The Big Kitty

5

“What?” Sunny turned around to look at Will Price. He definitely had his cop face on, grim and dead serious.

“You know—meth? Crystal meth? Methamphetamine? He’s using the stuff.”

“How do you know?” Sunny asked.

“How could I not?” Will burst out, then quickly turned to check the windows. All the ones on this side stood closed and curtained.

Still, he lowered his voice. “It’s a classic case—his eyes darting around all over the place, several tasks started and left half finished, impulsive actions. It’s not often you see a guy Gordie’s age with acne, unless the person is a meth user. He had a strong reaction to light in his face—and even you must’ve noticed the paranoia.” Will gave her a measuring look. “Something tells me your newspaper career didn’t involve much work on the crime beat.”

“I was a general-assignment reporter,” Sunny told him. “I handled whatever came my way.” She stalked over to her Mustang, but hesitated with her hand on the door. “Okay, maybe I’m overreacting, but it’s just hard to wrap my head around. I could accept the idea of drug addicts in New York. But here? Gordie Spruance? He got left back a couple of times, so he was still going to high school when I started—not that I was friendly with the guy. But I still remember when people started calling him ‘Gordo,’ and how at first he was happy to have a new nickname.”

“I sense a ‘but’ coming up here,” Will said.

“It was a stupid joke out of Introductory Español—‘Gordo’ is like the Spanish version of ‘Fatso.’”

“With a high school career like that—and a mom like Ada—I’m surprised he didn’t start taking drugs a lot earlier,” Will joked.

Sunny laughed, then got serious again. “Do you really think he could have killed his mother?”

Will looked at her, a hint of humanity stealing out from behind his stern cop face. “What do you think?”

“I suspected that he might have stolen Ada’s lottery ticket,” she admitted. “That’s why I tried to get some coverage about the story.”

“Most tweakers get in trouble stealing money to support their habits.” Will had returned to his cold, professional form. “And they don’t have much impulse control. If the mother caught him with the ticket—” He shrugged. “Anything might be possible.”

“Still,” Sunny said, “drugs, in Kittery Harbor?”

“They turn up in tonier—and stranger—places than this.” Will grimaced. “Not that Frank Nesbit would believe it.”

Sunny laughed. “The See-No-Evil Sheriff.”

“Not blind—selective,” Will replied. “He can see lots of evils when they’re the kind that result in fines to fill the county coffers.”

“Is that what they mean when they talk about making crime pay?” Sunny asked.

“As I’m sure you’ve heard often enough in your career: no comment.” Will tried to contain a wince at the noise as Sunny wrestled her damaged door open. “I still have some connections on the Portsmouth PD. I can check in and get an idea about the local meth situation—and whether Gordie Spruance has ever turned up on their radar.”

“I’ll follow up on the neighborhood end of things,” Sunny said.

“Sure, though somehow, I don’t think Ada Spruance got killed in a dispute over petunias,” Will said over his shoulder as he went to his pickup.

“From what little Gordie had to say, I think it’ll turn out to be a bit more serious than that,” Sunny agreed. “Though don’t dismiss flowers so easily. There’ve been a couple of times I was afraid Dad would have a relapse when he found her cats had peed on his roses.”

With that, Will pulled out of the driveway, and Sunny headed home, mulling possible suspects the whole way.

Lots of people—including even her dad—had had beefs with Ada Spruance. But Gordie had mentioned the names of three people who might be more seriously involved. The top slot on Sunny’s mental list was filled by Veronica Yarborough, head of the homeowners’ association. Sunny had met her a couple of times, since her dad was a member of the board. Each time, Veronica had given the impression of bestowing a great favor just by visiting their house. If being not very nice was a character trait of cold-blooded killers, Veronica Yarborough would fit the profile nicely. But Sunny would have to look into all of them and not let her personal feelings prejudice her against Veronica.

At least, not very much.

*

As she came up the walk to her front door, Sunny spotted Shadow kicking dirt near one of her father’s rosebushes.

Guess it would make sense for him to do his business where the ground has already been dug up, Sunny thought, but I don’t think Dad will appreciate the extra fertilizer.

She went inside to make a list of the things Shadow would need if he was going to stay. Kitty litter and a litter box, a proper cat bed, food—he couldn’t keep eating their tuna, after all. Closing her eyes, Sunny tried to remember the brand name on the cans she’d seen in Ada Spruance’s kitchen.

She opened her eyes and went back to her list. This was probably going to cost a bit. But maybe that was a good thing. It would make it clear to her dad that she intended for Shadow to stay.

Mike Coolidge was not happy when Sunny returned with a big bag of pet purchases, but even his laser glare of disapproval didn’t make Sunny back down. “I said Shadow would be staying with us, at least till we find him a decent place to live,” she told him in no uncertain terms.

Shadow himself turned out to have some strong opinions. When Sunny arranged his new pet bed, he ran to recover the fake-fur coat lining from the pillow he’d slept on previously, clamping it in his jaws and dragging it to Sunny, who placed the ratty thing over the new bed’s fleece lining.

