The Big Kitty

4

“Well, not necessarily never, I guess,” Mike tried to joke.

But Mrs. Martinson remained very straight on the edge of the couch, quietly insistent. “Ada almost had a fall on those stairs years ago. I think Gordon Senior was still with us. Ever since that, whenever she had to go into the cellar, she went down through the door in the backyard.” She looked at Sunny. “Why do you think the cellar door hinges are rusted open?”

Sunny gave the neighbor lady a sharp look. “How do you know about that?”

“Besides you, I’m probably the only other person in the neighborhood who’s been back there in heaven knows how long,” Mrs. Martinson replied. “I’ve been in her kitchen, too. The last time Ada painted, Clinton was president. And the door to the cellar was painted shut.”

Sunny shut her eyes for a moment, replaying the wait while Sheriff Nesbit went down into the cellar. “I don’t think he was in there long enough to have gone up the stairs,” she finally said.

Mike grunted. “Sounds to me like maybe old Frank was a bit too quick to downgrade this particular crime scene, as usual.”

“It’s not even a crime scene,” Sunny told him. “According to the sheriff, Ada’s death is just an accident.”

“Maybe we should try and show him differently,” Mike suggested.

Sunny gave him a look. We? “Nice thought, Dad,” she said aloud. “But I don’t have any standing to conduct an investigation.”

“Well, maybe we can change that, too.” Mike reached for the telephone. “After I talk to the alderman and some other people.”

*

Her dad’s telephone politicking took a little while, but early that afternoon Sunny found herself driving downtown. Most of Kittery Harbor was pretty spacious—for instance, the houses in Sunny’s neighborhood were built on good-sized lots, with plenty of trees and shrubbery around. But the old part of town seemed crammed in around the cove that served as a harbor, the buildings shouldering against one another along crooked streets, some of which were still set with cobblestones. Sunny ended up parking her car a few blocks from her destination to avoid the crowding—there were just too many tourists around, enjoying a Saturday afternoon ramble around the historic structures.

Almost every building in the county showed some influence from old New England Colonial architecture—even if, nowadays, the clapboard siding was made out of plastic instead of spruce. But downtown, these buildings were the real thing. They might look more weather-beaten and worn than the imitations on the outskirts of town, but, where they hadn’t been messed with, they also showed that old-time craftsmanship.

That didn’t necessarily mean they were prettier, though. The building that housed the offices of the Harbor Crier looked more like a barn than anything else, and inside, the place smelled strongly of printer’s ink and looked more like a print shop than a newspaper office. Ken Howell’s desk was tucked in a corner of a room where generations of printing technology sat on planked pine floorboards. In the far corner there was even a handpress of the type that usually turned up in old Western movies.

Ken’s storklike form was somehow folded onto a battered old stenographer’s chair in front of an even older desk, a tall, pine, pigeonholed affair that would have looked more at home in a nineteenth-century counting house or a production of A Christmas Carol. Though, of course, the computer terminal might come off a bit anachronistic.

Ken stood up, a living Yankee stereotype, a gaunt, fleshless hawk face frowning over a long, lanky body. His flinty blue eyes didn’t exactly impress Sunny as welcoming. “Your father and Zack Judson both pestered me into seeing you. Since Judson’s Market is a printing customer, I’m giving you five minutes. Then I’ve got a shopping circular to get out—something practical to pay the bills.”

“You must have heard that Ada Spruance is dead,” Sunny began.

Howell nodded. “A fall. Tough for an old woman living alone, pretty much shunned by her neighbors.”

“The problem is, Helena Martinson says Ada never used the stairs she’s supposed to have fallen down, that she always avoided them.”

The editor listened closely as Sunny explained Mrs. Martinson’s objections. “Dad says Sheriff Nesbit has a habit of pushing reported crimes down the scale to protect his image, and this time he may have gone too far.”

Howell’s frown went from antagonistic to thoughtful. “You really think a crime occurred?”

“To be honest, I don’t know.” Sunny spread her hands. “But I do know there was supposed to be a winning lottery ticket on the premises, and I went and plastered the fact all over the local media. So if something did happen, I kind of feel responsible.”

