Catch as Cat Can

by Claire Donally

  “He’s not a buddy. And for him, fishing is business, not pleasure. He’s the only fisherman who works the winter months around here. Of course, he’s a bit of a nut.” Mike shook his head. “Charlie claims to be a direct descendant of another Charles Vane, a pirate who got hanged about three hundred years ago. Maybe there is something to his claim, if stubbornness is something that sticks in people’s DNA.” Mike leaned forward, in storyteller’s mode. “Here’s something they don’t usually mention in those pirate movies. There was a point when the British government offered pardons for past bad behavior to the pirates operating out of their colonies, provided they knocked it off. The 1700s Charles Vane rejected the deal—and ended up at the end of a rope. Our Charlie Vane refuses to stop fishing, although from what I hear, he’s at the end of his rope, too—financially speaking.”

  Sunny looked at her dad. “You don’t sound as though you’ve got much sympathy for him.”

  “Oh, I have a little sympathy,” Mike protested. “Charlie’s family has fished these waters for generations. It’s not his fault, what’s happened to the business. But I don’t like what Charlie does to keep his head above water.”

  “You’re not telling me he’s a pirate—are you?” Sunny asked in disbelief.

  “No, that would be more honest. Charlie cuts any corners he can. Some areas have been declared off-limits to fishermen to let the fish population grow back again. But Charlie will sneak in to get a catch. Or he’ll finagle when he’s caught more than the allowable quota.” Mike scowled. “You’re supposed to dump any overcatch back into the water. But it’s not as though those fish are going to go swimming off, thinking, ‘Whew, that was a lucky break.’ They’re dead, and dumping them back isn’t going to make them alive again. It’s the law, though, and that’s what fishermen are supposed to do.”

  “Sounds like a stupid kind of law, with so many people around here struggling to put something on the table,” Sunny argued.

  Mike nodded. “I’m not saying you’re wrong. But that doesn’t make it right for someone to slide around the law because he’s supposed to be protecting his birthright as a fisherman.”

  “So is that why you never mentioned Charlie Vane to me?” Sunny asked. “Because he’s a crook?”

  “Not a crook.” Mike hesitated. “But he is crooked.”

  “What’s the difference?” Sunny wanted to know.

  Mike gave her a shrug and a grin. “I guess he hasn’t been caught yet.” He got a little more serious. “I have heard, though, that Charlie’s been thick as thieves with your friend Neil Garret.”

  Sunny sat a little straighter. “You make it sound as if they’ve been up to something together.”

  “Well, they’ve gotten in trouble together,” Mike said. “When Garret began cherry-picking local catches, he disrupted the usual way of doing business.”

  “What was that?”

  “Boats brought their catches to the wholesale fish market in Portsmouth, which is just a long-winded way of saying they dealt with Deke Sweeney.”

  Sunny frowned. “So this Sweeney guy owns the operation?”

  “No, but he might as well. Anyone who buys or sells fish in Portsmouth knows Sweeney. They call him the Shark of the Fish Market.”

  Sunny laughed. “Nice nickname.” Then she got thoughtful. “You think this shark might have tried to take a bite out of Neil Garret?”

  “No need,” Mike replied. “Sweeney already cut him—as in cut him off. I hear he put out the word. Several of the guys who did deals with Garret couldn’t sell their fish in the Portsmouth market. And Garret can’t even buy a sardine there.”

  Maybe that explains the lack of variety in Neil’s store lately, Sunny thought. It sure didn’t help the drop-off in business. “Do you think that really hurt the fishermen?”

  “It’s more than half an hour, driving to Kennebunkport, and an hour, hour and a half getting to Boston or Gloucester,” Mike said. “Going by boat makes the trip even longer. When you’re racing the clock to bring in your catch as fresh as possible, that can become a factor. And if you land in a market where no one will buy from you, the wasted time may make for a spoiled catch.”

  Sunny frowned. “So that’s it—all those fishermen are ruined?”

  “Oh, when they come back around the beginning of tourist season, Sweeney will probably let them off the hook. He’s a businessman.”

