The Tail of the Tip-Off

by Rita Mae Brown

  “The Reverend Jones provided excitement,” Mrs. Murphy tittered, recalling the scene.

  “And you were such a chicken,” Pewter called back at Tucker.

  “I was not. Elocution and Cazenovia were the chickens.”

  “Well, I want excitement. The day is young.” Pewter stood on her hind legs, her paws on Harry’s left shoulder as she looked back at the others.

  “Excitement comes in both good and bad varieties,” the corgi sagely noted.

  * * *

  42

  Each time he thought of Fred, Matthew gripped his steering wheel until his knuckles turned white. He’d catch himself, then stop. He pulled his dark green Range Rover onto Garth Road and headed west.

  As late as the 1960s, these rolling hills sported few houses. Horse farms, hay farms, and down at White Hall, apple orchards dotted the road.

  Berta Jones, former Master of the Farmington Hunt Club, kept three retired Kentucky Derby winners at her farm, Ingleside. She hunted those fast Thoroughbreds, too.

  But the redoubtable Berta had been long gone. Her daughter, Port Haffner, another bold rider, kept to the old Virginia ways, but surrounding the beautiful farm were expensive houses on anywhere from two to twenty acres.

  The homes, red brick with white porticos, security systems, sprinkler systems, and big-ass family rooms, were built for the “come heres” to impress one another. Natives wondered why anyone would pour their money into a house instead of the land.

  But the new people gave Matthew his start in building. He soon realized the money was in commercial construction and by the mid-1970s, quick to master new technologies and materials, Matthew pulled ahead of larger, more established firms. Now he was the large established firm.

  He got along with most people, newcomers or old families. He often wondered why the newcomers didn’t learn the ways of the place—“When in Rome”—but so often these people whipped out their checkbooks expecting that to supplant simple good manners. They’d write a check for a charity but would keep their maid on starvation wages. The Virginian would not write a check for charity but would properly take care of the maid.

  The law of Virginia was, “Take care of your own.”

  The problem was the new people didn’t know who “their own” were. Maybe they wrote the checks to cover their bases.

  Well, Anne knew the rules. Matthew pulled into the crushed-stone drive on the north side of Garth Road, a little winding road tucked away, and soon he was at the door of a charming 1720-inspired frame house, simple, well built, and of pleasing proportions. Charleston-green shutters framed the sash windows, the white of the house blending in with the snow.

  He used the brass knocker in the form of a pineapple.

  Anne opened the door. “Matthew, do come in.”

  “Forgive me for not calling. I was on my way home and thought I’d stop by to see if you need anything.”

  “Please come in. I’ll make us both a drink. It would be lovely to have some company.”

  Upstairs the squeals of two girls captured his attention as he entered the house. “Party?”

  “Georgina Weems. I’m trying to keep Cameron’s routine as normal as I can. Children mourn differently than we do. She needs her friends. I need mine.” She looked into his eyes with her hazel green eyes. “Scotch? Vodka martini? Isn’t that your drink?”

  “A little too early for me. I’ll take a cup of your famous coffee.”

  “You’re in luck because I was just going to make espresso. H.H. bought me that huge brass Italian thing with the eagle on the top. Restaurants don’t have espresso makers this huge.” She led him into the kitchen.

  He folded his coat over the back of a kitchen chair. “A major machine.”

  She showed him the steps for making espresso, then brewed him a perfect cup, cutting a small orange rind to accompany it. She poured herself one, too, in the delicate white porcelain cup with the gold edge that H.H. also gave her for Christmas.

  “Let’s go in the living room. What’s wrong with me? I should have taken your coat.”

  “Everything happens in the kitchen anyway, and I don’t care about my coat. Sandy sends her love, by the way.”

  Anne sat down at the kitchen table. “You two have been wonderful throughout this ordeal. It’s bad enough I’ve lost my husband”—she put her cup on the saucer—“but to have people think I killed him is a deep dose of cruelty. I know what is being said behind my back.”

  “Now, only the sheriff is going to take that route. He has to investigate all possibilities.” He tried to soothe her.

  “Rick was here yesterday. Cooper, too. You know my little greenhouse? They went through it with me and asked me questions about belladonna. They were quite obvious so I pointed out that even an azalea if ingested in large quantities can induce a coma. Buttercups can shred your digestive system. The berries on mistletoe can be fatal.” She paused. “I must look like a husband killer.” She dropped her head slightly, then raised it.

  “Not to me you don’t.”

  “Thank you.”

  “This espresso is better than anything I’ve ever had in a restaurant.” He sipped appreciatively. “Need any shopping done?”

  “Thank you, no. The weather has kept me in more than anything. Let them stare. I’ll stare right back.”

  “That’s the spirit. Most people are so damned bored anyway they’re looking at you with envy in their eyes. ‘If only I could be that interesting.’ ” He mimicked what he thought such a voice would sound like.

