Heart Strings

by Lynne Waite Chapman

  He took a swig of cocoa. “This is good. Reminds me of my youth.”

  I savored my drink for a minute. “I’m not so upset about the missing vases, as about someone being in my house. It’s disconcerting. And Officer Farlow gave the impression he didn’t believe me.”

  Pushing my hair back from my face, I continued. “I guess I can’t blame him, I couldn’t even describe the vases—just that there were three. I wish I had some kind of proof.”

  Wallace sat back. “I noticed there were no signs of forced entry in the back. I can take a look at the front, if you like.”

  “You already checked the back?”

  “I did. It’s a habit. I notice everything. You can ask Rarity, it makes her crazy, sometimes.”

  I chuckled. “I think it’s a good trait. My friends accuse me of the same thing. Thanks for checking it out. That had to be where they came in. I must have forgotten to bolt it. When I came home, the front door was locked.”

  “All the same, I’ll take a look when I leave. Now about the vases, maybe they’re listed on the insurance policy.”

  “I hope so. The insurance man didn’t mention it, but I’ll call him first thing tomorrow morning.”

  We sat in silence, with only the sounds of our sipping and birds whistling outside, breaking the quiet. Beams of sunlight fell across the table. Wallace was a comforting presence—as if I’d known him for years.

  I hesitated to disrupt the feeling, but had to ask. “I’m going to ask you something ‘off the wall’. Do you know a man named Paul Cooper? He’s about my age.”

  He leaned back and set his mug down. “Can’t say that I do. Should I?”

  “Not really. He was at my class reunion.” I discovered my cup was empty and pushed it away. “I have a feeling he isn’t who he says he is. Doesn’t seem like the person I went to school with. Now, no one else is suspicious, and here I am, popping in after twenty-five years to make accusations. Crazy, huh?”

  Wallace shrugged. “I don’t know. Sometimes it takes fresh eyes to see what’s right in front of you.” He leaned to the side and pulled a slip of paper from his pocket. “Do you have a pencil handy? What year did you graduate?”

  “Um,‘89.” I retrieved a pen from my desk and watched Wallace record the year and Paul’s name.

  He smiled as he stuffed the paper back into his pocket. “I have to write everything down or I forget. I used to run background checks in my business. Now it’s kind of a hobby. I’ll let you know if I come up with anything.”

  Wallace stood and deposited his empty cup into the sink. “I better let you get on with your day, and I’m due to pick up Rarity pretty soon. Thank you for the chocolate.”

  He left through the front door, and studied the area as promised before he cut across the lawn toward his home.

  I placed my cup in the sink and went to search out a clean pair of jeans. When the phone rang, I poked my head out of the closet and tossed the jeans on the bed.

  Before I could utter a greeting, Clair’s voice shrilled. “Lauren, do I ever have news for you.”

  Not like mine.

  “Clair. I’m glad you c—”

  “You’ll never guess what happened.”

  Wait, let me tell you.

  “Probably not, but listen—”

  “There was a shooting in your neighborhood last night.”

  “What? A shooting? Where? I didn’t hear anything.”

  “It was sort of close to you. Only a few blocks away.”

  I carried the phone to the living room to peer out at the street. “What shooting? What happened?”

  “I got a call from my friend Irma, at the police department. She heard it on her scanner early this morning and went in to find out what was going on. The chief is at the scene right now, at Justice Insurance.”

  “Justice? Wow, I was there last week. Was anyone hurt?” After pacing once around the living room, I settled into a chair commanding a clear view of the street.

  “Hurt? He’s dead. Didn’t I tell you? One of the agents, Earl Clooney, was killed. You know his wife, Patsy. She works at Rarity’s.”

  “He’s Patsy’s husband? I never connected them.” I paused to suck in air and pointed at the door. “Clair, I just spoke to Earl Clooney yesterday. He was here.”

  “You’re kidding. At your house?” Clair’s voice dropped to a whisper. “And now he’s dead. Girl, you may have been the last person to see him alive.”

  “The last person—? Umm. I doubt it. He was here early in the morning.”

