Sunny rode in
Detective Fitch’s car—in the back. “Procedure,” he said.
At least he’s not doing the bit where he presses down on the top of my head while I get in,
Sunny thought ruefully.
They drove through town, with Ben Semple accompanying in his patrol car until they got to the bridge. Then Ben peeled off.
Sure,
Sunny thought.
Now I’m in Fitch’s jurisdiction.
The Portsmouth cop didn’t gloat over Sunny’s situation, or threaten, or even say much of anything. She shifted her perch on the back seat.
Guess he wants me to stew in my own juices until he gets me in the interrogation room.
They arrived at the police station, and sure enough, Fitch escorted Sunny straight over to an interrogation room. She looked around at the acoustic tiles and the mirror at one end of the room. Was anybody watching behind there?
Fitch got her seated and then said, “Detective Trumbull will be with you in a minute.”
I wonder if this means I’m getting the good-cop treatment,
Sunny wondered. A moment later, Mark Trumbull came in carrying a file folder. His jacket was off, and the cuffs of his shirt were rolled up. Sunny could see the holstered pistol on his belt. His usual mournful expression shifted to a slight smile. “Thank you for coming down, Ms. Coolidge.”
As if I really had a choice,
Sunny thought.
Aloud she said, “It’s a little unfortunate. The day my boss comes in after being away for a week, and I’m pulled away from work.”
“Then I’ll try to make it as brief as possible.” Trumbull consulted his folder, although Sunny was pretty sure he had everything in there memorized by heart. “I understand you were the person who put Mrs. Rigsdale’s attorney on the trail of Christine Venables.”
“I wouldn’t exactly put it that way,” Sunny protested.
“How would you put it?” Trumbull asked. “You found a witness and told Mr. Phillips about her.”
“I was in Portsmouth on business.” Sunny had already decided not to mention what kind of business. “I stopped at a diner to pick up something for lunch. Martin Rigsdale’s face was on the TV, and the waitress recognized him. We talked about it. She mentioned that he frequented the place. Apparently, he tried to pick up some of the waitstaff and later brought some female company of his own.” Sunny tried to make her story as direct as possible.
“And did she identify those companions?” Trumbull had his usual sorrows-of-the-world expression, but his eyes were sharp. “Did you?”
Does he think I primed the pump with a little information of my own?
Sunny tried not to frown.
Or that I planted something?
“The waitress didn’t mention names.” Sunny shrugged. “In fact, I can’t remember hers, if she even gave it to me. But she described the women. One pretty much matched Dawn Featherstone—young, blond, athletic, very taken with Martin. The other was brunette, older, and more sophisticated. I didn’t know who that was.”
“You don’t know Christine Venables?” Trumbull pressed, his eyes getting sharper.
“I only know the Venables name from local politics,” Sunny answered. “If I’d caught a glimpse of her, on TV or out campaigning, I don’t remember it. Until my dad pointed her out last night, I don’t recall ever seeing Mrs. Venables before.”
Trumbull pounced. “But you saw her last night?”
Sunny nodded. “We went to Martin Rigsdale’s memorial service last night. My dad is kind of—well, he felt we had an obligation to go. That it would be traditional to pay our respects. We spoke briefly with Dawn Featherstone, and my father mingled with some folks he knew. We were just about ready to leave when my dad pointed out Christine Venables.”
“So your father knew her,” Trumbull said in the tone of a man trying to nail something down.
“He recognized her,” Sunny said, loosening the nails a little. “But then, my dad is a lot more interested in local politics than I am.”
The detective nodded. “Mrs. Venables is the wife of a Maine state representative.” He tilted his head a little. “And this wouldn’t involve any sort of political . . . activity on your father’s part?”
Sunny had to fight back a flash of anger.
I don’t care what you insinuate about me, but leave Dad out of it.
“Dirty politics, you mean? That’s not the kind of politics my father is interested in,” she said flatly. “He just mentioned the name in passing. In fact, he wasn’t even aware of my interest in Christine Venables. Jane had mentioned her name to me.”
Trumbull settled back in his seat, frowning. “Yes, she told me about that.”
