Humans fascinated Mrs. Murphy. Their time was squandered in pursuing nonessential objects. Food, clothing, and shelter weren’t enough for them, and they drove themselves and everyone around them crazy, including animals, for their toys. Mrs. Murphy thought cars, a motor toy, absurd. That’s why horses were born. What’s the big hurry, anyway? But if people wanted speed she could accept that—after all, it was a physical pleasure. What she couldn’t accept was that these creatures worked and worked and then didn’t enjoy what they worked for; they were too busy paying for things they couldn’t afford. By the time they paid for the toy it was worn out and they wanted another one. Worse, they weren’t satisfied with themselves. They were always on some self-improvement jag. This astonished Mrs. Murphy. Why couldn’t people just be? But they couldn’t just be—they had to be the best. Poor sick things. No wonder they died from diseases they brought on themselves.
One of the reasons she loved Harry was that Harry was more animal-like than other people. She loved the outdoors. She wasn’t driven to own a lot of toys. She was happy with what she had. She wished that Harry didn’t have to go to the post office every day but it was fun to see the other people, so if the woman had to work, this wasn’t so bad. However, people disregarded Harry because she wasn’t driven. Mrs. Murphy thought they were foolish. Harry was better than any of them.
Good as Harry was, she displayed the weaknesses of her breed. Mating was complicated for her. Divorce, a human invention, further complicated the simplicity of biology. Also, Harry missed communication from Mrs. Murphy. Although Harry wasn’t afraid of the night, she was vulnerable in it. Perhaps because their eyes are bad, humans feel like prey in the darkness.
Night animals are associated with evil by humans. Bats especially scared them, which Mrs. Murphy thought silly. Humans didn’t know enough about the chain of life to go about killing animals that offended them. They killed bats, coyotes, foxes—the night hunters. Their fears and their inability to comprehend how animals are connected, including themselves, would bring everyone to a sorry state. Mrs. Murphy, semidomesticated and enjoying her closeness to Harry, had no desire to see the nondomesticated animals killed. She understood why the wild animals hated people. Sometimes she hated them, too, except for Harry.
A shadowy movement caught her eye. Her ears moved forward. She inhaled deeply. What was he doing here?
A sleek, handsome Paddy moved toward the back porch.
“Hello, Paddy.”
“Hello, my sweet.” Paddy’s deep purr was hypnotic. “How are you on this fine, soft night?”
“Thinking long thoughts and watching the clouds swirl around the moon. Were you hunting?”
“A little of this and a little of that. I’m out for the medicinal powers of the velvety night air. And what were your long thoughts?” His whiskers sparkled against his black face.
“That the so-called bad animals like coyotes, bats, and snakes are more useful to earth than human drug addicts.”
“I don’t like snakes.”
“But they are useful.”
“Yes. They can be useful far away from me.” He licked his paw and then rubbed his face. “Why don’t you come out and play?”
He was tempting, even though she knew how worthless he was. He was still the best-looking tom in Crozet. “I’ve got to watch over Harry.”
“It’s the middle of the night and she’s safe.”
“I hope so, Paddy. I’m worried about this killer.”
“Oh, that. What’s that got to do with Harry?”
“She’s sticking her nose where it doesn’t belong. Miss Amateur Detective.”
“Does the killer know?”
“That’s just it, isn’t it? We don’t know who it is, only that it’s someone we know.”
“Summer’s a strange time to kill anyone,” Paddy reflected. “I can understand it in the winter when the food supply is low—not that I approve of it. But in the summer there’s enough for everyone.”
“They don’t kill over food.”
“True enough.” Humans bored Paddy. “See those fireflies dancing? That’s what I want to do: dance in the moonlight, sing to the stars, jump straight up at the moon.” He turned a somersault.
“I’m staying inside.”
“Oh, Mrs. Murphy, you’ve become much too serious. I remember you when you would chase sunbeams. You even chased me.”
“I did not. You chased me.” Her fur ruffled.
“Ha, all the girls chased me. I thought it was wonderful to be chased by a bright tiger lass whose name, of all things, was Mrs. Murphy. Humans give us the silliest names.”
