Catch as Cat Can

by Rita Mae Brown

  Assistant Director of Major Gifts, Lottie was hypersensitive to social nuance. The job suited her and the day would come when old Vernon Miller retired and she would take over. Patiently she nurtured his social contacts as well as her own.

  “I understand but you have to understand two men are dead, Wesley Partlow and Don Clatterbuck. There's a strong possibility that their murders are connected—”

  “What?” Alarm registered on Lottie's face. “And who is Wesley Partlow? I read about him being found but the paper didn't say much.”

  “Because no one knows much. Partlow was a kid parking cars at Big Mim's fund-raiser.”

  “What's someone like that got to do with Donny?”

  Coop leaned forward as the rain beat down. “Don Clatterbuck was shot in a truck Partlow had driven before he was killed. Sean O'Bannon described the truck when we— Well, it's a long story involving Mrs. Hogendobber's hubcaps but Sean correctly described the old pickup. We couldn't trace the truck. We had no license plate. We now have a license plate but it's ancient. The stickers are current. Carol Grossman down in Richmond, working on this since this morning, has tracked the old license plates to a Jaguar dealer down in Newport News. They used them as part of the decor.”

  “The dealer stole the plates.” Lottie jumped to a conclusion.

  “According to the dealer, he didn't. They turn the plates in. By law they must.”

  “Well, someone took them.” She liked being right.

  “Someone did. Someone also filched new date and month stickers. Dealers don't have those. You can't even peel them off someone's plates intact using a razor blade. As you can see, Lottie, this is becoming more and more interesting.”

  “I still don't believe Donny would know anyone like that hanged man.” She stopped herself, regrouped, and continued, “There has to be a reasonable explanation. A coincidence. Maybe Partlow stole the truck and returned it. No one knew.”

  “That has occurred to us but what I need from you are details: Don's mood, did he say anything about plans for the future? That sort of thing.”

  “Would you like a beverage?” Lottie asked. “I apologize. I should have offered you one when you came through the door.”

  “A hot coffee would work wonders.”

  “Cream and sugar?”

  “Heavy on the cream, light on the sugar.”

  Lottie pushed a button on her phone system. “Franny, two cups of coffee. The usual for me and heavy on the cream, light on the sugar for the other. Thanks.” She returned her attention to Coop. Lottie thought Cooper, nice-looking, could look even better. With a bit of luck a tall, lean woman like Cooper could make a decent match in a county like Albemarle, but working as a deputy destroyed her chances of moving too far up in the world. Lottie wondered why women didn't think of those things. Life would always be easier if one was attached to a wealthy man.

  They chitchatted until the coffee was placed before them. As Franny withdrew, Lottie took a deep sip, as did Cynthia.

  “Thank you. This is just what I needed.”

  “For the record, Donald Clatterbuck and I weren't dating. He escorted me to Mim's party. I liked him, of course. Who didn't? You know why I, well, I won't go into that but it still bothers me that BoomBoom didn't allow me to show Diego Aybar the sights. I love doing that sort of thing and Harry already has a beau. It just upset me. That's how I wound up with Donald.” She cast her eyes at Coop but Coop betrayed no feelings of her own so Lottie continued on. “He couldn't have been nicer. You see, I'd not been especially solicitous of him. Well, truthfully I ignored him. You know, he was just a working-class guy. But he actually had some ambition, which surprised me.”

  “In what way?”

  “He said he was taking his leather-design business on the Internet. He'd been working on a website where he would display techniques. I don't know anything about leather design and repair but I remember he said something about showing the different quality of skins. He thought if he did that he'd get orders for special items like sofas, couch slipcovers, even boots.”

  “He was good.” Cooper sighed.

  “He also wanted to go on the Internet for his taxidermy business. He said he ought to preserve rich people and call the business Stuffed Shirts. He had a good sense of humor.”

  “So he seemed positive?”

  “Yes. He mentioned saving to buy his grandfather's farm. Said it had been a good year so he was going to make Mr. Mawyer an offer. He mentioned that no one else in the family was interested. He's lucky there.”

