by Reagan Davis
“That’s an exaggeration,” she laments.
“Maybe, but no pets, unless T says it’s OK.”
It’s just after lunch when we pull into the parking lot of the Animal Centre.
The AC is located on the edge of town, near the highway.
“No pets,” April murmurs.
I’m pretty sure she’s convincing herself and not talking to me.
We enter through the animal shelter entrance and ask the volunteer at the desk to let us into the cat room.
There are about a dozen cats in kennels, and it’s heart wrenching to see them locked up. For a brief moment, I forget why we’re here and am overcome with the urge to take them all home.
I remind myself to stay focused as April stops in front of a chocolate brown cat. The card taped to his kennel says his name is, Fudge.
Congratulations, Fudge, you’re about to be adopted.
April opens her mouth to speak, and before she says a word, I know Fudge will be joining us for the car ride home. I’ll probably be on the receiving end of at least one text from a frustrated Tamara in a few hours.
It’ll be worth it, but I can’t say that to April because she’ll interpret it as me agreeing she should take Fudge home. She should, but I can never admit it out loud.
A shelter volunteer shows us to a visiting room where we wait for someone to bring Fudge in, so he and April can have a meet-and-greet and decide if they like each other.
The small room has two chairs, a bowl of water, a litter box, and a scratching post. There are random cat toys scattered on the floor. The entire wall with the door in it is glass, including the door itself.
Fudge enters the room and April lights up. She’s in love. She puts out her hand, and Fudge comes to check it out. She strokes his back and gives him scratches between his ears. When he flops onto the floor and shows her his furry, chocolate-brown belly, I know this is a done deal.
The volunteer comes in to ask how we’re doing.
“Would Dr. White be available?” I ask. “We’d like to ask her a few questions.”
A few minutes later, Dr. White comes in and introduces herself. April asks how Fudge gets along with other cats.
April and Tamara have an orange cat, Butterscotch. It’s amazes me that Tamara has maintained their status as a one-cat family for as long as she has, because April would have a house full of cats, given the opportunity.
“He’s great with other cats,” Dr. White says. “Fudge came to us from a home where he was with another cat.”
“Why was he surrendered?” April asks.
“His owner had dementia and could no longer care for them so the family surrendered them to the AC,” Dr. White explains. “We tried to have them adopted as a pair, but that isn’t always possible. The other cat found a new home last month.”
They talk about vaccinations, whether Fudge has been neutered—he has, the AC only adopts spayed and neutered pets—and his health history, while I wait patiently for an opportunity to ask Dr. White my questions.
“Shall I get you an adoption application and a pen?” Dr. White asks.
April nods enthusiastically. “Yes! Please!”
While Dr. White goes to get the form, I take a few photos of Fudge and April together. Dr. White comes back, hands a clipboard and pen to April, and instructs us to give the completed form to one of the volunteers.
She turns to leave. It’s now or never.
“Dr. White,” I say, “may I ask you a question that isn’t about Fudge?”
“Sure,” she replies, smiling and putting her hands in the pockets of her white lab coat.
“I’m a friend of Laura’s,” I explain. “I don’t know if you’ve heard, but she was killed by an overdose of digoxin.”
Dr. White nods. She doesn’t look surprised. I don’t think the digoxin is new information for her.
“What’s the question?” she asks, shrugging.
“Don’t you think it’s an odd coincidence that a couple of weeks after someone steals digoxin from the vet clinic, it’s also used to murder Laura?” I ask.
“It is an unlikely coincidence,” she acknowledges, “but many drugs were stolen that night. As far as I know, none of the stolen medications have been recovered, and no link has been made between our robbery and Laura’s death.”
“Two people have mentioned that you and Laura didn’t always get along and argued a lot,” I say, trying to sound as casual and non-accusatory as possible. But there isn’t really a way to say it without it sounding incriminating.
“Are you insinuating that I stole all the medication from the clinic just so I could keep the digoxin and use it to kill Laura?”
She crosses her arms in front of her chest and tilts her head.
“No,” I insist, shaking my head. “I’m not, but I know that’s how it sounds. Honestly, I’m just trying to help Laura’s family, my friends, and Sophie, find answers and get some closure, you know?” I explain.
She sighs, uncrosses her arms, and pushes several strands of red hair behind her ear.
“It’s true that we’d argue and get frustrated with one another,” she explains. “But not because we didn’t like each other. We both love the AC and want what’s best for every animal here. Laura was older and did things a certain way, even when that way was outdated, and there was a more efficient way to do it.”
She leans against the glass door and puts her hands back in her pockets.
“For example, Laura didn’t want the Animal Hospital to use online booking—where owners can book their pet’s veterinary appointment online, without having to call the clinic. I explained to her that online booking is common now and would free up volunteers from answering the phone as frequently, allowing them to spend more time working with the animals. However, Laura felt it would make the AC appear unapproachable. We had a similar argument about branding. We have some popular animals in the sanctuary, some of them are local celebrities. Selling souvenirs like t-shirts, mugs, or stuffed animals featuring them could be a good stream of income, but Laura worried that it would be perceived as exploiting the animals.”
