Клэр Донелли - Hiss And Tell

Inspiration struck. “You said you knew the sheriff when I told you what happened,” Sunny said. “How about the rest of your family?”

“Well, Grandfather had some dealings with him. Political fund-raising dinners and, of course, security for the property here. In fact, he’s going to issue a statement about the sheriff in an hour or so.”

“How about your brothers and your uncle?”

“They knew him in passing, I guess.”

Sunny nodded. “Here’s what I’d like to do for today’s blog post. I don’t think we can ignore what happened last night. So I’d like to have each member of the family—the folks from Maine—respond to this new tragedy, losing a neighbor during what should be a happy time.”

Cillie might work for a nonprofit foundation, but she came from a family of politicians. “That might work pretty well.”

“Great,” Sunny told her. “Let’s go listen to your grandfather and see if we can crib anything from his statement.”

It seemed like déjà vu all over again. Sunny stood in the same grassy area, facing the hastily assembled platform. This time, though, she was hiding behind the stand of bushes with Priscilla Kingsbury instead of Caleb. Sunny had been fast asleep for the Kingsbury’s official statement regarding what they called Eliza Stoughton’s “mishap.” Ken Howell had attended, however. According to him, the Kingsbury lawyer, Vincent Quimby, had done the talking. She spotted both Ken and Randall in the crowd of the usual media suspects.

A moment before the appointed hour, a golf cart appeared on the path from the big house—the cart with the senatorial seal on the windshield. It came to a stop, and Senator Thomas Neal Kingsbury emerged, with Lee Trehearne behind him. The Senator stood very erect in his summer-weight suit, but his steps were careful as he climbed onto the platform. Trehearne attended him like a mother hen until Kingsbury finally waved him away. For the first time, Sunny got a sense of the man’s age. Maybe he really is just hanging on until he sees a relative in the White House, she thought.

As he approached the microphone set up at the front of the platform, the Senator’s habitual quirks kicked in. But this time, his studied poses and vocal cadences made sense. There really were cameras on him.

“Thank you for coming,” he said. “I’ll keep this brief. You all know my family has gathered here for a wonderful event. We’re all very saddened by this senseless tragedy. None of us has any idea why this terrible thing happened to Sheriff Nesbit, or how. What I do know is that Frank Nesbit was a fine public servant and a good man.”

Yup, Sunny’s cynical reporter alter ego commented, just like every other dead politician who wasn’t caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

“Along with all of my family, we extend the most heartfelt condolences to Frank’s wife Lenore. It’s a very sad business.” He stood looking saddened for a long moment, about enough time for a TV reporter to recapitulate when and where the statement was being made in the cutaway back to the studio. Then Kingsbury said, “Thank you very much. No questions, please.”

Of course, that didn’t deter the more hard-boiled press professionals. They responded about the same way Shadow would on being offered a plate of prime tuna. Randall MacDermott was the first reporter who managed to pitch his voice to cut across the noise and be heard. Whatever his other shortcomings—and Sunny had a long list—he was a real reporter, she thought admiringly. “Senator,” he called, “do you think there’s any connection between the sheriff’s murder and the death of the young woman on your property?”

The look Kingsbury sent Randall would have quelled a lesser man. Then the Senator pulled himself together and walked back toward his golf cart, not even dignifying Randall’s shot with a “no comment.” In a moment, he was gone.

“A little on the brief side, but you can see how he handled all the main points,” Sunny told Priscilla. “I think you’d want to work some personal recollection into whatever you say about the sheriff. You’re here working for the foundation. Is there something he might have done to help?”

“He twisted some arms when it came to fund-raising,” Cillie said as she led Sunny over to the big house. “Let me see if I can come up with a better way to say that.” They found the older generation preparing for lunch. Cillie’s older brother Tom frowned when Sunny made her pitch but nodded his head as he thought it over.

“Okay if I do this off the cuff?” Tom Kingsbury asked. Sunny held up a small cassette recorder. “It’s been a while since I was involved in politics up here in Maine, but I certainly remember Frank Nesbit. He was a good friend and supporter to my grandfather—loyal, too. He stuck it out on the Senator’s last campaign, and when Cale lost on his reelection bid.” Tom suddenly stopped. “Better cut that. We don’t really talk about my grandfather’s last campaign, so many people turned their backs on him. Same thing with Uncle Cale’s stint in Congress. Can I start over?”

Sunny nodded. Tom frowned in thought for a moment, then said, “It’s been some time since our family took part in politics here in Maine. But I remember Frank Nesbit, and not just as a good friend and loyal supporter of my grandfather. As sheriff, he represented everything that local public service should be about. I’m sorry I didn’t get a chance to see him on this trip, and sorrier still for what happened to him. We Kingsburys would all like to express our sympathy to Frank’s family.” Tom cocked his head. “Okay?”

“That’s fine,” Sunny said. “Thanks, Governor.”

When they approached the eldest brother, Lem, he turned to his wife. “Deborah, do we have anything to say?”

She responded with a prompt but obviously prepared party line. “We join with the Senator in his sorrow at the loss of a good man like Frank Nesbit. While his life was an example of public service, his death shows how dangerous law enforcement can be. Family to family, we grieve with the Nesbits.”

The Senator himself declined to add anything. He gave Sunny a moment’s frowning consideration, and then said, “I’ve already made a statement on that subject.”

Case closed, Sunny thought. Go away.

She thanked the Senator, then she and Cillie beat a quick retreat. On their way out of the house, they bumped into Cale Kingsbury. When Sunny asked him for a statement, he waved her recorder away. “Nothing I have to say would carry any weight. You had more contact with the man, Cillie. If you can say he helped with the foundation in any way, that would be good enough for me.”

It took a while to weave together the more professional pronouncements from the Kingsburys with Priscilla’s more heartfelt memorial, but in the end Sunny was pleased with the results. Along with a nice portrait of a subdued Cillie and one of Ken’s shots of the Senator at the mic, it made for a nice, respectful posting. Once that was accomplished, Sunny felt justified in putting her feet up for a while and trying to catch up on some of the sleep she’d lost. The afternoon shadows were stretching more toward evening when she awoke. Her drowsy eyes seemed to see a familiar silhouette outlined against the window. Shadow?

But when she blinked herself alert and sat up, the cat was gone.

*

Shadow picked himselfup and walked out of the soft bed of flowers where he’d fallen. He’d wandered around this new place for so long without finding Sunny that he’d begun to lose hope. Why would Sunny come here? There didn’t seem to be much of interest to be found here. He’d come across a place where there was loud music and a big pond of splashing water. He’d seen those places before and never thought they were any good. For one thing, the strong, nose-twisting stink that came from the water made it hard to scent anything else. He’d have left right away except that there was a two-legged female there who had petted him gently and had given him some food.