“Winston said Roscoe's running the women. Can't leave them alone.” Tucker was back on her conversation with the bulldog.
“Maybe this isn't a joke.” Mrs. Murphy, who had strong opinions about monogamy, curled on Harry's pillow next to her head.
“Oh, Murphy, it will all blow over.” Tucker wanted to go to sleep.
5
The woody aroma of expensive tobacco curled up from Sandy Brashiers's pipe. The leather patches on his tweed jacket were worn to a perfect degree. His silk rep tie, stripes running in the English direction, left to right, was from Oxford University Motor Car Club. He had studied at Oxford after graduating from Harvard. A cashmere V neck, the navy underscoring the navy stripe in the tie, completed his English-professor look.
However, the Fates or Sandy himself had not been kind. Not only was he not attached to a university, he was teaching high-school English, even if it was at a good prep school. This was not the future his own professors or he himself had envisioned when he was a star student.
He never fell from grace because he never reached high enough to tumble. Cowardice and alcohol already marred his good looks at forty-two. As for the cowardice, no one but Sandy seemed to know why he hung back when he was capable of much more. Then again, perhaps even he didn't know.
He did know he was being publicly humiliated by headmaster Roscoe Fletcher. When the ancient Peter Abbott retired as principal of the upper school at the end of last year's term, Sandy should have automatically been selected to succeed Abbott. Roscoe dithered, then dallied, finally naming Sandy principal pro tem. He declared a genuine search should take place, much as he wished to promote from within.
This split the board of directors and enraged the faculty, most of whom believed the post should go to Sandy. If Roscoe was going to form a search committee each time a position opened, could any faculty member march assuredly into administration?
Fortunately for Brooks Tucker, she knew nothing of the prep school's politics. She was entranced as Mr. Brashiers discussed the moral turpitude of Lady Macbeth in the highly popular Shakespeare elective class.
“What would have happened if Lady Macbeth could have acted directly, if she didn't have to channel her ambition through her husband?”
Roger Davis raised his hand. “She would have challenged the king right in his face.”
“No way,” pretty Jody Miller blurted before she raised her hand.
“Would you like to expand on that theme after I call on you?” Sandy wryly nodded to the model-tall girl.
“Sorry, Mr. Brashiers.” She twirled her pencil, a nervous habit. “Lady Macbeth was devious. It would be out of character to challenge the king openly. I don't think her position in society would change that part of her character. She'd be sneaky even if she were a man.”
Brooks, eyebrows knit together, wondered if that was true. She wanted to participate, but she was shy in her new surroundings even though she knew many of her classmates from social activities outside of school.
Sean Hallahan, the star halfback on the football team, was called on and said in his deep voice, “She's devious, Jody, because she has to hide her ambition.”
This pleased Sandy Brashiers, although it did not please Jody Miller, who was angry at Sean. Ten years ago the boys rarely understood the pressures on women's lives, but enough progress had been made that his male students could read a text bearing those pressures in mind.
Karen Jensen, blond and green-eyed, the most popular girl in the junior class, chirped, “Maybe she was having a bad hair day.”
Everyone laughed.
After class Brooks, Karen, and Jody walked to the cafeteria—or the Ptomaine Pit, as it was known. Roger Davis, tall and not yet filled out, trailed behind. He wanted to talk to Brooks. Still awkward, he racked his brain about how to open a conversation.
He who hesitates is lost. Sean scooted by him, skidding next to the girls, secure in his welcome.
“Think the president's wife is Lady Macbeth?”
The three girls kept walking while Jody sarcastically said, “Sean, how long did it take you to think of that?”
“You inspire me, Jody.” He cocked his head, full of himself.
Roger watched this from behind them. He swallowed hard, took two big strides and caught up.
“Hey, bean,” Sean offhandedly greeted him, not at all happy that he might have to share the attention of three pretty girls.
If Roger had been a smart-ass kid, he would have called Sean a bonehead or something. Sean was bright enough, but his attitude infuriated the other boys. Roger was too nice a guy to put someone else down, though. Instead he smiled and forgot what he was going to say to Brooks.
