The Tail of the Tip-Off (20 page)

“No.”

“Any ideas who's stealing the stuff?”

“Not right off the bat, forgive the pun. Since you've been running inventory whoever's been stealing knows you know,” Harry sensibly said.

“Well, sometimes guilt or fear or both will flush the pup right out of the woods.” Coop inhaled again, grateful for the nicotine.

“Do you think this has something to do with the murders?”

“I wish I knew. I'm starting to get irritated.”

“Me, too.” Harry watched as a gray mousie was batted by her feet. “You called Mim about Anne and Cameron, of course—”

“Yeah, I told you that.”

“I know but you interrupted me.”

“Sorry. Yes, and Mim, as smart as you are, knew it would be too obvious if I called around, so she is doing it. Her excuse is she heard Anne's four-wheel-drive is in the shop and she's happy to lend Anne hers.”

“Then Mim knows, too.”

“What?”

“That Anne is your suspect.”

“That's why she's calling and not me. Except for calling you.”

“Are you worried that Anne's slipped the net?”

“Not yet.”

“What if she's not your killer? What if the killer wants her?”

“That thought has occurred to me.”

“Damn.”

37

T
he sky, clear but pitch-black the next morning, was filled with stars. Some seemed white, others bluish, one had a red tint. The first hint of dawn, a slender thread of dark blue underneath the black, gave way to a lighter blue by six-thirty. A pink haze shimmered on the horizon.

Harry had already accomplished her barn chores. She was shoveling snow, making a walkway between the house and the barn. She stopped to watch the sun's rim, deepest crimson, nudge over the horizon. The snow, blue now, turned pink and then crimson itself. The icicles, some over a foot long, exploded into hanging rainbows. The dazzle was so intense, Harry had to squint.

The mercury shivered at seven degrees Fahrenheit but as long as Harry was working, she didn't mind. A muff covered her ears but they still stung a bit. She heaved snow to the right as the crimson, pink, and gold colors with blue still in the shadows made this an exceptionally beautiful morning.

The cats, after visiting the barn to check on the horses and Simon, returned to the house. Tucker, her luxurious coat perfect for a frosty day, chased each shovelful of snow.

Although hungry, when Harry finished shoveling, she couldn't resist putting on her cross-country skis and sliding silently over to the creek that bordered her land and that of her neighbor, Blair Bainbridge.

The massive lone oak at the family cemetery stood out against the sky. Beyond that she could see a plume of white smoke curling out from Blair's kitchen chimney.

The fresh snow barely had any tracks in it. Animals snuggled in their burrows and nests. She turned right, gliding past the huge domed beaver lodge and dam. Tucker growled but kept behind her human. She didn't like the beavers. It was mutual.

Harry pushed up the ridge, the first in a series of ridges, some with narrow, perfect little valleys between them, until finally one was in the Blue Ridge Mountains. She turned right again, heading north on the low ridge, perhaps eight hundred feet above sea level. It was good apple country and quite a few orchards dotted the land in western Albemarle County and Nelson County. Nelson County, home of the famous pippin apple, looked like snow in the spring when the apple trees blossomed. The fragrance all through this part of Virginia made everyone a little giddy.

Today the only fragrance was the tangy hint of cold for no scent could rise up to Harry's nostrils off the frozen land. Even Tucker couldn't smell much and her olfactory powers far exceeded Harry's. As no animals had been about, the sturdy little dog couldn't even content herself with the aroma of a bobcat or a deer who had passed. Wild turkeys, in flocks of over seventy, gave off a distinct odor. Tucker chased a turkey hen once when she was a puppy and was quickly cured of that. That old turkey hen swirled around to chase
her,
gobbling hateful, scurrilous insults until Tucker raced into Harry's arms. Only then did the outraged bird stop. She turned and left with dignity.

But Tucker, happy to be alone with her human, knew there would always be a myriad of scents once the temperature climbed above freezing. Something it wouldn't do today. The swish of Harry's skis, the rhythm of her walking, hypnotized Tucker. It wasn't until the last moment that she heard the sharp feathers of a large hawk overhead. The bold animal swooped low then flew to a high tree limb where he gazed down on the groundlings.

