Cat Nap

by Claire Donally

  Sunny nodded. “It seems to me that Trumbull is concentrating all his attention on Jane. You’ve talked with the guy. Can you tell me that I’m wrong?”

  Will frowned, toying with his fork. “When a detective questions anyone—a witness, a source, a suspect—he purposely doesn’t give them the full picture.”

  “Yeah, but as a cop yourself, you can sort of fill in the blanks between the questions and catch the drift of the investigation. Is Trumbull going anywhere other than after Jane?”

  He hesitated for a long moment. “No. I don’t think so. That’s why I thought Jane should see a lawyer.”

  “Well, she did,” Sunny told him. “And it was a pretty funny meeting. Turns out that Tobe Phillips is a grammar school classmate of ours under a different name—Toby Philpotts.” She decided not to mention the young Toby’s bladder problem—or how nice-looking he’d grown up to become.

  “That’s one piece of good news.” Will sighed, not buying Sunny’s attempt to change the subject. “I wish you hadn’t messed with that evidence.”

  “It’s not as if I meant to.” Sunny tried to defend herself. “I stumbled onto the observation post, trying to get out of the snow. So my footprints were there before I even knew there was something to find.”

  Will shook his head. “But when you did find something, you took it away with you. That’s tampering at best. At worst, it means the cops can’t use it in their case.” He pushed his plate away. “It also means they can’t use it as leverage to get any information. We don’t know when that smoker—Olek or whatever—was standing there. But if he saw anything going on at that office near the time that Rigsdale died, we won’t be finding out about it.”

  Sunny wanted to reassure him that Olek hadn’t seen anything, but of course she couldn’t. Mentioning that fact would open the door to a lot of questions she just couldn’t answer.

  “Look,” she said, “I really am sorry about messing up your breakfast. Why don’t I pick up the bill for it?” She had a few extra bucks in her wallet—household money, meant to pay for the food shopping.

  Guess I’ll have to find a few places to economize, that’s all, she thought.

  They finished their coffees, Sunny paid, and then Will said good-bye. “I think I’m gonna get some more sleep.” He stifled a yawn and climbed into his pickup, heading back into town while Sunny aimed her Wrangler deeper into outlet-land. There were a couple of supermarkets out there as well, and Sunny was working on a diminished budget.

  She was pretty lucky, managing to get everything on her list or slightly less pricey alternates. The only problem, weirdly enough, was the low-sodium turkey she needed to get for her dad.

  “Sorry.” The guy behind the deli counter apologized. “The low-sodium turkey was on sale, and we just had a run on it. There’s none left, not until Tuesday.” He turned around to the racks of deli meats and ran a big chunk of turkey through the meat slicer. “I’ve got this. A lot of folks like it.”

  He handed Sunny a single slice on a piece of waxed paper. She chewed, swallowed, and shook her head. “Way too salty.”

  “Sorry,” he said again.

  “No problem,” Sunny told him, and then pushed her shopping cart to the checkout line.

  But it was a problem. She had gone for all the bargains, starting at the farthest store and working her way back toward town. This should have been her last stop. She didn’t want to turn back now with a carload of all the other food she’d gotten.

  Well, she thought, I could stop off at home, unload the car, and then go down to Judson’s for the turkey. It might be a bit pricier than I’d hoped, but I can swing it.

  Sunny came quietly into the house. Mike was sprawled asleep on the couch with some sort of NASCAR race going on the television. From the middle of the sunny spot near the window, Shadow drowsily raised his head, slit his eyes at her for a moment, then rested back on his paws again.

  “You’d think that he at least would be a little more enthusiastic, knowing I was coming home with food,” Sunny muttered as she unloaded her grocery sacks into the refrigerator.

  Then she went back out. Perversely, parking downtown was much worse on the weekends than on weekdays. Even on a wintry Saturday, Sunny found herself walking for blocks to get to the strip of shops known as the New Stores.

