The Big Kitty

by Claire Donally

  Shadow watched with interest as she brought the box upright again; he sat perched with all four feet on the seat of the mountain bike hidden behind the box.

  Sunny pulled the artwork box away. “I’d forgotten this was even here,” she said, spotting the bike.

  Shadow found it interesting. He dropped down to the floor, sniffed the wheels, and sneezed from the dust that furred up the spokes.

  Back in the ancient days, B.C.—Before Car—Sunny used to bike over to the New Stores and her job at Barnstable’s Sweet Shoppe.

  “No reason I couldn’t do it again,” she said.

  *

  The next morning, Sunny found herself laboring up an incline that had somehow grown ridiculously steeper since her cycling days. Her calf muscles protested as she kept on pedaling. Just a little farther, she thought.

  She reached the top of the hill and pulled over to the side of the road. It could have been worse. The sky was clear, and the air was crisp. She also had plenty of shade from the trees alongside the road. Wouldn’t want to do this in the heat of summer, Sunny mused. I’d have to wring myself out by the time I got to the office.

  Leaning against the handlebars, she glanced over her shoulder at the way she’d come. A lot of the tourist propaganda—er, marketing materials—she wrote and edited talked about the rocky coast of Maine, and certainly the view from the water could be quite picturesque. But the southern part of the state got pretty green during the summer. She looked back over a landscape of rolling hills, the homes getting sparser, and then farmland. This was harvest season. The trees were just beginning to show a little color.

  Sunny turned to the path ahead. From here it was downhill all the way. The road curved along the contours of the hills, passing streets where the houses grew closer together until, as you got close to the harbor, you also encountered the crooked streets of the old downtown business district. Sunny’s destination was at the edge of the built-up part of town, the so-called New Stores that had gone up when her dad was a kid.

  She’d set out early enough to beat Kittery Harbor’s version of the morning rush. Nobody had passed her as she’d pumped her way uphill. In fact, the only car she saw on the road was coming from the direction of town.

  When it came closer, she recognized it as Raj Richer’s racing green Jaguar. As Raj reached the crest, he apparently recognized her, too, and pulled the Jag over on the opposite side of the road.

  The driver’s-side window rolled down, and his thin face appeared. He pulled off a pair of expensive sunglasses and gave her one of his tight-lipped smiles.

  “I have to congratulate you,” he said. “That’s a very healthy way to go to work.”

  “More like a necessary way,” Sunny told him. At least she wasn’t huffing and puffing as she spoke. “My car is out of commission, and my dad’s truck is waiting for a tow due to … let’s call it deferred maintenance.” She patted the bicycle. “Good thing I still had this hanging around. Otherwise, I don’t know how I’d be getting into town.”

  “I’d be glad to offer you a ride,” Raj said. Then he broke off, shooting a look at the backseat.

  No way, she knew, could she fold this big honking bike to fit back there. Even trying would shower dust and crud on those expensive leather seats.

  Sunny gave him a wry smile. If I’d known about the possibility of a lift, maybe I’d have paid more attention to shining up the old girl instead of just making sure the tires were filled.

  “Thanks for the kind thought,” she said. “But it’s no big deal. It really is all downhill from here.”

  Another smile tugged at Raj’s lips. “I hope you’re only talking about the road, and not your day.”

  Sunny laughed. “Hopefully,” she said. “How did you find your accommodations?”

  “They were right where your directions said they’d be.” Raj’s eyes twinkled as his lips curved in a smile. “Joking aside, they’re perfect. The guest house is well-appointed, and I’ve enjoyed the pool … and my privacy. I picked up some supplies at that market down the block from your office—that Mr. Judson gave me quite a cross-examination.”

  “He likes to get to know his customers,” Sunny told Raj, while silently cursing Zack Judson as a nosy old so-and-so. She hoped he hadn’t put Raj off from spending some more time around town. Not every tourist could afford the kind of rental the Rowlandsons were asking for their guest house.

  As if reading her mind, Raj said, “He was most impressed when I told him where I was staying.”

