Claws of Death

by Linda Reilly

  With another stifling day predicted, Lara changed into a lightweight jersey top and a pair of flowered shorts. She twisted her hair into a ponytail to get it off her neck. After locating her sunglasses, she grabbed her tote and hopped into the Saturn. She’d added Hesty’s address to the GPS feature on her cell phone. The estimated drive time was four minutes.

  Hesty lived on a tree-lined street of tract homes that had been built during the 1950s. While the lots were small, nearly every home boasted a yard bursting with flowers. Many residents had tiny gardens in the back.

  She turned into Hesty’s driveway and parked behind an aging Buick. She let her car idle for a minute while she scoped out the house. The lawn was neatly tended, and the grass looked freshly cut. Flower boxes in both front windows overflowed with bright pink impatiens. A rolled-up newspaper sat on the bottom step of the small front porch.

  With a sigh, Lara shut off the engine and swung her legs out of the car. A weird feeling clawed at her. Was Blue watching her from somewhere? Was that why she felt a chill creep up her arms?

  She picked up the newspaper and climbed the three steps to the porch. A wreath of faux hydrangeas hung on the front door. Lara pressed the doorbell, and heard soft chimes drift from inside.

  After another minute or so, she pushed the doorbell again. She leaned her ear close to the door. Not a single sound came from inside.

  Lara turned and glanced at the house across the street. A petite woman wearing a straw sunhat and gloves and holding a garden trowel waved at her. “You looking for Hesty?” the woman shouted.

  Lara nodded and set the newspaper on the top step, then trotted down the stairs and across the street to talk to her. “Yes. Is that his car? He hasn’t taken his paper in yet. Maybe he sleeps late.”

  The woman, her long gray hair hanging loose around her shoulders, shook her head. “Hesty never sleeps late. He’s up with the birds. Feeds the birds, in fact. The squirrels, too.” She bit her lip and frowned. “You sure you rang the bell hard enough? That doorbell can be sticky in the humid weather.”

  “I did,” Lara said. “And I heard the chimes.”

  The woman tossed her trowel on the ground and peeled off her gardening gloves. “Who’d you say you were?”

  Lara smiled at her. “I didn’t, but I’m Lara Caphart from the High Cliff Shelter for Cats.”

  “Oh, that’s right! Hesty was so excited about adopting a new friend. I was wondering when he was gonna bring that cat home. He told me all about the little sweetie.” She peered over Lara’s shoulder at Hesty’s house, her mouth curving into a frown. “You know, I don’t like this. Hesty always brings the paper in early. Likes to read it while he’s having breakfast. You stay right here, honey. I’m getting Hesty’s key.” She winked at Lara. “We keep each other’s keys. You know, for emergencies. I’m Mildred, by the way.”

  Lara waited at the edge of the yard while Mildred hustled inside her house. A minute later, Mildred returned holding a key in the air. “Let’s check it out,” she said, a determined look in her eye.

  “Thanks, Mildred. I really appreciate this.”

  Together they hurried across the street. When they reached Hesty’s front steps, Mildred edged ahead of Lara and shoved the key in the door lock. She twisted it and pushed the door open, then immediately stumbled backward. “Lor-dee! It’s hotter than the hinges of Hades in there!”

  Lara grabbed Mildred under the arms to keep her upright as a blast of hot, fetid air slammed her nostrils. “Mildred, are you okay?”

  Mildred nodded, made the sign of the cross, then shook her head. “Something’s wrong. Hesty didn’t turn his AC on this morning. The place is like an oven.”

  Lara agreed. Something about the whole scenario felt out of whack. The urge to rush inside to check on Hesty battled with her instinct to turn and flee and call 9-1-1. Her legs felt like rubber pins glued to the steps.

  “Stay here, Mildred. I’m going to check to see if Hesty’s in there.” And pray to God he’s not.

  Mildred nodded, her face the color of bleached flour. “Bless you.”

  Lara moved around the woman and crossed the threshold onto a tiled entryway. Inside what looked to be a tidy home, a sour smell hung in the air. A carpeted staircase directly in front of Lara rose to an upper level. The living room was to her left. Sounds from a television game show floated into earshot. Facing the television was a reclining chair that rested next to an end table. From where she was standing, she could make out a bald head poking over the top of the chair.

