The Big Kitty by Claire Donally

be a large black or gray cat.
    Sunny bit her lip.
That couldn’t be Shadow—could it?
she thought uneasily, then shook her head. Seemed like every time she saw a cat, she thought of Shadow.
    The rattle of the front door opening gave her an instant’s chance to click the computer mouse. By the time Oliver Barnstable stood beside her, the promo copy was back up on the screen.
    “Hello, Ollie.” Glancing up at him from her seated position was a bit like watching a partial eclipse. She had to look around his big, round belly to catch a glimpse of his florid face. He was a blazer and khakis kind of guy, with an expensive, wrinkled blue cotton shirt that strained around his overly ample middle.
    “Keeping busy, Sunny?” he asked.
    “There’s always enough to do,” she replied.
    Especially considering the pitiful salary you’re paying me,
she added silently.
    It was as if he’d read her thoughts. “It’s just that I heardyou’ve taken up a side job with Ken Howell. Hope that won’t cause a conflict of interest.”
    “Conflict?” Sunny echoed.
    “The way I hear it, you’re trying to prove that Ada Spruance’s fall was no accident. Since your job—your
main
job—is supposed to be promoting tourism, I’m wondering exactly how publicizing a murder around these parts would help to pack the customers into our accommodations.”
    For a brief second, Sunny wondered how it would feel to shove her keyboard right through his smug, fat face.
    But she needed the job. So she braced herself for whatever Ollie the Barnacle had to say, but this was interrupted when the door rattled open again.
    A man, tall and slim, stood silhouetted in the doorway. As he came inside, Sunny noticed his sharp features and rich tan. Yeah, “rich” would be the word for him. He wore thin-wale cords and some sort of car coat, black wool, very soft. Probably cashmere.
    Ollie took in the vision as well, saying, “Welcome to the Maine Adventure X-perience,” in his most genial tone. “We don’t generally get walk-in traffic, but we’re certainly ready to help you.”
    “Thanks very much.” The man gave a small smile, barely moving his lips when he talked. And the way he spoke—was that some sort of accent? Sunny couldn’t place it.
    “I had some business in Portsmouth that concluded early, so I have a few days free. I’m told my family has some roots here, and I’d like to explore the area a bit.”
    “I’m sure Sunny can arrange something appropriate.” Ollie looked at his watch, every inch the man of affairs. “You’ll have to excuse me, Mr.—?”
    “Richer,” the elegant stranger supplied, giving the name a French pronunciation. “Roger Richer.” The first name got more of an English treatment, but still came off sounding like “Razh-AIR.” He also gave Ollie a slight bow instead of a handshake.
    A little taken aback, Ollie nodded in response, said good-bye, and took off.
    Sunny nodded toward the chair beside her desk. “Why don’t you have a seat, Mr. Richer?”
    “Please, call me Raj.” He gave her another tight-lipped smile.
    “Okay.” Sunny brought up a new window on her monitor. “I guess the first order of business would be accommodations. I could book you a room”—she glanced again at that expensive coat—“or a suite at the Colonial Inn. It’s probably the nicest place in the area.”
    “A hotel?” Raj looked a little disappointed. “I had hoped for something a little more—homelike.”
    “Ah.” Sunny switched to her bed-and-breakfast database. Most B&Bs in the area catered to a more modest tourist crowd, but …
    “Here’s something,” she said, double-checking that the listing hadn’t been booked. “The Rowlandson estate. It’s in Piney Brook, a very exclusive community. A cottage, usually for weekend guests, but it happens to be available. Single bedroom, a bath, and a working kitchen.” She paused for a second. “The Rowlandsons won’t actually be there—they’re away on their