The Purrfect Murder Page 7

  “You certainly have.” Little Mim smiled. “I remember when I was a girl how this place hummed. Tractors running, fences being painted, stone fences being repaired. Fabulous Thoroughbreds playing in the pastures. Aunt Tally bred great horses. Remember?”

  “I do.” Harry nodded, as did Fair. “And Aunt Tally always gave us a Dr Pepper or Co-Cola.”

  “You taught me a lot when I was your neighbor.” Blair smiled warmly at Harry. “Now that Mim and I are married, I don’t want to be on the road anymore. I want to be right here with my beautiful bride. I think with a little luck and a lot of hard work, we can make a bit of money. Neither of us believes in hobby farming.”

  “Good for you.” Fair slapped him on the back. “Besides, with Little Mim’s whole political career in front of her, having you here will help. You see things differently than we do, because you weren’t raised here.”

  “He’s so smart.” Little Mim was besotted with her gorgeous husband.

  “When do you start?”

  “Tomorrow morning. Mark Greenfield’s company has the project. He doesn’t waste money.”

  “No. That’s a wise choice.” Harry liked Greenfield ICF Services. “The trick is to get Tony Long as your county inspector, not Mike McElvoy.”

  Blair exhaled. “That’s a roll of the dice. You should hear Carla Paulson, Folly Steinhauser, Penny Lattimore, or even Elise Brennan on the subject of Mike. Elise, whom I’ve never seen show temper, blew like Mt. Vesuvius on the subject.” Blair shook his head. “Well, we’ll just deal with it when we deal with it. My concern right now is that the stonework matches the original.”

  “That will be tough,” Fair said.

  It would, too, but stonework would be the least of their problems.

  9

  Amazing how heavy your boots get when they’re caked with mud.” Harry lifted up a foot, displaying the red clay embedded in the sole.

  Fair lifted up his right foot, his work boot covered with wet red clay, too. “Could be worse.”

  “Like what?”

  “Oil sludge. Then we’d slip across the field.” He pushed his baseball cap down over his eyes, for the sun was fierce. “Your black-seed sunflowers are about ready.”

  “Grey Stripe, too.” Harry, hands on hips, surveyed the seven-foot giants, their massive golden heads pointed straight up to the sun. “You know,” she grabbed his hand, “I love this. I wish I’d quit work at the post office years ago.” She paused. “Course, I don’t know if I’m going to make a dime, but I truly love it.”

  “Well, you know you won’t make any money on the grapes. You have to let the fruit hang until it falls off this first year.”

  “I know. Seems so wasteful, but if Patricia Kluge tells me what to do with my Petit Manseng, I’d better do it. The foxes will be happy.”

  “Yes, they will. They’ll start eating the grapes even before they fall.”

  “The one that makes me laugh is Simon.” Harry mentioned the opossum who lived in the hayloft along with Matilda, the blacksnake, and Flatface, the owl. “He’s got a sweet tooth.”

  Matilda—no sweet tooth there—was actually on her hunting range. The large circle that she made around the barn and the house took up spring and summer. She’d return to her place in the hayloft in another three weeks. Right now she was hanging from a limb in the huge walnut tree in front of the house. It pleased her to frighten the humans and the animals when they finally caught sight of her. Nor was she above dropping onto someone’s shoulders, which always provoked a big scream. Then she’d shoot off.

  Harry and Fair walked over to the pendulous, glistening grapes. Although the vines would produce better with each year, Harry was delighted with what her first year had brought.

  Fair draped his arm around his wife’s shoulders. “Abundance.”

  “Lifts the heart. I was worried that yesterday’s hard rain would just pepper these guys right off the vine.”

  “Tougher than you thought.”

  They turned for the barn. The four mares and foals lazed in their pasture. The three hunt horses and Shortro, a gray three-year-old saddlebred, munched away, pointedly ignoring the youngsters born in March. Every now and then, a little head would reach over the fence to stare at one of the “big boys.”

  Tomahawk, the most senior of the hunters, looked back at the bright chestnut filly begging him to play with her along the fence line.

  “Worm,” he said, returning to the serious business of eating.

