Murder, She Meowed

by Rita Mae Brown

  “Don’t forget Mickey Townsend.”

  “I haven’t.” Murphy paced, her tail flicking with each step. “Mickey must know where Marylou is, though. Otherwise, why did he stop Coty from digging that night?” She paced some more. “But it doesn’t feel right, Tucker. Mickey was in love with Marylou.”

  “Maybe at the last minute she thought Arthur was the better choice. Maybe she told him and he lost it and killed her—lover’s passion,” Tucker said soberly.

  “I don’t know, but you’ve got to go to Camden, Tucker. Mickey will be there. They’ll all be there—and that’s what scares me.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  “Go into that bedroom and put on a show.”

  Tucker trotted into Harry’s bedroom. She’d placed her duffel bag on the floor. Her clothes lay on the bed and she was folding them.

  Tucker crawled into the duffel bag. “Mom, you’ve got to take me.”

  “Tucker—” Harry smiled. “Get out of there.”

  Mrs. Murphy bounded on the bed. “Take her, Harry.”

  “Murphy—” Harry shooed her off a blouse. The cat sat on another one. “Now this is too much.”

  “Tucker needs to go with you.”

  “Yes, it’s very important,” the dog whined.

  “Throw back your head and howl. That’s impressive,” the cat ordered.

  Tucker threw back her pretty head, emitting a spine-tingling howl. “I wanna go!”

  Harry knelt down and hugged the little dog. “Ah, Tucker, it’s only for the weekend.”

  Tucker repeated her dramatic recitation. “I wanna go! Don’t leave me here!”

  “Oh, now, come on.” Harry comforted the dog.

  “Oo-oo-oo!”

  “That’s good.” Mrs. Murphy moved to another blouse. If she couldn’t go she could at least deposit as much cat hair as possible on Harry’s clothes.

  “Well—” Harry weakened.

  “Oh, please, I’m the best little dog in the world. I won’t make you walk me to go to the bathroom. I won’t even eat. I’ll be real cheap—”

  “That’s pushing it, Tucker,” Mrs. Murphy grumbled.

  “She’s eating it up.”

  “Oh, Tucker, I feel so guilty about leaving you here.”

  “Oo-oo-oo!”

  Harry picked up the phone by the bed and punched in Mim’s number. “Hello, Mim. I have the unhappiest dog in front of me, curled up in my duffle bag. May I bring Tucker?” She listened to the affirmative reply. “Thank you. Thank you, too, for Tucker.” Then she called Sally Dohner, who agreed to fill in for her at the post office.

  “Way to go!” Mrs. Murphy congratulated her friend.

  “Oh, boy!” Tucker jumped out of the duffel bag and ran around in small circles until she made herself dizzy and fell down.

  “Now how did you know you were going?” Harry laughed at the dog. “Sometimes I think you two understand English.” She petted Mrs. Murphy, who nestled down in a sweater. “I’m sorry, Murphy, but you know how you are on a long trip. You take care of Susan—she’s going to spend the weekend here. She said she’d love a break from being a wife and mother.” Harry sat on the bed. “Bet she brings the whole family with her anyway. Well, you know everyone.”

  “Yes. I’ll be a good kitty. Just tell her I want lots of cooked chicken.”

  “She even promised to fry pork chops for you.”

  “Ooh, I love pork chops.” Mrs. Murphy purred, then called out to Tucker: “Tucker, you’ve got to remember everything you see, smell, or hear.”

  “Got ya.”

  33

  Camden, South Carolina, settled in 1758 and called Pine Tree Hill at that time, sits in a thermal belt, making it perfect for horsemen. While the air freezes, the sand does not, so in wintertime Thoroughbred breeders, trainers, chasers, hunters, and show horse people flock to the good footing and warmer temperatures. While not as balmy as Florida, Camden isn’t as crowded either, nor as expensive.

  Mrs. Marion duPont Scott had wintered in Camden, falling in love with the town. The relaxed people, blessed with that languid humor peculiar to South Carolina, so delighted her that she decided to use her personal wealth to create the Colonial Cup, a Deep South counterpoint to great and grand Montpelier. She developed a steeplechase course that allowed spectators in the grandstand to see most of the jumps, a novelty.

