Cat on the Scent

by Rita Mae Brown

  “He’s still hanging on.” Pewter wasn’t convinced.

  Mrs. Murphy continued her thoughts. “If Van Allen has some distant relatives who might inherit his construction business, well, it might be someone far away, but I doubt that’s the case.”

  “Everyone will know when his will is read.” Pewter shrugged.

  “Since no one knows that he’s dead yet the will won’t be read. His property will stay intact,” Murphy said, her tail straight out horizontally.

  “Someone has to run the business.” Tucker began to feel uneasy.

  “Whoever is vice president of his corporation will. But think about it, it doesn’t matter who runs the business. What matters is where the profits go. And they won’t go into anyone’s pocket until he is legally declared dead.”

  “Mrs. Murphy, if the killer stands to profit from Tommy’s death then the body must be revealed.” Pewter was hungry and frustrated. This didn’t make a bit of sense to her.

  “Exactly.”

  “I don’t get it,” Tucker forthrightly said, her voice high.

  “Be patient.” Mrs. Murphy smiled at them as they caught up to walk beside her. “Whoever killed Tommy is in no hurry. I don’t know what Virginia laws say about when you’re legally declared dead, but I guarantee you our killer knows. Someone has a great deal to gain by this.”

  “Could be love gone sour.” Pewter searched for a different tack.

  “Could be.” Murphy inhaled the sharp fragrance of the shed bursting with wood shavings.

  Pewter was happy they were home.

  Tucker was growing more concerned by the minute. “You’re making me nervous.”

  “Maybe we’re looking at this from the wrong angle.” Mrs. Murphy bounced through the screen door when Harry opened it. She liked to let Harry open it. It wouldn’t do for Harry to know all her tricks. “Maybe the question is, what do Tommy Van Allen and H. Vane have in common?”

  “Nothing,” Pewter said.

  Tucker demurred. “Plenty.”

  The two animals looked at each other as Harry wiped off the kitchen counter and pulled out cans of food.

  “They don’t have anything in common.” Pewter defended her position. “Tommy is young and handsome. H. Vane has got to be in his seventies. The face-lift makes him look a little younger.”

  “He had a face-lift?” Tucker asked.

  “I can always tell. The eyes. The faces lose some of their expressiveness—even with the good jobs,” Pewter authoritatively declared. “But those two don’t have anything in common. Tommy is divorced. H. Vane is happily married, or appears to be. Tommy is wild and boisterous, H. Vane has a stick up his ass.”

  “My turn. If you’re finished.”

  Pewter waited by her food bowl, which said LOYAL FRIEND. “I’m finished, I think.”

  “Okay, they’re both well-off. H. Vane is beyond well-off. He’s Midas. But they can do whatever they want. They belong to the same clubs. They go to the same parties. They both like to fly. And Tommy was going to do the reenactment.”

  “Every man in Crozet was going to do that. That’s not enough.” Pewter purred when Harry scooped out tuna.

  “Maybe Tommy had an affair with Sarah.” Tucker buried her face in her food.

  They tabled the discussion until after they ate.

  Harry whistled, tired of her own whistle, and turned on the radio. She liked the classical station and country and western. She tuned to the classical station out of Lynchburg. She heated the griddle, pulled out two slices of bread and two fat slices of American cheese. She loved cheese sandwiches, dressing them up with mayonnaise and hamburger pickles. Sometimes she’d squirt on ketchup, too.

  Tucker finished first, as always. “Hurry up.”

  “You don’t savor your food.” Pewter did, of course.

  “It tastes good to me. I don’t know why you hover over yours.”

  “Tucker, you’re such a dog,” Pewter haughtily replied.

  Mrs. Murphy, a slow eater, paused. “If Tommy slept with Sarah, the question is, did H. Vane know? He certainly seemed friendly enough to Tommy.”

  Pewter pitched in her two cents. “H. Vane would hardly kill Tommy, then get it in the back himself. This is screwy.”

  “No, it isn’t. We haven’t found the key yet, that’s all.” Murphy was resolute.

  “And now that we’ve somewhat compromised Mom we’d better figure this out.” Tucker had lived with Mrs. Murphy a long time. She knew how the cat thought.

  “Yes.”

  Pewter, food bits clinging to her whiskers, jerked her head up from the bowl. “She’d stick her nose in it even if we hadn’t taken her to the airplane. Even Miss Tally said it was in the blood.”

  “You got that right.” Mrs. Murphy thought Pewter looked silly. “Remember what she said about Biddy Minor?”

  “Curiosity killed him,” Tucker whispered.

  “I thought curiosity killed the cat.” Pewter swallowed some carefully chewed tuna.

  “Shut up.” Murphy hated that expression. “I prefer ‘Cats have nine lives,’ myself.”

  “Well, I only have one. I intend to take good care of it.” Tucker snapped her jaws shut with a click.

  * * *

  22

  The shadows etched an outline of the budding trees onto the impeccably manicured back lawn of the Lutheran church. The Reverend Herbert C. Jones, in clerical garb, fiddled with his fly rod as he stood on the moss-covered brick walkway to the beige clapboard office, window shutters painted Charleston green.