“Paddy, you’re full of catnip and moonshine.”
“Not Muffy or Skippy or Snowball or Scooter or even Rambette, but Mrs. Murphy.” He shook his head.
“I was named for Harry’s maternal grandmother and well you know it.”
“I thought they named their children after their grandparents, not their cats. Oh, come on out here. For old times’ sake.”
“Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me,” Mrs. Murphy said with firmness but without rancor.
He sighed. “I’m faithful in my fashion. I’m here tonight, aren’t I?”
“And you can keep on going.”
“You’re a hard girl, M.M.” He was the only animal that called her M.M.
“No, just a wise one. But you can do me a favor.”
“What?” He grinned.
“If you hear or see or smell anything that seems suspicious, tell me.”
“I will. Now stop worrying about it. Time will do justice all around.” He flicked his luxurious tail to the vertical and trotted off.
22
The dark-red doors of Crozet Lutheran Church reflected the intense heat of the morning. Outside the church, sweltering, shuffled the camera crews from television stations in Washington, D.C., Richmond, and Charlottesville. What little peace remained in the town was shattered by the news teams, whose producers decided to bump up the story. The second murder was God’s gift to producers in the summer news doldrums.
Inside the simple church, people huddled together, unsure of who was friend and who was foe, although externally everyone acted the same: friendly.
The casket, adorned with a beautiful spray of white lilies, rested before the altar railing. Josiah forgot nothing. Two chaste floral displays stood on either side of the gold altar cross. Maude’s Crozet friends filled the church with flowers. Few knew her well but only one among the congregation wanted her dead. The others truly mourned Maude, as much for her as for themselves. She added something to the town and she would be missed.
The organ music, Bach, filled the church with somber majesty.
Sitting at the rear of the church and to the side was Rick Shaw. He was impressed that Josiah DeWitt and Ned Tucker canvassed the townspeople for this funeral. Ned refused to divulge who gave what but Rick shrewdly allowed Josiah the opportunity to tell all, which he did.
People of modest means, like Mary Minor Haristeen, gave as generously as they could. Mim Sanburne gave a bit more and begrudged every penny. Jim gave separately—a lot. The biggest surprise was Bob Berryman, who contributed $1,000. Apparently Bob’s wife, a portly woman determined to wear miniskirts, was kept ignorant of this bequest until Josiah’s judicious hints reached even her. Linda Berryman, glued to her husband’s side, appeared more grim than sad.
After the mercifully short service, Reverend Jones, preceded by an acolyte, walked down the aisle to the front door. He stopped for a moment. Rick saw him wince. The good reverend did not want the camera crews to sully the sanctity of this moment. But the doors must open and news ratings meant more to producers than human decency. Reverend Jones nodded slightly and the acolyte opened the door.
Mim Sanburne discreetly fluffed her hair as she prepared to leave the church. Little Marilyn, less discreetly, checked her makeup and pointedly ignored Harry, who was immediately behind her. Josiah did not escort Mim, because he acted as next of
kin to Maude and because Jim was there. Market Shiflett stood next to Harry, and Mim edged up even more lest someone (like a news reporter) think she would be accompanied by a—shudder—working man. Courtney Shiflett and Brookie and Danny Tucker quietly filed out the front door too. Susan and Ned stayed behind with Josiah to make certain nothing else needed to be done until the grave-site service.
A reporter rushed up to Mim. She stiffened and turned her back on him. He shoved his microphone under Little Marilyn’s mouth. She started to open it when her mother clasped her wrist and yanked her away. Mrs. George Hogendobber waved her huge church fan in front of her face and made her escape.
Jim wheeled on the reporter. “I’m the mayor of this here town and I’ll answer any questions you have, but right now leave these people alone.”
As Jim was nearly a foot taller than the reporter, the squirt slunk off.
A woman reporter, straining to lower her voice to a more important register, buttonholed Harry, caught in the slow-moving mass of mourners.
“Were you a friend of the murdered woman?” the pert young thing asked.
Harry ignored her.
