Cat Nap

22

Long after Mrs. Martinson left the office, Sunny sat at her desk, getting nothing done. Her mind kept skittering between the two facts that Mrs. M. had dropped on her.

Maybe I should be glad to hear that Shadow is all right, that he’s not freezing out in the woods somewhere. But that thought didn’t give her comfort. The image of Shadow locked in a room somewhere kept rising up in her mind’s eye. And the idea that he’d be kept there until he started acting like a well-behaved pet . . . Shadow had been part of Sunny’s life for months now. She knew him well enough to be sure that he’d never go along with such a plan. He’d try to escape, no matter how dangerous the route. Or by the time this plan was done, he wouldn’t be Shadow anymore.

With her elbows on the desk, Sunny leaned her forehead into her hands. Her head seemed to be pounding with more thoughts than it could hold.

Besides worrying about Shadow, Sunny’s brain wouldn’t let go of the other story her neighbor had told, about Christine Venables and her secret rendezvous with Martin Rigsdale. Somehow, that had to be useful. Throw it in the pot with motive and an unreliable alibi, and what kind of stew did that make?

The evening shadows came, and so did a few calls from clients with last-minute glitches. Sunny took care of the problems, almost glad for the distraction. But by the time she closed up the office, she felt a strange peace. She’d come to a decision. This plan might end up with her flat on her face, but it was the only way she could test her suspicions. She’d have to try the frontal assault.

So, when she locked up the office, Sunny set off for scenic Piney Brook, as she had always found it described in her tourist information. The area was beautiful, really, even on a chilly Friday evening. The houses out here were mansions in all but name, not merely big like some of the monstrosities going up on the edge of town, but well built and well designed. Like the families who’d lived here for generations, these houses were solid—they belonged.

You could probably lump three homes like mine into one of these, she thought, pulling up at the address she’d gotten from her computer. And you’d probably still have some room left over.

She got out of the car and walked to the front door. It was a Friday evening, date night, so there was a good chance Kristi wasn’t in. As for the rest . . . Sunny banked everything on the idea that Christine Venables would follow the Kittery Harbor Way, rich folks edition. She’d have cleaning staff, but not actual servants.

Sunny’s bet turned out right. She rang the doorbell, and Christine herself answered the door. The woman was dressed in a subdued gray sweater and a darker pair of wool pants. She took in Sunny’s parka and jeans and said, “I’m afraid that if you’re collecting for something—”

Sunny interrupted her right there. “I’m not here asking for favors, I’m here to do one for you.”

That shut Christine up. Standing close to her, Sunny could see that although a little gray had crept into Christine’s shoulder-length dark hair, she didn’t hide it with dye. Her patrician features still held up well. Maybe a few fine lines had set themselves in around the edges of her large brown eyes. But in general, her picture would go well in any politician’s election literature, working in a soup kitchen or helping kids at school.

But instead of the practiced do-gooder campaign expression, Christine looked wide-eyed and wary. “What sort of favor?”

“I’m going to read the minds of the cops who visited you the other day,” Sunny told her. “They probably told you that they were checking all the folks who brought patients to Martin Rigsdale. That wasn’t really true, although I’m pretty sure you wouldn’t be asking around. In your situation, I don’t think you’d want to be discussing visits from the police.”

That was a shot in the dark, but Sunny had the satisfaction of seeing it hit home. Instead of slamming the door on her, Christine muttered, “Come in.”

She led the way into a front parlor with a big fieldstone fireplace and furniture that was older than Sunny—the sort of stuff built to last for generations. “Where’s Kristi?” Sunny asked, making Christine stumble slightly as she went to sit in an overstuffed armchair.

“She’s out,” the dark-haired woman replied stiffly.

“And your husband is in Augusta, helping to run the state,” Sunny went on. “Spending a lot of time up there these days. Ah, well, it gives us a chance for a private discussion. I suppose you know that some tongues are wagging about a separation.”

