Cat Nap полностью

As quitting time came around, she stepped into the bathroom and checked her reflection. Sunny had abandoned her usual business casual dress code for the day. She’d gotten out a dark gray suit—something she used to save for serious interviews back in her reporting days. With a muted silver blouse, it looked good without being too flashy. In fact, she looked good. The only problem was that her hair was getting a bit out of control again. Sunny did what she could, closed up the office, and headed home.

She found Mike in the living room, watching the news in what he called his “wedding and funeral suit.”

“Looking good, Dad,” she complimented him.

With a crisp white shirt and a sober tie, Mike could have been a model in a shopping circular. He hooked a thumb in the waistband of his trousers. “It does fit better,” he admitted. “Last time I wore this outfit, I felt a bit squeezed in. Figured when it was my turn to be front and center in the casket, they’d have to slit the suit up the back to make it look like it fit me.”

“Dad!” Sunny stared at him. She didn’t know what got into her father when he had to deal with funerals.

“It’s true,” Mike insisted. “I had a friend who used to work at Saxon Funerals. That was one of the tricks they used if the guest of honor turned out to be a little too fat for his good suit.”

He shrugged. “It’s not as if people are going to see.”

They had a simple supper and set off for Portsmouth. The funeral chapel was pretty close to Martin’s office, a white brick structure with a large parking lot.

“Looks like a good-sized crowd,” Mike said, glancing around. “I guess Martin was fairly well liked.”

Sunny parked her Wrangler toward the edge of the lot. She’d put on a black wool coat that had seemed warm enough in New York but failed to deal with the chilly wind whipping among the cars. Mike jammed his hands in the pockets of his heavy trench coat, muttering, “I’ll be glad to get inside.”

Martin’s memorial took up the whole ground floor. Instead of the traditional casket, easels featured a collage of pictures—Martin playing golf, Martin looking convivial at parties, Martin accepting awards, even a few shots of Martin with some four-legged patients.

A few of the pictures included Dawn Featherstone. None of them included Jane.

While Sunny perused the photo montage, Mike unabashedly studied the crowd. “I know a few folks here,” he murmured.

Sunny felt a presence at her elbow and turned to see Dawn Featherstone glaring at her.

“What are you doing here?” the young woman asked, her usually soft features taut with stress. She looked as if she’d lost some weight over the past week. Dawn was dressed all in black. On a closer look, though, the pants she was wearing didn’t quite match the shade of her jacket. Her blouse was buttoned all the way up to the neck. Two strong spots of color showed on her cheeks.

“I’m not here looking for trouble,” Sunny told Dawn quietly. “I only knew Martin briefly, but my dad felt we should pay our respects.”

Dawn gracelessly shook hands with Mike, her expression suspicious.

“Dad mentioned seeing several acquaintances in the crowd,” Sunny went on. “I’ll just stand in the back while he says hello. And then we’ll be gone.”

True to her word, Sunny found a quiet corner and stood looking on while Mike worked the room like a seasoned politician, shaking hands and speaking with people, being introduced and chatting some more.

I bet Martin would be pleased with the turnout, Sunny thought, watching the visitors. Pretty well-dressed crowd, too.

A lot of the men had designer suits. The women had winter tans and real jewelry. For a moment, Sunny felt a little sorry for Dawn. She was trying to be a good hostess, greeting people, talking about the photos. Most of the people were treating her like the maître d’ at a restaurant. No, they’d be more considerate of a maître d’—he had the power to stick them at a bad table. Dawn, with her mismatched suit and strained manners, was going to a lot of trouble . . . for damned little in the way of appreciation.

As Mike worked his way toward her, Sunny amused herself by searching for brunettes in the crowd. Had Christine Venables shown up for this sad occasion?

Mike finally rejoined Sunny. She leaned toward his ear. “If you’ve had enough, I’m ready to go. No need to overstay a pretty brittle welcome.”

“Okay,” he said. They turned to look for Dawn—and found her shaking hands with a woman who had a few glints of silver in her glossy dark hair. The woman was very serious and polite, compared to the perfunctory way a lot of the guests treated Dawn. But the girl’s face had gone dead white, and her polite smile had become more of a grimace.

“Let’s wait a minute,” Mike said. “Let her finish talking with Christine Venables.”