The Purrfect Murder Read online

  “Coming along. We have a problem here. You need a larger outtake for the stove you’re putting in.”

  “Why?” Carla walked into the alcove where the stove would be located, looking up at the four-inch opening.

  “Six inches.”

  “Why?”

  “That’s the code for this type of stove. You could change the stove, of course.” He knew perfectly well she wouldn’t.

  “Why didn’t you know this?” Carla turned on Tazio.

  “I thought I did.”

  “She did.” Mike came to her defense. “This has been under discussion for the last two months.”

  “Is it code yet?”

  “Yes and no.” He hesitated. “Let me put it this way: it will be in writing by the time your stove gets here, and then the kitchen will be finished and you’ll have to tear things up, make a mess, wash all this glass. Just do it now.”

  Face reddening, Carla took it out on Tazio. “I expect this done in the next week, and if you can’t get Arnie back”—she named the fellow responsible for ductwork—“I expect you to do it yourself!”

  “Now, Carla, it’s not her fault.” Mike winked at Tazio, which Carla saw.

  “I don’t give a damn! I want it done and I want it done now, and if there’s anything else, Mike McElvoy, find it now, because I’m not backtracking.”

  He stiffened. “I’m doing my job.”

  “Sure. That’s what everyone says, but I know you can do it better for some people than for others.”

  “That’s not true.”

  She turned silently on her heel and walked out.

  Mike called after her, “Carla, I resent that.”

  She stopped, wheeled to look at him. “You know, Mike McElvoy, you’re not as smart as you think you are, and I’m on to you.”

  As Carla left, Tazio noticed Mike’s hands shaking as he slapped shut his Moleskine notebook. “I hate that bitch.”

  “Join the club.” She did wonder why he’d misinformed Carla, though. The building code didn’t change that quickly. This house was under way. The county couldn’t make the code retroactive. There was nothing wrong with her four-inch outtake duct.

  He took a deep breath. “Can’t let it get under my skin. You know how these people are. I thought Penny Lattimore was a pain in the ass. Hell, she’s an angel compared to this one.”

  Tazio, no fan of Mike’s, did appreciate his task. “Call her tonight. Spread a little oil on the waters.”

  “I can make her life more miserable than she can make mine.”

  “That you can, but how often do you want to attend special hearings or, worse, testify in court if she brings suit against the county? She’s the type, you know.”

  Jamming his notebook back in his pocket, he grumbled, “Right.” He paused. “You know, I’m against abortion. But I tell you, Carla Paulson makes a strong case for free abortion on demand. If only she’d been flushed out of the womb.”

  Shocked at Mike’s harsh statement, Tazio wondered what was happening in his life to make him so crude.

  5

  Rain poured at long last. At times Rev. Herb Jones’s cats, Elocution, Cazenovia, and Lucy Fur, could barely see out the window. Dutiful, the three felines attended every vestry-board meeting. Sometimes, Harry’s cats and dog also attended, but not this morning, Saturday, September 20.

  Harry, Susan, Folly, BoomBoom, and Herb eked out a quorum. Nolan Carter, the local oil supplier, was in Tulsa on business. Marvin Lattimore, Penny’s husband, was also out of town on business. He bought used airplanes, from Piper Cubs to 747s, refurbished them, and sold them to rich individuals and to corporate clients. For the heck of it, five years back, he’d started a small charter airline, and business had boomed.

  “We should table this until Marvin can study the figures,” Folly insisted.

  “We can’t put this off indefinitely.” Tazio didn’t think Marvin knew all that much about heating systems, but Folly was dazzled by him. This fact was not lost on Penny Lattimore, although Ron, Folly’s usually jealous husband, didn’t seem to notice. Twenty years older than Folly, Ron Steinhauser—brash, controlling, opinionated—had begun to slump into a slower gear. At seventy-five, he’d pushed himself hard, drunk too much at times, and finally his body was rebelling.

  “When does Marvin come back from Moscow?” Harry asked the obvious question of Herb.

  “Next week. I’ll be sure he gets the study, and I will also be sure he knows we are operating under some time constraint. The last thing we want is for the furnace to be torn up when a cold snap hits us.”

