Whisker of Evil

by Rita Mae Brown

  “Murphy, there’s rabies here. At St. James.” Pewter sat down. “And for all you know it’s sweeping down from those high meadows. I’m not going up there.”

  “Don’t be a chicken. You have your rabies shot.” Tucker pushed through the blackberries to a clear space on the bank. She peered over the side, seeing the opening to the muskrat den.

  “I’m not a chicken. I’m cautious, that’s all. Anyway, how do you think you’re going to get up there? If you run away now, Harry will never take you out again.” Pewter puffed out her chest, secure in her conviction.

  “Harry will get up there. I bet you one catnip sockie.” Mrs. Murphy’s green eyes twinkled.

  The plump gray cat considered this. “I’m not taking that bet.”

  The three animals laughed.

  Tucker addressed Mrs. Murphy. “You know, you said this was a crime of passion or money. If Alicia is the killer it would be both.”

  Pewter perked right up. “She came back to see the ring. Aha! I knew it.”

  “You two.” Mrs. Murphy shook her head. “And where was Alicia when Barry was killed?”

  “Barry has nothing to do with this.” Pewter didn’t like to be refuted. “I believe Carmen Gamble killed him. Or Sugar. But Carmen was in the middle of it.”

  “Well, if it’s Carmen, Harry sees her often enough, and if it’s Alicia, our dear human is standing right next to her.” Tucker marveled at Harry’s ability to land in the middle of danger.

  40

  Rick hung up the phone. “Jerome didn’t have rabies.”

  Cooper, at her desk, cheered. “Thank God.”

  Rick celebrated by lighting up a Camel. He’d returned to his favorite brand after trying others. Two blue plumes escaped his nostrils. “If those tests had come back positive, we’d be answering the calls of people shooting one another’s dogs and cats and then one another. Thank God for small favors.”

  It was a very small favor, indeed.

  41

  Black clouds, their undersides limned with darkest silver, began peeking over the tops of the Blue Ridge Mountains. The temperature dropped. The wind rustled the tops of the trees, sending a few leaves flying.

  Mrs. Murphy, awakened by a persistent whippoorwill, jumped off the bed. Tucker snorted as she was stretched on the rug, but she didn’t waken. Pewter, as usual, was dead to the world and draped over Harry’s head.

  As the tiger padded through the kitchen, the old railroad clock’s black hands announced three forty-five. The short pendulum with the gold disc at the end swung monotonously to and fro. Seconds and minutes ticked away, but Mrs. Murphy rarely worried about time. She thought of it as a human invention. They drove themselves crazy with clocks, phones, machines. She thought time was an illusion and age a conceit. A cat lives every moment intensely. Pewter slept intensely. Mrs. Murphy brushed through the animal door intensely. Alive, alert, in the present, whiskers forward, that’s the way to live.

  She scampered to the barn just as the owl flew through the opened hayloft door.

  “Hoo, hoo-hoo.”

  Mrs. Murphy climbed the ladder to the hayloft. Simon, sound asleep in his nest, clutched the broken Pelham curb chain, his prized possession. Simon wanted shiny things. A broken curb chain was as good as a Tiffany diamond to him.

  Flatface the owl bent over from her large nest in the cupola, climbed to the side, opened her wings, and effortlessly floated down, landing exactly in front of the cat.

  “Good evening,” Mrs. Murphy greeted her.

  “And a good evening it’s been, Mrs. Murphy. Hunting’s good before a storm, and how is it that I so often have the pleasure of your company as the old barometer is dropping?”

  “You know, I never thought of that. I think it wakes me up, although tonight that whippoorwill did the job. I was going to go to the edge of the woods to give him a piece of my mind. Have you ever noticed when the moonlight strikes their eyes just right, they are ruby red?”

  “So they are. I personally don’t understand ground nesters. Why on earth, forgive the pun,” she hooted, “would any self-respecting bird want to sit in the dirt or leaves or a bunch of twigs? Even a silly house dog can eat them.”

  “Better not let Tucker hear you say that.”

  “Tucker is the exception that proves the rule. And Tazio’s Lab is all right,” Flatface conceded.