  And the way things are going, by then Neil’s store should be bankrupt and safely out of Sweeney’s way, Sunny added silently. “But what about Charlie Vane?” she asked. “You told me that he’s still up here fishing, out in the cold—in more ways than one.”

  Mike only shrugged. “He’s played it cute with Sweeney and the other guys in the fish market for years, hornswoggling them whenever he can. Sooner or later, that was going to catch up with him. If it hadn’t been his side deals with Garret, it would have been something else.”

  “You think maybe he’s angry with Neil Garret for dumping him in it?” Sunny didn’t quite bring off the nonchalant tone, because Mike shot her a sharp look.

  “If you’re going to ask him that, I’ll have to come along,” he told her. “Frankly, I’d prefer if Will went with you, but I don’t think Charlie will say anything if there’s a cop around.”

  “I don’t—” Sunny began, but Mike cut her off.

  “Of course you’re pumping me about the local fishing scene—probably because Will asked you to do it.”

  “He may have suggested that I talk to you, but I thought of that in terms of getting background, not expecting you to come up with a possible suspect.” She gave her dad a look.

  “Charlie may be crooked, but I don’t believe he’s a killer,” Mike said. “Just in case, though, I do intend to be there when you talk to him. Let me make a couple of calls and see if I can find out where Charlie is supposed to be.”

  “Tell him I’m trying to sell a piece to the paper.” The moment Sunny said it, she realized it might be more than just a cover story. If she got some interesting quotes, Ken Howell might actually buy it.

  They did the dishes together, and then Sunny left her father in the kitchen to use the phone. The doorbell rang as she came down the hall, and she answered it to find Will Price.

  “Figured I’d check in and see what your dad had to say,” he explained.

  Sunny passed along what she’d learned from Mike about Charlie Vane. “Dad’s working the phone to see if he’s in town and whether we can talk to him.”

  The phone rang, and Mike came into the living room, trailed by Shadow.

  “Was that someone calling with info about where to find Charlie Vane?” Sunny asked.

  “No, that’s already set up,” Mike replied. “Charlie’s coming in to port tomorrow morning and he’ll see us—but no cops,” he added with an apologetic glance at Will. “The call was from Helena Martinson, inviting us over—and she’d be happy to see you, Will.” Mike smiled. “I believe cake is involved.”

  “Sounds good to me,” Will said, ignoring the look Sunny sent his way. It had been hard enough drawing the whole story about Neil Garret/Nick Gatto out of Abby, and harder still deciding to tell Will after promising to keep Abby’s secret. It wouldn’t be easy, socializing with the Martinson women—more like walking on eggshells. But now Will wanted to go waltzing into the Martinson place, face-to-face with Abby and Helena . . .

  Will leaned toward Sunny, lowering his voice. “Do you know how much of my job involves playing dumb?”

  “I guess I’ll find out,” Sunny muttered, following Mike to get her coat.

  A brisk walk through the cold air brought them to the Martinson house. Sunny braced herself for a big welcome from Toby, but the overgrown pup was nowhere to be seen. Mrs. M. caught it immediately. “Toby is downstairs in his dog crate. Abby’s working with me to train him better.”

  Muted woofs and whines ca
me from beneath their feet.

  “You can’t let him out because he’s crying, Mom,” Abby scolded. “That’s just rewarding bad behavior. He’s got a nice blanket and toys, and soon enough he’ll realize it’s his safe place—his den.”

  She gave the guests an apologetic smile. “I may not be a dog whisperer, but I was a dog walker, and I saw how people got their puppies to grow up into good dogs.”

  “Well, if I can’t give Toby a treat, how about you folks? Who’s up for coffee cake?” Helena gave Will an admiring glance. “You must have come straight from work. That’s a very nice tie you’re wearing.”

  Yeah, interesting design—except for the spot, Sunny added to herself. Will was wearing her Christmas present again. He obviously didn’t have many ties in the rotation, and he hadn’t gotten it cleaned yet.

