The Purrfect Murder (8 page)

10

Y
esterday's rains had scrubbed the sky, and the cleanness of the air intoxicated Mrs. Murphy as she sat on a paddock fence post, gazing at the twilight. Pewter perched on another fence post, and Tucker sat on the ground.

Around the time of the autumnal equinox, the light began to change slightly, the winds from the west began to hum low over the mountains, and summer's thick haze melted as if on command. Even the humans noticed.

The nights grew cooler, the days shorter. Animals stepped lively, the vital business of securing food for the winter taking precedence for squirrels and other hoarders. The foxes, who usually found fresh supplies, created bigger caches just in case.

This Sunday evening, the fiery sunset splashed red gold across the western horizon. It was all the more dramatic as the Blue Ridge Mountains deepened from blue to cobalt in front of Apollo's show. Now streaks of pink and lavender enlivened the deepening velvet of oncoming night.

“I love this time,”
Mrs. Murphy purred.

“Me, too. The big moths come out,”
Pewter said.

“You've never caught a moth, not even a rosy maple, and they sit still on boxwoods for a long time,”
Tucker taunted Pewter.

“I didn't say I wanted to catch one. I like to look at them and smell them.”
The gray cat lifted her chin.
“Since when have you caught anything, bubble butt?”

“I don't hunt, I herd.”
Tucker's large brown eyes were merry.
“If you'd jump down, I'd herd you.”

“You and what army? One swipe from my razor-sharp claws and your nose will look like a plowed field.”
Pewter lifted the fur on her back for effect.

“Shut up,”
Mrs. Murphy snapped. She was intently looking way across all the fields toward the creek that separated Harry's farm, which had always been in her paternal family, from the farm that Cooper rented, which originally belonged to Herb Jones's ancestors.

Pewter widened her pupils. She then saw the shuffling movement about a half mile away. The bear that lived up in the hardwoods behind the farm was moving toward the high ridges. They knew this bear; she'd had two cubs, which would be full grown and on hunting missions of their own by now. Sometimes the families would stay close, but usually they established their own hunting territories. Fortunately, this year game was plentiful.

“Think she'd remember us?”
Pewter whispered.

“Sure. Bears are smart.”
Mrs. Murphy respected the large, usually gentle bear.

Then again, she was grateful that grizzlies lived in the west and not Virginia. The native bears usually kept to themselves and were no bother, although they might rip out the side of a clapboard house if a bees' nest was behind it.

“I can't see,”
Tucker complained.

“Runt.”
Pewter giggled.

“You can be hateful, you know that?”
Tucker sat down, resting her head on the lowest plank of the three-board fence.

A slight rustle picked all their heads up. Talons extended, Flatface, the great horned owl, flew not one inch over Pewter's head. It scared the cat so badly, she soared off the fence post, rolling in the fragrant white clover.

“Hoo hoo.”
The huge bird laughed, tipped a wing in greeting, and continued on her way.

Tonight would be perfect for hunting.

“That was mean!”
Pewter scrambled to her feet, tiny bits of grass stuck in her claws.

“You know how she is.”
Tucker marveled at how silently the winged predator could fly.

“Makes me think of Matilda and Simon. Those three live in the loft and everyone gets along,”
Pewter said.
“How they can get along with her, I don't know.”

“They get along because Flatface rules the roost, forgive the obvious statement,”
Mrs. Murphy replied.
“And Simon really is a generous fellow. He'll share treats with Flatface. Matilda doesn't like the sweets, but the owl will eat them. Course, Matilda usually goes into a semihibernation state. Have you noticed she's been on that tree limb for two days?”

“She's waiting for a victim.”
Tucker smiled.

“Oh,”
Pewter said airily,
“she doesn't scare me. You can hear the leaves when she drops. I always know it's her.”

Neither Mrs. Murphy nor Tucker responded. Each was praying Matilda would drop on the fat cat and they'd be there to witness the explosion.

The sky turned from deep blue to Prussian blue and finally to black. The stars glittered brightly, and the three friends picked out blue ones, pink ones, yellow ones, and stark white ones. They hadn't seen the stars this bright for the last three months, since the summer's haze dropped its veil over the sky, even at night.

