Читать книгу Escape Claws - Linda Reilly - Страница 12

Chapter 4

Lara sipped from a steaming mug of mint tea, her brain still trying to delete the vision of Theo Barnes’s bloodied head.

“I need you to focus, Ms. Caphart.” Chief Jerry Whitley’s gruff tone made her jump a little. He sat at her aunt’s kitchen table, adjacent to where Lara was hunkered in one of the padded chrome chairs. “You still haven’t explained why you touched the deceased’s body if you already knew he was dead.”

Stay calm. Don’t get rattled, Lara told herself. “I’m sorry, Chief Whitley, but you’re wrong. I did explain it, at least three times.” She couldn’t help getting touchy, even if it did cast a shadow of suspicion on her. Why did he keep asking the same question? Was he trying to get her to change her story? Entrap her into confessing?

“I could tell he was dead,” she said evenly, “because his head was facing sideways. I saw his eyes. They were—” She swallowed hard. They were dead eyes, she wanted to say. “They were open and staring. It didn’t look, you know, natural. And yet—in case I was wrong, I wanted to see if there was any sign of life.”

A hand the size of a catcher’s mitt flipped to a new page in a tattered blue notebook. “So you went over to the victim and pressed a finger…?” The chief pulled off his cheaters and imitated the gesture, placing one thick finger at his own throat. “A finger to the victim’s carotid artery? Why not two fingers?”

Lara felt like snatching up his blue notebook and drop-kicking it into the next room. First of all, she didn’t want to admit that she had a phobia about dead bodies. The one time she’d had to attend a wake, she’d stayed in the back of the room, as far from the casket as she could manage. “Listen, Chief Whitley, maybe they use two fingers on TV, but I’m not a medical professional. I didn’t want to touch him any more than I had to. What difference does it make how many fingers I used?”

The chief regarded her for a long moment, and then, “And you’re sure you didn’t move the murder weapon? Maybe set it aside to get a closer look at the victim?”

Okay, now he was trying to trick her. “As I’ve said several times, I did not see a murder weapon. I do not know what the murder weapon was, nor do I know how the poor man died. I’m afraid I’ll have to leave that to you professionals to determine.” She looked him straight in the eye, but he only stared right back with a granite gaze.

“This is ridiculous, Jerry,” Aunt Fran interjected. “Lara didn’t even know Theo. I’ll thank you to stop badgering my niece right now.” Her tone was more bluster than bite, but it seemed to work its magic.

Whitley closed his notebook with an audible snap. “That’s all I need for now, Ms. Caphart. You’ll no doubt be hearing from us again. And while I don’t have any right to detain you, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t leave town. Not without contacting us first.” He scraped back his chair and rose, shifting his attention to Aunt Fran. “The state crime scene techs will be sectioning off a big chunk of your property, Fran. No one is to cross those lines. Not for any reason.”

Aunt Fran nodded. “We understand.”

The sound of a vehicle turning around at the end of High Cliff Road caught Lara’s attention. Through the kitchen window, she spied the Carroll County medical examiner’s white van. It cruised slowly past the house, heading toward the main drag.

Aunt Fran sagged in her chair after the chief left. “Oh, Lara, how did this happen? Who could have done such an awful thing?”

Lara couldn’t help shooting a glance at her aunt’s cane, which was propped against the table between them. One of the prongs was coated in dirt—dirt that had apparently dried overnight. Why had Aunt Fran gone outside last night? Was it before or after Barnes had been killed?

“I don’t know, Aunt Fran. The police will have to figure that out. Do you think you can swallow a little breakfast? I thought I’d make us some oatmeal.”

“That sounds good,” she said. “There’s a package of English muffins in the freezer. You can thaw a few, if you’d like.”

Lara went through the motions of preparing breakfast, but her appetite had taken a direct hit. Her discovery of Barnes’s body was giving her stomach a bad case of the jitters.

Aunt Fran sat quietly, a distant look in her eyes. The worry lines etched on her face seemed even deeper this morning.

After splitting an English muffin with her aunt and gulping back a few spoonfuls of oatmeal, Lara went to work scooping and freshening the litter boxes. She persuaded Aunt Fran to rest in her room while she vacuumed through the downstairs. Blue had yet to reappear, but Izzy and Pickles—the only cats who hadn’t fled at the sound of the vacuum—had a grand old time wrestling with the hose as it wound around the edges of the furniture. Their antics lifted Lara’s spirits a bit. When she was through, she gave them each a sound kiss on their respective snouts. She then hunted down a new vacuum-cleaner bag. She felt sure that the current one was now packed with forty or fifty pounds of cat hair.

