Pawing Through the Past

by Rita Mae Brown

  “He had his boots on. The heel was someone else. That was the thing. He could still pass as a man, an effeminate one, if he again dressed in men’s clothes. He swears he nailed Leo Burkey in the Outback parking lot. Says he came back around and got Leo in the car. As to Charlie, Ron came down the back stairs, dressed as a man, walked into the locker room and shot him. He always identified himself first. He said Charlie laughed and Leo turned white as a sheet.”

  “What an elaborate ritual of revenge.” Tracy’s head throbbed. “To fake his own death. He knew whoever jumped off that bridge would be swept to sea. They hardly ever retrieve the bodies of the people who jump or fall from the Golden Gate Bridge.”

  “It was a despondent man he met in a bar,” Cynthia said. “They made a suicide pact, the other fellow jumped and Ron didn’t. Ron wrote the note ‘Enough is enough.’ People were so shocked at seeing a man standing on the edge of the bridge they didn’t notice another man creeping away.”

  “But the yearbook!” Harry stood up, brushing off her rear end. She was sore from the struggle and her left jaw, turning dark red, would soon turn black-and-blue.

  “He rummaged around used-bookstores. Found yearbooks, leafing through them. He said he looked through hundreds until he found a picture of a tall, lanky dark-haired girl that would work. People don’t study yearbook pictures. He knew you wouldn’t scrutinize. He said he decided to live life a blonde, which would make you laugh. He somewhat resembled Chris Sharpton. He understood people in a cunning fashion. He especially understood the code of politeness. He knew people around here wouldn’t pry.”

  “Is Chris Sharpton alive?”

  “Yes. She’s married for the second time and lives in Fort Wayne, Indiana. She married her high-school boyfriend, divorced him, and in a fit sold off everything they’d had together, including her high-school yearbook. The book found its way to a San Francisco used-bookshop. Sometimes those dealers buy in lots from other dealers. At least he didn’t kill Chris Sharpton,” Cynthia said. “Rick had our guys calling and checking everything the minute he started talking.”

  “Did he fake Marcy Wiggins’ suicide?” Susan felt terrible for the dead woman.

  “No, she really was despondent and was on antidepression medication for months. She kept her gun in the glove compartment of her car. He’d steal it, then put it back. Brazen. If she’d caught him, he’d have made up a story.”

  “When did he become a woman?” Miranda wanted to know.

  “After college. He worked for a large pharmaceutical com-pany, learned as much as he could about the process, saved his money, moved to San Francisco, and underwent the sex-change process there, which is time-consuming and costly. It didn’t make him any happier, though. All those years he was transforming, his one motivation was to return and punish his tormentors.”

  “Time stopped for him.” Fair removed the cold pack from Tucker’s head for a moment, to the relief of the dog.

  “He’ll get the chair,” Susan bluntly stated.

  “He wants to die. His only regret is that he couldn’t kill Hank Bittner and Dennis.”

  “What will happen to Dennis?” Harry wondered out loud. “Was he in on it from the beginning?”

  “No. Dennis drove to Chris’s after losing our tail. He put his van in Chris’s garage—at her suggestion. Or should I say, his? He was upset from the reunion supper and wanted to talk. She lured him into sex games. He went to bed with her and that’s how Chris—or Ron—got the cuffs on him without a struggle. After that Ron was always near him with a gun on him. He was up in the stairwell when Dennis hit you, Harry. They were waiting for Hank.”

  Cynthia shrugged. “Dennis was a coward in not fighting Leo, Charlie, Rex, and Bob in the locker room but then four against one isn’t good odds. Two against four if Ron had fought back isn’t good odds either, but Dennis was afraid to be discovered. He was in a sexual relationship with Ron. At least up until the rape. But you know, Dennis wasn’t a coward once Chris revealed who she really was. He said he was prepared to die in order to save his children. Ron confirms that, too.”

  “Is Dennis gay?” Fair asked.

  “I don’t know. Ron was crazy about him and Dennis said at that time in his life getting laid was the most important thing in the world.”

  “In a way, I’m surprised more gay people don’t lose it, become violent.” Fair had never really thought about it.

  “Statistically, they are one of the most nonviolent groups we have in America,” Cynthia replied. “Yet they are still utterly despised by a lot of people. It was worse in Ron’s youth. That doesn’t justify what he’s done. And the press will make a big hoo-ha over it. Every gay leader in the country will have something to say and every reactionary will point to this as proof positive that gays are the Devil’s spawn, ignoring the fact that most violent crimes are committed by heterosexual males between the ages of fifteen and twenty-five. The truth is irrelevant.”

  “It always has been,” Susan agreed. “My husband can tell you that.”

  Ned Tucker, being a lawyer, had seen enough lying, cheating, and getting-away-with-it to fill three lifetimes.

  “No wonder we couldn’t figure out what was happening,” Harry said thoughtfully. “A man consumed by revenge, turns into a woman. One life is deformed, if you can stand that word, and four men die for it twenty years later. I would have never figured out that Chris Sharpton was Ron Brindell. I’m just glad to be alive—even if I am a little dumb.”

