Читать книгу Escape Claws - Linda Reilly - Страница 9

Chapter 1

Lara Caphart paused at the foot of the wide porch steps and stared up at the old Folk Victorian. She was startled, and oddly relieved, at how little the place had changed. The white wicker settee still sat on the wraparound porch, its colorful cushions now sun faded. A hanging planter, devoid of any foliage, dangled from a metal hook in front of the green-shuttered window.

She glanced over the yard she hadn’t laid eyes on since she was eleven. The lawn was a bit unkempt, and the shrubs along the base of the porch needed tending. Lara easily recalled the days when Aunt Fran had kept everything trimmed and tidy—postcard pretty, in fact.

Heart thwacking against her chest, Lara slowly climbed the steps. Could it really be sixteen years since she’d seen her aunt? She tapped her knuckles on the wooden doorframe, lightly at first, then with a tad more vigor. After a wait of at least two minutes, the door creaked open. She took an involuntary step backward. “Aunt… Aunt Fran?” she asked with a slight gasp.

The woman clutching the doorframe in one hand and a gray-spotted kitten in the other tottered sideways. “Well, if it isn’t the prodigal niece, returning to her roots. To what do I owe the pleasure? Did someone tell you I was dying?”

All at once, Lara felt tongue-tied. She didn’t need a psychic to tell her that her aunt was in trouble. It was etched, like cut glass, in the hollows beneath her aunt’s green eyes—eyes that at one time had looked at Lara as if she were the niftiest thing since peanut butter on toast.

“No. I, um…”

“I suppose Sherry called you about my knee problems,” Fran Clarkson said, a bit more softly. “I can’t imagine why else you’d have driven all the way up here from Boston.” With a sigh and a slump of her thin shoulders, she opened the screen door. “You may as well come in.”

“Thank you.” Lara stepped inside the once-familiar kitchen, a room where luscious aromas like cinnamon, apple, and cloves once lingered in every corner. But today a sour smell permeated Lara’s senses—an odor she’d never before associated with her aunt. According to Sherry Bowker, Lara’s bestie when she was a kid, some of the folks in town had begun calling Aunt Fran the crazy cat lady.

At that moment, Lara noticed her aunt was grasping a cane in the hand that clung to the doorframe. Without a second thought, she cupped her hand firmly under her aunt’s upper arm and guided her to a padded chrome chair at the head of the Formica table. “Why don’t I take this little furball for a while?” Lara asked, gently removing the kitten from her aunt’s hand.

“Thank you,” her aunt said quietly. “That’s Cheetah you’re holding, if you’re interested.”

Lara felt herself bristling at the comment, but quelled her annoyance. “Of course I’m interested. Haven’t I always loved your cats?” All cats? She tucked Cheetah under her chin, reveling in the softness of the darling kitten.

Aunt Fran’s eyes misted with a faraway look. “That you have,” she said. “You’d best set him down now. If he starts to get antsy, which he will, you’ll get a sample of his razor-sharp claws.”

Very gently, Lara set Cheetah on the floor. The kitten scooted away toward the jumble of food bowls lined up near the sink.

“I wasn’t expecting you,” her aunt said, her tone slightly accusatory. “I suppose I could make some tea—”

Lara held up a hand. “Why don’t I take care of it, Aunt Fran? You sit for a while, okay?”

Aunt Fran nodded her assent. Lara stripped off her faux-suede jacket and draped it over the back of a chair.

It felt strange, rummaging through her aunt’s glass-front cabinets, the way she had as a child. She found the tea bags exactly where they’d always been—in a battered tin container advertising Hershey’s Cocoa.

Within minutes, two cups of steaming tea sat on the table in front of them. To Lara’s delight, a thin gray cat leaped up from under the table and onto her lap. “Oh my, and who are you?” Grinning, she stroked the cat’s head and was rewarded with the revving of a purr engine.

“That’s Bootsie.” Aunt Fran smiled wanly. “She’s Cheetah’s mom. Bootsie and her three-week-old babies were found by a state DPW worker on the side of Route Sixteen, tied inside a trash bag.” Her face darkened at the memory.

“That’s terrible!” Lara said. “How did you manage to rescue them?”

“The worker was one of my students, back in the day. He knew exactly where to bring those poor abandoned cats.”

He sure did, Lara thought.

“One of the kittens didn’t survive. But Cheetah and Lilybee were tough little darlings.”

Another cat strolled in to check out the commotion—a long-haired black kitty who made a beeline for her aunt’s lap. “And this is Dolce,” Aunt Fran said, stroking the cat.

“Which is the Italian word for sweet,” Lara piped in. “I live in the North End, above an Italian bakery. In fact, I work at the bakery part-time…in exchange for rent I can actually afford,” she added dryly. “My landlady owns the studio apartment upstairs.”

