Murder on the Prowl

by Rita Mae Brown

  “He's a good neighbor.” Harry smiled. “Little Mim's pegged him for every social occasion between now and Christmas, I swear.”

  “He doesn't seem to mind.”

  “What choice does he have? Piss off a Sanburne?” Her eyebrows rose.

  “Point taken.” Cynthia nodded, feeling better already.

  “When you girls stop chewing the fat, I'd be tickled pink to get back to business.”

  “Yes, boss.”

  “Spoilsport,” Harry teased him. “If we take our minds off the problem, we usually find the answer.”

  “That's the biggest bunch of bull I've heard since ‘Read my lips: No new taxes,'” Rick snorted.

  “Read my lips: Come to the locker room.” The tiger cat let out a hoot.

  “Was that a hiccup?” Cynthia bent down to pat Mrs. Murphy.

  “Let's try the old run away–run back routine.” Tucker ripped out of the room and ran halfway down the hall, her claws clicking on the wooden floor, then raced back.

  “Let's all do it.” Mrs. Murphy followed the dog. Pewter spun out so fast her hind legs slipped away from her.

  “Nuts.” Rick watched, shaking his head.

  “Playful.” Coop checked the mail. There wasn't anything that caught her eye as odd.

  Halfway down the hall the animals screeched to a halt, bumping into one another.

  “Idiots.” Mrs. Murphy puffed her tail. The fur on the back of her neck stood up.

  “We could try again.” Tucker felt that repetition was the key with humans.

  “No. I'll crawl up Mother's leg. That gets her attention.”

  “Doesn't mean she'll follow us,” Pewter replied pragmatically.

  “Have you got a better idea?” The tiger whirled on the gray cat.

  “No, Your Highness.”

  The silent animals reentered the room. Mrs. Murphy walked over to Harry, rubbed against her leg, and purred.

  “Sweetie, we'll go in a minute.”

  That fast Murphy climbed up Harry's legs. The jeans blunted the claws, yet enough of those sharp daggers pierced the material to make Harry yelp.

  “Follow me!” She dropped off Harry's leg and ran to the door, stopping to turn a somersault.

  “Show-off,” Pewter muttered under her breath.

  “You can't do a somersault,” Murphy taunted her.

  “Oh, yes, I can.” Pewter ran to the door and leapt into the air. Her somersault was a little wobbly and lopsided, but it was a somersault.

  “You know, every now and then they get like this,” Harry explained sheepishly. “Maybe I'll see what's up.”

  “I'll go with you.”

  “You're both loose as ashes.” Rick grabbed the mail.

  As Harry and Cynthia followed the animals, they noticed a few classrooms back in use.

  “That's good, I guess,” Cynthia remarked.

  “Well, once you-all decided to work out of the school to question students, some of the parents figured it would be safe to send the kids back.” Harry giggled. “Easier than having them at home, no matter what.”

  “Are we on a hike?” Cynthia noticed the three animals had stopped at the backdoor to the main building and were staring at the humans with upturned faces.

  When Harry opened the door, they shot out, galloping across the quad. “All right, you guys, this is a con!”

  “No, it isn't.” The tiger trotted back to reassure the two wavering humans. “Come on. We've got an idea. It's more than any of you have.”

  “I could use some fresh air.” Cynthia felt the first snow-flake of winter alight on her nose.

  “Me, too. Miranda will have to wait.”

  They crossed the quad, the snowflakes making a light tapping sound as they hit tree branches. The walkway was slick but not white yet. In the distance between the main building and the gymnasium, the snow thickened.

  “Hurry up. It's cold,” Pewter exhorted them.

  The humans reached the front door of the gym and opened it. The animals dashed inside.

  Mrs. Murphy glanced over her shoulder to see if they were behind her. She ran to the girls' gym door at one corner of the trophy hall. The other two animals marched behind her.

  “This is a wild-goose chase.” Cynthia laughed.

  “Who knows, but it gives you a break from Rick. He's just seething up there.”

  “He gets like that until he cracks a case. He blames himself for everything.”

  They walked into the locker room. All three animals sat in front of 114. The line of dead ants was still there.