Sunny shook her head. “Whatever floats your boat.” Then she turned to her father. “Do you have Veronica Yarborough’s phone number?”

“It’s in the phone book in the kitchen drawer,” Mike told her. “Look under S for ‘snooty.’”

*

Even for a Sunday afternoon, the neighborhood was quiet as Sunny walked to her appointment with Veronica Yarborough late the next day. She’d felt lucky to wedge her way into Veronica’s very full social calendar.

Apparently everyone had decided to do their weekend yard work the day before, so Sunny walked through empty streets, with the occasional burst of football-related crowd roar coming through open windows. She arrived at her destination purposely early and stood for a moment, taking in the shiny white clapboard house with its columned front porch and third-floor dormer windows. Twenty-five years ago it had been the Leister place, home of the blondest and most popular girl in her grammar school class. How many times had Sunny walked up that drive in her best dress and party manners, just because all of the golden girl’s classmates had been invited? And she hadn’t even liked Jane Leister, damn it.

When Sunny was a kid, the house had engraved itself in her memory under the heading “Stately Home.” Certainly it was the most expensive place in the neighborhood, more suited to the upper-class enclave of Piney Brook. It stood out among the more modest houses in the surrounding blocks, but in a more graceful way than some of the McMansions that had popped up in recent years. Those looked just plain ugly.

Now Sunny found herself walking up to the front door yet again, dressed in a good suit from her reporting days. From the front, the place didn’t seem to have changed at all. A quizzical smile tugged at Sunny’s lips. Funny how some places stick with you, she thought.

Veronica Yarborough opened the dove gray door. The Icelandic wool sweater the president of the homeowners’ association was wearing probably could have paid for Sunny’s good suit three times over. Well, at least she wasn’t a blonde, just an elegantly tall brunette with a frost of silver in her hair.

“Ms. Coolidge, how nice to see you.” Veronica sounded about as chummy as the queen of England greeting a commoner upon whom she was about to bestow a medal.

Not for the first time, Sunny found herself wondering how this woman had elbowed her way to power in the homeowners’ association. Not only was she an outsider, she was a pushy outsider. That was the way Sunny’s dad had described Veronica when she’d first arrived a few years ago. When Sunny had called up from New York, Mike always had a funny story about the bossy new neighbor, telling everyone how things ought to be run in the association.

But maybe, just as the sea wore away the rocks on the Maine coast, it was Veronica’s relentless pushing that had brought her to the position of the neighborhood’s queen bee.

And as such, Veronica did her best gracious-host impersonation. “Why don’t we step into the family room?”

The living room Sunny remembered had become a formal parlor, and a very grand mahogany table now dominated the dining room, with a silk runner and a crystal bowl of flowers in the middle. Beyond that, however, was all new territory. The old rear wall of the house had been moved back a good fifteen feet, enlarging the old kitchen, adding a breakfast nook, and creating a large, airy space that housed leather couches, reclining chairs, a wall-mounted entertainment center, and a fireplace. French doors gave a view of a carefully rustic garden centered around a pool that Sunny didn’t remember, either. With its varnished wood and pale peach paint on the walls, the whole place seemed more northern California than southern Maine.

“Very impressive,” she said.

“Thank you.” Veronica took in her surroundings with a smug smile. “We had considerable work done before moving in.”

She gestured toward one of the couches. “Welcome to the neighborhood,” she said, then fluted a laugh. “Or rather, welcome back to the neighborhood, considering you’ve lived here before.”

Sunny managed an equally insincere smile. “Yes, we even met a couple of times.”

Veronica didn’t quite know how to answer that. Stepping over to the counter separating the seating space from the kitchen, she asked, “May I offer you a sparkling water?”

When Sunny said yes, Veronica took a bottle from the built-in refrigerator and poured them both wineglasses of bubbly water—an expensive, imported brand, of course. No generic seltzer from outlet-land here.

“I understand you’re doing a story for the Harbor Crier,” Veronica said.

Still smiling, Sunny nodded. She hadn’t mentioned exactly what the story was about, and she wasn’t about to open her mouth now. Sometimes letting an interviewee take the lead could result in more interesting revelations than the tightest interrogation.

“As you know, this is an older homeowners’ association,” Veronica began.

The neighborhood had been developed a good fifty years before, starting with the construction of what folks in town still called the New Stores.

“Over the years, the association has had its responsibilities eroded as the township took over various services like street lighting and some of the formerly private roads. I’m afraid this also led to a certain … withering … of our regulatory ability.”

“That must have come as something of a shock when you joined the board.” Sunny did her best to sound sympathetic. She had to wonder how the Yarboroughs had bought an expensive house and sunk big bucks into this extension without being aware of the growing cat menagerie just blocks away. Didn’t they ever drive around the neighborhood? Aloud, she asked, “Is that part of the problem you faced with Ada Spruance?”

For just a moment, the mask of gracious living fell away from Veronica Yarborough’s face, exposing the frosty, ruthless woman who had conquered her little empire. “If I’d had my way, we’d have surrounded the Spruance place with a twenty-foot-tall fence and prayed for rain.” With an effort, she moderated her tone. “Not to speak ill of the dead, of course, but that woman had no right to be operating a—a shelter for stray cats in the middle of a residential neighborhood.”

