by Linda Reilly
Best not to mention it, she decided. Not until she could somehow prove that her own eyes hadn’t been playing tricks on her.
“You have this mysterious little smirk on your face,” Sherry said. “Are you mulling over the possibilities of staying in Whisker Jog?” There was an unmistakable leer in her voice.
Lara swallowed the last chunk of her potato salad. “I was thinking about a lot of things,” she said, avoiding eye contact with her friend.
At that moment, Daisy emerged from the kitchen clasping a white paper bag. She scooted around the counter to give Lara a hug. “These are for you, sweetie.” She winked at her. “And there’s plenty more where these came from, if you get my drift.” She exchanged a sly look with Sherry.
“In other words, you’re bribing me with cookies not to leave town, right?” Lara peeked into the bag and saw three pumpkin-shaped cookies coated with thick orange frosting.
Pumpkins. Why did that remind her of something?
“Oh my gosh, I bought a pumpkin for Aunt Fran the other day. I was going to carve it or paint a cat on it and put it on the front steps. I must’ve left it in the car!” Lara opened her tote and pulled out her wallet. “I’m paying today, for both lunches.”
Sherry accepted the cash with a frown. “I’ll cut you if you even attempt to leave a tip.”
“Okay,” Lara said, biting off a giggle. “But remember—you can’t stay in business giving free food to freeloading friends.”
“Thanks for the advice, and for the alliteration,” Sherry said dryly. “I’ll paint a sign that says that and hang it in the window.”
They both glanced toward the coffee shop’s front window. The “lost cat” signs were still taped to the glass—a grim reminder that the missing Goldy was still unaccounted for.
“No hot tips on Goldy’s whereabouts?” Lara asked glumly.
“No. I was praying someone might recognize her from my Facebook post with the sketch you drew, but so far, nada.” Sherry furrowed her brow. “I’m scared for her, Lara. That Wendy gal is going to be devastated if Goldy never comes home.”
“I know. I’m scared, too, but let’s not give up hope. Goldy still might turn up.”
Daisy snagged a larger bag from underneath the counter and stuck Lara’s cookies inside, along with Aunt Fran’s takeout lunch. They all hugged, and Lara left.
Outside, Lara paused on the sidewalk. She was pondering her conversation with Sherry when a massive black car suddenly swerved out of a parking space, barely ten feet from where she stood. The car lurched toward the sidewalk, then quickly corrected its course. Lara squeaked out a cry and jumped back. She watched with dread as the car zoomed past her and sped toward the yellow light.
For one scary moment, she was sure the car was going to splatter the pedestrian who’d started to cross at the intersection. Luckily, the woman spotted the car in time. She skedaddled out of the way with only a second to spare, her short legs doing a broad jump to reach the curb.
Lara breathed out a sigh of relief, her heart fluttering in her chest. For several seconds she stood there, trying to calm herself as she watched the offending car fade into the distance. If she didn’t know better, she’d think the vehicle had jet propulsion.
“Jerk!” yelled a fiftyish, heavyset man who’d been heading into the coffee shop. “Typical out-of-stater, right?” he growled to Lara. “Drives like he don’t have a brain in his head.” The man shook his fist at the receding black car and then disappeared into the coffee shop.
Out-of-stater.
The man had been right. Lara distinctly saw Massachusetts plates on the car as it motored like a demon through the light. She wasn’t a car person, but if she had to guess, she’d say it was one of those big old Lincolns. Something out of the 1990s.
A thread of unease wound through Lara. She wasn’t sure why, but she couldn’t help thinking that the driver of the black car had been watching her before he took off. Unfortunately, through the car’s tinted windows, Lara hadn’t been able to get a glimpse of his face.
It was a man, though. She’d been able to tell that much from the profile.
Lara shivered. She scurried over to the woman who’d come close to being picked off by the speeding car.
“Are you okay?” she asked. “That guy almost hit you!”
The pedestrian, a plump senior dressed in an orange tweed coat, cursed under her breath. “Yeah, I’m fine,” she grumped, hoisting her purse onto her shoulder. “But did you see that creep? Nearly made vegetable soup out of me.”