  Since each locker wore a combination lock like a ring hanging from a bull's nose, they couldn't get into the locker.

  But it gave Cynthia an idea. She found Coach Hallvard, who checked her list. Number 114 belonged to Jody Miller. Cynthia requested that the coach call her girls in to open their lockers.

  An hour later, Coach Hallvard, an engine of energy, had each field hockey player, lacrosse, basketball, track and field, anyone on junior varsity or varsity standing in front of her locker.

  Harry, back at work, missed the fireworks. When 114 was opened, an open can of Coca-Cola was the source of the ant patrol. However, 117 contained a Musketeer costume. The locker belonged to Karen Jensen.

  54

  Rick paced, his hands behind his back. Karen sobbed that she knew nothing about the costume, which was an expensive one.

  “Ask anybody. I was Artemis, and I never left the dance,” she protested. She was also feeling low because a small amount of marijuana had been found in her gym bag.

  Rick got a court order to open lockers, cutting locks off if necessary. He had found a virtual pharmacy at St. Elizabeth's. These kids raided Mom and Dad's medicine chest with regularity or they had a good supplier. Valium, Percodan, Quaaludes, speed, amyl nitrate, a touch of cocaine, and a good amount of marijuana competed with handfuls of anabolic steroids in the boys' varsity lockers.

  Hardened though he was, he was unprepared for the extent of drug use at the school. When he pressured one of the football players, he heard the standard argument: if you're playing football against guys who use steroids and you don't, you get creamed. If a boy wants to excel at certain sports, he's got to get into drugs sooner or later. The drug of choice was human growth hormone, but none of the kids could find it, and it was outrageously expensive. Steroids were a lot easier to cop.

  The next shocker came when Cynthia checked the rental of the Musketeer costume using a label sewn into the neck of the tunic. She reached an outfitter in Washington, D.C. They reported they were missing a Musketeer costume, high quality.

  It had been rented by Maury McKinchie using his MasterCard.

  55

  The snow swirled, obscuring Yellow Mountain. Harry trudged to the barn, knowing that no matter how deep the snow fell, it wouldn't last. The hard snows arrived punctually after Christmas. Occasionally a whopper would hit before the holidays, but most residents of central Virginia could count on real winter socking them January through March.

  The winds, stiff, blew the fall foliage clean off the trees. Overnight the riotous color of fall gave way to the spare monochrome of winter.

  A rumble sent Tucker out into the white. Fair pulled up. He clapped his cowboy hat on his head as he dashed for the barn.

  “Harry, I need your help.”

  “What happened?”

  “BoomBoom is pitching a royal hissy. She says she has to talk to someone she can trust. She has a heavy heart. You should hear it.”

  “No, I shouldn't.”

  “What should I do?” He fidgeted. “She sounded really distressed.”

  Harry leaned against a stall door. Gin Fizz poked his white nose over the top of the Dutch doors, feed falling from his mouth as he chewed. Usually he'd stick his head out and chat. Today he was too hungry and the feed was too delicious.

  “Mom, go along. That will give BoomBoom cardiac arrest.” Murphy laughed.

  “I'll tell you exactly what I think. She was sleeping wit
h Maury McKinchie.”

  “You don't know that for a fact.” He removed his hat and shook his head.

  “Woman's instinct. Anyway, if you don't want to hear what I have to say, I'll go back to work and you can do whatever.”

  “I want to know.”

  “The more I think about the horrible events around here, the more it points to the battle between Roscoe and Sandy Brashiers over the future direction of St. Elizabeth's.” She held up her hand. “I know. Doesn't take a genius to figure that out.”

  “Well, I hadn't thought about it that way.”

  “Comfort BoomBoom—within reason. She might have a piece of the puzzle and not know it. Or she may be in danger. On the other hand, BoomBoom won't miss a chance to emote extravagantly.” She smiled. “And, of course, you'll tell me everything.”

  56

  What was working on BoomBoom was her mouth. She confessed to Fair that she had been having an affair with Maury McKinchie. She had broken it off when she discovered he was having affairs with other women or at least with one important woman. He wouldn't tell her who it was.

