Клер Донелли - The Big Kitty

Still, she found herself thinking back to the previous evening and Will’s flight of fancy about motive, opportunity, and means.

Maybe Will wasn’t so out there about one thing, she thought. It sounds as if Ollie may be having money problems.

She took her seat—a little warm from Ollie’s bulk—and spent the afternoon updating the website. Then she tackled that pesky promo copy. Apparently, while her conscious mind had worried over her car troubles, Sunny’s subconscious had been working on the writing problem overnight. Coming up with a whole new take, Sunny trashed her original draft and typed up a new one.

“Looks pretty good,” she muttered, checking over her work one last time before attaching it to an e-mail and sending it to Ollie. Feeling virtuous, she breezed through several more items from her electronic in-box.

Then her string of small victories was broken by a phone call from her dad.

“Sal DiGillio picked up the truck and brought it to his station,” Mike Coolidge reported. “But a bunch of other jobs came in. Sal says that the earliest he can have her back is tomorrow afternoon.”

“I think I can live with another day of biking,” Sunny told him. “Let’s not worry about it.”

Now the day was winding down, and Sunny could start thinking about heading home—barring some disaster deluging her with stranded tourists.

The phone rang.

Sunny picked it up. “Maine Adventure X-perience,” she said in her most professional tone.

An unfamiliar female voice came over the line. “Sunny Coolidge, please.”

“Speaking.”

“This is Leah Towle.”

Towle—the name was familiar. Wait a minute! She was one of the dog owners Ada Spruance had tangled with.

“I overheard someone in Judson’s Market say that you’re doing a piece in the Crier about Mrs. Spruance,” the voice went on, as if reading her mind. “There’s been a lot said back and forth in the paper. But my husband and I would like to talk to you in person, to give our side of the story.”

“Of course,” Sunny said, pleased at her good fortune. She’d wanted to get in touch with the Towles, and here they were, volunteering. “Could we say sometime this evening?”

They set a time, and Sunny put the phone down. I don’t know why they even worry about the paper, she thought. The grapevine works faster, and you can skip all the ads.

9

The day finallyended. Sunny wheeled her bike out of the office and locked up. There was a little traffic on the street now. She may have beaten Kittery Harbor’s rush hour that morning, but she couldn’t wait it out now—she had that appointment with the Towles.

As she nosed into the stream of traffic, Sunny heard a heavy engine start up, like a giant clearing his throat. She shot a glance over her shoulder—her dad had been very careful with bike safety when he taught her to ride, showing her how to look in all directions without wobbling on her course. A metallic blue SUV with tinted windows, a Ford Explorer, rolled along behind her, its rumbling engine throttled down.

Maybe I should pull aside and let them pass, she thought.

But when she tried to, the big blue vehicle just slowed down.

Sunny shrugged. The SUV had New Hampshire plates. Maybe they were tourists looking for a place to park. She pedaled on for about a block until she saw an arm waving at her from a black pickup truck. As she rolled to a stop, Will Price stuck his head out the window, grinning.

“I’d gotten reports of this spectacle, but I had to see it with my own eyes,” he said.

She took in the fact that he was in his own pickup and out of uniform. “Is this traffic stop official police business, Constable Price?” she teased.

His voice took on a professional pitch. “In point of fact, Maine highway safety regulations state that protective helmets must be worn by all cyclists—”

“Oh, come on,” Sunny muttered.

“—under the age of sixteen,” he finished, letting his stern cop facade melt under another grin.

“I don’t know whether I should be flattered or worried for your eyesight,” she told him.

“Look, I’ve got a little time before my shift starts,” he said. “Why don’t you stick that bike in the back and I’ll give you a ride home?”

As she swung the mountain bike into the truck bed, Sunny glanced around, looking for that big Ford that had seemed to be following her. No trace—it must have turned off in search of a parking spot.

Guess I was just imagining things, Sunny thought, shaking her head. Can’t let that half-assed stunt with the bullet get to me.

She went around to the passenger side of Will’s truck, put her foot on the running board, and boosted herself into the seat. “I guess I should thank you,” she said. “I’m supposed to be seeing the Towles, and I’d have to pedal pretty fast to make it in time.”

“Sticking on the job, huh?” He laughed. “Well, you’ll be glad to hear that they won’t meet you at the door with a gun—at least I didn’t find one registered.”

“No,” Sunny said, “all they have is a killer dog.”

“My research shows that Veronica Yarborough doesn’t have a gun, either.”

“No doubt she considers them too lower class.” Sunny smiled. “If she had a problem with someone, she’d probably beat them to death with her moneybags. What about those farmers, the Ellsworths?”

“Now, they apparently did buy a rifle after they began having predator problems,” Will reported. “Nate Ellsworth got a .308 caliber—a little heavy for your traditional varmint gun.”

He paused for a second. “Of course, the bullet that messed up your car exited through the windshield—and nobody broke their necks looking for it. But we still have the bullet casing from that little dingus inside the car, and it’s a .308—imagine that.”

“I’ll save thinking about that for after my visit with the Towles.” Sunny rolled her window down. They were climbing up the hill, heading out of town. “Looks like you did your homework. Did your friends in Portsmouth come through with any information about Gordie Spruance?”

“They’re aware of him,” Will said. “His license plate got taken down because his car turned up in some not-so-nice parts of town, and he’s been spotted with some seriously dirty people.”

“You mean he’s been buying drugs?” Sunny’s voice went flat. She hated to hear Will’s suspicions verified.

“Maybe more than that.” Will’s face got grim. “I want to show you something.”

He pulled the truck off the road and opened the console on the seat between them. “Gordie’s been hanging out with a guy named Ron Shays, a.ka. Rob O’Shea. He’s a meth dealer with an interesting history.”

Will pulled out a grainy photo printed on plain paper. “They e-mailed me this picture.”

The image was obviously a mug shot, showing a guy with long, unkempt hair and a beard down to his chest. Actually, it wasn’t so much a face as a set of pinched features poking through a wall of shaggy fur. Sunny got an impression of angry eyes set close together above a sharp nose. What really caught her attention was the man’s mouth, set in a snarl that revealed several stained and snaggled teeth.

“Looks like a charmer.” She shuddered.

“What amazes me is that he’s found people to do business with him all over New England,” Will said. “His business model is to find a virgin territory and open a lab using local contacts. They go in big, make some money, and then the partnership goes to hell—usually with the local partner ending up dead. And then Shays moves on to greener pastures.”

“Better and better.” Sunny gave the picture back. “And nobody’s caught him yet?”