Murder on the Prowl

by Rita Mae Brown

  He laughed. “Harry, I do love you.”

  She got up and kissed his cheek, disturbing a disgruntled Murphy one more time. “Let me think.”

  He mused. “I never knew love could be this complicated, or even that I could be this complicated!” He laughed. “I always knew you were complicated.”

  “See—and I think I'm simple.”

  Mrs. Murphy settled down in front of the fireplace to stare into the flames. “You know what worries me?”

  “What?” Pewter yawned.

  “If Sean is part of Roscoe's murder, if he's in on this somehow, Mother was one of the last people to be with him. Only Cooper knows he didn't speak to her and Rick.”

  “So?” The gray cat fluttered her fur.

  “So, Pewter, the killer might think he told Mother what's what.”

  Pewter's eyes opened wide as did Tucker's. They said in unison, “I never thought of that.”

  47

  The antiseptic odor of hospitals turned Deputy Cooper's stomach. It stung her nostrils even though it wasn't as overpowering as, say, garbage. She wondered if the real offender was the associations she had concerning hospitals, or if truly she just hated the antiseptic.

  Shorthanded though the department was, Rick was ferocious about maintaining vigilance over Sean. He'd broken half the bones in his body, his legs being the worst. His left arm was smashed in two places. His spleen was ruptured, and his left lung was punctured by his rib, which caved inward.

  His right arm was fine. His skull was not crushed, but the force of the impact had created a severe concussion with some swelling in the brain. He had not regained consciousness, but his vital signs, though weak, had stabilized.

  There was a good chance he'd live, although he'd never play football again. Sean's mother and father took turns watching over him. His grandparents flew in from Olathe, Kansas, to help.

  Cynthia half dozed on the hard-backed chair. On the other side of the bed his mother slept in another chair, equally uncomfortable.

  A low moan alerted Cynthia. Her eyes opened, as did Sean's.

  He blinked strongly to make sense of where he was.

  “Sean,” Cynthia said in a clear low voice.

  His mother awakened with a start and leaned over her son. “Honey, honey, it's Mom.”

  He blinked again, then whispered, “I'm a father.” His lips moved but no more sound escaped. Then, as if he had never spoken, he shut his eyes again and lost consciousness.

  48

  A howitzer ripped through Harry's meticulously planned schedule. Each night before retiring she would take a sheet of tablet paper, eight by eleven inches, fold it in half, and number her chores in order of priority. She used to watch her mother do it, absorbing the habit.

  Harry was an organized person. Her disorganization involved major life questions such as “Whither thou goest?” She told herself Americans put too much emphasis on direction, management, and material success instead of just jumping into life.

  Awaking each morning between five thirty and six, she first drank a piping hot cup of tea, fed the horses, picked out the stalls, stripping them on Saturdays, turned the horses out, fed Mrs. Murphy, Tucker, and now Pewter. Then she usually walked the mile out to the road to get her paper. That woke her up. If she was running behind or the weather proved filthy, she'd drive out in the blue truck.

  Thanks to BoomBoom, the blue truck reposed again at the service station. Fortunately, BoomBoom's insurance really did cover the damages. And she'd get a new BMW since Sean had destroyed hers. Harry's worry involved the ever-decreasing life span of the 1978 Ford. She had to get a new truck. Paying for it, even a decent used one, seemed impossible.

  The morning, crisp and clear at 36° F, promised a glorious fall day ahead. She jogged back, never opening the newspaper. Reading it with her second cup of tea and breakfast rewarded her for finishing the farm chores before heading off to the post office. She adored these small rituals of pleasure. Another concept she'd learned from her mother.

  She bit into a light biscuit . . . then stopped, the biscuit hanging from her mouth. As she opened her mouth, the biscuit dropped onto the plate.

  She knocked the chair over calling Susan. “You up?”

  “Barely.”

  “Open the paper.”

  “Mmm. Holy shit! What's going on around here?” Susan exploded.

  On the front page of the newspaper ran the story of the high-speed car chase. Harry was quoted as saying, “Another ten seconds and he'd have been blown to bits.”

