Chark, the time for talk past, lunged for Arthur. A crack rang out and the young man slumped to the ground, grabbing his shoulder.
Arthur ran outside now, propelling Harry, the cold air clarifying his senses, but then Arthur was always coolly assessing the odds in his life. His car was parked near the front. He pushed Harry into the driver’s side, keeping the gun on her at all times, making her slide over to the passenger seat.
“Can you get a shot off?” Rick, on one knee, asked Cynthia, also on one knee, pistol out.
“No. Not without jeopardizing Harry.”
Fair limped out, trailing blood. Herbie Jones ran after him, struggling to hold him back. “He’ll kill her, Fair!”
“He’ll kill her for sure if we don’t stop him.”
“Fair. Stay where you are!” Rick commanded.
Tucker had reached the car where Harry was and grabbed Arthur’s ankle as he started to get in. Arthur shook the dog off, not noticing that Mrs. Murphy and Pewter had leapt into the backseat. He quickly turned the gun back on Harry, who had her hand on the passenger door handle.
“Keep down in the backseat,” Mrs. Murphy told Pewter. “Once he gets in the driver’s seat and reaches for the ignition, we’ve got him.”
Pewter, too excited to reply, crouched, her fur standing on end, her fangs exposed.
To Arthur’s shock, Mrs. Hogendobber roared through the parking lot, stopping the Falcon directly in front of him.
“I’ll kill that meddling biddy!” he screamed, losing his temper for the first time.
He opened the driver’s window and took aim, firing through her passenger window. Mrs. Hogendobber opened her door and rolled out, lying flat on the ground. Arthur could no longer see her.
“Run for it, Miranda, he’s going to ram the car!” Herb shouted as he rushed forward, crouching to help Miranda. She scrambled to her feet, her choir robes dragging in the stone parking lot.
Just as Arthur cut on his ignition he heard two hideous yowls behind him.
“Die, human!” Mrs. Murphy and Pewter leapt from the backseat into the front, attacking his hands.
Murphy tore deeply into his gun hand before he registered what had happened.
Seizing the opportunity, Harry grabbed his right hand, smashing his wrist on the steering wheel. He tried to reach over the steering wheel for her with his left hand but Pewter sank her fangs to their full depth into the fleshy part of his palm. He screamed.
Harry smashed his wrist again as hard as she could against the steering wheel. He dropped the gun. She reached down to grab it. He kicked at her but she retrieved it.
Now Arthur Tetrick felt the cold barrel of a gun against his right temple.
Rick Shaw, his .357 Magnum pressed against Arthur’s left temple, said, “You are under arrest for the murders of Nigel Danforth, Coty Lamont, and Marylou Valiant. You have the right to remain silent—” Rick rattled off Arthur’s rights.
Cynthia opened the passenger door as Arthur howled, “Call off your cats!”
Harry slid out the opened door. “Come on, girls!”
Mrs. Murphy took one last lethal whack for good measure, then leapt out followed by Pewter, who appeared twice her already impressive size.
Tucker and Fair, both limping, reached Harry at the same time. Fair grabbed Harry and held her close. He couldn’t speak.
Harry began to shake. Curious how she had felt so little fear when she was in danger. Now it flooded over her. She hugged her ex-husband, then broke to rush to Miranda, being attended to by Herbie and Mim.
“Miranda, you could have been killed!” Tears rolled down Harry’s cheeks. She stopped to scoop up the two cats, clutching them to her, repeatedly kissing their furry heads, then knelt down to kiss her sturdy corgi.
“Well, if he’d gotten out of this parking lot, you would have been killed,” Miranda stated flatly, oblivious to her own heroism.
“I’d say two hellcats and Miranda saved your life.” The Reverend Jones reached out to pet the cats.
“And Tucker. Brave dog.” Harry again kissed a happy Tucker.
Arthur Tetrick sat bolt upright in his car. He’d never felt so much pain in his life, and being the self-centered man that he was, it did not occur to him that what he had inflicted upon his victims was much, much worse.
