Last Licks (17 page)

Camille shrugged. “Look at me—I’m never going to be a model, but my family breeds women who can work and keep working.” She leaned forward. “Besides, I need the money. I still owe almost a thousand bucks for my training, so I pick up any extra work I can.”

“Still, two shifts in a row, you must be afraid that you’ll be tired and make a mistake.”

“Oh, no.” Camille shook her head, maybe a little too definitely. “I’m always careful. That was something they drilled into us at training.” An odd expression flitted across her broad features. “It’s different here, though. When we were training, we worked with people—well, let’s say people who’d look for free care. But I could get along with them better—they’re my kind of people. Here, it’s like even when you’re wiping their butts, some people will still look right through you.” She blinked, blushing. “Wow, we got kind of far away from what you were asking.”

“That’s me all over,” Sunny said easily. “I’m an easy person to talk to.” It was a skill she’d cultivated during her years in journalism.

Camille made an effort to adopt a more professional expression. “From what I’ve seen, by the time Mr. Barnstable has supper and watches a little TV, he’s pretty pooped. I think he sleeps right through till morning. If you want someone to check on him at night, though, maybe you should talk to the nurse.”

“Thanks, I’ll do that,” Sunny said, knowing full well that Ollie would kill her if she sent a nurse to check up on him.

Camille pointed at a flashing light. “Uh-oh. Duty calls.”

Sunny thanked her and turned to see Will approaching. “Ollie is finished already and resting in his room,” he reported.

As they headed for Room 114, Sunny heard a familiar chuckle, so she wasn’t surprised to find her father in there with Ollie. She was surprised, though, to find Portia sitting in Mike’s lap.

“She followed me here,” Mike said, laughing at Sunny’s expression while petting Portia’s sleek fur. “As soon as I signed in, I had a new best friend. And I have to say, she’s a lot more pleasant than your guy.”

At the reference to “her guy,” Sunny suddenly realized the reason for Mike’s sudden popularity. “Before you left today, you put out some food for Shadow, didn’t you?”

“Well, he was sort of hanging around me and then looking at his bowl. I figured you might want to sleep in a bit after last night’s fun, so I gave him fresh water and dry food.”

“And he thanked you for it by hanging around you a little more.” Sunny didn’t know whether to laugh or impatiently shake her head. “I’m afraid Portia is all over you because of the cologne you don’t know you’re wearing—eau de Shadow.”

Mike thought about that a little, and as he did, Portia thrust her head under his hand for more attention. “Maybe the cologne broke the ice,” Mike finally said with dignity, “but I think it’s my personality that keeps her around.” He scratched the calico cat between the ears. “Right, Portia?”

Sunny didn’t even bother to respond to that. Will just laughed. “Where’s your roomie?” he asked Ollie.

“His wife and daughter came and took him out to the garden,” Ollie replied. “Now he’ll be able to tell people on the next bench to be quiet.” He shifted in the bed, and Sunny noticed it didn’t look so painful for him. “Got anything new?”

“We have a new theory, but it can’t leave this room.” In a conspiratorial voice, Will explained the fun with numbers they had this morning.

“You say you had staff rosters,” Mike said, leaning forward in his chair. “Did any names turn up?”

“Before we answer that, let me ask you something.” Sunny aimed her eyes at Ollie. “What do you think of Camille the aide?”

“I like her,” he promptly replied. “She’s nice and hardworking, and she’s the quickest to come if you buzz for help—” His expression soured. “Aw no, you’re going to tell me she’s the name, right? It’s like you’re only picking on people I like.”

“We just follow the evidence,” Will said.

Sunny gave him a look. “But I’ve got to say in this case, the evidence is thin.” With his broken leg, Ollie was pretty much dependent on Camille. Sunny didn’t want Will’s suspicions to influence the way Ollie treated the girl. She offered her arguments about how fuzzy the statistics they were working from could be.

