Cat Nap

by Claire Donally

  Well, the neighbor lady wasn’t talking about Mike. And the only other male in the house was Shadow. Oh, no! Could he have created that wet spot?

  “I’m so sorry, Sunny.” Mrs. Martinson picked up a large bag. “I’m afraid this bad little boy made a mess on the rug.” She took out a golden retriever pup, who immediately began yipping with excitement at finding a new face in the room.

  “How did Shadow react to this lovely surprise?” a worried Sunny asked her dad.

  “Hissed in his face and scared the pee out of him,” Mike reported succinctly.

  “I adopted this cute little guy from the animal shelter when I saw his picture in the Harbor Crier,” Helena Martinson explained. “Jane Rigsdale is doing such good work to help the animals in town.”

  Her expression grew rueful. “But I guess I’ve got a bit to learn about this whole adoption thing. Come on, little fella, let’s get you home.” She returned the dog to her bag and beat a quick retreat.

  Mike Coolidge let out a long-held breath. “She came over straight from the shelter, all excited. Wanted me to suggest a name for the pup.”

  “Toby,” Sunny suggested with a smile.

  “Why that name?” Mike asked with a suspicious expression.

  “Toby Philpotts was in my grammar school class—he had the weakest bladder in school.”

  Mike laughed. “With a name like Philpotts, I imagine that would be a pretty embarrassing problem.”

  “It’s just a suggestion,” Sunny said, grinning at her dad. “Where’s Shadow now?”

  “He headed for the back after his warm greeting to the mutt.”

  Sunny took the hallway into the kitchen, and found Shadow glowering down from atop Mount Refrigerator.

  “Hey,” Sunny said, extending her hand. Shadow leaned forward, rubbing the side of his face against her fingers.

  “Well, now we know how you react to puppies,” she told the cat. “Maybe someday we’ll get your opinion on kittens.”

  Gently brushing fingers through his fur, she smiled up at Shadow. “At least you didn’t kill him.”

  She was just beginning to relax when the phone rang. Sunny turned from the refrigerator to pick up the handset. Jane’s voice burst into her ear. “After you called me this morning, I rang up Martin, determined to have it out with him. He has late office hours this evening and told me to come over then. So here I am, ready to go, and wouldn’t you know it, I’ve got a flat. I suppose I could call a cab, but any chance you could give me a lift?” Her voice slowed in embarrassment. “I wouldn’t mind a little backup when I go to see him.”

  And like me, she doesn’t really have anyone else to ask, Sunny realized. Sal DiGillio probably just closed his garage, and I know Will is on duty until midnight. At this time in the evening, it should take less than a half hour to get to anywhere in Portsmouth. Jane certainly wouldn’t waste time with Martin, and then the drive back—an hour and change should do it. She put a hand over the receiver. “Hey, Dad?” she called down the hallway. “Would you mind waiting a bit for supper tonight?”

  After Mike agreed, Sunny told Jane she’d be there soon and hung up. It was a brief drive to the Kittery Harbor Animal Hospital, where Jane stood pacing beside her disabled BMW. She quickly climbed aboard Sunny’s Wrangler, and they took the bridge over the Piscataqua River to Portsmouth.

  As she drove across the span, Sunny glanced at Jane. “Remember all the times we’d cross this in a school bus? And when we got to the middle—”

  “That was childish,” Jane complained.

  “Yeah, but it was fun—and you usually led it. Come on.”

  Jane sighed but nodded. Then both of them chanted, “Maaaaaaaaaaaaiiiiiiiiinnnnnnnnnne,” drawing out the word until they reached the sign in the middle of the bridge. Then they shouted “NewHampshire!” all in one breath as they crossed the state line.

  “Childish,” Jane repeated, chuckling.

  “It made you laugh, though,” Sunny pointed out. And I think you could use a laugh, she added silently.

  Following Jane’s directions, Sunny cut through the downtown district and headed off to the outskirts of Pease Airport, where Martin Rigsdale had set up his office.

