by Linda Reilly
“Doesn’t sound very serious,” Lara said. “Was that the only thing?”
Sherry groaned. “Some supply boxes were sitting on the floor, waiting to be shelved. Food is supposed to be stored at least six inches off the floor, so technically, that was a violation. Like I said, it was nuts around here that day. If there was ever a perfect storm of everything going wrong at once, that was it.”
Lara shook her head. None of it made sense. “Did Johnson issue a citation or anything? What do they do when they find violations?”
“He gave us a form with a couple of check marks on it and told us to remedy the problems. He didn’t look too concerned about anything, that’s for sure. When I think back, it was so…dumb. I mean, trash bags in the kitchen? It’s not like we had ants crawling in the sugar!” She threw up her arms.
Lara shivered at that thought, but she couldn’t help wondering if there had been bad blood between Johnson and Daisy Bowker.
“Know what’s even weirder?” Sherry glanced around and then leaned forward. “Jill’s off today, so I can talk. Johnson asked Jill out on a date a few months ago. She refused, said he’s not her type. I hate to say it, but Jill likes the bad boys.”
“Huh. Isn’t that a kicker? Did she tell you about it or did you overhear him ask her out?”
“She told me about it. Jill can be a little abrupt sometimes. I got the impression she wasn’t all that tactful when she blew him off.”
Even so, it still didn’t explain the photograph. That’s the part Lara couldn’t wrap her brain around.
“Hey, I’d better go,” Lara said. “If it’s okay, I’ll pay you tomorrow for the coffee. The police took me away so fast, I didn’t have a chance to grab my tote. Can you float me?”
“Don’t worry. I know where you live.”
Lara laughed. If anyone could yank her out of the doldrums, it was Sherry. She glanced toward the tables in the dining area. “Someone’s waving at you over there. I think they want more coffee.”
“Don’t they always?” Sherry said with her usual eye roll. “Either that or my firstborn child.” She stretched her lips into a smile and held the coffeepot aloft. “Be right there!” she trilled. “Hey, don’t mention that pic to anyone, okay?”
“I won’t. No worries there,” Lara promised.
By the time Lara left the coffee shop, it was nearly noon, although it seemed as if it should be closer to four. Walking home, she couldn’t get the photo of Daisy and Trevor Johnson out of her head. Whatever was in that envelope, it was something Daisy hadn’t wanted to share—even with her own daughter.
If it wasn’t a bribe—and Lara was sure it wasn’t—then what was it?
Chapter Seventeen
“I’ve been worried about you,” Aunt Fran said anxiously, greeting her at the kitchen door with Snowball in her arms. “Is everything okay?”
Lara rubbed Snowball’s head, then dropped into a chair. She didn’t want to cause any more angst for her aunt, but she didn’t want to lie either. Besides, Aunt Fran always knew when she was sugarcoating the truth.
“In the beginning, it was pretty rough, I’ll admit,” Lara told her. “But I think the police are focusing more on Brian Downing than on anyone else. I was going to text you when I got out of there, but I realized I didn’t even have my phone with me.”
“I figured as much when I saw your tote bag in your studio.”
“I stopped at the coffee shop, too. Sorry, Aunt Fran. I didn’t mean to worry you. I was just so…bummed when I got out of there.” She gave her a brief rundown of the “interview” at the police station.
“What did they say about the cat hair?” her aunt asked.
“Inconclusive. That’s the exact word they used.”
Aunt Fran’s lips tightened. She sat down and rested Snowball in her lap. “Isn’t that interesting,” she said. “After all that nonsense about taking the samples yesterday.”
Lara suspected she was thinking about Chief Whitley’s role in collecting the cat hair. In a way, Lara felt bad for the guy. As he’d said, he was only doing his job. A warrant was a warrant. It wasn’t as if he could’ve ignored it.
“Speaking of yesterday,” Lara said, “have you heard anything from a certain chief of police?”
“I’ve gotten four texts and two voice-mail messages.” Aunt Fran lifted her chin. “I’ve responded to none.”