  “Momma, do you know what he called me?” The little girl romped back to her mother, a patient soul.

  “Oh, he gets all grand and airy. Pay him no mind.” She touched noses with her child.

  Mrs. Murphy, Pewter, and Tucker, who were walking ahead of the humans, heard the exchange.

  Pewter called out, “He’s a meanie.”

  “Shut up, fatso.” Tomahawk raised his head.

  “When’s the last time you got on the scale?” Pewter noticed a big belly.

  “Pewter, leave him alone,” Mrs. Murphy counseled. “If you irritate him he’ll start picking the locks on the gates. That’s the only horse I’ve ever known who can actually open a kiwi lock.”

  A kiwi lock, shaped like a comma, slipped into a round ring secured on the post. A smaller ring then flipped up on the comma to securely hold it in place and to prevent horses from opening the lock, something for which the species evidenced a marked talent. Tomahawk would work the kiwi with his lips. Granted, it took him at least an hour—his determination remarkable—but he would finally release the little ring, then pluck the kiwi out of the big ring and push the gate open with his nose. Off he’d go, tail straight out, to rush around the pastures. After doing this enough times to become both tired and bored, he’d walk into the barn, go to his stall, flop down on his side, and sleep, complete with musical snoring.

  It infuriated the other horses that they couldn’t pick the locks.

  Just as Harry and Fair reached the barn, Coop drove up in an old beat-up pickup truck she’d bought so she could haul stuff. A deputy’s slender salary prevented her from purchasing a new truck, much as she lusted after one.

  “Hey,” Harry greeted her.

  “Didn’t get you on the phone, so I thought I’d come over.”

  “Need a hand with anything?” Fair asked.

  “No. I wanted to tell you we’ve heard from Will Wylde’s killer.” She paused, while the other two held their breath for a moment without realizing they were doing so. “No name. No anything except he—I assume it’s a he—says he has the list of all Will’s patients over the years and he is going to do to them what they did to the unborn.”

  “What?”

  “Dropped off an envelope sealed with Scotch tape—obviously he’s smart enough not to lick the envelope. Dropped it in Rick’s mailbox at his house. Smart there, too. Too big a risk to leave it at the station, even in the middle of the night.”

  “Good God.” Fair was aghast.

  “He could be bluffing.”

  “Harry, he could, but I keep coming back to someone on the inside. It’s not that hard for a nurse or office manager to steal files. Everything is on a disc. How hard is it to copy it and give it to our killer?”

  “True.” Fair was more computer literate than Harry, but she was pretty good at doing agricultural research on her computer.

  “Thank heaven,” Harry whispered, “I’ve never had an abortion.”

  “Me, either. But there are so many women who have and no one knows. Apart from the danger if he does make good on his threat, what about the mess in their personal lives?”

  “Are you going to make this public?”

  “Well, that’s not my decision, but I don’t see how Rick can keep it quiet. It’s important to the case, and people must take precautions.”

  “This could destroy marriages, careers.” Harry wiped the sweat pouring down her brow. “There are an awful lot of women in this county keeping a secret.”

  “Exactly.” Coop leane
d against the truck’s grille. “We’ve got to catch this guy.”

  “If he starts killing women, you will, but let’s pray he trips up before that.” Fair felt sick about the threat.

  “Why now?” Harry asked.

  “What do you mean?” Coop respected Harry’s mind.

  “Why kill now? Will Wylde has been practicing medicine in our county for three decades. What’s set off this person?”

  “Could be he’s found out his wife or girlfriend had an abortion and didn’t tell him,” Fair stated logically.

  “Or it could be his mind is deteriorating in some fashion,” Harry thought out loud.

  “Like drugs?” Coop had seen plenty of what booze and drugs can do to the human brain.

  “That, but sometimes the mind goes when it’s diseased and the person doesn’t know. He thinks his thoughts and actions are normal. That’s the truly frightening thing about being crazy: so often the person doesn’t know. And sometimes a head injury can change a person’s personality,” Fair informed them.

  Harry turned to Coop. “You might want to check the experts on this. I guess psychiatrists would be a good place to start.”

