Claws of Death

by Linda Reilly

  Lara felt her own heart hurt for him.

  He reached out with a gnarled hand and touched hers. “But you, you’ve added a beam of light to my world. Don’t know if you and Gideon are serious about each other, but I sure hope you are. That way you’ll stay in my life, too—for as long as I got left, anyways.”

  Lara touched a finger to her eye. “That’s one of the nicest things anyone’s ever said to me, Uncle. And no matter what happens, you’ll always be in my life. You’re my friend.”

  “Good! And now I’ll have another slab of that buckle, if you’re inclined to cut one for me.”

  Lara grinned, set down her paper cup, and gave him another huge helping. While he ate, she tucked the foil over the rest of the buckle and then slid the pan into his mini-fridge. He could enjoy what was left at his leisure.

  “Uncle, I hope I’m not bothering you,” Lara said, “but I have one more question.”

  “Fire away,” he said, wiping crumbs off his fingers.

  “Did you ever hear of the Wild Carrot Society?”

  His eyes popped wide open. “Wild Carrot Society. My God, I haven’t heard anyone mention that in an elephant’s age.”

  “You have heard of it?” Lara wanted to pump her fist.

  He nodded slowly. “Well, yeah, but there’s not really much to know. There was this fella—Will something-or-other—got it started back in the sixties. Problem was, he didn’t have a good way to reach enough people to get ’em signed up. It was all word of mouth, and kind of secretive at that. It wasn’t like today, what with the Web, and all that online social malarkey you kids go for.”

  Lara smiled to herself. As sweet as Uncle Amico was, in some ways he was a relic.

  “Do you know why the group broke up?” she asked.

  “Sure I do. In fact, I was about to join those fellas myself when the guy who started the whole thing died. After that, no one wanted to pick up the ball where he’d dropped it. His death seemed like a bad omen, if you get my drift.” He snapped two knobby fingers together. “Tardiff, that was the name. That’s the fella who started it.”

  Wilbur Tardiff. The man who’d penned the leaflet.

  It had to be him.

  Uncle Amico leaned his head back and nodded, his eyes beginning to close.

  Lara desperately wanted to learn more, but she couldn’t press the man any further. He was getting tired. She vowed to make him more blueberry buckles, as well as other baked goodies.

  Last evening with Gideon—which had stretched into the wee hours—had been, well, magical. The memory made her blush and smile at the same time. If things progressed further with Gid, and she hoped they would, she’d be seeing a lot more of this gentle old man.

  “Jimmy Rousseau!” Uncle Amico’s eyes bolted open. “I just remembered where I saw his daughter. She works at that big nursery in Tamworth.”

  Lara’s heartbeat sped up. “A nursery for kids?”

  “No, not kids—flowers.” Uncle Amico dipped his chin toward Lara’s cell phone, which she’d left resting beside her on the sofa. “I bet if you Google it on that phone of yours, it’ll give you directions right to the place.” He winked at her.

  Lara chuckled. He wasn’t as technologically challenged as he pretended.

  She left him with a kiss on the cheek and a promise to return soon.

  “Next time you visit I’ll have that tomato for you,” Uncle Amico promised. “Gotta give it time to ripen first.”

  “I’ll hold you to that.”

  The moment Lara climbed into the Saturn, she turned on the engine and cranked the AC. She Googled the nursery, and found the link within seconds. She wouldn’t even need GPS to find it, for it was on one of the main routes in Tamworth.

  * * * *

  The entrance to Blossoms was a rocky driveway that led to a wide patch of dirt set aside for parking. At least a dozen cars were parked in front of the main building—a red, barnlike structure that seemed to stretch the length of a ball field.

  Lara got out of the Saturn and slammed the door shut. Everywhere she looked she saw bursts of pink, yellow, and purple. Seasonal flowers—pansies, geraniums, impatiens, and some early chrysanthemums—rested in plastic pots atop a sea of wooden pallets.

