Cat on the Scent (19 page)

Archie cursed on seeing her. “If that damn cat peed on my stuff I'll kill her!”

Pewter scurried out of the house, racing for the old graveyard.
“Vamoose!”

Mrs. Murphy flew down the farm road to catch her, Archie's curses still ringing in her ears.

38

The old gravestones, worn thin by time, stood out bleakly on the meadow's horizon. The buried were members of Herb Jones's family who had once farmed the land now owned by Blair Bainbridge. As is the custom in Virginia, when land passes hands, family members nonetheless continue to care for the graves of their ancestors.

Once a year Herb righted tombstones, planted flowers, and trimmed the magnificent English boxwood hedge bordering the southwest side. Over time Herb's bad back hurt him more and more. Blair had begun to help tend the graveyard and to learn the history of its inhabitants.

Blair mowed the lawn, pruned trees, and trimmed around the edges of the stones. He performed this service out of respect for Herb, who had a large flock and not much help. The good reverend's natural generosity meant he had but little time for himself and even less money.

Pewter caught her breath on a flat gravestone set on graceful piers.
“You won't believe what I heard!”

“Well, I found handcuffs.”

“You did?”

“In the U-Haul.”

“So it is Archie Ingram.”
Pewter scanned the fresh green shoots in the field.

“How many people carry handcuffs?”

“Cops and cop wanna-bes. Now listen to what those guys were talking about. The map makes sense. The marked-off squares are lands they've bought through a corporation called Teotan. They've tapped underground rivers and streams. They're sinking wells on these properties and the flow is so strong they can sell water to the county. The county will need to put up water towers or build cisterns—which are a lot better-looking. This plan will save the county a mess of money and provide a good water supply for all of the newcomers. So far no other humans have put two and two together although the well drillers know a mess of wells are being dug.”

“Hmm, where's the hole?”

“There isn't one. I mean, except for Tommy Van Allen winding up as a frozen TV dinner. He was one of the four partners and, the most extraordinary thing, Sir H. Vane-Tempest said, ‘Which one of us killed Tommy Van Allen?' Archie screamed so loud I thought my eardrums would burst. He said H. was sick to even say such a thing. Blair wasn't overfond of H.'s crack either. Sir H. Vane said Sarah wanted to come into the deal in place of Tommy. At first Archie was opposed, then he thought it over and said she might be a good spokesperson for when they go public.”

“Blair?”

“He's not sure yet. He's afraid it will give the Vane-Tempests control over Teotan. He's right, too.”

Mrs. Murphy, hearing geese, squinted into the sun. She spied the telltale V formation, flying low. The rustling of the birds' wings was growing louder and just as quickly growing faint as the formation passed.

“I wouldn't want to be in Teotan right now.”

“Me neither,”
Pewter agreed.
“One partner hung on a meathook and the other got blasted.”

“The brilliance of their business plan is the money is steady. Millions will come in over the years. If they sold the land or the water outright to the county they'd lose an enormous chunk of their profit to taxes.”
She shook herself, then squeezed through the iron fence around the graveyard.
“Blair's smarter than I gave him credit for.”

“Smart? He'll be dead soon enough. Archie will control everything.”

They walked across the soft earth, crossing over the creek into Harry's hay field. Tomahawk, Poptart, and Gin Fizz, mouths full of clover and timothy, raised their heads, spotted their feline friends, then returned to grazing.

Mrs. Murphy finally spoke.
“Blair isn't our human. He isn't our responsibility, but I like him.”

“I'm not risking my neck for anyone but Harry.”

“No one is asking you to, but we need to be alert. I'm inclined to help him up to a point. He's our next-door neighbor.”

“That's what worries me: He's next door.”

39

When Harry returned from work that evening, Mrs. Murphy was asleep on the sofa and Pewter was dozing by her food bowl.

Tucker burst through the door to share the day's gossip. The cats, at first grumpy, woke up fully and told the corgi of their adventure.

As they were filling Tucker in, Deputy Cooper drove up. She emerged from her squad car, carrying Chinese food.

Harry selected some morsels of chicken for the cats. Cynthia had thoughtfully brought a knuckle bone from Market Shiflett's grocery for Tucker.

