Cat Nap

4

“Oh my God!” Jane rushed into the room, but Sunny grabbed her by the arm.

“If he’s the way I think he is,” Sunny said, “you’d better not be touching anything.”

Jane shook herself loose. “That’s a big ‘if’ right now.” She hurried over to Martin Rigsdale’s still form. He lay under a bright examination light, facedown. Jane put a finger to his neck and then glanced back at Sunny, shaking her head.

Dawn appeared in the doorway beside Sunny. “What are you doing?” Her voice grew shrill. “What did you do to him?”

“We found him like this,” Sunny told the girl. “Better call 911.”

“You’re damned right I will!” Dawn spun around and rushed back to her desk.

“Come on back here,” Sunny called to Jane. “You can’t do anything to help, and you may get in the way of the cops.”

That earned her a cold look from Jane. “I forgot that you and Will first met at a crime scene. Is that what he told you at the time?”

“On occasion. It’s good advice,” Sunny told her. “Especially around dead bodies.”

Jane grimaced but joined Sunny at the entrance to the room. Moments later, they heard the door buzzer shrill, and then heavy footfalls come down the hallway. A pair of Portsmouth police officers appeared, with Dawn behind them.

“They’re in here.” The girl sounded as if she was trying to catch her breath. “He was fine until they arrived.”

The cops split up, one entering the room, the other closely watching Sunny and Jane.

At least he’s not keeping his hand over his holster, Sunny thought.

“Definitely deceased,” the cop in the examination room said to his partner. “Got a contusion on the back of his head. Shirt rolled up on the right arm—I think we’d better secure the scene and call the Detective Division.”

*

That meant a pair of detectives who arrived about fifteen minutes later. The lead was a big, burly type, gray-haired with a mournful, basset hound face. His partner was shorter and skinny, with pinched features and lips pursed as if he’d never tasted anything good in his life.

“Detective Trumbull.” The big man identified himself, displaying a gold badge. “And this is my partner, Detective Fitch.”

Fitch was already inside the room, moving with quick nervous steps. He stopped to examine the body. “Guy took a good knock on the head.” Then Fitch delicately raised one of Martin’s wrists. “No sign of rigor.”

“We’ll have to let the lab rats see if they can narrow down the time of death.” Trumbull turned back to Dawn. “When was the last time you saw the doctor?”

“About an hour and a half ago,” Dawn replied. “Then these two came barging in—”

“Thank you,” The detective’s rumbling voice overrode Dawn’s accusations. He looked from Jane to Sunny. “I understand that one of you is the wife of the deceased?”

“Ex-wife,” Jane quickly corrected, not noticing Sunny’s wince. “We finalized the divorce more than a year ago.”

“She killed Martin—Dr. Rigsdale!” Dawn insisted from the background. “She came down here, and the next thing I know, they’re telling me he’s dead!”

“As you told me at the doorway, Ms. Featherstone.” Was that patience or resignation in Trumbull’s voice? “Why don’t you go wait in the front room with the other officers?” he suggested, turning his concentration back to Jane.

“What was your name again?” he asked her.

“Dr. Jane Rigsdale. I’m a vet, too. Martin and I used to have a practice together.”

“You came down here and found Dr. Martin Rigsdale dead?”

Jane nodded. “He was just lying there.”

Trumbull turned to Sunny. “And you are?”

“Sonata Coolidge. I gave Jane a lift over here.”

“My car had a flat, and I asked Sunny for a ride,” Jane explained.

“It’s the maroon Jeep Wrangler outside,” Sunny said. “I know it’s pretty cold out, but if you check, my hood should still be warm. We only got here about half an hour ago. We were barely in the door before we found Martin.”

Trumbull glanced at Fitch, who hurried back outside. “Considering the storm they’re predicting any moment,” the big detective went on, “you must have had urgent business with your ex-husband, Dr. Rigsdale.”

That put a dent in Jane’s self-confidence. “We had things to discuss.” She stepped aside as Fitch returned. “Car’s still warm,” he confirmed, and then resumed his prowling around the room.

Good luck, Jane, if you think you put an end to that topic of discussion, the tough reporter who lived in the back of Sunny’s head silently jeered.

The skinny detective suddenly stopped on the other side of the exam table, bending down and briefly disappearing. “Got something here, Mark,” he reported. “Looks like a rubber tube—the kind doctors use to tie off an arm and make the veins pop.”