  This wasn’t some polyester cheapo tie. It was embroidered silk, handmade and expensive, even though she’d managed to snag it in outlet-land. Sunny had started shopping as soon as she learned Will was getting out of uniform. It had been a long and difficult hunt, and she’d been proud to present him with something appropriate and nice for Christmas.

  Less than a month later, the spot had appeared, and it had just seemed to grow every time she looked at it, although Sunny had pretended not to notice.

  Abby was a lot more blunt. “Yeah, it’s a shame you got something on it.”

  Will winced. “I’m afraid I’m still getting used to the whole jacket-and-tie thing, although I have learned now that ties and pens don’t mix well.”

  “Could have been worse. I had an audition for a part but had to get through half a shift first. So I wore my good silk blouse in to work. Somehow, some ink transferred from a pad—” She moved her hand chestwards. “To my left boob.”

  Abby shrugged. “Lucky thing I knew how to deal with that.” She turned to her mom. “Do we have any rubbing alcohol?”

  Mrs. M. was still getting over the location of Abby’s ink stain. “I—I think so.” She headed to the bathroom as Abby stepped into the kitchen, returning with a wad of paper towels. “You’ll have to take off the tie.” She grinned. “Not as embarrassing for you as it was for me. I spent the lunch rush in a suit jacket pinned together up top so I didn’t show off too much while my blouse dried.”

  Helena Martinson reappeared with a plastic bottle of clear liquid and some cotton balls. “I thought these might be useful.”

  “Just what we needed. Thanks, Mom.” As Will took off his tie, Abby put the paper towels down on a table. She put the tie facedown and soaked a cotton ball in alcohol. Then, checking the position of the ink stain, she pressed the wet cotton to the rear of the tie.

  After a moment, she lifted the tie and pointed to the toweling—and a big splotch of ink that had appeared. “See? The alcohol soaks through, taking some of the ink with it.”

  She moved the tie to fresh sections of the toweling, applying new alcohol-soaked cotton balls until the stain had all but disappeared.

  “Thanks,” Will said when she handed the tie back. “That’s pretty amazing. How did you know that?”

  “Welcome to the wonderful world of acting,” Abby told him with a laugh, “where the people have to look perfect while scraping by on a waiter’s salary. Trust me, you learn to take care of your clothes.”

  “But you’re not doing that anymore,” Mike said.

  “It still comes in handy.” Abby’s smile turned impish. “I had to use that trick for a partner who had a disaster right before heading to court. That twenty minutes probably did more for me with the firm than the year of paralegal stuff I’d been doing.”

  They enjoyed coffee and cake, with Abby telling some stories about her adventures on the Left Coast. Will just sat back and relaxed, barely asking any questions at all, and Sunny tried to do the same, although curiosity led her to dig a little deeper when Abby mentioned a catering job where she met George Clooney.

  Finally, Mike looked at his watch. “I hate to be a party pooper, but we have an early morning tomorrow.”

  “I usually hear that when the weather’s warmer and you want to catch fish,” Mrs. M. told him.

  Mike shrugged. “Close. Tomorrow we’re trying to catch some fishermen. Sunny’s thinking of interviewing a few of them over a cup of coffee and selling Ken Howell on a story for the Courier.”

  “Good luck with that,” Helena said. “From what I remember of my Vince’s fishing buddies, having coffee with them won’t be like cocktails with George Clooney.”

  They got their coats and walked back home. Mike zipped ahead to the door. “I’ll say good night here, Will. Darned coffee.”

  That left Sunny and Will together for a proper good-bye kiss. She was still smiling as she came through the door, to find Shadow on guard in the hallway. He wound his way around her ankles, his tail flicking about in displeasure.

  Is he catching a whiff of Toby? she wondered. Or is this just general annoyance?

  Shadow was very much a creature of habit. He didn’t like the human members of the household gallivanting off after dark, and he took a dim view of Sunny and Mike preparing for bed hours before their usual time.

  Still, he shouldered his way around the door and into Sunny’s room as she turned down the sheet, blanket, and quilt. A quick leap brought him into bed with her, but he didn’t settle down in her arms as he usually did.