Given the colors in the woman’s coat, it was an apt analogy. “Did you get a look at the driver?” Lara asked her. “We should probably report it to the police.”
“Nah. Even if they catch him, what are the cops gonna do? Give him a slap on the wrist and send him home to his mommy?”
“The driver was young?”
“Yeah, a young punk. Dark glasses, crap hanging from the mirror. You know the type. Lots of ’em around these days. Too many, in my opinion.”
Lara rubbed the arm of the woman’s coat. “If you’re sure you’re all right—”
“Yeah, yeah. Thanks, anyways.” The woman waved her off and started down the sidewalk. Then she turned and said, “Hey, thanks, lady. At least someone cares about us old people.”
Lara smiled to herself. For sure, the woman was a character.
Forcing the black car out of her mind, she hurried back to Aunt Fran’s.
Chapter 21
Lara slid the slender knife out of the fleshy face and set it down on a newspaper. Messy job, she thought, wiping her hands on a paper towel. But it had to be done.
“There, what do you think?” she asked her aunt. “Should I add a few more whiskers?”
Aunt Fran laughed. “Oh, no. It’s perfect the way it is. Honestly, I’ve never seen such an adorable pumpkin. Look at that sweet face—you even made the cat smile.”
“I wanted a happy cat, not a scary one,” Lara said, examining her handiwork. “I don’t like perpetuating the notion that cats are scary in any way.” She lifted the pumpkin and picked off a stray dot of pulp. “Shall I put it out on the porch step?”
“Sure, go ahead. It’ll be the best pumpkin in town.”
“Halloween’s in a few weeks,” Lara said. “If I get to the store before I leave, I’ll pick up some of those mini-lights that run on batteries. You definitely don’t want to be sticking a lighted candle in there.”
Aunt Fran’s smile faded, and she looked away. She began using the newspaper to wrap up the guts of the pumpkin.
Lara knew what her aunt was thinking. By the time Halloween rolled around, Lara would be back in Boston. Gabriela would be doing a booming business with her orange-tinted cannoli and spider-web cakes. The bakery would be bustling, and Lara would have dishes piled up to the moon to wash. Her old life would reclaim her, made better by having reconnected with her aunt.
So why did the thought depress her?
Only three of her paintings—the ones she’d shown to her aunt—were hanging in an actual gallery. She still had her online business selling commissioned watercolors. She didn’t get rich from it, but at least it gave her some pin money. If she dabbled more in social media, maybe she could gain more recognition for her work, which could translate to more customers. A win-win all around, if it worked.
The big problem was her living expenses. Even with the reduced rent she paid Gabriela, her budget was barely manageable. Boston was an expensive city in which to live.
Lara stepped outside, onto the porch. She set down the pumpkin on one side of the top step. It really is cute, she decided. She almost wished she’d gotten a second one.
She folded her arms and looked out over the yard. Dried leaves shifted in the breeze. A gray squirrel darted up the trunk of the maple tree.
But something was different. What was it?
The yellow crime scene tape—it was gone! Oh, what a relief. Was that a positive sign for the investigation? Had the police concluded tha
t Glen Usher was Barnes’s killer?
The sun was dipping lower. In another hour, it would be dark.
Lara headed inside. Aunt Fran was nowhere to be seen. Probably resting upstairs, she thought. For about the zillionth time since she’d arrived in town, she felt a surge of guilt wash over her.
The pumpkin innards were on the kitchen counter, wrapped loosely in layers of newspaper. Lara wasn’t sure what her aunt wanted to do with them, but they’d make good eats for the small animals in the field. She carefully picked up the newspaper, put on her jacket, and then located her tablet, which she’d stuck in her tote that morning.
Her favorite spot in the crook of the big rock was calling to her. She needed to clear her mind, to sit alone with her thoughts where it was quiet and peaceful and serene.
But first she had to get rid of the pumpkin remains. She went over and stood at the crest of the hill, almost directly above the spot where she’d found Theo Barnes.
