Claws of Action

by Linda Reilly

  “I agree,” Lara said. “Is it all right if we go down there now, Chief?”

  “That’ll be perfect. I’m heading back to the station now, so when you get there, ask for me. I’ll hook you up with the right people.” He drank the last of his tea.

  Aunt Fran looked over at Lara. “Lara, I think we should go ahead with adoption day, but refrain from serving snacks.”

  “I think that’s wise, Fran.” The chief’s gaze drifted sideways. “Oh boy, here he comes again,” he said dryly. “My new best friend.” He held up one large hand as a barrier, but Munster had become adept at doing an end run.

  Ignoring the chief’s outstretched hand, Munster hopped onto the sofa and approached him from the side, tucking his golden head under the chief’s elbow. His purr was loud enough to be heard outside.

  “Yeah, yeah, you like me,” he said to the cat. “I get it.” With one finger, he scratched the fur between Munster’s ears, then pushed him slightly to one side. Munster yawned, stretched out to his full length, and then leaned against the chief’s thigh for a comfy snooze.

  Lara couldn’t help giggling. Munster’s antics had broken the tension. Even the chief looked grateful for the interruption.

  “Well, that’s all for now, except…” He rose and gave Lara a pointed look.

  “I already know what you’re going to say,” Lara said. “Don’t get involved, don’t ask any questions, let the police handle it.”

  “Precisely,” the chief said. “I’m serious, Lara. This is not a joke. I don’t want a repeat of what happened before.”

  “Which time?” Lara asked.

  He narrowed his eyes, his jaw firm. “Every time. You’ve put yourself in jeopardy far too often by asking questions. This time let us do the asking. Deal?”

  Lara nodded. “I hear you, Chief. Oh—one last thing. You didn’t tell us the name of the man who found Evonda’s body.”

  The chief dropped his hat on his head and smiled. “Good day, Fran, Columbo. I’ll be in touch.”

  Chapter Six

  When they got to the police station, Lara was forced to park the Saturn on the street nearly a block away. Several state police cars had taken all the available spaces in front of the station, and also in the small lot behind it.

  Inside, in the tiled lobby area, a handful of people milled about. Some looked eager, but others looked bleak and depressed. Lara had never seen so many people here at one time, though she made it a point to steer clear of the police station as much as possible, given her history with finding bodies.

  Were they all waiting to be interviewed? Lara wondered.

  On a wooden bench adjacent to the water dispenser, a youngish couple sat with their heads bent, their hands clasped between them. The woman had short, light-brown hair and a slight build, with skinny arms that stuck out like twigs from her sleeveless yellow blouse. Her companion, who was far taller, wore tan shorts and a faded blue cotton shirt. Behind his black-rimmed glasses, his eyes were red-rimmed and swollen.

  The woman looked oddly familiar. Had Lara gone to school with her, eons ago? She looked about Lara’s age—twenty-nine and approaching the dreaded 3-0. If she’d been a former classmate, the last time Lara had seen her would’ve been in the sixth grade. Lara’s family had relocated to Massachusetts just in time for her to suffer through her first year of seventh grade in a strange school with kids she’d never met before.

  Lara spied a chair near the door. “Aunt Fran, why don’t you take that seat? I’ll let the dispatcher know we’re here.”

  Her aunt nodded and went over to claim the chair. “Okay, but I’ll text Jerry. That might be even faster.”

  At the reception window, which Lara assumed was made of bulletproof glass, a severe-looking fiftyish woman with dark hair pulled into a tight ponytail sat in front of a switchboard. Lara talked into the speaker embedded in the glass. “Good morning. I’m Lara Caphart, and I’m here with my aunt, Fran Clarkson. Chief Whitley asked us to come in this morning to be interviewed.”

  The dispatcher didn’t bother to look up. “I’ll let him know you’re here.”

  “Thank you.”

  When Lara turned around, she was surprised to see that her aunt had already gone missing. With a courteous smile, she squeezed her way around a clot of people and glanced down the hallway that she knew, from experience, led to the only two interview rooms. She spotted Aunt Fran. A uniformed officer was escorting her into one of the rooms.

