Murder, She Meowed

by Rita Mae Brown

  “Well, I hope you’re right. If my bait-and-switch hunch isn’t right, I’m lost. Two jockeys have been killed within seven days. Unless we’re talking about some kind of bizarre sex club here, or irate husbands, then I’m sticking close to gambling or selling horses.”

  “You’d better put out that weed, Sheriff Rick.” Barry smiled, pointing at Rick’s hand.

  At just that moment the cigarette burned his palm and Rick flapped his hands, dropping the stub. Its fiery nub burned in the dying grass. Rick quickly stepped on it. “Thanks. Got so preoccupied I forgot I was holding the damn thing.”

  “They’ll kill you, you know.”

  Rick sardonically smiled. “Better this than a stiletto. Anyway, I’ve got to die of something.” What he kept to himself was the fact that he’d tried to quit three times, the pressure of work always pulling him back to that soothing nicotine. “You know what Nigel was doing in this stable?” He nodded in the direction of the imposing flat track stable lying parallel to the track.

  “Picking up gear. I think that’s what he was doing. Some jockeys stowed their gear here, away from the crowds.”

  “Where were you immediately after the races?”

  “Enjoying Cindy Chandler’s tailgate party.”

  “And after that?”

  He put his hands in his pockets. “Ran into Arthur Tetrick and walked with him on his way to the big house. We chatted about Arthur buying a four-year-old I saw in Upperville. Arthur wants back in the game. We walked toward the gate to the house. I left him there and went to check on one last van pulling out from the back stables, not mine.” He pointed northeast of his stable in the direction of the smaller stables, well out of sight. “That’s when one of Frank Yancey’s deputies called me. Pretty dark by then.”

  “Don’t be surprised if Frank asks you all the same questions that I have. I’ve talked to him, of course.”

  Barry, although not a native Virginian, had lived in Orange County since the early ’70s. He knew Sheriff Yancey well. “Frank’s a good man. Not a smart man, but a good man. I’m glad you’re on this now.”

  Rick couldn’t cast aspersions on a fellow law enforcement officer. “Frank might be smarter than you know. You see, Barry, it’s not what he knows, it’s who he knows. I’m going over to roast”—he savored the word—“Mickey Townsend tomorrow. Maybe he’ll turn something up for me. You get on with him?”

  “Yeah.”

  Rick started back toward the squad car. “Oh, one other thing. Anyone play cards in this group, the steeplechase people? I don’t mean a friendly hand here and there, but impassioned card players?”

  “Hell, Mickey Townsend would kill for an inside straight.”

  17

  Dr. Stephen D’Angelo, a pulmonary surgeon, rode toward the stables. He was immaculately dressed in butcher boots, tan breeches, a white shirt, and tweed hacking jacket.

  Linda Forloines rode alongside him. “She’s a point and shoot.”

  “Where did you say this horse hunted?”

  “Middleburg, Piedmont, and Oak Ridge.”

  He patted his horse’s neck. “How much?”

  “Well, they’re asking twenty thousand dollars. But let’s go over there. If you ride her and like her, I bet I can get that price down.”

  “Okay. Make an appointment for Thursday afternoon.” He stopped outside the stable door, dismounted, and handed the reins to Linda, who had dismounted first.

  Time being precious to him, he scheduled his rides at precisely the same time each day. Then he drove to the hospital, changing there.

  He had sworn when he moved down from New Jersey that he’d retire, but word of a good doctor gets around. Before he knew it he was again in practice with two mornings’ operating time at the hospital.

  Like most extremely busy people in high-pressure jobs, he had to trust those around him. Linda kept the stable clean and the horses worked. He couldn’t have known that behind his back she made fun of everything about him.

  She mocked his riding ability, calling it “death defying.” She moaned about his truck and trailer; she wanted a much more expensive one. She lauded her contributions to his farm to all and sundry even as she bit the hand that fed her.

