“And what would I do with my time?”

  That struck me as an odd question. If I had a big sum, I could think of one-hundred things to do. Starting with hiring a full-time housekeeper and cook so I could spend non-work time with Scoobie and the kids. Maybe get my nails done now and then. “No plans to buy a cabin cruiser?”

  He snorted. “No one to cruise with. I think I’d rather work.”

  I realized he had come to our wedding solo. “Is there a Mrs. Markle?”

  “Was.”

  I flushed. “I’m sorry.”

  He concentrated on a batch of rhubarb. “Cancer, a few years before you came to town.”

  “You’ll, uh, have to come over for Sunday dinner, sometime.”

  “Scoobie cooking?”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  MR. MARKLE’S IDEA OF FOCUSING ON the possible core of Kevin’s fear was a good one. I headed to Ocean Alley Hospital.

  Along the way I considered that the loss of the In-Town Grocery store would really change the character of downtown Ocean Alley. A lot of older, and poorer, people shopped there because the bus went by it. They had to take a cab to the Wal-Mart outside of town.

  More than that, business people ducked into the store all the time to get snacks or cleaning supplies for their offices. Tourists frequented it all summer, to get supplies for their weekend or weekly rentals.

  I stuck an earbud in my ear and called George. "Did you know the resort developer has made an offer to buy the In-Town Grocery?"

  "Can't say I'm surprised. He's known for presenting a town with plans for a development, getting some tax benefits or whatever, and then going for more. Probably trying to do as much of a land grab as he can."

  I entered the hospital parking lot. "You sound like you know a lot about him."

  "Just that he likes to get what he wants. Why are you asking?"

  "Talking to Mr. Markle, it made it seem more real. Ocean Alley could turn into a mostly tourist town, without the kinds of connections we have now."

  "You've been listening to your aunt. Gotta run to an appointment."

  I walked slowly into the main entrance. Scoobie is never pleased when I roam the hospital halls. Unless we're there for something fun, from his point of view, like Lamaze classes. He certainly doesn't tell me where to go any more than I tell him. He just doesn't like the looks he gets in the cafeteria when I've been poking around.

  I headed for the executive suite on third floor. The carpet’s deep pile sets off the suite for the big shots from the rest of the hospital. That and the hushed environment always make me feel like a kid headed to the principal’s office.

  CEO Quentin Wharton has to at least pretend to be glad to see me, because Scoobie works here and I once solved the murder of a hospital employee. I entered his outer office, noting the closed door to his inner sanctum.

  Quentin’s admin assistant, who always looked as if she’d just stepped from a make-up artist’s chair, greeted me with a wary look.

  I gave her my most dazzling smile. “Hi, Clarissa. I wanted to talk to Quentin about the Cinco de Mayo fundraiser. Just for a minute.”

  “He’s about to leave for a meeting with the senior nursing staff, but I’ll see.” She picked up her phone.

  I glanced at the woman, Marleen, who sat at the opposite desk. “So sad about Sandra Cartwright.”

  She nodded. “I was unit clerk on pediatrics when she was the charge nurse. She was easy-going with staff and patients.”

  Clarissa hung up her phone. “He can give you five minutes, Jolie. If you need more you can schedule an appointment as you leave.”

  “Thanks.” I walked the few steps to the series of hospital photos on a wall. They traced its growth from a one-story clinic to its current three wings and three stories. A framed piece of word art ended the display. It said, “Still growing and serving Ocean Alley.”

  Wharton opened the door to his office. I turned toward him, and he gestured that I should enter. “Busy week for you, I imagine.”

  I made my nod a solemn one. “Not as busy as most of yours, I’m sure.” I took a proffered chair across from his desk as he sat behind it. “We appreciate that the hospital will have a presence at the festival.”

  “Happy to be there. I hope the fundraiser attracts a crowd that we usually only see in the emergency room. We have some information about how to get a primary care physician. Should cut down on ER use.” He glanced at a message on his phone.

