Murder on the Prowl Read online

  “None of your business.”

  “It is my business. Whoever he is, he's going to make good on this deal. He'll marry you.”

  “I don't want to get married.”

  “Oh, you don't?” Venom dripped from his voice. “Well, what you want is irrelevant. You got into this mess by following your wants. My God, Jody, what's happened to you?” He sat down with a thud, the anger draining into fear and confusion.

  “Don't be mad at Mom. She did what a mother is supposed to do. She went to the doctor with me—once I knew. We were going to tell you, Dad, but with everything that's happened to you—we put it off.”

  “Who is the father?”

  “I'm not sure.”

  “How many boys have you slept with?” His voice cracked.

  “A couple.”

  “Well, who do you think it is?”

  “Sean Hallahan—maybe.”

  “Oh, shit.”

  58

  “Don't lie to me.” Susan hovered over Brooks.

  “I'm not. I don't do drugs, Mom.”

  “You hang out with someone who does.”

  “Jensen's not a druggie. She had one joint in her bag. Chill out.”

  Ned stepped in. “I think it's time we all went to bed.”

  “Danny's already in bed.” Brooks envied her brother, off the hook on this one.

  “Now look, daughter, if you are hiding something, you'd better come clean. Whatever you're doing, we'll deal with it.”

  “I'm not doing anything.”

  “Susan.” Ned rubbed his forehead. A headache nibbled at his temples.

  “I want to get to the bottom of this. Sheriff Shaw asked each of you questions after the marijuana was found and after that costume showed up. I can't believe it. It's too preposterous. Karen Jensen.”

  “Mom, Karen didn't kill Mr. McKinchie. Really. It's nuts.”

  “How do you suppose the costume got in her locker?”

  “Easy. Everyone on the team knows everyone else's combination. We're always borrowing stuff.”

  Susan hovered over Brooks. “What do you know about Karen Jensen that we don't?”

  “Karen's okay. She's not a druggie. The only thing I know about Karen is that she was dating an older guy from UVA this summer and got a little too close. Really. She's okay.”

  Susan put her arm around her daughter's shoulders. “I hope you are, too.”

  Later Susan called Harry, relaying the conversation with Brooks. Harry treated her to a synopsis of Rice Sky.

  “Sounds boring.”

  “Made a lot of money. I think the real reason Roscoe was pushing the film-department idea was to punch up Maury. He was so overshadowed by Darla. Roscoe was smart. Cater to Maury and good things would follow.”

  “Money. Tons of money.”

  “Sure. They'd name the department after Maury. He'd donate all his scripts, round up old equipment; the whole thing would be an ego trip.”

  “How much do you think an ego trip like that would cost?”

  “It would take at least a million-dollar endowment, I'd think. Probably more.” Harry scribbled on a brown paper bag. “I'm not too good at knowing what it would be worth, really, but it would have to be a lot.”

  “What's Fair think?”

  “Millions,” he called out.

  “Sandy Brashiers can't be that stupid,” Harry said. “For a couple of million dollars even he would cave in on the film-department idea.”

  “I doubt Roscoe put it in dollars and cents.”

  “Yeah. Maybe it's in April's books.”

  “Susan, if that's all that's in there, what's to hide?”

  “Damned if I know. We called about Sean, by the way. No change.”

  “I called, too.”

  “That kid has to know something. Larry Johnson said he'd heard the main swelling was diminishing. Maybe he'll snap out of the coma once the swelling is down.”

  “He's lucky to be alive.”

  59

  “Why don't you just tell me the truth?” Rick rapped his fingers on the highly polished table.

  “You have no right to push me like this.” Naomi Fletcher had her back up.

  “You know more than you're telling me.” He remained cool and professional.

  “No, I don't. And I resent you badgering me when I'm in mourning.”

  Wordlessly, Cynthia Cooper slid the packet of envelopes, retied with a neat bow, across the table to Naomi. Her face bled bone white.

  “How—?”

  “The ‘how' doesn't matter, Naomi. If you are in on these murders, come clean.” Cynthia sounded sympathetic. “Maybe we can work a deal.”

  “I didn't kill anyone.”