  Lara held her breath and swallowed. “Hesty?”

  She called his name again, then forced her feet to tread farther into the room. She moved around the chair until she was facing its occupant.

  Hesty sat slightly tilted in the recliner, his eyes staring dully at the floor and his jaw open. His skin had a bluish tint. “Oh, Hesty,” Lara murmured. She gulped back a lump of bile, then turned and stumbled to the front door.

  “M-Mildred,” she stuttered. “We have to call nine-one-one.”

  Mildred nodded, tears forming on her pale lashes. “He’s gone, isn’t he?” she whispered.

  “I-I think so.” Lara squeezed the elderly woman’s shoulder.

  “I knew it. Soon as I opened that door, a bad feeling skittered straight up my arms.” Mildred sucked in a shaky breath. “Let’s call the police from my house. We can’t go back in there.”

  Lara nodded, then followed the woman across the street. She felt numb. She couldn’t stop thinking about Blue, how agitated the cat had been the day Hesty had announced his intention to adopt Frankie.

  You knew he was going to die, didn’t you? Lara asked silently.

  Her face wet with tears, she trailed Mildred through a side door into a bright, cheery kitchen. Then her knees gave out and she plopped onto a chair. She dropped her head into her hands and sobbed. Mildred leaned over her and grabbed her shoulders, crying every bit as hard as Lara.

  Chapter 12

  “It’s called an MI,” Chief Whitley explained. “Myocardial infarction. A fancy name for a heart attack.”

  Aunt Fran set a cup of steaming tea in front of Lara, along with a wedge from an orange. “I thought you might like a squirt of citrus with it,” she said kindly, resting her hand on Lara’s shoulder. She looked at the chief. “So his death was from natural causes?”

  “Totally,” the chief said. “Evidently, Hesty had been keeping his ticker problems a secret from his kids and grandkids so they wouldn’t start treating him like an invalid. His doctor was aware of his condition, of course, but he was the only one.”

  “The poor man,” Aunt Fran murmured.

  “In a way, Lara, it was a good thing you got there when you did. If he’d stayed like that much longer in the heat…” Whitley swallowed. “Well, it wouldn’t have been a pretty sight.”

  “It wasn’t a pretty sight,” Lara snapped. She squeezed her eyes shut and sighed. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to bark at you. And for the record, even if I hadn’t gone over there, his neighbor Mildred would have checked on him. She knew it was strange that he hadn’t brought his paper inside before breakfast.”

  Lara saw her aunt and the chief exchange glances. She could guess what they were thinking: Second body this week.

  She squeezed a spurt of orange juice into her steaming mug. She tested a sip—still too hot to drink. “If his death was from natural causes, why did they detain me for so long?” Lara asked Whitley. “I was there for, like…three hours!”

  “I know.” Whitley spoke quietly. “It seems excessive in a case like this. But until they’re fairly certain of the cause of death, they have to be sure all their Is are dotted and their Ts are crossed. Hesty’s doctor helped put the pieces together.”

  Lara caught Aunt Fran’s stare and averted her gaze. “I feel like one of those cadaver dogs,” she said bleakly. “Everywhere I go, I find a…bo
dy.”

  Aunt Fran went over and hugged her niece. “I know it seems that way, Lara. But you’ve just had a string of bad luck, that’s all. I’m sure it won’t happen again.”

  Lara took a careful sip of her tea. She wished she could believe that.

  She gazed down at the cat curled in her lap. Frankie had become her constant companion from the moment she’d returned from Hesty’s. Lara wondered if the cat had a sixth sense that told him he’d never see Hesty again. She bent and rubbed her cheek on Frankie’s soft head.

  For once, she was happy that today wasn’t an adoption day. She could do some vacuuming and dusting, then spend a few hours on her watercolors. Maybe she’d go back to working on the painting of Deanna’s stone mansion.

  “Chief, before you go…you, um, never answered my text. About the vandalism to Deanna’s car?”

