The Big Kitty (20 page)

“I’d like to worry a little less about the theoretical implications of the attack and concentrate more on cold, hard facts—especially while they’re still fresh in your mind,” Will said. “What can you tell me about the driver from the Ford?”

Sunny shrugged. “I only saw him for a few seconds, and not from a good angle. I was on my hands and knees at the time, climbing up from the sidewalk.”

She frowned, shutting her eyes, trying to call up a picture of the guy she’d seen stumbling from the wrecked SUV. “He had a bloody nose, that’s what really leaps out. The blood was trickling down between his fingers.” She opened her eyes and shook her head. “That bloody hand was covering everything from his nose to his chin. I just saw bright red—didn’t even notice the color of his eyes.”

After a second she said, “He had a lot of hair. Long. Maybe it had been pulled back in a ponytail and got loose, because it was all over the place.”

“Long hair,” Will repeated. “His hand couldn’t have blocked all of his face. Try to remember. Was he clean shaven, or did he—” He broke off with a frown. “That could be leading.”

“What could be leading?” Sunny asked. Then the light went on over her head. “You think it might be that Ron Shays guy?”

Again, Sunny tried to visualize the man making his way out of the blue Explorer, struggling to bring the edge of his masking hand into focus. Could there have been a beard under there? Or was this what Will was afraid of? Had he planted the idea in her head?

“Sorry,” she said unhappily. “I just can’t say.”

“It would have been nice.” Will straightened up the papers in his hands. “Because if you hadn’t realized it yet, I just lost my prime suspect in Ada’s murder.”

“There’s still Veronica Yarborough and the Towles,” Sunny suggested. “Neither of them have alibis for all of Saturday morning. And do we know where anyone was on Friday night?”

Will nodded, but it was clear he wasn’t rating the neighbors as hot suspects. Sunny wasn’t so sure. For all her airs and graces, Veronica Yarborough didn’t strike her as a good person to cross. As for Chuck and Leah … Sunny remembered how she’d felt when she found Shadow crying in the back of the pickup.
If I found the person who hurt him
—

Protecting a pet suddenly seemed like a much stronger motive now.

*

When Sheriff Nesbit
arrived, he wasn’t happy to find Will with Sunny.

This time, though, he can’t shove what happened under the rug—there are too many witnesses,
she thought.
And
he’s got to see there’s no way I could have singlehandedly arranged an attempted hit-and-run against myself.

But the sheriff’s mood certainly didn’t improve when Will started telling him some of the things they’d discovered about Gordie Spruance.

Nesbit smoothed down his silver mustache while his face turned dull red. Before Will got a full sentence out, the sheriff barked, “The two of you have been conducting your own little investigation, and now you’ve decided to let me in on what you’ve found out? How considerate of you!”

“It didn’t start as an investigation,” Sunny responded. “I just talked to the guy as part of the article about his mom’s death—”

“A death that you insinuated might be murder,” the sheriff interrupted. “And you weren’t happy until you spread your theory all over town, were you? Look where it’s gotten you.”

“A death where the dead woman’s son and heir was a tweaker,” Will stepped in. “You don’t have to take my word on that. I’m sure an autopsy will prove it.”

“Maybe you’re right, Will,” Nesbit said grudgingly. “I don’t want to speak ill of the dead, but you know there are weak-willed people out there who’ll use drugs no matter how clean we keep things around here.”

“Except Gordie was hanging around with a dealer who specialized in making places dirty,” Sunny burst out. “Tell him, Will.”

Will started explaining about Ron Shays and his business model of opening meth labs in virgin areas, but Nesbit
cut him short. “You went to Portsmouth PD and didn’t share this information with me?”

“What would you have done if I had?” Will challenged.

“It’s irrelevant,” the sheriff blustered. “Doesn’t apply here.”

“What doesn’t apply?” Will wanted to know. “We have a guy who likes to open meth labs in quiet places, and we have the tweaker son of a lottery winner who could put up the money.”

“Except nobody seems to know where this famous missing ticket ended up,” Nesbit objected, “or even if it exists. To tell you the truth, I wish to God I’d never heard about it!”