Howell sat in frowning silence for a moment, then expelled a long puff of air. “That would make two of us—although I don’t usually consider myself as local media.”

His pale blue eyes shot a sharp glance at Sunny. “So you want to use the paper as cover to investigate the situation? You’re not trying to worm your way onto the staff? This won’t be a paying job, and it certainly won’t be like working for a big operation like the Standard. Don’t expect people to pay much attention to the power of the press. You get that, right?”

“I understand,” Sunny told him. “And I appreciate the favor. It can’t have been easy for you to agree to this—not with Ollie Barnstable as a partner. I understand he’s got a lot of political connections up in Levett, including the sheriff.”

“I don’t like that Levett crowd, especially Nesbit. And Barnstable is only a junior partner,” Howell corrected. He glanced over to the ancient crank-operated press in the corner. “My great-grandfather started the Crier because he wanted to write about abolishing slavery. We celebrated a century and a half of service a few years ago. I’m not having this paper go down on my watch—that’s why I took Barnstable’s money. But he doesn’t dictate editorial policy. So go ahead and investigate.” He sighed. “But try not to go tramping on a lot of people’s toes.”

*

Armed with an official press pass from the Harbor Crier, Sunny drove back to the Spruance place. When she pulled into the cracked driveway, she found Gordie’s rusty tan pickup parked at the end—and Will Price’s dusty black one pulling in behind her.

She forced her door open and got out of her Mustang as Will stepped down from the running board on his truck. “If I had known you were coming, I’d have stayed after the animal control people left,” he began, then raised his hands at the look on her face. “Ken Howell told me you were coming over here—and why. He asked if I’d come along with you, and frankly, I’d like a look at that painted-over door you mentioned to him.”

“What is this,” she asked in confusion, “the Kittery Harbor Underground Resistance?”

Will shrugged. “There are a lot of people around here who aren’t happy with the way things are run up in Levett.”

“And I suppose you’re especially unhappy with Sheriff Nesbit.”

“The guy’s a politician, not a cop,” Will said, his voice going flat. “My dad caught the first murder around here in I don’t know how many years.” He paused for a second. “The last, too, unless we end up counting this one. Anyway, he investigated, found a guy, made a case, and the prosecutor got a conviction. Then the real guy got caught on a completely unrelated charge and confessed—right before the election. Nesbit crucified my father.”

“I understand he died soon afterward.”

Will gave a tight nod. “Car crash.”

“I know how that feels,” Sunny said. “I lost my mom in a crash, too. The big Christmas ice storm.”

“It can be hard to get over.” He shook himself, as if physically trying to change the subject. “Let’s take a look inside.”

Will paused for a second, drawing a small jar of salve from his pocket. He scooped a little on his finger and then dabbed it under his nose. Sunny caught the pungent scent of menthol. “Are you allergic to overgrown grass?” she asked.

The constable shook his head. “This stuff cuts bad smells, and I’m sure we’re going to find some in there.” He offered her the jar. “Try it. I’ve seen guys use it when they had to check out overripe corpses.”

“Great,” Sunny muttered, dabbing a little salve in place. “Now I’m going to have morbid associations whenever I have a cold.”

They went around to the backyard, peering into the darkness beyond the cellar door. “Gordon?” Sunny called. “You in there?”

A screech almost as loud as the one from her damaged car door came in answer. Then hurried footsteps pattered down the cellar stairs, and Gordie Spruance came into view. He wore old jeans, a flannel shirt buttoned all the way up to the neck, a watch cap, and a surgical mask.

Well, there goes our chance of checking out the pantry door, Sunny thought. That could get chalked up just as bad luck. But as her eyes got used to the dimness, she saw black garbage bags piled up around the spot where Ada Spruance had fallen. Well, if it was a crime scene, it’s certainly all disassembled now. Sunny remembered the suspicion that had led her to publicize the winning lottery ticket in the first place. Either very convenient—or very clever.

Right now, though, Gordie didn’t look very clever. Red-rimmed eyes stared at Sunny for a moment. “Oh. Sunny, right? Mom said you’d be coming over to help her. But—”

“I know,” Sunny put in gently. “I’m the one who found her this morning.”

“Sorry for your loss,” Will added.

