Cat on the Scent

by Rita Mae Brown

  The huge refrigerated units were part of Wilson McGaughey’s responsibility. The freezers housed the raw foods that would be processed into turkey dinners or roast beef or linguini. Occasionally a bottle of shine or store-bought alcohol would be secreted in a back corner far from Wilson’s eyes.

  Dabney Shiflett, cousin to Market, didn’t have a drinking problem as much as he had a specific thirst. A good worker, he nimbly sidestepped Wilson. Chewing Fisherman’s Friend lozenges helped.

  Dabney slipped away from the loading dock, telling his buddy he was heading to the bathroom. Instead he made straight for the meat locker in the back. He walked in and turned on the lights, revealing sides of beef hanging overhead. The back corner had a joist, slightly separated, providing the perfect place to wedge a slender flask of shine. He needed only a nip to feel wondrous warmth, a general flow of well-being. He hurried to the back, unscrewed the cap, and knocked back a healthy swallow. He opened his eyes, midpull. His mouth fell open, grain alcohol spilling onto his shirt. He dropped the flask, running flat out for the door.

  * * *

  27

  “You won’t mention the company? We aren’t responsible.” Wilson McGaughey pressured Rick Shaw. “Nobody could blame us.”

  “Facts are facts, Mr. McGaughey. The body was found in a Good Foods refrigerator.”

  Wilson, revulsion turning to anger, wheeled on Dabney. “Do you have something to do with this? It’s bad enough you were drinking on company time—”

  Rick interrupted, motioning for Dabney to follow him. “If you don’t mind, Mr. McGaughey, I’d like to question Mr. Shiflett alone.”

  Wilson did mind but he held his tongue.

  Rick took Dabney away from the corner where the corpse of Tommy Van Allen hung, by handcuffs dangling from a meathook. He’d been shot once in the temple, a neat job, very little mess. His Schauffenhausen watch remained on his wrist, his signet ring was on his finger, and $523, cash, was in his pants pocket along with his keys.

  His glazed eyes were staring; his mouth hung open. But he was perfectly preserved, being frozen stiff.

  “Now Dabney, pay that Yankee son of a bitch no mind.”

  “He’s gonna fire me.”

  “He can try. Man can’t be fired for finding a corpse.”

  At the mention of the word corpse, Dabney paled and began shaking. “I feel bad, Sheriff.”

  “It’s a terrible shock.”

  “I didn’t kill him.”

  “Didn’t think you did.” He clapped Dabney on the back. “How often is this meat locker checked?”

  “Daily.” He lowered his voice. “In theory. Maybe someone sticks their head in once a day. But, you know, probably no one has walked all the way back here since Tommy’s been missing.”

  “Unless they’re in on it.”

  “Hadn’t thought of that.” Dabney was feeling better, as long as he didn’t look at the body.

  “Do you know anyone who might bear a grudge, who—”

  “No. He didn’t have anything to do with the company, Sheriff, other than building the new office wing, and that was eleven years back.”

  “I know you came back for a swig, Dabney. Why hadn’t you come in here before?”

  Dabney looked away from Rick. “Used up the rest of my stash. This was my last bottle until I refilled the others and started all over again.” He lifted his head, his smile weak.

  “And Wilson knew nothing?”

  Dabney shook his head. “No.”

  “How long ago did you put your flask back here?”

  “Uh . . . three weeks, I reckon. I dunno.”

  Rick wrinkled his forehead. “Go on, Dabney. I’m sorry you had to go through this. I might want to talk to you later.”

  Wilson McGaughey sidled up. “You have influence with the press—”

  “McGaughey, you haven’t lived here long enough to feel anything for that slab of human beef hanging back there, but let me tell you, as men go, he was a good man, not a perfect man, not always an even-tempered man, but a decent man.” He stopped for breath. “I can’t keep this out of the news. If you obstruct justice in any way, I’ll have your ass. Am I clear?”

  “Yes.”

  “You sounded like a New Yorker for a minute.” Cynthia had been standing behind her boss.

  He turned around. “Is that a compliment or an insult?”

  “Depends.”

  “Mr. McGaughey, did you know the victim?”

  “Only in passing.” He clipped his words.

  “Did you like him?” Rick felt his nose get colder by the minute.

  “What little I knew of him, yes. He was a pleasant fellow.”

  “All right. You can go.” Rick paused. “One last thing. Don’t fire Dabney Shiflett.”

  “Man’s got a problem.” Wilson was furious that the redneck had put one over on him.

  “He performs his duties.”

  “Drinking during work hours is against company regulations.”

  “Then get the man into a program. Don’t fire him. He has three mouths to feed and he’s a hard worker. I’ve known him all my life. If you want to get along in Crozet, work with people. Do you understand?”

  Wilson understood that the sheriff was mad at him. But he didn’t understand exactly what was being asked of him.