52
The whole crowd—Miranda, Fair, Cynthia, Rick, Big Mim, Little Marilyn, Jim, Susan, Herbie, Market Shiflett, Mrs. Murphy, Pewter, and Tucker—sat in the back of the post office the next day. Addie had come home from the hospital, but now Chark was in. She had the ambulance take her to Martha Jefferson Hospital to be with her brother; he would recover, but the bullet had shattered some bone.
Arthur had confessed to the murders of Marylou Valiant, Sargent Wilcox, a.k.a. Nigel Danforth, and Coty Lamont. As a lawyer he knew that after his behavior at the church he was dog meat, so he planned to throw himself on the mercy of the court with a guilty plea and thereby escape the death penalty.
Rick, who had interrogated Arthur, continued his story. “—probably the only time Arthur ever acted out of passion, but once he killed Marylou Valiant, he had to get rid of the body. Coty and Sargent, through pure dumb luck, walked in on him as he was dragging her to his car. Sargent had been at Arthur’s barn for only ten days, but he proved willing and flexible. He and Coty helped him bury Marylou in the last place anyone would ever look—Mim’s barn. Sargent must have pocketed the St. Christopher’s medal when no one was looking. Shortly after that Arthur gave up steeplechasing.”
Mim chimed in, “I remember that. He said he couldn’t go on without Marylou. It was her sport. He’d officiate but he’d run no more horses. What an actor he was.”
“When Marylou disappeared, the two prime suspects were Arthur and Mickey Townsend for obvious reasons. We had no way of knowing whether Marylou was even dead, though. Technically we had no crime, we had no victim, we had a missing person,” Rick said.
“And Arthur was a most conscientious executor of Marylou’s will.” Jim Sanburne hooked his fingers in his belt.
“Well, then, what happened to start this killing spree?” Fair stretched his bandaged leg out slowly. It felt better if he moved it around every now and then.
“Sargent came back,” Cynthia said. “Wooed Addie. And stirred up Coty, who had been content up until then, to make more demands.”
“Oh, that must have scared the bejesus out of Arthur,” Herbie blurted out.
“Not as much as seeing Marylou’s St. Christopher’s medal around Addie’s neck before the Colonial Cup,” Cynthia said.
“He thought she knew?” Miranda questioned.
“He realized Sargent or Coty must have taken the medal. He feared Nigel—Sargent—had told Addie and that she would tell Rick after the race. Imagine his shock when he saw that royal blue medal just before she went out on the course,” Rick said.
“I know how shocked I was to see it.” Mim shook her head.
“Sargent and Coty were bleeding him heavily. He had no designs other than killing them. Addie upset the applecart,” Cynthia added.
“What about Linda and Will? They’re still missing.”
Rick held up his palms, “Don’t know. We have no idea if they’re alive. Their absence is certainly not lamented and I doubt Arthur would need to kill them. I don’t think they knew anything. We only know that sooner or later drug dealers sometimes get what they deserve.”
As the group talked, Harry fed the cats and dog tidbits from the ham sandwiches Market had brought over.
“What was the significance of the queens?” Mim asked.
“Arthur said that was just meant to drive us all nuts. The bloody queen, he said and laughed in my face. Marylou was a bloody queen when she dumped him for Mickey. Arthur exploded . . . and strangled her.”
“Addie is lucky to be alive,” Miranda said softly. “Poor children. What they’ve been through.”
“Yes.” Mim reached in her purse for a handkerchief to dab her eyes.
&nbs
p; Mrs. Murphy chimed in, “Men like Arthur aren’t accustomed to rejection.”
“Here, have some more ham.” Miranda offered a piece to the cat since she interpreted the meows as requests for food.
“I bet he ran Mickey Townsend off the road that terrible rainy day—he was quietly going out of control.” Miranda remembered that cold day.
Harry watched Pewter as she reached up and snagged half of a ham sandwich. “Market, we should share Pewter. What if I take her home with me every night, but she can work in the store during the day and work here, too?”
“Yes!” Pewter meowed.
Market laughed, “Think of the money I’ll save.”
“Yeah, Pewter’s a lion under the lard,” Mrs. Murphy teased her friend.
