Клэр Донелли - Catch As Cat Can

“No need,” Mike replied. “Sweeney already cut him—as in cut him off. I hear he put out the word. Several of the guys who did deals with Garret couldn’t sell their fish in the Portsmouth market. And Garret can’t even buy a sardine there.”

Maybe that explains the lack of variety in Neil’s store lately, Sunny thought. It sure didn’t help the drop-off in business. “Do you think that really hurt the fishermen?”

“It’s more than half an hour, driving to Kennebunkport, and an hour, hour and a half getting to Boston or Gloucester,” Mike said. “Going by boat makes the trip even longer. When you’re racing the clock to bring in your catch as fresh as possible, that can become a factor. And if you land in a market where no one will buy from you, the wasted time may make for a spoiled catch.”

Sunny frowned. “So that’s it—all those fishermen are ruined?”

“Oh, when they come back around the beginning of tourist season, Sweeney will probably let them off the hook. He’s a businessman.”

And the way things are going, by then Neil’s store should be bankrupt and safely out of Sweeney’s way, Sunny added silently. “But what about Charlie Vane?” she asked. “You told me that he’s still up here fishing, out in the cold—in more ways than one.”

Mike only shrugged. “He’s played it cute with Sweeney and the other guys in the fish market for years, hornswoggling them whenever he can. Sooner or later, that was going to catch up with him. If it hadn’t been his side deals with Garret, it would have been something else.”

“You think maybe he’s angry with Neil Garret for dumping him in it?” Sunny didn’t quite bring off the nonchalant tone, because Mike shot her a sharp look.

“If you’re going to ask him that, I’ll have to come along,” he told her. “Frankly, I’d prefer if Will went with you, but I don’t think Charlie will say anything if there’s a cop around.”

“I don’t—” Sunny began, but Mike cut her off.

“Of course you’re pumping me about the local fishing scene—probably because Will asked you to do it.”

“He may have suggested that I talk to you, but I thought of that in terms of getting background, not expecting you to come up with a possible suspect.” She gave her dad a look.

“Charlie may be crooked, but I don’t believe he’s a killer,” Mike said. “Just in case, though, I do intend to be there when you talk to him. Let me make a couple of calls and see if I can find out where Charlie is supposed to be.”

“Tell him I’m trying to sell a piece to the paper.” The moment Sunny said it, she realized it might be more than just a cover story. If she got some interesting quotes, Ken Howell might actually buy it.

They did the dishes together, and then Sunny left her father in the kitchen to use the phone. The doorbell rang as she came down the hall, and she answered it to find Will Price.

“Figured I’d check in and see what your dad had to say,” he explained.

Sunny passed along what she’d learned from Mike about Charlie Vane. “Dad’s working the phone to see if he’s in town and whether we can talk to him.”

The phone rang, and Mike came into the living room, trailed by Shadow.

“Was that someone calling with info about where to find Charlie Vane?” Sunny asked.

“No, that’s already set up,” Mike replied. “Charlie’s coming in to port tomorrow morning and he’ll see us—but no cops,” he added with an apologetic glance at Will. “The call was from Helena Martinson, inviting us over—and she’d be happy to see you, Will.” Mike smiled. “I believe cake is involved.”

“Sounds good to me,” Will said, ignoring the look Sunny sent his way. It had been hard enough drawing the whole story about Neil Garret/Nick Gatto out of Abby, and harder still deciding to tell Will after promising to keep Abby’s secret. It wouldn’t be easy, socializing with the Martinson women—more like walking on eggshells. But now Will wanted to go waltzing into the Martinson place, face-to-face with Abby and Helena . . .

Will leaned toward Sunny, lowering his voice. “Do you know how much of my job involves playing dumb?”

“I guess I’ll find out,” Sunny muttered, following Mike to get her coat.

A brisk walk through the cold air brought them to the Martinson house. Sunny braced herself for a big welcome from Toby, but the overgrown pup was nowhere to be seen. Mrs. M. caught it immediately. “Toby is downstairs in his dog crate. Abby’s working with me to train him better.”

Muted woofs and whines came from beneath their feet.

“You can’t let him out because he’s crying, Mom,” Abby scolded. “That’s just rewarding bad behavior. He’s got a nice blanket and toys, and soon enough he’ll realize it’s his safe place—his den.”

She gave the guests an apologetic smile. “I may not be a dog whisperer, but I was a dog walker, and I saw how people got their puppies to grow up into good dogs.”

“Well, if I can’t give Toby a treat, how about you folks? Who’s up for coffee cake?” Helena gave Will an admiring glance. “You must have come straight from work. That’s a very nice tie you’re wearing.”

Yeah, interesting design—except for the spot, Sunny added to herself. Will was wearing her Christmas present again. He obviously didn’t have many ties in the rotation, and he hadn’t gotten it cleaned yet.

This wasn’t some polyester cheapo tie. It was embroidered silk, handmade and expensive, even though she’d managed to snag it in outlet-land. Sunny had started shopping as soon as she learned Will was getting out of uniform. It had been a long and difficult hunt, and she’d been proud to present him with something appropriate and nice for Christmas.

Less than a month later, the spot had appeared, and it had just seemed to grow every time she looked at it, although Sunny had pretended not to notice.

Abby was a lot more blunt. “Yeah, it’s a shame you got something on it.”

Will winced. “I’m afraid I’m still getting used to the whole jacket-and-tie thing, although I have learned now that ties and pens don’t mix well.”

“Could have been worse. I had an audition for a part but had to get through half a shift first. So I wore my good silk blouse in to work. Somehow, some ink transferred from a pad—” She moved her hand chestwards. “To my left boob.”

Abby shrugged. “Lucky thing I knew how to deal with that.” She turned to her mom. “Do we have any rubbing alcohol?”

Mrs. M. was still getting over the location of Abby’s ink stain. “I—I think so.” She headed to the bathroom as Abby stepped into the kitchen, returning with a wad of paper towels. “You’ll have to take off the tie.” She grinned. “Not as embarrassing for you as it was for me. I spent the lunch rush in a suit jacket pinned together up top so I didn’t show off too much while my blouse dried.”

Helena Martinson reappeared with a plastic bottle of clear liquid and some cotton balls. “I thought these might be useful.”

“Just what we needed. Thanks, Mom.” As Will took off his tie, Abby put the paper towels down on a table. She put the tie facedown and soaked a cotton ball in alcohol. Then, checking the position of the ink stain, she pressed the wet cotton to the rear of the tie.

After a moment, she lifted the tie and pointed to the toweling—and a big splotch of ink that had appeared. “See? The alcohol soaks through, taking some of the ink with it.”

She moved the tie to fresh sections of the toweling, applying new alcohol-soaked cotton balls until the stain had all but disappeared.

“Thanks,” Will said when she handed the tie back. “That’s pretty amazing. How did you know that?”