  She thought that the Other Woman, not his wife, of course, might have killed him.

  “What a fool I was to believe him.” Her expressive gray-blue eyes spilled over with salty tears.

  Fair wanted to hug her, console her, but his mistrust of her ran deep enough for him to throttle his best impulses. One hug from him and she'd be telling everyone they had engaged in deep, meaningful discussions. Gossip would take it from there.

  “Did he promise to divorce Darla?”

  “No. She was his meal ticket.”

  “Ah, then what was there to believe? I'm missing a beat here. I don't mean to be dense.”

  “You're not dense, Fair, darling, you're just a man.” She forgot her misery long enough to puff up his ego. “Men don't look below the surface. Believe? I believed him when he said he loved me.” She renewed her sobs and no amount of light sea kelp essence could dispel her gloom.

  “Maybe he did love you.”

  “Then how could he carry on with another woman? It was bad enough he had a wife!”

  “You don't know for certain—do you?”

  “Oh, yes, I do.” She wiped her eyes with her handkerchief. “I ransacked his car when he was ‘taking a meeting,' as he used to say, with Roscoe. He kept everything important in that car. Here.” She reached into her silk robe, a luscious lavender, and pulled out a handful of envelopes, which she thrust into his hands. “See for yourself.”

  Fair held the light gray envelopes, Tiffany paper, wrapped in a white ribbon. He untied the ribbon. “Shouldn't you give these to Rick Shaw?”

  “I should do a lot of things; that's why I need to talk to you. How do I know Rick will keep this out of the papers?”

  “He will.” Fair read the first letter rapidly. Love stuff only interested him if it was his love stuff. His mood changed considerably when he reached the signature at the bottom of the next page. In lovely cursive handwriting the name of “Your Naomi” appeared. “Oh, shit.”

  “Killed him.”

  “You think Naomi killed him?”

  “She could parade around in a Musketeer costume as easily as the rest of us.”

  “Finding that costume in Karen Jensen's locker sure was lucky for Kendrick.” Fair raised an eyebrow. “I wouldn't let him off the hook yet myself. That guy's got serious problems.”

  “Heartless. Not cruel, mind you, just devoid of feeling unless there's a dollar sign somewhere in the exchange.” BoomBoom tapped a long fingernail in the palm of her other hand. “Think how easy it would have been for Naomi to dump that costume in a kid's locker. Piece of cake.”

  “Maybe.” Fair handed the envelopes back to BoomBoom.

  “You aren't going to read the rest of them? They sizzle.”

  “It's none of my business. You should hand them over to Rick. Especially if you think Naomi killed McKinchie.”

  “That's just it. She must have found out about me and let him have it after offing Roscoe. Ha. She thought she was free and clear, and then she finds out there's another woman. I give him credit for energy. A wife and two lovers.” She smirked, her deep dimple, so alluring, drawing deeper.

  “I guess it's possible. Anything's possible. But then again, who's to say you didn't kill Maury McKinchie?” Fair, usually indirect in such circumstances, bluntly stated the obvious.

  “Me? Me? I couldn't kill anyone. I want to heal people, bind their inner wounds. I wouldn't hurt anyone.”

  “I'm telling you how it looks to a—”

  “A scumbag! Anyone who knows me knows I wouldn't kill, and most emphatically not over love.”

  “Sex? Or love?”

  “I thought you'd be on my side!”

  “I am on your side.” He leveled his gaze at the distressed woman, beautiful even in her foolishness. “That's why I'm asking you questions.”

  “I thought I loved Maury. Now I'm not so sure. He used me. He even gave me a screen test.”

  “From a sheriff's point of view, I'd say you had a motive.”

  “Well, I didn't have a motive to kill Roscoe Fletcher!”

  “No, it would appear not. Did anyone have it in for Roscoe? Anyone you know?”

  “Naomi. That's what I'm telling you.”

  “We don't know that he was cheating on her.”

  “He gathered his rosebuds while he may. Don't all you men do that—I mean, given the opportunity, you're all whores.”

  “I was.” His jaw locked on him.

