Murder on the Prowl

by Rita Mae Brown

  Jody noticed. “We'll be okay.”

  “Yes, but we'll never be the same.”

  “Good.”

  Irene breathed in deeply. “I guess things were worse than I realized. The lack of affection at home sent you looking for it from other people . . . Sean in particular.”

  “It was nice being”—she considered the next word—“important.”

  They swooped right into the Crozet exit. As they decelerated to the stop sign, Irene asked, “Did you tell anyone else you were pregnant?”

  “No!”

  “I don't believe you. You can't resist talking to your girlfriends.”

  “And you never talk to anyone.”

  “Not about family secrets.”

  “Maybe you should have, Mother. What's the big deal about keeping up appearances? It didn't work, did it?”

  “Did you tell anyone?”

  “No.”

  “You told Karen Jensen.”

  “I did not.”

  “You two are as thick as thieves.”

  “She hangs out with Brooks Tucker as much as she hangs out with me.” A thin edge of jealousy lined Jody's voice. “Mom, hang it up.”

  Irene burst into tears. “This will come back to haunt you. You'll feel so guilty.”

  “It was the right thing to do.”

  “It violates everything we've been taught. Oh, why did I agree to this? I am so ashamed of myself.”

  “Mother, get a grip.” Icy control and icy fury were in Jody's young face. “Dad's accused of murder. You're going to run the business. I'm going to college so I can come home and run the business. You can't take care of a baby. I can't take care of a baby.”

  “You should have thought of that in the first place,” Irene, a hard edge now in her voice, too, shot back.

  “Maybe you should have thought about your actions, too.” Jody's glacial tone frosted the interior of the car.

  “What do you mean?” Irene paused. “That silly idea you had that I was sleeping with Samson Coles. Where do you get those ideas? And then to accuse the poor man in the post office.”

  “To cover your ass.”

  “What!” Irene's eyes bugged out of her head.

  “You heard what I said—to cover your ass. You'd been sleeping with Roscoe. You thought I didn't know.”

  Irene sputtered, her hands gripping the steering wheel until her knuckles were white. “How dare you.”

  “Save it, Mom. I know because he told me.”

  “The bastard!”

  “Got that right.”

  Irene calmed down a moment. “Why would he tell you?” She still hadn't admitted to Jody the veracity of the accusation.

  “Because I was sleeping with him, too.”

  “Oh, my God.” Irene's foot dropped heavier on the gas pedal.

  “So don't tell me right from wrong.” Jody half smiled.

  “I'm glad he's dead.”

  Jody smiled fully. “He didn't tell me, really—I figured it out for myself.”

  “You—” Irene sputtered.

  “It doesn't matter.” Jody shrugged.

  “The hell it doesn't.” She slowed down a bit since the red speedometer needle had surged past eighty. “Did you sleep with him?”

  “Yes. Each year Roscoe picked his chosen one. My turn, I guess.”

  “Why?” Irene moaned.

  “Because he'd give me anything I wanted and because I'd get into whatever school I wanted. Roscoe would fix it.”

  “Jody, I'm having a hard time taking all this in.” Irene's lower lip trembled.

  “Stop,” Jody commanded.

  “Stop what?”

  “The car!”

  “Why?”

  “We need to pick up the mail.”

  “I'm too shook up to see people.”

  “Well, I'm not. So stop the damned car and I'll get the mail.”

  Irene parked at the post office, while Jody got out. Then she worried about what her daughter would say to Harry and Miranda, so she followed her inside.

  Harry called out, “In the nick of time.”

  Miranda, busy cleaning, called out a hello.

  “Irene, you look peaked. Come on back here and sit down. I'll make you a cup of tea.”

  Irene burst into tears at Miranda's kindness. “Everything is so awful. I want my husband out of jail.”

  “Mom, come on.” Jody tugged at her, smiling weakly at Miranda and Harry.

  “Poor Irene.” Tucker hated to see humans cry.

  “She's better off without him,” Pewter stated matter-of-factly.

  Two squad cars roared by the post office, sirens wailing, followed by the rescue squad. Cynthia trailed in her squad car. But she pulled away and stopped at the post office. She opened the door and saw Irene and Jody.

