by Linda Reilly
“Sounds like a plan,” Aunt Fran said. “When you were a kid, you loved that display. I used to have to drag you out of there before we got locked inside the library.”
Munster chose that moment to stroll into the kitchen. An orange-striped cat with big gold eyes, he was one of the original feline residents before Aunt Fran began taking in rescues. A lovable darling, he looked miffed at the sight of Snowball nestled atop Lara’s flannel-lined jeans. He promptly turned up his nose at her and plopped onto Aunt Fran’s lap.
Lara laughed. She drank the rest of her cider, then said, “And I have to let you go, Snowball, so I can pop over to the library.” She gave the white cat one more kiss and set her gently on the floor.
Across the table, a sudden movement caught Lara’s eye. A fluffy, cream-colored cat with chocolate brown ears sat gazing at her. Her eyes were the bluest Lara had ever seen on a cat. The Ragdoll cat blinked once, then rested her chin on the table. A sure sign that Lara was on the right path.
You want me to make those cat cookies, don’t you? Lara asked silently.
The Ragdoll—Blue—blinked again. In the next instant she was gone.
Chapter 2
The moment Lara stepped into the children’s reading room of the Whisker Jog Public Library, she felt like she was seven again.
Against the far wall, beneath a towering window, was a long table covered in glittery white felt. Lumpy in spots to look like real snow, it was the setting for a scene depicting Santa and his merry helpers preparing for that yearly sleigh ride across a darkened, star-studded sky.
Nine reindeer—Rudolph in the lead—were harnessed to a wooden sleigh painted cherry-red. The sleigh was piled high with miniature packages, each one so intricately wrapped that Lara could almost believe there were tiny treasures inside. A detailed Santa made from felted yarn tottered toward the sleigh, his arms loaded with even more gifts. A pink-cheeked Mrs. Claus shuffled behind him, holding out his thermos for the long night ahead. Behind the sleigh was Santa’s workshop—a log cabin of sorts. Through the windows, the faces of the elves could be seen as they toiled at their toy-making tasks.
“I loved this when I was a kid,” Lara told Ellie Croteau, one of the library aides. “I used to stand here for hours after school, drinking in every detail. At least it seemed like hours.”
With a world-weary smile, Ellie scooped a book off the floor. “I guess it is rather cute. Me, I’m not much of a Christmas person. My favorite time of year is when the holidays are over. Then we can put all this crap away for eleven months.”
Lara smiled. She felt sorry for people who didn’t enjoy the trappings of the holiday season. The woman no doubt had her reasons. Lara wasn’t in a position to judge. She was grateful that her own childhood had been infused with a love of all things Christmas.
“Anyway,” Ellie said, “you got here at just the right time. The third-grade reading group left fifteen minutes ago. I thought my eardrums were going to burst from all the chatter and the squealing.”
The room is for kids, Lara wanted to point out. Instead she flashed another polite smile at the woman. Enough of this, she told herself. She’d come here to research cookies for cats. Time was a-wasting.
In the main room of the library, Lara peeled off her fleece jacket and sat down before one of the computers. Things were quiet today. A teenage boy with a mop of black curls and earbuds stuck in his ears sat at the monitor next to hers. If he noticed her, it wasn’t obvious.
Lara rubbed the chill from her fingers and skimmed them over the keyboard. Within a few minutes, she discovered there wasn’t a lot to choose from. Recipe books for pet treats weren’t exactly burning up the bestseller lists. She could always order a book, but that would mean waiting for delivery. She wanted to start experimenting with cat cookie recipes right away.
A few minutes later, she landed on what she hoped would be a useful guide. Treats for Your Cat had a glossary of recipes that looked promising. The copyright date was 1989, which happened to be one year before Lara was born.
It’s a sign, she told herself.
A flash of cream-colored fur darted across the keyboard. Lara was so startled that she took in a sharp breath.
As quickly as it appeared, it was gone.
Blue.
Lara smiled to herself, then shot a glance at the teen. He looked completely unaware that she’d even sat down beside him. Either way, he wouldn’t have seen Blue.
