“A possible separation, but they’re trying to keep it quiet,” was Helena Martinson’s verdict. “They may have held it together for the election, but now they’re easing into a divorce. There have been some rumors. I’ve heard them, but so far it’s been all talk.”
She aimed bright eyes at Sunny. “But maybe not anymore, I suspect.”
“‘Suspect’ is a good word,” Sunny replied. “This, as they used to say when I was working, is definitely not for publication.” She briefly told the story of Martin Rigsdale’s two ladies. “The blonde is pretty obviously Dawn Featherstone, but the dark lady could be Christine Venables.”
“Very Shakespearean,” Mrs. Martinson said. “I just hope it doesn’t turn out to be one of those revenge tragedies.”
“If they’re heading for a divorce anyway, is there any reason to get all dramatic about it?” Sunny asked.
“One word: ‘politics.’ Two people might dissolve a marriage with a minimum of fuss and bother. But the threat of political scandal could complicate things considerably. It could hurt Ralph’s electability for the office he holds or keep him from getting any higher up the ladder.”
“Possible motive,” Sunny admitted. “But enough to kill for?”
“It does seem a little cold-blooded,” Mrs. Martinson agreed. “But consider this. It’s one thing to decide that a marriage is over, to come to that rational conclusion. Even so, it’s something else to discover that your wife is sleeping with another man. That could lead to a hasty reaction.”
“And a bigger scandal to keep quiet,” Sunny finished. “And, of course, if there’s a divorce settlement to be made, any kind of scandal hurts Christine.”
Mrs. Martinson nodded. “As you say, motive. Strong enough to kill over? I can’t tell. But I can say this—Martin Rigsdale had a lot to answer for.”
Sunny fell uncharacteristically quiet for a few moments. She’d been involved with a guy who’d been getting divorced, living apart, just waiting for the final papers.
And then Randall hadn’t gotten divorced at all.
“As you said when we started, this story is definitely not for publication.” Mrs. Martinson sat very straight in her armchair, her cooling cup of coffee held between both hands. “But I wonder if there are more pieces to put together. Let me see what I can find.”
*
Shadow regarded the sandwich suspiciously. In his experience, food did not usually appear in the middle of a road, especially a sandwich that didn’t even have a bite in it. He tried to remember anything like this. Sometimes humans threw papers from their go-fast things, and sometimes there was food in there. But that was usually in warmer times. This time of year the two-legs didn’t leave windows open. He remembered once seeing a car with a sack of food left on the roof. The car had moved, the sack had fallen, and Shadow had investigated. But there was nothing in there that a self-respecting cat would eat. Here, though . . .
He could smell the rare roast beef even before he came around the curve in the road. Shadow looked around. A car sat still on the side of the road not too far away. But nothing moved in the failing light. He peered at the sandwich again, and his stomach rumbled.
Shadow had walked very far since he left the space under the deck. He hadn’t had as much luck as he’d hoped in finding food. In fact, he’d had none. He was tired, and cold, and very empty. Soon he’d have to find a safe place where he could sleep. It would be good to do that with a full belly.
He looked both ways along the empty road again and, crouched low, approached the sandwich. One of the pieces of bread had fallen away, leaving the meat out in the open.
And then, all of a sudden, things were very, very bad. Something swooped down on him, and he suddenly found himself trapped in folds of fur. What kind of creature was this? It apparently could fly, but it had fur. And it stank! Shadow had seen Biscuit Eaters who liked to roll in dead things. But whatever this animal had rolled in was worse than dead. It made Shadow a little light-headed to breathe this reek.
Still, he tried to fight, kicking, unsheathing his claws. But he couldn’t land a good blow or draw blood in the stifling folds.
And then it got worse. He felt himself pulled from the ground, as if some gigantic bird was taking him away. Shadow couldn’t help himself. He yowled in terror.
