Murder, She Meowed

by Rita Mae Brown

  Harry and Mrs. Hogendobber figured the most useful thing they could do was to keep Mim occupied despite her nervousness. They knew better than to disturb the Valiants before a race. Keeping Mim clear of them seemed a good policy.

  Tucker, on a leash, complained, but Harry refused to release her. “You don’t know where you are and you might get lost.”

  “Dogs don’t get lost. People do.”

  “She’s yappy this morning.” Miranda, wearing her favorite plaid wraparound skirt and a white blouse with a red cable knit sweater, seemed the essence of fall.

  “The crowd excites her.”

  “I’m on a recon mission. I need to chat up any animal who will talk to me.”

  Heedless of Tucker’s tasks, Harry pulled her along to the paddock. After being dragged a few feet Tucker decided to give in and heel properly. If she couldn’t have her way, she might as well make the best of it.

  The lovely live oaks sheltered the paddock. The officials busied themselves in the final hour before the first race.

  Colbert Mason spied Mrs. Hogendobber and waved to her. Miranda waved back.

  Arthur bustled out of the small officials’ office, his Worth and Worth trilby set at a rakish angle. Most of the other men wore hats, too: porkpies, cowboy hats, lads’ caps in every imaginable fabric, and one distinguished navy blue homburg. The manufacturers of grosgrain ribbon would survive despite the dressing down of America. Horsemen had style.

  The one blond uncovered head among the group belonged to Fair, who had ridden over in the van. He walked over to join his ex-wife and Miranda.

  “May I get you ladies a drink or a sandwich?”

  “No, but I’d like to sit a spell. This commotion is tiring.” Miranda dumped herself on a park bench.

  “Imagine how the horses feel.” Fair sat next to her.

  “Fair, make her let me go,” Tucker implored.

  He reached down and scratched those big ears. “You’re so low to the ground, girl, I bet all these shoes and legs are bewildering.”

  “No, they’re not.”

  “Ignore her. She’s whined and whimpered since the moment we arrived.” Harry sternly raised her forefinger to the dog.

  “You know, when we were married, I always wanted to bring you here, but somehow I never got the time.”

  “I’m here now.”

  “Do you like it?”

  “It’s wonderful. Miranda and I toured the town. I had no idea it was so lovely.”

  “People here know how to garden.” Miranda’s passion, apart from the choir and baking, was gardening. “I’m tempted to ask for cuttings.”

  “Bet they’d give them to you.” Fair smiled. He put his arm around Harry’s shoulders.

  “Where’s Mim?” she said. “We started out with her—”

  “We drove over with her and Jim. That’s not the same as starting out.” Miranda chuckled. “That Mim, no sooner had we parked than she rocketed out of her car.”

  “Don’t worry. Arthur headed her off before she could get to Addie and Chark. And Jim stuck right with her. He’s the only one of us capable of dissuading Mim from her plans.”

  “She doesn’t mean to lean on those youngsters.” Mrs. Hogendobber stretched her legs out in front of her, wiggling her toes. She’d walked more in the last twenty-four hours than in the preceding month. “Oh, that feels good.”

  “Nerves,” Harry succinctly said.

  “There are plenty of owners worse than Mim. We practically had to tranquilize Marylou Valiant in the old days.” He laughed.

  “If I’d been dating Mickey Townsend I’d have to be tranquilized, too.” Harry giggled.

  “I thought you liked Mickey.” Miranda finally released her purse from her death grip and set it on the ground next to her.

  “I do like Mickey. He’s full of energy. He’s got plenty of that burly masculine charm that Marylou could never resist. But he loses money at the races and doesn’t pay his staff until he wins it back.”

  Fair crossed his arms over his chest. “If he’d married Marylou, he wouldn’t have had those worries. Racing isn’t for folks who need a weekly paycheck. Plus you need nerves of steel. He has them. I worry more about his temper than the money. He comes up with it somehow.”

  “It’s the somehow I’m worried about,” Harry said under her breath.

  “Why?”

  “Fair, two jockeys are under the ground and—” She looked up then blurted out, “What the hell—?”

  Miranda, Fair, and Tucker turned their heads left in the direction of Harry’s amazed look. “Gracious!” Miranda exclaimed.