  A twentyish man sporting multiple earrings and wearing a canvas apron lugged a hose between two rows of pallets. One by one he watered each plant, his head bobbing to a tune only he could hear. He didn’t appear to notice Lara, so she cleared her throat and loudly said, “Excuse me.”

  He turned and looked at her. “What can I help you with?” he said in a lackluster tone.

  She hadn’t really thought about what she was going to say, so she plunged ahead. “I’m trying to find Jimmy Rousseau’s daughter. Someone told me she works here.”

  The boy looked at her as if she’d suddenly sprouted warts. “You happen to know her name?”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t.” Lara felt like a dolt. She should have asked Uncle Amico if he remembered it. Or at least gotten her surname.

  The young man aimed a thumb at the building. “Go talk to Ant’ney. He should be inside.” Without another word, he went back to his watering.

  “Thank you,” Lara said.

  She headed inside the building, which housed even more plants. Along the entire back wall were refrigerated cases that held cut flowers in tall glass vases. Lara felt her pulse spike. Was there any Queen Anne’s Lace here? She gave the cases a quick scan, but didn’t see any.

  Lara then spied a man with curly gray hair and a doughy face arguing with a customer over the price of a geranium plant. The man wore the same style canvas apron the boy outside had worn. She moved closer and peered at his name tag. “Anthony,” it read.

  She waited.

  The customer finally persuaded Anthony to give him a discount over a broken stem, then stalked off toward the checkout counter. Lara moved in quickly before Anthony could get away. “Excuse me”—she stepped in front of him—“but someone told me Jimmy Rousseau’s daughter works here.”

  Anthony’s jaw dropped, and he gawked at her. “Who wants to know?”

  “Well, actually, I do,” she said. She held out her hand. “I’m Lara Caphart from the High Cliff Shelter for Cats in—”

  “She don’t want a cat, I can tell you that much.” Ignoring her outstretched hand, Anthony sidled around her and went over to a row of impatiens. He fiddled with the plants, deadheading a few and collecting the shriveled flowers in his hands.

  “That’s not why I’m here,” Lara said. She summoned every ounce of patience she could muster. “I just want to ask her if she remembers something about her dad. Something from the past. I’m…doing research for an article I’m writing.” She cringed inwardly at the lie. Desperate times, she told herself.

  Anthony narrowed his eyes at her, suspicion tightening his jaw. “What is it you want to know?”

  Should she tell this ogre what she was looking for?

  “Nothing you’d be familiar with,” she said, then instantly realized her mistake. Now he really wouldn’t help her.

  “Write your name on a piece of paper,” Anthony grunted. “If she wants to call you she will. If she don’t…” He shrugged and went back to his deadheading.

  Lara was glad she’d made up business cards for the shelter on her aunt’s printer. She started to whip one out of her tote when she caught herself. The cards had their address on them—exactly what she didn’t want Rousseau’s daughter, or anyone in this nursery, to know. She regretted, now, that she’d mentioned the shelter. She hoped Anthony wouldn’t remember it.

  Digging deep, she found a small pad in her tote and tore off a page. She wrote her cell number on it, along with her name. “Here’s my cell number,” she said, giving him the slip of paper. “I’d be grateful if she’d give me a call.”

  Anthony looked at the paper, then shov
ed it into his shirt pocket.

  “Thank you, Anthony. Can you tell me her name?”

  The way he glowered at Lara, someone would have thought she’d asked for the woman’s social security number and weight. “Claudia,” he finally replied. Then he turned his back on Lara and strode away into a rear storage room.

  Pleasant fellow, Lara thought to herself.

  Lara decided it was a perfect time to peruse the refrigerated flowers. She started at one end, her gaze traveling over all the vases until she reached the wall at the other end.

  No Queen Anne’s Lace.

  Disappointed, she hustled out to the car and back to her aunt’s.

  She hadn’t been in the house for one minute when her cell phone pinged.

  Chapter 21

  Lara’s insides dropped. The text was from Gideon.

  Can’t do bike ride today. Buried in work.