From Veronica’s tone, Ada might as well have been running a cathouse instead of a cat shelter.

“And the board has been very lax,” Veronica complained. “I’ve recommended punitive action—levying fines, for example. But even your father—despite his personal problems with Mrs. Spruance—wouldn’t live up to his responsibilities, I’m sorry to say.”

Good for Dad, Sunny thought. Except for a sprinkling of newcomers, most of the houses in the neighborhood were still owned by the “original settlers,” as they called themselves, or by their children. While Sunny could feel a little impatience when that close-knit feeling exhibited itself negatively as clannishness, she also shared their background. This was her home, and it was the Spruances’, too. Ada and Gordon Spruance—Gordon Senior—had bought their house as newlyweds. They’d raised a family, and Ada had grown old there. And maybe a little odd, too, Sunny privately admitted. But Ada had been a part of the community for decades. Where did Veronica Yarborough come off trying to change that?

“Perhaps Mrs. Spruance would have taken her lottery winnings and moved out, cats and all,” Sunny suggested.

“More likely, she’d have thrown the money away on kitty caviar and lawyers to harass the association.” Veronica moodily sipped her water. “The crazy old woman told me often enough that she intended to stay in that house until the day she died.”

“Well, that is what happened, isn’t it?” Sunny said brightly.

Veronica took another sip as she considered the implications. “There’s a son, isn’t there? Although he hasn’t lived on the property in some time.”

Sunny stayed silent, letting Veronica think aloud. “It might be possible to require him to make repairs—at least to paint the place. Certainly the board couldn’t argue with that. The son might have roots in the community, but he’s moved out. And the man has a criminal record, for heaven’s sake. We might even be able to levy fines for noncompliance, make it too expensive to keep the property—”

“I understand Oliver Barnstable has already made an offer on it,” Sunny said.

Veronica actually looked pleased. “The house could end up in worse hands. He’s one of the more forward-thinking people in this town. The right sort of renovations could bring a much more suitable family into the neighborhood.”

Yeah, you would think that, Sunny thought as she rose. “Well, I don’t want to take up too much of your Sunday afternoon.”

Veronica looked disconcerted. “I thought you were going to interview me.”

“First meetings are generally for background.” Sunny lied easily. “I think I have enough to start with. I’ll be in touch if I have more questions later.”

Frankly, Sunny had already heard enough from Veronica Yarborough. The woman hadn’t just declared war on Ada, she’d shown herself equally willing to carry on the war to the next generation, harassing Gordie. The homeowners’ association president definitely had a strong motive. Ada Spruance with a six-million-dollar war chest would have been a definite threat to Veronica’s plans to make this part of Kittery Harbor safe for “more suitable” residents.

And now that threat was gone.

*

His belly low, Shadow advanced to the top of the coffee table, moving each paw as silently as possible. Not that the prey he was stalking was going anywhere. The thick book sat at the far end of the table, near where the Old One sat dozing.

A change in breathing made Shadow lift his head up. The new Old One, he corrected himself. This one was male, and much quicker to anger than the old Old One … the dead Old One.

But this Old One just made a couple of lip-smacking noises and sighed, drifting into deeper sleep.

Shadow resumed his project. He’d never really considered why things fell. There were times when he’d fallen, sometimes twisting desperately in midair to land on his feet. But why was that? Why didn’t things stay as they were instead of tumbling down?

He got both his forepaws on the spine of the book, braced himself, pushed—and pushed again.

*

Sunny came home just in time to see Shadow shove the thick book off the living room coffee table. He leaned over the edge as if fascinated by the falling object, letting out an odd meow of pleasure—more like a “Yow!”

Between that and the loud thump of the book hitting the floor, Mike Coolidge jerked awake. “Damned cat!”

Before he could say or do anything more, Shadow dodged backward, not afraid of Sunny’s father but with a practiced wariness that made Sunny wonder about Shadow’s history. As a stray, the cat had more than likely encountered the nasty side of human nature in the past.

Too bad I never had a chance to talk with Ada about Shadow before she died, Sunny said to herself. But then, I thought I had all the time in the world to ask her questions.

Shadow launched himself into a long leap, hitting the floor on the bounce and landing at Sunny’s feet, where he immediately started twining around her ankles.

She laughed, and Mike directed a sour look both at her and the cat. “Made me lose my place,” he grumbled. “Not that you care, with how he’s sucking up to you, Sunny.”

*

Shadow approached the New One—Sunny, she seemed to be called—and worked his way around her ankles, inhaling deeply, enjoying some of the new smells she brought into the house. He inhaled a hint of wax and fragrant wood smoke.

Much better than the last time she’d come in, reeking of the Dead One’s house—and the Dead One’s stinking son, whose unwashed clothing had been bad enough, but who also radiated traces of anger and fear. And beneath that, another odor, not only unpleasant but threatening. It wasn’t just the stench of death; in his wanderings, Shadow had smelled plenty of dead things.

No, this smell was something deadly—toxic—that had led Shadow to name him the Stinky One.