Catch as Cat Can (9 page)

“Charlie may be crooked, but I don't believe he's a killer,” Mike said. “Just in case, though, I do intend to be there when you talk to him. Let me make a couple of calls and see if I can find out where Charlie is supposed to be.”

“Tell him I'm trying to sell a piece to the paper.” The moment Sunny said it, she realized it might be more than just a cover story. If she got some interesting quotes, Ken Howell might actually buy it.

They did the dishes together, and then Sunny left her father in the kitchen to use the phone. The doorbell rang as she came down the hall, and she answered it to find Will Price.

“Figured I'd check in and see what your dad had to say,” he explained.

Sunny passed along what she'd learned from Mike about Charlie Vane. “Dad's working the phone to see if he's in town and whether we can talk to him.”

The phone rang, and Mike came into the living room, trailed by Shadow.

“Was that someone calling with info about where to find Charlie Vane?” Sunny asked.

“No, that's already set up,” Mike replied. “Charlie's coming in to port tomorrow morning and he'll see us—but no cops,” he added with an apologetic glance at Will. “The call was from Helena Martinson, inviting us over—and
she'd be happy to see you, Will.” Mike smiled. “I believe cake is involved.”

“Sounds good to me,” Will said, ignoring the look Sunny sent his way. It had been hard enough drawing the whole story about Neil Garret/Nick Gatto out of Abby, and harder still deciding to tell Will after promising to keep Abby's secret. It wouldn't be easy, socializing with the Martinson women—more like walking on eggshells. But now Will wanted to go waltzing into the Martinson place, face-to-face with Abby and Helena . . .

Will leaned toward Sunny, lowering his voice. “Do you know how much of my job involves playing dumb?”

“I guess I'll find out,” Sunny muttered, following Mike to get her coat.

A brisk walk through the cold air brought them to the Martinson house. Sunny braced herself for a big welcome from Toby, but the overgrown pup was nowhere to be seen. Mrs. M. caught it immediately. “Toby is downstairs in his dog crate. Abby's working with me to train him better.”

Muted woofs and whines came from beneath their feet.

“You can't let him out because he's crying, Mom,” Abby scolded. “That's just rewarding bad behavior. He's got a nice blanket and toys, and soon enough he'll realize it's his safe place—his den.”

She gave the guests an apologetic smile. “I may not be a dog whisperer, but I was a dog walker, and I saw how people got their puppies to grow up into good dogs.”

“Well, if I can't give Toby a treat, how about you folks? Who's up for coffee cake?” Helena gave Will an admiring glance. “You must have come straight from work. That's a very nice tie you're wearing.”

Yeah, interesting design—except for the spot,
Sunny added to herself. Will was wearing her Christmas present again. He obviously didn't have many ties in the rotation, and he hadn't gotten it cleaned yet.

This wasn't some polyester cheapo tie. It was embroidered silk, handmade and expensive, even though she'd managed to snag it in outlet-land. Sunny had started shopping as soon as she learned Will was getting out of uniform. It had been a long and difficult hunt, and she'd been proud to present him with something appropriate and nice for Christmas.

Less than a month later, the spot had appeared, and it had just seemed to grow every time she looked at it, although Sunny had pretended not to notice.

Abby was a lot more blunt. “Yeah, it's a shame you got something on it.”

Will winced. “I'm afraid I'm still getting used to the whole jacket-and-tie thing, although I have learned now that ties and pens don't mix well.”

“Could have been worse. I had an audition for a part but had to get through half a shift first. So I wore my good silk blouse in to work. Somehow, some ink transferred from a pad—” She moved her hand chestwards. “To my left boob.”

Abby shrugged. “Lucky thing I knew how to deal with that.” She turned to her mom. “Do we have any rubbing alcohol?”

