Claws of Death

by Linda Reilly

  “Wait a minute,” she called out. “I just want to ask—”

  “Trista!” Brooke yelled. “Hey, Trista, wait up, okay?”

  Abruptly, the child stopped running and swiveled around. Clutching a book to her chest, she gawked at Brooke. Recognition dawning, she smiled and walked slowly toward her.

  Brooke caught up with her and slung an arm around the girl’s thin shoulders. Lara saw them both laughing as they clomped toward the house.

  “Lara, this is Trista,” Brooke said. “She’s in Darryl’s class. Trista, this is Lara.”

  Lara smiled at the little girl. Today her braids were fastened with whimsical plastic monkeys, and her green T-shirt bore a stain of what appeared to be mustard. “I’m so glad to meet you, Trista.” She pointed at the book. “What’s that you’re reading?”

  Trista’s eyes brightened. She held out her book at arm’s length. “I’m reading about chimpanzees.”

  “Chimpanzees,” Lara said in a jaunty voice. “That sounds very interesting. Trista, why did you try to get into the shelter yesterday? Were you looking for someone?”

  The child hesitated, then looked at Brooke. In a tiny voice she said, “I-I wanted to read my book to a cat. Darryl told me lots of cats live here.”

  So that’s what it was. Lara felt relieved. She smiled at the little girl. “Trista, I think that’s a wonderful idea. I know some cats who would love to hear you read about chimpanzees. The thing is, you need to let one of your folks know first, okay? That way they can call us and make sure we’re going to be home.”

  Brooke gave the girl’s braid a playful tug. “Yeah, kid. You gotta check with your mom before you do stuff like that. Remember what they taught you at school about safety?”

  Trista shrugged. “I guess so. Can I go now?”

  Lara’s heart went out to the girl. The poor kid looked worried, probably afraid she’d get in trouble. “Of course you can. Hey, listen, I have an idea. What if I call your mom later? I’ll talk to her about it, and if she agrees, we’ll set up a date for you to come over here and read your book to a cat.”

  Trista threw a hand in the air and jumped up and down. “Yay. That would be awesome!”

  “Cool!” Brooke said. Laughing, she took Trista’s free hand. “Come on, Trista Conley, I’ll walk you home. Your mom’s prob’ly wondering where you wandered off to. Can you say goodbye to Lara?”

  “Bye, Lara,” Trista said with a big smile. She waved, and Brooke ushered her toward the woods.

  “Be right back!” Brooke called to Lara. “I’m taking the kid home.”

  Lara couldn’t help marveling at Brooke. She was great with the cats, but impressive with kids as well. She had natural protective instincts.

  Wait a minute.

  Brooke called the child Trista Conley. Was she related to Evelyn Conley, the self-professed biggest fan ever of Deanna Daltry?

  Chapter 15

  Bootsie’s prospective family were the shelter’s only visitors that afternoon. Nonetheless, in Lara’s book it was a successful adoption day. She felt sure that the sweet little female was on her way to having a forever home with people who loved her.

  The shelter’s residents were dwindling—both a good and a bad thing. While she and Aunt Fran were thrilled at the success they’d had so far, Lara knew there would always be strays or abandoned cats in need of rescuing.

  Ballou’s socialization skills were improving, but he was still wary and skittish. In Lara’s view, he wasn’t ready for placement, at least not yet. Having lived his early life outside, he’d been the ideal candidate for TNR—trap, neuter, release. Until the cold, rainy day he’d found his way inside Aunt Fran’s and discovered he could have a comfy existence and still remain hidden from view. From her aunt’s description of the day Ballou had darted into the house, Lara suspected Blue had had something to do with it.

  Catalina and Bitsy were spoken for, leaving only Frankie—at least for now. The right person would come along for him, she felt certain of it. She only prayed Frankie wouldn’t have to wait too long.

  With so much to think about and her brain cells on overload, Lara went into the small parlor. The watercolor of the rear view of Deanna’s mansion was still on her easel. She set up her painting supplies and dabbled at it for a while, but found it hard to concentrate with so many images barging into her thoughts.