  “It’s one of the nicest places in town,” Sunny said. “If I could afford it, I’d go there for my vacation.”

  Raj chuckled. “I’ll have to take good care of it, then.”

  They said good-bye, and Sunny watched him head out into the country before she pushed off, rolling down into town.

  Reaching the office, she checked her watch. Early—good. Sunny unlocked the door and trundled the bike inside, behind her desk. First things first. She unslung the messenger’s bag from over her shoulder, retrieved the cash box, and returned it to its usual drawer.

  Then she took the bag into the bathroom. The dress code at MAX was pretty relaxed, so she could get away with jeans. But the faded Boston University sweatshirt she’d worn on the way here definitely wouldn’t qualify as business casual. She took a moment to freshen up, then slipped on a gray T-shirt and a deep blue cotton sweater.

  Sunny fluffed her shaggy mane, fretting yet again how long her hair was getting. Maybe Mrs. Martinson could suggest a hairdresser who could handle unruly curls. After a final look in the tiny mirror, she shrugged. “Ready as I’m going to be,” she decided.

  Getting behind her desk, she powered up the computer and began dealing with the morning’s e-mails.

  She fielded a couple of calls, organizing lodging for the people who knew what they wanted and tailoring some information packets to send to the people who didn’t.

  Ollie the Barnacle didn’t darken the door. If he’d learned of her side venture with Ken Howell, Ollie certainly must have heard about the bullet incident that had knocked out her car. Maybe he’d decided that coming in to hassle her some more would be overkill when she’d almost been shot.

  Oddly enough, Sunny found herself worrying about Ken. If Ollie had been nasty to her when he’d heard about the story, how had he treated Sunny’s editor?

  Barnstable was pretty tight with the county’s movers and shakers up in Levett. By agreeing to twist their tails, Howell had seriously annoyed his main investor. When it came down to it, Sunny could afford to follow this story—she could always get another job. Ken Howell had put his whole family heritage on the line.

  While Ollie’s absence made for a more pleasant work environment, it also caused a small problem—all that extra money in the cash box. Sunny finally solved that by stopping at the bank when she began her lunch break and making a deposit into the company account.

  Then she took her sandwich to the wharves and again fed some crusts to the seagulls while communing with the wind and water. Sunny even did her bit for local tourism, guiding an elderly couple down the cobblestone street to the navigation museum and taking their photo at the entrance.

  She was a little behind schedule when she got back to work, and her heart sank when she found a Land Rover parked in the street, the office door unlocked, and Ollie Barnstable sitting in her chair, shouting into his cell phone.

  Well, there goes my string of good luck, Sunny told herself. At least I didn’t have anything incriminating up on my computer screen.

  Ollie’s angry voice penetrated her thoughts. “I don’t give a crap what your lawyer says. When I get my money, you’ll get your money—”

  He paused for a second, looking almost guilty, when he saw Sunny in the doorway. But he recovered himself quickly, snarling, “That’s all I’m going to say on the matter.”

  Ollie slapped his phone shut so hard, Sunny feared he might break it. But she decided not to say anything. The look on her boss’s face defini
tely didn’t invite comment.

  “Thought you’d be out to lunch longer,” Ollie said gruffly, collecting papers off the desk and jamming them into a leather portfolio.

  Sunny blinked. Ollie usually complained that she took too much time to eat.

  Zipping up the portfolio, Ollie rose from the chair and headed for the door, tromping even more heavily than usual. Given his mood, Sunny found herself glad that he had nothing else to say.

  Still, she found herself thinking back to the previous evening and Will’s flight of fancy about motive, opportunity, and means.

  Maybe Will wasn’t so out there about one thing, she thought. It sounds as if Ollie may be having money problems.

  She took her seat—a little warm from Ollie’s bulk—and spent the afternoon updating the website. Then she tackled that pesky promo copy. Apparently, while her conscious mind had worried over her car troubles, Sunny’s subconscious had been working on the writing problem overnight. Coming up with a whole new take, Sunny trashed her original draft and typed up a new one.