  I stood up to study the street. “Poor Patsy, what will she do? Do they have any idea who did it? Was it a burglary, because I—”

  “They don’t know anything yet. I wish I could talk longer, but I promised to go to church with Anita. She’s been after me for months, and this might be a good time to start. Got to go. I’ll let you know if I hear anything.” The connection went silent.

  Earl Clooney dead? Was it connected with my intruder? I sat down with the phone in my lap. I’d never heard of a homicide in Evelynton. The phone rang again. Startled, I lost my grip and it clattered to the floor.

  Retrieving the phone, I found it difficult to voice a greeting.

  “Hello, Lauren? It’s Rarity. Is that you? Are you all right?”

  “Yes, just out of breath.” I gulped air.

  “Something terrible has happened.”

  I clenched the receiver. “Oh, I know. I just got off the phone with my friend Clair. She called to tell me about the shooting. It’s awful. Have you spoken to Patsy?”

  “Yes, for a few minutes and I’m driving over to be with her now.”

  “How’s she taking it?”

  “She seemed sort of calm. Probably in shock, poor dear.”

  I got to my feet and paced to the window. “What can I do to help?”

  “Stacy will go into work early in the morning and get on the phone. We’re closing the shop tomorrow and will reschedule all Patsy’s customers for this week. I told her to take off as long as necessary, so you may have more phoning to do on Tuesday.”

  Out on the lawn, the cat crouched low to the ground, as Clive Baron stepped out onto his porch. Clive gazed up and down the street, turned, and went back inside.

  “Lauren?”

  “Hmm? Sorry, I’m here. Of course, I’ll even go in tomorrow or Wednesday if you need me.”

  “It’s hard for me to think right now. I imagine the phones will be ringing off the hook with people wanting to know what’s going on. Stacy can handle tomorrow, you’ll be in on Tuesday, and I’ll let you know about Wednesday.”

  “Okay, call me anytime. I’ll have my cell with me.”

  “You’re a God-send. I appreciate it so much. Oh my, Wallace was coming over this morning to take me to church. How could I forget? I’ll send him ahead to put Patsy on the prayer chain and then I’ll go to her house. Poor girl. She’s such a frail thing.”

  Clicking the phone off, I remained at the window and wondered what happened to peaceful, small town Sundays. In the yard, the cat arched its back and darted under the bush at the corner of the house.

  Before I had time to turn away from the window, a squad car skidded to a stop at the curb. I almost clapped as it rolled forward to park in front of my neighbor’s blue house, instead of mine.

  Officer Farlow must have drawn weekend duty. So glad he’d be talking to my neighbor, not me. I’d had enough of him for one day.

  Clive Baron greeted the policeman and they stood conversing on the porch. Clive bent toward the shorter man, in what seemed to be serious conversation. Then they both turned their gaze toward my door. Baron even pointed in my direction. That couldn’t be good. The officer took notes. Pretty soon, he shook Clive’s hand and turned to leave.

  I waited to watch him climb into his car and drive away, but when he reached the walk, he executed a sharp left turn and directed precise strides to my front porch.

  I stood back from the window, out of sight, as he climbed the steps.


  I waited. Why did I think he’d change his mind? He knocked. Jimmy Farlow was the last person I wanted to see, but I put on a smile and opened the door.

  “Hello, Officer Farlow. Didn’t think I’d have the pleasure so soon. What can I do for you?”

  “I’ve had a busy morning, Ms. Halloren. It’s been brought to my attention that a Mr. Earl Clooney visited your home early yesterday morning. Is that true?”

  “Um. Yes, he was here.” This likely from my nosy neighbor. “How did you know?”

  “We received a call of suspicious activity, from a concerned citizen.”

  “Concerned citizen? Since you were next door, I assume that citizen is my neighbor, Mr. Baron. I can’t think what you mean by suspicious activity.”

  “Good citizens report anything they consider relevant when a crime has been committed. What was the purpose of Mr. Clooney’s visit so early Saturday morning?”

  I let out a drawn-out sigh. I was too tired to feign pleasantness. “He brought an insurance paper for me to sign. I’d been to see him last week, as I think I told you. I guess he’d forgotten to have me sign one form.”

