Hiss and Tell (3 page)

Sunny tried to listen like the reporter she used to be, rather than a girlfriend. She thought Will sounded pretty good, and judging by the applause, a lot of other people in the audience did, too. Then the chairwoman opened the floor for questions.

A voice came from the rear of the hall, pitched so everyone could hear. “But how do you become aware of the potential crime situation? Would you be sending officers out looking for trouble?”

Sunny twisted in her seat to get a glimpse of the questioner, a handsome woman with a frosting of gray in her short, dark hair.

“Lenore Nesbit,” Helena Martinson whispered in Sunny’s ear.

Did Will recognize his antagonist? Whether he did or not, he responded to Lenore with a smile. “For most cops, it’s the other way around. Every time a law enforcement officer goes out, there’s the possibility of trouble finding him—or her. That’s a difference between the sheriff and myself—I’ve pounded a beat in several different locations.”

“So is that your policing policy, that our officers should be ‘pounding a beat’ rather than, for instance, driving on traffic patrol?” Lenore asked.

Will refused to be drawn into that trap. “I think we know what the situation is on the interstate through outlet-land,” he said. “There’s a lot of traffic, and people get a little crazy when it comes to bargains. Plus, I’m aware of the revenue generated from giving tickets to folks from outside the state. It’s a fiscal enhancement for the sheriff’s department and for the county, as well as a valid safety issue.”

So Ben Semple will keep his job,
Sunny thought.

Lenore thanked Will and disappeared while others in the hall asked questions or expressed concerns. The chairwoman was just beginning to wrap things up when a surprise visitor arrived.

Frank Nesbit walked into the hall, wearing his usual green sheriff’s department Windbreaker, his trademark silver mustache as carefully groomed as ever. He might as well have stepped down off one of his campaign billboards.

He made his way to the front of the hall, shaking a lot
of hands on the way. “I’m not here to steal my opponent’s thunder,” Nesbit said as he faced the crowd. “The past few years have shown that Will Price is a very talented, experienced officer. Right now we have a situation that calls for both of those qualities: the Kingsbury-de Kruk wedding. So I’m appointing Constable Price as my liaison officer for the duration, effective immediately, so he can help us work with all the other law enforcement agencies providing security for the celebration.”

While everyone applauded the sheriff’s generous response, Nesbit shook hands with Will, who did a good job of looking pleased. But Sunny could tell otherwise, and so could Mrs. Martinson. “What’s that old rascal up to now?” she asked in a low voice.

They didn’t get an answer until Will finished pressing the flesh and almost everyone had left the hall. “That’s one I didn’t expect,” Will growled as he escorted Sunny and Helena to the Buick. “If the wedding goes off without a hitch, Nesbit cements his reputation as a great administrator, appointing the right man for the job. And if anything goes wrong, it will all be my fault.”

“That is clever, in a twisted kind of way,” Sunny had to admit.

“But here’s the kicker,” Will said. “It also means that I’ll have to spend a lot of time up in Wilawiport, giving me even less of a chance to campaign.”

“And there you have it in a nutshell,” Helena Martinson said. “The difference between a cop and a politician as sheriff.”

Since it was
a work night, Sunny couldn’t stay out late to help Will figure out how to deal with this latest political curveball. By the time she got Mrs. Martinson home, it was just about time for bed. Sunny arrived at her house to see her father watching the late news.

“Somehow, Will’s speech didn’t make it into the national newscast.” Mike grinned at her. “How did it go?”

“As far as the speech went, that was pretty good. But afterward . . .” She recounted what happened with Frank Nesbit’s surprise visit.

“Not wanting to steal Will’s thunder? Of course he did.” Mike frowned. “And Nesbit’s shoveled enough happy horseflop with the Kingsburys to know damn well this isn’t the plum job he’s making it out to be.”

Sunny nodded. “Will already figured out it’s a
heads-Nesbit-wins, tails-Will-loses situation. And it will keep him stuck in Wilawiport instead of campaigning.”