  “What's going on?” Miranda asked.

  “A corpse was found at Bowden's farm.” She cleared her throat. “The car is registered to Winifred Thalman of New York City.”

  “I wonder who—” Miranda never finished her sentence.

  “Mom, I'm really tired.”

  “Okay, honey.” Irene wiped her eyes. “You can't accuse Kendrick of this one! He's in jail.”

  Cooper quietly replied, “I don't know about that, Mrs. Miller, she's been dead quite some time.”

  Tears of frustration and rage flooded Irene's cheeks. She slapped Cynthia hard.

  “Mom!” Jody pulled her mother out of there.

  “Striking an officer is a serious offense, isn't it?” Harry asked.

  “Under the circumstances, let's just forget it.”

  “They finally found the body.” Tucker sighed.

  “Yes.” The tiger squinted as the dying sun sparked off Irene's windshield as she pulled away from the post office. “They're getting closer to the truth.”

  “What is the truth?” Pewter said philosophically.

  “Oh, shut up.” Mrs. Murphy cuffed her friend's ears.

  “I couldn't resist.” The gray cat giggled.

  “We might as well laugh now,” Tucker said. “We aren't going to laugh later.”

  70

  Mrs. Murphy worked feverishly catching field mice, moles, shrews, and one sickly baby bunny, which she quickly put out of its misery. Pewter opened the kitchen cabinets while Harry slept. She had a knack for flipping open cabinet doors. She'd grab the knob and then fall back. She rooted around the shelf until she found a bottle of catsup. Fortunately, the bottle was plastic because she knocked it out of the cabinet, shoving it onto the floor for Tucker to pick up.

  The corgi's jaws were strong enough to carry the oddly shaped object out to the truck.

  “I can put all the kill here in the bed,” Mrs. Murphy directed the other two. “If you'll help me, Pewter.”

  “Harry's going to find all this.”

  “Not if Tucker can drag out the old barn towel.”

  “How are we going to get it up in the bed of the truck?”

  “Pewter, let me do the thinking. Just help me, will you?”

  “What do you want me to do with this bottle of catsup?”

  “Put it behind the front wheel of the truck. When Harry opens the door for us, pick it up and jump in the truck. Pewter and I will distract her. You can drop it and kick it under the seat. Remember, gang, she's not looking for this stuff. She won't notice.”

  Tucker hid the catsup behind the front wheel, then strolled into the barn and yanked the towel off the tack trunk with Harry's maiden initials on it, MM. She tripped over the towel as she walked to the truck, so she dragged it sideways.

  Murphy and Pewter placed the small dead prey at the back corner of the truck bed.

  “Pewter, perch on the bumper step.”

  “You'd better do it. You're thinner.” Pewter hated to admit that she was overweight.

  “All right.” Murphy jumped down on the back bumper step while Pewter hoisted herself over the side of the tailgate. Tucker sat patiently, the towel in her mouth.

  Simon, returni
ng home in the early dawn from foraging, stopped to wonder at this activity. “What are you-all doing?”

  “Trying to get the towel into the bed of the truck. It's too big to put in my mouth and jump in,” Mrs. Murphy informed him. “Okay, Tucker, stand on your hind legs and see if you can reach Pewter.”

  Tucker put her paws on the bumper, her nose edging over the top.

  Mrs. Murphy leaned down, grabbing the towel with her left paw. “Got it.”

  Pewter, half hanging over the tailgate, quickly snatched the towel before Murphy dropped it—it was heavy. With Pewter pulling and Mrs. Murphy pushing, the two cats dumped the towel into the truck bed. Mrs. Murphy gaily leapt in, and the two of them placed the towel over the kill, bunching it up to avoid its looking obvious.

  “I'll be,” Simon said admiringly.

  “Teamwork,” Mrs. Murphy triumphantly replied.

  “What are you going to do with those bodies?” Simon giggled.

  “Lay a trail to the killer. Mom's going over to St. Elizabeth's today, so I think we can get the job done.”

  The possum scoffed. “The humans won't notice, or, if they do, they'll discount it.”

