Claws of Action

by Linda Reilly

  A state police investigator—the same one who’d interviewed her on Tuesday—stood stiffly on the doorstep.

  “Miss Caphart, I’m sorry to trouble you.” His clipped tone told her he wasn’t sorry at all. “We’re going to need you to come down to the station for a few more questions. If you need a minute to get ready, that’s fine. We’ll go in my car.”

  Lara peered into the driveway. An unmarked state police car idled behind the Saturn. “But…why?” Lara swallowed. “Can’t you ask the questions here?”

  “It’s just a formality,” he said. “We’ll see that you get a ride home.”

  Aunt Fran moved up beside her. “What’s going on?”

  “It’s nothing.” She didn’t want her aunt to stress over it, even though she herself was scared witless. “The police just want to ask me a few more questions. I’ll be back soon. Nothing to worry about.”

  Aunt Fran looked stricken. “Should I call Gideon?” she asked under her breath.

  “Not yet. I can call from there if I need to.” She gave her aunt a fast hug and, over her shoulder, caught a glimpse of Kayla.

  Still clutching Snowball, Kayla stared at her, openmouthed.

  “It’ll be okay, Kayla,” Lara said, sensing her distress. “I’ll be back before you know it.”

  Kayla nodded. Then she hugged Snowball even harder and ran back into the kitchen.

  Chapter Fifteen

  For the umpteenth time, Lara looked at the photo. She’d been grinding her teeth for so long, it was a wonder she hadn’t worn them to nubs.

  Once again, she examined the enlarged pic of a length of plastic strapping. This time, it blurred and wiggled in her vision. What was she supposed to see? An image of the murderer?

  Lara pushed the photo aside. “As I already explained, Lieutenant, it looks like the kind of clear plastic strap used for shipping. Other than that, I have no way of identifying that particular plastic strap. It’s not as if our shelter does any shipping. And unless I’m mistaken, this type of strap looks like it needs to be put on by machine, not by hand.”

  State Police Lieutenant Conrad Cutler, thin and fit and ridiculously handsome, ran a hand over his military brush cut. He wasn’t the same man who’d driven her to the station. They’d pulled a “switcheroo” on her and changed interrogators.

  Cutler nodded sagely. “I understand that. But your shelter does receive packages on a regular basis. Isn’t that what you said earlier? Or did I misunderstand?” He pretended to flip through a dog-eared notebook until he found the correct page.

  Lara closed her eyes and pulled in a calming breath. “Yes, pet supplies and litter. Once a week on average. In a multicat household, we go through a lot of cat litter.”

  But something poked at her brain. Something she’d heard in passing. What was it?

  “Let’s talk about cat hair,” he said. “Would it surprise you to know that the hair sample taken from your shelter’s gray cat matched the ones found in the back seat of the victim’s car?”

  An intentionally tricky question. He wasn’t confirming that it was a match—only asking if it would surprise her.

  “In fact, Lieutenant,” Lara said evenly, “it would surprise me. I have to add, though, that while Evonda made it clear to us that she was not a fan of cats, she could have picked up a stray cat hair on her shoe, or even on her clothing, when she was inspecting our shelter. In a home with cats, the hair is pretty much everywhere. Since neither my aunt nor I have ever been in Mrs. Fray’s car, that would be the only way I could imagine hair from one of our cats being found there.”

  He fixed her with a look. “That was a neat little speech, Ms. Caphart. Did you practice it?”

  Her voice rose, and she speared him with a glare. “Why would I practice it? I had no idea you were going to bring me in for questioning. Besides, why would I need to rehearse the truth?”

  His eyes narrowed, and his thin lips quirked. He reached for the manila envelope he’d set on the edge of the table and pulled out another photo. “This is another picture of the plastic strap, Ms. Caphart. Which, by the way, is called Polypropylene, not plastic.” He dropped it on the table in front of her.

  Lara gasped, and her stomach revolted. She covered her mouth with her hands. “Oh, my good glory, is that…?” She swallowed back the lump of bile she felt rising in her throat.

