Last Licks

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.