The Tail of the Tip-Off

by Rita Mae Brown

  “Mychelle is not winning friends and influencing people,” Fair observed.

  “She used to be upbeat. Job’s affected her. People get upset when something’s wrong and it costs money to fix it. I suppose we need these building codes but they seem so, I don’t know, too much paperwork, too much interference.” Herb ordered Boston cream pie.

  The lightbulb switched on in Harry’s head. Of course, she thought to herself, how easy, both had access to H.H. Under my nose and I never saw it. One of those women is, was, H.H.’s lover. I’d bet my life on it!

  “Harry?” Fair touched her hand.

  “What?”

  “You didn’t hear a word I said.”

  “Fair, I’m sorry, I just had an idea.” She smiled. “I’m listening, really. You have my full attention.”

  * * *

  18

  Coaches ride a roller coaster. While the best of them hope to build students’ character, prepare them for life’s unpredictables, they still must win and win convincingly. The most successful character builder in America isn’t going to get a renewed contract if his or her team doesn’t win. And of all coaches, the two most visible to the public are football and basketball, the college sports with the largest following, the lucrative TV contracts.

  In the dark ages, no one even knew the women’s basketball coach’s name. These days they were stars with all the perks and pressures their male counterparts had endured and enjoyed for close to one hundred years—except one. Women’s coaches didn’t sleep with male students. Male coaches used to cut a swath through the girls, although those days, too, had waned thanks to administrators finally waking up to the abuse inherent in such a relationship even if freely contracted. Then again, the male coaches were usually married, a sticking point.

  Married women coaches would pace the sidelines, their husbands and children breathlessly watching. The unmarried women coaches would pace the sidelines, the unmarried men breathlessly watching.

  It never occurred to Coach Ryan and her assistant coaches that a murderer was watching. H. H. Donaldson’s death, now known to be suspicious, wasn’t connected to basketball. At least, no one thought it was.

  Since Cameron loved basketball, idolized the players, and worshipped Coach Debbie Ryan, H.H. had purchased a block of ads to run concurrent with the women’s basketball season thinking it would make his little girl happy. He’d even bought her a subscription to the University of Virginia newspaper so she could read the fuller accounts of the very games she had witnessed.

  Each Monday, Georgina Craycroft, BoomBoom’s sister-in-law and head of Virginia Graphics, would design an ad for H.H. based on that week’s opponents. The last of H.H.’s ad designs would run out Sunday. Georgina didn’t know whether to continue. The staff of The Cavalier Daily didn’t want to bother Anne Donaldson but H.H. had paid for the season. Still, Georgina didn’t wish to create more designs if Anne wasn’t interested. She’d refund whatever monies were outstanding. Georgina was a fair-minded person.

  Georgina called BoomBoom, who was closer to Anne than she was. BoomBoom was also on good terms with Coach Ryan.

  Anne declared the ads were important to Cameron and, no doubt, fun for the team. BoomBoom then relayed this to Georgina who hastened to her office this beautiful Saturday morning. Old Dominion University, always tough, would be an opponent in the coming week, as well as Georgia, reputed to have the best center in women’s basketball this year.

  BoomBoom, curiosity rekindled by her sister-in-law’s call, drove out to Harry’s just as Harry pulled into her driveway.

  Each disembarked at the barn.

  “BoomBoom, what’s up?”

  Mrs. Murphy and Pewter, noses pressed against the kitchen window over the sink, watched. Tucker barked at the animal door which Harry had secured so the dog wouldn’t follow her down the drive when she motored back into town.

  “What’s she saying?” Pewter pawed at the window.

  “I can’t read lips,” Mrs. Murphy replied.

  “We thought you could do everything,” the dog, also irritated, said.

  “First, she leaves us here to go fox hunting. Then she comes back, unloads Poptart, gets everything organized, gets back in the old truck, and drives to Crozet leaving us again!” Tucker was beside herself.

  “She did give us a treat before she left,” Pewter said.

  “They’re coming inside. Tucker, go shut the door to the bedroom. Hurry,” Mrs. Murphy ordered.

  “I didn’t shred the socks she left on the bed. You did.” Tucker stubbornly tossed her head as she moved to the kitchen door.

  “I hate dogs.” Mrs. Murphy soared off the kitchen counter followed by Pewter, who slid down lest she land with a thump.

  The two cats raced for the bedroom. Pewter flopped on her side as Mrs. Murphy pushed the door from behind. When the door was almost closed the tiger cat slunk around it, careful not to open it more than necessary. Then she, too, flopped on her side, claws out to the max. The cats hooked their claws under the door—there was just enough space—pulling it shut. The latch didn’t click but it was shut enough that a casual walk down the hall would not reveal their depredations.

  “—good of Anne.” BoomBoom hung her coat on one of the pegs by the back door.

  “She’s a strong woman.” Harry hung her jacket there as well. “Can I get you something to drink?”

  “No. I’ll tell you why I dropped by unannounced. Talking to Georgina and then Anne reminded me of that awful night. You have a knack for figuring things out. I bet you have thought about it.”

