Last Licks Page 5

  Even with the delay, however, she got into the office ahead of her regular time. Sunny checked the answering machine and cranked up the computer. No smoke signals warning about business or Internet troubles. So she locked up the office again and went back to her SUV.

  The trip to Bridgewater lived up to all the hype she wrote for the MAX tourism website—the countryside was rolling and verdant at this time of year, especially when she hit the country roads, and a clear sky spread above. She arrived at Bridgewater Hall, parked, and walked through the baronial entrance. The security guard didn’t live up to the grandeur this time around—he looked as if this was his first job out of high school. His uniform didn’t fit. Sticking up from the collar on a skinny stalk of a neck, his head looked like a particularly unlovely plant. Small, dull brown eyes barely looked at her as the guy said, “May I help you, ma’am?”

  “I’m here to see Mr. Barnstable in Room 114.”

  The guard needed to consult a separate binder to establish that such a patient was in residence. Then he finally pushed the sign-in book her way.

  At last she headed down the hallway to the nurses’ station, though it was empty—as was Ollie’s room. An aide in blue surgical scrubs offered help. “Mr. Barnstable is in therapy. Go back to the desk and take the second hallway.”

  Sunny followed the directions down a hall with a lot of wheelchairs—many folded together and apparently stored along the walls of the corridor. A few, though, were occupied. She quickly spotted Gardner Scatterwell beside an open door. Gardner waved her over. “Good to see you, Sunny.” Then he glanced up at the man standing behind his chair. “You’ve got to meet this delightful young woman, Alfred. Sunny, my nephew Alfred.”

  “Alfred Scatterwell.” The guy had to be somewhere around Sunny’s age, and he looked like Gardner—sort of. He had the same beaky nose (though his was straight) and the same glassy blue eyes. He had more hair than his uncle, and it was darker, but he was already losing it. And where Gardner was portly, Alfred was tall and skinny, except for an outsized potbelly. It gave him the look of an anaconda working hard at digesting a swallowed sheep—even to the slightly dyspeptic expression on his face as they shook hands.

  Dyspeptic . . . or distrustful?

  “I’m trying to track down my boss,” Sunny explained. “He’s Gardner’s roommate.”

  Alfred seemed to relax a little at that.

  “Now you feel better?” Gardner’s voice held a faint mocking note. “He was afraid you’d turn out to be another unfortunate attachment to be mentioned in my will. Alfred is the family’s all-purpose heir. He’s determined to restore Grandfather Scatterwell’s fortune the old-fashioned way—by inheritance.”

  Alfred’s face set in the pattern of someone who’d heard the same joke over and over and was long past finding it funny.

  “Ah.” Sunny couldn’t think of anything to say to that. Time to change the subject. “Do you know where Ollie is?”

  Gardner jerked a thumb at that doorway. “He’s in for PT. Some call it physical therapy, I call it painful torture. I’m waiting to see who’ll be putting me through my paces.”

  Even as he spoke, a woman came out. “Mr. Scatterwell.”

  She was not unattractive—the bone structure was there in her face, behind the wire-framed glasses she wore, but she wore no makeup and her thick gray-streaked brown hair was pulled back in a no-nonsense ponytail. Her figure was disguised by a bulky sweat suit, and she walked with a slight limp.

  Gardner looked at the woman and recoiled theatrically. “Oh, no, it’s Elsa, the She-Wolf of Occupational Therapy! Take it easy on me, please, Elsa. I’m still recovering.”

  Elsa gave a weary sigh. “You’ve been recovering for several months, Mr. Scatterwell. We should be seeing more results by now.”

  That got a different reaction from the older man. “So you’ve been working with me for several months now? Which means you’ve been paid during that time—while I’ve been contributing very generously to your salary and all the others?”

  “If you want to discuss administrative issues, you should speak to Dr. Reese.” The woman’s voice became so careful, it was toneless.

  “Hank Reese is an old friend of mine,” Gardner Scatterwell said. “We were boys together. That’s one of the reasons I came to this overpriced torture chamber.”