  “None of us would have figured it out.” Susan, too, knew she wouldn’t have put the pieces together.

  “Then what was all that business about the mother of Charlie Ashcraft’s illegitimate child?” Fair asked. “A couple of the victims mentioned that—and, well, there was a lot of loose talk.”

  “That was a red herring,” Cynthia replied. “But at that stage no one except the victims knew this was connected to Ron Brindell. They thought Charlie’s murder might have something to do with his past lovers or his illegitimate child.”

  “Does anyone know who that woman is?” Harry asked Cynthia.

  “It has no bearing on the case,” Cynthia quickly said.

  “I’d like to know.” Harry shrugged. “Curiosity.”

  “Forget about it.” Susan sighed. “It will come out in time. All of Crozet’s secrets eventually see the light of day.”

  “I can’t believe all the times I was in Chris’s company and I never thought anything. Although I thought she had awfully big feet,” Harry exclaimed.

  Cynthia said, “He was brilliant in his way.”

  “Well, I owe thanks to one brave dog and two kitties who flew through the air with the greatest of ease.” Harry kissed Mrs. Murphy and Pewter.

  Tracy said, “And I thank them, too. Ron hit me hard on the back of the head. If he’d shot me the noise would have warned you. He would have finished me off after he killed you.”

  “Tracy, you came all the way back from Hawaii for your reunion. I’m sorry it was spoiled,” Harry said.

  “Brought me home. I’m thankful for that. I might stay awhile.” He squeezed Miranda to him.

  “I don’t think I would have figured out that Chris was Ron.” Mrs. Murphy rubbed against Harry’s side as she was again seated on the floor.

  “She was as nice as she could be and she didn’t seem masculine or anything—except she had this little Adam’s apple. I never thought a thing about it,” Pewter said.

  “I should have known.” Tucker sat up on Fair’s lap. “Too much perfume. She masked her scent or rather lack of it. You can change forms but you can’t really change scent but so much. That’s probably why he doused his black sweats and black shirt with English Leather. It smells manly.”

  “Well, we’d better go check on Simon.” Mrs. Murphy left the room followed by Pewter and Tucker, too.

  “Are you guys going potsie?” Harry asked.

  “God, I wish she wouldn’t say that. It sounds so stupid. I love her, I’m thrilled she’s alive,
but is there any way to get her to drop ‘potsie’ from her vocabulary?” Tucker laid her ears back.

  “Just say yes, you are, and come on,” Pewter advised.

  Outside, the cold bracing air felt clean as they breathed. The snow was now nearly eight to ten inches deep. Tucker ran to the barn, snow flying up behind her. Pewter and Mrs. Murphy, hopping from spot to spot since the snow was almost over their heads, soon followed.

  Simon peered over the loft edge. The horses offered thanks to all. They’d been in their stalls and couldn’t do anything to help.

  “Thank you, Simon,” Murphy meowed.

  “Flatface,” Pewter called up.

  “Who’s there?” said the enormous bird, who knew exactly who was there as she looked down from her high nest.

  “Thank you,” they said in unison. “Thank you for helping to save Harry.”

  “Inept groundlings!” came the Olympian reply.

  * * *

  Dear Reader,

  Perfect revenge. I must tell. Today the thermometer soared to 105.4°F. Granted, that’s hateful to man or beast but I needed a constitutional. My human thinks she knows what’s best for me. The gall. I don’t pretend to know what’s best for her even when I do. Anyway, she wouldn’t let me outside. Of course, I’m not going to befoul the rug. I used my dirt box like a civilized animal. Still, it bothered me that I couldn’t do what I wanted to do when I wanted to do it. I’m sure you understand.

  Later, she got all dolled up. That in itself is worthy of comment. Oh, the whole symphony of loveliness—hair curled, lipstick, mascara, a summer blouse and skirt along with sheer hose. Why do women wear nylons? To entice us, I suppose.

  I hid behind the chair and when she walked by on her way to the front door, I attacked, snagged the hose, and she had a run that ruined them. The fussing and cursing did my heart good. Naturally, she was late for her date. Too bad. That will teach her to pay attention to my needs/demands.

  Before I forget it. My website is www.ritamaebrown.com. We’ve simplified the address. Don’t worry. You don’t have to waste time with her stuff. You can go right to my pages and I hope you do. You can reach me at P. O. Box 696, Crozet, VA 22932.

  I’d be thrilled if you’d tell me your acts of revenge—just in case.

  Pewter, by the way, is on a diet. This is not improving her personality. Even the dog doesn’t want to be around her but I must admit she is looking good. She got so fat there for a while that the floor shook when she waddled on it.

  Hope all is well with you.