  But what caused Susan's cruption was a story in the next column concerning April Shively's release on twenty thousand dollars' bail. That was followed by April's declaring she would not release the papers she had taken from St. Elizabeth's until the board of governors audited the current accounting books in the possession of the temporary headmaster, Sandy Brashiers. She all but accused him of financial misdeeds just this side of embezzlement.

  As Harry and Susan excitedly talked in the background, Mrs. Murphy sat on the newspaper to read. Pewter joined her.

  “Sean's not in the obit column, so we know he's still fighting.” Murphy touched her nose to the paper.

  “Going to be a hell of a day at the post office,” Tucker predicted.

  How right she was. A gathering place in the best and worst of times, it was packed with people.

  Big Mim, hoisted up on the counter by the Reverend Jones, clapped her hands. “Order. Could I have some order, please?”

  Accustomed to obeying the Queen of Crozet, they fell silent.

  “Honeybun, we could move to city hall,” her husband, the mayor, offered.

  “We're here now, let's get on with it.” Mim sat down and crossed her legs. Mrs. Murphy and Pewter flanked her. Tucker wandered among the crowd. The animals decided they would pay attention to faces and smells. Someone might give himself or herself away in a fashion a human couldn't comprehend.

  Mim stared sternly at Karen, Jody, Brooks, and Roger. “Why aren't you in school?”

  Karen answered for all of them. “Which school? We want to go back to St. Elizabeth's. Our parents won't let us.”

  “Then what are you doing here?” She pounded them like a schoolmarm.

  “The post office is where everything happens, sort of,” Brooks replied.

  “Smart kid,” Mrs. Murphy said.

  Irene called out, “Marilyn, can you guarantee my child's safety?”

  “Irene, no school can do that anymore, but within reason, yes.” Marilyn Sanburne felt she spoke for the board.

  Harry leaned across the counter. “Guys, I don't mind that you all meet here, but if someone comes in to get their mail, you have to clear a path for them. This is a federal building.”

  “The hell with Washington,” Market Shiflett brazenly called out. “We had the right idea in 1861.”

  Cheers rose from many throats. Miranda laughed as did Harry. Those transplanted Yankees in the crowd would find this charming, anachronistic proof that Southerners are not only backward but incapable of forgetting the war.

  What Southerners knew in their souls was that given half the chance, they'd leave the oppressive Union in a skinny minute. Let the Yankees tax themselves to death. Southerners had better things to do with their time and money, although it is doubtful those “better things” would be productive.

  “Now we must remain calm, provoking as these hideous events have been.” Mim turned to Harry. “Why don't you call Rick Shaw? He ought to be here.”

  “No.” Herbie gently contradicted her. “If you'll forgive me, madam”—he often called Mim “madam”—“I think we'll all be more forthcoming without the law here.”

  “Yes.” Other voices agreed.

  Mim cast her flashing blue gaze over the crowd. “I don't know what's going on, I don't know why it's going on, but I think we must assume we know the person or persons responsible for Roscoe's demise as well as Maury's bizarre death. This community must organize to protect itself.”

>   “How do we know the killer isn't in this room?” Dr. Larry Johnson asked.

  Father Michael replied, “We don't.”

  “Well, Kendrick was found bending over Maury. Sorry, Irene, but it's true,” Market said.

  “Then we're telling the killer or killers our plans. How can we protect ourselves?” Lucinda Payne Coles, her brow furrowed, echoed what many others felt as well.

  Harry raised her hand, a gesture left over from school.

  “Harry.” Mim nodded toward her.

  “The question is not if the killer or killers could be in this room. The question is, why are people being killed? We'll worry ourselves into a fit if we think each of us is vulnerable.”

  “But we are!” Market exclaimed. “Two people are dead—and one seventeen-year-old boy who admitted planting the first obituary is in the hospital. Who or what next?”

  Harry replied evenly, “Marilyn, I know you don't want to hear this, but everything points to St. Elizabeth's.”

  “Does that mean we're suspects?” Jody Miller joked.

