One of creepy Gordie’s creepy friends? Sunny suddenly became very away that this guy was standing between her and the street. She narrowed her eyes. What was that bulge on one side of his jacket—a gun?
She took a step back when the stranger’s hand came up, but it went into his breast pocket, extracting a leather case. He flipped it open to reveal a badge.
“Will Price, town constable,” he said. “You’re the person who called 911?”
Sunny nodded, gesturing toward the backyard and the cellar door. “Ada—Mrs. Spruance—asked me to come over. When she didn’t answer the door, I went around this way and found—” She broke off. “Her neck—” With that, she ran out of words and just pointed.
The cop went past her and down the stairs. A moment later, he came back up again. “That can’t have been very nice to find.” He took a notebook from the other pocket in his denim jacket. “Why don’t you tell me the whole story, Ms.—?”
“Coolidge—Sonata Coolidge. You can call me Sunny.” She filled in the blanks. “Ada Spruance came to the MAX office—I work for the Maine Adventure X-perience.” She added, relating her meeting with the Cat Lady at the MAX office and their conversation about Ada’s lottery ticket problem.
The cop frowned in disbelief at her story. “Six to eight million dollars? I figured the local gossip mill had just pumped up the prize money.”
“That’s the amount Ada said,” Sunny replied. “I never saw it. The thing was missing. But it seems kind of—” She bit off the word “convenient” and substituted “weird” instead.
She couldn’t help noticing that this guy was pretty good-looking, in a serious, kind of poker-faced way. His face was long, with a strong nose and a sensitive-looking mouth—at least it would be if he didn’t keep it pursed so tightly. He had odd eyes, kind of grayish with light brown flecks. Actually they reminded her a little of Shadow’s.
Sunny looked down to find the cat at her feet, directing an unblinking gaze up at the cop. Kind of the same gaze the cop was giving her.
“It’s just that I was a little afraid for Ada—you know, maybe someone was trying to take advantage of her somehow. So I talked to Ken Howell at the Crier. He ran a story about it, and it got picked up on TV.”
She paused for breath … and an interior wake-up call. She’d conducted enough interviews to know the tricks. The silent approach could be a potent weapon, inducing a subject to spill his or her guts.
Well, it sure worked like gangbusters on me, Sunny thought. Stop. Let him ask a question.
Even so, she couldn’t help the words from coming out. “It was an accident, wasn’t it?”
“I’d like to think so if I were you.” Those lips she’d been admiring turned into a frown. “Especially if I’d helped arrange it so that every lowlife for a hundred miles around knew that a frail old lady was sitting on a huge pile of cash.”
“B-but I was trying to help her—protect her!” Sunny sputtered. She didn’t get any further because another car pulled into the driveway: an official white sheriff’s cruiser.
Sunny recognized Sheriff Frank Nesbit before he even got out of the car. Over the years, his face had gotten rounder and his mustache grayer as he appeared on billboards with each election cycle, always over the same slogan: “Keeping Elmet County Safe.”
As the sheriff came toward them, however, he wasn’t wearing his avuncular election-year smile.
“Aren’t you supposed to be off duty, Constable Price?” Nesbit asked. “I hope you’re not trying to angle your way into some overtime pay.”
Price shrugged. “This is Ben Semple’s shift. Somehow his patrols always take him to the other end of town, where he nails speeders off by outlet-land. Guess Ben’s just very diligent about enhancing road safety—and county revenue. Problem is, that leaves coverage pretty thin around these parts. You can see how long it takes to get here from the county seat.” He looked blandly at the sheriff. “And how was the traffic coming from Levett, sir?”
“Not too bad—especially since this didn’t sound like a lights-and-sirens job to me,” Nesbit replied. “The 911 call reported an accident, not a crime. Even so, I beat the ambulance here.”
The sheriff shifted gears into constituent mode as he turned to Sunny. “And you must be the young lady who called.”
When he heard Sunny’s name, his smile became a bit more personal. “Mike Coolidge’s daughter? I heard you’d come up from New York to take care of him. The old bandit’s doing all right, isn’t he? Good. Now, what happened here?”