  “That early? On a Saturday?” I detected a sneer cross Farlow’s face. “Very conscientious of him.”

  “Yes. I guess so. He said he was embarrassed to have missed the page.”

  “So he made an early morning call? Interesting.”

  “I wasn’t thrilled with the hour either.”

  Farlow scribbled in his notebook and lifted his eyes to mine. “You see, Ms. Halloren, Mr. Clooney was shot sometime last night. His cleaning lady discovered his body this morning.”

  “Yes, I know. I got a call from a friend this morning. She wanted me to know, since he was found a few blocks from here.”

  “A friend? How did she have knowledge of the crime?”

  “She knows someone at the police department.”

  Farlow let out a breath through clenched teeth. “And she knew you were friends with the victim?”

  “Not ‘friends’ with him. I’d only just met him when I got the insurance, and she didn’t even know that. She was just worried about me.”

  “Ms. Halloren, do you own a gun? Any weapons in your house?”

  “A gun? No. I hate guns.” His attitude grated on my nerves. I couldn’t help myself. “I have a steak knife in the kitchen. I guess you might call that a weapon. Does it qualify?” Probably shouldn’t be flippant with an officer of the law.

  Farlow slapped the notebook closed and stared at me for a few seconds—seemed like five minutes.

  “Very funny. Thank you, ma’am.” Grim-faced Officer Farlow tipped his hat and returned to his car.

  Chapter Sixteen

  F inally dressed for the day, I opened a notebook to list the events of the previous night and organize my thoughts.

  Paul Cooper—or whoever he is—wouldn’t answer questions, and left the reunion early.

  Someone broke into my house.

  Someone killed Earl Clooney. Random incidents? Or are they connected?

  Am I obsessed with Cooper, as Anita suggested? I should drop it. But what if?

  I slapped the notebook shut, tucked it under my arm, and picked up the car keys on the way out of the house.

  As Justice Insurance came into view, I applied the brake, slowing the car to a crawl. The street was quiet and the windows of the building dark. But Earl’s office was down that long hallway, in the back. A handwritten sign on the front door read, CLOSED. In the lot, a gray sedan sat flanked by two police cars. Yellow crime scene tape protected the side entrance, as well as the sidewalk leading to the lot. I gawked and allowed my station wagon to inch forward. What was I waiting for? Would they wheel out the body? Most likely it had been removed earlier. Would they drag the murderer out in handcuffs? Not likely. Nothing to see here.

  With a sigh, I returned my attention to the road. Unfortunately, I’d drifted left of center and was way too close to an oncoming car. I jerked the wheel to the right and met the eyes of the driver, Paul Cooper, as our vehicles glided past each other. His expression grew hostile, and I turned away.

  What’s he doing here?

  Criminals don’t really return to the scene of the crime, do they?

  I drove all the way home with my head swiveling from the side mirrors to the rear view and back again. Safely in my driveway, I hurried up the steps and stabbed the door several times before the key entered the lock.

  Inside, I leapt onto the sofa, pulled the blanket over my shoulders, then threw it off, and got up to check for activity on the street. Stoneybridge remained quiet.

  Several minutes later, my pulse slowed to normal, and my sanity returned, except for talking to myself.

  “Why wouldn’t Paul scowl at you? You almost crashed into his car.”

  ~

  Mundane tasks calm me when nothing else will. Order makes me feel secure. When Clair called, two hours later, the floors were clean and the laundry done.

  “I talked to Irma again. The cleaning lady discovered Earl’s body, early this morning. It wasn’t suicide and doesn’t look like an accident. There’s no sign of the weapon.”

  My knees threatened to give out and I pulled out a dining chair. “Could they tell how long he’d been dead?”

  “Irma didn’t say, but they interviewed the secretary. She works in the front of the building, and said Earl was still in his office when she left at five. Everyone else had already gone home for the day.”

  A car with a noisy engine rumbled past the house and I suddenly had goose bumps. “Did they think the shooting had anything to do with the break-ins?”