“Scared you.”

“Did not.”
Tucker bared her formidable fangs.

“Jeez, you're a big one.” Harry stopped, looking up at the golden-eyed predator who stared right back at her.

“I'm big and I'd like a tasty mole, shrew, or mouse right now,”
he complained.

Harry reached into the pocket of her down coat and a tired pack of Nabs, the cellophane crinkling, was still there. She took it out, removed her gloves and crunched the Nabs once, then opened the cellophane, dropping the orange crackers on the snow. “Tucker, leave it. I'll make you breakfast.”

Tucker did as she was told, and as they pushed off, the bird swooped down to eat the crackers. Tucker called over her shoulder,
“You owe us one.”

The large fellow thought a moment while tasting peanut butter, a new delicious taste, and he cocked his head.
“You're right, little dog, I do.”

Tucker stopped, turning to face the hawk.
“If it gets really bad, Mother throws out seeds in front of the barn. She puts out a lot and sometimes bread. It's not flesh but it's better than going hungry. No one will bother you. The owl sleeps during the day.”

“Flatface.”
The hawk respected the huge owl.
“Best hunter around. She's conceited about it, too. Being domesticated, do you have to do everything that human tells you?”
The hawk thought the collar around Tucker's neck a badge of slavery.

“You don't understand, I want to do what she wants. I love her.”

The hawk swallowed another piece of Nab.
“Incomprehensible.”

“If you knew her, you'd love her.”

“Never. Humans get in the way. They disturb our game, they tamper with migration patterns, they are the kiss of death.”

“My human gave you food.”

“Your human is the exception that proves the rule.”

“Perhaps.”
Tucker chose not to argue.
“I hope winter isn't too fierce. I hope you have plenty to eat. I won't chase you if you come to the barn. There are lots of mice in the barn and the outbuildings.”

“Thank you. I'll see you again.”
The hawk opened one wing, each feather standing out against the sparkling snow.

Tucker scampered after Harry, puffs of snow shooting out from under her paws.

“There you are. Thought about that big hawk, did you?”

“Yes. I'm glad I'm not wild. I wouldn't get to live with you if I were.”

Harry stuck a ski pole into the snow, launching herself down a mostly cleared path back into the pastures. Tears welled up in her eyes from the cold. Tucker dashed after her, once falling into a deeper bit of snow than she had anticipated.

When they were finally cozy inside the kitchen, Tucker gobbled her kibble, a drizzle of corn oil and a tablespoon of beef dog food on top.

The cats listened as she told them about the hawk.

“What kind?”
Mrs. Murphy inquired.

“A marsh hawk.”
Tucker called the northern harrier by its common name.

“About two feet high?”
Pewter didn't think that was that big but big enough.

“Yes, you know, plowing through the snow after talking with him I got to thinking about wild animals. They eat what they kill. Animals that aren't flesh eaters, say a squirrel, might stash some acorns but animals aren't greedy. Wild animals.”

“And we are?”
Pewter arched a gray eyebrow.

“Uh, well, we can all overeat, I suppose, but I think greed, true greed, is a human characteristic. How much does one human need to live? But they'll kill one another for more.”

“That's true,”
Mrs. Murphy said.

“I don't think Anne Donaldson killed H.H. My instincts are better than a human's.”
Tucker, invigorated from her exercise, was chatty.
“It's bigger than jealousy.”

The phone rang and Harry picked it up to hear Susan's voice.

“Found Anne and Cameron.” Susan had been called by Big Mim. She didn't believe the car story for a minute.

“Where were they?”

“BoomBoom's.”

“Why didn't anyone call to tell me?” Harry complained.

“No one knew until”—Susan checked her wall clock—“seven-fifteen. Power went out on that side of town and it wasn't restored until early this morning. It doesn't appear to be anything sinister. Anne decided not to drive as the roads are treacherous.”

“Sounds reasonable. Well, I'd better get down to the post office. I'm already late.”

“No one's going out today. Stay home.”

“Crozet might collapse without me.”

“Pulease,” Susan laughed and hung up.

Harry, usually punctual, had lost track of the time. She called Miranda. No one at home. She called the post office.

