The Big Kitty

6

The next afternoon, Sunny sat on one of the wharves in the harbor, eating lunch and staring at the sunlight on little rippling waves. Otherwise, there wasn’t much of a wonderful panorama to enjoy. Seavey’s Island and the naval shipyard blocked her view of deeper water. The town had installed benches at the head of each wharf for any footsore tourists enjoying the quaintness of the old downtown buildings. On a Monday, these piers were pretty much empty except for a few outdoor lunchers like Sunny, alone with her thoughts.

Shipbuilding made up an important piece of local history. Back in 1777, the sloop Ranger had been launched in these waters, sailing out under the command of John Paul Jones and into naval history.

Maybe that’s my problem, Sunny thought. I love this town, but I always thought of it as a place to come from, not a place to live. Dad is forever trying to get me to go out and meet people, but my friends—my real friends—have all left Kittery Harbor. To the people who stayed, I’m more a New Yorker than a local girl now.

She tossed the last crust from her sandwich onto the water, and a seagull wheeled to pounce on it.

I’ve been in a funk since I found out I was stuck up here—no, she corrected herself, even before.

As soon as she’d heard about her dad’s heart attack, she’d headed back to Kittery Harbor immediately, using up her vacation time and then applying for a leave of absence. Taking care of her father had been the first priority, of course. But Sunny had also thought it might be a good idea to put some distance between herself and the editor she’d been dating—the married editor. Although Randall had been separated from his wife for more than a year before Sunny started going out with him, he was obviously very conflicted on the idea of a divorce. Sunny believed both of them had to figure out exactly what their feelings were, and this would be an excellent opportunity to do that.

Well, absence hadn’t made Randall’s heart grow fonder. As the situation on the Standard got worse and he found his own job threatened, he’d plumped for family values and sent Sunny a severance notice.

Speaking of which, Sunny thought, I’d better get back to work before Ollie the Barnacle gets the same idea.

She headed back through the crooked, Colonial era streets and then through the newer, more open part of town, passing city hall and the big brick library. After a quick glance at her watch, she lengthened her stride along the final long blocks to the New Stores.

Unlocking the door, she stepped into the MAX office and immediately checked the answering machine. Nothing critical there. Sunny settled behind her desk and switched on the computer. A couple of clicks on the mouse, and she’d brought up the project she’d been working on before lunch, marketing copy for the website.

Then she checked her e-mail. The first few items were just routine business. But after them came a string of e-mails from Ken Howell at the Crier.

Sunny sat for a moment, looking at her computer monitor.

She tried to concentrate on the marketing copy on the screen. This was supposed to be the good part of her job, the creative work that made up for the website maintenance and listing updates.

But now she had something a hell of a lot more interesting than that to think about. After she’d called him yesterday, Ken had promised to send over the Crier’s coverage of the two disputes she’d inquired about.

Sunny sighed, glanced around guiltily—although she knew no one else was in the office—and started downloading the files Ken Howell had e-mailed over. As each one came through, she found herself reading a new installment of a continuing saga to rival a soap opera.

Ada Spruance’s friction with the neighborhood homeowners’ association had essentially boiled down to an offense against Veronica Yarborough’s esthetic sense—and her property values. That didn’t exactly make for a front-page news story, even for a small weekly like the Harbor Crier.

Ada’s other disputes, however, were precisely the stuff of small-town newspapers. The first wasn’t a man-bites-dog story, but a dog-bites-cat one. One of Ada’s feline residents had gotten mauled—and ultimately died—after a run-in with a neighbor’s pit bull–Rottweiler mix.

The Crier tried to keep an impartial stance, but it was interesting to see how the community’s sympathies had shifted. Initially, folks had been shocked by the attack, and Ada had threatened a lawsuit. But the Towles—Chuck and Leah, the owners of the dog—had a story to tell, too.

Although their dog had caught up with the cat in front of Ada’s house, the chase had begun in the Towles’ backyard. According to them, the cat had climbed over the fence and taunted the dog until he’d broken his tether and taken off in pursuit.

Howell hadn’t sent just the news stories; he’d also sent the impassioned exchanges from the Letters to the Editor section. The situation had only gotten wilder with the second case.

Nate and Isabel Ellsworth ran a free-range chicken operation at the edge of town. They thought they were facing a fox problem—until they installed some video surveillance and discovered it was a cat that was raiding their stock.

When they checked the largest local collection of cats—the Spruance place—they found a chicken foot with their identifying tag on the ankle near the porch.

