Harry, from the inside, opened the door to the post office and stood, framed in the light. “What are you guys jawing about? This is government property. No riffraff.”
“Guess you'll have to go, Fair,” Ned said slyly.
The other men laughed.
“We're picking our teams for this year.” Jim explained the reasoning behind each man's choice.
“I pick Smith!”
“Since when does Smith have a football team?” Sandy Brashiers asked innocently.
“They don't, but if they did they'd beat VMI,” Harry replied. “Think I'll call Art Bushey and torment him about it.”
This provoked more laughter. Mrs. Murphy, roused from a mid-morning catnap, walked to the open doorway and sat down. She exhaled, picked up a paw, and licked the side of it, which she rubbed on her face. She liked football, occasionally trying to catch the tiny ball as it streaked across the television screen. In her mind she'd caught many a bomb. Today football interested her not a jot. She ruffled her fur, smoothed it down, then strolled alongside the path between the post office and the market. She could hear Harry and the men teasing one another with outbursts of laughter. Then Miranda joined them to even more laughter.
Mrs. Murphy had lived all her life on this plot of Virginia soil. She watched the news at six and sometimes at eleven, although usually she was asleep by then. She read the newspapers by sitting right in front of Harry when she read. As near as she could tell, humans lived miserable lives in big cities. It was either that or newspapers worked on the Puritan principle of underlining misery so the reader would feel better about his or her own life. Whatever the reason, the cat found human news dull. It was one murder, car wreck, and natural disaster after another.
People liked one another here. They knew one another all their lives, with the occasional newcomer adding spice and speculation to the mix. And it wasn't as though Crozet never had bad things happen. People being what they are, jealousy, greed, and lust existed. Those caught paid the price. But in the main, the people were good. If nothing else they took care of their pets.
She heard a small, muffled sob behind Market Shiflett's store. She trotted to the back. Jody Miller, head in hands, was crying her heart out. Pewter sat at her sneakers, putting her paw on the girl's leg from time to time, offering comfort.
“I wondered where you were.” Murphy touched noses with Pewter, then stared at the girl.
Jody's blackening eye caught her attention when the girl removed her hands from her face. She wiped her nose with the back of her hand, blinking through her tears. “Hello, Mrs. Murphy.”
“Hello, Jody. What's the matter?” Murphy rubbed against her leg.
Jody stared out at the alleyway, absentmindedly stroking both cats.
“Did she say anything to you?”
“No,” Pewter replied.
“Poor kid. She took a pounding.” Mrs. Murphy stood on her hind legs, putting her paws on Jody's left knee for a closer look at the young woman's injury. “This just happened.”
“Maybe she got in a fight on the way to school.”
“She has field hockey practice early in the morning—Brooks does, too.”
“Oh, yeah.” Pewter cocked her head, trying to capture Jody's attention. “Maybe her father hit her.”
Kendrick Miller possessed a vicious temper. Not that anyone outside of the family ever saw him hit his wife or only child, but people looked at him sideways sometimes.
The light crunch of a footfall alerted the cats. Jody, still crying, heard nothing. Sandy Brashiers, whose car was parked behind the market, stopped in his tracks.
“Jody!” he exclaimed, quickly bending down to help her.
She swung her body away from him. The cats moved out of the way. “I'm all right.”
He peered at her shiner. “You've been better. Come on, I'll run you over to Larry Johnson. Can't hurt to have the doctor take a look. You can't take a chance with your eyes, honey.”
“Don't call me honey.” Her vehemence astonished even her.
“I'm sorry.” He blushed. “Come on.”
“No.”
“Jody, if you won't let me take you to Dr. Johnson, then I'll have to take you home. I can't just leave you here.”
The backdoor of the post office swung open, and Harry stepped out; she had heard Jody's voice. Miranda was right behind her.
“Oh, dear,” Miranda whispered.
Harry came over. “Jody, that's got to hurt.”
“I'm all right!” She stood up.
“That's debatable.” Sandy was losing patience.