“Whenever a human is murdered, the apple cart is upset. Ever notice?”
Tucker mused.

“Like dominoes set on end. Push one and they all fall down,”
Mrs. Murphy commented.
“But if a dog was shot, we'd be upset. We'd want to find out who did it and make them pay.”

“That's just it, isn't it?”
Pewter, back up on the fence post, picked the tiny grass bits from her claws.
“Even if a human gets caught, they get off most of the time, if they're rich. If they aren't rich, they sit in jail, get three squares a day. All that manpower wasted.”
She spat out a green tidbit.
“I say, shoot their sorry asses. Harry was reading the paper out loud and said it costs about $100,000 per year per prisoner. Think of the catnip that would buy.”

Mrs. Murphy laughed.
“That's why eighty percent of them are in there, selling human catnip.”

“I don't understand it,”
Tucker confessed.

“Neither do the humans. They want to feel good about themselves and waste money. Doesn't solve squat.”
Pewter, crabby since Flatface scared her, enjoyed moaning about this.

“Well, that's the nature of the beast. We aren't going to change it,”
Mrs. Murphy wisely noted.
“They never really address an issue until it's a full-blown crisis. Kind of like the War between the States. They knew at the Constitutional Convention they had to resolve slavery as well as some major economic differences between the North and the South. Eighty years pass. Nothing. And then hundreds of thousands die, to say nothing of the million and a half horses and mules. It's not any different now, whether it's crime or global warming.”

“Are you reading over Harry's shoulder again?”
Tucker asked.

“Yep.”
Mrs. Murphy watched a shooting star.
“So here's my question: where's the crisis? Will Wylde is shot dead. That doesn't mean that's the crisis. See?”

“No, I don't see.”
Pewter turned to look at her friend.

“Murder is common, let's face it.”
The tiger cat watched some rabbits at the far edge of the pasture.
“For all we know, this is a garden-variety murder dressed up in politics. Everyone jumps to conclusions. My hunch is…well, it's like the equinox: the earth tips on its axis. Something is tipping but we don't know what. And if it doesn't involve our humans, I don't care.”

“Tipping like a power shift?”
Tucker asked shrewdly.

“Could be,”
Mrs. Murphy said.

“You know as well as I do, Murph, that Harry will stick her nose in it. She can't help herself. Curiosity didn't kill the cat, it killed the human who made up the statement.”
Pewter had always hated that axiom about curiosity.

“Let's not talk about killing. It's such a beautiful night, I want to enjoy it,”
Tucker pleaded.

They inhaled the night's sweet fragrance, enjoying one another's company for five minutes.

Flatface returned to the barn with a squirming mouse in her talons, which finally ruined the mood. Mrs. Murphy hoped it wasn't a portent, but it was.

11

W
hy didn't you tell me the other day!” Carla, hands on hips, spoke crossly to Mike McElvoy.

“Because I didn't check it out. Tazio and I focused on the kitchen.”

“So now you're telling me, let me get this right, egress—”

He interrupted her, further infuriating her. “Forget the terminology; you need a door in the guest bedroom to the outside.”

“Why? I've been in hundreds of houses, and there are no exterior doors from guest bedrooms.”

“And I'll guarantee you those houses were built before 2000. The county changed the code.” Mike, sleeves rolled up on his plaid shirt, shrugged.

“What's the point? To make more money for the construction crew? You aren't getting any of it. The county's not getting any of it.”

“The point is in case of fire, whoever is in that room can get outside in a heartbeat. It's not the flames that kill you, it's smoke inhalation.” He paused dramatically. “What's extra expense compared to a human life?”

“Don't try that on me.” Carla, lips glimmered with iridescent pink lipstick, stared at the wall of the guest bedroom. “Tazio should have known. I'll skin her alive.”