  The practice was in an old house, large and impressive at first glance. The clapboard siding had a fresh coat of shiny white paint, and the first floor had been renovated as an office for Martin’s practice. But the upstairs gutters were old and discolored, and the roof looked a bit saggy in spots. Sunny pulled up on the street near a stand of wild-looking shrubbery, and she and Jane got out of the Jeep. Even on the ride over, the weather had gotten colder and damper.

  Hopefully, those overgrown bushes will give the Wrangler some cover if it really starts to storm, Sunny thought. She took in the neighborhood. “Nice, but not many cars parked around the office. Either he doesn’t get many patients toward the end of visiting hours, or business could be a lot better.”

  Jane sighed. “That’s probably why he’s after me for the foundation money.” She squared her shoulders, her face taking on that ice queen expression. “Well, he’s not getting any. I don’t care what he threatens to drag up. You can take that to the bank.”

  With Jane in the lead, they headed up the walk to the entrance marked with a discreet bronze plaque: M. RIGSDALE, VETERINARY MEDICINE.

  Jane jabbed a thumb at the doorbell as if she were aiming for Martin’s eye. A moment later, they were buzzed in. The reception area looked expensive—blond wood paneling and deep plush chairs—but it didn’t match the architecture outside. The receptionist was blond, too, slim but shapely, wearing a white smock that emphasized generous cleavage. She had a pretty but sulky face, with soft features and a pout that she tried to harden into a professional mask. “I’m afraid you don’t have an appointment,” she said, aiming for coolness, but it came out more snotty than anything else.

  “I have personal business with Dr. Rigsdale,” Jane said, cutting through the high school mean girl attitude. To tell the truth, Sunny estimated that the receptionist wasn’t all that long out of high school. “I’m also Dr. Rigsdale. Martin asked me to come and see him this evening.”

  As if Mean Girl here didn’t know that, Sunny thought. The young woman drew herself up in her seat, and Sunny spotted a name tag on her smock: Dawn.

  Judging from the jealous look on Dawn’s face, here’s another one that Martin charmed the pants off.

  Dawn fiddled self-importantly with the computer keyboard on the reception desk, glancing at a screen that neither Sunny nor Jane could see. “As I mentioned, there’s nothing listed—”

  Jane had had enough, sidestepping Dawn’s desk and heading down the hallway. If this followed the typical layout for most medical practices, somewhere along this corridor would be an examination room, a private office, or maybe both.

  “You can’t go back there!” Dawn’s professional composure cracked as badly as her voice.

  “Martin!” Jane drowned out Dawn’s complaints. “Stop hiding behind this girl. You made threats to get me to come here, but that’s all you’re getting out of me. Do you hear me, Martin? Martin?”

  As she shouted, Jane stomped down the hallway, opening doors. Finally she reached a brightly lit examination room. “Martin!”

  Jane froze in the doorway, with Sunny at her heels. It was pretty easy to see why Martin hadn’t responded. He lay sprawled across the metal top of the exam table, very, very still.

  4

  “Oh my God!” Jane rushed into the room, but Sunny grabbed her by the arm.

  “If he’s the way I think he is,” Sunny said, “you’d better not be touching anything.”

  Jane shook herself loose. “That’s a big ‘if’ right now.” She hurried over to Martin Rigsdale’s still form. He lay under a bright examination light, facedown. Jane put a finger to his neck and then glanced back at Sunny, shaking her head.

  Dawn appeared in the doorway beside Sunny. “What are you doing?” Her voice grew shrill. “What did you do to him?”
<
br />   “We found him like this,” Sunny told the girl. “Better call 911.”

  “You’re damned right I will!” Dawn spun around and rushed back to her desk.

  “Come on back here,” Sunny called to Jane. “You can’t do anything to help, and you may get in the way of the cops.”

  That earned her a cold look from Jane. “I forgot that you and Will first met at a crime scene. Is that what he told you at the time?”

  “On occasion. It’s good advice,” Sunny told her. “Especially around dead bodies.”

  Jane grimaced but joined Sunny at the entrance to the room. Moments later, they heard the door buzzer shrill, and then heavy footfalls come down the hallway. A pair of Portsmouth police officers appeared, with Dawn behind them.

  “They’re in here.” The girl sounded as if she was trying to catch her breath. “He was fine until they arrived.”

  The cops split up, one entering the room, the other closely watching Sunny and Jane.

