If I could fly like a bird, I could go up and look.
But that was a stupid thought. He pushed it away.
There was another way up, of course, but it meant climbing. Shadow could see the route. Up the trunk of the tree behind the house, out on that branch, and that would bring him to the roof, where the upstairs windows jutted out. Could he do it? There was only one way to find out.
Shadow went to the tree and leaped up, his claws catching in the bark. At least he didn’t fall. It was hard work and unpleasant, hanging by his claws, forcing his way up . . . hard and thirsty work, too. He thought longingly of his water bowl, hidden in the kitchen . . .
Something flashed past him. Instinctively Shadow ducked and slid back several inches, scrabbling frantically to keep a hold. He didn’t like to think what it would be like to fall from this height. It was many-many times the length of his whole body. He continued his ascent, and the flash came again—this time with a peck! Shadow clung precariously to the tree trunk, trying to look around. It was a bird, the stupid bird he’d chased. Now it was chasing him, darting at him, trying to keep him from climbing.
Stupid, stupid bird, he thought, freeing one paw while digging in with the rest of his claws as best he could. When she came diving at him this time, he swatted out with the paw that wasn’t clinging to the tree bark for dear life. It didn’t hit the bird, but it did scare her away.
It scared Shadow, too, as a chunk of bark tore loose, nearly sending him tumbling to the ground.
His claws scraped long scratches, but he managed to hang on. After that, it was like a bad dream, toiling endlessly upward, watching out for sneak attacks. Shadow was so distracted, he almost missed the branch he was aiming for. But once there, it was more like walking than climbing, and that dumb bird stopped bothering him.
Shadow made it to the roof. It hadn’t seemed to slope so steeply when he’d been looking at it from the ground, but he could walk on it—if he was careful. He carefully skittered along to the nearest window. It was open, and he saw Sunny’s room, but he couldn’t budge the screen.
This is getting very, very bad, he thought. If he couldn’t get in, he’d be stuck up here on the roof. The sun was beating down, and the shingles were burning hot under the pads on his paws.
Shadow scrambled along to the next available window. He let out a mew of relief. The glass was up, and this screen was older. It rattled when he touched it. Extending his claws, he scratched at the frame around the screen. It moved!
It took patience, but he carefully shifted the screen until he could get a paw around the edge. Then things got easier. Shadow tugged and pushed at it until he had a space large enough for his head, his shoulders . . .
Bursting through, he flopped down into dimness. He was in!
And then, sniffing, he realized which room in the house this was—the one room he rarely, if ever, wanted to be in . . .
*
Sunny watched Henry Reese pull away in his late-model Mercedes. “I’m surprised you didn’t ask about why the room got cleaned,” she told Will. He shook his head. “No use crying over spilled milk—or in this case, disinfectant. I’d prefer to talk directly to the cleanup crew first, and then work my way up to the big boss.” He glanced at his watch. “In fact, I might do that now unless you want to set up something with your dad’s doctor.”
Taking that as a hint, Sunny got out her cell phone and called her dad. When she explained why she wanted to talk with Dr. Collier, Mike got enthusiastic. “Let me call the doc and see if I can get you in. This is his short day—he should be finishing his office hours, but it’s still a while before his tee time.” Mike gave a brief snort of laughter. “It’s kind of a sad thing when you’re at the doctor’s so much, you know his schedule.”
Mike called her back within minutes.
“Okay, the doc says he can see you right away,” he reported. “You’re pretty close to his office, too.”
Dr. Mark Collier was at Cardiovascular Associates of Elmet, which operated from a small medical building on the outskirts of the county seat, about eight miles from Bridgewater Hall. When Sunny and Will arrived, they were brought in immediately to Dr. Collier’s office. He was a trim man with salt-and-pepper hair, glasses, and a no-nonsense expression. The only clue that he might be off duty was the fact that he’d loosened the tie he wore with his cream-colored short-sleeved shirt.
“Sunny,” he said, rising to shake hands. After she’d introduced Will, the doctor motioned them to the seats in front of his desk. “Mike tells me you’ve got some questions about strokes.” He grabbed his phone, pressed a button, and said, “Craig, can you come in for a moment?”
Another doctor, similarly dressed but with whiter hair, came in.
“This is my partner, Craig Snow,” Dr. Collier said. “He’s the vascular part of Cardiovascular Associates. Craig, these people have some questions about a possible stroke.”
“Early this morning, a patient died at Bridgewater Hall,” Will began, describing the symptoms that Ollie had seen. He was brief, to the point, and very coplike.
Dr. Snow obviously caught that. “Are you an investigator, Mr. Price?”
“I’m a Kittery Harbor town constable,” Will replied, “assigned to help Ms. Coolidge look into this death.”
“I’m not going to comment on any questions of treatment,” Snow warned. “That wouldn’t be proper.”
“We’re just trying to get some basic information,” Will said, relaxing his cop mask.
“Okay. Well, basically, there are two types of strokes. In one case, something in the blood—a clot, usually—blocks a blood vessel feeding the brain and causes damage to brain cells.”
“Much like the heart attack your father suffered, Sunny,” Dr. Collier said. “Except his blockage caused damage to the heart muscle.”
Dr. Snow nodded. “In the other general type of stroke, a weakened vessel ruptures, literally bleeding into the brain, and the pressure damages brain cells.”
“When Dad had his heart attack, you gave him stuff to thin his blood.” Sunny frowned. “Does the same thing happen with strokes?”
“For ischemic strokes, the ones caused by blockages, yes,” Dr. Snow replied.
“But if a person thinned the blood and it turned out to be the other kind of stroke, that would make them bleed more,” Will pointed out.
“I wasn’t in the room,” Snow said stiffly. “As I said, I cannot comment on treatment.”
“Well, based on what you heard, do you think Gardner—the patient—had a stroke?” Sunny asked.
“Considering that I’m working from hearsay, a layperson’s observations, without test results or personal examination . . . but I can at least say that the symptoms are not inconsistent with a stroke.”
“There was one other symptom,” Sunny said. “He began vomiting. Is that unusual for a stroke?”
“Vomiting is not unknown,” Snow said. “In fact, some studies now suggest that vomiting can be a sign of a more severe stroke.”
Will absorbed that, then said, “So, considering that the patient had had a stroke previously, there’s no reason that this attack wouldn’t most likely be considered another stroke.”
“As you say, most likely.”
“Are there any drugs or substances that might create the same symptoms? Something that might look like a stroke?”
Dr. Snow shook his head and rose from his chair. “I really don’t—”
“Arsenic,” Dr. Collier interrupted. “It’s an oldie, but there’s a reason why people stay with the classics.” He smiled at the aghast expression on his partner’s face. “Some of us enjoy reading or watching mysteries, and some don’t. I do.”
“I think I’m done here.” Dr. Snow gave them all a disapproving look and left the office. Collier laughed.