Last Licks

“Someone here? Someone who knew Scatterwell?” Will asked.

Ollie shook his head. “Stan Orton.”

“The man you did the real estate deal with?” Sunny stared at her boss.

“The guy who threatened me—and then I beat him on that contract,” Ollie told her. “I think he got Gardner by mistake.”

“You think Orton snuck in last night?”

“Of course not.” Ollie gave her a withering look. “He sent somebody, somebody who works here. At first, he probably just hired them to spy on me. That’s when whoever it was must have overheard me talking with Gardner about brandy.”

Will looked doubtful. “So it’s someone who knew who was talking while they were eavesdropping, but couldn’t recognize who was who in the dark?”

Ollie made an impatient gesture. “Okay, maybe two people—one from the day shift, one for the night.”

“And they’d be willing to poison you?” Sunny couldn’t keep the doubt out of her own voice.

“No, no, Orton wanted to punish me, not kill me. It was probably something to make me sick as a dog. But if Gardner got it instead, well, he was in pretty bad shape. Maybe what would have just made me sick was enough to kill him.”

Sounds like the kind of story you’d find on the lamer cop shows, Sunny thought, but she kept her mouth shut.

Will, who had more professional pride, looked ready to argue. “Ollie—”

“We’ll take it under advisement,” Sunny said. The last thing they needed was to provoke a fight with her boss.

“It’s not like you’ve got a theory of your own,” Ollie griped. “So get out there and dig into Orton. Maybe he’s pulled a dirty trick or two before. And don’t sign anything with these people. I’ve got my lawyer going over their so-called agreement.”

“Okay,” both Will and Sunny promised. They said good-bye to Ollie and got out of there before he opened another can of craziness on them. As they walked down the hall, Will lowered his voice, looking up and down the hallway. “Do you know where the john is around here? I know Ollie’s room had one, but I didn’t want to stay in there.”

Sunny spotted Camille the aide walking toward them, and directed Will’s question to her. “Four doors down on the other side.” The girl pointed.

Will thanked her and hurriedly headed away.

“There was quite a lot of excitement here early this morning,” Sunny said when they were alone.

Camille nodded. “Poor Mr. Scatterwell.”

Sunny decided to do some gentle information gathering. “Do you lose a lot of patients from this ward?”

Camille shook her head. “It happens more in the resident wards, where people are older and sometimes frail. But here? This is the first I know of. But then, I’ve only been here a couple of months. Bridgewater Hall took me on right after I finished my training.”

“Do you like the job?”

An embarrassed smile appeared on Camille’s plain face. “I wanted to help people—and make a living. Everywhere I looked, they kept saying that health care was one of the only growing career fields. So I went for a training course, and at least I got a job.”

“Is it all it was cracked up to be?” Sunny asked.

Camille gave her a shrug. “It’s kind of a look into a different world. Most of the people here, I’d say they have money. Not like where I grew up.”

“So are the rich really different?” Sunny grinned. “That’s what one writer said.”

“They’re used to having people take care of them, I’d say.” Camille looked a little put on the spot. “Some of them are nice. Your friend Mr. Barnstable isn’t that bad, once you get past the grumpiness.”

“He’s my boss,” Sunny said. “And if you say he’s being nice, I’ve got to find out what kind of pills you’re giving him.”

“He’s . . . honest,” Camille said. “That usually happens when people are sick or in pain.” Her smile slipped a little. “Not with Mr. Scatterwell, though. He liked people to think he was a nice guy, but he wasn’t.”

Sunny nodded. “I saw a little of that.”

“He was really sick, but he wouldn’t do the work to get better.” Camille seemed upset at the waste. “But even though he was badly off, he still liked to chase women. Not that he’d be able to do anything if he caught them.” Scorn turned into something else on her face. “If you weren’t pretty or rich—”

Like Camille, for instance, Sunny thought.

“You might as well be a piece of furniture,” Camille finished.

“That doesn’t sound very nice at all,” Sunny said.

Camille shook her head. “It could be worse if he noticed you. Ms. Hogue found that out.”

“The occupational therapist?”

“She kept trying to get him to do more, and he didn’t want to.” Camille lowered her voice. “He got really mean, calling her names, telling her she wouldn’t have a job, that his big buddy Dr. Reese would fire her—I even caught him feeling her up when he thought no one was looking.”

Camille looked a little wistful. “Ms. Hogue used to look really pretty, but the longer she worked with him, she stopped wearing makeup, or nice clothes, she just sort of hunkered down.”

“Couldn’t she have gotten Mr. Scatterwell assigned to someone else?”