Dropping silently to the floor, Shadow padded to the door, easing out into the gloom of the hallway beyond. He’d be back before Sunny woke up and started the day. Until then, there was a big, dark house to patrol.
Sunny awoke to
morning dimness, cracking an eye open to peek at the clock radio. Five minutes until her alarm. Not enough time to return to dreamland, especially when the dream was so weird. A human-sized version of Shadow had been driving her Wrangler while Sunny rested her cheek against his furry shoulder.
She sighed, and felt a warm breath on her cheek. Sunny glanced over to find Shadow regarding her, almost nose to nose.
“Might as well get up.” Sunny smiled and ran a hand over the top of Shadow’s head. “Did you enjoy your drive?”
She killed the alarm, got out of bed, and headed downstairs, catching the smell of brewing coffee about halfway down. So, her dad was up, too, unable to shake the lifetime habit of early rising. He turned from the coffeemaker as Sunny came into the kitchen. “What are you thinking about for breakfast?”
“I think it’s a stick-to-the-ribs kind of morning,” Sunny replied. “How about oatmeal?”
She went to the kitchen door and opened it, bracing herself for a blast of cold air. Last night’s fluffy carpet of snow had been tamped down and covered with a glaze of ice. She quickly shut the door and retreated, Shadow doing the same right beside her. He moved to a warmer corner of the kitchen and looked suspiciously at the door, licking his injured paw.
“I guess he remembers hurting himself out there in the snow,” Mike said.
“Well, maybe he’ll be a little less eager to go sneaking out, then.” Sunny busied herself at the stove, measuring out water for the oatmeal. She took a double handful of walnuts from a container in the cupboard, put them in a plastic bag on the kitchen counter, then whacked the bag a couple of times with a pan. Then she poured the water into the pan and put it on a burner to boil. While she waited for that, she got a jar of applesauce from the fridge, a container of ground cinnamon, the box of quick-cooking oatmeal, and the kitchen timer.
When the water boiled, she scooped out two servings of oats and poured them in, set the timer for three minutes, and began stirring. The oatmeal was nice, thick, and hot just as the timer began its insistent peeping. Sunny took the pot off the heat, got two bowls, and spooned out the oatmeal, topping it with the applesauce, nuts, and spice.
Mike had cups of coffee and spoons waiting on the kitchen table. They sat down and began eating.
“Y’know, when I was a kid, I really hated oatmeal,” Mike said, stirring up the cereal and taking a spoonful. “Of course, it didn’t have all this nice stuff in it—just lumps.”
“Well, if you had eaten more oatmeal and less bacon and eggs—” Sunny began.
Mike waved a hand. “Okay, okay. Where are my pills?”
She pointed to the big box with separate compartments for a week’s worth of medications. “Right in front of you. But you’re not supposed to have them until you finish eating.”
“I know,” Mike said. “Just wanted to be ready.”
Sunny took a sip of coffee and came to a decision. “How good is the gossip grapevine around here?” she asked. “Do you think you could find out anything about somebody way off in Portsmouth?”
“Me? Probably not.” Mike picked up his cup. “Helena, though . . .” He shrugged, giving Sunny a sly look. “Looking for juicy details about Jane’s husband?”
“In a way,” Sunny admitted. “It’s his office receptionist I’m more interested in—Dawn Featherstone. Young, pretty . . . and she tried to sic the cops on Jane and me, accusing us of killing Martin Rigsdale. I don’t think it would hurt to know a little more about her.”
Mike quickly put his cup down. “You’re not going to get involved in this, are you?”
“As if,” Sunny laughed. “Will told us the best detective on the Portsmouth force is investigating. There’s nothing I need to do. I’m just . . . curious.”
“Remember what curiosity did to the cat,” Mike said. Shadow raised his head and looked over at them. “Heck of a lot worse than a sore paw.”
“Thanks for reminding me about that paw.” Sunny quickly finished her breakfast, warmed up some oil, and brought it over to Shadow. While she massaged the cat’s paw, Mike brought the bowls and cups to the sink and cleaned them.
Sunny gave Shadow a final pat on the head and got up. “Now I have to put some clothes on and get to work.”
“I bet you’re glad of the new truck,” her dad said, peering out the window at the snow. “That old Mustang of yours wouldn’t have gotten down the driveway without spinning out.”
“You’re probably right,” Sunny admitted, then turned to him. “Do me a favor—promise you won’t try to clear the drive.”