  “Oh, Matthew, you’re pulling my leg.”

  “Hey, I’ll pull your arm, too.” He drained his cup.

  She refilled it. “Should I call Sandy and tell her I’m peeling you off the ceiling?”

  “One of the advantages of being big is that I can ingest a lot more of everything before it affects me.” He smiled. “You know, I’ve been thinking a lot about H.H.’s death. We both know his temper might piss off someone, excuse my French, but a deep-dyed enemy? Can’t think of a one.”

  “What about his lover when he ditched her?” Anne was surprisingly frank, but Matthew was an old friend.

  “I didn’t know about that—not until everyone knew and then the next evening there he was at the basketball game with you.”

  “For Cameron. He was waffling. ‘I’ll go. I’ll stay.’ It really was hell and I suppose that’s why I’m not mourning the way people think I should. I suppose I do look guilty.” Her jaw set.

  “Why didn’t you tell us? Sandy and I would have talked to him. You know that.”

  She lightly tapped the table with the head of the small spoon. “I was furious that he would think I was so stupid, so pliable, that he could do this to me again. When I did confront him he denied it. Don’t they all? But I wore him down. He said he was sorry but he also said he needed a lift. He needed too many lifts over the years.” She rose, opened the refrigerator and put out cookies, then drew herself another espresso. She also poured a shot of McCallums for good measure. She held up the bottle but Matthew shook his head no. “The only thing I didn’t do was take an andiron and brain him.”

  “Did you know the woman?”

  “Eventually. Mychelle Burns.”

  “Ah.” He chose not to say what he knew about that.

  “Now she’s dead, too, and it doesn’t look good for me.”

  “There are very good lawyers in this town. Don’t you worry.”

  “I’d be a liar if I said I wasn’t worried. More worried for Cameron than for me. What if her little friends hear their parents talking? What if they tell Cameron, ‘Your mother murdered your daddy’? My God, that terrifies me.”

  “We aren’t there yet.” He exhaled. “Presumably Rick will find out why Mychelle was killed but that’s not really my concern. I’ve been thinking. Could this have had anything to do with H.H.’s business?”

  “How?” She sipped the scotch, the warmth as comforting in its way as the espresso was.

  He paused a moment
. “Oh, money under the table. Rigged bids. That sort of thing.”

  “Not that I know of. It wasn’t that H.H. kept his business life from me but by the time he’d come home, the food would be on the table and we’d talk to Cameron. That was her time. After supper he might mention what happened in his day. I guess most couples are like that or become like that. You move in separate worlds unless you’re in the business together.”

  “True. Sandy and I rarely talk about business. I don’t want to bring it home.” He made a motion with his hands as though pushing something away. “Men and women have better things to talk about.”

  “From time to time he’d blow his stack over Fred Forrest.”

  “Fred’s such a pain in the ass. Now if someone murdered him, I could understand that. What about firing someone, a guy who holds a grudge?”

  She shook her head. “Given the type of business you’re in, I know you have to fire people but he never brought that up. If an ex-employee bore a grudge, I knew nothing of it.”

  “H.H. used to make fun of me because a lot of my boys are functionally illiterate, but I’ll tell you, they are loyal. They know it’s hard to get hired and they know most bosses will trim down their pay if they can hardly read and write. I pay them well and I get good work, steady, good work. It’s been years since I’ve had to fire anyone.”

  “Isn’t it a pain, though? You can’t leave written notes.”

  “You’d be amazed at what they remember. They don’t need to have a note. Tell them and they remember. Granted, it’s a problem if something comes up and Opie’s down at the store getting lunch. Or you’re going to leave the site and you need to leave him a note, but that doesn’t happen very much. Anyway, I have a good foreman and that helps.”

  “I wish I could tell you something, anything.”

  “You may not be able to answer this—do you think you would have divorced him?”

  “For Cameron’s sake, I wouldn’t want to.”

  “What about yours?” Matthew’s voice was soft.

  “Oh.” She glanced at a spot over his head then dropped her gaze to his. “He’d become a habit. I was used to him. There were days when I loved him and days when I didn’t. Lately there were more of the ‘didn’t.’ ”

  “Anne, I’m sorry. Truly sorry.” She shrugged, tilted her head and smiled. He continued. “If you need a good lawyer, let me know. You know you can call Sandy or me any time of night or day. If you need some time alone, we’ll be glad to take Cameron. Matt and Ted adore her. They’ll be big brothers.”

  “Thank you. Do you think I did it?”

  “No. Absolutely not.”

  “Thank you, Matthew.”

  * * *

  43

  White cartons of Chinese food, tops opened like flower petals, decorated Harry’s kitchen table. Cynthia Cooper brought the delicacies, a ritual she and Harry shared on those Saturday nights when neither of them had a date.

  Sometimes Miranda would join them but now that her Saturdays were filled, it was the two younger women.

