“The Big Kitty is a charming, witty, exciting new entry in the genre, featuring the best realized and most personable fictional character on four legs. You’ll love Shadow. And Sunny’s fun, too.”

—Parnell Hall, author of The KenKen Killings

“A paws-itively winning team! The Big Kitty deftly combines heartwarming humor and nail-biting suspense for a fun read that leaves you looking forward to Sunny and Shadow’s next adventure.”

—Ali Brandon, author of Double Booked for Death, a Black Cat Bookshop Mystery

“Applause for paws—Sunny and Shadow take Best in Show!”

—Susan Wittig Albert, author of Cat’s Claw, a Pecan Springs Mystery

“A purrfect debut. Four paws up and a tip of the tail.”

—Carolyn Hart, author of Dead by Midnight

“Small-town Maine hasn’t been this dangerous since Jessica Fletcher started finding dead bodies in Cabot Cove! In this debut, Sunny Coolidge, with the able assistance of a ‘big kitty’ named Shadow, proves she has the skills to make a successful amateur sleuth. Cozy mystery lovers will adore Shadow and pine for many more adventures for him and Sunny.”

—Miranda James, national bestselling author of the Cat in the Stacks Mysteries

The Big Kitty

Claire Donally

BERKLEY PRIME CRIME, NEW YORK

THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

Published by the Penguin Group

Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

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Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada

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Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s

imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business

establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over

and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

THE BIG KITTY

A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with Tekno Books.

PUBLISHING HISTORY

Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / May 2012

Copyright © 2012 by Tekno Books.

Cover illustration by Tony Mauro.

Cover design by George Long.

Interior text design by Laura K. Corless.

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or

electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of

copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,

a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

ISBN: 978-1-101-58076-9

BERKLEY^® PRIME CRIME

Berkley Prime Crime Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,

a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

BERKLEY^® PRIME CRIME and the PRIME CRIME logo are trademarks of

Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

10   9   8   7   6   5   4   3   2   1

If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is

stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the

author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

ALWAYS LEARNING

PEARSON

Acknowledgments

Many thanks to Mom, who suffered through the first draft of this story, and to editors John Helfers of Tekno Books and Shannon Jamieson Vazquez of Berkley Prime Crime, who suffered through the succeeding ones.

Additional thanks to my niece Jackie, to Mike, Denise, Jack, Kathleen, and Bill and Karen for their cat stories.

And of course, to Lily, Mulie, Belle, Dinoot, and Theo—especially Theo—for practical cat demonstrations.

A Note from the Author

When I first discussed the idea of a cat mystery set in Maine, I thought, “What better location than the town of Kittery? It even sounds right!”

With all the outlet stores, the nearby city of Portsmouth, New Hampshire, and a naval shipyard bringing people from all over the country into the area, Kittery seemed ideal.

Except …

Kittery might be a little too real. It’s a fairly small town, and it didn’t seem quite fair, smearing a murder all over a real place. You can get away with killing lots of people (at least on paper) in large, impersonal metropolitan areas like New York, Los Angeles, or even New Orleans. But there’s a reason why small-town murders tend to happen in fictitious places like St. Mary Mead, Pecan Springs, Texas … or Cabot Cove, Maine.

So I picked up Kittery and sort of smooshed it together with the neighboring township of York Harbor to create Kittery Harbor, a safely make-believe locale with its own politics, movers and shakers … and a cat lady. But as I worked on the plot, the specter of county politics arose, so I decided to secede the whole area from the real world.

Elmet is the name of an ancient Celtic kingdom that controlled part of what is now Yorkshire, England. So, Elmet County is a sort of parallel universe to Maine’s York County. It’s close to Portsmouth, there are lots of outlet stores nearby, and the town fronts on a harbor but there are still farms in the hinterland. Christopher Levett, an early settler in Maine, is commemorated with a fort in the real world. In Elmet County, he gives his name to the county seat.

I had a lot of fun creating a world that connects with reality in general, but definitely not in particulars.

No people were hurt in the creation of this literary crime (if you don’t count the author’s hair tearing), and all places and politics are definitely made up.

Any resemblance to real people, living or deceased, is purely coincidental.

