Cat on the Scent

by Rita Mae Brown

  “God, these are good.” Harry bit into one. “This business about Little Mim and Blair is delicate. Blair and I are buddies. Nothing more to it than that, but it drives her bats.”

  “Yeah, well, his reticence about the situation doesn’t help matters.”

  “He likes you.” Mrs. Murphy swallowed the last of her cashew chicken.

  “More?” Harry dropped another chicken bit on her plate.

  “Hey!”

  She dropped one for Pewter, too. Tucker, engrossed in her bone, paid no attention to the Chinese food or the conversation. A joint bone required intense concentration.

  “Blair’s changed.” Harry chose her words carefully since she knew Cynthia, like many women, had a crush on him. “He’s distant.”

  “You know, I thought it was just me—he didn’t want to be bothered with me.”

  “Cynthia, he likes you. It’s not you. He’s worried about his age. After all, his work is his face. He’s getting crow’s-feet around his eyes and a few gray hairs around the temples.”

  “Makes him look even better, I think.”

  “Me, too, but models have a short shelf life. As he ages he’ll wind up in catalogs for tie companies. That’s not the same as a spread in GQ.”

  “Never thought of that. It’s bad enough when women worry about their looks. It seems somehow”—she groped for the right word—“frivolous when a man does it.”

  “Yeah. Then again,” Harry continued, “I guess the money dries up.”

  “He’s invested wisely, I bet.”

  “I don’t know. He never talks about money. I just see how he spends it.” Harry sighed. “I can’t imagine buying whatever I want when I want it.”

  “Me neither,” Cynthia agreed. “Course, if he married Little Mim, he’d never have to work another day in his life.”

  Harry paused. “I don’t think he could do that.”

  “Too moral?”

  “Well—he likes beautiful women. Little Mim is nice-looking but she’s not a Vogue model. Know what I mean?”

  “Yep.”

  “And when the woman has the bucks, the man dances to her tune unless she’s a flat-out fool, and Little Mim is not. Whoever has the gold makes the rules.”

  “Guess he’ll never go out with me.” Cynthia smiled wanly.

  “Cynthia, Blair’s nice enough but you need a good old country boy. A man who isn’t afraid to get his hands dirty.”

  “Oh, I don’t know.”

  “Think you’ll ever get married?” Harry asked.

  “I hope so.”

  A horn beeping down the driveway broke the moment.

  “Whoo-ee,” Susan Tucker called.

  “Whoo-ee back at you.” Harry didn’t get up as Susan stuck her head through the kitchen doorway. “Grab a plate. Cynthia’s demolished all the pork lo mein, but there’s lots of everything else.”

  Needing no prompting, Susan did just that. “Since you guys are on dessert I’ll assume everything else is mine.” She smiled.

  “Pig out, Suz.”

  As she shoveled food into her mouth, Susan’s bright eyes danced. “You won’t believe what happened to me. Mmm, can’t talk with my mouth full.”

  “We’ll talk to you. When you’ve slowed down you can tell us everything.”

  Susan held up her hand, indicating that was a good idea, and kept eating.

  Mrs. Murphy jumped onto the kitchen counter. The sun was setting; a shaft of scarlet spiraled into the sky. Very unusual, just that one vertical column of color. She dropped down on top of the closed plastic garbage can, then to the floor, and walked out the door. Pewter and Tucker ignored her.

  Susan recovered enough to talk. “I was on the fifteenth hole at Keswick. I like to play once a week there and once a week at Farmington. Actually, I’d play every day if I could, but that’s neither here nor there. Anyway, there I was moving along at a pretty good clip when who should roll by me in her personalized golf cart but Sarah Vane-Tempest. She was by herself, so I asked if she wanted to join me. She said no, she was on her way home. She’d lost track of the time. She wanted to be there when H. Vane got home. Said she was furious with him because he was driving his car and she didn’t think he should be doing that. Then she zoomed on by.”

  “She’s overprotective.” Harry reached for another brownie.

  “Treats us like dirt.” Cynthia shrugged. “But then, a lot of people do.”

  “What have we here?” Susan noticed Mrs. Murphy carrying what looked like folded paper in her mouth.

  Pewter stopped eating. “Won’t help.”

  Murphy dropped the map at Cynthia Cooper’s feet.

  She bent over to pick it up, carefully opening it. The name in small block print on the right-hand corner read TOMMY VAN ALLEN.

  Her expression motivated both Harry and Susan to rise out of their chairs and lean over her shoulder.

  “Good Lord!” Susan exclaimed.

  Harry picked up her cat and kissed her cheek. “Where’d you find this, pusskin?”

  “In the airplane.”

  Cynthia traced the outlined blocks with her forefinger. She quickly folded the map back up and headed for the door. “Not a word of this to anyone. I mean it. Not even Miranda.”

  Harry followed her out to the car as Susan cleared the table.