  “You didn't kill Roscoe to clear the way for McKinchie to marry you?” Rick pressured her.

  “Marry Maury McKinchie? I'd sooner have a root canal.” Her even features contorted in scorn.

  “You liked him enough to sleep with him.” Cynthia felt the intimate information should best come from her, not Rick.

  “That doesn't mean I wanted to spend my life with him. Maury was a good-time Charlie, and that's all he was. He wasn't marriage material.”

  “Apparently, neither was Roscoe.”

  She shrugged. “He was in the beginning, but men change.”

  “So do women.” Cynthia pointed to the envelopes.

  “What's good for the gander was good for the goose, in this instance. The marriage vows are quite lovely, and one would hope to live up to them, but they are exceedingly unrealistic. I didn't do anything wrong. I didn't kill anyone. I played with Maury McKinchie. You can't arrest me for that.”

  “Played with him and then killed him when you learned he wasn't serious about you and he was sleeping with another woman.”

  “BoomBoom.” She waved her hand in the air as though at an irritating gnat. “I'd hardly worry about her.”

  “Plenty of other women have.” Cynthia bluntly stated the truth.

  “BoomBoom was too self-centered for Maury. One was never really in danger of a rival because he loved himself too much, if you know what I mean.” She smiled coldly.

  “You were at the car wash the day your husband died. You spoke to him. You could have easily given him poisoned candy.”

  “I could have, but I didn't.”

  “You're tough,” Rick said, half admiringly.

  “I'm not tough, I'm innocent.”

  “If I had a dollar for every killer who said that, I'd be a rich man.” Rick felt in his coat pocket for his cigarettes. “Mind if I smoke?”

  “I most certainly do. The whole house will stink when you leave, which I hope is soon.”

  Cynthia and Rick shared a secret acknowledgment. No Southern lady would have said that.

  “How well did you know Darla?”

  “A nodding acquaintance. She was rarely here.”

  “If you didn't kill Roscoe, do you know who did?”

  “No.”

  “How does withholding evidence sound to you, Mrs. Fletcher?” Rick hunched forward.

  “Like a bluff.”

  “For chrissake, Naomi, two men are dead!” Cynthia couldn't contain her disgust. Then she quickly fired a question. “Was your husband sleeping with April Shively?”

  “God, no,” Naomi hooted. “Roscoe thought April was pretty but deadly dull.” Naomi had to admit to herself that dullness didn't keep men from sleeping with women. However, she wasn't going to admit that to Shaw and Cooper.

  “Do you think Kendrick killed Maury?” Rick switched his bait.

  “Unlikely.” She closed her eyes, as if worn-out.

  Cooper interjected. “Why?”

  Naomi perked up. “Kendrick doesn't have the balls.”

  “Did you love your husband?” Rick asked.

  She grew sober, sad even. “You live with a man for eighteen years, you tend to know him. Roscoe might wander off the reservation from time to time. He could indulge in little cruelties—his treatment of Sandy Brashiers being a case
in point. He kept Sandy in the dark about everything.” She paused. “Did I love him? I was accustomed to him, but I did love him. Yes, I did.”

  Cynthia mustered a smile. “Why?”

  Naomi shrugged. “Habit.”

  “What did Roscoe have against Sandy Brashiers?”

  “Roscoe always had it in for Harvard men. He said the arrogance of their red robes infuriated him. You know, during academic ceremonies only Harvard wears the crimson robe.”

  “Do you have any feeling about the false obituaries?” Cynthia prodded.

  “Those?” Naomi wrinkled her brow. “Kids' prank. Sean apologized.”

  “Do you think he was also responsible for the second one?”

  “No. I think it was a copycat. Sean got the luxury of being a bad dude. Very seductive at that age. Another boy wanted the glory. Is it that important?”

  “It might be.” Rick reached for his hat.

  “Have you searched April Shively's house?” Naomi asked.

  “House, car, office, even her storage unit. Nothing.”

  Naomi stood up to usher them out. “She doesn't live high on the hog. I don't think she embezzled funds.”

  “She could be covering up for someone else.” Cynthia reached the door first.

