Murder, She Meowed

by Rita Mae Brown

  No one spoke. Not even Tucker, who sat motionless in Harry’s lap.

  Addie, shimmering in purple silks, circled on Bazooka, then came into the starting area. The yellow rope stretched across the track. The horses lined up, prancing sideways and snorting. Then twang—the rope snapped back—and off they shot.

  Bazooka gunned out front. Chark, down near the starting area, ran back toward the grandstand for a better view and in the process ran into Mickey Townsend again. He said he was sorry and kept going, leaving Mickey to dust himself off. The horse Mickey trained, a client’s from West Virginia, was in the middle of the pack.

  “She’s on too fast a pace,” Mim murmured through the tension-narrowed slit that was her mouth.

  “Don’t fret, honey. Addie knows what she’s doing.”

  Arthur Tetrick, up in the race director’s box for this one, stood, mouth hanging open. He peeked over Colbert Mason’s shoulder at the big digital timer. “She’ll never make it.”

  “A scorcher,” Colbert laconically replied.

  Bazooka’s stride lengthened with every reach of his black hooves. Addie appeared motionless on top of him, moving only as they landed after each successful jump.

  Try as it might, no horse could get near her. The race, so perfect, seemed like a dream to Addie’s cheering section. The crowd screamed as much in disbelief as in excitement.

  At the next to last fence, Bazooka vaulted over, another perfect landing, and four strides after the fence Addie and the saddle slipped off and under Bazooka. She hit the ground with a thud.

  If she’d fallen off at a jump she would have been thrown clear. But the saddle dropped to the left side and slightly underneath Bazooka. His left hind hoof grazed her head. She rolled into a ball.

  One fractious horse, seeing Addie on the ground, exploded. The rider fought hard but the animal plunged right over the fallen jockey.

  Bazooka crossed the finish line first just as the ambulance reached an unconscious Addie on the track.

  42

  Chark, with Mickey Townsend not far behind, tore down the grass track. Arthur Tetrick blasted out of the booth and ran down the concrete grandstand steps faster then anyone thought possible.

  Huge Jim Sanburne was immediately behind them. Fair was already on the track on the other side of the finish line. An outrider led Bazooka over to him.

  Rick Shaw grabbed Cynthia Cooper’s arm as they ran out from the tailgate section.

  “I should have seen it coming. Damn me!” He cursed. “You stay here. You know what to do. I’ll ride in the ambulance.

  “I’ll finish up at Hampstead Farm.”

  “Right.” He flashed his badge at a shocked track official and sprinted out to the ambulance, where Addie’s unconscious form was being carefully slid into the back. Chark, tears in his eyes, hopped in with her.

  Arthur reached the ambulance the same time Rick did. “Sheriff.” Rick opened his badge for the ambulance attendants. “Arthur, go back to the booth and get me a video of this race. Now!”

  “Yes, of course.” Arthur turned and ran back to the grandstand, passing the two slow-moving Camden police.

  “Jim, get her saddle. See that no one touches it but you. Hurry before some do-gooder gets there first,” Rick commanded.

  Jim, without comment, lurched toward the next to last jump.

  “Mickey, go find Deputy Cooper. She’ll be in the paddock . . . help her. You know these people. They’ll talk to you.”

  “You got it.” Mickey peeled off toward the paddock, jumping the track rail in his hurry.

  “Chark, I’m coming with you.” He hoisted himself into the back of the ambulance.

  The driver’s assistant closed the heavy door behind them. With its flashers turned on, the vehicle rolled along the side of the track. The driver, savvy about horses, would save his siren until they reached the highway.

  “Who saddled the horse?” Rick waved to the gesticulating policemen.

  “I did.” Chark held his sister’s hand.

  “Where do you keep your tack?”

  “At the stalls.”

  “Hampstead Farm?”

  “No, no—the stalls at the track. We pick up the saddle pad number, we draw for position first, then we saddle up.”

  “Wouldn’t be hard for someone to mess with the saddle or the—” Rick stopped to think of the term.

  “Girth,” Chark said.

  “Girth, yes.”

