The Big Kitty

11

An hour before her alarm clock was supposed to go off, Sunny jerked awake to hear her father bellowing, “What the hell is that truck doing in our driveway?”

She shrugged on a bathrobe and jammed her bare feet into a pair of running shoes, tucking in the laces because she didn’t have time to tie them.

Even as she did that, she could hear her father’s angry footsteps clomping down the stairs.

Since the heart attack, Dad hasn’t even wanted to go driving because he’s afraid of the stress involved, she thought ruefully. But he’s ready to go down and wage a war over somebody invading our sacred driveway?

She got to the front door and opened it, expecting to hear Mike roaring to the neighborhood in general.

Instead she found him standing in silence, his hands jammed into his bathrobe pockets.

“Are you okay, Dad?” she asked.

His voice came out very low, almost in a stammer. “I—I was coming back from the bathroom, passed the window, and saw this thing down here. But now—”

Mike took a hand out of his pocket and pointed to the rear of the big, bright maroon Jeep Wrangler. “Do you see it?”

Sunny blinked her bleary eyes, trying to make sense of what she saw. The end of a black garden hose—their garden hose—lay under the SUV’s exhaust pipe, a tangle of duct tape wrapped around it. The hose stretched from the driveway to the house, to one of the cellar windows where a pane of glass had been broken and the other end of the hose poked through, jammed in place with a bunch of rags.

Car—hose—everything sealed … carbon monoxide!

Enough brain cells finally woke up, and she let rip with a fairly naughty word, adding, “Somebody tried to kill us in our sleep!”

“But did you see who stopped it?” Mike bent over the taped end of the hose. Sunny joined him, now making out the tooth and claw marks in the plastic.

“Shadow?” she whispered in disbelief.

“The cat saved us,” Mike said. “He saved us, in spite of what I did to him.”

“What do you mean? What did you do to him? Why was he outside in the first place?”

Her tone of voice must have penetrated Mike’s thoughts, because he quickly straightened up. “We’ll talk about that later,” he said. “Right now I think we’d better call the police.”

*

Sunny had enough time to get dressed before a police cruiser arrived. A stocky guy in the uniform of a town constable got out and came up the walk. Sunny opened the door before he rang. “We left everything exactly the way we found it,” she told him.

As he tried to come up with a reply, she saw the ID tag on his chest: B. Semple.

So this is the guy who should have shown up when I found Ada, she thought. The one who’s good at giving out traffic tickets.

“Dispatch said this wasn’t exactly a police emergency,” Constable Semple said in some confusion.

“It might have been a medical emergency, if it had worked out the way it was supposed to,” Sunny told him. “Or a job for the coroner.”

She pointed to the end of the Jeep. “Go take a look.”

Semple took a long minute looking over the nasty little setup. Then he hustled back to his patrol car and got on the radio.

Probably asking for instructions, Sunny thought.

But a moment later, the constable put down his mike and took out a cell phone.

That’s probably Nesbit, Sunny realized. Whatever he’s got to say, he doesn’t want it going out over the public airwaves.

Semple finished his conversation and headed back up the walk, doing his best to keep a poker face. “This vehicle doesn’t belong to you?”

By now, Mike had come down to join them. “It’s not ours. I never saw that Wrangler in the neighborhood before.”

“Okay. When did you first notice it?”

That sent Mike off to the races, giving the whole story, chapter and verse, excluding the fact that the cat had saved them.

Semple went back out to examine the hose again. When he returned, he looked more harassed than poker-faced.

“So, you found this car parked outside shortly after dawn. Did anything wake you up? Did you notice any odd noises?”

“I was sleeping,” Mike said.

“So was I,” Sunny added.

The constable took them through their routine of the night before. “I went upstairs fairly early,” Sunny told him. “I’m working on a story for the Harbor Crier, and I was transcribing notes and working on the lead.”

“I watched some television until the late news,” Mike said. “Then I went to bed.”

“So you didn’t actually see one another for a good part of the evening?”

Mike shrugged. “Not till I popped my head in to say good night. Sunny was working on her computer.”