  “Looks pretty good,” she muttered, checking over her work one last time before attaching it to an e-mail and sending it to Ollie. Feeling virtuous, she breezed through several more items from her electronic in-box.

  Then her string of small victories was broken by a phone call from her dad.

  “Sal DiGillio picked up the truck and brought it to his station,” Mike Coolidge reported. “But a bunch of other jobs came in. Sal says that the earliest he can have her back is tomorrow afternoon.”

  “I think I can live with another day of biking,” Sunny told him. “Let’s not worry about it.”

  Now the day was winding down, and Sunny could start thinking about heading home—barring some disaster deluging her with stranded tourists.

  The phone rang.

  Sunny picked it up. “Maine Adventure X-perience,” she said in her most professional tone.

  An unfamiliar female voice came over the line. “Sunny Coolidge, please.”

  “Speaking.”

  “This is Leah Towle.”

  Towle—the name was familiar. Wait a minute! She was one of the dog owners Ada Spruance had tangled with.

  “I overheard someone in Judson’s Market say that you’re doing a piece in the Crier about Mrs. Spruance,” the voice went on, as if reading her mind. “There’s been a lot said back and forth in the paper. But my husband and I would like to talk to you in person, to give our side of the story.”

  “Of course,” Sunny said, pleased at her good fortune. She’d wanted to get in touch with the Towles, and here they were, volunteering. “Could we say sometime this evening?”

  They set a time, and Sunny put the phone down. I don’t know why they even worry about the paper, she thought. The grapevine works faster, and you can skip all the ads.

  9

  The day finally ended. Sunny wheeled her bike out of the office and locked up. There was a little traffic on the street now. She may have beaten Kittery Harbor’s rush hour that morning, but she couldn’t wait it out now—she had that appointment with the Towles.

  As she nosed into the stream of traffic, Sunny heard a heavy engine start up, like a giant clearing his throat. She shot a glance over her shoulder—her dad had been very careful with bike safety when he taught her to ride, showing her how to look in all directions without wobbling on her course. A metallic blue SUV with tinted windows, a Ford Explorer, rolled along behind her, its rumbling engine throttled down.

  Maybe I should pull aside and let them pass, she thought.

  But when she tried to, the big blue vehicle just slowed down.

  Sunny shrugged. The SUV had New Hampshire plates. Maybe they were tourists looking for a place to park. She pedaled on for about a block until she saw an arm waving at her from a black pickup truck. As she rolled to a stop, Will Price stuck his head out the window, grinning.

  “I’d gotten reports of this spectacle, but I had to see it with my own eyes,” he said.

  She took in the fact that he was in his own pickup and out of uniform. “Is this traffic stop official police business, Constable Price?” she teased.

  His voice took on a professional pitch. “In point of fact, Maine highway safety regulations state that protective helmets must be worn by all cyclists—”

  “Oh, come on,” Sunny muttered.

  “—under the age of sixteen,” he finished, letting his stern cop facade melt under another grin.

  “I don’t know whether I should be flattered or worried for your eyesight,” she told him.

  “Look, I’ve got a little time before my shift starts,” he said. “Why don’t you stick that bike in the back and I’ll give you a ride home?”

  As she swung the mountain bike into the truck bed, Sunny glanced around, looking for that big Ford that had seemed to be following her. No trace—it must have turned off in search of a parking spot.

  Guess I was just imagining things, Sunny thought, shaking her head. Can’t let that half-assed stunt with the bullet get to me.

  She went around to the passenger side of Will’s truck, put her foot on the running board, and boosted herself into the seat. “I guess I should thank you,” she said. “I’m supposed to be seeing the Towles, and I’d have to pedal pretty fast to make it in time.”

  “Sticking on the job, huh?” He laughed. “Well, you’ll be glad to hear that they won’t meet you at the door with a gun—at least I didn’t find one registered.”

  “No,” Sunny said, “all they have is a killer dog.”

  “My research shows that Veronica Yarborough doesn’t have a gun, either.”

