Cat Nap

17

When Sunny got home, she found her father sitting at the kitchen table, having nuked himself a bowl of frozen soup. “Sorry to be getting home a little late,” she said. “I picked up a quart of milk for Mrs. Martinson, and we got to talking.”

She got herself out another pouch of soup and began heating it up. “How was your day?”

“It feels a little odd around here without Shadow, I have to admit,” he said. “The only thing odder was some of the phone calls I got. I wish you hadn’t mentioned a reward, Sunny. A bunch of the calls I got were people checking to see whether the information they had was worth enough to leave. And most of the information that people gave for free—well, that’s about what it’s worth. We’ve got about ten thousand people living in this town, and from the sound of it, there are about five thousand gray or striped cats around here. I tried to mark where people saw these cats on a map, and it was all over the place, from the Piscataqua River to Piney Brook, up to Sturgeon Springs and Saxon.”

He smiled at her, trying to sound positive. “I guess the good news is that the word has certainly gone out far and wide. People are being very generous with their information. I just hope we’ll be able to figure out what’s useful. One nut actually claimed she saw a cat being stolen off the street. I figure by tomorrow, we’ll be hearing about the saucer people either dropping cats off or taking them away.”

“Poor Dad.” Sunny reached across the table and took his hand. “This must be such a waste of your time.”

He shrugged. “In between, I got out of the house. Went to some of the stores up in outlet-land where I take walks and persuaded them to put up posters there.” Mike gave her a lopsided kind of grin. “If we don’t ask, we don’t find out anything, do we?”

“I guess not,” Sunny said. “And thanks, Dad.” She got up to make some sandwiches to go with the soup. They still had lots of turkey in the fridge.

When they’d finished supper, they went to the living room. Sunny found it a bit odd to be sitting in an armchair again instead of on the floor, playing with Shadow. She also found that paying full attention to a lot of the shows did not improve them.

The phone rang, and Sunny picked it up, bracing herself for either a demand for a reward or some new crazy theory about Shadow’s disappearance.

Instead, it was Mrs. Martinson. “Did you know that there’s a memorial for Martin Rigsdale tomorrow evening? One of my friends from Portsmouth called with the news.”

“I knew there was going to be a memorial,” Sunny said. “It was supposed to depend on when the chief medical examiner released the body.”

She could almost feel her neighbor’s shudder over the phone. “Not that I’m going,” Mrs. M. hastily put in. “But don’t you feel it’s odd that Jane Rigsdale is doing this on the other side of the river?”

“Jane isn’t,” Sunny explained. “She’s paying for it, but letting Dawn Featherstone make the arrangements. As she always kept reminding me, Martin was her ex-husband. He went off to Portsmouth to start a new chapter in his life.”

“A final chapter, as it turns out,” Helena Martinson added disapprovingly.

“Well, it’s a chapter he didn’t share with Jane, and I guess she doesn’t feel the need to take part in any farewell.”

“It still seems strange,” Mrs. M. repeated.

When she ended the call, Sunny punched in Jane’s number and asked about the memorial.

“That’s right,” Jane confirmed. “The ME released Martin’s remains late today, cremation tomorrow, and the memorial starting at seven o’clock.”

“That seems a bit rushed,” Sunny said.

“Yeah, well, look at it from Dawn’s point of view.” Jane’s tone became considerably more sour. “Tuesdays are when I have evening hours, so she can be sure I won’t turn up like an unwelcome guest. Not that I have any intention of showing my face.”

“Okay,” Sunny said. “Just wanted to make sure.”

“Any luck on the Shadow front?” Jane asked.

“No news,” Sunny reported. “A lot of tips that point in all directions, but nothing solid.”

“Keep your chin up,” Jane said. “Shadow is a survivor. I’m betting he’ll find his way home.”

“I hope so,” Sunny sighed. She hung up and turned to Mike. “Mrs. Martinson called to tell us that the memorial for Martin Rigsdale is tomorrow.”

“I guess that means an early supper,” Mike said.

“What?”

“We have to pay our respects,” her father said.

“Martin Rigsdale was not what you’d call a respectable person,” Sunny argued. “And he certainly didn’t give me much respect. The one time we met, he hit on me.”

Mike looked uncomfortable, but determined. Obviously, this was the Kittery Harbor Way. But he did unbend enough to say, “Your mother always had a good explanation about going to wakes and memorials. She used to say it’s not for the guest of honor—wherever they are, they could probably care less. It’s for the living people. That’s why we’re paying respects.”