You and me both,
Sunny thought.
It may have gotten Ada Spruance and her son both killed. And I might be next.

A knock on the interrogation room door interrupted them. The door opened, and one of Nesbit’s deputies came in with Ken Howell.

“Sheriff—,” the nervous deputy began.

“I don’t have a comment to make right now,” Nesbit barked. He turned furious eyes on Howell. “Especially not for your miserable rag.”

“My ‘miserable rag,’ as you put it, is the least of your worries,” the
Crier
editor told him. “The phone’s been ringing off the hook in my office. Reporters from the Portsmouth paper, all the TV news types, even stations from Boston, they all want to pick up on the double tragedy connected to this lottery ticket.”

He scowled. “Hell, I would, too. Just my luck this happens
the day
after
the latest issue came out.” Then he grinned at the sheriff, having kept the best for last. “It’s a slow news day, Frank. You’re gonna have yourself a media circus coming to town—and all the clowns will want to talk with the reporter who actually interviewed Gordie Spruance
and
witnessed his death.”

“Oh, God,” Sunny blurted out.

“Oh,
damn,
” Frank Nesbit muttered.

*

Sunny quickly called
her dad and filled him in. This was something she did
not
want him discovering on the TV news. Then, all too soon, Sunny found herself standing beside the sheriff in the local press room, a utilitarian space with cream-colored walls and a low dais where Nesbit positioned himself behind a simple lectern, facing an array of microphones and cameras. It wasn’t just the regular media contingent that she saw on TV. She also spotted a lot of people she’d encountered while beating the bushes for a journalism job in the area—would-be newspaper stringers and unemployed reporters who called themselves freelancers.

I think anybody with a press card within a hundred miles has turned up,
she thought.
Oh, Lord, I hope I don’t look like a deer in the headlights.

Nesbit stepped up and gave a carefully edited summary of the facts in the case. “A sport utility vehicle climbed the sidewalk in downtown Kittery Harbor, narrowly missing one pedestrian and causing the death of another. We cannot speculate at this time as to how or why this happened.
The driver of the SUV fled the scene. Our mechanics are examining the vehicle to determine whether there was any sort of mechanical malfunction.”

Period.

He handled the storm of questions that followed like the political professional he was. Yes, it appeared the car had been stolen several days ago in Portsmouth. No, his department had no idea as to the identity of the driver yet. Yes, the deceased was the son of the supposed lottery winner, who herself had died less than a week ago. No, the lottery ticket had not yet been found.

Nesbit wrapped it up pretty quickly, then turned to Sunny. “Ms. Sonata Coolidge is the person who survived this traffic incident. She also works as a reporter for our local newspaper, the
Harbor Crier.
”

Out in the wolf pack, Ken Howell grinned broadly.

“Ms. Coolidge recently wrote a story on the death of Ada Spruance, in the course of which she interviewed Gordon Spruance, the young man who died in this occurrence. She is assisting us in our inquiries.”

Thanks to her experience from the other side of interviews, Sunny handled herself pretty well. There were a couple of ticklish moments, like the question from one reporter who’d done her homework.

“You suggested that there were mysterious circumstances in the death of Ada Spruance.” The skinny young TV journalist curved her bloodred lips in a predatory smile aimed at Sunny. “Do you think these circumstances might also apply to this woman’s son?”

“I outlined apparent discrepancies regarding Mrs. Spruance’s
death that I was able to substantiate,” Sunny carefully replied. “There were other rumors that could not be substantiated.”

Translation:
If I couldn’t use the information I’d dug up for my own story, why would I air it for yours, honey?

“But are the two deaths connected?” the female reporter persisted.

“That’s for the police to determine,” Sunny honestly answered. “All I can say is that buying that lottery ticket seemed to use up all the luck the Spruance family had. If the ticket actually exists, it hasn’t done them much good.”

After a few more questions, Sheriff Nesbit stepped in to wrap things up. But just as he was doing that, a deputy came hotfooting it into the room. “Sir, urgent call from the fire chief over in Sturgeon Springs. We transferred it in here.” He pointed to a phone off to the side of the podium.

Nesbit impatiently snatched up the telephone handset. “What is it, Joe?” he barked. But as he listened, his face went white.

