Pay Dirt Read online

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Cast of Characters

  Introduction

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Author’s Note

  Books by Rita Mae Brown

  Praise for The Mrs. Murphy Series

  Previews of The Mrs. Murphey Series

  Copyright Page

  Dedicated to Joan Hamilton & Larry Hodge

  and all my horse pals at Kalarama Farm

  Cast of Characters

  Mary Minor Haristeen (Harry), the young postmistress of Crozet, whose curiosity almost kills the cat and herself

  Mrs. Murphy, Harry’s gray tiger cat, who bears an uncanny resemblance to authoress Sneaky Pie and who is wonderfully intelligent!

  Tee Tucker, Harry’s Welsh corgi, Mrs. Murphy’s friend and confidante; a buoyant soul

  Pharamond Haristeen (Fair), veterinarian, formerly married to Harry

  Mrs. George Hogendobber (Miranda), a widow who thumps her own Bible!

  Market Shiflett, owner of Shiflett’s Market, next to the post office

  Pewter, Market’s fat gray cat, who, when need be, can be pulled away from the food bowl

  Susan Tucker, Harry’s best friend, who doesn’t take life too seriously until her neighbors get murdered

  Big Marilyn Sanburne (Mim), queen of Crozet

  Rick Shaw, Albemarle sheriff

  Cynthia Cooper, police officer

  Paddy, Mrs. Murphy’s ex-husband, a saucy tom

  Simon, an opossum with a low opinion of humanity

  Herbert C. Jones, Pastor of Crozet Lutheran Church, a kindly, ecumenical soul who has been known to share his sermons with his two cats, Lucy Fur and Elocution

  Hogan Freely, President of Crozet National Bank, a good banker but not good enough

  Laura Freely, a leading guide at Ash Lawn, she is Hogan’s wife

  Norman Cramer, a respected executive at Crozet National Bank, whose marriage to Aysha Gill set Crozet’s gossip mill churning

  Aysha Gill Cramer, a newlywed, who watches over her husband like a hawk

  Kerry McCray, Norman Cramer’s still-flickering old flame, who is beginning to smolder

  Ottoline Gill, Aysha’s mother, who keeps an eye out for social improprieties—and an eye on her new son-in-law

  Introduction

  While researching Virginia’s historical shrines for my mysteries, I’ve learned even more about human history but nil about ours.

  One of you nonfiction pussycats reading this ought to write the animal history of America. All life-forms are important, but it’s hard to get enthusiastic about fish, isn’t it—unless you’re eating one.

  Do pay attention to the fact that humans had to create government because they can’t get along with one another. Cats don’t need Congress. There’s enough danger in life without listening to a gathering of paid windbags. From time to time you might remind your human that he or she is not the crown of creation s/he thinks s/he is.

  Ta-ta

  SNEAKY PIE

  1

  Cozy was the word used most often to describe the small town of Crozet, not quaint, historic, or pretty. Central Virginia in general, and Albemarle County in particular, abounded in quaint, historic, and pretty places, but Crozet was not one of them. A homey energy blanketed the community. Many families had lived there for generations, others were newcomers attracted to the sensuous appeal of the Blue Ridge Mountains. Old or new, rich or poor, black or white, the citizens of the town nodded and waved to one another while driving their cars, called and waved if on opposite sides of the street, and anyone walking along the side of the road was sure to get the offer of a ride. Backyard hedges provided the ideal setting for enriching gossip as gardeners took respite from their labors. Who did what to whom, who said what to whom, who owed money to whom, and, that glory of chat, who slept with whom. The buzz never stopped. Even in the deepest snows, a Crozetian would pick up the phone to transmit the latest. If it was really juicy, he or she would bundle up and hurry through the snow for a hot cup of coffee, that companion to steamy gossip shared with a friend.

  The hub of the town consisted of its post office, the three main churches—Lutheran, Baptist, Episcopal, and one small offshoot, the Church of the Holy Light—the schools—kindergarten through twelfth—Market Shiflett’s small grocery store, and Crozet Pizza. Since a person worshiped at one church at a time, the goings-on in the other three might remain a mystery. The small market provided a handsome opportunity to catch up, but you really had to buy something. Also, one had to be careful that Market’s fat gray cat, Pewter, didn’t steal your food before you had the chance to eat it. Schools were a good source, too, but if you were childless or if your darlings were finally in college, you were out of that pipeline. This left the post office the dubious honor of being the premier meeting place, or Gossip Central.

  The postmistress—a title which she preferred to the official one of postmaster—Mary Minor Haristeen rarely indulged in what she termed gossip, which is to say if she couldn’t substantiate a story, she didn’t repeat it. Otherwise, she was only too happy to pass on the news. Her unofficial assistant, Mrs. Miranda Hogendobber, the widow of the former postmaster, relished the “news,” but she drew the line at character assassination. If people started dumping all over someone else, Mrs. Hogendobber usually calmed them down or plain shut them up.

