by Linda Reilly
From the tube of white paint, she squeezed a dot onto her blending plate. Normally, she would paint over the area she wanted to fix with the correct color. But because the spot where she’d used the wrong shade was so dark, she chose to lighten it first with white.
Lara was blending strokes of white paint into the too-dark ears when her hand halted. What was bugging her about it?
The white paint. She was using it to cover a darker color.
She was using it to hide the wrong color.
No. She was using it to hide the color she didn’t want anyone to see.
Heart racing, Lara glanced around for her tablet. She’d left it on the red table where Darryl always read. She fetched it, and immediately brought up a Word document. The content didn’t matter—she only needed it for experimentation. This one happened to be a recipe for linguini alfredo that Gabby thought she might want to try making one day.
She wasn’t quite sure how to do it, but she wanted to change the font color—from the standard black to, well, any other color. Ah, the icon for font color was right there on the toolbar at the top of the page.
Lara used the “Control” key to highlight the text, then moved the mouse up to “Font Color.” She clicked the mouse on “Red.” The linguini recipe changed to red. She repeated the task, this time clicking the mouse on “White.”
The linguini recipe disappeared.
Yes!
She knew the text wasn’t really gone. The white text against the white background had made the recipe invisible.
This time she highlighted the text and changed it to “Automatic.” The recipe reappeared in its original form.
She was sure, now, that that was what Chris Newman had done. He’d hidden whatever was in those documents by changing the font to white.
Lara closed the document and set aside her tablet, her mind racing. Should she tell Mary Newman what she’d learned? She had Mary’s cell number.
What if Chris were my husband? Lara asked herself. Would I want to know what was in those documents?
With a sigh, Lara dug her cell out of her pocket. She sent a text to Mary, explaining what she’d figured out about the font.
It would be Mary’s decision.
Chapter 25
Lara stretched her arms high over her head and then massaged the back of her neck. She was getting stiff from sitting for so long.
She hopped off her chair and headed for the kitchen. After pouring a glass of milk, she made up a little plate of Gabby’s scrumptious macaroons. Bootsie strolled up next to her and rubbed against her leg. Her face breaking into a smile, Lara bent and stroked the kitty’s head.
It was going to be hard, leaving the cats. In the span of a few short days, she’d gotten so accustomed to their comforting presence. How was she going to sleep without Izzy and Pickles wrapped around her like a furry tortilla shell?
Munching on a cookie, she couldn’t help wondering if Mary had read her text yet. Lara prayed that whatever was in those documents would help ease the woman’s fears.
Lara set down her milk. Cookies in hand, she strolled out onto the front porch. The day was turning out warm for October—almost sixty degrees. The sun was blindingly bright. She cupped one hand over her eyes and peered toward the shed. She pulled in a breath.
Something was out there.
And then she saw her. Blue was padding toward the house at a leisurely pace. She had a cat-that-swallowed-the-cream look, if Lara ever saw one.
Even more amazing, another cat was tagging along behind Blue. Lara almost choked on her cookie. It was Goldy—the missing cat!
As quietly as she could, she went back inside and nabbed some kitty treats from the kitchen. It took only seconds, but by the time she’d gone back outside, Blue was gone.
But Goldy was still there. The cat stared at Lara, and then gave out the most pathetic meow Lara had ever heard.
“Oh, sweetie, you’re hungry, aren’t you?” Lara asked softly. She descended the porch steps almost on tiptoe, fearful of spooking the cat.
Goldy backed up a step when she saw Lara ambling slowly toward her. Lara continued to speak soothingly, her voice almost a lullaby as she approached the cat.
And then she was there, and in the next instant Goldy was gobbling from her hand.
Lara gently wrapped her hands under the cat and lifted her to her shoulder. “I can’t wait to call your mom,” she told Goldy. She cuddled the cat to her chest.
She carried Goldy into the house and then into the small parlor. She quickly made up water and food bowls for her. While Goldy dived into the kibble, Lara called Wendy.