  “Oh, Fair, I didn't mean you. You and Harry weren't suited for each other. The marriage would have come apart sooner or later. You know I cherish every moment we shared, and that's why, in my hour of need, I called you.”

  How could he have ever slept with this woman? Was he that blinded by beauty? A wave of disgust rose up from his stomach. He fought it down. Why be angry at her? She was what she was. She hadn't changed. He had.

  “Fair?” She questioned the silence between them.

  “If you truly believe that Naomi Fletcher killed her husband because she wanted to be with Maury McKinchie and then killed him in a fit of passion because she found out about you, you must go to the sheriff. Turn over those letters.”

  “I can't. It's too awful.”

  He changed his tack. “BoomBoom, what if she comes after you—assuming your hypothesis is correct.”

  “No!” Genuine alarm spread over her face.

  “What about April Shively?” he pressed on.

  “A good foundation base would have changed her life. That and rose petals in her bathwater.” BoomBoom's facial muscles were taut; the veins in her neck stood out. “O-o-o, I'm cramping up. A charley horse. Rub it out for me.”

  “Your calf is fine. Don't start that stuff with me.”

  “What stuff?” She flared her nostrils.

  “You know. Now I'm calling the sheriff. You can't withhold evidence like this.”

  “Don't!”

  “BoomBoom, for once put your vanity aside for the public good. A murderer is out there. It may be Naomi, as you've said, but”—he shrugged—“if news leaks out that you had a fling with Maury, it's not the end of the world.”

  “Easy for you to say.”

  “I thought the man was a perfect ass.”

  “He made me laugh. And I can act as well as half of those people you see on television.”

  “I would never argue that point.” He paused a moment, a flicker, a jolt to the brain. “BoomBoom, have you ever watched any of Maury's movies?”

  “Sure. Every one.”

  “Did you like them? I mean, can you tell me something about them?”

  “He used hot, hot leading ladies. He gave Darla her big break, you know.”

  “Hot? As in sex?”

  “Oh”—she flipped her fingers downward, a lightning-fast gesture, half dismissal—“everything Maury did was about sex: the liberating power of sex and how we are transformed by it. The true self is revea
led in the act. I mean, the stories could be about the Manhattan district attorney's office or about a Vietnamese immigrant in Los Angeles—that's my favorite, Rice Sky—but sex takes over sooner or later.”

  “Huh.” He walked over to the phone.

  “Don't leave me.”

  “I'm not.” He called Harry first. “Honey, I'm waiting for Rick Shaw. I'll explain when I get to your place. Is your video machine working? Good. I'm bringing some movies. We're going to eat a lot of popcorn.” Then he dialed Rick.

  In fifteen minutes Rick and Cynthia arrived, picked up the envelopes, and left after commanding BoomBoom not to leave town.

  When she begged Fair not to leave, he replied, not unkindly, “You need to learn to be alone.”

  “Not tonight! I'm scared.”

  “Call someone else.”

  “You're going back to Harry.”

  “I'm going to watch movies with her.”

  “Don't do it. It's a big mistake.”

  “Do what?”

  “Fall in love with her.”

  “I never fell out of love with her. I lost me first, then I lost my wife. Sorry, BoomBoom.”

  57

  “Girl, you'd better have a good explanation.” Kendrick's eyes, bloodshot with rage, bored into his daughter.

  “I told you. I paid with Grandpa's legacy.”

  “I checked the bank. You're a minor, so they gave me the information. Your account is not missing forty-one thousand dollars, which is what that damned BMW cost!”

  “The check hasn't cleared yet,” she replied coolly.

  “Pegasus Motor Cars says you paid with a certified check. Who gave you the money!”

  “Grandpa!” She sat on the edge of the sofa, knees together like a proper young lady.

  “Don't lie to me.” He stepped toward her, fists clenched.

  “Dad, don't you dare hit me, I'm pregnant.”

  He stopped in his tracks. “WHAT?”

  “I . . . am . . . pregnant.”

  “Does your mother know?”

  “Yes.”

  If Irene had appeared at that moment, Kendrick might have killed her. Luckily she was grocery shopping. He transferred his rage to the man responsible.

  “Who did this to you?”