That got a deeper scowl out of Mike. “Just means we’ll have to pull up our socks and work all the harder to get the word out. Is Will taking it okay?”

“He knew from the start what he was getting into,” Sunny said. “And we all knew the sheriff wasn’t going to make it any easier.” She looked down. “I’d better get out of this outfit and into bed.”

She’d already spotted Shadow making a slow circle around her, watching intently. It wasn’t often that Sunny wore nylons, and she wanted to get safely out of reach before Shadow’s nosiness overcame his usual caution. Cat claws and pantyhose did not make a good combination.

Up in her room, she quickly changed into pjs. Shadow shouldered the door open and came in, looking relieved to find her back to normal.

Sunny sat on the floor, and Shadow crawled into her lap, arranging himself for a good petting.

“Yeah,” Sunny told him, “life would be so much easier if all any of us needed was a good belly scratch.”

*

The next morning
Sunny breakfasted with her dad, who was already dressed for his daily hike. “Going up to outlet-land to walk in the air conditioning,” he said. “The weather guy last night said to expect some more hot air,” Mike winked. “He didn’t say whether to expect it from Will, Frank Nesbit, or any of the Kingsburys.”

Whatever the cause, the prediction was right. The air
felt unseasonably warm as Sunny walked out to her Wrangler for the ride into town.

Monday-morning traffic flowed more freely than it had on the weekend. At least all the people visiting on Saturday and Sunday excursions had gone home. But Sunny saw plenty of vehicles with out-of-state plates, lazing along, enjoying the scenery—and clogging the roads. Considering her line of work, boosting tourism and booking accommodations at the Maine Adventure X-perience, Sunny realized that the waves of tourists were partly her doing. Obviously, not all—there were things like great scenery, discount goods in the outlets, and a state tourism bureau involved. But her promotional copy and the time and effort she put into the website made a contribution, too. So in a way, one could argue that the traffic-laden roads were a testament to her success.

Be interesting to use that as an excuse if I’m late,
Sunny thought.

Either way, she beat the clock into the office, fired up the computer, and started checking e-mail. A few minutes later, Nancy the summer intern arrived and started a pot of coffee. Nancy was supposed to have been working on the local paper but had found publicity and promotional work more interesting than the nuts and bolts of journalism. Sunny didn’t necessarily agree with that herself, but having an assistant web lackey around had made life a lot easier—she’d miss Nancy when the girl returned to school in a few weeks. For now, though, they divvied up the morning’s tasks and set to work.

Around eleven o’clock, they had a real surprise when their boss, Oliver Barnstable, also showed up. Ollie was a local boy who’d left town to make good, then came back
to spread his money around his old hometown. The MAX office wasn’t just about tourism, it also served as home base for a variety of his mysterious enterprises. The whole back wall of the office was lined with locked file cabinets containing all the dealings of Ollie’s mini-empire.

“Looking good, Ollie.” Sunny’s compliment was genuine as Ollie maneuvered inside with his walker. Although he was still undergoing in-patient rehab for his broken leg at a facility up near Levett, Ollie had wangled taking a few hours a week off-site, to take care of business. The rehab was doing him a world of good—he was svelter, his eyes were clearer, and his temper was much more peaceful.

Just then, Ollie bumped his walker into the edge of a visitor’s chair and let rip with an expletive.

Well, comparatively more peaceful,
Sunny amended. But really, altogether, her boss was much improved from the irascible guy who’d hired her, the one who’d earned himself the nickname of “Ollie the Barnacle.” Sunny suspected that was due to Elsa Hogue, an occupational therapist who had taken more than a professional interest in her patient.

Ollie gave Nancy a key and instructions to open one of the back file cabinets, and he soon had the contents of a folder spread out on a desk, reading them over.

They all worked in silence until an actual visitor arrived in the form of Will Price.

“How goes the campaign?” Ollie asked in the tone of someone with a vested interest. He’d surprised Sunny—and Will, too—by offering to switch his support from sheriff Nesbit to Will’s insurgent candidacy.

