Claws of Action

by Linda Reilly

  “The very same.” Lara told Sherry about her encounter with the man at The Irish Stew.

  “Next time just ignore him,” Sherry said, her voice muffled from under the counter. “He’s bitter over getting fired.”

  “I hope there isn’t a next time,” Lara said, then chuckled. “For one scary minute, I thought Gideon was going to punch his lights out. Not that he would, but he didn’t like the way Johnson was sticking his finger right in my face.”

  Sherry stood up and smiled, a package of napkins in her hand. “Found ’em.”

  “Johnson really gave me the creeps. Have you ever met him?” She swallowed another chunk of her muffin.

  “Um…” Sherry looked away. “Once, maybe, I think.”

  Hmmm, why was her friend being so evasive? Did she know something about Johnson she didn’t want to reveal?

  A cluster of four men shuffled toward the front door, the red-hatted Tierney in the lead. “Hoo boy, lemme tell ya, when I saw that plastic band wrapped around that lady’s neck, why my liver about dropped!” Tierney pushed open the door and headed outside, his rapt audience trailing in his wake.

  Sherry crossed her eyes. “See what I mean? The guy’s a nut. Even the cops haven’t been able to keep his lips buttoned.”

  Lara shook her head. Tierney might be a nut, but she couldn’t picture him as the killer. He was too much of a blabbermouth—he’d have wanted to tell everyone about it. If he’d murdered Evonda, by now he’d have probably confessed.

  No, it was Trevor Johnson Lara wanted to know more about. Had the police interviewed him? According to Gideon, Johnson’s feelings about Evonda had been well-documented. Shouldn’t he be at the top of the suspect list?

  She finished her coffee and muffin, then paid the tab. “Hey, I’d better run. Kayla’s coming over later. We’re going to work on setting up the new reading room today.”

  “Isn’t your book club meeting today?”

  Lara and her aunt belonged to a classics book club that met at the coffee shop every Wednesday afternoon. Brooke Weston, a high school student, and Mary Newman, a local business owner, were the other two members. Mary was on vacation this week with her husband in Montreal.

  “It was,” Lara said, “but Mary’s away, so Aunt Fran called Brooke and canceled it. Besides, she figured with everything else that’s going on…”

  “Say no more.” Sherry scooted around the side of the counter and gave Lara an impulsive hug. “You didn’t do anything wrong, Lara, so try not to dwell on it. I know it’s hard, especially because you’re, well, you, but—”

  Lara laughed. “Yeah, I’m me. Sometimes I wish I were someone else.”

  “Don’t you ever say that,” Sherry scolded. “Now go home and be the cat lady and stop thinking about the murder. Okay?”

  If only, Lara thought dolefully.

  She gave her friend a half-hearted promise to do as instructed.

  Walking home, she reminded herself of her vow to let the police, and only the police, find Evonda’s killer.

  Not my job. Not my department.

  So why did she have the irresistible urge to hurry home and Google the daylights out of Trevor Johnson?

  * * * *

  Kayla Ramirez showed up around eleven thirty, earlier than usual for her. Lara was more than happy to see her.

  A vet tech student at a local college, Kayla had impressed Lara and Aunt Fran the previous summer when they were looking for a part-time helper. While she loved all animals fiercely, Kayla had a strong preference for cats. She treasured her job at the shelter and knew every feline resident’s quirks and preferences. With her classes out for the summer, she had far more flexibility in her schedule.

  “Hey, I left a container of books in the reading room,” Kayla said when Lara came into the kitchen. She was having a glass of lemonade with Aunt Fran, who had Dolce curled in her lap.

  “Excellent,” Lara said.

  “Wait till you see them, Lara,” Kayla gushed. “Practically new. All good stuff, too.” She pushed her glasses higher on her nose.

  Kayla’s enthusiasm would normally ignite Lara’s spirits. Today she had to force herself to paste on a smile.

  “That’s great. Where did you get them?”