“I have a wonderful surprise,” she told Wendy. “Goldy is here with me, and she’s eating up a storm.”
Wendy broke into sobs. “Oh, my God, thank you. Thank you! I’m going to name all my future cats—and kids—after you!” She promised to be there within ten minutes, as soon as she threw on some clothes.
Lara felt her eyes brim with tears.
Wendy made it in about eight minutes, cat carrier in hand. Her face tear streaked, she scooped Goldy into her arms and pressed her face into her fur.
“I don’t know how to thank you,” Wendy snuffled.
Lara laughed. “I don’t want thanks. I’m as thrilled as you are that she’s back. Just take good care of her, okay? Try to keep her indoors.”
“That’s a promise,” Wendy said firmly.
They hugged, and Wendy nearly floated out to her car with Goldy.
Lara swiped at her eyes. She knew who deserved all the credit for bringing Goldy home.
A little Ragdoll cat with the bluest eyes she’d ever seen.
A banging at the door jolted her.
Probably Wendy again, wanting to ask me something, Lara thought. She was so happy for the woman that she swung open the door without first peeking outside. Her knees morphed into rice pudding when she saw who it was.
“Oh, um, hi C-Chris,” she stuttered, her pulse entering the final lap of the Indy 500.
Chris Newman stared at Lara through the screen. His face was pinched, his glasses tilted slightly on his nose. “I need to talk to you. May I come in?”
He’s asking permission. That’s a good sign, right?
“Well, um, sure, although we’re getting ready for church.” Only a partial fib.
“This won’t take long. I need to explain something.”
It sounded innocent enough. Although…hadn’t she read that the Boston Strangler drank coffee with one of his victims before he killed her?
Lara tried to keep her voice even, but she felt her hand tremble as she let him step inside. She stayed close to the door to prevent him from inching farther into the house. “What did you want to tell me?” she asked. Her voice came out like a squeak.
Chris’s face crumpled, and his eyes got watery. “I caught Mary with my laptop this morning. Apparently, she’d gotten a text from you.” Lara took a step backward, but he held up one hand. “Don’t worry, I’m not mad. I’m glad it all came out. It’s actually a relief to talk about it.”
Lara swallowed. “To talk about what, Chris?”
“Those stories—I never wanted anything to do with them. Theo forced me to write them to make up for messing up his tax return!”
Lara spewed out the breath she’d been holding. “I’m sorry, Chris, but I still don’t understand. What stories are you talking about?”
“The stories in that disgusting magazine.” He gave Lara a bewildered look. “You saw them, right? Mary told me you did.”
“I-I saw her throwing some stuff in the Dumpster in the crafts-store parking lot. I guess I caught a glimpse of one of the covers, but I never looked inside any of the mags.” The cover was revealing enough.
His face a mask of anguish, Chris dropped onto the same chair Luca had occupied the night before. Lara considered renaming it the “hot seat.”
“The stories,” Chris said miserably. “They’re erotic. Stories of men and woman falling in lust and love, gettin
g torn apart, and then ending up back in love. You know, the ole happy-ever-after garbage but with more, you know, hanky-panky.” His ears reddened. “It’s the type of crap you see on TV soaps, only in much more salient detail. The mag claims the stories are true, but that’s a crock. It’s all a load of crap dreamed up by writers like me.”
Lara strained her brain to remember what the Web site had said. All adult true accounts of love lost and found.
“If you hated writing those stories, then why did you agree to do it?” Lara asked quietly.
“The error I made on Theo’s tax return was a bad one. I failed to account for a massive business deduction that never should have slipped past me. As soon as I realized it, I filed an amended return, but at that point the IRS wasn’t so quick to accept it. Theo had been audited in the past—before my time—and always ended up with penalties. Bottom line—Theo had to pay an extra six grand he shouldn’t have had to pay. Not this time, anyway.”
“That doesn’t sound fair,” Lara said.
