Murder on the Prowl (5 page)

“Roger, I want to zip through this extravaganza.” Susan reached in her purse for the $5.25 for exterior wash only.

“Mom, let's shoot the works.”

“That's eleven ninety-five.”

“I'll contribute!” Harry fished a five out of her hip pocket and handed it to Roger.

“Harry, don't do that.”

“Shut up, Suz, we're holding up traffic.”

“Here's the one.” Brooks forked over a one-dollar bill.

“Okay then, a little to the right, Mrs. Tucker. There, you've got it. Now put your car in neutral and turn off the radio, if you have it on. Oh, and roll up the windows.”

She rolled up the driver's-side window as Roger picked up a long scrub brush to scrub her headlights and front grille while Karen Jensen worked the rear bumper. She waved.

“Hey, I didn't know Karen worked here. Jody, too.” She saw Jody putting on mascara as she sat behind the cash register.

“Brooks, don't you dare open that window,” Susan commanded as she felt the belt hook under the left car wheel. They lurched forward.

“Hey, hey, I can't see!”
Pewter screeched.

“Early blindness,”
Mrs. Murphy said maliciously as the yellow neon light flashed on, a bell rang, and a wall of water hit them with force.

Each cleansing function—waxing, underbody scrub and coat, rinsing—was preceded by a neon light accompanied by a bell and buzzer noise. By the time they hit the blowers, Pewter frothed at the mouth.

“Poor kitty.” Brooks petted her.

“Pewter, it really is okay. We're not in any danger.”
Mrs. Murphy felt bad that she had tormented her.

The gray kitty shook.

“Last time I take her through a car wash.” Harry, too, felt sorry for the cat's plight.

They finally emerged with a bump from the tunnel of cleanliness. Susan popped the car in gear and parked it in a lot on the other side of the car wash.

As she and Brooks got out to meet with Jimbo Anson, Harry consoled Pewter, who crawled into her lap. The other animals kept quiet.

A light rap on the window startled Harry, she was so intent on soothing the cat.

“Hi, Roscoe. You're right, it is like a Broadway show with all those lights.”

“Funny, huh?” He offered her a tiny sweet, a miniature strawberry in a LaVossienne tin, French in origin. “Just discovered these. Les Fraises Bonbon Fruits pack a punch. Go on and try one.”

“Okay.” She reached in and plucked out a miniature strawberry. “Whooo.”

“That'll pucker those lips. Naomi is trying to get me to stop eating so much sugar but I love sweetness.” He noticed Brooks and Susan in the small office with Jimbo Anson. “Has she said anything about school?”

“She likes it.”

“Good, good. You been to the vet?”

“No, we're out for a family drive.”

“I can't remember the times I've seen you without Mrs. Murphy and Tucker. Now you've got Pewter, too. Market said she was eating him out of house and home.”

“No-o-o,”
the cat wailed, shaken but insulted.

“Hey, Pewter, we'll get even. We can pee on his mail before Mom stuffs it in his box,”
Murphy sang out gaily.
“Or we could shred it to bits, except the bills. Keep them intact.”

St. Elizabeth's mail was delivered directly to the school. Personal mail was delivered to the Crozet post office.

“Yeah.”
Pewter perked up.

“Good to see you, the animals too.” He waved and Harry hit the button to close the window.

Then she called after him, “Where'd you get the strawberry drops?”

“Foods of All Nations,” he replied.

She noticed Karen Jensen making a face after he passed by. Roger laughed. “Kids,” Harry thought to herself. Then she remembered the time she stuck Elmer's Glue in the locks of her most unfavorite teacher's desk drawer.

After ten minutes Susan and Brooks returned to the car.

Books was excited. “I'll work after school on Monday 'cause there's no field hockey practice, and I'll work Saturdays. Cool!”

“Sounds good to me.” Harry held up her hand for a high five as Brooks bounced into the backseat.

Susan turned on the ignition. “This way she won't miss practice. After all, part of school is sports.”

“Can we go home now?”
Pewter cried.

“Roscoe must live at this place,” Susan said lightly as they pulled out of the parking lot.

