Клэр Донелли - Last Licks

“Camille.” Sunny tried to rub some life back into her numbed hand. “Why?” She wasn’t asking about the attack on Ollie, or even on her. Obviously they had caught an angel of death, the cause of the bump in mortality statistics . . . and Gardner’s killer.

“Why?” Camille snarled, glaring over her shoulder. “Haven’t you seen this place? They charge four hundred bucks a day to hold a bed for somebody. I don’t make that much in a week—and that’s before taxes. I’d have been better off finding a job with a landscaping company. The work is just as back-breaking, but there I might get appreciated.”

She heaved herself upright. “I put myself into debt, training for this job. Thought I’d be helping folks and moving up from minimum wage. Instead, the pay’s lousy, and the work is worse. Still, I stuck with it. I could put up with people puking on me or wiping their butts. It was the eyes I couldn’t take—having them look right through me. They thought I was invisible? Fine. I’d make them disappear. Who’d notice a couple of extra strokes around here? Especially at night, when everyone has twenty people to take care of.”

“An air embolism in the artery,” Dr. Gavrik said. “It would seem very much like a stroke.”

“Yeah, you didn’t catch it, did you, Doctor ?” Camille made a mockery of the title. “It was one thing, getting my own back on the nasty old ladies, but Scatterwell, he was evil.” She turned to Ollie. “And he made all the trouble, bringing the cops in. He knew something, was gonna to talk with the sheriff. I had to go for him—had to shut him up.”

Hearing a gasp behind her, Sunny turned to see Rafe Warner and Frank Nesbit staring into the room.

“Did you guys hear that?” she demanded. “I’d call that a pretty explicit confession.”

19

It was severaldays later when Ollie Barnstable finally got to enjoy the gardens at Bridgewater Hall. Will Price pushed his wheelchair, and Sunny strolled along beside. A lot had happened. Frank Nesbit had taken Camille Thibaud into custody, where she’d given a detailed, clinical account of her activities in the nursing home. It made for some sensational newspaper reading and TV news viewing.

“She started off just making patients sick,” Will explained. “Then she figured she could come in and be the hero. That really didn’t get her anywhere, though . . . except to show how easy it would be to kill a patient right under everybody’s nose.”

“Camille was on the very bottom of the totem pole, earning peanuts, in debt, afraid of losing her job, powerless. I could see why she wanted to strike back.” Sunny noticed an uncomfortable expression on Ollie’s face. Yeah, it’s not too far from my own situation. Her reporter’s alter ego was grimly amused. Maybe he’s afraid I’ll be sneaking up on him with a pillow. Aloud, she went on, “Stress can do some pretty weird things to people.”

Ollie shook his big head. “I still don’t understand why she came after me. That was just plain nuts.”

“Well, Frank Nesbit would like to think so,” Sunny said. “It might help him put five murders in a different pigeonhole. I think Camille made a string of bad choices. She wasn’t what you’d call a criminal genius. The murders were more crimes of opportunity. She never really had a plan.”

“And she was scared silly,” Will added. “She’d been afraid ever since you got the investigation started on the mortality statistics, Ollie. Then Camille overheard me on the phone with headquarters . . . and talking with you about Sheriff Nesbit coming to the facility.” He glanced over at Sunny. “When you tried to calm her down, saying that Ollie and Nesbit had something to discuss, Camille jumped to the conclusion that she was the something to discuss, and so she decided to try and deal with Ollie before Nesbit got here. She decided on her usual trick—she’d give you an air embolism to create the symptoms of a stroke.”

Will shrugged. “In the other cases, she gave the injections at night, when there were fewer people around—and less help available. But she was rushed and desperate, and you know what happened.”

“It is sort of sad,” Sunny said. “Camille loaded herself with debt hoping for a career where she could help people. Instead, she ended up working for minimum wage in a nursing home that might go bust right out from under her.”

“Yeah, even a legal aid attorney could make a real sob story out of that.” Ollie glanced over at Will. “Then there’s the whole whadeyecallit—diminished capacity thing. You think Nesbit is really going for that?”

Will gave him a thin smile. “You know your politics. If you’re stuck with a killer, better crazy than cold-blooded.”

“If anything good came out of the situation, all the attention Camille is getting pretty much pushed Luke Daconto into the background.” Sunny turned to Will. “Tell Ollie about the results from the lab.”

He nodded. “The lab rats in Augusta said the tonic isn’t as toxic as Luke feared. Looks as if he did actually follow his mom’s recipe, so he’s out from under on the accidental murder charge.”

“Of course, Luke told me there may be some other legal problems—practicing medicine without a license, stuff like that,” Sunny said. “And, of course, he lost his job.”

Will tilted his head, looking at her with raised eyebrows. “Luke told you, huh? What’s this? Making up to the new all-purpose Scatterwell heir?”

“He is a friend,” Sunny defended herself. “And considering his legal expenses, I think Luke will put in a claim against Gardner’s estate.”

“That should give old Alfred fits.” Will grinned.

“But I don’t think Luke is going to stay around here,” Sunny said. “He may have found his father, but he’s pretty disillusioned.”

“That’s too bad—Luke’s a good kid. I’ll miss him.” Ollie reached up to mop his brow with the cuff of his sweatshirt. “Can we find a little shade? This sun is getting to me.”

“Sure.” Will steered a course for a bench overshadowed by a spruce tree.

“That’s better.” Ollie sat back, fanning himself with his hand, looking out over the various plants and flowers. “You don’t think they have any monkshood out here, do you?”

Sunny looked around for the deep blue flowers she remembered so well. “I don’t see any.”

“Good,” Ollie said. “Having them around might give some people ideas. Mike told me your mom had to dig up a whole part of her garden because she was afraid for you.”

“Better to dig up a corner of the garden than go through a restructure like this place is doing,” she replied.

Bridgewater Hall had lost a number of residents after the story of Camille’s angel of death act hit the news. In response, Dr. Reese and the board of directors decided to put more emphasis on the rehab services that had gotten the place such a good reputation in the first place. In the future, one floor would be rehab and one floor devoted to residents.

“They’ll probably have to hire more physical and occupational therapists,” Will said.

Sunny grinned. “Or hire back some of the ones who left.”

Ollie looked more serious. “I don’t think they’ll be hiring a music therapist anytime soon.”

“And I wonder if they’ll be cutting down the number of therapy animals.” Will sat down on the bench. “The critters don’t have a union.”

“Speaking of therapy animals, what’s going on between Shadow and Portia?” Ollie asked like an expectant godfather.

“I’m supposed to bring Shadow over tomorrow for a ‘playdate,’” Sunny said. “Depending on how well behaved he is, Rafe Warner will decide on visitation.”