  “It is overpriced, Uncle,” Alfred chimed in. “When you had to spend a couple of days back at the hospital, Dr. Reese charged four hundred dollars a day just to keep your bed here.”

  “More money that won’t be coming to you.” The cheerful guy Sunny had met yesterday was completely gone now. Money really seemed to bring out the worst in Gardner. “But I’ll be staying here as long as I need.” He glared at both Alfred and the therapist. “As long as I want.”

  “I’ll see if I can get you a different therapist,” the woman said, heading back to the door. She almost collided with Sunny, who was just trying to get away from the developing scene.

  “Sorry,” Sunny said, stepping through and to the side.

  “I’m Elsa Hogue.” The therapist lowered her voice with a glance over her shoulder. “If you have any influence with Mr. Scatterwell, I’d appreciate it if you could explain that he needs to take this therapy more seriously.”

  “I’m sorry again,” Sunny said. “I don’t have any influence around here. I’m looking for my boss—” She broke off when she spotted Ollie in the large, crowded room. He stood, after a fashion, crouched over a rolling walker. His face was pale and damp with sweat, and his knuckles were white as he clutched at the handles. A husky physical therapist walked at his side, keeping a sturdy grasp on the seat of Ollie’s sweatpants. Bringing up the rear came a kid, a summer volunteer probably, pushing a wheelchair.

  A security blanket, Sunny realized. He obviously can’t walk very far, but this setup encourages him to stay on his feet as long as possible.

  At that moment, Ollie looked up from taking a step and saw Sunny. He was in the middle of moving his bad leg and staggered, nearly falling back onto the chair. His face was a mask of humiliation and fury as he bawled, “Get out!”

  4

  The large room went silent, all of the people stopping in the middle of their various exercises to stare at Ollie after his outburst. All that attention didn’t improve his mood, but at least he moderated his voice—slightly—when he spoke again. “Why’d you even come here?” he demanded. “I left the package with the nurse.”

  Who of course wasn’t around when I arrived, Sunny thought. “I’ll go and get it now,” she said, heading back outside and just as glad not to have a room full of people gawking at her. Let Ollie handle them in his own inimitable way, that cynical side of her brain suggested.

  Gardner Scatterwell and his nephew were still in the hallway, but they’d obviously heard Ollie’s outburst. “I’m afraid Oliver is a bit out of sorts today—he was up late,” Gardner explained. “He and his lawyer were going over those papers well after the normal lights-out.”

  Having nothing to say to that, Sunny just nodded and headed for the nurses’ station. Now, of course, there was a nurse on duty, who passed over the thick envelope. Sunny checked inside and found a note in Ollie’s nearly indecipherable handwriting. It instructed her to make copies for his files and his lawyer, then express-mail the originals to Mr. Orton. She headed down the hallway and to the parking lot. No sense risking any more grief from Ollie. She’d get on the job right away.

  The scenery was as lush and pleasant on the way back as it had been on her outward journey, but Sunny’s mood ruined the drive to Kittery Harbor. She then spent most of the morning taking care of that monster document, rounding out her time with routine office tasks.

  When she answered the phone just before lunchtime, she was surprised to hear Ollie’s voice on the other end of the line. “Look,” he said gruffly. “I—um—I have to apologize. You caught me
—this therapy stuff is rougher than almost anything I’ve ever had to do.”

  “I know that, Ollie. When my dad was sick, he had a real fight to get back on his feet. And look at him now.”

  “Yeah.” Now Ollie sounded embarrassed. “He called to say he was coming up. The old-line folks in town, people like my dad, would do stuff like that, even if they weren’t really friendly with someone in the hospital or whatever. I’d hate to have him hear that I’d treated you badly. I didn’t mean what I was saying.”

  “Well, he won’t hear about it from me,” Sunny promised.

  “Um. Good. There’s something else you can do for me. Check in the files for a couple of folders.” He described what he wanted—several real estate transactions. “These are other deals I’ve done with Orton. I want to compare them with the one you just copied.”