  Cynthia slid behind the wheel, buckled up, reached over onto the passenger seat, and gave Harry a folder. “I came over so we could read this together, but I don’t think it matters too much if you keep it for tonight. I’ll pick it up from you at work tomorrow.” She started the motor. “Do you have any idea where Mrs. Murphy could have gotten this map?”

  “Not one.”

  Cynthia handed her the file, labeled BARBER C. MINOR, and drove off.

  * * *

  40

  “Umph.” Pewter bit at her hind claws, trying to pull out the mud caked there.

  “Why don’t you relax? The stuff will fall out tomorrow,” Mrs. Murphy advised.

  “I’m not going to bed with mud in my claws.”

  “Least you’re not complaining about how you came by it.”

  “Wish I’d been with you guys.” Tucker lay down with her head between her paws, her expressive eyes turned upward to the cats, each of which sat on an arm of the old wing chair. Harry was intently reading the file on her great-grandfather.

  “You’re good at what you do,” Murphy complimented Tucker.

  “Anything big happen in the P.O.?” Pewter yanked out another tiny pellet of mud.

  “Reverend Jones said Elocution is on special foods to control her weight. Harry wrote down the information.” Tucker gleefully directed this at Pewter. “Then BoomBoom and Sarah waltzed in. Major shopping spree but Sarah said that even though she’d spent a lot of H. Vane’s money she was still mad at him for driving himself around. She thinks he should go slow and after all, they can afford a chauffeur. Then Big Mim arrived for her mail, told Sarah to shut up and let her husband do whatever he wants, the worst thing she can do is make him feel like an invalid. So Sarah got mad and huffed out to the car. Said she had to play golf. BoomBoom fussed at Mim, said Sarah’d suffered a hideous shock. Mim told Boom to get a life and stop feeding off other people’s tragedies. Then Boom huffed out and Harry and Big Mim laughed themselves silly. That was my day.”

  “We told you ours.”

  “What’s she so absorbed in?” Tucker rolled over to reveal a sparkling white stomach, a tiny paunch growing ever more noticeable.

  Murphy moved to the back of the wing chair and read over Harry’s shoulder. “‘File. Barber Clark Minor, aka Biddy. Born April 2, 1890. Shot dead, May 30, 1927. Born in Albemarle County. Duke University, B.A. 1911. Law school, University of Virginia. Left before receiving degree. Enlisted in the Army. Saw action in France. Achieved rank of captain. Wounded three times. (Awarded Bronze Star.) Returned to Crozet. Finished law school. Entered practice with firm of Roscoe, Commons. Later Roscoe, Commons, and Minor.

  “‘Married Eliza
beth Carhart, 1919. Three children. Howard, born 1920. Anne, born 1921. Barber Clark Jr., 1923.

  “‘No criminal record.

  “‘Killed by James Urquhart. Mr. Minor’s widow did not press charges.’”

  Tucker broke into the cat’s oration, saying, “You’d think Mrs. Minor would have brought charges. What else does it say?”

  “‘Testimony of witnesses. Sheriff Hogendobber’—must be George’s father or uncle or something.” She referred to Mrs. Hogendobber’s deceased husband, George. “Anyway the sheriff questioned three eyewitnesses, the first being Isabelle Urquhart, Mim’s mother. She saw Biddy drive up to the Urquhart farm the morning of May 30. She was being driven by her father to market. They had passed the Urquhart driveway and Biddy waved.”

  Harry turned the page, absentimindedly reaching up to tickle Mrs. Murphy under her chin.

  “Go on,” Tucker urged as Pewter also moved to the back of the chair to read over Harry’s shoulder.

  “‘The second witness was James Urquhart himself, aged nineteen. The boy stated, “Mr. Minor called on me at ten in the morning unexpectedly. One thing led to another. I lost my temper and struck him in the face. He hit me back. I usually carry a side arm. Copperheads. All over this spring. I pulled it out and shot him in the chest. He kept coming at me and I shot him again. He fell down on his knees and then fell over backward. When I reached him he was dead.”

  “‘The third witness was Thalia Urquhart, aged twenty. “Mr. Minor called on my brother,” she stated. “They had words. Jamie went into a rage and shot him. He should have never shot Biddy Minor. He was such a nice man.” ’”

  Three brown photographs of the body were neatly pasted on the last page—Biddy’s stiff, prone body, blood spreading over his white shirt, his eyes open, gazing to heaven. But even in death Biddy Minor was a fabulously handsome man.

  “That’s it?” Tucker asked.

  “Except for the three old photographs.” Pewter added, “You’ve seen a lot worse.”

  Harry closed the folder, crossing her legs under her. “Not much of an investigation for a murder. You’d think Sheriff Hogendobber would have shown more curiosity and you’d think Biddy’s wife would have thrown the book at him,” she thought out loud as the three animals hung on each word. “Course, the Urquharts were rich. The Minors were not.”

  “He admitted to the shooting,” Pewter mentioned. “She had an open-and-shut case.”

  “Know what I think?” Harry leaned against the backrest. “A gentleman’s agreement. And gentlewoman’s. Bet Tally knows the truth.”

