The Big Kitty (21 page)

“Hey, Dad,” she called as she came into the living room, “did the people on TV completely blow things out of proportion?” She’d done her best to minimize things in her phone call to him, but God only knew how the newspeople had decided to spin the story.

“They say some idiots nearly killed you—again,” Mike replied. “How close does that sound?”

He was trying to put a good face on it, but he sounded worried. “I don’t like this, Sunny,” he finally admitted.

“Neither do I,” she said. “At least the sheriff’s finally started to take things seriously.”

“If he took things seriously, he’d resign and let someone who actually knows about crime prevention take over.”

Mike might had continued in his tirade, but the phone rang. Sunny picked up the receiver.

“Ollie Barnstable,” the voice on the other end announced, as if Sunny would have trouble identifying those accusing tones. “The office was closed for hours today because you were off talking to the police and getting yourself on television.”

“I didn’t have much of a choice,” Sunny protested. “It was a murder case, and they needed a statement.”

“Well here’s a choice for you,” Ollie snarled. “Make up the four hours you owe me tomorrow, or have them docked from your pay.”

What a public-spirited prince you are, Ollie,
Sunny thought. But aloud she said, “Okay. I’ll come in for the morning.”

When she told her father what the call was about, Mike had some choice comments to make about Ollie the Barnacle. Then he broke off, looking over to the doorway. “I must have woken up your friend. He spent most of the day sleeping in that expensive bed you bought him—and shedding hair on my good coat lining.”

Sunny watched Shadow come into the living room. Even on less than a day’s rest, he seemed to be moving with a lot more of his usual grace.

“How’s his breathing?” she asked.

“Well, he didn’t snore.”

Sunny shot a look at Mike. “Did he eat?”

“Not when I was around,” Mike told her. “But whenever I look in the kitchen, his bowl is always miraculously empty.”

Shadow wound himself around her ankles with more interest than usual.

Well,
Sunny thought,
even if I wasn’t in a cell, I was in the jail. Guess I must have picked up some interesting smells while I was there.

She dropped to one knee and went to scratch Shadow behind the ears, half expecting him to pull away now that he was obviously feeling better. Instead, he pushed his head against her fingers. Sunny gently ran her hands along his furry sides. Shadow was fine with that, except for a little squeak when she passed his left ribs.

“I’d be afraid to lose a couple of fingers doing that,” Mike told her.

“After what you pulled on him, I wouldn’t be surprised,” Sunny responded with a shake of her head. “Tipping him out a window into the cold like that.” She was still annoyed about her dad’s little trick, but the words came out in a sort of crooning tone as she petted Shadow.

“He seems to be okay,” she said, looking up from the cat. “No swelling, and not that much pain, as far as I can tell. Looks as if he’s getting back to his normal self.”

“Great,” Mike grunted. “Should I start nailing the lamps to the tables?”

Sunny ignored him, finally rising to her feet. “I’ll start making supper.”

“Wash your hands first,” Mike called after her as she headed for the kitchen.

*

Shadow felt much
better. He had appreciated the safe, warm place to rest, but now that Sunny was home, he couldn’t keep himself away from her as she worked in the kitchen. As the room filled with the smell of cooking, he twined around her legs, even though she’d been thoroughly marked.

She talked to him and even put a bit more food in his bowl. He ate a little, just to be polite, and then kept following her.

When she and the Old One sat down to eat, Shadow positioned himself under the table, butting against her shins every once in a while. He stayed away from the Old One, even though he’d been careful and kind today. From
harsh experience, Shadow knew that two-legged males might well kick when they thought no one was watching.

When the meal finished, Shadow accompanied Sunny back and forth to the kitchen as she cleared the table. The Old One took up his usual place, looking at the picture box.

Sunny came out and sat down, and Shadow sat at her feet. After a little while, though, she got up and went back to the kitchen. But she didn’t go for food. For a moment or two she rummaged in a drawer. Then she came out with a ball of string.

Shadow ran circles around her as she returned to the other room, but then she sat on the floor instead of back in her chair. Were they going to play with the string? He remembered chasing and rolling with the stuff, but he hadn’t played those games since he was a kitten! Trailing the end of the string along the rug, Sunny brought it to the corner of the chair. Just before it passed out of his sight, Shadow pounced on it.