  “No clouds on the horizon?”

  “No. If there were he didn't mention it. You mean was he afraid of something or someone?”

  “Considering he was shot, yes, I'd—”

  Lottie interrupted. “What if the murder was a mistake? What if whoever killed him saw the truck and thought he was someone else?”

  “Anything is possible.” Coop drained her cup.

  “Would you care for some more?”

  “Thank you, no. I'm finally warming up. If I hadn't had a change of uniform in my locker I'd be sitting here dripping on your floor. It's not that cold but I took a chill.”

  “Don't you just hate that?” Lottie asked sympathetically.

  “Did you think Don wanted to go out with you again?”

  “We just didn't click on that level. What can I say? No chemistry.” She dabbed her lips with the small napkin Franny had brought with the coffees. “Speaking of chemistry, Harry and Diego!”

  Coop smiled. “Who knows?”

  “Do you think she's done with Fair forever? I mean I thought that's why BoomBoom set her up. Boom wanted Fair away from Harry. She's like that.”

  “I don't know. That was a long time ago, BoomBoom and Fair. Five years . . . or close to it. I don't think she wants him back.”

  “She wants them all. She's not happy unless every man is circling around her like a honey pot.”

  “Then you would have thought she'd have kept Diego for herself.” Coop shrewdly observed Lottie's reaction.

  “Steinmetz is a bigger fish and probably a richer one, too. She doesn't miss a trick. I hate the way men fawn over her.”

  “She's beautiful.”

  “Artifice.” Lottie sniffed.

  “Don evidenced little interest.”

  “They grew up together. He saw right through her.”

  “But, Lottie, Fair grew up with her, too.”

  Not one to appreciate an errant detail in her argument being pointed out to her, Lottie's shoulders froze a bit, then relaxed. “Donald had more sense.” She glanced out at the gloomy day, returning to meet Cooper's eyes. “I'm sorry he's dead. He was a nice person. I can't imagine why anyone would want to kill him.”

  29

  Would you look at this!” Harry followed her observation with a string of curses. One of the joints on the old disc used to break up earth had cracked, small ball bearings scattered underneath. The rain pelted the tin roof of the equipment shed. She'd just gotten home after work and decided since she couldn't work outside, she'd grease the manure spreader, the disc, check the tines on the drag, the fluid levels in the 1958 John Deere tractor.

  Mostly she couldn't bear the thought of being inside for one more minute. By the end of the day at the post office she wanted to be outside as long as possible.

  The cats, less enthusiastic about her work ethic in the rain, repaired to the house. Only Tucker accompanied her. The shed, tidy and tight, kept the rain out, but the wind added to the gloom.

  “Boiling black out there.” Tucker felt the electricity of the storm building.

  Harry reached down, rubbing one of Tucker's ears between her thumb and forefinger. “I can't complain, really. This disc is almost as old as the tractor. You know on the new ones the joints are sealed after being packed in grease. I guess that works, I don't know. Wonder how much it will cost to fix it? Oh, well.” She leaned against the tractor. “What we need is a drill seeder. Fat chance.” She laughed because the type she nee
ded retailed for $22,000. That was practically a year's salary for Harry.

  She lifted up the hood of the dually, checked the oil, the windshield fluids, and the pressure in the tires. She repeated the process on the 1978 Ford F150 which she'd pulled into the shed. Finally satisfying herself that everything was fine, she sprinted to the barn. She'd left the back stall doors open and the three horses had wisely chosen to come in from the storm.

  “Phone's been ringing off the hook,” Poptart told Tucker.

  The corgi hopped up on the tack trunk to speak to the youngest horse eye to eye. She stood on her hind legs, sticking her head through the square opening with the big feed bucket underneath. “Ever wish you could answer it?”

  “No.” Poptart laughed. “Makes more work. Every time one human calls another there's usually a chore attached or something that sends Harry flying out of here. Can't see why any reasonable human would wish to be interrupted like that.”

  “And who would call you?” Gin Fizz, the oldest of the three, asked.

  “Anne Kursinski.” Poptart laughed, naming one of the most famous show-jumping riders in the world.