That looked to have given Christine a few added gray hairs. “But that’s not really what I’m here to talk about. I’m sure you’re more interested in what the police know—and what they might suspect. They know you’d been having coffee with Martin Rigsdale at a diner near his office. You’ve been identified there.”

True enough. Between Sunny and Tobe, Mark Trumbull had that fact. Now to mix in a little theory. “They suspect that Kristi’s alibi for you isn’t as rock solid as it seems. How would Kristi handle her medical expenses without you? For that matter, where would she live? Those are just crass, dollars-and-cents reasons why she might stretch the truth in your favor. There might be more high-minded motives, like avoiding scandal—”

“Stop!” Christine begged.

“But we haven’t even gotten to the Café Artisan and how you almost got caught there.” After all the buildup, Sunny tried her best shot—and immediately felt terrible as tears began trickling down Christine’s cheeks.

“Do you want the money now?” she asked in a choked voice. “I thought I was supposed to deliver it tonight.”

“What?” Sunny asked in shock.

“What do you mean, ‘What?’” Christine fought to blink her tears away, her eyes getting a bit sharper.

“You let the cat out of the bag,” Sunny said. “You’re being blackmailed?”

Christine trembled between fear and anger. “Who are you?”

“Someone who’s trying to find out who killed Martin Rigsdale,” Sunny told her bluntly. “A friend of mine is being accused, and I’d like to clear her. So what are you paying to hide, the affair or Martin’s murder?”

A little belatedly, Sunny began looking around to make sure Christine had no weapons close at hand. Looks as if my reporter’s instincts are outrunning my instincts for self-preservation, she thought ruefully.

But it appeared that she’d gotten a good read on her subject. Christine deflated in her seat. “The affair, of course. Why would I kill Martin? We were in love.” She paused for a second. “At least, I thought we were.”

“A lot of women come to that conclusion, sooner or later,” Sunny said a little grimly. “Usually it happens when they discover they aren’t the only woman in a man’s life.”

“What?” Christine seemed genuinely shocked by that news.

“Maybe the word hasn’t made it out here yet, but it’s common knowledge in Portsmouth that Martin and his receptionist didn’t have a merely professional relationship.”

“But she’s barely older than Kristi!”

Sunny nodded. “Some people might see that as motive.”

“I didn’t kill Martin, and don’t know who did.” Christine’s show of spirit quickly fizzled. “Maybe it was the blackmailer. Maybe it’s all my fault.” The tears began again.

“How is it your fault?”

“The night Martin . . . died”—Christine tripped over the word—“I was supposed to bring money.”

“Where?” Sunny asked.

“To his office—he was going to deliver it. I was supposed to come in the secret way—”

“Wait a minute,” Sunny said, “you’re getting ahead of me. What secret way?”

Christine actually blushed. “It’s stupid, really. He had a panel built into his office wall. It led out to the back stairs—and the back door. No one could see me come in, and we—we could go up to his bedroom. And then I could leave again by the back way. He said he’d leave it unlocked so I could bring the money.”

She looked down, trembling. “But I couldn’t. I could only get my hands on half of what they wanted. When I went to the bank, I found out that my husband had withdrawn most of the money from our joint account. We are separated, and I guess that was the first step toward a real divorce.”

“And you lost it,” Sunny said, remembering Kristi’s story about her mom’s out-of-the-ordinary behavior.

Christine nodded. “I didn’t know what to do. I got a bottle of wine, trying to work up the nerve to call Martin and tell him. But I had too much. The next thing I remember, I was waking up at one in the morning.” Humiliation and guilt added ten years to her face. “If I’d even brought what I could have, maybe the blackmailer—”

“I hate to tell you this, but the blackmailer was Martin.” Sunny tried to make her voice gentle. “You have to know he was having money problems.”

Christine shook her head violently. When she spoke, she picked up on the second thing Sunny had said, not the blackmail. “His wife took him to the cleaner’s in the divorce.”

“He messed up their finances way before the divorce,” Sunny told her. “And then he borrowed money from some shady characters to set up his new office. That got him in worse trouble. Martin tried to pressure money out of Jane. When did he tell you about this blackmail?”