  “In English and Spanish?”

  He nodded. “Plus a small coloring book that shows kids visiting a doctor for check-ups. We’ll have a donation jar, but won’t make it a requirement to get the book.”

  “What a great idea! The Lions are doing a bean bag toss. That attracts the kids. We’ll try to put it next to your space.”

  His smile was thin. “You didn’t just stop by to discuss Harvest for All.”

  “Mostly. I also wanted to say I’m sorry about Sandra. She and Aunt Madge have been friends for years.”

  Wharton checked his phone again. “I can’t imagine she knew anyone who would kill her. Or her being fooled into letting in a stranger.”

  “I’ve heard a couple people speculate that her death had something to do with her opposition to the resort.”

  He spread his hands and then rested them on his desk. “Ridiculous! People talk about that resort as if it’s a brothel or a… a junk yard. The developer could take that project to a lot of towns and he chose Ocean Alley."

  His face reddened. "And look who's working on it. The current mayor, half the Chamber of Commerce, heck, some of our own board. For which, as you know, I serve as interim chair while the search committee finds a new one. Hardly a gang of murderers.”

  The prior board chair, Jason Logan, was a pompous man, who always seemed to imply that people should bow in his presence. Scoobie said any employees who dealt with him were glad that he left.

  I’d always thought of Quentin Wharton as Logan’s lap dog. Today he definitely had a more vigorous demeanor. Maybe being interim board chair gave him a chance to deal with the board and a mix of town and medical leaders as an equal. I bet he relished the role.

  I smiled. “If the resort brings in the volume of new employees and tourists people say it will, it should increase your patient load.”

  He stood. “We’ll manage or expand. You might let your aunt know that.”

  I rose. “She tries to stay on top of things. Did you hear that Sergeant Morehouse’s nephew has been missing a couple of days?”

  His raised eyebrows and wide eyes seemed an exaggerated look of surprise.

  “I’m pulling together all the input for our long-range plan. First draft is due to the board Thursday. I’ve been practically living in this building.”

  And not talking to anyone? “It seems he may have been one of the last people to see Sandra alive.”

  We moved toward the door. “Good Lord. He’s not a suspect is he?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Perhaps it’s better if Kevin doesn’t make himself too visible until the killer is arrested.”

  Since I hadn’t said his name, I figured Quentin Wharton not only knew Kevin was missing, but maybe what had scared him.

  As we reached the door, I turned to face him. “Did Sandra talk to you about any of her conversations with Kevin? I think she knew something was worrying him.”

  He stood next to me frowning. “Do you know what it was?”

  “Kevin had an emergency appendectomy not too long ago. In the recovery room, he thought he heard a couple of people talking about a nurse who didn’t agree with something, and something about watching her back.”

  Wharton’s frown lifted. “People say and do all kinds of things as they wake up. I’m told that after a hernia repair, I asked the recovery room nurse to take the stapler off the wall.”

  “And did she?”

  He looked at his phone again. “I have to get going. Just keep in mind that he probably had a dream, or put together unrelated things he heard.”

  He opened the door for me, and I walked into the reception area. A man with thinning hair studied the photos of the hospital. He half-turned quickly toward Wharton then turned back to the picture.

  “Hey, Peter,” Wharton said. “Don’t think I have you on my schedule.”

  “Just leaving those new insurance estimates.”

  I paid no attention to the man and continued into the executive suite hallway.

  I WASN'T SURE HOW to proceed. I did need to find Terry. Before Scoobie left for work we agreed that I would stop by school to make sure Terry had shown up for class.

  Anger mixed with understanding when I thought about him leaving the house before we rose this morning. I got that he wanted to search for his friend, but felt irritated that he hadn't left a note. I didn't worry that he had imitated his friend and taken off.

  As I drove toward the high school, I surveyed the quiet streets. On Saturday, streets would teem with adults and kids heading for the Harvest for All Cinco de Mayo celebration on the boardwalk.