However, some cat caregivers may recognize a few traits exhibited by certain feline friends …

Table of Contents

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3

4

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7

8

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10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

23

24

1

The watcher crouched in the darkness between cars, staring through the plate glass of the storefront at the woman inside.

He liked the way her dark hair spread out in a mane behind her head, gleaming in the glow from the screen she was watching.

A splash of light from a passing car invaded his hiding space, and he crouched lower. Not that he needed to worry about passersby. All but two of the shops in this little strip were already dark, and the food store was down at the other end of the block. Besides, even if someone were to stroll by, it was unlikely that they would spot him in the shadows.

A puff of breeze brought the scent of the sea, never too far away. Then the wind shifted, pulling a bouquet of aromas out the storefront’s open door. The watcher inhaled deeply, catching a mixture of dust and furniture polish, the sharp smell of electrical machinery at work, and then a whiff of the floral fragrance the woman was wearing, and under that the earthier tone of her own smell.

His head swam a little. The doorway was just a few yards away, beckoning him on this unseasonably warm evening. Maybe he should go in, make his move—

The breeze stopped being playful, turning into a gust that brought the chill of the ocean as well as its aroma. He hunkered down as it whistled around him. And as he did, the woman in the store moved to close the door, locking it and then rubbing her arms.

So much for that idea, he thought, turning to slink away.

Why do I keep coming back to her? he continued as he squeezed under a parked car and out the other side. It’s not as though I see her doing anything interesting—like eating.

With a flick of his tail he crossed the road, ready to leave. But then he heard the rumble of a car engine and caught a whiff of exhaust … and other familiar smells. He knew this vehicle. Turning around, he settled down on all four paws.

This could be interesting.

*

Still rubbing her arms, Sunny Coolidge returned to her computer and the latest crisis. She should have been home an hour and a half ago, but that was before some jackass had started acting out on a flight from Paris to Atlanta, getting his plane diverted to the customs and TSA facilities at Pease Airport in Portsmouth, New Hampshire.

Frantic Web searches by stranded passengers in search of nearby accommodations had led to a surge of e-mails at MAX—the Maine Adventure X-perience site—and Sunny’s computer. Since the travel agency here in Kittery Harbor, Maine, was just across the state border and less than five miles from the airport in New Hampshire, she’d gone into overtime matchmaking passengers with local B&Bs, beating the bushes for whatever additional accommodations she could find, and arranging transportation.

Well, at least Ollie—Oliver Barnstable, a.k.a. “Ollie the Barnacle,” the owner of MAX—should be happy tomorrow with all the extra revenue. And in spite of the late hour, Sunny was glad to help out the stuck travelers. It made her feel a little less like a mere Web lackey tending the site. When she’d come home to Maine eight months ago to take care of her ailing father, she’d only intended to take a brief leave of absence from her reporter job at the New York Standard. But unfortunately, the sickly state of the newspaper business had led her editor at the Standard to make her absence more permanent. And to pour salt into that particular wound, after he’d broken off their professional relationship, he broke off their personal one, too. Talk about a one-two punch.

When Sunny had tried for a job at the local rag, the Harbor Crier, Ken Howell, the editor there, had turned her down flat. Apparently after all his years of running the place, he didn’t want some big-city “professional” sticking a nose in his business. But luckily Ollie, who was a major partner on the paper, had heard she was looking for work and had offered her the job at MAX. Compared to her old New York salary, the pay could only be called puny … but at least puny was better than nothing.

To tell the truth, it was a little odd to be back working just two doors down from the store where she’d had her first job. In high school, Sunny had spent Friday evenings and Saturdays behind the fountain at Barnstable’s Sweet Shoppe, working for Ollie’s father. Sometimes Ollie would come by, dressed in a suit and tie from his job down in Boston, and give his dad a break. He was a lot older than Sunny and plainly hated working in the place.

But even if he detested the work and could be a little skeevy—he used to creep Sunny out a little by telling her she was the sweetest thing in the Sweet Shoppe—Ollie was otherwise all business. Sunny remembered him always arguing with his father about how they should open on Sundays, something the elder Barnstable refused to do. In the end Barnstable Senior passed away while Sunny was in college. Ollie had sold the store, taken the insurance money, and gone off to New York City. Apparently he’d invested that money well, because a few years before Mike’s illness, Ollie had come back to Kittery Harbor flush with cash and ready to do business around town. He’d invested in the faltering Harbor Crier, bought the row of stores where his dad’s shop used to be, and put a lot of money into local real estate and other business opportunities, including MAX.