  Cynthia spoke up. “The sheriff is saying that you will lower your productivity and maybe even harm your career if you don’t learn that showing a little concern for your workers might boost morale. If Dabney was slacking off on the job, okay, then be a hard-ass. But help him. You might need help yourself someday.”

  “I’ll take it under consideration.” He walked off, nearly as stiff as Tommy Van Allen.

  “Jesus, what a bonehead. And I’ll bet he has his M.B.A.,” Shaw said.

  “Boss, this was in Van Allen’s trench-coat pocket.” Cynthia held a condom wrapper in her gloved hand.

  “Any sign of the condom?”

  “No.”

  “Coop, how do you think he got on that meathook?”

  She shrugged. “He could have been hoisted up the same way they hoist the beef. Come on, I’ll show you.”

  They walked outside and Cynthia pointed out a squarish machine used to move pallets loaded with heavy cartons; modified, the machine could also lift up sides of beef.

  “Possible.” He walked over. “How much does one of these things cost?”

  “About sixteen thousand dollars retail.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Asked Wilson.”

  “Ah, yes, he’d know.” He heard the gurney rolling down the outside walkway. “Coroner’s good. Body may be frozen blue but I bet he can establish the time of death. What he can’t establish is, was he killed here or brought here? And why here? Why not just dump him up in the waste unit like dead meat?” His voice rasped. “I have never seen anything like this in my years of law enforcement.”

  “Me neither.”

  He shot her a sharp glance. “You, you’re still wet behind the ears.”

  “I’ve seen enough murders to know most of them are committed in a white-hot rage. This was not.”

  “The bomber jacket in Herb’s truck was a neat trick, too. A little flag to let us all know we aren’t on top of this case.”

  The gurney rolled past them, Tommy tucked into two body bags, since his arms were frozen straight up. Diana Robb, the paramedic, couldn’t get him into one bag without breaking his arms, and that would compromise evidence.

  She stopped as her coworkers continued to push the body to the ambulance. “Weighed a ton. Like moving a boulder.”

  “Better than shaking off the maggots that crawl up your leg. Those suckers bite.” Rick hated that stench.

  “You’ve got a point there. Never would have thought Tommy would end this way. I could have pictured a jealous husband shooting him maybe, but nothing like this.”

  “Nasty, isn’t it?” Coop said.

  “Yep.” Diana grimaced, then rejoined her cr
ew.

  Rick half closed his eyes to hide his frustration.

  * * *

  28

  Mrs. Murphy watched a bejeweled hand reach into the post-office box. Playfully she swatted.

  Big Mim withdrew her hand. “Murphy, stop it.”

  “Hee-hee.”

  “Harry, your cat is interfering with federal property again.” Mim reached in once more.

  “Murphy, behave.” Harry walked over to the postboxes. She peered through the brass box as Mim peered in from the other side. “Peekaboo.”

  “Back at you!” Mim was in a good mood.

  Aunt Tally, however, was not. “A sixty-two-year-old woman acting like a silly schoolgirl.”

  “I am not sixty-two.”

  “And I’m not ninety-three. Or is it ninety-one?” She sighed. “I’ve lied about my age for so many years, I can’t remember how old I really am. But I remember exactly how old you are, Mimsy.” A light hint of malice floated through her voice. “My sister said you kicked in the womb so hard you gave her a hernia.”

  The turned-up collar of Mim’s expensive English-tailored shirt seemed to stiffen. “Harry and Miranda aren’t interested in that.”

  “Oh yes we are,” came the chorus, the animals included.

  Tally leaned across the divider. “Urquharts conceive with no difficulty at all, of course.” She called over her shoulder to Mim, sorting her mail, “And Little Mim gave you a couple of whacks.” Mim ignored her, so she continued. “I never had children myself but I’ve spent a lifetime observing them—from birth to death sometimes. I’ve outlived everyone except my imperious niece and her daughter.”

  “I’m not imperious, Aunt Tally. That honor belongs to you.”

  “Oh la!” Tally’s eyebrows rose, as did her voice.

  Pewter, sound asleep on the table, was missing the exchange but Murphy and Tucker drank in every word.

  “I never knew your mother,” Miranda Hogendobber told Tally, “but everyone says she was beautiful.”

  “She was. Jamie got her looks and I got Daddy’s brains. We’d have all been better off if that genetic package had been reversed.” Jamie Urquhart was Tally’s deceased brother. “Maybe not these days, but certainly in mine.”

  “You’re fishing for compliments.” Mim joined her at the wooden divider. “You looked good then and you look good now.”

  “Ha. Every plastic surgeon in America could work on me and I’d still look two years older than God.” Her bright eyes darted to Miranda. “Sorry.”

  “That’s quite all right.”

