The Purrfect Murder

by Rita Mae Brown

  “He’s not the most popular guy around.”

  “He’d be pompous if he were smart enough. Instead, he’s just ridiculous.”

  “Penny, I don’t want to upset you, but I must ask if you’ve ever received letters from Jonathan Bechtal asking for money.”

  The shock on Penny’s face—which she then quickly composed—told Harry what she needed to know.

  “No.”

  “Ah. Should you ever receive any, will you please go to Cynthia Cooper or Rick immediately?”

  “Why?” A note of harshness crept into Penny’s voice.

  “There’s good cause to believe that Carla had been receiving threats from him—extortion—before she was killed.” Harry fibbed, for that was only conjecture.

  Penny’s face blanched, but she held firm. “Tazio killed Carla.”

  “No, she didn’t, but it will take time to prove her innocence. The important thing now is that no one else be killed.”

  “Thank you, Harry. But tell me, why are you coming to me and not Deputy Cooper?”

  “She is on the case, but, as you know, the department is shorthanded and there’s only one woman. This is best handled between women.”

  Penny’s sandy eyebrows lifted. “Yes, yes, I can understand that.”

  Her next stop—Elise’s grand pile, nestled amid towering pin oaks—proved even less successful. Elise slammed the door in her face.

  Harry climbed back in the truck and wondered if Penny had called Elise. It was rare for someone to slam the door in another’s face before they even got a word out.

  Harry next turned down the long tree-lined drive to Folly Steinhauser’s palatial home. She parked to the side of the curving raised stairway.

  The huge double doors had brass horse-head knockers. Harry clanged away.

  Sienna Rappaport, Folly’s female butler—a revolution in itself—answered the door.

  “Good morning, Sienna. I don’t have an appointment. I was hoping to speak to Mrs. Steinhauser.”

  “Of course. Wait in the library and I’ll see if she’s available.”

  At least she was civilized. Harry sat on a tufted hassock in the extraordinary library, which was temperature-controlled to protect the rare first editions Folly so prized. Within minutes she heard two sets of footfalls. One stopped, heading in another direction. The other came to the library door.

  “Harry, what an unexpected pleasure.” Folly seemed to mean it.

  “Forgive me. I wouldn’t have come without calling if it weren’t important.”

  “Would you like something to drink?”

  “No, no thank you.”

  Folly took a seat and motioned for Harry to sit opposite her.

  As Harry moved from the hassock to the buttery-soft leather club chair, she noticed a gorgeous red lacquer humidor edged in black and yellow on the end table by Folly’s chair.

  “What can I do for you?” Folly uttered those lines usually spoken by the person in power.

  “First off, I want to thank you for all you did for the Poplar Forest fund-raiser. It was extraordinary, so in keeping with the spirit of the place. The shock of Carla’s murder…well,” Harry threw up her hands, “of all places and all times. The other thing—and I’m at fault for this—I have never thanked you for the burden you’re lifting from Herb’s shoulders, for all you are doing on our vestry board. Serving with you is teaching me a lot.”

  “Harry, that’s so kind of you.”

  “I don’t have your organizational skills, but I’m trying to soak some up.”

  “Ah, but, Harry, dear, you have the blood, the connections, and your mind is so very logical.”

  This surprised Harry. “Thank you.” She paused. “I’m here because I’m desperately worried.” As Folly’s face registered rapt attention, Harry plunged in. “Before Will Wylde’s death, a series of women—we don’t know whom—received letters from Jonathan Bechtal, ordering them to send money to P.O. Box Fifteen at the Barracks Road Shopping Center post office. If not, he threatened to expose them for having abortions.” Harry paused. “There is reason to believe that Carla had received them. Someone I know called me after she received her last one. She finally went to Sheriff Shaw. We are all worried, because there’s someone on the outside.”

  Folly, hand shaking slightly, opened the humidor and plucked out a cigarette. “Smoke?”

  “No thank you. I didn’t know that you did.”

  “I hide it, but every now and then I do. Tell me more.”