  “Fine, Ollie.” Sunny looked longingly at the sandwich she’d just arrayed on her desk. “When do you need this?”

  “We’ll do it like we did yesterday,” Ollie said. “You can leave the office a little early, and when you’re finished up here, you can go home.”

  With a longer trip, longer business, and no overtime, Sunny’s unpleasant reporter alter ego piped up.

  Still, she agreed, took another note, and hung up. After lunch, she dug the keys out of her desk and went to the bank of tall cabinets that lined the back wall of the office. She took the precaution of copying all the files that Ollie had specified and putting the originals back where they came from.

  Don’t want him yelling at me if Jell-O gets spilled on them.

  When Sunny arrived at Bridgewater Hall this time, she got a much more enthusiastic welcome. Rafe Warner was on duty now and greeted her with a smile and some chat as she signed in. And who should appear from behind the security desk but Portia, sniffing Sunny’s ankles and then peering around them as if she expected someone else to be standing there.

  I don’t think she’s looking for Dad, Sunny thought. I think Shadow sent a message on me—and Portia’s certainly answering.

  She spent a little time trying to pet Portia, who seemed more interested in twining around her ankles. So in the end Sunny gave up and headed down the hallway to the rehab wing. Checking with the nurse, Sunny made sure that Ollie had finished his second therapy stint of the day and then went on to Room 114. There, she discovered both visitor’s chairs were occupied. Mike Coolidge sat beside Gardner Scatterwell, and Luke Daconto, the guitarist from the other day, sat with Ollie.

  “Well, this is unexpected,” Sunny said.

  “I had a bell-ringing class upstairs and decided to stop by on my way out,” Luke said. “Considering Mr. Barnstable’s interest in music, I’m trying to convince him to take some guitar lessons when he’s feeling better.”

  “Trying to drum up business,” Ollie said suspiciously.

  “I didn’t say I wanted to teach you,” Luke replied with a good-natured smile—at least that’s what Sunny thought was going on under all that foliage on his face. “I’m just saying you could easily pick up an inexpensive guitar and find someone to get you started.”

  “I was interested in music, as you put it, around the same age those two”—Ollie gestured at Mike and Gardner—“had their half-assed band.”

  “It’s never too late to start,” Luke insisted.

  “You think?” Ollie looked hopeful for a moment, then shook his head. “I dunno. When I was sixteen, I saw a guitar in a music shop window—a Gibson. I never wanted anything more, but it was way out of my dad’s price range. Three hundred dollars, if I remember right.”

  His eyes went to the ceiling, looking at something only he could see. “I spent a year doing shifts at the Sweet Shoppe for my dad, mowing lawns, shoveling snow . . . I even folded people’s wash down at the Laundromat for minimum wage, which was about a buck-ninety in those days. And when I finally pulled together enough money—”

  “You went to the store and the guitar was gone,” Mike finished for him.

  But Ollie shook his head, an almost heartbroken look on his big, round face. “I couldn’t bring myself to spend so much money on something so—frivolous.”

  “I think you set your sights too high,” Luke offered. “You should have gotten yourself a secondhand acoustic guitar—something inexpensive—and seen how it felt to play.”

  “That’s what I did,” Mike said. “Got my Rickenbacker at a pawnshop in Portsmouth for seventy-five bucks.”

  “Really?” Luke swung around to look at Sunny’s dad, his eyes shining with interest. “Do you still have it?”

  Mike shrugged. “Up in the attic maybe.”

  “If it’s in good shape, you might be amazed at how valuable it’s become now,” Luke said eagerly. “Some Rickenbackers from that era go for a couple thousand dollars now—maybe more.”

  Mike gawked for a second, then said, “Really? That old bass may be the best investment I ever made.”

  While they were laughing, another visitor entered the room—a four-footed one.

  “Portia, what are you doing here?” Sunny asked, kneeling to pet the calico cat. “Did you follow me?”