Semple nodded. “You didn’t hear anything? Anyone coming or going?” He directed the question to Mike. “Since you were on the ground floor.”

Sunny could feel warmth flooding her face. And since Nesbit apparently wants to dismiss this as another publicity stunt. Angry words came to her lips, but she stifled them somehow, even though the effort of clenching her jaws made her teeth hurt.

Mike apparently didn’t catch the constable’s drift. “Nobody went in or out.” Then he paused and muttered, a little shamefaced, “Except for the cat.”

Semple’s police-issue poker face took another hit with that response. “The cat?” he repeated in bewilderment.

“We’ve had a kind of annoying cat staying with us—always turning up where he wasn’t wanted,” Mike explained, getting a bit red in the face himself. “Last night I sort of … tricked him … out the window.”

Sunny shot him a “we are definitely discussing this later” look.

At least Semple had the grace to look apologetic when he came to his next question. “Please understand that I have to ask this. Carbon monoxide poisoning usually happens as the result of an accident—”

“That setup outside looked pretty much on purpose to me.” Sunny didn’t even bother to keep the anger out of her voice.

“—or suicide,” Semple went on, bracing himself for the reaction he expected.

He might have gotten that and more, except the doorbell rang. When Sunny answered it, she found Will Price standing outside. “I was still up after my shift and caught the call on my scanner.”

And apparently rushed right over after a hearty breakfast, Sunny grumpily thought.

As if reading her mind, Will went on, “I was a little delayed because of another crime report. Sal DiGillio said a 2007 Jeep Wrangler was stolen out of his service station.”

He turned to Mike. “Mr. Coolidge, you drive a maroon pickup, right?”

Sunny’s dad nodded. “Yeah, a Dodge Ram. Guess it’s about five or six years old now.”

“And it’s also at Sal’s service station?”

“Sure, he towed it yesterday.” Mike was getting a bit confused with this line of questioning, and his face showed it.

“Just one more question,” Will promised. “What color would you call that SUV outside?”

Mike was definitely wondering if Will had been up too long. “I dunno. Kinda maroon?”

Will nodded. “So if I were to tell someone, ‘Take the maroon truck from the service station and bring it to such-and-such an address,’ it wouldn’t be such a surprising mistake, would it?”

Semple decided to give up on the subtle approach. “The sheriff says—”

“Did the sheriff tell you that Sal reported the license number for that stolen Jeep?” Will interrupted. “It’s the same as the one outside.”

That shut Semple up, but Will went on, “And if our glorious leader is suggesting that someone here went out to get the car—what? They can’t recognize the difference between their own pickup and an SUV? Not to mention, both of the two family cars are out of commission. Sal’s place is on the interstate. I think somebody riding a bicycle would have stood out a little.”

Will looked at the other officer. “Ben, I know you don’t like to get involved in politics. But in spite of what Nesbit says, I think we’ve got to treat this seriously.”

“As serious as—” Sunny bit off what she was going to say because her father was standing next to her.

But her dad finished it for her. “As a heart attack,” he said.

Sunny grinned, but that faded pretty quickly as she turned to Will. “If what you’re saying is right, that means someone had to be watching the house in order to see Dad’s truck being towed.”

Will nodded. “Maybe several people. The meth business can quickly involve a lot of folks—someone to cook the stuff, someone to provide supplies, dealers—and security. This looks like a pretty good plan. The problem is the follow-through. After hitting the pipe, tweakers can be up for days at a time. They’re called tweakers because they try to fill the time fiddling with things.”

“Like maybe the gizmo that wound up in my car?” Sunny asked.

Will nodded. “Often, by the time a tweaker’s finished tweaking with something, it’s useless.” He took in the look on her face. “Hey, look at it this way. If someone was after me, the best description I could hope for would be ‘incompetent.’”

“I’d prefer ‘gone’ or at least ‘arrested,’” Sunny told him.

“I can talk to the other guys,” Semple said. “Explain the situation to them. Make sure we manage to swing by here and keep an eye on things.” His lips curved in a faint smile. “We can always write more tickets next month.”