Mrs. M. was still getting over the location of Abby's ink stain. “I—I think so.” She headed to the bathroom as Abby stepped into the kitchen, returning with a wad of paper towels. “You'll have to take off the tie.” She grinned. “Not as embarrassing for you as it was for me. I spent the
lunch rush in a suit jacket pinned together up top so I didn't show off too much while my blouse dried.”

Helena Martinson reappeared with a plastic bottle of clear liquid and some cotton balls. “I thought these might be useful.”

“Just what we needed. Thanks, Mom.” As Will took off his tie, Abby put the paper towels down on a table. She put the tie facedown and soaked a cotton ball in alcohol. Then, checking the position of the ink stain, she pressed the wet cotton to the rear of the tie.

After a moment, she lifted the tie and pointed to the toweling—and a big splotch of ink that had appeared. “See? The alcohol soaks through, taking some of the ink with it.”

She moved the tie to fresh sections of the toweling, applying new alcohol-soaked cotton balls until the stain had all but disappeared.

“Thanks,” Will said when she handed the tie back. “That's pretty amazing. How did you know that?”

“Welcome to the wonderful world of acting,” Abby told him with a laugh, “where the people have to look perfect while scraping by on a waiter's salary. Trust me, you learn to take care of your clothes.”

“But you're not doing that anymore,” Mike said.

“It still comes in handy.” Abby's smile turned impish. “I had to use that trick for a partner who had a disaster right before heading to court. That twenty minutes probably did more for me with the firm than the year of paralegal stuff I'd been doing.”

They enjoyed coffee and cake, with Abby telling some stories about her adventures on the Left Coast. Will just sat back and relaxed, barely asking any questions at all, and
Sunny tried to do the same, although curiosity led her to dig a little deeper when Abby mentioned a catering job where she met George Clooney.

Finally, Mike looked at his watch. “I hate to be a party pooper, but we have an early morning tomorrow.”

“I usually hear that when the weather's warmer and you want to catch fish,” Mrs. M. told him.

Mike shrugged. “Close. Tomorrow we're trying to catch some fishermen. Sunny's thinking of interviewing a few of them over a cup of coffee and selling Ken Howell on a story for the
Courier
.”

“Good luck with that,” Helena said. “From what I remember of my Vince's fishing buddies, having coffee with them won't be like cocktails with George Clooney.”

They got their coats and walked back home. Mike zipped ahead to the door. “I'll say good night here, Will. Darned coffee.”

That left Sunny and Will together for a proper good-bye kiss. She was still smiling as she came through the door, to find Shadow on guard in the hallway. He wound his way around her ankles, his tail flicking about in displeasure.

Is he catching a whiff of Toby?
she wondered.
Or is this just general annoyance?

Shadow was very much a creature of habit. He didn't like the human members of the household gallivanting off after dark, and he took a dim view of Sunny and Mike preparing for bed hours before their usual time.

Still, he shouldered his way around the door and into Sunny's room as she turned down the sheet, blanket, and quilt. A quick leap brought him into bed with her, but he didn't settle down in her arms as he usually did.

Instead, Shadow brought his face close to hers.

“Checking for garlic again?” Sunny teased. “I brushed my teeth just now—promise.”

Shadow slowly closed his eyes, then opened them again. Sunny had read somewhere in her cat research that this behavior was a sort of air kiss, a sign of trust and affection.

“So all is forgiven, huh?” Sunny brought her own eyelids down in a slow blink. Shadow gave her his double-barreled wink again and then snuggled against her.

Yeah, yeah, very affectionate,
Sunny thought.
But we both know that as soon as I'm really asleep, you'll be off patrolling the
house.

Shadow crouched in
the upstairs hall, his tail lashing the air. The house was still deep in darkness, but Sunny and the Old One were both up and talking, hours before their usual time. Shadow wasn't quite ready to call this a bad thing, but it was certainly out of the ordinary. He didn't like when two-legs started fooling around outside their schedules. It often meant trouble. For instance with all this running around, suppose one of them forgot to feed him?