  “I will. Either way, if this guy is a raving lunatic or a political fanatic, we’ve got major problems.”

  “Coop, come on in. It’s sweltering out here.” Harry touched Fair’s hand.

  As they walked into the house, Matilda, eyes glittering, swayed gently on her limb. Mrs. Murphy glanced up at her but said nothing.

  They were grateful to come into the kitchen, the large overhead fan cooling the room. Harry refused to put in air-conditioning, because she thought going from cool air to the hot outside all the time made you sick. Fair knew in time he could wear her down. As it was, the fans in the house helped, but sometimes all they did was push around humid air.

  “The statement?” Coop gratefully took a beer offered her by Fair as she queried Harry.

  “We drove over this morning after church. Harry tried.” He shrugged.

  “It’s the talk of the town: the murder and the face-off between Big Mim and Little Mim.” She swallowed straight from the bottle. “Perfect.”

  “A cold beer on a hot day, one of life’s little pleasures.” Fair sipped his, too.

  After Cooper left, Harry called Little Mim and gave her the news so she could be calm when she heard it from the sheriff.

  “Mother is probably being briefed by Rick as we speak,” Little Mim replied, trying to push down the rising terror.

  Rick had learned the hard way to keep Big Mim informed. Part of it was because she felt she ran the town along with the western part of the county; part of it was because she knew a great deal that a sheriff might not know and could be helpful. In this case, she was blissfully ignorant of her daughter’s dilemma.

  “She’ll come out both guns blazing.”

  “She will.” Little Mim reached down to touch Doodle’s glossy head. Touching the dog reassured her, calmed her. “Harry, I can’t thank you enough.”

  “Don’t mention it, but, Little Mim, please, please be careful, and whatever you do, don’t lose your temper with your mother.”

  Easier said than done.

  10

  Yesterday’s rains had scrubbed the sky, and the cleanness of the air intoxicated Mrs. Murphy as she sat on a paddock fence post, gazing at the twilight. Pewter perched on another fence post, and Tucker sat on the ground.

  Around the time of the autumnal equinox, the light began to change slightly, the winds from the west began to hum low over the mountains, and summer’s thick haze melted as if on command. Even the humans noticed.

  The nights grew cooler, the days shorter. Animals stepped lively, the vital business of securing food for the winter taking precedence for squirrels and other hoarders. The foxes, who usually found fresh supplies, created bigger caches just in case.

  This Sunday evening, the fiery sunset splashed red gold across the western horizon. It was all the more dramatic as the Blue Ridge Mountains deepened from blue to cobalt in front of Apollo’s show. Now streaks of pink and lavender enlivened the deepening velvet of oncoming night.

  “I love this time,” Mrs. Murphy purred.

  “Me, too. The big moths come out,” Pewter said.

  “You’ve never caught a moth, not even a rosy maple, and they sit still on boxwoods for a long time,” Tucker taunted Pewter.

  “I didn’t say I wanted to catch one. I like to look at them and smell them.” The gray cat lifted her chin. “Since when have you caught anything, bubble butt?”

  “I don’t hunt, I herd.” Tucker’s large brown eyes were merry. “If you’d jump down, I’d herd you.”

  “You and what army? One swipe from my razor-sharp claws and your nose will look like a plowed field.” Pewter lifted the fur on her back for effect.

  “Shut up,” Mrs. Murphy snapped. She was intently looking way across all the fields toward the creek that separated Harry’s farm, which had always been in her paternal family, from the farm that Cooper rented, which originally belonged to Herb Jones’s ancestors.

  Pewter widened her pupils. She then saw the shuffling movement about a half mile away. The bear that lived up in the hardwoods behind the farm was moving toward the high ridges. They knew this bear; she’d had two cubs, which would be full grown and on hunting missions of their own by now. Sometimes the families would stay close, but usually they established their own hunting territories. Fortunately, this year game was plentiful.

  “Think she’d remember us?” Pewter whispered.

  “Sure. Bears are smart.” Mrs. Murphy respected the large, usually gentle bear.

