Cat on the Scent

by Rita Mae Brown

  “No,” Harry said, but without much oomph.

  “She’ll weaken if you sit by the chair.” Pewter hurried to get on Harry’s right side.

  “You say that every time.” The tiger cat laughed but she hurried to Blair’s side, figuring he’d weaken before Harry.

  “I had no idea that Sir H. Vane-Tempest pestered Sheriff Shaw so often.”

  “Tempest in a teapot is what Miranda calls him.” Harry stuck her knife into a pot of creamy homemade mustard. “But Archie’s picking fights with everyone. Even though he and H. Vane seem to be in a phase of political agreement. He’s even fighting Mim.”

  “Not a smart move.”

  “Getting on the wrong side of Sir H. isn’t smart either. His net worth is more than the gross national product of Chile.”

  “Mrs. Murphy, what do you know about H. Vane?” Tucker never took her eyes off Harry’s hands.

  “He doesn’t have cats or dogs, which bespeaks an empty life.”

  Blair dropped her a sliver of roast beef, which she daintily ate.

  “Are you going to the commission meeting?” Harry asked her guest.

  “You bet. It’s going to be the best show this spring.”

  * * *

  4

  Archie Ingram, a handsome man in his early forties, smiled at the assemblage. The only hint that he was nervous was the tension in his cheek muscles. The classroom at Crozet High School spilled over with people, many standing in the hall. A topographical map of the county was on a bulletin board behind the front table.

  “I told you we should have used the auditorium,” Archie complained to Jim Sanburne, the mayor of Crozet, as well as Mim’s husband. As mayor he chaired the county meeting in his town.

  “Archie, these meetings usually number three people, each of whom wants a zoning variance for a trailer, a business, or a nursing home. The only reason all these people are here is that you’ve stirred up a hornet’s nest.”

  “Bullshit,” he growled at the large, genial man.

  Jim ignored him, waving a greeting to the Reverend Herbert Jones.

  “Jim, I brought my dowser.” Herb held up the wooden divining rod, which worked well despite naysayers.

  “Spare me,” Archie muttered under his breath, his eyes scanning the room, resting a second on the beautiful Sarah Vane-Tempest before darting away.

  “What?” Jim asked.

  “Where’s Tommy Van Allen?” Archie demanded. “I’m not delaying this meeting one more time for him.”

  “I don’t know. I called and he wasn’t at work.”

  “Typical.” Archie tapped his pencil on the tabletop. “The only reason he ever wanted this thankless job was to find out when and where we’d be making road improvements and granting commercial zoning permits. Gives him more time to put together a good bid.”

  “Come on, Arch, you don’t believe that.”

  “The hell I don’t.” Archie snapped his mouth shut like a turtle.

  Harry, Mrs. Murphy, Tucker, and Pewter sat in the middle next to Harry’s colleague in the post office, Miranda Hogendobber. Also there were Susan and Ned Tucker; Harry’s ex-husband, Fair Haristeen; and BoomBoom Craycroft. The widow Craycroft was not Harry’s favorite person.

  Blair accompanied Mim’s daughter, Marilyn.

  Little Mim, as she was known, stood up in front with her mother, who was already poring over the large map of the county.

  Sir Henry Vane-Tempest—called H. or H. Vane by everyone—sat off to the side, his horn-rimmed spectacles sliding down his long nose. He had taken the precaution of bugging each county commissioner’s office. Once a week the transcript was discreetly brought to him at his farm by Tareq Said, head of Said and Trumbo Investigations. Vane-Tempest made certain that his wife knew nothing of this. No one knew and H. would keep it that way. Next to him was Ridley Kent, a rich ne’er-do-well whose primary occupation was staring at women’s bodices. He happened to be sitting beside a good one. Sarah Vane-Tempest was H. Vane’s trophy wife, an elegant blonde whose cool beauty owed little to the expensive clothes she wore.

  “The gang’s all here,” Susan said to Harry.

  “Frightening, isn’t it?” Harry sarcastically replied.

  “Holding negative feelings will eat you up and destroy your good health,” BoomBoom crooned.

  “Shut up, Boom.”

  “That’s exactly what I’m talking about.” BoomBoom cast her violet eyes at Harry.

  Archie noticed Mrs. Murphy sauntering up to the map. “Get that cat out of here.”

  “I beg your pardon.” Mrs. Murphy stared at him.

  “Mary Minor Haristeen, those animals have no place here.” Archie pointed to Pewter, on her lap, and Tucker, seated at Fair’s cowboy-booted feet.

  “Hey, Murphy, jump on the table and blow a tuna fart right in his face,” Pewter called out.

  “How rude.” Mrs. Murphy giggled but she did jump on the desk to stare Archie directly in the eye.

  “Murphy—” Harry called to her.

  “You are a sorry excuse for a mammal.” Mrs. Murphy insulted Archie, who blinked as she spoke.

  “She’s saying that she’s a resident of Albemarle County, too, and the water supply affects her.” Mim’s upper-class voice hushed the room.

  “That’s right, honeybun,” Jim, not upper-class, said.

