Cat on the Scent (17 page)

34

The cats reached the deep creek separating Harry's land from Blair's before Tucker caught up with them.

Running flat out, she skidded to a stop, her hind end whirling around, leaving a semicircle in the grass.
“Cheaters!”

“You were asleep.”

“I was not. I was resting my eyes.”

“Sure.”
Pewter viewed the steep bank with zero enthusiasm, but vaulted over.

Archie Ingram's U-Haul was parked next to the divine Porsche.

The animals inspected it thoroughly, then Murphy bounded onto the Porsche, leaving delicate paw prints on the hood and roof.

“Babe magnet.”
She leaned over from the roof and stared inside at the luscious leather.

“He hardly needs that.”
Tucker sniffed the tires.
“He's been over to Little Mim's. That ridiculous Brittany spaniel of hers has marked it.”

“You can't stand him because he's perfectly groomed.”

“Murphy, that's silly.”
Tucker turned her back on the cat and walked to the house.

“You can't go in there without us.”
Pewter fell in next to the dog.

“Don't go in,”
Murphy commanded as she carefully slid off the car.

“Why not?”

“We'll interrupt them.”

“They won't pay any attention to us. Blair will open the door, feed us something, and then go back to whatever he was doing.”
Pewter pulled open his back porch door, which was easy since it was warped.

“The truth comes out.”
Murphy whapped her paw from the door.
“Listen to me. Don't you find it odd that Archie Ingram has pulled into Blair's driveway with a U-Haul? You and I should climb up in the tree. We can see everything—the windows are open.”

“You climb in the tree. I'm sitting on the kitchen windowsill.”
Pewter walked to the window and jumped up on the sill.

If there hadn't been a screen in the window she would have vaulted into the kitchen.

“What about me?”

“Tucker, I'll open the door for you a crack. Lie down with your nose in the door. You can see and hear everything that way. If they notice you, act glad to see them and go right in. I'm staying in the tree.”

Pewter watched as Blair brewed coffee. His top-of-the-line machine cost more than the industrial Bunn at Market's store. A pint of cream sat on the counter next to it. Archie was slumped in a chair at the table, his head resting in one hand.

“Come on, Arch, this will start your motor again.”

Archie sighed, toying with his cup. “Yeah.”

“Will you snap out of it? She didn't shoot you. She isn't running around town telling tales.” He handed him the cream. “You're being given a vacation to sort things out.”

“Yeah.” He drank some coffee.

“Good?”

“Yeah.”

“Dazzle me, Arch. Vary your vocabulary. How about ‘Yes'?”

The corner of Archie's mouth curved up. “Yes.” He drank more coffee.

“If this doesn't enliven you we'll have to look for cocaine,” Blair joked.

“People are saying that's why Tommy was killed. That you and Van Allen bring in cocaine in the hubcaps of your Porsches.”

“People will say anything.”

Archie shrugged. “You use it?”

“I have in the past. I don't now.”

“Get you in trouble?”

“No.” Blair sat across from him. “I saw it get a lot of other people in trouble and figured I'd quit while I was ahead.”

“Aileen wants me to resign my seat on the county commission.”

“Not a good idea.” Blair drained his cup, rose to pour another.

“H. would shoot me.” Archie laughed a dry laugh. “That damned Sarah is screaming all over the county that I shot H. Christ, I wouldn't shoot him. Strangle him, maybe, but not shoot him.”

“What went down between you two? One minute you were—”

Archie slapped the table with his open palm, startling Blair and the watching animals. “I got sick of taking his shit. Who was taking all the risks? Me! Whatever I did wasn't enough. He wanted to know more and he wanted it yesterday. Damn, how many times can I run up and down the road to Richmond?”

“Our peer of the realm likes to give orders.” Blair checked the time on the old railroad clock on the wall, a duplicate of the one in the post office. It was six-thirty.

“If my involvement comes out, I'm down the tubes.”

“Don't be so dramatic,” Blair admonished him. “The law is murky in this area. Someone would have to prove that you abused your office for personal gain. Furthermore, the information you passed on to us concerning road development is public knowledge.”

“The timetable is not public knowledge.”

“Yes, it is.”

