“Well, if you’re going to do it, do it,” Sunny muttered to herself. She hadn’t mentioned her discovery in front of Martin Rigsdale’s office to anyone. Jane was still trying to get her head around how much trouble she was in, and Will was trying to keep himself out of Trumbull’s investigation. And of course, there was the thing that Sunny’s editors always complained about—once she got on a story, she wanted to make it hers.
Taking a deep breath, Sunny cranked up her local sources database. Dealing with tourists meant providing a surprising array of services for a wide variety of people, including folks from foreign countries . . . and smokers. A lot of those foreign visitors smoked foreign cigarettes, and Sunny had compiled a list of stores specializing in exotic brands.
Whoever had been keeping an eye on Martin Rigsdale’s place smoked some sort of Russian cigarettes. Where would he or she find the nearest supply?
She quickly narrowed in with her search. Portsmouth Tobacconists, on the edge of the downtown shopping district, and not all that far from Martin Rigsdale’s office.
Sunny sat, looking at the address, until the mail carrier finally arrived. She almost snatched the thin sheaf of letters from the surprised woman’s hand, and then said, “Sorry. I was, um, expecting something.”
At least it wasn’t Andy, the regular guy. He’d have wanted to shoot the breeze for a few minutes. This fill-in carrier merely shrugged her shoulders and continued on her daily round.
Probably happy to get away from the crazy lady,
Sunny thought.
Sorting quickly through the few envelopes, Sunny made sure that there was nothing urgent, nothing that couldn’t be handled after lunch.
Especially the long lunch she was planning. She locked up the office and got into her Wrangler, heading for the bridge to Portsmouth.
It wasn’t hard to find Portsmouth Tobacconists. They had a large black sign with gold letters, and a window display that even included a couple of hookahs.
It wouldn’t surprise me to see those down in the East Village back in New York,
Sunny thought.
But do people in this neck of the woods really go in for that kind of stuff?
An old-fashioned bell jingled as she opened the door and stepped into a long, narrow room furnished with all sorts of smoking paraphernalia and memorabilia. Old cigarette ads, a poster of Humphrey Bogart with his trademark cigarette hanging off his lips, cigarette cases, pipes . . .
“How may I help you?” a voice came from the rear of the store.
Sunny tore her eyes from the wild display to look at the young man behind the counter. He was tall and skinny, wearing a black turtleneck that only accentuated his pale skin. Watery blue eyes peered at her through a pair of wire-framed glasses, and the forelock of his long, dark hair dangled down past his eyebrows. He brushed it back with a practiced gesture, smiling at Sunny. “It’s a little much, I know. My dad started this place, and it’s as much his collection as our sales stock.”
“You sell foreign cigarettes?” Sunny asked.
The skinny young man nodded, dropping his forelock into his eyes again. “We have a wide selection, and if need be, we can order almost any brand for you.”
Sunny dug out the crumpled cigarette butt she’d kept in a small plastic bag. “Do you have any of these?”
The young man’s face lit up with an enthusiast’s excitement. “A
papirosa
!” he exclaimed.
“A whoosy-whatsa?” Sunny asked.
“It’s an old variety of cigarette that pretty much went out of style after World War Two, except in the Soviet Union. They didn’t have filters, and you used the cardboard tube as a sort of cigarette holder, pinching it together here for your fingers . . .”
He held up the butt between his thumb and forefinger and the end of the tube near the tobacco. “And then you pressed it together here for your mouth.” With his other hand, he squeezed the cardboard perpendicular to his first hold, creating a sort of mouthpiece. He let go that end of the tube and, grinning, gestured with the cigarette, his fingers making a sort of “okay” gesture with the palm facing him and the remains of the tobacco facing her. “You can almost see this in an old movie. ‘Ve haff vays of makink you talk.’”
“Do you have the brand?” she asked.
The young man looked at the Cyrillic letters on the side of the tube. “Oh, Belmorkanal. Sure. Named to commemorate a triumph of Soviet engineering—they cut a canal from the Baltic Sea—”
“Does that mean you have it?” Sunny interrupted.