Only Lara could see her.
* * * *
“You’ve attracted a crowd,” Aunt Fran said, grinning at her niece.
“No kidding.” Lara giggled. “The scintillating scent of salmon does it every time.”
Of the eight cats in the household, five danced around Lara’s ankles as she stood at the kitchen counter. Valenteena, the small black-and-white female with a heart-shaped marking under her chin, issued a long, exaggerated meow. Her theatrical cries were the reason Lara had dubbed her the shelter’s drama princess.
“Yes, little princess, I hear you loud and clear. The man in the moon can probably hear you.”
Valenteena reached up and sank her claws into Lara’s jeans.
“Ouch.” Lara reached down and carefully extracted the cat’s claws from her leg. “I’ll give you salmon in a minute. Be polite and wait with the others.”
The little female had been one of three cats rescued from a hoarding situation earlier that fall. All three had been malnourished and loaded with fleas. Aside from those issues, the cats were young and in reasonably good health. Valenteena, however, had proven to be a challenge. Her hunting instincts were powerful, and she constantly looked for an escape route. Of the three, Lara suspected she’d been the one most traumatized by being underfed. Now about a year old, she attacked every meal with vigor.
For the first time, Lara noticed that her aunt was showing off her new red cashmere sweater. “You look spiffy this evening. And you curled your hair so pretty! You and Jerry going out?” Jerry Whitley was the chief of police and Aunt Fran’s occasional significant other. Lara didn’t know how else to describe it.
“No, we’re not doing anything special—just watching Christmas movies at his house. I’ve been promising him a feline-free evening at home, so he chose tonight.” She shrugged. “He’s never going to love cats, Lara. I’ve accepted him as is. In all other ways, he’s a good man. Besides, this way we both have breathing room. We don’t need to live together or be together constantly to enjoy a good relationship.”
Lara agreed, for the most part. She only hoped Aunt Fran was fully on board with things the way they were.
With all the ingredients blended, Lara distributed the remaining salmon among the various cat food bowls. All the cats pounced at once. Valenteena pushed Twinkles aside so she could score the larger share.
Lara pulled a shallow dish out of the cupboard. She scooped up a mound of salmon from Valenteena’s bowl and plunked it onto the dish, then slid it over to Twinkles. He looked immensely grateful.
“Remember, sharing is caring,” she lectured the cats.
Yeah, like they cared.
Lara wished her aunt a good evening, gave her a peck on the cheek, then went back to her project. The “cookie” dough was rolled out and resting on a cutting board. For now, Lara only wanted to test the recipe for flavor—or rather, she wanted the cats to test them.
She cut the flattened dough into small squares, then placed them on a parchment-lined baking sheet. The shapes would come later, once she perfected the recipe.
After the tiny squares were laid out on the baking sheet—a task that took the better part of an eternity—Lara slid them into the oven. She took advantage of the break to call Kayla Ramirez, the shelter’s part-time assistant.
“Hey,” Kayla said. “What’s cookin’?”
“Funny you should ask.” Lara told her about the cookies she was baking.
“Nope. That still isn’t happening. But I’m going to package them up real pretty and sell them at the bake sale in the school cafeteria. I’ve already reserved a table.”
“Clever girl,” Kayla said. “You’re amazing.”
Lara felt herself blushing at the compliment. For whatever reason, Kayla had developed a sort of hero worship for Lara. “I’m not amazing, just motivated.”
By the time they disconnected, the “cookies” were ready to come out of the oven. Lara wished she could say they smelled delicious. The most she could say was that they smelled like fish.
She slid the tray out of the oven and set it on the stovetop. The cookies had baked to a darkish brown, probably due to the whole wheat flour. They were way too hot to test on the cats, so she set them aside to cool.
Lara had left the library book containing the recipe next to the sink. She reached for it and was going to bring it into the small parlor, which was also her art studio, when it fell to the floor. Almost as if someone had pushed it. A single slip of paper fell out, and she bent to retrieve it. From its yellowed edges, she could see that it was quite old. Torn from a loose-leaf notebook, it had been half written, half printed by someone with a shaky hand. The date at the top made Lara gasp. She read the note.