*

Shadow woke up to find himself in a strange room. It was pretty much empty, except for things that a cat might like—or use. He found an enclosed bed, like a cave, but with comfortable padding. Just outside the opening for that stood a scratching post. Toys were scattered across the carpeting. Against the wall he found bowls for food and water, but nothing in them.

The only human furniture in the room was a single chair. One wall had shelves built in from the floor to the ceiling, like the setup in Sunny’s room where she kept her books. But here, the shelves were bare.

All in all it had the makings of a Good Place, except that Shadow couldn’t get out the door. And then there was the smell. It wasn’t as overpowering as when Shadow had been trapped in the trunk, just about wrapped in a coat saturated with the powerfully unpleasant scent.

Here, in a bigger room, the smell was more diffuse. But it clung in the nose like a nagging undertone. Now he recognized it—not dog and dead things, but the scent of that weird Old One who came to screech at Gentle Hands.

The One Who Reeks has been in here, Shadow thought. She’s sat in that chair often enough to mark it with her scent.

He prowled around the rest of the room, trying to see what else his nose might tell him. Nothing much.

In the area around the bowls, he detected traces of another cat—a female—and the scent of sickness.

But he didn’t smell the she in the sumptuous bed. In fact, that had store smells, like the bed that Sunny had brought home for him.

Shadow stood very still for a moment, not wanting to mewl. He missed Sunny. He missed having his bed next to hers. He missed being able to climb into bed with her. Why did she let that Biscuit Eater come into the house? Why couldn’t she be happy with him?

He pushed the miserable feelings away with anger, leaping onto the chair that stank of the One Who Reeks. Give him a scratching post, would she? He’d show her what claws were for!

Shadow didn’t ignore the smell that tore at his nose. Instead, he used it to fuel his fury, clawing at the upholstery until the stuffing showed. He dropped to the floor, panting from the exertion.

He didn’t know how much later the door opened. For a moment, the One Who Reeks stood frozen in the doorway with bowls of food and water in her hands, staring. Then she began screeching.

Shadow leaped for freedom, but the door slammed shut.

He hissed in disgust.

And she took the food with her.

*

Sunny made an effort to get into work a little early on Tuesday. After all, she intended to leave right on the dot that evening. She tended her computer and took care of all the usual jobs. It had been a while since she’d reconciled the petty cash, but she did that right before lunch. Ollie might have been twitting her about needing the services of a loan shark, but she wanted to make sure the office finances were in good order—just in case he really did check.

She was in luck—income, outgo, and cash in hand all balanced out perfectly.

One less thing to worry about, she thought.

As quitting time came around, she stepped into the bathroom and checked her reflection. Sunny had abandoned her usual business casual dress code for the day. She’d gotten out a dark gray suit—something she used to save for serious interviews back in her reporting days. With a muted silver blouse, it looked good without being too flashy. In fact, she looked good. The only problem was that her hair was getting a bit out of control again. Sunny did what she could, closed up the office, and headed home.

She found Mike in the living room, watching the news in what he called his “wedding and funeral suit.”

“Looking good, Dad,” she complimented him.

With a crisp white shirt and a sober tie, Mike could have been a model in a shopping circular. He hooked a thumb in the waistband of his trousers. “It does fit better,” he admitted. “Last time I wore this outfit, I felt a bit squeezed in. Figured when it was my turn to be front and center in the casket, they’d have to slit the suit up the back to make it look like it fit me.”

“Dad!” Sunny stared at him. She didn’t know what got into her father when he had to deal with funerals.

“It’s true,” Mike insisted. “I had a friend who used to work at Saxon Funerals. That was one of the tricks they used if the guest of honor turned out to be a little too fat for his good suit.”

He shrugged. “It’s not as if people are going to see.”

They had a simple supper and set off for Portsmouth. The funeral chapel was pretty close to Martin’s office, a white brick structure with a large parking lot.

“Looks like a good-sized crowd,” Mike said, glancing around. “I guess Martin was fairly well liked.”

Sunny parked her Wrangler toward the edge of the lot. She’d put on a black wool coat that had seemed warm enough in New York but failed to deal with the chilly wind whipping among the cars. Mike jammed his hands in the pockets of his heavy trench coat, muttering, “I’ll be glad to get inside.”

Martin’s memorial took up the whole ground floor. Instead of the traditional casket, easels featured a collage of pictures—Martin playing golf, Martin looking convivial at parties, Martin accepting awards, even a few shots of Martin with some four-legged patients.

A few of the pictures included Dawn Featherstone. None of them included Jane.