Luckily, she initiated the conversation. “Are you still working at the car wash?”
“Yes.”
“Do they need help? I mean, I'd like to get a job and—” Her voice faced away.
“Jimbo always needs help. I'll ask him,” Roger said firmly, now filled with a mission: to help Brooks.
Jimbo C. Anson, as wide as he was tall, owned the car wash, the local heating-fuel company, and a small asphalt plant that he had bought when the owner, Kelly Craycroft, died unexpectedly. Living proof of the capitalist vision of life, Jimbo was also a soft touch. Brooks would be certain to get that after-school job.
Brooks was surprised when she walked through the backdoor of her house that afternoon to find her mother on the phone with Roger. He'd already gotten her the job. She needed to decide whether to work after school, weekends, or both.
After Brooks profusely thanked Roger, she said she'd call him back since she needed to talk to her mother.
“I guess you do.” Susan stared at her after Brooks hung up the phone.
“Mom, St. Elizabeth's is expensive. I want to make money.”
“Honey, we aren't on food stamps. At least, not yet.” Susan sighed, loath to admit that the few fights she ever had with Ned were over money.
“If I can pay for my clothes and stuff, that will help some.”
Susan stared into those soft hazel eyes, just like Ned's. Happy as she was to hear of Brooks's willingness to be responsible, she was oddly saddened or perhaps nostalgic: her babies were growing up fast. Somehow life went by in a blur. Wasn't it just yesterday she was holding this beautiful young woman in her arms, wondering at her tiny fingers and toes?
Susan cleared her throat. “I'm proud of you.” She paused. “Let's go take a look at the car wash before you make a decision.”
“Great.” Brooks smiled, revealing the wonders of orthodontic work.
“Yeehaw!” came a holler from outside the backdoor.
“I'm here, too,” Tucker barked.
Neither Mrs. Murphy nor Pewter was going to brazenly advertise her presence.
The Tucker's own corgi, Tee Tucker's brother, Owen Tudor, raced to the backdoor as it swung open. Their mother had died of old age that spring. It was now a one-corgi household.
“Tucker.” Owen kissed his sister. He would have kissed the two cats except they deftly sidestepped his advances.
“I didn't hear your truck,” Susan said.
“Dead. This time it's the carburetor.” Harry sighed. “One of these years I will buy a new truck.”
“And the cows will fly,” Pewter added sardonically.
“Mom might win the lottery.” Tucker, ever the optimist, pricked up her cars.
“Need a ride home?” Susan offered.
“I'll walk. Good for me and good for the critters.”
“It's not good for me,” Pewter objected instantly. “My paws are too delicate.”
“You're too fat,” Mrs. Murphy said bluntly.
“I have big bones.”
“Pewter—” Tucker started to say something but was interrupted by Susan, who reached down to pet her.
“Why don't you all hop in the car, and we'll go to the car wash? Brooks took a job there, but I want to check it out. If you go with me, I'll feel better.”
“Sure.�
��
Everyone piled into the Audi. Mrs. Murphy enjoyed riding in cars. Pewter endured it. The two dogs loved every minute of it, but they were so low to the ground the only way they could see out the window was to sit on human laps, which were never in short supply.
They waved to Big Mim in her Bentley Turbo R, heading back toward Crozet.
Mrs. Murphy, lying down in the back window, watched the opulent and powerful machine glide by. “She's still in her Bavarian phase.”
“Huh?” Tucker asked.
“Caps with pheasant feathers, boiled wool jackets. For all I know she's wearing lederhosen, or one of those long skirts that weigh a sweet ton.”
“You know, if I were German, I'd be embarrassed when Americans dress like that,” Pewter noted sagely.
“If I were German, I'd be embarrassed if Germans dressed like that,” Owen Tudor piped up, which made the animals laugh.
“You-all are being awfully noisy,” Harry chided them.
“They're just talking,” Brooks protested.
“If animals could talk, do you know what they'd say?” Susan then told them: “What's to eat? Where's the food? Can I sleep with it? Okay, can I sleep on it?”
“I resent that,” Mrs. Murphy growled.
