In the end, Sunny drove the Buick back to Mrs. Martinson’s, with Will right behind them. She locked up the car and gave the keys back to Helena, who thanked her for chauffeuring. “No problem,” replied Sunny. “I’ll see you later, Dad.”
“Later,” Mike agreed, loosening his tie. “It’s already been a heck of a night. I don’t know what we can do to top it.”
Somehow, Sunny thought, I don’t think it will have much to do with coffee cake.
Will had the passenger door of the pickup open for her and exchanged “good nights” with Helena and Mike. He’d already ditched his suit jacket and tie.
“I should have brought a change of clothes,” Will said, then asked, “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“You’re making some interesting assumptions, just because my dad is staying awhile at Helena’s.”
“I just meant—well, how do you feel after spending time in the Scatterwell sauna?”
“Damp,” Sunny had to admit, picking at her own clothes. “Maybe we can sit outside on the deck and cool off a bit.” She took off her jacket and rolled up the sleeves on her blouse.
When they arrived at her house, she and Will went around the garage to the deck in the backyard. Sunny used the charcoal lighter by the grill to start the citronella candle on the small table back there, offering them a bit of light and some protection from the nighttime bugs.
“So,” Will said, settling into one of the webbed chairs, “as a cop, I’d say we’ve hit a dead end. If we look at the death of Gardner Scatterwell as a one-off murder, we have Alfred—someone with a very strong motive to do him harm, and no alibi—but no proof he was on the premises when Gardner died. We also have two individuals who happened to be working late in the facility, but one—Luke—has no discernible motive, and the other—Elsa—can only be placed near-ish the murder scene. Plus, if we go by the testimony of our eyewitness, Scatterwell accepted something to drink, and I can’t see him taking anything from a person he was tormenting.”
“But we have another possible theory,” Sunny pointed out.
“Yes, thanks to looking at some records we’re not legally supposed to be able to see, we can also theorize that Scatterwell’s death could possibly be one of a series of medical murders. A significant cluster of deaths seem to coincide with nights when Camille was on duty. However, while she had opportunity, we don’t have a strong motive—unless you think it’s worthwhile to match obituaries with dates of death and see if she had some sort of beef with the various deceased persons. And other than stroke, we still have no idea of means.”
“Not to mention the possibility that Gardner and the other folks did actually die of natural causes,” Sunny reminded him.
“Point noted, but we’ll put that aside for the moment.” Will looked at her expectantly.
“What?” Sunny burst out.
“I, as the cop, have laid out all the logical groundwork. This is the part where you, the amateur, come up with the unexpected plan, and I say, ‘It’s crazy, but it just might work.’”
Sunny gave him an incredulous look. “Has your TV been stuck on the channel with all the lame seventies mystery shows?”
“Hey, I’ve seen you pull this off a couple of times.”
She sat and thought for a moment. “Maybe we could . . .” Her voice died away and she shook her head. “That’s so crazy it wouldn’t work. Sorry, Will, not this time. I’ve got nothing.”
“Then I think you should use this conversation as the basis for writing up a report in the most persuasive language you can come up with,” Will said. “Maybe if you tease him with enough nagging questions, Nesbit might decide this situation warrants a closer look with a bit more legal oomph behind it.”
“Can I quote you on that?” Sunny asked.
Will made a face but then grew serious. “I think maybe we ought to meet tomorrow and work on a draft to run past Ollie.”
“He won’t like having to eat crow in front of Dr. Reese and the sheriff,” Sunny told him.
“Well, we can cite the usual constraints of time and the inability to compel the collection of certain evidence,” Will said. “Then Ollie can argue with Nesbit, lose, and it won’t be our fault.”
“Somehow,” Sunny told him, “I don’t think Ollie will see it that way.”
That idea was so depressing, they sat in silence for a minute. Then Will took Sunny’s hands. “We still have some time before your father gets back—” He broke off, suddenly pointing upward. “A shooting star!”
