The Big Kitty

8

“Shadow, you startled me!” Sunny said.

But as quickly as the cat had started running, he stopped, seemingly in midair, almost as if he’d hit an invisible force field around her legs.

Shadow gave one sniff and then turned around, stalking majestically off, tail high, apparently with important business to attend to in the living room.

Am I supposed to interpret that greeting as a good or a bad thing? Sunny wondered. If Shadow’s going to stay around here, maybe I should invest in a book on cat psychology.

She stuck her head in the living room to say hi. Her dad nodded vaguely, watching the news.

And another book on the psychology of invalid fathers, she thought, heading down to the kitchen to start on supper.

As they sat down to eat, Sunny asked Mike about borrowing his truck the next day. A forkful of baked salmon halted on its way to his mouth. “What do you need the pickup for?”

Sunny gave him the edited version—heavily edited. “There was a little trouble when I left work. It looked as if somebody may have gotten into the car. The police are checking it out—”

“Why couldn’t whoever it was have done you a favor and stolen the damned thing?” Mike interrupted. “You ought to get a new car, something better suited for conditions up here.”

Okay, so he wasn’t asking embarrassing questions about what exactly had happened to the Mustang, but this wasn’t a great conversational alternative. “You’re probably right, Dad, but right now I’d rather concentrate on getting a ride for work tomorrow. So is it okay for me to use the pickup?”

Mike shrugged. “The spare keys are in the kitchen drawer.” He frowned. “But that truck hasn’t been started since before I went into the hospital,” he warned. “The battery may be kaput.”

Sunny nodded. “So maybe I ought to check it out.”

They finished dinner, then Sunny washed the plates while Mike dried. Afterward, he rummaged in the junk drawer until he came up with the spare keys. “Here you go. Good luck.”

Sunny went into the garage. Mike’s pickup was a dark maroon—he wasn’t into flashy colors like red. Sunny climbed into the cab and settled herself behind the steering wheel. Inserting the key in the ignition, she twisted, ready to give it a little gas.

But all she got was a dry click instead of a deep rumble from the engine. She tried it again, hoping the engine might still turn over.

Nothing.

Exactly what I was afraid of, Sunny thought, shooting an exasperated look at the hood as if that might change the engine’s mind. Sunny sighed. She knew her dad had a trickle charger somewhere; he always said it was a good investment, given the cold Maine winters.

But if the battery is that far gone, it may not charge up even if I leave it overnight.

She had a second problem, too. How was she going to find the stupid thing when the garage was filled with the belongings she’d cleaned out of her New York apartment? Piles of cardboard boxes loomed wherever she looked.

Then she caught a hint of movement in the dimness.

Perfect, she thought, that’s all I need—a raccoon taking up residence among everything I own.

The intruder sailed gracefully to the top of a pile that looked like a step pyramid, and Sunny realized it wasn’t a raccoon, it was Shadow.

I guess a cat would think this was a great jungle gym, she had to admit.

Shadow set his forepaws on the topmost box, bracing his back legs on the box beneath, and pushed.

At least he tried to.

“Good luck with that.” Sunny jeered at him from inside the truck. “Those are boxes of books. Each one probably weighs twice as much as you do.”

That didn’t stop Shadow. He tried a shove, giving Sunny an impromptu physics demonstration. His action had an equal, opposite—and unfortunate—reaction. Shadow’s back feet skidded out from under him, and he tumbled to the floor. Sunny rose up in her seat to see him twist in midair to land on all four feet. With a flick of his tail, he set off at a stately walk, as if to say, “Excellent, precisely as I planned.”

Sunny laughed. “You got just what you deserved, smart-ass.”

Hearing her, Shadow paused, glancing up. Then he launched himself in a smooth leap for the top of a long, thin box leaning against the wall. It should have put him on eye level with her. Unfortunately, his weight landing on top caused the bottom of the angled box to start sliding out. Shadow danced desperately to keep from falling again.

Sunny laughed at his antics, then abruptly stopped, recognizing the box. It held art prints from her former living room. She’d spent a fortune to have them framed professionally under glass. A fall wouldn’t do them any good.

Yanking the door handle, Sunny barreled out of the truck and dashed for the box, managing to catch it with her foot before it fell flat.

Shadow watched with interest as she brought the box upright again; he sat perched with all four feet on the seat of the mountain bike hidden behind the box.

Sunny pulled the artwork box away. “I’d forgotten this was even here,” she said, spotting the bike.

Shadow found it interesting. He dropped down to the floor, sniffed the wheels, and sneezed from the dust that furred up the spokes.