6

Little squeaks behind the tack-room walls distracted Harry from dialing. She pressed the disconnect button to redial.

Mrs. Murphy sauntered into the tack room, then paused, her ears swept forward.
“What balls!”

“Beg pardon?”
Pewter opened one chartreuse eye.

“Mouse balls. Can you hear them?”

Pewter closed her eye.
“Yes, but it's not worth fretting over.”

Harry, finger still on the disconnect button, rested the telephone receiver on her shoulder. “What in the hell are they doing, Murphy?”

“Having a party,”
the tiger replied, frustrated that she couldn't get at her quarry.

Harry lifted the receiver off her shoulder, pointing at the cat with it. “I can't put down poison. If you catch a sick mouse, then
you'll
die. I can't put the hose into their holes because I'll flood the tack room. I really thought you could solve this problem.”

“If one would pop out of there, I would.”
The cat, angry, stomped out.

“Temper, temper,” Harry called out after her, which only made things worse.

She redialed the number as Murphy sat in the barn aisle, her back to Harry and her ears swept back.

“Hi, Janice. Harry Haristeen.”

“How are you?” the bright voice on the other end of the line responded.

“Pretty good. And you?”

“Great.”

“I hope you'll indulge me. I have a question. You're still editing the obituary page, aren't you?”

“Yep. Ninety-five cents a line. Five dollars for a photo.” Her voice softened. “Has, uh—”

“No. I'm curious about how Roscoe Fletcher's obituary appeared in the paper.”

“Oh, that.” Janice's voice dropped. “Boy, did I get in trouble.”

“Sorry.”

“All I can tell you is, two days ago I received a call from Hallahan Funeral Home saying they had Roscoe's body as well as the particulars.”

“So I couldn't call in and report a death?”

“No. If you're a family member or best friend you might call or fax the life details, but we verify death with the funeral home or the hospital. Usually they call us. The hospital won't give me cause of death either. Sometimes family members will put it in, but we can't demand any information other than verification that the person is dead.” She took a deep breath. “And I had that!”

“Do you generally deal with the same people at each of the funeral homes?”

“Yes, I do, and I recognize their voices, too. Skip Hallahan called in Roscoe's death.”

“I guess you told that to the sheriff.”

“Told it to Roscoe, too. I'm sick of this.”

“I'm sorry, Janice. I made you go over it one more time.”

“That's different—you're a friend. Skip is being a bunghole, I can tell you that. He swears he never made the call.”

“I think I know who did.”

“Tell me.”

“I will as soon as I make sure I'm right.”

7

The high shine on Roscoe Fletcher's car surrendered to dust, red from the clay, as he drove down Mim Sanburne's two-mile driveway to the mansion Mim had inherited from her mother's family, the Urquharts.

He passed the mansion, coasting to a stop before a lovely cottage a quarter mile behind the imposing pile. Cars parked neatly along the farm road bore testimony to the gathering within.

Raising money for St. Elizabeth's was one of Little Mim's key jobs. She wanted to show she could be as powerful as her mother.

Breezing through Little Mim's front door, Roscoe heard Maury McKinchie shout, “The phoenix rises from the ashes!”

The members of the fund-raising committee, many of them alumnae, laughed at the film director's quip.

“You missed the resurrection party, my man.” Roscoe clapped McKinchie on the back. “Lasted until
dawn.”

“Every day is a party for Roscoe,” April Shively, stenographer's notebook flipped open at the ready, said admiringly.

April, not a member of the committee, attended all meetings as the headmaster's secretary, which saved the committee from appointing one of its own. It also meant that only information deemed important by Roscoe made it to the typed minutes. Lastly, it gave the two a legitimate excuse to be together.

“Where were you this time?” Irene Miller, Jody's mother, asked, an edge of disapproval in her voice since Maury McKinchie missed too many meetings, in her estimation.

“New York.” He waited until Roscoe took a seat then continued. “I have good news.” The group leaned toward him. “I met with Walter Harnett at Columbia. He loves our idea of a film department. He has promised us two video cameras. These are old models, but they work fine. New, this camera sells for fifty-four thousand dollars. We're on our way.” He beamed.