  Whitley flushed and shot a look at Aunt Fran. “Technically, the vehicle wasn’t damaged, only defaced. Unfortunately, we haven’t made much progress in locating the culprit. That man you saw looking into your car? No one else reported seeing him hanging around that day.”

  Lara sagged. “But he bought ice cream from the truck on the corner. Doesn’t the ice cream guy remember him?”

  “The ice cream vendor vaguely remembers a fellow in a Red Sox tee buying chocolate cones from him. Not exactly rare in our neck of the woods. Anyway, the vendor had no clue who he was.”

  “What about fingerprints on the money he paid with?”

  “Lara, the kid selling ice cream had been making change all afternoon. Even if he still had the money the mystery guy paid with, do you know how many other people’s prints would be on it?” Whitley sounded exasperated now.

  “I get you, Chief,” Lara said and stroked Frankie’s head.

  The chief’s cell phone pinged. He dug it out of his shirt pocket and glanced at the new text. Frowning, he tapped a few keys and stuck it back in his pocket. “Sorry, but duty calls. I gotta run.”

  Aunt Fran walked him out to his unmarked car. Lara couldn’t help wondering how far their relationship would progress. They’d known each other for decades, but only recently had they started getting so cozy with each other. Plus, the chief wasn’t exactly a cat lover. That had to be driving Aunt Fran crazy.

  Once Lara began her cleaning routine, her spirits improved. Even in the heat, the physical labor had a positive effect on her. It helped banish the dark thoughts that refused to stop trouncing through her head.

  She finished her cleaning routine by mopping the floor on the back porch—the shelter’s meet-and-greet area. She’d already used a vinegar solution to wipe down the porch windows, and they gleamed squeaky clean in the afternoon sun.

  Lara was squeezing excess water from the mop when a noise at the door caught her attention. She turned and saw the doorknob jiggling. Someone was trying to get into the locked shelter.

  She set aside the mop and went over and peeked through the door pane. A face stared back at her—a little girl of about eight or nine. The child’s dark, braided pigtails were secured with red bows, and in one hand she clutched a book. When the child realized she’d been caught trying to get in, her mouth formed a frightened O. She turned and raced across Aunt Fran’s yard, her red sneakers pounding the ground.

  Lara unlocked the door and whipped it open. “Wait! Come back!” she called out.

  The child picked up her pace. She ran until she disappeared past the big maple at the back of the yard. She was obviously familiar with the path through the wooded copse, beyond which was a subdivision of recently built homes. The girl vanished from sight so quickly Lara could no longer see her.

  “Well, that was odd,” Lara muttered to herself. She closed the door but left it unlocked.

  With all the stories in the news lately about missing and abducted children, she couldn’t help wondering if the child had been in some kind of trouble. What if she’d been seeking refuge?

  “What was odd?”

  Lara jumped and whirled around. “Oh, God, Aunt Fran, I didn’t realize you were right there. I guess I’m a little jittery.”

  “Understandable, considering everything you’ve been through,” her aunt said. “So what was odd?”

  Lara told her about the little girl who’d been trying to get in.

  “And she had a book with her?”

  “Yup. I couldn’t make out the cover, but I’m pretty sure it was a kids’ book.”

  “She probably lives at Lilac Heights. They have a wooded common area that backs up to my property line.”

  Lara recalled seeing a sign at the entrance to the subdivision when she was first reacquainting herself with the area. Lilac Heights was a neighborhood of about a dozen lookalike houses, distinguishable from one another only by their various muted colors. “Do you think she’s okay? Maybe we should ask the police to check on her.”

  “I’ll give Jerry a call, but I don’t think it’s anything to worry about.” Aunt Fran went over and squeezed Lara’s waist. “You’ve been on overload, Lara. Why don’t you work on your watercolors this afternoon?”

  “Exactly what I’d planned. But first, I have a question. Did you ever make a blueberry buckle? I want to make one for Gideon’s uncle.”

  Aunt Fran looked surprised. “I think I made one a long time ago, but it’s not one of my usual recipes. Isn’t Gideon’s uncle in assisted living now?”