Sunny had been surprised that Ollie had even remembered her, much less offered her a job. Maybe he just wanted someone around who’d spent time in the big city. Sometimes he’d talk to her about New York—the traffic, neighborhoods, Broadway shows he’d seen, expensive restaurants where he’d dined. He never gave away much about his business there, though.

And, Sunny was glad to say, he never told her she was the sweetest thing in the MAX office.

She thought she’d be writing promotional copy for the travel agency, and there was some of that. Mostly, though, she tended the website, arranged accommodations and sightseeing opportunities for prospective tourists, and dealt with the rare drop-in customer.

The operation struck her as a little underhanded—Ollie had a “select list” of B&Bs, tour operators, and local destinations that gave him kickbacks. But there were occasions, like tonight, when Sunny felt she was actually doing a good deed and helping people. Besides, it wasn’t as if there were that many other ways to earn a living in a town the size of Kittery Harbor, and she didn’t want to leech off her retired father.

The thought of Dad made her frown as the e-storm finally quieted down on her computer. He was responsible for getting his own dinner tonight, and he still wasn’t reconciled to the realities of a post–heart attack diet. Even worse, there were too many accommodating widowed neighbor ladies who’d be only too glad to cook him a nice, tasty, artery-clogging meal.

Their cooking’s probably why they are widow ladies, she thought sourly.

Would things have been different if Mom were still around? Unlikely. Dad had spent much of his working life on the road instead of at home, trucking rock salt all over New England. Sunny suspected that it was decades of diner cuisine which had finally caught up with him, not home cooking. And anyway, Mom’s cooking had ceased to be a factor almost fifteen years ago, when Sunny was just finishing exam hell for her first semester at Boston University. In a cruelly ironic twist, while Dad was out delivering a load of road-clearing salt to Boston, Mom had gone off the road in Kittery Harbor, just before Sunny was to come home for the holidays, another fatal accident victim of what became known as the Christmas ice storm.

Sunny pushed away her wandering thoughts when she heard a tapping at the door. She rose from behind her desk to see a birdlike woman waving energetically at her through the glass.

Sunny unlocked the door and the woman bustled inside. “You’re Mike Coolidge’s daughter, aren’t you?” she asked, standing so close she almost poked Sunny in the face with her oversized nose. “I don’t know if you remember me. I’m Ada Spruance, and I need help.”

Sunny had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from saying something stupid. Ada Spruance certainly did need help. Standing face-to-face with her, Sunny didn’t need the faint whiff of cat pee that emanated from the woman’s clothes to remind her that Ada was famous—or infamous—around town as the local Cat Lady.

Sunny shifted a little to put some distance between herself and Ada. Maybe she was wrong about the cat pee. Maybe it was a dab of very spoiled cologne.

Yeah, right, her cynical reporter alter ego responded.

“Your boss, Mr. Barnstable, has been around a lot lately, suggesting ways to assist me with my financial problems,” Ada said.

That got Sunny’s attention. Ollie the Barnacle turning up in response to money troubles was not exactly a charitable reaction. More like a shark attracted to blood in the water.

“The problem is, all of his suggestions involve selling my house. But I thought maybe I could bring in some extra money by setting my place up as a bed and breakfast.” Ada smiled hopefully. “What would I have to do to get listed with you?”

You’d probably have to start with a fumigator—and then maybe an exorcist, Sunny’s hard-edged inner voice chimed in. Ada’s big barn of a house with its scaly paint job served as a hostel for too many cats to count. She lived right around the corner from the home Sunny had grown up in, and though Ada had always taken in a few strays even back then, these days it was apparently something else. From what Sunny had heard, both Ada and her pets drove the nearby householders crazy. Sunny had witnessed her own dad curse his dotty neighbor up and down whenever he detected cat pee on the prized rosebushes her mom had planted around the house decades ago.