  He’d finished his sermon for Sunday and since this was Tuesday he felt on top of the world. True, his desk contained four mountains of neatly ordered paperwork but a man couldn’t work around the clock. Even the Good Lord rested on the seventh day. And the afternoon, balmy and warm, enticed him from the grind of paperwork. He got his fishing rod and went outside.

  Usually Herb parked the church’s 1987 white Chevy truck on the corner to let people know he was at church. Since he received many calls to pick up this and drop off that for a parishioner in need, it was also useful for the truck to sit ready, keys in the ignition. However, at the moment the Chevy had a flat left-front tire, which irritated him no end because he’d endured a flat just last year on the right front and had replaced both front tires. He had parked the Chevy in the brick garage behind the office until he could fix it. Lovely winding brick paths meandered from the church to the garage, formerly the stable, and to his graceful residence, a subdued classic in flemish bond.

  The tail of the Chevy poked out from the garage. His Buick Roadmaster was parked next to the old truck.

  “I’ll stand here and cast at the taillight,” he told himself.

  Lucy Fur watched her human with detached amusement. Mrs. Murphy and Pewter were visiting from the post office. The animal door that Harry had installed there was a godsend because the animals didn’t have to lurk by the front door waiting for a person to open it. All too often the human would close the door fast or step on them, because humans lacked a sharp sense of how much space they took up or how much other creatures needed. They were always bumping into things, stepping on tails, or tripping over their own feet. With the animal door at the rear of the old frame building the creatures could come and go at will. The cats especially enjoyed prowling the neighborhood to visit other cats.

  Lucy Fur, a gorgeous young Maine coon cat, had walked into Herb’s life one stormy night. He kept her because Elocution was getting on in years and he thought a younger companion would do her good. At first Elocution had hissed and spit. That lasted two weeks. Then she tried the deep freeze. Every time the kitten would walk by she’d turn her back. After a month she accepted Lucy Fur, teaching her the duties of a preacher’s cat. The first, for any cat, is to catch mice. However, there were communion wafers to count, vestments to inspect, sermons to read, parishioners to comfort, and a variety of functions to attend.

  Both cats excelled as fund-raisers, mingling with the crowd and encouraging genero
sity with both checkbooks and food.

  The three cats sat abreast in the deep window ledge of the house. Sunlight like golden butter drenched their shiny fur. They watched Herb wryly.

  Herb put his right foot back as he lifted his right arm. He wiggled a minute, then cast toward a taillight. He’d done better.

  “Damn,” he muttered under his breath, reeling his line, a tiny lead weight dangling on the end, his hand-tied fly, white and speckled black, slightly above it.

  “Is this some Christian ritual?” Pewter asked.

  “Not the way he does it.” Lucy Fur giggled.

  Again, the gentle reverend cocked his wrist, placed his feet in the correct position, and softly flicked his line out. This cast was worse than the first one.

  “Hell’s bells.” His voice rose.

  “Might prayer help?” Mrs. Murphy dryly noted.

  “As far as I know there is no prayer specific to fishing.” Lucy Fur’s opinion was an informed one. She studied her texts.

  “What about Jesus talking to the men casting their nets?” Mrs. Murphy suggested.

  “Luke 5, Verses I through 11. It’s the story where the men fished all night, came up empty, and Jesus told them to go out and throw their nets. They caught so many fish their ships began to sink. And that’s when Simon Peter joined Jesus. He was one of the fishermen.”

  Impressed, Murphy gasped, “You should talk to Mrs. Hogendobber. She’d have a fit and fall in it!”

  “Oh,” Lucy Fur airily replied, “she wouldn’t listen. You know she believes in this charismatic stuff. She ought to submit to the rigor of the Lutheran catechism. I don’t believe you sit around waiting until the spirit moves you.”

  “She hardly sits,” Pewter noted, herself a sharp critic of human mystical leanings. But in the case of Miranda, the good woman practiced what she preached.

  “Uh-oh. I don’t think biblical references are going to help now.” Murphy stared upward.

  Herb cast into a tree.

  “Christ on a crutch!” he bellowed, then glanced over his shoulder to see if anyone was within earshot.

  “Cats to the rescue.” Murphy leapt off the window ledge, quickly followed by Pewter and Lucy Fur.

  Elocution, watching from inside the house, laughed so hard she had to lie down.

  The tiger was halfway up the tree before Lucy Fur even reached the trunk. Pewter, not a girl to rush about, sashayed with dignity toward the puce-faced clergyman.

  “Now how am I going to get my hook out of the tree? That’s one of my best flies.” He threw his lad’s cap on the grass.

  “Thank you.” Pewter immediately sat on the herringbone cap.

  Herb stepped to the right, giving the line a tug. No release. He walked to the left. Pewter watched.

  “What pretty feathers.” Murphy inspected the tied fly.

  “He sits up for hours tying these things. He won’t let Elocution or me help. He sputters if we even touch one of these precious feathers. I personally can’t understand why fish would grab a feather if a bird isn’t attached.”

