Клер Донелли - The Big Kitty

Well, absence hadn’t made Randall’s heart grow fonder. As the situation on the Standard got worse and he found his own job threatened, he’d plumped for family values and sent Sunny a severance notice.

Speaking of which, Sunny thought, I’d better get back to work before Ollie the Barnacle gets the same idea.

She headed back through the crooked, Colonial era streets and then through the newer, more open part of town, passing city hall and the big brick library. After a quick glance at her watch, she lengthened her stride along the final long blocks to the New Stores.

Unlocking the door, she stepped into the MAX office and immediately checked the answering machine. Nothing critical there. Sunny settled behind her desk and switched on the computer. A couple of clicks on the mouse, and she’d brought up the project she’d been working on before lunch, marketing copy for the website.

Then she checked her e-mail. The first few items were just routine business. But after them came a string of e-mails from Ken Howell at the Crier .

Sunny sat for a moment, looking at her computer monitor.

She tried to concentrate on the marketing copy on the screen. This was supposed to be the good part of her job, the creative work that made up for the website maintenance and listing updates.

But now she had something a hell of a lot more interesting than that to think about. After she’d called him yesterday, Ken had promised to send over the Crier ’s coverage of the two disputes she’d inquired about.

Sunny sighed, glanced around guiltily—although she knew no one else was in the office—and started downloading the files Ken Howell had e-mailed over. As each one came through, she found herself reading a new installment of a continuing saga to rival a soap opera.

Ada Spruance’s friction with the neighborhood homeowners’ association had essentially boiled down to an offense against Veronica Yarborough’s esthetic sense—and her property values. That didn’t exactly make for a front-page news story, even for a small weekly like the Harbor Crier.

Ada’s other disputes, however, were precisely the stuff of small-town newspapers. The first wasn’t a man-bites-dog story, but a dog-bites-cat one. One of Ada’s feline residents had gotten mauled—and ultimately died—after a run-in with a neighbor’s pit bull–Rottweiler mix.

The Crier tried to keep an impartial stance, but it was interesting to see how the community’s sympathies had shifted. Initially, folks had been shocked by the attack, and Ada had threatened a lawsuit. But the Towles—Chuck and Leah, the owners of the dog—had a story to tell, too.

Although their dog had caught up with the cat in front of Ada’s house, the chase had begun in the Towles’ backyard. According to them, the cat had climbed over the fence and taunted the dog until he’d broken his tether and taken off in pursuit.

Howell hadn’t sent just the news stories; he’d also sent the impassioned exchanges from the Letters to the Editor section. The situation had only gotten wilder with the second case.

Nate and Isabel Ellsworth ran a free-range chicken operation at the edge of town. They thought they were facing a fox problem—until they installed some video surveillance and discovered it was a cat that was raiding their stock.

When they checked the largest local collection of cats—the Spruance place—they found a chicken foot with their identifying tag on the ankle near the porch.

This pretty much swept Ada off the moral high ground. Now she was the one with the predatory pet. Tempers ran so high that one local wag wrote to the editor suggesting that the cases be put together and adjudicated on one of those TV legal shows.

As far as Sunny could make out from the accounts, none of the situations ever got to court. Would that have changed if Ada Spruance had received a whopping infusion of lottery money?

She scrolled back through the various stories until she found a quote from the Ellsworths describing the chicken thief. Although they had a hard time telling from the night-vision images, it appeared to be a large black or gray cat.

Sunny bit her lip. That couldn’t be Shadow—could it? she thought uneasily, then shook her head. Seemed like every time she saw a cat, she thought of Shadow.

The rattle of the front door opening gave her an instant’s chance to click the computer mouse. By the time Oliver Barnstable stood beside her, the promo copy was back up on the screen.

“Hello, Ollie.” Glancing up at him from her seated position was a bit like watching a partial eclipse. She had to look around his big, round belly to catch a glimpse of his florid face. He was a blazer and khakis kind of guy, with an expensive, wrinkled blue cotton shirt that strained around his overly ample middle.

“Keeping busy, Sunny?” he asked.

“There’s always enough to do,” she replied.

Especially considering the pitiful salary you’re paying me, she added silently.

It was as if he’d read her thoughts. “It’s just that I heard you’ve taken up a side job with Ken Howell. Hope that won’t cause a conflict of interest.”

“Conflict?” Sunny echoed.

“The way I hear it, you’re trying to prove that Ada Spruance’s fall was no accident. Since your job—your main job—is supposed to be promoting tourism, I’m wondering exactly how publicizing a murder around these parts would help to pack the customers into our accommodations.”

For a brief second, Sunny wondered how it would feel to shove her keyboard right through his smug, fat face.

But she needed the job. So she braced herself for whatever Ollie the Barnacle had to say, but this was interrupted when the door rattled open again.

A man, tall and slim, stood silhouetted in the doorway. As he came inside, Sunny noticed his sharp features and rich tan. Yeah, “rich” would be the word for him. He wore thin-wale cords and some sort of car coat, black wool, very soft. Probably cashmere.

Ollie took in the vision as well, saying, “Welcome to the Maine Adventure X-perience,” in his most genial tone. “We don’t generally get walk-in traffic, but we’re certainly ready to help you.”

“Thanks very much.” The man gave a small smile, barely moving his lips when he talked. And the way he spoke—was that some sort of accent? Sunny couldn’t place it.

“I had some business in Portsmouth that concluded early, so I have a few days free. I’m told my family has some roots here, and I’d like to explore the area a bit.”

“I’m sure Sunny can arrange something appropriate.” Ollie looked at his watch, every inch the man of affairs. “You’ll have to excuse me, Mr.—?”

“Richer,” the elegant stranger supplied, giving the name a French pronunciation. “Roger Richer.” The first name got more of an English treatment, but still came off sounding like “Razh-AIR.” He also gave Ollie a slight bow instead of a handshake.

A little taken aback, Ollie nodded in response, said good-bye, and took off.

Sunny nodded toward the chair beside her desk. “Why don’t you have a seat, Mr. Richer?”

“Please, call me Raj.” He gave her another tight-lipped smile.

“Okay.” Sunny brought up a new window on her monitor. “I guess the first order of business would be accommodations. I could book you a room”—she glanced again at that expensive coat—“or a suite at the Colonial Inn. It’s probably the nicest place in the area.”

“A hotel?” Raj looked a little disappointed. “I had hoped for something a little more—homelike.”

“Ah.” Sunny switched to her bed-and-breakfast database. Most B&Bs in the area catered to a more modest tourist crowd, but …