Sunny explained about Ada Spruance’s ticket and their date to search the house.
Nesbit shook his head. “Going from an enormous windfall to a fatal fall down the stairs. Very—what do you call it?—ironic.”
“There’s still a question about that,” Price piped up. “Ms. Coolidge suspected the winning ticket might have been stolen, so she attempted to head off the culprit with a good glare of publicity.”
“That’s right—the wife mentioned seeing something about a ticket on the evening news.”
Nesbit’s smile at the memory faded as Price went on. “Most likely so did every felon within broadcast range.”
“Is there any evidence of forced entry?” the sheriff asked in a clipped voice.
“None visible,” Price admitted. But he directed his gaze to the hinges on the cellar door, rusted in the open position.
Not much breaking required to break and enter here, Sunny had to admit, looking back at the constable. I thought he was just giving me a hard time about the possibility of a crime. But he’s making a case even though his boss doesn’t want to hear about it.
In the meantime, Sheriff Nesbit went down the cellar steps and returned a moment later. “Obvious accident,” he said flatly. “The door to the pantry upstairs is open. Ada was an older woman. The stairs are steep. It would be easy even for a young person up there to lose her balance.” He headed for the police cruiser. “I’ll call in to make sure the remains are picked up—”
He broke off in midsentence as a furry form burst out of the overgrown grass and ran across the driveway. “And then I’ll call Animal Control. They’ll have their hands full collecting all these fleabags.”
Nesbit gave Price a thin smile. “I’ll leave you in charge of the scene until they arrive, Constable.” From the look on the sheriff’s face, Sunny guessed Price would have a long, uphill struggle trying to get that approved as overtime.
As the cruiser pulled away, Sunny glanced down at her feet. Shadow remained where he was, taking everything in.
“So the cats will be hauled off to a shelter?” she asked. “Do you know if it’s humane—nonkill or whatever they call it?”
Price just looked at her. “That sounds like a very New York City idea,” he said. “Out here in the sticks, the budget goes for animal control, not animal rights.”
Sunny was never sure whether it was a Maine thing in general or a Kittery Harbor thing in particular, that ingrained, clannish belief that local ways were always superior to any idea an outsider might have.
It especially stung since he was treating Sunny like one of those outsiders.
“Well, maybe it seems like an outlandish notion around here, but I don’t like the idea of killing off anything that happens to get in my way, whether that means old folks—or even cats.”
Ignoring the cop’s startled look, she bent to scoop up Shadow and storm off. But the cat undercut her dramatic exit by somehow evading her arms. Feeling foolish, she straightened again with a glare. “Unless you need anything more from me?”
Constable Price shook his head, raising his hands almost defensively. “Don’t think so, ma’am. I’ll just be here guarding the … accident scene.”
Sunny started on her way home. The neighborhood was getting a bit busier, people gearing up for their Saturday activities.
She passed a family loading up their station wagon for some sort of shopping trip and got a laugh from a little girl. “Look, Mommy.”
The girl’s mother smiled, too, but she wasn’t looking at Sunny. She was looking behind her. Sunny glanced over her shoulder. About six paces from her heels, Shadow sat on the pavement, apparently looking at nothing in particular.
Sunny started walking again. The girl giggled. Sunny turned to find Shadow still seated—and still about six paces behind her, his tail wrapped around his feet.
Taking three more steps, Sunny suddenly whirled on him again. Somehow, Shadow was still six paces behind her, still sitting. Except now, he twisted his own gaze around behind him, as if wondering what Sunny was looking at.
The little girl laughed even harder.
Sighing, Sunny resumed her walk, ignoring any chuckles she heard from her neighbors. Stupid cat wouldn’t let me pick him up, but he trails along behind me, she thought. Maybe Shadow is a good name for him.
She arrived home and held the door while Shadow walked in as if he owned the place. “Guess you’re better off here than dodging nets or whatever the animal control people have in store for you,” she told the cat.
