“Yes,” she replied. “When we get home. I don’t like the idea of yakking on the phone while I’m trying to drive.”
Tobe and Jane pulled out of the parking lot ahead of them, and Sunny didn’t see the dark blue Lexus on her way home. The drive was uneventful. They arrived in time for Mike to catch his nine o’clock shows. Both of them changed out of their good clothes. Sunny pulled on a set of old sweats and went up the stairs to her room and the phone.
When she got Will, he already knew what had happened at the station. “So Phillips did a good job of getting Jane out, but Trumbull is furious. Apparently, they were laughing their heads off at him as they left.”
Who is he tapped into, Sunny wondered, the Mrs. Martinson of the police force?
“That’s not quite true,” she told Will. “Jane was wound pretty tightly after being hauled down to the station and questioned again. Tobe tried to loosen her up by reminding her of something silly that happened back in school. She sort of overreacted, and so did he.”
“And so has Trumbull,” Will said grimly. “He’s riding everybody to eliminate this Venables woman as a suspect so he can go back to concentrating on Jane.”
“Okay, not the best result, but that means he’ll be concentrating on somebody besides Jane—at least for a little while.”
“How was Jane?” Will’s voice got a little awkward as he asked.
“After she stopped laughing, she seemed like her usual self,” Sunny reported. “She declined to go to Martin’s memorial service, even though she wasn’t all that far away. And then she turned down my dad’s offer of a lift to go home in Tobe’s Lexus.”
“Did she?” Will was a good cop who didn’t give much away. But Sunny was willing to bet right now that he was wondering if he’d created a monster.
*
Shadow slammed into the window, bouncing off painfully and falling to the floor below. He tried to shake the pain out of his shoulder and grimly trotted to a new angle, running, leaping, slamming into the glass, and rebounding again. The problem was there was no place level with the window, no place that allowed him any chance at a running start.
He sighed and sprang to the windowsill. Even if he could run straight at the glass, he wasn’t sure he could break it. Certainly, it had held up against his best efforts so far.
Shadow leaned down to lick at his shoulder. But that wouldn’t make the dull ache go away. He tried to distract himself by taking in the view. Outside, a big, snow-covered lawn stretched to a line of trees far away. Shadow pressed a paw against the glass, feeling the chill from outside work its way into the pads of his foot. It must be freezing out there for that much cold to come through the window.
But being out there would still be better than staying trapped in this place, he thought.
The rattle of a key outside the door stirred him to action. He dropped to the floor and scurried to the cavelike bed against the wall.
Shadow hunkered down in the semidarkness, trusting in the color of his fur for concealment. He lay quietly as the One Who Reeks came in, quickly closing the door behind her with a heel. Again, she carried food and water in her hands. She peered around, trying to find him.
It would have been easy to leap out of hiding and frighten her. But it would be useless. As long as the door to the room remained closed, Shadow knew he had no escape.
The One Who Reeks came closer, filling the bowls against the wall. Tensed in the darkness of his artificial cave, Shadow held his breath as waves of scent poured off her. He wanted to make a noise of protest, but that would involve inhaling. He didn’t want a lungful of that stink.
Having arranged the food and water, the human retreated to the chair. Even though he’d slashed at it with his claws, it was still sturdy enough to sit on.
The One Who Reeks sat quietly, glancing in various directions. But Shadow saw that sooner or later, her eyes would flick over to the opening to this bed.
Of course, he thought, there are no other places in here to hide.
The female two-legs rocked almost imperceptibly in her seat, waiting for Shadow to show himself. Grimly, he kept his place, motionless, watching her. It wasn’t easy. Under the stink she gave off, he could catch the whiff of food. That was torture, to have food in his nostrils and none in his belly, but he refused to follow the temptation out into the open.
Then came other torments. His stomach might be empty but other parts of him were getting full. He had to use the litter box—and soon. Otherwise, he risked fouling this pleasant nest, the one Good Thing in this awful place.
The urge became painful, but still he held his place. He didn’t know how long the One Who Reeks sat there, trying to force him into the first move.