  Over the years the races grew. The crowds poured in. The parties created many a wild scandal. The pockets of the citizens of Camden bulged.

  The only bad thing that could be said about this most charming of upcountry towns in South Carolina is that it was the site of a Revolutionary War disaster on April 16, 1780, when General Horatio Gates, with 3,600 men, lost to Lord Cornwallis’s 2,000 British troops. After that the British decided to enjoy thoroughly the comforts of Camden and the attentions of the female population, famed for their exquisite manners as well as their good looks.

  Harry, thrilled to be a guest at the Colonial Cup, walked around Camden with her mouth hanging open. She and Miranda had decided to tour the town before heading over to the track. The races wouldn’t commence until the following day, and they were like schoolgirls at recess. Harry dutifully asked Mim, then Charles, then Adelia, and even Fair if they needed her assistance. As soon as everyone said “No,” she shot out of the stable, Tucker at her heels.

  “I could get used to this.” Harry smiled as she regarded a sweeping porch that wrapped around a stately white frame house. Baskets of flowers hung from the ceiling of the porch, for the temperature remained around 65°F.

  “How I remember Mamaw sitting on her swing, passing and repassing, discussing at length the reason why she lined her walkway with hydrangeas and why her roses won prizes. Oh, I wish Didee were coming.” Miranda used the childhood name for her sister. “That husband of hers is too much work.”

  “What husband isn’t?”

  “My George was an angel.”

  Harry fought back the urge to reply that he was now. Instead she said, “He had no choice.”

  Mrs. Hogendobber stopped. The crepe on the bottom of her sensible walking shoes screeched, which made Tucker bark. That made the West Highland white on the wraparound porch bark. “Do I detect sarcasm?”

  “Hush, Tucker.”

  “I’m on duty here,” Tucker stoutly barked right back. “If that white moppet wants to run his mouth and insult us, I am not remaining silent.”

  “Will you shut up!”

  “My husband listened better than your dog.”

  “Let’s move on before every dog in the neighborhood feels compelled to reply. Tucker, I don’t know why I brought you. You’ve been a real pain in the patoutee. You sniffed everything where we slept. You rushed up and down the barn aisles. You ran out in the paddocks. You dashed into every parked van. Are you on canine amphetamines?”

  “I’m searching for information. You’re too dumb to know that. I’m not rushing around like a chicken with its head cut off. I have a plan.”

  “Apparently, Tucker isn’t too pleased with you either,” Mrs. Hogendobber noted.

  “She’ll settle down. Let’s go on up the road. The second oldest polo field in the United States is there.”

  They walked down a sandy path; the railroad track lay to their right. Within moments the expanse of manicured green greeted them, a small white stable to one side. On the other side of the field were lovely houses, discreetly tucked behind large boxwoods and other bushes.

  A flotilla of corgis poured across the field, shooting out of the opened gate of one of the houses. Tee Tucker stopped, her ears straight up, her eyes alert, her non-tail steady. She had not seen so many of her own kind since she was a puppy.

  “Who are you?” they shouted as they reached midfield.

  “Tee Tucker from Crozet, Virginia. I’m here for the Colonial Cup.”

  Before the words were out of Tucker’s lips the corgis swarmed around her, sniffing and commenting. Finally the head dog, a large red-colored fellow, declar
ed, “This is a mighty fine representative of our breed. Welcome to the great state of South Carolina. Might I invite you to our home for a refreshing drink or to meet my mistress, a lovely lady who would enjoy showing you Camden hospitality?”

  “Thank you, but I’ve got to stay close to Mom. On duty, you know.”

  “Why, yes, I understand completely. My name is Galahad, by the way, and these are my numerous offspring. Some were blessed with intelligence and others with looks.” He laughed and they all talked at once, disagreeing with him.

  “Have you ever seen so many corgis?” Mrs. Hogendobber watched all those tailless behinds wiggling in greeting.

  “Can’t say that I have,” Harry said, laughing.