“That you, Sunny?” Her dad’s voice came from the living room. She walked in to find him sitting on the couch with Mrs. Martinson, one of the widowed neighbor ladies. “Thought you’d be busy all morning.”
Mike was talking a bit fast. Sunny quickly realized that wasn’t because she’d walked in to find him entertaining a lady friend. Her dad was trying to brush sugary crumbs off his sweater.
“Nice to see you, Mrs. Martinson. Did you bring some of your famous coffee cake?” The words came out a bit sharper than Sunny meant them to.
“Sorry, dear, no.” Helena Martinson didn’t even turn a perfectly coiffed hair as she lied to Sunny. But then, the older woman had always shown a remarkable coolness in any social situation. Back when Sunny was in high school, Mrs. Martinson had been the hot mom all the boys lusted after. And even now, Sunny had to admit that her neighbor still looked pretty darned good. A well-cut pantsuit showed off her trim figure. Her pageboy hairstyle perfectly framed her delicate features, and somehow the silver threads among the gold had simply turned her into more of a platinum blonde.
Mrs. Martinson gave Sunny a bland smile, but Mike had a nervous grin—he hadn’t succeeded in getting rid of all the evidence of his illicit cake eating. Then his expression turned to a thunderous scowl when Shadow walked into the room. “What is that thing doing back?”
Shadow continued to the pool of light from the window and curled up.
Sunny paused for a moment, not sure where to begin. “I guess he’s going to be living here, because he doesn’t have a home anymore,” she finally said. “Ada Spruance is dead.”
Mike looked ready to dispute the idea of Shadow moving in, but Helena Martinson seized control of the conversation. “Oh, my!” She perched forward on her seat, her doll-like face alight with avid curiosity. “What happened, dear?”
No doubt she’s taking mental notes for the neighborhood gossip society, Sunny thought. “I found her as soon as I arrived,” she said aloud.
“Lucky thing you went over there.” Mike shot a dirty look at Shadow. “Those animals have no respect. By din-din time, they’d have been all over her.”
Shadow looked up and blinked at him.
“Don’t go looking at me like I’m some kind of kitty buffet, you damned beast!”
Shadow rested his head back on his paws, closing his eyes.
Before Mike could make some other sarcastic remark, Mrs. Martinson said, “Poor Ada. I guess I was one of the last people in the neighborhood on speaking terms with her. Ada’s house is just down the block a bit from mine and across the street.”
“I spoke to her just last week,” Mike grumbled, “after one of her menagerie mistook my roses for a litter box.”
“You shouted at her, you mean,” Mrs. Martinson replied.
“Sheriff Nesbit says hello, by the way,” Sunny said, hoping to change the subject.
Mike grunted. “He actually came down from Levett? A sure sign election time is just around the corner.”
“Actually, a town constable came first,” Sunny told her dad. “He didn’t seem to get along with the sheriff.”
“Sounds like Will Price.” Mike grinned. “The constables are supposed to report to the sheriff’s office, but Alderman Chase slipped Will in to annoy Frank Nesbit.”
Even after spending the better part of a year back in town, Sunny still didn’t have a handle on all the local politics. “Well, it seems to be working. What’s the problem between them?”
“Who was the sheriff before Frank got in?” Mike nudged her.
Sunny called on fuzzy memories of classroom visits from grammar school. “Sheriff Price. Oh. His son?”
“Stu Price was a good lawman.” Mike shook his head. “He made a mistake on one big case, and Frank just about ran him out of town.”
“Died just a couple of months after the election. Car accident.” Mrs. Martinson pursed her lips. “Or so they say.”
“Will left town—joined the state police way up north, and then wound up on the force over in Portsmouth,” Mike said. “But Chase persuaded him to come back to this side of the river. A lot of people, businessmen like Zack Judson over at the market and Ken Howell at the Crier, are getting sick of how Nesbit preaches about keeping Elmet safe while cooking the crime statistics. Assaults magically become harassment, or cases get pushed to other jurisdictions.”
“I didn’t realize you were so plugged in, Dad,” Sunny said.