Sunny followed his finger, spotting a streak across the sky. “Oh, yeah, the summer meteor showers. It used to be easier to spot them before things got so built up.”
Will nodded. “Now they talk about light pollution. When I was a kid, I remember lying on the grass in the backyard with my dad, watching the sky.”
“I think we’re a little too well dressed to try that,” Sunny told him.
But Will moved his chair beside hers so she could rest her head on his shoulder, her eyes on the heavens.
It may not be moonlight, but I guess shooting starlight will do, she thought.
“One in seventy-five million,” Will murmured.
“What?” Sunny said.
“The odds of being killed by a meteorite.” Will turned to look her in the eyes. “I read it somewhere. “You’ve got a better chance of being killed by fireworks—or a bee sting.”
“I know it goes along with your job, but I really think you should work on your sweet nothings,” she told him.
“Maybe this is a case of do, not speak.” His lips came toward hers.
But the kiss was interrupted, not by a falling heavenly body but by a yowling furry one that landed on their heads.
*
Shadow heard muffled voices outside the house, but no one came in. Climbing on the couch, he saw a big car at the end of the driveway . . . no people, though. He went down the hall to the rear of the house, and the voices got louder. One of them seemed to be Sunny!
He boosted himself up onto the kitchen table and peered outside. Yes, it was definitely Sunny and her He, sitting on the deck. Why are they keeping away and leaving me out? Shadow wondered. It was probably the He, still angry about the boxes and the papers. Shadow stretched forward, one paw against the glass of the kitchen window. If he wanted to get out and join them, he couldn’t get through here.
Shadow set off on a determined march to the stairway, climbing up to the second floor, down the hall, and into the Old One’s room, worming his way through a door that was almost closed. He knew Sunny’s father wasn’t in there, and the window was open. Leaping up to the sill, he raised a paw, trying to catch his claws on the corner of the screen without getting them stuck in the screen itself. That’s all he needed, to be trapped in here when the Old One came back.
At last the screen moved and Shadow hooked a paw outside, budging the screen a little more until his head and then his shoulders fit through. The roof slanted under his feet, but he could manage that. The problem was finding a way down. Shadow knew the tree wouldn’t work. A cat’s claws worked fine on the bark going up, but they weren’t built for sliding down. That’s why he’d seen some friends trapped on branches, calling for help. Maybe he could jump down into one of the chairs or land on the table. It was still a long leap.
As he carefully made his way down to the edge of the roof, it got very quiet down below. Had they gone inside after all? He leaned out to see, his paw slipped, and all of a sudden he was flying through the air.
It could have been worse. He landed on their heads, not as far a fall as it could have been, and quickly bounced over to the table.
But from the noise Sunny and her He made, you’d think he’d dropped on them with his claws out and ready.
*
Sunny screamed, Will yelled, and they both jumped up. It took them a moment to realize that th
e Unidentified Furry Object was actually Shadow, who now sat on the table, grooming himself. But while he tried to keep up the nonchalant act, Sunny noticed that the cat kept shooting worried glances at her.
“I think this is the first time I’ve heard of a game called on account of cat. Maybe we are stuck in a seventies mystery show,” Will groused, trying to recover some sense of humor. “One of the dopey comedy ones.”
They left Shadow and walked around to the driveway, where Will’s pickup was parked. “I don’t know if I should apologize or what,” Sunny said.
“Definitely not your fault,” Will replied. “Or mine. When this craziness is over, we’ll try for a little more shooting star watching—a private viewing, though, far away from that menace.” He leaned down, she raised her lips, and they kissed, but it didn’t hold the same promise as the one that got interrupted. After all, they were in front of the house, in public. Not the place for a clinch.
Will climbed into his pickup. “Till tomorrow,” he said. Then he drove off. Sunny waved until he was out of sight, then turned to walk to the front door. Shadow stood ready to greet her in the hallway. “Hey, spoilsport,” she told him. “Just because you don’t get to see your dream girl, you shouldn’t go around ruining other people’s fun.”
