“I can handle it!” She glared down at the dog. “I ride in cars better than you do. I don’t bark. I don’t ask to be fed every fifteen minutes, and I don’t whine to go to the bathroom.”
“No, you just do it under the seat.”
Mrs. Murphy spit, her white fangs quite impressive. “No fair. I was sick and we were on our way to the vet.”
“Yeah, yeah. Tapeworms. I’m tired of that excuse.”
The pretty feline shuddered. “I hate those tapeworm shots, but they do work. Haven’t had a bit of trouble since. Of course, flea season is over.”
She had heard the vet explain that some fleas carry the tapeworm larvae. When animals bite the spot where a flea has bitten them, they occasionally ingest an infected flea, starting the cycle wherein the parasite winds up in their intestines. Both cat and dog understood the problem, but when a flea bites, it’s hard not to bite back.
Harry sat down to her hot omelet. Mrs. Murphy kept her company on the other side of the plate.
“I am not giving you any, Murphy. In fact, I’m not forking over one more morsel of food for days—not until I clean up the wreckage of this house. I’ve half a mind to leave you home from work tomorrow, but you’d run another demolition derby.”
“Damn right.”
Tucker, annoyed at not being able to sit on the table, plopped under Harry’s chair, then rose again to sit by her mother’s knee. “Oh, Murph, one little thing . . . a jockey was murdered last night at the Montpelier stable, the big old one.”
The green eyes grew larger, and the animal leaned over the table. “What?”
“Mrs. Murphy, control yourself.” Harry reached over to pet the cat, who fluffed her fur.
“A jockey, Nigel somebody or other—we don’t really know him although Adelia Valiant does—he was stabbed. Right through the heart.” Tucker savored this last detail.
“You waited all this time to tell me?” Murphy unleashed her claws, then retracted them.
Tucker smiled. “Next time you tell me cats are smarter than dogs, just remember I know some things you don’t.”
Murphy jumped down from the table, put her face right up into Tucker’s, and growled. “Don’t mess with me, buster. You get to go with Mom to the races. You come home and tell me nothing until now. I would have told you straightaway.”
The little dog held her ground. “Maybe you would and maybe you wouldn’t.”
“When have I withheld important news from you?”
“The time you and Pewter stole roast beef from the store.”
“That was different. Besides, you know Pewter is obsessed with food. If I hadn’t helped her steal that roast beef, I wouldn’t have gotten one measly bite of it. She would have stolen it herself, but she’s too fat to squeeze into the case. That’s different.”
“No, it isn’t.”
Harry observed the Mexican standoff. “What’s got into you two this morning?”
“Nothing.” Murphy stalked out of the room, taking a swipe at Tucker’s rear end when the dog’s head was turned.
Harry prudently reached down and grabbed Tucker’s collar. “Ignore her.”
“With pleasure.”
The phone rang. Harry answered it.
“Sorry to call you so early on a Sunday morning,” Deputy Cynthia Cooper apologized. “Boss wants me to ask you some questions about the races yesterday.”
“Sure. Want to come out here?”
“Wish I could. You ready?”
“Yes.”
“What do you know about Nigel Danforth?”
“Not much, Coop. He’s a new jockey on the circuit, not attached to a particular stable. What we call a pickup rider or a catch rider. I met him briefly yesterday.”
Hearing this, Mrs. Murphy sourly returned to the kitchen. She didn’t so much as glance at Tucker when she passed the dog, also eavesdropping.
“Crab.”
“Selfish,” the cat shot back.
“Did you ever speak to Nigel?”
“Just a ‘pleased to meet you.’ ”
“Do you know anything about his relationship with Addie?”
“She told me yesterday morning that she liked him.” Harry thought a minute. “She intimated that she might be falling in love with him, and she wanted us to get together after the races at the party.”
“Did you?”
“Well, I was at Mim’s party. Addie was there, too.” She added, “First, though, I waited on standby at the tower after the last race to see if Arthur Tetrick or Mr. Mason wanted me to file a report. There was a nasty incident at my fence, the east gate fence, between Nigel Danforth and Linda Forloines.”
