The Big Kitty

by Claire Donally

  Sunny sighed, glanced around guiltily—although she knew no one else was in the office—and started downloading the files Ken Howell had e-mailed over. As each one came through, she found herself reading a new installment of a continuing saga to rival a soap opera.

  Ada Spruance’s friction with the neighborhood homeowners’ association had essentially boiled down to an offense against Veronica Yarborough’s esthetic sense—and her property values. That didn’t exactly make for a front-page news story, even for a small weekly like the Harbor Crier.

  Ada’s other disputes, however, were precisely the stuff of small-town newspapers. The first wasn’t a man-bites-dog story, but a dog-bites-cat one. One of Ada’s feline residents had gotten mauled—and ultimately died—after a run-in with a neighbor’s pit bull–Rottweiler mix.

  The Crier tried to keep an impartial stance, but it was interesting to see how the community’s sympathies had shifted. Initially, folks had been shocked by the attack, and Ada had threatened a lawsuit. But the Towles—Chuck and Leah, the owners of the dog—had a story to tell, too.

  Although their dog had caught up with the cat in front of Ada’s house, the chase had begun in the Towles’ backyard. According to them, the cat had climbed over the fence and taunted the dog until he’d broken his tether and taken off in pursuit.

  Howell hadn’t sent just the news stories; he’d also sent the impassioned exchanges from the Letters to the Editor section. The situation had only gotten wilder with the second case.

  Nate and Isabel Ellsworth ran a free-range chicken operation at the edge of town. They thought they were facing a fox problem—until they installed some video surveillance and discovered it was a cat that was raiding their stock.

  When they checked the largest local collection of cats—the Spruance place—they found a chicken foot with their identifying tag on the ankle near the porch.

  This pretty much swept Ada off the moral high ground. Now she was the one with the predatory pet. Tempers ran so high that one local wag wrote to the editor suggesting that the cases be put together and adjudicated on one of those TV legal shows.

  As far as Sunny could make out from the accounts, none of the situations ever got to court. Would that have changed if Ada Spruance had received a whopping infusion of lottery money?

  She scrolled back through the various stories until she found a quote from the Ellsworths describing the chicken thief. Although they had a hard time telling from the night-vision images, it appeared to be a large black or gray cat.

  Sunny bit her lip. That couldn’t be Shadow—could it? she thought uneasily, then shook her head. Seemed like every time she saw a cat, she thought of Shadow.

  The rattle of the front door opening gave her an instant’s chance to click the computer mouse. By the time Oliver Barnstable stood beside her, the promo copy was back up on the screen.

  “Hello, Ollie.” Glancing up at him from her seated position was a bit like watching a partial eclipse. She had to look around his big, round belly to catch a glimpse of his florid face. He was a blazer and khakis kind of guy, with an expensive, wrinkled blue cotton shirt that strained around his overly ample middle.

  “Keeping busy, Sunny?” he asked.

  “There’s always enough to do,” she replied.

  Especially considering the pitiful salary you’re paying me, she added silently.

  It was as if he’d read her thoughts. “It’s just that I heard you’ve taken up a side job with Ken Howell. Hope that won’t cause a conflict of interest.”

  “Conflict?” Sunny echoed.

  “The way I hear it, you’re trying to prove that Ada Spruance’s fall was no accident. Since your job—your main job—is supposed to be promoting tourism, I’m wondering exactly how publicizing a murder around these parts would help to pack the customers into our accommodations.”

  For a brief second, Sunny wondered how it would feel to shove her keyboard right through his smug, fat face.

  But she needed the job. So she braced herself for whatever Ollie the Barnacle had to say, but this was interrupted when the door rattled open again.

  A man, tall and slim, stood silhouetted in the doorway. As he came inside, Sunny noticed his sharp features and rich tan. Yeah, “rich” would be the word for him. He wore thin-wale cords and some sort of car coat, black wool, very soft. Probably cashmere.

  Ollie took in the vision as well, saying, “Welcome to the Maine Adventure X-perience,” in his most genial tone. “We don’t generally get walk-in traffic, but we’re certainly ready to help you.”

