Клер Донелли - The Big Kitty

Sunny gave the neighbor lady a sharp look. “How do you know about that?”

“Besides you, I’m probably the only other person in the neighborhood who’s been back there in heaven knows how long,” Mrs. Martinson replied. “I’ve been in her kitchen, too. The last time Ada painted, Clinton was president. And the door to the cellar was painted shut.”

Sunny shut her eyes for a moment, replaying the wait while Sheriff Nesbit went down into the cellar. “I don’t think he was in there long enough to have gone up the stairs,” she finally said.

Mike grunted. “Sounds to me like maybe old Frank was a bit too quick to downgrade this particular crime scene, as usual.”

“It’s not even a crime scene,” Sunny told him. “According to the sheriff, Ada’s death is just an accident.”

“Maybe we should try and show him differently,” Mike suggested.

Sunny gave him a look. We? “Nice thought, Dad,” she said aloud. “But I don’t have any standing to conduct an investigation.”

“Well, maybe we can change that, too.” Mike reached for the telephone. “After I talk to the alderman and some other people.”

*

Her dad’s telephonepoliticking took a little while, but early that afternoon Sunny found herself driving downtown. Most of Kittery Harbor was pretty spacious—for instance, the houses in Sunny’s neighborhood were built on good-sized lots, with plenty of trees and shrubbery around. But the old part of town seemed crammed in around the cove that served as a harbor, the buildings shouldering against one another along crooked streets, some of which were still set with cobblestones. Sunny ended up parking her car a few blocks from her destination to avoid the crowding—there were just too many tourists around, enjoying a Saturday afternoon ramble around the historic structures.

Almost every building in the county showed some influence from old New England Colonial architecture—even if, nowadays, the clapboard siding was made out of plastic instead of spruce. But downtown, these buildings were the real thing. They might look more weather-beaten and worn than the imitations on the outskirts of town, but, where they hadn’t been messed with, they also showed that old-time craftsmanship.

That didn’t necessarily mean they were prettier, though. The building that housed the offices of the Harbor Crier looked more like a barn than anything else, and inside, the place smelled strongly of printer’s ink and looked more like a print shop than a newspaper office. Ken Howell’s desk was tucked in a corner of a room where generations of printing technology sat on planked pine floorboards. In the far corner there was even a handpress of the type that usually turned up in old Western movies.

Ken’s storklike form was somehow folded onto a battered old stenographer’s chair in front of an even older desk, a tall, pine, pigeonholed affair that would have looked more at home in a nineteenth-century counting house or a production of A Christmas Carol . Though, of course, the computer terminal might come off a bit anachronistic.

Ken stood up, a living Yankee stereotype, a gaunt, fleshless hawk face frowning over a long, lanky body. His flinty blue eyes didn’t exactly impress Sunny as welcoming. “Your father and Zack Judson both pestered me into seeing you. Since Judson’s Market is a printing customer, I’m giving you five minutes. Then I’ve got a shopping circular to get out—something practical to pay the bills.”

“You must have heard that Ada Spruance is dead,” Sunny began.

Howell nodded. “A fall. Tough for an old woman living alone, pretty much shunned by her neighbors.”

“The problem is, Helena Martinson says Ada never used the stairs she’s supposed to have fallen down, that she always avoided them.”

The editor listened closely as Sunny explained Mrs. Martinson’s objections. “Dad says Sheriff Nesbit has a habit of pushing reported crimes down the scale to protect his image, and this time he may have gone too far.”

Howell’s frown went from antagonistic to thoughtful. “You really think a crime occurred?”

“To be honest, I don’t know.” Sunny spread her hands. “But I do know there was supposed to be a winning lottery ticket on the premises, and I went and plastered the fact all over the local media. So if something did happen, I kind of feel responsible.”

Howell sat in frowning silence for a moment, then expelled a long puff of air. “That would make two of us—although I don’t usually consider myself as local media.”

His pale blue eyes shot a sharp glance at Sunny. “So you want to use the paper as cover to investigate the situation? You’re not trying to worm your way onto the staff? This won’t be a paying job, and it certainly won’t be like working for a big operation like the Standard . Don’t expect people to pay much attention to the power of the press. You get that, right?”

“I understand,” Sunny told him. “And I appreciate the favor. It can’t have been easy for you to agree to this—not with Ollie Barnstable as a partner. I understand he’s got a lot of political connections up in Levett, including the sheriff.”

“I don’t like that Levett crowd, especially Nesbit. And Barnstable is only a junior partner,” Howell corrected. He glanced over to the ancient crank-operated press in the corner. “My great-grandfather started the Crier because he wanted to write about abolishing slavery. We celebrated a century and a half of service a few years ago. I’m not having this paper go down on my watch—that’s why I took Barnstable’s money. But he doesn’t dictate editorial policy. So go ahead and investigate.” He sighed. “But try not to go tramping on a lot of people’s toes.”

*

Armed with anofficial press pass from the Harbor Crier , Sunny drove back to the Spruance place. When she pulled into the cracked driveway, she found Gordie’s rusty tan pickup parked at the end—and Will Price’s dusty black one pulling in behind her.

She forced her door open and got out of her Mustang as Will stepped down from the running board on his truck. “If I had known you were coming, I’d have stayed after the animal control people left,” he began, then raised his hands at the look on her face. “Ken Howell told me you were coming over here—and why. He asked if I’d come along with you, and frankly, I’d like a look at that painted-over door you mentioned to him.”

“What is this,” she asked in confusion, “the Kittery Harbor Underground Resistance?”

Will shrugged. “There are a lot of people around here who aren’t happy with the way things are run up in Levett.”

“And I suppose you’re especially unhappy with Sheriff Nesbit.”

“The guy’s a politician, not a cop,” Will said, his voice going flat. “My dad caught the first murder around here in I don’t know how many years.” He paused for a second. “The last, too, unless we end up counting this one. Anyway, he investigated, found a guy, made a case, and the prosecutor got a conviction. Then the real guy got caught on a completely unrelated charge and confessed—right before the election. Nesbit crucified my father.”

“I understand he died soon afterward.”

Will gave a tight nod. “Car crash.”

“I know how that feels,” Sunny said. “I lost my mom in a crash, too. The big Christmas ice storm.”

“It can be hard to get over.” He shook himself, as if physically trying to change the subject. “Let’s take a look inside.”

Will paused for a second, drawing a small jar of salve from his pocket. He scooped a little on his finger and then dabbed it under his nose. Sunny caught the pungent scent of menthol. “Are you allergic to overgrown grass?” she asked.