  Folly listened to Herb, then replied with a lilt of humor in her well-modulated voice, “Doesn’t seem likely.”

  BoomBoom said, “One October—first week, I think—we had a freak snowstorm, and the weight of the snow with the leaves still on the trees brought down branches all over Virginia. You could hear the creaking and breaking.” She paused a moment. “Actually, we don’t have to wait until next week. We can e-mail this to Marvin.”

  “Good idea.” Susan nodded.

  Folly, not an obstructionist, had never lived in a structure built shortly after the Revolutionary War. She had little sense of how cold it could get even with a half-decent heating system. “Well, do be sure that he doesn’t feel pressured. We want Marvin on board.” She smiled at her little pun.

  “We do.” Harry smiled at Folly, trying to do as Susan asked.

  “All right, then.” Herb turned to BoomBoom. “You do it.”

  “Happily,” BoomBoom agreed.

  It was not lost on the group that Herb asked BoomBoom instead of Folly to communicate with Marvin. Obviously, he’d heard the gossip, too.

  Shortly thereafter, the business part of the meeting frittered away and the group focused on what they really wanted to talk about: Dr. Will Wylde.

  Herb glanced at his agenda, noted the request for smokeless tapers, and figured it could wait. He was amazed that he’d kept the lid on it this long.

  A gust of wind splashed so much rain on the handblown windowpanes that it sent the cats jumping off the ledge. They joined the group.

  “Usually, these political killings, well, someone wants to take credit. The newspaper or TV station receives an acknowledgment. Hasn’t happened.” Folly plucked an orange out of a large bowl.

  “Maybe they’re waiting, or maybe they want people to think this was the work of a single crazy.” BoomBoom got up and left the room, calling over her shoulder, “Tea or coffee?”

  “Both.” Susan rose to help her. “Anyone for iced tea?”

  Folly raised her hand.

  Harry said, “I hope this doesn’t kick off a wave of violence across the country—doctors being targeted, clinics blown up.”

  “I do, too.” Herb leaned back in the old club chair, Lucy Fur now on his lap. “Benita…” He shook his head, tears welling up. “Remarkable.”

  “She is.” Folly also teared up. There was no need to recount that Folly, BoomBoom, and Alicia were with Benita when Rick told her what had happened. Everyone knew.

  Susan and BoomBoom reappeared with two trays of drinks.

  “What does Ned say?” Folly asked Susan as she poured tea.

  Without taking her eyes off the cup, Susan said, “It was funny in a way. They happened to be in session, and when the news crept into the chamber, thanks to a zealous page, the men who came in on the coattails of the far right, vociferously antiabortion, couldn’t distance themselves fast enough. Ned said as much as he mourned Will Wylde; it was all he could do not to laugh out loud at these opportunistic buffoons.”

  “Ned’s pretty conservative.” Folly did not yet have the feel for Virginia politics. In her mind, Democrat equaled liberal.

  “About financial issues, he certainly is. He’s live and let live on everything else.”

  Herb smiled at Folly and said, “Ned’s what you might call an old-time Southern Democrat. Well, let me amend that: he’s a new-time Southern Democrat. He’s not racist and he’s not
pushing women back in the kitchen, but he’s part of the old-time religion.”

  “Which is…” Folly arched an eyebrow.

  BoomBoom, smiling, handed a plate of cookies over to Folly, who passed it on. “When you go into the voting booth you ask one question, ‘Is it good for Dixie?’”

  Folly, thinking this was a joke, laughed. “Oh, BoomBoom, you don’t mean it.”

  The others in the room realized it was best to shut up.

  Tazio returned to the murder. “Yesterday I was at the Paulsons’ house, meeting with our fave, Mike McElvoy, and I was surprised to learn he’s antiabortion. But he seemed genuinely upset about Will.”

  “He’s a perfect ass,” Folly said venomously.

  “That insults mules.” Harry was surprised at Folly’s emotion. “He’s a dumb human.”

  “Ego,” BoomBoom simply said.

  “Give a little man a little power and he abuses it every time.” Tazio had Mike’s measure.