“And to think, it was the cat that saved us.” Mike shook his head, still not quite able to believe it.

“That cat you’ve got here saved you?” Will shot a sharp look at Sunny, who just shrugged. This was her father’s story. She’d let him handle it.

Mike ushered Will out to check the evidence, determined to prove his theory. Sunny and Ben trailed behind.

When Will straightened up from looking at the teeth marks on the hose, he was trying hard not to laugh.

“What’s so funny?” Sunny demanded.

“Of course, you don’t know the reason why this thing was at Sal’s in the first place.” Will tried to keep a straight face. “The fuel gauge is screwed up. It reads full when the tank is almost empty. No matter what the cat did, the Jeep’s engine would have conked out in minutes.”

“So there wouldn’t have been enough carbon monoxide to kill us?” Sunny said.

“Not based on what Sal told me,” Will replied. “Of course, if the thief was a tweaker, he might not even have checked the gas gauge anyway.”

“So maybe the cat saved us, maybe not.” Mike stood over his winterized plants. “One thing I know for sure. That fur-coated little s.o.b. peed all over my roses!”

*

Sunny decided that carbon monoxide poisoning—even attempted carbon monoxide poisoning—offered a reasonable excuse for a mental health day. While the police prepared to tow off the maroon Wrangler (Will had successfully prodded the sheriff’s department into action by suggesting that possible grand theft auto should justify dusting the SUV for fingerprints), she phoned Ollie and told him he’d have to arrange some coverage for the office. He growled and grumbled, but Sunny stood her ground until he gave in.

Then, as she was making breakfast for her dad and herself, Sunny got a call from Ken Howell at the Crier. “Heard there was some excitement up by your way this morning,” he said.

“I’d like to say I’m getting used to it, but that wouldn’t strictly be the truth,” she told him.

“Not sure I like it when reporters end up in the middle of the news instead of just writing about it,” the editor told her. “On the other hand, I’m thinking about running a sidebar—”

“That’s the last thing I want,” Sunny interrupted.

“I hope you’re not having second thoughts about the story.” His voice rose in an anxious tone. “We’re supposed to be going to print tonight.”

“I was going to do a quick phone interview with the Ellsworths,” Sunny said. “But since I’m not going in to MAX today, I’ll do it in person and work it into what I’ve already got. Don’t worry, you’ll have your story.”

“Yeah, everybody’s looking forward to it,” Ken informed her dryly. “Veronica Yarborough was on the phone to me just yesterday, reminding me that the homeowners’ association keeps lawyers on retainer.”

“Lots of fun.” Sunny sighed and shook her head as she and Ken ended the call. It would probably ruin his breakfast, but it looked as if she’d have to tell Mike more about the unwelcome present in her car.

“Dad,” she began. “About the Mustang …”

“Useless when winter really sets in around here,” Mike said. “Just as well that jackass fooled around with it and killed the steering.”

Sunny stared at him for a second, openmouthed. “You knew about that?”

“I suspected something was fishy when you first told me, and Helena Martinson filled me in on the rest. We figured you didn’t want to talk about it to keep me from getting upset.”

They both involuntarily glanced toward the front of the house where the Wrangler had been left to kill them. “Looks like that worked out just fine,” Sunny said wryly.

“Speaking of Helena, you may want to ask if you can borrow her car. It’s a haul to get out to the Ellsworth place, especially if all you’ve got is a bicycle.”

Sunny phoned their neighbor and barely got out her request before Mrs. Martinson said she’d bring the car right over. The woman was as good as her word, delivering the car and then quickly walking out with a minimum of conversation.

That’s not like the Helena Martinson I know, Sunny thought. But then she remembered the last time they’d seen each other, and what Mrs. Martinson and her dad were probably doing. Maybe she’s a little too embarrassed to chat easily, Sunny decided. Which is fine by me, too.