Ollie slowly nodded, going from patient to hard-nosed businessman. “So you’ve got a theory and a suspect. Someone who was around on the night shift, a staff member who’d know what was bad for patients and who could probably get her hands on whatever was needed. That’s whachacallem—opportunity and means.” He gave Will a tough look. “What about motive?”

Will shrugged. “She’s beating her brains out for chump change, emptying bedpans for rich people. That would start to get to me. And there’s something else.” He looked at Ollie. “You think someone was in here that night, giving Gardner a drink. We don’t think he’d take one from Alfred or Elsa. But he might have taken it from Camille.”

“
Might
,” Sunny emphasized. “Here’s what I know. She’s dedicated and responsible. The reason she’s taking all the shifts she can is because she still has to pay off her training.”

Ollie pursed his lips in thought. “She didn’t like Gardner,” he finally said.

Mike shrugged. “She’s a nice girl, but plain. Not Gardner’s type. I bet he didn’t waste much of the old Scatterwell charm on her.”

“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.”

Shadow woke up
annoyed. 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.

This wasn’t fair. This was definitely not good.

*

By the time
Sunny had finished chopping up odds and ends into a chef’s salad, Mike had come downstairs wearing his dress shirt and a pair of suit pants, toweling his hair.

“You’re brave to sit down and eat with your good clothes on,” Sunny teased him.

“What am I supposed to do, put a bib on?” Mike demanded, his blue eyes heating up to what Sunny privately called the Laser Glare of Death. “I figured I’d get ready before we sat down. We don’t want to be late, and Lord knows how long you’ll be up there.”

He stuck his face into the refrigerator to get the seltzer, muttering something about interference from the clothing police now.
Guess Dad is feeling stressed about this hoedown, and you were a bit late on the pickup,
the critical voice in the back of Sunny’s head commented. At the last memorial service they’d attended, Mike had been all over the place, chatting with various political cronies. She put the glasses on the table, and then took her father by the hand. “What’s the matter, Dad?”

“Sorry, honey, I shouldn’t have been mouthing off,” Mike apologized. “It’s just that it’s going to be society people, that whole Piney Brook crowd there.” Mike’s face screwed up as if he’d tasted something bad. “They look at me and see a truck driver. It’s kind of funny—Helena was this way and that about going. She didn’t want to go there alone. Well, neither did I—with her along, I figure I’ve got a touch of class.”

Sunny smiled and patted his shoulder. “I wouldn’t worry about that, Dad. You’ve got more class than most of the snobs who’ll turn up tonight.”

*

Sunny took her
shower and got dressed as quickly as she could.
Don’t give Dad a chance to complain,
she thought as she pulled on the jacket from her lightweight black suit over a pewter-colored blouse. She threatened her curls with a hairbrush and put on a minimum of makeup, added a pair of black flats, and headed downstairs.

Mrs. Martinson had just arrived, and as usual Sunny felt barely adequate when she compared her outfit to the one the older woman was wearing, a classic skirted suit in a deep French gray, the skirt just hitting the right length on a pair of legs that would be the envy of women twenty years younger—or in Sunny’s case, thirty-something years younger. A simple white blouse with a brooch at the collar and tiny gold earrings completed the look.

Mike looked proudly at both of them. “Those snooty Piney Brook types may have the big houses, but I’ll be walking in with a pair of women looking like a million dollars—apiece!”

Helena smiled. “You clean up pretty well yourself, Mike.”

He wore the summer-weight version of his blue funeral suit, an off-white shirt, and his latest Father’s Day tie.

Sunny grinned. “You look like you’re running for office, Dad.”

Mike put a hand to his chest. “Heaven forbid!”

“Well, I think we’re ready to go. I take it that Will intends to join us there?”

Sunny nodded.

“Then there’s just one thing.” Mrs. Martinson reached into her handbag and came out with a set of car keys, which she gave to Sunny. “Would you mind driving the Buick tonight? It will be dark by the time we’re coming home, and I’d feel more comfortable.”

You might feel downright cozy, sitting in the backseat with Dad,
that irrepressible voice in the back of Sunny’s head suggested.

