Jillian let out a small laugh, just as Vance and I grunted with amusement.
“She didn’t, did she? Did she hold up a bank?”
“No, ma’am,” Vance said. “I just need to find her and ask her a few questions about a case we’re working on. It’s imperative that we talk to her. Do you know which way she went?”
Mrs. Brannan shook her head. “We get visitors all the time during normal visiting hours. But, I happen to know that, if you want to talk to her, then you’re in luck. She has to be still in here, somewhere. All visitors must sign in and out, and she’s yet to pass back through.”
“What name did she give?” Jillian wanted to know.
Mrs. Brannan reached through the opening in the plexiglass and pulled a clipboard, with an attached pen, toward her. She tapped her finger on the last entry and nodded.
“It says here her name is Julie Moore.”
Vance might’ve shrugged, but both Jillian and I shared a brief look, which didn’t go unnoticed by our detective friend.
“What? Do you know her?”
“Only as a thief,” I answered, “and that is most definitely not her real name.”
“How can you be so sure?” Vance wanted to know.
“Julie Moore?” Jillian quietly repeated. “As in, Julianne Moore? Do you know who she is?”
Vance shook his head. “No, should I?”
“She’s a famous red-headed actress,” I answered. “It makes me think that Wig Lady might actually be wearing her normal hair for once.”
Jillian shrugged. “It’s possible.”
“Did you ask for identification?” Vance asked, as he turned back to the receptionist.
“It’s not a requirement,” Mrs. Brannan admitted, “although, to be frank, I’m strongly considering mentioning it to the facility director.”
Vance nodded. “Good. Do that. Now, where did she go? Who did she come here to see? Does that clipboard say?”
Mrs. Brannan consulted the guest sign-in sheet a second time. “Liam Gallagher, room #B213.”
“How do we find it?” I asked. “Which way?”
In response, Mrs. Brannan pulled a sheet of paper off a shelf next to her work station, circled something, and slid it through the opening. “We’re here. You’re looking for the North Wing. Go through that doorway there and follow the hall until it dead ends. Turn left. You’ll encounter a nurse’s station. Keep going straight, and once you go through another set of double doors, which will be open, you’ll be in the North Wing. Mr. Gallagher’s room should be near the end of the hall, on the right.”
We all thanked the receptionist, with me going so far as to pick up Sherlock so he could stick his snout through the opening and give Mrs. Brannan’s hand a few licks. Once we were on our way, Jillian nudged my shoulder.
“Did you notice the name? Liam Gallagher?”
Vance grunted. “Sounds rather Irish, don’t you think?”
“Do you think he’s involved?” I asked.
“More likely, he’s probably related somehow,” Vance decided.
“Maybe it’s just a coincidence?” Jillian suggested.
We hit the end of the hallway and, as directed, turned left. Another couple of minutes had us emerging into a centralized hub, with hallways headed off in four different directions. At the center of the hub was a large, semi-circular desk. There was a bank of telephones on it, four different computer work stations, and no fewer than six staff members, dressed in identical green surgical scrubs, lounging against the counter. The conversations came to an abrupt stop and, as one, all six employees—four women and two men—allowed their gazes to drop to the floor.
“Corgis!” one woman exclaimed.
“How adorable!” another cried.
I sure hope whatever those half-dozen staff members were doing behind the counter wasn’t important, because every single one of them came hurrying around the desk to drop into a squat next to the dogs. Sherlock and Watson, as you can probably imagine, slid into down positions and rolled over, exposing their furry bellies.
“Really, guys?” I sighed. “We’re in the middle of something here. Show a little backbone, would you?”
I was ignored. One of the employees, a young girl in her mid-twenties, looked up at me and smiled.
“You have some adorable dogs.”
“The word you’re looking for is diva,” I clarified, which elicited a round of laughter from everyone present. I pulled out my phone yet again, and showed it to the nurse. “Have you seen this woman lately? Could she have possibly come by this way?”
“What difference does it make?” Vance whispered. “We know which room she visited.”
“Allegedly visited,” Jillian softly murmured. “It couldn’t hurt to get a little confirmation so we know we’re on the right track.”
