Last Licks

Grinning, Ollie nodded. “He called him Jack the Gripper, from the way he steadies people by holding on to the seat of their pants.”

“Well, that one makes sense.” Sunny glanced around to see that the room was starting to fill up. It looked like the customers were mainly long-term residents and members of their families. “Maybe we should get a move on. Looks as though they could use the table.”

Sunny and Will settled their bills and then set off for the rehab ward, wheeling Ollie along. When they reached Room 114, the pungent smell of disinfectant leaked out into the hallway. Ollie vigorously fanned his hand in front of his nose. “Maybe we should go straight to the therapy room.”

“Just give me a minute.” Will stepped inside. Gardner’s bed still remained stripped, and the drawers on the chest at the foot of his bed all stood open.

“They don’t waste much time, do they?” Ollie muttered to Sunny. “A real sentimental bunch.”

Sunny just nodded. It seemed odd to erase Gardner’s presence so thoroughly, considering that the administrator here was an old friend of his. Or so Gardner believed when he was alive, she couldn’t help thinking.

Will came back out. “Looks like the Ritz, compared to some of the state police barracks I’ve lived in,” he said with a grin. “Generally, they kept out the snow but were a bit on the Spartan side.”

He took command of the wheelchair again, and they headed back to the therapy room. Jack the Gripper (as Sunny would now forever think of him) stood just inside the door. He had to be in his forties, shorter than Will but with a lot more muscle on a stocky frame, his reddish-blond hair gelled up in spikes.

If somebody had to hold up Ollie the Barnacle, this would be the guy to do it, Sunny thought.

“You can cancel the search party,” the therapist told the volunteer who was just leaving.

Then he looked down at Ollie with a smile. “How are you doing today?”

“As well as can be expected after having turkey tetrazzini for lunch,” Ollie told him. Catching the man’s inquisitive glance at his companions, Ollie said, “Sunny Coolidge here works for me. She and her friend Will took me out for lunch.”

Sunny had expected a different introduction from Ollie, but apparently he thought people might speak more freely if they didn’t know that she and Will were snooping around. Well, maybe it was better to keep their investigation on the down low—at least as long as they could.

“Jack Quentin.” The therapist extended a powerful hand to Sunny.

“We’ll leave you to it,” Sunny said, sure that Quentin and probably a lot of other people remembered the uproar from Ollie when she’d come into this room just yesterday. She patted Ollie on the arm. “Be in touch with you soon.”

“Yeah.” Ollie gave her a look. “Let me know what you hear from that doctor.”

“Will do,” Sunny promised. Then she and Will got out of there.

Will waited until they reached the parking lot before speaking. “If there had been a glass beside the bed, it’s gone now. And after the bucket-and-mop brigade got done in that room, I don’t expect there’s any trace of physical evidence left.” Cold anger made his face all sharp angles. “I didn’t think it was worth getting Ollie all riled up, especially when he’s apparently hoping we can stay undercover.”

“Thanks—I could do without another tantrum.” Sunny didn’t mention whether she expected it from Ollie or Will.

Will didn’t holler, but he obviously had someone to blame. “At least Nesbit could have asked the folks here to hold off until I’d gotten a look around.”

“Do you think he’s stacking the deck against us?” Sunny scowled at the idea. She hadn’t expected this job to be easy, but people didn’t have to go out of their way to make it harder.

“We should have probably taken that as a given,” Will said with a sigh. Then he began to look more thoughtful. “If this is standard operating procedure, Bridgewater Hall seems to make the dear departed disappear awfully quickly.”

“That could make sense among the older residents,” Sunny said. “It might upset them, being reminded of absent friends.” She shrugged. “Maybe they’re trying to be businesslike, getting things ready for the next customer.”

“Or maybe there are some guilty consciences at work, who don’t want to leave any evidence of incompetence or malpractice lying around,” Will suggested.

“When Alfred Scatterwell was trying to get his uncle to shift to a less expensive facility, he claimed that the mortality rate at Bridgewater Hall was higher than average,”

“That would be a good reason to make any evidence disappear, wouldn’t it?” Will said. “Especially if someone screwed up Scatterwell’s treatment.”