  “I can’t eat another bite.” Harry flipped a shrimp to Pewter with her chopsticks.

  “I can!” Pewter gleefully caught the shrimp.

  Mrs. Murphy chewed some cashew chicken while Tucker worked on pork lo mein.

  The two humans folded back the tops, putting the cartons in the refrigerator. They took their coffee to the living room.

  Harry sat in the wing chair. Cooper plopped on the sofa, stretching her feet to the coffee table. She could relax with Harry. She pulled an unfiltered Camel from her shirt pocket.

  “Serious.”

  “It’s Rick’s fault.” Cooper squinted as she lit up. “For the last three months he’s switched brands hoping to cut back on the nicotine content. So instead of smoking one pack a day, he’d smoke three packs of the diet cigs. Then he reverted to the real deal but was still trying other brands. I don’t know why. He said maybe if one of them tasted bad to him, he’d slow down. Finally, he went back to Camels. Swears they taste the best. I concur.” She exhaled a blue curlicue. “I tried those different brands with him. Of course, the really expensive stuff, Dunhill, Shephard’s Hotel, that’s heaven but this is good. You never smoked, did you?”

  “Once in a blue moon, I’ll smoke my father’s pipe. It’s kind of soothing and it makes me think of Dad.”

  “I’m sorry I never met your father.”

  “He was a good guy. He knew a lot about the world. Very realistic but not, uh, cynical.”

  Harry smiled as the three animals came into the living room to clean faces, whiskers, one another.

  A good grooming after a meal was essential to mental health, especially for Mrs. Murphy who had a vain streak.

  “You think H.H.’s murder or Mychelle’s has anything to do with drugs?” Harry switched back to the problem at hand.

  “No.”

  “Me, neither.”

  “Then why’d you ask?” Cooper laughed.

  “You’re closer to the case than I am. You know things I don’t.”

  “It’s not drugs. The more we investigate the more it looks like lover’s revenge.”

  “Anne?”

  “Yes.”

  “That is so awful. I hope it’s not true.”

  “When you get right down to it, I’m surprised that more women don’t kill their husbands.”

  “Cynic.”

  Cooper swung her legs to the floor, leaned over and ground out her cigarette. “Maybe.”

  “Well, if it is Anne she was brilliant to kill him in front of everyone. Not so brilliant to kill Mychelle.”

  “No fingerprints. Not a scrap of physical evidence and no murder weapons.”

  “Ice. An ice bullet,” Mrs. Murphy meowed loudly.

  “Indigestion?” Harry glanced down at her tiger cat who was looking right up at her.

  “I love you, Harry, but you can be so obtuse.” Mrs. Murphy leapt onto Harry’s lap.

  “Don’t waste your breath. If you get upset you will get indigestion,” Pewter advised.

  “We’ll all be hungry in an hour anyway.” Tucker delivered her assessment of Chinese food.

  Pewter and Tucker scrambled onto the other end of the sofa, quickly settling down.

  “Do you mind?”

  “You ask?” Cooper laughed as she reached over to pet the two friends.

  “I’ve been thinking.”

  “God, no.” Cooper covered her face with her hands.

  “The next girls’ game is Tuesday. Wake Forest, I think. Well, it doesn’t matter who the opponent is. These events, including the attack on Tracy, all happen during or after women’s basketball games. Tonight’s the men’s game and I bet you nothing happens.”

  “So far nothing has happened except around the women’s games, but we can’t find a connection.” She put her feet back up on the coffee table. “What’s your idea?”

  “I’ve ruled out gambling.”

  Cooper laughed. “Keep going.”

  “This Tuesday night why don’t you and I and these guys stay in the Clam all night. The animals have much keener senses than we do.”

  “No way.”

  “You agree the site may be important.”

  “I don’t know. I mean that. I don’t know. H.H.’s murder was planned. I think Mychelle’s was opportunistic.”

  “Yeah, well, what can it hurt to have us there overnight?”

  “Tracy escaped with a knot on his head. Maybe he was lucky. I can’t risk you or even me without Rick’s approval. Besides, Harry, if he thought a surveillance was needed, he would assign someone to stay there at night after the game.”

  “Well—ask him.”

  “He’ll blow his stack at me, not at you. By the time he reaches you he’ll have cooled down enough for harsh words only.”

  “Chicken.”

  “I have to live with the man during work hours. You go talk to him first. You take the blast.”

  “Aha, you don’t think it’s a bad idea.”r />
  “I didn’t say it was.” Cooper knew that Irena Fotopappas, posing as a graduate student, was there during the day. No one was there all night. She’d bring it up to Rick but leave out Harry, Mrs. Murphy, Pewter, and Tucker. “But it’s a dangerous idea. Most especially since we don’t know what we’re looking for. If we knew, say, it was a gambling ring and a player shaves points, we might be able to do it, but Harry, we don’t know what’s going on if it isn’t Anne Donaldson. That’s risky.”