March 9, 1990
My stomach, it is in knots. Exactly one week ago today, I watched someone commit murder. I would not write this if I was not sure. I know what I saw.
I do not think it was planned. She was old and so sick. She had gotten even nastier than usual. Not a nice person to be around. She treated everyone horrible.
But me, I cannot go to the police. If they look into it, they might do their testing on her and figure out what I did. It was innocent, I swear to God. I was only trying to help. But my future would be over.
The saddest thing was the cat. Heart attack, they said. A peaceful passing, just like her owner’s. The cat was old, 17. They said she died of a broken heart, but I know better. She died trying to protect her owner. I know. I watched. They found her furry body stretched out on the bed, one sweet brown paw resting on her lady’s cheek. Such a sad but peaceful passing, everyone said...both the woman and the cat. But I know the truth. That precious, beautiful cat with the big blue eyes—I saw her spirit leave. I saw her float off to take care of a new life.
I sound crazy, I know. But I need to make this confession. I hope someday the killer will confess. Even if that woman was old and mean and spiteful, she had the right to die on her own time. On God’s time. Lord forgive me for keeping this a secret. I do not have any choice.
Her hand shaking, Lara went over to the kitchen table. She dropped heavily onto a chair, then set the note down in front of her. She read it again, her heart nearly bursting out of her chest. The opening sentence gripped her by the throat.
Exactly one week ago today, I watched someone commit murder.
The date of the letter—March 9, 1990.
Lara was born on March 2, 1990. Exactly one week before the letter was written.
Chapter 3
“Think it’ll snow later?” Lara asked her aunt.
They walked along the sidewalk of Whisker Jog High School, toward one of the school’s two front entrances. A white banner announcing the Whisker Jog Annual Cookie Challenge had been strung over the doorframe. The lettering was large enough to be seen from a distant planet.
“I hope it holds off,” Aunt Fran said, her arm looped through Lara’s. “If it snows before this event is over, we’ll all be slip-sliding home.”
In September Aunt Fran had had her other knee replaced, and she was walking better than ever. Lara knew she didn’t want to risk falling and undoing the surgeon’s work.
“Do you think Kayla will be all right on her own?” Aunt Fran asked. “She’s never handled adoptions by herself.”
“She’ll be fine,” Lara assured her aunt. “Adoptions have to be approved by us, so no one’s walking out with a cat today. She just has to serve tea and snacks and bring the cats out, assuming anyone even shows up. I’m guessing most people are either holiday shopping today or attending the cookie competition.”
Lara took a deep breath and surveyed the school’s grounds. She’d never gotten the chance to attend Whisker Jog High, as her family had moved to a suburb of Boston when she was only eleven. It had been a traumatic time in her life. She’d felt as if her idyllic existence had been ripped out from under her and replaced with a strange new world.
During those weeks and months after the move, Lara had been desperately lonely. She’d missed Sherry, and she’d been miserable without Aunt Fran. She’d sent each of them a card, but only Sherry responded. Aunt Fran had ignored her, or so she’d thought.
Only recently had Lara learned that Aunt Fran had written her loads of letters. Lara’s mom, Brenda—now Brenda Caphart-Rice—had seen to it that Lara never received them. She’d had the post office return them as if Lara didn’t exist. As for Lara’s dad, if he’d been aware of her mom’s deceit, he’d never let on. Mild-mannered and devoted to his family, Roy Caphart died from colon cancer seven years earlier, devastating Lara.
When they reached the front door, Lara swung it open and held it for her aunt. She was stepping into the school lobby behind Aunt Fran when a reflection in the glass caught her eye. She turned and saw a gleaming black limo pull up in front of the school.
“That’s interesting,” Lara said. “Someone just arrived in a limo.”
“A limo? I hope it’s George Clooney,” Aunt Fran said.
Lara laughed.