  “Irma didn’t say. They caught her eavesdropping and shut the door. She says she’s never seen Melvin so shaken. The only people who’ve died on his watch, have been from old age.”

  “Yeah. That’s kind of what I thought.” I walked to the door and double checked the lock.

  “Don’t you worry.” Clair lowered her voice. “I’m sure they have Earl’s appointment book, and he probably had other appointments after he saw you. And when they question you, they’ll see you couldn’t do anything like this.”

  Question me?

  I put my forehead on the door frame. “Oh, thanks Clair. I hadn’t considered myself a suspect, until now.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  I couldn’t get away from the reception desk and out of The Rare Curl, fast enough. If I had to talk to one more customer, I might bite someone. Women had hovered over me all morning with theories of the murder, ranging from serial killer to alien invasion. I massaged my jaw. It ached from hours of clenched teeth and keeping my opinion to myself.

  Outside, I walked resolutely toward my car but stopped at the sight of Anita in Ava’s Java. I craved pleasant conversation with my friend.

  As soon as the door opened, the familiar aroma of strong coffee, fresh from the grinder, swept over me, relieving tension. I picked up a small cup of Ava’s Special Blend and navigated tables to sink into the high-backed chair across from Anita.

  “It’s good to see you. I need an injection of positive attitude.”

  She reached over to pat my hand. “I’m sure being in the salon was difficult. How’s Patsy?”

  I took a sip of coffee and savored the heat in my throat before answering. “I talked to her for a minute on the phone and she seemed unruffled, almost unemotional. She must be stronger than I thought.”

  “I know. Rarity called the church to say Patsy asked the congregation to discontinue food deliveries.” Anita chuckled softly. “I’m sure her refrigerator is overflowing. Our church ladies are enthusiastic givers.”

  My thoughts flew back to Marc’s death. I’d been alone. Would things have been different if we or our friends had been church goers?

  Anita blew on her coffee before taking a sip. “She’s impressive. Some of the ladies offered to take turns staying with her for a few days but she wanted to be alone and get on with her life.”

  I set my cup on the table
. “She used the words ‘get on with my life’? That seems odd.”

  “That’s exactly what she said.” Anita nodded. “It seems very soon after Earl’s death, but we all deal with grief in different ways.”

  “Hmm. I guess so. Besides, I know Rarity will be checking in on her.”

  We sat in silence for a minute and my thoughts wandered to the reunion. “Speaking of getting on. I’m thinking of a new book. The story will be about someone returning to his hometown after a number of years. I’m putting together some research. Do you remember when Paul Cooper came back to Evelynton? Did you recognize him right away?”

  Okay, I lied, but I didn’t want to be accused of obsession, again.

  Anita stared at me through squinty eyes. “For research? Are you sure?”

  I produced what I thought to be a believable smile and pulled a notebook from my bag. “I was being silly that night at the reunion. But it spawned the idea for the book. So, how long did it take you to recognize him?”

  “Let me think.” Anita leaned back and wrapped her hands around her coffee mug. “The first time I saw Paul, he was with Perry. I don’t know if I would’ve known him, because Perry introduced him right away. He walked up and said something like, ‘Look who’s back, Paul Cooper.’” She puffed her cheeks out and did an amusing imitation of Perry.

  “So, you didn’t doubt it? You just accepted it?”

  Anita tipped her head back and laughed. “Yes, Lauren. I accepted it. I’m very trusting that way. I don’t see life as a series of mysteries—like some people I know.”

  I pressed my hand to my mouth. “Oh. I’m sorry. You’re right, I do see mysteries everywhere. But that’s what makes a good story.”

  “And it makes you an entertaining friend.”

  ~

  We were still laughing when we left the coffee shop. Anita walked on and I slid behind the wheel of the Chrysler, with every intention of going home. But I soon found myself passing my street and driving toward Paul Cooper’s neighborhood.

  The scene fascinated me. His perfectly symmetrical house sported pale gray siding, bright white trim, and a white picket fence. Not a blade of grass out of place. With the pots of colorful flowers and professional landscaping, it could have been pulled from a magazine cover.