The phone rang. Harry answered it. “Oh, hello, Mrs. Carpenter. You can? That’s great. Let me give you my credit card number.” Harry reached into her purse, pulled out a credit card, and read off her number.
“What are you buying?” Miranda demanded.
“L.L. Bean is making me a special pair of duck boots in my size, with twelve-inch uppers.”
53
Poised on a hay bale, Mrs. Murphy waited. Pewter stayed inside with Harry. Mrs. Murphy rather liked having another cat around. Tucker didn’t mind either.
There’d been so much commotion this weekend, she needed to be alone to collect her thoughts. She heard the squeaks from inside the hay bale. When an unsuspecting mouse darted out, with a jet-fast pounce Mrs. Murphy had her.
“Gotcha!”
The mouse stayed still under the cat’s paws. “Make it fast. I don’t want to suffer.”
Mrs. Murphy carefully lifted the corner of her paw to behold those tiny obsidian eyes. She remembered the help of Mim’s barn mice. “Oh, go on. I just wanted to prove to you that I’m faster than you.”
“You aren’t going to kill me?”
“No, but don’t run around where Harry can see you.”
“I won’t.” The tiny creature streaked back into the hay bale, and Mrs. Murphy heard excited squeals. Then she walked outside the barn and watched through the kitchen window. Harry was filling up her teapot, a task she performed at least twice a day. Mrs. Murphy was struck by how divine, how lovely, how unique such a mundane task could be. She purred, realizing how lucky she was, how lucky they all were to be alive on this crisp fall day.
Harry, glancing out of the kitchen window, observed Mrs. Murphy, tail to the vertical, come out of the barn.
The phone rang.
“Hello.”
“Harry, it’s BoomBoom. You were supposed to go with me to Lifeline last week, but considering all the excitement I didn’t call. How about Monday at one o’clock?”
“Sure.”
“I’ll pick you up at the P.O.”
“Fine.”
“See you then. Bye-bye.” BoomBoom signed off.
“Damn!” Harry hung up the phone. She looked out at Mrs. Murphy in the sunlight and thought how wonderful, how glorious, how relaxing it must be to be a cat.
Dear Highly Intelligent Feline:
Tired of the same old ball of string? Well, I’ve developed my own line of catnip toys, all tested by Pewter and me. Not that I love for Pewter to play with my little sockies, but if I don’t let her, she shreds my manuscripts. You see how that is!
Just so the humans won’t feel left out, I’ve designed a T-shirt for them.
If you’d like to see how creative I am, write to me and I’ll send you a brochure.
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In felinity,
SNEAKY PIE BROWN
P.S. Dogs, get a cat to write for you!
Books by Rita Mae Brown with Sneaky Pie Brown
WISH YOU WERE HERE
REST IN PIECES
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PAY DIRT
MURDER, SHE MEOWED
MURDER ON THE PROWL
CAT ON THE SCENT
SNEAKY PIE’S COOKBOOK FOR MYSTERY LOVERS
PAWING THROUGH THE PAST
CLAWS AND EFFECT
CATCH AS CAT CAN
THE TAIL OF THE TIP-OFF
WHISKER OF EVIL
Books by Rita Mae Brown
THE HAND THAT CRADLES THE ROCK
SONGS TO A HANDSOME WOMAN
THE PLAIN BROWN RAPPER
RUBYFRUIT JUNGLE
IN HER DAY
SIX OF ONE
SOUTHERN DISCOMFORT
SUDDEN DEATH
HIGH HEARTS
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VENUS ENVY
DOLLEY: A NOVEL OF DOLLEY MADISON IN LOVE AND WAR
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RITA WILL: MEMOIR OF A LITERARY RABBLE-ROUSER
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Barry Monteith was still breathing when Harry found him. His throat had been ripped out.
Tee Tucker, a corgi, racing ahead of Mary Minor Haristeen as well as the two cats, Mrs. Murphy and Pewter, found him first.
Barry was on his back, eyes open, gasping and gurgling, life ebbing with each spasm. He did not recognize Tucker nor Harry when they reached him.