  “Well, the early letters asked for ten thousand dollars, which my friend paid. The last one asked for one hundred thousand, which she will not pay. The money is due Friday.”

  Folly took a long drag, rose, opened a first-edition copy of Cobbett’s Rural Rides in excellent condition, pulled out an airmail blue envelope, and handed it to Harry. “Like this?”

  Harry—hands also shaking, for she never expected this—opened the letter and read it. “God. You aren’t going to pay, are you?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Oh, don’t, Folly, please. This has got to stop. I truly think Will’s murder and Carla’s are connected, but I don’t know how. The only suspect I can think of on the outside is Mike McElvoy, because he had contact with Carla. But I don’t see how he connects to Will’s murder. It’s a long shot right now.”

  “They may not be connected. Charlottesville is growing. It’s entirely possible that two murders could be committed in short order and not be linked. And there is the problem of Tazio.”

  “You don’t think Tazio killed her, do you?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Folly, you must go to the sheriff about this. I can understand why you’ve hidden it.”

  “Can you?” Her voice rose, she sucked again on the long white cigarette.

  “I think I can, and I don’t need details. Things happen. We get carried away.” She threw up her hands. “Why is it always the woman’s fault?”

  “Control women and you control men,” Folly flatly said. “Therefore we’re always supposed to be morally better than men. When a woman fails, it’s quite a long way down, even today, Harry, even today.”

  “It could be worse.” Harry tried to lighten the mood. “Could be living under the Taliban.”

  “We’re the only power on earth with the guts to make sure we don’t.”

  Harry didn’t reply, because she had a different view although no solution for such extremism. There really are people happy to kill anyone who doesn’t believe as they do. “Please promise me you will go if not to Rick then to Cooper. She’s a woman. She’ll understand. They won’t make it public.”

  “No, they won’t, but whoever wrote this letter will.”

  “Folly, you can fight it.”

  “Harry, I was young when I married into all this wealth. I am sure it has not escaped you that, middle-aged as I am, my husband is quite a bit older. I was naive about the laws, and I signed a prenuptial agreement stating that if I ever had sex with another man, I would be divorced with no settlement. Harsh. However, I was so in love at the time that I signed it with a flourish.”

  “Ah.” Harry understood, with attendant sorrow.

  She smiled wanly. “I discovered that I am human and, well, fragile.”

  “I understand.”

  “I can hear Miranda now, telling me not to set my store in earthly treasures. Well, I can’t quote the Bible as she can, but you know what I mean. But the truth is, Harry, I love all this. I love the power it gives me, not just to live fantastically well but because I can do some good with the money. He never interferes with my charities.”

  “If you pay, there will only be more letters.”

  “I can hope whoever is out there will be caught and killed.”

  “If they aren’t killed but caught, well…” Harry turned her hands palms up, a reinforcing gesture. “Folly, go to Cooper. We can always say that you were selected as a victim because of your money. You were so worried about your husband’s resp
onse and his health”—a slight smiled played across Harry’s lips—“that you thought the money was well spent to protect him.”

  A long pause followed. “I underestimated you, Harry. I promise you I will think about it.”

  As Harry rose to leave, she noticed when Folly stubbed out her cigarette in a cut-crystal ashtray that it was a Virginia Slims. She would tell Cooper.

  As they walked to the mighty double front doors, Harry said, “I am very sorry to upset you, but your welfare is so important, not just to me but to the entire community.”

  “Who knows you’ve come to me?”

  “No one.”

  “Thank you for that.” Folly kissed her on the cheek.

  24

  The slap slap of the paintbrush provided a rhythmic counterpoint to Mike McElvoy’s staccato yap. Orrie Eberhard, applying the second coat to the rococo molding, said nothing.

  “Emotional, rude, difficult—I mean, I can work with anybody, but she was a whistling bitch.” Mike slapped his clipboard against his thigh.

  Orrie fought the urge to dump the bucket of Benjamin Moore paint right on Mike’s head. Some would have splashed on Cynthia Cooper, though, and he liked her, so he kept on doing his job.