“Oh, her,” the nurse said, as she rose to her feet. Four of the five other employees did the same. “Yes, I remember her. She wasn’t very nice at all.”
I pointed at the hallway directly ahead of us. “Did she go that way?”
The group of nurses all turned to look behind them, as if they didn’t believe a hallway was back there.
“Yes,” the young nurse said. “Do you need any help? Do you know where you’re going?”
I pointed at the hall. “Yep. That way. The lady you didn’t like? She had something that didn’t belong to her. We’re thinking she might have stashed it in a room down there.”
“Which room?” one of the male nurses asked, growing concerned.
I looked at Jillian. “What was his name, again? Gallagher?”
“Liam Gallagher,” my fiancée confirmed.
“You’re looking for Mr. Gallagher’s room?” another employee asked. This was a woman in her early fifties, and had just emerged from one of the other intersecting corridors. She took one look at our little group and immediately hurried forward so she could place herself in our way. “There’s no need to bother Mr. Gallagher now, thank you very much. He’s had a rough couple of days, so he needs his rest.”
“A rough couple of days?” one of the male nurses repeated, puzzled. “How so? I worked a ten-hour shift yesterday, and every time I looked in on Mr. Gallagher, he was playing solitaire in his bed. He seemed cheerful, not stressed.”
“Well, he was,” the elderly nurse insisted. “Therefore, we shouldn’t … stop right there! Don’t you dare go down there!”
Sherlock and Watson had completely ignored this newest obstacle and strolled right past her, as though she had no business trying to impede their progress.
“What seems to be the problem here?” a new voice asked. The voice was strong, firm, and brooked no arguments. “Oh, what’s this? Dogs? How wonderful! Our residents will love that!”
“Nurse Hutchens was trying to prevent our visitors from visiting Mr. Gallagher, ma’am,” one of the other nurses explained. “I’m just not sure why.”
“He’s had a rough couple of days,” Nurse Hutchens hastily explained.
“No, he hasn’t,” the head nurse argued. “He’s been in low spirits, and a visit from a couple of dogs would be most welcome.” She looked over at me and held out a hand. “Sheryl Bates, Director of Nursing.”
“Zack Anderson.”
A smile appeared on Sheryl’s face. “Ah. Lentari Cellars. You make my favorite wine, Mr. Anderson. Now, Nurse Hutchens? Step out of the way. We will be allowing Mr. Anderson and his dogs to visit one of our residents.”
With a cry of alarm, Nurse Hutchens turned on her heel and fled down the hall, intent on reaching Mr. Gallagher’s room before us. However, before she could make it by the dogs, Sherlock gave one of the nurse’s legs a tiny nudge, which was enough to throw her off balance. Down she went, and unfortunately for her, it was a tile floor. Her breath exploded out of her in a whoosh and she painfully rolled onto her back.
“There, there,” one of the male nurses said, as they helped Nurse Hutchens off the floor. “Here’s a chair. Sit there.”
&nb
sp; Surprisingly, Nurse Hutchens brushed off the helping hands and tried to get to her feet in an effort to stop us from walking down the hall.
“No! You don’t understand! You can’t go there!”
“Would this have anything to do with a stolen item being stashed in one of the rooms?” Vance dryly asked, as he approached the nurse and showed his identification. “I do believe I’d like a word with you when this is all said and done.”
The nurse let out a cry of alarm and pushed the people crowding around her away. She frantically ran toward the facility’s main entrance, just as quickly as she could. Vance casually pulled his cell from his pocket and placed a call.
“Jones? Hey, heads up. There’s a woman headed your way, in a hurry. She’s … what? No, listen to me. I’m fairly certain she’s involved here. We’re going to need to … what’s that? I can’t now. Tell us when we’re back outside, okay? For now, hold her for questioning, will you? Great. Thanks.”
“Bizarre behavior for a nurse,” I decided.
“How long has she worked here?” Jillian wanted to know.
“Less than a year,” Sheryl told us, frowning. “And she’s involved? With what?”
“A woman came in here,” I explained. “She was carrying stolen property. We’re pretty sure she stashed it in Liam Gallagher’s room.”
Sheryl frowned. “Is that so? Come. I’ll take you to Mr. Gallagher now.”