Chris shifted nervously. “It wasn’t. I was still fighting the IRS on his behalf when he—” He hung his head.
Lara still felt mystified. “Chris, are you saying Theo was, well, sort of blackmailing you?”
“Not sort of. He was blackmailing me,” Chris said. “Theo knew I always wanted to be a published writer. He took advantage of that. He forced me to write those stories because they pay extremely well. I never saw a dime, of course. Theo submitted them under a pen name he created for himself, and he kept the royalties.”
“But what could he have done to you if you didn’t comply?”
Chris looked at her as if she were denser than a block of wood. “Oh, only ruined me,” he said acidly. “Most of my clients are friends or business acquaintances of Theo’s. One bad word about me from him and I’d have lost most of my business.” Chris gave her a rueful smirk. “I can’t survive doing tax returns for people who get excited over a fifty-dollar refund.”
A category that included Lara. If she was lucky enough to get that much.
She had to ask. “Okay, I get that. But how does Mary fit into all this?”
“She doesn’t. That’s why I feel so awful. I made her worry about me for nothing. Every time one of those stories was published, Theo insisted on giving me a copy of the magazine. I didn’t want them, any of them. He did it to torture me. And yet, there was this tiny voice in my brain that kept whispering, Be proud—you’re a published writer. Well, anyway, I stuffed them in my desk drawer at home, under the laptop I was using to write them.” He rubbed his hands over his forehead. “Poor Mary. I never thought she’d look in that drawer. She’s always so respectful of my privacy.”
Lara was beginning to feel bad for the guy. Oddly, she believed him—about the magazine articles, anyway. As for Theo’s murder…
“Chris, I’m sure the police have asked you where you were the night Theo was…killed.”
“Oh yeah,” he said darkly. “I went into the station for an interview with one of the police detectives. I told him the truth—I was home with Mary that entire night. We’d stayed up late watching a Chevy Chase marathon. Mary loves that guy.” He gave a quick smile. “Bottom line, Mary was my alibi and I was hers. Except we didn’t need alibis, because we’re both innocent.”
Lara slowly let out a breath. “I believe you, Chris.”
“Of course, there’s one thing that still worries me. I’m sure by now the police have gone through Theo’s belongings, including the contents of his computer. If they find those stories in his email inbox—” he fretted.
“If they find the stories, all you can do is tell the truth. Tell them exactly what you told me.”
Chris gave her a flat smile. “I guess you’re right,” he agreed with a sigh. “I just don’t want any of this to reflect on Mary.”
“I heard that the police think Glen Usher was the one who murdered Theo,” Lara said. “I imagine they’re going to be closing the case very soon.”
“I heard that, too. The police are finishing up loose ends, but by tomorrow I expect they’ll make a formal announcement.” Chris’s eyes blazed. “Glen Usher had a thing for Mary, you know. She thought I didn’t notice, but I’d have to be blind not to.” He laughed. “I guess she figured I’d pop him in the nose if I found out.”
Or spike his coffee with his own heart medication?
“I’m glad we talked, Chris,” Lara said. She’d be even gladder when he left.
“Yeah, me too. But I want you to understand something, Lara. Those stories I wrote—there was nothing illegal about them.”
“I get it, Chris. You don’t need to explain. So tell me, what kinds of stories do you really want to write?”
His eyes sparkled behind his wire-rimmed glasses. “Sci-fi,” he said. “But specifically, the type of stuff they used to write in the fifties, when space exploration was so new and thrilling. Sometimes I wish I lived back in those days. But anyway, I’d actually like to publish my own magazine one day with those kinds of stories. In the meantime, I submitted a short story to a sci-fi mag—one of the popular ones.” He shrugged. “I know it’s a long shot, but until I get a rejection, I’m keeping my hopes high.”
“Chris, I think that’s great. Even if you get a rejection, you’ll submit it somewhere else, right?”
He nodded, and then hesitated for a moment as if he had more to say. Finally, to Lara’s relief, Chris left.
