Murder on the Prowl Read online

  Miranda ambled over to the phone, dialed, and got Lucinda Coles. “Lucinda, is Father Michael there?”

  He was, and she buzzed the good woman through.

  “Father Michael, have you a moment?” Miranda accurately repeated the events of the afternoon.

  When she hung up, Harry asked, “Is he going to talk to her?”

  “Yes. He seemed distracted, though.”

  “Maybe the news upset him.”

  “Of course.” She nodded. “I'm going to clean out that refrigerator. It needs a good scrub.”

  “Before you do that, there's a pile of mail for Roscoe Fletcher. Why don't we sort it out and run it over to Naomi after work?”

  The two women dumped the mail out on the work table in the back. A flutter of bills made them both feel guilty. The woman had lost her husband. Handing over bills seemed heartless. Catalogs, magazines, and handwritten personal letters filled up one of the plastic boxes they used in the back to carry mail after sorting it out of the big canvas duffel bags.

  A Jiffy bag, the end torn, the gray stuffing spilling out, sent Harry to the counter for Scotch tape.

  Tucker observed this. She wanted to play, but the cats were hashing over the scene they'd just witnessed. She barked.

  “Tucker, if you need to go to the bathroom, there's the door.”

  “Can't we walk, just a little walk? You deserve a break.”

  “Butterfingers.” Harry dropped the bag. The tiny tear in the cover opened wider.

  Mrs. Murphy and Pewter stopped their gabbing and jumped down.

  “Yahoo!” Mrs. Murphy pounced on the tear and the gray stuffing burst out.

  “Aachoo.” Pewter sneezed as the featherlight stuffing floated into the air.

  “I've got it!” Mrs. Murphy crowed.

  Pewter pounced, both paws on one end of the bag, claws out as the tiger cat ripped away at the other corner, enlarging the tear until she could reach into the bag with her paw.

  If Mrs. Murphy had been a boxer, she would have been hailed for her lightning hands.

  Lying flat on her side, she fished in the Jiffy bag with her right paw.

  “Anything to eat?”

  “No, it's paper, but it's crisp and crinkly.”

  The large gray cat blinked, somewhat disappointed. Food, the ultimate pleasure, was denied her. She'd have to make do with fresh paper, a lesser pleasure but a pleasure nonetheless.

  “You girls are loony tunes.” Tucker, bored, turned her back. Paper held no interest for her.

  “Hooked it. I can get it out of the bag. I know I can.” Murphy yanked hard at the contents of the package, pulling the paper partway through the tear.

  “Look!” Pewter shouted.

  Mrs. Murphy stopped for a second to focus on her booty. “Wow!” She yanked harder.

  Tucker turned back around thanks to the feline excitement. “Give it to Mom. She needs it.”

  Mrs. Murphy ripped into the bag so fast the humans hadn't time to react, and the cat turned a somersault to land on her side, then put her paw into the bag. Her antics had them doubled over.

  However funny she was, Mrs. Murphy was destroying government property.

  “Mom, we're rich!” Mrs. Murphy let out a jubilant meow.

  Harry and Miranda, dumbfounded, bent over the demolished bag.

  “My word.” Miranda's eyes about popped from her head. She reached out with her left hand, fingers to the floor, to steady herself.

  The humans and animals stared at a stack of one-hundred-dollar bills, freshly minted.

  “We'd better call Rick Shaw. No one sends that much money in the mail.” Harry stood up, feeling a little dizzy.

  “Harry, I don't know the law on this, but we can't open this packet.”

  “I know that,” Harry, a trifle irritated, snapped.

  “It's not our business.” Miranda slowly thought out loud.

  “I'll call Ned.”

  “No. That's still interfering in the proper delivery of the mail.”

  “Miranda, there's something fishy about this.”

  “Fishy or not, we are employees of the United States Postal Service, and we can't blow the whistle just because there's money in a package.”

  “We sure could if it were a bomb.”

  “But it's not.”

  “You mean we deliver it?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Oh.” Mrs. Murphy's whiskers drooped. “We need that money.”

  26

  Naomi Fletcher called Rick Shaw herself. She asked Miranda and Harry to stay until the sheriff arrived.