  “You mean Roscoe, of course.” Naomi didn't miss a beat. “Why not? He's dead. He can be accused of anything. You have to find criminals in order to keep your jobs, don't you?”

  Rick halted at the door as Naomi's hand reached the knob. “You work well with Sandy, don't you? Under the circumstances?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you know that Sandy got a student pregnant at White Academy, the school he worked at before St. Elizabeth's?”

  Cooper struck next. “Roscoe knew.”

  “You two have been very busy.” Her lips tightened.

  “Like you said, Mrs. Fletcher, we have to find criminals in order to keep our jobs.” Rick half smiled.

  She grimaced and closed the door.

  60

  Mrs. Murphy leaned against the pillow on the sofa. She stretched her right hind leg out straight and held it there. Then she unsheathed her claws and stared at her toes. What stupendously perfect toes. She repeated the process with the left hind leg. Then she reached with her front paws together, a kitty aerobic exercise. Satisfied, she lay back on the pillow, happily staring into the fire. She reviewed in her mind recent events.

  Harry dusted her library shelves, a slow process since she'd take a book off the shelf, read passages, and then replace it. A light snow fell outside, which made her all the happier to be inside.

  Tucker snored in front of the fire. Pewter, curled in a ball at the other end of the sofa, dreamed of tiny mice singing her praise. “O Mighty Pewter, Queen of Cats.”

  “Lord of the Flies.” Harry pulled the old paperback off the shelf. “Had to read it in college, but I hated it.” She dropped to the next shelf. “Fielding, love him. Austen.” She turned to Mrs. Murphy. “Literature is about sensibility. Really, Murphy, John Milton is one of the greatest poets who ever lived, but he bores me silly. I have trouble liking any art form trying to beat a program into my head. I suppose it's the difference between the hedgehog and the fox.”

  “Isaiah Berlin.” Mrs. Murphy recalled the important work of criticism dividing writers into hedgehogs or foxes, hedgehogs being fixed on one grand idea or worldview whereas foxes ran through the territory; life was life with no special agenda. That was how she thought of it anyway.

  “What I mean is, Murphy, readers are hedgehogs or foxes. Some people read to remember. Some read to forget. Some read to be challenged. Others want their prejudices confirmed.”

  “Why do you read, Mother?” the cat asked.

  “I read,” Harry said, knowing exactly what her cat had asked her, “for the sheer exultant pleasure of the English language.”

  “Ah, me, too.” The tiger purred. Harry couldn't open a book without Mrs. Murphy sitting on her shoulder or in her lap.

  Sometimes Pewter would read, but she favored mysteries or thrillers. Pewter couldn't raise her sights above genre fiction.

  Mrs. Murphy thought the gray cat might read some diet books as well. She stretched and walked over to Harry. She jumped on a shelf to be closer to Harry's face. She scanned the book spines, picking out her favorites. She enjoyed biographies more than Harry did. She stopped at Michael Powell's My Life in the Movies.

  She blinked and leapt off the shelf, cuffing Tucker awake. “Come on, Tucker, come on.”

  “I'm so comfortable.”

  “Just follow me.” She skidded out the animal door, Tucker on her heels.

  “What in God's name gets into her?” Harry held The Iliad.

  Forty-five minutes later both animals, winded, pulled up at Bowden's pond where the Camry and the grisly remains still sat, undiscovered by humans.

  “Tucker, you cover the east side of the pond. I'll cover the west. Look for a video or a can of film.”

  Both animals searched through the snow, which was beginning to cover the ground; still the shapes would have been obvious.

  An hour later they gave up.

  “Nothing,” Tucker reported.

  “Me either.”

  A growl made their hair stand on end.

  “The bobcat!” Mrs. Murphy charged up the slippery farm road, leaping the ruts. Tucker, fast as grease, ran beside her.

  They reached the cutover hayfields, wide open with no place to hide.

  “She's gaining on us.” Tucker's tongue hung out.

  And she was, a compact, powerful creature, tufts on the ends of her ears.

  “This is my fault.” The cat ached from running so hard.

  “Save your breath.” Tucker whirled to confront the foe, her long fangs bared.