Aloud, Sunny tried to be more diplomatic. “I think you’d face more of a job than many of the people we represent.” How to put it delicately? “Some travelers are allergic to house pets. Those that aren’t might be willing to deal with a dog, or a cat, maybe two, but …”

Ada nodded. “I have more than that around the house,” she said with massive understatement, then sighed, her hands fluttering. “It’s just … I really need to bring some more money in, and—”

She broke off. “You’ve been very kind. Not like some of the people who live in this town.” Ada hesitated for a moment. “Could I rely upon your kindness just a little more? I have this other problem, and I—I realize I have no one to discuss it with. The new neighbors think I’m some sort of mental case, and the old-timers, well, they don’t speak with me anymore. I need some advice—some help—and it seems as though I have no one I can trust.”

The image of Ada sitting alone in her house with only the cats for company made Sunny regret her uncharitable thoughts. “What’s the trouble?” she asked.

Ada gave her an embarrassed smile. “It seems I’ve misplaced a lottery ticket …”

You start to sympathize with people, and this is what you get, Sunny’s inner reporter scolded. She tried not to roll her eyes at this offbeat turn in the conversation. Before Ada could explain any more, they were interrupted by a hand slapping at the door.

Sunny looked over to find a guy wearing muddy jeans and the kind of undershirt known in some circles as a “wifebeater,” teetering under an enormous bag of … dry cat food?

“Mr. Judson in the store orders in bulk for me, and once a week my son picks up our supplies,” Ada explained, noticing the look of confusion on Sunny’s face.

It took Sunny a moment to recognize the guy under the cat food as Ada’s son, Gordie Spruance. As a kid, she remembered a somewhat more mainstream Ada hopping like a sparrow around her big, slow-moving, egg-shaped son. Gordie was about five years older and had about fifty pounds on Sunny back then—and he’d had a tendency toward bullying that Sunny had curbed with a sharp knee where he’d least expected it.

Well, he’s lost weight, she found herself thinking. Maybe a little too much.

The arms and chest revealed under the straps of his un-dershirt were more stringy than scrawny. He’d inherited his mother’s oversized nose, but the skin of his face seemed pulled overly tight to cover that hooter. And the inflamed acne would have been more at home on a teenager’s cheeks than those of a guy pushing forty.

Gordie edged the door open with his foot. “Ma,” he called, drawing out the word to end with a bit of a whine. After that one word, and without waiting for a response, he turned to a rusty tan pickup parked down the block and manhandled his heavy load toward the tarp-covered truck bed.

As he moved to wrestle the big bag into place, a low, long gray form came slinking out of the darkness and started twining around Gordie’s ankles.

Ada started in surprise at the sight of the cat. “Shadow! What are you doing all the way over here?”

She gave Sunny the sort of look parents might use while describing a rambunctious child. “Ever since he turned up at the house, I’ve called him that because of his color. He’s a bit of a traveler. I never know where I’ll run into him around town.”

Sunny said nothing, watching Gordie aim a surreptitious kick at the cat as soon as his mother wasn’t looking. Shadow, however, seemed to expect the move. The cat dodged without even seeming to try, prowling off as Gordie, thrown off balance, staggered around under the weight of the industrial-sized feed package.

“Careful, Gordie,” Ada called, having completely missed the reason behind why her son was dancing down the street trying not to lose his load or his footing.

The huge bag of cat food looked to weigh almost as much as Gordie did, but after a brief struggle he managed to get his unwieldy burden stowed away in the pickup.

Ada Spruance stood in silence as her son shuffled toward the front of the truck, jerking his head at her in a “come on” gesture. But as Gordie stood with his back turned, putting his key in the lock, words came in a rush from the Cat Lady. “I’ve been playing that Powerball lottery ever since they picked it up for Maine,” she said, “twice a week for years now, the same six numbers. I need someone to help find my lost ticket.”

Sunny’s dad threw an occasional dollar at the lottery—usually when the prize got into the nine-figure bracket—and he was always losing his tickets, too. Sunny forced herself not to sigh. A deep inhale didn’t seem like a good idea with the Cat Lady standing so close by.

“I didn’t even realize I had a winner until I was spreading some old newspaper around the litter boxes today,” she explained. “When I realized those were my numbers, I started looking. I have to find it quickly, you see. Two weeks from tomorrow, a year will have gone by,” Ada continued, “and after that, the ticket’s no good anymore. So I’ve got to turn it up soon.” She shot a pleading glance at Sunny.