  Harry, as Mary Minor was affectionately known, performed her tasks wonderfully well. Quite young for her position, Harry benefited from Miranda’s wisdom. But Harry’s most valuable assistants were Mrs. Murphy, her tiger cat, and Tee Tucker, her Welsh corgi. They wallowed in gossip. Not only did the goings-on of the humans transfix them, but so did the shenanigans of the animal community, reported by any dog accompanying its master into the post office. Whatever the dogs missed, Pewter found out next door. When she had something to tell, the round gray cat would run to the back door of the post office to spill it. Over the last few years, the cats had banged on the door so much, creating such a racket, that Harry installed a pet door so the friends could come and go as they pleased. Harry had designed a cover she could lock down over the animals’ entrance, since the post office had to be secured each night.

  Not that there was much to steal from the Crozet post office—stamps, a few dollars. But Harry diligently obeyed the rules, as she was a federal employee—a fact that endlessly amused her. She loathed the federal government and barely tolerated the state government, considering it the refuge of the mediocre. Still, she drew a paycheck from that bloated government on the north side of the Potomac, so she tried to temper h
er opinions.

  Miranda Hogendobber, on the other hand, vividly remembered Franklin Delano Roosevelt, so her perception of government remained far more positive than Harry’s. Just because Miranda remembered FDR did not mean, however, that she would reveal her age.

  On this late July day the mimosas were crowned with the pink and gold halos of their fragile blossoms. The crepe myrtle and hydrangeas rioted throughout the town, splashes of purple and magenta here, white there. Not much else bloomed in the swelter of the Dog Days, which began on July 3 and finished August 15, so the color was appreciated.

  So far, less than two inches of rain had fallen that month. The viburnums drooped. Even the hardy dogwoods began to curl up, so Mrs. Hogendobber would sprinkle the plants early in the morning and late in the evening to avoid losing too much moisture to evaporation. Her garden, the envy of the town, bore testimony to her vigilance.

  The mail sorted, the two women paused for their morning tea break. Well, tea for Harry, coffee for Miranda. Mrs. Murphy sat on the newspaper. Tucker slept under the table at the back of the office.

  “Is this a honey day or a sugar day, Mrs. H.?” Harry asked as the kettle boiled.

  “A honey day.” Miranda smiled. “I’m feeling naturally sweet.”

  Harry rolled her eyes and twirled a big glob of honey off the stick in the brown crockery honey pot. She then removed the teabag from her own drink, wrapping the string around it on the spoon to squeeze the last drops of strong tea into her cup. Her mug had a horse’s tail for a handle, the rest of the cup representing the horse’s body and head. Miranda’s mug was white with block letters that read WHAT PART OF NO DON’T YOU UNDERSTAND?

  “Mrs. Murphy, I’d like to read the paper.” Miranda gently lifted the tiger cat’s bottom and slid the paper out from underneath.

  This action was met with a furious grumble, ears swept back. “I don’t stick my paws on your rear end, Miranda, besides which there’s never anything in the paper worth reading.” She thumped over to the little back door and walked outside.

  “In a mood.” Miranda sat down and looked over the front page.

  “What’s the headline?” Harry asked.

  “Two people injured on I-64. What else? Oh, this Threadneedle virus threatens to affect our computers August first. I would be perfectly happy if our new computer were fatally ill.”

  “Oh, now, it’s not that bad.” Harry reached for the sports page.

  “Bad?” Mrs. Hogendobber pushed her glasses up her nose. “If I do one little thing out of sequence, a rude message appears on that hateful green screen and I have to start all over. There are so many buttons to punch. Modern improvements—time wasters, that’s what they are, time wasters masquerading as time savers. I can remember more in my noggin than a computer chip can. And tell me, why do we need one in the post office? All we need is a good scale and a good meter. I can stamp the letters myself!”

  Seeing that Miranda was in one of her Luddite moods, Harry decided not to argue. “Not everyone who works in the postal service is as smart as you are. They can’t remember as much. For them the computer is a godsend.” Harry craned her neck to see the photo of the car wreck.

  “What a nice thing to say.” Mrs. Hogendobber drank her coffee. “Wonder where Reverend Jones is? He’s usually here by now. Everyone else has been on time.”

  “A thousand years is as a day in the eyes of the Lord. An hour is as a minute to the rev.”

  “Careful now.” Miranda, a devout believer although those beliefs could occasionally be modified to suit circumstances, wagged her finger. “You know, at the Church of the Holy Light we don’t make jokes about the Scripture.” Miranda belonged to a small church. Truthfully, they were renegades from the Baptist church. Twenty years ago a new minister had arrived who set many parishioners’ teeth on edge. After much fussing and fuming, the discontents, in time-honored tradition, broke away and formed their own church. Mrs. Hogendobber, the stalwart of the choir, had been a guiding force in the secession. When the offending minister packed his bags and left some six years after the rebellion, the members of the Church of the Holy Light were so enjoying themselves that they declined to return to the fold.

  A tiny rumble at the back door announced that a pussycat was entering. Mrs. Murphy rejoined the group. A louder rumble indicated that Pewter was in tow.

  “Hello,” Pewter called.