“I’m all ears.”
Harry could hear Cooper scribbling as she described the incident.
“That’s quite serious, isn’t it? I mean, couldn’t they get suspended?”
“Yes. I told Arthur and Colbert Mason, he’s the national director, but I guess you know that by now. Neither of the jockeys lodged a protest, though. Without a protest there’s nothing the officials can do.”
“Who has the authority in a situation like that?”
“The race director. In this case, Arthur.”
“Why wouldn’t Arthur Tetrick haul both their asses in?”
“That’s a good question, Coop.” Harry sipped her tea. “But I can give you an opinion—not an answer, just an opinion.”
“We want to hear it,” the cat and dog said, too.
“Shoot.”
“Well, all sports have umpires, referees, judges to see that mayhem is kept to a minimum. But sometimes you have to let the antagonists settle it themselves. Rough justice.”
“Expand.”
“If an official steps in, it can reach a point where Jockey A is being protected too much. I mean, Coop, if you’re going to go out there, then you’ve got to take your lumps, and part of it is that some riders are down and dirty. If they think no one is looking, they’ll foul you.”
“But you were looking.”
“I don’t understand that.” Harry recalled the brazenness of the situation.
“Is Linda dumb?”
“Far from it. She’s a low-rent, lying, cunning bitch.”
“Hey, don’t keep your feelings to yourself,” Cynthia teased her.
Harry laughed. “There are few people that I despise on this earth, but she’s one of them.”
“Why?”
“I saw her deliberately lame a horse temporarily, then lie about it to Mim. She took the horse off Mim’s hands and sold it at a profit to a trainer out of state. She didn’t know that I saw her. I—well, it doesn’t matter. You get the point.”
“But she’s not stupid, so why would she commit a flagrant foul, one that could get her suspended? And right in front of you?”
“It doesn’t figure.” Harry was stumped.
Coop flipped through her notes. “She can’t keep a job, any job, longer than a year. That could mean a lot of things, but one thing it most certainly means is, she can’t get along with people over an extended period of time.”
“Obviously, she couldn’t get along with Nigel Danforth.” Harry sipped her tea again.
“Do you have any idea, I don’t care how crazy it sounds, why Linda Forloines would hit Nigel in the face?”
Harry played with the long cord of the phone. “I don’t have any idea, unless they were enemies—apart from being competitors, I mean. The only other thing I can tell you—just popped into my head—is that people say Linda deals drugs. No one’s ever pinned it on her though.”
“Heard that, too,” Cooper replied. “I’ll be back at you later. Sorry to intrude on you so early, but I know you’re out before sunup most days. Pretty crisp this morning.”
“I’ll wear my woollies. Let me ask you a question.”
“Okay.”
“Can everyone account for their whereabouts at the time of the murder?”
“No,” Cooper flatly stated. “We’ve got a good idea when he died, within a
twenty-minute frame, but really—anybody could have had the time to skip in there and kill him. The commotion of the event wears people out, dulls their senses, to say nothing of the drinking.”
“That’s the truth. Well, if I think of anything I’ll call. I’m glad to help.”
Harry hung up the phone after good-byes. She liked Cynthia, and over the years they’d become friends.
“I couldn’t hear what Cynthia was saying. Tell me,” Murphy demanded.
Harry, cup poised before her lips, put it back down in the saucer. “You know, it doesn’t make sense. It doesn’t make a bit of sense that Linda Forloines would lay into Nigel Danforth right in front of me.”
“What?” Mrs. Murphy, beside herself with curiosity, rubbed Harry’s arm since she had jumped back on the counter.
“I’ll tell you all about that.” Tucker promised importantly as Harry pulled on an ancient cashmere sweater, slapped the old cowboy hat on her head, and slipped her arms through her down vest.
“Come on, kids, time to rock and roll.” Harry opened the door. They stepped out into the frosty November morning to start the chores.
8
Will Forloines stood up when Linda sauntered out of Sheriff Frank Yancey’s office. At first the husband and wife had balked at being questioned individually, but finally they gave in. It would look worse if they didn’t cooperate.