  Queen Anne’s Lace. The sight of the wildflowers scattered at the crime scene refused to leave her head.

  Lara set aside the watercolor and grabbed her tablet off the table where she’d left it. A quick search brought up scads of images and articles about the wildflower. She perused one of the more informative articles.

  Queen Anne’s Lace was a wildflower native to most parts of the country. Named for its lacy appearance, it was also known as wild carrot. Its tall, hairy stems bore flattened clusters of delicate white flowers, each cluster having an off-center, dark-colored floret.

  The wildflower’s name came from Queen Anne of England, an expert lace maker, who, according to legend, pricked her finger one day while making lace. The floret represented the single drop of her spilled blood.

  The article also warned that another plant, the deadly poison hemlock, was often mistaken for Queen Anne’s Lace. Similar in appearance, the hemlock’s revolting scent distinguished it from Queen Anne’s Lace, which was said to smell more like a carrot.

  While the facts about the wildflowers were interesting, they didn’t bring Lara any closer to finding the killer.

  One final fact caught her eye. Queen Anne’s Lace had a symbolic meaning—that of a haven, or sanctuary. It was sometimes thought of as a sign of protection.

  Too distracted to work on the watercolor any longer, Lara put away her art supplies. Somehow, she had to persuade Chief Whitley to let her see one of the crime scene photos. She didn’t want to see Waitt’s body again—only the flowers. Either that, or ask the chief if the flowers had been identified.

  Wouldn’t it be helpful if someone close to Whitley could make the case for getting her that tidbit of info?

  Lara smiled to herself. She knew exactly the right person for the job.

  * * * *

  Jerry Whitley slapped his hat on the kitchen table and graced Lara with a hard stare. “So, Lara, it seems you’ve already forgotten our conversation about loose lips.”

  Aunt Fran, suppressing a smile, said nothing. Instead she poured iced tea from a pitcher into the glass she’d set down in front of the chief.

  “I don’t have loose lips,” Lara insisted, stroking Munster between the ears. The orange-striped cat was sitting straight up in her lap, gazing quizzically across the table at the police chief. “I have not shared anything with anyone. I only want to find out what those flowers were. Maybe I can glean something from it. Something that will help the police. Something I will share only with the police.”

  “Maybe you can glean something,” Whitley repeated tightly. He shook his head, then gulped back a long swig of iced tea. “Lara, don’t you think the state police homicide investigators are all over it? Don’t you think—gee, here’s a thought—they might have a tiny clue what they’re doing?”

  At that, Lara felt chastised. She hadn’t meant to imply that the police weren’t capable of solving the murder. Only that she might be able to offer insights that could speed up the investigation.

  Choosing her words carefully, she said, “Chief, I don’t think that at all. It’s just that I see things from a different, well, perspective. The police are looking at everything analytically. Matching things up, figuring out what fits and what doesn’t. Trying to piece it all together to come up with a logical explanation of who, and why, and how. Am I right?”

  Whitley sighed with irritation. “It’s far more complex than that, but what’s your point?”

  “I analyze things from an artist’s viewpoint. For argument’s sake
, let’s say the police know that those flowers were Queen Anne’s Lace and not poison hemlock.” Lara watched for a reaction, but he was poker-faced. She went on. “They’d probably try to determine where those flowers came from, right? Were they picked by hand, bought from a flower shop, grown at the killer’s home—see what I’m saying?”

  “Lara, please get to the point before I’m tempted to seek out poison myself.”

  “Okay. If those flowers were Queen Anne’s Lace, I’m going to ask myself why. Why that particular flower? What does it represent to the killer?”

  The chief shot a look at Munster, who was getting antsy. Lara suspected the cat wanted to climb across the table and plop into the chief’s lap.

  “Lara, do you take us for a collection of dunces? Don’t you think we’re doing that, too?”

  She felt herself flushing. Maybe she’d pushed it too far. “I’m sorry. No offense intended. I know the police are working twenty-four/seven on the case.”

