He stood poised on the edge of the exam table closest to the box, making hostile noises.
“I guess he’s catching a whiff of Martin’s cologne.” Jane sounded a little embarrassed.
“Well, it was kind of on the strong side,” Sunny said.
But that wasn’t what bothered Jane. “Shadow never liked Martin. And looking back on our partnership, I have to wonder. After all, this is a medical practice where the patients can never talk. I don’t know what Martin did with them when I wasn’t around. It’s obvious he made a pretty bad impression with Shadow.” She scowled. “Another suggestion that I picked a real winner. When we started out, he had me so that I didn’t know up from down.”
“I know that feeling.” Sunny sighed. “And then comes the letdown.”
Jane nodded, her expression not so much “How did this happen?” as “How did I get myself into this mess?” She cleared her throat. “It’s things like this that make me wonder—was I intentionally blind to his shortcomings?”
“He still had a hold on your feelings.” Sunny remembered the editor back in New York whose divorce had been coming through, coming through . . . but then, when people’s jobs were on the chopping block, he’d gotten back with his wife, and not only broke things off with Sunny, but laid her off as well. Even so, on cold, dark nights, Sunny found herself thinking about what might have been.
Jane obviously had a different idea. “I should have burnt that stuff.” She directed a venomous glance at the cardboard container. “But I can’t now, because that might look like if I was trying to destroy evidence.”
She turned back to Sunny, her expression showing the same sort of strain that Will’s had when he visited Sunny’s office—and for the same reason. “Has Detective Trumbull been in touch with you?”
Sunny shook her head.
“Well, he called three times today, asking for a few little details. Like, was it true that I’d thrown a glass of wine in Martin’s face at the Redbrick?” Jane scowled at the memory. “He’s like that old detective on TV, the one who was always leaving and asking one more question.”
“Columbo?” Sunny said.
Jane nodded. “I used to watch that show when I was a kid, thinking it was pretty funny. Let me tell you, though, it’s not so funny when it happens to you in real life. More like death by a thousand cuts.”
She went silent, and for a second they watched Shadow move restlessly between them.
“I guess he’s picking up my bad vibes.” Jane extended a hand to the cat. “Sorry, Shadow. Nothing for you to worry about.”
Shadow nuzzled Jane’s fingers and then came over to rub against Sunny.
“That’s good,” Jane said. “You’re the person he should go to for comfort.”
Sunny drew her hand from between his ears and down his back. Shadow immediately thrust his head at her for a second helping. Then he went back to Jane, getting a laugh out of her.
“Hey, greedy,” she said, rubbing his chin with a finger. “I guess that’s the best you can do for me—unless you have an in with the Portsmouth police.”
Her hand and voice stopped dead, and she looked over at Sunny. “I didn’t mean—”
“I know.” Sunny’s brain raced, trying to figure out what to say. Had Will talked with Jane? It hadn’t seemed so when he came into the office. She decided to play dumb. “If Trumbull found out about what happened in the Redbrick, he probably knows that you and Will have been going out. And if he decides to ask a bunch of official questions . . .”
Jane nodded in comprehension. “That could get sticky, considering how Will and the sheriff get along.”
“So I guess you’ll have to grit your teeth and get through all the questions. I know that’s not much fun.” Sunny paused for a second. “Do you have a lawyer you can talk to?”
That brought a spark from Jane. “What do I need a lawyer for? I didn’t do anything!”
“When you’re in an interrogation room—” Sunny began, when a woman appeared in the exam room entrance to interrupt her.
“Mrs. Dowdey!” Jane’s receptionist Rita Greene’s voice came down the hallway, sounding upset. “You can’t just go walking back there—Dr. Rigsdale is with a patient!”
The woman in the doorway paid no attention, entering and marching straight up to Jane. “The animal shelter told me that my application to adopt a cat had been turned down—and that you’re responsible!”