  “You’re still a religious nut, I take it.” Tally’s smile was crooked and funny.

  Miranda opened her mouth but nothing came out.

  “This is getting good.” Tucker giggled. “Think we should wake up Pewter?”

  “No, let her suffer. We can tell her every syllable and she’ll scream that we made it up.” Mrs. Murphy ducked her head and rubbed it under Tucker’s ruff. The cat had jumped off the eight-inch wooden divider behind the mailboxes to sit with the dog.

  “Tally!” Mim admonished her.

  “She is. She quotes the Scriptures more often and more accurately than those jackleg TV preachers. Ought to get your own TV show, Miranda. Make a bloody fortune.” She threw back her head and laughed. “‘This moment of Jesus brought to you by General Motors. If the Good Lord were with us today he’d drive a Chevy. Trade in your sandals on a V-8.’”

  All eyes fixed upon Tally, her red beret tilted at a rakish angle. Her eyes were merry, her lipstick disappearing into the crevices above her still-full lips.

  “Think Mrs. H. will pitch a hissy?” Tucker took a step backward.

  “No. She’ll chalk it up to advanced age, then go pray for her.” Murphy leapt onto the counter. “Mim’s face is crimson, though. Whoo-ee.”

  “We’d better be going now.” Mim put her hand under Tally’s bony elbow.

  “I’m not going anywhere until I hear what Miranda has to say. You were the cutest little girl in Crozet.”

  Harry looked at Miranda with new eyes. It had never occurred to her that her friend might have once been cute, although she wasn’t unattractive now—just plump.

  Miranda cleared her throat. “I attend the Church of the Holy Light, from which I draw great comfort, Tally, but I don’t think I’m a religious nut.”

  “You weren’t like this while George lived. It’s a substitute.”

  “Aunt Tally, that really is going too far.” Mim stamped her Gucci-shod foot.

  “I can say what I want, when I want. That’s a benefit of advanced age. Not that you’ll listen. Like Sir H. Vane getting shot. If you ask me, it’s a wonder nobody shot that warthog earlier. All this drivel about being knighted. He hasn’t done a damn thing. Probably made his money selling drugs to British rock stars.”

  “He was knighted. Susan and I got on the Internet to the library of the British Museum in London and searched through peers of the realm. Then we went to the London Times and pulled up a bio.”

  “You didn’t tell me.” Miranda was more upset by this omission than Tally’s assault.

  “Slipped my mind. Anyway, we did it over lunch hour.”

  “Well, what did you find out?” Mim demanded.

  “He built airports throughout Africa in the countries formerly part of the British commonwealth. He built other things, too, but he made the millions building these airports. He is the genuine article.”

  “Oh, hell. I liked believing he was a fake.” Tally pouted.

  Susan screeched up in her Audi station wagon and hopped out, forgetting to close the door. She was in her spandex workout clothes. She threw open the door to the post office.

  “They found Tommy Van Allen!”

  “Pewter, wake up!” Murphy jumped on the table to pat Pewter’s face.

  Grumbling, the fat kitty opened her eyes.

  Tucker hopped up and down, trying to get closer to the humans. Harry opened the divider door for her to go out front as she and Miranda walked out to Susan.

  “He was hanging in the big freezer room at Good Foods.”

  “What? Why hasn’t Rick Shaw informed me?” Mim believed herself to be the first citizen of Crozet. And her husband was the mayor to boot.

  “Mim, even Jim doesn’t know,” Susan breathlessly said.

  “Then how do you come by this unsettling knowledge?” Tally asked.

  “I dropped by Ned’s office just as the phone rang. Dabney Shiflett was fired by his boss for drinking on the job. It was Dabney who found Tommy. He’d snuck into a meat locker for a quick nip and he found Tommy Van Allen hanging from a meathook by a pair of handcuffs. Frozen. Just totally frozen.”

  “My God.” Mim couldn’t believe it.

  “Did Dabney tell Ned how he was killed?” Harry kept a cool head, as always.

  “Yes. Shot straight through the temple. ‘Neat as a pin,’ Dabney said, ‘neat as a pin.’ Can you imagine?”

  “People’ve been shot around here since gunpowder. Before that the Indians used bows and arrows, clubs and knives. Killing is one of our favorite pastimes,” Tally flatly stated.

  “She’s got a point there.” Pewter, riveted by the news, agreed with the old lady.

  “Yeah, but this is—” Tucker was interrupted by Susan continuing.

  “The only good thing is, he wasn’t pinned on the meathook. At least he was hanging by handcuffs.”

  “It’s the handcuffs that worry me.” Murphy paced the counter.

  “Why?” Tucker’s pink tongue contrasted with her white fangs.

  “This was thought out. I wonder how long Tommy was alive wearing those handcuffs before he was killed?”

  Pewter flattened her ears, then swept them forward again. “Torture?”