Claws of Death Read online

  That job done, she made some preliminary sketches of the scene behind Deanna’s mansion—in particular, the wildflowers. She hadn’t recognized most of the varieties, but bright purples and yellows had been prominent. She didn’t recall seeing any Queen Anne’s Lace. She and Kayla had been in such a hurry to help the kittens that she hadn’t taken the time to look.

  Shortly before three, Kayla returned with her charges. Both mom and kitten had been pronounced healthy and ready for adoption. Kayla and Lara agreed that Kayla would work on Friday that week, then they’d plan her schedule for the following week.

  Aunt Fran returned from her lunch date a little after three. She tried to look subdued, but the sparkle in her eyes was unmistakable. Lara was happy for her. Chief Whitley was a good man, even if he was clueless about cats.

  She was putting away her sketch pencils when her cell pinged with a text.

  Feel like eating at the clam place tonight? 6:30 pick-up?

  Lara’s arms tingled, and she felt her mouth curve into a grin. Gideon had discovered a nameless little outdoor shack in Tamworth that served the most delectable fried clams she’d ever tasted. Open only from June through September, the place had been mobbed both times they’d eaten there. Seating was haphazard; customers either had to nab one of the picnic tables behind the shack or eat in their cars. Nobody seemed to mind—the clams were that good.

  Lara texted back.

  I’ll be ready!

  She suddenly felt like a schoolgirl again. She hadn’t had a crush on someone since…well, she couldn’t even think that far back. If reconnecting with her aunt and starting the shelter had felt like a wish granted, seeing Gideon again had been the frosting on the cake. He was smart, funny, kind—and yes, she had to admit, he was a bit on the gorgeous side.

  After telling Aunt Fran her plans, she hurried through a shower, then put on her pink-and-white striped T-shirt and her favorite hot pink shorts. She scooped her curly hair into a twisty bun and secured it at the back of her neck with a claw clip.

  Ready to roll, she thought.

  She was grabbing her phone off her nightstand when she spotted Blue resting on the foot of her bed. One dark forepaw curled beneath her, the fluffy Ragdoll cat blinked twice, then closed her eyes.

  “I’m happy I’m seeing him, too,” Lara murmured.

  Chapter 9

  The broiling heat of the day had subsided to a comfy eighty degrees. Under a blue sky and a canopy of fir trees, Lara and Gideon had managed to snag the last picnic table behind the shack.

  After devouring a large order of fried clams and a heaping mound of onion rings, Gideon groaned and rubbed his stomach. “Is it even possible that I ate that entire basket of whole-belly clams? Why didn’t you stop me after the first two dozen?”

  Lara laughed. “I don’t think you ate quite two dozen, although you did snitch my last one,” she pointed out.

  “Snitched? Hey, I asked you, and you said you weren’t going to eat it.” He looked over at an imaginary judge. “What was I supposed to do, your honor, leave it for the squirrels?” He grinned, and a lock of straight black hair fell over his forehead. Lara resisted the urge to push it back into place.

  “Did you ever figure out the name of this place?” she asked instead.

  He shrugged, his smile like the glow of a thousand candles, his gaze like melted chocolate. It made Lara’s insides go all squiggly. “Nah, but I think it’s better this way. Preserves the mystique, right? Like being part of a secret club.”

  “Anyway, you were telling me earlier about your uncle Amico. He finally went into the assisted living place?”

  Gideon wiped his lips with his napkin and crumpled it over his paper plate. “It took some cajoling, but he’s in a good place now. It wasn’t safe for him to stay alone anymore. I’m going to start cleaning out his place to get it ready for sale.”

  “I remember him from when I was a kid,” Lara said. “I used to ride my bike past his house. I’d see him in the yard, tending his flowers and tomatoes. He always waved. Seemed like such a sweet man.”

  “You got that right. Luckily, they have a community garden at the facility. He has his own plot, and— Hey, want to stop there on the way home? It’s only a few miles out of the way. My uncle would love to see you.”

  “He would?”