  “Well—I don’t know anything.” Harry motioned for her to sit at the kitchen table.

  “Why don’t we go down to the Clam and walk it out?” BoomBoom’s lovely face became quite animated.

  “What do you mean, ‘walk it out’?”

  “If you and I start from where H.H. was sitting in his seat to where he fell, we’ll know how far the killer trailed him.”

  “How do you know the killer did?” asked Harry.

  “I’ve been reading about poisons.”

  “But the paper didn’t say exactly what kind of poison.”

  “Exactly.” BoomBoom was triumphant. “By the process of elimination I know it wasn’t arsenic because it takes too long to kill you and the victim suffers from diarrhea. Wasn’t cyanide or his skin would have been red. I think he was given the poison right there at the basketball game. In reviewing what I remember, I wonder if I’m correct. Know what I mean? You now know something, and when you look back, well, maybe today’s knowledge clouds yesterday’s events. I mean yesterday as in the past. Not literally yesterday. I’ve thought about who had coolers full of drinks. He could have been handed a poisoned drink. Or popcorn or a candy bar.”

  BoomBoom folded her hands together. “From my reading, I’ve learned that poisons and toxins aren’t exactly the same thing. A toxin is anything that can kill or upset a living organism. But a poison is a subgroup. Poisons usually enter the body in a single massive dose or they can accumulate into a massive dose over time. Also, poisons are easy to identify.”

  Alert, a fascinated Harry leaned forward. “I didn’t know that.”

  “Another thing is poisons can usually be nullified with fast treatment. With toxins”—she shook her head—“not so easy.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, toxins can kill you with minute levels. And worse, they can disguise themselves, the symptoms are masked. It takes extremely sensitive analytical instruments to detect low levels of toxins and not all of these dangerous substances have antidotes.”

  “So technically, you think H.H. wasn’t poisoned?”

  “No. If he had been, Sheriff Shaw would certainly know by now what had poisoned him. What did kill him was something used in a tiny amount. And it kind of mimicked a heart attack.”

  “Risky. Fingerprints. And cruel. What if Anne or Cameron had drunk from the same can? Nibbled on the candy bar?”

  “Hi.” The two cats smil
ed as they entered the kitchen.

  “There you are. I wondered where you all were hiding.” Harry reached down to rub Mrs. Murphy’s then Pewter’s head. She was thinking about BoomBoom’s research.

  “You’ll sing a different tune when you see what they’ve done,” Tucker warned.

  “Shut up, tailless butt.” Pewter flattened her ears.

  “Lardass.” The little dog laughed.

  “Carrion breath.” Mrs. Murphy joined in the fun.

  “Tuna fart.” Tucker thought she could gross them out.

  “I don’t pass gas,” the cat haughtily replied.

  “You burp a lot, though.” Pewter giggled.

  “Whose side are you on?” Murphy crossly questioned the gray cat who prudently stepped close to Harry.

  “Hey, kids, we can’t hear ourselves talk,” Harry reprimanded them.

  “If you only knew.” Tucker rolled her eyes.

  “That’s the great thing about humans. They don’t know squat.” Pewter erupted in a loud laugh, startling the others.

  “Perhaps they need to go out.” BoomBoom rose and opened the kitchen door. The screen door had another animal door to the side of it which Harry kept unlocked.

  The three refused to budge.

  “Sit down, BoomBoom. They get like this whenever I leave them home. Now back to your research. The killer must have highly specialized knowledge, like a chemist. If the killer had no conscience, zip, food or drink might be the answer. If the killer does have a conscience, then he or she had to find another way to administer the poison or probably more people would be dead.”

  “You know.” BoomBoom pointed at Harry with her forefinger.

  “I do not.”

  “You’re way too calm. You’ve already figured it out and I bet you’ve been to the Clam.”

  “Uh—well, I have been there, yes, but I don’t know any more than you do. In fact, you know more than I do.”

  Harry swung her legs to and fro under her seat. She was getting excited. “Fair was present at the autopsy. He said there was a mark on the left side of H.H.’s neck, a thin penetration wound. And I bugged Coop who confirmed it and said they’d checked his clothes, they’d checked the parking lot. No small dart, not even a tiny needle. Nothing.”

  “Go back to the Clam with me. Come on.”

  “I’ve got chores.” Harry wavered.

  “All right.” BoomBoom stood up. She wanted to check the scene. Would she remember something she had suppressed? She was also hoping spending time with Harry would further repair their relationship.

  “It is bizarre”—Harry rose to walk BoomBoom to the door—“that he could be stabbed and we didn’t see it. Nor did he yell. It doesn’t make a bit of sense.”

  “If the weapon had been smeared with something like Novocain”—BoomBoom turned to face Harry—“H.H. might not have felt the wound. It’s possible.”

  “It is!” Harry froze in her tracks.

  “Come on, let’s go.” BoomBoom tapped Harry on her shoulder.

