Murder on the Prowl (8 page)

13

“Maury McKinchie, forty-seven, died suddenly in his home October third,” Fair mumbled as he read aloud Maury's cinematic accomplishments and the fact that he lettered in football at USC. He peered over Mrs. Murphy, who jumped on the paper to read it herself.

Both humans and the cat stood reading the insert. Pewter reposed on the counter. She was interested, but Murphy jumped up first. Why start the day with a fight? Tucker raced around the table, finally sitting on her mother's foot.

“What's going on?”
Tucker asked.

“Tucker, Maury McKinchie is dead,”
Mrs. Murphy answered her.

“Miranda,” Harry said when she picked up the phone, “I've just seen it.”

“Well, I just saw Maury McKinchie jog down the lane between my house and the post office not ten minutes ago!”

“This is too weird.” Harry's voice was even. “As weird as that rattail hair of his.” She referred to the short little ponytail Maury wore at the nape of his neck. Definitely not Virginia.

“He wore a color-coordinated jogging suit. Really, the clothes that man wears.” Miranda exhaled through her nostrils. “Roscoe was jogging with him.”

“Guess he hasn't read the paper.” Harry laughed.

“No.” She paused. “Isn't this the most peculiar thing. If Sean's behind this again, he realized he can't phone in an obituary anymore. It can't be Sean, though—his father would kill him.” She thought out loud.

“And he lost his paper route. Fired. At least, that's what I heard,” Harry added.

“Bombs away!”
Pewter launched herself from the counter onto the table and hit the paper, tearing it. Both cats and paper skidded off the table.

“Pewter!” Fair exclaimed.

“Aha!” Mrs. Hogendobber exclaimed when she heard Fair's voice in the background. “I knew you two would get back together,” she gloated to Harry.

“Don't jump the gun, Miranda.” Harry gritted her teeth, knowing a grilling would occur at the post office.

“See you at work,” Miranda trilled.

14

“Not another prank!” the Reverend Herbert Jones said when he picked up his mail, commenting on the obituary insert in his paper that morning.

“A vicious person with unresolved authority-figure conflicts,” BoomBoom Craycroft intoned. “A potent mixture of chamomile and parsley would help purify this tortured soul.”

“Disgusting and not at all funny,” Big Mim Sanburne declaimed.

“A sick joke,” Lucinda Payne Coles said, picking up her mail and that of the Church of the Good Shepherd.

“Hasn't Maury been working with you on the big alumni fund-raising dinner?” Harry inquired.

“Yes,” Little Mim replied.

“What's going on at St. Elizabeth's?” Harry walked out front.

“Nothing. Just because Roscoe and Maury are associated with the school doesn't make the school responsible for these—what should I call them—?” Little Mim flared.

Her mother, awash in navy blue cashmere, tapped Little Mim's hand with a rolled-up magazine.

“Premature death notices.” Mim laughed. “Sooner or later they will be accurate. Sean Hallahan has apologized to everyone involved. At least, that's what his father told me. Who has the paper route? That's the logical question.”

Marilyn sniffed. Her mother could get her goat faster than anyone on earth. “Roger Davis has the paper route.”

“Call his mother,” Mim snapped. “And . . . are you listening to me?”

“Yes, Mother.”

“Whoever is writing these upsetting things knows a lot about both men.”

“Or is a good researcher,” Herb's grave voice chimed in.

“Don't look at me,” Harry joked. “I never learned how to correctly write in footnotes. You have to do that to be a good researcher.”

“Don't be silly. You couldn't have graduated from Smith with honors without learning how to do footnotes.” Big Mim unrolled the magazine, grimaced at the photo of an exploded bus, and rolled it back up again. “I'll tell you what's worse than incorrect footnotes . . . lack of manners. Our social skills are so eroded that people don't write thank-you notes anymore . . . and if they did, they couldn't spell.”

“Mother, what does that have to do with Roscoe's and Maury's fake obits?”

“Rude. Bad manners.” She tapped the magazine sharply on the edge of the counter.

“Hey!” Little Mim blurted, her head swiveling in the direction of the door.

Maury McKinchie pushed through, beheld the silence and joked, “Who died?”