  “Thanks very much.” The man gave a small smile, barely moving his lips when he talked. And the way he spoke—was that some sort of accent? Sunny couldn’t place it.

  “I had some business in Portsmouth that concluded early, so I have a few days free. I’m told my family has some roots here, and I’d like to explore the area a bit.”

  “I’m sure Sunny can arrange something appropriate.” Ollie looked at his watch, every inch the man of affairs. “You’ll have to excuse me, Mr.—?”

  “Richer,” the elegant stranger supplied, giving the name a French pronunciation. “Roger Richer.” The first name got more of an English treatment, but still came off sounding like “Razh-AIR.” He also gave Ollie a slight bow instead of a handshake.

  A little taken aback, Ollie nodded in response, said good-bye, and took off.

  Sunny nodded toward the chair beside her desk. “Why don’t you have a seat, Mr. Richer?”

  “Please, call me Raj.” He gave her another tight-lipped smile.

  “Okay.” Sunny brought up a new window on her monitor. “I guess the first order of business would be accommodations. I could book you a room”—she glanced again at that expensive coat—“or a suite at the Colonial Inn. It’s probably the nicest place in the area.”

  “A hotel?” Raj looked a little disappointed. “I had hoped for something a little more—homelike.”

  “Ah.” Sunny switched to her bed-and-breakfast database. Most B&Bs in the area catered to a more modest tourist crowd, but …

  “Here’s something,” she said, double-checking that the listing hadn’t been booked. “The Rowlandson estate. It’s in Piney Brook, a very exclusive community. A cottage, usually for weekend guests, but it happens to be available. Single bedroom, a bath, and a working kitchen.” She paused for a second. “The Rowlandsons won’t actually be there—they’re away on their yacht. I guess you’ll have to cook for yourself, but you can use the amenities. Although it’s kind of late in the season, they do have an enclosed pool. Would that be all right?”

  Raj nodded. “That would fill the bill nicely.” He reached into his coat and drew out a wallet that should have been as slim and elegant as the rest of him. The effect was somewhat spoiled by the batch of hundred-dollar bills packed into it. “What would the rate be?”

  “We usually do payments by credit card,” Sunny began, then shook her head. Their business was done online, and that was where their payments were processed. The office didn’t have a credit card terminal. “But I suppose a cash deposit would be all right.”

  She got out the lockbox for petty cash, which also held the Rowlandsons’ keys. Raj handed over a fat fee for five days, and Sunny tucked away the bills in the box. That should warm Ollie’s cold little heart, she thought.

  Returning to her keyboard, she printed out the directions to the estate and then maneuvered a few new windows onto her screen. “Richer. That’s a French name, isn’t it?”

  Raj nodded.

  “Is that the branch of the family you’re tracing? We have a pretty active historical society here in town.” A quick click on the mouse, and she added, “Most records are up in the county seat in Levett. They have some genealogical resources up there, too.”

  A little more computer digging, and she said, “If there’s a Canadian connection, there are several French-Canadian heritage groups you could contact. Most of them are farther upstate, though.”

  “I am
sure the local groups you have mentioned will do for a start,” Raj said, his hands making little pushing-down gestures.

  “Would you prefer I download all of this to your computer or phone?” Sunny asked.

  That got another smile from Raj. “I have not embraced technology so enthusiastically, I’m afraid. The machines I use tend to be very simple.”

  The cell phone he took out of his pocket was a lot less high-end than the rest of his outfit.

  “I could just print it out for you, if you prefer,” Sunny offered.

  “That would be excellent.”

  As the printer hummed, she asked, “Is there anything else you need? Tours? Local attractions?”

  Raj shook his head.

  “How about local transportation? Do you have your own car?” Sunny asked.

  “I rented one in Portsmouth.” He nodded out the window to a racing green Jaguar parked behind Sunny’s Mustang.

  “Very impressive,” Sunny told him. “You’re lucky it’s still fall, though. I don’t know how practical it might be for a Maine winter. My own car got in a little trouble when things were icy.”