He followed them into the kitchen, keeping a suspicious eye on them as he watched them eat. At least Sunny got up and put food and water in his bowls. When they finished and ran water over their bowls and eating things, Shadow ambled over by the door. The Old One surprised him by venturing outside and getting into both of the go-fast things, making them rumble. He came back with his mouth wide
open, putting a hand in front of it as he opened the door. Shadow saw humans do that sometimes when they were tired and took advantage of it, darting past unseen.

It was cold and dark, but he could see well enough. Now he had a choice to make. He wanted to go along with Sunny on this strange dark-time adventure, but her go-fast thing was very hard to get into. Still worse, she'd been on her guard these last few days, either keeping him from getting out or catching him and putting him back inside when he tried to ride along.

The Old One's go-fast thing, on the other paw, had a big, open space in the back, very easy to jump into.

I'll just have to hope they're going to the same place,
Shadow decided. He came to that conclusion just in time, hearing two-leg voices coming closer to the door. Shadow gathered himself and sprang up, high, over the wall of the go-fast thing and landed in the open space. The metal floor vibrated slightly under his paws. He was never sure if go-fast things were alive or not. They moved, and they made a noise sort of like purring, but they only did that when a human climbed inside them. Otherwise, they seemed to sleep a lot, even more than a cat. And they never seemed to wake up when Shadow crept up and pounced on them.

But that was something to think about for another time. The go-fast thing rocked as the Old One climbed inside, and soon they were moving. Shadow's plan had worked out perfectly.

Except for one thing.

I should have eaten more when Sunny put out my food,
he thought.
They may not be going to the place where the Generous One gives out fish.

*

Kittery Harbor didn't
have a rush hour like New York, although there were times when the roads got busy with people off to early jobs in the navy shipyards in Portsmouth. But Sunny and her dad were heading into town even before that modest surge in traffic. This was more like the times when she worked the graveyard shift on the newspaper, driving off in search of a story in the dead of night. Usually, that meant something unpleasant: a car accident, a fire, a crime committed or a criminal caught.

Better not think that way,
she scolded herself.
You want to look like the eager young reporter hoping to sell a story on local fishing.

For the fourth time since she got in the car, she stifled a yawn.
Right. Yeah. Eager.
She took a deep breath, trying to get some more oxygen to her sleep-deprived brain.
Maybe not as young as I'd like to think anymore.

This looked to be a long day. Sunny sincerely hoped she wouldn't get one of Ollie Barnstable's random supervisory visits while she was stumbling around trying to keep awake.

She followed her father's pickup down toward the Piscataqua River, passing the touristy piers with their convenient benches for lunching, past a more upscale marina, and finally came into what was left of the working port. Once there, it was hard to miss the neon glow of the Dockside Diner's sign, although an occasional sputter in the letters turned that into the
DOCKSIDE DI E
every once in a while.

The diner was a twenty-four hour operation, but cars were pretty scarce at this time of day. The only activity
Sunny could see was a crew of men tying up a small boat on a nearby pier. Was that Charlie Vane and his crew?

Sunny parked beside her dad and got out of her Wrangler. Mike was already out, pounding his arms against his sides. “Oh, yeah, cold water and an onshore breeze. Now I remember why I decided not to take that fishing job.”

They headed for the diner entrance. Sunny laughed when she spotted a hand-lettered sign in the window.
COME OVER TO THE DOCKSIDE . . . WE HAVE COFFEE.

Somebody in there must be a
Star Wars
fan,
she thought.

They entered to steamy air filled with cooking smells and got a booth by the window. Mike ordered coffee and Sunny followed suit, quickly regretting the decision as a thick, chipped mug full of viscous black liquid was deposited in front of her. Mike stirred in a little sugar. “At least the spoon doesn't stand straight up. Reminds me of what we got out of the crankcase of my friend's Chevy when he put off changing the oil filter for too long.”

He added some milk, took a sip, and blew out his cheeks. “Guess that's what you need to bring you back to life if you've been out at sea in weather like this.”