I feel Dr. White’s struggle. It wasn’t easy to get Connie to see the benefits of computers when I started working at Knitorious.
“Has your uncle been pressuring you to convince Laura to sell the AC to Mega Mart?” I ask.
“If you know he’s my uncle, you should also know that he’s estranged from our entire family,” she says brusquely.
I didn’t know that. Despite spending hours last night combing the internet for information about his personal life and family, I found nothing aside from a couple of articles that mention his wife. There was no information about his family anywhere.
“I haven’t spoken to, or seen, my uncle since I was a little girl,” she explains. “I’m sure he has no idea I work here, or even that I’m a vet. He lives on the other side of the country, and from what I’ve heard, he likes to stay there. I doubt he’s ever heard of Harmony Lake or has any personal involvement in this land deal.”
“Why is he estranged from the family?” I ask.
“He and my dad are brothers,” she explains with a sigh, “and they had a disagreement over money. My dad gave… lent… depending who you ask, money to my uncle to help open the first Mega Mart store. When Mega Mart became a huge international success, he paid my dad back, without interest. But my dad thought the agreement was that he would be part owner of that first store and was expecting a share certificate. It got ugly and they haven’t spoken since. Most of the family sided with my dad, and they fell out with my uncle too. It’s been so long since I’ve seen my uncle, that I wouldn’t recognize him if he showed up here tomorrow.”
“It’s sad,” I say, “that money tore apart two brothers and divided an entire family.”
“It is,” she agrees, nodding. “And they’re both getting on in years. It would be good for them to forgive each other and let go of this grudge before it’s too late.”
W
e talk a while longer while April fills out the adoption application and continues to bond with Fudge. I learn Dr. White was at the AC the morning Laura died, and there are lots of witnesses who can corroborate her alibi.
April hands her form to one of the volunteers. They load Fudge into a cardboard kitty carrier, a volunteer hands me a small bag of his food and the blanket from his kennel. The three of us leave the shelter and make our way to the car.
Fudge sings loudly to April and me on the drive back to town. April sings back to him, saying it will calm him, but I think it’s having the opposite effect. Her high-pitched mewing is making both Fudge and me more anxious.
“You should ask Eric to the reunion-fundraiser,” she stops mewing and says out of nowhere.
I tell her I overheard him decline an invitation from Amy Andrews because he already has a date.
“Ask him anyway.” She shrugs.
“I think we’re just friends,” I tell her. “I’m his landlady, and I act as a kind of community liaison for him, but beyond that, I’m not on his radar.”
I drop April and Fudge off at home. Before I back out of the driveway, I send Tamara a text.
Me: Please don’t hate me when you see what I did.
T: What did you do?
I send her one of the photos I took of April and Fudge.
T: Just the one? When she told me where you guys were going, I thought this might happen.
Me: Yup. Just one. Name’s Fudge
T: Aww… he looks like a piece of fudge!
If she’s mad, she’s already getting over it.
I go back to Knitorious and offer to close the store so Connie can leave. I lock up, tidy the store, put Sophie’s leash and sweater on, and leave through the back door.
At home, I take Sophie for a quick walk so she can do her business. It gets much colder when the sun goes down, so our evening walks are business trips only. As soon as she’s finishes, we dash back to the warmth of the house where I take off her sweater, unattach her leash, and feed her dinner.
“I’ll be home soon, Sophie,” I tell her while I bundle myself in my winter gear. “I’m hoping this meeting will help us figure out who killed Laura. Wish me luck.”
I get in my car and head to Laura’s house.
Phew, Glenda came alone. I was worried that Phillip might come with her. It’s hard enough talking to Glenda about Laura potentially having a secret love child, I’m not sure I’d be able to have this conversation with both of them.
We both get out of our cars and go in the house. She takes off her boots and asks me where in the kitchen I saw the bag of dog food.
“Beside the fridge,” I tell her. “Against the wall.”
I follow her into the kitchen.
“Glenda, there’s another reason I asked you to meet me here. I need to talk to you about something private, and I needed to get you alone.”
“Okaaaaaay” she says hesitantly, looking worried.
“I need to show you something upstairs.”
Now she looks terrified and positions herself so the kitchen table is between us.
Of course, she looks terrified. I scheme to get her into the house where her sister was murdered, then talk ominously about getting her here alone. Well done, Megan.
“Actually, you know what,” I say, “you wait here, and I’ll go get it. I’ll leave my phone on the kitchen table, and if you feel even a little bit uncomfortable, you can use it to call someone.”
I unlock my phone and place it on the kitchen table, screen side up, between us. Then I run up the stairs, through the purple palace and into the purple en suite washroom, pick up the DNA test packaging, and run back downstairs.
I put the box on the kitchen table where we can both see it.
“I found this in the garbage pail in Laura’s washroom yesterday.”
She looks at it, curiously but cautiously.
“It’s the packaging from a DNA test,” I explain. “Glenda, I think between the last time Laura emptied her washroom garbage pail and the day she died, she took a DNA test. Do you have any idea whose DNA she might be comparing hers to?”