  Then again, she was grateful that grizzlies lived in the west and not Virginia. The native bears usually kept to themselves and were no bother, although they might rip out the side of a clapboard house if a bees’ nest was behind it.

  “I can’t see,” Tucker complained.

  “Runt.” Pewter giggled.

  “You can be hateful, you know that?” Tucker sat down, resting her head on the lowest plank of the three-board fence.

  A slight rustle picked all their heads up. Talons extended, Flatface, the great horned owl, flew not one inch over Pewter’s head. It scared the cat so badly, she soared off the fence post, rolling in the fragrant white clover.

  “Hoo hoo.” The huge bird laughed, tipped a wing in greeting, and continued on her way.

  Tonight would be perfect for hunting.

  “That was mean!” Pewter scrambled to her feet, tiny bits of grass stuck in her claws.

  “You know how she is.” Tucker marveled at how silently the winged predator could fly.

  “Makes me think of Matilda and Simon. Those three live in the loft and everyone gets along,” Pewter said. “How they can get along with her, I don’t know.”

  “They get along because Flatface rules the roost, forgive the obvious statement,” Mrs. Murphy replied. “And Simon really is a generous fellow. He’ll share treats with Flatface. Matilda doesn’t like the sweets, but the owl will eat them. Course, Matilda usually goes into a semihibernation state. Have you noticed she’s been on that tree limb for two days?”

  “She’s waiting for a victim.” Tucker smiled.

  “Oh,” Pewter said airily, “she doesn’t scare me. You can hear the leaves when she drops. I always know it’s her.”

  Neither Mrs. Murphy nor Tucker responded. Each was praying Matilda would drop on the fat cat and they’d be there to witness the explosion.

  The sky turned from deep blue to Prussian blue and finally to black. The stars glittered brightly, and the three friends picked out blue ones, pink ones, yellow ones, and stark white ones. They hadn’t seen the stars this bright for the last three months, since the summer’s haze dropped its veil over the sky, even at night.

  “Whenever a human is murdered, the apple cart is upset. Ever notice?” Tucker mused.

  “Like dominoes set on end. Push one and they all fall down,” Mrs. Murphy commented. “But if a dog wa
s shot, we’d be upset. We’d want to find out who did it and make them pay.”

  “That’s just it, isn’t it?” Pewter, back up on the fence post, picked the tiny grass bits from her claws. “Even if a human gets caught, they get off most of the time, if they’re rich. If they aren’t rich, they sit in jail, get three squares a day. All that manpower wasted.” She spat out a green tidbit. “I say, shoot their sorry asses. Harry was reading the paper out loud and said it costs about $100,000 per year per prisoner. Think of the catnip that would buy.”

  Mrs. Murphy laughed. “That’s why eighty percent of them are in there, selling human catnip.”

  “I don’t understand it,” Tucker confessed.

  “Neither do the humans. They want to feel good about themselves and waste money. Doesn’t solve squat.” Pewter, crabby since Flatface scared her, enjoyed moaning about this.

  “Well, that’s the nature of the beast. We aren’t going to change it,” Mrs. Murphy wisely noted. “They never really address an issue until it’s a full-blown crisis. Kind of like the War between the States. They knew at the Constitutional Convention they had to resolve slavery as well as some major economic differences between the North and the South. Eighty years pass. Nothing. And then hundreds of thousands die, to say nothing of the million and a half horses and mules. It’s not any different now, whether it’s crime or global warming.”

  “Are you reading over Harry’s shoulder again?” Tucker asked.

  “Yep.” Mrs. Murphy watched a shooting star. “So here’s my question: where’s the crisis? Will Wylde is shot dead. That doesn’t mean that’s the crisis. See?”

  “No, I don’t see.” Pewter turned to look at her friend.

  “Murder is common, let’s face it.” The tiger cat watched some rabbits at the far edge of the pasture. “For all we know, this is a garden-variety murder dressed up in politics. Everyone jumps to conclusions. My hunch is…well, it’s like the equinox: the earth tips on its axis. Something is tipping but we don’t know what. And if it doesn’t involve our humans, I don’t care.”

  “Tipping like a power shift?” Tucker asked shrewdly.