  At least he’s not keeping his hand over his holster, Sunny thought.

  “Definitely deceased,” the cop in the examination room said to his partner. “Got a contusion on the back of his head. Shirt rolled up on the right arm—I think we’d better secure the scene and call the Detective Division.”

  *

  That meant a pair of detectives who arrived about fifteen minutes later. The lead was a big, burly type, gray-haired with a mournful, basset hound face. His partner was shorter and skinny, with pinched features and lips pursed as if he’d never tasted anything good in his life.

  “Detective Trumbull.” The big man identified himself, displaying a gold badge. “And this is my partner, Detective Fitch.”

  Fitch was already inside the room, moving with quick nervous steps. He stopped to examine the body. “Guy took a good knock on the head.” Then Fitch delicately raised one of Martin’s wrists. “No sign of rigor.”

  “We’ll have to let the lab rats see if they can narrow down the time of death.” Trumbull turned back to Dawn. “When was the last time you saw the doctor?”

  “About an hour and a half ago,” Dawn replied. “Then these two came barging in—”

  “Thank you,” The detective’s rumbling voice overrode Dawn’s accusations. He looked from Jane to Sunny. “I understand that one of you is the wife of the deceased?”

  “Ex-wife,” Jane quickly corrected, not noticing Sunny’s wince. “We finalized the divorce more than a year ago.”

  “She killed Martin—Dr. Rigsdale!” Dawn insisted from the background. “She came down here, and the next thing I know, they’re telling me he’s dead!”

  “As you told me at the doorway, Ms. Featherstone.” Was that patience or resignation in Trumbull’s voice? “Why don’t you go wait in the front room with the other officers?” he suggested, turning his concentration back to Jane.

  “What was your name again?” he asked her.

  “Dr. Jane Rigsdale. I’m a vet, too. Martin and I used to have a practice together.”

  “You came down here and found Dr. Martin Rigsdale dead?”

  Jane nodded. “He was just lying there.”

  Trumbull turned to Sunny. “And you are?”

  “Sonata Coolidge. I gave Jane a lift over here.”

  “My car had a flat, and I asked Sunny for a ride,” Jane explained.

  “It’s the maroon Jeep Wrangler outside,” Sunny said. “I know it’s pretty cold out, but if you check, my hood should still be warm. We only got here about half an hour ago. We were barely in the door before we found Martin.”

  Trumbull glanced at Fitch, who hurried back outside. “Considering the storm they’re predicting any moment,” the big detective went on, “you must have had urgent business with your ex-husband, Dr. Rigsdale.”

  That put a dent in Jane’s self-confidence. “We had things to discuss.” She stepped aside as Fitch returned. “Car’s still warm,” he confirmed, and then resumed his prowling around the room.

  Good luck, Jane, if you think you put an end to that topic of discussion, the tough reporter who lived in the back of Sunny’s head silently jeered.

  The skinny detective suddenly stopped on the other side of the exam table, bending down and briefly disappearing. “Got something here, Mark,” he reported. “Looks like a rubber tube—the kind doctors use to tie off an arm and make the veins pop.”

  “His sleeve is rolled up on the right side.” Trumbull’s voice went down to a low rumble. “Seems as if Dr. Rigsdale might’ve gotten an injection in his right arm.”

  That rocked Jane a bit. “Martin had his vices. But I don’t think he’d turn to drugs.” She paused for a second, then went on more slowly. “Besides, he’s right-handed. Why would he inject himself with his left hand?”

  Fitch impatiently shook his head. “More to the point, where’s the hypodermic?” He gestured around the room. “I’ve looked. Nothing.”

  “It may still turn up,” Trumbull said. “I guess there must be stuff around here to put animals to sleep, right?”

  In spite of Sunny’s look of warning, Jane opened her mouth again. “Oh, sure. From what he told me, Martin was trying to get in with the horsey set. He’d need a good supply of sodium pentobarbital if he thought he might one day need to euthanize a fifteen-hundred-pound animal.”

  “Enough to kill a horse,” Trumbull said quietly. Fitch just glared at Jane in silent suspicion.