  Sneaky Pie

  * * *

  Books by Rita Mae Brown with Sneaky Pie Brown

  WISH YOU WERE HERE

  REST IN PIECES

  MURDER AT MONTICELLO

  PAY DIRT

  MURDER, SHE MEOWED

  MURDER ON THE PROWL

  CAT ON THE SCENT

  SNEAKY PIE’S COOKBOOK FOR MYSTERY LOVERS

  PAWING THROUGH THE PAST

  CLAWS AND EFFECT

  CATCH AS CAT CAN

  THE TAIL OF THE TIP-OFF

  WHISKER OF EVIL

  Books by Rita Mae Brown

  THE HAND THAT CRADLES THE ROCK

  SONGS TO A HANDSOME WOMAN

  THE PLAIN BROWN RAPPER

  RUBYFRUIT JUNGLE

  IN HER DAY

  SIX OF ONE

  SOUTHERN DISCOMFORT

  SUDDEN DEATH

  HIGH HEARTS

  STARTING FROM SCRATCH:

  A DIFFERENT KIND OF WRITERS’ MANUAL

  BINGO

  VENUS ENVY

  DOLLEY: A NOVEL OF DOLLEY MADISON IN LOVE AND WAR

  RIDING SHOTGUN

  RITA WILL: MEMOIR OF A LITERARY RABBLE-ROUSER

  LOOSE LIPS

  OUTFOXED

  HOTSPUR

  FULL CRY

  * * *

  Don’t miss the new mystery from

  RITA MAE BROWN

  and

  SNEAKY PIE BROWN

  Whisker of Evil

  Now available in hardcover

  from Bantam Books

  Please read on for a preview . . .

  * * *

  * * *

  Whisker of Evil

  on sale now

  Barry Monteith was still breathing when Harry found him. His throat had been ripped out.

  Tee Tucker, a corgi, racing ahead of Mary Minor Haristeen as well as the two cats, Mrs. Murphy and Pewter, found him first.

  Barry was on his back, eyes open, gasping and gurgling, life ebbing with each spasm. He did not recognize Tucker nor Harry when they reached him.

  “Barry, Barry.” Harry tried to comfort him, hoping he could hear her. “It will be all right,” she said, knowing perfectly well he was dying.

  The tiger cat, Mrs. Murphy, watched the blood jet upward.

  “Jugular,” fat, gray Pewter succinctly commented.

  Gently, Harry took the young man’s hand and prayed, “Dear Lord, receive into thy bosom the soul of Barry Monteith, a good man.” Tears welled in her eyes.

  Barry jerked, then his suffering ended.

  Death, often so shocking to city dwellers, was part of life here in the country. A hawk would swoop down to carry away the chick while the biddy screamed useless defiance. A bull would break his hip and need to be put down. And one day an old farmer would slowly walk to his tractor only to discover he couldn’t climb into the seat. The Angel of Death placed his hand on the stooping shoulder.

  It appeared the Angel had offered little peaceful deliverance to Barry Monteith, thirty-four, fit, handsome with brown curly hair, and fun-loving. Barry had started his own business, breeding thoroughbreds, a year ago, with a business partner, Sugar Thierry.

  “Sweet Jesus.” Harry wiped away the tears.

  That Saturday morning, crisp, clear, and beautiful, had held the alluring promise of a perfect May 29. The promise had just curdled.

  Harry had finished her early-morning chores and, despite a list of projects, decided to take a walk for an hour. She followed Potlicker Creek to see if the beavers had built any new dams. Barry was sprawled at the creek’s edge on a dirt road two miles from her farm that wound up over the mountains into adjoining Augusta County. It edged the vast land holdings of Tally Urquhart, who, well into her nineties and spry, loathed traffic. Three cars constituted traffic in her mind. The only time the road saw much use was during deer-hunting season in the fall.

  “Tucker, Mrs. Murphy, and Pewter, stay. I’m going to run to Tally’s and phone the sheriff.”

  If Harry hit a steady lope, crossed the fields and one set of woods, she figured she could reach the phone in Tally’s stable within fifteen minutes, though the pitch and roll of the land including one steep ravine would cost time.

  As she left her animals, they inspected Barry.

  “What could rip his throat like that? A bear swipe?” Pewter’s pupils widened.

  “Perhaps.” Mrs. Murphy, noncommittal, sniffed the gaping wound, as did Tucker.

  The cat curled her upper lip to waft more scent into her nostrils. The dog, whose nose was much longer and nostrils larger, simply inhaled.

  “I don’t smell bear,” Tucker declared. “That’s an overpowering scent, and on a morning like this it would stick.”

  Pewter, who cherished luxury and beauty, found that Barry’s corpse disturbed her equilibrium. “Let’s be grateful we found him today and not three days from now.”

  “Stop jabbering, Pewter, and look around, will you? Look for tracks.”

  Grumbling, the gray cat daintily stepped down the dirt road. “You mean like car tracks?”

  “Yes, or animal tracks,” Mrs. Murphy directed, then returned her attention to Tucker. “Even though coyote scent isn’t as strong as bear, we’d still smell a whiff. Bobcat? I don’t smell anything like that. Or dog. There are wild dogs and wild pigs back in the mountains. The humans don’t even realize they’re there.”

  Tucker cocked her perfectly shaped head. “No dirt around the wound. No s
aliva, either.”

  “I don’t see anything. Not even a birdie foot,” Pewter, irritated, called out from a hundred yards down the road.