  “Life’s too short to try and understand cold-blooded creatures.” Mrs. Murphy unleashed one white claw, wedging it underneath the hook. “Stop pulling,” she ordered Herb.

  He stopped. “That’s my best fly. Don’t you eat it!”

  “Get a grip.” Murphy laughed.

  “Let me help.” Lucy Fur put her weight on the line so that if Herb did jerk it there’d be a little slack so Murphy could pry up the hook.

  “Here it comes.” Murphy popped it straight up.

  Herb stared up at the cats. He glanced around again. “His wonders never cease.” Then he laughed. The cats joined in.

  Slowly he reeled in his line, picking up his favorite fly to inspect the damage. None.

  He spoke to Pewter, who was all rapt attention. “Best fly in the world for rockfish bass.”

  “Good eating,” Pewter replied; she liked freshwater fish, especially if fried, but more than any other seafood she liked crabmeat.

  “You’re on my cap.”

  “You threw it on the ground, you big baby.” Nonetheless, Pewter removed herself from the cap, which he promptly slapped back on his head.

  “Why is he wearing that now? Herringbone is for fall.” Mrs. Murphy paid attention to fashions.

  “He has to get in the mood. You should see him rehearse his sermons. Once when he used cowboy as a metaphor he put on cowboy boots and a big hat.”

  “He’s funny.” Murphy shimmied back down.

  “They all are.” Lucy Fur backed down.

  “Watch out!” Pewter warned. “He’s going to cast again.”

  “Jesus, preserve us,” Lucy Fur blurted out.

  He popped out the line. It sailed over the cats’ upturned heads and nicked the bed of the truck, just above the taillight.

  Ding.

  “Pretty good, if I do say so myself.” He grinned ear to ear. “Amen.” He smiled outright, following his line in to the truck.

  The cats scampered along. The shiny sinker tumbled into the truck bed.

  Mrs. Murphy leapt into the bed with Pewter and Lucy Fur on her heels.

  “Practice makes perfect,” he sang out to himself, reaching into the bed and lifting out his sinker and fly as if they were gold-plated.

  “Well done,” Lucy Fur congratulated him.

  He patted her on her magnificent head.

  Pewter noticed that the door was slightly ajar to the passenger side of the truck. “That broke, too?”

  “Hey.” Mrs. Murphy peered into the cab.

  Lucy Fur got on her hind legs and looked inside. Pewter stood next to her.

  “What?” Pewter said.

  “That bomber jacket.” Lucy Fur’s tail flipped left, then right.

  “Herb doesn’t own a bomber jacket.” Murphy jumped out of the bed. She tried to pry open the heavy truck door, but, although ajar, it was too much for her.

  “Whoever used the truck last forgot their jacket.” Pewter shrugged.

  “Open the door!” Murphy hollered at the top of her not-inconsiderable lungs.

  “You could wake the dead.” Herb leaned his rod against the truck, walking over to the howling cat. “Oh.” He noticed the door and opened it wider to shut it firmly. As he did, the cat hopped into the seat. “Now Mrs. Murphy—” He opened the door. “What’s this?”

  * * *

  23

  With no corpse, no motive, and no witnesses, Rick Shaw was in an unenviable position regarding the disappearance of Tommy Van Allen. By contrast he had 30,000 witnesses to the shooting of Sir H. Vane-Tempest—30,003 if he counted Mrs. Murphy, Pewter, and Tee Tucker.

  He looked into Mrs. Murphy’s green eyes, which stared right back into his own. “Sure of yourself, aren’t you?” he whispered to the cat. Then he turned to Herb. “She shows up in the damnedest places. They both do.” He stroked Pewter.

  Herb was holding Lucy Fur, more to comfort himself than anything.

  “Now, Herb, who used this truck last?”

  “I did.”

  “When?”

  “A week ago.” He sheepishly continued. “I’ve been meaning to fix the flat but it’s always one thing or another.”

  Cynthia Cooper pulled up to join them. Rick held out the bomber jacket. He wore gloves. “T.V.A.” Coop read aloud the initials embroidered on the inside map pocket.

  “So the truck has been in the garage for one week,” Rick went on. He turned back to Herb. “Have you checked it? You know, come on out to get something from the glove compartment? Anything?”

  “No.”

  “How many people—” Rick stopped himself. Everyone knew where the garage was. In fact, everyone knew everything—almost.

  “Do you have any idea why this jacket is in your truck?”

  “Sheriff, that’s the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question.” Herb betrayed his age when he used that phrase.

  “Maybe Tommy put it in there himself.” Lucy Fur posited her idea.

/>   “No.” Mrs. Murphy concentrated fiercely on the jacket.

  “You know, when H. Vane was hauled away in the ambulance, I established the range for muzzle-loaders. About one hundred yards. That meant anyone in either of the two companies could have fired on him. I met the doctor the second she walked out of surgery. I did everything by the book. Three bullet wounds can’t be an accident but I have no complaint filed by the victim. Isn’t that odd?”