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

It was just as well she turned in a bit ahead of time, because the area was covered with fog when she got up. Sunny hurried through the morning routine and crawled into work with lousy visibility. She could hear foghorns from the harbor as she unlocked the office door.

The fog didn’t lift until noontime. Sunny barely noticed. She hurried through the day, trying to accomplish any bit of work that might slow up her escape. She’d even brought a sandwich from home so she could work through her lunch hour.

When quitting time rolled around, she already had her computer off and her parka on. For once the phone didn’t ring with some last-minute disaster. Sunny killed the lights and locked the door. She saw a pair of headlights make the turn onto the street and then glide to a stop. It took a moment for her to make out Jane’s gray BMW in the darkness. Sunny walked to the curb and climbed aboard.

Jane made nervous small talk all the way across the bridge and into Portsmouth. “I know you probably think I’m silly,” she said, “but I’m going to end up talking about some pretty serious stuff with a complete stranger. It will be good to have a friendly face in the room.”

They managed to find street parking not far from the address on the business card. It turned out to be a renovated six-story brick building. According to the board in the lobby, Crandall, Sherwood, and Phillips was on the fifth floor. Luckily, part of the renovations had included installing an elevator.

The door opened onto a reception area paneled in dark mahogany instead of the blond wood in Martin Rigsdale’s office. That wasn’t the only difference. This receptionist actually smiled at them, and the place was obviously jumping, even at six o’clock. The young woman’s desk was covered with piles of paper, and behind her Sunny could see people scurrying around with still more papers in their hands.

It took a couple of minutes to get hold of Mr. Phillips, and the receptionist apologized. Finally, a tall guy came down the hall in his shirtsleeves, a conservatively patterned silk tie pulled loose at his collar, and a cup of coffee in his hand. “Please forgive me for the delay.” He gestured with the cup. “I had to refuel.”

When he got to within ten feet of them, though, Mr. Phillips stopped and stared. “Jane Leister,” he said in disbelief, “and Sunny Coolidge!”

Sunny stood looking into a semifamiliar face. Knock off a few inches of height, make the hair longer and messier, wind back the clock so the boyish face was actually a boy’s . . .

“Toby Philpotts?” She and Jane blurted out the name almost in unison. Sunny hadn’t thought of Toby Philpotts in years—well, not until she’d suggested naming Mrs. Martinson’s incontinent pup after her grammar-school classmate with the weak bladder. And here he was, all grown up.

The man in front of them didn’t quite grimace—he’d had a lawyer’s training in controlling his expressions. “It’s Phillips these days,” he said quietly. “And I prefer Tobe.”

He led them through a maze of cubicles to his office. It was a pretty modest space, although the bookcases were the same mahogany as the paneling outside. So was the desk. And he did have a door that shut and a window with a view toward the harbor. Toby Philpotts, a.k.a. Tobe Phillips, glanced at the empty desk outside his door. “My assistant is busy jockeying around the copying machine,” he explained. “We’ve got to get a filing ready by the opening of court on Monday.”

He set his cup down on the side of a fairly messy desk and gestured toward the pair of comfortable seats facing him. “I’ve been following the case on TV and in the papers, but obviously I didn’t get all the information.”

“I still can’t believe it!” Jane said. “I haven’t seen you—since when? Middle school?”

Tobe nodded. “My dad got a job on this side of the river when I was a freshman. I wound up in a new school, made new friends, found new interests.”

Got a new name, Sunny added silently. “That’s right,” she said aloud. “I remember you wanted to go into science.”

“Law ended up paying better,” Tobe said with a wry smile. “That’s one of the reasons I changed my name. I kept hearing comments about pots of cash.” His voice got drier. “Or pots of bovine scatology, as what’s-his-name used to put it.”

He cast an admiring glance Jane’s way. “But then, you’re a vet. You may encounter the real stuff out in the field.”

She shook her head. “I don’t do that much with large animals, Tobe,” she said, almost as if she were tasting the name. “Most of the BS I put up with is figurative.”

Tobe grinned at her. “And what do you do these days, Sunny?” he asked.

“I was a reporter down in New York,” she began the same old story. “Had to come back home to take care of my dad, got laid off, though, so right now I’m in the tourism business.”

“Ah,” he said, obviously filing that under “Questions to Be Asked Later.” He turned back to Jane. “So, tell me a bit about Martin Rigsdale. Did you meet him professionally?”

She nodded. “I worked with him, married him, and ended up divorcing him.” She went on to give a pretty concise explanation of the reasons for each stage in that relationship and didn’t fly off the handle when describing Martin’s shortcomings.

While Tobe Phillips quietly took all that in, Sunny spent the time checking him out, hoping she wasn’t being too obvious about it. The studious boy she remembered had grown into an attractive man. His sandy hair had been cut in a style that suited his face, rather than the too-long mess she remembered. And the years had pared away some of the youthful softness from that face. Tobe didn’t have the drop-dead gorgeousness of a Martin Rigsdale, or even the chiseled features of a Will Price. But he was a good-looking guy, thoughtful, and judging from his reactions to Jane’s story, kind.

Sunny glanced around the desk and shelves. No pictures of a wife and kids.

He asked a couple of questions to clarify some details, then said, “So you had a marriage that didn’t work out and a divorce that wasn’t too contentious.” He raised a hand—no ring, Sunny noticed—to cut off any comments from Jane. “Believe me, I’ve seen worse. So why do you think you need me?”

“Because I get the feeling that the cops think I killed Martin,” Jane replied a little more loudly than she’d intended. She sat back in her seat, looking embarrassed.

“We have a mutual friend, a former Portsmouth policeman who’s now a town constable in Kittery Harbor,” Sunny said. “When the detectives started questioning him as well as Jane, he suggested we talk to you. His name is Will Price. Apparently he encountered you in court.”

Tobe sat back, thinking for a moment—and smiling. “I remember him,” he said. “A pretty savvy cop. If he thinks you may have trouble, I’d take it seriously. So back to the real question: Why do you think the police suspect you?”

“Well, we found Martin—the body.” Jane faltered a little over those words. “His receptionist immediately started accusing me.”

“Detectives Trumbull and Fitch took our statements,” Sunny said. “When we were finished, Will came to pick us up at the station, and Trumbull saw him.”

“Mmmm-hmmm.” Phillips turned to Jane. “Were you in the habit of seeing your ex-husband?”

Jane shook her head. “It was almost a year and a half since we’d even talked. Then he asked me out to dinner—but that was only so he could ask for money.” She explained about the foundation she was running and its generous funding. “He wanted a six-figure consulting fee, and he wanted it up front! Is it any wonder I threw that drink in his face?”