But her neighbor wasn’t finished. “And she asked how it would look on a gray-striped cat.”
22
Long after Mrs. Martinson left the office, Sunny sat at her desk, getting nothing done. Her mind kept skittering between the two facts that Mrs. M. had dropped on her.
With her elbows on the desk, Sunny leaned her forehead into her hands. Her head seemed to be pounding with more thoughts than it could hold.
Besides worrying about Shadow, Sunny’s brain wouldn’t let go of the other story her neighbor had told, about Christine Venables and her secret rendezvous with Martin Rigsdale. Somehow, that had to be useful. Throw it in the pot with motive and an unreliable alibi, and what kind of stew did that make?
The evening shadows came, and so did a few calls from clients with last-minute glitches. Sunny took care of the problems, almost glad for the distraction. But by the time she closed up the office, she felt a strange peace. She’d come to a decision. This plan might end up with her flat on her face, but it was the only way she could test her suspicions. She’d have to try the frontal assault.
So, when she locked up the office, Sunny set off for scenic Piney Brook, as she had always found it described in her tourist information. The area was beautiful, really, even on a chilly Friday evening. The houses out here were mansions in all but name, not merely big like some of the monstrosities going up on the edge of town, but well built and well designed. Like the families who’d lived here for generations, these houses were solid—they belonged.
She got out of the car and walked to the front door. It was a Friday evening, date night, so there was a good chance Kristi wasn’t in. As for the rest . . . Sunny banked everything on the idea that Christine Venables would follow the Kittery Harbor Way, rich folks edition. She’d have cleaning staff, but not actual servants.
Sunny’s bet turned out right. She rang the doorbell, and Christine herself answered the door. The woman was dressed in a subdued gray sweater and a darker pair of wool pants. She took in Sunny’s parka and jeans and said, “I’m afraid that if you’re collecting for something—”
Sunny interrupted her right there. “I’m not here asking for favors, I’m here to do one for you.”
That shut Christine up. Standing close to her, Sunny could see that although a little gray had crept into Christine’s shoulder-length dark hair, she didn’t hide it with dye. Her patrician features still held up well. Maybe a few fine lines had set themselves in around the edges of her large brown eyes. But in general, her picture would go well in any politician’s election literature, working in a soup kitchen or helping kids at school.
But instead of the practiced do-gooder campaign expression, Christine looked wide-eyed and wary. “What sort of favor?”
“I’m going to read the minds of the cops who visited you the other day,” Sunny told her. “They probably told you that they were checking all the folks who brought patients to Martin Rigsdale. That wasn’t really true, although I’m pretty sure you wouldn’t be asking around. In your situation, I don’t think you’d want to be discussing visits from the police.”
That was a shot in the dark, but Sunny had the satisfaction of seeing it hit home. Instead of slamming the door on her, Christine muttered, “Come in.”
She led the way into a front parlor with a big fieldstone fireplace and furniture that was older than Sunny—the sort of stuff built to last for generations. “Where’s Kristi?” Sunny asked, making Christine stumble slightly as she went to sit in an overstuffed armchair.
“She’s out,” the dark-haired woman replied stiffly.
“And your husband is in Augusta, helping to run the state,” Sunny went on. “Spending a lot of time up there these days. Ah, well, it gives us a chance for a private discussion. I suppose you know that some tongues are wagging about a separation.”