Lara was pulling a vacuum-cleaner bag out of the walk-in supply closet when she spied a new feline face watching her from the doorway. His coat was shiny and black, and his perfectly symmetrical white mustache gave him a slightly comical look. The tip of his right ear was missing.

Lara grinned. “I know who you are,” she said in a soft, singsong voice. “You’re Ballou, aren’t you.”

The cat’s eyes widened. For a moment Lara thought he would bolt. When he stayed put, she very slowly reached out a hand to him. Ballou dipped his head toward her outstretched fingers, but his paws stayed rooted in place.

A sudden noise above Lara’s head startled them both. Ballou turned and fled with the speed of a jet.

Lara dropped everything and raced upstairs, terrified that her aunt might have fallen. She dashed toward her aunt’s room, the door to which was open. Lara rushed in and found Aunt Fran sitting on the edge of her bed, her head in her hands.

“What’s wrong, Aunt Fran? Are you hurt?” Lara slipped an arm around her aunt’s thin shoulders.

“No, I… I’m fine,” her aunt said, her face suddenly flushed. “I was trying to reach a box in the back of my closet, but my arm wasn’t quite long enough and the silly thing tipped over.”

Lara glanced over at her aunt’s closet. The door was wide open. A gold-speckled box had toppled to the closet floor, spilling part of its contents. Lara went over and started to scoop up the envelopes that had fallen from the box.

“Wait! I’ll get those,” Aunt Fran said, waving her hands urgently. “Leave them right where they are, Lara.”

Lara stopped short at her aunt’s sharp tone, her hand inches from an envelope she was sure she’d seen her own name on. Had she detected a hint of panic in her aunt’s voice? Slowly, she got to her feet. “Um, sorry, Aunt Fran. I was only trying to help.”

Her aunt looked pained. “I know you were, Lara. But there are some things I need to do myself.” She smiled, her green eyes glistening. “Listen, you’ve had a rough morning. Why don’t you take a break and go to the coffee shop to visit with Sherry? I know she’d love to see you.”

“Will you come with?” Lara asked her.

“No, you go without me today. I need to sit and think about some things.” Her expression darkened. “Theo’s body was found at the edge of my property, Lara. That troubles me deeply. I want to give some thought to who could have done such a horrible thing.”

“It is bizarre,” Lara agreed. “On the other hand, I can’t help thinking that Barnes must have made more than an enemy or two in his day.” She gave her aunt a flat smile. “The man didn’t exactly impress me as a good-will ambassador.”

Her aunt’s gaze grew distant. “I can think of only one person Theo truly loved—his niece, Mary. She was the young woman sitting at the book-club table yesterday.”

An image of the attractive brunette flitted through Lara’s mind. She recalled Theo touching the woman’s cheek with affection, right before he kissed the other woman’s hand and then barked something into the older man’s ear. “Oh, that’s sad, then. I didn’t realize they were related.”

“Mary’s adoptive mother, Elena, was Theo’s sister,” her aunt explained. “Elena died several years ago from uterine cancer.” Aunt Fran patted Lara’s knee. “You go ahead. Don’t worry about me. Why don’t you leave your cell number on the kitchen table in case I need to call you?”

“Sounds like a plan.” Lara kissed her aunt’s cheek and trotted downstairs. She located a piece of paper, jotted down her cell number, and left it on the kitchen table. There was no sign of Ballou, but Munster sidled over and rubbed against her leg. Lara reached down, scooped up the kitty, and kissed his furry head with a noisy smack. “I’ll be back soon, I promise,” she told him.

After plunking another kiss on Munster’s soft white whiskers, she set him on the floor, grabbed her flowered tote, and tucked her phone in one of the pockets. Outside, a state police car sat parked in her aunt’s driveway, directly behind Lara’s rental car. She couldn’t help wondering if they’d blocked her car on purpose. Too bad for them if they did, she thought. The coffee shop was only a six- or seven-minute walk from her aunt’s.