Miranda put a motherly arm around the girl's shoulders. “What happened?”
“Nothing.”
“She got pasted away,” Pewter offered.
“I suggested that I take her to Larry Johnson—to be on the safe side.” Sandy shoved his hands into his corduroy pockets.
Jody balefully implored Miranda with her one good eye. “I don't want anyone to see me.”
“You can't hide for two weeks. That's about how long it will take for your raccoon eye to disappear.” Harry didn't like the look of that eye.
“Now, Jody, you just listen to me,” Miranda persisted. “I am taking you to Larry Johnson's. You can't play Russian roulette with your health. Mr. Brashiers will tell Mr. Fletcher that you're at the doctor's office so you won't get in trouble at school.”
“Nobody cares about me. And don't call Mr. Fletcher. Just leave him out of it.”
“People care.” Miranda patted her and hugged her. “But for right now you come with me.”
Encouraged and soothed by Miranda, Jody climbed into the older woman's ancient Ford Falcon.
Harry knitted her eyebrows in concern. Sandy, too. Without knowing it they were mirror images of one another.
Sandy finally spoke. “Coach Hallvard can be rough, but not that rough.”
“Maybe she got into a fight with another kid at school,” Harry said, thinking out loud.
“Over what?” Pewter asked.
“Boys. Drugs. PMS.” Mrs. Murphy flicked her tail in irritation.
“You can be cynical.” Pewter noticed a praying mantis in the crepe myrtle.
“Not cynical. Realistic.”
Tucker waddled out of the post office. Fast asleep, she had awakened to find no one in the P.O. “What's going on?”
“High-school drama.” The cats rubbed it in. “And you missed it.”
Larry Johnson phoned Irene Miller, who immediately drove to his office. But Jody kept her mouth shut . . . especially in front of her mother.
Later that afternoon, Janice Walker dropped by the post office. “Harry, you ought to be a detective! How did you know it was Sean Hallahan? When you called me back yesterday to tell me, I wasn't sure, but he came by this morning to apologize. He even took time off from school to do it.”
“Two and two.” Harry flipped up the divider between the mail room and the public area. “He sounds like his dad. He can be a smart-ass, and hey, wouldn't it be wild to do something like that? He'll be a hero to all the kids at St. Elizabeth's.”
“Never thought of it that way,” Janice replied.
“You know, I was thinking of calling in BoomBoom Craycroft's demise.” Harry's eyes twinkled.
Janice burst out laughing. “You're awful!”
11
Roscoe glanced out his window across the pretty quad that was the heart of St. Elizabeth's. Redbrick buildings, simple Federal style, surrounded the green. Two enormous oaks anchored either end, their foliage an electrifying orange-yellow.
Behind the “home” buildings, as they were known, stood later additions, and beyond those the gym and playing fields beckoned, a huge parking lot between them.
The warm oak paneling gave Roscoe's office an inviting air. A burl partner's desk rested in the middle of the room. A leather sofa, two leather chairs, and a coffee table blanketed with books filled up one side of the big office.
Not an academic, Roscoe made a surprisingly g
ood headmaster. His lack of credentials bothered the teaching staff, who had originally wanted one of their own, namely Sandy Brashiers or even Ed Sugarman. But Roscoe over the last seven years had won over most of them. For one thing, he knew how to raise money as he had a “selling” personality and a wealth of good business contacts. For another, he was a good administrator. His MBA from the Wharton School at University of Pennsylvania stood him in good stead.
“Come in.” He responded to the firm knock at the door, then heard a loud “Don't you dare!”
He quickly opened the door to find his secretary, April, and Sandy Brashiers yelling at each other.
April apologized. “He didn't ask for an appointment. He walked right by me.”
“April, stop being so officious.” Sandy brushed her off.
“You have no right to barge in here.” She planted her hands on her slim hips.
Roscoe, voice soothing, patted her on her padded shoulder. “That's all right. I'm accustomed to Mr. Brashiers's impetuosity.”
