Murder on the Prowl Page 14

Sourly, April shut the door. Sandy and Naomi looked at each other and shrugged.

  36

  “How did I get roped into this?” Harry complained.

  Her furry family said nothing as she fumbled with her hastily improvised costume. Preferring a small group of friends to big parties, Harry had to be dragged to larger affairs. Even though this was a high school dance and she was a chaperon, she still had to unearth something to wear, snag a date, stand on her feet, and chat up crashing bores. She thought of the other chaperons. One such would be Maury McKinchie, fascinating to most people but not to Harry. Since he was a chaperon, she'd have to gab with him. His standard fare, those delicious stories of what star did what and to whom on his various films, filled her with ennui. Had he been a hunting man she might have endured him, but he was not. He also appeared much too interested in her breasts. Maury was one of those men who didn't look you in the eye when he spoke to you—he spoke to your breasts.

  Sandy Brashiers she liked until he grew waspish about the other faculty at St. Elizabeth's. With Roscoe dead he would need to find a new whipping boy. Still, he looked her in the eye when he spoke to her, and that was refreshing.

  Ed Sugarman collected old cigarette advertisements. He might expound on the chemical properties of nicotine, but if she could steer him toward soccer, he proved knowledgeable and entertaining.

  Coach Hallvard could be lively. Harry then remembered that the dreaded Florence Rubicon would be prowling the dance floor. Harry's Latin ebbed away with each year but she remembered enough Catullus to keep the old girl happy.

  Harry laughed to herself. Every Latin teacher and subsequent professor she had ever studied under had been an odd duck, but there was something so endearing about them all. She kept reading Latin partly to bask in the full bloom of eccentricity.

  “I can't wear this!” Harry winced, throwing off a tight pump. The patent leather shoe scuttled across the floor. She checked the clock, groaning anew.

  “There's time,” Mrs. Murphy said. “Can the tuxedo. It isn't you.”

  “I fed you.”

  “Don't be obtuse. Get out of the tuxedo.” Murphy spoke louder, a habit of hers when humans proved dense. “You need something with imagination.”

  “Harry doesn't have imagination,” Tucker declared honestly.

  “She has good legs,” Pewter replied.

  “What does that have to do with imagination?” Tucker wanted to know.

  “Nothing, but she should wear something that shows off her legs.”

  Mrs. Murphy padded into the closet. “There's one sorry skirt hanging in here.”

  “I didn't even know Mom owned a skirt.”

  “This has to be a leftover from college.” The tiger inspected the brown skirt.

  Pewter joined her. “I thought she was going to clean out her closet.”

  “She organized her chest of drawers; that's a start.”

  The two cats peered upward at the skirt, then at each other.

  “Shall we?”

  “Let's.” Pewter's eyes widened.

  They reached up, claws unsheathed, and shredded the skirt.

  “Wheee!” They dug in.

  Harry, hearing the sound of cloth shredding, poked her head in the closet, the single light bulb swaying overhead. “Hey!”

  With one last mighty yank, Mrs. Murphy scooted out of the closet. Pewter, a trifle slower, followed.

  Harry, aghast, took out the skirt. “I could brain you two. I've had this skirt since my sophomore year at Crozet High.”

  “We know,” came the titters from under the bed.

  “Cats can be so destructive.” Tucker's soulful eyes brimmed with sympathy.

  “Brownnoser!” Murphy accused.

  “I am a mighty cat. What wondrous claws have I. I can rip and tear and even shred the sky,” Pewter sang.

  “Great. Ruin my skirt and now caterwaul underneath the bed.” Harry knelt down to behold four luminous chartreuse eyes peeking at her. “Bad kitties.”

  “Hee hee.”

  “I mean it. No treats for you.”

  Pewter leaned into Murphy. “This is your fault.”

  “Sell me out for a treatie.” Mrs. Murphy bumped her.

  Harry dropped the dust ruffle back down. She stared at the ruined skirt.

  Murphy called out from her place of safety, “Go as a vagabond. You know, go as one of those poor characters from a Victor Hugo novel.”

  “Wonder if I could make a costume out of this?”

  “She got it!” Pewter was amazed.