Lara knew she was babbling, but she wasn’t even close to achieving a comfort level with her aunt. There was a time when they’d been as close as mother and daughter.

“I see.” Aunt Fran stirred her tea thoughtfully. “I assume you’re still painting?”

“I am,” Lara confirmed. “Mostly watercolors.” She took a sip from her teacup.

For a long moment Aunt Fran was silent. Then, “So what are your plans? Are you here for any particular reason? Or is this just a casual visit?”

Her aunt’s tone stung. Lara swallowed back a lump. “I don’t have any plans, per se, Aunt Fran. I… I mean, Sherry did call me. She and her mom are worried about you. Extremely worried.”

Sherry Bowker and Lara had known each since childhood, from the day they entered first grade together at Whisker Jog Elementary. But the summer after Lara had completed sixth grade, her family moved away. She and Sherry were devastated—they missed each other horribly. Lara had been especially lonely, moving to an unfamiliar school in another state. The girls kept in touch by letter, and later by e-mail, until they both graduated from high school. It was during Lara’s hectic art school years that they lost the thread of communication. Then one day, about five years ago, Lara plunked her old friend’s name into a search engine and discovered that Sherry and her mom had opened a coffee shop in downtown Whisker Jog. She contacted her, and was thrilled to get an instant response. Every summer now, Sherry and her mom took a day off to drive to Boston for a lunch/shopping expedition with Lara.

Lara realized her mind was wandering. Her aunt obviously knew that she and Sherry had been in touch.

Aunt Fran’s gaze skimmed Lara’s face. Her eyes brimmed with tears. “It’s been so long since I’ve seen you. I don’t know what to think.”

Lara sucked in a hard breath. She didn’t want to cry. “I know, but I’m here now and I want to help with the cats. How many do you have?”

“Eleven. Two of the kittens—Callie and Luna—are afraid of people, and one adult male is feral. The kittens are young enough to socialize eventually, but Ballou won’t go near a human.”

Lara inhaled, then winced inwardly. She didn’t know how many litter boxes her aunt had, but from the scent coating her nostrils she felt sure all of them needed to be cleaned and changed. “Aunt Fran, will you rest while I check out the litter boxes and clean things up a bit?”

With a sag of her shoulders, her aunt nodded. “That…would actually be a big help. The supplies are in the utility closet, next to the bathroom.”

Lara grinned. “I know exactly where that is.”

It took Lara the better part of two hours to scrub and replenish the twelve litter boxes scattered throughout the house. Fortunately, she’d found a pair of rubber gloves under the bathroom sink, along with earth-friendly cleaning supplies, trash bags, and scads of paper towel rolls.

Her heart melted at the sight of the furry faces watching her as she worked. She would have to learn all their names, if she was here long enough.

By the time she was through, the rooms smelled minimally better. In the kitchen, she collected the myriad food and water bowls, washed them, and replenished them with kibble and kitten food. She’d been relieved to find her aunt’s cabinets well stocked with cat food. Lara wondered how her aunt shopped for supplies with her knees in such bad shape.

It was already two thirty, and she was starving. She headed upstairs and knocked softly at her aunt’s bedroom door, which was slightly ajar. “Aunt Fran?” she called.

“Come in, Lara.”

Her aunt was sitting in her padded rocking chair reading a paperback thriller. Dolce rested in her lap, looking every bit like a furry black shawl.

Lara had to swallow to keep her composure. The room was almost exactly as she remembered it, with its braided scatter rugs and white, iron bedstead, a handmade quilt folded at the foot of the bed. The white-painted dresser, its oval mirror silvered in places, sat in the same corner. From where she stood, Lara could see her own reflection.

“Come on, I’m famished,” Lara said. “I’m treating you to lunch at Sherry’s. She doesn’t know I drove up here today, so we’re going to surprise her.”

Her aunt frowned and rubbed her left knee. “I don’t think so, Lara. I walk very slowly, you know. It takes me forever to get in and out of a car.”

“I’ll help you,” Lara cajoled. “I’m not going without you.”

* * * *

Bowker’s Coffee Stop sat in the center of Whisker Jog’s downtown block, about a half-mile downhill walk from Aunt Fran’s home at the end of High Cliff Road. So far Lara had only seen photos of the place, supplied by Sherry via her smartphone or on the coffee shop’s Facebook page. The pictures, Lara realized, failed to capture the cozy essence of the inviting cafe.

The walls were painted in swirls of pastel, graced with vintage photos and artifacts from the 1960s. On one side of the shop was a counter lined with bright red stools. Square oak tables and padded, mismatched chairs made up the rest of the seating. Daily specials were announced on a stand-alone chalkboard framed in pale-green distressed wood.

The moment Lara and her aunt approached the counter they were rushed and assaulted.