  The tiger and the gray cat peeped over the side of the truck. “You might be right, but the killer will notice. That's what we want.”

  “I don't know.” Simon shook his head.

  “Anything is better than nothing,” Murphy said forcefully. “And if this doesn't work, we'll find something else.”

  “Why are you so worried?” Simon's furry nose twitched.

  “Because Mother will eventually figure out who the murderer really is.”

  “Oh.” The possum pondered. “We can't let anything happen to Harry.” He didn't want to sound soft on any human. “Who else will feed me marshmallows?”

  71

  The animals, exhausted from running back and forth across the playing fields, sacked out immediately after eating.

  Pewter and Mrs. Murphy curled up on either side of Tucker on the sofa in front of the fire. Pewter snored, a tiny little nasal gurgle.

  Fair brought Chinese food. Harry, good with chopsticks, greedily shoved pork chow mein into her mouth. A light knock on the door was followed by Cynthia Cooper, sticking her head in. She pulled up a chair and joined them.

  “Where are the critters?”

  “Knocked out. Every time I called them, they were running across the football field today. Having their own Homecoming game, I guess. Can I get you anything else?”

  “Catsup.” She pointed at her plate. “My noodles.”

  “You're kidding me.” Harry thought of catsup on noodles as she opened her cabinet. “Damn, I had a brand-new bottle of catsup, and it walked away.”

  “Catsup ghost.” Fair bit into a succulent egg roll, the tiny shrimp bits assaulting his taste buds.

  “What were you doing at St. E's?”

  “Like a fool, I agreed to help Renee Hallvard referee the field hockey games if she can't find anyone else. She can't for the next game, so I went over to review the rules. I wish I'd never said yes.”

  “I have a hard time saying no, too. The year I agreed to coach Little League I lost twenty pounds”—Fair laughed—“from worrying about the kids, my work, getting to practice on time.”

  “Is this a social call, Cynthia? Come on,” Harry teased her.

  “Yes and no. The corpse, Winifred Thalman, was a freelance cinematographer. I called April Shively before anyone else—after I stopped at the post office. She says Thalman was the person who shot the little movies the seniors made their first week back at school.”

  “Wouldn't someone have missed her in New York? Family?”

  Cooper put down her egg roll. “She was estranged from her only brother. Parents dead. As a cinematographer, her neighbors were accustomed to her being absent for months at a time. No pets. No plants. No relationships. Rick tracked down the super in her building.”

  “You didn't stop at the post office to tell me the news first, did you?” Harry smiled.

  “Saw Irene's car.”

  “Ah.”

  “Kendrick's got to be lying. Only reason we can come up with for him to do that is he's protecting his wife or his daughter.”

  “They killed Roscoe and Maury?” Fair was incredulous.

  “We think one of them did. Rick's spent hours going over Kendrick's books and bank accounts, and there's just no evidence of any financial misdoing. Even if you buy the sexual-jealousy motive, why would he have killed this Thalman woman?”

  “Well, why would Irene or Jody have done it?” Harry asked.

  “If we knew that, we'd know everything.” Cynthia broke the egg roll in two. “Irene will be at the field hockey game tomorrow. We'll have her covered by a plainclothesman from Waynesboro's department. You'll be on the field. Keep your eyes open.”

  “Irene or Jody stabbed Maury? Jeesh,” Fair exclaimed. “Takes a lot of nerve to get that close at a public gathering.”

  “Wasn't that hard to do,” Harry said. “Sometimes the easiest crimes are the ones committed in crowds.”

  “The killer confessed twice to Father Michael. Since Kendrick has confessed, Father Michael hasn't heard a peep. Nothing unusual about that—if you're a murderer and someone has taken the rap for you. Still, the impulse to confess is curious. Guilt?”

  “Pride,” Harry rejoined.

  “Irene or Jody . . . I still can't get over it.”

  “Do you think they know? I mean, does one of them know the other is a killer?” Harry asked.

  “I don't know. But I hope whoever it is gets sloppy or gets rattled.”

  “Guess this new murder will be on the eleven o'clock news”—Harry checked the old wall clock—“and in the papers.”