Back in the ancient days, B.C.—Before Car—Sunny used to bike over to the New Stores and her job at Barnstable’s Sweet Shoppe.

“No reason I couldn’t do it again,” she said.

*

The next morning, Sunny found herself laboring up an incline that had somehow grown ridiculously steeper since her cycling days. Her calf muscles protested as she kept on pedaling. Just a little farther, she thought.

She reached the top of the hill and pulled over to the side of the road. It could have been worse. The sky was clear, and the air was crisp. She also had plenty of shade from the trees alongside the road. Wouldn’t want to do this in the heat of summer, Sunny mused. I’d have to wring myself out by the time I got to the office.

Leaning against the handlebars, she glanced over her shoulder at the way she’d come. A lot of the tourist propaganda—er, marketing materials—she wrote and edited talked about the rocky coast of Maine, and certainly the view from the water could be quite picturesque. But the southern part of the state got pretty green during the summer. She looked back over a landscape of rolling hills, the homes getting sparser, and then farmland. This was harvest season. The trees were just beginning to show a little color.

Sunny turned to the path ahead. From here it was downhill all the way. The road curved along the contours of the hills, passing streets where the houses grew closer together until, as you got close to the harbor, you also encountered the crooked streets of the old downtown business district. Sunny’s destination was at the edge of the built-up part of town, the so-called New Stores that had gone up when her dad was a kid.

She’d set out early enough to beat Kittery Harbor’s version of the morning rush. Nobody had passed her as she’d pumped her way uphill. In fact, the only car she saw on the road was coming from the direction of town.

When it came closer, she recognized it as Raj Richer’s racing green Jaguar. As Raj reached the crest, he apparently recognized her, too, and pulled the Jag over on the opposite side of the road.

The driver’s-side window rolled down, and his thin face appeared. He pulled off a pair of expensive sunglasses and gave her one of his tight-lipped smiles.

“I have to congratulate you,” he said. “That’s a very healthy way to go to work.”

“More like a necessary way,” Sunny told him. At least she wasn’t huffing and puffing as she spoke. “My car is out of commission, and my dad’s truck is waiting for a tow due to … let’s call it deferred maintenance.” She patted the bicycle. “Good thing I still had this hanging around. Otherwise, I don’t know how I’d be getting into town.”

“I’d be glad to offer you a ride,” Raj said. Then he broke off, shooting a look at the backseat.

No way, she knew, could she fold this big honking bike to fit back there. Even trying would shower dust and crud on those expensive leather seats.

Sunny gave him a wry smile. If I’d known about the possibility of a lift, maybe I’d have paid more attention to shining up the old girl instead of just making sure the tires were filled.

“Thanks for the kind thought,” she said. “But it’s no big deal. It really is all downhill from here.”

Another smile tugged at Raj’s lips. “I hope you’re only talking about the road, and not your day.”

Sunny laughed. “Hopefully,” she said. “How did you find your accommodations?”

“They were right where your directions said they’d be.” Raj’s eyes twinkled as his lips curved in a smile. “Joking aside, they’re perfect. The guest house is well-appointed, and I’ve enjoyed the pool … and my privacy. I picked up some supplies at that market down the block from your office—that Mr. Judson gave me quite a cross-examination.”

“He likes to get to know his customers,” Sunny told Raj, while silently cursing Zack Judson as a nosy old so-and-so. She hoped he hadn’t put Raj off from spending some more time around town. Not every tourist could afford the kind of rental the Rowlandsons were asking for their guest house.

As if reading her mind, Raj said, “He was most impressed when I told him where I was staying.”

“It’s one of the nicest places in town,” Sunny said. “If I could afford it, I’d go there for my vacation.”

Raj chuckled. “I’ll have to take good care of it, then.”

They said good-bye, and Sunny watched him head out into the country before she pushed off, rolling down into town.

Reaching the office, she checked her watch. Early—good. Sunny unlocked the door and trundled the bike inside, behind her desk. First things first. She unslung the messenger’s bag from over her shoulder, retrieved the cash box, and returned it to its usual drawer.

Then she took the bag into the bathroom. The dress code at MAX was pretty relaxed, so she could get away with jeans. But the faded Boston University sweatshirt she’d worn on the way here definitely wouldn’t qualify as business casual. She took a moment to freshen up, then slipped on a gray T-shirt and a deep blue cotton sweater.

Sunny fluffed her shaggy mane, fretting yet again how long her hair was getting. Maybe Mrs. Martinson could suggest a hairdresser who could handle unruly curls. After a final look in the tiny mirror, she shrugged. “Ready as I’m going to be,” she decided.

