Hiss and Tell

by Claire Donally

  “Like pirates.” Robin shrugged. “Whatever you want to call it, that Merlin came home with a hundred thousand dollars.”

  “Before inflation,” Will joked, but his eyes grew serious as they followed the vessel, almost three times the size of Ben’s boat. “Kingsbury’s got a lot of nerve, sailing in these waters after what happened.”

  “I know, right?” Robin said. “They mentioned that on the show, too, about the girl who drowned under his boat.”

  “That cost him his seat in Congress.” Sunny remembered the scandal, which had happened during the summer of her junior year in college. Caleb Kingsbury had been found on top of his overturned boat—the dead girl had been beneath it. “He was just getting ready to run again, but after that, none of his father’s political friends wanted anything to do with him.”

  “Well, it couldn’t have hurt him much if he’s out there sailing a fifty-foot schooner.” Ben adjusted their course slightly.

  “So what’s the scoop on this celebrity wedding?” Sunny asked.

  “You don’t know?” Robin sounded incredulous. “Priscilla Kingsbury is marrying Carson de Kruk in a couple of months. It’ll be the biggest thing to happen around here this fall. Eagle Eye said the families will be spending some time at the Kingsbury estate, getting to know one another.”

  Sunny might not be up on the local wedding gossip, but even she knew the name Carson de Kruk—son of multimillionaire Augustus de Kruk. “If Caleb Kingsbury is sailing in for this get-together, I wonder how the de Kruks will make their entrance,” Sunny said. “They’ve got more money than God.”

  “Maybe they’ll pile it all up and come parasailing down from the summit,” Will suggested.

  “One thing’s for sure,” Ben said, going from sea captain to traffic cop. “Driving anywhere near Wilawiport is going to be a real mess—especially round the Kingsbury compound. They may not be Kennedys or Bushes, but they’re sure to have TV crews and lots of gawkers around. Now I know why I’m being posted up there. I was supposed to keep quiet about it. But if it’s on TV . . .” He shrugged.

  They reached the dock where Ben was renting space without spotting any other mysterious schooners, and the two couples parted ways. Will gave Sunny a lift home.

  “Do you want to come in?” she asked as they turned onto Wild Goose Drive.

  When she saw Will hesitate, Sunny said, “I promise there are no paparazzi hanging around.”

  “It’s not that—or you.” Will fumbled for words. “It’s your dad. Whenever he gets hold of me now, he’s full of advice.”

  “Well, he kind of considers himself your unofficial campaign manager.” Sunny pointed out.

  “Emphasis on the unofficial,” Will said.

  “Hey, he and Zach Judson and the other members of the Kittery Harbor political faction got you back here in the first place.”

  “I know. It’s just that it’s gotten so complicated.” Will ran a hand through his hair, and made a face as his fingers got stuck.

  Sunny grinned. “Yeah, salt water will do that. You know, some folks intentionally spray the stuff onto their hair to get more volume.”

  “Well, all it does for me is to make everything clump together.”

  She laughed. “Better than the frizz of death, which is what I get. Come and have a quick drink, then you can plead the need to take a shower and escape if Dad gets to be too much for you.”

  Will agreed, and together they walked to the front door, then headed into the living room to find Sunny’s dad, Mike Coolidge, sitting on the couch with their neighbor Helena Martinson.

  “Well, you two look dry, so I guess Ben Semple didn’t sink the boat on you,” Sunny’s father greeted them.

  “No, we had a nice little jaunt,” Sunny assured him, glad to see her Dad looking so well and relaxed. When she’d come home from New York City to tend him after his heart attack, it had been touch and go for a while. But now he was eating healthily and getting in a three-mile walk every day, though his unruly white curls needed a trim, as usual. His piercing blue eyes were fondly aimed at Mrs. Martinson, whom Sunny suspected was the other reason for Mike’s improvement. There were plenty of widows available in town, but her dad had gravitated to Helena, and Sunny could see why. Mrs. Martinson was everything Sunny wanted to be when she grew up—or at least grew older. Petite, graceful, with a figure that Sunny could only envy and blond hair that had somehow gone platinum with age, Mrs. M. was definitely a catch . . . and Sunny was glad that Mike had caught her.