  “Show me the punch list.” Cooper reached for the clipboard, ran down the list quickly. “All right, Mike, let’s start with the kitchen.”

  “Fine.” He thought he could blow his way through this, but her attention to detail was unnerving.

  In the cavernous kitchen he pointed to the outtake-exhaust hole in the ceiling.

  “Right. It says here that it needs to be widened by two inches.” Coop pulled out a little measuring tape and measured the hole. “Read the code last night. This is code.”

  “Well,” he stammered, “she was bringing in one of those twenty-thousand-dollar stoves, and it needs a larger exhaust pipe.”

  “That’s not what the code says.”

  “Yes, but the county commissioners will change it soon enough, and she’d have to rip out everything. I was doing her a favor.”

  “She wouldn’t have to rip out anything, Mike. This house met the code when it was built. To date, the building code has not been retroactive.” Cooper smiled indulgently, which further discomfited Mike. “All right, the disposal. Let’s have a look.”

  By now he knew she was going to slide under the sink. He also knew he was sinking.

  Two hours later, everything had been measured and written in her notebook, plus she’d snapped photos with a disposable camera, which she’d slipped in her shirt pocket. Cooper wallowed in damning detail.

  “We’ve gone through the punch list.” Mike, no longer belligerent, wanted to get out of there.

  He wanted to call his lawyer.

  “Yes, we have, and you’ve been most helpful. I’m glad Jurgen will finish the house.” She looked up from her copy of the list, which she’d also written down while making him wait. Steely-eyed but quiet, she said, “I’ve kept you from your next appointment. Tell them it was my fault. They can call me if they want to do so.” She handed him two cards, one for him, one for the next poor soul building a house.

  He read it, slipped it in his back pants pocket. “You still haven’t told me why you’re doing this. I know the general reason, but this crawl”—he emphasized “crawl”—“seems more than that.”

  He used “crawl” in the old way, meaning she was crawling over him, not a crawl on a movie screen.

  “We’re working with Bedford’s sheriff department. I know building this caused a lot of stress for Carla and for you. Have to dot the i’s and cross the t’s.”

  “Well, I didn’t kill her.”

  She chilled his blood when she said, “I hope not, but everyone is a suspect until we understand the motive. You were at Poplar Forest, and you’re on the list of those not at their table during the time of the murder.”

  “She pushed Tazio Chappars over the edge. Motive enough for me.” He flared up.

  “And convenient for you, too, Mike.” Coop needled him. “It takes strength to cut through the gristle and muscle of someone’s neck. Tazio, perhaps, could have sliced through, but I know you could have done it. You’re strong enough.”

  His jaw dropped slightly. He looked at her, mouth agape, then closed it. “Wasn’t me.”

  “I’m glad to hear that.”

  “I need to go.”

  “Mim Bainbridge—Little Mim,” Cooper added. “You’ve written down the name and address as well as the date, September thirtieth, Tuesday. The page behind this punch list. You saw me flip it up. Give her my apologies. I kept you too long.”

  He nodded curtly, closed the front door without slamming it.

  Cooper admired Orrie’s work. “I knew a lady once named Orrie. Guess it’s like Dana or Francis or Douglas. Spelling may be different between the male and female versions, but they sound the same.”

  “Sidney is another one. A lot of them when you start counting. I was named for my uncle.”

  “Can you tell me anything about this job?”

  “Beautiful house. No shortcuts. Best materials. Best architect.”

  “From your observation, do you think Tazio could kill someone like Carla? Let me be direct: would she?”

  “I don’t know about that.” Orrie wasn’t being evasive but truthful. “I could have killed Carla. She got right under your skin. Raised in a barnyard. No manners. Oh, she had them with people she thought were on her level or above her or she needed, but with the likes of me or Mike or Tazio, she was one hateful bitch.”

  “I can see you’re a fan.” Cooper laughed. “How do you feel about Mike?”