“Come on, girl.” Market grabbed Harry’s hand.
“Thanks, Market.” Harry let him propel her toward his car.
BoomBoom Craycroft stayed away from Maude’s funeral, which was appropriate. As she was still in deep mourning, no one expected her to make a public appearance anywhere but on the golf course, and everyone but Mrs. Hogendobber made allowances for that. As for BoomBoom, she would have taken apart the television crews, limb by limb.
The grave-site service progressed nicely until Reverend Jones tossed ashes on the casket. Bob Berryman began to sob. Linda was appalled. Bob moved away from the grave site and Linda didn’t follow him. She sat like a stone in the tacky metal chair.
The moment the last syllable of the service was over, the “Amens” said, Josiah rushed to Bob’s side. Harry and everyone else noticed him put his arm around Bob’s shoulders, whispering earnestly in the shaken man’s ear. Suddenly Bob pulled away from Josiah and slugged him square in the face. As the older man sank to his knees, Bob walked with deliberate control to his car. He turned to find his wife. She hurried to the car, opened the passenger door, and Bob drove off before she could even close it.
Ned reached Josiah first and found his face bloodied. Harry, Susan, and Mrs. Hogendobber got there next and Rick Shaw came more slowly. He was observing people’s reactions to the outburst.
The cameras, zoom lenses intact, whirred away from a discreet distance. Jim Sanburne advanced on them, and the newspeople scurried like cockroaches. Susan pulled tissues from her bag but the gushing nosebleed poured through them.
Hayden McIntire took command. “Tilt your head back.”
Josiah did as he was told. “What do you think? Broken?”
“I don’t know. Come with me to the office and I’ll do what I can. You’re going to have two very black eyes tomorrow along with a fat nose.”
Josiah wobbled to his feet with Hayden’s assistance.
Mrs. Hogendobber, brimming with curiosity, blurted out what everyone else was thinking: “What did you say to him?”
“Well—I don’t know.” Josiah squinted. Everything hurt. “I told him this was a terrible thing, but for Maude’s sake he should control himself. Those television vermin are across the road. What would people think?”
“That’s all?” Harry asked, knowing perfectly well that what Josiah had just said would plant a fast-growing seed. Why would it look so bad? A nasty little emotional door had been opened and everyone would jam in front of it trying to peer inside.
Josiah nodded “yes” as Hayden led him off.
Rick silently watched this and then got in his squad car. He was going to tail Bob Berryman. He called to the dispatcher, gave a description of the car and the license plate number. He specified he didn’t want Bob stopped unless he headed for the airport.
Rob Collier listened intently to the tale of Berryman’s outburst. He lingered over his afternoon pickup.
“. . . blood oozing onto his Turnbull and Asser shirt. I tell you, Rob, that must have hurt more than the blow.”
Rob pulled his eyelashes, a nervous habit. “Something’s not right.”
“No shit, Sherlock.”
Rob smiled good-naturedly. “Yeah, well, I’m not as dumb as you think. You’re a woman and I’m a man. I know some things that you don’t. Maybe a man cries because he killed someone and suddenly feels guilty.”
Harry leaned over the counter, inadvertently touching Tucker, who was snoozing under it. The corgi awoke with a grunt.
“I don’t know.”
“See, what’s going on here is, he’s too full up to keep it to himself. Bob Berryman don’t go ’round blubbering in public.”
“Right.”
Tucker yawned. Mrs. Murphy was sleeping with one eye open in a mail bin. Tucker could see the lump at the bottom of the canvas bin. She slunk over and very carefully, very gently bit the lump.
“Ah-h-h.” Mrs. Murphy, startled, yelped. Tucker laughed and bit her again.
“Those two put on a real show, don’t they?” Rob was diverted for a moment from his theory. “As I see it, Maude had something on Berryman. Bet your bottom dollar.”
Harry drew in air between her teeth. “Well, something was going on.”
“Maybe they were running drugs. Berryman travels nine states.”
“I can’t picture Maude as a drug dealer.”
“Hey, sixty years ago booze was illegal. The son of one of the biggest bootleggers in the country became President. Business is business.”