  Hoo boy, lemme tell ya, when I saw that plastic band wrapped around that lady’s neck, why my liver about dropped…

  That’s it. That’s what she’d been trying to remember! Roy Tierney had said that to his gaggle of groupies when he was leaving the coffee shop.

  The photo was a close-up of a plastic—Polypropylene, apparently—band secured tightly around the neck of someone who, if Lara had to guess, was Evonda Fray. A purple bruise, ugly and swollen, ringed her neck beneath the path of the band.

  After a long pause, during which her interrogator studied her face, Lara pushed the photo away. “If you were trying to get a reaction from me, you’ve succeeded. So now, why don’t you enlighten me? Why are you showing me this?”

  He sauntered around the table, hands on his slim hips, as if sizing her up for some orange finery.

  I should have called Gideon first, Lara chided herself. Why, why, why, wasn’t I thinking?

  “Ms. Caphart”—he played with the pages of his notebook again—“did you recently accept delivery of a custom-made door?”

  Lara’s pulse pounded. Why would he ask about the door? “Yes. I ordered a storm door for the shelter’s new addition.” That nagging voice poked at her again.

  “Did it arrive in a cardboard box? A large cardboard box?”

  “Um, well, yes, it did. It was also packed in bubble wrap to protect it. Why would you ask about our door?”

  “Was the box secured with anything else? Maybe some Polypropylene straps like the one in the photo?” He jabbed a finger at the gruesome picture of Evonda, pushing it closer to Lara.

  Lara shivered. He was taunting her with the hideous photo. If she’d been nervous before, she was terrified now.

  She thought back to the day the box was delivered. Yes, she did recall seeing some of those bands wrapped around it. Even though she’d been anxious to look at the custom door, the box was so unwieldy that she’d left it for Charlie Backstrom to open. She didn’t want to risk damaging the door by dumping it out of the box.

  “I…what was the question again?” She was getting more rattled with each one.

  “Was the box containing the door secured with Polypropylene straps?”

  “To the best of my memory, yes,” Lara said. “Two, maybe three bands. It wasn’t something I paid a lot of attention to.”

  Lara took a long sip from the bottle of water they’d given her, then instantly regretted it. To the police, gulping back water was probably a sign of guilt.

  On the wall opposite Lara was a length of mirror, six or seven feet long. She’d seen enough crime shows to know that it was probably two-way glass. I see you, but you can’t see me! Was another investigator on the other side, studying her? Documenting every nuance of her body language?

  “Who opened the box, Ms. Caphart?” Cutler said.

  An easy question. “My contractor did. His name is Charles Backstrom. But I suspect you already know that.”

  His smug look said it all. “How did your contractor remove the bands, Ms. Caphart?”

  Lara shrugged. “I honestly wasn’t paying attention. I think he had a box cutter, but I’m not sure.”

  “So, after your contractor removed the bands, where did he put them?”

  “Again,” she said, “I wasn’t paying attention. He probably stuffed them inside the box. That’s what I would’ve done. As I said, I was anxious to see the custom-made door, so I wasn’t—”

  “Can you tell me, Ms. Caphart, where that box is now?”

 
The box was huge. Charlie had propped it against the house outside. He’d promised to come back Tuesday to dispose of it, but—

  Brian.

  Brian had offered to take the box to the recycling station. He was headed there to look for packing boxes for moving.

  But the police had already questioned Brian. More than once, in fact. Had he told them about the box?

  “You look befuddled, Ms. Caphart. Should I rephrase?”

  Lara felt like kicking him in the butt and watching him sail across the room. “I’m not befuddled, Lieutenant. As far as I know, the box is at the recycling station. If I’d known in advance about this pop quiz, I’d have studied the box a little harder.”

  Cutler loomed over her, his lips pressed into a grim line. “Apparently, you think this is a joke, Ms. Caphart. I assure you, it is not.”

  “I don’t think it’s a joke at all,” Lara said, and lowered her voice. “There’s nothing funny about murder.”

  Cutler’s eyes glittered, and his mouth curved into a taunting smile. “Yes, I’d almost forgotten. You’re quite familiar with murder, aren’t you? Is it a hobby of yours?”