Whoa. Aunt Fran was seriously ticked at the chief. Lara wondered when it would blow over. If it ever did. Was this the beginning of the end for the two?
“On a different subject,” Aunt Fran said. “Kayla seemed really out of sorts to me this morning. Is she having problems at home?”
Lara shrugged. “I’m not sure. I was hoping for a chance to talk to her, but then I got blindsided by that cop showing up. I have a feeling it’s something to do with her grandmother.”
“I think so, too. I only wish I knew what it was about.”
“You know, it’s funny,” Lara went on, “Kayla’s mood was fine this morning until I noticed that our kitten rescuer, Meg Carmel, was wearing a diamond ring. I asked Meg if she was engaged, and she said she was—that she’d finally found a prince after all the frogs she’d dated.”
Aunt Fran nodded thoughtfully. “Interesting. Kayla never talks about dating or having a boyfriend, does she?”
Munster came into the kitchen and padded in Lara’s direction. He gazed up at her and licked his lips. Then he jumped onto her lap, kneaded her knees, and settled in for a nap.
Lara bent and kissed his head, then said, “You’re right. She’s never mentioned dating anyone as far as I remember. But look, I wasn’t much different at her age. I lived in a city, so I met a lot more people, but most of the time I was unattached. The few boyfriends I had—” She crossed her eyes playfully and made a face.
“That’s because the right man was here all the time, waiting for you,” Aunt Fran said with a wink. “Maybe you sensed it without even realizing it.”
“Anything’s possible, I guess.” Lara laughed.
“Oh, gracious, I almost forgot.” Aunt Fran moved Snowball to her shoulder and rose from her chair. “After we saw Jenny Cooper—Jenny Fray—in the police station the other day, for some reason I got to thinking about her. I dug through some old pictures and found one of your sixth-grade class.”
Aunt Fran left to go over to her desk in the large parlor. She returned with an eight-by-ten color photo.
Lara eagerly took it from her. In the pic, the kids had been lined up along the blackboard, taller ones in the rear and shorter ones in the front. She grimaced when she spotted her own image in the back row. “Oh, come on, did I really look like that? My hair looks like it got stuck in a wind machine.”
Aunt Fran laughed. “Your mom was always at you about your hair, but you never wanted to get it cut.”
Lara examined the photo, trying to put names to all the preteen faces. She spotted Sherry somewhere in the middle of the pack, her raven-colored hair cut in a bob and framing a smiling face. Sherry had always despised having her photo taken. When told to smile, she’d stretch her lips into a clownish grin that collapsed the moment the pic was snapped.
Running her finger along the faces, Lara searched for Jenny. She found her slumped in the front row, hands crossed in front of her, her gaze focused off to one side. The sadness in her expression made Lara’s heart wrench. Had Jenny always looked so unhappy? She couldn’t recall.
“I found Jenny. Poor kid, she looks so gloomy in this picture. Like the weight of the world was on her shoulders.”
“I noticed that, too,” her aunt said. “As I recall, her mom struggled with all sorts of issues. I suspect Jenny had a troubled childhood.”
“Did you know the family?” Lara asked. “Was there a dad?”
“There was, but he lived out-of-state. Maine, I think. And no, I didn’t know the family,
but people talked.” She raised her eyebrows.
Lara struggled to remember. Had Jenny been in her class when she entered first grade? She didn’t think so. If her memory was on target, Jenny didn’t attend school in Whisker Jog until fourth or fifth grade.
She peered at the photo again. Most of the other kids looked like strangers to Lara. She hadn’t attended high school with them, so she never saw them as they grew to young adulthood—Sherry being the exception, of course.
And Gideon.
Gideon!
She looked again at the photo. How could she have missed him? He stood straight as a pencil in the back row, a lock of dark hair falling over his forehead. His expression was pensive, as if he were already mapping out his future. Lara touched a finger to her lips, then to his face.
“You spotted Gideon,” Aunt Fran teased.
Lara felt a blush creep up her neck. “He was always adorable, wasn’t he?”