“The
real
timetable,” Archie shot back, in no mood for Blair's rebuke.

“So? It would have to be proved. Archie, for chrissake, you knew what you were getting into. Information is bought and sold every day in every profession. If you're smart enough to get on the inside track, you win.” Blair, leaning against his refrigerator, shoved his hands into his back pockets. “We're almost finished with our buying. All that's left is the Catlett property. But even without it, we're in good shape. After that, Arch, it's all over but the shouting.”

“It's the shouting I'm worried about.”

“Toughen up. Are you hungry?”

“I've lost my appetite.”

“I haven't,”
Pewter called from the windowsill.

“You ditz!”
Murphy would have boxed her ears if she could. Pewter had no restraint.

The cat's meow startled the two men.

Blair laughed. “Pewter, you shameless eavesdropper.”

Tucker pushed open the door, waltzing in.
“Hi.”

“Wonder if Harry's around?” Archie rose, walking outside to check. He came back in. “No, but I hear her on the tractor.”

“That thing is a museum piece.” Blair put out cream for Pewter and gave Tucker stale bread he'd been saving for the birds.

Furious, Mrs. Murphy backed down the tree, practically vaulting into the kitchen.

“Idiots!”

“Party pooper.”
Pewter licked her lips; a drop of cream dribbled from her chin.

The aroma of rich cream overcame Murphy's scruples. She hopped up next to Pewter.

“Full house.” Blair scratched the base of Mrs. Murphy's tail.

“Damn cat.” Archie, eyes squinting, glared at Murphy.

“She had a big time at the meeting.” Blair laughed.

Archie held on to his coffee cup with both hands as though it might fly away. “Do you think Sarah cheats on H.?”

Blair raised an eyebrow. “I wouldn't know.”

“Ridley said she was going at it with Tommy.” Archie, cunning, did not divulge that Ridley also told him Sarah had slept with Blair.

“Was Ridley drunk or sober?”

“Sober.”

“I don't know.” He did know, of course, because Tommy had told him about the affair, but Blair had given his word not to repeat it. “Sex gets us all into trouble.”

The phone rang. Blair picked it up. “Hello.” Then he covered the mouthpiece. “H. Vane.”

Archie got up and put his ear to the receiver. Murphy joined them. Archie pushed her away but she was persistent.

“Blair, I'd like to have a meeting with you and Archie tomorrow at three. Can you make it?”

“Yes.”

“What about Arch? I know he's with you. He drove past the post office and people saw you run out. You know how small this town is.”

“He'll be there.”

Archie grabbed the phone. “I'll be there.”

“Did you shoot me?”

“No.”

“I didn't think so.”

“Where's Sarah? I can't believe she'd let you call me after the stuff she's saying.”

“She drove down to the market. The way she drives, that will take two minutes. I figured I'd call while I could.”

“How will you get away for a meeting? And where do you want to have it?” Blair asked.

“Your place. I can drive.”

“Goody,”
Murphy told the others.
“H. Vane will be here tomorrow at three for a meeting.”

“We'll be at work.”
Tucker was disappointed.

“Leave that to me.”
Murphy strained to hear more.

“If Sarah knows you're going to meet with me she'll bring out the cannon,” Archie said.

“She'll do what I tell her. I pay the bills, remember?”

“I remember,” Archie replied, a splash of acid in his tone.

35

“Where is that cat?” Harry opened closet doors to make certain she hadn't shut the nosy Mrs. Murphy in one.

The phone rang. Harry figured the caller was Miranda or Susan, early risers like herself. Sometimes Fair called after returning home from an all-night emergency.

It was six o'clock. She'd been up for half an hour.

“Good morning, camper, zip, zip, zip. We sing a song to start the day.”

Before Harry could launch into the second obnoxious lyric, Mrs. Hogendobber tersely said, “More violence.”

“What?”

“Mrs. Woo's shop burned down. They think it's arson.”

“I don't believe it.”

“On the news. If you'd ever turn on your television, you'd . . . Just turn it on. It's the lead story on Channel 29. Her shop burned to a crisp.”

“Roger. See you at work.” Harry hung up, stretched over the counter, and clicked on the small TV, which she hated with all her heart. Since Fair had given it to her for her birthday this year she couldn't toss it out.