  It took every ounce of restraint Lara had not to fly out of her chair. “I’m sure you think that’s amusing, Lieutenant, but I don’t. Any contact I’ve had with killers was not pleasant, and it was not by choice.”

  “So I’ve heard.”

  This is bad, Lara realized. Very, very bad.

  “Ms. Caphart, how did the box in which the door was delivered get to the recycling station?”

  She tried not to squirm in her chair, which was about as comfortable as a slab of concrete. “We had a visitor to the shelter that day. He was on his way there anyway, so he offered to take the box for us.”

  “Ah. How convenient for you. Did this visitor have a name?”

  Lara’s insides twisted. “Brian. Brian Downing.”

  “Brian Downing. And did Mr. Downing happen to tour the shelter? Maybe play with a few of the cats?”

  Like a flash of lightning, Lara suddenly got it.

  That was what this was all about—why they’d brought her here. They were trying to pin the murder on Brian Downing. And they wanted to use her as the pin.

  “He—Yes. We agreed to keep his cat while he looked for a new apartment, so I showed him around. It was a very brief visit. Only a few minutes.” Or more.

  “Thank you, Ms. Caphart.”

  Trying to keep her voice from quavering, Lara said, “Lieutenant, before I answer any more questions, I will need to call my attorney.”

  “No need for an attorney, Ms. Caphart. You’ve been very helpful and very cooperative. You may leave now. We’ll see that you get a ride home.” He opened the door and made a sweeping gesture with his arm.

  Lara rose off her chair and fixed him with a look. “You never told me, Lieutenant. Did the hair samples from our cats match the ones at the crime scene?”

  “Right now, they’re inconclusive. That’ll be all, Ms. Caphart. I’ll let someone at the front desk know you need a ride.”

  Lara pushed past him. “Thanks anyway, but I’ll walk.”

  The lobby of the police station was chilly, air-conditioned to the nth degree. Lara rubbed her arms to ward off a shiver, then stepped outside into the glaring sunshine.

  The first thing she wanted to do was text her aunt, to let her know she was okay. Then it struck her—she didn’t even have her cell with her. She was ushered off to the police station so quickly, she didn’t have a chance to grab her tote.

  A bright yellow bus chugged by on the main drag, spewing gray exhaust. Emblazoned along its side was the name of a local summer camp. Kids’ heads bobbed in the windows.

  Ironic, Lara thought, because I’ve just thrown Brian Downing under the bus.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Bowker’s Coffee Stop was only a block from the police station. Lara made it there in record time. Feeling beads of sweat populating her forehead, she pushed open the door and stormed inside.

  “Oh my God, you look like a bear chased you in here.” Sherry plunked down a mug of coffee in front of her. “You want a muffin? Cranberry walnut today, if there’s any left.”

  Lara slid onto her usual stool, then shook her head. “No, thanks. I already had half an apple fritter.” She told Sherry about her trip to the purple bakery to rescue a batch of kittens.

  “Aw, they must be so cute. I can’t wait to see them. One of these days…” She shrugged and smiled.

  “Any plans to make an announcement yet?” Lara said in a loud whisper.

  “Yeah, like no one can hear you, Lara. As to your question, no. Not yet. Maybe on Saturday, after the—” Her face reddened. “Oh shoot, never mind.”

  “You were going to say after the open house, weren’t you?” Lara absently stirred her coffee.

  “I’m sorry. I totally forgot you postponed it.” Sherry studied Lara’s face. “You look really bummed today. I wondered why you didn’t come in this morning. Did something else happen?”

  Lara related the highlights of her trip to the police station.

  “Oh, ugh. That’s awful,” Sherry said. “So, you think the cops are zeroing in on Brian Downing?”

  “I think they want desperately to nail him for Evonda’s…death,” Lara said. “Either that or they think I killed her. That’s always a possibility.”

  “If they question you again, be careful what you say, okay?” Sherry’s forehead creased with worry. “They might’ve been trying to put you off guard by letting you think they’re after Brian and not you. I saw that on a TV show once.”