Sunny followed his example, took a sip, and shuddered. “On my worst day in the office, leaving the pot on the coffeemaker heater too long, I never got it to taste like this.” She called the waitress over and ordered an English muffin.

“Sounds like a good idea,” Mike chimed in. “I'll have one, too.” He leaned forward as the waitress headed to the kitchen. “Although I don't think that will manage to cut the taste.”

There speaks the experience of forty years in drive-ins and greasy spoons,
Sunny thought mournfully. She didn't have
much time to complain, though, because the door banged open and a guy in an orange dayglow outfit came strutting in. His parka was open to reveal a heavy sweater and bib-style pants, making him look bulkier than he really was.

Mike rose to his feet. “Hey, Charlie.”

Charlie Vane swaggered over to shake hands. He had to be about four inches shy of Mike's six-foot height, but he acted as though he were the bigger man. “How's it goin', Mike?”

“This is my daughter, Sunny.” Mike made the introduction, and Sunny found her hand encased in a rough, calloused paw. Charlie Vane had a gaunt face with thin lips and eyes as colorless as ice cubes—about as warm as them, too. All of his visible skin looked as if it had been lightly sanded by the elements, with the exception of the pale white scar that traveled up his right cheek, continuing again above his eyebrow.

Charlie quirked that brow when he realized Sunny was staring at it. “Binding wire snapped and whipped right in my face. Another inch, and I'd be wearing a patch.”

Sunny managed to find her voice. “I guess that would make you like your famous ancestor—although it would probably make navigating a boat a lot more exciting.”

Vane grinned, exposing strong, yellowish teeth. “Good, so you aren't going to faint.” He slipped into the booth on the opposite side from Sunny and Mike. The waitress was already there with a big, battered cup of sludge for him. Charlie took a long swallow and sighed.

“The taste takes some getting used to, but at least it warms your insides.” He turned those ice-cube eyes on Sunny. “So what does your boyfriend the cop want to know?”

“I'm trying to develop a story about local fishing,” Sunny began, but Vane cut her off, waving his hand.

“Yeah, yeah, Mike told me all that. I know you write for the
Courier
. But I know you also team up with that Price guy to tackle cases.” He grinned. “I actually read the
Courier
, besides using it to wrap fish. And while you've got a nice line there, Ken Howell will never run a story about me. I was supposed to give him an exclusive about a screwup by the government's supposed fishery experts. But I had a chance to get it on TV, and I went with it.”

Considering that Ken's paper only comes out once a week, I can see why he'd take that personally,
Sunny thought.

“So ask me some questions.” Vane settled back in his seat. “I don't guarantee you'll get answers, but at least I'm here.”

Sunny couldn't see any advantage to sticking with her cover story. So she decided not to circle around. “I'd like to know about your business dealings with Neil Garret.”

“Whoa, very fancy. ‘Business dealings,'” Vane said. “I did what any businessman tries to do—get more money for my product. Garret was willing to fork over above the fish market price for the better quality fish right out of the ocean. I took his money, and all I can say is too bad he couldn't buy my whole catch. But he didn't have the storage capacity for everything I brought in, and I couldn't supply all the different kinds of fish he needed. Not that he didn't try. He began making the rounds of the restaurants around here, checking into what kind of seafood they wanted. He figured on setting himself up as the local middleman, offering us fishermen better payment, charging his customers a below-market price, and still making money. Pretty ambitious.”

Ambitious—I guess that would be Nick Gatto's middle name,
Sunny thought.

Vane continued, “Of course sooner or later Deke Sweeney—you know about him?” When Sunny nodded, he went on. “Sweeney did his best to punish the guys who'd done deals with Garret.”

“Including you,” Sunny put in. “That must have been annoying.”

“Yeah, but I was more annoyed with Sweeney.” Vane glanced at her. “You think I was involved in what happened at the store? I still got two eyes, honey. No way would I mistake some out-of-towner for Neil. Mind you, I don't blame him. If some bozo tried to climb aboard my boat, he'd get exactly what was coming to him.”