  Judson’s Market took up the equivalent of two storefronts. This was the second location for the grocery, Mike often told her. The original Judson’s had opened four generations ago in the redbrick part of town. Her dad’s friend Zack Judson had moved the market to the New Stores in search of more space and more customers. Over the years, to compete with the supermarkets springing up farther out of town, Zack had taken his operation considerably upscale. You could get exotic coffees, fancy cuts of meat, fine chocolates, and foreign cheeses. Even his cold cuts were expensive. But they were also very, very good.

  Sunny walked in the front door to find the aisles jammed as if Zack were giving the stock away. Well, Saturdays were always busy at Judson’s. The rich folks over in Piney Brook called in their orders for delivery. The not-so-rich folks in their McMansions drove in to do their weekend shopping. And local residents still came in to get their milk and bread.

  The meat and deli departments were in the rear of the store. Sunny had to wend her way through the shoppers to get back there, and then join a long line waiting for service.

  This is a hell of a thing to go through for a pound of turkey, she thought, but nevertheless she stood and waited, until finally there were only three people ahead of her. And then she heard a loud, complaining voice over by the meat counter.

  “I hope you have an explanation for this, Mr. Judson.”

  That woman sounds familiar. Sunny turned to see Zack Judson making placating gestures to an older woman who looked like a cranky Persian cat—Carolyn Dowdey. Mrs. Dowdey was waving something in Zack’s face, a brown paper parcel—the old-fashioned packaging that Zack’s butchers used. In this case, though, the original packaging was wrapped in a clear plastic bag, and with good reason. Even ten feet away, Sunny could see that half of the brown butcher paper was soaked with blood.

  “You can imagine my shock and surprise when your deliveryman arrived with this.” Mrs. Dowdey held up the offending package again. “I was under the impression that your staff knew the proper ways to prepare cuts of beef for cooking—and didn’t just hack bloody hunks of flesh off half-cooled carcasses. When I call in my weekend order, I expect the best—not body parts that will bleed all over the other items I had asked for.”

  “Mrs. Dowdey,” an increasingly desperate Zack said, his eyes just about spinning as he took in all the customers eavesdropping on this conversation. “Please accept my apologies, and let me take that from you.” He practically snatched the bloody parcel from her hands. “Of course,” he went on, “we’ll reconstitute your order and deliver it—gratis. And I’ll personally supervise the preparation of a replacement cut of meat.”

  Still carrying the bloody package, he went behind the butcher counter.

  With that look on his face, it might not be a good idea to go walking into a room where there’s a whole lot of cutlery lying around loose, Sunny thought.

  Carolyn Dowdey stood her ground, waiting for Zack to return, a look of triumph on her face.

  Yeah, yeah, Mrs. D., that irreverent part of Sunny’s brain thought. You struck a real blow for the consumer today—for the little guy.

  Sunny’s lips twitched as she hid a smile. Carolyn Dowdey would probably pop a blood vessel if anyone were to suggest that she was one of the little guys.

  Then their eyes met.

  “Young woman,” Mrs. Dowdey said, “don’t I know you?” She frowned, squinching her facial features into an even smaller area, and then smiled as she recalled where she’d seen Sunny.

  “You had the beautiful cat with the gray coat and the tiger stripes,” Carolyn Dowdey recalled. “At the vet’s office.”

  Her condescending smile stiffened a bit as she l
ikely also remembered her performance during that particular visit. “I’m not sure that young woman is the best person to be treating your cat, I’m afraid.” Mrs. Dowdey sniffed.

  Sure, Sunny thought, make a fool of yourself and then throw a little mud on the person you picked a fight with.

  “I’ve only had Shadow for a few months, but Dr. Rigsdale has taken excellent care of him.”

  Carolyn Dowdey actually unbent a little. “Shadow—that’s a good name for him.” But then she got back on her high horse. “Perhaps you were lucky enough that he didn’t have a serious illness. I had two cats go through treatment at the Kittery Harbor Animal Hospital. They had kidney ailments.” The extra flesh on her face quivered a little. “It’s the same problem that took my late husband.”

  Sunny had to bite the tip of her tongue to keep from saying something stupid like “maybe it’s something in the water.”

  Carolyn Dowdey didn’t notice, having built up a good head of steam by now. “It’s almost like extortion. ‘We want to do the best for your cat, but if you feel it’s too expensive . . .’”

