Treacherous Tart (7 page)

What had she thought of the strong case Ryan had made against Donald? Had she still been convinced that he was innocent?

If Ryan's words had changed her mind at all, Maggie hadn't been able to tell it on their walk to Pie in the Sky. Aunt Clara didn't change her mind very easily, though. Maggie was grateful for that. Her aunt had always believed in her, and no newspaper articles had changed that.

She sat on the velvet sofa in the living room and kicked off her shoes before she opened the newspaper and read what Ryan had said about Donald Wickerson.

He'd only been alluding to a man who'd recently moved to Durham in his previous columns. He hadn't mentioned his name, although he
had
mentioned the names of the women the police suspected Donald of killing.

Ryan had abandoned all pretense of shielding the man he'd been talking about in this week's paper. There was almost a frantic quality to his words—he sounded desperate to convince anyone who would listen that Donald was a killer. Not only did he give Donald's name, he had several pictures of him that looked like photos Ryan had taken recently as he followed him around Durham.

Aunt Clara wasn't mentioned, and she wasn't in any of the pictures, thank goodness. Maggie wondered if Donald had any family left and, if so, what they thought of Ryan's article.

There was no doubt that Donald's death had thrown a monkey wrench into Ryan's case against him. Instead, Donald was the victim.

There were also the usual articles about new laws passed by the city council and stories about parking problems downtown. Ryan faithfully covered many events that happened in the community. Sometimes she wondered how he had time for her at all, but she'd never had cause to complain since they'd met.

Maggie got up and wandered into the kitchen. She wasn't sure about Aunt Clara's ideas on pie making being a stress reliever, but with everything going on, she was willing to give it a try.

Besides, her aunt had mentioned again this
morning that Maggie's piecrust was a little dry. She'd advocated some slower practice time since their mornings at the shop were so hectic.

Maggie took out flour and the big mixing bowl that Aunt Clara always used. She put those and the other items she'd need to work on her piecrust in the refrigerator. That was Aunt Clara's number-one rule for flaky crust: everything had to be cold.

That meant she'd need to wait for a while so things could chill. She knew what she needed to do while they were chilling. Aunt Clara didn't need any more unwelcome suitors right now. Maybe she'd try again later when things calmed down.

Maggie sat down at the antique desk her aunt hadn't let her touch when she was a child. Now her laptop and all of their financial records were kept there.

Things had changed since she'd grown up with her aunt and uncle acting as her parents, and yet many more things had stayed the same.

She'd wanted to completely spruce up the house when she received her severance. Aunt Clara wouldn't hear of it.

She let her do some small things—repairs and replacements of minor items. Maggie knew many items in the house were sacred to her aunt. They had belonged to the family for many generations.

Her aunt had grown up in this house too, with Maggie's mother. Delia had moved out when she'd
married Maggie's father, John. She'd left Clara and Fred to take care of the family heirlooms. That was exactly what Aunt Clara had done, and meant to continue doing.

Maggie had sprung for new towels and sheets. She'd done some work in her old bedroom, painting the walls and moving some of her childhood treasures into the attic. The bathrooms had needed some plumbing work and some repairs on the ceramic tile.

She went to the Durham Singles site and put in the password she'd created for her aunt. And there was Albert Mann. Her eyes widened. Maggie thought
she'd
told a few white lies about Aunt Clara, but Albert's whole profile was a lie—except the part about him being a wealthy man. Fifty?
Hardly.
Handsome? Maggie shuddered. Understanding and sympathetic? Not that she'd noticed.

There was no point in continuing to dissect Albert Mann's profile on the site. He had a nice picture of himself. She wouldn't have recognized him. According to the date he'd joined, Albert had been there for almost a year. So much for thinking that he wasn't looking for his true love!

Maggie was about to remove her aunt's profile when she suddenly noticed another familiar face on the site. Donald Wickerson was looking for a partner too.

Or at least he had been.

She took a screenshot of the listing and emailed
it to Ryan. If Donald had been actively seeking out other women, maybe Ryan was right about him dropping his potentially deadly intentions with Aunt Clara.

He'd joined a little over a month before. He hadn't needed Durham Singles to cozy up to her aunt; seeing her at the library a few times was enough.

She looked at Donald's profile. He had a very good picture of himself. He was chopping wood, his plaid flannel shirtsleeves rolled up. “Man of action,” part of his bio read.

He listed no family. Of course, with his background, it was probably smart not to. He listed his home as Atlanta. His interests included reading, riding horses, and swimming. Obviously a chick magnet.

Maggie heard a scratching sound at the back door. It wasn't like knocking. Besides, someone would have to get into the fenced backyard to knock on the door. Everyone came to the front.

Grabbing a poker from the fireplace, she advanced toward the kitchen, not turning on a light to let anyone know she was awake. If someone was trying to break in, he or she would get a big surprise.

She tiptoed to the door and waited. The scratching sound started again, louder this time. She raised the poker, ready to attack as her heart began to pound loudly in her chest. No one was coming through that door without getting his or her head banged.

T
he scratching stopped
again. Maggie waited patiently for someone to try to get inside. Nothing happened.

She stood there waiting for what felt like twenty minutes. The scratching finally stopped. Nothing else happened.

Yawning, she put down the poker. She wished the back door had a peephole like the front door. There was no way to see outside. She couldn't stand there all night waiting to find out if someone was
trying to break in. Besides, who would hang around waiting to see if they could get in?