At last, though, she gave up. The human rose and went to the door. For a wild moment, Shadow considered leaping after her, running for the door as she opened it. But the long inactivity had sapped the strength of his muscles. He’d probably fall over his own paws—and worse, considering his overfull condition, mess himself.
So he forced himself to stay motionless while the One Who Reeks opened the door and closed it behind herself. Then, ever so carefully, he climbed out of the bed and went to the litter box. And then, when he was comfortable again, he went for a drink of water and some food.
In spite of his hunger, Shadow didn’t eat greedily. He checked the impulse, taking small bites. Then he went back to the bed. He still hated this place, but at least there was food.
*
Sunny shut the kitchen door. The morning sun was bright but treacherously misleading. Not only was the air cold, but chilly blasts of wind made it feel worse.
I only hope Shadow is someplace safely indoors, she thought. He picked a really awful time to go a-wandering.
Ice patches had reappeared in the roads, messing up traffic. But Sunny managed to get in at a reasonable hour and started work.
She’d just about cleared her desk of the day’s major tasks when Ollie Barnstable came in. He was more of a mess than usual, wearing a leather trench coat that he seemed to believe gave him a secret agent–style image. Instead, it made him look more like an overstuffed piece of furniture. He couldn’t get the thing buttoned across his widening middle, which meant he must be freezing in this weather. That, and the flight up from New York, made his always uncertain temper a little worse than usual.
He came in waving a fluorescent orange poster. “This is your cat, isn’t it?”
Sunny gave him a smile. “Don’t tell me you found him!”
Ollie glowered at her. “Don’t tell me you used office equipment to make these.”
She did her best to look innocent. “Well, Ollie, we don’t have any paper like that around here, do we?”
“Guess not.” Still looking suspicious, he loosened the belt that barely managed to keep his coat closed and dropped into the chair opposite Sunny’s desk. “Sorry about your cat. You weren’t out traipsing around looking for him during office hours, were you?” That was the important point for him.
For a second, Sunny thought about referring Ollie to Tobe Phillips to improve his cross-examination technique. But she decided no good could come of being snarky. Instead, she contented herself with a simple, “No. But a lot of folks were very helpful, putting up the notices around town.”
He nodded absently, not really paying attention. “And nothing else interesting happened while I was gone?”
“Just business as usual,” Sunny told him. “How was your trip?”
“A waste of goddamn time,” Ollie growled. “This guy kept stringing me along, keeping me in New York, because his buddy was busy scaring up investors down in Miami. Supposedly, this clown had a million-dollar idea. They’d picked up this resort down in the islands—a place that went bust—and planned to renovate it for a whole new market. I wasted nearly a week trying to figure out what it would be. Gays? Rehab junkies? Religious nuts? Sex freaks? So when this guy comes to show me his plans, it turns out to be a concierge hotel for pets! What a stupid
idea! Who the hell cares that much about pets?”
He glanced down at the Day-Glo flyer in his hand, and his usually pink face turned almost a radioactive red. “Uh, not to say that people don’t care about their pets. I mean—”
Sunny decided to let him off the hook. “I know what you mean, Ollie.”
As she spoke, the office door opened. In came a very unhappy-looking Ben Semple, accompanied by Detective Fitch.
“The sheriff sent me over,” Ben said, his words and expression showing that he didn’t want Sunny thinking this was his idea. “I believe you know Detective Fitch of the Portsmouth police.”
Fitch’s thin face looked more like a ferret’s than ever—a ferret about to make a snack out of a baby mouse. But his voice was bland and official. “Ms. Coolidge, I’m asking you to accompany me down to the station. We have some additional questions to ask you about the murder of Martin Rigsdale.”
Ollie’s eyes went from the uniformed cop, to the detective, to Sunny. “Oh, yeah,” he muttered. “Business as usual.”
19
Sunny rode in Detective Fitch’s car—in the back. “Procedure,” he said.