  Mrs. Murphy, Pewter, and Tucker languished in the cab of the truck. When the sheriff pulled in with Cooper at his side, the animals set up such a racket that Cynthia opened the truck door.

  “Bet you guys need to go to the bathroom.”

  “Sure,” they yelled over their shoulders as they made a beeline for the front door.

  “You'd better stop for a minute,” Tucker advised the cats.

  “I'm not peeing in public. You do it,” the tiger, insulted, replied.

  “Fine.” The corgi found a spot under a tree, did enough to convince Cynthia that she had saved the interior of Harry's truck, then hurried to the front door.

  Once inside they huddled under the coffee table while Cynthia dusted the bag and the bills for prints.

  After an exhaustive discussion Rick told Roscoe Fletcher's widow to deposit the money in her account. He could not impound the cash. There was no evidence of wrongdoing.

  “There are no assumptions in my job, only facts.” He ran his right hand through his thinning hair.

  Naomi, both worried and thrilled, for the sum had turned out to be seventy-five thousand dollars, thanked the sheriff and his deputy for responding to her call.

  Rick, hat in hand, said, “Mrs. Fletcher, brace yourself. The story will be out in the papers tomorrow. A coroner's report is public knowledge. Bill Moscowitz has delayed writing up the autopsy report for as long as he can.”

  “I know you're doing your best.” Naomi choked up.

  Harry and Miranda, confused, looked at each other and then back at Rick.

  Naomi nodded at him, so he spoke. “Roscoe was poisoned.”

  “What!” Tucker exclaimed.

  “I told you,” Mrs. Murphy said.

  “Don't be so superior,” Pewter complained.

  “Naomi, I'm sorry, so very sorry.” Mrs. Hogendobber reached over and grasped Naomi's hand.

  “Who'd want to kill him?” Pewter's long white eyebrows rose.

  “Someone who failed algebra?” Mrs. Murphy couldn't resist.

  “Hey, where's Tucker?” Pewter asked.

  Tucker had sneaked off alone to find Winston, the bulldog.

  Harry said, “I'm sorry, Naomi.”

  Naomi wiped her thin nose with a pink tissue. “Poisoned! One of those strawberry drops was poison.”

  Cooper filled in the details. “He ingested malathion, which usually takes just minutes to kill someone.”

  Harry blurted out, “I ate one of those!”

  “When?” Rick asked.

  “Oh, two days before his death. Maybe three. You know Roscoe . . . always offering everyone candy.” She felt queasy.

  “Unfortunately, we don't know how he came to be poisoned. The candy in his car was safe.”

  They squeezed back into Harry's truck, the cats on Miranda's lap. Tucker, between the two humans, told everyone what Winston had said. “Naomi cries all the time. She didn't kill him. Winston's positive.”

  “There goes the obvious suspect in every murder case.” Pewter curled up on Miranda's lap, which left little room for Mrs. Murphy.

  “You could move over.”

  “Go sit on Harry's lap.”

  “Thanks, I will, you selfish toad.”

  Tucker nudged Murphy. “Winston said Sandy Brashiers is over all the time.”

  “Why?” Pewter inquired.

  “Trying to figure out Roscoe's plans for this school ye
ar. He left few documents or guidelines, and April Shively is being a real bitch—according to Winston.”

  “Secretaries always fall in love with their bosses,” Pewter added nonchalantly.

  “Oh, Pewter.” Murphy wrinkled her nose.

  “They do!”

  “Even if she was in love with him, it doesn't mean she'd be an obstructionist—good word, huh?” Tucker smiled, her big fangs gleaming.

  “I'm impressed, Tucker.” The tiger laughed. “Of course she's an obstructionist. April doesn't like Sandy. Roscoe didn't either.”

  “Guess Sandy's in for a rough ride.” Pewter noticed one of Herb Jones's two cats sitting on the steps to his house. “Look at Lucy Fur. She always shows off after her visit to the beauty parlor.”

  “That long hair is pretty, but can you imagine taking care of it?” Mrs. Murphy, a practical puss, replied.