  “Bet you didn’t recognize me in street clothes,” Cynthia Cooper joked.

  Fair, a gentleman, stood up and offered Cynthia Cooper his seat as she and Rick Shaw approached.

  “Well, do I look the part?” Rick wore a plaid lad’s cap, a tweed jacket, and baggy pants.

  “Do you think you’re incognito?” Harry smiled at him.

  “You look splendid.” Miranda praised the sheriff, a man with whom she might have disagreements but for whom her affection never dimmed.

  Harry lowered her voice. “You know the Virginia gang will recognize you.”

  Cynthia replied, “Sure, we know that. We’ve never seen a steeplechase, and the boss here had an impulse, so . . . voilà!”

  Harry, not believing a word of it, simply smiled. Rick and Cynthia were aware none of the three believed them; probably Tucker didn’t either, but they’d go along with the story.

  Loud voices at the paddock grabbed their attention.

  “You’re behind this—” Chark’s voice rose.

  He shut up when Mickey’s fist jammed into his mouth.

  Within seconds the two men were knocking the stuffing out of each other.

  Fair, Cynthia, and Rick rushed over. Tucker lunged to help but Harry held on to the leash.

  “I’ll kill you, you dumb son of a bitch,” Mickey cursed, then landed a right to the breadbasket. “You’re too stupid to know who’s on your side and who isn’t.”

  “With you as a friend I don’t need enemies.” Chark gasped, then caught Mickey on the side of the head with a glancing blow. He reeled back, going down on one knee. The St. Christopher’s medal fell out of his pocket, face down on the grass.

  Rick and Cynthia deftly stepped between the two men. Rick grabbed Mickey as Cynthia pulled Chark’s left arm up behind his back and put a hammer lock around his throat.

  “Easy, Chark. Let’s end this before it gets a whole lot worse.” Cynthia’s regulation size .357 Magnum flashed as her blazer opened up. Chark couldn’t see it, but as she pressed against him he could feel it. He immediately stopped struggling.

  Mickey, however, didn’t. Fair stepped in and he and Rick took Mickey down together.

  “Goddammit, man.” Fair shook his head. “Things are bad enough.”

  Mickey tried to shake them off. “Bad ain’t the word. Let me go.” He saw the medal and reached over to pick it up. Fair held him. Rick picked up the medal and handed it to Mickey.

  Chark noticed but the object didn’t fully register at that moment.

  Two uniformed police officers arrived at the scene and brusquely told Cynthia, Rick, and Fair to step back. Then the skinny one noticed her gun.

  “You got a license to carry that, ma’am?”

  “Deputy Cynthia Cooper, Albemarle County Sheriff’s Department. I’d shake your hand but I’m occupied. Until you all can talk sense into Mickey Townsend there, I’ll remain occupied. We can be formally introduced later.”

  “Want some help with the perp?” the cop asked Cynthia using the shorthand for perpetrator.

  “I’ll take care of him. Thanks.”

  “Coop, I’m okay. I lost my temper.” Chark sighed. “Why go out of my way to piss on a skunk?”

  “Can’t comment on that. Come on, I’ll walk you back to the weigh-in. Okay?”

  “Yeah. On the way you can tell me what you’re doing here.”

 
“A first-class chickenshit!” Mickey, oblivious to the crowd around him, spat out the words as Chark walked away.

  Fair whispered, “Mickey, shut up.”

  “Huh?” Fair’s words filtered through the hammer pounding in Mickey’s brain.

  “Two jockeys who owed you money are dead. No one believes you were playing Old Maid. Chill out,” Fair warned.

  Mickey shut up.

  Rick turned to the two uniformed cops. “This man lives in my county. Nothing to worry about.” The two cops nodded and watched Rick and Fair walk away, Mickey between them, the crowd bubbling about what they’d just witnessed.

  “You’re bullshitting me,” Mickey said under his breath to Rick. “You don’t know one end of a horse from the other.”

  “Mickey, you are your own worst enemy.” Fair shook his head.

  “It’s obvious, isn’t it?” Mickey spoke to the vet he used and trusted. “Rick Shaw’s here to spy on me. Everyone thinks I killed Nigel and Coty. Dammit! Why the hell would I kill my own jockey?”