  “Oh gosh, yes.” Gideon bit his lip, then cautiously added, “You know, I told him about Donald Waitt, how you spotted his body in the cemetery. I think the name rang a bell with him. Uncle Amico worked at the high school back then. He was the janitor. These days they’d call him a custodial technician, but back then it was plain old janitor.”

  “Really?” Lara’s interest was even further piqued.

  They wrapped up their trash and tossed it into the oversized barrel adjacent to the shack. Fifteen minutes later, Gideon swung his sedan into the driveway of the one-story brick building where his uncle lived.

  Lush shrubs along the front of the facility, along with a row of hanging petunias above the front porch, gave the place a homey look. Two senior gents sat on the porch, their chairs rocking almost in unison. They tipped their ball caps at Lara and she waved to them.

  Gideon guided Lara through the front entrance. They went over to the sign-in desk. No one was around, so Gideon scribbled their names on a sheet attached to a clipboard.

  “Are you sure it’s okay to visit this late?” Lara asked. “It’s almost eight o’clock.”

  “Absolutely. The receptionist leaves at seven, but they don’t lock the doors until nine.” He placed his hand lightly on Lara’s waist, and she felt a tingle where his fingers touched her.

  They strode down a central hallway. Generic prints of New Hampshire landmarks adorned the walls along the corridor. At the end of the hallway, they hung a left. Gideon pointed to his uncle’s room two doors down.

  The door to the elderly man’s room was partway open. Gideon tapped his knuckles lightly on the door. “Hey, Uncle, you up for a couple of visitors?”

  Lara peeked into the room, where a man of at least ninety sat slumped in a recliner. His head was completely bald, save for a few white wisps above his ears. His deeply lined face was dotted with age spots. At the sound of Gideon’s voice, his eyes jerked wide open. “Gideon! My Lordy, it’s good to see you. Well don’t just stand there, boy. Come in, come in.”

  Gideon took Lara’s hand and she followed him into the room. The tile floor was covered by a braided rug that had seen better days—or decades. In one corner was an antique oak bureau with a badly silvered mirror. A sagging sofa covered in worn brown velvet rested against one wall. On a low table was a flat screen TV tuned to an old war movie, the sound muted. The remote was on the floor next to the man’s recliner.

  “I brought a friend with me this time, Uncle Amico.” Gideon’s smile was so genuine it made Lara’s throat hurt. He released Lara’s hand and took his uncle’s gnarled hands in his own. “This is Lara Caphart. She grew up in Whisker Jog. She remembers you puttering in your garden when she was a kid.”

  Gideon’s uncle dropped his jaw to his chest. Through filmy gray eyes he gawked unabashedly at Lara. “My, my, and what a darlin’ friend she is. Lana, did you say?”

  “Lara.” She bent and squeezed the man’s veiny hand. “I honestly do remember your garden, especially the tomatoes. I was always tempted to steal one and bring it home for my mom to put in a salad.”

  Uncle Amico laughed heartily. “Girl, I’d have loved it if you did that. So, tell me about yourself.”

  Lara and Gideon sat together on the sofa, and Lara regaled the man with bits of her past—which, in her view, was as scintillating as watching grass grow. But Gideon’s uncle hung on her every word, his eyes brighter than when they’d first arrived. When she described the cats in the shelter, his eyes filled with tears.

  “I still miss my Gracie,” he said with a loud sniffle. “She pas
sed right before I came here. I wanted another cat, but they don’t allow pets here. Weird thing, though. Sometimes I’d swear she’s sitting right here in my lap. I can almost hear her purr, you know?” He waved a hand. “Ah, don’t mind me. I’m a crazy old man.”

  Lara swallowed. “That doesn’t sound crazy to me. I think Gracie is with you.”

  “On another note,” Uncle Amico said, after sucking in a long sniffle, “Gideon tells me it was your sharp eyes that spotted that dead man in the cemetery a coupla days ago.”

  Sharp eyes, prodded by a spirit cat, Lara thought. “It was really accidental. I happened to look out the window and saw his…body.”

  “Donald Waitt,” Uncle Amico said. His face grew animated. “Name dinged a bell, so I started thinking about it. Played high school football in the sixties, right?”