While Sunny perused the photo montage, Mike unabashedly studied the crowd. “I know a few folks here,” he murmured.

Sunny felt a presence at her elbow and turned to see Dawn Featherstone glaring at her.

“What are you doing here?” the young woman asked, her usually soft features taut with stress. She looked as if she’d lost some weight over the past week. Dawn was dressed all in black. On a closer look, though, the pants she was wearing didn’t quite match the shade of her jacket. Her blouse was buttoned all the way up to the neck. Two strong spots of color showed on her cheeks.

“I’m not here looking for trouble,” Sunny told Dawn quietly. “I only knew Martin briefly, but my dad felt we should pay our respects.”

Dawn gracelessly shook hands with Mike, her expression suspicious.

“Dad mentioned seeing several acquaintances in the crowd,” Sunny went on. “I’ll just stand in the back while he says hello. And then we’ll be gone.”

True to her word, Sunny found a quiet corner and stood looking on while Mike worked the room like a seasoned politician, shaking hands and speaking with people, being introduced and chatting some more.

I bet Martin would be pleased with the turnout, Sunny thought, watching the visitors. Pretty well-dressed crowd, too.

A lot of the men had designer suits. The women had winter tans and real jewelry. For a moment, Sunny felt a little sorry for Dawn. She was trying to be a good hostess, greeting people, talking about the photos. Most of the people were treating her like the maître d’ at a restaurant. No, they’d be more considerate of a maître d’—he had the power to stick them at a bad table. Dawn, with her mismatched suit and strained manners, was going to a lot of trouble . . . for damned little in the way of appreciation.

As Mike worked his way toward her, Sunny amused herself by searching for brunettes in the crowd. Had Christine Venables shown up for this sad occasion?

Mike finally rejoined Sunny. She leaned toward his ear. “If you’ve had enough, I’m ready to go. No need to overstay a pretty brittle welcome.”

“Okay,” he said. They turned to look for Dawn—and found her shaking hands with a woman who had a few glints of silver in her glossy dark hair. The woman was very serious and polite, compared to the perfunctory way a lot of the guests treated Dawn. But the girl’s face had gone dead white, and her polite smile had become more of a grimace.

“Let’s wait a minute,” Mike said. “Let her finish talking with Christine Venables.”

Sunny nearly burst out at her dad’s innocent identification. She hadn’t shared with him what Mrs. Martinson had told her. As they approached, Sunny could see Dawn nodding jerkily to something Christine said. The older woman nodded back and then moved off. Sunny stepped up. “We’ll be going now. Thanks for your consideration.”

Dawn was still obviously changing mental gears. She stared at Sunny blankly for a moment, then remembered who she was. For a second aggression flickered through her eyes, but then Sunny’s words sank in. “You’re welcome,” Dawn finally said. “Excuse me—there are some more people—”

Mike offered his condolences, and then they escaped to reclaim their coats.

“Okay,” Sunny said. “We rushed to get here, got crushed in with a lot of snooty people, caught some attitude from Dawn, and now we’re outside freezing in our good clothes. Was it worth it?”

“You were decent to that girl when a lot of other people weren’t,” Mike replied. “That’s paying respect.”

They’d just gotten to Sunny’s Wrangler when her cell phone began bleeping. With a practiced movement, Sunny answered it and put it to her ear to hear Will’s voice. He sounded worse than anyone at the funeral had.

“I tried you at home and wound up getting the machine,” he said. “Look—I got a call from one of my old Portsmouth friends. Trumbull and Fitch got Jane out of her office and brought her down to the station again.” His voice got more strained. “I can’t go down there. It’s a lot to ask, but could you—”

“Actually, we’re pretty close by,” Sunny told him. “Tonight was the memorial for Martin Rigsdale, and Dad felt we should go.” She glanced over at Mike. “Would you mind a trip to the police station?”

“As long as I’m not in custody, okay,” Mike replied, a twinkle in his eyes.

“Okay. We’re heading there now,” Sunny said to Will.

They got in the Wrangler and headed for the municipal complex.

“I don’t know how long this may take,” she warned Mike.

“It’s not as though I have anything pressing tomorrow morning,” he said. “You’ll have to worry about getting to work.”

As it turned out, neither of them needed to worry.

Sunny brought her Jeep up to the porch outside the station entrance just in time to see Tobe Phillips and Jane emerge from the building, laughing and smiling.

Behind them, she could see a glowering Detective Mark Trumbull standing at the glass panel.

Sunny shook her head. He’s just not seeing things he likes through that door.