  Irene put her hand on her daughter's shoulder. “No one is suspecting students, dear.” She cast a knowing look at Larry Johnson. She needed to talk to him. Jody was in the first trimester of her pregnancy. A major decision had to be made. On the other hand, she watched Father Michael and thought maybe she should talk to him. It didn't occur to her that Jody was the one who needed to do the talking.

  Neither Sandy Brashiers nor any faculty members from the school were there to defend themselves or the institution. They were holding back a tidal wave of questions, recriminations, and fear at their own faculty meeting. The reporters, like jackals, camped at the door.

  “You must put aside April's absurd accusations,” Marilyn said nervously, “and we will audit the books this week to lay her accusations to rest. She's only trying to divert our attention.”

  “It's true,” Roger said in his quiet voice. “The problem is at St. E's.”

  Mim asked, “Do you have any idea, any idea at all, what is going on at your school? Is there a drug problem?”

  “Mrs. Sanburne, drugs are everywhere. Not just at St. E's,” Karen said solemnly.

  “But you're rich kids. If you get in trouble, Daddy can bail you out.” Samson Coles bluntly added his two cents even though many people shunned him.

  “That's neither here nor there,” Market said impatiently. “What are we going to do?”

  “Can we afford more protection? A private police force?” Fair was pretty sure they couldn't.

  “No.” Jim, towering over everyone but Fair, answered that query. “We're on a shoestring.”

  “The rescue squad and other groups like the Firehouse gang could pitch in.” Larry, getting warm, removed his glen plaid porkpie hat.

  “Good idea, Larry.” Mim turned to her husband. “Can we do that? Of course we can. You're the mayor.”

  “I'll put them on patrol. We can set up a cruise pattern. It's a start.”

  Mim went on. “While they're doing that, the rest of us can go over our contacts with Roscoe, April, Maury, and Sean. There may be a telling clue, something you know that seems unimportant but is really significant, the missing link, so to speak.”

  “Like, who gave Roscoe Fletcher candy at the car wash?” Miranda said innocently. “Harry thinks the killer was right there and gave him the poisoned candy right under everyone's nose.”

  “She just let the cat out of the bag.” Murphy's eyes widened.

  “What can we do?” Tucker cried.

  “Pray the killer's not in this room,” Mrs. Murphy said, knowing in her bones that the killer was looking her right in the face.

  “But Rick Shaw and Cynthia must have figured out the same thing.” Pewter tried to allay their fears.

  “Of course they have, but until this moment the person who wiped out Roscoe didn't realize Mom had figured out most people were approaching Roscoe's murder backward. Now they'll wonder what else she's figured out.”

  “It's Kendrick Miller.” Pewter licked her paw, rubbing her ear with it.

  “If he is the one, he can get at Mom easily,” Tucker responded. “At least he's not here.”

  “Don't worry, Irene will repeat every syllable of this meeting.” Murphy's tail tip swayed back and forth, a sign of light agitation.

  “We need to ask Fair to stay with Mom.” Tucker rightly assumed that would help protect her.

  “Fat chance.” Murphy stood up, stretched, and called to her friends, “Come on out back with me. Humans need to huff and puff. We've got work to do.”

  Tucker resisted. “We ought to stay here and observe.”

  “The damage is done. We need to hotfoot it. Come on.”

  Tucker threaded her way through the many feet and dashed through the animal door. Once outside she said, “Where are we going?”

  “St. Elizabeth's.”

  “Murphy, that's too far.” Pewter envisioned the trek.

  “Do you want to help, or do you want to be a wuss?”

  “I'm not a wuss.” Pewter defiantly swatted at the tiger cat.

  “Then let's go.”

  Within forty-five minutes they reached the football and soccer fields. Tired, they sat down for a minute.

  “Stick together. We're going to work room to room.”

  “What are we looking for?”

  “I'm not sure yet. If April took other books, they're truly cooked now. But none of these people thought they were going to be killed. They must have left unfinished business somewhere, and if the offices are clean as a whistle, then it means April knows the story—the whole story, doesn't it?”