The door to the state vehicle swung open without warning. A sturdy, middle-aged woman who looked about forty hopped out and stepped in front of Lara. “Ma’am?” she said, one carefully plucked eyebrow rising to her crisp hairline. Her uniform was dark green, pressed to perfection, and her steady gaze was somewhat intimidating. “I believe you were asked not to leave the premises?”

Lara gave the woman a smile that she hoped looked benevolent. “Actually, Officer, it was suggested—and it was only a suggestion—that I not leave town. Besides, I’m only heading down the street to the coffee shop. My friend and her mom own it. Have a nice day.” She stepped around the officer and marched toward the road, half expecting the woman to run after her and whip her around by the arm. When neither happened, Lara turned and waved at her. The trooper, stone-faced, only stared back.

On her way to the coffee shop, a twinge of guilt poked at Lara. The state trooper was only doing her job—a tough job, at that—and Lara had been a tad sarcastic. But honestly, the woman could’ve cracked a smile, couldn’t she? Even a half smile would have sufficed.

In spite of the October breeze that chilled Lara’s cheeks, the sun was casting pale, golden rays from an azure sky. Sugar maples lined the main drag, their leaves dry and faded. They rustled overhead with soft, soothing sounds.

She passed some of Whisker Jog’s oldest homes, including Hendricks House, a once-elegant restaurant. A large sign on the lawn announced that it was now a holistic massage practice.

Although Lara loved her hectic neighborhood on Boston’s popular Hanover Street, with its bakeries and restaurants and ever-present pigeons, it felt good to be back in Whisker Jog. She wished desperately she hadn’t been the one to find Barnes’s body. If only she hadn’t gone searching for Blue, she’d never have spotted that red-and-black-checkered jacket.

Lara tucked her tiger-striped scarf more tightly around her neck. It was the favorite of all her scarves, and she was glad she’d remembered to pack it. She was almost at the coffee shop when she realized she was walking past the local beauty salon. Kurl-me-Klassy, the lettering on the glass front window announced. She sneaked a peek through the glass. A young stylist with crimson hair was snipping away at the curly gray head of a woman who looked at least eighty. Both spotted Lara looking in. They waved at her and smiled.

Lara returned the greeting and moved on. Even before she pulled open the glass door to the coffee shop, she could see that the place was bustling. She recognized some of the official-looking types from the crime scene. She also spied Daisy, moving at warp speed as she delivered steaming plates to a table of diners.

From behind the counter, Sherry spotted her instantly. “Lara!” she called over the din of chattering customers.

Lara stepped toward the counter, the ambient warmth in the coffee shop wrapping around her. She went over to the only unoccupied stool, on which rested a velvety-brown homburg. Next to that sat an elderly gent whose bald head sprouted long white tufts. “Is this seat taken?” she asked, indicating the hat. She gave him a pleasant smile.

He did not smile back. “That’s Herbie’s seat,” he answered gruffly. “He’s been sitting there every day for thirty-seven years.”

Sherry looked wide-eyed at Lara, giving a rapid little shake of her head. Lara got the message: don’t ask questions. Sherry held up a finger, the tip of which was painted glowing orange, then scurried around the edge of the counter. She marched over to Lara. “It’s like a mob scene here today,” she said, darting her gaze all around. She clamped her neon-tipped fingers onto Lara’s arm. “Lara, what happened this morning? Everyone’s saying Theo Barnes was murdered, and that you found the body!”

“He was,” Lara said quietly. “And I did find the…body. But I have no idea what happened to him, or who did it. Sherry, listen, I can come back later. I can tell you guys are really slammed today.”

“No! You have to stay.” Sherry shot her gaze all around the coffee shop. Still clutching Lara’s arm in a grip worthy of a wrestler, she tugged her friend over to a table at which a young woman and a fortysomething man were hunched over cream-colored mugs. The woman was crying into a crumpled tissue. Lara recognized her as one of the book club members from the day before.

“Mary Newman, Chris Newman.” Sherry jabbed a finger at each one as she recited their names. “This is my best friend in the whole world, Lara Caphart. She’s going to sit with you today, okay?” Using two hands, she shoved Lara down into one of the vacant chairs. “I’ll bring you coffee in a jiffykins, Lara. Hang tight.” She turned and bolted with all the grace of a roadrunner. Lara would’ve sworn she saw a tail feather float to the floor.