  “Kinda nice, being able to sit around without worrying about furry critters underfoot,” Mike said.

  Helena nodded. “We had a pet-free day. Your Shadow was out visiting, and I left my Toby playing in my backyard.” She shuddered slightly. “I just hope he hasn’t gnawed his way through the fence or knocked a tree down.”

  The ungainly pup Mrs. M. had adopted had grown considerably . . . and didn’t show any signs of stopping yet. Combined with a bumptious puppy-dog personality, Toby’s awkward stage wasn’t always charming.

  “I didn’t think they could breed golden retrievers with Godzilla.” Mike shook his head.

  “So, did you enjoy your day off?” Mike turned round to include Will in the conversation. “Lord knows you won’t get many until after the primary.”

  “Too true. In fact, I was reminded of what can go wrong in a political career,” Will said, “when Caleb Kingsbury went sailing past us.”

  “The Kingsburys? They’re definitely out of my league. Now there was a political dynasty still looking for a crown.” Mike shook his head. “Although at least his father, Thomas Kingsbury, reached out to folks in Kittery Harbor the last time he ran. Tom was ‘the Senator’ to everybody, even his kids. He was kind of a stiff old coot, which worked against him in the end. The party, even long-time supporters, dumped him for a younger, more with-it candidate.”

  “From what I hear, the kids didn’t turn out too happily,” Will added.

  “The eldest, Nate, came out of West Point as a newly minted second lieutenant, and his dad sent him off to Vietnam to become a war hero. Apparently the Senator forgot that people could become casualties, which is what happened to Nate. Lem, the second son, was campaigning for the old man’s seat and got killed in an accident up in the mountains.” Mike paused for a moment. “You know, that’s why the term ‘landslide’ became a taboo political term among the Kingsburys.” He went on, “The Senator’s grandsons haven’t done too shabbily, though. Lem Junior is a governor down south, and his kid brother Tom is one of the youngest governors in the country out west. You can’t exactly call the Kingsburys kingmakers, though. Even with both of their states together, the best they can deliver is seven electoral votes.”

  “And Lem Junior got pretty well trounced in the last round of presidential primaries,” Sunny recalled. “He was out before South Carolina.”

  Mrs. M. spoke up. “Nate, Lem, Caleb . . . putting the names all together like that, it begins to sound like the cast from Hee Haw.”

  That got a shrug out of Mike. “The Senator was very big on early American names. It’s not uncommon in these parts. Although maybe not in such volume.”

  “And he seemed to do well enough as Thomas Kingsbury,” Helena Martinson added.

  “Thomas Neal Kingsbury,” Mike corrected. “His Neal relations were the really rich ones. They’ve got an old family mansion up in Wilawiport, on Neal’s Neck, their private peninsula.”

  “If the house is up in Wilawiport, the Neals probably were robber barons,” Mrs. M. said. “You had to make your money before 1929 to build an estate up there.” She confided to Sunny, “Just like the Piney Brook people look down their noses at what they call the ‘new money’ putting up McMansions in the new developments, the Wilawiport crowd looks down on the Piney Brook mansion set because they made their money around World War II.”

  “As I said, out of my le
ague.” Mike turned back to Will. “We’ve got a sheriff’s primary to win. Are you all set for your next speech?”

  “The 99 Elmet Ladies.” Will glanced at Helena. “At least I can depend on one friendly face in attendance tomorrow evening.” Mrs. Martinson was a leading light in that county-wide civic group.

  “I’ll be there, too,” Sunny loyally promised, wondering where she could find a sufficiently conservative outfit on short notice. Maybe something with a bustle.

  “Not every face will be friendly, though,” Mrs. M. warned. “Lenore Nesbit is a founding member.”

  “The sheriff’s wife?” Sunny thought hard, but she couldn’t remember ever meeting the woman. “Do you think she’ll be a problem?” She tried to lighten the mood. “From your tone of voice, I’d be expecting the Wicked Witch of the West.”

  “Oh, no, Lenore is quite charming,” Mrs. Martinson said mildly. “So charming, you’ll hardly feel the knife as it goes in.”