  Instead, Shadow brought his face close to hers.

  “Checking for garlic again?” Sunny teased. “I brushed my teeth just now—promise.”

  Shadow slowly closed his eyes, then opened them again. Sunny had read somewhere in her cat research that this behavior was a sort of air kiss, a sign of trust and affection.

  “So all is forgiven, huh?” Sunny brought her own eyelids down in a slow blink. Shadow gave her his double-barreled wink again and then snuggled against her.

  Yeah, yeah, very affectionate, Sunny thought. But we both know that as soon as I’m really asleep, you’ll be off patrolling the house.

  9

  Shadow crouched in the upstairs hall, his tail lashing the air. The house was still deep in darkness, but Sunny and the Old One were both up and talking, hours before their usual time. Shadow wasn’t quite ready to call this a bad thing, but it was certainly out of the ordinary. He didn’t like when two-legs started fooling around outside their schedules. It often meant trouble. For instance with all this running around, suppose one of them forgot to feed him?

  He followed them into the kitchen, keeping a suspicious eye on them as he watched them eat. At least Sunny got up and put food and water in his bowls. When they finished and ran water over their bowls and eating things, Shadow ambled over by the door. The Old One surprised him by venturing outside and getting into both of the go-fast things, making them rumble. He came back with his mouth wide open, putting a hand in front of it as he opened the door. Shadow saw humans do that sometimes when they were tired and took advantage of it, darting past unseen.

  It was cold and dark, but he could see well enough. Now he had a choice to make. He wanted to go along with Sunny on this strange dark-time adventure, but her go-fast thing was very hard to get into. Still worse, she’d been on her guard these last few days, either keeping him from getting out or catching him and putting him back inside when he tried to ride along.

  The Old One’s go-fast thing, on the other paw, had a big, open space in the back, very easy to jump into.

  I’ll just have to hope they’re going to the same place, Shadow decided. He came to that conclusion just in time, hearing two-leg voices coming closer to the door. Shadow gathered himself and sprang up, high, over the wall of the go-fast thing and landed in the open space. The metal floor vibrated slightly under his paws. He was never sure if go-fast things were alive or not. They moved, and they made a noise sort of like purring, but they only did that when a human climbed inside them. Otherwise, they seemed to sle
ep a lot, even more than a cat. And they never seemed to wake up when Shadow crept up and pounced on them.

  But that was something to think about for another time. The go-fast thing rocked as the Old One climbed inside, and soon they were moving. Shadow’s plan had worked out perfectly.

  Except for one thing.

  I should have eaten more when Sunny put out my food, he thought. They may not be going to the place where the Generous One gives out fish.

  *

  Kittery Harbor didn’t have a rush hour like New York, although there were times when the roads got busy with people off to early jobs in the navy shipyards in Portsmouth. But Sunny and her dad were heading into town even before that modest surge in traffic. This was more like the times when she worked the graveyard shift on the newspaper, driving off in search of a story in the dead of night. Usually, that meant something unpleasant: a car accident, a fire, a crime committed or a criminal caught.

  Better not think that way, she scolded herself. You want to look like the eager young reporter hoping to sell a story on local fishing.

  For the fourth time since she got in the car, she stifled a yawn. Right. Yeah. Eager. She took a deep breath, trying to get some more oxygen to her sleep-deprived brain. Maybe not as young as I’d like to think anymore.

  This looked to be a long day. Sunny sincerely hoped she wouldn’t get one of Ollie Barnstable’s random supervisory visits while she was stumbling around trying to keep awake.

  She followed her father’s pickup down toward the Piscataqua River, passing the touristy piers with their convenient benches for lunching, past a more upscale marina, and finally came into what was left of the working port. Once there, it was hard to miss the neon glow of the Dockside Diner’s sign, although an occasional sputter in the letters turned that into the DOCKSIDE DI E every once in a while.

  The diner was a twenty-four hour operation, but cars were pretty scarce at this time of day. The only activity Sunny could see was a crew of men tying up a small boat on a nearby pier. Was that Charlie Vane and his crew?