  “The ground nesters rely on camouflage,” Mrs. Murphy, her own stripes a good cover, replied.

  “That’s like humans relying on prayer. Work then pray, I say. It’s blasphemy that they believe the Almighty is a human. I try to overlook this offense and their stupidity. We all know the Great Omnipotent Owl watches over us all.”

  “Doesn’t seem to be watching over this part of Virginia right now,” Mrs. Murphy wryly commented. She wasn’t going to get drawn into a religious discussion, since she devoutly believed spiritual life was guided by a heavenly cat of epic proportion.

  “Why, things are wonderful. I haven’t had such good hunting in years. Years.” She fluffed out her large chest, then turned her head almost upside down.

  “It makes me dizzy when you do that.”

  “Hoo hoo-hoo, ha.” The big bird righted her head.

  “You’re right, hunting is superb, but I was thinking about the human deaths, murders.”

  “Oh, that? I did ask my friends if they’d heard of rabies over the mountains. Word came back: ‘No.’ I just haven’t seen you to tell you.”

  “Thank you for asking around.”

  Simon rolled over in his sleep.

  Flatface observed him sternly. “He’s supposed to be a nocturnal animal. Lazy sod.”

  The whippoorwill sang out again just as the first raindrops splattered on the roof.

  “Simon tries, but he doesn’t get any further than the feed room. He picks up under the horse buckets, I’ll give him credit for that. He keeps things tidy. Then he gets full and goes to sleep.” Mrs. Murphy laughed at the funny-looking possum, a very sweet soul.

  “Oh, he doesn’t content himself with the feed room and the leavings under the horse buckets. He opens that desk drawer every night for candy. It’s a wonder he has a tooth in his head. Really, that’s one of the marvelous aspects of having a beak: no tooth decay.”

  “Lucky. I had my teeth cleaned in December. I hate it, but Harry drags me down to Dr. Shulman and they both tell me how good it is for my health. And Pewter screams the entire way. She always knows when it’s a vet trip. What a baby.”

  “That cat has such a high opinion of herself.”

  “The best—you’ll love this: We were at St. James and Pewter convinced the barn swallows to throw down tail feathers. She picked them up and ran to the humans. Disgraceful.”

  The owl’s golden eyes glittered as she laughed. “And they believed her?”

  “That’s the terrible part, they did!”

  “Even Harry?” Flatface asked.

  “Even Harry.”

  “I thought she had more sense than that. I heard she left the post office. How’s she doing?”

  “Mmm, her attention is focused on the murders. I don’t know what she’ll be like once she can think about her future.”

  42

  I wondered when you would show up.” Amy Wade smiled, her light-brown eyes merry. “I thought you were mad at me.”

  Izzy Stoltfus usually worked Saturday mornings, but she was so undone by Jerome’s murder she had taken a leave of absence. Amy Wade filled in while Pug Harper frantically searched for a permanent Saturday employee.

  “No. Just busy and thinking.” Harry was so used to taking her mail home, she’d forgotten her mailbox key ring. “Forgot my key. Will you hand me my mail?”

  “You know, there’s a rule that we’re not supposed to do that, but it sure seems silly here in Crozet.” She slipped her hand into Harry’s mailbox, retrieving mail and magazines.

  “Mom, your key is with your truck keys,” Mrs. Murphy reminded her, wondering if Harry would run out in the rain to f
etch it should she remember in the first place.

  Tavener, Alicia, and Aunt Tally all came in together.

  “Hey!” Tavener beamed at Harry. “It’s not the same without you.” He quickly spoke to Amy. “But you’re doing a good job.”

  “Harry left big sneakers to fill.” Amy smiled.

  “Has Miranda been in at all?” Aunt Tally shook her umbrella as it continued to rain, soaking and steady.

  “To pick up her mail and chat,” Amy answered.

  “Bills.” Tavener grimaced.

  “Where’s Herb?” Harry inquired. “I haven’t seen him for two days.”

  “Buying a new refrigerator,” Amy informed her. “He’s paralyzed by the options.”

  “They’re as expensive as an old Datsun.” Aunt Tally giggled as she tossed her junk mail in the trash.