“We just thought we’d come by and … see how you were doing,” Sunny improvised. “Seemed like the neighborly thing to do.”

“It’s just a big mess.” Gordie made a helpless gesture, his eyes darting around at the garbage bags. “Even worse than it was when I left.” He looked at Sunny. “I had to move out—I’m allergic to the damn cats.”

So we don’t know if those red eyes are due to grief or cat dander, she thought.

“Come up and see.” Gordie abruptly turned and headed upstairs.

The steps up to the pantry were steep and thick with disturbed dust. Will used Sunny for cover, trying to get a good look at them in the gloom. Sunny wasn’t exactly sure what sort of marks a falling body would make on such a coating. She imagined a person tumbling down the steep stairway would pretty much leave traces on every step. Here it seemed that the dust was very disturbed at the bottom, but the higher she got, the more there seemed to be just scuffed foot marks. So either poor Ada had gone more than halfway down the stairs she never used and attempted a swan dive … or been thrown some distance before actually hitting the treads.

At the top of the stairway, Will Price directed a significant look at the pile of paint chips on the floor beneath the door leading into the kitchen pantry. Clearly the door had only recently been forced open.

But did that happen when Ada went through—or when Gordie did? Sunny wondered.

The door screeched open, and they moved through a skinny, shelf-lined space into the kitchen itself. While the appliances were old, they looked reasonably well kept: the stovetop was clean, as was a small tray table and chair by the window where Ada had apparently taken her meals, at the edge of a lighter spot on the linoleum where a larger kitchen table must once have stood. The remaining open space had been used to create a sort of feeding station for the cats. At least a dozen metal bowls of dry food and fresh water stood in a row along the wall.

Will stepped over to the open kitchen cabinets, eyeing the empty shelves, their contents stacked on the counter.

Gordie pointed to the piles. “It’s mostly soup and canned cat food. I’ve read about old folks living on that stuff—you don’t think Mom was, do you?” He shook his head, not waiting for a response. “It’s just that I know she was pretty hard up lately.”

He led the way into the living room. Clearly, Ada had done some housekeeping in the areas she’d used—or maybe that she could see. A small island of orderliness surrounded the overstuffed chair and ottoman with the reading light behind, and the television. The rest was given over to dust, the furniture shaggy with cat hair. Gordie must have been busy in here, too. Half of the couch looked almost normal, a vacuum cleaner leaning against it.

Gordie gave the machine a kick. “Damn thing clogged up.” He ran his forearm in front of his face, muffling a cough. “It’s even worse upstairs. Except for her room, the cats took over everywhere. You can’t believe the stink up there.”

Worse than this? Sunny wondered. Even here, where at least some effort had been made, she couldn’t mistake the sharp, pungent reek of cat pee making itself known through her protective menthol salve. Will didn’t seem fazed by the assorted stinks, but she didn’t even want to think about where that other odor of decay she smelled might be coming from.

Sunny suddenly found herself wishing she had a mask, too.

“I dunno what I’m going to do.” Gordie’s eyes darted around the room, then settled on Sunny again—now an unfriendly gaze. “Your boss from that tour place, Barnstable? He came by—I guess one of his big-shot pals called him with the news. I see him all the time, driving around here in that stupid Land Rover of his like he’s some big-game hunter. ’Cept what he’s hunting for is houses he can snap up for chump change. He’s been oozing around Mom for I don’t know how long, saying he wanted to ‘help.’ Now that she’s dead, he tells me that all of a sudden the place is worth less than half of what he’d been offering her.”

Sunny raised her hands in a “what can you do?” kind of gesture. Ollie the Barnacle wasn’t one to let finer feelings—or any emotion at all, for that matter—get in the way of potential business.

“I may have to accept it anyway. Gotta pay off—” Gordie suddenly broke off, glancing over at Will Price as if just realizing the town constable was there. “So, you were going to help Mom look for that ticket,” Gordie said, changing the subject and concentrating on Sunny. “Did she have any ideas about where it might be?”

Well, here was a development Sunny hadn’t expected. If Gordie was after the ticket, she’d have thought he’d have gotten hold of it before doing anything to his mother. Unless, she thought, this is the setup for a miraculous discovery just before the damned thing would have expired.