  “From my gram’s neighbor. Good thing I’m friends with her, because my gram never tells her anything about my work,” Kayla added, a slight edge to her tone. “Anyway, the neighbor used to buy books for her grandkids, but she made them leave them at her house so they could read them only when they visited. Kind of like a bribe, you know? Once they got older, she packed them away in a plastic tub. I told her about our reading room, and she was thrilled to donate them.”

  “I was telling Kayla what happened with Mrs. Fray,” Aunt Fran said quietly.

  “Yeah, major bummer.” Kayla frowned. “I’ve known people who didn’t like cats, but it sounds like she was way over the top. God rest her soul.” She crossed herself.

  “I know, and I don’t think it’s because she was afraid of them. I didn’t get that sense at all.” Her mind skittered back to that single moment when she’d have sworn Evonda had gazed tenderly at Snowball.

  Lara and Kayla went into the reading room and began putting books on the shelves. “I love the new door, by the way,” Kayla said. “How did you ever find a screen door with a cat?”

  Same question Nina had asked. Lara shrugged. “The usual way. Trolling the internet.”

  Kayla stooped in front of the box of books. “Should we shelve them alphabetically by author?”

  “Good question.” Lara fished through the books. She was pleased by the wide selection of volumes, all with beautifully illustrated covers. Most looked brand-new. “Most kids don’t really think in terms of authors. They want books for their age group that interest them. Oh, look at this one. The cover shows a caterpillar reading to an ant.” Lara smiled and held it up for Kayla.

  “Aw, isn’t that the sweetest? The caterpillar’s wearing glasses!” Kayla closed her hands over her heart.

  They decided to shelve the books by approximate age group. When they were done, there were still several shelves free for more books.

  “There, that’s done for now,” Lara said. “As we go along, I’m sure we’ll have to do some shifting.”

  “And some kids will bring their own books,” Kayla noted. With sympathy in her gaze, she touched Lara’s arm. “Are you bummed about postponing the opening day?”

  “Don’t remind me.” Lara forced a smile. “Hey, it’s okay. It’ll all work out eventually, right?”

  Kayla nodded, but she looked crestfallen. She’d been looking forward to their first “read-to-a-cat” day more than anyone.

  As for everything working out, Lara wasn’t sure she believed it anymore. Once again, an ugly murder had gripped their little town in a vise. She hadn’t heard of any progress being made in the police investigation. Did they even have a single suspect in mind?

  “Lara?” Aunt Fran came into the room. She looked around and smiled. “Oh, my. It already looks cozy and inviting in here, doesn’t it?” Her smile faded. “Jerry just called. He wanted us to know there’s going to be a memorial service for Evonda on Friday morning.”

  “So soon?”

  “Yes. Apparently, the medical examiner has released her…body. The police are still analyzing evidence from the crime scene, but at least the poor woman can be laid to rest. Her son wants the service held as soon as possible.”

  “I don’t blame him. He wants closure.”

  “You’ll attend, won’t you, Lara?”

  Lara hugged her aunt. “You know I will. It’s the right thing to do.”

  Lara thought of another, more important question.

  Will the killer attend as well?

  Chapter Eleven

  Googling the former health inspector’s name proved to be a frus
trating task.

  Lara bit down on her lip as she searched, once again, for a Facebook page for Trevor Johnson.

  Nothing. At least not for her Trevor Johnson. He also didn’t have an Instagram or a Twitter page. The man didn’t appear to have a social media presence whatsoever.

  One thing she did land on was the news clip Gideon had referred to, about Johnson getting fired. A vague reference to a suspected bribe was described in only a few sentences. It made Lara wonder if the case against Johnson had any real validity. Had Evonda set him up? Had she fudged the story about him accepting a bribe?

  As much as Lara had been turned off by Johnson’s uncouth behavior, she hated the idea that his career might have been unfairly sabotaged. Gossip was a vicious thing. It had been known to destroy careers and tear lives apart.

  I can’t do this anymore. It’s not my job.

  Switching gears, Lara pulled up one of her favorite Web sites. The world’s most famous artists were listed alphabetically by name. A simple click of the mouse revealed images of their paintings, along with background info.