“Huh,” Ken Howell said from the middle of the crowding journalists. “Good thing I left my cell on vibrate. It’s a source on the Sturgeon Springs Fire Department.”

He listened for a moment, and his smile only got broader. “Well, what do you know? Gordie Spruance’s place has exploded in flames, and they’re having a hell of a time putting it out. My guy says it looks exactly like a training film they just watched—about dealing with fires in meth labs.”

For the briefest
of moments after Ken Howell spoke up, the crowd of media people stood silent.

Then they all burst out in a frenzy of shouted questions to the sheriff.

Sunny certainly had no reason to like Frank Nesbit. But watching him standing at bay with the phone in his hand, she couldn’t help but feel some sympathy for him.

He’s been on with the fire chief for maybe a minute,
Sunny thought.
What in-depth information do they think he could suddenly tell them?

Turning to the collection of news gatherers slavering for the merest sound bite, she had to wonder,
More to the point, why would he
want
to tell them anything?

After a moment of pandemonium, Sheriff Nesbit showed his years of experience in news management. Gesturing
for silence, he said, “There’s a preliminary report of a suspicious fire at the site. I’m heading over there immediately for a personal inspection. After I’ve ascertained the facts—”

Translation: When he comes up with a good spin on all this,
the snarky voice in Sunny’s head suggested.

“—I’ll be glad to share them with you.” Nesbit told the fire chief he’d be there as soon as possible and escaped from the room, followed by a ravening horde of newspeople.

Sunny watched them go, feeling a little embarrassed for her chosen profession.

“I’d say that went well enough.” Will Price appeared beside her, now wearing his uniform. “At least no one got trampled in the mad stampede.”

“Are you going out to the fire?” Sunny asked.

Will shook his head, wearing his most expressionless cop face. “I have another important assignment—seeing you home.”

“Are you sure you’ve got the okay to do that?”

“Hey, it came from the sheriff himself,” Will told her with a lopsided grin. “Local law enforcement wouldn’t look too good if we allowed something to happen to you after that awfully public near hit-and-run. And it doesn’t hurt that it’ll keep me out of Nesbit’s hair. Not only did he show concern for your safety, he actually expressed worry over my own health.”

Sunny gave him a doubtful look. “He did? Really?”

“Oh, yeah. He said, and I quote, ‘No more of this extracurricular fooling around.’ At least it was something like ‘fooling’—had the same first letter. ‘You were up to something last night, and you were in here worrying about
that girl when you should have been sleeping. I don’t need some blinking zombie patrolling on the swing shift.’” Will grinned. “Trust me, that’s pretty much verbatim, with some of the more colorful language toned down a little.”

“So, you were worried about me?” Sunny asked, feeling her face get a little warm.

Will’s expression got more serious. “Worried as hell,” he admitted. “That’s another reason why I don’t mind making sure you get home in one piece.”

Remembering Gordie’s fate put a chill on whatever warmth Sunny had been feeling. “Guess we’d better get started, then,” she said.

Will gave her a lift in his patrol car back to the New Stores, since she’d walked downtown. He got out himself and ran a quick check on Mike’s pickup truck.

“No nasty surprises,” he reported. “Did you see what I did?”

“It was pretty hard to miss when you dropped to the sidewalk,” Sunny told him.

“I was looking to see if anything had been left under your truck,” Will replied, deadly serious. “It wouldn’t be the worst idea if you did the same thing before you climbed aboard in the future.”

Sunny couldn’t come up with a snappy answer to that. So she walked in silence over to the pickup, got in, inserted the key, and started the engine.

The journey to Wild Goose Drive was pretty tame. No attack helicopters swooped down, no wild SUVs came barreling out of nowhere at her.

Will beckoned Sunny over after she pulled up in her driveway.

As she walked to his car, he rolled down his window. “I know you probably think it’s overreaction,” he said in a quiet voice, “but a little prevention and forethought results in nice, boring trips like these.” He smiled, lightening the mood. “I’ll try to give you some sort of report on the excitement we missed at the fire scene. Later, okay?”

Sunny nodded. When she turned in the doorway to wave good-bye, she noticed that he stayed in place until he was sure she was safely inside.