She went upstairs to put on something more comfortable, then came back to the living room to make up with Shadow over an exciting game of catch-the-string. By the time the house phone rang, Shadow was tired out and comfortably curled up on her lap. Sunny had to evict him to get up and answer the phone. “Hello?”
“’S Luke,” the voice on the other end of the line announced a little mushily. “Luke Daconto.”
“Luke?” Sunny said in surprise. “How did you get this number?”
“White pages,” Luke replied. “Remembered you lived with your father. Only one M. Coolidge in Kittery Harbor.” A crinkling of paper came over the line. “Is there really such a place as Wild Goose Drive?”
Of course, Sunny thought, feeling a little foolish. Why would Mike have any use for an unlisted number?
“Are you okay?” she asked. “You sound a little funny.”
“Not funny. Drunk,” Luke corrected. “I decided to act like Alfred. But now I need to talk to someone, and I hope I can ask a favor.”
“To talk?” Sunny said.
“Face-to-face,” Luke explained. “See, that’s a problem. I can’t drive out to While Gootch Drive. I’ll probably hit a tree trying.”
Sunny sighed, shooing Shadow out of her lap again. “Give me your address,” she said. “I’ll drive right over.”
Scribbling down the address on the notepad beside the phone, she hung up and rose to her feet. “Sorry, Shadow, no more alone time. I’ve got to go.” She looked down at the worn sweatshirt she was wearing. “And I probably should put on some better clothes.”
When she came back downstairs, Sunny had on jeans and a less disreputable T-shirt. She left a note for her dad in case he came home before she got back, gave Shadow a quick pet, and headed out to her Wrangler. Luke lived in Levett, in a much more built-up area than Sunny’s neighborhood. The buildings and the people were much more crowded there. So were the cars. Sunny circled around several blocks before she found a parking space. She got out of her SUV and walked the rest of the way to her destination, a modest three-story apartment house. As a nod to the old colonial architecture, some of the windows were surrounded by make-believe plastic clapboards. The rest of the walls seemed to be made of rough-cast concrete. She got buzzed in through the front door and mounted the steps to the third floor.
Seems like a neat, clean enough place, she thought, looking around. Is this what a music therapist’s salary gets? Luke stood in the doorway to his place, looking a little shaggier and more disheveled than usual. He’d ditched the corduroy jacket and mismatched tie, but he still had the pants—pretty wrinkled now—and the shirt, which looked as if he’d sweated right through it.
“I’m sorry,” he said when he saw her. “This was probably a stupid idea.”
“Well, I’m here now,” Sunny replied. “Let’s talk.” Luke held the door open for her, and she went into his place. It was a studio, on the small side and sparsely furnished. She saw a couch that looked as if it had been put together from a kit, and a spindly sort of modern chair, arranged on what looked like a piece of remnant carpet. One wall was the kitchen, with a sort of counter arrangement and a couple of stools. Around a corner was the sleeping nook, where Sunny could see the foot of Luke’s bed—it seemed to be made—with his jacket hanging precariously off the edge. She saw some very nice sound equipment and a lot of CDs but no television, and some low chests that probably held his clothes. A floor lamp and a spindly table lamp on an end table provided dim light.
When Sunny had seated herself in the chair, Luke made a big, swooping gesture, taking in the whole place. “It ain’t Scatterwell Castle, or whatever they call it, but it’s home.”
He dropped onto the sofa.
“We tried to catch up with you earlier this evening, but you were just a little bit ahead of us when we left.” Sunny paused for a moment, trying to figure out what to say. “I guess I wanted to apologize. That’s not the way people are supposed to talk—or act—around here.”
“Why should I be surprised at Alfred?” Luke asked. “He didn’t act much better around his uncle.” He took a deep breath. “It was hard to hear all that stuff.”
“About your friend?” Sunny said. “I’m sorry. I know that you liked Gardner, and he certainly seemed to like you.”
