Dr. Reese drew himself up to his considerable height. “I beg your pardon?”
“Apparently his nephew Alfred found the data somewhere on the Internet,” Sunny explained.
“But this is the rehab ward, where the people expect to get better and go home. How often do you have people popping off in here?”
Reese had to fumble for an answer. “We’ve had several patients who had to be returned to hospitals for various reasons.”
“And how many in this ward died in the middle of the night?” Ollie demanded, then shook his head at the lack of an answer. “That’s what I thought. When it happens in the bed next to mine, I want to know why.” He turned to Sunny. “And I want you to find out.”
“Me?” Sunny had to wonder if Ollie weren’t having an anesthesia flashback. “What makes you think—”
“It’s not the first time, is it? I’ve seen you figure out who killed those other folks,” Ollie pointed out. “Just do what you did with them.”
Sunny really didn’t like where Ollie was going here. “I didn’t have much of a choice in those cases.” Yes, she’d been involved in a few police investigations, but it had been a question of self-defense basically—protecting people she was close to from being accused of crimes they hadn’t committed.
“You work for me.” Ollie’s implication was clear. Either she agreed to play detective, or she wouldn’t work for him anymore—not a good thing in an awfully tight job market. Once again, she wasn’t getting much of a choice.
“Let me get his straight.” Mike suddenly spoke up. “You want my daughter to do the sheriff’s job.”
“I don’t think we have grounds here for an official police investigation,” Sheriff Nesbit said, stung. “Or even a reason for the medical examiner to proceed.”
Dr. Gavrik nodded forcefully. “Mr. Scatterwell had a preexisting condition and was already under my care. The cause of death is obvious. Any doctor would feel justified in signing a death certificate in such a situation.”
“So you’re just going to sweep everything under the rug and ignore what happened?” From the tone of Mike’s voice, this story was just going to grow—and it wasn’t going to make Frank Nesbit look very good.
“I’m not saying that,” Nesbit hurriedly replied. “In fact, I’d be willing to detail Constable Price to assist Ms. Coolidge in determining the circumstances of Mr. Scatterwell’s death.”
Sunny opened her mouth to object that everyone seemed to take it for granted that she’d whip out her magnifying glass and start looking for clues. But then she shut it with the feeling that she’d somehow gotten stuck on a train zooming off, already leaving the station of normal rationality behind. How else could she explain her boss threatening her job if she didn’t start snooping? And to tell the truth, she felt that little flutter deep inside, a reporter’s gut feeling that she might be on to something—although she had no idea exactly what that something might be. And there was the added appeal that she’d be dong it with Will.
However reluctantly, Sunny had to hand it to the sheriff. The man was a political animal. He’d just figured out how to placate one supporter (Ollie) by having a political rival (Will) personally investigate the death of someone from the wealthy enclave of Piney Brook. Whatever Will did, he’d make waves in that entitled community, closing some of the deep pockets he’d need to tap to finance a Will Price insurgency. Two birds with one stone.
Considering Nesbit’s offer, Ollie transformed into the master of the deal.
“Sunny and Price will need access to people and records here—not to mention the assistance of the administration.”
Dr. Gavrik’s lips compressed so tightly, they seemed to disappear. “This sounds to me like an attempt at blackmail by a patient who, perhaps, should find another facility for his recuperation.”
Ollie turned to Reese. “If there’s any attempt to throw me out of here, I’ll be a patient who definitely sues this facility. And I can make sure there’s a lot of publicity about it, too.”
Dr. Reese gave a small shudder. But his voice was steady as he said, “We might consider an arrangement along the lines you’re suggesting. However, we cannot violate patient confidentiality. You’ll all have to sign confidentiality agreements. Whatever Constable Price and Ms. Coolidge discover will be turned over to the sheriff. If he still finds no grounds to proceed, that will be the end of it.”
Ollie glanced over at Sheriff Nesbit, who shrugged. “Sounds reasonable to me.”
“One more thing.” Now Reese was in full negotiating mode. “We can’t have an endless fishing expedition going on. There should be a time limit. I suggest one week.”
“I can live with that,” Ollie replied.
Mike took Sunny by the arm and drew her outside in the hallway. “They’re making a lot of conditions in there that you’ll have to live with.”
“What can I do about it?” she asked. Whether it was the early-morning wake-up call or the shock of Gardner Scatterwell’s death, the whole situation still struck her as dreamlike, unreal. Her brain couldn’t seem to process it.
“You can tell them all to go to hell,” Mike advised, his voice low.
“And lose my job?”
“So quit,” Mike said. “You don’t owe Ollie anything.”
“Yeah, but Ollie is a big noise around Kittery Harbor—around the whole county. I’d have a hard enough time getting another job in this economy. With him against me . . .” She shook her head. “It would be hopeless.” She frowned. “Besides, you heard them—they’re going to throw Will into this whether I agree or not.”
“So?” Mike asked. “He’s a cop, after all. A professional. This is his job.”
“But I got to know Gardner,” Sunny said, “at least a little.”
Besides, her own professional instincts were rousing now. I’ve got a few ideas about why someone might have had it in for him, she thought. I got an earful from Mrs. Martinson about what went on behind that nice-guy front he put up, not to mention seeing him in action with that therapist. It might be a thankless job. It might be a wild-goose chase. Gardner might have simply died of a stroke. But . . .
“Like it or not, we’ll find ourselves involved. Will’s going to be talking to us, asking questions,” Sunny finally said. “I think I’d rather be an investigator than just a witness.”
They returned to the room. Sunny stood at the foot of Ollie’s bed. “If I’m going to do this, we need to have some ground rules,” she said. “The big one is, we’re not doing this to prove you right, we’re just trying to get to the bottom of an unexpected death. If we find that Mr. Scatterwell died of natural causes, you’ll be all right with that.”
Ollie scowled, but said, “Okay—I’m pretty sure you’ll find otherwise.”
“The other deal breaker is, our investigation must be independent. You can’t tell us what to do.”
Now Ollie really scowled, but he reluctantly nodded. “I’ll expect regular updates, though. No surprises.”
“I’ll do my best,” Sunny told him. “Finally, you’ll have to get someone else to mind the office. This is going to be hard enough, working against a deadline. I can’t do this and work at MAX full-time, too.”
“You’re just an office worker?” Sunny was amazed at how much disdain Dr. Gavrik managed to put into those five words.
“An office worker who managed to solve a couple of murders,” Mike replied, silencing her and anyone else who planned to object.
Ollie shrugged. “It’s summertime. There are enough college kids floating around. Take one on as an intern.”