“It’s not a really big winner,” she went on. “I’m not sure what it’s worth anymore—something like six or eight million dollars.”

2

Well, that shut up the snarky voice in the back of Sunny’s head. She stood there, stunned, as the Cat Lady bustled toward the door after her son.

But Sunny managed to get her wits together and sprint to the door before Ada Spruance got into the cab of Gordie’s pickup.

“If you’d like some help, I could … inspect the premises,” she called out.

Ada picked up on the offer under Sunny’s words, and her eyes looked grateful as she nodded. “Yes … yes, that would be very helpful. Do you think you could do it this Saturday?”

Sunny wasn’t exactly filled with delight at the thought of spending her weekend discovering just how many by-products a horde of cats could leave around a house, but she’d already promised to help, so she nodded. “Saturday should be fine. Would you be up at, say, eight-thirty?” Maybe that way she could still salvage a little personal time for Saturday afternoon.

Ada nodded back and smiled brightly, then boarded the pickup, which started up with a jerk and then roared off as she waved good-bye to Sunny.

Sunny returned to her monitor and spent another half hour making sure her stranded travelers all landed at their respective B&Bs. Then she rose, stretched, turned off the computer, got her coat, doused the lights, and closed the office. Sunny stepped out into full darkness. Although the weather had been remarkably mild, the days were getting noticeably shorter this far into September.

With the front door locked behind her, she shot her usual remorseful glance at the metallic blue Mustang parked at the curb. It had been her first new car, perfect for a single reporter in New York City. But it had rear-wheel drive, which didn’t go well with road conditions in a Maine winter. The proof showed on the driver’s-side fender, seriously banged in and roughly pulled out. Every time she opened the door, metal screeched against metal as if the car were in pain.

For the umpteenth time since coming back to Kittery Harbor, Sunny debated the notion of getting a new set of wheels. The calculations came down to the same disheartening conclusion. With the pittance she was getting from Ollie the Barnacle, she couldn’t afford anything but a used clunker, which would just mean inheriting someone else’s problem.

She got behind the wheel and sat for a moment, frowning. Sure, finances and hard logic played a part in her decision against replacing her car. But the biggest argument was emotional. If she got rid of the Mustang, she’d be admitting she wasn’t going back to the big city, that she’d accepted being back in Kittery Harbor long term.

Not that there’s all that much to rush back to at this point, Sunny thought. No job, a busted relationship with the guy who wound up firing me … Holy crow, what’s that?!

But it wasn’t a crow that leaped onto the hood of her car. It was a cat, a long-bodied, lean gray cat—Ada Spruance’s wanderer … Shadow?

He walked straight up to the windshield, close enough that Sunny could see the tiger stripes hidden in his gray coat, and rested his right forepaw on the glass, as if testing how solid it was.

“Get away from there, you crazy cat!” Sunny raised her arms and began making shooing gestures.

The cat brought down his paw and stood watching her antics as if he’d just found something good on TV.

“Come on now, get off!” Sunny’s temper rose as the cat continued to watch her with infuriating calm. She smacked the glass with her palm, hoping to startle him off.

Shadow raised a paw and smacked back.

He obviously knows I can’t get at him through the windshield, Sunny thought. So how the hell do I persuade him to go away?

She put her thumb on the horn button and gave it a healthy blast. Shadow jumped up, but not away. He sat on the hood, giving Sunny a wide-eyed “Did you do that?” sort of look.

So much for that clever plan, Sunny thought. I could be here all night, until I get a ticket for disturbing the peace, and still not get rid of this dopey animal.

Her windshield wipers were not in the best of shape, and she shuddered to think how they’d look if a cat that size started playing with them. She stuck her key in the ignition and turned it, gunning the gas.

Shadow lay down as if he were preparing to enjoy a nice vibratory massage.

Sunny clicked the engine off. The damned cat was being annoying, but she couldn’t just drive away with him on the hood. Yeah, he’d probably jump off, but what if he ended up under one of her wheels? She wouldn’t want to feel responsible for any part of that.

