Authors: Rita Mae Brown
40
“Umph.”
Pewter bit at her hind claws, trying to pull out the mud caked there.
“Why don't you relax? The stuff will fall out tomorrow,”
Mrs. Murphy advised.
“I'm not going to bed with mud in my claws.”
“Least you're not complaining about how you came by it.”
“Wish I'd been with you guys.”
Tucker lay down with her head between her paws, her expressive eyes turned upward to the cats, each of which sat on an arm of the old wing chair. Harry was intently reading the file on her great-grandfather.
“You're good at what you do,”
Murphy complimented Tucker.
“Anything big happen in the P.O.?”
Pewter yanked out another tiny pellet of mud.
“Reverend Jones said Elocution is on special foods to control her weight. Harry wrote down the information.”
Tucker gleefully directed this at Pewter.
“Then BoomBoom and Sarah waltzed in. Major shopping spree but Sarah said that even though she'd spent a lot of H. Vane's money she was still mad at him for driving himself around. She thinks he should go slow and after all, they can afford a chauffeur. Then Big Mim arrived for her mail, told Sarah to shut up and let her husband do whatever he wants, the worst thing she can do is make him feel like an invalid. So Sarah got mad and huffed out to the car. Said she had to play golf. BoomBoom fussed at Mim, said Sarah'd suffered a hideous shock. Mim told Boom to get a life and stop feeding off other people's tragedies. Then Boom huffed out and Harry and Big Mim laughed themselves silly. That was my day.”
“We told you ours.”
“What's she so absorbed in?”
Tucker rolled over to reveal a sparkling white stomach, a tiny paunch growing ever more noticeable.
Murphy moved to the back of the wing chair and read over Harry's shoulder.
“âFile. Barber Clark Minor, aka Biddy. Born April 2, 1890. Shot dead, May 30, 1927. Born in Albemarle County. Duke University, B.A. 1911. Law school, University of Virginia. Left before receiving degree. Enlisted in the Army. Saw action in France. Achieved rank of captain. Wounded three times. (Awarded Bronze Star.) Returned to Crozet. Finished law school. Entered practice with firm of Roscoe, Commons. Later Roscoe, Commons, and Minor.
“âMarried Elizabeth Carhart, 1919. Three children. Howard, born 1920. Anne, born 1921. Barber Clark Jr., 1923.
“âNo criminal record.
“âKilled by James Urquhart. Mr. Minor's widow did not press charges.'”
Tucker broke into the cat's oration, saying,
“You'd think Mrs. Minor would have brought charges. What else does it say?”
“âTestimony of witnesses. Sheriff Hogendobber'âmust be George's father or uncle or something.”
She referred to Mrs. Hogendobber's deceased husband, George.
“Anyway the sheriff questioned three eyewitnesses, the first being Isabelle Urquhart, Mim's mother. She saw Biddy drive up to the Urquhart farm the morning of May 30. She was being driven by her father to market. They had passed the Urquhart driveway and Biddy waved.”
Harry turned the page, absentimindedly reaching up to tickle Mrs. Murphy under her chin.
“Go on,”
Tucker urged as Pewter also moved to the back of the chair to read over Harry's shoulder.
“âThe second witness was James Urquhart himself, aged nineteen. The boy stated, “Mr. Minor called on me at ten in the morning unexpectedly. One thing led to another. I lost my temper and struck him in the face. He hit me back. I usually carry a side arm. Copperheads. All over this spring. I pulled it out and shot him in the chest. He kept coming at me and I shot him again. He fell down on his knees and then fell over backward. When I reached him he was dead.”
“âThe third witness was Thalia Urquhart, aged twenty. “Mr. Minor called on my brother,” she stated. “They had words. Jamie went into a rage and shot him. He should have never shot Biddy Minor. He was such a nice man.” '”
Three brown photographs of the body were neatly pasted on the last pageâBiddy's stiff, prone body, blood spreading over his white shirt, his eyes open, gazing to heaven. But even in death Biddy Minor was a fabulously handsome man.
“That's it?”
Tucker asked.
“Except for the three old photographs.”
Pewter added,
“You've seen a lot worse.”
