Extending off to the right was a two-story wing set farther back, rising at the far right end to another three-story structure, sort of a miniature of the first hall.
Must have started out as someone’s stately home, or maybe a hotel, Sunny thought as she got out of her Jeep and headed up the walk. The doors, for all their imposing size, swung open easily, and Sunny immediately left medieval times for the world of twenty-first-century medicine—or at least twentieth century. The floor was institutional green terrazzo, and a guard’s desk flanked the doorway. The buildup had left Sunny expecting maybe a Beefeater with a halberd; instead, she saw a guy maybe a few years younger than she was behind a chest-high wooden counter. He was burly, with sandy hair in a military buzz cut and a wide, open face that was maybe softening a little along the jawline. But he wore his short-sleeved blue shirt and dark striped tie like a uniform, and there was plenty of heavy muscle on his arms as he took up a pen and pushed a sign-in book toward her. Still, his smile was cheerful and friendly as he said, “Welcome to Bridgewater Hall. How can I help you?”
“Yes, a . . . friend of mine just arrived today.” Maybe she was having a flashback to the Kittery Harbor Way, but Sunny didn’t want to call Ollie just a boss or employer. “Mr. Barnstable.”
“Oh, yes, he’s settled in by now.” As the guard ran down a list, Sunny got close enough to read the name tag over his breast pocket: R. WARNER. “Ah,” Warner said, “they put him in 114 with Mr. Scatterwell. Well, you should get some entertainment. Mr. Scatterwell’s the mayor of the rehab unit.”
“Thanks.” Sunny tried to figure out which way to go. Beyond the guard’s desk was a large open area done up as a sort of parlor, with armchairs, couches, paintings, and even a huge, ancient grandfather clock. Large fish tanks took up one wall. Opposite that stood what appeared to be a pair of elevators. Beyond those was a long hallway.
One of the elevator doors opened, and a calico cat sauntered out.
Sunny blinked to make sure she wasn’t seeing things. The cat padded across the corridor, then broke into a sudden run to jump onto one of the parlor chairs.
Warner followed her eyes. “Therapy animal,” he explained. “We’ve got several cats and dogs here.” He called out, “Portia, what are you doing over there?”
The cat’s head briefly appeared over the arm of the chair, responding to her name. Then Portia disappeared again, no doubt arranging herself on the upholstery for a nap.
“Wouldn’t it be nice if we could all do that?” Sunny asked with a smile.
“Wouldn’t get much done if we followed Portia’s schedule.” But Warner’s smile was fond as he looked over at the chair. Then he glanced back at Sunny. “Sorry, ma’am, You’re probably wondering how to get to your friend’s room. Just follow the corridor—it’ll take you to the nurses’ station. They can direct you from there.”
I’m not so much older than you that you’ve got to call me ma’am, Sunny thought. She signed in, then extended her hand. “Sunny Coolidge.”
Warner replied with a firm handshake. “Rafe Warner.”
“I guess I’ll be seeing a lot of you.” Sunny hefted the bulging envelope she’d brought. “I work for Mr. Barnstable, and I’ll be bringing papers and stuff for him.”
Rafe smiled. “Well, welcome again. I hope Mr. Barnstable enjoys his stay.”
Sunny thanked him and set off for the corridor. Along the way, she stopped by the armchair that Portia had claimed. “Hello, there,” she said, extending the back of her hand. Portia was up before the hand got close, but she didn’t skitter away. Instead, she raised her head and gave Sunny a delicate sniff, staring up at Sunny’s face with greenish-gold eyes, their color heightened by the markings on her face. Black fur surrounded her right eye, ginger fur encircled her left. Against the white fur on the rest of her face, it made Portia look as if she were wearing a multicolored mask.
Barely had Portia checked out the hand than she lowered her head in a gesture Sunny had learned early in her relationship with Shadow. It was a silent command to be petted.
Maybe she’s catching a whiff of Shadow on me, Sunny thought as she ran gentle fingers over velvet fur. Portia thrust her head more determinedly against Sunny’s caress, wanting the space between her ears scratched.
Hearing a laugh, Sunny glanced over to the guard’s station and Rafe Warner’s smiling face. “Should have warned you, the critters around here are very touchy-feely. Spending time with the residents means a lot of petting.”
“So I see.” Portia wordlessly directed Sunny to take care of her neck and then arched her back to get a nice scratch there, too.
Rafe Warner came over. “Poor Portia isn’t getting as much attention as she likes.” He glanced around, then lowered his voice. “Hope you’re not superstitious. She’s gotten a sort of—reputation—lately.”
“Reputation for what?” Sunny asked.
Rafe shrugged uncomfortably. “As a jinx. A lot of the people she’s picked to hang around with—they pass away.”
“Is that so?” Sunny asked the cat. “What’s your weapon of choice? Is it fish breath? Or maybe a gas attack under the covers?” She’d learned from harsh experience that whenever Shadow closed his eyes and looked blissfully content, it was time to abandon the nearby premises until the noxious cloud dissipated.
“Folks seem to take it more supernaturally,” Rafe explained, chuckling.
“You mean people think that once Portia the Psychic Cat puts her paws on them, they’ll die?” Sunny shook her head. “Seems to me I read something about a cat doing the same thing in a hospital, and there turned out to be a simple physical reason. Really sick people are usually bundled up, making them nice and warm. That’s pretty attractive for a cat.”
Rafe nodded. “I’ve heard the same thing. But even people who pooh-pooh the idea of a cat choosing people to die get skittish if Portia takes a shine to them.”
“That’s silly.” Sunny smiled down at the cat. “You wouldn’t go around marking people for death, would you, Portia?”
The calico cat raised guileless eyes to her, purring loudly as Sunny’s fingers went back to work. Rafe reached down and joined in. It was obvious he knew all the spots where Portia wanted to be petted.
Sunny glanced over at Rafe. “Well, you don’t seem to be scared off.”
“I found Portia and her brother Patrick abandoned as kittens outside in the parking lot,” he explained. “Used to take care of them through the night shift, bottle-feeding them, keeping them warm, and petting them when they got lonesome or scared.” He gave Sunny an embarrassed smile. “I guess you could say they think I’m their mother.”
The phone at his post rang. “Sorry,” he said, hotfooting over to answer it.
“I still think you’re getting a bum rap, Portia.” Sunny gently kneaded muscles while Portia purred. She knew how those things happened.
I wouldn’t mind some magical abilities, though, Sunny silently told the cat. Help get some idiots to steer clear of me if they thought that taking up my time might make them keel over.
*
Shadow marched along the hallway at a determined lope. He’d checked all the windows in the room with the picture box, trying to find a loose screen. The one by the couch had seemed like a possibility, but even though he worked very hard, he hadn’t been able to get it to move.
Stupid screen, he thought, investigating the eating room. The windows here were small and hard to reach, and besides, they were rarely open. Shadow needed the combination of an open window and a loose screen. Whenever he came to live in new places, he always made sure he had a way to leave if he had to. Shadow couldn’t imagine leaving Sunny, but he still managed to find an exit. He’d learned to jump up and bang the handle on the screen door until it finally opened enough that he could squeeze out. That was fine—he’d used it to get out of the house that day he’d stalked that stupid bird. Bad enough the bird got away, but then Shadow had found himself stuck outdoors.