  “Hello there, kitty.” Mrs. Hogendobber answered the meow. When Harry first took over Mr. Hogendobber’s job and brought the cat and dog along with her, Miranda railed against the animals. The animals slowly won her over, although if you asked Miranda how she felt about people who talk to animals, she would declare that she herself never talked to animals. The fact that Harry was a daily witness to her conversations would not have altered her declaration one whit.

  “Tucker, Pewter’s here,” Mrs. Murphy said.

  Tucker opened one eye then shut it again.

  “Guess I won’t tell her the latest.” Pewter languidly licked a paw.

  Both eyes opened and the little dog raised her pretty head. “Huh?”

  “I’m not talking to you. You can’t be bothered to greet me when I come to visit.”

  “Pewter, you spend half your life in here. I can’t act as though it’s the first time I’ve seen you in months,” Tucker explained.

  Pewter flicked her tail, then leapt on the table. “Anything to eat?”

  “Pig.” Mrs. Murphy laughed.

  “What’s the worst they can say if you ask? No, that’s what,” Pewter said. “Then again, they might say yes. Mrs. Hogendobber must have something. She can’t walk into the post office empty-handed.”

  The cat knew her neighbor well because Mrs. Hogendobber had whipped up a batch of glazed doughnuts. As soon as her paws hit the table, Harry reached over to cover the goodies with a napkin, but too late. Pewter had spied her quarry. She snagged a piece of doughnut, which came apart in marvelous moist freshness. The cat soared off the table and onto the floor with her prize.

  “That cat will die of heart failure. Her cholesterol level must be over the moon.” Mrs. Hogendobber raised an eyebrow.

  “Do cats have cholesterol?” Harry wondered out loud.

  “I don’t see why not. Fat is fat. . . .”

  On that note the Reverend Herbert Jones strode through the door. “Fat? Are you making fun of me?”

  “No, we’ve been talking about Pewter.”

  “Relatively speaking, she’s bigger than I am,” he observed.

  “But you’ve kept on your diet and you’ve been swimming. I think you’ve lost a lot of weight,” Harry complimented him.

  “Really? Does it show?”

  “It does. Come on back here and have some tea.” Mrs. Hogendobber invited him back, carefully covering up the doughnuts again.

  The good reverend cleaned out his postbox, then swung through the Dutch counter door that divided the public lobby from the back. “This computer virus has everyone’s knickers in a twist. On the morning news out of Richmond they did a whole segment on what to expect and how to combat it.”

  “Tell us.” Harry stood over the little hot plate.

  “No. I want our computer to die.”

  “Miranda, I don’t think your computer is in danger. This seems to be some sort of corporate sabotage.” Reverend Jones pulled up a ladderback chair. “The way I understand it, some person or persons has introduced this virus into the computer bank of a huge Virginia corporation, but no one knows which one. The diseased machine has to be a computer that interfaces with many other computers.”

  “And what may I ask is interface? In your face?” Miranda’s tone dropped.

  “Talk. Computers can talk to each other.” Herb leaned forward in his chair. “Thank you, honey.” He called Harry “honey” as she handed him his coffee. She never minded when it came from him. “Whoever has introduced this virus—”

  Miranda interrupted again. “What do you mean, virus?”

  The reverend, a
genial man who loved people, paused a moment and sighed. “Because of the way in which a computer understands commands, it is possible, easy, in fact, to give one a command that scrambles or erases its memory.”

  “I don’t need a virus for that,” Miranda said. “I do it every day.”

  “So someone could put a command into a computer that says something like, ‘Delete every file beginning with the letter A.’ ” Harry joined in.

  “Precisely, but just what the command is, no one knows. Imagine if this is passing throughout the state in a medical data bank. What if the command is ‘Destroy all records on anyone named John Smith.’ You can see the potential.”

  “But, Herbie”—Miranda called him by his first name, as they had been friends since childhood—“why would anyone want to do such a thing?”

  “Maybe to wipe out a criminal record or cancel a debt or cover up a sickness that could cost them their job. Some companies will fire employees with AIDS or cancer.”

  “How can people protect themselves?” Mrs. Hogendobber began to grasp the possibilities for mischief.

  “The mastermind has sent faxes to television stations saying that the virus will go into effect August first, and that it’s called the Threadneedle virus.”

  “Threadneedle is such an odd name. I wonder what’s the connection?” Harry rubbed her chin.

  “Oh, there will be a connection, all right. The newspeople are researching like mad on that,” he confidently predicted.

  “One big puzzle.” Harry liked puzzles.

  “The computer expert on the morning show said that one way to protect your information base is to tell your computer to disregard any command it is given on August first.”

  “Sensible.” Miranda nodded her head.

  “Except that most business is transacted by computer, so that means for one entire day all commercial, medical, even police transactions are down.”

  “Oh, dear.” Miranda’s eyes grew large. “Is there nothing else that can be done?”

  Herbie finished his tea, setting the mug on the table with a light tap. “This expert reviewed the defenses and encouraged people to program their computers to hold and review any commands that come in on August first. If anything is peculiar, your review program can instruct the computer to void the suspicious command. Naturally, big companies will use their own computer experts, but it sounds as though whatever they come up with will be some variant of the review process.”