“We should have thought of that.” Mike looked annoyed with himself. “Your car is the obvious choice.”

Sunny nodded. Not only did Helena’s sedan have more comfortable seating than Dad’s truck or Sunny’s SUV, the sedan would fit in better for a Piney Brook funeral.

*

The Brookside district
was the most exclusive section of an already exclusive area. As Sunny drove along, she passed estates which kept to themselves behind iron gates or heavy shrubbery, and houses whose architecture screamed, “We’ve arrived!”

Some of the houses had probably started as summer places. Sunny was particularly taken by one with a cupola. What would it be like to have a round bedroom up there? She didn’t much like the place that had turned itself into a McMansion by adding a cream-colored concrete tower to the middle of a classic white-painted spruce building. And the rambling stone buildings, especially the ones that used two-tone fieldstone, seemed a little much to her. Some reminded her of Bridgewater Hall.

When they got to the Scatterwell place, she found a three-story brick structure built along vaguely Georgian lines, although some Scatterwell ancestor had added a shaded wooden porch to the side of one wing. The brick had mellowed into its surroundings, but Maine winters had not been kind to the porch. Although it gleamed with a coat of white paint, it seemed to be sagging with age.

Mike peered out the window as Sunny parked the car along a curving drive. “Y’know, I never thought about it before,” he said, “but this place
looks
like a funeral parlor.”

“A rather large, successful one,” Helena Martinson added drily.

They got out of the car and walked to the front door, passing a collection of Cadillacs, Lincolns, BMWs, and Mercedes. The door stood open, and a funeral flunkey in a black polyester suit stood in front of a grand staircase padded with Oriental carpeting. “Please go on through to the Grand Parlor,” he murmured, gesturing to his right.

The Grand Parlor was indeed pretty grand, an enormous cream-colored room with windows along three sides.

This must be the section that leads out to the porch,
Sunny thought, glancing around. The room had been cleared of furniture, and rows of folding chairs laid out. Up at the front of the room was a lectern and a table with a ceramic urn—something more in keeping with the surroundings than the waxy cardboard box Sunny had seen in Alfred’s place. She also noticed the discreet bar at the rear of the room.

Mike had a wry smile when he spotted that. “I think Gardner would approve,” he said. “He always called booze a social lubricant.”

The other thing Sunny noticed about the room was how warm it was. Although all the windows were open, the more people who joined the growing crowd, the higher the indoor temperature went. And there was something else in the air. Helena gave a discreet sniff. “Fresh paint, which I suppose we should have expected.” She pitched her voice quietly. “From what you’ve said about him, Alfred would value appearances. But there’s something else . . .”

Sunny nodded, detecting a faint, acrid smell that seemed to linger in the back of her throat.

“Rot.” Mike pronounced the word very quietly. “Let’s hope it’s only the porch outside. If it’s in the house, Alfred will end up sinking his inheritance into repairs.”

Sunny in the meantime had been busily scanning faces. “There’s Will,” she said, “and Luke.” They made their way through the crowd. Will looked pretty snappy in a navy suit that made the most of his lean form. Luke didn’t clean up quite so well—he seemed about as far out of water as a fish could be, wearing a rather ratty brown corduroy jacket over a pair of black dress pants. He greeted them the way a drowning sailor might welcome a lifeline.

After introducing Mrs. Martinson, Sunny said, “You must be roasting in that jacket, Luke.”

He only shrugged uncomfortably. “It’s the only one I’ve got. When you move around a lot, you travel light.”

And I bet he wishes he’d traveled with a lighter jacket,
Sunny couldn’t help thinking.

In spite of his misgivings, Mike quickly spotted a familiar face, too. “Chappie!” He ushered over a tall man with silver hair and a squarish face, handsome in a stodgy sort of way. “Helena, this is Chapman Manning—”

“Leave off the roman numerals at the end,” the man boomed, “for heaven’s sake.”

“Chappie may look respectable, but he’s been known to pull some political skullduggery when it has to be done.” Mike grinned.

