Claws for Celebration

by Linda Reilly

  “You bet. I’ll put on some water for hot chocolate.”

  “It’s a date.”

  Minutes later, Kayla plunked copies of two obituaries on the table in front of Lara. Snowball trotted into the kitchen the moment she heard Kayla’s voice. The cat climbed into her lap and curled into a furry white ball.

  “Aunt Fran’s going to join us in a minute,” Lara said. “I wanted to get her thoughts on all this.”

  After she’d returned from her trip to the vet, Lara had decided it was time to fill in her aunt on the mystery letter. She’d shown her the copy she’d made. She kept the original safely ensconced in the plastic bag, just in case the police ever needed to get prints from it.

  Aunt Fran came into the kitchen and went over to the stove. She looked cozy and warm in her forest-green sweats, her hair coaxed away from her face by a wide red hairband. She ran the water and put the kettle on.

  Lara prepared hot chocolate with marshmallows for her and Kayla, while her aunt opted for tea.

  “Okay, I found two possibilities,” Kayla said, opening her oversized purse. She gave each of the women a copy of a different obituary.

  “Sarah Nally,” Lara read aloud from hers. “She was seventy-nine. Died from a heart attack after shoveling snow.” She skimmed and read down further. “This is interesting. She didn’t die right away. They treated her in the hospital, after which she was released and sent home. Three days later she suffered a more severe attack. She passed at home on March 2, 1990.” Lara’s heart thumped, and she looked at her aunt.

  “That was the day you were born,” Aunt Fran said. She took a small sip from her mug. “I remember it like it was yesterday. You weighed six pounds, seven ounces. And had very little hair,” she added dryly.

  “I can’t believe you remember what I weighed.” Lara read through the rest of Sarah’s obituary. “Sarah was survived by three kids and a gaggle of grands. None of the names rings a bell. There’s no mention of a cat. Her hobbies were knitting, reading historical romances, and playing Monopoly with her grandkids.”

  “You know,” Aunt Fran said, “the part about the cat in that mystery letter makes me wonder. It was a touch too dramatic, in my opinion. I think there’s a strong possibility that the letter was nothing more than a gag. Someone got bored and thought it would be fun to make up a murder and pretend he, or she, had been a witness.”

  It was a scenario Lara hadn’t even considered. She had to admit—it was possible. Were they sitting here spinning their mental wheels over a fake murder?

  Somehow, Lara didn’t think so. Something about the letter told her it was real. The tone was somber, but also apologetic. The part about the cat’s spirit floating off to bond with another soul had gripped her on a deeply personal level. Unfortunately, she couldn’t tell either Kayla or her aunt the reason. For now, Blue was her secret. And hers alone.

  Aunt Fran glanced at the obit Kayla had given her. “Let’s see. This one is Irma Hansen Tisley, eighty-two, late of Whisker Jog.”

  “Local,” Kayla noted, rubbing Snowball’s head absently.

  Aunt Fran read to herself for a moment. “I don’t think this one fits,” she said finally. “Irma died in the nursing home, so there couldn’t have been a cat with her. According to this, she’d been married to Robert Tisley, who predeceased her. She had three kids by him and two by her first husband, Elvin Hansen.”

  Lara took a sip of her hot chocolate, then licked marshmallow off her lips. “Does it mention the cause of death?”

  “It only says that she died in the nursing home. I guess we can presume it was natural causes.”

  Kayla sagged in her chair. Her glasses slid down her nose, and she pushed them back in place. “I think we can all agree, then. These obits are both dead ends. So to speak,” she added.

  “Yeah, I think you’re right, but I’ll hang on to them anyway. I’ll keep them with the letter.” Lara reached over to collect the obit her aunt had read, but it fluttered to the floor before she could grasp it. She picked it up and tucked it behind Sarah Nally’s obit.

  Aunt Fran looked troubled. Her gaze was fixed on the tea cooling in her mug.

  “You okay, Aunt Fran?” Lara reached over and touched her aunt’s arm.

  “I can’t stop stressing over Daisy. I’ve texted Jerry several times, but he’s clearly ignoring me. I called him twice, but only got his voice mail. I’m not very pleased with him at the moment.”