  As soon as the horses were untacked and wiped down, she planned to call her friend in Middleburg who was selling the horse Dr. D’Angelo was interested in for someone else. The horse was worth $7,500. If Dr. D’Angelo liked the mare, Linda would “plead” with her friend to plead with her client to drop the price. They’d counter at $15,000. The owner of the horse would indeed get $7,500. Linda and her friend would split and pocket the additional $7,500 without telling anyone. The original owner wouldn’t know because they’d cash the check and pay her in cash. It was done every day in the horse business by people less than honest . . . often selling horses less than sound.

  The phone rang as Linda tossed a Rambo blanket over one of the horses.

  The wall phone hung on the outside wall.

  She picked it up. “Hello.”

  “Linda,” the deep male voice said, “Coty Lamont was found dead in the back of his pickup truck. A knife through the heart.”

  She gasped. “What?”

  “You’re losing business.” He laughed. Then his voice turned cold. “I know Sheriff Yancey questioned you.”

  Before he could continue she said, “Hey, I’m not stupid. I didn’t say a word.”

  A long pause followed. “Keep it that way. Liabilities don’t live long in this business. Midnight. Tomorrow.”

  “Yeah. Sure.” She hung up the phone, surprised to find her hand shaking.

  18

  The pale November light spilled over her like champagne, making the deep blacks of Mrs. Murphy’s stripes glisten. Her tail upright, her whiskers slightly forward, she loped across the fields to Mim’s house. Alongside her and not at all happy about it wobbled Pewter—not an outdoor girl. Tee Tucker easily kept up the pace.

  Mim’s estate nestled not fifteen minutes from the post office if one cut across yards and fields.

  “Oh, can’t we walk a bit?”

  “We’re almost there.” Murphy pressed on.

  “I know we’re almost there. I’m tired,” complained the gray cat.

  “Hold it!” Tucker commanded.

  The two cats stopped, Pewter breathing hard. A rustle in the broom sage alerted them to another presence. The cats dropped to their bellies, ears forward. Tucker stood her ground.

  “Who goes there?” Tucker demanded.

  “As fine a cat as ever walked the globe,” came the saucy reply.

  “Ugh.” Pewter squinted. She had never been able to stand Paddy, Mrs. Murphy’s ex-husband.

  Murphy stuck her head up, “Whatever you’re doing on this side of Crozet, I don’t want to know.”

  “And you shan’t, my love.” He kissed her on the cheek. “Pewter, you look slimmer.”

  “Liar.”

  “What a pretty thing to say to a gentleman paying you a compliment.”

  “What gentleman?”

  “Pewter, be civil.” Murphy hated playing peacemaker. She had better things to do with her time. “Come on, you two. If we’re going to get back by quitting time, we’ve got to move on.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Mim’s stable. Come along and I’ll give you the skinny.” Mrs. Murphy used an expression that she had heard Mrs. Hogendobber occasionally use when the good lady felt racy.

  “Let’s trot. I am not running.” Pewter pouted.

  “All right. All right,” Tucker agreed to put her in a better mood. “Remember, it’s because of you that we’re on this mission.”

  “It’s not because of me, it’s because Coty Lamont turned up dead in the back of a pickup truck, shot in the back and with a knife through his heart. All I did was report the news of it this morning.”

  “How is it that Harry didn’t know first—or the sanctified Mrs. Hogendobber?” Paddy smelled a heavy scent of deer lingering in the f
rost.

  “Cynthia told Harry second. She stopped for coffee and one of Mrs. Hogendobber’s bakery concoctions. French toast today and a kind of folded-over something with powdered sugar. Next she dropped in at the post office—”

  Tucker interjected, “Said they’d read about it in the papers later, so she’d give them the real facts.”

  “And then I let you talk me into coming out here. Why I will never know.” Pewter loudly decried her sore paw pads.

  “Because Coty Lamont slipped into Mim’s barn on the night or early morning when he was killed, that’s why, and no one knows it but Rodger Dodger, Pusskin, the horses, and us.”

  Tucker patiently explained again to Pewter. This was like teaching a puppy to hide a bone. Repetition.

  Tucker knew that Pewter figured things out just fine, but in bitching and moaning she could be the center of attention. Then, too, her paw pads, unused to hard running, really were tender.

  “Another human knows, all right.” Mrs. Murphy spied the cupolas on the stable up ahead. “Coty’s killer.”