She had a large, round face, with the features sort of squeezed together in the middle. Add in the wispy fringe of hair that was supposed to look sophisticated but just looked wrong, and the overwhelming impression was of a Persian cat—in this case, a very annoyed Persian cat. Incipient jowls quivered with indignation. Sunny figured the lady—which was definitely what this woman would consider herself—was about her father’s age or a tad older. She dressed stylishly, maybe too stylishly. The dress under her opened fur coat would have been more in tune for somebody twenty years younger—the royal blue color a little too striking, the skirt too short, and the waist too high.
But what really struck Sunny, aside from the woman’s angry-cat expression, was the smell that seemed to emanate from her. It reminded Sunny of the time she’d gone exploring in her grandmother’s dresser drawer, found an ancient bottle of perfume stuck in the back, opened it, and—phew!
From the rest of the package, I don’t think she’d put on stale perfume, Sunny thought. Well, her face looks hot enough to cook something on. Maybe it’s frying off whatever she’s wearing.
Jane, on the other hand, had hidden her upset behind a cool, almost cold, demeanor. “I simply asked them to refer you to me, Mrs. Dowdey,” she said. “You’ve had two cats with health problems—”
“I give my cats the best of everything!” Mrs. Dowdey’s voice got a bit strident. “The best beds, the best toys, the best food—”
“And too much of it,” Jane interrupted crisply. “In my years at this practice, you had one cat die from renal complications, and the other become very ill—”
“Mrs. Purrley died, too,” Mrs. Dowdey’s voice switched to an accusing tone. “Your husband was absolutely no help at all.”
Now Jane’s voice got a bit loud. “He’s not—” She clamped her lips together and took a deep breath.
Yikes, Sunny thought. Talk about sticking your foot in something!
But when Jane spoke again, her voice was mild. “I’m sorry to hear about Mrs. Purrley. Since I haven’t seen her in more than a year, I certainly can’t comment on whatever treatment Martin may have undertaken.”
“I had to have her put to sleep.” Tears appeared in Mrs. Dowdey’s eyes. “It’s so lonely in the house now.”
“We’re trying to set up a class on how to keep a pet healthy,” Jane began.
“As if you people care about that.” Mrs. Dowdey huffed. “Sick animals are your bread and butter.”
Jane’s lips compressed again, but once more she managed to keep anger out of her voice. “I think healthy animals are what we all want. If you take the class, I’d be willing to revisit the question of adoption.”
“You would?” Mrs. Dowdey sounded surprised but hopeful. “This isn’t because you’re angry that I went with the other Dr. Rigsdale?”
“Of course not. We’ll let you know when the class starts.” Jane tried to sound nice, but she clearly wanted this conversation to end. “Rita, will you see Mrs. Dowdey out? Make sure you have her number so we can get in touch with her.” Jane turned back to Shadow, who had retreated to the far edge of the table, his nose wrinkling. From now on, Mrs. Dowdey would be Rita’s problem.
But Mrs. Dowdey apparently had to have the last word. “Thank you, Doctor. I may have been a bit hasty.” She seemed to notice Sunny and Shadow for the first time. “That’s a very handsome animal.”
“Thanks,” said Sunny, struggling to keep her annoyance out of her voice.
Mrs. Dowdey finally allowed Rita to conduct her down the hallway and back to the reception area. After
a brief exchange, the voices muffled by distance, the front door closed.
Jane gave Sunny a wry grimace. “So now you’ve gotten to see behind the scenes in the exciting world of veterinary medicine. Does it make you feel as if you made the wrong choice way back at career day?”
Sunny grinned. “In the newspaper business, people who don’t agree with what you write do it in the letters to the editor, not face-to-face.”
Jane sighed. “Carolyn Dowdey means well. The problem is, she really didn’t know how to take care of her cats. She figured as long as they got the best of everything, they would be fine. And that there was no such thing as ‘too much of a good thing.’ That’s not always true, even if you can afford it.”
Her expression darkened. “And because she could afford it, I’ll bet Martin went for the most expensive treatments he could come up with, even if it meant keeping that poor animal hanging on in agony.”
There it is, always coming back to Martin, Sunny thought. He still sticks to Jane like a bad smell—even worse than Mrs. Dowdey’s perfume.