  The bobcat stopped for a moment. She wanted dinner, but she didn't want to get hurt. She loped around Tucker, deciding Murphy was the better chance. Tucker followed the bobcat.

  “Run, Murphy, run. I'll keep her busy.”

  “You domesticated worm,” the bobcat spat.

  Seeing her friend in danger, Murphy stopped panting. She puffed up, turning to face the enemy. Together she and Tucker flanked the bobcat about twenty yards from her.

  The bobcat crouched, moving low toward Mrs. Murphy, who jumped sideways. The bobcat ran and flung herself in the air. Murphy sidestepped her. The big cat whirled and charged just as Tucker hurtled toward her. The dog hit the bobcat in the legs as she was ready to pounce on Murphy. The bobcat rolled, then sprang to her feet. Both friends were side to side now, fangs bared.

  “In here!” a voice called from the copse of trees a spring away.

  “Let's back toward it,” Murphy gasped.

  “Where are we going?” Tucker whispered.

  “To the trees.”

  “She's more dangerous there than in the open.”

  “It's our only hope.”

  “You two are worthless.” The bobcat stalked them, savoring the moment.

  “That's your opinion.” Mrs. Murphy growled deep in her throat.

  “You're the hors d'oeuvre, your canine sidekick is the main meal.”

  “Don't count your chickens.” Murphy spun around and flew over the snow.

  Tucker did likewise, the bobcat closing in on her. She heard breathing behind her and then saw Mrs. Murphy dive into a foxhole. Tucker spun around and snapped at the bobcat's forelegs, which caught her completely by surprise. It gave Tucker the split second she needed to dive into the foxhole after her friend.

  “I can wait all night,” the bobcat muttered.

  “Don't waste time over spilt milk,” Mrs. Murphy taunted.

  “I'm glad some of you are big foxes.” Tucker panted on the floor of the den. “I'd have never gotten into your earth otherwise.”

  The slight red vixen said to Murphy, “You told me once to stay in the shed during a bad storm. I owe you one.”

  “You've more than repaid me.” Murphy listened as the bobcat prowled around,
unwilling to give up.

  “What were you two doing out here tonight?”

  “Looking for a film or a video back where the dead human in the car is,” Tucker said.

  “Nobody will find that human until deer-hunting season starts, and that's two weeks away,” the vixen noted wisely.

  “Did you-all see anything?”

  “No, although when we first found her at the end of September she'd only been dead a few weeks.”

  “September! I think the killer threw the evidence in the pond.” Murphy was a figuring cat.

  “How do you know?” Tucker knew that the feline was usually a few steps ahead of her.

  “Because the murders are about film and Roscoe's film department. It was right in front of my face, but I didn't see it. Whoever is in that car is the missing link.”

  “Murphy,” Tucker softly said, “have you figured out what's going on?”

  “Yes, I think I have, but not in time—not in time.”

  61

  Kendrick and Jody sat on a bench outside the intensive-care unit. An officer guarded Sean inside. His grandfather was there, too.

  Kendrick stopped Dr. Hayden McIntire when he came out of the room. “How is he?”

  “We're guardedly optimistic.” He looked at Jody. “Quite a few of his friends have stopped by. He's a popular boy.”

  “Has Karen Jensen been here?” Jody asked.

  “Yes. So were Brooks Tucker, Roger Davis, and the whole football team, of course. They can't go in, but it was good that they came.”

  “Well, that's nice.” Kendrick smiled unconvincingly.

  After Hayden left, Kendrick took his daughter by the elbow. “Come on, he isn't going to rise up and walk just because you're here.”

  She stared at the closed doors. “I wish he would.”

  “I'll attend to Sean in good time.”

  “Dad, you can't make anybody do anything. One mistake isn't cured by making a bigger one.”

  They walked down the hall. “That's a mature statement.”

  “Maybe I'm learning something.”

  “Well, learn this. I'm not having bastards in my house, so you're going to marry somebody.”

  “It's my body.”

  He grabbed her arm hard. “There is no other option.”

  “Let me go or I'll scream bloody murder right here at University of Virginia Hospital. And you're in enough trouble.” She said this without rancor.