“. . . high today expected to be seventy-two degrees Fahrenheit, a light breeze from the south, clouds moving in tonight, and a fifty-percent chance of rainfall after midnight. Back to you, Trish.” Robert Van Winkle, the weatherman, smiled.

Soberly facing the camera, the young woman said, “Our top story this morning, Expert Tailoring Shop behind Rio Road Shopping Center was burned to the ground last night. Nothing is left except the charred remains. Chief Johnson says . . .”

The fire chief faced the camera in the tape from the night before. “We are fully investigating this incident. If anyone saw or heard anything out of the ordinary in the area around two o'clock in the morning, please call the fire department.” He rattled off the number, which was shown on the screen.

“Do you think it was arson?”

Pure frustration on his face, Ted Johnson spoke directly into the camera. “We are investigating all possibilities.” He repeated himself. “If you have any information concerning these events, please call our hotline. It's manned twenty-four hours a day.” The number ran again several times at the bottom of the screen.

“Then you have no leads?”

“I have nothing further to say at this point.” He turned his back on the camera.

“What in holy hell is going on?” Harry exclaimed. “Mrs. Woo is the sweetest person in the whole county.”

Murphy popped out from behind the sofa where she was hiding.

“Mrs. Woo had her shop torched,”
Pewter yelled out.

“I know. I heard the TV.”

“Where have you been?” Harry glared at Mrs. Murphy.

“Hiding. I need to stay on the farm today.”
She was determined to attend the 3:00
P
.
M
. meeting at Blair Bainbridge's.

“Here.” Harry opened another can of cat food.

Pewter sidled over next to Murphy.
“Mariner's Pride.”

“Butt out,”
Murphy growled.

Harry scooped a big spoonful into Pewter's oatmeal-colored crockery dish.

UPHOLSTERY DESTROYER
was painted on Mrs. Murphy's dish, while Tucker's read
SUPER DOG
.

“This goes back to the reenactment at Oak Ridge.”
Tucker stated. She sat down while the cats ate and Harry dialed Susan Tucker to discuss the latest news.

“The new guys had to have uniforms made or altered in a hurry. Everybody went to Mrs. Woo. She knew who was in that reenactment,”
Pewter said.

“Yes, but so do Herb Jones, H. Vane-Tempest, Rick Shaw—each company commander has a list of men. That's what's sticking in my craw. We know!”
Mrs. Murphy pushed her food bowl away.

“Mrs. Woo had to know something.”

“It could be unrelated, Tucker.”
Pewter pounced on Murphy's rejected food.

“Don't talk with your mouth full. Humans do that. Vile.”
Murphy sniffed.

“Miss Manners.”
Pewter swished her tail once.

“Listen to me. Tucker, you go with Mother. Stick with her no matter what. We've got to stay here today.”

“Only one of you needs to go to the meeting.”

“Both Pewter and I need to read the map. Really study it.”
Mrs. Murphy sat still like the famous Egyptian statue of the cat with earrings in its ears.

“Why are you so worried?”
Tucker cocked her head.

“Because Harry found the airplane—my fault. And because Harry suggested checking out all the suppliers for Civil War reenactors. Remember? She mentioned gun sales, uniforms. She's eventually going to go one step too far.”

“She'd better carry her gun,”
Pewter sagely advised.

“Let's mention that to her.”
Mrs. Murphy rubbed against Harry's arm while she was speaking to Susan.
“Carry your side arm.”

“She's—”
Pewter's attention was diverted by the bold blue jay swooping by the kitchen window.

Seeing Pewter, he sailed straight for the window, then turned, feetfirst, wings flapping while he threatened at the window.

“I hate that bird!”
Pewter spit.

“Not my fave either. Come on,”
Murphy said.

He returned for another pass, the bird version of giving the finger. Pewter leapt at the window and smacked it.

“Come on, Pewter.”
Murphy kicked her with her hind leg.

Pewter slid down off the counter. Leaping wasn't her first recourse. If she could put her front paws on cabinets and reach way down, sliding, then she'd hit the floor with less of a thump. Hitting with all that lard made a big
baboom
.