  “Whole town will be talking.” Cynthia poured half a carton of noodles on her plate. “Maybe that'll rattle our killer. I don't know, she's been cold as ice.”

  “Yeah, well, even ice has a melting point.” Fair tinkled the ice in his water glass.

  “Harry, because you're in the middle of the field, you're secure. If it is Jody, she can't stab you or poison you without revealing herself. Are you willing to bait her? If we're wrong, there will be plenty of time to apologize.”

  “I'll do it.” She nodded her head. “Can you set a trap for Irene?”

  “Fair?”

  “Oh, hell!” He put down his glass.

  72

  The colored cars and trucks filling the St. Elizabeth's back parking lot looked like jelly beans. The St. Elizabeth's supporters flew pennants off their antennas. So did the Chatham Hall fans. When the wind picked up, it resembled a used-car parking lot. All that was missing were the prices in thick grease crayon on the windshields.

  Harry, despite all, read and reread the rule book in the faculty locker room. She knew the hardest part of refereeing would be blowing the whistle. Once she grew confident, she'd overcome that. And she had to establish her authority early on because if the kids thought they could get away with fouling, some would.

  Mrs. Murphy sat on the wooden bench next to her. Pewter and Tucker guarded the door. Deputy Cooper waited in the hall.

  The noise of a locker being pulled over, followed by shouting, reverberated down the hall.

  “What the hell?” Harry ran out the door toward the commotion.

  Cooper jerked her head in the direction of the noise. “It's World War Three in there, and the game hasn't even started.”

  “Well, it is the qualifier for state.” Harry tucked her whistle in the whistle pocket.

  Pewter giggled. “She found it.”

  The animals ran down the hall. Tucker, losing her hind footing on the slick waxed surface, spun around once. They reached the locker room and crept along the aisle.

  “What a dirty trick! I'll kill whoever did this!” Jody kicked her locker again for good measure. Dead mice, moles, and shrews were scattered over the floor. A bottle of catsup, red stuff oozing out of the bite marks, splattered everywhere. Jody's stick ha
d catsup on it, too.

  “Gross.” Karen Jensen jumped backward as the tiny dead animals spilled everywhere.

  “You did this!” Jody lost her composure, accusing the last person who would do such a thing.

  “You're crazy,” Karen shot back.

  Jody picked up her hockey stick and swung at Karen's head. Fortunately, Karen, the best player on the team and blessed with lightning reflexes, ducked. Brooks grabbed Jody from behind, but Jody, six inches taller, was hard to hold.

  Coach Hallvard dashed into the room. “Cut it out!” She surveyed the mess. “All right. Out of here. Everyone out of here.”

  “Someone filled my locker with dead mice and catsup!” Jody shrieked. “And it's your fault. You won't let us keep locks on our lockers anymore!”

  “We'll solve this after the game.” Coach put her hands on her hips. “It could have been someone from Chatham Hall. It certainly would benefit them to rattle one of our best players and set this team fighting among ourselves, wouldn't it?”

  The girls drank in this motivating theory, none of which Hallvard believed. However, it provided a temporary solution. She'd talk to Deputy Cooper after the game. Coach was intelligent enough to know that anything out of the ordinary at St. Elizabeth's must be treated with the utmost suspicion, and Cynthia had briefed her to be alert. She didn't identify Jody as a possible suspect.

  “You're right, Coach.” Jensen, the natural leader of the team, finally spoke. “Let's wipe them off the face of the earth!”

  The girls cheered. As they grabbed their sticks and filed out of the room, Brooks noticed Mrs. Murphy.

  “Murphy, hi, kitty.”

  “Keep your cool, Brooks, this will be a hell of a game.”

  When the home team ran across the field to the benches, the home crowd roared.

  Fair sat next to Irene, as he promised Cynthia he would. The plainclothes officer from Waynesboro sat behind her, pretending to be a Chatham Hall supporter.

  Miranda, also alerted, huddled with Mim in the center of the bleachers.

  Cynthia stayed behind the Chatham Hall bench, which gave her a shorter sprint to the gym if need be. She knew Irene was well covered, so she watched Jody.