Harry made herself a cup of tea. She checked the clock. “If I don’t get over to the Church of the Holy Light in about twenty minutes Mrs. H. will fry me for breakfast.”
“I told you, call L.L. Bean.”
Harry sat down, sipped her tea. She felt more awake now. She kept an L.L. Bean catalog, her own, stacked next to the sugar bowl.
“Tucker, has she got it yet?”
“No.” The dog lifted her head. “Forget it.”
“Sometimes people drive me around the bend!” the sleek cat complained, leaping out of the mail bin.
“Why bother?” Pewter stretched out in the bottom. “She won’t listen about Linda’s body. She won’t listen now either.”
Mrs. Murphy jumped onto the table, rubbed Harry’s shoulder then stuck out her claws and pulled the L.L. Bean catalog toward Harry.
“Murph—” Harry reached out and put her hand on the catalog, fearful the cat would shred it. “Hmm.” She flipped open the pages, filled with merchandise photographed as accurately as possible.
She gulped down a hot swallow, jumped up, and dialed the 800 number.
“Could I talk to your supervisor, please?”
“Certainly.” The woman’s voice on the other end was friendly.
Harry waited a few moments and then heard, “Hello, L.L. Bean, how may I help you?”
“Ma’am, pardon me for disturbing you. This has nothing to do with L.L. Bean, but do you know of any mail-order company that specializes in knives?”
“Let me think a minute,” the voice said, that of a middle-aged woman. “Joe, what’s the name of that company in Tennessee specializing in hunting knives?” A faint voice could be heard in the background. “Smoky Mountain Knife Works in Sieverville, Tennessee.”
“Thank you.” Harry scribbled down the information, “You’ve been great. May I make one suggestion about your duck boots? I mean, I always call them duck boots.”
“Sure. We want to hear from our customers.”
“You know the Bean Boot you all started making in 1912? Well, I love the boot. I’ve had mine resoled twice.”
“I’m glad to hear that.”
“But women’s sizes don’t carry a twelve-inch upper. Ours only go to nine inches, and I work on a farm. I would sure like to have a twelve-inch upper.”
“What’s your shoe size?”
“Seven B.”
“You wear a seven and a half in this—you know, a little bigger for heavy socks.”
“Yes, thank you for reminding me.”
“Tell you what, can you call me back tomorrow and I’ll see what we can do? The sales force is twenty-four hours, but I’ll have to wait until regular hours tomorrow to see if I can accommodate your request. What’s your name?”
“Mary Minor Haristeen.”
“Okay then, Miss Haristeen, you call me tomorrow afternoon and ask for Glenda Carpenter.”
“Thank you, I will.”
Harry pressed the disconnect button and got the phone number for the Sieverville company. Hurriedly she punched in the phone number.
A man answered, “Smoky Mountain.”
“Sir, hello, this is Mary Minor Haristeen from the Crozet post office in central Virginia. I am trying to trace back orders for folks here. A resident says he had the knives sent to my post office, and I swear they must have gone to the main post office in Charlottesville instead. It’s no mistake on your part, by the way—just one of those things.”
“Gee—that could be a lot of orders.”
“Maybe I can help you. It would either be repeat orders or a bulk order for that beautiful stiletto, uh, I forget the name, but the handle is wrapped in wire and it’s about a foot long.”
The voice filled with pride. “You mean the Gil Hibben Silver Shadow. That’s some piece of hardware, sister.”
“Yes, yes, it is.” Harry tried not to shudder since she knew the use to which it had been put.
“Let me pull it up on the computer here.” He hummed. “Yeah, I got one order to Charlottesville. Three knives. Ordered for Albemarle Cutlery. Nice store, huh?”
“Yes. By the way, is there a person’s name on that?” Harry didn’t tell him there was no Albemarle Cutlery. The name had to be a front.
“No. Just the store and a credit card. I can’t read off the number, of course.”
“No, no, I understand, but at least I know where the shipment has gone.”
“Went out two months ago. Hasn’t been returned. I hope everything is okay.”
“It will be. You’re a lifesaver.”
She bid her good-byes and then called down to the central post office on Seminole Road.
“Carl?” She recognized the voice that answered.
“Harry, what’s doing, girl?”
“It only gets worse. Between now and December twenty-fifth we might as well forget sleep. Will you do me a favor?”
“Sure.”
“Do you have a large post office box registered to Albemarle Cutlery?”
“Hold on.” He put the phone down.
Harry heard his footsteps as he walked away, then silence. Finally the footsteps returned. “Albemarle Cutlery. C. de Bergerac.”
“Damn!”
“What?”
“Sorry, Carl, it’s not you. That’s a phony name. Cyrano de Bergerac was a famous swordsman in the seventeenth century. The subject of a famous romance.”
“Steve Martin. I know,” Carl confidently replied.