He motioned for Sandy to come in while winking at April, who blushed with pleasure.
“What can I do for you, Sandy?”
“Drop dead” was what Sandy wanted to say. Instead he cleared his throat. “I'm worried about Jody Miller. She's become withdrawn, and this morning I found her behind the post office. She had a bruised cheek and a black eye and refused to talk about it.”
“There is instability in the home. It was bound to surface in Jody eventually.” Roscoe did not motion for Sandy to sit down. He leaned against his desk, folding his arms across his chest.
“A black eye counts for more than instability. That girl needs help.”
“Sandy,” Roscoe enunciated carefully, “I can't accuse her parents of abuse without her collaboration. And who's to say Kendrick hit her? It could have been anybody.”
“How can you turn away?” Sandy impulsively accused the florid, larger man.
“I am not turning away. I will investigate the situation, but I advise you to be prudent. Until we know what's amiss or until Jody herself comes forward, any accusation would be extremely irresponsible.”
“Don't lecture me.”
“Don't lecture me.”
“You don't give a damn about that girl's well-being. You sure as hell give a damn about her father's contributions to your film project—money we could use elsewhere.”
“I've got work to do. I told you I'll look into it.” Roscoe dropped his folded arms to his sides, then pointed a finger in Sandy's reddening face. “Butt out. If you stir up a hornet's nest, you'll get stung worse than the rest of us.”
“What's that shopworn metaphor supposed to mean?” Sandy clenched his teeth.
“That I know your secret.”
Sandy blanched. “I don't have any secrets.”
Roscoe pointed again. “Try me. Just try me. You'll never teach anywhere again.”
Livid, Sandy slammed the door on his way out. April stuck her blond-streaked head back in the office.
Roscoe smiled. “Ignore him. The man thrives on emotional scenes. The first week of school he decried the fostering of competition instead of cooperation. Last week he thought Sean Hallahan should be censured for a sexist remark that I think was addressed to Karen Jensen—‘Hey, baby!'” Roscoe imitated Sean. “Today he's frothing at the mouth because Jody Miller has a black eye. My God.”
“I don't know how you put up with him,” April replied sympathetically.
“It's my job.” Roscoe smiled expansively.
“Maury McKinchie's on line two.”
“Who's on line one?”
“Your wife.”
“Okay.” He punched line one. “Honey, let me call you back. Are you in the office?”
Naomi said she was, her office being in the building opposite his on the other side of the quad. He then punched line two. “Hello.”
“Roscoe, I'd like to shoot some football and maybe field hockey practice . . . just a few minutes. I'm trying to pull together dynamic images for the alumni dinner in December.”
“Got a date in mind?”
“Why don't I just shoot the next few games?” The director paused. “I've got footage for you to check. You'll like it.”
“Fine.” Roscoe smiled.
“How about a foursome this Saturday? Keswick at nine?”
“Great.”
Roscoe hung up. He buzzed April. “You handled Sandy Brashiers very well,” he told her.
“He gives me a pain. He just pushed right by me!”
“You did a good job. Your job description doesn't include tackling temporary principals and full-time busybodies.”
“Thank you.”
“Remind me to tell the coaches that Maury will be filming some football and hockey games.”
“Will do.”
He took his figner off the intercom button and sat in his swivel chair, feeling satisfied with himself.
12
Harry sorted her own mail, tossing most of it into the waste-basket. She spent each morning stuffing mailboxes. By the time she got to her own mail, she hadn't the patience to wade through appeals for money, catalogs, and flyers. Each evening she threw a canvas totebag jammed with her mail onto the bench seat of the old Ford truck. On those beautiful days when she walked home from work, she slung it over her shoulder.
She'd be walking for the next week regardless of weather because not only was the carburetor fritzed out on the truck, but a mouse had nibbled through the starter wires. Mrs. Murphy needed to step up her rodent control.
Harry dreaded the bill. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn't keep up with expenses. She lived frugally, keeping within a budget, but no matter how careful her plans, telephone companies changed rates, the electric company edged up its prices, and the county commissioners lived to raise Albemarle taxes.