“Oh my God, I can’t believe it!” Sherry Bowker, her short black hair poking the air in gelled spikes, raced around the end of the counter and threw her arms around Lara. She squeezed and rocked back and forth until Lara laughingly begged for mercy.

“Sherry, this place looks wonderful,” Lara said.

“Thank you.” Sherry hugged Lara again and then looped her arm through Aunt Fran’s. “And Fran, you haven’t been here in like, forever,” she said in a mock-stern voice. “I’m so happy to see you.”

Aunt Fran smiled and allowed Sherry a quick hug. “I’m glad to see you, too, and my pal Daisy over there.” She waggled a hand at her old friend Daisy Bowker, who was busy serving a table of four. Daisy’s face morphed into one of sheer joy when she spotted Lara and Aunt Fran.

After more hugs were doled out, Lara and her aunt settled onto stools at the counter, which, Aunt Fran explained, was easier on her knees. Sherry instantly produced two steaming mugs of coffee, along with two of the oversized sugar cookies Daisy was known for. With Halloween only a few weeks away, today’s cookies were shaped and frosted like mummies. Lara couldn’t help giggling as she bit off a chunk of the mummy’s frosted arm.

“Eating dessert before you’ve even ordered lunch?” Aunt Fran asked wryly. “I guess some things never change.”

Lara smiled, feeling her nerves loosen. For the first time since she’d arrived in Whisker Jog, she thought her aunt looked almost happy.

They both ordered tuna salad sandwiches and sipped at their coffee. Between serving customers, Sherry and Daisy took turns plying them with bits of local gossip.

Aunt Fran waved at a table of four opposite the counter. Its occupants—two women, an older man, and a teenage girl—returned the greeting. The girl, who looked about thirteen and sported aqua-tinted hair, smiled curiously at Lara. Lara smiled back and took a napkin from the dispenser on the counter. The girl’s face intrigued her—oversized brown eyes, roundish cheeks, slightly large ears lined with silver studs. And that hair… She removed a pencil from the depths of her flowered purse and began to sketch.

Sherry sidled up to the counter and leaned over to sneak a peek at Lara’s handiwork. “Hey, that’s Brooke you’re drawing, isn’t it?”

“Brooke?” Lara said.

Sherry laughed. “Sorry. You haven’t been introduced yet. Brooke Weston is the girl sitting at that table over there.” She tilted her chin at the table of four. “They all belong to a book club that reads the classics. Brooke comes here directly after school every Wednesday so she won’t miss any of the discussion. The coffee shop closes at four, but sometimes I stay a bit longer so they can finish up without feeling rushed.”

“That’s nice of you,” Lara said. “But why don’t they just have the club at the library?”

Sherry smiled. “They like it better here. Can you blame them?”

Daisy came up beside her daughter. “So, Fran,” she said, “I’ve been thinking about you, sweetie. Have you been able to plant your tulip bulbs yet?”

“I don’t think I’m going to get to it this year, Daisy. The bulbs were shipped to me last week, but they’re still sitting in burlap bags out by the shed.”

Tulips! That’s right—Lara remembered now. Back when she was a kid, Aunt Fran was known for the gorgeous tulip varieties that skirted her house from front to back along the brick walkway. Apparently she’d kept up the tradition.

In fact, Lara remembered one year when she “helped” her aunt plant a row of the bulbs, only to learn that she’d stuck them all in the ground upside down. Instead of getting annoyed, Aunt Fran had only laughed, ruffled Lara’s curls, and said, “Oh well, next year you’ll get it right.”

But there never had been a next year. Lara’s folks had moved out of state, and she’d never seen Aunt Fran again.

Until now.

Lara didn’t want to embarrass her aunt by bringing up her current physical limitations. Instead, she made a mental note to try to plant the tulip bulbs before she returned to Boston.

Daisy went off to clear one of the tables. Lara was putting the finishing touches on her napkin sketch when the door to the coffee shop swung open. A broad-shouldered man wearing a red-and-black-checkered jacket strode in. His bushy eyebrows matched his thick white hair, and he wore the look of someone quite enamored with himself. “I’ll take a black coffee to go,” he said to Sherry in a rather rude tone.

A muscle in Sherry’s face twitched, but she gave him a sharp nod. With a quick tilt of her head in his direction, she shot Lara a meaningful look.

Who’s that? Lara mouthed to her aunt, after he strode off.

Aunt Fran leaned closer to Lara. “Theo Barnes,” she whispered. “I’ll tell you later.”

The man’s hard-looking blue eyes scanned the room, and then he sauntered over to the book club table. “So how are all my buds today?” he said in a voice like a sonic boom. He touched the younger woman’s cheek, eliciting a smile from her. The older woman beamed up at him, and with a theatrical motion he took her left hand and kissed it. Then he clamped a meaty hand onto the shoulder of the club’s sole male member, a sixtysomething with a pasty complexion who cringed visibly at Barnes’s touch. Barnes leaned over and growled something in the man’s ear. The man nodded, slunk out of his chair, and stalked out of the cafe.