Sunny flicked out the end of the string, and again began pulling it out of sight. Again Shadow pounced just before it would have escaped.

Shadow crouched low to the carpet, hoping she’d flick out the string again. She did.

They played the string game for a while, and Shadow managed to get a claw into the string itself. He pulled the ball to him and lay back, playing with it. The ball got smaller and smaller as loops of string piled up around him.

Sunny made happy noises, and even the Old One joined in, showing his teeth in that peculiar way the two-legs had.

At last there was no ball left. Sunny stayed on the floor,
rolling it up again. Shadow lay beside her, resting against the side of her leg.

He was almost surprised at the contented sound suddenly welling up from within him.

*

Sunny gently petted
the warm, furry body beside her.

“Are you purring?” she asked Shadow.

Mike used the remote to push up the volume on the show.

Then the phone rang.

“Who can that be at this time of night?” Mike grumped. He picked up the receiver and a moment later held it out to Sunny. “It’s Will.”

“I’m on meal break,” he said when she got on the phone. “If you don’t mind the occasional sound of me eating pizza as I talk, I’ll bring you up to date on what I heard happened out at Gordie’s place.”

“Okay,” Sunny said. “So what’s the story?”

“They finally got the fire put out and started investigating the cause. More or less as we, or at least I, suspected, it looks like Gordie was apparently trying to synthesize crystal meth.”

Sunny passed that information along to Mike.

“How do they do that, anyhow?” he asked.

Will must have heard him over the phone. “To put it very simply, you add certain kinds of cold medication to a solvent to strip away some of the active ingredients you want,” he said. “Gordie had a pretty bare-bones setup. For a solvent, he’d managed to get his hands on some ether. For the rest, he had a bunch of different cold pills. Either
he was buying them in different stores or taking them with a five-finger discount. More likely the second, since he had no money.”

“Maybe that explains why he went into the meth production business in the first place,” Sunny suggested. “He might have been desperate to raise money. Think about it. If he told Shays that there’d be cash to fund a serious meth operation and then there wasn’t, Gordie would have found himself in a real bind.”

“That does make sense,” Will said. “Anyway, it looks as if Gordie had laid everything out for a trial run before he went into town. But he didn’t close up the ether container tightly enough. The stuff must have begun to leak out. Since it’s heavier than air, the ether just filled the house out there on the edge of town until finally it reached the pilot light on the stove and—kaboom.”

Sunny relayed Will’s explanation to Mike, who nodded.

“That’s how some of our demolition guys used to take out tunnel complexes back in ’Nam. All they needed for the job was a can of ether and a candle.”

“Well, it certainly blew the hell out of that old farmhouse—and did a pretty good job on Frank Nesbit’s PR, too.” Will reported. “Those camera crews followed him out to the fire. His whole ‘Keep Elmet Safe’ campaign sounded a little hollow when a meth lab turned up under his nose. He’s been trying to spin it, saying that this was the work of evil outsiders, but Gordie was a local boy.”

Mike cackled when Sunny told him that.

“Another interesting point,” Will went on. “Gordie was paying week to week to stay at this old farmhouse—a distressed property picked up by none other than your
beloved boss, Oliver Barnstable.” He paused. “With luck Ollie will be lying low for a while.”

“Now, that would be good news,” Sunny said.

“There’s one more thing.” Will sounded more tentative now. “I’ll be switching to the day shift come Monday, which means I’ll actually have both days of this weekend off.”

Sunny had stopped passing along Will’s conversation to her dad, sensing this was going to be more personal.

It was.

“Look, um, would you like to have dinner on Saturday to discuss the case—or whatever?”

“Sure,” Sunny said aloud.

Especially whatever,
she added with a silent smile.

Saturday started off
dull, which perfectly matched the way Sunny felt as she sat in the MAX office, trying to get her keyboard into focus. Well, if Ollie Barnstable came by to check on her today, he’d find her working very early, if not so bright.