  I could just imagine good old Martin saying that, with a wonderfully concerned look on his face, Sunny thought.

  “My last cat, Mrs. Purrley, went through a string of intravenous treatments, and then surgery.” Mrs. Dowdey’s face stiffened. “And all of it for nothing. I had to have her put to sleep by Dr. Rigsdale—the other one, who was in Portland.”

  “The whole vet thing is a racket,” the guy in front of Sunny on the deli line burst out. “My wife took our dog all the way across the bridge to that quack in Portsmouth. Why? Because he’s so nice.” He drew out the word in disgust. “The guy was a pretty boy who played up to all the women so they’d bring him their pets and pay him a fortune. Damn vets and their phony ‘treatments.’ I told her, ‘Madge, this guy is robbing us. It’s not like we’ve got some prize-winning purebred. Chester is a mutt, and if he gets really sick, maybe we should let him die.’”

  Carolyn Dowdey drew herself up, and for a second Sunny thought she was going to slug the guy with her purse. But then the deli man distracted the dog owner by asking him what he wanted, and Zack Judson appeared, carrying a nonbloody parcel. He led Mrs. Dowdey off to get the rest of her order, and peace if not quiet was restored.

  Sunny ordered her turkey and waited while the deli man sliced it. As she headed with her packet to the ten-items-or-less line at the front of the store, she was deep in thought, remembering how she’d told Jane that everyone liked her.

  Maybe I was a little hasty, saying that, she thought, because it looks as if a lot of people don’t like veterinarians.

  *

  Sunny arrived home to find the living room empty. “Hey, Dad!” she called. “You here?”

  “In the kitchen,” Mike called back.

  Boy, I hope he’s not looking for the turkey, she thought as she headed for the back of the house.

  If Mike was searching for turkey, he was definitely looking in the wrong places. He stood at the top of their step stool, his head in one of the top kitchen cabinets, moving cans down onto the counter.

  “What’s up?” Sunny asked, quickly stashing her package in the fridge.

  Mike extracted his head from the cabinet and came down to floor level. “Got a call from Helena Martinson,” he explained. “She’s trying to stir up some donations for the food pantry. They’re getting more business than they can handle. I figure there’s stuff up top and in the back that’s probably been lurking since before I got sick.”

  He sighed, thinking back to those wonderful days when he could eat anything he pleased. “Some of that stuff can probably go—like these.”

  Standing front and center on the counter were a couple of small canned hams. “They were on sale right before I got sick. I remember picking them up, figuring I could slice them up and nuke myself a dinner, maybe make sandwiches. Or chop one up and make hash.” Mike shrugged. “Now I figure there’s too much fat and salt in ’em for me to eat—but they might help a family make dinner.”

  Sunny nodded. “And there’s probably soup and canned veggies with more salt than you need. How about I climb and you sort?” She glanced around. “Where’s Shadow?”

  Mike pointed. “His usual perch—on top of the refrigerator.”

  As she climbed up the steps, Sunny found herself level with Shadow, who watched these unusual proceedings with a suspicious eye.

  “Take it easy,” she assured him, “we’re not going after your food.”

  Sunny bent to get into the cabinet and began passing cans down to Mike. “Yikes!” she exclaimed as she found one that was so swollen, it wobbled as her hand brushed it.

  Carefully picking up the container, she looked at the label. “When did you ever buy canned apricots? And why?”

  Mike shrugged. “Can’t say.” Then he held up a finger, frowning. “Wait a minute. There was a recipe in the magazine that comes with the Sunday paper. It was for homemade barbecue sauce. You started out running canned apricots through a blender.”

  “And when was this?” She nervously eyed the deformed can. Its top and bottom made little domes.

  “Barbecue season,” her dad replied. “Summertime.” He squinted into the air, trying to call up the memory. “Can’t have been last summer. I was still pretty much out of it. Didn’t go shopping on my own. Maybe it was the summer before? Or the year before that?”