  “You tell me,” Rick said.

  “I didn’t! That’s the long and short of it.” Mickey’s handsome face sagged, and he suddenly appeared old.

  “Lying takes so much energy. Just tell the truth,” Rick said nonchalantly. “You knew Nigel didn’t have a green card. Let’s start there.”

  “Ah, man, give me a break.” Mickey squared his shoulders, looking his forty-five years again. “I don’t give a shit if the guy had a polka-dot card. He knew how to ride a horse. And don’t give me this crap about protecting American workers or protecting abused immigrants. I didn’t abuse anyone, and if an American worker can do the job as well as the limey, hey, he’s hired. Screw the government.”

  He was so incorrigible, Rick and Fair had to laugh.

  “Mickey, if you’d just give it to me straight I wouldn’t have to see you as a prime suspect.”

  Mickey looked up at Fair imploringly. “Suspect for what?”

  “Just talk to the man,” Fair said in an even tone.

  Mickey gazed over the tops of their heads, over the tops of the trees, all the way up to a robin’s-egg-blue sky. “All right.”

  37

  With a half hour to the first race, Mickey Townsend asked if he might give directions to his jockey, obviously new to the job.

  Fair had returned to the paddocks.

  Cynthia and Rick walked along with Mickey, Cynthia flipping open her notebook as they headed back to his horses.

  “I will tell you everything, but I’ve got to see the races.”

  “That’s fine,” Rick said. “You’re not under arrest—yet. You’ve got enough time to start talking before the first race.”

  Mickey exhaled deeply, shut his eyes, and then opened them. “Nigel Danforth owed me two thousand dollars, give or take, on a gambling debt—not horses, poker. Coty Lamont owed me over seven thousand from last season. I owe Harvey Throgmorton five and a half grand. His wife had her first child, he’s had a bad-luck year with the horses, and he needs the money. I want to pay him off. I didn’t kill Nigel and I didn’t kill Coty Lamont.” He took another deep breath, involuntarily clasping and unclasping his hands. “I got a little crazy. I thought about beating them up, and Coty really pissed me off. He promised to pay me, and—that was on the night he was killed or early that morning. I’d heard one lie too many. I don’t know . . . when he didn’t show up at my barn at ten that night as agreed, I roared on over to his house. To make a long story short, I threatened him, pulled a gun, told him he’d better pay me by morning or he would be history.” He walked over to the cooler and plucked a soft drink out for himself. “Want some?”

  “No, thanks.”

  “All this talking makes me thirsty.” Mickey popped the top and drank. “I left. What he didn’t figure on was that I’d wait for him. I waited at the end of the driveway behind a big bush, had my lights off. When he drove out of there about half an hour later, I tailed him. Guess I’ve seen too many cop shows. Anyway, I followed him to Mim Sanburne’s stable. He didn’t drive in, though, which was the weird thing. He left his truck behind the old Amoco station about half a mile from her main gate. But here’s what really made me wonder—he covered his license plate with a rag or something. Josh at the Amoco is always fixing cars, I mean the lot is always full of stuff, but Coty covered up that license plate.

  “He didn’t hear me because I stayed way far behind, far enough to muffle my motor, and then I cut it. About twenty minutes later I ran out of patience, so I walked into Mim’s myself. Had my gun. I found him in the stable. He had her hunter in the crossties. I walked over to the stall, scared the shit out of him. He’d been digging in the corner of the stall. I asked him what the hell was he doing and he said getting my money. I asked him what was down there and he said pirate’s treasure, real smartass, you know. I was so mad, I said, ‘Cover the hole back up, you’re jerking me around—if there was anything of value down there you’d have claimed it by now.’ Coty always thought people were stupid, that he could stay one step ahead. He was about to tell me something but then he shut up and we both got scared for a minute because we heard a noise. Turned out it was nothing but mice in the hayloft. You know, when it’s real quiet at night you hear things like their feet, those little claws. Damnedest thing.

  “Well, he filled the hole back in. He hadn’t gotten very deep anyway. Put the horse back in the stall. I walked him out to my car by the road, then drove him back to his truck and told him he had until five o’clock before I took his truck as collateral.