This pretty much swept Ada off the moral high ground. Now she was the one with the predatory pet. Tempers ran so high that one local wag wrote to the editor suggesting that the cases be put together and adjudicated on one of those TV legal shows.

As far as Sunny could make out from the accounts, none of the situations ever got to court. Would that have changed if Ada Spruance had received a whopping infusion of lottery money?

She scrolled back through the various stories until she found a quote from the Ellsworths describing the chicken thief. Although they had a hard time telling from the night-vision images, it appeared to be a large black or gray cat.

Sunny bit her lip. That couldn’t be Shadow—could it? she thought uneasily, then shook her head. Seemed like every time she saw a cat, she thought of Shadow.

The rattle of the front door opening gave her an instant’s chance to click the computer mouse. By the time Oliver Barnstable stood beside her, the promo copy was back up on the screen.

“Hello, Ollie.” Glancing up at him from her seated position was a bit like watching a partial eclipse. She had to look around his big, round belly to catch a glimpse of his florid face. He was a blazer and khakis kind of guy, with an expensive, wrinkled blue cotton shirt that strained around his overly ample middle.

“Keeping busy, Sunny?” he asked.

“There’s always enough to do,” she replied.

Especially considering the pitiful salary you’re paying me, she added silently.

It was as if he’d read her thoughts. “It’s just that I heard you’ve taken up a side job with Ken Howell. Hope that won’t cause a conflict of interest.”

“Conflict?” Sunny echoed.

“The way I hear it, you’re trying to prove that Ada Spruance’s fall was no accident. Since your job—your main job—is supposed to be promoting tourism, I’m wondering exactly how publicizing a murder around these parts would help to pack the customers into our accommodations.”

For a brief second, Sunny wondered how it would feel to shove her keyboard right through his smug, fat face.

But she needed the job. So she braced herself for whatever Ollie the Barnacle had to say, but this was interrupted when the door rattled open again.

A man, tall and slim, stood silhouetted in the doorway. As he came inside, Sunny noticed his sharp features and rich tan. Yeah, “rich” would be the word for him. He wore thin-wale cords and some sort of car coat, black wool, very soft. Probably cashmere.

Ollie took in the vision as well, saying, “Welcome to the Maine Adventure X-perience,” in his most genial tone. “We don’t generally get walk-in traffic, but we’re certainly ready to help you.”

“Thanks very much.” The man gave a small smile, barely moving his lips when he talked. And the way he spoke—was that some sort of accent? Sunny couldn’t place it.

“I had some business in Portsmouth that concluded early, so I have a few days free. I’m told my family has some roots here, and I’d like to explore the area a bit.”

“I’m sure Sunny can arrange something appropriate.” Ollie looked at his watch, every inch the man of affairs. “You’ll have to excuse me, Mr.—?”

“Richer,” the elegant stranger supplied, giving the name a French pronunciation. “Roger Richer.” The first name got more of an English treatment, but still came off sounding like “Razh-AIR.” He also gave Ollie a slight bow instead of a handshake.

A little taken aback, Ollie nodded in response, said good-bye, and took off.

Sunny nodded toward the chair beside her desk. “Why don’t you have a seat, Mr. Richer?”

“Please, call me Raj.” He gave her another tight-lipped smile.

“Okay.” Sunny brought up a new window on her monitor. “I guess the first order of business would be accommodations. I could book you a room”—she glanced again at that expensive coat—“or a suite at the Colonial Inn. It’s probably the nicest place in the area.”

“A hotel?” Raj looked a little disappointed. “I had hoped for something a little more—homelike.”

“Ah.” Sunny switched to her bed-and-breakfast database. Most B&Bs in the area catered to a more modest tourist crowd, but …

“Here’s something,” she said, double-checking that the listing hadn’t been booked. “The Rowlandson estate. It’s in Piney Brook, a very exclusive community. A cottage, usually for weekend guests, but it happens to be available. Single bedroom, a bath, and a working kitchen.” She paused for a second. “The Rowlandsons won’t actually be there—they’re away on their yacht. I guess you’ll have to cook for yourself, but you can use the amenities. Although it’s kind of late in the season, they do have an enclosed pool. Would that be all right?”

Raj nodded. “That would fill the bill nicely.” He reached into his coat and drew out a wallet that should have been as slim and elegant as the rest of him. The effect was somewhat spoiled by the batch of hundred-dollar bills packed into it. “What would the rate be?”