  Ocean Alley's mix of bungalows and small apartment buildings, nearly all of frame construction, gives the town its allure. If the resort was built, it wouldn't mean all of the smaller residences and apartments would vanish immediately. However, the resort would create an incentive for people to sell to developers who wanted to build larger complexes. Our children would grow up in a very different Ocean Alley.

  I pulled into visitor parking at the high school at nine o'clock. School security protocols meant the front door was locked, with a security guard sitting just inside. I pressed my nose to the glass in the door, and waved at the older woman. I thought her name was Jeanine and was glad that she wore a name badge that confirmed it. She let me in.

  "Hi, Jeanine. I wanted to check on something for the Harvest for All fundraiser."

  White lie. White lie.

  She nodded. "I saw a sign that said the Student Council was looking for volunteers for some kind of game they're running." She waved me toward the office.

  I entered the office and signed the visitor log. A quick glance around the space that held multiple support staff desks told me they were busy tallying attendance and deciding which absences merited a call to parents. I had done this when I volunteered in the office last year when a flu outbreak decimated the staff.

  I wanted to know if Terry had come to school. I wasn't sure what I would do if he hadn't.

  A woman's voice called from across the room. "Jolie, come on over." Barbara Burns has worked at the high school for more than twenty years and, as she says, knows every trick in the book.

  I nodded at a couple other people as I made my way to her. "Hi Barbara. I won't lie, Terry left early to hunt for Kevin. I want to make sure he showed up for class."

  She turned to her computer and tapped a few keys. "I don't understand any of this. Kevin, he's a good boy.”

  I didn't want to get into any explanations, so I said simply, "He is."

  She peered at the screen. "Terry was in homeroom. Teachers note absences in the system for each class. Do you want me to check beyond homeroom?"

  I did, but said no. "Thanks. Now if I can slip out quietly Terry will never know I checked up on him. It's a tough time for him."

  Barbara nodded. "You still holding the fundraiser?"

  "I'm on my way to the Purple Cow now. They ordered a bunch of Cinco de Mayo flags for us to hang along the boardwalk rails."

  After extracting the promise that Barbara would attend for a while on Saturday, I headed for the exit. I had almost reached it when a familiar voice came down the hall. "Yo, Jolie."

  Scoobie has called to me that way since we were in high school. Terry rarely does, but he probably figured it would soften me up. I turned toward the sound of his voice and he loped toward me, his backpack slung over one shoulder.

  He stopped only a foot from me and bent over to kiss my cheek. "I should have left a note."

  I patted his elbow as he pulled back. "Yes, you should have. How'd you get to school?"

  "A lot of people are looking."

  "Any luck?"

  He shook his head. "I've got permission from one of the counselors for a bunch of us to head to the boardwalk during lunch. You can mostly see when someone is under there, but there are spots where someone could hide."

  I looked at his shoes. He wore what Lance called Terry's crummy shoes. He had heard Terry use the term once and adopted it, the little mimic.

  "I went over to the hospital. Nada."

  Terry frowned. "That's the last place he'd go."

  "Voluntarily." I regretted the word as soon as I said it. "I don't really think anything bad would happen to him. Scoobie can keep an eye out for him."

  A bell sounded, and Terry pointed down the hall. "Math class."

  I watched him half jog away. We were spinning our wheels. Kevin would only be found when he felt safe enough to come out of hiding.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  SCOOBIE’S SLOW PACE UP THE house steps told me either he was carrying something heavy or didn't feel good. I opened the door for him. "What's up?"

  "Let me make a cocktail and I'll tell you."

  I smiled. His cocktails consisted of seltzer water and cranberry juice. "Okay. Kids haven't stirred so we have a few minutes to ourselves."

  He wiggled his eyebrows at me as he walked toward the kitchen.

  I raised the front window to let in the spring air, then sat on the couch.

  When Scoobie entered with his icy drink he bore a grim expression.

  "I got an official reprimand at work today."

