke looked a little confused at the big reaction, but pleased. “That’s better,” he said. “When I first came in here, I thought I was crashing a funeral.”

“Oh! Funeral!” Sunny turned to her dad. “I completely forgot. Mrs. Martinson stopped off at the house this morning. She told me that Alfred Scatterwell is having a memorial service for Gardner tonight. She was feeling a little funny about whether she should go, and I kind of promised that you would take her. You’d better give her a call.”

“Are you and Will going?” Luke asked.

Sunny nodded, shooting a quick glance at Luke. “Of course. I’ll represent you, Ollie.”

“Yeah.” Ollie started rooting around in the pile of newspapers on his tray table. Sunny noticed he had both the Press Herald from Portland and the Herald from across the border in Portsmouth. “There’s an announcement of the memorial in here—not what I’d call an engraved invitation, but it seems to be a public event.”

“Do you mind if I use your phone?” Mike asked Ollie. “I want to pass that along to Helena. She’s probably worrying herself into a head of white hair over whether it’s proper to go.”

“On her, it would look good,” Sunny cracked. Mike was busy punching in Mrs. M.’s number, but Sunny’s comment got a chuckle from everybody else in the room . . . except Luke. He stood very still, as if suddenly he were the one at the funeral.

“Are you okay?” Sunny asked, and then shook her head. “Hey, I’m sorry. I know you’d gotten close with Gardner. You should have heard about this memorial from Alfred, not from me acting scatterbrained.”

“If not for you, I wouldn’t have heard about it at all,” Luke said quietly. “Alfred—well, I guess he didn’t approve of his uncle hanging out with me.”

“As if you could lead him into bad habits,” Mike scoffed. “Believe me, Luke, Gardner tried them all before you were born.”

That got a wan laugh out of Luke. “I suppose that’s true.”

“It’s a funny thing, but I understand you were actually nearby the night Gardner died,” Will said.

Sunny gave him a “not now” look. There he is, pure cop, crossing the T’s and dotting the I’s on the witness statements.

But Will plowed right on. “Elsa Hogue mentioned bumping into you at the nurses’ station.”

For a second Luke looked baffled, but then his face cleared. “That’s right. I left the office where I was working and came over to see if I could bum anything with caffeine in it. Working on reports makes me sleepy, verrrrry sleeeeeeeepy . . .” He slipped into a mad hypnotist voice for a moment, then spoke normally. “I think Elsa was looking for the same thing.”

Will looked satisfied with that explanation.

Mike glanced at his watch. “If we want to grab an early supper and get dressed, we should probably get moving.”

“Um . . . Mike?” Luke seemed to stumble over his words a little. “Could you give me the when and the where? I’d like to go, too.”

“Of course, son,” Mike said gently. “It’s at eight o’clock, Twelve Brookside Lane.” He gave a little laugh. “You know, I haven’t been there in almost fifty years, yet I still remember the address. It’s funny, what sticks with you.”

“Yeah,” Luke said. “Funny.”

14

Shadow woke upannoyed. He’d been having a dream where he stalked through dark woods, tracking the She by scent. It was nice to open his eyes and find himself in a patch of sun in the living room, but the dream had definitely been more interesting. He’d been awoken by Sunny and the Old One coming through the door, rushing around and talking loudly. There was no hope of going back to his dreams now.

It was still early—Shadow’s stomach told him so. But Sunny started preparing food while the Old One went up the stairs. That in itself was odd. The Old One usually spent this time in the room with the picture box. Shadow decided to investigate.

As he climbed the stairs, Shadow heard the sound of running water—much running water. So he wasn’t surprised when he found the door to the tiled room closed. But what was the Old One doing in there at this time of day? It made no sense.

Then Shadow noticed that the door to the Old One’s room stood wide open. Usually, Sunny’s father kept the door closed. He’d made it clear he didn’t want Shadow in there.

But if the Old One was busy standing under the water, he’d be there for a while . . .

Shadow trotted into the room. As soon as he was inside, he decided this was a bad idea. He’d been in here just recently, there was nothing to see—definitely nothing he wanted to smell—and there was nothing to play with.

Well, the Old One had thrown his clothes on the bed, and the arm of a shirt dangled down. That was better than nothing. Shadow went over to give it a halfhearted swipe with his paw . . . and froze at the scent that wafted his way as the cloth swung back and forth. How could the Old One smell so much of the She?

Shadow was torn. If this had been Sunny’s room, he’d probably climb up on the bed to get more of the fragrance. Besides, it would be mixed with Sunny’s scent. He didn’t think that mixing She and Old One would be as nice. And the Old One could come in any moment and catch him. That would mean trouble.

So Shadow marched to the door in annoyance, his tail up, its tip twitching. Sunny could be with the She. Even the Old One could be with the She. But Shadow, who really wanted to be with the She, wasn’t allowed.