“Neil denies seeing the man before discovering him in the freezer,” Sunny said. “Where were you—”

“On the night of the murder?” Vane finished for her. He leaned back in his seat, enjoying her attention. “I was in the Gulf of Maine after a quick turnover to refuel and resupply, hoping to make a decent catch of plaice. We had almost nothing to show for our last trip, so we thought we'd try our luck off Cape Elizabeth.”

“That's more than fifty miles up the coast,” Mike said.

Vane nodded. “A bit far to try sneaking back in a rowboat. And I had two crew with me—my boy Jack, and my son-in-law, Rennie Yates.”

Both family, and dependent on him for jobs,
Sunny thought.
That makes for a convenient alibi.

But even if Charlie Vane had been much closer and had managed to sneak back to Kittery Harbor, that still didn't explain how he'd somehow mistaken Phil Treibholz for Neil Garret.

Unless we take the fifty-mile alibi at face value, and
figure that Vane hired himself a killer. It was just bad luck that the killer found Treibholz on the premises and did the job on the wrong person.

The problem with that theory was that contract killings, even cheap ones, cost money. And Charlie Vane didn't look as though he could rub two nickels together.

“Look, I really don't know much about what happened with Neil. I was out fishing, all I heard was a little gossip over the radio. From what I heard, I figured maybe Deke Sweeney sent somebody over to lean on Neil 'cause he wasn't rolling over and playing dead, and things got out of hand. Some leg-breaker getting what he had coming. But if Neil says he never saw the guy before, that he just turned up in the store's freezer . . .” His voice trailed off as he frowned. “I wonder what kind of game Neil is playing.”

“What kind of game are you playing, Charlie?” Mike asked. “I hear Sweeney has you cut off in Portsmouth.”

“There are other places to sell fish besides Portsmouth,” Vane replied. “My family has been fishing these waters from the days when you baited hooks, threw lines over the side, and prayed you got lucky. No way am I going to let some pen pusher who's never stuck his nose out of an office force me out of business—or some guy who calls himself a shark because he can scare a bunch of fish merchants.”

His voice sounded as if he had this already memorized, like a politician's stump speech.

Except I think he'd have a mug of beer in his hand, rather than a coffee cup,
Sunny thought. She glanced out the window at the lightening sky and then at her watch. “I appreciate your giving us this time, Mr. Vane. But I'm
afraid I'll have to be getting on with my day job soon. You may have to talk with Will Price, or even Sheriff Nesbit.”

Charlie Vane looked as if the coffee had turned to motor oil in his mouth. He forced a swallow, and then said, “If I have to,” with an ungracious look. “We already offloaded our catch, so we'll probably take a few days. But when we try again, we'll be gone for a while. I'll be heading off the Jordan Basin.”

Mike stared. “That's almost to Nova Scotia,” he said.

Vane shrugged. “You go where the fish are.” He turned to Sunny. “So if your boyfriend wants to talk to me, he may have to do it by radio.”

Sunny almost began her response with “He's not—” but managed to hold that in. Instead, she shrugged, said, “Fine,” and gestured to the waitress for the check. She looked at her untouched muffin and nearly full cup. Somehow during their conversation, Mike had reduced his English muffin to crumbs and had to wave off the waitress when she tried to bring him a coffee refill.

His heart may not be what it used to be,
Sunny thought,
but he still has a cast-iron stomach.

She settled the bill, left a tip, and headed back out into the cold.

*

Shadow stood on
the front of a go-fast thing, peering in the smeary windows of the place Sunny and the Old One had gone into. From the smell, it had to be one of those places where they always made food. Shadow thought that was a good idea. He'd seen many two-legs
just walk in and eat. But he knew that a furred person could get into trouble looking for food. He couldn't count how many places like that he'd entered—and been chased from.