“I’m not an invalid,” Mike argued, and then looked out at the ice-caked expanse of snow again. “I’m also not an idiot. Either McPherson will come by with his snowblower, or a couple of neighborhood kids will turn up with shovels.”
Sunny headed upstairs to shower and dress, then came back to kiss her dad good-bye and remind him to speak with Mrs. Martinson. “Dawn Featherstone,” she repeated.
“From Portsmouth,” Mike replied, nodding.
Pulling on her gray parka, Sunny carefully made her way down the front steps to the driveway, skidding a little on the ice as she headed for her Wrangler. The SUV started up with a rumble, crunching its way through the ice rime as Sunny slowly drove down the driveway.
The plow teams must have been busy all night, because the roads were pretty much clear. That didn’t mean there weren’t icy spots, though. Sunny cringed a little behind the wheel as she and a lot of morning commuters inched past a car not all that different from her former Mustang, stuck at a crazy angle on the shoulder of the road, its front fender crunched.
She knew how that felt. One of the reasons her little car had been retired was due to a road mishap last winter.
Maybe the Mustang curse still hung over her. Even though she’d specifically set off a little early, the traffic left her arriving at the MAX office several minutes after nine o’clock.
Sunny’s heart sank a little when she found the door unlocked and a heavyset figure sitting at her desk.
Of all the days for the boss to come in . . .
“Morning, Ollie,” she said, shrugging out of her coat.
Oliver Barnstable looked from her to his wristwatch, but he didn’t say anything. That was atypical behavior for Ollie the Barnacle, a guy who was crustier than most crustaceans. Usually he’d jump on any excuse to browbeat Sunny over the management of the office. For a moment, Sunny debated asking whether he was feeling all right but quickly quashed that idea. No good could come of such a question.
Ollie quickly began reassembling the contents of several file folders he’d spread across her desk. “I’m going to be away for a couple of days,” he announced.
“Another vacation?” The words came out before Sunny could stop them. Barnstable had gone down to the Caribbean for two of the mildest winter weeks in Kittery Harbor history. And he’d returned with a sunburn that made his normally florid complexion lobster red.
He winced at the memory, a scowl flitting across his round face. But his voice was pretty mild when he answered. “No, I’m heading down to New York. I might catch a couple of shows, but it’s basically business. Unless something happens, I should be gone for a week.”
Ollie looked up at her, back to his normal self. “Don’t burn the office down while I’m gone.”
“I’ll try not to,” she promised. “Is there anything I should be aware of?” While MAX was essentially a glorified travel agency, Ollie also used the place as the nerve center for his other business and real estate operations—including a set of locked file cabinets in the back of the office. “And are there any arrangements I should be making for you?”
Ollie the Barnacle shook his head. “All taken care of.” He gathered the folders into his battered leather briefcase. “If anything really important comes up, you can get me on my cell phone.”
With that good advice, he headed out the door.
“I hope you bring your charger along,” Sunny called to his back, but the door had already swung closed.
So, it’s the middle of the slow season, and the boss is gone for a few days,
Sunny thought.
Let the good times roll.
About an hour later, things were definitely rolling—downhill.
Will Price came into the office, his face tight and strained. “Did you tell Trumbull about my”—he paused for a second, trying to find the right word—“history with Jane?”
Sunny gave him a look. “No ‘Hello’? No ‘How are you?’”
“Hello, how are you? Did you tell Trumbull about Jane and me?” Will went quiet again. “Not that there’s necessarily anything going on right now,” he muttered.
“I didn’t say anything about the two of you, past, present, or future,” Sunny told him. “Maybe he saw—” Now she broke off. What she wanted to say was, “Maybe he saw Jane all over you,” but that might not be helpful under the circumstances. Sunny cleared her throat. “Maybe he saw you and Jane together. I think he passed by the door while we were out on the porch.”
“Damn!” Will burst out. “That was the whole reason I told her to wait outside. I didn’t want anyone to see me.”
“Looks as if that didn’t work out so well,” Sunny told him with a shrug.
“Ah, man!” He dropped in the chair by Sunny’s desk. “Trumbull woke me up at the crack of dawn with a bunch of questions about Jane. He said he was just contacting me informally, since he knew I used to be with the Portsmouth PD.”
Sunny frowned. “So why is that a problem for you?”
“It’s a kind of quiet blackmail.” Will grimaced. “The alternative is that he makes it official . . . and goes through Frank Nesbit.”