  She went back into the lobby. An empty seat had opened up, right next to the familiar-looking woman. Lara sat down beside her, and the woman turned and looked at her.

  Yes! I know her.

  “Good morning,” Lara said in a quiet voice. “I feel as if I know you from somewhere. Are you, by any chance, Jenny? Jenny…Cooper?”

  The woman sniffled, then dabbed at her nose with a pink tissue. “Yes, I am. Well, it’s actually Jenny Fray now.”

  Fray. Oh no…

  “You look familiar, too,” Jenny said, “but…I’m sorry, I can’t remember your name.”

  “It’s Lara. Lara Caphart. I think the last time we saw each other was probably in junior high.”

  “Oh my gosh, yes. Lara, with the beautiful red hair! How dumb of me not to remember.”

  “It’s not dumb at all,” Lara said kindly. “Sixth grade was a long time ago. Is…was Mrs. Fray your…?”

  “My mother-in-law,” Jenny supplied, a thread of steel in her voice. She touched the hand of the man sitting beside her. “Tim?”

  At first the man didn’t appear to hear her, but then she jiggled his hand. Finally, slowly, he looked at his wife, then over at Lara. With his severe spectacles and dark, curly hair, he reminded Lara of that singing icon from the old days, Buddy Holly.

  “Tim,” Jenny said, “this is an old classmate of mine, Lara Caphart. We went to middle school together.” She looked at Lara. “Lara, this is my husband, Tim.”

  Lara froze, unsure what to say. “I…hello, Tim. I’m so sorry for your loss. I only heard about it a short while ago.”

  Tim stared at Lara with glazed eyes. “Thank you. We’re…Jenny and I are still in shock. The police insisted we come down here to give official statements, even though they already talked to us for hours this morning. Separately,” he added darkly.

  Of course they talked to you separately. They wanted to make sure your stories jibed.

  Jenny gave Lara a sheepish look. “I don’t think it was hours. It only seemed that way because we were both so…horrified.”

  “I don’t know what more Jenny and I can tell them,” Tim rattled on. He locked gazes with his wife. “Neither of us has any idea who could have done this.”

  “I’m sure it’s just standard procedure,” Lara said. “They probably have to talk to everyone who was close to the, you know…”

  “Victim,” Tim said sharply.

  “Yes.” Lara’s voice came out like a squeak. She cleared her throat. “That poor man who found her, I’m sure he must be traumatized.”

  “Are you kidding?” Tim gave her a crooked smirk. “Roy Tierney? The guy’s a character for sure. He’s one of those people who talks to everyone, whether he knows them or not. Don’t worry about him being traumatized. He’s having a field day telling everyone what he saw. He’s getting his fifteen minutes of fame, as they say.”

  “But won’t that hamper the police investigation?” Lara said, feigning surprise. “I mean, don’t they try to keep some stuff out of the news so they can tell a real confession from a phony one?”

  “Maybe.” Tim shrugged. “Nothing they can do now. Once the horse is out of the barn…”

  His tone had gone from guarded to matter-of-fact. Lara couldn’t help wondering if Tim and Jenny were truly grieving for Evonda or if they were putting on an act. Their reactions seemed mechanical, almost practiced.

  A uniformed
officer came into the lobby from the hallway. He glanced at Tim, then homed in on Jenny. “Mrs. Fray, would you please follow me? The investigator is ready to take your statement.”

  Jenny’s face turned ash gray. “Um, sure.” She squeezed Tim’s hand, then rose and followed the officer.

  “Can I get you something to drink?” the officer asked, his voice fading as they both disappeared down the hallway.

  Lara couldn’t help feeling for Jenny. She had a pretty good idea of how the interview would go. The investigator would ask Jenny the same questions, over and over, until she was ready to jump up and scream. By the time she left, her nerves would be tangled around one another like licorice strands.

  “My wife doesn’t deserve this,” Tim said, interrupting her musings. He twisted his long fingers in his lap. “She’s been through enough.”