“Who cares?” Pewter airily dismissed the human's gibe.
“What else can they do but joke about their betters? Low self-esteem.” Owen chuckled.
“Yeah, and whoever invented that term ought to be hung at sundown.” Mrs. Murphy, not one given to psychologizing, put one paw on Harry's shoulder. “In fact, the idea that a person is fully formed in childhood is absurd. Only a human could come up with that one.”
“They can't help it,” Tucker said.
“Well, they could certainly shut up about it,” Mrs. Murphy suggested strongly.
“BoomBoom Craycroft can sure sling that crap around.” Tucker didn't really dislike the woman, but then again, she didn't really like her either.
“You haven't heard the latest!” Pewter eagerly sat up by Brooks in the backseat.
“What?” The other animals leaned toward the cat.
“Heard it at Market's.”
“Well!” Mrs. Murphy imperiously prodded.
“As I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted—”
“I did not interrupt you.” Tucker was testy.
Owen stepped in. “Shut up, Tucker, let her tell her story.”
“Well, BoomBoom was buying little glass bottles and a mess of Q-Tips, I mean enough Q-Tips to clean all the ears in Albemarle County. So Market asks, naturally enough, what is she going to do with all this stuff. Poor guy, next thing you know she launches into an explanation about fragrance therapy. No kidding. How certain essences will create emotional states or certain smells will soothe human ailments. She must have blabbed on for forty-five minutes. I thought I would fall off the counter laughing at her.”
“She's off her nut,” Owen said.
“Market asked for an example.” Pewter relished her tale. “She allowed as how she didn't have any essence with her but, for instance, if he felt a headache coming on, he should turn off the lights, sit in a silent room, and put a pot of water on the stove with a few drops of sage essence. It would be even better if he had a wood-burning stove. Then he could put the essence of sage in the little humidifier on top.”
“Essence of bullshit,” Mrs. Murphy replied sardonically.
“Will you-all be quiet? This is embarrassing. Susan will never let you in her car again,” Harry complained.
“All right by me,” Pewter replied saucily, which made the animals laugh again.
Brooks petted Pewter's round head. “They have their own language.”
“You know, that's a frightening thought.” Susan glanced at her daughter in the rearview mirror, surrounded as she was by animals. “My Owen and poor dear departed Champion Beatitude of Grace—”
“Just call her Shortstop. I hate it when Susan uses Mom's full title.” Owen's eyes saddened.
“She was a champion. She won more corgi firsts than Pewter and Murphy have fleas,” Tucker said.
Murphy swatted at Tucker's stump. “If you had a tail, I would chew it to bits.”
“I saw you scratching.”
“Tucker, that was not fleas.”
“What was it then, your highness? Eczema? Psoriasis? Hives?”
“Shut up.” Mrs. Murphy bopped her hard.
“That is enough!” Harry twisted around in the front passenger seat and missed them because the car reached the entrance to the brand-new car wash, and the stop threw her forward.
Roger dashed out of the small glass booth by the entrance to the car-wash corridor.
“Hi, Mrs. Tucker.” He smiled broadly. “Hi, Brooks. Hi, Mrs. Haristeen . . . and everybody.”
“Is Jimbo here?”
“Yes, ma'am.”
A car pulled up behind them, and one behind that. Roscoe Fletcher squirmed impatiently in the second car.
“Roger, I want to zip through this extravaganza.” Susan reached in her purse for the $5.25 for exterior wash only.
“Mom, let's shoot the works.”
“That's eleven ninety-five.”
“I'll contribute!” Harry fished a five out of her hip pocket and handed it to Roger.
“Harry, don't do that.”
“Shut up, Suz, we're holding up traffic.”
“Here's the one.” Brooks forked over a one-dollar bill.
“Okay then, a little to the right, Mrs. Tucker. There, you've got it. Now put your car in neutral and turn off the radio, if you have it on. Oh, and roll up the windows.”
She rolled up the driver's-side window as Roger picked up a long scrub brush to scrub her headlights and front grille while Karen Jensen worked the rear bumper. She waved.