  “And Daisy hasn’t called you back either?”

  “No, she hasn’t. Right now, they are both on my you-know-what list.”

  Aunt Fran’s best friend was under suspicion of murder, and her police chief boyfriend was incommunicado. Double whammy, Lara thought soberly.

  * * * *

  “I’m so glad we decided to eat out,” Lara said, smiling across the table at Gideon. “It gives me a chance to clear the cobwebs out of my head.”

  The Irish Stew had been a staple in Whisker Jog for as long as Lara could remember. Even when she was living in Boston, she’d seen the pub featured numerous times on shows highlighting area restaurants. Photos of celebrities—mostly ball players from earlier eras—graced the dark paneled walls. The scent of onions and herbs filled every nook and cranny, wafting up to the tin ceiling in an aromatic potpourri. Nat King Cole’s smooth voice sifted through the hidden speakers, the silky notes of “The Christmas Song” barely audible over the din.

  They’d arrived too late to claim one of the coveted booths, with their high wooden backs and comfy benches padded in soft green leather. The table where they were seated was fine, except for the occasional bump of her chair as customers continually streamed in.

  While the pub was famous for its hearty Irish stew, Gideon always opted for a cheeseburger, made from Kobe beef and oozing with cheddar. Lara’s fave was the BLT, packed with crispy bacon and juicy tomatoes, and enhanced with melted Swiss.

  Gideon swallowed a mouthful of his burger, then washed it down with a swig of ale. He dabbed his lips with his napkin. “I knew you’d be worried sick about Daisy, honey. If you want to talk about it, I’m all ears. I’m not sure I can add much to what you already know, though. Right now, Daisy’s status is in limbo.”

  “Aunt Fran’s been trying to reach her, but Daisy won’t call her back.”

  “I know. I think Daisy’s both horrified and embarrassed by all the publicity.”

  Lara wiped her fingers on her napkin. “Have you talked to her?”

  “Yes, but only on the phone. She’s worried she might need a criminal attorney. She called me late yesterday and asked for a referral.”

  “You gave her one, right?”

  “I did.” He stabbed his fork into a fat fry. “A woman in Manchester. She’s a powerhouse. She’ll do right by Daisy, if it comes to that. Let’s pray it doesn’t.”

  Lara groaned. “But it’s not just Daisy, Gid. This is killing Sherry, too.” She picked at a crisp bacon slice sticking out from the edge of her sandwich.

  Gideon took another sip of his ale. “Maybe they should close the restaurant for a few more days? It would give them both time to regroup.”

  “Yeah, but it would be really bad for business if they did that. Plus, I’m not sure they can afford to shut down for that long. And why should they? Wouldn’t that be like an admission of guilt?”

  “You’re preaching to the choir, Lara. I don’t know how to answer that.”

  Lara reached over and squeezed his wrist. She caught a glimpse of his Superman watch, which always gave her a chuckle. Gideon entwined his fingers with hers for a moment, then they finished their meal in silence.

  It gave her comfort simply to be here with him. Somehow, he managed to add joy to her day, even when she was feeling low.

  The decibel level in the pub had risen. A basketball game was broadcasting on the TV above the bar. Patrons sitting at the polished bar che
ered one moment and jeered the next. It was making Lara’s head throb.

  “Sorry. I didn’t know it would be so noisy in here tonight,” Gideon said.

  “It’s fine, honestly.” Lara pushed aside her plate, hoping they could leave soon.

  “Forgot to tell you,” Gideon said. “I had a nice chat with Uncle Amico today. Naturally he asked for you. Ever since he met you, you’ve been the light of his life.”

  Gideon’s uncle Amico lived in a nearby assisted living facility. Lara had met him during the summer. He was a charming, delightful gent who was inching into his nineties. She’d known him only a short time when he’d given her a vital clue in the murder of a local car salesman.

  “I hope we can pay him a visit before Christmas,” Lara said. “I love that sweet old guy.”

  Gideon looked up from his empty plate, which he’d pushed aside. His brown eyes twinkled at her. “There’s popcorn at my place,” he said teasingly. “We can settle in with a big bowl and watch one of the old holiday classics. I think A Christmas Carol is on at nine. It’s the 1951 version, your favorite.”