  “You have to leave it alone, Lara. You know what happened last time.”

  Lara shuddered. How could she forget?

  “What happened last time had nothing to do with my investigating the murder. It was a fluke, remember?”

  Whitley’s expression softened, and he rubbed his eyes with the fingers of one large hand. “All right, I concede that point, but only that point.” He chugged down the remainder of his iced tea. “Thanks, Fran. That hit the spot.”

  “Any time, Jerry.” Aunt Fran reached over and gave his wrist an affectionate squeeze. For some reason the gesture irritated Lara.

  “I’m going to leave now before that orange one”—he narrowed his gaze at Munster—“decides to do a lap dance on my thighs.” He snagged his hat off the table and rose.

  Lara had hoped to question him further about Deanna. Was she still under suspicion? Were the police close to making an arrest?

  The problem was, she’d already pressed her luck with the chief to the edge of the cliff—one tiny push and it would plunge into the abyss.

  “Thanks, anyway, for listening to me,” she said coolly.

  Hat in hand, Whitley paused for a moment. “Lara, look at me.”

  Annoyed at the command, Lara waited a moment before meeting his gaze.

  “Ask me again if those flowers were Queen Anne’s Lace,” he said.

  Lara’s felt her heart race. “Were those flowers Queen Anne’s Lace?”

  Whitley gave her a quick nod and slapped his hat on his head. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, ladies, duty calls. Pick you up at six, Fran?”

  Aunt Fran smiled. “I’ll be waiting.”

  “Another date with the chief?” Lara asked, after Whitley had left.

  Aunt Fran scooped the empty glass off the table and went over to rinse it in the sink. “Just dinner and a movie. Nothing earthshattering.”

  Dinner and a movie is a date, Lara felt like pointing out. She realized she was being childish. Why shouldn’t her aunt date the chief? They were two consenting adults, weren’t they? Even if one-half of the equation did have an aversion to cats.

  “You seem surprised,” Aunt Fran said quietly. “Is something troubling you, Lara?”

  “No, nothing,” she said. Except everything, she was tempted to add.

  She wondered if she should tell her aunt about seeing Kayla’s grandmother’s car earlier in the day. Their new assistant hadn’t shown up or called, so Lara assumed she planned to work on Saturday, as scheduled. No, she’d wait until tomorrow, after she’d had a chance to question Kayla privately.

  “Sorry, don’t mind me,” Lara said. “I think I’ll check to see if Bruce Willoughby emailed his application yet. The sooner we approve them, the sooner Bootsie can move in with her forever family.”

  “I’m sorry I didn’t get to meet them.” Aunt Fran looked wistful. “They sound like lovely people.”

  “They’re going to be great for Bootsie. I feel it in my bones.”

  Her aunt laughed. “And your bones are usually right. Lara, why don’t you go to bed early tonight? You’ve had a grueling week.”

  “That sounds like a plan. I’ll finish up a few things, then jump into bed by ten.” She also wanted to feel bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, as her dad would have said, for her date with Gideon on Saturday. While she might want to carry a stylish handbag, she did not care to sport bags under her eyes.

  “And don’t forget the community yard sale at the library tomorrow,” Aunt Fran reminded her.

  Lara blew out a sigh. “I’m thinking of skipping it. Kayla will be here by eleven, and I want to have a chat with her before she starts.”

  “Oh,” Aunt Fran said. She sounded concerned. “Everything okay with her?”

  “Yeah, fine. I think. I just want to ask her something. What about you? Are you going?”

  “No, I think I’ll pass on this one. I’m stocked up on books for a while, and I don’t need any more gently used tchotchkes.”

  Lara headed into her studio. She was too distracted to work on the watercolor of Deanna’s mansion. It would probably look as if a five-year-old painted it. Instead she checked the shelter’s email inbox to see if Bruce Willoughby had sent in his application.

  She was pleased to find it there, attached to a brief email. She reviewed it carefully, as she did all applications. Everything looked good—no red flags. The references he supplied were both local. If they checked out, as Lara suspected they would, Bootsie’s adoption could be put on a fast track.