Then why are you rehashing it with me?
But Sunny didn’t ask that question. She knew that the cop wasn’t just asking for her story, he was also using it to check out Jane’s.
Well, that should jibe with what Jane told you,
Sunny thought.
Trumbull sighed and placed both hands palms down on the table between them. “Well, unless you have anything else to add, I guess that covers what I wanted to know.”
Sunny felt muscles in her back relax—muscles that she hadn’t even been aware of tightening.
“One thing, though,” the detective added in an offhand manner. “What brought you over to the station last night?”
Whoa, Jane is right. This guy is great with those old Columbo zingers.
She couldn’t see any way of sidestepping or coming up with a palatable answer. It would have to be the truth. “I got a call from a friend,” she said, “Will Price. He thought that Jane might have been taken into custody.”
For just a second, Trumbull’s features tightened, the merest disarrangement of his mournful mask. Heads would roll if he found out who’d spoken to Will. Sunny didn’t know who Will’s source was, and what she didn’t know, she couldn’t tell Mark Trumbull. “He didn’t mention how he got that idea. But since we were comparatively nearby, we came to the station to see if Jane needed help.”
Trumbull’s oversized head gave the tiniest of shakes. “No, Mrs. Rigsdale had all the help she could possibly need.”
“She was certainly glad to be getting back outside,” Sunny told him. “I don’t have to tell you that talking to the police, even if you’re innocent, can be a pretty intense business.”
The hint of a smile played around the detective’s lips. “You seem to handle it well enough, Ms. Coolidge.”
“I was a reporter,” she replied. “I have some experience. Jane doesn’t. All I’m saying is that she needed to be loosened up, and Tobe Phillips did that by reminding her of something stupid from twenty years ago.” Sunny glanced at Trumbull. “I guess you know we were all in school together way back when. Anyhow, I think Jane overreacted—you know, the whole laughing in church kind of thing. If you start, it’s hard to stop.”
Very quickly, Detective Trumbull’s face went to surprised, thoughtful, and wary . . . and then shut down into that sad, basset hound look again.
He’s wondering why I mentioned that.
Sunny did her best to mask her own satisfaction.
Did I see him through the door last night, and how did he look? Enjoy that, Detective. You’re not the only one who can throw a zinger.
The moment ended with a knock on the door. Fitch came in with a sheaf of papers. “We finished checking out the Venables,” he said. “The husband was definitely up in Augusta during the window of opportunity. He was doing some sort of legislative committee work with several other state representatives.”
Fitch looked at his papers. “And the wife was home with her daughter.”
Sunny looked sharply from one detective to the other. In her old job, she was all too familiar with leaks. Some happened accidentally and some were carefully planned and orchestrated. Her overhearing this had a strong smell of accidentally on purpose.
Had Trumbull and Fitch actually gotten alibis from the Venables family members, or was this misinformation? And if it was real, why were they discussing it in front of her? Was this to serve notice that, as Will had predicted, Trumbull was bursting to eliminate Christine Venables as a suspect so he could get back to nailing Jane?
Certainly, they have to expect that Jane and Tobe will hear about this.
Sunny couldn’t keep the wry look off her face.
They’ve got to know which side I’m on.
Whatever mind games he was trying to pull, Trumbull was decent enough to arrange for a lift to get Sunny back to Kittery Harbor. She wound up in the back of another patrol car, perched on the edge of her seat. From some of the stories that Will told, who knew what could be lurking on the seats from previous occupants.
She was very glad to escape the perp’s-eye view of life by the time the car arrived at the MAX office.
Unfortunately, Ollie the Barnacle was still there, seated behind her desk. He looked at the oversized, expensive watch on his wrist. “Two hours gone. If I’m a nice guy and subtract an hour for lunch, that means you still owe me an hour.”
Sunny slipped off her parka. “And were there any important developments during my absence that you need to bring me up to speed on?”
He gave her a sour look. “Don’t push it,” he warned. “Damned phone didn’t ring at all. Sometimes I wonder what I’m paying you for.”