“His sleeve is rolled up on the right side.” Trumbull’s voice went down to a low rumble. “Seems as if Dr. Rigsdale might’ve gotten an injection in his right arm.”

That rocked Jane a bit. “Martin had his vices. But I don’t think he’d turn to drugs.” She paused for a second, then went on more slowly. “Besides, he’s right-handed. Why would he inject himself with his left hand?”

Fitch impatiently shook his head. “More to the point, where’s the hypodermic?” He gestured around the room. “I’ve looked. Nothing.”

“It may still turn up,” Trumbull said. “I guess there must be stuff around here to put animals to sleep, right?”

In spite of Sunny’s look of warning, Jane opened her mouth again. “Oh, sure. From what he told me, Martin was trying to get in with the horsey set. He’d need a good supply of sodium pentobarbital if he thought he might one day need to euthanize a fifteen-hundred-pound animal.”

“Enough to kill a horse,” Trumbull said quietly. Fitch just glared at Jane in silent suspicion.

Sunny bit her lip. I know you came here in a bad mood, Jane, and you’ve had a shock. But these are cops. If you’re as smart as I always thought you were, you’d be shutting up now.

“Look”—Sunny desperately spoke up—“why don’t you check us out? We barely got in here before Dawn joined us, and we haven’t been out since. I know that neither of us has that needle. If it left here, it left with somebody else.”

Jane endured a quick search in rigid silence, but Sunny figured the indignity was a small price to pay to get off the suspects list. As she expected, the cops came up empty.

“I think we should get you ladies downtown for a statement.” Trumbull looked even more morose than he had when he’d entered. “And you, too, Ms. Featherstone,” he added over his shoulder.

*

Sunny had seen the Portsmouth city hall, a vaguely Colonial brick building facing the South Mill Pond, but that part of the complex was like the top bar of a capital T. A string of less grandiose civic buildings made up the body of the T. The entrance to the police station, for instance, looked very much like the door to Sunny’s MAX office . . . not counting the large sign in the shape of a badge and the pair of globe lamps labeled POLICE on ether side of the entryway.

Sunny, Jane, and Dawn had been split up at the veterinary office and ferried to the station in separate cars. Guess they didn’t want us talking, she thought. On arrival, Sunny had her fingerprints taken on a gizmo that reminded her of the multipurpose printer/scanner in her bedroom. Then she’d been stuck in an interrogation room for an interminable wait until finally Detective Fitch came in. He leaned way over the table, invading her space, his ferretlike nose twitching as he asked questions.

“What kind of relationship did the Rigsdales have?” He watched Sunny closely.

She took a moment to decide on an answer. “I only saw them together once.” Honest, but not too revealing. Considering the way this guy had looked at Jane, Sunny wasn’t about to tell him about Jane throwing her wine in Martin’s face.

Although they’ll probably find out about all that if they ask around, she thought glumly. Upwards of a hundred people saw that performance, and the gossip was sure to get around.

“You only saw the Rigsdales together once?” Fitch pressed, his face full of disbelief. “And yet you’re close enough to Mrs. Rigsdale that she asked you to give her a lift to her husband’s office?”

“I’ve only been back in Kittery Harbor for about a year,” Sunny told him. “Jane and Martin had split up by the time I came home.”

“So what are you saying?” Fitch said. “You knew Mrs. Rigsdale, but not while she was married?”

Sunny sighed. “Pretty much. Jane and I went to school together years ago. But I left town after college, and just came home to take care of my dad when he got sick. It’s not as if there’s a wide network of expatriates back in town, Detective. Jane and I just sort of wound up back in touch when I took my cat to the vet and was surprised to find her. I’d only known her by her maiden name—Leister.”

Fitch looked disappointed but kept probing. “Do you know what the Rigsdales were going to talk about this evening?”

Sunny took a deep breath. “I think it was about money,” she said. “From what I understand, Martin Rigsdale had problems in that direction.”

“And where did you get that impression?” Fitch asked.

His annoying manner pushed Sunny into a sharper answer than she’d intended. “From Martin himself. He approached me, suggesting that if I persuaded Jane to ‘loosen the purse strings,’ as he put it, we could have some fun with the proceeds.”

Detective Fitch reared back a little, silenced for once.