“That's between you and Tazio, but if you want to come out to the truck, I can show you the code book. It's formidable, and every time there's a change, architects and construction bosses have to memorize it plus how it affects other things. I know you think I'm thick, Carla; you treat me like a redneck.” His directness surprised her. “But I'm not. I have every item in that book memorized, and furthermore, you're not the only kid on the block. Every one of these jobs has to be cleared, and every single person, like yourself, is in a God-awful hurry.”

“How dare you call me by my first name. I never gave you permission.” This said by someone who knew her etiquette even when she chose not to practice.

“I'll call you whatever I want.”

“I'm going to report you to the county commissioners.”

“Go right ahead. And when you do, remember that I will put your job last on the list. You won't finish this house until next year.”

“Are you threatening me?”

“No, I'm promising you that I'll drag this out forever.” He stretched the syllables in “forever.”

“I'll get you fired, you arrogant ass.”

“No, you won't. You'll get yourself an ulcer.”

“I don't have to put up with this.” She started to brush by him.

Mike held out his arm like a barrier, then handed her a sheet of paper. “You might want to read this at your leisure. Just a few little things I've noticed that will need changes for you to get your certification.”

“What would you do if I moved in before that?”

“Throw the book at you.”

Carla, entertaining a high opinion of her own intelligence, actually began to use it. “How much?”

“How much what?”

“Money. What do you want in order to check these things off the punch list?”

“Are you trying to bribe a public official?” He pretended mock horror.

“I'm trying to figure out why you're being so difficult. If it isn't money, do you want a suite of teak outdoor furniture?” Carla's husband, Jurgen, owned a large outdoor-furniture manufacturing plant over in Waynesboro.

“No, I don't. Wouldn't have the time to use it, anyway.”

“What do you want?”

“For you to study that list.” He walked past her to the hallway. “And you might reconsider how you treat this public official.”

In the living room, the painting crew was putting the finishing touches on the woodwork. Not knowing whether they'd heard the conversation back in the guest room, Mike winked as he passed them.

Orrie Eberhard, on a ladder, smiled. He didn't like Mike, but he didn't get in his way, either. Mike could hurt his business through rumor and innuendo. Orrie kept on the good side of him.

Carla, puce-faced, came into the living room just as Mike pulled out in his county truck. “How long have you known Mike McElvoy?”

Orrie carefully put his brush crossways on the open paint can. “Most of his life. We went through school together.”

“Did he cheat?”

“Ma'am?”

“Did he cheat on tests and stuff like that?”

“No, not that I know of.”

“Do you think he's honest?”

Orrie ignored that question, since he didn't want the reply to come back to him. “The thing you have to understand about Mike is, his father shamed the whole family. I mean, they were lower than earthworms. Mike has some power and he likes that. He's kind of aggressive about it.”

“What did his father do?”

“Drank himself to death. Found him dead as a doornail on the swings at the elementary school.”

“Therefore I shall assume that Mike doesn't touch a drop.”

“No, ma'am, he doesn't.”

“Any vices?”

“Now, Mrs. Paulson, I haven't made Mike a life's study. I mean, we get along okay, but he goes his way and I go mine. Plus, I don't want him criticizing my work, even though it has nothing to do with the building code.”

“If it has lead paint in it, it does.”

“Yes, ma'am, that's true.” Orrie began to appreciate how quick she was.

“Is his marriage strong?”

“I don't know.”

She lifted an eyebrow, still looking up at him. “Everyone has an Achilles' heel, Orrie, everyone.”

“Well, Mrs. Paulson, for what it's worth, I didn't much like Mike in school and I don't much like him now, but I get along to go along. Life's a whole lot easier that way.”

Carla gave him a tight smile and left. She had never learned to get along to go along, and she always felt there was something vaguely immoral about it or, if not immoral, weak-willed.

Mike McElvoy wanted something. She was sure of that. Most people, if you hand them a fat envelope of cash, will take it. The question was how much. If he didn't want cash, what did he want?

She couldn't bear more delays on this house or the expense they would entail. Jurgen would fuss.

Carla had a sense, like many people, that there was a clear division of labor assigned by gender. Jurgen made the money. She spent it. She had to cajole him into it, but she used her arsenal of tricks to good effect.