“We usually do payments by credit card,” Sunny began, then shook her head. Their business was done online, and that was where their payments were processed. The office didn’t have a credit card terminal. “But I suppose a cash deposit would be all right.”

She got out the lockbox for petty cash, which also held the Rowlandsons’ keys. Raj handed over a fat fee for five days, and Sunny tucked away the bills in the box. That should warm Ollie’s cold little heart, she thought.

Returning to her keyboard, she printed out the directions to the estate and then maneuvered a few new windows onto her screen. “Richer. That’s a French name, isn’t it?”

Raj nodded.

“Is that the branch of the family you’re tracing? We have a pretty active historical society here in town.” A quick click on the mouse, and she added, “Most records are up in the county seat in Levett. They have some genealogical resources up there, too.”

A little more computer digging, and she said, “If there’s a Canadian connection, there are several French-Canadian heritage groups you could contact. Most of them are farther upstate, though.”

“I am sure the local groups you have mentioned will do for a start,” Raj said, his hands making little pushing-down gestures.

“Would you prefer I download all of this to your computer or phone?” Sunny asked.

That got another smile from Raj. “I have not embraced technology so enthusiastically, I’m afraid. The machines I use tend to be very simple.”

The cell phone he took out of his pocket was a lot less high-end than the rest of his outfit.

“I could just print it out for you, if you prefer,” Sunny offered.

“That would be excellent.”

As the printer hummed, she asked, “Is there anything else you need? Tours? Local attractions?”

Raj shook his head.

“How about local transportation? Do you have your own car?” Sunny asked.

“I rented one in Portsmouth.” He nodded out the window to a racing green Jaguar parked behind Sunny’s Mustang.

“Very impressive,” Sunny told him. “You’re lucky it’s still fall, though. I don’t know how practical it might be for a Maine winter. My own car got in a little trouble when things were icy.”

“I thought I saw some damage on that car.” Raj pointed to her Mustang.

“That’s the best I could do to fix it up.” Sunny collected the papers from the printer and stood. “Luckily, I don’t think you’ll have to worry about that—unless you decide on a prolonged stay.”

He smiled again, that curious, tight-lipped smile, and took the sheaf of papers. “Thank you, Sunny.”

“You’re welcome,” she told him. “If you change your mind about the local attractions, or if you need anything else during your stay—well, we’re here to help.”

He thanked her again and gave another little bow, then left. Still, it was the highlight of her working day, and it charged up her batteries to tackle the promotion copy.

Then she got an e-mail from the company’s Web server reporting a problem and spent hours trying to reconcile two applications that had suddenly decided not to play nicely with one another anymore.

On the bright side, Ollie didn’t come back for a repeat browbeating session. Sunny took a chance and printed out hard copies of the stuff Ken Howell had sent her, stuffing them in an envelope.

After responding to several tourism information requests and processing a couple of visits, her eyes felt fatigued and her neck stiff.

That’s what happens from sitting in the cheap seats, she thought, rolling back in her office chair. This thing is barely one step up from the antique in Ken’s office.

Sunny shifted in her chair. Fat chance that Ollie the Barnacle would shell out to upgrade the office furniture, especially after he’d just chewed her out for conspiring to damage local tourism.

Well, he’ll see I did my best to fill the coffers today, she thought as she locked up the office, stepped over to her trusty Mustang, and started the engine.

Sunny suddenly bit her lip. That was a lot of money in the cash box—more than she’d ever left in the office. She looked along the street, at the deepening evening shadows. Most of the businesses had already closed up. This wasn’t like New York, where merchants pulled down metal shutters or gates. There was just an expanse of plate glass, a cheap drawer lock, and an antiquated lockbox between anybody out here and the money she’d collected today.

You’re being silly, she scolded herself, but it would be just my luck that tonight would be the night somebody tried something. She left her car running and went back to the office, opened the door, unlocked her desk, scooped up the cash box, and headed back outside.

As she did, her car gave a loud BANG! She could see it shake for a second.

Wonderful—a backfire. Maybe she shouldn’t try to stretch her dollars by buying cheap gas.

She went to open her car door again and stopped. Something was wrong with the steering wheel—or rather, with the plastic sheathing on the steering column. A good chunk was torn out of it.

Then she dragged her eyes from the damage inside to the damage to the top of her windshield—a spiderweb of cracks centering on a small, round hole.

A bullet hole.