  2

  Sunny didn’t know how to answer that, so she was glad when the doorbell rang and gave her an excuse to escape. It was Rafe Warner, delivering Shadow home.

  “He was pretty much a gentleman,” Rafe reported as he put down the cat carrier, “except for a little roughhousing with Portia.” He grinned. “She egged him on.”

  An imperious “Meow” came from the grilled front of the carrier. Shadow didn’t mind being transported in the carrier . . . but he didn’t like being cooped up in his own house. Sunny undid the latch and the big gray tomcat stepped out, immediately twining his way around her bare ankles. He paid special attention to her shoes, making Sunny wonder if she’d stepped into some trace of Ben’s last fishing expedition.

  Rafe’s grin grew wider as he watched. “That Shadow is a smooth one. Moving from one girlfriend to another.”

  “I’m just glad you’re okay with having Shadow over to visit Portia.” Sunny bent and picked up Shadow, then waved good-bye to Rafe as he headed back to his car.

  Shadow wormed his way out of her arms and onto her shoulders, draping himself around her neck like a large and internally warmed fur collar. Sunny wore him like that back into the living room, but he quickly abandoned her once she sat down, climbing to the top of the chair, then jumping down to the floor and investigating the other people in the room.

  Mike and Mrs. Martinson got a fairly cursory examination, although Shadow made a sort of sneezing noise around Mrs. M. Probably catching a whiff of Toby, Sunny thought.

  Shadow was more circumspect as he approached Will. While it didn’t reach the level of cold war, there was definitely a respectful antagonism between the two. Will and Shadow were both pretty stubborn and didn’t find much to agree on—except, maybe, for Sunny. And Will had yet to forgive Shadow for the time that the cat had literally crashed a romantic moment, falling from the roof of the house just as he was making a move. Even so, Shadow was enough of a snoop that he couldn’t help checking Will out for any interesting smells—especially Will’s Top-Siders.

  “Whatcha catching there, little guy?” Will asked with a smile. “A whiff of fish head or fish guts? I keep telling Ben he’s got to clean the decks more often.”

  “Of course, that’s why any man buys a boat,” Mrs. Martinson said in a tart voice. “The chance to do marine housekeeping.”

  Sunny remembered that as a kid, she’d often seen Mrs. M.’s late husband coming home from fishing expeditions. He’d had a boat, too. Whenever Mr. Martinson enjoyed a good catch, he’d share it with the neighborhood. Nice, but Sunny remembered her mother’s delight at getting stuck with the job of gutting and scaling a fresh fish dinner.

  Whatever it was Shadow had been smelling, he finally finished his rounds, walked back in front of Sunny, sat back on his hindquarters, and stared up at her.

  “I know that look,” Mike said, “and I never go to sleep if I see it in the furball’s eyes.” He deepened his voice. “Feeeeed meeeeee.”

  Sunny rose. “Well, we’ll see if he wants dry food or something to drink.”

  “Speaking of feeding . . .” Mrs. M. got up from her chair, too. “I’d better get home to see what damage Toby has done to my backyard.”

  “I should be heading home, too.” Will joined Helena as she went for the door.

  After they said their good-byes, Sunny headed down the hall to the kitchen, with Shadow leading the way and Mike trailing after.

  “Do you think it was something we said?” Mike asked as Sunny laid out some food for the cat. Mike stepped over to where Shadow leaned into his bowl, delicately crunching away on dry food. “Or was it something the furball did?”

  *

  Shadow was just as glad to see the visitors leave. He’d put in a hard day, chasing and playing with Portia, the calico cat with the irresistible scent. Now he was ready for a nice nap. Besides, you never knew what two-legs would get up to when you put them in large groups. Sometimes they’d sit around talking loudly, setting little things on fire to breathe the smoke, turn on the picture box or the box that made noise, drink that stuff that made them act silly . . . and then they’d forget that there was someone to watch out for on the floor. Shadow had lived in houses like that, and it could get dangerous.