  “Yes, but I saddled Bazooka. I’d have seen it.” He squeezed his sister’s hand, the tears coming down his face. He reached over and touched the St. Christopher’s medal, turning it over. “What in God’s name . . .” he whispered.

  “What is it?”

  “This is Mother’s. We haven’t seen it since the day she disappeared.” He stared, uncomprehending, at Rick.

  The emergency rescue worker held Adelia’s head firmly between her hands. If Addie’s neck were broken, one bump could make a bad situation very much worse.

  Rick, on his knees, bent over. He read aloud the inscription: He’s my stand-in. Love, Charley

  “Dad gave that to Mom the year they were married.”

  “And you haven’t seen this since your Mother disappeared?”

  “No.”

  Rick sat back on his haunches as the ambulance sped to the hospital.

  “Sheriff.”

  “Huh?” Rick’s mind was miles away.

  “Whoever had this killed my mother.”

  Rick reached over and put his hand on Chark’s shoulder. He said nothing, but he was praying hard, praying that Adelia would live, praying she wouldn’t be paralyzed, and praying he could persuade Camden’s police to provide twenty-four-hour protection until she could be moved to Albemarle County.

  “Charles, you understand that my job forces me to ask unseemly questions.”

  “I do, sir.”

  “Could your sister have killed your mother?”

  “Never.” Chark’s voice was level even as the tears kept flowing.

  “Adelia comes into her majority tomorrow. Did you want her dead?”

  “No,” Chark whispered, shaking his head.

  “What about Arthur Tetrick? Would he gain by your sister’s death?”

  Chark regained his voice, “No. His term as executor expires tomorrow at midnight. Even if”—he choked—“she doesn’t make it, he has nothing to gain.”

  “Do you have any idea who would do this?”

  “I can only think of one person. Linda Forloines. Because of the cocaine.”

  “We thought she might show up. Disguised. It’s a bit far-fetched, but”—he squeezed Chark’s shoulder—“we were worried.”

  “She could have paid someone to do this.”

  “Yes. Deputy Cooper is working over the officials and jockeys pretty hard right about now.”

  “Sheriff, I had a stupid fight with Addie. If anything should happen—” he covered his eyes, “I couldn’t live. I couldn’t.”

  “She’s going to be okay.” Rick lied, for he couldn’t know. “You’ll have plenty of time to mend your fences.”

  Rick looked imploringly at the rescue-squad woman, who looked down at Addie.

  43

  A small incident occurred during the questioning of track personnel, owners, trainers, and jockeys.

  When Jim Sanburne brought Addie’s light, small racing saddle to Deputy Cooper, Mickey Townsend reached for it and Arthur Tetrick slammed him across the chest with a forearm.

  They slapped each other around until the men in the paddock quickly separated them.

  “He’s trying to smear the prints,” Arthur protested.

  “No, I wasn’t!” Mickey shouted from the other side of the paddock.

  After they quieted down, Cynthia resumed her questioning. Harry and Miranda helped by organizing people in a line and by quickly drawing up a checklist of who was in the paddock area.

  Fair turned Bazooka over to a groom after checking the animal thoroughly for injury. As a
precaution he drew blood to see if Bazooka could have been doped. An amphetamine used on a horse as high octane as Bazooka was a prescription for murder. He conferred with a reputable local equine vet, an acquaintance, Dr. Mary Holloway. She took the vial, jumped into her truck, and headed for the lab.

  Fair reached the paddock and joined Coop. “What can I do?”

  “Got a pair of rubber gloves?”

  “Right here.” He pulled the see-through gloves from his chest pocket.

  “Inspect the saddle, will you? But be careful—remember, it has to be fingerprinted. Jim Sanburne, Chark and Addie will have prints on the saddle. We’re looking for—well, you know.”

  “I’ll be careful.” Fair picked up the saddle, lifted the small suede flap. The leathers, beltlike with buckles, were solid on both sides. Then he inspected the girth, torn in two. “That’s how they did it.” He flipped over the girth and could see on the underside the razor cut, which ran its width. As the outside of the girth was not cut, someone could tighten the girth and not realize it was cut underneath.

  “Would someone need to know a lot about horses or racing to do that?” Cooper asked.

  “It would help. But with a little direction anyone could do it.”