  That was it. No niceties, no smiley face. No promise to call later.

  Lara choked back tears. They’d talked about so many wonderful things last night. By the time he’d driven her home, it was well after two. She’d been certain Gideon’s feelings for her were both deep and heartfelt. Had she read him completely wrong?

  She shoved the phone into the pocket of her capris and went upstairs. Her aunt’s door was partway open. Aunt Fran was propped up in bed by two fluffy pillows, with two even fluffier felines tucked on either side of her. Dolce and Frankie looked so adorable that Lara had to smile. “You two monkeys,” she said. “Are you taking good care of Aunt Fran?”

  “They’ve been sticking to me like glue,” her aunt said with a chuckle. “Cats always know when their humans are sick, don’t they?”

  What if their human is heartsick? Lara wondered. “Are you feeling any better?” she asked her aunt.

  “A little bit. I’ve been trying to read, but I keep dozing off.”

  “Want some juice? Tea?”

  “No, I’m fine. I went downstairs a little while ago and made myself another cup of tea. I’m ready for a nap.”

  Lara left her aunt resting and went back downstairs. Her tablet was in her studio. She retrieved it and carried it into the kitchen. Images of a boy with a damaged eye slithered through her mind.

  Jimmy Rousseau. She plunked his name into Google’s search pane, using the French spelling of the surname. She knew it could also be spelled R-U-S-S-O, but with a huge portion of New Hampshire’s population being of French Canadian heritage, she took a shot at the first spelling. She added the words “Whisker Jog” to narrow the results.

  He hadn’t been hard to find. A master carpenter, Rousseau had apparently worked until his death a few years earlier. Lara studied his image. Sandy hair, sharp cheekbones, one eye dipping slightly lower than the other. The result of aging, or something else?

  From the accolades people had left in the comments section of his obituary, his carpentry business had thrived.

  There was no mention of children, although Uncle Amico had mentioned a son who’d moved to Arizona. As for Claudia—whatever her surname was—Lara didn’t hold out any high hopes of hearing from her.

  Her cell phone rang. It was Sherry. Her bestie usually texted before she called. Something must be up.

  “You didn’t stop in today,” Sherry said, sounding a bit annoyed.

  “Sher, I’m sorry,” Lara said. “Aunt Fran’s got a cold, and things kind of spiraled out of control this morning.” She told her about Trista coming over to read to Munster, and also about the buckle she’d baked for Gideon’s uncle.

  “Okay, I’ll let it go this time. Sooo…how was last night?”

  Lara eyed the orange-striped cat strolling in her direction. She patted her lap and Munster hopped aboard. “It was fun,” she said evenly. “We had a great meal.”

  “Nothing else to report?”

  “I’m afraid not,” Lara said. She nuzzled Munster’s nose, and he revved up his purr.

  “I wish I could see your face right now,” Sherry said. “That would tell me everything.”

  You don’t hide your feelings. You wear them like a badge.

  “I know a certain tea lady who would agree with you,” Lara said.

  “Tea lady? What the heck are you talking about?” Sherry said, a sudden hitch in her voice.

  Lara’s mental antennae went straight up. “Sherry, is something wrong?”

  “No,” her friend said quickly. “It’s just—look, I didn’t want to tell you this before, but…well, I kinda met someone.”

  “What? When?”

  “He came in to the coffee shop a few weeks ago.” She spoke quietly. “He…kind of travels on business.”

  Light dawned. Lara now knew why Sherry’s normally spiky coiffure had grown softer over the past week.

  “I can’t talk now. Mom’s close by.” She groaned into the phone. “It’s really hard, Lara. I had to tell him I still live with my mother. It was so mortifying.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with sharing living space with your mom, Sherry. I live with Aunt Fran.”

  “I know, but that’s different. You guys run a shelter.”

  “Sherry,” Lara said. “It sounds like we both need to talk. Today’s been really weird for me.”