Geez, this guy doesn’t know when to stop talking.
The clerk turned to a floor-to-ceiling pigeonhole arrangement behind the counter, featuring a huge array of cigarette packs, from American brands that Sunny was familiar with to gaudily colored packets with words and even alphabets she didn’t understand.
“I’m sorry, we’re out.” The skinny young guy glanced back at Sunny over his shoulder. “Are you sure you want that brand? It’s awfully strong.”
“It’s not for me, it’s for a friend—an acquaintance, actually,” Sunny quickly amended. “We met at a concert, and I never really got his name. But he left that cigarette at my apartment, and I wondered if he might buy them here.”
Let’s see if the old Cinderella story gets me anywhere,
she thought.
The young clerk frowned dubiously. “We do have one customer who gets Belmorkanals. I’d say he was an Eastern European gentleman, on the older side, but sort of big and burly—”
“That’s the guy,” Sunny said. Then she let her lips droop in disappointment. “Don’t tell me he came in and cleared you out?”
The young man shook his head, forcing him to sweep his hair back again. “He always calls in advance to make sure he can get a full carton.”
“Then maybe you can do me a favor.” Sunny dug out a business card for MAX and scribbled her cell phone number on the back. Then, trying not to wince, she pulled a twenty from her pocket—a big chunk of her weekly expense money. She slid the card and the bill across the counter to the young man. “When he gives you a call, can you give me a call?”
The clerk stared at Sunny’s offering as if it might bite him. “This really isn’t about cigarettes, is it?”
Sunny tried to look like a girl in love. “I just want to see him again, that’s all.” She gave him a bright smile, “Hey, if it works out, you’ll have a great story for your customers.”
Sighing, the young man took Sunny’s card and the twenty. “I can’t promise when he’ll come,” he warned.
“Then I’ll just have to hope,” Sunny told him. She left the store feeling a bit poorer but with a little thrill in her belly—the way she used to feel when she started pulling on the end of a string that could lead to a big story. Maybe, with luck, she’d get a look at the mystery man who had been staking out Martin Rigsdale—not to mention his possible killer.
Whoa! Slow down,
Sunny told herself. But as usual, when it came to a fight between that reporter’s rush and her good sense, the rush won.
She got into her Wrangler and continued down the street instead of turning around for the bridge. A few minutes’ drive brought her to Martin’s office. In the daylight, the neighborhood wasn’t very mysterious. The houses were a little bigger than on Wild Goose Drive, with more space and landscaping between them. The house where Martin had set up his practice still had the look of a work in progress—fine at first glance, but it looked shabbier in the sunshine. Trumbull and the Portsmouth cops hadn’t festooned the area with crime scene tape. The only difference Sunny could see was that there was some sort of notice or seal stuck on the office door.
Well, I’m not going in,
she told herself.
I just wanted to stop by for a look.
Sunny pulled out her cell phone, dialed the office, and input a code when she got the answering machine. She sighed in relief. No new messages.
I’ll pick up something to eat on this side of the river and go straight back to the office,
she decided.
She swung her SUV back the way she’d come, pulling into the parking lot of a diner she’d passed. Stepping inside, she asked the waitress if they did takeout orders.
The older woman looked distracted. Sunny turned around to find Martin Rigsdale’s face on the TV set installed up by the ceiling.
“Huh,” the waitress said. “Him.”
Sunny swung back
to the waitress. The woman had about ten years on her, but she still had a good figure, a broad, pleasant face, and a sassy smile.
I’ll bet she makes out pretty well on tips,
Sunny thought. “You know the guy up there?” she asked, trying not to go too far overboard or get too loud.
“Know him? No.” The waitress shrugged and quirked her lips. “But he sure as hell wanted to change that. Used to come in here and try out the old charm on—well, I won’t say on everybody. Let’s just say anybody who could wear a skirt and looked fairly decent. It got so I had to warn off a couple of the younger kids. I don’t know what it is about some guys. They get a thing about waitresses—something about a good-looking babe who brings you food.”