  “No doubt she considers them too lower class.” Sunny smiled. “If she had a problem with someone, she’d probably beat them to death with her moneybags. What about those farmers, the Ellsworths?”

  “Now, they apparently did buy a rifle after they began having predator problems,” Will reported. “Nate Ellsworth got a .308 caliber—a little heavy for your traditional varmint gun.”

  He paused for a second. “Of course, the bullet that messed up your car exited through the windshield—and nobody broke their necks looking for it. But we still have the bullet casing from that little dingus inside the car, and it’s a .308—imagine that.”

  “I’ll save thinking about that for after my visit with the Towles.” Sunny rolled her window down. They were climbing up the hill, heading out of town. “Looks like you did your homework. Did your friends in Portsmouth come through with any information about Gordie Spruance?”

  “They’re aware of him,” Will said. “His license plate got taken down because his car turned up in some not-so-nice parts of town, and he’s been spotted with some seriously dirty people.”

  “You mean he’s been buying drugs?” Sunny’s voice went flat. She hated to hear Will’s suspicions verified.

  “Maybe more than that.” Will’s face got grim. “I want to show you something.”

  He pulled the truck off the road and opened the console on the seat between them. “Gordie’s been hanging out with a guy named Ron Shays, a.ka. Rob O’Shea. He’s a meth dealer with an interesting history.”

  Will pulled out a grainy photo printed on plain paper. “They e-mailed me this picture.”

  The image was obviously a mug shot, showing a guy with long, unkempt hair and a beard down to his chest. Actually, it wasn’t so much a face as a set of pinched features poking through a wall of shaggy fur. Sunny got an impression of angry eyes set close together above a sharp nose. What really caught her attention was the man’s mouth, set in a snarl that revealed several stained and snaggled teeth.

  “Looks like a charmer.” She shuddered.

  “What amazes me is that he’s found people to do business with him all over New England,” Will said. “His business model is to find a virgin territory and open a lab using local contacts. They go in big, make some money, and then the partnership goes to hell—usually with the local partner ending up dead. And then Shays moves on to gr
eener pastures.”

  “Better and better.” Sunny gave the picture back. “And nobody’s caught him yet?”

  “He’s been pretty smart so far, and he’s kept moving out of jurisdictions before local law enforcement can pin him down. Lately he’s been seen around Portsmouth, looking into business opportunities in the area.”

  And what would be better than Elmet County? Convenient to Portsmouth, a good-sized city right across the river, and guarded by a sheriff who seemed to think he could keep crime down by wishing it away.

  “This doesn’t sound good,” Sunny said.

  “Yeah. You could imagine what might happen if Gordie bragged about his mom’s lottery ticket to this guy.”

  “Tell him you had money?” Sunny burst out. “I wouldn’t want that character to know I owned a wallet.”

  “So if Shays put the squeeze on Gordie, and Gordie tried to steal that ticket …” Will didn’t even have to finish.

  But Sunny remembered the lost, frightened look in Gordie’s eyes when he talked about his mother. “It looks bad,” she admitted. “But I still want to get a look at the other people feuding with Ada Spruance.”

  Will shrugged. “Suit yourself. You’re the one writing the story.”

  “Besides,” Sunny went on, “how much of this stuff you’re telling me could I use with attribution?”

  Will sat silent for a moment. “None of it,” he finally admitted. “If I had any kind of a solid case, I’d’ve already taken a chance and brought it to the district attorney.”

  “So instead, what you’re doing is turning to me to stir the pot and see what floats up.” Sunny shook her head. “This is supposed to be a news story. I can’t just make unsubstantiated accusations about drug dealers hiding in the woodwork.”

  Will started the truck in glum silence and drove her home. As he pulled up on Wild Goose Drive, he said, “Guess it’s my turn to say I’m sorry.”

  Sunny looked at him. “For what?”

  “For getting you involved in this,” Will said. “At first glance, I thought this would be a way to yank Frank Nesbit’s chain about ignoring a possible suspicious death. But it’s gotten a lot worse than I imagined.”