“You know that winter is our slow season,” Sunny told him. “What you’re paying me for is to have a human on hand to take care of things when they need to be taken care of.”
As if on cue, the phone rang. Sunny reached across the desk to pick it up. She grinned as she listened.
Thank God, another shopping expedition to outlet-land.
“And you’ll need accommodations for how many?” she asked in her most professional voice. “A full busload—twenty-six people! Will they want motel or B&B lodgings?”
Sunny came around the desk, shooing Ollie away. He vacated the chair—making money was more important to him than comfort. Sunny began calling up pages on her computer, discussing locations and rates. By the time she was done, she looked up to discover that Ollie had quietly left.
Well, now he knew what he was paying her for. It wasn’t the hours; it was what she knew.
Yeah, knowledge is power,
Sunny thought, flopping back in her seat.
Too bad it’s not money, too.
*
Shadow lay on
the topmost shelf of the bookcase, surveying his prison. It had been a good thing to work off some of his pent-up energy in climbing. And it was always good to be able to look down on everything around him.
He stared at the door between him and freedom. However hard he wished, though, it wouldn’t fall down, or break, or just swing open. But the next time the One Who Reeks opened it . . .
Shadow tried to estimate the angles. If he pushed off from here with all his strength, how high would he be when he reached the other side of the room? If he were head high, he could go for the face of the human who imprisoned him. The last two times she’d come in, she’d been carrying food, so her hands would be occupied.
He blinked that thought away, pleasant as it might be to consider. It was a long, dangerous leap from up here to down there, and most likely he would be much lower by the time he reached her. If he landed on her clothes, he wouldn’t be able to do much damage. And Shadow knew he’d have to hurt her, not just surprise her, if he really hoped to escape.
Finally, there was the thought of landing on her, of having to cling to the source of that awful stench . . .
He shuddered for a second, fighting to make that thought go away. Then, laying his head on his paws, he closed his eyes, trying to relax. Speaking of scents . . .
Maybe Shadow’s sense of smell had suffered, being trapped in close quarters with a human that emitted such an offensive odor. But up here, as he put his face close to the wooden shelving, he caught a trace of a different fragrance, a trace left by one of his own kind, not a human smell.
He rose on all four paws, nosing along the wood. Yes, definitely he was sniffing another cat. It reminded him of the scent of a she that he’d encountered down on the floor by the bowls. But he’d sensed sickness down there, pain and sickness nearly to death.
Then he realized. This was the scent of the she before she became ill. Yes, it made sense. A cat that sick wouldn’t be able to climb any great height. This was where she had gone before she became weak.
He followed the spoor to the other side of the shelf, noticing it get stronger as he moved. Not only did she come up here, but she spent a lot of time coming up here.
Well, if I were trapped in a room like this, with a human like the One Who Reeks, maybe I’d look for the farthest place away.
Realization made him stop in his tracks. He
was
trapped, just as the she had been. Would sickness and death be his only escape?
He reared back at the thought, sitting on his haunches. And when he did, Shadow discovered the real reason the lost she had come up here. Somehow, he caught a whiff of fresh air!
Shadow peered up at the ceiling above him. It wasn’t like the walls or floor—or the ceiling in Sunny’s room, which he’d explored one day from the top of her bookcase. The noise she made when she found he’d left a paw print up there! But that had been all in one piece, solid and immovable. This ceiling, though, was broken into squares, with thick borders. Looking more closely, he saw seams at the end of those borders. That’s where the trace of fresh air came from.
He stretched out a paw—no, still too short. So he pushed up with his rear legs. That was dangerous; it nearly sent him toppling to the floor. Was that what had happened to the she? Had she perhaps fallen and injured herself? Maybe she was just too short to reach that tantalizing square above.
But Shadow was longer than most cats. He backed up a little on the shelf and then extended his rear legs as strongly as he could, trying for a vertical jump while pressing up with his forepaws. He struck the rough-textured square—and it moved!
Again and again he tried, leaping at full extension, sometimes having to dance back desperately to avoid plunging off. A low guttural growl came from deep in his chest as he leaped, catching his claws in the rough-textured stuff . . .