“Hey, I didn't know Karen worked here. Jody, too.” She saw Jody putting on mascara as she sat behind the cash register.
“Brooks, don't you dare open that window,” Susan commanded as she felt the belt hook under the left car wheel. They lurched forward.
“Hey, hey, I can't see!” Pewter screeched.
“Early blindness,” Mrs. Murphy said maliciously as the yellow neon light flashed on, a bell rang, and a wall of water hit them with force.
Each cleansing function—waxing, underbody scrub and coat, rinsing—was preceded by a neon light accompanied by a bell and buzzer noise. By the time they hit the blowers, Pewter frothed at the mouth.
“Poor kitty.” Brooks petted her.
“Pewter, it really is okay. We're not in any danger.” Mrs. Murphy felt bad that she had tormented her.
The gray kitty shook.
“Last time I take her through a car wash.” Harry, too, felt sorry for the cat's plight.
They finally emerged with a bump from the tunnel of cleanliness. Susan popped the car in gear and parked it in a lot on the other side of the car wash.
As she and Brooks got out to meet with Jimbo Anson, Harry consoled Pewter, who crawled into her lap. The other animals kept quiet.
A light rap on the window startled Harry, she was so intent on soothing the cat.
“Hi, Roscoe. You're right, it is like a Broadway show with all those lights.”
“Funny, huh?” He offered her a tiny sweet, a miniature strawberry in a LaVossienne tin, French in origin. “Just discovered these. Les Fraises Bonbon Fruits pack a punch. Go on and try one.”
“Okay.” She reached in and plucked out a miniature strawberry. “Whooo.”
“That'll pucker those lips. Naomi is trying to get me to stop eating so much sugar but I love sweetness.” He noticed Brooks and Susan in the small office with Jimbo Anson. “Has she said anything about school?”
“She likes it.”
“Good, good. You been to the vet?”
“No, we're out for a family drive.”
“I can't remember the times I've seen you without Mrs. Murphy and Tucker. Now you've got Pewter, too. Market said she was eating him out of house
and home.”
“No-o-o,” the cat wailed, shaken but insulted.
“Hey, Pewter, we'll get even. We can pee on his mail before Mom stuffs it in his box,” Murphy sang out gaily. “Or we could shred it to bits, except the bills. Keep them intact.”
St. Elizabeth's mail was delivered directly to the school. Personal mail was delivered to the Crozet post office.
“Yeah.” Pewter perked up.
“Good to see you, the animals too.” He waved and Harry hit the button to close the window.
Then she called after him, “Where'd you get the strawberry drops?”
“Foods of All Nations,” he replied.
She noticed Karen Jensen making a face after he passed by. Roger laughed. “Kids,” Harry thought to herself. Then she remembered the time she stuck Elmer's Glue in the locks of her most unfavorite teacher's desk drawer.
After ten minutes Susan and Brooks returned to the car.
Books was excited. “I'll work after school on Monday 'cause there's no field hockey practice, and I'll work Saturdays. Cool!”
“Sounds good to me.” Harry held up her hand for a high five as Brooks bounced into the backseat.
Susan turned on the ignition. “This way she won't miss practice. After all, part of school is sports.”
“Can we go home now?” Pewter cried.
“Roscoe must live at this place,” Susan said lightly as they pulled out of the parking lot.
6
Little squeaks behind the tack-room walls distracted Harry from dialing. She pressed the disconnect button to redial.
Mrs. Murphy sauntered into the tack room, then paused, her ears swept forward. “What balls!”
“Beg pardon?” Pewter opened one chartreuse eye.
“Mouse balls. Can you hear them?”
Pewter closed her eye. “Yes, but it's not worth fretting over.”
Harry, finger still on the disconnect button, rested the telephone receiver on her shoulder. “What in the hell are they doing, Murphy?”
“Having a party,” the tiger replied, frustrated that she couldn't get at her quarry.
Harry lifted the receiver off her shoulder, pointing at the cat with it. “I can't put down poison. If you catch a sick mouse, then you'll die. I can't put the hose into their holes because I'll flood the tack room. I really thought you could solve this problem.”
Murder on the Prowl Page 4