guess he’ll be calling for a date real soon,
Sunny’s inner voice predicted sarcastically.
The first time I’ve hung out with a guy in I don’t know how long, and I freak out and then spend most of the ride arguing with him.
Of course, she reminded herself, this was business. They’d joined forces—or been joined by her dad and a bunch of would-be local politicos—to solve Ada Spruance’s mysterious death. It wasn’t supposed to be a social occasion.
Still,
she couldn’t help thinking,
it was nice when he held my hand.
The police cruiser pulled away, and Sunny headed up the walk to her front door. She barely got it open before a gray streak, almost impossible to see in the dim hallway, rocketed out of the kitchen and came straight at her.
“What the—?” Sunny burst out.
*
Shadow watched the strange car pull up, but a familiar figure got out. He gave himself some running room and raced for the door before he even thought about it. But just as he was about to fling himself around her ankles, he leaped back.
Sunny didn’t carry any new smells. All he breathed in was the same old scents from the place where she spent her days.
So why, under all that, should he catch a whiff of the poisonous reek that came off the Stinky One?
8
“Shadow, you startled me!” Sunny said.
But as quickly as the cat had started running, he stopped, seemingly in midair, almost as if he’d hit an invisible force field around her legs.
Shadow gave one sniff and then turned around, stalking majestically off, tail high, apparently with important business to attend to in the living room.
Am I supposed to interpret that greeting as a good or a bad thing?
Sunny wondered.
If Shadow’s going to stay around here, maybe I should invest in a book on cat psychology.
She stuck her head in the living room to say hi. Her dad nodded vaguely, watching the news.
And another book on the psychology of invalid fathers,
she thought, heading down to the kitchen to start on supper.
As they sat down to eat, Sunny asked Mike about borrowing his truck the next day. A forkful of baked salmon halted on its way to his mouth. “What do you need the pickup for?”
Sunny gave him the edited version—heavily edited. “There was a little trouble when I left work. It looked as if somebody may have gotten into the car. The police are checking it out—”
“Why couldn’t whoever it was have done you a favor and stolen the damned thing?” Mike interrupted. “You ought to get a new car, something better suited for conditions up here.”
Okay, so he wasn’t asking embarrassing questions about what exactly had happened to the Mustang, but this wasn’t a great conversational alternative. “You’re probably right, Dad, but right now I’d rather concentrate on getting a ride for work tomorrow. So is it okay for me to use the pickup?”
Mike shrugged. “The spare keys are in the kitchen drawer.” He frowned. “But that truck hasn’t been started since before I went into the hospital,” he warned. “The battery may be kaput.”
Sunny nodded. “So maybe I ought to check it out.”
They finished dinner, then Sunny washed the plates while Mike dried. Afterward, he rummaged in the junk drawer until he came up with the spare keys. “Here you go. Good luck.”
Sunny went into the garage. Mike’s pickup was a dark maroon—he wasn’t into flashy colors like red. Sunnyclimbed into the cab and settled herself behind the steering wheel. Inserting the key in the ignition, she twisted, ready to give it a little gas.
But all she got was a dry
click
instead of a deep rumble from the engine. She tried it again, hoping the engine might still turn over.
Nothing.
Exactly what I was afraid of,
Sunny thought, shooting an exasperated look at the hood as if that might change the engine’s mind. Sunny sighed. She knew her dad had a trickle charger somewhere; he always said it was a good investment, given the cold Maine winters.
But if the battery
Sunny’s inner voice predicted sarcastically.
The first time I’ve hung out with a guy in I don’t know how long, and I freak out and then spend most of the ride arguing with him.
Of course, she reminded herself, this was business. They’d joined forces—or been joined by her dad and a bunch of would-be local politicos—to solve Ada Spruance’s mysterious death. It wasn’t supposed to be a social occasion.
Still,
she couldn’t help thinking,
it was nice when he held my hand.
The police cruiser pulled away, and Sunny headed up the walk to her front door. She barely got it open before a gray streak, almost impossible to see in the dim hallway, rocketed out of the kitchen and came straight at her.
“What the—?” Sunny burst out.
*
Shadow watched the strange car pull up, but a familiar figure got out. He gave himself some running room and raced for the door before he even thought about it. But just as he was about to fling himself around her ankles, he leaped back.
Sunny didn’t carry any new smells. All he breathed in was the same old scents from the place where she spent her days.
So why, under all that, should he catch a whiff of the poisonous reek that came off the Stinky One?
8
“Shadow, you startled me!” Sunny said.
But as quickly as the cat had started running, he stopped, seemingly in midair, almost as if he’d hit an invisible force field around her legs.
Shadow gave one sniff and then turned around, stalking majestically off, tail high, apparently with important business to attend to in the living room.
Am I supposed to interpret that greeting as a good or a bad thing?
Sunny wondered.
If Shadow’s going to stay around here, maybe I should invest in a book on cat psychology.
She stuck her head in the living room to say hi. Her dad nodded vaguely, watching the news.
And another book on the psychology of invalid fathers,
she thought, heading down to the kitchen to start on supper.
As they sat down to eat, Sunny asked Mike about borrowing his truck the next day. A forkful of baked salmon halted on its way to his mouth. “What do you need the pickup for?”
Sunny gave him the edited version—heavily edited. “There was a little trouble when I left work. It looked as if somebody may have gotten into the car. The police are checking it out—”
“Why couldn’t whoever it was have done you a favor and stolen the damned thing?” Mike interrupted. “You ought to get a new car, something better suited for conditions up here.”
Okay, so he wasn’t asking embarrassing questions about what exactly had happened to the Mustang, but this wasn’t a great conversational alternative. “You’re probably right, Dad, but right now I’d rather concentrate on getting a ride for work tomorrow. So is it okay for me to use the pickup?”
Mike shrugged. “The spare keys are in the kitchen drawer.” He frowned. “But that truck hasn’t been started since before I went into the hospital,” he warned. “The battery may be kaput.”
Sunny nodded. “So maybe I ought to check it out.”
They finished dinner, then Sunny washed the plates while Mike dried. Afterward, he rummaged in the junk drawer until he came up with the spare keys. “Here you go. Good luck.”
Sunny went into the garage. Mike’s pickup was a dark maroon—he wasn’t into flashy colors like red. Sunnyclimbed into the cab and settled herself behind the steering wheel. Inserting the key in the ignition, she twisted, ready to give it a little gas.
But all she got was a dry
click
instead of a deep rumble from the engine. She tried it again, hoping the engine might still turn over.
Nothing.
Exactly what I was afraid of,
Sunny thought, shooting an exasperated look at the hood as if that might change the engine’s mind. Sunny sighed. She knew her dad had a trickle charger somewhere; he always said it was a good investment, given the cold Maine winters.
But if the battery
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