“A waste of goddamn time,” Ollie growled. “This guy kept stringing me along, keeping me in New York, because his buddy was busy scaring up investors down in Miami. Supposedly, this clown had a million-dollar idea. They’d picked up this resort down in the islands—a place that went bust—and planned to renovate it for a whole new market. I wasted nearly a week trying to figure out what it would be. Gays? Rehab junkies? Religious nuts? Sex freaks? So when this guy comes to show me his plans, it turns out to be a concierge hotel for pets! What a stupid idea! Who the hell cares that much about pets?”
He glanced down at the Day-Glo flyer in his hand, and his usually pink face turned almost a radioactive red. “Uh, not to say that people don’t care about their pets. I mean—”
Sunny decided to let him off the hook. “I know what you mean, Ollie.”
As she spoke, the office door opened. In came a very unhappy-looking Ben Semple, accompanied by Detective Fitch.
“The sheriff sent me over,” Ben said, his words and expression showing that he didn’t want Sunny thinking this was his idea. “I believe you know Detective Fitch of the Portsmouth police.”
Fitch’s thin face looked more like a ferret’s than ever—a ferret about to make a snack out of a baby mouse. But his voice was bland and official. “Ms. Coolidge, I’m asking you to accompany me down to the station. We have some additional questions to ask you about the murder of Martin Rigsdale.”
Ollie’s eyes went from the uniformed cop, to the detective, to Sunny. “Oh, yeah,” he muttered. “Business as usual.”
19
Sunny rode in Detective Fitch’s car—in the back. “Procedure,” he said.
They drove through town, with Ben Semple accompanying in his patrol car until they got to the bridge. Then Ben peeled off.
The Portsmouth cop didn’t gloat over Sunny’s situation, or threaten, or even say much of anything. She shifted her perch on the back seat.
They arrived at the police station, and sure enough, Fitch escorted Sunny straight over to an interrogation room. She looked around at the acoustic tiles and the mirror at one end of the room. Was anybody watching behind there?
Fitch got her seated and then said, “Detective Trumbull will be with you in a minute.”
Aloud she said, “It’s a little unfortunate. The day my boss comes in after being away for a week, and I’m pulled away from work.”
“Then I’ll try to make it as brief as possible.” Trumbull consulted his folder, although Sunny was pretty sure he had everything in there memorized by heart. “I understand you were the person who put Mrs. Rigsdale’s attorney on the trail of Christine Venables.”
“I wouldn’t exactly put it that way,” Sunny protested.
“How would you put it?” Trumbull asked. “You found a witness and told Mr. Phillips about her.”
“I was in Portsmouth on business.” Sunny had already decided not to mention what kind of business. “I stopped at a diner to pick up something for lunch. Martin Rigsdale’s face was on the TV, and the waitress recognized him. We talked about it. She mentioned that he frequented the place. Apparently, he tried to pick up some of the waitstaff and later brought some female company of his own.” Sunny tried to make her story as direct as possible.
“And did she identify those companions?” Trumbull had his usual sorrows-of-the-world expression, but his eyes were sharp. “Did you?”
“The waitress didn’t mention names.” Sunny shrugged. “In fact, I can’t remember hers, if she even gave it to me. But she described the women. One pretty much matched Dawn Featherstone—young, blond, athletic, very taken with Martin. The other was brunette, older, and more sophisticated. I didn’t know who that was.”
“You don’t know Christine Venables?” Trumbull pressed, his eyes getting sharper.