At least he’s not doing the bit where he presses down on the top of my head while I get in, Sunny thought ruefully.
They drove through town, with Ben Semple accompanying in his patrol car until they got to the bridge. Then Ben peeled off. Sure, Sunny thought. Now I’m in Fitch’s jurisdiction.
The Portsmouth cop didn’t gloat over Sunny’s situation, or threaten, or even say much of anything. She shifted her perch on the back seat. Guess he wants me to stew in my own juices until he gets me in the interrogation room.
They arrived at the police station, and sure enough, Fitch escorted Sunny straight over to an interrogation room. She looked around at the acoustic tiles and the mirror at one end of the room. Was anybody watching behind there?
Fitch got her seated and then said, “Detective Trumbull will be with you in a minute.”
I wonder if this means I’m getting the good-cop treatment, Sunny wondered. A moment later, Mark Trumbull came in carrying a file folder. His jacket was off, and the cuffs of his shirt were rolled up. Sunny could see the holstered pistol on his belt. His usual mournful expression shifted to a slight smile. “Thank you for coming down, Ms. Coolidge.”
As if I really had a choice, Sunny thought.
Aloud she said, “It’s a little unfortunate. The day my boss comes in after being away for a week, and I’m pulled away from work.”
“Then I’ll try to make it as brief as possible.” Trumbull consulted his folder, although Sunny was pretty sure he had everything in there memorized by heart. “I understand you were the person who put Mrs. Rigsdale’s attorney on the trail of Christine Venables.”
“I wouldn’t exactly put it that way,” Sunny protested.
“How would you put it?” Trumbull asked. “You found a witness and told Mr. Phillips about her.”
“I was in Portsmouth on business.” Sunny had already decided not to mention what kind of business. “I stopped at a diner to pick up something for lunch. Martin Rigsdale’s face was on the TV, and the waitress recognized him. We talked about it. She mentioned that he frequented the place. Apparently, he tried to pick up some of the waitstaff and later brought some female company of his own.” Sunny tried to make her story as direct as possible.
“And did she identify those companions?” Trumbull had his usual sorrows-of-the-world expression, but his eyes were sharp. “Did you?”
Does he think I primed the pump with a little information of my own? Sunny tried not to frown. Or that I planted something?
“The waitress didn’t mention names.” Sunny shrugged. “In fact, I can’t remember hers, if she even gave it to me. But she described the women. One pretty much matched Dawn Featherstone—young, blond, athletic, very taken with Martin. The other was brunette, older, and more sophisticated. I didn’t know who that was.”
“You don’t know Christine Venables?” Trumbull pressed, his eyes getting sharper.
“I only know the Venables name from local politics,” Sunny answered. “If I’d caught a glimpse of her, on TV or out campaigning, I don’t remember it. Until my dad pointed her out last night, I don’t recall ever seeing Mrs. Venables before.”
Trumbull pounced. “But you saw her last night?”
Sunny nodded. “We went to Martin Rigsdale’s memorial service last night. My dad is kind of—well, he felt we had an obligation to go. That it would be traditional to pay our respects. We spoke briefly with Dawn Featherstone, and my father mingled with some folks he knew. We were just about ready to leave when my dad pointed out Christine Venables.”
“So your father knew her,” Trumbull said in the tone of a man trying to nail something down.
“He recognized her,” Sunny said, loosening the nails a little. “But then, my dad is a lot more interested in local politics than I am.”
The detective nodded. “Mrs. Venables is the wife of a Maine state representative.” He tilted his head a little. “And this wouldn’t involve any sort of political . . . activity on your father’s part?”
Sunny had to fight back a flash of anger. I don’t care what you insinuate about me, but leave Dad out of it.
“Dirty politics, you mean? That’s not the kind of politics my father is interested in,” she said flatly. “He just mentioned the name in passing. In fact, he wasn’t even aware of my interest in Christine Venables. Jane had mentioned her name to me.”
Trumbull settled back in his seat, frowning. “Yes, she told me about that.”