The three hurried into the bedroom. The bedroom door, usually closed, was open, since Harry was still in her robe.

The .357 was in a hard plastic carrying case.

“Ugh. This thing is heavy.”
Murphy tried to push it out.

“Let's all three try.”
Tucker wedged in next to Murphy on the left, pushing over sneakers and old cowboy boots.

Pewter was already on Murphy's right side.

“On three,”
Murphy called out.
“One, two, three.”

“Uh.”
They all grunted but succeeded in moving the gun case halfway out of the closet. She'd trip over it if she wasn't looking and she had to go to the closet for her boots.

“Think she'll get it?”
Pewter scratched behind her ear.

“Fleas?”

“No,”
she angrily replied.
“An itch.”

“Gray animals have more trouble with fleas.”
Mrs. Murphy pronounced this as solemnly as a judge.

“You're so full of it.”

Pewter swatted Murphy, and the two girls mixed it up. Tucker, no fool, stepped away just as Harry stepped into her bedroom.

“Hey!”

Two angry faces greeted hers.

“She started it.”

“I did not,”
Mrs. Murphy defended herself.

“Don't you dare fight in my bedroom. The last time, you knocked over Mom's crystal stag's head. Luckily it fell on the carpeted part of the floor. I love that stag's head.”

She bent over to fetch her boots.

“Take your gun,”
Pewter said.

Harry pushed the gray box back in, then stopped. She pulled it out and opened it up. The polished chrome barrel shone. She liked revolvers. They felt better in her hand than other types of handguns. Being a country girl, Harry had grown up with guns and rifles. She knew how to use them safely. Guns made no sense in the city, but they made a great deal of sense in the country, especially during rabies season. In theory rabies occurred all year long, but Harry usually noticed an upswing in the spring. It was a horrible disease, a dreadful way for an animal to die, and dangerous for everyone else.

“Take the gun.”
Tucker panted from nervousness.

Harry plucked out a clear hard plastic packet of bullets. She laid the bullets and gun on the bed, then pulled on her socks, stepped into her jeans, threw on her windowpane shirt, finally yanked on the old boots, and slipped the packet into her shirt pocket. Although the gun was unloaded she checked again just to be sure. Then she carried the gun to the truck and placed it in the glove compartment.

She walked back into the house for her purse and the animals, calling, “Rodeo!”

Tucker bounded through the screen door. The cats followed but then flew into the barn.

“Murphy, come on!” Harry put one hand on the chrome handhold she had installed outside both doors so she could swing up.

“Forget it.”
Tucker sat on the seat.

Harry dropped back down. She trudged into the barn. The horses walked up to the gate to watch. Harry turned them out first thing each morning.

“Blown her stack,”
Tomahawk said to Gin Fizz.

“Uh-huh.”

Poptart joined them. Human explosions amused them so long as they didn't take place on their backs.

“Let's go!” Harry stomped down the center aisle, not a cat in sight, not even a paw print.

Both cats hid behind a hay bale in the loft. A telltale stalk of hay floated down, whirling in the early sunlight.

“A-ha!” Harry climbed the ladder so fast she could have been a cat.

“Skedaddle.”
Murphy shot out from her hay bale, streaking toward the back of the loft where the bales were stacked higher.

Pewter flattened as Harry tromped by, not even noticing her. Then the gray cat silently circled, dropping behind an old tack trunk put in the loft with odds and ends of bits, bridles, and old tools.

Harry craned to see around the tall bales. A pair of gleaming eyes stared right back at her.

“Go to work.”

“Come on out of there.”

“No.”

She checked her watch, her father's old Bulova. “Damn.”

“Go on.”

“I know you're saying ugly things about me.”

“No, I'm not.”
Murphy didn't like Harry's misinterpretation of her meow.
“Just go on.”

Harry checked her watch again. “You'd better be in that house when I come home.”

“I will be.”

“Me, too,”
Pewter called out.

Harry put her hands outside the ladder and her feet, too, to slide down.

As she walked toward the truck a fat raindrop splattered on her cheek.

“The weatherman said it wouldn't rain until after midnight.”

Tucker, sitting in the driver's seat, said,
“He lied.”