by Linda Reilly
Lara sent them off with three of Daisy’s sugar cookies, which added to their joy, along with a promise to call soon.
The remainder of the afternoon was quiet. Lara groomed each of the cats. Smuggles fixed his sleepy gaze on Snowball, his favorite new bud, while Lara brushed gobs of hair from the white kitty. The two had become so attached to each other that Lara was a bit concerned. What would happen when the time came for Brian to take Smuggles home?
Assuming he didn’t get arrested for murder, she thought soberly.
It wouldn’t help to fret about it now. She had enough things to worry about without adding more “possibles” to her ever-growing list.
Grateful for a bit of free time before they had to be at Gideon’s, Lara went into her studio. She’d been itching to get back to Sherry’s wedding invitations.
She’d just pulled out her colored pencils and her preliminary sketches when Aunt Fran popped in. Clasped between two pot holders was a small tray of warm biscuits fresh from the oven.
Lara took in a deep breath. “Mmm. They smell heavenly.”
Aunt Fran smiled. “You had visitors,” she said. “How were they?”
“Best I can tell, they’re a nice family. I think they’ll be a good fit for a kitten, but we’ll definitely have to check their references.”
Her aunt tried to peek at her sketches. “Working on something new?” she asked curiously.
“Kind of.” Lara smiled. “I have to keep it a secret, though, so don’t start pulling out the torture devices. My lips are sealed.” She made an exaggerated motion of gluing her lips shut.
Her aunt laughed. “Okay, I hear you. Message received.” She left Lara to work alone.
Lara spread her sketches over her worktable. The Renoir theme was taking hold in her mind. At this point, if Sherry didn’t get engaged, Lara was going to be sorely disappointed.
Using her colored pencils, she spent the next hour or so toying with four separate designs. Each was a variation of the romantic theme depicted in Renoir’s Dance in the Country.
Four designs. Between thirty and forty invitations. It was doable, Lara told herself. Unless Sherry decided to get married before the end of the summer. In that case, she’d have to think of an alternative to the hand-painted invitations.
Lara looked at her phone. It was nearly five. She still had to prepare the strawberries and whip the cream, then shower and get ready for the barbecue.
It tore at her to think about her aunt and the chief. Chief Whitley cared deeply for Aunt Fran, of that much Lara was positive. He was never going to be a cat lover, but he accepted that Aunt Fran was and admired her devotion. In turn, her aunt had been understanding about his mild aversion to cats. She knew the chief would never harm a cat, and that he’d fight to the death to protect one of hers. Even if he hadn’t remembered Pearl’s name.
Could they ever get back to where they were? Why did things have to be so complicated?
Lara was gathering her sketches into a folder when something fluttered to the floor near her chair. Startled, she snatched it up. It was the snapshot of her sixth-grade class that Aunt Fran had dug out from her old pictures.
She studied the photo again. Two rows of kids, standing in front of the blackboard. Some looking terribly serious, but most looking bored or distracted. One boy had made a goofy face just as the snapshot was taken.
Now, though, something about it bothered her. Had she missed something before?
Lara squirmed on her chair, then tucked one leg beneath her. She sensed a pair of eyes watching her and glanced up. Blue perched on the top bookshelf, staring at her. No blinking this time. Only an intense turquoise gaze.
You want me to examine the picture, don’t you?
Still clutching the photo, Lara fished through one of her drawers. She shoved things aside until she found what she was looking for—her magnifying glass.
Holding the photo close to her face, she slowly moved the magnifier over the young faces. The first one that caught her eye was Jenny Fray—Jenny Cooper, then. Close up, Jenny looked even gloomier than she had at first glance.
Lara giggled at the images of Sherry and Gideon. As two of the taller kids, they’d been positioned in the back row—one grinning like a clown, the other pensive and serious.
She wrinkled her nose at her own image. Back then, she’d hated her hair. It was too curly and too red. She’d have given anything for Sherry’s straight, raven-black locks. These days, she didn’t mind her hair color so much, but she could do without all the curls.