  Luckily, Sunny and the Old One weren’t that way. They didn’t make the picture box too loud, Sunny liked to play, and the Old One left Shadow alone for the most part. Even their visitors weren’t too bad. The She who visited with the Old One wasn’t grabby, and she knew the good places to scratch. If it weren’t for the fact that she smelled so much of dog, Shadow wouldn’t mind having her around.

  Sunny’s He was another story. Shadow remembered how that one had held him helpless, keeping him from meeting Portia for a long, long time. Shadow wasn’t about to forget that. If it happened once, it could happen again. So Shadow kept a wary eye on that one, even when he came in with strange and interesting aromas.

  That reminded him. Shadow turned back to Sunny, inhaling deeply, trying to identify the elements of the bouquet wafting from her. Some were familiar, like Sunny’s own scent. And there was the faintest smell of fish coming from the things on her feet. Others he couldn’t identify, like the sharp tangy odor from back around her heel. Most of all, he caught an odd fragrance still enveloping her, one he sometimes sensed in town when the wind came blowing across the big water.

  It was a scent to stir the blood, wild and salty.

  Shadow turned from his bowl and ran his tongue along Sunny’s bare leg until she jumped away with a surprised noise.

  Yes, definitely salty. It went well with the crunchy food he was eating.

  *

  The next evening, Sunny looked critically at her reflection in the bedroom mirror. Was she ready to deal with the 99 Elmet Ladies and Will? Spending time outdoors on the boat yesterday had strengthened her tan—and left a spray of freckles across the bridge of her nose and her cheeks. Her outfit involved neither a pillbox hat nor a pantsuit. Sunny wore a simple belted dress in muted green, something nice but a tad fuddy-duddy that had sat in her closet for a long, long time.

  I guess I should be glad it still fits, she thought. It’s one of the first things I bought when I moved to New York.

  Sunny had a nice figure, but spending most of her day sitting in front of a computer was enough to shift the sand in even the daintiest hourglass. She’d upped the exercise quota this summer, and now she was glad of it as she checked the fit of the dress.

  She’d managed to wash the salt out of her hair, but her auburn curls were as unmanageable as ever, a genetic bullet from her father and his own mass of curls. She really needed a cut and styling, especially if she was going to have to attend more of these dressy events with Will. But the one beauty parlor in the area that could control her mop was pricey.

  She’d actually gotten a raise for her job as webmistress and general office worker monkey at the Maine Adventure X-perience, MAX for sh
ort. Sunny would’ve thought her boss, Ollie Barnstable, more likely to donate a kidney than fork over a little more in her paycheck but he’d actually come across pretty generously. Still, it seemed really ridiculous, spending it all on her hair. Had Jackie Kennedy dealt with problems like this? That irreverent corner of her mind was having a field day. Did Hillary Clinton?

  Catching movement in the mirror, she turned to find Shadow sitting in the doorway, watching her.

  “Don’t tell me you’re smelling mothballs,” Sunny told him.

  She headed downstairs to the living room, where her father had installed himself with the Sunday papers on his lap and the TV remote in his hand.

  “You look nice,” Mike said. He seemed in a mellow mood after a lazy day and a salad supper.

  “Sure you don’t want to come, Dad?” Sunny teased. “You could have a front-row seat to watch politics in action.”

  Mike shook his head. “Not after I got a pass from Helena. There’s a very smart woman. She told me, ‘Togetherness is fine, but there’s nothing like the meeting of a ladies club to put a strain on it.’” He grinned. “Besides, I think she’s afraid one of the ninety-eight other ladies might try to poach me.”

  The mention of the other women reminded Sunny of something. “Do you think the sheriff’s wife is going to make trouble?” That thought had been nagging at her ever since Helena had mentioned Mrs. Nesbit.

  “I’ve met Lenore a couple of times, usually when I was up at the county seat for some political confab or other,” Mike said. “For the most part she kept to herself. But when she opens her mouth, watch out.”

  “Thanks,” Sunny told him. “That makes me feel a whole lot better.”

  Mike spread his hands. “What is she going to say? Will doesn’t have any interns to fool around with—” He abandoned that line of thought when he caught the look she sent him. “He has a good reputation as a solid cop. One you’ve helped him achieve. Whatever she says, if she says anything at all, it can’t be too bad.”