  “Probably following Shadow,” Mike muttered, not happy to find another cat barging into their lives.

  Portia amiably gave each of the seated visitors a sniff, then launched herself into a leap that landed her in Gardner Scatterwell’s lap.

  “Whoa!” Luke said.

  Gardner smiled, reverting to the nice old man Sunny had first met. “Hello there, kitty,” he said as Portia pushed her head under his hand.

  “Hey, Sunny,” Mike asked, a little malice glinting in his bright blue eyes, “isn’t that the cat you told me about? The one who, after she visits patients, they wind up kicking the bucket?”

  “Are you that cat?” Gardner stopped in the middle of petting. Portia just stared at him and purred. “I’ve heard stories. Some of the ladies who sing along with Luke are afraid of you.”

  “There must be a logical explanation,” Luke said.

  Sunny gave her father a look for bringing up the subject in the first place.

  “Of course there is,” Gardner said, ruffling Portia’s fur. “The fact is, the mortality statistics here are a trifle high lately. My nephew Alfred found that out looking on the Internet somewhere. He’s trying to get me to move to some place with a lower death rate—and lower financial rates, of course. I think any home for the elderly is going to have its ups and downs, and they shouldn’t blame pretty kitties if a bunch of old folks decide to die in a clump.”

  “Myself, I’m not so trusting of cats—they’re always hungry,” Mike said with suspicious mildness. “The one in your lap there, she may only be waiting for you to get ripe.”

  That outrageous comment got some shocked laughter, especially from Luke.

  “What’s going on in here?” a blue-clad aide asked from the doorway, but the smile on her broad, plain face belied her strict tone of voice. “Sorry, folks. Just wanted to check and make sure everyone was okay.” Once Sunny got past the scrubs, she realized the aide was little older than a kid. She proved it as she turned to Sunny. “Could I get you a chair, ma’am?”

  If any more of the staff calls me “ma’am,” I’m going to think I should be living here. “No thanks,” she said aloud.

  “Camille here does a wonderful job, taking care of Ollie and myself, not to mention a dozen or so other inmates,” Gardner said. “I’m sure you know Luke Daconto, Camille. This is an old friend, Mike Coolidge, and his daughter, Sunny.”

  “How do you do.” Camille looked as though she’d be more at home working on a farm than in a health-care setting. Her big, sturdy form would be perfect for hauling around big bags of fertilizer or seed. She had a wide mouth and a diminutive nose, framed by an unflattering pageboy cut. Her best feature was a pair of soft hazel eyes, which glanced shyly around the strangers in the room. Bu
t she was quite competent when she said, “Mr. Scatterwell, you raised the top of your bed and slid all the way down.”

  “I used to be a very good downhill racer—although that was some years ago,” he said.

  As she stepped forward, Camille spotted the calico cat in Gardner’s lap, and her smile got wider. “Mam’selle Portia, what are you doing in this neck of the woods? Are you scaring too many of the people upstairs?”

  “So you’ve heard the stories, too?” Gardner said.

  The aide nodded, extending a blunt-fingered hand for Portia to sniff. “And I think it’s a shame, blaming a sweetie like Portia.”

  “Do you need help?” Luke asked, but Camille shook her head. Her big, strong hands grasped the bed pad under Gardner, and with him pushing with his legs, she quickly had him pulled up to a more comfortable position. Portia went along for the ride with no problems whatever.

  I don’t know if Shadow would do that, Sunny thought. On the other hand, he might like it.

  “Are you okay, Mr. Barnstable?” the aide asked, turning his way.

  Ollie shook his head. “I’m arranged just fine. No problems.”

  “Okay, then.” With that, Camille left.

  “Nice kid,” Mike said.

  Gardner shrugged. “I suppose so.”

  Guess he’s not about to fall in love with her, the reporter who lived in the back of Sunny’s head quipped.

  Ollie operated his bed to sit up higher, wincing as he moved to a new position. “Did you bring those files?” he asked Sunny.