  Everyone laughed.

  “Then at least keep this feline with you,” Archie told Harry.

  Mrs. Murphy, the full attention of the room on her, flopped on her side, cocking her head at the audience.

  “Isn’t she adorable. She knows we’re talking about her,” one of the older ladies said.

  “Gag me,” Pewter sniped.

  “Mrs. Murphy, come back here,” Harry said firmly. She was put out at Mrs. Murphy’s showing off, but secretly she was also enjoying Archie Ingram’s discomfiture. He could be so pompous.

  Naturally, Mrs. Murphy flopped on the other side, again gazing at her fans. She emitted a honey-coated meow.

  “Precious,” another voice cooed.

  Even Tucker looked queasy.

  Harry handed Pewter to Fair, stood up, and stepped along a row of desks to the center aisle. “Madam, you get off that desk.”

  “One for the money, two for the show, three to get ready and four to go,” the tiger cat sang out, sat up, grabbed Archie’s pencil in her teeth, and leapt off the front table.

  “Hey!” Archie boomed as everyone in the classroom laughed at him. “Hey, I want that back.”

  Mrs. Murphy pranced over to Sarah Vane-Tempest, dropping the pencil at her expensively shod feet.

  “I can’t believe you did that,” Pewter hollered at her.

  “Watch me.” She skidded out to the hallway, dodging legs, and finally sat down under the water fountain. By the time Harry caught up with her, she was intently grooming the tip of her tail.

  “Monster.”

  “Broccoli eater.”

  “If you even move your eyebrows I’m taking you out to the truck.”

  “Take me to Blair’s Porsche. I don’t want to sit in the truck.”

  “Don’t you mouth off at me,” Harry warned her.

  “Who else am I going to mouth off to?”

  Harry paused, wondering whether to take her back into the meeting or go directly to the truck. Well aware of Murphy’s lethal temper, she thought the cat would be safer in sight than out of sight. She scooped up the silky-coated creature, holding her bottom while Murphy leaned on her shoulder, winking at passersby.

  By the time Harry reached the classroom door her seat had been taken. Pewter stood on Fair’s lap, paws on his shoulders, looking for her buddy. Upon seeing Mrs. Murphy, she jumped down and walked to the back of the room.

  Meanwhile Archie was explaining to the assembled why the reservoir plan was outdated. He couldn’t resist reminding them that he had always been an opponent of unchecked growth. However, the population had grown, the water supply had not, and as a public servant he had to find a s
olution. Before he could finish his presentation, the county commissioner next to him dropped his tablet. It hit the floor with a loud clatter.

  Archie glared as Donald Jackson bent over to pick it up, tipped off balance, and fell over, still in the chair.

  Jim Sanburne quickly hopped out of his seat to assist Don, which made Archie look like a jerk, since he was standing above the fallen man.

  Irritated, Archie continued reading off his figures.

  “Archie, we know all that.” Don tried to divert him.

  “Everyone in this room knows the cost of building a new reservoir?” He slapped his hand on the table, the papers in his other hand shaking.

  “Yes. It’s on the handout sheet. You don’t need to read that. In case anyone missed a handout sheet, a new reservoir in the northwest quadrant will cost us thirty-two million dollars.”

  “What’s wrong with rehabilitating Sugar Hollow?” a voice from the middle piped up.

  Sugar Hollow was the site of an old reservoir.

  “After what Hurricane Fran did?” Archie imperiously dismissed the question.

  “Not so fast, Archie.” Ned Tucker spoke up. “Given the importance of the issue, a feasibility study on reviving Sugar Hollow isn’t a frivolous suggestion.”

  “Maybe we need them both,” Sir H. Vane-Tempest suggested in his soothing voice.

  “And where would the money come from?” Little Mim asked a sensible question yet received a frown from her mother.

  Big Mim preferred to speak before her offspring did, at which time she expected Little Mim to rubber-stamp whatever she had said. Aunt Tally, leaning on her silver-handled cane, cast a sharp eye at her family. The handle itself was carved in the shape of a hound’s head. It had become Tally’s signature accessory.

  “From my pocketbook,” Miranda good-naturedly called out.

  A few people laughed. Others nodded.

  “The county’s population has tipped over 112,000.” Jim, deep voice rumbling, folded his hands. “The original plan for the reservoir between Free Union and Earlysville was drawn up in 1962, when the population was half of what it is today and projections were not even close to our current rate of growth.”

  “That’s the problem. Unrestrained growth,” Archie again said.

  “We can’t throw people out.” Jim sighed, tacitly acknowledging the problem.

  “No, but we can certainly put the lid on development.”

  “You’ve done a good job of that all by yourself,” Sir H. Vane-Tempest jocularly interjected.

  “With little support from my colleagues.” Archie’s eyebrows twitched upward as he stared at the Englishman. “You’ve been opposed to growth, H. Vane, and I appreciate your vision.”

  “Unplanned growth. A master plan for this county would go a long way to solving these woes.” Sir H. Vane-Tempest appeared to shift politically ever so slightly.