“Where does Kelly fit in?”
“Found out”—Rob shrugged—“or was in cahoots.”
“Next you’ll be telling me Mim Sanburne is a cocaine queen.”
“Anything is possible.”
“Let’s don’t talk about Mim, even though I brought her up. She’s on my reserve shit list. She’s mad at me. Oh, excuse me—ladies of Mim’s quality don’t get mad; they become agitated. She’s agitated with me because I told Little Marilyn to invite her brother to the wedding.”
Rob whistled. “Now there’s an odd couple.”
“Little Marilyn and Fitz-Gilbert Hamilton? He sure hasn’t shown his face around here. Probably feels safe in Richmond.”
“No, no—Stafford and Brenda Sanburne. She’s about the prettiest thing I ever saw but . . . Well, I wish him happiness, but you can’t go around breaking the rules and not expect to suffer for it.”
“You’re big on rules today.” Harry thought, Love whomever you could. It was such a rare commodity in the world, you’d better take it where you could find it. No point arguing with Rob, who was a tender racist as opposed to the horrendous kind. Still, they did their damage, whether by trickle or by tidal wave.
Rob checked his watch. “Zip time.”
He hopped into his mail truck as Mrs. Murphy hopped out of the mail bin. “Tucker, I was sleepy. Your snoring kept me awake last night.”
“I don’t snore.”
“You do. Snort. Snort.” Mrs. Murphy imitated a snore but she was far from it.
“What’s with you two?” Harry walked over to the mail bin. “There’s nothing in here.” Mrs. Murphy rubbed against her leg. Harry gingerly stepped into the mail bin, pushed off with one leg, and then tucked that in the bin too. “Wheee!”
The door opened as she crashed into the wall.
“What are you doing, Miz Haristeen?” Rick Shaw stifled a laugh.
Harry stuck her head over the bin. “The cat has so much fun when she gets in here, I thought I’d try. Hell, anything to feel good these days.”
Rick fished a cigarette out of his pocket, rolling it in his fingers. “I know what you mean.”
“Thought you’d stopped.”
“How’d you know?”
“Your eyes follow every lit cigarette.”
“You’re very observant, Harry.” Rick appreciated that in
a person. “Show me what you’ve got.”
“I didn’t think you’d answer my phone call today after the blowup at the funeral.” She led him to the back room. “I’m impressed.”
She shut the door behind them and brought out the two graveyard postcards. She handed him the magnifying glass and placed the legitimate French postcard on the table. He closed one eye and studied the cards, holding the unlit cigarette in his left hand.
“Uh-huh” was all he said.
“See the slight variation in the inks?”
“Yes.”
“And the misalignment, very small, of the ‘A’ in ‘Asheville.’ ”
“Yes.” Rick twirled the magnifying glass. He handed the glass back to Harry. “Who else knows about this?”
“Susan Tucker. Rob knows I borrowed a postcard but he doesn’t know why.”
“Keep it to yourself. You and Susan.”
“I will.”
“Now, tell me what your cat and dog were doing in Maude’s shop.”
“I don’t know.”
“You were snooping in there, Harry. Don’t lie to me.”
“I wasn’t. Somehow they got locked in there. I woke up in the morning. I couldn’t find them. I drove around. I called around and just like I told you, Mrs. Hogendobber heard Tucker barking. She found them.”
“I believe you. Thousands wouldn’t.” He dropped his bulk into a chair. “Gimme a Co-Cola, will you?” He lit up the cigarette as she brought him a soda from the little refrigerator. A long drag brought a smile to his lips. “It’s a filthy habit but damn, it feels good. Next I’ll try your mail bin.” He inhaled. “I’m not really sorry I started up again. It’s this or straight whiskey with a case like this, and with the whiskey I wouldn’t be on the case long.”
“What do you think—about the postcards, I mean.”
“I think we’ve got someone so smart that he or she is laughing at us. I think we’ve got a fox that will lay a false trail.”
Wish You Were Here (Mrs. Murphy Mysteries) Page 12