  “Princess Anne would dial me.” Tomahawk put in his two cents.

  “Oh, I'm sure the next time the Princess visits America, she'll make a special request to come see workaday hunters right here in Crozet.” Gin Fizz guffawed.

  “And why not?” Tomahawk stoutly replied. “Most horse sports come from foxhunting. Point-to-point races, steeplechasing, hunter shows, jumper shows.” He ended with authority.

  “Three-day eventing,” Tucker added.

  “Thank you, Tucker. I forgot that one,” Tomahawk called from his stall.

  “I thought three-day eventing came from cavalry drills,” Gin Fizz said.

  “Cavalry were foxhunted. Eventing is still related to foxhunting,” Tucker declared, although the connection was slender.

  Harry walked in to close Tomahawk's back stall door. The wind blew with such ferocity she thought the doors would bend. “You all are so talkative.”

  “Evil out there, Mom.” Tomahawk nuzzled her.

  She kissed his nose, giving him a molasses cookie. She had two for each horse.

  “Dressage doesn't come from foxhunting.” Poptart was thinking out loud. “Haute école. Guess it's centuries old. I can't do it. I can't canter in place, half halt at the letter B or whatever. Just can't do it. I want to run!”

  “Don't we all.” Gin Fizz eagerly awaited Harry's visit to his stall. “The trick is, Poppy, to stop.”

  At this all four animals laughed loudly, even Poptart, since she had the tendency to run right through the bridle. Young, she'd become so excited when the other horses took off that she wanted to pass everyone. This wouldn't do. Harry schooled her but it was going to take time. There are no perfect horses just as there are no perfect people. Her one flaw was small compared to Poptart's gift: the ability to jump the moon. Nothing was too high or too wide and she was clever with her hooves.

  Gin Fizz admired the youngster's ability but wished he could give her some of his wisdom. Whenever she'd cut a shine the old fellow would sigh and murmur, “Youth.”

  Tomahawk, less impressed with Poppy's talents since he was fairly talented himself, usually responded, “Mares.”

  The two geldings felt that mares were emotional, erratic, and a royal pain in the ass. However, they loved Poppy despite her moodiness.

  She thought highly of herself, too.

  “You'd better not run away with Mom,” Tucker warned her.

  “I won't,” Poppy said halfheartedly.

  “I can bite your ankles before you can kick me. Fetlocks, I should say. Well, I can bite and bite hard.”

  “Squirt.” Poptart pinned her ears but in good fun.

  Harry closed the last outside door. “What's going on with you all? I've never heard such carryings-on.”

  “Just shooting the breeze.” Gin Fizz laughed.

  The phone rang again.

  “You'd better pick it up, Mom. It's been ringing off the hook,” Tomahawk advised the human.

  With a great sigh, Harry trotted into the tack room to pick up the phone. “Hello.”

  “Hey, Donny Clatterbuck's been shot dead.” Susan got straight to the point.

  “What?”

  “It must have just happened. Lottie called me and I tried calling you first, then called Miranda. Where have you been?”

  “In the equipment shed.” She drew in her breath, thought a moment. “Susan, where was he? I mean, what do you know?”

  “He was found in Culpeper by the side of the road. Shot through the temple. Oh, he had your woodpecker.”

  “What!”

  “Mim said he had your woodpecker and he was in the truck Rick's been trying to find. The truck Wesley Partlow drove. Am I making sense?”

  “Kind of. Who's going to tell his parents? Oh, this is really awful.”

  “Rick.”

  “Glad I don't have that job. I can't believe anyone would shoot Donny Clatterbuck. And what was he doing in the GMC?”

  Tucker pricked up her ears since she could hear Susan's voice, then tore out of the tack room, down the center aisle barn, through the deluge, pushed open the screen door, then barged through the animal door into the kitchen.

  “Mrs. Murphy, Pewter, Don Clatterbuck was found dead, shot, in the farm truck.”

  Mrs. Murphy, dozing on the bookshelf in the living room, raised her head, her eyes now wide open. “I knew this would come back at us. Too close to home.”