  Lara looked at Gideon, who shrugged. “That goes pretty far back, Uncle. Neither of us was even around back then.” He winked at Lara.

  “True, true.” The old man rubbed his jaw. “Wish I could think…” He shook his head and frowned.

  “You must have a great memory, Uncle Amico—is it okay if I call you that?” Lara asked.

  “You call me anything you’d like, Lara.” He tapped at his right eye with his fingers, and his frown deepened.

  “He has a phenomenal memory,” Gideon said, then leaned forward. “You okay, Uncle? Is your eye bothering you?”

  Uncle Amico pulled his hand away from his face. “No, I’m fine. Just trying to remember something. Tough when the brain gets old. It’s like oatmeal that’s been sittin’ in the cooker too long.”

  They chatted for a few minutes longer, but the old gent became too distracted to carry on a conversation. When his uncle’s eyelids lowered to half-mast, Gideon rose from the sofa and went over to him. “Hey, Uncle, it was great to see you. We’ll come back soon, okay?” He leaned over and kissed his uncle’s cheek. Lara’s heart soared at the tender gesture.

  “We sure will,” Lara confirmed. “Is there anything we can bring you next time?”

  His eyes half-closed, Uncle Amico smiled. “Tell you what. You bring me a nice homemade blueberry buckle, and I’ll give you the first tomato from my new garden.”

  “You got it!” Lara promised, having no idea what a buckle was or how to make one. She gave the man a hug, and he kissed her hand.

  “Don’t be a stranger, young lady.”

  “I won’t.”

  When they were back in Gideon’s car, Lara thought about everything they’d talked about. Had Uncle Amico remembered something important about Donald Waitt? He’d talked about the sixties—ancient history to Lara. But it was the 1960s when Deanna and Donald had known each other.

  Lara smiled and began thinking about blueberry buckle. “I’m going to bake that buckle for your uncle,” she told Gideon.

  Gideon grinned. “I knew you would. Thank you, sweetie.”

  Sweetie. Had he ever called her that before?

  Either way, she decided she liked it.

  Chapter 10

  Lara sighed and waved to Gideon as he pulled out of the driveway. He’d wanted to linger a bit longer, but she’d begged off, insisting she had some administrative tasks to finish up before calling it a night. The truth was that she was a coward—afraid that her feelings for Gideon, and his for her, were growing at too alarming a rate.

  She didn’t want to think about that now, not with everything else that was going on.

  Under a sky glittering with stars, Lara turned toward the house. She climbed the porch steps slowly, breathing in the heady scent of newly mown grass. A part of her felt happy, and yet… How could she be content knowing a murderer was still out there? The killer had struck too close to home for Lara to feel safe. She also had an aunt to worry about, as well as a house full of cats.

  And what about Deanna? How safe was she, alone in the mansion with Nancy Sherman? The housekeeper clearly had a disdain for cats. That didn’t make her a murderer, but Lara still wondered about her. Thank heaven Deanna had known enough to move the kittens out of the first room and into her own bedroom. It was the future that worried Lara.

  Aunt Fran had left the kitchen door unlocked—something Lara would have to talk to her about. Until Donald Waitt’s killer was caught, neither of them could be too careful.

  Munster and Frankie greeted her the moment she stepped inside, circling her ankles likes horses around a carousel. She locked the deadbolt, then lifted Frankie into her arms. “Oh, Frankie, what are we going to do about Hesty? Everyone says he’s perfect for you, but I’m still not sure.” She kissed him on the snout, and he squirmed to get down.

  Lara freshened the cats’ food and water bowls. Aunt Fran had left a small light on in the kitchen, a sign that she’d retired to bed early and was leaving things in Lara’s hands. Lara suspected her aunt had made herself scarce in case Lara had wanted to invite Gideon inside.

  After making quick work of litter box scooping, Lara went upstairs to her room. Frankie made a beeline for Aunt Fran’s door, which hung partway open. No doubt he would spend the night on her aunt’s bed, along with Dolce and Twinkles.

  When Lara had first moved in that past November, two calico siblings—Pickles and Izzy—had been her nightly sleeping companions. Then a week after the shelter officially opened, a young woman who owned a lighting shop had adopted them into her life. Lara missed them terribly, especially at night, but was thrilled they’d found their forever home.