  49

  Eerie quiet greeted the animals as they padded down the hallway of the Old Main Building, the administration building. The faculty meeting was heating up in the auditorium across the quad. Not one soul was in Old Main, not even a receptionist.

  “Think the cafeteria is in Old Main?” Pewter inquired plaintively.

  “No. Besides, I bet no one is working in the cafeteria.” Tucker was anxious to get in and get out of the place before the post office closed. If Harry couldn't find them, she'd pitch a fit.

  “Perfect.” Mrs. Murphy read HEADMASTER in gold letters on the heavy oak door, slightly ajar. The cat checked the door width using her whiskers, knew she could make it, and squeezed through. Fatty behind her squeezed a little harder.

  Tucker wedged her long nose in the door. Mrs. Murphy turned around and couldn't resist batting Tucker.

  “No fair.”

  “Where's your sense of humor? Pewter, help me with the door.”

  The two cats pulled with their front paws as Tucker pushed with her nose. Finally the heavy door opened wide enough for the corgi to slip through. Everything had been moved out except for the majestic partner's desk and the rich red Persian carpet resting in front of the desk.

  “Tucker, sniff the walls, the bottom of the desk, the bookcases, everything. Pewter, you check along the edge of the bookcases. Maybe there's a hidden door or something.”

  “What are you going to do?” Pewter dived into the emptied bookshelves.

  “Open these drawers.”

  “That's hard work.”

  “Not for me. I learned to do this at home because Harry used to hide the fresh catnip in the right-hand drawer of her desk . . . until she found out I could open it.”

  “Where does she hide it now?” Pewter eagerly asked.

  “Top of the kitchen cabinet, inside.”

  “Damn.” Pewter rarely swore.

  “Let's get to work.” Mrs. Murphy flopped on her side, putting her paw through the burnished brass handle. Using her hind feet she pushed forward. The long center drawer creaked a bit, then rolled right out. Pens, pencils, and an avalanche of paper clips and engraved St. Elizabeth's stationery filled the drawer. She stuck her paws to the very back of the drawer. Mrs. Murphy shivered. She wanted so badly to throw the paper on the floor, then plunge into it headfirst. A paper bag was fun enough but expensive
, lush, engraved laid bond—that was heaven. She disciplined herself, hopping on the floor to pull out the right-hand bottom drawer. The contents proved even more disappointing than the center drawer's: a hand squeezer to strengthen the hand muscles, a few floppy discs even though no computer was in the room, and one old jump rope.

  “Anything?” She pulled on the left-hand drawer.

  Tucker lifted her head. “Too many people in here. I smell mice. But then that's not surprising. They like buildings where people go home at night—less interference.”

  “Nothing on the bookshelves. No hidden buttons.”

  Murphy, frustrated at not finding anything, jumped into the drawer, wiggling toward the back. Murphy's pupils, big from the darkness at the back of the drawer, quickly retracted to smaller circles as she jumped out. She noticed a small adhesive mailing label, ends curled, which must have fallen off a package. “Here's an old mailing label. Neptune Film Laboratory, Brooklyn, New York—and three chewed pencils, the erasers chewed off. This room has been picked cleaner than a chicken bone.”

  “We could go over to where Maury McKinchie was killed, in the hall outside the gymnasium,” Tucker suggested.

  “Good idea.” Mrs. Murphy hurried out the door.

  “She could at least wait for us. She can be so rude.” Pewter followed.

  The cavernous gymnasium echoed with silence. The click of Tucker's unretractable claws reverberated like tin drums.

  “Know what hall?”

  “No,” Mrs. Murphy answered Tucker, “but there's only one possibility. The two side halls go to the locker rooms. I don't think Maury was heading that way. He probably went through the double doors, which lead to the trophy hall and the big front door.”

  “Then why did we come in the backdoor?” Pewter grumbled.

  “Because our senses are sharper. We could pick up something in the lockers that a human couldn't. Not just dirty socks but cocaine lets off a sharp rancid odor, and marijuana is so easy a puppy could pick it up.”

  “I resent that. A hound puppy is born with a golden nose.”