“Barry, Barry.” Harry tried to comfort him, hoping he could hear her. “It will be all right,” she said, knowing perfectly well he was dying.
The tiger cat, Mrs. Murphy, watched the blood jet upward.
“Jugular,” fat, gray Pewter succinctly commented.
Gently, Harry took the young man’s hand and prayed, “Dear Lord, receive into thy bosom the soul of Barry Monteith, a good man.” Tears welled in her eyes.
Barry jerked, then his suffering ended.
Death, often so shocking to city dwellers, was part of life here in the country. A hawk would swoop down to carry away the chick while the biddy screamed useless defiance. A bull would break his hip and need to be put down. And one day an old farmer would slowly walk to his tractor only to discover he couldn’t climb into the seat. The Angel of Death placed his hand on the stooping shoulder.
It appeared the Angel had offered little peaceful deliverance to Barry Monteith, thirty-four, fit, handsome with brown curly hair, and fun-loving. Barry had started his own business, breeding thoroughbreds, a year ago, with a business partner, Sugar Thierry.
“Sweet Jesus.” Harry wiped away the tears.
That Saturday morning, crisp, clear, and beautiful, had held the alluring promise of a perfect May 29. The promise had just curdled.
Harry had finished her early-morning chores and, despite a list of projects, decided to take a walk for an hour. She followed Potlicker Creek to see if the beavers had built any new dams. Barry was sprawled at the creek’s edge on a dirt road two miles from her farm that wound up over the mountains into adjoining Augusta County. It edged the vast land holdings of Tally Urquhart, who, well into her nineties and spry, loathed traffic. Three cars constituted traffic in her mind. The only time the road saw much use was during deer-hunting season in the fall.
“Tucker, Mrs. Murphy, and Pewter, stay. I’m going to run to Tally’s and phone the sheriff.”
If Harry hit a steady lope, crossed the fields and one set of woods, she figured she could reach the phone in Tally’s stable within fifteen minutes, though the pitch and roll of the land including one steep ravine would cost time.
As she left her animals, they inspected Barry.
“What could rip his throat like that? A bear swipe?” Pewter’s pupi
ls widened.
“Perhaps.” Mrs. Murphy, noncommittal, sniffed the gaping wound, as did Tucker.
The cat curled her upper lip to waft more scent into her nostrils. The dog, whose nose was much longer and nostrils larger, simply inhaled.
“I don’t smell bear,” Tucker declared. “That’s an overpowering scent, and on a morning like this it would stick.”
Pewter, who cherished luxury and beauty, found that Barry’s corpse disturbed her equilibrium. “Let’s be grateful we found him today and not three days from now.”
“Stop jabbering, Pewter, and look around, will you? Look for tracks.”
Grumbling, the gray cat daintily stepped down the dirt road. “You mean like car tracks?”
“Yes, or animal tracks,” Mrs. Murphy directed, then returned her attention to Tucker. “Even though coyote scent isn’t as strong as bear, we’d still smell a whiff. Bobcat? I don’t smell anything like that. Or dog. There are wild dogs and wild pigs back in the mountains. The humans don’t even realize they’re there.”
Tucker cocked her perfectly shaped head. “No dirt around the wound. No saliva, either.”
“I don’t see anything. Not even a birdie foot,” Pewter, irritated, called out from a hundred yards down the road.
“Well, go across the creek then and look over there.” Mrs. Murphy’s patience wore thin.
“And get my paws wet?” Pewter’s voice rose.
“It’s a ford. Hop from rock to rock. Go on, Pewt, stop being a chicken.”
Angrily, Pewter puffed up, tearing past them to launch herself over the ford. She almost made it, but a splash indicated she’d gotten her hind paws wet.
If circumstances had been different, Mrs. Murphy and Tucker would have laughed. Instead, they returned to Barry.
“I can’t identify the animal that tore him up.” The tiger shook her head.
“Well, the wound is jagged but clean. Like I said, no dirt.” Tucker studied the folds of flesh laid back.
“He was killed lying down,” the cat sagely noted. “If he was standing up, don’t you think blood would be everywhere?”
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