She reached out to touch Jane’s arm, and Shadow came over to press his head against her, too.
“Take care of yourself,” Sunny said.
Jane smiled down at Shadow, combing her fingers through his gray fur. “And you take care of this little guy. I’d say he’s pretty well recovered, but keep giving him the oil massage for a few more days.” She looked at Sunny. “And if there’s any problem—any problem at all—you let me know.”
Sunny got Shadow’s carrying case. “You’ve got it, Jane,” she promised. “After all, we returnees have to stick together.”
*
Usually, Shadow regretted leaving Gentle Hands—she was always so nice to him. But as Sunny opened the box, he just about jumped in there, eager to get away. He burrowed into the fur that wasn’t real, inhaling deeply to breathe in the scents trapped in the fibers. Anything to block that awful stench in the air outside.
The loud older human might have gone, but the stink that had surrounded her still hung in the air.
However long Shadow stayed around the two-legs, he’d never understand some of the things they did, especially their attitude when it came to smells. Most of the time, they didn’t seem to smell things at all. Oh, sometimes he’d see them sniff the air around cooking food. And if his litter box got too full or his stomach rumbled and a little ripe air escaped, the humans would make sounds of annoyance.
But those things they rode in to go fast, they let out smoke that was a lot riper—it was enough to make a cat gag. And some of the two-legs actually got things that they set on fire so they could breathe in the smoke and breathe it out. He’d seen them do it, and he certainly couldn’t fathom why anyone would want to. Sometimes they’d even blow smoke at him, which he didn’t like. And the odor of the stuff would cling to their hands and faces—not very nice at all. Sometimes he encountered humans with an unwashed, dirty, musky smell. It might not be the nicest scent, but at least it was natural. Better than that smoke.
But this was the first time he’d ever encountered a human who apparently bathed in a bad smell and then went out to spread it around.
He looked out the barred entrance as Sunny set him on the seat of her car.
I’m glad none of our Old Ones would do anything like that, he thought.
*
Sunny got home in time to give Shadow his promised paw massage and get in a little television viewing and playing with the cat.
Mike looked at her from his usual place on the couch. “You seem awfully quiet tonight.”
“I’m thinking,” Sunny told him, joking, “in case you were worried that the burning smell was coming from the TV.”
“Did you have problems with Jane?”
Sunny shook her head. “She’s the one having problems. I think the detective in charge of Martin’s case suspects her. But instead of having her mind free to deal with that, she still seems to be dealing with a lot of old crap Martin pulled. The guy’s messing her up more now that he’s dead than he managed when he was alive.”
They went to their beds shortly after that. Sunny awoke the next morning to find that a freak warm front had blown in after the arctic blast.
Mike stood looking out the kitchen window. “If we get enough sun today, we probably wouldn’t have needed McPherson to plow out the driveway,” he said. “It will all melt away.”
When she got into work, Sunny found the warm weather already changing snow to slush. While her duck boots kept the icy water at bay, it quickly soaked into the cuffs of her jeans. She spent the first hour or so sitting as close to the baseboard radiator as she could manage, trying to dry out the damp cloth.
Memo to self, she thought. Keep a spare pair of pants in the office.
At last the denim got reasonably dry, and Sunny resumed her usual office routine. She went online to find a couple of e-mails at the MAX website, but no messages on the answering machine. Drafting replies to the e-mails went quickly—she had templates to deal with all but the most off-the-wall requests. In some cases, she pulled together a few information packets. After that, well, it was pretty much downtime until the mail arrived in about an hour and a half.
“Well, if you’re going to do it, do it,” Sunny muttered to herself. She hadn’t mentioned her discovery in front of Martin Rigsdale’s office to anyone. Jane was still trying to get her head around how much trouble she was in, and Will was trying to keep himself out of Trumbull’s investigation. And of course, there was the thing that Sunny’s editors always complained about—once she got on a story, she wanted to make it hers.