  “You don’t know that,” Paddy said and was informed as to the events that had transpired before Coty was found, the events at Mim’s stable. Stubbornly, he said, “That means Mickey Townsend, since Rodger said he snuck in and found him.”

  “Sure looks that way, but I’ve learned not to jump to conclusions, only at mice,” Murphy slyly offered.

  “Don’t sound superior, Murphy. I hate it when you do.” Pewter puffed as they entered the big open doors trimmed in dark green on white.

  Addie and Chark Valiant were arguing in the tack room situated in the middle of the stable.

  “You’ve got to get serious about the money.”

  “Bullshit,” Addie defiantly replied.

  Chark’s voice rose. “You’ll piss it all away, Addie—”

  She interrupted. “All you and Arthur think about is the money. If I burn through my inheritance, that’s my tough luck.”

  “We should keep our funds together and invest. It’s the way to make more money.”

  “I don’t want to do that. I have never wanted to do that. You take your share and I’ll take mine.”

  “That’s crazy!” he yelled. “Don’t you realize what’s at stake?”

  “I realize that you and Arthur Tetrick went to court two years ago to extend the term of Arthur’s trusteeship.” Her face was red, “It’s my money. Thank God, the judge didn’t extend the term!”

  “You were loaded on drugs, Addie. We did the right thing to try and protect you.”

  “Bullshit!” She threw her hard hat on the floor.

  Chark tried another approach. “What if we get another adviser?”

  “Dump dear Uncle Arthur?” The word uncle was drenched in sarcasm.

  “If it would convince you to keep our money together, yes.”

  A silence ensued, which Addie finally broke. “No. You and Arthur can watch over your money. I’ll watch over mine.”

  “Goddammit, you’re so stupid!”

  She screamed, “I’m not going to be under your thumb for the rest of my life!”

  “No, you’ll just be under the thumb of whatever son of a bitch you fall in love with next—just like Mother.”

  The sound of a slap reverberated throughout the barn. “I could kill you. I wouldn’t be surprised if you killed Nigel.”

  “You’re nuts!” Chark stormed out of the tack room and out of the barn.

  The animals, not moving, watched as Addie charged out of the tack room, running after her brother and bellowing at the top of her lungs, “I hate you. I really friggin’ hate you!”

  “Hi,” Rodger called down from the hayloft. “Don’t pay any attention to them, they’re always fighting over money.”

  “Hi,” called Pusskin, Rodger’s adored girlfriend, sitting by his side.

  “Have you heard?” Pewter loved to be first with the news, any news.

  “No.” Rodger climbed backward down the ladder to the hayloft. Pusskin followed.

  “Coty Lamont was found murdered last night,” Pewter breathlessly informed them.

  “How awful.” Pusskin slipped a rung, putting her hind paw on Rodger’s head.

  “That’s why we’re all here, Rodg,” Mrs. Murphy said. “Let’s go into Orion’s stall.”

  Rodger, knowing of Paddy’s reputation with the female of the species, walked between Pusskin and the handsome black cat with the white tuxedo front and white spats on his paws.

  Orion stood in his stall, for he was to be clipped today, a process he loathed. The stiff whiskers on his nose and chin would be shaved off with hair clippers like the ones humans used for a buzz cut. His ears would be trimmed and a path on his poll behind his ears would be cut, a bridle path. The stall was latched.

  “Orion, how are you today?” Rodger called to him from the tack trunk.

  “How do you think? That damned Addie will twitch me and Chark will play barber shop.” A twitch was used to keep horses standing still for such beauty treatments. A looped piece of rope at the end of a half broom handle was wrapped around his lip.

  “I’ll make a deal,” Mrs. Murphy called out to him.

  “I’m listening.” Orion walked over to behold the gathering on his tack box. Tucker was seated beside it.

  “I’ll open this latch. I think if we cats push on the door, we can slide it back. Now, I don’t care if you run out, but will you wait until we stop digging?”

  The handsome horse blinked, his large brown eyes filled with curiosity. “What’s in my stall, anyway? Sure I’ll promise.”

