Donally, Claire - Cat Nap (A SUNNY & SHADOW MYSTERY)

“I guess he remembers hurting himself out there in the snow,” Mike said.

“Well, maybe he’ll be a little less eager to go sneaking out, then.” Sunny busied herself at the stove, measuring out water for the oatmeal. She took a double handful of walnuts from a container in the cupboard, put them in a plastic bag on the kitchen counter, then whacked the bag a couple of times with a pan. Then she poured the water into the pan and put it on a burner to boil. While she waited for that, she got a jar of applesauce from the fridge, a container of ground cinnamon, the box of quick-cooking oatmeal, and the kitchen timer.

When the water boiled, she scooped out two servings of oats and poured them in, set the timer for three minutes, and began stirring. The oatmeal was nice, thick, and hot just as the timer began its insistent peeping. Sunny took the pot off the heat, got two bowls, and spooned out the oatmeal, topping it with the applesauce, nuts, and spice.

Mike had cups of coffee and spoons waiting on the kitchen table. They sat down and began eating.

“Y’know, when I was a kid, I really hated oatmeal,” Mike said, stirring up the cereal and taking a spoonful. “Of course, it didn’t have all this nice stuff in it—just lumps.”

“Well, if you had eaten more oatmeal and less bacon and eggs—” Sunny began.

Mike waved a hand. “Okay, okay. Where are my pills?”

She pointed to the big box with separate compartments for a week’s worth of medications. “Right in front of you. But you’re not supposed to have them until you finish eating.”

“I know,” Mike said. “Just wanted to be ready.”

Sunny took a sip of coffee and came to a decision. “How good is the gossip grapevine around here?” she asked. “Do you think you could find out anything about somebody way off in Portsmouth?”

“Me? Probably not.” Mike picked up his cup. “Helena, though . . .” He shrugged, giving Sunny a sly look. “Looking for juicy details about Jane’s husband?”

“In a way,” Sunny admitted. “It’s his office receptionist I’m more interested in—Dawn Featherstone. Young, pretty . . . and she tried to sic the cops on Jane and me, accusing us of killing Martin Rigsdale. I don’t think it would hurt to know a little more about her.”

Mike quickly put his cup down. “You’re not going to get involved in this, are you?”

“As if,” Sunny laughed. “Will told us the best detective on the Portsmouth force is investigating. There’s nothing I need to do. I’m just . . . curious.”

“Remember what curiosity did to the cat,” Mike said. Shadow raised his head and looked over at them. “Heck of a lot worse than a sore paw.”

“Thanks for reminding me about that paw.” Sunny quickly finished her breakfast, warmed up some oil, and brought it over to Shadow. While she massaged the cat’s paw, Mike brought the bowls and cups to the sink and cleaned them.

Sunny gave Shadow a final pat on the head and got up. “Now I have to put some clothes on and get to work.”

“I bet you’re glad of the new truck,” her dad said, peering out the window at the snow. “That old Mustang of yours wouldn’t have gotten down the driveway without spinning out.”

“You’re probably right,” Sunny admitted, then turned to him. “Do me a favor—promise you won’t try to clear the drive.”

“I’m not an invalid,” Mike argued, and then looked out at the ice-caked expanse of snow again. “I’m also not an idiot. Either McPherson will come by with his snowblower, or a couple of neighborhood kids will turn up with shovels.”

Sunny headed upstairs to shower and dress, then came back to kiss her dad good-bye and remind him to speak with Mrs. Martinson. “Dawn Featherstone,” she repeated.

“From Portsmouth,” Mike replied, nodding.

Pulling on her gray parka, Sunny carefully made her way down the front steps to the driveway, skidding a little on the ice as she headed for her Wrangler. The SUV started up with a rumble, crunching its way through the ice rime as Sunny slowly drove down the driveway.

The plow teams must have been busy all night, because the roads were pretty much clear. That didn’t mean there weren’t icy spots, though. Sunny cringed a little behind the wheel as she and a lot of morning commuters inched past a car not all that different from her former Mustang, stuck at a crazy angle on the shoulder of the road, its front fender crunched.

She knew how that felt. One of the reasons her little car had been retired was due to a road mishap last winter.

Maybe the Mustang curse still hung over her. Even though she’d specifically set off a little early, the traffic left her arriving at the MAX office several minutes after nine o’clock.

Sunny’s heart sank a little when she found the door unlocked and a heavyset figure sitting at her desk. Of all the days for the boss to come in . . .

“Morning, Ollie,” she said, shrugging out of her coat.

Oliver Barnstable looked from her to his wristwatch, but he didn’t say anything. That was atypical behavior for Ollie the Barnacle, a guy who was crustier than most crustaceans. Usually he’d jump on any excuse to browbeat Sunny over the management of the office. For a moment, Sunny debated asking whether he was feeling all right but quickly quashed that idea. No good could come of such a question.

Ollie quickly began reassembling the contents of several file folders he’d spread across her desk. “I’m going to be away for a couple of days,” he announced.

“Another vacation?” The words came out before Sunny could stop them. Barnstable had gone down to the Caribbean for two of the mildest winter weeks in Kittery Harbor history. And he’d returned with a sunburn that made his normally florid complexion lobster red.

He winced at the memory, a scowl flitting across his round face. But his voice was pretty mild when he answered. “No, I’m heading down to New York. I might catch a couple of shows, but it’s basically business. Unless something happens, I should be gone for a week.”

Ollie looked up at her, back to his normal self. “Don’t burn the office down while I’m gone.”

“I’ll try not to,” she promised. “Is there anything I should be aware of?” While MAX was essentially a glorified travel agency, Ollie also used the place as the nerve center for his other business and real estate operations—including a set of locked file cabinets in the back of the office. “And are there any arrangements I should be making for you?”

Ollie the Barnacle shook his head. “All taken care of.” He gathered the folders into his battered leather briefcase. “If anything really important comes up, you can get me on my cell phone.”

With that good advice, he headed out the door.

“I hope you bring your charger along,” Sunny called to his back, but the door had already swung closed.

So, it’s the middle of the slow season, and the boss is gone for a few days, Sunny thought. Let the good times roll.

About an hour later, things were definitely rolling—downhill.

Will Price came into the office, his face tight and strained. “Did you tell Trumbull about my”—he paused for a second, trying to find the right word—“history with Jane?”

Sunny gave him a look. “No ‘Hello’? No ‘How are you?’”

“Hello, how are you? Did you tell Trumbull about Jane and me?” Will went quiet again. “Not that there’s necessarily anything going on right now,” he muttered.

“I didn’t say anything about the two of you, past, present, or future,” Sunny told him. “Maybe he saw—” Now she broke off. What she wanted to say was, “Maybe he saw Jane all over you,” but that might not be helpful under the circumstances. Sunny cleared her throat. “Maybe he saw you and Jane together. I think he passed by the door while we were out on the porch.”