  Lara was impressed that he remembered that. She’d mentioned only once that Alastair Sim was her favorite Scrooge.

  “Hmm,” she said. “I do have a bit of a crush on old Ebenezer. But popcorn? After all this food?”

  Gideon shrugged. His smile faded a bit. “Okay, then. Just the movie. And if my company gets too boring, we can always go next door and borrow Mrs. Appleton’s cat. I’m sure Muffin would love to spend an evening lounging in your lap.”

  Something about his tone sent a shard of alarm through Lara. After all the months they’d been dating, why did he think she’d find him boring? Had something gotten under his skin that she wasn’t aware of?

  Adopting a cheery voice, she said, “Okay, Gid, now you’re just being—”

  “Counselor Halley.”

  A heavyset man with thick white hair had come up behind Gideon. Clad in a black wool coat, a tartan scarf draped around his neck, he clamped a hand on Gideon’s shoulder.

  Gideon turned and looked up, a smile creasing his handsome features. “Andrew Casteel, as I live and breathe. How are you, buddy?” He rose from his chair and shook the man’s outstretched hand.

  “Oh, not bad for an old teacher.” Casteel’s gaze drifted over to Lara.

  “Andy, this is Lara Caphart,” Gideon said, beaming at her. “Lara, this is Andy Casteel, principal extraordinaire at Whisker Jog High. Also, a favorite client of mine.”

  Lara took the man’s proffered hand. It was smooth to the touch and well-groomed. “Pleased to meet you, Andy.”

  “The pleasure is mine, I assure you. Gideon, I’ll be making an appointment with you after the holidays. It’s time to update my estate plan. I lost my younger brother last year, and I’m starting to rethink how I want to do things.”

  “Oh gosh, sorry to hear that, Andy,” Gideon said quietly. “Call me any time, and we’ll set up a date.”

  Casteel apologized for interrupting their meal, wished them both a happy holiday, and then wove his way through a throng of patrons and headed toward the entryway.

  “Nice guy,” Gideon said, signaling their server for the check. “I’m guessing he’s getting ready to retire and wants to put things in order.”

  “How long has he been the principal at Whisker Jog High?” Lara asked.

  “Let’s see, eighteen or nineteen years?”

  “I noticed he was dining alone,” Lara said. “Is he married?”

  “He was, but he and his wife had kind of a sad breakup. It was recent, too. They separated after decades of marriage. Andy doesn’t talk about it, and I don’t ask.”

  “Oh wow, that is sad.” Lara shoved her arms into the sleeves of her jacket. Gideon went over and helped her pull it up over her shoulders. “Isn’t it odd that he didn’t mention what happened at the school on Saturday?”

  “No, not really. I’m sure the police have been in touch with him, though. He’s probably been cautioned not to talk about it.”

  Lara told him what the man in the veterinarian’s office had related to her, about the principal protecting Miss Plouffe even after all the complaints the school had received about her.

  Gideon pulled his wallet from his pocket. “I’m treating tonight. You treated last time.”

  “Got it. Thank you.” She tucked her scarf around her neck. “So, what do you think about Miss Plouffe and the principal?”

  Gideon paused and looked at her. “Well, I certainly don’t think they were an item, if that’s what you’re implying. I had a private chat with Chief Whitley this morning. According to him, Gladys Plouffe was a known loner. She lived alone, had no pets that anyone knew of, no family left. If you’re thinking she was blackmailing him over something, I can’t imagine what it could’ve been. I’ve never heard anyone utter a word against Andy.”

  But there had to be something, Lara thought. She didn’t want to press Gideon on it. Casteel was his friend, as well as his client. Even if Gideon knew something, he’d be bound by confidentiality not to disclose it.

  Truth be told, she was a little annoyed at the way Gideon had introduced her to the man. She’d expected him to add “my significant other” or “my girlfriend” to the introduction, but he’d said neither. Not that Lara was crazy about either term. Significant other sounded clichéd, and girlfriend seemed juvenile. Still, it bothered her. Just a tiny bit.