After the applause, Little Mim, chair of the fund-raising committee, spoke. “That is the most exciting news! With preparation on our part, I think we can get approval from the board of directors to develop a curriculum.”

“Only if we can finance the department.” Roscoe folded his hands together. “You know how conservative the board is. Reading, writing, and arithmetic. That's it. But if we can finance one year—and I have the base figures here—then I hope and believe the positive response of students and parents will see us through the ensuing year. The board will be forced into the twentieth century”—he paused for effect—“just as we cross into the twenty-first.”

They laughed.

“Is the faculty for us?” Irene Miller asked, eager to hitch on to whatever new bandwagon promised to deliver the social cachet she so desired.

“With a few notable exceptions, yes,” Roscoe replied.

“Sandy Brashiers,” April blurted out, then quickly clamped her mouth shut. Her porcelain cheeks flushed. “You know what a purist he is,” she mumbled.

“Give him an enema,” Maury said, and noted the group's shocked expression. “Sorry. We say that a lot on a film shoot. If someone is really a pain in the ass, he's called the D.B. for douche bag.”

“Maury.” Irene cast her eyes down in fake embarrassment.

“Sorry. The fact remains, he is an impediment.”

“I'll take care of Sandy,” Roscoe Fletcher smoothly asserted.

“I wish someone would.” Doak Mincer, a local bank president, sighed. “Sandy has been actively lobbying against this. Even when told the film department would be a one-year experimental program, totally self-sufficient, funded separately, the whole nine yards, he's opposed—adamantly.”

“Has no place in academia, he says.” Irene, too, had been lobbied.

“What about that cinematographer you had here mid-September? I thought that engendered enthusiasm.” Marilyn pointed her pencil at Roscoe.

“She was a big hit. Shot film of some of the more popular kids, Jody being one, Irene.”

“She loved it.” Irene smiled. “You aren't going to encounter resistance from parents. What parent would be opposed to their child learning new skills? Or working with a pro like Maury? Why, it's a thrill.”

“Thank you.” Maury smiled his big smile, the one usually reserved for paid photographers.

He had enjoyed a wonderful directing career in the 1980s, which faded in the '90s as his wife's acting career catapulted into the stratosphere. She was on location so much that Maury often forgot he had a wife. Then again, he might have done so regardless of circumstances.

He had also promised Darla would lecture once a year at St. Elizabeth's. He had neglected to inform Darla, stage name Darla Keene. Real name Michelle Gumbacher. He'd cajole her into it on one of her respites home.

“Irene, did you bring your list of potential donors?” Little Mim asked. Irene nodded, launching into an intensely boring recitation of each potential candidate.

After the meeting Maury and Irene walked out to his country car, a Range Rover. His Porsche 911 was saved for warm days.

“How's Kendrick?” he inquired about her husband.

“Same old, same old.”

This meant that all Kendrick did was work at the gardening center he had built from scratch and which at long last was generating profit.

She spied a carton full of tiny bottles in the passenger seat of the Rover. “What's all that?”

“Uh”—long pause—“essences.”

“What?”

“Essences. Some cure headaches. Others are for success. Not that I believe it, but they can be soothing, I suppose.”

“Did you bring this stuff back from New York?” Irene lifted an eyebrow.

“Uh—no. I bought them from BoomBoom Craycroft.”

“Good God.” Irene turned on her heel, leaving him next to his wildly expensive vehicle much favored by the British royals.

Later that evening when Little Mim reluctantly briefed her mother on the meeting—reluctant because her mother had to know everything—she said, “I think I can make the film department happen.”

“That would be a victory, dear.”

“Don't be so enthusiastic, Mother.”

“I am enthusiastic. Quietly so, that's all. And I do think Roscoe enjoys chumming with the stars, such as they are, entirely too much. Greta Garbo.
That
was a
star.”

“Yes, Mother.”

“And Maury—well, West Coast ways, my dear. Not Virginia.”

“Not Virginia,” a description, usually whispered by whites and blacks alike to set apart those who didn't measure up. This included multitudes.

Little Mim bristled. “The West Coast, well, they're more open-minded.”

“Open-minded? They're porous.”