“Just dandy.” Will didn’t even try to keep the disgust out of his voice. “I just wasted my whole morning on what
looks to be an enormous time-suck.” As Will explained the assignment Nesbit had stuck him with, Ollie’s eyebrows drew together.

“Clever, pushing you off to the sidelines,” Ollie said.

“No kidding!” Will burst out. “I was just up on Neal’s Neck, talking with the head of Kingsbury’s private security, a guy named Lee Trehearne. To put it as nicely as possible, the guy was patronizing. Besides his own guys, he has a detachment of Maine state troopers—the Senator still has pull—plus executive protection details from two other state police forces covering governors Lem and Tom. The way they see it, the contribution of local law enforcement lies in traffic control. I might as well have been assigned to be a school crossing guard.”

“Got to hand it to old Frank.” Ollie shook his head, still admiring. “He’s good at this stuff.”

Under the circumstances, Sunny felt it was only fair of her to take Will out to lunch to lick his wounds. But then another visitor arrived—Ken Howell, the editor, publisher, printer, and pretty much everything else on the local paper, the
Harbor Courier
.

Sunny assumed he was there for intern Nancy, but instead Ken came straight to Sunny’s desk. “Back when you first came back to town and talked to me about a newspaper job, didn’t you mention you could handle a camera?”

Sunny wondered where he was going with this, but nodded. “I was always pretty good, and after some papers began firing their whole photographic departments and expecting the reporters to shoot pictures, I figured it wouldn’t hurt to look ahead. So I took classes in photography and media—not that it saved my job.” Even though it happened more than a
year ago, it still irked Sunny that she’d gotten laid off while on leave taking care of her dad.

“Here’s the situation,” Ken said. “My regular photographer is away on vacation, and his backup managed to break an arm using a hand winch to pull a boat onto its trailer. There’s a press conference this afternoon on Neal’s Neck about the Kingsbury-de Kruk wedding.”

“Yeah, we’ve been hearing a lot about that.” Will still looked disgusted.

“I heard about what Nesbit pulled, and I’m sorry.” Ken’s long, bony face was serious. He was another member of the Kittery Harbor group backing Will. “But we knew he wasn’t just going to hand the keys over to you. You’ll have to pick your appearances for maximum effect—”

“And hope a picture of me directing traffic doesn’t turn up on TV or in a paper,” Will finished for him.

“Not in my paper,” Ken assured him. “At this point, I’m wondering if I’ll get any pictures at all. It’s one thing to cover an event with pictures and interview people later. But this is supposed to be a
Q
and
A
, and it’s kind of hard to ask questions while staring through a viewfinder. Can you help me out, Sunny?”

Sunny glanced over at Ollie, and so did Ken. “Can you spare her for a while?” he asked Ollie.

“I can handle things,” Nancy eagerly volunteered.

“You weren’t planning to strip down the computers and polish the insides—anything like that, were you?” Ollie asked Sunny.

Smiling, she shook her head. “Not for another couple of weeks at least. Besides, I won’t be that far away, and Nancy can always call my cell if there are any problems.”

Sunny was trying to play it cool, but she could feel her pulse starting to race. Much as she tried to convince herself that she’d closed the book on her journalism career, she was a reporter at heart. If she had a chance of making a living as a journalist, even on a tiny local operation like the
Courier
, she’d bag her job at MAX in a heartbeat.

But as Ken had explained, the job just wasn’t there. She’d thought at first he’d just been threatened by the idea of having a big-city reporter trying to horn in on his baby, but the honest fact was he was using print jobs on his presses, doing circulars for local stores and such, to keep the newspaper afloat.

Sometimes Sunny wondered if she’d made a mistake, seeking a career in a dying field. Then someone offered her a chance to go to a press conference, and she was immediately all fired up.

“Did I ever mention that I met Augustus de Kruk once?” she said.