  Lara glanced over at the corner cat tree she’d recently installed in her room. Now that the house was an official shelter, she thought it was high time they added more accoutrements for the cats. The kitties who used the carpeted tree still preferred the one in the large parlor. But one night several weeks ago, Lara had awakened to see Ballou staring at her from the top perch, his eyes shining in the moonlit room. It startled and delighted her, but she hadn’t dared move. In the morning, he was gone, no doubt back under her bed. Baby steps, she told herself.

  She unclipped her hair and let it fall to her shoulders. These days she was keeping it shorter, thanks to Kellie at Kurl-me-Klassy. Lara smiled when she recalled how miffed the stylist had been with her the prior October, when she’d thought Lara had accused a close friend of murder. After the real murderer had been caught, the misunderstanding between them had been quickly erased. Kellie was a friend, now, and the best hair stylist in town.

  Lara undressed and threw on a sleeveless nightshirt. She turned on the window fan, then grabbed her tablet and plunked down on her bed. Munster hopped up next to her and batted a paw at the screen.

  “If you want to Google something, you’ll have to wait your turn,” Lara told him. She kissed the top of his head. “I’ve got some peeps I want to check out.”

  She plunked Nancy Sherman’s name into the search pane, groaning when she got about sixty-four thousand hits. She glanced at a few of the links, but saw right away that they weren’t going to help. Next she tried narrowing the results by adding the words “New Hampshire” to the search. That didn’t help either.

  The expression on Kayla’s face when she’d first seen the housekeeper still nagged at Lara. Though Kayla later denied it, Lara would’ve have sworn Kayla had recognized the woman.

  She decided to go back to searching Donald Waitt’s name. He was the victim, which meant he had at least one enemy. Although her earlier search of his name had yielded next to nothing, she remembered Gideon’s uncle saying that Waitt had played high school football in the 1960s. This time, she Googled his name using different combinations, including the words “high school football.”

  Nothing significant popped up. The combinations brought up by the search engine didn’t help with what she’d been hoping to find.

  Lara yawned, a sudden wave of fatigue washing over her. Her eyes were burning. Maybe she should save this for morning. Her brain wasn’t exactly firing on al
l cylinders.

  She rubbed her eyes and moved on to something easy, something she hoped might yield the results she was looking for.

  Blueberry buckle.

  Chapter 11

  On Thursday Aunt Fran rose early and whipped up Belgian waffles for breakfast.

  “I don’t know why I didn’t think of making these before,” she said, swabbing her last bite of waffle through a puddle of maple syrup. “When you were a kid, I made them for you every Sunday.”

  Lara licked a blob of whipped cream off her lips. “Today’s Thursday, but I’ll take them any time. And thanks for remembering. These were scrumptious.”

  Aunt Fran set down her fork and pushed aside her empty plate. “Lara, we need to call Curtis Heston today about Frankie. His granddaughter called twice last evening when you were out. She knows that his references checked out, because she followed up on them.”

  “I know,” Lara said. “I just…” She shook her head. There was no way she could explain—not without sounding like a crackpot.

  “You just what?” Aunt Fran’s tone was uncharacteristically stern. “I’ve never seen you behave this way, Lara. You need to tell me why you object to this adoption.”

  “It’s a feeling, Aunt Fran. I don’t know how to explain it any better than that.”

  Her aunt looked down at the feline in question, who was meandering toward them as if he knew they were talking about him. Frankie sprang onto her lap and rubbed his head against her arm. She hugged him to her chest and sighed. “I had a feeling you’d say that, so I had another thought. Why don’t you do a pop-in today? Stop over at Hesty’s without letting him know you’re coming. If something still doesn’t sit right with you, we’ll talk about it. Otherwise—”

  “Otherwise Frankie is his. No further questions,” Lara agreed.

  Today was Kayla’s off day, so Lara performed the usual feline duties. She thought about how much she’d enjoyed being with their new assistant the day before. Despite the stressful trip to Deanna’s, she’d felt a kinship with the young woman.