Клэр Донелли - Catch As Cat Can

So if Neil was the shooter, why did he need to show the body to me—or whatever other unlucky first customer he had today? What’s the advantage for him? And if the body in the freezer was a surprise to him, how did it wind up there? With all that coastline to choose from, why would someone take the risk and go to the effort of breaking into Neil’s place to dump a body there?

She smiled at Mike. “If you smell something burning, it’s probably just a few brain cells. I don’t envy Will on this case. Not only is it a whodunit, but a whowuzit, and why’d he get killed?”

They talked about other things as they finished the meal. Mike joked about whether having Abby around would cramp Mrs. M.’s style on the local gossip grapevine. “She might have to come to you for the latest info,” he said.

Smiling, Sunny shook her head. “She’d probably get more from reading the Harbor Courier. ”

As she spoke, the phone rang.

“That could be Helena right now,” Mike joked.

Close, but no cigar, Sunny thought when she heard the voice on the other end of the line. It was Ken Howell, editor, publisher, most of the reporting staff, and printer of the Harbor Courier .

“So, you forget your old friends now?” he asked.

“Oh, I remember you,” Sunny replied. “The problem is, I don’t have much to say. Maybe you should be having this conversation with Will.”

“I think you mean talking to the sheriff department’s public information office,” Ken corrected her. “I’d have better luck trying to get something out of Lenore Nesbit.”

“Maybe you would,” Sunny agreed. “All I can tell you is that I walked into the fish store this morning and saw a dead body in the freezer. After that, it was all in the hands of the cops.”

“You mean Will Price.”

“And other people. I talked with Captain Ingersoll and Sheriff Nesbit. You know, the official people,” Sunny told him. “They’ve been working since the morning. By now, they must have assembled some more information.”

“You’d think.” Ken didn’t bother to keep the sarcasm out of his voice. “But not really. They still don’t have any identification on the fellow you found. And if they know anything else, they’re being mighty economical with it.”

“You’re saying Lenore Nesbit is hiding something?”

“I’m trying to decide if this situation merits a special edition,” Ken confessed. “We delivered this week’s issue around the time you discovered the body. It’s an expense, you know. And after the murders we’ve had in the last year or so, can I justify going up against the local dailies, or publish on my usual schedule?” He sighed. “Ollie is pressuring me to soft-pedal the story.”

“Well, he would, considering his investment in the tourism market.” Including my job, Sunny silently added. “Do you think Lenore is actually stonewalling you?”

“I can’t be sure,” Ken said. “But if I decide to go to press, what the hell am I going to say? You’re a pro, Sunny. What do you think?”

“The victim seems to be an out-of-towner, non-local,” Sunny said slowly. “You’ve got the online edition now. Why not break the story there and hold back on print until more facts come to light?” She had a sudden inspiration. “Dad was wondering if the guy was homeless—wearing the wrong clothes for the local weather. That might be an angle to examine, using the murder to springboard into a more general concern.”

“Yeah.” Ken’s voice sounded a little hollow. “’Cause if I guess wrong, the paper and ink bill might make me homeless.” He paused for a second. “I know that Will is supposed to be doing the investigating and this is his first case, so I can understand you backing him up.” His voice grew pleading. “But you really have nothing for me?”

“Nothing more than I already told you,” Sunny assured him.

Ken thanked her and hung up.

And, Sunny was a little surprised to realize, I have no interest in getting involved.

*

The Harbor Courier restricted its coverage to a box on the home page of its virtual version, reporting the bare facts that had come out. But there was a jump to an editorial page, raising the homeless theory and promising to look into the homelessness situation in Elmet County. That was more than the other local news outlets managed to do with the story. The discovery of an unidentified dead body is hot news at first. But without identification or other developments, that kind of story got pushed into the back pages (or the TV equivalent) pretty quickly.

Sunny had a hectic Friday, catching up with weekend reservations that had come in while she was away the day before. The weekend dragged, though, because Will was working and Mike was being very circumspect around Mrs. M. Sunny spent a lot of time binge-watching some cable shows and playing with Shadow.

She did give in to curiosity on one point. Saturday evening she went online and checked how long it was supposed to take the FBI’s fingerprint system to identify someone. According to the websites she hit, it was supposed to take no longer than seventy-two hours.

So, she thought, Will—and maybe Ken will have something to go on by Monday.

She also got a heads-up from Ollie Barnstable on Sunday afternoon. “The police are going to let the store reopen on Monday,” he told her over the phone. “The crime-scene people have finished.”

Sunny had a brief mental image of hazmat-suited CSI geeks dusting the frozen fish in the freezer for fingerprints. “I guess that’s good news,” she said.

“We’ll see if that marshal is right about a spike in business.” Ollie seemed to have lost his nervousness about Val Overton. He sounded just like a demanding landlord.

“I’ll wait until there’s a gap in the line before I remind Neil about his rent,” she told him.

When Monday morning came and Sunny arrived at the MAX office, it seemed as though Val’s prediction was right on the money. The New Stores had much more foot traffic than usual. Sunny saw a steady stream of people pass her office window, on their way to gawk into Kittery Harbor Fish.

But I don’t know how many of them are actually going inside to buy anything, that irreverent voice in the back of Sunny’s head spoke up . Maybe Neil should charge for guided tours of the crime scene.

She wasn’t altogether surprised when her phone rang and she heard Helena Martinson’s voice on the other end. “Thank heavens the weather has moderated a bit today,” she said. “Abby and I are thinking of going downtown for lunch. Would you like to join us at the Redbrick? We can pick you up at the office.”

Sunny agreed, smiling as she hung up the phone. Very smooth, Mrs. M., she silently complimented her neighbor. You’ll just happen to stop by right next door to the bull’s-eye for every gossip maven in town.

She put in an hour or so getting the office squared away so she could have a leisurely lunch and then sat waiting for Helena and Abby to show up. Abby came in the door frowning and looking around. “What did this use to be?”

“Barnstable’s Sweet Shoppe,” Sunny replied.

“Right, right.” Abby smiled reminiscently and pointed at the right-hand wall—the one opposite from Kittery Harbor Fish. “That’s where the soda fountain was.”

“We’re not going to get any service there nowadays,” Mrs. M. said. “I’ve really had a hankering for one of those Redbrick burgers all day. Shall we go?”

Sunny got her parka and headed for the door. While she locked it, Helena took her daughter by the arm. “This is the place that was on the news,” she said, steering Abby over to the window of the fish store. Sunny trailed along, eager to see what kind of crowd Neil Garret was actually attracting. He looked pretty busy, standing behind the counter and dealing with several customers.