  I sat up straighter. "What? What could you possibly have done?"

  He shook his finger at me, but smiled. "I believe the appropriate response would be how could they have made such a mistake?"

  I flushed. "Of course. Tell me about it."

  He pulled a folded piece of paper from the pocket of his scrubs and handed it to me. "It says they've had two patient complaints about rudeness."

  I read the reprimand, which did indeed say that. "I can't imagine you being rude."

  "When my boss sat me down to talk about it, he was surprised, too. The first thing Sam tells anyone who comes to work in radiology is not to let anything a patient does get to us. You know I deflect rudeness with humor. Besides, I cut everybody a lot of slack. When people are hurting, sometimes they say things they don't mean."

  "I know you don't have a union, but isn't there some process for discussion before you get a letter like this?"

  "That's the way it's supposed to work. It almost feels as if I've been singled out."

  I swallowed. "Do you think it has anything to do with Aunt Madge's campaign?"

  "Or perhaps my wife's conversations with the hospital CEO?"

  "I hardly said anything when I talked to him!” I didn’t want to throw Aunt Madge under the bus, but she is a tough bird. “Um. Maybe it was her most recent letter to the editor.”

  "Could be. People know my connection to Aunt Madge. Bottom line, I think this is supposed to tell us to back off."

  I stared at him. "We can't risk your job, but it's hard to know what to back off of. Asking questions about Sandra's murder? Figuring out what Kevin heard after his surgery?"

  Scoobie nodded slowly. “And we certainly can’t tell Aunt Madge to tone it down.”

  “Harry kind of tries. Or at least, he diverts the conversation when she goes over the same issues.” It felt like a lame comment as soon as I said it.

  "We can find some kind of employment lawyer to formally ask questions if some powers that be try anything else. But if we had to go that route, I would probably have to look for another job. We might have to leave Ocean Alley."

  I’VE RELOCATED BEFORE. BUT I had no intention of letting someone at the hospital force us out of Ocean Alley. I glanced at the clock on Aunt Madge’s stove. I had let the dogs out as soon as I got to the Cozy Corner, but if I didn’t get the loaves of bread in the oven in ten minutes they would not be ready for afternoon tea.

  I punched the rising dough on one of the two loaves. It felt good to have something to take out my anger on. Once Sandra’s killer was caught, it would become clear whether her death was the result of a burglar who surprised her or someone angry with her opposition to the resort. Or something else.

  I often think by writing a list of questions or to-do items, but I had flour on my fingers. What did I need to know?

  Sandra didn’t work the day of her death. Who did she talk to? And how would I figure that out? We knew she had a head injury, but had she fallen and hit her head during an argument, or did someone strike her?

  I probably wouldn't be able to poke around about the medical examiner’s report – if it had even been issued. Knowing he would work as an investigator, George had kept up his contacts all over town. He should be able to find out.

  Quentin Wharton clearly knew Kevin was missing. His feigned lack of knowledge about him bothered me. I couldn’t seek him out again, and if he sat at the hospital’s booth at the Cinco de Mayo Festival, I might not get a chance to broach any topic, let alone a sensitive one.

  Deciding to put George to work gave me a sense of accomplishment. I stuck the loaves in the oven and turned to making tea.

  WHEN THE GUESTS WERE EATING, I called George. “I want to know more about Sandra’s cause of death and whether Quentin Wharton knows anything about it.”

  “Gee, Jolie, so good to hear from you. Beautiful day, isn’t it?”

  I stuck my tongue out at the phone. “Sorry. Can you do some digging? I may have worn out my welcome at the hospital for a while.”

  He laughed. “Imagine that. What do you want to know?”

  I outlined my thoughts.

  George said nothing for several seconds, then spoke slowly. “I can probably find out more about her cause of death. The paper might have received a summary of the ME’s report.”

  Frustration crept into my tone. “But even if we know how, we don’t know why. She wrote that negative letter to the editor, about the resort. People listen to her. Maybe someone felt threatened.”