She settled herself behind the wheel of the car, a good, dependable Buick, for the trip to the Ellsworth farm. It was another clear morning, a nice day to enjoy a drive out to the country. On the other hand, there wasn’t much country left nearby to enjoy anymore. The rising tide of development kept turning old family farms into spreads of half-acre homes.

Years ago, when Sunny was a kid, her parents would choose a good, crisp autumn Saturday and head off to Old Man Ellsworth’s for an afternoon of apple picking. She could remember sitting in the backseat, watching miles of fields pass by. Now it was a lot of would-be stately homes until at last she saw the big white barn she remembered, with the familiar sign, WELCOME TO ELLSWORTH’S PICK ’EM YOURSELF. Back in second grade, they used to joke that the sign referred to noses.

Sunny pulled up in a gravel parking lot, empty today, and headed for the farmyard where she’d spotted a man—at least the bottom end of him. His head and arms were hidden by the innards of his tractor.

“Hello?” Sunny called.

The man uncoiled from the tractor to reveal himself as a tall, lanky guy in overalls and a flannel shirt, with a surprisingly boyish face.

Sunny suddenly recognized him as the tall, gangly boy who’d been a couple of grades ahead of her—the one with a perpetual cowlick. He never could hope to be one of the cool kids. In fact, he had been the butt of that nose-picking joke.

Well, he’d filled out a bit since grade school. Sunny couldn’t tell about the cowlick. He was wearing a John Deere cap.

“Hope you weren’t all fired up to go apple picking,” the man said with a cheerful smile. “I’m afraid we’re closed today. Open Tuesdays, Thursdays, Saturdays, and Sundays,” he recited. “The rest of the week we spend keeping the place going.”

When Sunny introduced herself and explained why she was there, the man wiped away some oil on an old rag and presented a hard, callused hand to shake. “Nate Ellsworth. So you want to talk about our trouble with Mrs. Spruance.” He sighed. “I hoped it’d be over when that poor woman died. Hear the animal control people collected all her cats.”

“It’s pretty amazing that they would come all this way,” Sunny said.

“To tell the truth, we thought so, too,” Nate replied. “I guess we’re the nearest working farm to town.” He grimaced. “Town keeps coming closer and closer, these days.” Gesturing to the fields around him, he said, “We’ve had four generations of Ellsworths farming this land. Thirty acres.”

The orchard was pretty much as Sunny remembered it, neat rows of trees stretching off into the distance. A rounded hill rose in the middle of the land. To Sunny’s younger self, it had looked as if a giant had been buried up to his eyebrows, the foliage on the rounded knoll being his hair.

“My granddad went over to the pick-it-yourself business,” Nate went on. “Dad put in the cider press. We introduced lower trees—easier for the kids to get at the apples—and put in about fifteen acres of blueberry bushes. That way, people can come and pick something anywhere between July and November, if we’re lucky. Got a few pumpkin vines, too, for jack-o’-lanterns and Thanksgiving.”

As he spoke, a brown hen came wandering around the tractor, her head bent over in search of food. She halted in surprise to encounter Sunny’s running shoes—a strange pair of feet—and scuttled off in a new direction.

“Oh, yeah,” Nate said with a laugh, “and Isabel brought in some chickens. Why don’t you come in and meet her?”

Nate led the way to the farmhouse porch and opened the door. “Isabel?” he called. “Company.”

Isabel Ellsworth was a trim, bustling woman in comfortable jeans and a flannel shirt. With her strong features and deep tan, she looked like Hollywood’s idea of a farm wife.

When Nate explained that Sunny was writing a story about the cats and the chickens, Isabel shook her head. “It’s sort of traditional that farmyards should have a flock of chickens scratching around, and we decided they ought to be free-range. There’s lots of room for them to wander in the orchards.”

“And lots of bugs out there for them to eat,” Nate put in. “Helps to control the insect pests.”

“Then, too, the flock gives us a supply of eggs.”

“Both for our kitchen and for Isabel’s famous blueberry-cider doughnuts,” Nate put in.

Isabel ducked her head at the compliment. “And every once in a while we’ll dress a capon to sell at Judson’s Market. This isn’t some sort of factory farm, with thousands of birds in cages. It’s just enough to feed us, and maybe bring in a few extra dollars.”