Maybe, Sunny thought, if I opened the window, I could sort of push him … She instantly envisioned herself half out of the car, leaning as far as she could, while Shadow imperturbably positioned himself an inch or two out of her reach.

This guy’s a comedian, Sunny reminded herself. He thought it was funny to do figure-eights around Gordie’s ankles while he carried that big bag of food.

Still, she couldn’t sit here all night until the cat tired of amusing himself.

With yet another sigh, Sunny undid her seat belt and heaved against her door, which opened with a screech. I’ll just have to get out there and move him.

But when she went to do that, the hood was empty.

Sunny went to the far side of the car, then squatted down to look underneath.

No cat.

The noise of the door must have spooked him, she told herself.

She turned to get back in the car—and froze.

Sitting on the passenger seat, giving her another imperturbable look, was Shadow.

“Oh, come on!” Sunny said.

She made brushing motions, then beckoning ones, but the big cat didn’t move.

She went around to the passenger-side door, opened it, and tried to cajole the cat out.

No way.

When she tried to pick him up, Shadow finally gave up his statue impersonation. He darted from between her hands and squeezed himself under the passenger seat.

Sunny foresaw a real battle trying to extricate him from beneath there. Shadow would probably rip up the floor mat—or maybe her arm.

“Fine, stay under there, you crazy critter.” Sunny slammed the door shut and stomped around the car, already at work on the classified ad. For sale, 2007 metallic blue Ford Mustang, feline passenger included.

By the time Sunny got back to the driver’s side, Shadow was back on the opposite seat again, sitting and watching her. He suddenly yawned, giving her a view of a pink tongue and surprisingly large, sharp teeth.

Sunny hesitated. Maybe she should get Animal Control. Shadow wasn’t acting like a typical cat. Could he be sick? This wasn’t exactly the country, but the woods weren’t too far away. Raccoons and other wild animals had been known to turn up. What if Shadow had encountered one with rabies?

The cat stretched one forepaw onto the driver’s seat and used the other to tap the steering wheel.

Well, I don’t see any foam around his mouth, Sunny thought. With a shrug, she bent to get in.

Shadow immediately settled back on his seat as she started the car and headed home. As she drove, she chatted with the cat—it made a welcome change from talk radio. For his part, at least Shadow appeared to listen attentively.

“You know, most of the roads out here are old farm tracks—they sort of follow the lay of the land,” Sunny told him. “It takes a little getting used to, after spending years living in a place with a grid plan like New York. Although there are parts of Brooklyn and Queens where you can really get lost. They’ve got these streets that curve around—crescents, they call them—”

She broke off. I must really miss New York if I’m discussing it with a cat, she thought ruefully.

They rolled on in silence until Sunny made the right onto her street, Wild Goose Drive, and pulled up in front of a shingled Cape-style house, painted white with green shutters. It had the kind of simple design that had made it easy for a much younger Sunny to draw pictures of “My House”—a central door flanked by two windows on the ground floor, gabled windows upstairs. The gable on the right was Sunny’s bedroom. This had been the only home she knew until she went to college. Afterward she’d lived in a string of dorm rooms and apartments, but if she had to draw a picture of “Home,” it wouldn’t be all that different from the scrawls she’d made as a kid.

“We’re here,” Sunny announced as she opened her door, and Shadow followed her out. He stood for a moment, looking as if he were taking in the cylindrical wire cages filled with mulch, meant to protect the carefully trimmed rosebushes until spring. Since his retirement, her father had made a concerted effort to restore his wife’s garden. Not even the heart attack had stopped him. Sunny had done the work of getting everything ready for winter under her dad’s careful supervision.

“A word of warning,” Sunny said to the cat. “Stay away from the foundation plantings.” She shook her head and muttered to herself, “Like he’s going to understand what I tell him.”

After locking her car, she went up the walk with Shadow trailing behind. For a second, Sunny hesitated at the door. Shadow simply sat looking up at her with those curious gold-flecked eyes. Well, he can’t ask for a formal invitation, she thought as she unlocked the door.

They entered the front hall, with a flight of stairs leading to the bedrooms. Sunny heard television noise off to the left in the living room. “Dad? I’m home.”

Better not to mention her guest.