  “Galahad,” Tucker asked politely, “have there been any murders at the Colonial Cup?”

  “Why, no, not in my recollection, although I think there were many who considered it, humans being what they are. Given their tendency to rely on copious libations for sociability—I’d say it was remarkable that they haven’t dispatched one another into the afterlife.”

  “Oh, Daddy.” One of the girls faced Tucker. “He does go on. Why do you ask a thing like that?”

  “Well, there’ve been two steeplechase jockeys murdered since Montpelier. I was curious. You know, maybe it’s not so unusual.”

  “Plenty unusual. Steeplechasing doesn’t attract the riffraff that flat racing does,” Galahad grumbled.

  “These days, how can you tell riffraff from quality, Daddy?” the petite corgi asked, knowing full well what the answer would be.

  “Bon sang ne sait mentir,” came the growled reply.

  “What’s that?” Tucker’s eyebrows quivered.

  “Good blood doesn’t lie.”

  “Ah, blood tells,” Tucker said. She laughed to herself because that old saw drove Mrs. Murphy wild. Being an alley cat, she would spit whenever Tucker went off on a tangent about purebred dogs. “Well, I am charmed to have met you all. As you can see, the humans are moving off. By the way, I’m staying at Hampstead Farm. If anything should pop into your heads, some stray thought about the racing folks, the ’chasers, I’d appreciate your getting word to me.”

  “You some kind of detective?” the pretty little one asked.

  “Yes. Exactly.” Tucker dashed to catch up with Harry and Miranda, hearing the oohs and aahs behind her. She neglected to tell them she worked with a partner, a cat. They’d never meet Mrs. Murphy, so what the heck?

  34

  Dr. Stephen D’Angelo’s farm truck had been discovered in an abandoned barn near Meechum’s River in western Albemarle County.

  Rick Shaw and his department thoroughly searched the area, turning up nothing, not even a scrap of clothing.

  “Think they ditched the truck and stole another?”

  “We’d know. I put out a call to the local dealers and to other county departments. Nada. For the first day they were in their truck, the Nissan. After they got rid of D’Angelo’s truck.”

  “By now they know we’re on their trail. They’ve swapped off the Nissan,” Coop said.

  “That’s more like it. No telling, though.”

  “Sooner or later someone was bound to find this truck.” She sighed. “Well, they’ve got two days’ head start.” Cynthia put on her gloves.

  “They got it. They could have driven to any airport out of state by now or picked up the train. Or just kept driving. I expect those two have more fake IDs than a Libyan terrorist. They’ve got seventy-one dollars in cash.” He squinted as a tiny sunburst of light reflected off the outside mirror. “Linda withdrew the money at one o’clock on the day they disappeared.”

  “Let’s get this thing dusted for prints.”

  “Coop, you’re methodical. I like that in a woman.” He smiled. “Got your bags packed?”

  “I always keep a bag packed, why?”

  “We’re going to Camden.”

  “No kidding.”

  “As spectators. If I notify the sheriff down there, it’s one more department to fool with. They don’t know what we do and I’m not inclined to tell them. It’s enough that I have to handle Frank Yancey day in and day out.”

  “He’s getting a lot of pressure from the newspaper.” Her mind returned to Linda and Will. “The Forloines have a booming business. And there’s someone higher up on the food chain.”

  “Right. You might want to wear your shoulder holster.”

  “Good idea.”

  35

  Nerves tight before a race were stretched even tighter today. Fair Haristeen noticed the glum silence between the Valiants when he checked over Mim’s horses early that morning.

  Brother and sister worked side by side without speaking.

  Arthur Tetrick stopped by on his way to the racecourse. He, too, noticed the frosty air between the siblings.

  Addie, on sight of her guardian, practically spat at him. “Get out of my face, Arthur.”

  His eyebrows rose in a V; he inclined his head in a nod of greeting or acquiescence and left.

  “Jesus, Addie, you’re a bitch today.” Charles whirled on her as Arthur shut the door to his car and drove out the sandy lane.