  “Don't count your chickens.” Mrs. Murphy slithered out from under the bed. “I'll make sure she puts two and two together.”

  With that she launched herself onto the bed and from the bed she hurtled toward the closet, catching the clothes. She hung there, swaying, then found the tattiest shirt she could find. She sank her claws in and slid down to the floor, the intoxicating sound of rent fabric heralding her descent.

  “You're crazy!” Harry dashed after her, but Murphy blasted into the living room, jumped on a chair arm, then wiggled her rear end as though she was going to leap into the bookshelves filled not only with books but with Harry's ribbons and trophies. “Don't you dare.”

  “Then leave me alone,” Murphy sassed, “and put together your vagabond costume. Time's a-wasting.”

  The human and the cat squared off, eye to eye. “You're in a mood, pussycat.”

  Tucker tiptoed out. Pewter remained under the bed, straining to hear.

  “What's got into you?”

  “It's Halloween,” Murphy screeched.

  Harry reached over to grab the insouciant feline, but Mrs. Murphy easily avoided her. She hopped to the other side of the chair, then ran back into the bedroom where she leapt into the clothes and tore them up some more.

  “Yahoo! Banzai! Death to the Emperor!”

  “Have you been watching those World War Two movies again?” Tucker laughed.

  “Don't shoot until you see the whites of their eyes.” Murphy leapt in the air, turning full circle and landing in the middle of the clothes.

  “She's on a military kick.” Pewter snuck out from under the bed. “If you get us both punished, Murphy, I will be really upset.”

  Murphy catapulted off the bed right onto Pewter. The two rolled across the bedroom floor, entertaining Harry with their catfight.

  Finally Pewter, put out, extricated herself from the grasp of Murphy. She stalked off to the kitchen.

  “Fraidycat.”

  “Mental case,” Pewter shot back.

  “Anything that happens tonight will be dull after this,” Harry said with a sigh.

  Boy, did she have a wrong number.

  37

  Little Mim, taut under her powdered face, wig bobbling, wandered across the highly polished gym floor to Harry. At least she thought it was Harry because the vagabond's escort, a pirate, was too tall to be anyone but Fair.

  The dance was turning into a huge success, thanks to the band, Yada Yada Yada.

  The curved sword, stuck through his sash, gave Fair a dangerous air. Other partyers wore swords. There was Stonewall Jackson and Julius Caesar. A few wore pistols that upon close examination turned out to be squirt guns.

  Karen Jensen, behind a golden mask, drove the boys wild because she came as a golden-haired Artemis. Quite a bit of Karen was showing, and it was prime grade.

  But then, quite a bit of Harry was showing, and that wasn't bad either.

  Little Mim put her hand on Harry's forearm. “Could I have a minute?”

  “Sure. Fair, I'll be right back.”

  “Okay,” he replied from under his twirling mustache.

  Marilyn pulled Harry into a corner of the auditorium. Madonna and King Kong were making out behind them. King Kong was having a hard time of it.

  “I hope you aren't cross with me. I should have called you.”

  “About what?”

  “I asked Blair to the dance. Well, it wasn't just that I needed an escort
, but I thought I might interest him in the school and—”

  “I have no claim on him. Anyway, we're just friends,” Harry said soothingly.

  “Thanks. I'd hoped you'd understand.” Her wig wobbled. “How did they manage with these things?” She glanced around. “Can you guess who Stonewall Jackson is?”

  “Mmm, the paunch means he's a chaperon,” Harry stated.

  “Kendrick Miller.”

  “Where's Irene? It isn't World War Three yet with those two, is it?”

  “Irene's over there. It'd be a perfect costume if she were twenty years younger. Some women can't accept getting old, I guess.” She indicated the woodland fairy, the wings diaphanous over the thin wire. Then, lowering her voice, “Did you see April Shively? Dressed as a witch. How appropriate.”

  “I thought you liked April.”

  Realizing she might have said too much, Little Mim backtracked. “She's not herself since Roscoe's death, and she's making life difficult for everyone from the board on down to the faculty. It will pass.”

  “Or she will,” Harry joked.

  “Two bewitching masked beauties.” Maury McKinchie complimented them from behind his Rhett Butler mask.

  “What a line!” Harry laughed, her voice giving her away.