Frank Nesbit was the sheriff of Elmet County, and technically Will’s boss. But a bunch of Kittery Harbor community leaders had persuaded Will to take a job as a town constable. Will was the son of the previous sheriff, and a lot of people—including Sunny’s father—hoped that a Price would soon be sheriff again. The political overtones did not make for a smooth working relationship between Will and Frank.
“At the very least, that will put me on Nesbit’s radar,” Will said. “I won’t be able to do anything to help Jane. And I think she’s going to need some help. Whatever happened between them last night, Mark Trumbull isn’t as disinterested in her as she thinks.”
He sat for a moment, looking deflated—and embarrassed. “I know this is . . .”
“Awkward?” she suggested when he went silent.
Will leaned toward her across the desk. “But you’re the only one I can talk to who might understand.”
Sunny nodded. For just a little while, Frank Nesbit had thought she’d shot two guys. She wouldn’t wish a full-scale murder investigation on her worst enemy. And Jane wasn’t an enemy exactly. More like a rival.
“So what do you think I can do?” she asked.
“Talk to her,” Will urged. “Maybe she’ll listen to you.” He rose to his feet. “She sure isn’t listening to me.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” Sunny promised, following him to the door. She put a hand on his arm. “But Jane’s a big girl. She’s going to do whatever she wants.”
“Oh, yeah.” Will went out. “I know.”
Sunny returned to her desk, frowning in thought. Jane had made it pretty clear that she didn’t take Trumbull all that seriously. How could Sunny even bring the matter up?
Well, it’s not going to be a chatty phone call,
she decided. Picking up the desk phone, she punched in her home number. Mike answered, sounding a little fuzzy, as if she’d woken him from a nap.
“Could you call the animal hospital and make an appointment for Shadow? They have evening hours tonight. I’m afraid that will mean a quick supper, though. Soup and sandwiches sound okay?”
*
When she closed
the office for the day, Sunny stopped off at Judson’s Market, splurging on a half pound of fresh-cooked turkey breast, some of their homemade vinegar and oil coleslaw, and the frozen low-salt minestrone soup her dad liked.
She arrived home to a warm greeting from Shadow and a suspicious one from her father. He turned down the volume on the news as she came into the living room. “Okay, you have a seven o’clock appointment lined up,” he said. “You got off the phone pretty quickly, before I could wake up and ask any questions—what’s this appointment all about?”
Sighing, Sunny recounted her conversation with Will. “I need a reason to go and talk with Jane, and it can’t be something like, ‘Oh, I was in the neighborhood, so I thought I’d drop by.’” She shrugged. “Maybe it will still sound pretty lame—”
As if on cue, Shadow leaned down and licked his paw.
“But it’s the best I’ve got to work with.”
Sunny headed back to the kitchen, where she put the soup in the microwave to heat up and worked on making the turkey sandwiches. She toasted the bread, then arranged turkey slices and tomato on one side, the coleslaw on the other. A quick squeeze of honey mustard, and the sandwiches were ready.
Mike came in and got the soup bowls while Sunny brought the sandwiches to the table. She took a spoonful of soup. Well, it was obvious why her dad liked this stuff. Unlike canned soup, the vegetables were crisp, as if they were fresh—you could really taste them.
Mike took a sip from his glass of seltzer. “I talked with Helena about that girl in Portsmouth.”
“Oh, you mean Martin’s receptionist, Dawn Featherstone?” Sunny said. “So what did Mrs. Martinson say about her?”
“Well, she didn’t know anything right off the bat. But she took it on as a challenge.” His expression went a little sour. “Anything to get her mind off that damned dog. So she’s—what is it you reporters say? Working her sources?”
Sunny chuckled. “Sounds about right.”
“By the way, she liked Toby as a name for the pup,” Mike reported. He related some of Mrs. Martinson’s stories about new indiscretions by the puppy, so they had something to laugh about as they ate.
By the time they’d finished and washed the plates, it was time to head over to Jane’s.
“You gonna rub Shadow’s paw for him?” Mike asked, looking at the clock.
Sunny shook her head. “Don’t think I can fit it in without making us late.”
“Well, maybe if he has a little pain, that will justify your visit,” Mike suggested.
Sunny shot Shadow a guilty look as she got out the cat carrier. “You aren’t hurting, are you?” she asked. “I’ll take care of you as soon as we get home—promise.”