Mike shrugged. “Folks talk to me. I’m around here all day with not much else to do.”
Mrs. Martinson cleared her throat. “Do you know how Ada … passed on?” Her sidewise glance at Mike showed the war between her curiosity and her fear of upsetting Sunny’s dad. “I know she’d been complaining about chest pains recently.”
“It was a fall,” Sunny said quickly, unwilling to get into a discussion about cardiac care. “She must have been going down into the cellar from the kitchen pantry—”
“Oh, no, that’s impossible,” Mrs. Martinson interrupted, drawing herself up from her perch on the couch to her full diminutive height. “Ada was deathly afraid of those stairs. She never used them.”
4
“Well, not necessarily never, I guess,” Mike tried to joke.
But Mrs. Martinson remained very straight on the edge of the couch, quietly insistent. “Ada almost had a fall on those stairs years ago. I think Gordon Senior was still with us. Ever since that, whenever she had to go into the cellar, she went down through the door in the backyard.” She looked at Sunny. “Why do you think the cellar door hinges are rusted open?”
Sunny gave the neighbor lady a sharp look. “How do you know about that?”
“Besides you, I’m probably the only other person in the neighborhood who’s been back there in heaven knows how long,” Mrs. Martinson replied. “I’ve been in her kitchen, too. The last time Ada painted, Clinton was president. And the door to the cellar was painted shut.”
Sunny shut her eyes for a moment, replaying the wait while Sheriff Nesbit went down into the cellar. “I don’t think he was in there long enough to have gone up the stairs,” she finally said.
Mike grunted. “Sounds to me like maybe old Frank was a bit too quick to downgrade this particular crime scene, as usual.”
“It’s not even a crime scene,” Sunny told him. “According to the sheriff, Ada’s death is just an accident.”
“Maybe we should try and show him differently,” Mike suggested.
Sunny gave him a look. We? “Nice thought, Dad,” she said aloud. “But I don’t have any standing to conduct an investigation.”
“Well, maybe we can change that, too.” Mike reached for the telephone. “After I talk to the alderman and some other people.”
*
Her dad’s telephone p
oliticking took a little while, but early that afternoon Sunny found herself driving downtown. Most of Kittery Harbor was pretty spacious—for instance, the houses in Sunny’s neighborhood were built on good-sized lots, with plenty of trees and shrubbery around. But the old part of town seemed crammed in around the cove that served as a harbor, the buildings shouldering against one another along crooked streets, some of which were still set with cobblestones. Sunny ended up parking her car a few blocks from her destination to avoid the crowding—there were just too many tourists around, enjoying a Saturday afternoon ramble around the historic structures.
Almost every building in the county showed some influence from old New England Colonial architecture—even if, nowadays, the clapboard siding was made out of plastic instead of spruce. But downtown, these buildings were the real thing. They might look more weather-beaten and worn than the imitations on the outskirts of town, but, where they hadn’t been messed with, they also showed that old-time craftsmanship.
That didn’t necessarily mean they were prettier, though. The building that housed the offices of the Harbor Crier looked more like a barn than anything else, and inside, the place smelled strongly of printer’s ink and looked more like a print shop than a newspaper office. Ken Howell’s desk was tucked in a corner of a room where generations of printing technology sat on planked pine floorboards. In the far corner there was even a handpress of the type that usually turned up in old Western movies.
Ken’s storklike form was somehow folded onto a battered old stenographer’s chair in front of an even older desk, a tall, pine, pigeonholed affair that would have looked more at home in a nineteenth-century counting house or a production of A Christmas Carol. Though, of course, the computer terminal might come off a bit anachronistic.
Ken stood up, a living Yankee stereotype, a gaunt, fleshless hawk face frowning over a long, lanky body. His flinty blue eyes didn’t exactly impress Sunny as welcoming. “Your father and Zack Judson both pestered me into seeing you. Since Judson’s Market is a printing customer, I’m giving you five minutes. Then I’ve got a shopping circular to get out—something practical to pay the bills.”
1 The Big Kitty Page 4