“Hear about Little Mim's party?”

Harry shook her head since her mouth was full of chicken-fried rice, so Cynthia continued.

“She's planning an apple-blossom party. Impromptu.”

“Ha,” Harry replied, knowing that Little Mim's version of
impromptu
meant a small army of workers at the last minute instead of a small army planning months in advance.
Spontaneity
wasn't a word associated with either Mim senior or Mim junior.

“She's renting small tables, setting them out in the apple orchard. She's hired a band. Her mother is lending her the outdoor dance floor. That takes an entire day to put together. Anyway, she's in a state.”

“Where'd you hear this?”

“From the horse's mouth. I met her this morning to ask if she took clothing to Mrs. Woo. Turns out she doesn't since Gretchen, Big Mim's utility infielder, also does the mending. That's when she waxed eloquent about the party.”

“Bet she doesn't invite me.”

“She has to invite you.” Cynthia grabbed pork lo mein with her chopsticks.

“No she doesn't.”

“Yes she does, because if she doesn't everyone will notice. She cares about appearances as much as her mother.”

“Maybe I'll go and maybe I won't.”

“You'll go. Since when have you missed a party?”

“When I first separated from Fair.”

“Forget about that. Hey, where's he been?”

“Foaling season. From January through May he's delivering the Thoroughbred foals. When we were married I'd sometimes go days without seeing him.”

“There are other vets. He could have passed on some of the work.”

“No, he really couldn't. People have a lot of money tied up in a mare. First there's the purchase price of the mare herself. If she's a Thoroughbred with good bloodlines and of a good age that could be, in these parts, anywhere from five thousand to thirty thousand dollars. Then there's the stud fee. Again, the price varies widely. So when that baby hits the ground some of the breeders already have fifty thousand dollars invested in it. For the hunter people it's a little different. But still, it's not just money, it's emotion, too. Fair's the best, so everyone wants him.”

“There's a lot I don't know about the horse business.”

“Incredible business, because it's not just money and it's not just the study of bloodlines, there's a certain something, a sixth sense. That's the hook. Otherwise, everyone could do it. Harder and harder to make money at it, though.”

“Everything's that way. Do you think we'll live to see a revolution?” Cynthia offered the rest of the lo mein to Harry, who refused, so she dumped it all on her plate.

“Yeah, but I don't know what kind of revolution. I do know you can't punish people for productivity and expect a society to last long. Right now an American's answer is to work harder but the harder he or she works the more the government takes. Think of all the money we've already put into Social Security from our wages. By the time the whole system collapses will we be too old to fight?”

“Look at you and me. Single women in our thirties.”

“Never too old to fight.” Cynthia smiled. “Think you'll stay single?”

“Yes.”

“I don't. You'll get married in the next few years.”

“Nope.” Harry shook her head for emphasis. “I have nothing to gain from another husband. I'm not saying I won't have an affair but, really, what can I get from marriage except double the laundry?”

“Cynic.”

“Yep.”

“If Little Mim doesn't snag Blair Bainbridge, I think she'll have a nervous breakdown.” Cynthia opened a brown paper bag filled with brownies. “Dessert.”

Harry inhaled over the bag. “Miranda! She didn't tell me she was making brownies.”

“I stopped by after work. She happened to be making some for tomorrow. Hot out of the pan.”

“God, these are good.” Harry bit into one. “This business about Little Mim and Blair is delicate. Blair and I are buddies. Nothing more to it than that, but it drives her bats.”

“Yeah, well, his reticence about the situation doesn't help matters.”

“He likes you.”
Mrs. Murphy swallowed the last of her cashew chicken.

“More?” Harry dropped another chicken bit on her plate.

“Hey!”

She dropped one for Pewter, too. Tucker, engrossed in her bone, paid no attention to the Chinese food or the conversation. A joint bone required intense concentration.

“Blair's changed.” Harry chose her words carefully since she knew Cynthia, like many women, had a crush on him. “He's distant.”

“You know, I thought it was just me—he didn't want to be bothered with me.”

“Cynthia, he likes you. It's not you. He's worried about his age. After all, his work is his face. He's getting crow's-feet around his eyes and a few gray hairs around the temples.”