Barnes came up to the counter to collect his takeout coffee, stopping between the stools where Lara and Aunt Fran were seated. Lara stifled a shudder. Barnes was standing far too close for her liking. She looked at her aunt, whose face had gone pale. Lara was about to tell Barnes to take a hike when he announced, “I need to talk to you, Fran.”

“I don’t think so,” Aunt Fran hissed at him. “You’ve talked quite enough.”

Barnes’s piercing eyes shifted and rested on Lara. “My proposal stands, my lovely, but I think I can make it even sweeter for you. We will chat later. I promise you that.”

Aunt Fran squeezed her eyes shut and said nothing.

With a smug look, Barnes reached across the counter and took the lidded paper coffee cup Sherry was holding out. Then, without so much as a thank-you, he left.

“What an oaf,” Lara said after the door closed. “I mean, could he have been any louder?”

“Theo Barnes is the town bully,” her aunt murmured. “I’ll tell you about him when we get back to the house.”

“But he didn’t even pay for his coffee!”

Sherry slid two plates in front of Lara and her aunt. “Don’t worry about it, Lara. He never does. He thinks he owns the place.”

“He does own the place.” Daisy came up behind her daughter. She reached under the counter for a bottle of spray cleaner. “Unfortunately, he’s our landlord. For now, anyway. But that’s not for you to worry about. You two go ahead and enjoy your lunch.”

Lara looked down at her tuna salad on wheat. A pile of rippled chips and two pickle rounds sat beside it—exactly the way she liked it. She set aside her pencil sketch and dived into her lunch. The tuna salad was perfect—lightly seasoned, and with just the right amount of celery and onion to give it crunch. Aunt Fran nibbled at hers, but with far less gusto.

Lara was attacking the last bite of her sandwich when her aunt, who’d barely eaten half her lunch, suddenly pushed aside her plate. “Why are you here, Lara?” she asked quietly. “I mean, why are you really here?”

Lara felt a hard lump form inside her stomach. The cats weren’t the only reason she’d driven to New Hampshire. Sherry had confided that a local businessman had been harassing her aunt, making her life a living nightmare. She hadn’t given details, but Lara now suspected she knew who it was.

Theo Barnes.

In a voice that came out shakier than she intended, Lara said, “I came because I want to help you. Because I care about you.”

“You care about me,” Aunt Fran said flatly. “Isn’t it strange, then, that I haven’t seen or heard from you in sixteen years.”

Her aunt’s sudden vitriol surprised Lara. Feeling tears push at her eyelids, Lara snatched up her crumpled napkin and blotted her eyes. “I don’t know what else I can say, Aunt Fran. I care and I want to help. Can we talk about this back at the house?”

Aunt Fran looked suddenly flustered. “Of course we can. I shouldn’t have brought it up here.” She reached into her purse for her wallet, but Lara quickly covered her hand.

“No, Aunt Fran. It’s my treat, remember?”

“Actually, it’s our treat,” Sherry said, coming up to the counter. “When you walked in together, I was just…so glad to see you both.”

“Thank you, Sherry,” Lara said.

Since Aunt Fran hadn’t eaten her mummy cookie, Sherry slipped it into a paper bag and handed it to her. “You’ll both come back tomorrow, right?”

“You bet,” Lara said.

Aunt Fran only smiled. “I’ll try.”

Lara helped her aunt off the stool. Just then, Brooke, the teenager, excused herself from the book club and dashed over to them.

“Hey, are you Lara?” she asked, beaming as if she’d spotted a rock star.

“I am, and I understand you’re Brooke.”

“Yup. Guilty as charged. Your hair is like, so gorgeous. Is that the natural color?”

Lara laughed and fingered a coppery strand. “It is,” she said, charmed by the girl’s bluntness. “I’m glad you like it, but I wouldn’t mind doing with fewer curls. By the way, I have something for you.” Lara handed her the napkin sketch.

Brooke pushed a strand of aqua hair behind one ear. “You drew this?” she asked, gawking at the napkin. “It looks just like me!”

“Lara is an artist,” Aunt Fran put in. Lara detected a hint of pride in her aunt’s voice.

“Can…I mean, may I keep it?”

“You sure can.” Lara smiled at her. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Brooke.”

“This is so cool!” She gave it back to Lara. “Would you bring it back to the house for me? If I put it in my backpack it’ll get wrinkled.”

“Um, yeah, sure,” Lara said, perplexed.

“Thanks!” And then to Aunt Fran, “See you in a few, Ms. C.”