  “May I have this dance?” Maury bowed to Harry, who took a turn on the floor.

  Little Mim, happy she wasn't asked, hastened to Blair as fast as her wig would allow.

  Sean Hallahan, dressed as a Hell's Angel, danced with Karen Jensen. After the dance ended, he escorted her off the floor. “Karen, is everyone mad at me?”

  Jody, dragged along by her mother, glared at Sean. She was in a skeleton outfit that concealed her face, but Sean knew it was Jody.

  “Jody is.”

  “Are you mad at me?”

  “No.”

  “I feel like you've been avoiding me.”

  “Field hockey practice takes up as much time as football practice.” She paused, clearing her throat. “And you've been a little weird lately—distant.”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  “Sean, you couldn't help the way things turned out—Mr. Fletcher's dying—and until then it was pretty funny. Even the phony obituary for Mr. McKinchie was funny.”

  “I didn't do that.”

  “I know, it was on Roger's paper route, and he says he didn't do it either.”

  “But I really didn't.” He sensed her disbelief.

  “Okay, okay.”

  “That's an incredible costume,” he said admiringly.

  “Thanks.”

  “Karen—do you like me a little?”

  “A little,” she said teasingly, “but what about Jody?”

  “It's not—well, you know. We're close but not that way. We practiced a lot this summer and—”

  “Practiced what?”

  “Tennis. It's our spring sport.” He swallowed hard.

  “Oh.” She remembered Jody's version of the summer.

  “Will you go out with me next Friday after the game?”

  “Yes,” she said without hesitation.

  He smiled, pushing her back out on the dance floor.

  Coach Renee Hallvard, dressed as Garfield the cat, sidled up next to Harry.

  “Harry, is that you?”

  “Coach?”

  “Yes, or should I say ‘Meow'?”

  “Wonder what Mrs. Murphy would say about this.”

  Coach reached back, draping her tail over her arm. “Get a life.”

  They both laughed.

  “She probably would say that.”

  “If you don't mind, I'll drop off this year's field hockey rule book on Monday.”

  “Why?” Harry murmured expectantly.

  “I need a backup referee—just in case. You know the game.”

  “Oh, Coach. Make Susan do it.”

  “She can't.” Coach Hallvard laughed at Harry. “Brooks is on the team.”

  “Well—okay.”

  Coach Hallvard clapped her on the back. “You're a good sport.”

  “Sucker is more like it.”

  Rhett Butler asked Harry to dance a second time. “You've got beautiful legs.”

  “Thank you,” she murmured.

  “I ought to give you a screen test.”

  “Get out of here.” Harry thumped his back with her left hand.

  “You're very attractive. The camera likes some people. It might like you.” He paused. “What's so curious is that even professionals don't know who will be good on-screen and who won't.”

  “Rhett,” she joked because she knew it was Maury, “I bet you say that to all the girls.”

  “Ha.” He threw his head back and laughed. “Just the pretty ones.”

  “In fact, I heard you have a car full of vital essences, so you must have said something to BoomBoom.”

  “Oh!” His voice lowered. “What was I thinking?”

  Part of Maury's charm was that he never pretended to be better than he was.

  “Hey, I'll never tell.”

  “You won't have to. She will.” He sighed. “You see, Harry, I'm a man who needs a lot of attention, female attention. I admit it.”

  Stonewall and Garfield, dancing near them, turned their heads. “You don't give a damn who you seduce and who you hurt. You don't need attention, you need your block knocked off,” Kendrick Miller, as Stonewall, mumbled.

  Rhett danced on. “Kendrick Miller, you're a barrel of laughs. I say what I think. You think being a repressed Virginian is a triumph. I think you're pathetic.”

  Kendrick stopped. Coach Hallvard stepped back.

  “Guys. Chill out,” Harry told them.

  “I'll meet you after the dance, McKinchie. You say where and when.”

  “Are we going to fight a duel, Kendrick? Do I get the choice of weapons?”

  “Sure.”

  “Pies. You need a pie in the face.”

  Harry dragged Maury backward. She had heard about Kendrick's flash temper.

  “Since we can't use guns, we can start with fists,” Kendrick called after him as Renee Hallvard pulled him in the direction opposite Maury.