Getting behind her desk, she powered up the computer and began dealing with the morning’s e-mails.

She fielded a couple of calls, organizing lodging for the people who knew what they wanted and tailoring some information packets to send to the people who didn’t.

Ollie the Barnacle didn’t darken the door. If he’d learned of her side venture with Ken Howell, Ollie certainly must have heard about the bullet incident that had knocked out her car. Maybe he’d decided that coming in to hassle her some more would be overkill when she’d almost been shot.

Oddly enough, Sunny found herself worrying about Ken. If Ollie had been nasty to her when he’d heard about the story, how had he treated Sunny’s editor?

Barnstable was pretty tight with the county’s movers and shakers up in Levett. By agreeing to twist their tails, Howell had seriously annoyed his main investor. When it came down to it, Sunny could afford to follow this story—she could always get another job. Ken Howell had put his whole family heritage on the line.

While Ollie’s absence made for a more pleasant work environment, it also caused a small problem—all that extra money in the cash box. Sunny finally solved that by stopping at the bank when she began her lunch break and making a deposit into the company account.

Then she took her sandwich to the wharves and again fed some crusts to the seagulls while communing with the wind and water. Sunny even did her bit for local tourism, guiding an elderly couple down the cobblestone street to the navigation museum and taking their photo at the entrance.

She was a little behind schedule when she got back to work, and her heart sank when she found a Land Rover parked in the street, the office door unlocked, and Ollie Barnstable sitting in her chair, shouting into his cell phone.

Well, there goes my string of good luck, Sunny told herself. At least I didn’t have anything incriminating up on my computer screen.

Ollie’s angry voice penetrated her thoughts. “I don’t give a crap what your lawyer says. When I get my money, you’ll get your money—”

He paused for a second, looking almost guilty, when he saw Sunny in the doorway. But he recovered himself quickly, snarling, “That’s all I’m going to say on the matter.”

Ollie slapped his phone shut so hard, Sunny feared he might break it. But she decided not to say anything. The look on her boss’s face definitely didn’t invite comment.

“Thought you’d be out to lunch longer,” Ollie said gruffly, collecting papers off the desk and jamming them into a leather portfolio.

Sunny blinked. Ollie usually complained that she took too much time to eat.

Zipping up the portfolio, Ollie rose from the chair and headed for the door, tromping even more heavily than usual. Given his mood, Sunny found herself glad that he had nothing else to say.

Still, she found herself thinking back to the previous evening and Will’s flight of fancy about motive, opportunity, and means.

Maybe Will wasn’t so out there about one thing, she thought. It sounds as if Ollie may be having money problems.

She took her seat—a little warm from Ollie’s bulk—and spent the afternoon updating the website. Then she tackled that pesky promo copy. Apparently, while her conscious mind had worried over her car troubles, Sunny’s subconscious had been working on the writing problem overnight. Coming up with a whole new take, Sunny trashed her original draft and typed up a new one.

“Looks pretty good,” she muttered, checking over her work one last time before attaching it to an e-mail and sending it to Ollie. Feeling virtuous, she breezed through several more items from her electronic in-box.

Then her string of small victories was broken by a phone call from her dad.

“Sal DiGillio picked up the truck and brought it to his station,” Mike Coolidge reported. “But a bunch of other jobs came in. Sal says that the earliest he can have her back is tomorrow afternoon.”

“I think I can live with another day of biking,” Sunny told him. “Let’s not worry about it.”

Now the day was winding down, and Sunny could start thinking about heading home—barring some disaster deluging her with stranded tourists.

The phone rang.

Sunny picked it up. “Maine Adventure X-perience,” she said in her most professional tone.

An unfamiliar female voice came over the line. “Sunny Coolidge, please.”

“Speaking.”

“This is Leah Towle.”

Towle—the name was familiar. Wait a minute! She was one of the dog owners Ada Spruance had tangled with.

“I overheard someone in Judson’s Market say that you’re doing a piece in the Crier about Mrs. Spruance,” the voice went on, as if reading her mind. “There’s been a lot said back and forth in the paper. But my husband and I would like to talk to you in person, to give our side of the story.”

“Of course,” Sunny said, pleased at her good fortune. She’d wanted to get in touch with the Towles, and here they were, volunteering. “Could we say sometime this evening?”

They set a time, and Sunny put the phone down. I don’t know why they even worry about the paper, she thought. The grapevine works faster, and you can skip all the ads.