  Troubled, Coop pressed her lips together. “Next.”

  A slight young man stepped forward. “Randy Groah. I ride for Michael Stirling here in Camden.”

  “Where were you before the last race?”

  As Cynthia questioned, Harry wrote down everyone’s statistics, name, address, phone number, etc. . . .

  Tucker, having easily slipped her collar, followed The Terminator. They checked the changing room, hospitality tents, and the on-site stables. They turned up nothing except for doughnut crumbs, which they ate, certain the food had nothing to do with the case.

  A long, low whistle stopped the Jack Russell. “That’s my mom.”

  “I’ll follow you over.” Tucker trotted alongside her feisty new friend.

  “Terminator, let’s go.” ZeeZee clapped her hands.

  “I’ll walk along for a bit.” Tucker fell in beside The Terminator.

  They reached the stables, where ZeeZee’s Explorer was parked in front.

  “Come on, Term.” She scooped up the little guy and put him on the passenger seat.

  “Good luck,” the Jack Russell called out.

  “You, too.” Tucker scampered back to the paddock while ZeeZee peeled out of there.

  Three and a half hours later Harry, Miranda, Fair, and Cynthia Cooper finished questioning jockeys and track officials. The Sanburnes left for the hospital as soon as Cynthia dismissed them. Mim had told Coop about the St. Christopher’s medal, and Miranda confirmed it.

  Coop stopped by the jockeys’ changing tent to check over Addie’s gear bag. She unzipped it. “I will slice and dice this son of a bitch!”

  On top of Addie’s clothes rested a Queen of Diamonds.

  44

  When Harry finally walked into her kitchen at 2:30 A.M. and saw Susan, all the horrors of the day, which now seemed years ago, began to spill out. Susan had heard about Addie’s accident on the radio and had waited at the farm to talk to her friend.

  The two dear friends sat down at the kitchen table. Harry told her that Chark was under suspicion but hadn’t been arrested.

  “So you see, Sargent Wilcox is Nigel and it was Sargent who, along with Coty Lamont, buried Marylou Valiant.” Tucker lay down nose to nose with Mrs. Murphy, flat out on her stomach.

  “And you say this Jack Russell met Nigel in Bozeman, Montana?” Mrs. Murphy gently swished her tail back and forth like a slender reed in slowly moving water. “Not that I would put much faith in anything a Jack Russell says, but still—”

  “This was a reputable Russell, not one of those yappers.”

  “Oh, you’ll stick up for any dog.”

  “No, I won’t. You’ve never heard me say anything good about a Chihuahua, have you?”

  The cat allowed as to how that was a fact. She flicked her pink tongue over her black lips. “Apart from ZeeZee Thompson, no one there knows that Nigel Danforth is Sargent Wilcox.”

  “No,” Tucker said, “but that’s not all. Mrs. Hogendobber and Mim—Jim, too—were upset about a St. Christopher’s medal Addie wore after the first race.”

  “Why?”

  “It was her mother’s. No one has seen it since Marylou disappeared.”

  “Maybe that’s why Coty Lamont was digging”—she paused—“except he didn’t reach the body. Oh, this is giving me a headache!”

  “Whoever had the St. Christopher’s medal has had it for the last five years. And you know what else?” Tucker panted. “Someone put the Queen of Diamonds in Addie’s gear bag.”

  Mrs. Murphy put her paws over her eyes, “Tucker, this is terrible.”

  45

  “Son of a bitch!” Rick Shaw exploded.

  “You couldn’t have known.” Cynthia offered him a cigarette. He snatched one out of the pack.

  “He’s playing with us.” He lit his cigarette and clenched so hard on the weed that he bit it in half, sending the burning tip falling into his crotch. He batted out the fire.

  Cynthia, too, smacked at the glowing tip. “Sorry.”

  He paused a minute, then glanced down at her hand in his crotch. “Ah—I’m sure there’s something I could say to cover this situation, but I can’t think of it right now.” He dropped the stub in the ashtray.

  Cynthia lit him another cigarette. “Don’t bite, just inhale.”