Will had been surprised at the blandness of Sheriff Yancey’s questions—partly because he was scared the cops might be on to their drug dealing. Where were you at seven on the night of the murder? How well did you know the deceased? That sort of thing.
Linda turned and smiled at Frank, who smiled back and shut his door.
Will handed Linda her coat and they opened the door. The day, cool but bright, might warm up a bit.
Not until they were in the truck did they speak.
“What did he ask you?” Will didn’t start the motor.
“Nothing much.” Her upturned nose in profile resembled a tiny ski jump.
“Well, what?” Will demanded.
“Where was I? I told him in the van with Mickey Townsend. The truth.”
“What else?” He cranked the truck.
“He wanted to know why I hit Nigel in the face with my whip before the east gate jump.”
“And?” Will, agitated, pressed down so hard on the accelerator he had to brake, which threw them forward. “Sorry.”
“I said he bumped me, he’d been bumping me and I was damned sick of it. But not sick enough to kill him for it.”
“And?”
“That was it.”
“You were in there for half an hour, Linda. There had to be more to it than that. Things don’t look so good for us. I told you not to take chances. You’re a suspect.”
She ignored that. “We passed the time of day. He asked how long I’d been riding. Where did I learn? Nothing to the point. I hit the guy in the face. That doesn’t mean I killed him.”
“I don’t like it.”
“Hey, who does?”
Will thought for a moment. “Did he ask anything about drugs? I mean, what if Nigel had coke in his system.”
“No, he didn’t ask anything like that.” She folded her hands and gloated. “I did say that since Fair Haristeen was the person who found Nigel, he ought to be investigated. I hinted that Fair’s been doping horses. Just enough of a hint to send him on a wild-goose chase.”
Will looked at her out of the corner of his eye. He’d grown accustomed to her habitual lying. “Anyone who knows Fair Haristeen won’t believe it.”
“Hey, it’ll waste some of their time.”
“You sure he didn’t ask anything tricky?” His voice hardened.
“No, goddammit. Why are you on my case?”
“Because he split us up to see if our stories conflicted.”
“I don’t have any stories except about Fair. I’ll get even with him yet, and Mim, too, the rich bitch.”
“I wouldn’t worry about them now.”
Her eyes narrowed. “She fired you, too.”
“Someone fires you, you say you quit. People believe what they want to believe. We make good money now. Revenge takes too much time.”
She smirked. “Everyone thinks Mim ran us out of business and that we’re broke. Bet their eyes fell out of their heads when we drove into Montpelier in a brand-new truck.”
She hadn’t reckoned on most people being more involved with the races than with her. Few had noticed their new truck, but then Linda related everything to herself.
“You really didn’t tell him anything?” A pleading note crept into his voice.
“NO! If you’re getting weak-kneed, then stay out of it. I’ll do it. Jesus, Will.”
“Okay, okay.” They headed up Route 15, north. “Our supplier isn’t going to be happy if our names get in the paper. Just makes me nervous.”
“The sheriff asked me one weird question.” She observed his knuckles whiten as he gripped the steering wheel. “Nothing much. But he asked me if I knew anything about Nigel’s green card.”
“His immigration card? You mean his right-to-work card?”
“Yeah, the green card.” She shrugged. “Said I never saw it. Wonder why he’d ask about that?”
9
Mondays Harry and Mrs. Hogendobber shoveled the mail. Mounds of catalogs, postcards, bills, and letters filled the canvas mail cart and spilled onto the wooden floor, polished by years of use.
Mrs. Murphy, disgruntled because she couldn’t snuggle in the mail cart, zipped out via the animal door installed for her convenience at the back. Tucker snored, asleep on her side in the middle of the floor where she could create the greatest obstacle. The cat didn’t wake her.
Truth be told, she loved Tucker, but dogs, even Tucker, got on her nerves. They were so straightforward. Mrs. Murphy enjoyed nuance and quiet. Tucker tended to babble.