Aunt Fran patted her arm. “Can’t argue with that. Keep the picture. You can show it to him later.”
“Thanks. I’d love to have this.” She set the photo on the table.
“Would you like some lunch? I can whip up some tuna sandwiches.”
Lara pressed a hand to her stomach. “Normally that would sound good, but right now I’m going to pass. Maybe later I’ll have another apple fritter. Speaking of Fritter, I wonder how the kittens are doing. I think I’ll give Amy a call.”
She kissed Munster and set him down, then went into her studio. A phone call to Amy Glindell’s veterinary clinic confirmed that the kittens had already been treated for fleas and worms—plus, they’d had their first vaccinations. Development wise, the tiniest one, Fritter, was a bit behind the others. The vet wanted to keep a close eye on her for at least another twenty-four hours.
In her studio—her favorite room in the house—Lara set up her watercolors and sketch pencils. She wanted to spend some time toying with ideas for Sherry’s wedding invitations.
The Renoir painting Dance in the Country evoked the feelings Lara wanted to express. In Renoir’s painting, the man had dark hair, while the woman was a redhead. With Sherry and David, it was the opposite—Sherry’s hair was raven black, while David’s hair and neatly trimmed beard were a light shade of ginger.
Lara didn’t intend to copy the painting, only to extract ideas from it. She guessed that Sherry would choose a simple gown, maybe ivory or even pale blue. Her friend certainly wouldn’t be holding a fan in her right hand, but her nails would be gorgeously manicured. Renoir depicted his lady sporting a golden glove on her left hand. That would never do for Sherry. Maybe a cluster of dahlias instead?
After noodling around with sketches for a solid two hours, Lara stretched her arms and yawned. The room was overly warm, and her hair was sticking to her neck. She put everything away and went into the kitchen. Her stomach grumbled, a sure sign she’d skipped lunch.
Aunt Fran was outside, sitting in her favorite Adirondack chair with a book. They’d agreed that supper would be a bit later than usual, maybe around six thirty, so Lara snagged an apple fritter out of the pink bakery box. The sugary glaze and tender apple filling practically melted in her mouth.
The next day, Friday, was an adoption day—but it was also the day she and Aunt Fran planned to attend Evonda’s memorial service. Mentally, Lara wanted to be prepared. Did Evonda have friends who would attend? Or had the woman’s caustic personality been a turnoff to everyone she ever encountered?
Tim Fray would be there, naturally, as would Jenny. She toyed with the idea of bringing along the class picture to show Jenny, then immediately nixed the idea. Some people didn’t like to be reminded of their childhood days. Lara didn’t want to risk embarrassing her.
She fed the cats a snack and replenished their water, then called Gideon.
“Hey, stranger,” he said sweetly. “I’ve missed you. Busy day?”
She told him everything, including the details of her so-called interview at the police station and her rescue mission with Kayla.
“Lara, if the police ever do that again, I want you to call me right away. I’m not a criminal lawyer, but I do know the basics. I wouldn’t have let the interview get that far.”
“I know, but I thought of that too late. By the time I told them I wanted to call my attorney, they told me I was free to go. I still think they’re trying to nail Brian for the murder.”
“I hate to say it, honey, but they might be right about Brian. I like the guy, too, but he seriously hated Evonda. He could easily have picked up a cat hair or two from Pearl or Snowball when you gave him a tour of the house.”
“I know. I thought that, too.”
“How’s Smuggles? He’s still there, right?”
“He is,” Lara said, smiling at the thought of the chubby gray tiger kitty. “He sleeps most of the time, but he seems comfy with his surroundings. Pearl snitched one of his toys, but he didn’t seem to care. He flicked his tail and blinked at her, like he was saying ‘go ahead, take it.’”
Gideon chuckled. “Cute. Listen, we haven’t been to our favorite clam shack in a while. You up for a date tomorrow night? We can stuff our faces with fried claims and onions rings and have a beer while we’re at it.”
“That, Mr. Halley, is the best offer I’ve had all week. You’re on. Pick me up at six?”