  It was five in the morning and they circled the growing city of Charlotte with ease—too early for traffic. Rick and Cynthia had stayed to assist the Camden police since the crimes in their respective jurisdictions were most likely linked. The Camden police had insisted on booking Charles Valiant on suspicion of attempted murder. Rick finally let them, figuring twenty-four hours in Camden’s jail would be twenty-four hours in which they would know Chark’s whereabouts. Arthur would free him on bail early Monday morning.

  “The Queen of Diamonds! Son of a bitch!”

  “Boss, you’ve been saying that for the last hour and a half. There’s one bloody queen left and—”

  “Bloody queen is right. I know this guy will strike again, I know it. If only I could figure out the significance of the cards.” He slammed the dash.

  “Your blood pressure’s going to go through the roof.”

  “Shut up and drive!” He glowered out the window and then turned to her. “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s a bitch. I never saw it coming, either,” she said sympathetically.

  “If we only knew what they had in common.”

  “Jockeys.”

  “Not enough.” He shook his head.

  “They all knew one another.”

  “Yes.” He began to breathe a bit more regularly.

  “They’re all young people.”

  “Yes.”

  “They owed money to Mickey Townsend. They all used cocaine.”

  “Yes.” He rubbed his eyes with the backs of his hands. “Oh, Coop, it’s staring me right in the face and I can’t see it.”

  46

  It was a subdued group that gathered at Miranda’s on Sunday night: Harry, Rick Shaw, and Cynthia Cooper, plus Pewter, Mrs. Murphy, and Tucker.

  The big news from Camden was that Addie had suffered a severe concussion. The doctors, afraid that her brain would swell, insisted on keeping her in the hospital for two more days. She’d also broken her collarbone. Given what could have happened, the consensus was that she was a lucky woman. And a rich one. She had attained her majority.

  The Camden police, in a burst of efficiency, arrested Mickey Townsend on suspicion of the murders of Nigel Danforth and Coty Lamont. A pack of cards found tucked in his car’s side pocket was missing the queens of clubs, spades, and diamonds. A stiletto rested under the seat of his silver BMW.

  He protested his innocence. He’d be sent up to Ablemarle County as soon as the paperwork was completed be
tween Rick’s department and Camden’s. Rick didn’t protest the Camden police holding Mickey. Secretly, he felt Mickey’d be safer in custody.

  Harry told Rick she didn’t think Mickey was the killer. The gambling debts, though sizable, weren’t large enough to kill over, and Mickey wasn’t that stupid.

  Rick, hands interlocking over his stomach, listened. “You don’t buy Charles Valiant as the murderer?”

  All said, “No.”

  Cynthia added, “Bazooka wasn’t doped. The blood tests came back negative. Fair was on the ball to pull blood.”

  “Rick, what haven’t you told us?” Miranda addressed him in familiar fashion as she offered him one of her famous scones.

  Delicately he bit off a piece and chewed before answering. “I know that Mickey Townsend followed Coty Lamont to Mim’s stable on the night of Coty’s death. He admits to pulling a gun on Coty and marching him out of there. He swears he didn’t kill him.”

  “Why was he in Mim’s stable?” Miranda picked up her knitting needles then dropped them in the basket.

  “That I don’t know. Coty was digging in a stall in the back. Said he would pay Mickey when he unearthed the treasure, well, I don’t think those were his exact words. He told me that at Camden yesterday. Lord, it seems like a week ago.” He wiped his forehead. “Guess we’d better visit the stable.”

  At the mention of Mim’s stable, Mrs. Murphy sprang to her feet. “Go crazy! Run around! Bark! Steal a scone! We’ve got to let them know they need to go over there right now!”

  Mrs. Murphy ran toward the wall, banked off it then jumped clean over Mrs. Hogendobber’s laden tea trolley, narrowly missing the steaming teapot.

  “I say—” Miranda’s mouth fell agape.

  “Go to the stable! Go to the stable now!” Tucker barked.

  Pewter, lacking in the speed department, hurried to the center of the living room, rolled over, displayed her gargantuan tummy, and said, “Pay attention to us! Right now, you stupid mammals!”

  Tucker ran in faster circles and Mrs. Murphy ran with her. Pewter jumped up, considered jumping over the tea trolley, realized she couldn’t and instead leapt on the armchair and patted Harry’s cheek.