Taking a deep breath, Sunny cranked up her local sources database. Dealing with tourists meant providing a surprising array of services for a wide variety of people, including folks from foreign countries . . . and smokers. A lot of those foreign visitors smoked foreign cigarettes, and Sunny had compiled a list of stores specializing in exotic brands.
Whoever had been keeping an eye on Martin Rigsdale’s place smoked some sort of Russian cigarettes. Where would he or she find the nearest supply?
She quickly narrowed in with her search. Portsmouth Tobacconists, on the edge of the downtown shopping district, and not all that far from Martin Rigsdale’s office.
Sunny sat, looking at the address, until the mail carrier finally arrived. She almost snatched the thin sheaf of letters from the surprised woman’s hand, and then said, “Sorry. I was, um, expecting something.”
At least it wasn’t Andy, the regular guy. He’d have wanted to shoot the breeze for a few minutes. This fill-in carrier merely shrugged her shoulders and continued on her daily round.
Probably happy to get away from the crazy lady, Sunny thought.
Sorting quickly through the few envelopes, Sunny made sure that there was nothing urgent, nothing that couldn’t be handled after lunch.
Especially the long lunch she was planning. She locked up the office and got into her Wrangler, heading for the bridge to Portsmouth.
It wasn’t hard to find Portsmouth Tobacconists. They had a large black sign with gold letters, and a window display that even included a couple of hookahs.
It wouldn’t surprise me to see those down in the East Village back in New York, Sunny thought. But do people in this neck of the woods really go in for that kind of stuff?
An old-fashioned bell jingled as she opened the door and stepped into a long, narrow room furnished with all sorts of smoking paraphernalia and memorabilia. Old cigarette ads, a poster of Humphrey Bogart with his trademark cigarette hanging off his lips, cigarette cases, pipes . . .
“How may I help you?” a voice came from the rear of the store.
Sunny tore her eyes from the wild display to look at the young man behind the counter. He was tall and skinny, wearing a black turtleneck that only accentuated his pale skin. Watery blue eyes peered at her through a pair of wire-framed glasses, and the forelock of his long, dark hair dangled down past his eyebrows. He brushed it back with a practiced
gesture, smiling at Sunny. “It’s a little much, I know. My dad started this place, and it’s as much his collection as our sales stock.”
“You sell foreign cigarettes?” Sunny asked.
The skinny young man nodded, dropping his forelock into his eyes again. “We have a wide selection, and if need be, we can order almost any brand for you.”
Sunny dug out the crumpled cigarette butt she’d kept in a small plastic bag. “Do you have any of these?”
The young man’s face lit up with an enthusiast’s excitement. “A papirosa!” he exclaimed.
“A whoosy-whatsa?” Sunny asked.
“It’s an old variety of cigarette that pretty much went out of style after World War Two, except in the Soviet Union. They didn’t have filters, and you used the cardboard tube as a sort of cigarette holder, pinching it together here for your fingers . . .”
He held up the butt between his thumb and forefinger and the end of the tube near the tobacco. “And then you pressed it together here for your mouth.” With his other hand, he squeezed the cardboard perpendicular to his first hold, creating a sort of mouthpiece. He let go that end of the tube and, grinning, gestured with the cigarette, his fingers making a sort of “okay” gesture with the palm facing him and the remains of the tobacco facing her. “You can almost see this in an old movie. ‘Ve haff vays of makink you talk.’”
“Do you have the brand?” she asked.
The young man looked at the Cyrillic letters on the side of the tube. “Oh, Belmorkanal. Sure. Named to commemorate a triumph of Soviet engineering—they cut a canal from the Baltic Sea—”
“Does that mean you have it?” Sunny interrupted. Geez, this guy doesn’t know when to stop talking.
The clerk turned to a floor-to-ceiling pigeonhole arrangement behind the counter, featuring a huge array of cigarette packs, from American brands that Sunny was familiar with to gaudily colored packets with words and even alphabets she didn’t understand.
“I’m sorry, we’re out.” The skinny young guy glanced back at Sunny over his shoulder. “Are you sure you want that brand? It’s awfully strong.”
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