  Lara smiled. “Yeah, we visited with him last night. What a sweet guy. We made a deal—a blueberry buckle for him, and a juicy homegrown tomato for me. He told us he has a little garden plot at the facility.”

  “I’m sure I can dig up a recipe,” Aunt Fran said. “So, did you and Gid have a good time last night? You and I never really had a chance to chat this morning.” There was a lilt in her voice that made Lara squirm a little.

  “Oh, sure,” she said casually, feeling her face redden. “We had fried clams at that place in Tamworth, then we stopped to see his uncle. That’s about it.”

  Lara never felt comfortable talking to her aunt about her relationship with Gideon. For starters, Gideon was the shelter’s lawyer—a connection she didn’t want to jeopardize. But the real reason, if Lara were truthful with herself, was that she was afraid to jinx the blossoming romance.

  Aunt Fran didn’t press her any further. She made a quick call to Jerry Whitley, who promised to make some quiet inquiries about the little girl without alarming anyone.

  Lara worked for the next few hours on the painting of the stone mansion. Unfortunately, the more she worked on it, the less she liked the result. She couldn’t stop thinking about the gorgeous profusion of wildflowers she’d seen at the rear of the mansion the day before when she and Kayla were there. The scene had reminded her of an English garden—something out of an Agatha Christie mystery. She wished, now, that she’d taken a picture when she’d had the chance.

  Stretching her arms toward the ceiling, Lara glanced around at the books on the painted bookshelves. Once packed with children’s books, the shelves now boasted an eclectic variety of volumes her aunt couldn’t bear to part with. Among them were books about flower gardens—Aunt Fran was a lover of tulips. Maybe there was a book with photos of wildflowers?

  Without warning, a fluffy cat leaped silently onto one of the upper shelves. Lara chuckled. She was accustomed, now, to the elusive Ragdoll appearing from out of nowhere.

  It wasn’t easy, being the only one who could see the mysterious cat. Lara knew there had to be a reason for their mystical connection. If only she had a clue what it was.

  She hated to think where she’d be right now if Blue hadn’t intervened last October when a murderer had confronted Lara. Only Lara knew what really happened that day; the police had been genuinely baffled.

  Pushing away the memory, Lara gazed lovingly at Blue. The cat stretched out on the bookshelf, and a sheet of paper fluttered to the floor. Lara went
over to retrieve it. “Oh, hey, this is that yard sale flyer,” she said to the cat. “Thanks for reminding me.” She wanted so badly to touch the cat, to stroke her cream-colored tummy, but she knew any attempt would be in vain. Instead, she went back to her chair in front of the easel.

  When she looked up again, Blue was gone.

  Lara skimmed over the pink flyer. The community yard sale, at which the library would also sell donated books, started at ten Saturday morning.

  Perfect. She loved picking through other people’s discarded trinkets and treasures. Much of it had little monetary value, but it was fun to poke around anyway. She placed the notice on the corner of her work table to remind her of the event.

  Lara grabbed her tablet and searched the internet for images of wildflowers. A massive array of photos appeared. One image reminded her of the wildflowers she’d seen behind the mansion. The colors were similar. The lupine, in all its purple glory, stood out from among the other flowers.

  On her easel, Lara set up a fresh sheet of paper, lining the edges with masking tape. If she couldn’t paint from the real thing, she’d work from a facsimile. She wanted to present the watercolor as a housewarming gift to Deanna.

  She hadn’t talked to the actress since she and Kayla had visited the day before. She’d decided to step back for a day and give Deanna a breather. She felt sure Deanna would get in touch with her if anything was amiss with Noodle and Doodle.

  Around four-thirty, Lara took a break. Her neck felt sweaty, and she needed hydration. She went into the kitchen and filled a glass with ice water. She gulped down a few swigs, set the glass on the counter, and wandered out to the front porch. Aunt Fran sat under the big maple in one of the two Adirondack chairs. A glass of lemonade rested on her chair’s wide arm, her cell phone beside it.

  “Reading anything good?” Lara said, trekking out to sit with her aunt. She plunked herself down and sat cross-legged on the grass.