“Makes him look even better, I think.”

“Me, too, but models have a short shelf life. As he ages he'll wind up in catalogs for tie companies. That's not the same as a spread in
GQ
.”

“Never thought of that. It's bad enough when women worry about their looks. It seems somehow”—she groped for the right word—“frivolous when a man does it.”

“Yeah. Then again,” Harry continued, “I guess the money dries up.”

“He's invested wisely, I bet.”

“I don't know. He never talks about money. I just see how he spends it.” Harry sighed. “I can't imagine buying whatever I want when I want it.”

“Me neither,” Cynthia agreed. “Course, if he married Little Mim, he'd never have to work another day in his life.”

Harry paused. “I don't think he could do that.”

“Too moral?”

“Well—he likes beautiful women. Little Mim is nice-looking but she's not a
Vogue
model. Know what I mean?”

“Yep.”

“And when the woman has the bucks, the man dances to her tune unless she's a flat-out fool, and Little Mim is not. Whoever has the gold makes the rules.”

“Guess he'll never go out with me.” Cynthia smiled wanly.

“Cynthia, Blair's nice enough but you need a good old country boy. A man who isn't afraid to get his hands dirty.”

“Oh, I don't know.”

“Think you'll ever get married?” Harry asked.

“I hope so.”

A horn beeping down the driveway broke the moment.

“Whoo-ee,” Susan Tucker called.

“Whoo-ee back at you.” Harry didn't get up as Susan stuck her head through the kitchen doorway. “Grab a plate. Cynthia's demolished all the pork lo mein, but there's lots of everything else.”

Needing no prompting, Susan did just that. “Since you guys are on dessert I'll assume everything else is mine.” She smiled.

“Pig out, Suz.”

As she shoveled food into her mouth, Susan's bright eyes danced. “You won't believe what happened to me. Mmm, can't talk with my mouth full.”

“We'll talk to you. When you've slowed down you can tell us everything.”

Susan held up her hand, indicating that was a good idea, and kept eating.

Mrs. Murphy jumped onto the kitchen counter. The sun was setting; a shaft of scarlet spiraled into the sky. Very unusual, just that one vertical column of color. She dropped down on top of the closed plastic garbage can, then to the floor, and walked out the door. Pewter and Tucker ignored her.

Susan recovered enough to talk. “I was on the fifteenth hole at Keswick. I like to play once a week there and once a week at Farmington. Actually, I'd play every day if I could, but that's neither here nor there. Anyway, there I was moving along at a pretty good clip when who should roll by me in her personalized golf cart but Sarah Vane-Tempest. She was by herself, so I asked if she wanted to join me. She said no, she was on her way home. She'd lost track of the time. She wanted to be there when H. Vane got home. Said she was furious with him because he was driving his car and she didn't think he should be doing that. Then she zoomed on by.”

“She's overprotective.” Harry reached for another brownie.

“Treats us like dirt.” Cynthia shrugged. “But then, a lot of people do.”

“What have we here?” Susan noticed Mrs. Murphy carrying what looked like folded paper in her mouth.

Pewter stopped eating.
“Won't help.”

Murphy dropped the map at Cynthia Cooper's feet.

She bent over to pick it up, carefully opening it. The name in small block print on the right-hand corner read
TOMMY VAN ALLEN
.

Her expression motivated both Harry and Susan to rise out of their chairs and lean over her shoulder.

“Good Lord!” Susan exclaimed.

Harry picked up her cat and kissed her cheek. “Where'd you find this, pusskin?”

“In the airplane.”

Cynthia traced the outlined blocks with her forefinger. She quickly folded the map back up and headed for the door. “Not a word of this to anyone. I mean it. Not even Miranda.”

Harry followed her out to the car as Susan cleared the table.

Cynthia slid behind the wheel, buckled up, reached over onto the passenger seat, and gave Harry a folder. “I came over so we could read this together, but I don't think it matters too much if you keep it for tonight. I'll pick it up from you at work tomorrow.” She started the motor. “Do you have any idea where Mrs. Murphy could have gotten this map?”

“Not one.”

Cynthia handed her the file, labeled
BARBER C
.
MINOR
, and drove off.