The Dearly Departed. Elinor Lipman

      There was silence beyond the bathroom. Joey opened the door.

      His mother’s face brightened. “Should I strip the bed?” she asked.

      The hospital operator said that Chief Loach’s condition was not a matter of public record. Could she have the name of the caller?

      “Sunny Batten.”

      The operator gasped, then introduced herself as Danielle Thibault’s sister Celeste, two years ahead of Sunny in high school. So sorry for her loss. Every time she picked up the newspaper, it seemed, there was a tragic headline about someone she knew. Oops. Hold on.

      Celeste returned. “Everyone’s calling about him since it was on the news.”

      “You can’t say if he’s still there?”

      Celeste paused. “I’m not supposed to. And get this: That’s a direct order from the FBI: ‘If anyone calls asking about Chief Loach’s condition, take down his name.’” Celeste’s tone grew conspiratorial. “A couple of women didn’t leave their names, but I knew exactly who they were.”

      “Who?”

      “Old girlfriends of his! Linda LaDue, Patty Timmins, for sure. Or it could have been her sister. They sound the same.”

      After a moment Sunny said, “I did see him on the news, but I’m calling for official reasons.”

      “Call him at the station. He should be back by now. Or run over there. Where are you calling from?”

      “King’s Nite.”

      “The office phone or the pay phone?”

      “Pay phone.”

      “Is there a light on in the front of the station—I mean, not just the porch light, but inside?”

      Sunny turned and looked.

      “Doesn’t matter. He’s there. Just walk over. The front door’ll be open. If he’s snoozing in the back, ring the bell on his desk. How long are you up here for?”

      Sunny said, “Until I figure out where to go next.”

      “Any chance you’d stay?”

      “First I need a job,” said Sunny.

      “Like what?”

      “A change,” said Sunny. “I was teaching, which I sort of fell into. I think I might try something a little more exciting.”

      “We have openings here,” said Celeste. “In fact they just posted ‘In-patient Pharmacy Technician.’ Heather Machonski’s taking maternity leave. Do you want me to pick you up an application?”

      “Not just yet,” said Sunny.

      “You probably want something out of doors, right? You were the big tennis player.”

      “Golf,” said Sunny.

      “I’d try the summer camps,” said Celeste. “Maybe they have camps for golfers—there’s one for everything else.”

      “Maybe when my head is clearer,” said Sunny.

      “Gotta get this. You stay strong, okay? Call me if you want to bounce any job ideas off me. In any event, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

      “Tomorrow?” Sunny repeated.

      “Your wake, hon,” said Celeste.

      “Keep it on,” said Sunny as Chief Loach snapped off the television and jumped to his feet. “Joe—it’s me, Sunny. I made it back just in time to hear you were shot.”

      “Shot at,” he said. “The bullets bounced off me.” He banged a fist against his ribs. “Kryptonite.” He winced. “More or less.”

      “No damage?”

      “Plenty,” he said. “I’m black-and-blue like I was worked over by an angry mob.”

      “Should you be back at work so soon?”

      “I’m it. There’s no one else.”

      “When do you sleep?”

      He shook his head. “I’ll let you in on a little secret: Nothing ever happens here—until this week, that is. I’ve been in this job for three years. I was on the Keene force for nine years before that, but I swear to God this thing at your mother’s house is the first time I had to put up my police tape.”

      He stared at her hair. Finally, he pointed. “When did this happen?”

      “Prematurely.”

      “Like, overnight?”

      “Not overnight. You haven’t seen me since graduation.”

      “It’s nice,” said Joey. “Gray-blond, you could say.”

      Sunny didn’t respond.

      “So where have you been?”

      “College. Then various schools, teaching.”

      “How many?”

      “Three: one in New York and two in Connecticut. Private schools, so I had to teach and coach and sleep and eat in one place, all for a pittance. I couldn’t find a good fit.” She backed up to the visitors’ bench and sat down.

      “You okay?” he asked.

      Sunny shook her head.

      “Want a glass of water? Or juice? I’ve got a refrigerator in the back. Or I can pop a potato into the microwave.”

      She looked up at the large, plain-faced wall clock: nine o’clock, and she couldn’t remember when or what lunch had been.

      Joey asked, “Anything I can do for you?”

      Sunny said, “I’m staying at the King’s Nite, and I don’t have a phone in my room.”

      “Do you want to use mine?”

      “I just thought you should know I was here if anything came up.”

      “Did you want to go to the house tomorrow?”

      Sunny closed her eyes, then opened them before she spoke. “Not unless I have to.”

      “There’s nothing there that would upset you. I mean, sure—everything would upset you—the house where you grew up and then your mother dies there. But I meant everything’s in order. It’s not creepy, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

      “Who put everything in order?”

      “I stopped by on my way back from the hospital to take down the police tape.” He shrugged. “Maybe I moved some dirty dishes to the sink.”

      “Have I asked you if they had been there all night? I mean, I know they were, but did anyone figure out how long before they were discovered?”

      “Mr. Finn picked up their sandwich orders at The Dot, so we know they were alive the night before. They must’ve been overcome between dinner and when the paperboy arrived. It wasn’t really important to pinpoint the exact time of death”

      “I guess,” said Sunny wanly, “that you only have to do that if there’s a murder.”

      “So they tell me.” Joey checked his clipboard. “Mr. Finn’s next of kin? Fletcher?” He looked up. “Has he been any help?”

      Sunny said, “Not so far.”

      “Is he here?”

      “He’s coming up for the funeral, but he’s too busy to come any earlier.” She stood up and said, “I’m sure you’re busy, too.”

      “Busy putting ice on my hematomas,” he said. When she didn’t respond, he added, “No one told me to do that, but it feels