The Purrfect Murder (7 page)

“Little Mim, none of us is ever completely independent of our mother. Even Hitler couldn't shake his love and grief over his mother's early death.”

“I can try,” she uttered defiantly. “Come on, let's go to the cottage. Blair and I are building an addition. You haven't seen the plan.” As they left the main house, Little Mim called out, “Aunt Tally, we're going to the cottage.”

“All right, dear. Good to see you, Harry.”

“Good to see you, Aunt Tally.”

The formal gardens, with their boxwood clipped and crisp, overflowed with fall flowers. Aunt Tally kept up the old spring gardens, summer gardens, and fall gardens laid out with such thoughtfulness back in 1834. Her additions to the original plan were to have climbing roses on every fence line and over the old stone outbuildings and to nurture shiny dark-green ivy to embrace the gorgeous stone stables.

Those stables finally housed four horses. Like all horsewomen, the first thing Little Mim did when she moved into the cottage was to refurbish the stables, fallow since 1982. Blair attacked the cottage, realizing, thanks to Harry, that horse people are in the grip of an obsession not addressed by logic.

Doodles—the fuzzy in his mouth—Tucker, Mrs. Murphy, and Pewter scampered throughout the garden path, which was brick laid in a herringbone pattern. Pewter hated to leave the glowing ball behind, but outdoors provided the chance to snag a bug or maybe something bigger.

Then something bigger slithered right across her path: a four-foot blacksnake.

“Snake!”
Pewter froze in her tracks.

Mrs. Murphy pounced on the tail, which made the large snake curl up.

“Don't you dare,” Harry reprimanded her tiger cat. “Blacksnakes are friends.”

“Oh, bother.”
Mrs. Murphy stepped backward.

The snake, flicking out his pink tongue, murmured,
“I catch more mice than you do.”
With that, he disappeared under the periwinkle ground cover.

“What an insult!”
Mrs. Murphy puffed out her tail, but Harry paid her no mind.

“We're home.” Little Mim threw open the cottage door, painted royal blue, as were the shutters.

“In the back,” Blair called out.

The wives came out on the patio to find two happy men, wreathed in smoke, drinks in hand.

“I want to show Harry and Fair what we're doing.”

Blair stood up, kissed Harry on the cheek. “Let me get the plans.” He disappeared inside, then reappeared, unrolling the plans on the wrought-iron-and-glass table.

“It's a two-pronged attack.” Little Mim pointed to the south side of the cottage, where one bedroom now existed. “We can use the existing door so we don't have to tear out stone, and we'll create a master suite on that end, which will be warmer in winter than building on the north side.” She moved her finger to the west, to the patio on which they now stood. “Here we'll build a great room and a new patio. No point in missing all those gorgeous sunsets over the Blue Ridge. I mean, I just love Aunt Tally's view, so this will be our smaller view.”

“What will you do when Aunt Tally finally goes to her reward? This place will be wonderful,” Harry wondered aloud.

“We'll move into Rose Hill, of course, and then we have to decide whether to make this part of a farm manager's package or to rent it. Always nice to produce a little income.” Little Mim, though rich, respected profit and thought squandering resources sinful.

This view was shared by her mother except in practice. If Big Mim wanted something, she bought it. Her daughter would search relentlessly for the best bargain and, if she couldn't find it, would do without.

“This farm isn't what it used to be.” Blair slipped his arm around Little Mim's small waist. “Given her age, Aunt Tally has done yeoman's labor, but we want fields of corn, better grades of hay, cattle, and you know, Harry, you've inspired us to try a small vineyard.”

“I have?”

“You certainly have.” Little Mim smiled. “I remember when I was a girl how this place hummed. Tractors running, fences being painted, stone fences being repaired. Fabulous Thoroughbreds playing in the pastures. Aunt Tally bred great horses. Remember?”

“I do.” Harry nodded, as did Fair. “And Aunt Tally always gave us a Dr Pepper or Co-Cola.”

“You taught me a lot when I was your neighbor.” Blair smiled warmly at Harry. “Now that Mim and I are married, I don't want to be on the road anymore. I want to be right here with my beautiful bride. I think with a little luck and a lot of hard work, we can make a bit of money. Neither of us believes in hobby farming.”

“Good for you.” Fair slapped him on the back. “Besides, with Little Mim's whole political career in front of her, having you here will help. You see things differently than we do, because you weren't raised here.”