  As the dancers closed the spaces left by the vacating couples, a few noticed the minor hostilities. Fortunately, most of the students were wrapped up in the music and one another.

  Jody put her hands on her hips, turned her back on her father, and walked to the water fountain. She had to take off the mask to drink.

  “What a putz!” Maury shook his head.

  “No one has ever accused Kendrick of having a good time or a sense of humor.” Harry half laughed.

  “Totally humorless.” Maury emphasized the word. “Thank God his kid doesn't take after him. Funny thing, though, the camera liked Jody, and yet Karen Jensen is the more beautiful girl. I noticed that when we had our one-day film clinic.”

  “Hmm.”

  “Ah, the camera . . . it reveals things the naked eye can't see.” He bowed. “Thank you, madam. Don't forget your screen test.”

  She curtseyed. “Sir.” Then she whispered, “Where's your bodyguard?”

  He winked. “I made that up.”

  Fair ambled over when he'd gone. “Slinging the bull, as usual?”

  “Actually, we were talking about the camera . . . after he had a few words with Kendrick Miller. Testosterone poisoning.”

  “If you keep saying that, I'll counter with ‘raging hormones.'”

  “You do, anyway, behind our backs.”

  “I do not.”

  “Most men do.”

  “I'm not most men.”

  “No, you aren't.” She slipped her arm through his.

  The evening progressed without further incident, except that Sean Hallahan had a flask of booze in his motorcycle jacket. No one saw him drinking from it, but he swayed on his feet after each return from outside.

  He got polluted, and when someone dressed as a Musketeer showed up at the party, sword in hand, and knocked him down, he couldn't get up.

&
nbsp; As Yada Yada Yada played the last song of the evening, some of the kids began sneaking off. Roger and Brooks danced the last dance. They were a hit as Lucy and Desi.

  A piercing scream didn't stop the dancers. After all, ghosts and goblins were about.

  The piercing scream was followed by moans that seemed frightening enough. Finally, Harry and Fair left the dance to investigate. They found Rhett Butler lying bleeding on the hall floor, gasping for breath as the blood spurted from his throat and his chest. Bending over him, sword in hand, was a paunchy Stonewall Jackson.

  38

  Maury McKinchie died before the rescue squad arrived at St. Elizabeth's. Rick Shaw, sirens blaring, arrived seconds after his final gurgle.

  Rick lifted Kendrick's bloodied sword from his hand.

  “It wasn't me, it was the Musketeer. I fought him off, but it was too late,” Kendrick babbled.

  “Kendrick Miller, I am booking you under suspicion of murder. You have the right to remain silent . . .” Rick began.

  Harry, Fair, Little Mim, and the other chaperons quickly cordoned off the hallway leading to the big outside doors, making sure that Irene was hurried out of the gym. Florence Rubicon ushered the dancers out by another exit at the end of the gym floor. Still, a few kids managed to creep in to view the corpse.

  Karen and Sean, both mute, simply stared.

  Jody walked up behind them, her mask off, her hair tousled, the horror of the scene sinking in. “Dad? Dad, what's going on?”

  Cynthia flipped open her notebook and started asking questions.

  Sandy Brashiers, in a low voice, said to Little Mim, “People are going to yank their kids out of here. By Monday this school will be a ghost town.”

  39

  A light brown stubble covered Rick Shaw's square chin. As his thinning hair was light brown, the contrast amused Cynthia Cooper, although little was amusing at the moment.

  The ashtray in the office overflowed. The coffee machine pumped out cup after cup of the stimulant.

  Cynthia regretted Maury McKinchie's murder, not just because a man was cut down, literally, but because Sunday, which would dawn in a couple of hours, was her day off. She had planned to drive over to the beautiful town of Monterey, almost on the West Virginia border. She'd be driving alone. Her job prevented her from having much of a social life. It wasn't that she didn't meet men. She did. Usually they were speeding seventy-five miles per hour in a fifty-five zone. They rarely smiled when they saw her, even though she was easy on the eyes. The roundup of drunks at the mall furnished her with scores of men, and they fell all over her—literally. The occasional white-collar criminal enlivened her harvest of captive males.