“I only know the Venables name from local politics,” Sunny answered. “If I’d caught a glimpse of her, on TV or out campaigning, I don’t remember it. Until my dad pointed her out last night, I don’t recall ever seeing Mrs. Venables before.”
Trumbull pounced. “But you saw her last night?”
Sunny nodded. “We went to Martin Rigsdale’s memorial service last night. My dad is kind of—well, he felt we had an obligation to go. That it would be traditional to pay our respects. We spoke briefly with Dawn Featherstone, and my father mingled with some folks he knew. We were just about ready to leave when my dad pointed out Christine Venables.”
“So your father knew her,” Trumbull said in the tone of a man trying to nail something down.
“He recognized her,” Sunny said, loosening the nails a little. “But then, my dad is a lot more interested in local politics than I am.”
The detective nodded. “Mrs. Venables is the wife of a Maine state representative.” He tilted his head a little. “And this wouldn’t involve any sort of political . . . activity on your father’s part?”
Sunny had to fight back a flash of anger.
“Dirty politics, you mean? That’s not the kind of politics my father is interested in,” she said flatly. “He just mentioned the name in passing. In fact, he wasn’t even aware of my interest in Christine Venables. Jane had mentioned her name to me.”
Trumbull settled back in his seat, frowning. “Yes, she told me about that.”
Trumbull sighed and placed both hands palms down on the table between them. “Well, unless you have anything else to add, I guess that covers what I wanted to know.”
Sunny felt muscles in her back relax—muscles that she hadn’t even been aware of tightening.
“One thing, though,” the detective added in an offhand manner. “What brought you over to the station last night?”
For just a second, Trumbull’s features tightened, the merest disarrangement of his mournful mask. Heads would roll if he found out who’d spoken to Will. Sunny didn’t know who Will’s source was, and what she didn’t know, she couldn’t tell Mark Trumbull. “He didn’t mention how he got that idea. But since we were comparatively nearby, we came to the station to see if Jane needed help.”
Trumbull’s oversized head gave the tiniest of shakes. “No, Mrs. Rigsdale had all the help she could possibly need.”
“She was certainly glad to be getting back outside,” Sunny told him. “I don’t have to tell you that talking to the police, even if you’re innocent, can be a pretty intense business.”
The hint of a smile played around the detective’s lips. “You seem to handle it well enough, Ms. Coolidge.”
“I was a reporter,” she replied. “I have some experience. Jane doesn’t. All I’m saying is that she needed to be loosened up, and Tobe Phillips did that by reminding her of something stupid from twenty years ago.” Sunny glanced at Trumbull. “I guess you know we were all in school together way back when. Anyhow, I think Jane overreacted—you know, the whole laughing in church kind of thing. If you start, it’s hard to stop.”
Very quickly, Detective Trumbull’s face went to surprised, thoughtful, and wary . . . and then shut down into that sad, basset hound look again.
The moment ended with a knock on the door. Fitch came in with a sheaf of papers. “We finished checking out the Venables,” he said. “The husband was definitely up in Augusta during the window of opportunity. He was doing some sort of legislative committee work with several other state representatives.”
Fitch looked at his papers. “And the wife was home with her daughter.”
Sunny looked sharply from one detective to the other. In her old job, she was all too familiar with leaks. Some happened accidentally and some were carefully planned and orchestrated. Her overhearing this had a strong smell of accidentally on purpose.
