“Why do you think you’re a suspect? Did the police tell you that?”
“Not in so many words. But it was obvious from their line of questioning that I’m high up on their hit parade.” She sighed into the phone. “One of the detectives returned here this afternoon. He’d apparently talked to Evelyn Conley. I guess she gave him an earful about my encounter yesterday with…the victim.”
Lara shook her head. She hated to think what Evelyn had told the police. Lara suspected the woman had added a touch of her own drama to the story.
And what about Nancy, the housekeeper? Lara had seen her being escorted toward a state police car earlier.
“I don’t know if she meant to throw me under the bus,” Deanna continued. “But she gave the police the impression that I had some sort of history with Donald Waitt. The truth is, until today I hadn’t spoken a word to him since before I left high school. That was nineteen sixty-four! Do you know how long ago that is?”
Way before I was born, Lara thought. A quarter century, in fact.
“Had he ever tried to contact you? Call you?”
“No. Never. Out of sight, out of mind. That’s how I thought of Donald Waitt. He was part of my distant past. Very distant, I might add.”
“Deanna, I wish I could help. Aunt Fran and I told the police everything we know, but, quite honestly, I’m not sure how useful it was.” Lara thought about the white flowers scattered around the crime scene. Should she mention them to Deanna? Would that fall into the category of loose lips?
“I—” Deanna hesitated, then in a quiet voice, “Lara, a little bird told me you helped the police catch a killer last year. Is that true?”
Inwardly, Lara groaned. She hadn’t caught a killer, not really. She’d figured out a few things, with Blue’s help, that is. Then the killer had caught up with her before she could report what she’d discovered, and she’d had to defend herself.
“That’s not exactly how it went,” Lara said. “But I’m honored you’d think I’m that clever. Deanna, if there’s anything at all I can think of that might help the police, I’ll definitely follow through and push them on it. I give you my word on that.”
She couldn’t tell Deanna about Blue, of course. After the first murder, the spirit cat had been instrumental in pushing clues at Lara—things she’d probably never have pieced together on her own.
Deanna sounded relieved. “Thank you, Lara. I have every faith in you. You know something? You’re the kind of person who gives me hope for the world. I’ll always be grateful for the day our paths crossed.” Her voice cracked a bit.
Lara was stunned. She hadn’t known the woman all that long. The sentiment was a bit melodramatic, but at least it was heartfelt. She hoped.
“Wow. What a nice thing to say. Thank you.” She phrased her next question carefully. “Deanna, do you have a favorite flower? Maybe a signature flower? I’m a watercolor artist, so I’m asking for artistic reasons.”
“Oh, that sounds cryptic.” Deanna’s smile infiltrated her words. “Roses. Lavender roses. There’s a florist in LA who used to tint them for me and deliver them to my home twice a week. I…miss that.”
Lavender roses. Lara was sure the petals strewn around the crime scene had not come from roses. And they definitely hadn’t been lavender. They’d been snowy white.
“Thanks. I was trying to gather some ideas for future paintings. Deanna, this is none of my business, but I saw Nancy Sherman leave earlier with a state trooper. She looked kind of scared. Is she a suspect, too?”
Deanna paused. “Nancy’s had some issues in the past,” she said, sounding annoyed at the question. “That alone pegs her as a suspect, I’m afraid. But I will tell you right now that Nancy had nothing to do with what happened to Donald Waitt. I would stake everything I own on that.”
“Oh, then I apologize for asking.”
They chatted a while longer, then Deanna claimed she had to dash. After Lara disconnected, she gave her aunt a brief rundown of her conversation with the actress.
“I don’t know what to think,” Aunt Fran said. “I honestly don’t see her as a killer, but then…”
Lara knew what she was thinking. The killer Lara had confronted last fall had been a shock, as well. Everyone in town had been gobsmacked.
“I hear you,” Lara agreed. “And I know what the chief told us. I’m only going to keep my eyes and ears open and report anything strange or out of place. Nothing wrong with that, right?”
Her aunt gave her a quirky smile. “No. Nothing wrong with that. Just be aware of your surroundings, Lara.”
“Not to worry. I learned my lesson.”
Lara spent the next hour or so grooming cats. She was itching to get her fingers on her watercolor brushes, but she’d decided to set aside the evening for that.
Frankie, one of the newbies, adored the feel of the rubber brush rolling over his gray and white fur. He twisted his body every which way to allow her full access over his silky form.
Frankie’s history was a mystery. A few months ago, a young couple had shown up at the shelter carrying a cardboard box with the flaps folded down. In the box was a sweet little gray cat with a white chest and paws. The couple explained that they owned a small apartment building on the opposite side of town. They’d found the cat abandoned and crying in a recently vacated unit.
Disgusted that anyone would leave a cat that way, Lara and Fran had welcomed him into the fold. They’d named him Frankie after the way he’d attached himself like static cling to Aunt Fran. And though he seemed to be thriving in the comfort of the shelter, Lara sensed he’d be happier in a quiet home where all the attention would be lavished on him.
“There you go, sweetness,” Lara said, plunking him on her aunt’s lap. “You can chill with your favorite gal for a while.” She eyed the all-black male making a beeline for Aunt Fran. “Uh oh. Looks like you’ll have to share your lap space, Frankie. Dolce is on the prowl and he’s headed your way.”
Her aunt smiled and patted the sofa. “You come right up here, Dolce. I can always make room.”
Whiskers twitching, Dolce didn’t hesitate. He hopped onto Aunt Fran’s lap, then wrapped himself around Frankie like a furry protector.
“Oh, this is too adorable,” Lara said. She snatched up her cell. “I’m putting this on our Facebook page.”
She took the pic and showed it to Aunt Fran.
“Lara, for pity’s sake. The lace trim on my camisole is showing.” Aunt Fran fussed to readjust her garment. “If you’re really going to put it on Facebook, you’d better take it again.”
Giggling, Lara aimed her cell. Then, slowly, she lowered it. “Lace,” she muttered. “Lace—that’s it!”
“What?”
“Those flowers, at the crime scene. They reminded me of lace. Excuse me a minute.”
Lara hopped up and returned a minute later with her tablet. She plunked down on the floor and Googled several different combinations. And there it was.
“Queen Anne’s Lace. Aunt Fran, I’m almost sure these were the flowers scattered around that poor man’s body today.” She showed the image to her aunt.
“It’s a fairly common flower,” Aunt Fran said. “I’ve often seen them in bouquets.”
“Which means they’re easy to find. The question is, what does it mean? Why were they at the crime scene?”
“It