Lara continued to scan the faces, back and forth with the magnifier until her eyes were nearly crossed. She rubbed her lids with her fingers, then went back to perusing the photo. When she got to the far-right side of the back row, she noticed something she’d missed before—the top portion of a crutch, propped against the blackboard. The lower portion was hidden by the boy standing in front of it. A painfully skinny boy with a choppy haircut, his mouth tightly closed, his hands clasped in front of him. No smile for this poor kid. Lara struggled to remember him, but her mind was a blank.
As for the other kids, she could recall a few of their names, but most had faded from her memory. She’d have probably remembered most of them if she’d gone to Whisker Jog High. Unfortunately, her folks had relocated to Massachusetts just in time for her to suffer through seventh grade with a class full of kids totally new to her. In retrospect, it hadn’t been all that bad, but being without Sherry and removed from Aunt Fran had felt like a punishment she’d never deserved.
Maybe Gideon would remember some of the faces. He had an eye for detail and a great memory.
Lara set the photo on the corner of her desk, only to watch it fly off again.
Huh?
She grabbed it off the floor, stymied. Something soft grazed her ankle—a slight brush of fur.
Instead of looking down, she peered again at the photo. One by one, she magnified each of the faces.
What am I supposed to see? Tell me truly, I implore.
Whoa. Where had that come from? Why did those words pop into her head?
In the next instant, she got it. It was a line from Poe’s famous poem, “The Raven.” She’d read it years ago in high school. It was quoted so often that she remembered some of the lines.
Ravens and blackbirds and crows…
…oh my.
Suddenly they were popping up everywhere.
Enough.
Lara put away her supplies and tidied up her studio. She snatched up the picture and brought it into the kitchen, where she shoved it into her tote.
She was glad to see that her aunt had fed the cats. Lara made short work of cutting and sweetening the strawberries and whipping the cream.
She was not going to dwell on murder this evening.
She was going to enjoy a peaceful evening with the two people she loved most in the world.
Chapter Twenty-Six
“How’s your rib eye?” Gideon asked Lara. “Is it done enough?”
They sat at the picnic table behind Gideon’s stately two-family home, where his office occupied half the first floor and his apartment was directly above it. An elderly woman, Mrs. Appleton, lived opposite him with her cat, Muffin. A financial consultant rented the other first-floor office, but she was never around on weekends.
Lara waited until she swallowed, then said, “Oh good gosh, it’s perfect. A tiny bit pink in the middle and tender as a marshmallow.”
“Thank goodness,” he said, smiling over at her. “I have a tendency to overcook. I’m paranoid about raw meat.”
Lara caught his gaze, and her heart pounded. He was so sweet, so thoughtful, so totally adorable. How did she ever get so lucky?
Aunt Fran had opted for a burger, claiming she could never eat a whole steak. “As for me, my burger is grilled exactly the way I like it. Well done plus.”
>
They all laughed. “Come on, you guys. Have some more salad,” Gideon urged. “Both potato and green. Otherwise I’ll be eating the stuff all week.”
Gideon had tossed together a colorful salad of romaine lettuce, Bermuda onions, and chunks of the fresh tomatoes Lara had brought over. Lara piled a little of everything on her plate. As they enjoyed their meal, she gave Gideon a condensed version of her “accidental” visit to Evonda’s home that morning.
“Lara,” Gideon said, after she’d told her tale, “didn’t it occur to you, even for a second, that Tim Fray might have been dangerous?”
Lara winced. “I gotta admit, I kind of wondered if I was crazy to go inside that house with him. But other than Evonda’s obsession with crows and other birds, the only intel I got out of the whole thing was that Tim is sure—I mean, really positive—that Trevor Johnson killed his mom.”
Gideon nodded thoughtfully. “The police have Johnson in their sights, but that’s about all I can say. They still haven’t ruled out Brian Downing.” Gideon speared a chunk of potato salad with his fork.
“Sounds like not much progress is being made,” Lara commented.
“Not true. A lot of things are being kept under wraps right now.”
Lara wondered how Gideon knew so much about it. Had Chief Whitley been confiding in him? Had the two been talking secretly?