Harry closed the folder, crossing her legs under her. “Not much of an investigation for a murder. You'd think Sheriff Hogendobber would have shown more curiosity and you'd think Biddy's wife would have thrown the book at him,” she thought out loud as the three animals hung on each word. “Course, the Urquharts were rich. The Minors were not.”
“He admitted to the shooting,”
Pewter mentioned.
“She had an open-and-shut case.”
“Know what I think?” Harry leaned against the backrest. “A gentleman's agreement. And gentlewoman's. Bet Tally knows the truth.”
“Maybe.”
Mrs. Murphy listened. The owl hooted in the barn.
“What's she blabbing about?”
“Who?”
“The owl.”
Murphy crawled into Harry's lap before Pewter had the chance to think of it.
“Calling for a boyfriend.”
Tucker giggled.
“That's all we need. More owls,”
Murphy grumbled.
“I'd rather have owls than blue jays.”
“Pewter, you're obsessed with that blue jay.”
Harry rubbed Murphy's ears so she purred the last part of the sentence.
“Apart from the insults, blue jays steal. Anything shiny. They're so greedy.”
41
Rick Shaw's ashtray overflowed with butts. As he absentmindedly put a live cigarette into the deep tray, the whole mess caught on fire, a miniature volcano of stale nicotine and discarded ideas.
Coop, laughing, trotted to the water cooler, filled a cup, and dumped the contents onto the smoldering ashtray. She had prudently carried a paper towel with her to clean up the mess.
“Goddammit!” He stood up, knocking his chair over backward.
“
You
set the place on fire, not me, grouch.”
“I didn't mean you. I meant me.”
“Boss, you take these cases too personal.”
“I liked Tommy. I like Mary Woo. Hell, I can't even find out who burned her shop down, and she's too upset to remember anything to do with her records. Or maybe too scared. Yes, I take this
personal
.” He parodied Cynthia's incorrect English.
“Come on, let's go home.” She pointed to the wall clock.
It was two-thirty in the morning.
“No. Not yet.”
“Your wife probably forgets what you look like.”
“Right now that's good. I look like a vampire reject. One more time.” He pointed to the map on the table. “What do these properties have in common?”
“Nothing that I can tell. They aren't connected. They aren't on major roadways or potential road expansions. They aren't in the path of the beltway that the state threatens to build but never does. Just looks like speculation.”
“Land speculation ruined Lighthorse Harry Lee.”
“And plenty more.” Like Rick, Cynthia knew her historyâbut most Virginians did.
Before schools became “relevant,” teachers led you to the facts. If you didn't study them willingly they simply pounded them into you. One way or the other a Virginian would learn history, multiplication tables, the Queen's English, and manners. Then a child would go home for more drilling by the family about the family, things like: “Aunt Minnie believes that God is a giant orange. Other than that she's harmless, so be respectful.”
“God, I'm tired.” Rick sighed. His mind was wandering. He sank back in his chair.
“Roger.” Cynthia rubbed her eyes.
“Let me review this again. Mrs. Murphy brought you the map. Dropped it right at your feet.”
“Yes.”
“Harry had never seen the map?”
“No. Boss, I told you exactly how it happened. Mrs. Murphy walked outside and returned with the map. She was quite deliberate about it. She didn't give it to Harry. She gave it to me.”
“If we ever go to court, what do we say? A cat gave us evidence?”
“Sure looks that way.” Cynthia smiled. She genuinely liked her boss.
“Let's keep this out of the papers. I can't bring myself to drag the pussycat into the glare of publicity. Where did she find it!”
“We've gone over this. Behind the post office? Near the house? In the bomber jacket? The map could have been dropped anywhere. But wherever it was, Mrs. Murphy found it.”
“Why would she bother to pick it up?” He threw his hands in the air.
“Because cats love paper.”
“Next you'll tell me she reads.”
“That one, I wouldn't be surprised.” She pulled the coroner's report over to her one more time and thumbed through it. “Guess you have to release this.”
“Yes. It confirms he was killed on the night he disappeared. And I guess I'll have to release the fact that he was loaded with cocaine. They'll have a field day with that one.”
“You need some sleep before facing reporters again.”
“I need a lead. A clear lead.” Rick pounded the table.
“We can start visiting these land parcels.”