  His declaration gave Lara a great opening, but suddenly she felt tongue-tied. What had Jenny been through? Did it have anything to do with Evonda?

  Lara decided to start with a safe question. “How long have you and Jenny been married?”

  Tim’s eyes softened, and he gave up a weak smile. “It’ll be two years in September. We went to the town hall, just the two of us. Jenny looked so pretty. She wore a daisy in her hair that day. She looked almost too young to get married. My…mother didn’t attend. She never approved of Jenny.”

  Of course she didn’t.

  “What about Jenny’s folks?”

  “Only her mom is living, and she’s not doing very well. Her dad flew the coop ages ago. We don’t even know where he is, nor do we care,” he added harshly.

  “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. Jenny seems like a lovely woman. I remember her in school. She was shy, but she always wanted to help people.”

  Tim’s voice cracked. “Still does.”

  A memory came back to Lara. A skinny little boy with shaggy hair who’d broken his leg and had to get around on crutches wearing an ungainly cast. Jenny had insisted on carrying the boy’s books from class to class, struggling not to drop them as she balanced them atop her own. If another kid tried to help, Jenny would shake her head and say, “No, thank you. I’ve got it.”

  Strange, Lara thought. What made me think of that after all these years?

  She shifted on her chair. She began to feel uneasy. The lobby was getting too warm. Had they turned off the AC? She felt her light jersey top sticking to her skin.

  Lara jumped at the sound of a familiar voice.

  “There you are,” Aunt Fran said, coming over to stand in front of Lara.

  “Wow. That was fast. You weren’t in there very long.”

  “Long enough,” Aunt Fran said, glancing at Tim.

  Before Lara had a chance to introduce her aunt to Tim, the same officer who’d led Aunt Fran away came back into the lobby. “Ms. Caphart, will you please follow me?”

  I feel like I’m back in school, being summoned to the principal’s office.

  “I’ll wait for you here,” Aunt Fran said. She took Lara’s vacated chair.

  “Bye. Take care,” Lara said quietly to Tim before following the officer down the hallway.

  * * * *

  Lara’s interview ended shortly after eleven. The state police investigator had been a humorless type, with a bland face and an even blander personality. Over and over, he asked her the same questions. Lara was careful to answer them the same way every time. Would that persuade them that she was telling the truth? Or would the investigator conclude that her account of Evonda’s visit to the shelter had been a carefully rehearsed spiel?

  She nearly kissed the ground—or rather, the dusty floor—when the investigator finally told her she could leave. Aunt Fran was sitting in the same chair in the lobby, reading a paperback. Tim Fray was gone.

  “Only eleven fifteen and it’s already in the low nineties,” Lara said as they were leaving the police station. “I’m beginning to think I prefer snow.”

  “Perish the thought,” Aunt Fran said, picking her way carefully down the granite steps. Sporting fairly new knee replacements, she was walking like her old self again. Nonetheless, she was extracareful when negotiating stairs or any uneven surface. “So, tell me. How did your interview go?”

  “I don’t know. Every time he asked me a question, I got the sick feeling I was suspect number one on their hit parade.”

  They’d almost reached the front sidewalk when a dark-green state police car pulled up in front of the station. It double-parked alongside a Whisker Jog cruiser. Seconds later, both front doors swung open simultaneously. The trooper who’d gotten out on the passenger side opened the rear door. He leaned down to talk to their passenger, and then a man got out of the back seat.

  Aunt Fran grabbed Lara’s wrist. “Lara. Isn’t that…?”

  “Oh, no! It’s Brian Downing. I was going to call him as soon as we got home.”

  Brian’s full face looked flushed. He wore a short-sleeved shirt and a pair of light-colored slacks, a pair of brown loafers on his sockless feet. He spoke briefly to the trooper who’d opened his door, and together they walked up the sidewalk toward the station.

  Brian stopped short when he saw Lara. His face grew animated. “Lara, I was going to call you this morning before everything hit the fan! How’s Smuggles doing? Is he okay?”

  “He’s fine, Brian. He’s comfy and he’s eating well, so don’t worry about him.”