She often wondered how people with children made it. They'd make it better if they didn't work for the postal service, she thought to herself.
Gray clouds, sodden, dropped lower and lower. The first big raindrop splattered as she was about two miles from home. Tee Tucker and Mrs. Murphy moved faster. Pewter, with a horror of getting wet, ran ahead.
“I've never seen that cat move that fast,” Harry said out loud.
A dark green Chevy half-ton slowly headed toward her. She waved as Fair braked.
“Come on, kids,” she called as the three animals raced toward Fair.
As if on cue the clouds opened the minute Harry closed the passenger door of the truck.
“Hope you put your fertilizer down.”
“Back forty,” she replied laconically.
He slowed for another curve as they drove in silence.
“You're Mary Sunshine.”
“Preoccupied. Sorry.”
They drove straight into the barn. Harry hopped out and threw on her raincoat. Fair put on his yellow slicker, then backed the truck out, parking at the house so Pewter could run inside. He returned to help Harry bring in the horses, who were only too happy to get fed.
Mrs. Murphy and Tucker stayed in the barn.
“These guys look good.” Fair smiled at Gin Fizz, Tomahawk, and Poptart.
“Thanks. Sometimes I forget how old Tomahawk's getting to be, but then I forget how old I'm getting to be.”
“We're only in our thirties. It's a good time.”
She scooped out the sweet feed. “Some days I think it is. Some days I think it isn't.” She tossed the scoop back into the feed bin. “Fair, you don't have to help. Lucky for me you came along the road when you did.”
“Many hands make light work. You won't be riding tonight.”
The rain, like gray sheets of iron, obscured the house from view.
“The weatherman didn't call for this, nor did Miranda.”
“Her knee failed.” He laughed. Miranda predicted rain according to whether her knee throbbed or not.
She clapped on an ancient cowboy hat, her rain hat. “Better make a run for it.”
&nb
sp; “Why don't you put me under your raincoat?” Mrs. Murphy asked politely.
Hearing the plaintive meow, Harry paused, then picked up the kitty, cradling her under her coat.
“Ready, steady, GO!” Fair sang out as he cut the lights in the barn.
He reached the backdoor first, opening it for Harry and a wet Tucker.
Once inside the porch they shook off the rain, hung up their coats, stamped their feet, and hurried into the kitchen. A chill had descended with the rain. The temperature plunged ten degrees and was dropping still.
She made fresh coffee while he fed the dog and cats.
Harry had doughnuts left over from the morning.
They sat down and enjoyed this zero-star meal. It was better than going hungry.
“Well—?”
“Well, what?” She swallowed, not wishing to speak with her mouth full.
“What's the matter?”
She put the rest of her glazed doughnut on the plate. “Jody Miller had a black eye and wouldn't tell anyone how she got it. The kid was crying so hard it hurt to see her.”
“How'd you find out?”
“She cut classes and was sitting on the stoop behind Market's store.”
“I found her first.” Pewter lifted her head out of the food bowl.
“Pewter, you're such an egotist.”
“Look who's talking,” the gray cat answered Mrs. Murphy sarcastically. “You think the sun rises and sets on your fur.”
“Miranda drove her over to Larry Johnson's. She stayed until Irene arrived. Irene wasn't too helpful, according to Miranda, a reliable source if ever there was one.”
“Jody's a mercurial kid.”
“Aren't they all?”
“I suppose.” He got up to pour himself another coffee. “I'm finally warming up. Of course, it could be your presence.”
“I'm going to throw up.” Pewter gagged.
“You don't have a romantic bone in your body,” Tucker complained.
“In fact, Pewter, no one can see the bones in your body.”
“Ha, ha,” the gray cat said dryly.
“Do you think it would be nosy if I called Irene? I'm worried.”
“Harry, everyone in Crozet is nosy, so that's not an issue.” He smiled. “Besides which, you and Miranda found her.”
Murder on the Prowl Page 6