The Big Kitty

by Claire Donally

  “Okay,” Sunny said. “So what’s the story?”

  “They finally got the fire put out and started investigating the cause. More or less as we, or at least I, suspected, it looks like Gordie was apparently trying to synthesize crystal meth.”

  Sunny passed that information along to Mike.

  “How do they do that, anyhow?” he asked.

  Will must have heard him over the phone. “To put it very simply, you add certain kinds of cold medication to a solvent to strip away some of the active ingredients you want,” he said. “Gordie had a pretty bare-bones setup. For a solvent, he’d managed to get his hands on some ether. For the rest, he had a bunch of different cold pills. Either he was buying them in different stores or taking them with a five-finger discount. More likely the second, since he had no money.”

  “Maybe that explains why he went into the meth production business in the first place,” Sunny suggested. “He might have been desperate to raise money. Think about it. If he told Shays that there’d be cash to fund a serious meth operation and then there wasn’t, Gordie would have found himself in a real bind.”

  “That does make sense,” Will said. “Anyway, it looks as if Gordie had laid everything out for a trial run before he went into town. But he didn’t close up the ether container tightly enough. The stuff must have begun to leak out. Since it’s heavier than air, the ether just filled the house out there on the edge of town until finally it reached the pilot light on the stove and—kaboom.”

  Sunny relayed Will’s explanation to Mike, who nodded.

  “That’s how some of our demolition guys used to take out tunnel complexes back in ’Nam. All they needed for the job was a can of ether and a candle.”

  “Well, it certainly blew the hell out of that old farmhouse—and did a pretty good job on Frank Nesbit’s PR, too.” Will reported. “Those camera crews followed him out to the fire. His whole ‘Keep Elmet Safe’ campaign sounded a little hollow when a meth lab turned up under his nose. He’s been trying to spin it, saying that this was the work of evil outsiders, but Gordie was a local boy.”

  Mike cackled when Sunny told him that.

  “Another interesting point,” Will went on. “Gordie was paying week to week to stay at this old farmhouse—a distressed property picked up by none other than your beloved boss, Oliver Barnstable.” He paused. “With luck Ollie will be lying low for a while.”

  “Now, that would be good news,” Sunny said.

  “There’s one more thing.” Will sounded more tentative now. “I’ll be switching to the day shift come Monday, which means I’ll actually have both days of this weekend off.”

  Sunny had stopped passing along Will’s conversation to her dad, sensing this was going to be more personal.

  It was.

  “Look, um, would you like to have dinner on Saturday to discuss the case—or whatever?”

  “Sure,” Sunny said aloud.

  Especially whatever, she added with a silent smile.

  17

  Saturday started off dull, which perfectly matched the way Sunny felt as she sat in the MAX office, trying to get her keyboard into focus. Well, if Ollie Barnstable came by to check on her today, he’d find her working very early, if not so bright.

  I’ve just got to make it to noon, she thought sleepily. Her first visitor of the day appeared even less well rested than Sunny felt. Ken Howell walked in with a thin pile of papers, looking heavy-eyed and moving like a much older man.

  “Got a collector’s edition here,” he announced, his voice raspy. “First time the Crier’s put out an extra—God, since Will Price’s father went off the road.”

  He held up the top paper so Sunny could see the headline: HIT, RUN, AND FIRE.

  “I tapped some people as soon as Nesbit left that press conference, and we worked all night.” He stifled a yawn. “I’m getting too old for this nonsense. Anyway, it’s four sheets—figured if you wanted, you could wrap it around the edition that just came out.”

  He paused for a second. “Hope you don’t mind losing the front page.”

  Sunny shook her head. “Really, Ken, it’s all right with me.”

  “Good, good.” Ken left the pile of papers on her desk. “If you want to do it, fine. I really am done. Instead of sleeping yesterday, I pulled myself out of bed for Nesbit’s media circus. That plus an all-nighter—” A mighty yawn escaped, and he looked embarrassed. “Pardon me. Just do me a favor, Sunny. If you’re going to get involved in something else exciting, could you hold off until, say, Tuesday?”