  “Don’t forget, we’re planning a big do for July seventeenth. It’s Herb’s thirtieth anniversary.” Harry suffered a moment of panic because she hadn’t yet contacted a band and the good ones booked far in advance.

  “He came to St. Luke’s just as I left for Los Angeles.” Alicia knew little of the Reverend Jones but liked what she did know.

  “Alicia, those were sad circumstances, made all the more dolorous by your vacating central Virginia.” Tavener propped one elbow on the counter. “Just think of the trouble we could have roused up had you stayed.”

  “There’s still time!” Aunt Tally cracked.

  “Miranda!” The cats and dog ran to Miranda, who entered through the front door.

  “My little animals.” She knelt down for hugs and kisses.

  “Where’s your beau?” Tavener liked Tracy Raz.

  “My beau has been traveling throughout the South. Today he’s in Nashville.”

  “Why?”

  “Visiting friends. His expressed reason is he wants to look at small-town development.”

  “Nashville isn’t a small town.” Tavener laughed.

  “No, but he wants to study Franklin, Tennessee. Tracy has this wonderful vision for Crozet. Ever since he bought the old bank building he’s wanted to create a town square and who knows what else. I’ll be glad when he returns.”

  “Absence makes the heart grow fonder,” Alicia said.

  “Bull. Absence makes the eye wander.” Aunt Tally rapped her cane on the floor for emphasis.

  The door pushed open. Toby from Carmen’s salon, Shear Heaven, said with a wrinkled brow, “We don’t know where Carmen is. I called her sister for a phone number in Bermuda, because we’re almost out of shampoo, and her sister said they had no relatives in Bermuda. Where’s Carmen?”

  Aunt Tally rapped her cane on the floor. “Hiding out. She knows more than she’s telling.”

  Tavener put his arm around Toby’s shoulders. “Don’t worry. Carmen is just having one of her bad hair days.” He smiled at his little joke, then turned his attention to Aunt Tally. “What could Carmen possibly know?”

  “She spent a lot of time out at St. James, Tavener. She’s not a dumb girl. She might have picked something up, listened to the boys and just put two and two together.”

  Tavener laughed. He didn’t want to offend the nonagenarian, but he said, “With all due respect, she’s off on a toot or she’s found a hot date. We’re all a little on edge. Much as I loathed Jerome, his death was a shock. Like I said, we’re all on edge, but Carmen has nothing to worry about.”

  Aunt Tally simply replied, “I hope you’re right.”

  43

  Dew glistened on mountain laurel, cockspur hawthorns, spruces, pines, hickories, oaks, and maples. The once-pristine high meadows, now overrun with Virginia creeper, thorns, and baby cedars, still afforded a sweeping view of the lands unfurling to the east. The soil remained damp from recent rains.

  Harry’s eyes swept over these high acres—elevation about 1,500 feet above sea level—and she figured she could bring them back to good pasture with three years of hard work. While burning enriches the soil, she would never burn this high—too much wind, which shifted constantly. She’d have to rent a bulldozer, knock off the underbrush, carefully rolling it in large piles. Many small burrowing creatures would be thrilled with that. Then she’d fertilize and seed for three years running. The third summer, she’d bring stock back up here for the grass; roots should be strong by then.

  She loved pasture management—indeed, any type of agricultural pursuit, just seeing these old high acres of Mary Pat’s set her to dreaming.

  At eight-thirty in the morning, the light flooded over the trees, shrubs, and vines. A purple finch darted from one shrub to another as a kestrel soared overhead. Industrious spiders, lumbering beetles, and shimmering butterflies added to the activities of the meadow. A deep, narrow creek carried the mountain runoff down to Potlicker Creek.

  Harry, Fair, Susan, and Cooper, using old topographical maps, divided the large acreage into manageable one-hundred-acre units. Each would take a corner of one unit and work inward. Given the heavy underbrush in parts, this took perseverance, good boots, and liberal applications of insect repellent.

  They’d started at seven this Sunday morning. Being country people, that seemed like a late hour. Harry’s relentless curiosity had gotten the better of her and she roped in her friends to make the trek up to the meadow.