She made a face. “And then he made this place his headquarters. Guess he must have lived or worked someplace nearby. Even so, I don’t know why he chose us. Trust me, unless you’re hooked on grilled cheese, it ain’t the cuisine. And he was a pretty snappy dresser, not like the polyester crowd we usually get. You’d think he could afford better.”
“Then I guess I’ll have a grilled cheese and a cola to go,” Sunny said, and the waitress passed the order along. Sunny smiled, hoping she’d look just plain personally nosy, not professionally nosy. “So he used to keep coming in here even though he struck out with the staff?”
The waitress grinned and shrugged. “Started bringing his own women. Maybe he wanted to show us what we were missing. The little blonde—well, she wasn’t so little, just young—she might turn up with him for breakfast, lunch, or supper. And she was just eating up anything he had to say. I don’t think she paid much attention to what was on her plate. She could have eaten a dirt and dandelion omelet and wouldn’t have complained.”
That sounds like Dawn Featherstone,
Sunny thought.
“Yeah, that one was definitely a cheap date,” the waitress went on, laughing. “The older woman who had coffee with him, though—the brunette—she was definitely slumming. With those clothes and jewelry, she was a lot classier than this place.”
The waitress broke off as the counterman came over with Sunny’s order in a plastic clamshell and a wax cup. The waitress put them in a bag and took Sunny’s money. “Oh, well. Guess it takes all kinds. I wonder what the guy did to get killed. Maybe somebody’s husband did it.”
Sunny thanked the woman and headed for the door and out to her SUV, weighing the package in her hand.
Grilled cheese was probably a bad choice,
she thought regretfully.
Chances are it will congeal long before I manage to get back to the office—and I can’t stretch this lunch hour and a half much longer.
She deposited her food on the passenger’s seat and got behind the wheel.
On the other hand, finding out that Martin Rigsdale apparently had at least two lady friends—and might have been two-timing them—that’s priceless. It means there are at least two other people besides Jane who might have a motive to do him harm. Plus, like that waitress said, when a guy fools around with a lot of women, there might be an angry husband waiting in the underbrush with a baseball bat.
She arrived at the office to find no more phone calls on the answering machine.
Dodged a bullet there,
Sunny thought.
It would have been just like Ollie to ring up and check on me while I was AWOL.
After sticking the grilled cheese in the office microwave to try and revive it, Sunny revved up her computer. Okay, a couple of e-mails to deal with, business as usual. She retrieved the sandwich and settled in for a working late lunch.
The grilled cheese was soggy and tasteless. Sunny didn’t think she’d be adding that diner to the recommended list for tourists in the area. The soda had gone flat, too. But she chewed methodically, fueling up for the afternoon.
Just as well that she did. As soon as Sunny tossed the packaging in the trash, the phone suddenly came to life. She spent the rest of the afternoon making arrangements for three separate shopping expeditions to arrive on the coming weekend. Then, as the day drew to a close, she got a call from her dad.
“We’re going to have company for dessert,” he announced.
“Do I have to get out my pearls?” she asked.
“No, just the nice coffee cups,” Mike replied. “Helena said she’d bring some of her coffee cake. The really good news is that she’s leaving that damned puppy at home.”
Sunny hurried home to find Mike had already started the sweet potatoes baking for dinner. She trimmed the excess fat off the pork chops and slipped them into the toaster oven, then got a package of frozen whipped squash out of the freezer and put it in the microwave. Flip the pork chops, give them some more time, slice one to see how done it was . . . okay, almost. She topped the chops with some applesauce and a quick sprinkling of ginger, stirred up the squash, and put it back in for a final zap.
Sunny sighed.
Dinner pretty much accomplished, even with a good-sized cat twining his way around my ankles.
She dropped to one knee on the kitchen floor and smiled down at Shadow’s gold-flecked eyes staring up at her. “And how was your day?” she asked, running her fingers down his furry sides.
“I guess we both napped,” Mike said from where he was setting the kitchen table. “After Helena called, I straightened out the living room. Then I dug out the company coffee cups, gave them a wash, and dried them.”