Ollie asked what everyone else was thinking. “How did you get through to a big-bucks guy like de Kruk?”

“Well, maybe ‘met’ is pushing it a little,” Sunny admitted. “I was in the same room with him and about ninety other journalists once, when he talked about his latest building project.”

“Did anyone call him Emperor Augustus?” Ken was in full interview mode now.

“Not to his face. But from what I saw, the nickname suits him. He was pretty darn autocratic. No questions. It was a case of get into the room, take down what he had to say, and get out. I got the impression he wouldn’t bother even having a conversation with anyone who has less than a nine-figure fortune.”

That widened Nancy’s eyes. Ollie cleared his throat. “He’s a touchy old goat.”

Sunny laughed. “Like with his name. He tells everybody ‘de Kruk’ rhymes with ‘truck.’ It drives him crazy if anyone pronounces it ‘crook.’ I worked on a story about when Augustus tried to sue a little bar in Brooklyn out of existence, claiming they were using his name—and the wrong pronunciation. Turns out the place had been founded more than a century and a half ago by a distant ancestor who
did
pronounce his name ‘de Crook.’” Sunny grinned. “Augustus lost that one. The place wound up with landmark status because Walt Whitman used to drink there.”

“That’s great stuff,” Ken said enthusiastically, then paused. “Not that we could use it in this story.”

“Hey, I’d be happy just doing the pictures.” Sunny turned to look at Ollie. “If it’s okay with you.”

“Who am I to stand in the way of American journalism?” Ollie sighed and leaned back in his chair. Then he came forward again. “And if you get any more de Kruk stories, I’d love to hear them.”

“You’ll probably see more of the Kingsbury compound than I’ll ever get to,” Will complained.

*

So, not too
much later that day, Sunny sat in the backseat of Ken’s old Dodge, fiddling with a freshly minted press pass and making adjustments to a camera that was probably even older than the car.

“They probably aren’t going to announce anything very important,” Ken said, loading an extra supply of batteries from a box on the car seat into his jacket pocket. Sunny knew about
that from the older reporters she’d worked with, batteries had been the life’s blood for the all-important recorder. She’d used a rechargeable minidisk recorder herself, but Ken was more old school. “Probably they want to establish some ground rules, keep us at arm’s length while they relax before the wedding. I’m told everybody in the family has turned up already.”

“Will mentioned the Senator and both governors would be there,” Sunny told him. “And we saw Caleb Kingsbury’s yacht sailing by on Saturday.”

“There you go.” Ken had to pay a little attention to his driving. They’d taken the coast road, which made for a very scenic—albeit sometimes demanding—drive, as the highway hugged the rocky shores. In any event, Sunny wasn’t in a position to enjoy the scenery as she tried to familiarize herself with the equipment.

By the time she finally looked up, they had reached the outskirts of Wilawiport, a prosperous town, and found themselves at the end of a long parade of various news vehicles.

“Looks like the whole gang is here,” Sunny said when she spotted microwave masts on several of the vans ahead of them. “The networks, as well as the local affiliates, are getting into the act.”

“That’s what happens on a slow news day,” Ken said. “But I don’t intend to let them slow
me
down.” The public road ended at a sawhorse barrier with the notice,
NO TRAFFIC BEYOND THIS POINT
, and a couple of Maine state troopers nearby to back up the message. Their blue gray uniforms with the black pocket flaps were unmistakable—not to mention the black Mountie hats they wore. Ken made a turn onto a side street. “Figured this would happen. That’s why I called ahead to a pal in the area.”

He pulled into a driveway and parked his car a few blocks away from the beginning of the private road that led onto Neal’s Neck. Lugging their equipment, Sunny and Ken approached the official roadblock on foot. As they came to the last intersection, Sunny spotted a very harassed-looking Ben Semple trying without much success to unsnarl the traffic.

A beefy-looking trooper waved them down, checked their credentials, and even took a cursory glance inside Sunny’s camera bag. Finding nothing more lethal than a couple of extra lenses, he let them in.