“Well, I’m getting stuffed,” Gideon said. “Better leave room for that corn.”
“And the strawberry shortcake!” Lara reminded.
Gideon pushed himself off the picnic bench, then went over to the gas grill. Six ears of corn, coated in butter, had been wrapped in foil and set atop it. Using a pair of tongs, he turned them over. The foil tore, and the fake coals sizzled. Flames shot upward, and Lara heard Gideon curse.
Lara decided to let him deal with it. She wasn’t very good with grills anyway. She gathered up their used paper plates and dumped them, along with the trash, into a brown grocery bag. She was setting out clean plates for the corn when she heard a car pull into Gideon’s driveway.
Her stomach dropped. Please tell me it’s not the chief.
She turned and glanced toward the driveway. A charcoal gray Hyundai with a bright yellow windshield decal idled there. Lara recognized the sticker. It matched the decal on the Saturn’s windshield—a permit for the town’s recycling station. She could just make out a driver and a passenger in the front seat.
At least it’s not the chief, Lara thought with relief. She squinted for a better look, but she still couldn’t see who it was.
“Um…Gid,” Lara called out. “I think you have company.”
Gideon didn’t react, and she realized he hadn’t heard her. She went over and stood beside him and had to stifle a giggle. One ear had toppled out of the foil and was stuck between the bars of the grill. “Someone just pulled into your driveway,” she said. “Go ahead. I’ll take care of the corn.”
“Oh, thank the Lord.” He handed her the tongs and kissed her on the cheek.
Lara watched him jog toward the driveway, then went back to her task. She managed to separate the foil and remove all six ears of corn with the tongs. Gideon had brought a platter outside, so she piled on the corn. The scent of the grilled, buttery kernels nearly made her swoon.
She was bringing them over to the picnic table when she noticed Gideon standing near the edge of the driveway. His arms were folded over his chest, his feet planted slightly apart. From his stance, she thought he was preparing to defend his home against raging marauders.
A man stood opposite Gideon, his head bent, his arms hanging at his side. Clad in a two-toned bowling shirt and tan chinos, he was shorter and stockier than Gideon. From the sharpness of Gideon’s tone, she thought he was berating the man, but she couldn’t make out the words.
Uh-oh. What was going on?
Her pulse racing, Lara went over to the picnic table and set down the corn. She looked at her aunt, who merely shrugged.
Lara sat on the bench facing the driveway. Should she go over and try to help?
The man shifted his weight and shot a glance toward Lara, and she caught a glimpse of his face.
“My God,” she whispered to her aunt. “It’s Trevor Johnson. What on earth is he doing here?”
Something Johnson said must have persuaded Gideon to relent. Johnson turned and lumbered toward his car, shut off the engine, and opened the passenger side door. A few moments later, an elderly woman wearing a pink blouse and flowered slacks emerged from the front seat. Johnson grabbed one arm and tugged, and Gideon gently took her other elbow. A pink purse dangled from the crook of Trevor’s elbow as they helped the woman cross the lawn over to the picnic table.
“Lara, Fran,” Gideon said, “this is Virginia Johnson, and this is her son, Trevor.” He pulled over a plastic lawn chair for her.
Virginia puffed out a noisy breath as her son helped lower her onto the seat. The underarms of her blouse bore huge yellow stains, and her face was spotted with both perspiration and acne. She dropped down with a slight thud, a cloying scent wafting from her. It smelled like a disagreeable blend of sweat and rose water.
“You okay, Ma?” Trevor asked her, handing her the purse.
“Yes, dear,” she said with a grunt, looking anything but okay. Her gray hair frizzed around her face in an unbecoming style, and her watery blue eyes looked tired and sad.
“Mrs. Johnson,” Aunt Fran said kindly, “I’m Fran Clarkson. You’re Daisy’s friend, aren’t you?”
Virginia’s eyes brightened at being recognized. “Yes, I am,” she said. “Oh, I know who you are now. Daisy talked about you all the time. She and I go way back. We used to play cards with a group at the church hall. Great bunch of ladies we had back then. ’Course, most of ’em are in the nursing home now. Or dead,” she added flatly. She dug a crumpled tissue out of her handbag and swiped it over her face.