  “Carla’s on the floor about Will. She’d gotten to know him socially. He was her doctor, too. She’s a mess.” Folly shrugged. “But you know Carla, she’s not one to let slip the opportunity to call attention to herself.”

  Herb laughed despite himself. “We can pray that Carla…um…Let me think about this.”

  That lightened the mood.

  “Carla’s like Teddy Roosevelt. She wants to be the bride at every wedding and the corpse at every funeral.” Susan used the famous quote.

  Herb looked at BoomBoom, then Folly. “Girls, thank you for being with Benita. Boom, give my thoughts to Alicia, too.”

  “I will. The kids fly in today, and that will be a big help.”

  “Will Junior is the spitting image of his father.” Harry liked the whole Wylde family.

  “Funeral date?” Folly wondered.

  “Can’t do anything until the coroner releases the body.” Susan knew a bit about this procedure, since Ned was a lawyer. “In the case of any suspicious death it takes longer, but I expect the funeral will be next weekend, if all goes as it should.”

  “Oh, no, that’s the fund-raising ball for Poplar Forest, in Bedford County, September twenty-seventh. Everyone has to be there.” Folly’s face registered disappointment.

  Poplar Forest was Thomas Jefferson’s summer home, which was in the process of a painstaking restoration.

  “Even if it is, the funeral will be in the morning and the fund-raiser’s at night,” Tazio logically reminded her.

  “But people will be…you know,” Folly countered.

  “Let’s not worry about it until we know. And if the funeral is in the morning, we can all remind people that Will would want us to have a good time and to raise as much money as we can that evening. After all, he was a strong supporter of the restoration and sponsored a table.”

  Susan frowned. “In a way, I still can’t believe it.”

  Folly, head of the ball committee, added, “Benita won’t be there, but she’s encouraged the office staff to go and to fill out the table. An empty table at a fund-raiser looks forlorn, and as you said, Will would want the project supported.”

  “One good thing that’s come out of this dreadful event is that every priest, pastor, and preacher is meeting tonight at the Greek Orthodox Church out on Route 250. Even though we don’t agree about abortion, we all agree that a killing such as this is the work of man, not the will of God,” Herb interjected.

  “Gods may come and go, but greed and the lust for power remain.” Harry listened to the rain.

  “That’s hardly a Christian statement.” Susan knew Harry hadn’t meant to be disrespectful.

  “Well, I meant that the Egyptians worshipped a slew of gods, as did the Greeks, Romans, and Norsemen throughout history. Whenever they’d want to justify something, they’d declare it was to serve Ra or Thor. Whoever shot Will is pretty much part of the common herd. You twist religion to serve your own ends.”

  “Harry, that’s so cynical.” Folly neatly piled up her orange rind.

  “Realistic.” Susan shrugged.

  “Doesn’t mean we can’t strive to rise above it.” Herb reached for a large chocolate chip cookie. “I have never wanted riches or power, but I certainly weaken when it comes to cookies.”

  The people laughed, but Lucy Fur patted at Herb’s hand. “Poppy, what about your diet?”

  Sheepishly, Herb broke a bit off the cookie to give to Lucy but regretted it, since Elocution and Cazenovia zipped right over; they liked chewy dough.

  “All right,” Herb sighed, sharing his cookie.

  After the meeting Susan drove Harry back to the farm.

  Harry found the rhythm of the windshield wipers hypnotic. “Funny crack about Carla wanting to be the bride at every wedding, the corpse at every funeral.”

  6

  This is the second time in two days that you’ve questioned me,” Harvey Tillach, beefy-faced but not unattractive, grumbled.

  “I appreciate your continued cooperation, especially over the weekend,” Rick simply replied.

  “Didn’t know you worked Saturdays.”

  “Sometimes.” The genial sheriff nodded, then leaned forward slightly. “The acoustics are incredible. Can’t hear the guns. Can’t hear the downpour outside, either.”

  “Still coming down in buckets?” Harvey’s light eyebrows raised.

  “A day for accidents.” Rick sighed, hoping none of them would be fatal.

  As Harvey snorted agreement, the manager of this exclusive gun club ducked his head in the office. “You two need anything—a drink, hot or cold?”