We followed Sheryl and three of the nurses down the hall and stopped at the right-hand door at the end. Sheryl knocked a few times and then, when she didn’t hear anything, she and a second nurse entered. While they presumably checked on the room’s occupant, the three of us huddled together.
“What if she’s in there?” I asked.
“I doubt it,” Vance replied. “I’m thinking she was just looking for a place to stash the chest for a few days, until the hype can die down.”
“I wonder if Liam has ever been visited by Ms. Moore before,” Jillian wondered.
“I haven’t seen her before, if that helps,” a young nurse replied, having overheard us.
“I have,” another nurse said, holding up a hand.
“How long ago?” I asked. “Any ideas?”
“Sure. I’d say about five days ago.”
“Five days?” I repeated, as I turned to look at my two friends. “That’s almost the amount of time that a certain something has been in my possession.”
“Too coincidental,” Vance decided.
Sheryl emerged at Mr. Gallagher’s door. “He’s ready to receive you. He doesn’t know who you are …” and at this, she lowered his voice, “… but I can tell you that he really doesn’t care. He’d love some company.”
“Does he like dogs?” I asked.
“I already asked, and yes, he loves dogs.”
I looked down at Sherlock and Watson and promptly dropped the leashes. “Go on, you two. Go say hi.”
Both corgis took off, as if it was now a race to see who could get there first. However, when we entered the room, we could see that the bed was raised just a little too high for a dog with such short legs. Each of the dogs had reared up, on their squat hind legs, and were giving little jumps, as if they expected to be able to jump up to the bed with minimal effort.
“Mr. Gallagher?” I asked, as I held out a hand. “Zack Anderson. This is my fiancée, Jillian Cooper, and over there, by the television, is Vance Samuelson.”
“And who do we have down there?” Liam Gallagher asked, as he propped himself up in his bed and looked down at the dogs. He looked to be in his late sixties, had thinning hair, and was skinny as a rail. He looked down at the dogs and smiled. “Well, aren’t they a couple of cuties. What are their names?”
“Sherlock and Watson. With your permission, I can lift them up to your bed, so they can give you a proper introduction.”
“Absolutely. I’d love nothing more.”
Nodding to Vance, we both picked up the dogs and gently set them on the bed. Sherlock turned to look at me, as if seeking permission to do what I know he wanted to do. I gave each dog a pat on the head and stepped back.
“Release, guys.”
“Release?” Liam repeated, puzzled. “What would … oh my! Ack! My dentures! One of my dentures popped out and that one took it!”
Horrified, I looked down at my two dogs and, sure enough, one of them had what looked like half a set of human teeth sticking out of their mouth. Any guesses as to which one had snatched up the dentures the moment it had appeared? I’ll give you a hint: his fur was three colors. I faced Sherlock, plastered the sternest look I could muster on my face, and then angrily pointed straight down, which is my way of saying drop it. What followed next, it’s safe to say, would be talked about for months to come.
Sherlock let out a muffled yip and dropped into a crouch with his head low and rear up high. Anyone familiar with dogs in general will recognize the signs that their furry companion was about to engage in a game of chase. Waggling a finger, I took a step toward Sherlock, intent on scolding him for taking something that wasn’t his, but as soon as I moved, I knew it had been a mistake. Sherlock was off, like a shot.
Barking maniacally, and with Watson hot on his nub of a tail, Sherlock leapt off the bed and tore out of the room. He headed down the hall, toward the central nurses’ station. I heard exclamations of surprise before a loud yip sounded, which resulted in a mad scrambling of doggie toenails on the tiled floor. After a few moments, Sherlock was back in the doorway, proceeded to bark a challenge, and then took off. I could hear him running down the hall for a second time, letting out a series of challenging barks whenever he saw someone stick their head out of a door to look at him.
“I’m so sorry about this,” I managed.
The entire room, including the nurses, Jillian, and Vance, were in hysterics. Even Mr. Gallagher was smiling away as he enjoyed the antics of my two corgis. We noticed the barks were growing progressively louder, and then two canine tornadoes blew into the room. Sherlock had been running so fast that, when he applied the brakes, he slid the remaining five feet across the floor. Now situated at the base of the hospital bed, Sherlock looked up at us and waggled his stump of a tail.