  “That was the last I saw of Coty Lamont.” Pale, he finished his soda, then said as an afterthought, “Doesn’t look too good for me, does it?”

  “No,” Rick said.

  “If you’re telling the truth, you’ll be all right,” Cynthia added.

  “Do you know about the coke?” Rick listened as the call to the first race was announced.

  “Uh—” Mickey stalled.

  “Were they users?” Rick asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Are you?”

  “I wouldn’t have lasted this long in the business if I were hooked on that stuff.”

  “Do you know who sells it?”

  “Sheriff, it’s not hard to get.”

  “That’s not what I’m asking.”

  “Linda Forloines.”

  “Thank you, Mickey. After the races you’d best go back to Albemarle County and not leave without checking in with me. Go on, the first race is about to start.”

  Mickey rose, his knees cracking. He walked to the course, his hands deep in his pockets, his fingers wrapped around Marylou’s medallion. He was tempted to tell Cynthia and Rick, sorely tempted, but he’d keep the St. Christopher’s medal a secret for a little bit longer.

  Cynthia flipped her notebook shut. “You believe him?”

  “You know better than to ask me something like that.”

  “Yeah, but I always do, don’t I?”

  38

  The light breeze made Arthur Tetrick’s sky-blue official’s ribbon flap. His brisk walk assisted the flapping.

  Chark and Addie sat behind the weigh-in station. As they had no horse in the first race they watched everyone else.

  “Are you all right?” Arthur asked, noticing Chark’s swollen lip.

  “I’m embarrassed.” Chark ignored the dribble from his bleeding lip.

  “What happened?”

  “Mickey Townsend acted like Mickey Townsend.” Chark spoke ruefully. “I walked out of the official’s tent and bumped into him. By mistake. I wasn’t looking where I was going. I’ve got Ransom Mine on my mind, you know. He made some crack about how I excel at the bump and run. He’s still pissed off about the Maryland Hunt Cup last year. ’Course, I’m a little tense . . .”

  “That’s the understatement of the year.” Addie spoke out of the side of her mouth.

  He held up his hands in supplication. “I saw red. No excuses. I was wrong. I made a spectacle of myself.”

&n
bsp; “No harm done. I’ll head off Mim if I can.” Arthur checked his watch. “Hmm. I take that back. I’ll try to find Harry and Miranda. Maybe they can keep Mim occupied so you don’t have to go over the whole story again. Or get chewed out.”

  Chark winced as Addie dabbed at his lip with a handkerchief. She couldn’t stand the dripping blood anymore. “I’m so ashamed.”

  “If I had half a chance I’d like to thrash him myself.”

  Addie peered up at Arthur. “I still like Mickey. You two will never cut him a break.”

  Arthur snapped, “Mickey Townsend cares for nobody but Mickey Townsend. For reasons I will never fathom he casts a spell over the female of the species.”

  “Yeah, sure.” Addie threw down the hankie. “Arthur, I know you went to see Judge Parker.”

  Arthur’s face clouded. “Just a formality.”

  “No, it wasn’t. You were filing papers to extend your trusteeship.”

  “I did no such thing.” He glared at her. “You inherit your fortune at midnight on your birthday . . . tomorrow night. The paperwork will be done on Monday. That’s why I went to see Judge Parker.”

  “You think I’m not competent. Because of the drugs.”

  Arthur lowered his voice. “This is neither the time nor the place! But Adelia, I have come to the mournful conclusion that I can do nothing to help you. You may not believe me, but I will be relieved to no longer be your trustee or the executor of your mother’s will. I wash my hands of you.” He drew in a gulp of sweet air. “I only hope your mother will forgive me if she’s looking down upon us.”

  “What rot.” Addie left them. She needed to push everything and everybody out of her mind to concentrate on the horses and the course. Each time she saw Arthur or talked to her brother, she felt she was being pulled back into a white-hot rage. This was the first race without Nigel, and that hit her harder than she thought it would.

  Arthur followed her with his eyes, then sadly said, “Well, I’ve upset her. I didn’t mean to but . . .”

  “She started it.”

  “So she did, Charles, but I’m old enough to know better.”