“He's so smart.” Little Mim was besotted with her gorgeous husband.

“When do you start?”

“Tomorrow morning. Mark Greenfield's company has the project. He doesn't waste money.”

“No. That's a wise choice.” Harry liked Greenfield ICF Services. “The trick is to get Tony Long as your county inspector, not Mike McElvoy.”

Blair exhaled. “That's a roll of the dice. You should hear Carla Paulson, Folly Steinhauser, Penny Lattimore, or even Elise Brennan on the subject of Mike. Elise, whom I've never seen show temper, blew like Mt. Vesuvius on the subject.” Blair shook his head. “Well, we'll just deal with it when we deal with it. My concern right now is that the stonework matches the original.”

“That will be tough,” Fair said.

It would, too, but stonework would be the least of their problems.

9

A
mazing how heavy your boots get when they're caked with mud.” Harry lifted up a foot, displaying the red clay embedded in the sole.

Fair lifted up his right foot, his work boot covered with wet red clay, too. “Could be worse.”

“Like what?”

“Oil sludge. Then we'd slip across the field.” He pushed his baseball cap down over his eyes, for the sun was fierce. “Your black-seed sunflowers are about ready.”

“Grey Stripe, too.” Harry, hands on hips, surveyed the seven-foot giants, their massive golden heads pointed straight up to the sun. “You know,” she grabbed his hand, “I love this. I wish I'd quit work at the post office years ago.” She paused. “Course, I don't know if I'm going to make a dime, but I truly love it.”

“Well, you know you won't make any money on the grapes. You have to let the fruit hang until it falls off this first year.”

“I know. Seems so wasteful, but if Patricia Kluge tells me what to do with my Petit Manseng, I'd better do it. The foxes will be happy.”

“Yes, they will. They'll start eating the grapes even before they fall.”

“The one that makes me laugh is Simon.” Harry mentioned the opossum who lived in the hayloft along with Matilda, the blacksnake, and Flatface, the owl. “He's got a sweet tooth.”

Matilda—no sweet tooth there—was actually on her hunting range. The large circle that she made around the barn and the house took up spring and summer. She'd return to her place in the hayloft in another three weeks. Right now she was hanging from a limb in the huge walnut tree in front of the house. It pleased her to frighten the humans and the animals when they finally caught sight of her. Nor was she above dropping onto someone's shoulders, which always provoked a big scream. Then she'd shoot off.

Harry and Fair walked over to the pendulous, glistening grapes. Although the vines would produce better with each year, Harry was delighted with what her first year had brought.

Fair draped his arm around his wife's shoulders. “Abundance.”

“Lifts the heart. I was worried that yesterday's hard rain would just pepper these guys right off the vine.”

“Tougher than you thought.”

They turned for the barn. The four mares and foals lazed in their pasture. The three hunt horses and Shortro, a gray three-year-old saddlebred, munched away, pointedly ignoring the youngsters born in March. Every now and then, a little head would reach over the fence to stare at one of the “big boys.”

Tomahawk, the most senior of the hunters, looked back at the bright chestnut filly begging him to play with her along the fence line.

“Worm,”
he said, returning to the serious business of eating.

“Momma, do you know what he called me?”
The little girl romped back to her mother, a patient soul.

“Oh, he gets all grand and airy. Pay him no mind.”
She touched noses with her child.

Mrs. Murphy, Pewter, and Tucker, who were walking ahead of the humans, heard the exchange.

Pewter called out,
“He's a meanie.”

“Shut up, fatso.”
Tomahawk raised his head.

“When's the last time you got on the scale?”
Pewter noticed a big belly.

“Pewter, leave him alone,”
Mrs. Murphy counseled.
“If you irritate him he'll start picking the locks on the gates. That's the only horse I've ever known who can actually open a kiwi lock.”

A kiwi lock, shaped like a comma, slipped into a round ring secured on the post. A smaller ring then flipped up on the comma to securely hold it in place and to prevent horses from opening the lock, something for which the species evidenced a marked talent. Tomahawk would work the kiwi with his lips. Granted, it took him at least an hour—his determination remarkable—but he would finally release the little ring, then pluck the kiwi out of the big ring and push the gate open with his nose. Off he'd go, tail straight out, to rush around the pastures. After doing this enough times to become both tired and bored, he'd walk into the barn, go to his stall, flop down on his side, and sleep, complete with musical snoring.