Lara turned to her tablemates, both of whom were staring at her as if she’d just been lowered from a spacecraft. She looped her flowered tote over the back of her chair. “Hello, it’s nice to meet you. I hope you don’t mind me joining you. Sherry kind of foisted me on you, didn’t she?” She gave out a laugh that she knew sounded nervous.

For a moment no one spoke. Then the woman, Mary, who wore a beige sweatshirt embroidered with a pumpkin patch design, said, “No, of course not.” She squashed a tissue against one watery brown eye. With her freckles, turned-up nose, and dark hair curled into a flip, she didn’t look much older than a college student. “Except…I hope you don’t mind my crying. I just can’t seem to stop.” With that, she let loose a fresh waterfall of tears.

“Theo Barnes was her uncle,” her husband explained. He stuck out a hand to Lara. “Chris Newman, in case you missed the introduction.”

Lara shook his hand. It was smooth, but the nails looked chewed to the quick. “Glad to meet you, Chris. I’m so sorry for your loss.” Technically it was Mary’s loss, but her husband, no doubt, shared her grief. With his wire-rimmed glasses and gentle brown eyes, Chris Newman put Lara in mind of a kindly pastor.

“We were all shocked at the news,” Chris quietly told Lara. “I write feature stories for the town’s weekly rag—The Whisker Gazette. I guess I’ll really have something to write about this week,” he added grimly. “Mary wants me to write her uncle’s obituary.”

“Because I know you’ll write it with sensitivity,” Mary said, pouting a little. She sucked in a stuttering sob. “Not everyone loved Uncle Theo the way I did.”

Lara remembered what Aunt Fran had said about Mary—that she was the one person Theo truly loved.

Chris stared down at the table, frowning. “Theo was not an easy man to deal with. He—”

“Here you go!” Sherry swooped in from behind and placed a steaming mug of coffee in front of Lara. With her other hand, she plonked down an oversized basket crammed with warm muffins, butter, and blueberry preserves, along with plastic knives individually wrapped in carrot-colored napkins. “These are left over from breakfast so they’re on the house, everyone. If you’d rather have lunch, let me know, okay? Enjoy!”

“Thanks, Sherry,” Lara said to her friend’s retreating form.

Chris shot a guilty look at his wife and then leaned toward Lara. “Do you know if the police have any suspects?” he asked in a low voice, reaching for an apple-cinnamon muffin.

Ah, so the reporter wanted the skinny on the murder. Lara mulled it over for a moment and then said carefully, “Not as far as I know. They didn’t tell us very much.”

“Hmm. Did they…say how he was killed?” Chris asked.

“Chris!” Mary slapped her hands over her ears. “I don’t want to hear any of that. Please stop!”

Chris’s cheeks flushed a hearty pink. “I’m sorry, honey. I didn’t mean to upset you.” He reached over and hugged his wife, pulling her close. Mary sobbed into the shoulder of his blue crewneck sweater.

“To be honest,” Lara said, “even if I knew anything, which I don’t, I’m pretty sure I’m not supposed to talk about it.” The police already had her penciled in on their suspect list. She didn’t need to antagonize them by blabbing about what she had witnessed at the crime scene.

Lara started to reach for a blueberry muffin but then snatched her hand back. The herd of gremlins that had settled in her stomach would probably stage a revolt if she tried to eat anything right now. The miniscule blob of oatmeal she’d swallowed back at her aunt’s already felt like a leaden lump weighing down her insides. Maybe she should finish her coffee and get the heck out of there.

Chris Newman patted his wife’s back, and she lifted her head from his shoulder. With a loud sniffle she snagged one of the orange napkins, unfurled it, and pressed it to her leaky eyes.

Chris pushed aside his mug and removed his wallet from his back pocket. He withdrew a business card and slid it over to Lara. “If you think of anything you can tell me, Lara, would you give me a call or a text?”

Lara stared at the card, amazed at the man’s boldness in the face of his wife’s angst. It read CHRISTOPHER NEWMAN, CPA, and beneath that, Certified Public Accountant, along with his contact info.

“I thought you were a reporter?” Lara said, slipping the card into her tote.

“Accountant by day, journalist by night,” he said, without much enthusiasm. “That is, if you call reporting on things like the town’s upcoming pumpkin festival journalism.” He shot his wife a furtive look, but Mary didn’t seem to notice.

Over the low clamor sifting through the coffee shop, a feminine voice suddenly rang out from the doorway. “Cheer up, everyone—don’t look so glum. Theo Barnes is dead!”