  “We don’t have a master plan!” Archie’s eyes narrowed. What was Vane-Tempest up to?

  “This reservoir plan is not worth the paper it’s printed on.” Don Jackson shook his head. “Earlier commissions did not foresee this population boom nor the encroachment of Richmond and even Washington, on weekends, anyway. Our infrastructure is woefully inadequate and that includes our water supply.”

  “Wouldn’t it make sense to identify all of our water resources?” Fair Haristeen stood up. “We have the runoff from the Blue Ridge Mountains, which I believe figured into the original reservoir plan. We have the remains of the reservoir at Sugar Hollow. We have the Rivanna, Mechum, and James rivers, which may yet prove useful.”

  “He’s right.” BoomBoom smiled, which made the men smile back.

  “Yuk,” Harry whispered to Mrs. Murphy and Pewter.

  “And if we try to dam up the rivers, do we know what the state will do to us? Ha!” Archie threw up his hands. “To say nothing of the catastrophic environmental damage.”

  “We can’t be the only county trying to absorb new people.” Sir H. Vane-Tempest now stood up. In his early seventies, exuding vitality, he was well turned out, although the ascot seemed pretentious for the occasion. “The concept of a major reservoir serving ourselves and even the lower counties, such as Buckingham, isn’t a frivolous idea.”

  “Well, what about the water table?” Dr. Larry Johnson joined in. “Whatever we do, we have to examine the underground effect. This isn’t just about building a reservoir.”

  Archie sat down, folding his arms across his chest.

  Don leaned forward. “Precisely the reason for these local meetings. Our commission has to present your ideas to the state. There’s no way Albemarle County can fund a reservoir. Even if you double taxes, we can’t pay for it.”

  “So we have to go to Richmond no matter what?” Jim Sanburne half asked, half informed the audience.

  “Too much government! Richmond will only make it worse. Look at the bypass.” Aunt Tally referred to a bottled-up traffic mess that the state couldn’t resolve, each plan being worse than the former.

  People nodded their heads in agreement.

  “There’s got to be enough water under the ground. Got to be.” Ridley Kent shook his head.

  “Ridley, if you had a brain you’d be dangerous.” Vane-Tempest guffawed at his own joke.

  Ridley, not one to take offense, laughed back. “I mean it. There’re underground rivers as well as overground rivers.”

  “Exactly. Identify the water sources.” Fair spoke again.

  “I agree, but aren’t these feasibility studies also expensive?” Blair finally spoke. As a relative newcomer to Crozet he had learned to wait his turn. Of course, you couldn’t wait your turn until you knew your place on the totem pole, which he was finally figuring out. Given his income and his stunning good looks, he hovered in the middle, much higher than had he been shorn of his attributes. Not being southern, there were moments when the elaborate, unspoken rules overwhelmed him. Harry usually translated for him.

  “Hideously expensive.” Archie leaned forward again.

  “We know there’s plenty of water, plenty.” Herb Jones’s gravelly voice filled the room. “But no matter how much we have, no matter where it is, we can’t dam it up or pull it up without goring somebody’s sacred cow.”

  “I resent that!” Archie jumped up.

  “Sit down, Arch,” Jim calmly commanded.

  Archie didn’t listen. “You’re implying that because my farm is in the path of the reservoir I stand to gain. I think I stand to lose!”

  “Oh, hell, Archie, I implied nothing, but you proved my point.” The room erupted in laughter, then quieted as the elderly minister, beloved of all, continued. “There’s no way a project like this can go forward without enriching some and harming others. Once the state comes in and appraises your land or exercises eminent domain and claims land for the so-called greater good, whatever they do is going to be a real shell game.”

  “You got that right.” Susan’s husband, Ned, chimed in.

  “And what about the bids for the jobs? Who would build the reservoir? You don’t think that’s political?” Vane-Tempest stood up again.

  “Well, H. Vane, I’m not in the construction business.” Archie glared at his former colleague, since he mistakenly assumed the criticism was directed at him.

  “No, but Tommy Van Allen is.” Vane-Tempest appeared triumphant.

  “He’s hardly my best friend.” Archie cleared his throat. “What are you implying?”

  “Gentlemen, Van Allen’s books are open. I have known him all my life.” Jim Sanburne wanted to get this meeting over with.

  “Means you’ve known Archie all his life, too. You have my sympathy,” Vane-Tempest catcalled, tired of Archie’s oversensitivity. A few people laughed. Sarah elbowed her husband to stop.

  “You know, if I weren’t an elected official, I’d smash your face in.” Archie clenched his fists, surprising people. He had a temper but he was taking offense where only leavening humor was intended.

  “That’s q
uite enough.” Mim rose, facing the gathering. “We need more information. If we ask the state for another study it will be at their convenience and our expense. We are perfectly capable of identifying water sources ourselves. Once we have done that we can formulate our own plan and then present that plan to the state—a preemptive strike, if you will. Archie and Donald, you take the Keswick-Cismont area.”

  “Wait a minute. We have to vote on this.” Archie’s face changed from red to pale white.