The door flapped behind her. She sat on the back stoop of the post office surveying the alleyway that divided the row of old business buildings from private backyards. Mrs. Hogendobber’s yard sat directly behind the post office. Her garden, mulched and fertilized, usually a source of color, had yielded to winter. She’d clipped off her last blooming of mums.
The cat breathed in that peculiar odor of dying leaves and moist earth. As it was eleven A.M. the frost had melted and the scent of wild animals dissipated with it. Mrs. Murphy loved to hunt in the fall and winter because it was easy to track by scent.
She ruffled out her fur to ward off the chill, then marched over to Market Shiflett’s store.
As she approached the back door she hollered, “Pewter, Pewter, Motor Scooter, come out and play!”
The animals’ door, newly installed at the grocery store, swung open. Pewter rolled out like a gray cannonball.
“Everyone’s ass over tit today.”
Mrs. Murphy agreed. “Mondays put humans in a foul mood. Ever notice?”
“There is that, but the stabbing of that jockey sure has tongues wagging.” She lifted her head straight up in the air. “Let’s go root around under Mrs. Hogendobber’s porch.”
The two bounded across the alley and ducked under Miranda’s porch.
“He was here again last night.” Pewter’s pupils grew large.
Mrs. Murphy sniffed. “Like a skunk only, umm, sweeter.” She stepped forward and caught her whiskers in cobwebs. “I hate spiders!” She shot out from under the porch.
“Ha, ha.” Pewter followed her, highly amused at the cobwebs draped over her friend’s whiskers and face. “You look like a ghost.”
“Least I’m not fat.”
Pewter, nonplussed, replied, “I’m not fat, just round.” She moseyed over to the garden. “Bet Mrs. H. would have a major hissy if she knew a fox visited her nightly.”
“Pickings must be good.”
“I wouldn’t want to be undomesticated,” Pewter, fond of cooked foods, revealed.
“You sit in that store and dream on. I’ve never once tho
ught of that.”
“Know what else I’ve thought about?” Pewter didn’t wait for a reply. “Sushi. What Crozet needs is a good sushi bar. Imagine fresh tuna every day. Now I enjoy tuna from the can, I prefer it packed lightly, not in heavy oil, mind you. But fresh tuna . . . heaven.”
The tiger licked the side of her right paw and swept it up over her ears. “Would we have to use chopsticks?”
“Very funny. I bet I could steal sushi from a pair of chopsticks on their way to some dope’s mouth.” She imitated her stealing motion, one swift swipe of the paw, claws extended. She shuddered with delight at the thought of it.
“Hey, look.” Mrs. Murphy intruded on Pewter’s reverie.
Both cats watched Addie Valiant drive up and park behind the post office. She closed the door of her blue Subaru station wagon, the back jammed with tack, wraps, saddle pads, and other equine odds and ends. Turning up the collar of her heavy shirt, she knocked on the back door of the post office, listened, then opened the door.
“Let’s go.” Murphy ran across the yard.
“What for?” Pewter didn’t budge.
“The dead jockey was her boyfriend.”
“Oh.” Pewter hurried to catch up. Both cats hit the animal door simultaneously, spit at one another, then Murphy slipped in first, a disgruntled Pewter literally on her tail.
Murphy had washed only half her face; the other half was resplendent with cobwebs.
Addie pulled her mail from the back of her mailbox.
Harry checked through the magazine pile to see if anything was there for her.
“Now, honey, you let me know if there’s anything we can do. Anything at all.” Miranda handed Addie a bun with an orange glaze. An excellent baker, she made a little money on the side by baking for Market Shiflett’s store.
“I’m not hungry, thank you.”
“I am,” Pewter purred.
Tucker, awake now, scrambled to her feet. “Me, too.” She noticed Mrs. Murphy’s face. “Halloween’s over.”
Harry noticed at the same time. “Where have you been?”
“Under Miranda’s porch.”
Harry scooped up the pretty cat, grabbed a paper towel, and wiped off the cobwebs, not as simple as she thought since they were sticky.
Addie dropped into a chair. “Mind if I sit a minute? I’m tired.”
Murder, She Meowed Page 6