  She clicked the link to Renoir, one of the early Impressionists. It was the works of Renoir that Lara had first imagined when she offered to paint watercolor invitations for Sherry’s wedding.

  Renoir had painted a series of dance scenes, but the one Lara remembered best was Dance in the Country. In the painting, a dark-haired man and red-haired woman sway in each other’s arms, while the background fades into soft brushstrokes. The woman’s joy is evident in her warm smile. The model for the woman was, in fact, the woman Renoir would later marry.

  Although Lara worked with a different medium—watercolors—it was the concept she wanted to capture. She knew it was too soon to get excited about the project. Sherry hadn’t even announced her engagement. Still, it would be fun to toy with a few ideas—and it might help take her mind off the murder.

  The small parlor—aka her art studio—was warm but not unbearable. Keeping the shade down during the day blocked the sun and kept the space comfortable. Lara switched on her floor fan. She tied her curly red hair high off her neck with a scrunchie, set up her supplies, and went to work.

  Around five thirty, after she’d experimented with a few whimsical scenes of Sherry and David dancing in each other’s arms, she heard voices drifting from the kitchen. It was time to think about throwing something together for supper for her and Aunt Fran. She began cleaning up her work area.

  Without warning, Aunt Fran opened the door. “Lara.” Her face was the color of ash, and she clasped the doorknob for support.

  Lara rushed over to her. “Aunt Fran, what’s wrong? What happened?”

  Chief Jerry Whitley appeared behind her aunt, his expression somber. Another man was with him, but from where Lara stood, she couldn’t see his face.

  “What’s going on?” Lara asked.

  “They…need to talk to us,” Aunt Fran said, her voice softer than a child’s.

  Alarms went off in Lara’s head. Whatever this was about, it wasn’t good.

  She looped her arm through her aunt’s, and they all went into the large parlor. Orca and Pearl occupied separate perches on the cat tree. Their ears perked at the visitors, but they didn’t venture down. Snowball was curled up on the sofa, her nose resting on her paws.

  The chief stared at his shoes and twirled his hat, then his brow furrowed. His casually dressed, fortysomething companion, whoever he was, set down a briefcase on an end table.

  At the sound of the chief’s voice, Munster had trotted downstairs and rubbed against his trouser leg. The chief’s face remained impassive, as if he hadn’t noticed. He cleared his throat. “I’ll try to make this as painless as possible. Earlier today, the state police got a call from the crime lab. Unfortunately, I didn’t hear about it until about a half hour ago. Bottom line, they have Evonda Fray’s car impounded. As you would expect, they’ve been going over it with a fine-tooth comb.”

  A ribbon of fear wound its way through Lara. “And?” Her voice sounded distant in her ears.

  “I’m afraid they found cat hair in the back seat.”

  Cat hair? In Evonda’s car? The woman hated cats.

  Lara’s body felt numb. Where was Chief Whitley going with this? “I don’t understand. What are you talking about?”

  The chief went on. “The state police investigators believe that the cat hair came from the killer.”

  Every nerve in Lara’s body tingled. She swallowed. “S–so? The killer probably owns a cat. Lots of people have cats.”

  The chief’s voice was low. “The cat hair was gray, from a short-haired cat. Most of it anyway.” With a pained expression, he eyed the cat tree, then looked over at the sofa. “I’m afraid we’re going to need hair, I mean, fur samples from two of your cats. The gray one up there, and…Snowball.”

  Lara’s knees wobbled. She looked over at the crime lab guy, whose cheeks were flaming. He looked as if he’d rather be anywhere else on the planet than where he was.

  “This is a joke, right? Because you cannot be serious about this.”

  The chief sighed. “I’m sorry, but I’m afraid we are. Obviously, the cats will not be harmed. It’s only fur.”

  Aunt Fran looked ready to snap. “Jerry,” she said with carefully controlled fury, “are you saying you want to snip sections of their fur to take to the lab?”