  “I’m fine, thanks, Nicky.” Harvey smiled.

  “Me, too.”

  “All right, then. Holler if you need me.” He shut the door.

  Central Virginia Gun Club was snugged right up to the base of the Blue Ridge Mountains. Boasting clays, skeet, a fabulous indoor range, and organized pheasant hunts, as well, the waiting list was years long. The owner pushed women’s names up the list, since if the Second Amendment was to be saved it would only be with the help of women. A few of the men moaned, but most of them realized how imperiled their constitutional rights had become.

  Two former Olympians were on the staff, one wildlife conservationist, and a variety of groundsmen and gamekeepers. Classes were quite popular; the place hummed.

  “You’ve been a member of CVG a long time?” Rick asked.

  “Twenty-three years. Last year we all traveled out to Reno for a clay competition and, you know, the air is different. Had to swing that gun up a little faster,” he recalled. “Do you mind getting to the point?”

  “Sure. You ever shoot handguns?”

  “Rarely. I’m a clays guy. Don’t think I’ll be out today, but I can still work on my hand–eye down at the range.”

  “How long have you competed?”

  “Since med school. I was at New York University. Not much outdoor sports. I stumbled on an indoor firing range, so you can say I started out with a handgun. Got completely hooked. Also started playing squash then. It’s easier playing squash in Manhattan than tennis. Better workout, too.”

  “That’s what I hear. And you met Will Wylde when you moved here?”

  “We both started at Martha Jefferson at the same time.” He named one of the area’s hospitals.

  “Did he enjoy shooting?”

  “No, although he did admire my Purdy.” Purdy was an exquisite brand of shotgun. “I’ll bequeath it to my daughter. Thirteen and she’s club champion for clays. Men or women. No wasted motion.” He meant her technique.

  “It’s something you can do together.”

  Harvey laughed. “Well, she beats the pants off her old man, but we have a lot of fun together. She’ll even go duck hunting with me. I’m very, very blessed.”

  “You and your first wife had no children?”

  “No.” His voice shifted, became more clipped.

  “Ever see her?”

  “No. She moved to Savannah.”

  “Remarried?”
/>   “One of the richest men in Georgia. That woman can smell a bank account a mile off.”

  “Remind me: you own shotguns but no rifle?”

  “I own a few rifles. Jody and I are going to Idaho this winter, going to pack in the mountains and hunt elk. A first for both of us, so, yes, I own rifles.”

  “Can you repair your own equipment?”

  This surprised Harvey. “I could. I used to have my own repair workshop, but as my practice increased I just didn’t have the time.”

  “What’d you do with all your tools?”

  “Sold them to Mike McElvoy. He’s good, too.”

  “I didn’t know Mike was an enthusiast, if that’s the right term.”

  “He’s not. He likes the money and the quiet, I suppose. At least, that’s what I liked, but I’m glad I sold my equipment. I wanted to spend more time with Babs and Jody.”

  Babs was his second wife.

  “Could you get a silencer if you wanted one?”

  A pause followed this question. “I believe I could.”

  “Illegal.”

  “So’s dope, and you can buy that on the streets, at the barber’s, in restaurants. Supply and demand.”

  “Don’t I know it.” Rick slouched back for a moment in the chair. “Will Wylde was killed by a rifle with a silencer.”

  “Makes sense. Don’t expect me to utter the formulaic phrases concerning his death. I’m not that big a hypocrite.”

  “Yes.” Rick had gotten a blast from Harvey during their first questioning session, the evening of the murder. “Remind me again of the circumstances of your rupture.”

  “I already told you.” Irritation flashed across Harvey’s face.

  “Tell me again,” Rick coolly commanded.

  “Like I said”—Harvey’s tone registered his continued irritation—“we started out at Martha Jefferson together. A whole group of us just beginning our careers were there, and we had a pretty lively social group. Of course, we worked like dogs, too, but when we weren’t working we partied hard. Will and I were close then; so were our wives. It helped that we weren’t in competition. He was OB/GYN and I was in oncology. Back then most of us hadn’t started our families, so we had more time to stay up late.”