Lara unfolded the newspaper and shook it briskly over the downward slope. Chunks of pumpkin fell out in seedy orange globs. She grinned. The mice and chipmunks, if any were around, were going to have a literal field day.
She crushed the layers of newspaper into as tight a ball as she could, then carried it over with her to the rock. She dropped to the ground, pressing her shoulders into the rocky alcove. It took a bit of shifting, but eventually she found a comfortable position. With her legs stretched out in front of her and her tablet in her lap, she felt as if she’d found a bit of heaven. She tucked the newspaper under one knee to keep it from blowing away.
Firing up her tablet, she went directly to Sherry’s Facebook page. She crossed her fingers, praying that someone had posted a sighting of Goldy.
A long string of comments appeared. Mostly they were heartfelt wishes that the missing cat would find her way home. Lara scrolled through all the comments, disappointed that no one had reported spotting the cat.
She studied the sketch she’d made of Goldy, enlarging it on the screen. Wendy had been thrilled with the likeness, Lara remembered. So much so that she’d expressed the opinion that Goldy would surely be found.
If only, Lara thought bleakly.
She leaned her head back and closed her eyes. Only a moment later, she felt a slight stirring in the air. When she opened her eyes, her heart did a pole vault over her ribs.
Sitting beside her on the right, staring at the sketch of Goldy, was Blue.
Lara stayed very still, almost frozen in place. “Blue,” she whispered, in the tiniest of voices.
The gorgeous Ragdoll met her gaze, then returned to studying the image on the laptop. Blue’s coat was fluffy and full, not tangled or matted. She looked as if she had been enjoying regular brushings, as well as hearty meals.
Lara’s hand twitched. She desperately wanted to reach out with one finger and touch Blue’s furry face.
She resisted the urge.
It struck her, now, that she’d never touched Blue. Even as a girl, whenever she’d tried to hold Blue, or even pet her, the cat suddenly wasn’t there. It was her presence, more than her corporeal form that Lara had always felt.
How did I never notice that?
And then she heard a sound that warmed her to the core. The softest of rumbles.
Blue was purring.
That was new. Totally new.
It lasted only a moment. At the far corner of the field, near the spot where Lara had tripped over the rebar, a disturbance in the meadow caught her attention. A furry head poked through the grass, then sank out of sight. Something about the shape was decidedly feline.
Either that or Lara’s mind had truly gone over the edge.
If it was Goldy, Lara needed to find her. The poor lost kitty would no doubt be ravenously hungry. Had she been prowling the field for a mouse? Lara wished, now, that she’d thought to bring along some cat treats before she came outside.
Blue was still at her side when Lara set aside her tablet and rose from the ground. She gazed out over the meadow, thinking she spied movement again.
When she looked down, Blue was gone.
Chapter 22
Dinner that evening consisted of warmed-over spinach lasagna, a hastily tossed salad, and some rolls Aunt Fran had located at the back of her freezer.
The mood was subdued. Even the cats sensed it. Munster, who typically hovered at Lara’s feet during meals, munched from one of the kibble bowls on the other side of the kitchen.
“So, it’s definite then, right?” Lara said. “The police know that Glen killed Theo?”
While Lara had been outside with her tablet that afternoon, Aunt Fran had received a call from Chief Whitley. The police were officially concluding their investigation of Barnes’s death. A note scrawled on a napkin and found in Glen’s car had pretty much wrapped things up. There were still papers and miscellany from Barnes’s home that they had to go through, but apparently that was just routine cleanup of the case.
“I wish I could see that confession note,” Lara said without thinking. “Something about the whole thing reeks like a dead fish to me.”
Aunt Fran gave her a quick look. She set down her fork over her half-eaten meal. “What are you saying? You think the police are wrong?”
Lara winced inwardly. She’d never told her aunt about the “Midnight Mary” note—it was still in her bedroom wastebasket.
What Lara would really like to do was to compare it to Glen’s so-called napkin confession. Assuming he’d written it himself, the printing on the confession should be similar to the lettering on the note Lara had. But how could she persuade the police to let her see it?