  With a rueful smile, Sunny promised she’d do her best as Ken shuffled out of the office, looking dead on his feet.

  She picked up one of the extra editions and read through it. Stories recounted the events at the Redbrick Tavern, the press briefing, and the fire out at the farmhouse in Sturgeon Springs where Gordie Spruance had been staying. Pictures showed the crashed SUV and what looked like a mug shot of Gordie. Ken had also gotten somebody out to the scene of the fire to take some action shots there. Sidebars explained the use of dangerous solvents to create crystal meth and the fire dangers, including the possible explosive results of using ether.

  Sunny noticed that she was quoted in the hit-and-run story—snippets from the press conference.

  Thank God he didn’t go for an exclusive interview, she thought. That would’ve probably been enough to get me fired. She sighed. Much as I hate to admit it, Ollie does have a point. I’m supposed to be boosting local tourism. I can’t imagine this is going to do the industry much good.

  She wondered when Hurricane Ollie would come roaring into the office. On the other hand, he’s got the fire—and the meth lab—on his property to occupy his mind. She sighed. Here’s hoping.

  Finishing the articles, Sunny had to hand it to Ken Howell. Not only was the extra edition a very competent piece of news gathering, but he hadn’t editorialized on the situation. Just a bald recounting of the facts made Sheriff Nesbit look bad enough.

  Sunny’s second visitor of the day looked about as groggy and sleep deprived as Ken had.

  “Will!” Sunny said, taking in his rumpled uniform. “Are you still working?”

  “I’m going home to get some rest right now,” he promised. “Your dad told me you were here, so I thought I’d stop by on my way and tell you how things shook out from last night’s happy hoopla.”

  He dropped into a chair. “First, Sheriff Nesbit finally got in touch with the Portsmouth drug squad to ask about Ron Shays.”

  “Did they get hold of him?” Sunny asked.

  Will shook his head. “Nobody’s seen hide nor hair of him for a few days now.”

  “That could be good,” she said cautiously. “If he saw that his deal was going down the toilet, maybe he just got out of the area.”

  “Leaving his henchmen behind to clean up any loose ends?” Will added. “As it turns out, that’s the line Nesbit’s taking. His theory is that the hit-and-run was actually aimed at Gordie, not you, as revenge for screwing up the deal. Not only does this theory blame outsiders for all the trouble, but it ties up the case in a neat knot. Justice triumphs in the end—the bad guys have fled town.”

  The two seconds of relief that Sunny had felt quickly passed away. “It’s neat, but there are questions that theory doesn’t answer—like why Gordie was producing meth in the first place. If he was getting a lab up and running, wouldn’t that mean he was trying to make good on the deal? Why then would Shays or his henchmen try to kill him?”

  Will closed his tired eyes. “Gordie was obviously cooking the stuff on a shoestring budget. Maybe he got bounced from the deal and decided to try on his own. If so, Shays might’ve considered him competition in his new territory.”

  He opened his eyes, a troubled expression on his face. “This might be just the beginning of more trouble.”

  “A lot of this seems to depend on Shays,” Sunny said. “Do the Portsmouth cops have any idea where he might have gone?”

  “I talked to so
me guys outside of regular channels,” Will admitted. “As far as they can tell, Shays just picked up and left. There’s no reason other than the glitch in his supposed deal here. Things are quiet between the dealers.”

  He shrugged. “Well, as quiet as you can expect between a bunch of drug-addled, paranoid businessmen. It’s always possible that some competitor thought this was a nice, peaceful opportunity to take out Shays, and he’s actually floating somewhere in the Piscataqua heading out to sea.”

  “So what you think we have here are several bumbling henchmen trying to carry out plans their late boss came up with while trying to get some sort of business going on their own?”

  Will gave her a lopsided grin. “And not doing a great job of any of it. With that scenario, it’s possible that Gordie was actually working with them. They not only accidentally knock him off, they let their meth lab blow up.”

  “I like that one,” Sunny said. “Not only is it entertaining, but it means that around about now the bad guys should be getting discouraged enough to head out of town.”

