“That shouldn’t be so surprising. My dad told me the other day that the average life expectancy for a person in a nursing home is about three years.” She held up a hand at the look on Will’s face. “Hey, those are the kinds of statistics Dad keeps dredging out of the newspapers.”
Will pointed to the lower part of the list. “So, for the past twelve months, there are seventeen cases. But in the six months before that period, I count only six deaths. If that held as the average for the previous year, we’re looking at a big jump, almost fifty percent.”
“Yes, but remember, you’re working with a universe of only seventy-five beds,” Sunny pointed out. “A couple of very old or very sick people would cause a big swing in the statistics.”
Will divided the files into two piles, and gave one to Sunny. “I think that’s all we can get from the deaths. Let’s see what the rosters tell us.”
By the time she got to the third sheet, she said, “I keep seeing the same names.”
“Well, that stands to reason—it’s the night shift. Bridgewater Hall isn’t like the Sheriff’s Department, where people move around every couple of weeks. Soooo . . .” Will drew out the word. “Maybe we should look for names that don’t turn up all the time.”
“Makes sense, I guess,” Sunny said. “If the regular staff is a constant, regardless of when the mortality rate was low and when it got higher, we want to look for anomalies.”
Will nodded. “Pinch hitters who are hurting the team’s batting average.” It was boring work, looking over roster after roster, ignoring the names that were always there and marking the ones that stood out. The problem was that they didn’t really stand out. They were just tucked in among the same-old, same-old people.
They switched lists and went back to searching. It wasn’t exactly a needle in a haystack effort, but it was tedious.
The exciting world of plodding police work, Sunny thought.
After they had each gone through the entire set of lists twice, Sunny said, “Are you hungry? It just struck me that I never ate breakfast.” She put a hand on her stomach. “And Dad’s coffee, good as it is, is beginning to feel as if it’s burning a hole in my innards.”
She left Will to tabulate the results while she went to check the contents of the refrigerator. “Looks like I could do sandwiches, if you don’t mind the dreaded roast turkey with lettuce and tomato,” she reported, after seeing what Mike had picked up on his latest shopping trip. “I could put a little honey mustard on them.”
“Sounds good,” Will said, still staring at the papers.
“And to drink there’s seltzer, or I could make a new pot of coffee.”
“Seltzer, please.” A low rumble came from Will’s middle. “Maybe coffee on top of old beer wasn’t such a good decision.” Eventually, Shadow came back into the room, heading for his bowl of dry food. Sunny checked her impulse to go to the cat. If he wants company, he’ll show it, she reminded herself. Let’s see what kind of mood he’s in.
Shadow was definitely in a bad mood when it came to Will. He elaborately circled around, far out of reach, from the chair where Will sat working. Even so, Shadow kept a wary eye on his new nemesis—at least that was the way it seemed to Sunny, given all the tail lashing that was going on.
Sunny herself he seemed to regard with more sorrow than anger. When she got the glasses from the cabinet over the sink, she discovered Shadow at her feet, gazing up at her. Sorry, she silently told the cat. I’m not sure if this is a love-of-your-life kind of thing, or if it’s simple biology. Some days I really wish you could talk and tell me.
She deposited a plate and glass in front of Will and then did the same for herself. He held up a piece of paper. “As you no doubt noticed, there were a few names that appeared once. Three names appear more than once. I’ve got one turning up twice, another three times, and a C. Thibaud five times.”
He thought for a moment. “You know, five would be exactly the number of extra deaths.”
Sunny frowned, staring at the list. She’d only paid attention to the last names, not the first initials. C. Thibaud, she thought. Could that be Camille?
Aloud, she said, “I guess our next step is to head over to Bridgewater Hall and talk to this Thibaud person,” but inside, she really, really hoped that friendly, helpful Camille wouldn’t turn out to be their latest suspect.
Sunny closed her eyes, trying to recall the surrealistic scene that night as she rushed down the long, dim corridor to Room 114. The staff had all seemed gathered at the nurses’ station . . . Sunny tried to bring that into sharper focus. No, she definitely didn’t recall seeing Camille. But it was still possible that the girl had been somewhere else on the floor, tending another patient, or even somewhere mundane, like the ladies’ room. Or hiding out.
Will’s voice interrupted her thoughts. “We never got a chance to talk to Luke, either, what with all his new fans mobbing him.”
Sunny managed a laugh. “I hope he didn’t take too much of his pay in beer.”
The doorbell rang. Over by his food dish, Shadow brought his head up suddenly, but at the sound of barking outside, he slowly brought it down again.
“I’m going to go get that,” Sunny said as the bell sounded again, accompanied by more barking. She opened the door a crack, pretty sure she already knew who the visitors were.
Sure enough, she saw Mrs. Martinson wrestling with a leash as Toby tried to stick his nose into the house.
Sunny shot a quick, nervous glance over her shoulder. No Shadow waiting to make a dash for freedom. And no hisses and screams from the kitchen. She relaxed a little and opened the door wider. That got an inquiring canine nose thrust at her and an apologetic smile from Helena.
“Sorry about the delay in answering,” Sunny said. “We had a little incident with Shadow trying to get out earlier, and—” She fluttered her hands. “And here I am. What can I do for you?”
“Toby and I were out for our walk, and we heard two very odd stories,” Mrs. M. said. “One was from Florence Gaddis. She was driving back from town last night, and she swears that she saw you, Will, and Mike standing in the parking lot of O’Dowd’s.”
“Well,” Sunny admitted, “she’s right. We were actually there last night.” She hurried on at the shocked expression on Mrs. Martinson’s face. “A friend was playing some music there, the therapist I’d told you about from Bridgewater Hall.”
“The young man.” Now Helena’s expression looked disappointed. Not only had she not been included in an outing with Mike, but she’d missed a chance to meet possible matchmaking material for Sunny.
“We couldn’t think of asking you there,” Sunny said desperately. “I’m sure you’ve heard what a cesspool it is.”
“I went to O’Dowd’s once . . . years ago,” Mrs. Martinson said. “If your friend does another show there, let me know.”
Sunny knew when she was licked. “Of course,” she promised.
Helena nodded and tightened her grip on Toby’s leash, not meeting Sunny’s eyes.
“You, ah, said there were two odd things?” Sunny finally prompted.
Mrs. M. looked as though she’d been roused from a reverie. “Goodness, where does my mind go sometimes? That’s right, another friend mentioned that Alfred Scatterwell is having a memorial for his uncle at the mansion tomorrow evening.”
“Oh, really?” Sunny said.
Mrs. Martinson nodded. “It will be the first time the place will be open since Gardner stopped giving parties—which has to be twenty-five years now. With all his absences, traveling and so on, I wonder how the old place has held up.”
“You should go and see,” Sunny suggested.