“Yeah. Liked,” Luke echoed and then launched into a seemingly unrelated story. “My mom died about a year ago. Something her potions couldn’t cure. I managed to get the word and return to the commune before she went. She gave me her book of cures”—he gestured to a battered spiral notebook sitting on the table—“and she finally told me something I’d been asking her about for years.”
He sagged back on the couch, looking at Sunny. “You know that saying, ‘It takes a village’? I was raised by thirty-seven people on the commune. But I never had a father. My mom had an ‘old man’ for a while, and especially when she was younger, she had a lot of, well, let’s call them overnight guests.”
“That must have been . . .” Sunny ran out of words.
“Weird?” Luke suggested. “Hard?” He shook his head. “Actually, it was just life. There was a guy in the commune, Paul, who was a carpenter and woodworker. He was what you’d probably call my role model.” Luke laughed. “He believed in doing a good job and not taking any crap . . . and he also loved to sing. He was really into music—got me my first guitar by trading a table he’d made for it. I can’t complain about my life. There was just one thing. Whenever I asked Mom, she always changed the subject . . . until she lay dying.”
“So who was he?” Sunny asked, afraid she knew the answer. Luke laughed—not exactly a happy sound. “That was the thing; she didn’t know. As far as she could narrow it down, he was one of two guys, fresh out of Yale, who were on a road trip. They crashed with Mom, got kind of wasted, and I guess you can fill in the rest.”
He moved ponderously on the couch, but his voice got clearer. Maybe his drinks were wearing off. “All I had were first names, and the fact that they came from Maine. So I played detective, managed to get my hands on Yale alumni lists. There are a couple of thousand alums in Maine, but I was looking for people from the class of 1970 and finally managed to find a Hank and a Gardner. One was a doctor who ran Bridgewater Hall. I had a degree in music therapy, had good references . . . and was willing to work cheap. After getting the gig, I just kept my eyes open. It was just a stroke of luck for me that Gardner also happened to be a patient there. I managed to snag a tissue when Dr. Reese had a bloody nose, then I got hold of a couple of glasses that Gardner had drunk from, which was a hell of a lot easier. I sent them off to one of those mail-in DNA places, and here’s the
answer, postmarked about a month ago.” He tapped a finger on a couple of letters lying beside the notebook. “Modern science says there’s a ninety-nine percent chance that Gardner was my father.”
“So you found him.” Sunny couldn’t think of anything else to say as she tried to digest all of Luke’s revelations.
“And I was even happy. Dr. Reese, well, he came off as a bit of a stiff. It was a relief to find out that Gardner was my dad. He seemed cheerful, even if he was on his back most of the time. He always had a smile and a joke. I was glad I’d found him.” Luke fell silent for a moment. “But all I knew was the sick guy at Bridgewater Hall. When I heard all that stuff people were whispering at the memorial, what Alfred said out loud, I had to wonder. Was I a chump to come looking for him?”
“People are rarely all one thing or all the other,” Sunny pointed out. “If he was nice to you, enthusiastic, maybe he liked you. Maybe he wanted you to think well of him—to remember the good in him.” She hesitated. “Did you tell him?”
Luke shook his shaggy head. “I was sort of edging toward it, working up to it. I almost told him the night he died. See, I did take some time off from pushing papers around and went to see him. He’d been complaining about feeling nervous, but they wouldn’t give him anything for it. So I mixed up some of Mom’s nerve tonic and smuggled it in for him, gave him a dose—”
“In a glass of brandy,” Sunny finished, remembering Ollie’s story.
“The stuff tastes awfully strong, and I thought that would cut it a bit. Gardner used to say a good snort was probably as good as a sleeping pill.” He stopped, blinking. “How’d you know about that?”
“Ollie woke up and overheard a little while you were visiting with Gardner.” Sunny looked over at the wreck of a notebook. “What was in that tonic?”
Luke reached over and turned tattered pages. “Here it is.” He passed the book over to Sunny. Luke’s mom had unformed, loopy, hard-to-read handwriting that started large on the top lines and progressively shrank as she got closer to the bottom of the page.
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