  “I know, Sher, but this isn’t TV. As for Brian being the bad guy, I’m just not seeing it. I know I’m biased because he’s a cat lover, but I honestly can’t picture him as the killer.”

  Sherry spoke quietly. “But we’ve been fooled in the past, Lara. Remember—”

  “I know. Don’t even go there.”

  The first killer Lara had encountered after her return to Whisker Jog had been a total shock—one that rocked the entire town. Lara had tried to erase it from her memory, but all too often it sneaked back in and haunted her dreams.

  It was Sherry’s turn to look troubled.

  “Something’s bothering you, too,” Lara said. “Come on, Sher. Spill it. Don’t make me bring out the hot lights.”

  Sherry looked all around the coffee shop, then reached underneath the counter. She slid a white envelope over to Lara. “Hold it in your lap. Don’t let anyone see it.”

  Lara humored her friend. “It can’t be that bad.”

  “Oh yeah?” Sherry’s eyes dimmed.

  Resting the unsealed envelope on her knees, Lara opened the flap and pulled out a color photo. Two figures—a man and a woman—stood before a building, adjacent to a blue dumpster. The woman was middle-aged and blond, the man short and somewhat stout. Lara’s breath caught in her throat.

  Oh…no. It can’t be.

  But it was.

  The duo in the photo were Daisy Bowker and Trevor Johnson.

  Lara tried to peer more closely at the pic, but Sherry pushed her hand down. “Don’t let anyone see!”

  In the pic, Daisy appeared to be handing Johnson an envelope. The photo, though taken from quite a distance, was very clear. Lara suspected the photographer had used a telescopic lens.

  Evonda had once owned a photography business. Put two and two together…

  Lara suddenly remembered what Gideon had said to her and Aunt Fran. His buddy, a fellow lawyer, had told him that Trevor Johnson had been caught accepting a bribe from a local restaurant.

  Fray claimed she caught them near the dumpster behind the restaurant, and that she saw an envelope change hands…

  Lara swallowed hard. She refused to believe it. Despite the glaring evidence, there was no way Daisy would bribe, or even attempt to b
ribe, the health inspector. Why would she?

  “Sher, where did you get this?” Lara asked quietly, returning the envelope to her friend.

  “I found it under my windshield wiper when I went out back to take a bag of trash to the dumpster.”

  “When? Recently?”

  Looking distinctly uncomfortable, Sherry shrugged. “No, I–I don’t know. It was like, some time back in June, I think.”

  “Does your mom know?”

  “I had to show her.” Sherry winced. “I mean, I couldn’t not tell her about it, right?” She topped off Lara’s mug.

  “Right.” Lara absently took a sip of coffee. “Um, so…what did she say when you showed her the picture?”

  “She smiled—actually smiled—and said it wasn’t what it looked like. I pressed her on it, but she basically told me to leave it alone. And when Mom gets that tone…” Sherry made a slicing motion across her throat.

  Oh boy.

  “The day you found the envelope under your windshield wiper, was it right after Johnson inspected the coffee shop?”

  “It’s hard to remember, but I think it was. Maybe a day or two later. Honest to God, I wasn’t keeping track.”

  Lara couldn’t believe Bowker’s Coffee Stop had violated any health codes. Even if they had, it had to be something minor. The coffee shop was always spotless. Lara had seen the kitchen. It was clean enough for someone to eat off the countertop.

  “Did Johnson find anything bad when he inspected? Like…I don’t know. I’m not even sure what health inspectors look for.”

  “There was one thing. A stupid thing. Trash bags are supposed to be taken out as soon as they’re filled. And normally, that’s not a problem. We’re always running trash out to the dumpster. But wouldn’t you know, the day Johnson showed up, Jill was running late, and then a van from some retirement home showed up with about a hundred old people all wanting to order lunch at the same time. It was crazy, you know?”

  “I think I remember you telling me about it.”

  “Yeah, well, we were so busy, we didn’t have time to take the trash bags out to the dumpster. There were three bags, chock full of trash, sitting open in the kitchen. That’s a major no-no. I swear, it was a fluke, but…” She raised her shoulders in a shrug.