She poked a head through the open archway. Mike Coolidge sat on the couch watching some sort of sitcom, judging from the laugh track. His white hair rose in an unruly mass of curls—he was way past his usual time to get a trim. His face was on the pale side, the heart attack having robbed him of the high color Sunny remembered from days gone by. He’d also picked up a few wrinkles, partly as a result of losing some weight. But his blue eyes were as bright and piercing as ever when he turned to her. “So did Ollie Barnstable have you toting barges or lifting bales?”

“I was helping a bunch of people with an unscheduled stopover at Pease,” Sunny told him.

Mike grunted. He didn’t like Ollie. “Make sure he knows about the extra hours you put in. At least next week’s paycheck will be bigger than the one you got today—” He broke off at the expression on her face. “He did give you your pay, didn’t he?”

Sunny shifted uncomfortably on her feet. “He wasn’t in today.”

Her dad scowled. “Been doing that a lot lately—usually when payday comes around.”

“I’m sure he’ll be in tomorrow,” Sunny said.

“Yeah, or Friday, or whenever he feels like it. I don’t know why you stick with that Barnstable boy. Ever since he came back to town, he’s been strutting around like God’s gift to the local economy.”

Why do I stay at MAX? Sunny silently responded. Because given the state of the local economy, there aren’t any other jobs out there. And I’m too old to work behind a soda fountain anymore.

She shook her head noncommittally. “Did you have dinner?” she asked.

“Made myself a sandwich,” Mike said.

Sunny went back to the hall and down to the kitchen, this time accompanied by Shadow. “Dad!” she called when she opened the refrigerator. “You ate all the turkey and cheese?” She glanced in the trash bin. “And all the mayo?”

She’d carefully shopped around for the best low-fat, low-sodium stuff she could find. But that wouldn’t help much if her father ate several days’ worth of supplies in one sitting. “It’s only Tuesday. I didn’t expect we’d need to restock until Friday!”

“I must be going deaf.” Mike’s voice grew louder as he padded toward the kitchen. “Shouldn’t there be a siren to announce that the food police have arrived?”

He arrived at the kitchen doorway, stopping in his tracks when Shadow poked his head around Sunny’s ankles to give him an inquisitive stare. “What’s that?” Mike’s blue eyes sparked with annoyance as he glared at Sunny, just as they had in about a million disciplinary encounters over the years. “And don’t act smart, telling me it’s a cat. What’s it doing here?”

“He followed me home,” Sunny ventured. That at least got a blink out of her dad, breaking his blue laser stare of death. The glare didn’t seem to work on Shadow. He leaned down and licked his shoulder. Having seen the cat annoy Gordie Spruance—and play “catch me if you can” with her in the car—Sunny suspected Shadow was acting a little too innocent.

She told her dad how Shadow had appeared on the hood of her car and then wrangled himself a seat inside. The cat didn’t show much interest in hearing about his exploits. He just sat quietly, facing the refrigerator, occasionally flicking his whiskers.

“Probably one of the strays that are always coming over here to do their business in the plantings—especially under my window.” Dad aimed an unfriendly look at Shadow. “So what do you figure on doing with this fool animal?”

“Ada Spruance said he’s a bit of a wanderer,” Sunny replied, hoping to smooth things over. “He’ll probably just stay for the night and be on his way.”

“And why were you talking to the crazy Cat Lady in the first place?” Mike wanted to know.

“She came into the office this evening,” Sunny began.

Mike regained a little color as he listened to her story—not necessarily a healthy sign, Sunny thought.

“That dingbat thinks she has a winning lottery ticket? And you’re going to search that cathouse of hers for it?” He shook his head, definitely unhappy. “Better wear the oldest clothes you can find—stuff you can burn in the backyard when you get back here.”

“I thought you’d be more against it,” Sunny admitted.

“You already told her you’d do it,” her dad replied. “And you should be as good as your word.” That was a real, strict-construction Kittery Harbor answer. But his voice held a definite “you’ll be sorry” tone as he spoke.

“Does Gordie still live over there with his mother?” she asked.

Mike’s shock of white curls bobbed as he shook his head. “He moved out when the cats began moving in. And then for a while he was a guest of the county, some sort of thing about missing car parts.”

