Mike came in to take the chair opposite hers at the table. “I put on the Weather Chanel to see what they had to say about this snow. As usual, they’re talking out of both sides of their mouths,” he said sourly, then gave her a sly look. “I’m betting that whatever you have to say about your visit will be more interesting.”
“You could say that,” Sunny told him. “We got there, Jane bombed past the bimbo receptionist, and then she found Martin lying dead on his examination table.”
That got Mike sitting up straight. “Dead?” he echoed.
Sunny nodded and gave him all the details, including Will’s story about the relentless Mark Trumbull.
“I know Jane’s been giving you a lot of competition for Will’s attention.” Mike gave her a grin. “Maybe this Trumbull guy will go after her and remove her from the game.”
His grin wavered a little. “You were supposed to laugh there, Sunny.”
Remembering her view of Jane snuggled next to Will as his pickup pulled away, Sunny didn’t feel like laughing. She took a big mouthful of stew—mainly horseradish, unfortunately—and went into a coughing fit.
Mike hastily got her a glass of water. “Don’t pay any attention to me. I’m still half asleep.” He tried to stifle a yawn and failed. “Might as well go upstairs and back to bed. Good night—or should I say ‘good morning’?” He gave Sunny a kiss on the forehead and headed out of the kitchen.
“How about ‘sleep well’ instead?” Sunny called after him. “I’ll be up in a little while.” She used her fork and smooshed down the last potato to absorb the stew juices. A few more bites, and the stew was history.
She washed her dish and put it in the drainer, along with her knife and fork. At the kitchen doorway she paused for a second, checking that everything had been put away. A small head butted against her ankle. Sunny glanced down to see Shadow looking up at her.
“How’s that paw doing?” she asked, returning to the sink to warm up some oil by running the bottle under hot water. After making sure it wasn’t too hot, she poured herself a handful and knelt on the floor. Shadow came to her immediately, dabbing his paw into her palm. “Does it still hurt?” Sunny asked, massaging the oil around his pads. “You seem to be walking all right.”
Shadow just looked up at her and purred.
She got a paper towel to blot away any excess oil on Shadow’s paw and then nodded at the doorway. “Come along, little guy,” Sunny said. “Keep me company while I try to chill out a little.” They headed down the hallway to the living room, where the TV was still on.
Picking up the remote, Sunny abandoned the bad-news weather forecast. But the later late-night talk shows weren’t very funny. She clicked along, through the middles of several movies she didn’t want to see, reruns of once-successful shows exiled to the wee hours . . . In the end, she found one of those true crime shows where newscasters gave all the facts and plot twists but never really solved anything. On the screen, a local cop gave an impassioned tirade about why the suspect in this case must have committed the crime. Sunny was pretty sure some defense witness would be on with a rebuttal after a couple of commercials.
Sunny turned off the TV, getting down on the floor to play with Shadow. She dug a piece of string out of her pocket and led him a merry chase, the cat clambering all over her as he pounced on his make-believe prey.
As she drew the string across her leg, he climbed across her shins. Suddenly he stopped, audibly sniffing. He remained frozen, poised on three paws (he still favored the injured paw, holding it slightly aloft), and then turned his eyes to hers in an odd stare.
“What are you smelling, Shadow?” Sunny asked. Maybe Shadow had detected the scent of Martin’s vet office, or of Martin himself. Who knew? Perhaps he’d caught a whiff of Jane. Or maybe Sunny had brought home a trace of the interrogation room. Sunny was pretty sure that Detective Fitch probably smelled like something a cat would like to kill.
What did it matter? She flipped up the end of the string so it appeared just past her knee, and Shadow dove for it, the smell apparently forgotten.
They played for a little while longer, until Sonny was hit by a yawn that threatened to dislocate her jawbone. Running a hand over Shadow’s furry back, she said, “Sorry, cat, I’m turning into a pumpkin.”
