“In a way,” Sunny admitted. “It’s his office receptionist I’m more interested in—Dawn Featherstone. Young, pretty . . . and she tried to sic the cops on Jane and me, accusing us of killing Martin Rigsdale. I don’t think it would hurt to know a little more about her.”
Mike quickly put his cup down. “You’re not going to get involved in this, are you?”
“As if,” Sunny laughed. “Will told us the best detective on the Portsmouth force is investigating. There’s nothing I need to do. I’m just . . . curious.”
“Remember what curiosity did to the cat,” Mike said. Shadow raised his head and looked over at them. “Heck of a lot worse than a sore paw.”
“Thanks for reminding me about that paw.” Sunny quickly finished her breakfast, warmed up some oil, and brought it over to Shadow. While she massaged the cat’s paw, Mike brought the bowls and cups to the sink and cleaned them.
Sunny gave Shadow a final pat on the head and got up. “Now I have to put some clothes on and get to work.”
“I bet you’re glad of the new truck,” her dad said, peering out the window at the snow. “That old Mustang of yours wouldn’t have gotten down the driveway without spinning out.”
“You’re probably right,” Sunny admitted, then turned to him. “Do me a favor—promise you won’t try to clear the drive.”
“I’m not an invalid,” Mike argued, and then looked out at the ice-caked expanse of snow again. “I’m also not an idiot. Either McPherson will come by with his snowblower, or a couple of neighborhood kids will turn up with shovels.”
Sunny headed upstairs to shower and dress, then came back to kiss her dad good-bye and remind him to speak with Mrs. Martinson. “Dawn Featherstone,” she repeated.
“From Portsmouth,” Mike replied, nodding.
Pulling on her gray parka, Sunny carefully made her way down the front steps to the driveway, skidding a little on the ice as she headed for her Wrangler. The SUV started up with a rumble, crunching its way through the ice rime as Sunny slowly drove down the driveway.
The plow teams must have been busy all night, because the roads were pretty much clear. That didn’t mean there weren’t icy spots, though. Sunny cringed a little behind the wheel as she and a lot of morning commuters inched past a car not all that different from her former Mustang, stuck at a crazy angle on the shoulder of the road, its front fender crunched.
She knew how that felt. One of the reasons her little car had been retired was due to a road mishap last winter.
Maybe the Mustang curse still hung over her. Even though she’d specifically set off a little early, the traffic left her arriving at the MAX office several minutes after nine o’clock.
Sunny’s heart sank a little when she found the door unlocked and a heavyset figure sitting at her desk.
“Morning, Ollie,” she said, shrugging out of her coat.
Oliver Barnstable looked from her to his wristwatch, but he didn’t say anything. That was atypical behavior for Ollie the Barnacle, a guy who was crustier than most crustaceans. Usually he’d jump on any excuse to browbeat Sunny over the management of the office. For a moment, Sunny debated asking whether he was feeling all right but quickly quashed that idea. No good could come of such a question.
Ollie quickly began reassembling the contents of several file folders he’d spread across her desk. “I’m going to be away for a couple of days,” he announced.
“Another vacation?” The words came out before Sunny could stop them. Barnstable had gone down to the Caribbean for two of the mildest winter weeks in Kittery Harbor history. And he’d returned with a sunburn that made his normally florid complexion lobster red.
He winced at the memory, a scowl flitting across his round face. But his voice was pretty mild when he answered. “No, I’m heading down to New York. I might catch a couple of shows, but it’s basically business. Unless something happens, I should be gone for a week.”
Ollie looked up at her, back to his normal self. “Don’t burn the office down while I’m gone.”
“I’ll try not to,” she promised. “Is there anything I should be aware of?” While MAX was essentially a glorified travel agency, Ollie also used the place as the nerve center for his other business and real estate operations—including a set of locked file cabinets in the back of the office. “And are there any arrangements I should be making for you?”
Ollie the Barnacle shook his head. “All taken care of.” He gathered the folders into his battered leather briefcase. “If anything really important comes up, you can get me on my cell phone.”
With that good advice, he headed out the door.
“I hope you bring your charger along,” Sunny called to his back, but the door had already swung closed.