  She breathed a long, drawn-out sigh. “The problem is, the real situation could be any of these, or something we haven’t even thought of. Don’t start,” she said, raising her hands at Will’s thoughtful expression. “You’re overtired as it is. Coming up with more off-the-wall theories isn’t going to help you sleep.”

  “Okay.” He dragged himself to his feet. “Home. Sleep.” His expression brightened. “And dinner later tonight?”

  “Dinner tonight,” Sunny agreed. “Do you know where you’d like to go?”

  “Not the Captain’s Table or the Redbrick—I think that might be a little too soon for you. And for them, actually. What do you think of someplace out of town? I’ve got a place in mind,” Will said, “but I’ll have to see if I can get a table on short notice.”

  “Well, call me during the day if you’re successful,” Sunny told him. “If not, Lord knows I’ve got a list with lots of places.” Sometimes it seemed as if half her job at MAX involved recommending restaurants for visitors. “Some of them even give me coupons.”

  *

  As the morning slowly passed, Sunny really began to worry about how badly all the negative news coverage might have hit Kittery Harbor’s tourism. E-mail traffic was way down, and the phone didn’t ring at all.

  At this rate, Ollie the Barnacle will have a whole new—and justifiable—reason to fire me, she worried.

  As she sat at her desk, laboring through the tedious task of updating the website’s software, Sunny could look out the plate-glass window and see Kittery Harbor PD cruisers passing by at irregular intervals. Ben Semple she knew already, and repetition made the other officers on the day shift become familiar, at least by sight.

  Sunny decided to stay barricaded behind her desk rather than going out for a snack, unable to decide whether to be comforted or annoyed by so much police attention.

  Just as the noon hour approached, she got a visit from the week’s biggest tourism spender—Raj Richer.

  “I wasn’t sure the office would be open,” he said. “But then I noticed you in here as I walked by.”

  “Just putting in a few extra hours. How’s your genealogy research going?” Sunny asked, only to get a shrug.

  “There are some possibilities,” Raj said, “but I would have to get more of our family records before I could pursue them.”

  “Ah,” she said, trying to keep disappointment out of her voice. “I guess you’ll be leaving soon.”

  “Not for a few more days,” he replied. “In fact, I’m here to make another payment.”

  More big bills came out of his wallet. Sunny made out a receipt and put the money in the cash box. “So you’re enjoying your stay?”

  “It’s restful,” Raj said. “It’s been nice for a while to escape from business—which reminds me—”

  He opened a leather portfolio and removed several sheets. Sunny saw Oliver Barnstable’s letterhead on top, then in large letters, “Investment Opportunities.”

  So Raj was the rich out-of-towner that Will had seen lunching with Ollie.

  “I wanted to return these.” Raj put them on Sunny’s desk. “Please forgive me for leaving them with you instead of delivering them to Mr. Barnstable in person. He is a very persuasive man, with an interesting vision for this town. However, after the unpleasantness yesterday, I’m reluctant to make an investment.”

  Raj leaned over to pick up a copy of the newly published issue of the Crier. “I saw this when I went out for breakfast this morning. It quite shocked me to read that the building that burned down—the one the drug people were using—had belonged to Mr. Barnstable.” He shook his head in distaste. “Really, I don’t think this is an appropriate situation for an investment at this time.”

  “Do me a favor,” Sunny told him. “Don’t mention that to Mr. Barnstable.”

  Raj glanced over at her. “I also read the issue with your article. Very interesting, I thought. The whole state of affairs must be very difficult for the family—Spruance, is it?”

  “I don’t know if there’s much of the family left to be upset,” Sunny told him. “The father died some years ago, and Gordie—Gordon—was an only child.”

  “Somehow that makes it even sadder.” Raj paused for a second as if searching for words. “There was another article, insinuating that there have been attempts to intimidate you?”

  “A couple of … things happened,” Sunny said, trying to keep from getting too specific. “Upsetting, maybe, but I try not to get too excited about it.”

  As she spoke, one of the town’s dark blue patrol cars came by. Constable Semple was behind the wheel and actually waved at her. When Sunny nodded back, Raj turned to see what she was looking at, a smile tugging at his lips. “Well, it seems the local police take a more serious position on these matters.”