  “I thought I saw some damage on that car.” Raj pointed to her Mustang.

  “That’s the best I could do to fix it up.” Sunny collected the papers from the printer and stood. “Luckily, I don’t think you’ll have to worry about that—unless you decide on a prolonged stay.”

  He smiled again, that curious, tight-lipped smile, and took the sheaf of papers. “Thank you, Sunny.”

  “You’re welcome,” she told him. “If you change your mind about the local attractions, or if you need anything else during your stay—well, we’re here to help.”

  He thanked her again and gave another little bow, then left. Still, it was the highlight of her working day, and it charged up her batteries to tackle the promotion copy.

  Then she got an e-mail from the company’s Web server reporting a problem and spent hours trying to reconcile two applications that had suddenly decided not to play nicely with one another anymore.

  On the bright side, Ollie didn’t come back for a repeat browbeating session. Sunny took a chance and printed out hard copies of the stuff Ken Howell had sent her, stuffing them in an envelope.

  After responding to several tourism information requests and processing a couple of visits, her eyes felt fatigued and her neck stiff.

  That’s what happens from sitting in the cheap seats, she thought, rolling back in her office chair. This thing is barely one step up from the antique in Ken’s office.

  Sunny shifted in her chair. Fat chance that Ollie the Barnacle would shell out to upgrade the office furniture, especially after he’d just chewed her out for conspiring to damage local tourism.

  Well, he’ll see I did my best to fill the coffers today, she thought as she locked up the office, stepped over to her trusty Mustang, and started the engine.

  Sunny suddenly bit her lip. That was a lot of money in the cash box—more than she’d ever left in the office. She looked along the street, at the deepening evening shadows. Most of the businesses had already closed up. This wasn’t like New York, where merchants pulled down metal shutters or gates. There was just an expanse of plate glass, a cheap drawer lock, and an antiquated lockbox between anybody out here and the money she’d collected today.

  You’re being silly, she scolded herself, but it would be just my luck that tonight would be the night somebody tried something. She left her car running and went back to the office, opened the door, unlocked her desk, scooped up the cash box, and headed back outside.

  As she did, her car gave a loud BANG! She could see it shake for a second.

  Wonderful—a backfire. Maybe she shouldn’t try to stretch her dollars by buying cheap gas.

  She went to open her car door again and stopped. Something was wrong with the steering wheel—or rather, with the plastic sheathing on the steering column. A good chunk was torn out of it.

  Then she dragged her eyes from the damage inside to the damage to the top of her windshield—a spiderweb of cracks centering on a small, round hole.

  A bullet hole.

  7

  Sunny didn’t know how long she just stood there, staring with her mouth hanging open. The sound of a car pulling up behind her finally snapped her out of her trance.

  She whirled around to see a midnight blue patrol car, the words “Kittery Harbor Police” in gold on the front doors. No flashing lights on top. And behind the wheel, grim faced as usual, was Constable Will Price.

  “Why should I not be surprised to find you?” he said, getting out of the car. “Zack Judson called from his store, reporting a gunshot. Dispatch thought it was probably a backfire, but they sent me by to check things out.”

  Will’s stern demeanor melted a little as he looked at her more closely. “Hey—Sunny? Are you all right?”

  Sunny wordlessly pointed at the inside of her car and the windshield.

  The constable did a double take when he spotted the bullet hole. But then he was back to business as usual.

  He took Sunny’s arm, almost dragging her over to Judson’s Market two stores away. At the same time, he spoke rapidly into the microphone attached to his blue uniform, radioing for backup.

  The next few minutes got pretty exciting as another blue town patrol car and two white cruisers from the sheriff’s department came flying up, sirens blaring. The area filled with uniformed officers, redirecting traffic away from Sunny’s car and trying to shoo away the onlookers who began to congregate.

  Will had already pulled his car away from Sunny’s. Now he pointed to her Mustang, talking to one of the deputies who seemed to be in charge. “Looks like something went off in there. The angle’s all wrong for a bullet fired from the outside.”