“You got it.”
Chapter Eighteen
A light rain carried by a mild wind swept in on Friday morning.
Despite the dreary skies hovering overhead, Lara was grateful for the cooler temps. The blazing heat of earlier in the week had become close to unbearable.
After agonizing over what constituted proper funeral attire, she dug her navy pantsuit and a white blouse out of her closet. After a quick scan, she deemed the outfit acceptable. It was somber enough, simple, and sedate. Instead of her usual tote, she carried the navy clutch she’d bought on consignment eons ago. She stuffed her phone inside, along with a few other essentials.
The parking lot of the funeral home was more crowded than Lara expected. She couldn’t help wondering if some of the cars belonged to cops posing as mourners. Did most killers really attend their victims’ funerals? Or was that only a myth perpetuated by television crime shows?
Parked in front of the one-story white building was a shiny black hearse. People trickled inside—mostly women, Lara noticed. Her arm looped through Aunt Fran’s, she climbed the wide granite steps that led into the outer lobby. From there, they entered the foyer, where plush green carpeting softened their treads. White marble tables stood along the wall in several places, interspersed with velvet-covered chairs. On each table was a large vase filled with white lilies.
A thin, fortysomething man clad completely in black nodded as they entered. “Are you here for the Fray service?” he asked in a muted tone.
“We are,” Aunt Fran said.
Another nod. “First parlor on the left,” he directed with an outstretched arm. “On your way in, please sign the guest book for the family.”
A sudden shiver ran along Lara’s arms. In her entire life, she’d only been to two funerals. Would the casket be open? Would she be forced to look at Evonda’s face, frozen in death?
They both signed the guest book and went into the parlor. A classical piece drifted softly from discreet overhead speakers. Facing the coffin were several rows of chairs. The casket, made from highly polished wood that looked like ebony, sat on a high platform. Lara was grateful for the closed coffin. Finding no place to kneel for a quick prayer, she murmured a silent one, then moved along to greet the family.
Tim and Jenny Fray sat at the far side of the coffin, their fingers linked, their heads bowed. It was pretty much the way they’d looked the day Lara had seen them at the police station. Jenny wore a plain black dress and ballerina flats, her only jewelry the diamond wedding band that encircled her left ring finger.
“Tim, Jenny, I am deeply sorry for your loss,” Aunt Fran said quietly. She held out her hand, but only Tim acknowledged it. He gave her fingers a quick squeeze, then removed his glasses and blotted his eyes. He stuck his glasses back on his face.
“Thank you for coming,” he said.
Jenny nodded, her expression passive. Was she mourning? Or was she grateful that the mother-in-law who detested her was finally out of her life?
Stop it, Lara scolded herself. She had no right to judge Jenny. Even if she had been a former classmate, Lara barely knew the woman.
It was Lara’s turn to offer condolences. “I’m truly sorry about your mom,” she said to Tim, looking at both him and his wife.
Jenny nodded, tight-lipped. Her eyes looked puffy, which surprised Lara. “Thank you” was all she said.
Again, Lara shivered. The parlor was cool—almost freezing. Rubbing her arms, Lara followed her aunt past rows of chairs. They chose seats near the back.
Mourners began to file in, and again Lara noticed that they were mostly women. Three women arrived together. They sported similar black hats from which shiny, raven-colored feathers protruded.
A murder of crows, Lara thought with a shudder.
The women huddled around Tim for a few moments, then took seats in the front row, as if they knew those spots had been reserved for them.
It was almost ten, time for the service to begin, when a fresh face caught Lara’s eye.
Chief Whitley.
Looking solemn in a dark suit and tie, he walked in and leveled his gaze immediately on Aunt Fran. He frowned when she didn’t acknowledge him. The chief took a seat at one end, a few rows from the front. Once again, Lara felt for the guy. Aunt Fran was really giving him the icy shoulder.
Lara glanced around. Something about the room bothered her. Something was missing. What was it? She couldn’t quite put a name to it.