As introductions flew around her, Sunny lost the last names of the two women who accompanied Chappie. They seemed to be called Tavvie and Phoebe. Frankly, Sunny had trouble telling one from the other. Both had graying blond hair cut short, and both wore dark dresses with pearls.

Tavvie nodded toward the urn in the place of honor. “It was rather a surprise, Alfred doing that to his uncle.”

“Just a taste of where the old boy was going to,” Chappie joked.

“Perhaps it’s better than an open casket,” Phoebe said. “I’d spent the night half afraid that Gardner would suddenly jump up and shout, ‘Surprise!’”

Tavvie’s pale eyebrows rose on a face from where wrinkles had apparently been banished. “He could still come leaping in through the window. Gardner always had such a lamentable sense of humor.”

“He must have,” Phoebe murmured. “I understand he went out with you for a while.”

Tavvie’s pale blue eyes glinted with malice. “Before he ran around with you—and well before your divorce.”

Sunny noticed Helena following the byplay with interest. Luke just looked uncomfortable. Will had a faraway look, as if he appeared to be ignoring it all, but Sunny suspected he was paying more attention than it seemed.

Chappie continued to chat with Mike. “How did you come to know Gardner? He doesn’t seem like one of your sort—I mean, I don’t think Gardner ever voted in his life.”

“Would you believe music?” Mike told the story of the Cosmic Blade, omitting how the band broke up. “Gardner still had an interest in music, though. That’s how he met Luke here. He’s a music therapist at Bridgewater Hall.”

“Music therapist?” Chappie echoed.

“But he’s a real musician,” Mike went on enthusiastically. “I saw him play last night. You should have seen how he faced down the crowd at O’Dowd’s.”

“O’Dowd’s? Really?” Sunny could see that Chappie was trying to be polite, but it was also obvious that there was no point where his life and Luke’s even intersected.

Tavvie touched Chappie on the arm. “They’re about to start. I think we should find some seats.”

She was right on the mark. No sooner had the crowd started sitting down than the funereal flunkey led an elderly man in clerical clothing up to the lectern and introduced him.

“They got Bishop Sawyer,” Phoebe murmured. “Very impressive.” Perhaps, but from the flow of platitudes, Sunny quickly surmised that the churchman had probably never even met Gardner.

Next came Dr. Henry Reese, introduced as Gardner’s best friend. He was a bit more personal, telling some funny stories. But Reese mainly dwelt on the boyhood he and Gardner had shared. “Perhaps that’s what I think of when it comes to Gardner because to me he never aged. That might sound like a strange admission for a doctor who runs an old-age home, where all too often we bid farewell to an aged resident.” He looked over at the urn. “But with Gardner, somehow I never expected that to happen.”

The final speaker, representing the family, was Alfred Scatterwell, who came up to the lectern in a sober black suit . . . and with a glass in his hand. Apparently, he’d been fortifying himself at the bar.

“This could be interesting,” Chappie murmured.

Sunny silently agreed.
That’s the problem with social lubricants—they can get very slippery.

Alfred looked over the assembled mourners, a sardonic smile on his face. “I suppose a good number of you came this evening to see if the old place had fallen down. Well, you can easily spot that we had to paint in here. Does that make this a whited sepulcher, Bishop?”

He turned to Dr. Reese. “And thank you, Hank, for the wonderful memories you shared. Personally, I wish you’d have talked about the road trip you and Uncle Gardner took after Yale. He always said it made a man of you.” Alfred smiled as he spoke, but Dr. Reese stiffened.

Alfred turned back to his audience. “And now it falls to me to say a few words about my uncle. Gardner Scatterwell was well traveled and well liked by all his acquaintances. As for his family, we knew him all too well. You’ve all heard stories. I, of all people, shouldn’t have to go into them. Instead, I’ll go back to something that Hank said, about how it seemed that Uncle Gardner never aged. Perhaps that’s because we saw him so rarely. He was always going, and now he’s gone.”