  “Some kind of booby trap?” The deputy, a tall, lanky guy in a forest green uniform, frowned unhappily.

  “Yeah—and we don’t know what else might be in there.” Will took the lead, approaching Sunny’s car with a large flashlight. “There’s something down by the gas pedal.”

  Sunny held her breath as he craned his neck, trying for a better look. “I think the panel is off the fuse box, and there’s some kind of gizmo attached. I see wires—”

  “You going in?” The lanky deputy swallowed audibly. Sunny saw his prominent Adam’s apple bob up and down.

  Will’s hand went for the door handle, then hesitated. “I dunno, Fred. Maybe we should leave this for the professionals.”

  The deputy stood staring at him. “You mean the bomb squad?”

  Will began backing away. “Unless you want to go poking around in there yourself.”

  Retreating to Judson’s Market, the deputy began talking into his own radio.

  Perhaps five minutes passed. Then another sheriff’s department car came roaring up. It screeched to a stop, the door opened, and a red-faced Frank Nesbit emerged, dressed in a tuxedo.

  Either he’s going for the James Bond look this evening or he has some political dinner to attend, that irreverent voice inside Sunny’s head suggested.

  The sheriff took in the whole scene—the blocked road, the growing crowd—and flashed a baleful glance around the assembled lawmen. “What lamebrain’s trying to call in the state police bomb squad?”

  The lanky deputy suddenly took a giant step away from Will Price.

  His movement caught Nesbit’s attention. Now his generalized glare had a focus: Will.

  “I should have known,” Nesbit growled.

  “There’s some sort of device in there,” the constable tried to report. “Apparently it set off a shot.”

  Nesbit stomped over to Sunny’s Mustang, grabbed the door handle, and heaved on it. The door opened with its usual unearthly screech.

  The law officers and the crowd of civilian rubberneckers that had gathered all cringed back. But the awful noise was all that happened.

  Nesbit put out his hand, calling, “Flashlight!” When he got one, he bent forward, peering at the floor in fr
ont of the driver’s-side seat. Then the sheriff straightened up. “Looks like somebody wired in a circuit board with a bullet attached to it.” He threw another aggravated look at Will. “A single shot. Nothing else.”

  “There’s an urban legend like that,” one of the deputies said. “From back in the old days, when cars used those cylindrical fuses. They were the same size as a .22 shell, so some goober who was short on fuses used a bullet to replace a burned-out fuse. Worked okay until an electric charge finally set the damned thing off. Caught him right in the—”

  The guy suddenly paused when he realized the whole crowd on the street was listening. “Er—groin region,” he finished lamely.

  Nesbit in the meantime was looking fixedly at the Mustang, his lips set in a frown beneath his silver mustache. “This car looks familiar,” he said. “Whose is it?”

  Sheepishly, Sunny raised her hand. If the sheriff had been angry before, a picture of his face now could be used in the dictionary to illustrate the phrase “if looks could kill.”

  “You!” Nesbit visibly tried to restrain himself, but even so, his voice was overly loud when he spoke again. “Young lady, if you’ve—”

  He broke off, looking over Sunny’s shoulder. She turned to see that Ken Howell had appeared, scribbling frantically in a notebook.

  He’d love for the sheriff to say something stupid on the record, Sunny realized.

  “All right.” Nesbit brought the volume down when he spoke this time. “We’re not sure what happened with this car, so we’re impounding it for investigation. If, at the end of our review, we discover that this was in fact some sort of misguided publicity stunt, criminal charges will be filed.” He glared at Sunny. “Count on it. It is a crime to waste police time.”

  He jerked a hand at the Mustang, and several of his deputies jumped to start securing the car. The other town constable quickly pulled his car away.

  Sunny tried to speak, cleared her throat, and finally succeeded. “Excuse me,” she said.

  When nobody responded, she raised her voice. “Excuse me!”

  Nesbit was getting back into his car. He stopped, giving her a hostile look. “Yes, Ms. Coolidge?”