  “I don’t want to,” he answered flatly. “Unfortunately, it’s part of my job.” He looked over at the other man and nodded. “This gentleman is from the crime lab. He’s here to take the…samples. It’s a simple procedure. It will only take a minute or two of your—”

  “No,” Lara said hotly. “He is not going to take a sample of either Pearl’s fur or Snowball’s. What is the matter with you people? How can you even think anyone in this household was involved in that murder?” She had a sudden urge to stomp her foot, but it would only make her look like a spoiled child.

  The tech guy shot a look at the chief, then pulled a sheet of paper out of the briefcase and handed it to him.

  The chief held it out to Lara. “This is a warrant, giving us the authority. It was obtained earlier this afternoon.”

  Tears poked at Lara’s eyes. She swiped them off, then snatched the warrant out of his hand. Her vision blurred at the words.

  “Miss.” The tech spoke up, his voice softer than she anticipated. “Chief Whitley actually misspoke. There’s no snipping involved. I only need to brush each of them a few times. I promise. That way I have a better chance of getting the follicles.” He attempted to smile, but it was more like a grimace. “I have a clean, new brush for each of them.” The tech pulled two brushes, each in a sealed bag, out of his briefcase.

  This can’t be happening. This must be one of those nightmares that goes from scene to scene with no end in sight.

  After a long moment, Lara gave the man a brisk nod. She held Pearl in her arms while the tech ran a soft brush over her coat. After several sweeps, he dropped the brush into a bag, sealed it, and labeled it. They repeated the process with Snowball, who looked pleased as ever at the attention from a stranger.

  Munster pawed at the tech’s leg, as if begging for his turn. The tech smiled. “I’d pat him, but I can’t risk contamination of the evidence.” He dropped the two bags into his briefcase and snapped it shut. “By the way, I think your cats are very cute.”

  “Thank you, Fran, Lara,” the chief said, his face red. A vein throbbed over his left eye. He looked almost angry. He plunked his hat on his head and proceeded behind the tech guy through the kitchen. He paused at the door. “I just want to say one thing, Fran. I made the decision to deliver the bad news myself, because I thought it would be better coming from me rather than from one of the state police investigators. I guess I was wrong.”

  He was almost outside on the porch when Aunt Fran grasped his sleeve. “You know what hurts the m
ost, Jerry?” Her voice trembled.

  “I’m afraid to ask.”

  “You didn’t even remember Pearl’s name.”

  Chapter Twelve

  “What’s happening, Aunt Fran?” Lara asked, her stomach in a knot. She tried to swallow a bite of her potato salad, but it stuck in her mouth like a boulder. She had to wash it back with a sip of lemonade to make it slide down her throat. “What did we do to deserve this? Our shelter is being attacked—we’re being attacked—and we don’t even know why.”

  Aunt Fran still looked pale. Better than she had an hour earlier, but definitely not herself.

  In fact, Lara hadn’t seen her looking this bad since that fateful October day, nearly two years earlier, when Lara first arrived in Whisker Jog. After receiving word from Sherry that her aunt hadn’t been doing well, Lara left her studio apartment in Boston, rented a car, and drove to the Folk Victorian home that her aunt had lived in for as long as she could remember. Frail and weak, her aunt had answered the door clutching a kitten in one hand and a cane in the other. With two badly arthritic knees, Aunt Fran hadn’t been able to care for all the strays she’d taken in. The house was in dire need of a good scrubbing, and her aunt was in desperate need of help.

  “I can’t eat either,” Aunt Fran finally said, pushing her plate aside. “As to your question, I don’t know why this is happening.”

  “I’m sorry about the chief.” Lara reached over and squeezed her aunt’s hand.

  “Don’t be.” Aunt Fran lifted her chin stoically, but Lara saw the hurt in her eyes. “Whatever is meant to be, will be. I still don’t get this thing with the cat hair. What would make the police suspect it was Pearl’s or Snowball’s?”

  The more Lara thought about it, the angrier she got. “The chief knows we have a white cat and a gray cat. I suppose the information could’ve come directly from him.” The idea that the chief would tattle that way made her immensely sad.

  Aunt Fran released a sigh. She was thinking the same thing.

  “Oh, no,” Lara said. “I just thought of something. Smuggles—Brian’s cat.” She looked at her aunt.