Sunny rose to her feet and smiled. “Mom had you well trained.”
“Do we have anything nice to put in the cups, though?” he asked. “We’re kind of at the bottom of that coffee you picked up on sale.”
“Didn’t Mrs. Martinson give you a bag of fancy coffee for Christmas?” Sunny said. “I think it’s in the back of the fridge.”
She loaded up a couple of plates, and they had a quick supper. By the time Helena Martinson arrived, the aroma of cinnamon-flavored Christmas coffee filled the house.
The older woman gave Mike a kiss on the cheek and handed Sunny a covered dish. “I made a little cake this afternoon.” She smiled at Mike. “It’s fresh, and there won’t be much left over for temptation.”
Mike’s smile wavered as he took Helena’s coat. Caught between an excellent baker and the food police, there wasn’t much he could say.
Shadow came into the foyer and made a wide circle around Mrs. Martinson. Then did the same in the middle of the living room and stalked off to the kitchen again.
Sunny had to hide a smile.
Either he smells dog on Mrs. M., or he remembers her mutt from last visit.
“Why don’t you sit down, and then I’ll go get some coffee. What brings you over this evening?” Sunny said, hoping she already knew the answer.
“I phoned around a bit—quite a bit, actually—and I finally found out about that girl in Portsmouth,” Helena Martinson said, taking a seat on the couch. Her petite figure in a cable-knit sweater and corduroys clashed with Mike’s solid presence in a flannel shirt and jeans. As often happened, Sunny felt underdressed next to Helena’s understated elegance. Though the older woman’s blond hair may have silvered, and she sported a few more smile lines, Mrs. Martinson was still very much like the hot mom Sunny remembered from her high school days.
Maybe I
should
have put on my pearls,
she thought as she went into the kitchen, sliced the cake, added it to the tray of cups, poured the coffee, and returned.
Helena Martinson took a cup and saucer, added half a spoonful of sugar, and lightened the coffee with a quick dollop of milk from the creamer.
“I hope you don’t mind skim,” Mike said.
It’s the same as you’ve been getting for the last year or so since you’ve been visiting Dad,
Sunny thought, but she didn’t say anything.
Mrs. Martinson waited until everyone had coffee and cake before she started her story. “It was nice, having a chance to chat with some people I don’t usually see,” she began. “The 99 Elmet Ladies have been trying to coordinate some of our programs with Portsmouth volunteer groups.”
Sunny nodded. The 99 Elmet Ladies was a service group that had sprung up as times had gotten tougher around Elmet County. Ken Howell had run several admiring stories in the
Harbor Crier
about their efforts to establish a food pantry and help folks made homeless. Speaking privately with Sunny, his editorial opinion had been blunter: “There’s a lot less tea and finger sandwiches and a lot more hard work than you’d expect from that crowd. Some of the more snooty groups could take a good lesson from them.”
“Some of our new friends and allies from across the river live not too far from Martin Rigsdale’s office.” Helena looked faintly embarrassed. “I’m afraid I had to use some of the grisly details you told Mike to get the conversation going.”
Yeah, gossip is often a quid pro quo proposition,
Sunny thought. “What did these ladies think of Martin Rigsdale?” she asked.
“They found him very charming, of course,” Mrs. Martinson replied. “He offered advice on dealing with the local stray population and spent a lot of time getting into the local social swing. His place was near a golf course, and he did some networking there with the men. And he could always be depended upon for any event where womenfolk were around.”
“That sounds like Martin,” Sunny said.
Mike just made a face as he sipped his coffee. “What’s that old song? ‘Just a Gigolo’?”
“But there was talk about him and his receptionist.” Mrs. M.’s expression became disapproving. “I understand she’s attractive, as one of the ladies put it, ‘in a downscale sort of way.’ More to the point, she’s just a bit more than half his age.”
“What else did you find out about Dawn Featherstone?” Sunny asked.
“For one thing, she’s actually Dora Featherstone,” Helena said. “She calls herself Dawn for professional reasons.”