“Yes, well, that’s one way to remember.” Harry laughed and wondered what Rostand, the playwright, would make of Steve Martin as his hero. “Listen, would you fax me his signature from the receipt?”
“Yeah, sure. You up to something?”
“Well—yes.”
“Okay, I’ll keep my mouth shut. I’ll pull the record and fax it right over. Good enough?”
“More than good enough. Thanks.”
“Mother, calm down,” Mrs. Murphy told her. “The fax will come through in a minute.”
Harry froze when she heard the whirr and wheeze of the fax. Her hands trembled as she pulled the paper out. Mrs. Murphy hopped on her shoulder.
“It can’t be!” Harry’s hands shook harder when she saw the left-leaning, bold script.
“Well, who is it?” Pewter called from the mail bin.
“I don’t know,” Murphy called back. “I don’t see the handwriting of people like Mother does. I mean, I know Mom’s, Fair’s, Mim’s, and Mrs. Hogendobber’s, but I don’t know this one.”
Tucker scrambled to her feet. “Mother, call Rick Shaw. Please!”
But Harry, dazed by what she now knew, wasn’t thinking straight. Shaken, she folded the paper, slipping it into the back pocket of her jeans.
“Come on, gang, we’ve got to get to church before Mrs. Hogendobber pitches a hissy.”
“Don’t worry about Mrs. Hogendobber,” Pewter sagely advised. “Call the sheriff.”
“Everyone will be at the choirfest, so she can see him there,” Tucker added.
“That’s what I’m afraid of.” Mrs. Murphy fluffed out her fur and jumped off Harry’s shoulder.
“What do you mean?” Pewter asked as she crawled out of the mail bin. She was too lazy to jump.
“Everybody will be there—including the killer.”
51
The heater, slow in working, sent off a faint aroma in Harry’s blue truck. She gripped the steering wheel so tightly her knuckles were white. Puffs of breath lazed out into the air as she sped along, a big puff from her, a medium puff from Tucker, and two small puffs from Mrs. Murphy and Pewter.
“I’m proud of Mom,” Tucker said. “She figured this one out all by herself. I couldn’t tell her about Nigel being Sargent, although we still don’t know all that we need to know about him.”
“Humans occasionally use their deductive powers.” Mrs. Murphy wedged close to Harry’s leg, Pewter next to her, as they huddled down to get warm.
“But if she figured out about the knife place
, don’t you think Rick Shaw and Cynthia have figured that out as well?” Pewter asked.
“Maybe, but only Mom knows the signature.”
“Maybe he’s afraid of exposing her to risk. Whoever this is is ruthless. Let’s not forget that this started years ago,” Mrs. Murphy prudently noted.
The parking lot of the Church of the Holy Light, jammed from stem to stern, testified to the popularity of the evening’s entertainment. The choirfest, one of the church’s biggest fund-raisers, drew music lovers from all over the county. They might not be willing to accept the Church’s strict message, but they loved the singing.
Harry scanned the lot for a place to park but had to settle for a spot along the side of the road. She noticed that the squad car was near the front door. Mim’s Bentley Turbo R, Susan and Ned’s Conestoga—as they called their station wagon—were there, Herbie’s big Buick Roadmaster; in fact, it looked as though everyone was at the choirfest but her.
She forgot to tell the animals to stay in the truck. They hopped out when she opened the door, following her into the church just as the choir made its measured entrance to enthusiastic applause. Intermission was over and the folks could expect a rousing second half.
Harry noticed her little family as did some of the other people who turned to greet her. Tucker quietly sat down next to Fair. Mrs. Murphy and Pewter, not exactly sacrilegious but not overwhelmed either, decided to check out the gathering before picking their spot.
“You kitties come back here,” Harry hissed, staying at the back of the church.
“Don’t look at her,” Mrs. Murphy directed her fat gray sidekick.
“Mrs. Murphy! Pewter!” Harry hissed, then stopped because the choirmaster had lifted his baton, and all eyes were on him. The organist pressed the pedals and the first lovely notes of “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot” swelled over the group.
Tucker, realizing Harry wouldn’t chase after her, decided to follow the cats, who generally led her into temptation.
Chark Valiant sat in the front row with the Sanburnes and Arthur Tetrick. Rick and Cynthia stood off to the side. Harry, not finding a seat, leaned against the wall, hoping to catch Rick’s or Cynthia’s eye unobtrusively.
Mrs. Hogendobber stepped forward for her solo. Her rich contralto voice coated the room like dark honey.
“Mrs. H.?” Mrs. Murphy was so astonished to hear the good woman that she walked right in front of everyone and sat in front of Miranda, her pretty little head tilted upward to watch her friend, the lady who formerly didn’t like cats.