I’ve just got to make it to noon,
she thought sleepily. Her first visitor of the day appeared even less well rested than Sunny felt. Ken Howell walked in with a thin pile of papers, looking heavy-eyed and moving like a much older man.

“Got a collector’s edition here,” he announced, his voice raspy. “First time the
Crier
’s put out an extra—God, since Will Price’s father went off the road.”

He held up the top paper so Sunny could see the headline:
HIT, RUN, AND FIRE
.

“I tapped some people as soon as Nesbit left that press conference, and we worked all night.” He stifled a yawn. “I’m getting too old for this nonsense. Anyway, it’s four sheets—figured if you wanted, you could wrap it around the edition that just came out.”

He paused for a second. “Hope you don’t mind losing the front page.”

Sunny shook her head. “Really, Ken, it’s all right with me.”

“Good, good.” Ken left the pile of papers on her desk. “If you want to do it, fine. I really am done. Instead of sleeping yesterday, I pulled myself out of bed for Nesbit’s media circus. That plus an all-nighter—” A mighty yawn escaped, and he looked embarrassed. “Pardon me. Just do me a favor, Sunny. If you’re going to get involved in something else exciting, could you hold off until, say, Tuesday?”

With a rueful smile, Sunny promised she’d do her best as Ken shuffled out of the office, looking dead on his feet.

She picked up one of the extra editions and read through it. Stories recounted the events at the Redbrick Tavern, the press briefing, and the fire out at the farmhouse in Sturgeon Springs where Gordie Spruance had been staying. Pictures showed the crashed SUV and what looked like a mug shot of Gordie. Ken had also gotten somebody out to the scene of the fire to take some action shots there. Sidebars explained the use of dangerous solvents to create crystal meth and the fire dangers, including the possible explosive results of using ether.

Sunny noticed that she was quoted in the hit-and-run story—snippets from the press conference.

Thank God he didn’t go for an exclusive interview,
she
thought.
That would’ve probably been enough to get me fired.
She sighed.
Much as I hate to admit it, Ollie does have a point. I’m supposed to be boosting local tourism. I can’t imagine this is going to do the industry much good.

She wondered when Hurricane Ollie would come roaring into the office.
On the other hand, he’s got the fire—and the meth lab—on his property to occupy his mind.
She sighed.
Here’s hoping.

Finishing the articles, Sunny had to hand it to Ken Howell. Not only was the extra edition a very competent piece of news gathering, but he hadn’t editorialized on the situation. Just a bald recounting of the facts made Sheriff Nesbit look bad enough.

Sunny’s second visitor of the day looked about as groggy and sleep deprived as Ken had.

“Will!” Sunny said, taking in his rumpled uniform. “Are you still working?”

“I’m going home to get some rest right now,” he promised. “Your dad told me you were here, so I thought I’d stop by on my way and tell you how things shook out from last night’s happy hoopla.”

He dropped into a chair. “First, Sheriff Nesbit finally got in touch with the Portsmouth drug squad to ask about Ron Shays.”

“Did they get hold of him?” Sunny asked.

Will shook his head. “Nobody’s seen hide nor hair of him for a few days now.”

“That could be good,” she said cautiously. “If he saw that his deal was going down the toilet, maybe he just got out of the area.”

“Leaving his henchmen behind to clean up any loose
ends?” Will added. “As it turns out, that’s the line Nesbit’s taking. His theory is that the hit-and-run was actually aimed at Gordie, not you, as revenge for screwing up the deal. Not only does this theory blame outsiders for all the trouble, but it ties up the case in a neat knot. Justice triumphs in the end—the bad guys have fled town.”

The two seconds of relief that Sunny had felt quickly passed away. “It’s neat, but there are questions that theory doesn’t answer—like why Gordie was producing meth in the first place. If he was getting a lab up and running, wouldn’t that mean he was trying to make good on the deal? Why then would Shays or his henchmen try to kill him?”

Will closed his tired eyes. “Gordie was obviously cooking the stuff on a shoestring budget. Maybe he got bounced from the deal and decided to try on his own. If so, Shays might’ve considered him competition in his new territory.”

He opened his eyes, a troubled expression on his face. “This might be just the beginning of more trouble.”