Gideon still looked annoyed at the unexpected drop-in, but he offered them both a glass of iced tea. Lara noticed he didn’t offer Trevor a seat, probably because his mother occupied the only available chair.
“Uh, no, thanks,” Trevor said, his face turning red. “Ma, you want iced tea?”
“Oh, that sounds hunky-dory,” Virginia said, “but I can’t risk the sugar. No, I’m fine, don’t you bother about me.” Still clutching the tissue, she opened her purse again. This time she pulled out a legal-size envelope. She gave it to her son and said, “Go ahead, dear, you tell ’em why we came here.”
“Uh…” Trevor glanced around, and Lara realized he’d been expecting his mother to do the talking. Trapped now, he swallowed, cleared his throat, and said, “Mr. Halley, I, um, I called you yesterday, but you didn’t call me back. Ma wanted me to wait till Monday to call you again. She said it wasn’t polite to bother you on the weekend.”
“You called after hours, Mr. Johnson.”
“That’s right,” Virginia said with a brisk nod. “I told him he shouldn’t have done that. I raised him to be a gentleman.”
“But…my mom,” Trevor pushed on, “she’s feeling really bad about what happened to me now. And it wasn’t her fault, not really. I…just got kind of stuck in the middle.”
“Show ’em the picture.” Virginia pointed at the envelope.
Picture? A weird feeling of déjà vu grabbed Lara by the throat.
Trevor opened the flap of the envelope and pulled out a photo. He gave it to Gideon, who studied it for a long moment. “All I see here is you and Daisy Bowker. One of you is handing the other an envelope.”
Oh God, it was the same picture Sherry had given to Lara.
“It’s Daisy, handing my son an envelope,” Virginia verified. “Someone took that picture secretly and turned it into the town manager. She sent it anonymously, but I know darned well who it was—that awful Evonda Fray. She wanted to get Trevor in trouble so she could have his job!
”
Lara’s head spun.
Virginia barreled on. “But that’s not what was in the envelope, was it, Trevvie? Go ahead, show ’em what it was Daisy gave you that day.”
“Are you sure, Ma?”
“I don’t want to keep it a secret anymore. Like Daisy said, it’s nothing to be embarrassed about.”
Trevor pulled out several sheets of paper and unfolded them. He gave them to Gideon.
“Before I read these, Mr. Johnson, I want to warn you that I am not your attorney. If there’s anything incriminating here, I won’t hesitate to report it.”
Before Trevor could respond, his mother waved a hand at Gideon. “You go ahead and read it,” she instructed. “Out loud, if you want to. You’ll find out my boy did nothing wrong.”
At that point, Lara couldn’t even guess what was in the envelope.
Gideon’s eyebrows dipped toward his nose as he perused the top sheet. “ʻHyperhidrosis,’” he read, “ʻis a disorder that causes’”—he paused—“ʻexcessive sweating, especially of the hands, feet, underarms, face, and head.’” His expression softer now, he looked at Virginia. “Mrs. Johnson, do you suffer from this?”
“I do. You can probably tell by looking at me that I’ve got something nasty going on.” Her eyes grew weepy. “It’s so embarrassing. Trevor used that Google thing and found out some stuff about it. Problem was, I was too embarrassed to talk about it, even with my own son. I told him to forget about it, I’d just live with it. My own doctor didn’t have a clue. Just told me to bathe more often and be sure to use deodorant.”
Lara guessed the rest. “You called your friend Daisy, didn’t you, Mrs. Johnson?” she said gently. “You asked her for advice, and she looked it up. She printed out all that info on her computer and gave it to Trevor to give to you. You trusted her to get help for you.”
“That’s exactly right,” Virginia said, her lower lip quivering. “My, you’re a smart girl. Daisy did a lot more research than Trevor did. Plus, I knew I could talk to her, woman to woman. She hooked me up with a doctor that’s gonna help me, I hope. It was a dermatologist I needed, but I didn’t know that. Thanks to Daisy, I’ve got an appointment with a good one, but it’s not for another three weeks.”