  “You knew no such thing.” Pewter, also awake now, sat up on the sofa.

  “Whoever strung up Wesley Partlow was in Crozet. Right?” the tiger argued.

  “Yes, but that doesn't mean they live in Crozet,” Pewter countered.

  “No, but Donny sure did. I can't figure out what Wesley Partlow and Donny would have in common.”

  “Maybe nothing. People die without there being a connection.”

  “Pewter, they didn't just die, they were murdered and within a few days of one another. Think about it . . . and Partlow was seen in the truck. Am I right, Tucker? It was Booty's farm truck?”

  “That's what Susan told Mom.” Tucker walked over to the bookshelf as Murphy jumped down. “I hope Booty's not in danger. The truck's cursed.”

  “Oh, Tucker.” Pewter sniffed. “Inanimate objects aren't cursed.”

  “The pyramids. The curse of the Pharaohs.” Tucker thought objects did, indeed, carry curses.

  In a way Tucker was right.

  30

  All that evening the phone lines hummed throughout Crozet and Albemarle County. Usually a crisis would propel people to one another but the weather, increasingly awful, kept them inside.

  Harry tried calling Diego but gave up, defeated by international codes. Uruguay's code was 598 but she couldn't get the number of zeros and ones right to get a line out. She'd figured rightly that he was two time zones ahead of East Coast time. That was a victory. She had enough trouble keeping time in her own time zone. Finally she humbled herself and rang BoomBoom.

  “I just heard!” BoomBoom's excitable voice sounded higher than usual.

  They discussed the dolorous news, then Harry felt she'd minded her manners and could ask her question. “Have you heard from Thomas?”

  “This morning.” BoomBoom dangled the bait, forcing Harry to ask another question.

  “The reason I'm asking you is because I can't reach Diego and well . . .”

  “It seems their government is having some crisis over loans to the International Monetary Fund or something like that. Diego will call you as soon as he gets a minute.”

  “I thought that was a problem for Argentina, not Uruguay, but then what do I know?” She sighed.

  “We tend to ignore South America, which, when you think about it, is really dumb. After all, we're all part of the New World.”

  “He's probably got a mistress in Montevideo.” Harry wasn't focusing on American shortcomings. She was focusi
ng on Diego.

  “No, he doesn't. I wouldn't do that to you . . . not if I knew. But he doesn't. Feel better?”

  “Sort of.” She walked to the stove, turning the flame up under the kettle. “Boom, this welding that you do—could you cut locks?”

  “Of course.”

  “Steel plates?”

  “Yes, but it would take some time. What I work with is thin sheets. The cutouts are strong enough to stand on the base I make for them but a heavy steel plate like the kind put in the back of pickups to hitch trailers, that kind of plate, that would take a long time. Why?”

  “Donny had one of those huge old stand-up safes. If Rick doesn't find the combination, he'll have to cut it.”

  “That will be a very difficult job.”

  “I know but if you volunteer we'd be there first. I could help.”

  “Harry.” BoomBoom considered this. “What do you think is in the safe?”

  “I don't know but I'd like to find out, wouldn't you? Maybe it will tell us why Donny was shot. In fact, why don't you call Rick now, then call me back.”

  “Well—all right.” BoomBoom hung up the phone. Within minutes she dialed back. “Harry, he's at Donny's shop now and said he'd be grateful for the help. I'll meet you there in fifteen minutes. I told him I need you to regulate the oxygen in the tanks.”

  “Did he believe it?”

  “Uh—sort of.”

  “Okay, fifteen minutes.”

  31

  As the blue flame slowly sliced into the heavy lock of the safe, Rick Shaw allowed as how the last person he thought would be wielding a torch would be BoomBoom Craycroft. He readily agreed to her offer, otherwise he'd have to wait a day while the safe company flew in an expert to open the lock. The county budget prompted him to make use of local talent even though it meant destroying the lock, which resembled the hatch locks of submarines.

  “Harry, you drive me crazy sometimes, you and your amateur detective crap, but I hand it to you on this suggestion.”