Клер Донелли - The Big Kitty

At least, not very much.

*

As she cameup the walk to her front door, Sunny spotted Shadow kicking dirt near one of her father’s rosebushes.

Guess it would make sense for him to do his business where the ground has already been dug up, Sunny thought, but I don’t think Dad will appreciate the extra fertilizer.

She went inside to make a list of the things Shadow would need if he was going to stay. Kitty litter and a litter box, a proper cat bed, food—he couldn’t keep eating their tuna, after all. Closing her eyes, Sunny tried to remember the brand name on the cans she’d seen in Ada Spruance’s kitchen.

She opened her eyes and went back to her list. This was probably going to cost a bit. But maybe that was a good thing. It would make it clear to her dad that she intended for Shadow to stay.

Mike Coolidge was not happy when Sunny returned with a big bag of pet purchases, but even his laser glare of disapproval didn’t make Sunny back down. “I said Shadow would be staying with us, at least till we find him a decent place to live,” she told him in no uncertain terms.

Shadow himself turned out to have some strong opinions. When Sunny arranged his new pet bed, he ran to recover the fake-fur coat lining from the pillow he’d slept on previously, clamping it in his jaws and dragging it to Sunny, who placed the ratty thing over the new bed’s fleece lining.

Sunny shook her head. “Whatever floats your boat.” Then she turned to her father. “Do you have Veronica Yarborough’s phone number?”

“It’s in the phone book in the kitchen drawer,” Mike told her. “Look under S for ‘snooty.’”

*

Even for aSunday afternoon, the neighborhood was quiet as Sunny walked to her appointment with Veronica Yarborough late the next day. She’d felt lucky to wedge her way into Veronica’s very full social calendar.

Apparently everyone had decided to do their weekend yard work the day before, so Sunny walked through empty streets, with the occasional burst of football-related crowd roar coming through open windows. She arrived at her destination purposely early and stood for a moment, taking in the shiny white clapboard house with its columned front porch and third-floor dormer windows. Twenty-five years ago it had been the Leister place, home of the blondest and most popular girl in her grammar school class. How many times had Sunny walked up that drive in her best dress and party manners, just because all of the golden girl’s classmates had been invited? And she hadn’t even liked Jane Leister, damn it.

When Sunny was a kid, the house had engraved itself in her memory under the heading “Stately Home.” Certainly it was the most expensive place in the neighborhood, more suited to the upper-class enclave of Piney Brook. It stood out among the more modest houses in the surrounding blocks, but in a more graceful way than some of the McMansions that had popped up in recent years. Those looked just plain ugly.

Now Sunny found herself walking up to the front door yet again, dressed in a good suit from her reporting days. From the front, the place didn’t seem to have changed at all. A quizzical smile tugged at Sunny’s lips. Funny how some places stick with you, she thought.

Veronica Yarborough opened the dove gray door. The Icelandic wool sweater the president of the homeowners’ association was wearing probably could have paid for Sunny’s good suit three times over. Well, at least she wasn’t a blonde, just an elegantly tall brunette with a frost of silver in her hair.

“Ms. Coolidge, how nice to see you.” Veronica sounded about as chummy as the queen of England greeting a commoner upon whom she was about to bestow a medal.

Not for the first time, Sunny found herself wondering how this woman had elbowed her way to power in the homeowners’ association. Not only was she an outsider, she was a pushy outsider. That was the way Sunny’s dad had described Veronica when she’d first arrived a few years ago. When Sunny had called up from New York, Mike always had a funny story about the bossy new neighbor, telling everyone how things ought to be run in the association.

But maybe, just as the sea wore away the rocks on the Maine coast, it was Veronica’s relentless pushing that had brought her to the position of the neighborhood’s queen bee.

And as such, Veronica did her best gracious-host impersonation. “Why don’t we step into the family room?”

The living room Sunny remembered had become a formal parlor, and a very grand mahogany table now dominated the dining room, with a silk runner and a crystal bowl of flowers in the middle. Beyond that, however, was all new territory. The old rear wall of the house had been moved back a good fifteen feet, enlarging the old kitchen, adding a breakfast nook, and creating a large, airy space that housed leather couches, reclining chairs, a wall-mounted entertainment center, and a fireplace. French doors gave a view of a carefully rustic garden centered around a pool that Sunny didn’t remember, either. With its varnished wood and pale peach paint on the walls, the whole place seemed more northern California than southern Maine.

“Very impressive,” she said.

“Thank you.” Veronica took in her surroundings with a smug smile. “We had considerable work done before moving in.”

She gestured toward one of the couches. “Welcome to the neighborhood,” she said, then fluted a laugh. “Or rather, welcome back to the neighborhood, considering you’ve lived here before.”

Sunny managed an equally insincere smile. “Yes, we even met a couple of times.”

Veronica didn’t quite know how to answer that. Stepping over to the counter separating the seating space from the kitchen, she asked, “May I offer you a sparkling water?”

When Sunny said yes, Veronica took a bottle from the built-in refrigerator and poured them both wineglasses of bubbly water—an expensive, imported brand, of course. No generic seltzer from outlet-land here.

“I understand you’re doing a story for the Harbor Crier ,” Veronica said.

Still smiling, Sunny nodded. She hadn’t mentioned exactly what the story was about, and she wasn’t about to open her mouth now. Sometimes letting an interviewee take the lead could result in more interesting revelations than the tightest interrogation.

“As you know, this is an older homeowners’ association,” Veronica began.

The neighborhood had been developed a good fifty years before, starting with the construction of what folks in town still called the New Stores.

“Over the years, the association has had its responsibilities eroded as the township took over various services like street lighting and some of the formerly private roads. I’m afraid this also led to a certain … withering … of our regulatory ability.”

“That must have come as something of a shock when you joined the board.” Sunny did her best to sound sympathetic. She had to wonder how the Yarboroughs had bought an expensive house and sunk big bucks into this extension without being aware of the growing cat menagerie just blocks away. Didn’t they ever drive around the neighborhood? Aloud, she asked, “Is that part of the problem you faced with Ada Spruance?”

For just a moment, the mask of gracious living fell away from Veronica Yarborough’s face, exposing the frosty, ruthless woman who had conquered her little empire. “If I’d had my way, we’d have surrounded the Spruance place with a twenty-foot-tall fence and prayed for rain.” With an effort, she moderated her tone. “Not to speak ill of the dead, of course, but that woman had no right to be operating a—a shelter for stray cats in the middle of a residential neighborhood.”