It infuriated the other horses that they couldn't pick the locks.

Just as Harry and Fair reached the barn, Coop drove up in an old beat-up pickup truck she'd bought so she could haul stuff. A deputy's slender salary prevented her from purchasing a new truck, much as she lusted after one.

“Hey,” Harry greeted her.

“Didn't get you on the phone, so I thought I'd come over.”

“Need a hand with anything?” Fair asked.

“No. I wanted to tell you we've heard from Will Wylde's killer.” She paused, while the other two held their breath for a moment without realizing they were doing so. “No name. No anything except he—I assume it's a he—says he has the list of all Will's patients over the years and he is going to do to them what they did to the unborn.”

“What?”

“Dropped off an envelope sealed with Scotch tape—obviously he's smart enough not to lick the envelope. Dropped it in Rick's mailbox at his house. Smart there, too. Too big a risk to leave it at the station, even in the middle of the night.”

“Good God.” Fair was aghast.

“He could be bluffing.”

“Harry, he could, but I keep coming back to someone on the inside. It's not that hard for a nurse or office manager to steal files. Everything is on a disc. How hard is it to copy it and give it to our killer?”

“True.” Fair was more computer literate than Harry, but she was pretty good at doing agricultural research on her computer.

“Thank heaven,” Harry whispered, “I've never had an abortion.”

“Me, either. But there are so many women who have and no one knows. Apart from the danger if he does make good on his threat, what about the mess in their personal lives?”

“Are you going to make this public?”

“Well, that's not my decision, but I don't see how Rick can keep it quiet. It's important to the case, and people must take precautions.”

“This could destroy marriages, careers.” Harry wiped the sweat pouring down her brow. “There are an awful lot of women in this county keeping a secret.”

“Exactly.” Coop leaned against the truck's grille. “We've got to catch this guy.”

“If he starts killing women, you will, but let's pray he trips up before that.” Fair felt sick about the threat.

“Why now?” Harry asked.

“What do you mean?” Coop respected Harry's mind.

“Why kill now? Will Wylde has been practicing medicine in our county for three decades. What's set off this person?”

“Could be he's found out his wife or girlfriend had an abortion and didn't tell him,” Fair stated logically.

“Or it could be his mind is deteriorating in some fashion,” Harry thought out loud.

“Like drugs?” Coop had seen plenty of what booze and drugs can do to the human brain.

“That, but sometimes the mind goes when it's diseased and the person doesn't know. He thinks his thoughts and actions are normal. That's the truly frightening thing about being crazy: so often the person doesn't know. And sometimes a head injury can change a person's personality,” Fair informed them.

Harry turned to Coop. “You might want to check the experts on this. I guess psychiatrists would be a good place to start.”

“I will. Either way, if this guy is a raving lunatic or a political fanatic, we've got major problems.”

“Coop, come on in. It's sweltering out here.” Harry touched Fair's hand.

As they walked into the house, Matilda, eyes glittering, swayed gently on her limb. Mrs. Murphy glanced up at her but said nothing.

They were grateful to come into the kitchen, the large overhead fan cooling the room. Harry refused to put in air-conditioning, because she thought going from cool air to the hot outside all the time made you sick. Fair knew in time he could wear her down. As it was, the fans in the house helped, but sometimes all they did was push around humid air.

“The statement?” Coop gratefully took a beer offered her by Fair as she queried Harry.

“We drove over this morning after church. Harry tried.” He shrugged.

“It's the talk of the town: the murder and the face-off between Big Mim and Little Mim.” She swallowed straight from the bottle. “Perfect.”

“A cold beer on a hot day, one of life's little pleasures.” Fair sipped his, too.

After Cooper left, Harry called Little Mim and gave her the news so she could be calm when she heard it from the sheriff.

“Mother is probably being briefed by Rick as we speak,” Little Mim replied, trying to push down the rising terror.

Rick had learned the hard way to keep Big Mim informed. Part of it was because she felt she ran the town along with the western part of the county; part of it was because she knew a great deal that a sheriff might not know and could be helpful. In this case, she was blissfully ignorant of her daughter's dilemma.

“She'll come out both guns blazing.”

“She will.” Little Mim reached down to touch Doodle's glossy head. Touching the dog reassured her, calmed her. “Harry, I can't thank you enough.”

“Don't mention it, but, Little Mim, please, please be careful, and whatever you do, don't lose your temper with your mother.”

Easier said than done.