Lara closed the door behind him. She peered through the glass and watched him climb into his vehicle and take off.
Something was bothering her. What was it?
She retrieved her macaroons from where she’d plunked them on the counter. Biting distractedly into a cookie, she tried to figure out what was sticking like a needle under her skin.
Munster strolled out of the large parlor, paused in the kitchen doorway, and peeked his head around. Deciding it was safe to enter, he padded over to Lara and stretched up a paw to her, begging for a snack.
“Macaroons aren’t good for you,” she scolded playfully, even as she picked off a teensy crumb from her cookie and gave it to him. “That’s all, though. They have too much sugar for…” She frowned, her thoughts coalescing.
That was it! That’s what was bugging her.
Not a single cat had come into the kitchen when Chris was there. Munster, the usual greeter, had been conspicuously absent.
It meant nothing, of course.
Except that Munster, the most sociable cat in the house, wanted nothing to do with Chris Newman.
Chapter 26
Lara pulled into the parking lot of Saint Lucy’s just in time to see Brooke, Darryl, and their mom clamber up the steps of the white-steepled church.
“Thank heaven we came early,” Aunt Fran said. “Otherwise we’d have had to park in the hinterlands.”
Lara bounced her gaze all around the extensive parking lot. She was relieved when she nabbed a space close to the church entrance. “Is the noon service always this crowded?”
“It is. There’s an early service at eight thirty, but mostly older folks like me attend that one. Since a lot of people sleep in on Sunday, the noon service is perfect for them.”
Aunt Fran had donned a pantsuit that morning. The jacket was hunter green, the pants navy. On her lapel was a feline-shaped brooch—the eyes two tiny, shining emeralds. While the ensemble was attractive, it hung too loosely on her.
Lara had been forced to wear her best pair of jeans, since she hadn’t brought along any “dress-up” threads when she packed for New Hampshire. Luckily she’d had time to wash, dry, and press the jeans, along with one of her better tops. She decided she looked presentable enough for church.
Her hair was another matter. After she’d washed it early that morning, the curls, although shorter, had sprung back with a vengeance.
It’s only hair, she told herself. And you’ll always have to live with curls, so suck it up.
“You’ll have a chance to meet Pastor Folger,” Aunt Fra
n said. “He’s been here for over nine years now. As pastors go, he’s quite popular. He comes off as a fuddy-duddy, but in reality he’s far from it. Modern in his thinking, he listens without judging. He’s great with young people, something we’re in dire need of these days.”
Lara gulped. She hadn’t been to a church service in a while. “Looking forward to it,” she said, pasting on a big grin.
She helped her aunt out of the car and up the granite steps into the church vestibule. Two scarred pine benches sat on either side of the small foyer. A wooden cross hung over the entryway to the church. A rack of brochures and booklets hung over the bench on the left. Above the opposite bench was a statue sitting on a marble shelf that was carved into the wall. Saint Lucy, Lara presumed.
“Lara!” Brooke spotted her the moment she entered. Darryl crept up behind his sister and waved.
“Hey, Brooke,” Lara said. “Hi Darryl. I missed you Friday.”
Darryl gave her a shy smile. “Mom took me to buy a Halloween costume. You know what? I got a new book,” he said, beaming. “It’s about leopards.”
Heather Weston came up behind Darryl and placed a hand on his shoulder. “Good to see you again, Lara.”
“Hi there, Heather. It’s great to see you, too.”
Heather hesitated, then said, “In the few days since you arrived in town, Darryl has begun reading so much better. I can’t help thinking there’s a connection.” Her brown eyes twinkled. “Can you tell me your secret?”
Lara knew she was only half-serious. Heather couldn’t possibly know anything about Blue.
“Well, Darryl loves to read,” Lara said, avoiding the question. “And he loves animals. Put those two together, and you have a winning combination!”
The boy nodded vigorously. “Yup. I’m getting more books about animals from the school library now. Those books with pirates and zombies have too much fighting. I don’t want to read that junk anymore.”