“Right before he died,” Christine said. “He told me he’d gotten pictures and a demand for fifty thousand dollars. I knew he didn’t have that kind of money.” Her chin trembled, but she held it high. “And you’re wrong about Martin being the blackmailer. Now that he’s dead, they’ve come after me. It’s sixty thousand dollars now. That wasn’t easy to get. I had to sell some family jewelry.”

Sunny blinked, the wheels in her head suddenly spinning into high gear. “And the drop-off is tonight?”

Christine nodded. “I was told to wait for instructions. That’s why I thought—”

“Don’t take this the wrong way, Christine, but I don’t think you’re cut out to deal with this,” Sunny told the woman, her voice calm and confident. After weeks of stumbling around in the fog, she’d suddenly stepped out into blazing clarity. “I know who’s behind this little scheme.” She smiled. “And I know a person who can help stop it.”

*

“This is crazy,” Will said for about the tenth time as they drove to Portsmouth.

“Maybe.” Sunny sat with a canvas bag in her lap as she drove, wearing one of Christine’s coats—one with a hood. “But if this works out, it will take care of all our problems.”

She ran through the instructions from the blackmailer. She—or rather, Christine—was supposed to leave the moneybag in a kid’s activity structure in a playground. “It sounds familiar,” Sunny said.

“It should,” Will told her. “Did you watch the cop show this week where the kid was abducted? This is how they were supposed to pass on the ransom.” He looked at the street signs and then ducked down in his seat. “We’re getting close. I’m going to bail at the next red light.”

That was a block away. As Sunny made the obligatory stop, Will opened the door and slid out. They had already taken the precaution of turning off the Wrangler’s dome light. Sunny slowly drove on, as if she were unsure of the neighborhood. Got to give Will a chance to get into position.

At last she reached the playground. Pulling up the hood, she got out of the Jeep, moving hesitantly and looking around. I don’t see anyone. Hope nobody else does.

Her destination was pretty obvious—a structure painted in very primary reds, yellows, and blues. Sunny advanced and put her bag as directed on the corkscrew slide. Then, keeping her head down, she walked back to her Jeep and started the engine.

Sunny drove off, took the first right and then the first parking space she could find, running back to the park on foot. She arrived to find two figures struggling by the play structure. The smaller one had a distinct disadvantage because she was also carrying a large duffel bag.

“Give it up, Dawn!” Sunny called as she came forward.

That apparently took the fight out of Dawn Featherstone. She stopped struggling with Will and swore. “You’re always sticking your nose in where it’s not wanted,” she said. “Getting the cops to ask me a bunch of questions about how things were between Martin and me. Helping that witch who killed him.”

“You mean Jane?” Sunny was confused. Why was Dawn still claiming that Jane had killed Martin? She glanced over at Will, who stood with his cop face on, listening to Dawn’s confession.

“Yeah. She was always holding Martin back, until he finally had to get rid of her,” Dawn accused. “And then she kept trying to get back at him. She had money, but she wouldn’t help Martin out. Oh, no. And then, when he finally got hold of some money and we were gonna get outa town, she killed him.”

She tapped the duffel bag hanging from her shoulder. “But I was the one holding the money. It was in the trunk of my car when the cops came. It’s enough to get me started somewhere else, but I figured I’d get some more from that other old hag that Martin was stringing along. I just had to time it right.” Her voice wobbled. “I couldn’t be sure when the memorial would be. When we could have the cremation and the urn.”

Sunny was still digesting the first part of Dawn’s outburst. “Old hag?” she echoed. “Do you mean Christine Venables, the woman who was Martin’s age?”

“Martin was always young—always fun,” Dawn spat. “And he was smart, too. Look what he got hold of.”

She unzipped the bag and dropped it to the ground. Packets of bills spilled out. It was hard not to stare, and Dawn took advantage of the instant’s distraction, pulling a gun from her coat pocket.

“And I’m gonna hold on to it!”