Last Licks

Heading north from Kittery Harbor, Sunny stayed on the interstate until she reached the exit that would take her to Levett. Then she followed a series of country roads until she came to the stone bridge that gave Bridgewater its name. The village had a downtown about a block long—a food store, Laundromat, barbershop, gas station, and dry cleaner’s. Following the instructions she’d downloaded, Sunny passed the business district, took the next left, and five minutes later pulled up in the driveway of Bridgewater Hall.

“Yikes!” she muttered, taking in the view. Except for the cyclone fence and the parking lot taking up a good piece of the front lawn, the place had a distinctly baronial feel. A three-story stone structure rose up on the left, complete with a two-story bay with battlements on top. And just to the right of those rose a heavy arch framing a pair of bronze and timber doors that would probably require a major battering ram to bust through if the local peasants ever decided to revolt.

Extending off to the right was a two-story wing set farther back, rising at the far right end to another three-story structure, sort of a miniature of the first hall.

Must have started out as someone’s stately home, or maybe a hotel, Sunny thought as she got out of her Jeep and headed up the walk. The doors, for all their imposing size, swung open easily, and Sunny immediately left medieval times for the world of twenty-first-century medicine—or at least twentieth century. The floor was institutional green terrazzo, and a guard’s desk flanked the doorway. The buildup had left Sunny expecting maybe a Beefeater with a halberd; instead, she saw a guy maybe a few years younger than she was behind a chest-high wooden counter. He was burly, with sandy hair in a military buzz cut and a wide, open face that was maybe softening a little along the jawline. But he wore his short-sleeved blue shirt and dark striped tie like a uniform, and there was plenty of heavy muscle on his arms as he took up a pen and pushed a sign-in book toward her. Still, his smile was cheerful and friendly as he said, “Welcome to Bridgewater Hall. How can I help you?”

“Yes, a . . . friend of mine just arrived today.” Maybe she was having a flashback to the Kittery Harbor Way, but Sunny didn’t want to call Ollie just a boss or employer. “Mr. Barnstable.”

“Oh, yes, he’s settled in by now.” As the guard ran down a list, Sunny got close enough to read the name tag over his breast pocket: R. WARNER. “Ah,” Warner said, “they put him in 114 with Mr. Scatterwell. Well, you should get some entertainment. Mr. Scatterwell’s the mayor of the rehab unit.”

“Thanks.” Sunny tried to figure out which way to go. Beyond the guard’s desk was a large open area done up as a sort of parlor, with armchairs, couches, paintings, and even a huge, ancient grandfather clock. Large fish tanks took up one wall. Opposite that stood what appeared to be a pair of elevators. Beyond those was a long hallway.

One of the elevator doors opened, and a calico cat sauntered out.

Sunny blinked to make sure she wasn’t seeing things. The cat padded across the corridor, then broke into a sudden run to jump onto one of the parlor chairs.

Warner followed her eyes. “Therapy animal,” he explained. “We’ve got several cats and dogs here.” He called out, “Portia, what are you doing over there?”

The cat’s head briefly appeared over the arm of the chair, responding to her name. Then Portia disappeared again, no doubt arranging herself on the upholstery for a nap.

“Wouldn’t it be nice if we could all do that?” Sunny asked with a smile.

“Wouldn’t get much done if we followed Portia’s schedule.” But Warner’s smile was fond as he looked over at the chair. Then he glanced back at Sunny. “Sorry, ma’am, You’re probably wondering how to get to your friend’s room. Just follow the corridor—it’ll take you to the nurses’ station. They can direct you from there.”

I’m not so much older than you that you’ve got to call me ma’am,

Sunny thought. She signed in, then extended her hand. “Sunny Coolidge.”

Warner replied with a firm handshake. “Rafe Warner.”

“I guess I’ll be seeing a lot of you.” Sunny hefted the bulging envelope she’d brought. “I work for Mr. Barnstable, and I’ll be bringing papers and stuff for him.”

Rafe smiled. “Well, welcome again. I hope Mr. Barnstable enjoys his stay.”