“Like Isabel said, these are free-range. We don’t fence the chickens in.” Nate picked up the story. “The more adventurous ones will even go as far as the berry patches. They all come back at night to roost in the chicken coop at the side of the barn.”

“When you let the chickens out like that, you’ve got to expect to lose some,” Isabel said. “There’s foxes and half-wild dogs around here.”

“And lately folks have even spotted coyotes,” Nate added. “So it wasn’t exactly a surprise when something started raiding the hen house. That’s when we put in the cameras.”

“And then we got the surprise,” Isabel said. “Show her, hon.”

Nate opened an old rolltop desk to reveal a laptop computer. A few taps and clicks, and a fuzzy, grayish image appeared on the screen.

“It’s low-light stuff, so the picture looks a little weird,” he said apologetically.

But it was clear enough to show a long, lean cat shape creeping into the chicken coop, grabbing a bird by the neck, and skedaddling.

Sunny asked to see it again. It was hard to make out details like stripes, but …

Is that Shadow? she wondered.

“Once we saw it was a cat, we checked around and found out about all the cats Mrs. Spruance kept,” Isabel continued.

“And when we went over there, we found a whole bunch of bones in the backyard—chicken bones,” Nate said. “Including a leg with one of our ankle tags on it.”

Isabel’s eyes narrowed, emphasizing the crow’s-feet in her deep tan. “This was right after she made such a fuss about that dog going after one of her cats. But she didn’t seem to mind her cats coming after our chickens.”

Probably because she saw the cats as her friends, Sunny thought, while the chickens were just … food.

“Anyway, there was a lot of back-and-forth in your newspaper, people writing letters to the editor and such.” Isabel rolled her eyes. “It seemed pretty simple to me. That woman said the dog should have been controlled. Well, shouldn’t she control her cats? And frankly, she had so many she couldn’t keep track of them in the first place.”

“That was all annoying enough,” Nate said. “But folks around here began taking it personally. Customers we’ve had for years suddenly weren’t coming by. We even had a bunch of tour groups cancel. They just didn’t want to get in the middle of anything.”

“It sounds like a real mess,” Sunny said sympathetically.

“We’re trying to make a living here,” Isabel said. “This whole debate definitely didn’t help.”

“So did you do anything to deal with any other possible predators?” Sunny asked.

Nate nodded. “Bought myself a varmint gun.” He pointed toward the fireplace. The gun rack over the mantel was pretty old, but the rifle hanging there was obviously brand spanking new.

“Fellow at the store wanted to sell me a .22, but I wanted something with a little more oomph. That’s a .308 caliber.”

“Have you tried it out?”

“No,” Isabel replied sharply. She clearly didn’t like the idea of a gun in the house. “This isn’t the country anymore. There are houses sprouting up all around here, and that means kids. So no shooting. We keep the bullets locked up separate from the gun.”

From the look on Nate’s face, this was an argument they’d had more than once. Obviously, he didn’t want to get into it right now.

Sunny closed her notebook. “Well, thank you for talking with me. I wanted to make sure I got your point of view.”

They saw her to the door, and she set out for the parking lot and her car.

She couldn’t see the Ellsworths killing Ada over a couple of chickens. But if she’d continued the controversy, splitting the community so that fewer people went down to the farm, that could have threatened Nate and Isabel’s ability to keep their place.

So, that was motive. As for means … well, farm chores kept them pretty strong. Sunny remembered Nate’s callused grip when they shook hands.

And finally, she thought as she got into Mrs. Martinson’s Buick, there’s that .308 rifle that Nate is so proud of. It’s not exactly rare, but Isabel said that none of the ammunition had been used. If Will wanted to look in that box of bullets, I hope Nate didn’t sneak off for a little target practice behind his wife’s back.

Sunny started the car and got onto the driveway heading back to the road. She had to veer suddenly as a foraging hen scurried almost under the wheels of Mrs. Martinson’s big Buick.

Stupid chickens, she thought.