Finally, she couldn't stand it anymore. She picked up the poker again and held it before her like a sword. Carefully, she opened the back door an inch at a time. There was nothing there. She switched on the outside light.
Nothing but darkness.

Laughing at herself and her silly fears, she started to close the back door when something small darted past her and into the kitchen.

It was that scrawny alley cat that Aunt Clara had been feeding.

“Hey! Wait a minute. Did you follow us from the pie shop?”

It couldn't have followed them that night—they hadn't walked home. That meant the cat had probably followed them home before and her aunt had also been feeding it at home.

Now there was a cat running rampant through the house. It was going to be difficult to find something that small with so many nooks and crannies for it to hide.

Arming herself with a flashlight and a pillow-case to catch the animal, she decided to start on the ground floor. She pulled out a piece of hot dog, thinking the hungry cat would go for it. She could throw the pillowcase over the cat and that would be that.

An hour later, she was on the second floor. She
had looked everywhere on the floor below with no sign of the cat. Believing strongly in the hot dog's ability to attract the animal, she poked around through every dark spot. The cat seemed to have disappeared.

The door to the attic was closed. The cat couldn't have gone in there. It was the same with the basement door. She could hear the old furnace wheezing and coughing down there, but she knew the area had to be cat-free.

Maggie hated to disturb Aunt Clara, so she'd left her bedroom for last. The cat had to be in there.

“Here, kitty-kitty,” she whispered into the darkness.

Her aunt had heavy blinds up on her windows so the light couldn't come in on the mornings she wanted to sleep late. Maggie remembered when Uncle Fred had put them up.

She'd been a teenager, about fifteen or so. The neighbors next door had a bad habit of throwing late-night parties with plenty of lights and noise. The noise and lights were her aunt and uncle's reason for putting up the blinds. They'd never come down, though she guessed the parties had stopped many years before.

“Where are you, stupid cat?” Maggie searched impatiently.

A light suddenly came on—it was the lamp with the rosebud shade beside Aunt Clara's bed. The flowered shade threw pink shadows across the room.

Her aunt was sitting up, blinking like a sleepy owl. “What in the world is going on?”

“I'm sorry,” Maggie apologized. “I was looking for . . . that cat! Has it been in here the whole time?”

The multicolored cat was sleeping in the middle of Aunt Clara's bed. It lifted its head and stared at Maggie as though daring her to try to kick it out now.

Aunt Clara focused on the cat. “Oh my goodness! How did she get in?”

“You've been feeding her here too, haven't you?”

“Well, we aren't at the pie shop on the weekends. It made sense to have her follow us home so I could feed her here. Did you let her inside?”

“No. I opened the door and she ran in.”

“I forgot to feed her with everything that happened.” Aunt Clara stroked the cat's fur. “Would you mind? I'm keeping the cat food in the little pantry by the door. Don't overfeed her. She only eats about half a cup. The rest will go to waste.”

Maggie couldn't believe all of this was going on, and she'd never even noticed. Her aunt must have bought cat food when she'd gone out on her own. It certainly wasn't part of their normal shopping list.

“Why didn't you tell me you'd decided to adopt a cat?”

Aunt Clara smiled. “You seemed so against it at the pie shop.”

“You've been feeding her a lot longer than that.”

“True. I guess she's my secret friend. She could be your friend too. She could stay in the house and walk with us to the shop during the week. What do you think we should call her?”

Maggie rolled her eyes as she moved away from the bed with her flashlight, pillowcase, and hot dog. “You could always call her Kitty. I'm going to bed. I love you, Aunt Clara.”

“I don't know. Kitty doesn't seem to suit her. It reminds me too much of that floozy on
Gunsmoke
. Who did she think she was fooling?”

“Whatever sounds right. Good night.”

Maggie fed the cat after discarding the hot dog. She went to her room wondering why Aunt Clara hadn't wanted to tell her about the cat.

Maybe because she thought she'd make a fuss over it, as she had. She decided then that any cat of Aunt Clara's was a friend of hers. Yawning, she got ready for bed and switched off the lights in the bathroom and bedroom. She checked the alarm to make sure it was set for 5:00 a.m. She sat down on the bed and started to lie back.

“Yeow!” She and the cat shrieked at the same time. “What are you doing in here?”

Maggie expected the cat to jump down and run away. Instead, the brassy female jumped into her lap.

“Don't think you can win me over with a little purring.”

She stroked her hand across the cat's fur. Not only was it rough and scratchy, she could feel every bone in her body.

“You're not in good shape, are you? I guess you need someone to feed you. It may as well be Aunt Clara. You can stay inside for tonight. Tomorrow, you have to go outside.”

The small cat purred a little louder and bumped her head into Maggie's hand, as though she understood. Maggie urged her to get off of the bed before she went to sleep.

But when the alarm went off at five, the cat was sleeping on the pillow next to her head.

“My stars!” Aunt Clara walked into Maggie's room with a flashlight. “I've been looking all over the house for the cat. Here she is on your bed.”

“I didn't invite her, believe me.” Maggie sat up as Aunt Clara turned on the overhead light.

“Poor thing.” Her aunt picked up the cat, cradling her in her arms. “I'll take her to my room for a while. Maybe we should call her Winky. She has a way of blinking her eyes as though she's winking.”

“That's fine.” Maggie yawned. “As long as I don't have to yell outside, ‘Hey, Winky.' That sounds bad.”

“Well, we can't keep a cat with no name. We'll have to think of something.”

Maggie waited until her aunt was gone before she forced herself out of bed. She hadn't slept well. She couldn't blame it on the cat.