“I love that dog,” the head nurse exclaimed. “Omigod, he’s so precious!”
“Oh, don’t tell him that,” I groaned. Steeling myself, I knelt down next to Sherlock and held out my hand. “Fork it over, pal. Those aren’t yours.”
I maintain he made the noise, only Jillian said she hadn’t heard anything. Sherlock looked right at me and made a ‘PTUI!’ sound. A warm, slobbery item was deposited in my hand. Staring down at the saliva-covered upper half of Mr. Gallagher’s dentures, I smiled sheepishly and started to hand them back to its rightful owner. Thankfully, one of the nurses offered to take the false teeth out of my hand, presumably to give the teeth a thorough cleaning.
“Think nothing of it, dear boy,” Mr. Gallagher told me, with a sparkle in his eye. “I haven’t had this much excitement in months! I like your dogs. You feel free to come around anytime you’d like.”
I grinned at the bed’s occupant and then pulled out my phone. Bringing up the picture of Julie Moore, and still not being certain that was her actual name, I showed Mr. Gallagher the photograph.
“Do you recognize her, Mr. Gallagher?”
Liam Gallagher automatically pulled on the silver chain around his neck, which I hadn’t noticed before, and produced a thin set of eyeglasses. Taking my phone, he studied the photo. I’m also very pleased to say that he began nodding the moment he saw it.
“Her? I’ve seen her before. I think she’s the mother of one of my granddaughters. At least, she said she was.”
“Did she give her name?” Jillian asked.
“Moore. Julie Moore, I believe.”
“But, you’ve never seen her before,” Vance clarified.
Mr. Gallagher nodded. “That’s right. Why? What’s the matter?”
“Did she leave anything in here?” I aske
d, curiously.
Mr. Gallagher pointed at the closed closet door. “As a matter of fact, she did. She had a small, black bag with her. She said I needed to keep its existence quiet.”
“May we?” Vance politely inquired, as he reached for the sliding glass closet door, but stopped several inches shy of touching the surface.
“Go ahead,” Mr. Gallagher urged.
Vance cautiously slid the door open and, breaking out into a grin, reached inside. Within moments, he had turned around, and there, standing upright before him, was the small, black duffel bag. After a few fist-pumps, Vance carried the bag over to a nearby counter and carefully inspected the bag for damage, which there was none. Slowly unzipping the duffel bag, he spread open the small bag and risked a look inside. Only then did he let out a loud exhale. It was the shamrock chest, and thankfully, it was still very much closed.
“Oh, is that a sight for sore eyes,” I breathed.
Vance motioned to the chest and inclined his head. “If you would, Mr. Anderson.”
“I would love to, Detective Samuelson,” I said, with a grin.
“Property has been reclaimed,” Vance noted, in his notebook. “Appears to be intact.”
“What is that?” Sheryl wanted to know. “Is it dangerous?”
“Well, we know someone really wants it,” Vance told the head nurse. “As for what it is, no, it’s not dangerous. At least, if it contains what we think it does, then it isn’t.”
“What do you think it contains?” one nurse asked.
I shrugged, as I slid the chest under my arm. “Oh, nothing really. We suspect this thing contains the stolen crown jewels from Ireland.”
As we thanked Liam Gallagher, promising to bring the dogs back sometime later in the week so that all the residents would be able to meet them, we heard several of the nurses chatting excitedly among themselves. Should I have revealed what we suspected was in the chest? Probably not. Then again, what did it matter? We weren’t keeping them. In fact, if luck went our way, I was hoping to make a second call to my friend in Ireland later tonight.
On the way back to Pomme Acres’ main entrance, Vance, Jillian, and I were all chatting among ourselves, laughing, cracking jokes, and giving the dogs friendly scratches. We had stopped by several rooms on the way out, plus—at Sheryl’s request—swung by the residents’ common area to say hello. The dogs were a hit. Resident faces lit up with delight as each of the corgis made a point to try and make as many new friends as possible. Our good mood, though, disappeared as we emerged outside.
Case of the Shady Shamrock Page 18