She shakes her head.
“What if there was a baby,” she utters. Glenda clutches her chest and sits on one of the kitchen chairs. “What if I’m remembering it wrong? Or didn’t notice because I was so young?”
Her eyes fill with tears. “Poor Laura,” she says quietly.
I offer to get her a glass of water, and she shakes her head.
“Glenda, the website says they email the DNA results to the customer. Would you mind if I check Laura’s email? If we can find out who she was comparing her DNA to, that might help us figure out who killed her and why.”
“Yes. That’s a good idea,” she agrees. “I’ll get her laptop.”
Glenda gets up and goes to the next room to get Laura’s laptop. I sit down at the kitchen table, and she puts the computer in front of me. I open it and move my hand back and forth across the track pad. It’s an older computer and kind of clunky.
“Was it plugged in?” I ask her.
She nods.
“I don’t think anyone has used it since before she went to the hospital,” she says.
When it finally comes to life, it wants a password. Glenda doesn’t know what the password is and suggests we try Laura’s late husband’s name. That’s not it.
We try her wedding anniversary. Not it.
We try Laura’s birthday and her husband’s birthday. No, and no.
I ask Glenda if Laura has any other devices that she used to check her email… a tablet or smartphone, maybe? Glenda doesn’t think so. I tell her I need to do a web search on how to hack into a computer.
“I’m afraid if we just keep trying random guesses, it will freeze us out permanently,” I explain.
“Take the laptop with you,” Glenda suggests, “then you can keep trying. Let me know when you get into her email.”
I thank her and put the laptop in my bag.
“Just a second,” she says.
She disappears into the other room, returns with the power cord, folds it up, and presses it into my hand. I put it in my tote bag with the laptop.
On our way out, I tell her I spoke to Eric and told him she was in town the night before Laura died. She says she’s already heard from him and understands that I had to tell him. She says she’s on her way to meet him now to answer some questions and get her phone back.
Chapter 17
Wednesday January 15th
I spend the morning sitting at the harvest table with the store laptop, drinking the café mocha with extra whipped cream that Eric dropped off to me on his way to work. Then I search the internet for instructions to access Laura’s laptop without erasing any of the information from her computer.
I sigh dramatically every time I come up against a dead end on my search.
It occurred to me last night that even if I figure out the password that unlocks the laptop, her email might be password protected with a different password. I’m hoping that isn’t the case.
“What are you doing that’s making you so frustrated?” Connie asks after my most recent dramatic sigh.
“I thought I was onto something with Laura’s murder,” I say, “but apparently, I was wrong.”
“Maybe you should tell Eric whatever it is you’re trying to do and let him get frustrated trying to figure it out,” she suggests. “It is his job.”
She has a point. I might have to hand this off to a professional, and I’m sure the police department will know how to access her email.
“At least take a break for a while,” she implores, “and go back to it when you feel less frustrated.”
Good idea, Connie.
“What are you wearing to the reunion-fundraiser on Saturday night, my dear?” she asks, subtly changing the subject.
“I’m not going,” I reply.
“What?! Of course, you’re going,” she insists. “Don’t be silly.”
“I don�
�t know,” I whine. “It’s been a long week and I’m tired.”
“It’s only Wednesday,” she reminds me.
“I don’t have anyone to go with, and I don’t have anything to wear,” I complain.
“Ask Eric,” she suggests. “I’m sure he’ll say yes.”
“Did April tell you to say that?” I ask.
“Don’t be silly, my dear,” she replies, waving dismissively.
They’re totally in cahoots.
I look at Sophie laying on her bed. She looks back at me, perks up her ears and wags her tail.
“Maybe I’ll take Sophie,” I say. “I could knit a corgi-sized dress for her.”
“You know I don’t like it when I can’t tell whether you’re joking,” Connie says.
In an effort to change the subject, I ask her if she’s seen Fudge. She says she’s seen photos on April and Tamara’s social media.
Our phones both ding in unison.
It’s Phillip, letting us know arrangements have been made for Laura’s service. It’s scheduled for Monday at the Mourning Glory Funeral Home. He asks Connie to pass on the details to the rest of the alumni association.
The news of Laura’s funeral casts a dreary mood over us and the store. Between serving customers, we sombrely distract ourselves with various mundane tasks around the store until the bell above the door jingles, and Mrs. Pearson comes in.
“Marla, you’re early.” Connie greets her with a hug.
“Yes, my appointment ended early, so here I am.”
Mrs. Pearson is a member of the charity knitting guild. They meet at the store most Wednesday afternoons to knit on their latest project, plan future projects, order yarn, and gossip. She situates herself on the sofa and pulls out the baby blanket she’s working on for the AC.
Seeing her blanket reminds me to give her the blanket that I knit to help the cause. I reach under the counter and into my tote bag, pulling out the plastic bag containing the blanket.
“Here’s my contribution to the blankets for the AC,” I say, handing her the bag.
“Thank you,” she says, taking the bag. “So, Megan... I hear you went out with my Craig on Saturday night. He hasn’t stopped talking about you.”