  “I don't know what this world is coming to.” Miranda shook her head.

  “Poison is the coward's way to kill someone.” Harry, still shaken from realizing she had eaten Roscoe's candies, growled, “Whoever it was was chickenshit.”

  “That's one way to put it.” Miranda frowned.

  “The question is, where did he get the poison and is there a tin of lethal candies out there waiting for another innocent victim?” Harry stroked Murphy, keeping her left hand on the wheel.

  “We know one thing,” Miranda pronounced firmly. “Whoever killed him was close to him . . . if malathion kills as fast as Coop says it does.”

  “Close and weak. I mean it. Poison is the coward's weapon.”

  In that Harry was half right and half wrong.

  27

  A light wind from the southeast raised the temperature into the low seventies. The day sparkled, leaves the color of butter vibrated in the breeze, and the shadows disappeared since it was noon.

  Harry, home after cub hunting early in the morning, had rubbed down Poptart, turned her out with the other two horses, and was now scouring her stock trailer. Each year she repacked the bearings, inspected the boards, sanded off any rust, and repainted those areas. Right now her trailer resembled a dalmatian, spots everywhere. She'd put on the primer but didn't finish her task before cub hunting started, which was usually in September. Cubbing meant young hounds joined older ones, and young foxes learned along with the young hounds what was expected of them. With today's good weather she'd hoped to finish the job.

  Blair lent her his spray painter. As Blair bought the best of everything, she figured she could get the job done in two hours, tops. She'd bought metallic Superman-blue paint from Art Bushey, who gave her a good deal.

  “That stuff smells awful.” Tucker wrinkled her nose at the paint cans.

  “She's going to shoot the whole afternoon on this.” Pewter stretched. “I'll mosey on up to the house.”

  “Wimp. You could sleep under the maple tree and soak up the sunshine,” Mrs. Murphy suggested.

  “Don't start one of your outdoor exercise lectures about how we felines are meant to run, jump, and kill. This feline was meant to rest on silk cushions and eat steak tartare.”

  “Tucker, let's boogie.” Mrs. Murphy shook herself, then scampered across the stable yard.

  “I'm not going, and don't you come back here and make up stories about what I've missed,” Pewter called after them. “And I don't want to hear about the bobcat either. That's a tall tale if I ever heard one.” Then she giggled. “'Cept they don't have tails.” By now she was heading toward the house, carrying on a conversation with herself. “Oh, and if it isn't the bobcat, then it's the bear and her two cubs. And if I hear one more time about how Tucker was almost drug under by an irate beaver while crossing the creek . . . next they'll tell me there's an elephant out there. Fine, they can get their pads cut up. I'm not.” She sashayed into the screened-in porch and through the open door to the kitchen. “Mmm.” Pewter jumped onto the counter to gobble up crumbs of Danish. “What a pity that Harry isn't a cook.”

  She curled up on the counter, the sun flooding through the window over the sink, and fell fast asleep.

  The cat and dog trotted toward the northwest. Usually they'd head to the creek that divided Harry's land from Blair Bainbridge's land, but as they'd seen him this morning when he brought over the paint sprayer on his way to cubbing, they decided to sprint in the other direction.

  “Pewter cracks me up.” Mrs. Murphy laughed.

  “Me, too.” Tucker stopped and lifted her nose. “Deer.”

  “Close?”

  “Over there.” The corgi indicated a copse of trees surrounded by high grass.

  “Let's not disturb them. It's black-powder season, and there's bound to be some idiot around with a rifle.”

  “I don't mind a good hunter. They're doing us a favor. But the other ones . . .” The dog shuddered, then trotted on. “Mom and Blair didn't have much to say to each other, did they?”

  “She was in a hurry. So was he.” Mrs. Murphy continued, “Sometimes I worry about her. She's getting set in her ways. Makes it hard to mesh with a partner, know what I mean?”

  “She likes living alone. All that time I wanted Fair to come back, which he's tried to do—I really think she likes being her own boss.”

  “Tucker, she was hardly your typical wife.”

  “No, but she made concessions.”

  “So did he.” Mrs. Murphy stopped a moment to examine a large fox den. “Hey, you guys run this morning?”