She couldn’t. Not unless she showed them her “Midnight Mary” note. Even then, they might say she was crazy. Either that, or they’d find it suspicious that she hadn’t turned over the note to them. Although, at the time, Glen was still alive. The note didn’t appear to be related in any way to Barnes’s murder.
“I don’t know, Aunt Fran,” Lara finally said. “Something about the whole thing doesn’t ring true to me.” She poked at a lasagna noodle with her fork.
“I tend to agree. It’s almost impossible for me to picture Glen bringing that hoe down on the back of Theo’s head.”
With a sigh, Lara pushed aside her plate. “Maybe I’d better tell you something.”
As succinctly as she could, Lara explained the situation with the note on the torn napkin.
“I don’t see that you’ve done anything wrong, Lara,” her aunt said in her defense. “The note with the song title on it was between Mary and Glen. It had nothing to do with Theo.”
Yeah, but what if Mary recruited her uncle to deal with Glen? And what if Glen then lashed out with a deadly blow after Theo read him the so-called riot act?
It was making her head hurt.
“You’re probably right,” Lara said, grateful for the moral support. “But now I’m wondering about the handwriting, or rather, the printing, on the confession note. The note with the song title on it is printed in pencil, in bold block letters. I would love to know what that confession looks like.”
With a concerned look, Aunt Fran reached across the table and took Lara’s hand. “Lara, stop beating yourself up. You picked up a discarded note in a parking lot. Period. It doesn’t mean it was your obligation to solve a murder.”
“I know.”
It suddenly struck Lara that the common denominator in all of this was one person: Mary Newman.
Could the sweet, sensitive, adoring niece of the victim be a cold-blooded killer? Was it possible that Mary’s blubbering over her uncle was nothing more than an act?
There could be any number of reasons why Mary might’ve wanted her uncle dead. Had the police examined Theo’s estate-planning documents to find out who stood to inherit his assets? Did he have life insurance?
Mary had admitted she suspected her husband of being involved in something shady—something she thought her uncle had gotten him into. Lara wasn’t sure how those erotic magazines c
ame into play, but Mary had sure been anxious to get rid of them the day Lara had spotted her by the Dumpster at Jepson’s.
What if Mary had killed her uncle? Glen might have seen her late that night—either as she was driving through town after the murder, or sneaking through the park after she’d killed Barnes. Mary knew he had a juvenile personality. He might have told her he’d seen her that night, and assured her it would be their little secret. At that point Mary would have known he was a liability.
It would’ve been easy for Mary to write a note on a napkin and leave it in Glen’s car. If she’d knocked on his car window, he’d surely have opened the door for her. She could have smiled and played coy, saying she wanted to talk to him, then somehow managed to spike his coffee with his own heart medication.
Oh, Lord. That was all too much for Lara’s brain to handle. She was an artist, not a cop. It wasn’t her problem. She hadn’t driven to New Hampshire to solve a murder. She’d come to help her aunt and the cats.
“Lara, I can see the wheels churning beneath that lovely new hairstyle,” Aunt Fran said. “What are you thinking about?”
Lara rubbed the space between her eyes with her fingers. “What do you think about Mary Newman?” she asked. “She acts like such a delicate flower, but I suspect there’s a vein of steel in her. Is it possible she killed her own uncle?”
Her aunt’s brow furrowed. “I suppose, when you analyze it, she might have had motive. But really, Mary?”
“Do you think she’s Theo’s sole heir?”
“Probably. But remember what you told me—that Josette gets a chunk of his estate, too. The remainder of the alimony she’s entitled to. Anything Mary inherits will be reduced by that amount.”
“But I’ll bet Theo was loaded,” Lara said darkly. “Whether he earned it by honest means or not, I suspect he left behind a pretty hefty estate.”
“Lara,” her aunt said quietly. “Why are you doing this? I’m the first person to speak out when I see an injustice. And maybe there is reason to believe Glen didn’t kill Theo. But you have to remember something—we don’t know everything the police know. Whatever information we have is limited. Please, let them do their jobs, okay?”