  “Gideon,” she said suddenly, “what do you want for Christmas?”

  Gideon’s eyes widened, and in their depths Lara saw a thousand twinkling stars. He reached over and took her left hand in his. “Do you really want to know?”

  Chapter 13

  Lara had lain awake for a long time before drifting into a troubled sleep Monday night. Everything seemed to be happening at once—Miss Plouffe’s demise, the letter in the library book, her relationship with Gideon reaching critical mass.

  Or had it?

  Over the summer their romance had cruised along steadily. Despite their busy schedules, they’d squeezed in bike rides, picnics at Squam Lake, and lazy nights curled in front of Gideon’s TV with his vintage air conditioner blasting so loud they could barely hear each other speak. The memories made Lara’s heart curl into a protective ball.

  Lately, she’d sensed a change. It was almost imperceptible, but it was there—Gideon seemed restless, less sure of himself. Not because he was pulling away, but because he wanted to move closer. Lara felt the same, but she wanted it to happen at a slower pace. Gideon seemed to be revving up, while she’d been tapping her foot on the brake.

  She couldn’t think about it now. Sherry had texted her late the night before. She and Daisy intended to open the coffee shop this morning, regardless of the consequences.

  After performing her usual cat duties—which included peeling Valenteena off her thigh about twelve times as she prepared the food bowls—she dressed and headed outside into the brisk morning.

  By the time she pushed open the door to the coffee shop, her cheeks stung from the cold and her fingertips felt like icicles.

  “You look frozen,” Sherry said without a smile. She poured a mug of coffee for Lara and set it down in front of her usual counter seat.

  “What the heck happened? It’s close to zero today!” Lara loosened her scarf.

  “We’re in the deep freeze now,” Sherry said. “Weather guy on TV said it’s going to be like this through the week. You want a cinnamon-chip muffin?”

  “You bet I do. I can smell them already.” Lara leaned forward and spoke quietly. “How’s your mom today?”

  “The same. We both decided we couldn’t afford to stay closed any longer. We don’t need bankruptcy on top of everything else,” she added on a bitter note.

  “Any word from the police?” Lara asked, glancing around. Three tables in the dining area were occupied
, and two workers from the power company were hunkered over their bacon and eggs at the opposite end of the counter.

  “Far as we know, they’re still doing tests on that blasted cookie. I’m, like, ready to run away from home like I did when I was nine.”

  Lara smiled. “I remember that. All over a CD your mom refused to buy you because of its objectionable lyrics.”

  “Yeah, those were the days, right?” Her face darkened. One of the men sitting at the counter raised his mug at her. “Coming,” she said, grabbing the coffeepot.

  Lara waited for a lull, then told Sherry about running into Loretta at the veterinarian’s office the day before.

  “So, she admitted being at the school Saturday?” Sherry’s face twisted into a scowl. “What’s her gig, Lara? Why is she trying to look like Mom?”

  Lara took a long sip of her coffee. “Honestly, I don’t know. But don’t read too much into it. It could be simple admiration for Daisy’s style.”

  A pained looked pinched Sherry’s features. “Should I talk to David about it? I mean, I know he’s noticed it. No one could be that oblivious.”

  Inwardly, Lara groaned. “Sher, I really hate to advise you on that. I don’t know either Loretta or David well enough.”

  Sherry held up a finger. She popped through the swinging door into the kitchen and returned with Lara’s muffin. She plunked it down in front of her with a clang.

  Lara broke off a piece and slid it into her mouth. The cinnamon lingered there, spicy and warm and fragrant.

  Sherry looked around the coffee shop, then bent over the counter closer to Lara. “Okay, I’m going to hit you up for a favor. If I approach Loretta and ask her if we can have a chat about it, would you be willing to go with me? Maybe we could ask her to meet us somewhere. Or we could ask her to come here some day after the coffee shop closes?”

  Neither prospect thrilled Lara. In fact, she’d rather shampoo her hair with an army of fire ants than confront Loretta. Still, she’d do it for Sherry. It was the least her friend deserved. “If you can set something up, I’ll be glad to go with you. Remember, though, our classics book club meets here tomorrow, so maybe not until Thursday?”