  They piled into BoomBoom’s mammoth Expedition. Her BMW was in the shop after being sideswiped. She had lots of cars and could converse for hours on the merits of a BMW 540i versus a Mercedes AMG 55, or any other models. The animals merrily joined them. Boom loved animals and she didn’t care if her seats had pawprints on them.

  They parked in the sea of asphalt and hurried to the basketball court where the girls were practicing.

  Both Harry and BoomBoom waved as they trotted to their respective seats, the animals with them.

  Harry closed her eyes. “I swear I felt something whizz by the left side of my face. It may not be important . . . but sitting here, I, yes, I remember a whizz, kind of.”

  “The whoosh you felt, it could have just been a noisemaker unfurling.” Boom turned to Harry from her seat.

  “I didn’t turn around. My focus was on the game.” She threw up her hands. “But then why wasn’t there a dart or a metal point in his neck?”

  “H.H. pulled it out?”

  “That I would have seen. No.” Harry shook her head.

  “What if the killer jabbed his neck when we were leaving or even in the parking lot then pocketed the knife or needle or whatever?” BoomBoom mimicked a quick jab.

  Pewter had returned to the hairline crack in the wall. She sniffed. The trickle of water continued, no doubt from melting snow. Pewter could smell the dampness.

  As the humans left she scampered after them. They carefully walked along the circular hall in the direction of the main entrance. Tucker stopped, lifted her nose.

  Mrs. Murphy stopped, too. “Oh.”

  “I smell it, too.” Pewter, eyes large with excitement, followed the dog now in front of a locked door.

  Tucker put her nose to the ground. “Blood. Fresh.”

  The two cats inhaled deeply. “Very, very fresh.”

  “There are other smells. This must be a broom closet.” Tucker processed the information her incredible nose was compiling. “Disinfectant. Soap, bar soap. I can smell water, not much, but there must be a sink in there. But the blood, yes, quite strong and human. Oh, and perfume.”

  The cats crowded at the door, curling their upper lips toward their noses to direct more scent into their nostrils. Yes, a hint of perfume.

  “The janitor could have cut himself.” Pewter lifted her nose for fresher air. “Guess it would be a feminine janitor. One who favors floral perfume.”

  “Pewter, there’s a great deal of blood. Someone is dying.”

  “Or dead,” Mrs. Murphy grimly responded.

  Tucker cocked her head, swiveling her ear to catch any sound at all. “Not yet. I can hear the human breathe, ragged.”

  “Mother, someone is hurt. Hurt bad!” Mrs. Murphy screamed.

  “Help!” Pewter hollered.

  “Help!” Tucker added, her bark frantic.

  Harry stopped, turning toward them. “Come on.”

  “Help!” they all bellowed.

  Harry turned to BoomBoom. “Ever since Tucker took to chasing that rat at O’Bannon’s Salvage yard she imagines she is the world’s greatest ratter. ’Course, she never caught the rat in the first place.”

  “Help!”

  “That’s it!” Harry strode back, reached down, picking up a cat in each arm. “I have had about enough of this.” She charged out of the building, Mrs. Murphy and Pewter wriggling. BoomBoom hurried in front of them.

  She opened the door for Harry to toss the cats in the Expedition. They jumped up and down as though on pogo sticks. Pewter screamed her head off.

  BoomBoom, now in the driver’s seat, tried to soothe them. “There, there, she’ll be right back.”

  “Oh, BoomBoom, you have no idea what’s wrong,” Mrs. Murphy cried.

  Harry ran back into the building where Tucker was making a fuss. As it was Saturday no one was around to pay attention to the dog. The girls were still at practice.

  Seeing Harry, Tucker stood on her hind legs, scratching at the door.

  “Get a grip,” Harry furiously commanded.

  “You’ve got to open this door!”

  Harry, as if understanding, placed her hand on the doorknob. Locked. “That’s one rat that will live another day.”

  “No, no, someone is dying in there. I can hear them breathe. I know that sound! I know the—”

  “Tucker, we are going to have a Come to Jesus meeting right here if you don’t behave.” She bent down, grabbing Tucker and carrying the twenty-eight-pound whimpering dog to the car.

  “They are so upset.” BoomBoom worried that they might be sick.

  “Spoiled is more like it.” Harry shut the door to the passenger side. “I apologize.”

  Tears welled up in the dog’s brown eyes. “Mrs. Murphy and Pewter, I tried.”

  “You’re the best dog, Tucker, the very best dog.” Mrs. Murphy licked Tucker’s face as Pewter rubbed against her white chest.

  “I feel so terrible. That person is dying.”

  * * *<
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  19

  The day faded. A sliver of white creamy cloud snaked over the Blue Ridge Mountains, with rich, deep gray-blue clouds filling the sky above. When the sun set, the white transformed to scarlet, brilliantly offsetting the mountains. So unusual was the sight that Harry, pitchfork in hand, at the manure pile mostly unfrozen thanks to the sudden thaw, stopped to appreciate the panorama.