After taking in that information, Sunny thought for a moment. “In that case, there’s a phone call I’d better make. Then I’ll come out and check your meds.”

Mike turned around and headed back to the living room, muttering something about the “pill police.”

Sunny went to the phone extension on the kitchen wall, paused for a second, and then went to the cabinets. She took down a can of tuna, got the opener, and spooned half the contents of the can onto a small saucer. Shadow didn’t even come close to the food until she’d deposited it on the floor and stepped away.

“Just remember, there’s no litter box in here,” she warned the cat as he investigated the plate of fish. “And you heard what Dad said about the garden.”

While Shadow went to work on the tuna, Sunny stood frowning at the telephone as she recalled what she’d heard from Ada Spruance—and what she’d seen. Finally, she went up to her room and dialed the number for the Harbor Crier. Ken Howell was still in his office—he seemed to spend most of his time there, from what Sunny could tell.

“What do you want?” he demanded as soon as Sunny identified herself.

“A polite greeting would be a good start,” she shot back. “Listen, I heard something that might turn out to be a good human-interest story.” She told him about Ada Spruance’s errant ticket, adding, “Ada mentioned that the expiration date is coming close. So there’s a suspense element, too.”

“And I suppose you want to write this … burning news story?”

Sunny was surprised that the editor’s words even came through, what with all the suspicion clogging the phone line.

“No, I’m handing it to you to run with,” she told him virtuously. “Check the facts. I just thought it could be a good piece for the paper.”

“If Ada won an amount like you’re saying, maybe she’ll move that menagerie of hers out of town,” Howell said sourly. “A lot of people would consider that good news.”

But it won’t be good news if somebody—like skeevy Gordie—has glommed on to the ticket, hoping to cash it in quietly right at the deadline, Sunny thought. A little publicity might lead to the ticket mysteriously reappearing, and save me from having to search through the Cathouse from Hell.

*

Shadow poked his head into the room, listening to the Young One talk. He’d followed her up the stairs, eager to explore the new house. It was much cleaner than the last house he’d stayed in—the dust in most of those rooms had been so thick, it made all the cats there sneeze.

He’d already amused himself a little, skidding along the bright, shiny floors. But when the Young One went upstairs, he’d decided to tag along. Still, he kept in the hallway, barely poking a nose in wherever he found an open door. Some of the smells—especially from the room where the Young One was—were pretty interesting.

Even so, Shadow didn’t go in. He’d discovered early on that some of these two-legged people had some odd ideas about privacy. And he was leery about following her into a space where a slammed door could leave him trapped in a small area. He hated the idea of being a prisoner; worse, a cat could get hurt if he didn’t have space to run from danger.

Not that this one seemed dangerous. But harsh experience had taught him to be careful. He’d been in houses where seeming kindness had abruptly turned into kicks and curses—usually from males when the female wasn’t around. When that happened, Shadow hadn’t stayed around for any second helpings.

But for all his wariness, he couldn’t help himself when he saw the young woman get into her car. He’d leaped on the front of the thing to play with her. He’d taken a big chance, letting himself get locked up in that go-fast thing, especially after the young woman had tried to shoo him away. But something deep told him the time was right, and after watching from afar for so many days, he couldn’t resist the urge to come a bit closer. And he’d been right. She’d spoken to him gently, taken him to this nice place, and even fed him despite the objections of an Old One who apparently lived here, too.

A male Old One—that would take some thinking about. Males could be dangerous, very free with their fists and their feet. But Shadow smelled illness on this one. Between that and the male’s age, it wouldn’t be too hard to dodge whatever he came up with.

Almost all the older two-legs that Shadow had lived with were females, like the one in the place full of other cats. She was a needy one, always clutching at her four-legged companions, petting and cooing at them. It was more than a self-respecting cat could stand, although some of the horde in that house put up with it to get treats.

They might as well be dogs, wagging their tails for a biscuit, Shadow thought with disdain.

But this two-leg hadn’t been overeager to put her hands on Shadow’s fur. She’d just been nice—and maybe a little bit lonely. Shadow could understand that.

It had taken all of Shadow’s bravery to make the approach to the Young One. And so far, this had turned out to be a Good Place.

He took another deep, appreciative sniff in the doorway. A Good Place, indeed.

* ...