“Sorry, Gordie,” she said. “Your mom had no clue. That’s why she was asking for help.”

“So what now?” Gordie strode over and flung open the heavy drapes over the front window, revealing grimy glass—and a very startled cat who’d apparently evaded Animal Control by hiding out there.

Shadow? Sunny thought. Then her eyes adjusted to the brighter light and she could see the white markings on the gray coat. This cat was smaller than Shadow, too.

Blinking in the sunlight, Gordie didn’t make out the cat at first. When he did, he recoiled almost like a vampire confronting a cross.

“I thought they got rid of all of you!” He reached out to roughly grab the cat, who lashed out with his claws. Gordie drew back with a yelp, instinctively putting his wounded hand to his mouth, forgetting about his face mask—and only succeeding in smearing blood on it.

The cat went for altitude, swarming up the heavy velvet drapes and releasing clouds of dust into the air. He’d gotten just about level with Gordie’s head before the man managed to latch on to the spotted gray body.

“Gotcha, ya little—” He tried to pull the cat loose, but his captive dug in his claws and held on for dear life. “Come on!” Gordon gave a mighty heave … and brought down the cat, the drapes, the curtain rod, and even the brackets that held it to the wall—all in an even bigger cloud of dust and plaster.

Alternate sneezes and disconsolate yowls came from under the downed curtains, which humped up as the cat tried to escape the heavy folds.

Gordie lay on his back, wheezing and hacking.

“Are you all right?” Will Price asked.

“By bask iz fudd uv stodt,” Gordie hoarsely replied.

“What?” Sunny asked.

“His mask is full of—” Will broke off, shaking his head. “You don’t want to know.”

The cat finally appeared from under the fallen velvet, streaking across the living room and up the stairs.

Sunny and Will got Gordon back into the kitchen and helped clean him up. Gordie took off his sodden mask and threw it away. As soon as he did, he began sneezing. Sunny pressed a dish towel into service, soaking it in hot water and using some dish detergent to clean his scratches. Then she switched to cold water to bring the bleeding down. Will Price stepped out to his truck and returned with a small first-aid kit.

Gordie was almost pathetically grateful. “Aw, man … jeez, thanks,” he said yet again, punctuating his barely coherent words by sneezing into several sheets of paper towel clutched in his uninjured hand. “You’re really good, coming over to help my mom. Most of the neighbors around here wouldn’t care whether she lived or died.”

“People got into fights with her,” Sunny said.

“The damn cats got Mom into fights,” Gordie corrected. “A bunch of chicken farmers way out—” He gestured vaguely toward the town line with his wad of towels and then down at them. “What was their name? Towle? No, those were the people with the dog. Ellsworth, that was it.”

He sat like a little kid as Sunny squeezed some antibiotic cream on the scratches, then covered the whole thing with a gauze pad and some tape. “And then there’s the big boss lady of the neighborhood, Mrs. Yarborough. She told Mom she wanted this place bulldozed.” He sneezed, hawked, and spat in the sink. “Not to mention that lousy Barnstable pretending to make nice—and then showing what a turd he really is.”

“I think you’d better take it easy,” Sunny told him, rinsing the sink.

“Or at least get yourself thicker gloves before you tackle the upstairs,” Will added, trying to keep a straight face.

Gordie cast a worried glance around. “You don’t think there are more of them, do you?”

“Just be careful,” Sunny said as she and Will decided it would be best to say good-bye and left through the front door. As they went around to the driveway, the constable glanced sidelong at Sunny. “Very impressive, the amount of information you pumped out of him while playing Florence Nightingale.”

“Well, now we know that Ada had at least three ongoing disputes in the neighborhood,” Sunny replied. “Four, if you count Ollie Barnstable.”

“Just the kind of false trails a trained investigator might expect from the prime suspect—if this were an actual crime.”

“We certainly didn’t find any proof, one way or the other,” Sunny admitted. “Especially with the way Gordie’s been all over the place.” She looked at the constable. “But is that enough to promote him to prime suspect?”

He stopped in his tracks, staring at her. “I don’t know how far you’re going to get in this investigation if you didn’t even notice that Gordon Spruance is a tweaker.”