“What?” Mike burst out, spewing a little cloud of powdered sugar off his coffee cake. “She’s a professional receptionist?”
“She grew up in Portsmouth, again as one of my ladies put it, ‘not in one of the nicest neighborhoods.’ For a while she went to Manchester for a degree in physical education. But she dropped out of college and came back home. She worked as an aerobics instructor—”
“That would explain calling herself Dawn,” Sunny said. “How many aerobics instructors have you met named Dora?”
“As I was saying, she worked in several health clubs,” Mrs. Martinson went on. “Apparently, however, you need some sort of certification, and she wasn’t able to get it. So she just did temp work until she wound up working for Dr. Rigsdale, who hired her full-time.”
“In more ways than one,” Mike muttered, but he quickly subsided when both Sunny and Helena gave him looks.
“So, has she suddenly developed a deep interest in veterinary medicine?” Sunny asked.
Helena shook her head. “From what I hear, her dream is to open her own health club.” She paused, smiling. “For humans.”
Sunny frowned thoughtfully as she took in that information.
Considering the front Martin Rigsdale put up, he might’ve looked like a good source to bankroll Dawn’s dream. Maybe this isn’t a case of a starry-eyed kid bowled over by the old Rigsdale charm. Maybe Dawn had her own agenda.
Sunny’s frown got deeper.
And if she found out that she was wasting her time—that Martin was broke, or if he had another woman—well, Dawn is definitely well toned. She could bop somebody on the head and make sure they stayed down. And she probably knew how to administer a shot . . .
“I hope that expression isn’t a reaction to my cake,” Mrs. Martinson said.
“Sorry,” Sunny apologized. “I’m afraid my thoughts took me away for a moment.”
“Thinking about a not very nice man,” the older woman said. “And maybe a girl to match?” She shook her head. “The problem is, the women I talked to all liked Dr. Rigsdale. He fit in with them socially. When it came to Dawn, though, they talked about her ‘trying to get her claws into him.’”
Sunny laughed. “They didn’t know him very well. He was very equal opportunity when it came to picking up women.” She told her dad and Mrs. Martinson the story she’d heard from the waitress.
“Yeah, well, maybe she’s right,” Mike said. “I remember my days out on the road. There was something about waitresses—” He shut up when he saw the looks he was getting from both Sunny and Helena.
Mrs. Martinson perched herself on the end of her seat, her petite features alight with curiosity. “So, are you intending to solve this mystery?”
Sunny repressed a shudder. “Definitely not,” she replied. That was the last thing she wanted going out on the local gossip hotline. “I’m just worried about Jane Rigsdale. It’s bad enough that she found her ex-husband dead, but now the cops are asking questions—”
She bit off the end of that sentence. “I’d appreciate it if that didn’t get out and around.”
“There’s already a lot of talk going around about Jane,” Mrs. Martinson said. “The scene in the Redbrick is public knowledge by now—probably with a lot of embroidery. I suppose the Portsmouth police know all about it.”
Sunny nodded. “But we don’t need to spread any more stories.”
Helena fluttered her hands. “You wouldn’t believe some of the things I hear. Carolyn Dowdey has been complaining that Jane overstepped her bounds in running the animal foundation. She claims that Jane is discriminating against people who took their pets to Martin instead of to her.”
“Dowdey?” Sunny repeated. “Sort of a big woman in fancy clothes that don’t suit her—face like a cat and a stinky perfume?”
“I’ve been with Carolyn while she shops for perfume,” Mrs. Martinson said. “Believe me, it’s not the kind of stuff you’d find discounted up in outlet-land. It would probably cost you a week’s salary.” She named a designer fragrance that was horrifyingly exclusive, not to mention pricey.
Sunny grimaced. “Make that two weeks’ salary.” She gave her neighbor a quizzical look. “Does that stuff really smell so awful?”
“Only after it hits Carolyn’s skin.” Helena sighed. “It’s some kind of unfortunate chemical reaction that turns the best perfumes rancid. This wasn’t the first, I’m afraid. I’ve tried to be tactful about it—several of us have—but she just doesn’t seem to listen.”