Last Licks

“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. But 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.

“I hope you’re not going to spend another night going over papers,” Gardner said.

Ollie paused, the stack of files that Sunny had just passed to him in his hands. “I didn’t keep you up, did I?”

Gardner shrugged. “I don’t sleep as well as I used to. Part of it is just age. And I guess you’d call it post-stroke nerves. When I went through the attack, the diagnosis and treatment and everything, it was like being shot out of a cannon, no time to think about anything. Now that I can sit back and consider—it’s enough to give you the shakes sometimes.”

“Isn’t the doctor giving you something for that?” Luke asked.

Gardner made a face. “She feels I have enough meds for the time being, and I think she has a point.”

Ollie looked up from the papers he’d already spread across his hospital table. “Did you bring the other thing I asked for?”

“Oh, right.” Sunny went back to her satchel and dug out the bag of potato chips. “Salt ’n’ vinegar—that’s what you wanted, right?”

Ollie eagerly reached for the snack bag of chips, then frowned. “Couldn’t you get a bigger size?”

“Did you want me to use petty cash for food?”

For a second, he seemed almost ready to say “yes.” But then he must have realized what a precedent that would set. Instead, he began struggling to get the bag open. “Stupid damn things. It’s bad enough that the food here is so bland.”

“Let me help,” Luke offered, grabbing hold. He tried to yank the top seam open. Instead, with a loud pop! the bag seemed to explode, showering Ollie with chips and chip dust.