  Brian sagged visibly. “Thank God. You heard what happened, right?” He glared at the trooper who was breathing down his neck.

  “I did. But why are you here?”

  “The cops want to question me further. They think I had something to do with Evonda’s death. Can you believe that? I’m a pacifist, for cripes’ sake!”

  The troopers were getting impatient. “Sir, we have to go inside now,” the one closest to him said. “I’d advise you not to speak to anyone.”

  “Who are you to advise me?” Brian snapped at him. “You’re trying to put me behind bars. And you haven’t even read me my rights!”

  The trooper, who looked barely old enough to shave, rolled his youthful eyes. “You’re not under arrest, sir. We’re only taking you in for further questioning.”

  The other trooper, who was clearly a more seasoned member of the force, locked his hand around Brian’s upper arm. “Let’s go, Mr. Downing. We’re wasting time. The sooner you go inside, the sooner you can leave.”

  “I’ll call you later, Lara,” Brian said as the troopers propelled him toward the building. “Take good care of Smuggles!”

  Lara stared after him for at least a minute, then turned back to her aunt. “This is not good. Do you think they found something they think links him to the murder?”

  Aunt Fran looked troubled. “I don’t know. But I hope he knows enough to call an attorney if things get dicey for him.”

  Lara swallowed. “Aunt Fran, do you think…he could have done it?” She slipped her arm through her aunt’s, and they walked toward where the Saturn was parked.

  “Anything is possible. We don’t know him well enough to judge, do we?” Aunt Fran said. “I suggest we do as Jerry advised and let the police handle the questioning.”

  Lara couldn’t help smiling. “Is that a hint?”

  “More of a command,” her aunt said quietly. “I don’t want you putting yourself in danger again, Lara. Not even with a guardian cat watching over you.”

  Chapter Seven

  Not a soul showed up for adoption hours at the shelter that afternoon, but later in the day, Charlie Backstrom’s truck pulled into the driveway. Lara was rearranging books in the new reading room when she spotted him through the window. Holding up a small red box, he smiled at her as he hopped out of his truck and strode over.

  “Charlie! Come on in,” Lara said. “I was just putting away some books on these beautiful new shelves.”

&nbs
p; He stepped inside, pride shining on his face as he glanced over the bookshelves. “They did come out nice, didn’t they? If I do say so myself.” He laughed slightly.

  “They’re wonderful,” Lara said. “I love the adjustable feature. If we get in some of the larger picture books, we can easily shift things around to accommodate them.”

  Charlie swung the storm door back and forth a few times, apparently to assure himself that it worked properly. “Anyway, I brought over that weather-stripping I promised you. It’ll only take me a minute to put it on.”

  Lara had completely forgotten about the weather-stripping. Charlie had promised to return to attach it along the bottom of the storm door. “Thanks. We’ve had a lot of disruption today, so it totally slipped my mind.”

  Charlie’s expression sobered. “Yeah, I can imagine. I heard about what happened with that health inspector. Everyone in town’s talking about it. Totally bizarre, huh?”

  “Bizarre doesn’t begin to describe it,” Lara said quietly. She really didn’t want to discuss Evonda’s murder. It was too raw, too fresh, and too close to home. Her mind was still reeling from it. “I just hope the police will find the killer soon.”

  “Ditto that,” Charlie said. He stooped down and opened the storm door again, this time running his hand along the bottom.

  “Would you like something cold to drink?” Lara asked him. “We have lemonade, and there might be a can of ginger ale.”

  “Thanks. I’ll take a tiny bit of lemonade, just enough to wet my whistle.” He held his thumb and forefinger about an inch apart.

  “You got it.”

  Lara went into the kitchen and returned a minute later with a small glass half-filled with lemonade. Charlie was sitting on the floor with his legs outstretched, the red box resting on his thigh.

  “Ah, thanks,” he said and took a few gulps. He set down the glass behind him, then opened the box and pulled out a strand of what looked like gray felt. “This stuff is great. Easy to attach, and it never cracks or dries out. It’ll help in the summer, but it really keeps the drafts out in the winter. If more people did this, their heating bills would be lower.”