Then why are you rehashing it with me? But Sunny didn’t ask that question. She knew that the cop wasn’t just asking for her story, he was also using it to check out Jane’s. Well, that should jibe with what Jane told you, Sunny thought.
Trumbull sighed and placed both hands palms down on the table between them. “Well, unless you have anything else to add, I guess that covers what I wanted to know.”
Sunny felt muscles in her back relax—muscles that she hadn’t even been aware of tightening.
“One thing, though,” the detective added in an offhand manner. “What brought you over to the station last night?”
Whoa, Jane is right. This guy is great with those old Columbo zingers. She couldn’t see any way of sidestepping or coming up with a palatable answer. It would have to be the truth. “I got a call from a friend,” she said, “Will Price. He thought that Jane might have been taken into custody.”
For just a second, Trumbull’s features tightened, the merest disarrangement of his mournful mask. Heads would roll if he found out who’d spoken to Will. Sunny didn’t know who Will’s source was, and what she didn’t know, she couldn’t tell Mark Trumbull. “He didn’t mention how he got that idea. But since we were comparatively nearby, we came to the station to see if Jane needed help.”
Trumbull’s oversized head gave the tiniest of shakes. “No, Mrs. Rigsdale had all the help she could possibly need.”
“She was certainly glad to be getting back outside,” Sunny told him. “I don’t have to tell you that talking to the police, even if you’re innocent, can be a pretty intense business.”
The hint of a smile played around the detective’s lips. “You seem to handle it well enough, Ms. Coolidge.”
“I was a reporter,” she replied. “I have some experience. Jane doesn’t. All I’m saying is that she needed to be loosened up, and Tobe Phillips did that by reminding her of something stupid from twenty years ago.” Sunny glanced at Trumbull. “I guess you know we were all in school together way back when. Anyhow, I think Jane overreacted—you know, the whole laughing in church kind of thing. If you start, it’s hard to stop.”
Very quickly, Detective Trumbull’s face went to surprised, thoughtful, and wary . . . and then shut down into that sad, basset hound look again.
He’s wondering why I mentioned that. Sunny did her best to mask her own satisfaction. Did I see him through the door l
ast night, and how did he look? Enjoy that, Detective. You’re not the only one who can throw a zinger.
The moment ended with a knock on the door. Fitch came in with a sheaf of papers. “We finished checking out the Venables,” he said. “The husband was definitely up in Augusta during the window of opportunity. He was doing some sort of legislative committee work with several other state representatives.”
Fitch looked at his papers. “And the wife was home with her daughter.”
Sunny looked sharply from one detective to the other. In her old job, she was all too familiar with leaks. Some happened accidentally and some were carefully planned and orchestrated. Her overhearing this had a strong smell of accidentally on purpose.
Had Trumbull and Fitch actually gotten alibis from the Venables family members, or was this misinformation? And if it was real, why were they discussing it in front of her? Was this to serve notice that, as Will had predicted, Trumbull was bursting to eliminate Christine Venables as a suspect so he could get back to nailing Jane?
Certainly, they have to expect that Jane and Tobe will hear about this. Sunny couldn’t keep the wry look off her face. They’ve got to know which side I’m on.
Whatever mind games he was trying to pull, Trumbull was decent enough to arrange for a lift to get Sunny back to Kittery Harbor. She wound up in the back of another patrol car, perched on the edge of her seat. From some of the stories that Will told, who knew what could be lurking on the seats from previous occupants.
She was very glad to escape the perp’s-eye view of life by the time the car arrived at the MAX office.
Unfortunately, Ollie the Barnacle was still there, seated behind her desk. He looked at the oversized, expensive watch on his wrist. “Two hours gone. If I’m a nice guy and subtract an hour for lunch, that means you still owe me an hour.”
Sunny slipped off her parka. “And were there any important developments during my absence that you need to bring me up to speed on?”
He gave her a sour look. “Don’t push it,” he warned. “Damned phone didn’t ring at all. Sometimes I wonder what I’m paying you for.”
Cat Nap Page 19