  Mrs. Murphy, lean and agile, stretched to reach the bolt on the stall door. About the width of a human little finger, although longer, the metal bolt slid into a latch, a rounded piece of metal on the top, enabling a human to pull back the latch with one finger. Helped Mrs. Murphy, too. After much tugging, she pulled the fingerhold on the bolt downward, then she pushed with all her might to push the whole bolt back through its latch.

  “You did it.” Pewter was full of admiration.

  “Now let’s push.” Rodger put his paws on the stall door, right below the X, which strengthened the lower door panel. Paddy put his paws at the very base of the door. Pewter added her bulk to it, and Tucker nudged with her nose. In no time at all they rolled the door back as quietly as they could.

  “Over here.” Rodger bounded to the spot.

  “Let’s pull the shavings away from it.” Pusskin sent shavings flying everywhere.

  All the cats, plus Tucker, were sprayed with little shavings bits.

  “I can’t smell anything,” Orion added, “and you know I have a good sense of smell.”

  “I can’t either,” Tucker confessed. “But, Orion, if you’ll use your front hooves to crack up the hard-packed earth, we can get digging faster. We might find something. Treasure, I bet!”

  “Treasure is sweet feed drenched in molasses.” Orion chuckled as he tore out chunks of earth.

  Mrs. Murphy mumbled. “Too noisy—it’ll bring the humans.”

  Noisy as Orion was, he dug out a deep saucer much more quickly than the combined cat and dog claws could have done. They heard footsteps outside.

  “I’m out of here.” Orion wheeled and trotted out of his stall just as Addie, over her fury, walked back into the barn from the other end.

  Once outside, Orion jumped the fence into the pasture where his buddies chewed on a spread-out round bale of hay.

  Two other people came into the tack room from outside. Tucker leapt into the small crater.

  “Anything?” Mrs. Murphy asked her trusted companion.

  “Can you smell gold?” Pusskin innocently asked.

  Pewter bit her tongue. The pretty tortoiseshell was a kitty bimbo, but she made Rodger happy in his old age.

  “I do smell something. Faint, very faint. Maybe another two feet below, maybe less.”

  “What?” came the chorus.

  “Well, I don’t know exactly. A mammal that’s been dead for a l
ong, long time. It’s so faint and dusty, like mildew after the sun hits it.”

  Before the animals could react, Addie, Charles, and Arthur Tetrick lurched into the open stall.

  “What the—?” Addie opened her mouth.

  “That damned Orion. He’s too smart.” Charles slapped his thigh. “He heard the clippers.”

  “How’d he get out?” Addie stared at the animals, not comprehending that they had freed the hunter. “What is this, an animal convention? Mrs. Murphy, Tucker, Pewter, Paddy, Rodger, and Pusskin even.”

  The animals remained silent with Tucker slinking toward the door.

  Arthur inspected the hole. “Better fill this in right away. It’s not good for a horse to stand in an uneven stall. Not good at all.”

  “But that’s the funny thing.” Charles removed his baseball cap and ran his fingers through his hair. “Orion isn’t a digger.”

  Arthur snorted. “Well, he is now.”

  “You would do best to dig further,” Mrs. Murphy told Addie.

  “Yeah, Adelia, something’s down there,” Rodger added, noticing that Addie was pointedly ignoring her brother and Arthur.

  “I’ll get the shovel and pack this back down.” Charles left the stall.

  “Keep digging!” Tucker barked.

  “That dog has a piercing bark.” Arthur frowned. “I never liked little dogs.”

  “I never liked fastidious men,” Tucker snapped back, then ran out of the stall followed by the other animals.

  Adelia snapped too, as she walked away from the stall, “You two are as thick as thieves. I’m going to lunch.”

  “Come on, Addie.” Charles said, but she kept walking away.

  “Rodger and Pusskin, keep your eyes open,” Mrs. Murphy told them as her small group left the barn. “Anything at all. A change in routine—”

  “We will,” Pusskin agreed. “But what the humans do is their own business.”

  “Curiosity killed the cat,” jibed the big ginger.

  “Don’t say that, Rodger. I hate that expression.” Pusskin frowned.