“You,” Harry replied sardonically.

“Ah, come on, my last movie wasn't that bad.”

“Haven't you opened your paper?” Little Mim edged toward him.

“No.”

Herb handed the insert to Maury. “Take a look.”

“Well, I'll be damned.” Maury whistled.

“Who do you think did this?” Miranda zoomed to the point.

He laughed heartily. “I can think of two ex-wives who would do it, only they'd shoot me first. The obit would be for real.”

“You really don't have any idea?” Herb narrowed his eyes.

“Not a one.” Maury raised his bushy eyebrows as well as his voice.

Big Mim checked her expensive Schaffhausen watch. “I'm due up at the Garden Club. We vote on which areas to beautify today. A big tussle, as usual. Good-bye, all. Hope you get to the bottom of this.”

“'Bye,” they called after her.

Maury, though handsome, had developed a paunch. Running would remove it, he hoped. Being a director, he had a habit of taking charge, giving orders. He'd discovered that didn't work in Crozet. An even bigger shock had befallen him when Darla became the breadwinner. He was searching for the right picture to get his career back on track. He flew to L.A. once a month and burned up the phone and fax lines the rest of the time.

“Mother wants to create a garden around the old railroad station. What do you bet she gets her way?” Little Mim jumped to a new topic. There wasn't anything she could do about the fake obituary anyway.

“The odds are on her side.” Harry picked up the tall metal wastebasket overflowing with paper.

“I can do that for you.” Maury seized the wastebasket. “Where does it go?”

“Market's new dumpster,” Miranda said.

“Take me one minute.”

As he left, Little Mim said, “He's a terrible flirt, isn't he?”

“Don't pay any attention to him,” Harry advised.

“I didn't say he bothered me.”

Maury returned, placing the wastebasket next to the table where people sorted their mail.

“Thank you,” Harry said.

He winked at her. “My pleasure. You can say you've encountered an angel today.”

“Beg pardon?” Harry said.

“If I'm dead, I'm living uptown, Harry, not downtown.” He laughed and walked out with a wave.

Susan Tucker arrived just as Miranda had begun her third degree on the subject of Fair staying over.

“Miranda, why do you do this to me?” Harry despaired.

“Because I want to see you happy.”

“Telling everyone that my ex-husband spent the night isn't going to make me happy, and I told you, Miranda, nothing happened. I am so tired of this.”

“Methinks the lady doth protest too much.” Mrs. Hogendobber coyly quoted Shakespeare.

“Oh, pul-lease.” Harry threw up her hands.

Susan, one eyebrow arched, said, “Something did happen. Okay, maybe it wasn't sex, but he got his foot in the door.”

“And his ass in the guest room. It was raining cats and dogs.”

“I beg your pardon,”
Mrs. Murphy, lounging in the mail cart, called out.

“All right.” Harry thought the cat wanted a push so she gave her a ride in the mail cart.

“I love this. . . .”
Murphy put her paws on the side of the cart.

“Harry, I'm waiting.”

“For what?”

“For what's going on with you and Fair.”

“NOTHING!”

Her shout made Tucker bark.

Pewter, hearing the noise, hurried in through the back animal door.
“What's the matter?”

“Mrs. H. and Susan think Mom's in love with Fair because he stayed at the house last night.”

“Oh.”
Pewter checked the wastebasket for crumbs.
“They need to stop for tea.”

Susan held up her hands. “You are so sensitive.”

“Wouldn't you be?” Harry fired back.

“I guess I would.”

“Harry, I didn't mean to upset you.” Miranda, genuinely contrite, walked over to the small refrigerator, removing the pie she'd baked the night before.

Pewter was ecstatic.

Harry sighed audibly. “I want his attention, but I don't think I want him. I'm being perverse.”

“Maybe vengeful is closer to the mark.” Miranda pulled no punches.

“Well—I'd like to think I was a better person than that, but maybe I'm not.” She glanced out the big front window. “Going to be a nice day.”

“Well, my cherub is playing in the field hockey game, rain or shine,” Susan said. “Danny's got football practice, so I'll watch the first half of Brooks's game and the last half of Danny's practice. I wish I could figure out how to be in two places at the same time.”