They followed signs to the cafeteria. The tables had been arranged in three rows, with room enough between each row for people to browse and shop. Lara located her table, number thirteen, at the end of a row near the entrance to the kitchen. She set down the bag she was lugging, then peeled off her jacket.
The past week had drained her. Between her shelter duties, finishing up a rush art project for a client, and trying out different versions of the cat cookie recipe, Lara was wiped. And it was only nine in the morning.
She’d enjoyed the art project tremendously. A woman who’d adopted one of their kittens over the summer had asked Lara to paint a set of Christmas cards for her. As a watercolor artist, Lara couldn’t refuse the request. Each of the thirty cards was an original—signed, of course, by Lara. The client paid dearly for them. Lara’s earnings went to the fund she’d started to help people cover the cost of lifesaving veterinary procedures for their pets.
The letter in the library book still haunted her. She hadn’t been able to put it out of her mind. If the letter was genuine, that meant the murder had happened on the day Lara was born. That alone was unsettling. Add to that the deceased, blue-eyed cat that left her body to care for a new life, it made for a disturbing story.
So far she hadn’t told anyone about it, not even Aunt Fran. After the cookie contest was over, she’d show her aunt the letter. Maybe her aunt would have a suggestion for how best to approach Chief Whitley. For sure he’d scoff at the part about the spirit of the cat. But Aunt Fran would instantly recognize the date—Lara’s birth date.
In the past the chief had cautioned Lara not to meddle in crime-solving. But this was a murder long past, so his warning didn’t apply, did it?
Twenty-eight years was a long time. Was there DNA testing back then? Could the police get any fingerprints off the letter, other than Lara’s?
“You’ve got that daydreamy look again,” Aunt Fran said.
“Sorry. You know how my mind wanders.”
Her aunt studied her. “Are you okay? You’ve been quieter than usual the past few days.”
Lara shoved a strand of her curly, copper-colored hair behind one ear. “Yeah, of course I’m
okay.” She forced a grin. “Today’s the day I introduce Lara’s Cat Nips to the world. What could be more exciting?”
“Well, I hope you make plenty of dough,” Aunt Fran said and winked. “The food bank will be very grateful.”
Aunt Fran removed her coat and scooped up Lara’s jacket. “I see a coat rack over in the corner. I’ll hang these.”
“Thanks.” Lara plunked her shopping bag on her assigned chair. One by one, she removed the cellophane bags and set them in rows on her table. She left enough room for her sign, which read: Lara’s Cat Nips. Yummy Treats for Finicky Felines. $3. The bags had tiny snowflakes on them. They looked so cute with the fish-shaped cat cookies tucked inside. She’d tied each bag with a length of red twine to give them a festive look. The shelter cats had given a resounding “paws up” to the most recent trial recipe, so Lara had gone with it.
A woman setting up a table nearby strolled over to check out Lara’s offerings. “Those are for cats?” she asked.
“They sure are,” Lara said. “Tested and approved by the residents of the High Cliff Shelter for Cats.”
“Really?” The woman looked uncertain. “You’re sure they’re safe for cats to eat?”
“Positive. But I understand your hesitation. I made these myself and tested them on our own cats. All the ingredients are listed. You’ll notice on the label they should be kept in the fridge. After a week, pop them in the freezer. You can take out a few at a time, as you need them.”
“Sold. I’ll take two packages.” The woman pulled six dollars from the purse attached to her waistband and handed the cash to Lara. She grabbed two packets of Cat Nips. “Thanks. Gotta run. There’s some commotion in the hallway. I wanna check it out.” The woman turned and fled as if a grizzly were chasing her.
“Uh...yeah, sure. Thanks.” Lara stuck the cash in the zippered pouch she’d brought, then glanced toward the cafeteria entrance. A glut of people filled the hallway. They chattered in low tones, trying to see over each other’s heads. Now she really was curious. A familiar head bobbed among the gawkers—Daisy Bowker’s. Instead of the navy pea coat she normally wore, today she sported an olive-green fleece jacket.