  He said good-bye, and the hands of the clock at last reached noon. Sunny hesitated for a moment. She had promised to call Will so that he could escort her home before she set off. But he’d looked so tired, maybe she should give him a little more time …

  As she dithered, Sunny watched the minute hand pass beyond noon, and realized something that made her smack herself in the forehead. She’d forgotten about all that cash Raj had given her—and with Saturday hours, the bank was now closed!

  Guess I’ll have to take the cash box home again, she thought, dialing Will’s number.

  Will sounded reasonably coherent when she finally rang him up. “Be there in a few minutes,” he promised.

  Soon enough, she spotted his black pickup on the street outside. Will flipped up his sunglasses and gave her a smile. Sunny already had everything on her desk turned off. She tucked the cash box away in a bag, came out, locked the door, and headed for her dad’s truck.

  The loud honk of a horn sounded as she reached for the door handle. Sunny turned around to catch Will pointing at the ground under her truck and shaking his head emphatically.

  Sighing, she dropped to the pavement as he’d shown her to look for bombs.

  “You okay, ma’am?” a young voice said from above her. Sunny looked up to see a twelve-year-old in a Boy Scout uniform hovering anxiously over her. “Are you feeling ill? Do you need help getting up?”

  Even when she told him she was fine, he still offered a hand. “I thought I dropped something and went down to look for it,” Sunny lied to make him go away. When she glanced over at Will, he was cracking up behind the wheel.

  Sunny did her best to ignore him as she climbed into the truck.

  The ride home was uneventful. They talked for a few minutes about plans for the evening when Sunny pulled up in front of her house. Once again, Will waved good-bye when Sunny was inside the door.

  She said hello to her dad and Shadow, went to the kitchen, dug out a block of low fat, low-sodium cheddar, and used the toaster oven to make grilled cheese.

  It wasn’t an outstanding lunch, and neither was the table talk. Sunny apologized for having such a
dull morning. Mike was interested when she gave him the new edition of the Crier, though, saying, “Extra! Extra!”

  Sunny collected the plates and washed them. Then she joined Mike in the living room, sitting on the floor to play with Shadow. The cat had devised a new game.

  *

  Shadow backed up almost to the box that held cold things. Then he crouched low and sprang into a run, through the kitchen doorway and down the long hallway that led to the front door. The kitchen floor was shiny and a little slippery under the pads of his feet, but he got better traction on the wool runner in the hall. His legs ate up the distance until he was almost to the archway that led to the room with the couch and picture box. Then he launched himself into the air, ignoring the twinge in his side as he twisted in mid leap, extending his forepaws to catch the side of the arch about six inches off the ground. At the same time, he brought his rear legs down on the plaster and pushed, caroming off the entranceway and sailing in to make a perfect landing in Sunny’s lap. He didn’t even need claws to grab on to her jeans. He scrambled to his feet, looking up at her laughing face above him, and then climbed over her leg, dashing down to the kitchen to start the wild race all over again.

  After about a dozen repetitions, Shadow had burned off his burst of energy and lay down beside Sunny. He arranged himself on the rug so that his furry shoulder and flank leaned against Sunny’s denim-clad thigh. Nice. Warm. Comfortable. Just the way he liked it.

  Then Sunny’s hand descended to pet him. Perfect.

  *

  Sunny glanced up at her father as she ran her fingers through Shadow’s gray fur. “Looks as if he’s healing pretty quickly,” she said.

  Mike put down the Crier. “Talked with Sal DiGillio today,” he reported. “He went down to the impound lot and had a look at the cars.”

  “Cars?” Sunny echoed.

  “Yours and that Jeep Wrangler that wound up in front of the house,” her dad explained. “He says the Mustang is shot.”

  “Tell me about it.” Sunny sighed.

  “No, he says that between the steering column and the windshield, it’s not worth trying to fix the car.” Mike spread his hands. “You know Sal’s honest, and he tries to keep from gouging people. When you racked up the door, he kept it cheap for you.”