“I’ll admit that I don’t know Jane Rigsdale all that well. From when we were kids, I know she’s smart. From the way she treats Shadow—my cat—I know she’s kind and conscientious. I only met Martin Rigsdale once. But he impressed me as the sort of man who could very easily create all kinds of reasons to get himself killed.”

Slowly, Fitch nodded. “Okay, I look forward to reading your statement, Ms. Coolidge. I’m sure you’ll do a wonderful job.”

“Excuse me?” Sunny said.

“Well, you are a newspaper reporter, aren’t you?” the detective replied. “Even though we live on the other side of a state border, we still get the news from Maine. Somebody gave me a copy of the Harbor Crier because they thought I’d be interested in the Spruance case. The piece you wrote was very interesting—very professional. Do you cover a lot of murders?”

Sunny gave Fitch a suspicious look as she took a pen and pad from the detective. Was this part of the interrogation?

“I was a general assignment reporter in New York City,” she said carefully. “That meant writing about whatever they threw at you.”

Fitch nodded eagerly. Oh, wonderful. She had a fan. He just happened to be a fan who looked like a bad-tempered ferret, and who was trying to trip her up with this statement. She’d have to get this story down very carefully indeed, because she had no doubt that Fitch was after Jane, as well.

*

When Sunny finally emerged from her tête-à-tête with Detective Fitch, she found Jane waiting for her. Even with her hair pulled back in a casual ponytail, Jane looked elegant and slim in boots and riding breeches—and one of those Barbour coats that repelled all weather and cost a serious bundle. Sunny felt frumpy in the parka she’d gotten at the Eddie Bauer outlet during the summer when prices were cheap, but the selection was limited, to say the least.

Sunny sighed. She’d seen twinzie coats on too many thrift-minded inhabitants of Kittery Harbor. Were Jane’s fancy coat and car remnants of her high-living days with Martin? Or had she bought them with money from her more recent windfall?

Even with a reporter’s arsenal of questions, there was no polite way to edge up on that subject. Jane was facing away from her, so Sunny stepped forward and tapped her on the shoulder. Jane jumped a little at the contact.

So, no matter how calm and cool she looks on the outside, inside she’s feeling nervous, Sunny thought. Aloud, she said, “Looks like you got out pretty quickly. I guess I got the bad cop. Did you get the good one?”

Jane just shrugged. “More like the bored cop. It seemed pretty cut-and-dried. He was just doing his job, asking about how we found Martin . . .” She made a wry face. “How things were between Martin and me.” She led the way to the door and they stepped out onto the covered porch outside. While they’d been answering questions in the windowless interrogation rooms, the snow had been coming down pretty heavily—big, fluffy flakes that had already frosted the parking area with more than an inch or two of accumulation.

“Well, I hope Detective Trumbull will be nice enough to offer us a ride back to the office. My Wrangler is still there.”

“Ummmmmm . . .” Jane sat down on the bench outside the door. “I called for a lift.”

“From whom?” Sunny asked.

As if in answer, a black pickup truck pulled up at the entrance and Will Price came jumping out. An open parka revealed that he still wore his blue constable’s uniform, and his long face with its well-composed features showed concern instead of his usual detached cop’s expression. He rushed over to Jane. “Are you all right?”

The next thing Sunny knew, Jane was off the bench and in Will’s arms. “It was pretty bad.”

“Well, you’re okay now,” Will said softly, running a hand over Jane’s glorious blond hair. Then he noticed Sunny and quickly brought his hand down. “Sunny! How are you doing?”

Well, I didn’t come in and find my ex-husband dead, Sunny thought. So I guess I don’t rate the full-body hello.

“I’m not sure,” she said aloud. “The cops came, and Martin’s receptionist just about accused us of killing him. I got stuck with a nasty little cop named Fitch, and Jane talked with an older guy named Trumbull.”

“It’s not a big deal,” Jane insisted. “He just took me through what happened, did up a statement, and that was that.”

“Trumbull is the best cop in the detective division.” Will’s face went from sappy to serious. “That’s what everybody said when I was on the force here.”

“Well, that was a couple of years ago,” Jane replied. “He barely paid attention to me. I think maybe he just wants to play out the string till he retires.”

As Jane said that, Sunny spotted Trumbull beyond the station’s glass door. Sunny didn’t think he was close enough to hear Jane’s dismissive comment, but he was close enough that Sunny could see the detective clearly. His hound dog face looked saggier and sadder than ever.

But his eyes were clear, cold, and coplike as he watched Jane in Will’s arms.