  Fair drove his truck, followed by Harry in her 1978 Ford. They made it to a small turnaround about a quarter of a mile from the high pastures. Together with Mrs. Murphy, Pewter, and Tucker, they packed in the last quarter mile.

  As the humans slowly moved along, the animals stayed together, walking along the westernmost outside stone wall.

  “A good stone fence lasts for centuries. Needs a tap or two.” Mrs. Murphy, like Harry, appreciated value for work and effort.

  “Aren’t many people who can build a stone fence. Takes a good eye and a strong back.” Tucker closed her eyes as she pushed through thorns. “And who can afford it?”

  “Mom could do it—the work, I mean.” Mrs. Murphy stopped to sniff where a long-tailed mouse had scurried into a crevice. “Cootie,” she insulted the mouse.

  “Domesticated twit,” came the saucy reply.

  “Did you hear that?” Mrs. Murphy stuck her paw into the crevice.

  Pewter joined her. “Mice go to school to learn how to insult cats.”

  “Leave it. We’ve got a lot to cover.” Tucker, nose to the ground, pressed on.

  “You’re lucky I have obligations.” Mrs. Murphy whapped at the stones, then left the unperturbed mouse, who stuck his head out of his refuge to see the two cats, tails high, moving down the stone line.

  “Boy, that gray one is really fat.” He giggled as his friend came out from his nest in the stone fence.

  “I heard that.” Pewter whirled around and in two pounces almost caught the smart-mouth.

  “Pewter,” Tucker chided.

  “Almost!” the gray called out triumphantly. “A split second earlier and I’d be enjoying mouse tartare.”

  The two mice, who had repaired to the same nest, huddled together until Pewter rejoined her companions.

  The younger mouse said, “Amazing how fat creatures are light on their paws.”

  The cats and corgi scrambled over tumbled gray stones as a flash of blue, a skink, sped along the tops.

  “It was nice of Cooper to come along, given that she worked late last night.” Tucker liked Cynthia very much and thought she should have a corgi.

  “Susan fixed lunch. Wonder when the humans will take lunch break?” Pewter hoped a chicken sandwich had been made all for her, no sharing with Mrs. Murphy and Tucker.

  “If we do find Mary Pat or some sort of evidence, Cooper needs to be here,” Mrs. Murphy sagely noted, ignoring Pewter’s focus on food.

  “Harry won’t screw it up,” Pewter said.

  “No, but—well, better that she’s here.” The tiger cat stopped, lifted her head, inhaling the tart odor of deer.

  Pewter turned left at the corner, now moving along the southernmo
st wall.

  Mrs. Murphy stopped, sitting on top of a flat stone. “Let’s take a quick breather. This stuff is tough going. So much has grown over the stone. You know, it’s wasteful to let a pasture go. Really.”

  “Mmm.” Pewter sat next to her as Tucker climbed up on top where stones had fallen away, giving her an easier climb.

  Tucker watched Susan, carrying a long thick stick, swat at underbrush as she fought her way through. “Well, if no one renting the stables was using this pasture, I guess it cost too much in time and labor to keep it up.”

  “Or the farm manager was lazy.” Pewter noticed a high cloud shaped like an arrowhead move eastward.

  “Or the worker was in on it and didn’t want people coming up here,” Mrs. Murphy said. “Marshall Kressenberg was a groom here when Mary Pat disappeared. He moved to Maryland and has had such success breeding and raising thoroughbreds. That was before our time. If we’d been here and could have smelled him, we’d know.” She knew she could smell fear, and she believed she could smell guilt.

  Both Pewter and Tucker looked at her. “That’s a thought.”

  “According to Cooper—at least what I’ve been able to overhear these last four weeks—the prime suspect was Alicia, but they didn’t have enough evidence to charge her. She wasn’t here on the exact day Mary Pat disappeared. Everyone else who worked at St. James or who was involved with Mary Pat in one way or the other checked out. Police figured she was missing a minimum of twenty-four hours before she was reported missing by Kressenberg. Well, if Alicia and Marshall were covering for each other, that would work. Alicia’s in L.A. Her alibi is airtight. Marshall reports Mary Pat’s disappearance late, a day later.” Mrs. Murphy had given the matter a great deal of thought.