  “A piece of shit.”

  “Well,” Cooper laughed again, “tell me how you really feel.”

  “Never liked him. Known him all my life. I was standing on this ladder last Monday when Carla and Mike had their loud creative disagreement—is that the bullshit phrase? Anyway, they were back in the guest room, but I overheard Carla offer him money. She would have paid cold cash to get him the hell out of here, and he refused.”

  “Of course he did, Orrie, he knew you were on this ladder.”

  “Thought of that myself, later.”

  “Think he put the squeeze on people?”

  “I never heard any loose talk. On the other hand, he sure buys anything he wants.” Orrie carefully wiped the brush on the rim of the paint bucket, then laid it across the top. He climbed down the ladder to be level with Cooper and because he wanted to stretch.

  “Cramps?”

  “Get tight. Painting ceilings is the worst. I’ll keep that crick in my neck for days.”

  “You’ve won the contracts for a lot of these new houses, haven’t you?”

  “I have. We really earned our reputation doing restoration work. I started out with just myself and Nicky Posner. Now I have twenty people working for me plus college kids in the summer. Not good to brag, but me and the boys can do anything.”

  “How come you’re here alone?”

  “Most everything is done except for this last bit of trim work. Got a crew at Penny Lattimore’s—that’s an outside job; wanted to put another coat on the gardening shed. You and I could live in the shed. Another crew is out in Louisa County at a big place. I figured this would give me a few days of quiet. Course, I never expected Carla to be murdered. Still, it has been quiet.”

  “Jurgen came out?”

  “No. He called me and told me to keep going.”

  “Your jobs—has Mike always been the inspector?”

  Orrie fetched a blue bandanna slipped through the loop on the side of his painter’s pants. He dabbed his brow.

  “Orrie?” Cooper waited.

  “Sorry. Mike and Tony about even.”

  “Is there as much acrimony when Tony’s the inspector?”

  “No.”

  “Orrie, if you think of anything that might be relevant to this case, no matter how trivial it might seem to you, please call.” She handed him a card.

&n
bsp; “I will.” He slipped the bandanna back through the pants’ loop. “Don’t think Tazio did it, do you?”

  “I found her standing over the body with a bloody knife in her hand. I have to go with what I saw. If I were Bedford County’s prosecuting attorney, I’d have an open-and-shut case.”

  “What does your gut tell you?”

  “I thought I was supposed to ask the questions,” she said in a genial tone.

  “I trust my gut more than my brain, what brain I have.”

  “Actually, I do, too, but it takes years to learn that, and some people never do. Sometimes we know without knowing, and sometimes we know and we can’t prove how we know.”

  “And?”

  “My eyes told me she killed Carla. My gut…” She shook her head. “I’m not sure, Orrie. Doesn’t feel right.”

  Orrie put his hand on the side of the ladder, paused. “There is something: I never saw Mike have a run-in with a man. Always the woman, when she was in the house without the husband. Don’t know if that’s important.”

  “I think it is. Thank you.”

  Twenty minutes later, Cooper pulled the squad car into the south side of the parking lot at Seminole Square, so named for the trail that led from the Mid-Atlantic states down to Florida. Two tobacco shops were relatively close to each other. One was in Barracks Road Shopping Center, the other here.

  Charlottesville lacked a true town center. Someone might say it was Court Square at the county courthouse, but not so, not enough life there. Places like Richmond, or Charleston, South Carolina, or even Oxford, Pennsylvania, had true centers around a town square, but this place did not. Hives of activity dotted Albemarle County, and yet it lacked that one special place where every resident knew the core rested.

  The proprietor of the shop, a well-groomed Cuban gentleman of some years, greeted her with a smile. She often accompanied Rick here when he’d splurge for a pack of Dunhills.

  “How are you?”

  “Good, and you?”

  He shook his head. “Violence. So much violence lately.”

  “Usually the outbursts occur during the sweltering summer days and nights. Can’t quite put this together. Well, Dr. Wylde’s killer I can.”