Клер Донелли - The Big Kitty

The state police investigator thanked and dismissed her, but she still had to wait for her statement to be typed up so she could sign it.

Finally she was free to go—and found a strained-looking Will Price waiting for her.

“Well, at least they’re not locking you up,” he offered.

She managed a wan smile. “There is that.”

“I called your dad to let him know you’d be a little delayed,” he went on. “I didn’t tell him why.”

Sunny nodded, wondering if tonight would be another anxious bout with her dad’s angina. “Thanks,” she said.

The streets around the police station were pretty quiet early on a Sunday evening as they made their way toward the New Stores. Will told her he’d parked near the MAX office, figuring that would be easier for escorting her home.

“And I am escorting you,” he insisted, “even if they screwed up this attack.” He shook his head. “Looks like the Wile E. Coyote curse continues. I mean, how many times do you hear about hit men launching an attack and killing their own car?”

Sunny relaxed a little as they strolled along. “Actually they may have gone two for two, if they’re the ones who planted that bullet gizmo. First they killed my car—at least the steering—and then their own.”

“Bumbling henchmen,” Will joked.

But all of a sudden, Sunny shuddered. “It’s a shame their boss doesn’t seem to have a sense of humor.”

Will nodded, his face grave again. “This time one of the henchmen got seriously wounded. The damage to Deever couldn’t have been fixed with a couple of bandages and a little bed rest. He would have had to go to a hospital, and Galt must have said as much when he called for help.”

“How do you know he called for help?”

“We found a cheap cell phone in Galt’s pocket. According to the records, he used it to make a lot of calls to another cell phone that, remarkably, isn’t answering anymore. Whoever got the call must have flown over there to beat the squad car.”

“So you’re saying they called their boss for help, and this was his answer,” Sunny said faintly.

“Well, hospitals are bound to ask embarrassing questions and make annoying reports to the police,” Will explained. “So Mr. Genius decided to terminate Deever. And since Galt was likely to disagree, and he had a shotgun, he got taken out first.”

“Brrrr,” Sunny said, “that’s cold.”

“One man’s cold is another man’s business model,” Will replied.

“Ron Shays,” Sunny burst out.

Will nodded. “We know he likes to set up businesses with locals and then get rid of them. So he sets himself up in Portsmouth and recruits some goons. But this time the cycle ran a bit faster than usual. He ended up getting rid of his local talent before he even made any money.”

“Do you think he’s still in Portsmouth pulling the strings?” Sunny asked.

“The Portsmouth cops lost track of him almost a week ago,” Will pointed out. “But I bet he was in Kittery Harbor today, pulling the trigger. Problem is, now he could be in the wind anywhere.”

“No,” Sunny said, and she said it quite definitely. “It’s like you said—Shays hasn’t made any money. Would you imagine a druggie with poor impulse control giving up on six million dollars?”

Will looked at her for a second, speechless. “Put that way, you might have a point.”

“The question is, how do we make him stick his neck out?” Sunny smiled as the glimmerings of a plan began to come together in her mind. “Do you mind taking a little time before seeing me home? I need to talk with Ken Howell.”

22

Ollie Barnstable wasgone from the office when they finally got there, but Sunny called his cell phone. It would not be business as usual tomorrow. She needed a free hand to conduct phone interviews and even have news crews come in if she was going to accomplish what she hoped to do. He wasn’t happy when he heard that, but Sunny gave him a pretty stark choice. Do nothing and let the town endure a wave of bad publicity from a double murder, or let her undertake this project and give the local media an alternative story to cover.

“Which headline do you think would be better for tourism?” she asked. “‘Two Thugs Murdered in Kittery Harbor’ or ‘Search Continues for Lottery Millions’? No, I can’t guarantee finding the ticket. But either way, the problem will be finished by tomorrow.”

The next step was to convince Ken Howell to use his media contacts and get some publicity. “It’s a straight news story,” Sunny told him. “Tomorrow evening I’ll make a last-ditch attempt to find Ada’s ticket. Ada asked me to help before she died, and Gordie did, too.”

That was all literally true, but Sunny was hoping that a paranoid mind might start wondering what else Ada and Gordie had told her.

Ken worked up a story, including quotes from Sunny, and promised to do what he could with it.

Then Will saw Sunny home. She and her dad had a rerun of the stew for dinner, and she went to bed early—tomorrow was going to be a long day.

*

Sunny sat inthe kitchen listening to the local news radio over breakfast. She usually did that to catch the weather report. Today, though, she listened for the lead stories. Had terrorists done something awful overnight? Had a political scandal broken? Had some Hollywood starlet gotten herself arrested for some stupid crime? So far, the answer was no. It sounded like a fairly quiet news day.

The morning news team bantered a bit with the weatherman, and then got serious to report the pair of bodies discovered in Kittery Harbor. A moment later they lightened up again, talking up the missing lottery ticket.

“Sources close to the family say that they’ll attempt a final search of the house this evening,” the female anchor reported.

“That’s cutting it pretty fine,” her male counterpart said. “They only have until tomorrow to submit a winning ticket.”

Sunny grinned. The seed had been planted.

She did try to get some work done at MAX during the day, and in spite of the crime stories, tourism interest seemed to be picking up again. But she also had to make time for interviews. The phone kept ringing, and Sunny found herself either answering questions or agreeing to visits from camera crews.

Then came a very different call.

“Oliver Barnstable, please,” a male voice said from the telephone receiver.

“I’m sorry,” Sunny replied, “but Mr. Barnstable isn’t in the office.”

“He goddamn well isn’t answering his cell phone, either,” the voice said, losing a whole lot of politeness in the process. “I’m tired of leaving messages, too. So here’s something you can give to him person to person. If Ollie imagines that by ducking me he won’t have to pay what he owes, he’s got another think coming. I’ll start legal action to put liens on the insurance money he’s expecting from that fire in Sturgeon Springs. If he thought the meth lab thing was embarrassing, wait till it goes into the legal record that he’s defaulting on payments. I’m sure you’ve got a direct line to the big man, so you just tell him that.”

“But I don’t—,” Sunny began. That was as far as she got before the phone clicked off in her ear.

She hung it up and sat for a moment, staring as if the handset might suddenly jump up and smack her in the head. I guess the signs were all there, she thought. He’s gotten erratic with my pay and even offered to sell back his piece of the Crier at a loss. It looks like Ollie does have money troubles. And if so, where is that going to leave me?

The answer was way too familiar for too many people these days—out of a job.

“I’ve got to find out,” Sunny muttered, getting out the cash box where the key to Ollie’s supposedly secret files was kept. It was like the awful compulsion to stick the tip of your tongue into the gaping hole after the dentist drills out a cavity and before he fills it. She hurried over to the bank of cabinets along the back wall, painfully aware that everything she was doing could be clearly seen from the street outside.