Клер Донелли - The Big Kitty

“Here’s something,” she said, double-checking that the listing hadn’t been booked. “The Rowlandson estate. It’s in Piney Brook, a very exclusive community. A cottage, usually for weekend guests, but it happens to be available. Single bedroom, a bath, and a working kitchen.” She paused for a second. “The Rowlandsons won’t actually be there—they’re away on their yacht. I guess you’ll have to cook for yourself, but you can use the amenities. Although it’s kind of late in the season, they do have an enclosed pool. Would that be all right?”

Raj nodded. “That would fill the bill nicely.” He reached into his coat and drew out a wallet that should have been as slim and elegant as the rest of him. The effect was somewhat spoiled by the batch of hundred-dollar bills packed into it. “What would the rate be?”

“We usually do payments by credit card,” Sunny began, then shook her head. Their business was done online, and that was where their payments were processed. The office didn’t have a credit card terminal. “But I suppose a cash deposit would be all right.”

She got out the lockbox for petty cash, which also held the Rowlandsons’ keys. Raj handed over a fat fee for five days, and Sunny tucked away the bills in the box. That should warm Ollie’s cold little heart, she thought.

Returning to her keyboard, she printed out the directions to the estate and then maneuvered a few new windows onto her screen. “Richer. That’s a French name, isn’t it?”

Raj nodded.

“Is that the branch of the family you’re tracing? We have a pretty active historical society here in town.” A quick click on the mouse, and she added, “Most records are up in the county seat in Levett. They have some genealogical resources up there, too.”

A little more computer digging, and she said, “If there’s a Canadian connection, there are several French-Canadian heritage groups you could contact. Most of them are farther upstate, though.”

“I am sure the local groups you have mentioned will do for a start,” Raj said, his hands making little pushing-down gestures.

“Would you prefer I download all of this to your computer or phone?” Sunny asked.

That got another smile from Raj. “I have not embraced technology so enthusiastically, I’m afraid. The machines I use tend to be very simple.”

The cell phone he took out of his pocket was a lot less high-end than the rest of his outfit.

“I could just print it out for you, if you prefer,” Sunny offered.

“That would be excellent.”

As the printer hummed, she asked, “Is there anything else you need? Tours? Local attractions?”

Raj shook his head.

“How about local transportation? Do you have your own car?” Sunny asked.

“I rented one in Portsmouth.” He nodded out the window to a racing green Jaguar parked behind Sunny’s Mustang.

“Very impressive,” Sunny told him. “You’re lucky it’s still fall, though. I don’t know how practical it might be for a Maine winter. My own car got in a little trouble when things were icy.”

“I thought I saw some damage on that car.” Raj pointed to her Mustang.

“That’s the best I could do to fix it up.” Sunny collected the papers from the printer and stood. “Luckily, I don’t think you’ll have to worry about that—unless you decide on a prolonged stay.”

He smiled again, that curious, tight-lipped smile, and took the sheaf of papers. “Thank you, Sunny.”

“You’re welcome,” she told him. “If you change your mind about the local attractions, or if you need anything else during your stay—well, we’re here to help.”

He thanked her again and gave another little bow, then left. Still, it was the highlight of her working day, and it charged up her batteries to tackle the promotion copy.

Then she got an e-mail from the company’s Web server reporting a problem and spent hours trying to reconcile two applications that had suddenly decided not to play nicely with one another anymore.

On the bright side, Ollie didn’t come back for a repeat browbeating session. Sunny took a chance and printed out hard copies of the stuff Ken Howell had sent her, stuffing them in an envelope.

After responding to several tourism information requests and processing a couple of visits, her eyes felt fatigued and her neck stiff.

That’s what happens from sitting in the cheap seats, she thought, rolling back in her office chair. This thing is barely one step up from the antique in Ken’s office.

Sunny shifted in her chair. Fat chance that Ollie the Barnacle would shell out to upgrade the office furniture, especially after he’d just chewed her out for conspiring to damage local tourism.

Well, he’ll see I did my best to fill the coffers today, she thought as she locked up the office, stepped over to her trusty Mustang, and started the engine.

Sunny suddenly bit her lip. That was a lot of money in the cash box—more than she’d ever left in the office. She looked along the street, at the deepening evening shadows. Most of the businesses had already closed up. This wasn’t like New York, where merchants pulled down metal shutters or gates. There was just an expanse of plate glass, a cheap drawer lock, and an antiquated lockbox between anybody out here and the money she’d collected today.

You’re being silly, she scolded herself, but it would be just my luck that tonight would be the night somebody tried something. She left her car running and went back to the office, opened the door, unlocked her desk, scooped up the cash box, and headed back outside.

As she did, her car gave a loud BANG! She could see it shake for a second.

Wonderful—a backfire. Maybe she shouldn’t try to stretch her dollars by buying cheap gas.

She went to open her car door again and stopped. Something was wrong with the steering wheel—or rather, with the plastic sheathing on the steering column. A good chunk was torn out of it.

Then she dragged her eyes from the damage inside to the damage to the top of her windshield—a spiderweb of cracks centering on a small, round hole.

A bullet hole.

7

Sunny didn’t knowhow long she just stood there, staring with her mouth hanging open. The sound of a car pulling up behind her finally snapped her out of her trance.

She whirled around to see a midnight blue patrol car, the words “Kittery Harbor Police” in gold on the front doors. No flashing lights on top. And behind the wheel, grim faced as usual, was Constable Will Price.

“Why should I not be surprised to find you?” he said, getting out of the car. “Zack Judson called from his store, reporting a gunshot. Dispatch thought it was probably a backfire, but they sent me by to check things out.”

Will’s stern demeanor melted a little as he looked at her more closely. “Hey—Sunny? Are you all right?”

Sunny wordlessly pointed at the inside of her car and the windshield.

The constable did a double take when he spotted the bullet hole. But then he was back to business as usual.

He took Sunny’s arm, almost dragging her over to Judson’s Market two stores away. At the same time, he spoke rapidly into the microphone attached to his blue uniform, radioing for backup.

The next few minutes got pretty exciting as another blue town patrol car and two white cruisers from the sheriff’s department came flying up, sirens blaring. The area filled with uniformed officers, redirecting traffic away from Sunny’s car and trying to shoo away the onlookers who began to congregate.

Will had already pulled his car away from Sunny’s. Now he pointed to her Mustang, talking to one of the deputies who seemed to be in charge. “Looks like something went off in there. The angle’s all wrong for a bullet fired from the outside.”