“Yep.” He rose, sighed, and clicked off the bright, small desk lamp. “You're right. We both need sleep.”
They waved to the graveyard-shift dispatcher.
The cool night air, bearing a hint of moisture, smelled like fresh earth.
“Night, Rick.”
“Coop?”
“Yeah?”
“Think H. Vane is in on the drug trade?”
“We don't know if Tommy was dealing. We only know he was full of the stuff.”
“That's not what I'm asking.”
“H. Vane loves a profit.” She turned up her collar.
“H., Tommy, Blair, and Archie took flying lessons. I questioned Ridley, too, but he wasn't in the club for long. Makes sense.” He sighed. “Well, let's both get some sleep. Then we can drive over the land marked on the map.”
42
Earlier that same night Sarah, in a rage, had slapped her husband in the face. He slapped her back.
“You forget your station, madam.” He coldly turned his back on her.
“You can't go out alone. You hire a bodyguard or I will!”
“Don't tell me what I can do. And don't worry that I'll be killed. Whoever tried was a damned poor shot.”
“You can be insufferably smug.”
“And you can be a bloody nag.”
With some effort, she composed herself. “What happened at the meeting today?”
“Surprisingly, Archie thought your joining us was a good idea, once he had time to adjust to it.”
“And?”
“Blair wants to consult his lawyer. It would give you and me overwhelming control of the corporation and there is the small matter that you haven't invested your share of capital.”
“Ass.”
“He's a better businessman than I assumed he would be. I thought he was just a pretty face and an empty head.”
“What does he care what I put in or what percent of the stock we own? He'll still make a boatload of money.”
“Give him time.”
“You'll persuade him?”
“Actually, I think you will.”
The telephone rang.
Sarah picked it up. “Hello. What are you doing calling here?”
Archie replied on the other end, “I'd like to speak to your husband.”
She handed the phone to H. “Archie.”
“Hello, Arch. Forgive Sarah. She still believes you shot me.” He listened a bit, chewed his lip, nodding in agreement with Archie's ideas. Finally, he turned to Sarah, who had flopped down on the sofa and pointedly picked up a magazine. “He'd like to speak to you.”
“No.”
He put his hand over the receiver. “Sarah, I insist. You must get over this absurd notion that Arch tried to kill me.”
Furiously, she stood; her magazine slithered to the floor. She took the offered phone. “Yes.”
“I'm sure H. filled you in on our meeting today.”
“Yes.”
“I think it would be beneficial to all parties if we sat down and talked.”
“I have nothing to say to you.” She glared at H., who made appeasing gestures.
“Well, I have a great deal to say to you.” He hurried his words before she could cut him off. “We need to talk, especially if we're going to be in business together.”
“That's up to Blair Bainbridge.”
“Sarah . . .”
“Hold on.” She covered the mouthpiece. “He wants to talk to me privately. Do I have to do this?”
“I think it would be best for all concerned.”
She removed her hand from the mouthpiece. “All right.”
“How about my office tomorrow afternoon?”
“Make it Friday. I have a dentist's appointment tomorrow.”
“Fine. Friday. My office.”
She hung up the phone. “Friday. His office. Are you happy now?”
“Yes, the sooner we get this behind us, the better.” His jaw tightened, his eyes narrowed, then just as quickly as the tension showed on his face, he erased it.
“It would be helpful if we knew who killed Tommy Van Allen and why.” She flopped back down on the sofa, bending over to retrieve her magazine. “You don't think it was Archie?”
Vane-Tempest lowered his bulk next to her. “Much as I trust my instincts in business, I have learned not to jump to conclusions. We both know Archie Ingram doesn't have the guts to kill anyone in cold blood. You're using these events to express other, repressed emotions such as anger at the fact that I have kept you from my business. I've shut you out of a large part of my life. I've treated you like a child.”
“Yes, you have.” She lowered her eyes, then looked into his eyes again.
“I'm turning over a new leaf. If Blair obstructs your inclusion in Teotan, I'll start another corporation and you can be president.” He put his arm around her. “But, I think he'll see the light of reason just as you will when Archie speaks to you. We were all such good friends once. Let's go back to the way things were.”
She put her head on his shoulder. “I'd like that.”