“If I get my chores done, I'll drop by,” Harry said. “I'd love to see Brooks on the attack. Which reminds me, got to call and see if my truck is ready.”

“I thought you didn't have the money to fix it,” Susan said.

“He'll let me pay over time.” As she was making the call, Miranda and Susan buzzed about events.

“Miranda, do you think these false obituaries have anything to do with Halloween?” Harry asked as she hung up the phone.

“I don't know.”

“It's only the first week of October.”
Tucker thought out loud.
“Halloween is a long way away.”

“What about all those Christmas catalogs clogging the mail?”
Pewter hovered over the pie.

“Humans like to feel anxious,”
Tucker declared.

“Imagine worrying about Christmas now. They might not live to Christmas,”
Mrs. Murphy cracked.

The other two animals laughed.

“You know what I would do if I were one of them?”
Pewter flicked off the dishcloth covering the pie.
“I'd go to an Arab country. That would take care of Christmas.”

“Take care of a lot else, too,”
Mrs. Murphy commented wryly.

Miranda noticed in the nick of time. “Shoo!”

Harry grabbed the phone. “Hello, may I have the obituary department?”

Miranda, Susan, the two cats, and the dog froze to listen.

“Obituary.”

“Janice, have you heard about the insert?”

“Yes, but it's only in the papers of one route, Roger Davis's route. I can't be blamed for this one.”

“I wouldn't want to be in Roger Davis's shoes right now,” Harry said.

15

“I didn't do it.” Roger, hands in his pants pockets, stared stubbornly at the headmaster and the temporary principal.

“You picked up the newspapers from the building at Rio Road?” Sandy questioned.

“Yes.”

“Did you go through the papers?” Roscoe asked.

“No, I just deliver them. I had no idea that death notice on Mr. McKinchie was in there.”

“Did anyone else go with you this morning? Like Sean Hallahan?”

“No, sir,” Roger answered Roscoe Fletcher. “I don't like Sean.”

Sandy took another tack. “Would you say that you and Sean Hallahan are rivals?”

Roger stared at the ceiling, then leveled his gaze at Sandy. “No. I don't like him, that's all.”

“He's a bit of a star, isn't he?” Sandy continued his line of reasoning.

“Good football players usually are.”

“No, I mean he's really a star now for putting the false obituary in the paper, Mr. Fletcher's obituary.”

Roger looked from Sandy to Roscoe, then back to Sandy. “Some kids think it was very cool.”

“Did you?” Roscoe inquired.

“No, sir,” Roger replied.

“Could anyone have tampered with your papers without you knowing about it?” Roscoe swiveled in his chair to glance out the window. Children were walking briskly between classes.

“I suppose they could. Each of us who has a route goes to pick up our papers . . . they're on the landing. We've each got a spot because each route has a different number of customers. We're supposed to have the same number, but we don't. People cancel. Some areas grow faster than others. So you go to your place on the loading dock and pick up your papers. All I do is fold them to stick them in the tube. And on rainy days, put them in plastic bags.”

“So someone could have tampered with your pile?” Roscoe persisted.

“Yes, but I don't know how they could do it without being seen. There are always people at the paper. Not many at that hour.” He thought. “I guess it could be done.”

“Could someone have followed after you on your route, pulled the paper out of the tube and put in the insert?” Sandy liked Roger but he didn't believe him. “One of your friends, perhaps?”

“Yes. It would be a lot of work.”

“Who knows your paper route?” Roscoe glanced at the Queen Anne clock.

“Everyone. I mean, all my friends.”

“Okay, Roger. You can go.” Roscoe waved him away.

Sandy opened the door for the tall young man. “I really hope you didn't do this, Roger.”

“Mr. Brashiers, I didn't.”

Sandy closed the door, turning to Roscoe. “Well?”

“I don't know.” Roscoe held up his hands. “He's an unlikely candidate, although circumstances certainly point to him.”

“Damn kids,” Sandy muttered, then spoke louder. “Have you investigated the Jody Miller incident further?”

“I spoke to Coach Hallvard. She said no fight occurred at practice. I'm going to see Kendrick Miller later today. I wish I knew what I was going to say.”