  “Yeah, tell me about it. Tonight’s out, though. Mom invited that old battleax aunt of hers—Aunt Phyllis—to eat wings with us and then play cards. Aunt Phyl’s bringing her famous pineapple upside-down cake. It’s famous for how awful it is. She’s the most horrid woman. Her critique of me will start the second she walks in and continue until she’s out the door.”

  “Bummer,” Lara said. She remembered Sherry’s past descriptions of her super critical great aunt. “But don’t let her get to you. Tomorrow for sure, then, we’ll find a way to get some private time to chat.”

  “Sounds like a plan.” Sherry sighed.

  On that agreement, they disconnected. Lara set Munster on the floor, then went over to the fridge. The kitchen had gotten warm. She pulled a pink plastic ice tray from the freezer, popped out a cube, and set the cube on one of the cat dishes. She’d made the cubes a few days earlier, adding juice from a tuna can to the water. In this kind of weather, the cats loved the frozen treat, especially when the ice melted enough to expose the chunk of tuna hidden in the center.

  As Munster licked the cube, Lara poured herself a glass of lemonade. She was carrying it over to the kitchen table when a familiar face peeked through the storm door.

  Evelyn Conley.

  Lara’s glass jerked in her hand. What the flipping heck was she doing back here? Heart thumping, she set her glass on the table and opened the door. Evelyn held up a hand in a tiny wave.

  “Hi, Evelyn. Nice to see you again.” Her fib quotient for the day was rising.

  Evelyn smiled, but Lara saw pain in her eyes. “I’m sorry to come by without calling,” she said through the screen, “but I need to speak to you. May I come in for a moment?”

  A creepy feeling of déjà vu all over again skidded down Lara’s back.

  “Uh…sure you can. Would you like something to drink?” Lara opened the screen door and waved her inside.

  “No, nothing, thank you.” She glanced around the kitchen. “It was so generous of you to let Trista read to that cat this morning. You really made her day. She can’t stop talking about it.”

  “I enjoyed it as much as she did,” Lara said. She smiled over at Munster, who was licking the fishy ice cube with an expression of sheer delight. “And Munster was in his glory.”

  At the sound of his name, Munster looked up and shot a glance at Evelyn. Lara knew he was trying to decide between greeting the unexpected visitor or sticking with his delectable ice cube. When he went back to licking the cube, Lara pointed at one of the kitchen chairs. “Evelyn, please sit. You don’t have to stand there.”

  “Trista’s always loved
animals,” Evelyn said, lowering herself onto the nearest chair. Her eyes welled. “Lara, I’m sure it didn’t escape you this morning that my granddaughter was referring to a scrapbook when she talked about my having a book of pictures of Deanna Daltry.” She sucked in a jerky breath. “From the mouths of babes, right?”

  “Evelyn, don’t worry about it,” Lara soothed, sitting down opposite the woman. “You should see the crap I collected when I was in high school. Only I didn’t put them in a scrapbook, I—”

  “Lara,” Evelyn interrupted. “I wasn’t in high school. I was far beyond that. And, well, what with this murder hanging over all our heads, I really feel I need to explain.”

  Then explain to the police! Lara wanted to beg.

  “Go ahead, Evelyn.”

  Evelyn folded her hands on the table. “I’ve never told many people, but, back in the day, I wanted to be an actress. Starring in all those school plays got in my blood, I guess.” She blushed a hearty pink. “Deanna Daltry was starting to get known right about then. I felt a kinship with her. I knew she’d grown up around here, which made her even more special.”

  Lara wondered if Evelyn knew Deanna’s real name.

  “I used to imagine we were close friends,” Evelyn went on, “living on opposite sides of the country. I-I got a little obsessed. Even after I got married, I still had one of those fangirl crushes on her. That’s why I filled a scrapbook with her pictures. Oh, and she was so striking back then!”

  “She’s a beautiful woman,” Lara agreed. “Full of grace and charm.”

  Evelyn squashed a tear from her cheek. “I loved that she never married. Oh sure, everyone knew she had plenty of boy toys. But it was Hollywood. That sort of thing was to be expected.”