  “Maybe.” Mrs. Murphy listened. The owl hooted in the barn. “What’s she blabbing about?”

  “Who?”

  “The owl.” Murphy crawled into Harry’s lap before Pewter had the chance to think of it.

  “Calling for a boyfriend.” Tucker giggled.

  “That’s all we need. More owls,” Murphy grumbled.

  “I’d rather have owls than blue jays.”

  “Pewter, you’re obsessed with that blue jay.” Harry rubbed Murphy’s ears so she purred the last part of the sentence.

  “Apart from the insults, blue jays steal. Anything shiny. They’re so greedy.”

  * * *

  41

  Rick Shaw’s ashtray overflowed with butts. As he absentmindedly put a live cigarette into the deep tray, the whole mess caught on fire, a miniature volcano of stale nicotine and discarded ideas.

  Coop, laughing, trotted to the water cooler, filled a cup, and dumped the contents onto the smoldering ashtray. She had prudently carried a paper towel with her to clean up the mess.

  “Goddammit!” He stood up, knocking his chair over backward.

  “You set the place on fire, not me, grouch.”

  “I didn’t mean you. I meant me.”

  “Boss, you take these cases too personal.”

  “I liked Tommy. I like Mary Woo. Hell, I can’t even find out who burned her shop down, and she’s too upset to remember anything to do with her records. Or maybe too scared. Yes, I take this personal.” He parodied Cynthia’s incorrect English.

  “Come on, let’s go home.” She pointed to the wall clock.

  It was two-thirty in the morning.

  “No. Not yet.”

  “Your wife probably forgets what you look like.”

  “Right now that’s good. I look like a vampire reject. One more time.” He pointed to the map on the table. “What do these properties have in common?”

  “Nothing that I can tell. They aren’t connected. They aren’t on major roadways or potential road expansions. They aren’t in the path of the beltway that the state threatens to build but never does. Just looks like speculation.”

  “Land speculation ruined Lighthorse Harry Lee.”

  “And plenty more.” Like Rick, Cynthia knew her history—but most Virginians did.

  Before schools became “relevant,” teachers led you to the facts. If you didn’t study them willingly they simply pounded them into you. One way or the other a Virginian would learn history, multiplication tables, the Queen’s English, and manners. Then a child would go home for more drilling by the family about the family, things like: “Aunt Minnie believes that God is a giant orange. Other than that she’s harmless, so be respectful.”

  “God, I’m tired.” Rick sighed. His mind was wandering. He sank back in his chair.

  “Roger.” Cynthia rubbed her eyes.

  “Let me review this again. Mrs. Murphy brought you the map. Dropped it right at your feet.”

  “Yes.”

  “Harry had never seen the map?”

  “No. Boss, I told you exactly how it happened. Mrs. Murphy walked outside and returned with the map. She was quite deliberate about it. She didn’t give it to Harry. She gave it to me.”

  “If we ever go to court, what do we say? A cat gave us evidence?”

  “Sure looks that way.” Cynthia smiled. She genuinely liked her boss.

  “Let’s keep this out of the papers. I can’t bring myself to drag the pussycat into the glare of publicity. Where did she find it!”

  “We’ve gone over this. Behind the post office? Near the house? In the bomber jacket? The map could have been dropped anywhere. But wherever it was, Mrs. Murphy found it.”

  “Why would she bother to pick it up?” He threw his hands in the air.

  “Because cats love paper.”

  “Next you’ll tell me she reads.”

  “That one, I wouldn’t be surprised.” She pulled the coroner’s report over to her one more time and thumbed through it. “Guess you have to release this.”

  “Yes. It confirms he was killed on the night he disappeared. And I guess I’ll have to release the fact that he was loaded with cocaine. They’ll have a field day with that one.”

  “You need some sleep before facing reporters again.”

  “I need a lead. A clear lead.” Rick pounded the table.

  “We can start visiting these land parcels.”

  “Yep.” He rose, sighed, and clicked off the bright, small desk lamp. “You’re right. We both need sleep.”

  They waved to the graveyard-shift dispatcher.

  The cool night air, bearing a hint of moisture, smelled like fresh earth.

  “Night, Rick.”

  “Coop?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Think H. Vane is in on the drug trade?”

  “We don’t know if Tommy was dealing. We only know he was full of the stuff.”

  “That’s not what I’m asking.”

  “H. Vane loves a profit.” She turned up her collar.

  “H., Tommy, Blair, and Archie took flying lessons. I questioned Ridley, too, but he wasn’t in the club for long. Makes sense.” He sighed. “Well, let’s both get some sleep. Then we can drive over the land marked on the map.”

  * * *

  42

  Earlier that same night Sarah, in a rage, had slapped her husband in the face. He slapped her back.

  “You f
orget your station, madam.” He coldly turned his back on her.

  “You can’t go out alone. You hire a bodyguard or I will!”

  “Don’t tell me what I can do. And don’t worry that I’ll be killed. Whoever tried was a damned poor shot.”