  “No,” came the distant reply.

  “Next week they'll leave from Old Greenwood Farm.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Since when did you get matey with foxes?” Tucker asked. “I thought you hated them.”

  “Nah, only some of them.”

  “Hypocrite.”

  “Stick-in-the-mud. Remember what Emerson said, ‘A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds.'”

  “Where are we going?” Tucker ignored Murphy's reference.

  “Here, there, and everywhere.” Mrs. Murphy swished her tail.

  “Goody.” The dog loved wandering with no special plan.

  They ran through a newly mown hayfield. Grasshoppers flew up in the air, the faint rattle of their wings sounding like thousands of tiny castanets. The last of the summer's butterflies swooped around. Wolf spiders, some lugging egg sacs, hurried out of their way.

  At the end of the field a line of large old hickories stood sentinel over a farm road rarely used since the Bowdens put down a better road fifty yards distant.

  “Race you!” the cat called over her shoulder as she turned left on the road heading down to a deep ravine and a pond.

  “Ha!” The dog bounced for joy, screeching after the cat.

  Corgis, low to the ground, can run amazingly fast when stretched out to full body length. Since Mrs. Murphy zigged and zagged when she ran, Tucker soon overtook her.

  “I win!” the dog shouted.

  “Only because I let you.”

  They tumbled onto each other, rolling in the sunshine. Springing to their feet, they ran some more, this time with the tiger soaring over the corgi, dipping in front of her and then jumping her from the opposite direction.

  The sheer joy of it wore them out. They sat under a gnarled walnut at the base of a small spring.

  Mrs. Murphy climbed the tree, gracefully walking out on a limb. “Hey, there's a car over that rise.”

  “No way.”

  “Wanna bet?”

  They hurried up and over the small rise, the ruts in the road deeper than their own height. Stranded in the middle of the road was a 1992 red Toyota Camry with the license plates removed. As they drew closer they could see a figure in the driver's seat.

  Tucker stopped and sniffed. “Uh-oh.”

  Mrs. Murphy bounded onto the hood and stared, hair rising all over her body. Quickly she jumped off. “There's a dead human in there.”

  “How dead?”

  “Extremely dead.”

  “That's what I thought. Who is it?�
�

  “Given the condition of the body, your guess is as good as mine. But it was once a woman. There's a blue barrette in her hair with roses on it, little yellow plastic roses.”

  “We'd better go get Mom.”

  Mrs. Murphy walked away from the Camry and sat on the rise. She needed to collect her thoughts.

  “Tucker, it won't do any good. Mother won't know what we're telling her. The humans don't use this road anymore. It might be days, weeks, or even months before anyone finds this, uh, mess.”

  “Maybe by that time she'll be bones.”

  “Tucker!”

  “Just joking.” The dog leaned next to her dear friend. “Trying to lighten the moment. After all, you don't know who it is. I can't see that high up. Humans commit suicide, you know. Could be one of those things. They like to shoot themselves in cars or hotel rooms. Drugs are for the wimps, I guess. I mean, how many ways can they kill themselves?”

  “Lots of ways.”

  “I never met a dog that committed suicide.”

  “How could you? The dog would be dead.”

  “Smart-ass.” Tucker exhaled. “Guess we'd better go back home.”

  On the way across the mown hayfield Murphy said out loud what they both were thinking. “Let's hope it's a suicide.”

  They reached the farm in twenty minutes, rushing inside to tell Pewter, who refused to believe it.

  “Then come with us.”

  “Murphy, I am not traipsing all over creation. It's soon time for supper. Anyway, what's a dead human to me?”

  “You'd think someone would report a missing person, wouldn't you?” Tucker scratched her shoulder.

  “So many humans live alone, they aren't missed for a long time. And she's been dead a couple of weeks,” Murphy replied.

  28

  Puce-faced Little Marilyn, hands on hips, stood in the middle of Roscoe Fletcher's office, as angry as April Shively.

  “You hand those files over!”

  Coolly, relishing her moment of power, April replied, “Roscoe told me not to release any of this information until our Homecoming banquet.”