“Hello.”

“Miranda, I'm late and I'm sorry.”

“Don't worry about it. Nothing is moving in town this morning. You stay there. The roads aren't cleared, Tracy's with me.”

“Coop told me he got clunked on the head. She also told me a lot of stuff has been walking out of the equipment room.”

“Yes. I know Tracy can handle anything, but I don't think he or anyone should be in that building alone. Not until things are, well, whatever they are.”

“Is Tracy sorting mail?”

“There isn't any. Rob Collier probably won't get through or, if he does, it will be late.”

“Miranda, Coop said about twenty-five thousand dollars' worth of equipment had been stolen last year. She said they'll be able to determine what had been stolen from earlier years. More or less.” She paused. “People kill for less than that.”

“That they do,” Miranda agreed.

“Nothing makes sense.”

“No, it doesn't. But whether things make sense or not, there's something dangerous about. Now you stay there. If Rob makes it out and there's a lot of mail, I'll tell you, but I think the road plows will be running all day. You might as well build a snowman.”

Harry hung up the phone, put her down vest and jacket back on, and went outside to do just that. The cats thought they'd play in the snow for a little bit until their paws became too cold, then they'd go back into the house. Tucker joined them. They raced around, threw snow over their heads, barked, meowed, ran in circles. Tucker chased Mrs. Murphy, who struggled because of the snow. Usually the dog was no match for the nimble cat, but although slowed by the snow, the tiger had lost none of her guile. She floundered over toward the barn, icicles gleaming from the roofline, and just as Tucker, fearsomely snapping her jaws, closed in on her, the cat arched sideways. Tucker, her momentum hard to stop, bounced into the side of the barn door. The icicles dropped, tinkling as they hit the earth. One small one fell onto Tucker's hind leg, the point so sharp it nicked the skin.

“Ow!”

Mrs. Murphy hurried to her friend, pulling it out with her claws. A little spot of blood stained the white fur.
“Bet that hurt.”

Pewter, at a more leisurely pace, joined them. She sniffed the tip of the icicle, the blood smell fresh and enticing.

Tucker twisted around to lick her leg just above her foot.

“That's it.”
Mrs. Murphy's eyes enlarged, her ears swept forward and back, her tail thrashed.

“What are you talking about?”
Pewter half-closed her eyes, enjoying the blood odor.

“Ice. H.H. was killed with ice!”

Tucker stopped licking, and Pewter stopped smelling to stare at the excited tiger.

“Huh?”
The dog was beginning to understand.

“If H.H. had been hit with a dart, he'd have to pull it out. If Anne had stabbed him with some thin thing like a needle she'd have to pull it out. If the weapon wasn't pulled out it'd be obvious, right? You'd think someone would notice, wouldn't you?”

“We've heard all this.”
Pewter crossly said.

“You could stab someone with ice, jab it into someone's skin. If there's a painkiller at the tip, the victim might not feel much and cold blunts feeling as well. When the ice melts, the toxin is delivered, it gets into the bloodstream but there's no weapon. It's absorbed into the body.”

“God.”
Pewter's mouth hung open, her bright pink tongue even brighter against the white snow background.

“That's diabolical.”
Tucker rubbed her head against Mrs. Murphy's.

“If H.H. is outside the building, if he's hit with an ice dart or arrow, even though it's freezing, his body temperature will melt it. The killer can choose his or her best moment.”
Mrs. Murphy grinned.

“Like slapping him on the back to divert his attention, and with the other hand stick the little ice needle in?”
Pewter's imagination began to work.

“Perhaps. We'll figure out how later, but I swear that's the weapon.”

Tucker stood up and shook herself.
“A person would need a tiny mold, pop it in the freezer. Of course, they'd have to be smart about toxins, wouldn't they?”

“Yeah, they would, but even a person with average research skills could find the right substance. There's stuff sitting on supermarket shelves that can kill you if you know what you're doing. You could mix up a lethal cocktail and not spend more than five dollars.”
Pewter even forgot the cold in her enthusiasm.

“Did we see anyone slap H.H. on the back in the parking lot?”
Tucker tried to remember that night.