  She looked into her brother’s face, quite similar in bone structure to her own. “You, of course, are a prince among men!”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “That you and Arthur are ganging up on me again. That I know he called on Judge Parker the day I spilled the beans about Nigel’s stash. God, I was stupid. You’ll both use it against me in court.”

  “This isn’t the day to worry about stuff like that.”

  “You knew he went to see Parker, didn’t you?”

  “Uh”—Chark glanced outside, the sun filtered through the tall pines—“he mentioned it.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “You’d had enough stress for one day.”

  “Liar.”

  “I’m not lying.”

  “You’re withholding. It amounts to the same thing.”

  “Look who’s talking. You lied to me about drugs. You withheld the truth about Nigel. A kilo is a lot of coke, Addie!”

  “It wasn’t for me!” she shouted.

  “Then what were you doing with Nigel?”

  “Dating him. Just because he was really into it doesn’t mean I was, too.”

  “Come on, I’m not stupid.”

  She pointed her finger at him. “So what if I took a line or two. I’m okay. I stopped. This isn’t about coke. It’s about my money. You want my share.”

  “No, I don’t.” He pushed her finger away. “But I don’t want to see you ruin everything Dad worked for. You have no sense of—” He struggled.

  She filled in the word for him. “Responsibility?”

  “Right.” His eyes blazed. “We have to nurture that money. It seems like a lot but it can go faster than you think. You can’t be cautious and we both know it.”

  “No risk, no gain.”

  “Addie.” He tried to remain patient. “The only thing you know how to do is spend money. You don’t know how to make it.”

  “Horses.”

  “Never.”

  “Then what are you doing as a trainer?” She was so frustrated tears welled up in her eyes.

  “I get paid for training. I’m not running my own horses. Jesus, Addie, the board and vet bills alone will eat you alive. ’Chasing is for rich people.”

  “We are rich.”

  “Not if you try to be a major player overnight. We have to keep that money in solid stocks and bonds. If I can double the money in ten years, then we can think about owning a big string of our own.”

  “What’s life for, Charles?” She used his proper name. “To hoard money? To read balance statements and call our stockbroker daily? Do we buy a sensible little farm or do we rent for ten years? Maybe I think life is an adventure—you take chances, you make mistakes. Hey, Chark, maybe you even lose money but you live.”

  “Live. You’ll wind up with so
me bloodsucker who married you for your fortune. Then there’ll be two of you squandering our inheritance.”

  “Not our inheritance. My inheritance. You take yours and I’ll take mine. It’s simple.”

  “I’m not going to let you ruin yourself.”

  “Well, brother, there’s not a damn thing you can do about it.” She stopped, blinked hard, then said in a low voice, “You could have killed Nigel. I don’t put it past you.” She drew close to his face. “I’ll do one thing for you though. You’re so worried about me? Well, this is my advice to you. Dump dear old Uncle Arthur. He’s a dinosaur. And a very well-off dinosaur, thanks to Mom’s will. He got his ten percent as executor. And after you dump the old fart, do something crazy, Chark. Something not useful. Buy a Porsche 911 or go to New York and party every night for a month. For once live your life. Just let go.” She turned and walked outside.

  He yelled after her, “I didn’t kill Nigel Danforth!”

  She cocked her head and turned back to face him. “Chark, for all I know you’ll kill me, then you can have the whole ball of wax.”

  “I can’t believe you said that.” His face was white as a sheet.

  “Well, I did. I’ve got races to run.” She left him standing there.

  36

  The making of a good steeplechaser, like the making of a good human being, is an arduous melding of discipline, talent, luck, and heart. The best bloodlines in the world won’t produce a winner, although they might fortify your chances.

  Thoroughbreds a trifle too slow for the flat track find their way to the steeplechasing barns of the East Coast. Needing far more stamina than their flat-racing brethren, the ’chasers dazzle the equine world. Many a successful steeplechase athlete has retired to foxhunting, the envy of all who have beheld the creature soaring over fences, coops, ditches, and stone walls.

  They gathered at the Springdale track for the $100,000 purse of the Colonial Cup, the last race in the season. After this race the points would be tallied, and the best trainer, horse, and jockey would emerge for the season.