  “Whenever it was, we’re lucky this thing didn’t explode and leave us cleaning apricots and sticky apricot juice from all these shelves,” Sonny said. “Why don’t you get a bag, and we’ll put this away separately.”

  She carefully combed each shelf, but luckily the can of apricots was the only time bomb she discovered. The contents of each shelf got divided—what could go, what should stay—and the keepers were returned to the cabinet. By the time they were done, they’d accumulated a good-sized collection of stuff that Mike shouldn’t be eating anymore—canned hash, sloppy Joe mix, Vienna sausage, jars of meat sauce, and a lot of salty canned vegetables.

  “Canned potatoes?” Sunny said in disbelief, hefting a can. “You couldn’t just cook a potato?”

  “They’re cut up in little chunks.” Mike defended his choice. “Good for making potato salad.”

  They also contributed some dry food to the collection. For some reason, Mike was heavily overstocked on corn muffin mix. And he also added most of their boxes of flavored gelatin. “I had more than enough of that stuff in the hospital,” he said. “And when I came home here, flat on my back, I ate it to please you. No more. If I get really sick again, let’s stick with applesauce.”

  Mike went into the garage and returned with a cardboard carton marked “Books.”

  “One of the ones you already emptied,” he quickly explained when he saw the look of dismay on Sunny’s face. “I figured if it could stand up to your library, it should be able to hold this stuff.”

  Sunny agreed and, after they got everything stowed away, asked, “Do you want to drive over now?”

  “It’s getting kind of late.” Mike glanced out the window. The light was already fading. “We’ll both go tomorrow. That’s when Helena will be there,” he added in as offhand a tone as possible.

  “Okay,” Sunny said, reaching up to the top of the fridge to pet Shadow while he nuzzled against her hands. That let her hide her grin from Mike. If he wants to impress his lady friend, it’s not my business.

  “Besides,” Mike went on, “I’ve got some buddies to call. After I tell them what we found in our cabinets, maybe they’ll decide to clear theirs out and donate, too.”

  *

  Sunday morning was bright but chilly, although it warmed up in the afternoon. Mike finished his three miles of hiking around the outlets, then they loaded their donations into his car.

  “Where is this food pantry?” Sunny asked as they drove off. “Is it downtown?”

  Mike shook his head. “Real estate there is too expensive. They’re in a store on Stone Road—
what used to be a store. Place went bust, and the landlord can’t get a new tenant, so he’s letting the Elmet Ladies use it.”

  Sunny nodded. Even in a long-settled development like the New Stores, there was always one hard-luck shop. Sunny had seen three tenants, for example, in the space next door to the MAX office. As a landlord, though, it was probably against Ollie Barnstable’s principles to let the place out for free.

  As they neared their destination, Sunny recognized the place. It was a stand-alone store with a good-sized parking lot. First it had been a showroom for high-end car stereos and alarms, and then a guy had tried to operate a computer repair shop. Its last incarnation had been as a ninety-nine-cent store, and even that had failed.

  “They couldn’t get people out here even to buy cheap crap,” Mike said, nodding at the number 99 that still showed in the plastic sign over the door. “They left it up because it’s the 99 Elmet Ladies.”

  A hand-painted poster saying FOOD PANTRY had been taped to the inside of the window.

  Sunny got out their box of food. Mike held the door for her as she entered the store. It was a very bare-bones arrangement. A makeshift counter stretched across the interior space, cutting off the back corner of the former store. It had obviously been knocked together out of plywood, although an attempt had been made to create a homier atmosphere by stapling gingham-style plastic tablecloths over the bare wood. Behind the counter, industrial-style metal bookcases stood at right angles against the walls. Helena Martinson and several other women stood stocking or rearranging the contents. While the shelves weren’t quite bare, they weren’t overflowing either.

  Mrs. Martinson spotted them and went to the counter. “Oh, thank you, Mike! And Sunny,” she added.

  “Not many customers,” Sunny said, glancing around. Except for herself, Mike, and the Elmet Ladies, the store was empty.

  “Officially, we’re closed on Sundays,” Mrs. Martinson explained, “except for real emergencies—and to restock.” She began unloading the carton they’d brought, arranging the contents into different piles.