  Sunny bit her lip. I know you came here in a bad mood, Jane, and you’ve had a shock. But these are cops. If you’re as smart as I always thought you were, you’d be shutting up now.

  “Look”—Sunny desperately spoke up—“why don’t you check us out? We barely got in here before Dawn joined us, and we haven’t been out since. I know that neither of us has that needle. If it left here, it left with somebody else.”

  Jane endured a quick search in rigid silence, but Sunny figured the indignity was a small price to pay to get off the suspects list. As she expected, the cops came up empty.

  “I think we should get you ladies downtown for a statement.” Trumbull looked even more morose than he had when he’d entered. “And you, too, Ms. Featherstone,” he added over his shoulder.

  *

  Sunny had seen the Portsmouth city hall, a vaguely Colonial brick building facing the South Mill Pond, but that part of the complex was like the top bar of a capital T. A string of less grandiose civic buildings made up the body of the T. The entrance to the police station, for instance, looked very much like the door to Sunny’s MAX office . . . not counting the large sign in the shape of a badge and the pair of globe lamps labeled POLICE on ether side of the entryway.

  Sunny, Jane, and Dawn had been split up at the veterinary office and ferried to the station in separate cars. Guess they didn’t want us talking, she thought. On arrival, Sunny had her fingerprints taken on a gizmo that reminded her of the multipurpose printer/scanner in her bedroom. Then she’d been stuck in an interrogation room for an interminable wait until finally Detective Fitch came in. He leaned way over the table, invading her space, his ferretlike nose twitching as he asked questions.

  “What kind of relationship did the Rigsdales have?” He watched Sunny closely.

  She took a moment to decide on an answer. “I only saw them together once.” Honest, but not too revealing. Considering the way this guy had looked at Jane, Sunny wasn’t about to tell him about Jane throwing her wine in Martin’s face.

  Although they’ll probably find out about all that if they ask around, she thought glumly. Upwards of a hundred people saw that performance, and the gossip was sure to get around.

  “You only saw the Rigsdales together once?” Fitch pressed, his face full of disbelief. “And yet you’re close enough to Mrs. Rigsdale that she asked you to give her a lift to her husband’s office?”

  “I’ve only been back in Kittery Harbor for about a year,” Sunny told him. “Jane and Martin had split up by the time I came home.”

  “So what are you saying?” Fitch said. �
�You knew Mrs. Rigsdale, but not while she was married?”

  Sunny sighed. “Pretty much. Jane and I went to school together years ago. But I left town after college, and just came home to take care of my dad when he got sick. It’s not as if there’s a wide network of expatriates back in town, Detective. Jane and I just sort of wound up back in touch when I took my cat to the vet and was surprised to find her. I’d only known her by her maiden name—Leister.”

  Fitch looked disappointed but kept probing. “Do you know what the Rigsdales were going to talk about this evening?”

  Sunny took a deep breath. “I think it was about money,” she said. “From what I understand, Martin Rigsdale had problems in that direction.”

  “And where did you get that impression?” Fitch asked.

  His annoying manner pushed Sunny into a sharper answer than she’d intended. “From Martin himself. He approached me, suggesting that if I persuaded Jane to ‘loosen the purse strings,’ as he put it, we could have some fun with the proceeds.”

  Detective Fitch reared back a little, silenced for once.

  “I’ll admit that I don’t know Jane Rigsdale all that well. From when we were kids, I know she’s smart. From the way she treats Shadow—my cat—I know she’s kind and conscientious. I only met Martin Rigsdale once. But he impressed me as the sort of man who could very easily create all kinds of reasons to get himself killed.”

  Slowly, Fitch nodded. “Okay, I look forward to reading your statement, Ms. Coolidge. I’m sure you’ll do a wonderful job.”

  “Excuse me?” Sunny said.

  “Well, you are a newspaper reporter, aren’t you?” the detective replied. “Even though we live on the other side of a state border, we still get the news from Maine. Somebody gave me a copy of the Harbor Crier because they thought I’d be interested in the Spruance case. The piece you wrote was very interesting—very professional. Do you cover a lot of murders?”

  Sunny gave Fitch a suspicious look as she took a pen and pad from the detective. Was this part of the interrogation?