  Lara picked up her cell phone. She started to call one of the reference numbers when a sheet of pink paper fluttered to the floor, landing next to her chair. She bent to retrieve it.

  Huh.

  It was the community yard sale notice she’d set on her work table. How the heck had it floated this far over? There wasn’t so much as a breeze in the room that could have sent it sailing through the air.

  A pair of blue eyes regarded her from the edge of the bookshelf. Blue blinked once, and in the next instant she was gone.

  “Why am I not surprised?” Lara whispered.

  Chapter 16

  On Saturday morning, the parking lot of the Whisker Jog Public Library was jam-packed with vendors. A section of the lot near the library’s rear entrance had been reserved for used books. Volumes no longer wanted by the library, along with full bags donated by patrons, had been set up in neat rows along portable tables. The greater portion of the lot was crammed with homemade crafts and yard sale treasures. At a kiosk in one corner, browsers could buy coffee and doughnuts. Lara was tempted to snag a glazed doughnut, but then decided not to stuff herself too early in the day. Gideon was treating her to dinner this evening, and she wanted to be hungry enough to enjoy it.

  A plump woman with bright blue eyes greeted Lara from across a table covered with knitted baby accessories. “Great turnout,” the woman said, skimming the crowd. “Got any little ones to buy for?”

  Lara smiled at her display of hand-knitted dresses and tiny blankets made from all shades of colored yarn. “These are wonderful,” she complimented the woman. “Right now, I don’t know anyone with an infant or a toddler, but I wish you luck with the sale.”

  The woman nodded and began rearranging her wares. Lara moved along, strolling among the other tables at a leisurely pace. At one table, a man with a beard and a long ponytail sold soy candles and bags of fragrant potpourri. With so many cats in the house, she and her aunt never burned candles. As for potpourri, she could already picture tiny shredded bits scattered all over the house by curious paws. She passed on to the next table, where trays of chunky-style costume jewelry had already snagged her attention.

  “Hi!” said the cheery young vendor, who in Lara’s mind looked about twelve. “Most of this stuff came from my grandma’s estate, but some of it I bought at an antique shop that was going out of business.”

  “You have some
interesting pieces,” Lara noted. A jewel-encrusted elephant brooch caught her eye. She picked it up and examined it, then noticed that the clasp in the back was broken. She set it back down. Another tray held colorful plastic brooches shaped like various flowers.

  “Those were popular in the seventies,” the young vendor said. “Kind of like the circle pins were in the sixties?” She flashed a smile displaying a row of nearly invisible braces.

  Not familiar with either of those early fashion trends, Lara chose a pink tulip from the bunch. The clasp was intact, and the brooch in perfect condition. “My aunt would love this,” she said. “How much is it?”

  “Those are all four dollars. If you buy three, I can do ten bucks total.”

  None of the others appealed to Lara. “Thanks, but the tulip alone will be fine.” She dug four dollars out of her tote and gave it to the girl, who wrapped it in a tiny square of tissue. “Hope your aunt likes it,” she said, sounding a bit disappointed.

  Lara thanked her again and moved on. She shot a look at her watch. It was nearly eleven. She wanted to get back before Kayla arrived.

  She was heading toward the sidewalk to walk back to her aunt’s when she passed by a table lined with neatly arranged cardboard boxes. The boxes contained leaflets, postcards, and wall calendars, all from earlier eras. At the end of the table, another box held the largest collection of men’s tie tacks Lara had ever seen.

  Tempted to browse, Lara gave the table a quick once-over. Then Kayla popped into her mind, and Lara remembered that she wanted to be home when the shelter assistant arrived.

  All at once, something furry brushed her ankle and she jumped a little. She looked down and caught of glimpse of cream-colored fur that vanished as quickly as it came.

  “You okay?” From behind the table, a thin woman with deeply wrinkled skin and piercing brown eyes gawked at Lara. “You looked like something scared you.”