Miranda saw Mrs. Murphy, now joined by Pewter and Tucker. The two kitties and the dog, enraptured, were immobile. A few titters rippled throughout the audience, but then the humans were oddly affected by the animals listening to Miranda singing one of the most beautiful spirituals, a harmonic record of a harsher time made endurable by the healing power of music.
Herb, also in the front row, a courtesy seat from the church, marveled at the scene.
When Miranda finished, a moment’s hush of deep appreciation was followed by thunderous applause.
“You were wonderful,” Mrs. Murphy called out, then trotted down the center aisle to check over each face in her passing.
“What are we looking for?” Pewter asked.
“Someone guilty as sin.”
“Ooh-la,” she trilled.
“And in church, too,” Tucker giggled.
“Will you get back here!” Harry whispered.
“Ignore her. No matter how red in the face she gets, just ignore her.”
“You’re going to get it,” Pewter warned.
“She has to catch me first, and remember, she left me to go to Montpelier and then Camden. I just pray”—she remembered she was in a church—“we can get her out of here before the fur flies.”
The next song, a Bach chorale, held everyone’s attention. Mrs. Murphy jumped onto a low table along the back wall near Harry but far enough away so she could jump off if Harry came after her. Pewter followed. Tucker lagged behind.
“Count the exits.”
“Double front doors, two on either side of the nave. There’s a back stair off the balcony but that probably connects with the doors off the nave.”
“And I’m willing to bet there’s another back door.” She swept her whiskers forward. “Tucker, get up here.
“Tucker, there are four exits. The one behind, two on the side, and one behind the proscenium, I think. If something goes wrong, if he gets scared or anything, we can run faster than he can. You go back to the nave exit, we’ll stay by this one. If anything happens, stay with Mom and we’ll go out our door and catch up with you. We’ll be out the door before the humans know what hit them.”
“Well, let’s hope nothing happens.” Pewter, not the most athletic girl, wanted to stay put.
Rick edged his way toward Harry, careful not to make noise. Cynthia moved to the front door.
Harry reached in her back pocket and pulled out the fax. “Come outside with me for a minute.”
The sheriff and his deputy tiptoed out with Harry. Keenly, Miranda observed them as she sang. A few other people noticed out of the corners of their eyes.
“Harry, you’ve been meddling again,” Rick said in a low voice as they closed the doors behind them.
“I couldn’t help it. I figured if we could trace the knives we’d have a first down, goal to go.”
Cynthia studied the fax sheet with a little pocket flashlight.
Rick held it steady in his hands, as Harry told him whose handwriting it was. “I’m not surprised,” he said.
“Was the body Marylou Valiant’s?” Harry asked.
“Yes.” Cynthia answered. “Dr. Yarbrough brought the dental records right over a half hour ago. It is Marylou.”
“Did you have any idea?” Harry asked Rick.
“Yes, but I thought this was about money. It’s not.” He rubbed his nose, the tip of which was cold. “The cards and knife in Mickey Townsend’s car—right over the top. That brought me back to the real motive: jealousy.” He shook his head. “When you get down to it, motives are simple. Crimes may be complicated, but motives are always simple.”
“What do we do now?” Harry shuffled her feet.
“We don’t do anything,” Rick said as more applause broke out inside. “We wait.”
“He’s got good alibis,” Coop commented.
“But if you broke down each murder, minute by minute, wouldn’t you find the loophole?”
“Harry, it’s not that easy. We’ve pinpointed the time of the murders as close as we can, but that still gives him a healthy thirty-minute comfort zone. A good lawyer can chip away at that very easily, you know, try to get the jury to believe the coroner’s report is fuzzy. Things like the temperature inside the barn versus the temperature outside would affect the corpse, as would the victim’s health while alive. They’ll erode the time frame of each murder as well as planting doubt in the jury’s mind as to how he could have escaped notice at Montpelier. Then they’ll indulge in character assassination for each prosecution witness. Right now it’s a cinch he’ll get off with a good lawyer. Case is totally circumstantial.” Rick hated the way the system worked, especially if a defendant had money.
“Yes, but what about Marylou’s murder?” Harry’s lips trembled she was so angry. “Can’t we pin him down there?”
“Maybe if Coty were alive,” Coop said. “He obviously knew where Marylou was buried.”
“Rick, you can’t let that son of a bitch go free.”
“If I arrest him before I’ve built my case, he will go free, scot free, Harry.” Rick’s jaw clenched. He folded the fax. “This is a big help and I thank you for it. I promise you, I will do everything I can to close in.”
More applause from inside roused Harry. “I guess I’d better go back in and make sure Murphy hasn’t caused another commotion.”
“A musical cat.” Cynthia smiled, patting Harry on the back. “I know this is upsetting, but we just can’t go
out and arrest people. We’ll keep working until we can make it stick. It’s the price we pay for being a democracy.”
“Yeah.” Harry exhaled from her nose, then opened the door a crack and squeezed through.
The two cats remained on the table.
The last song, a great big burst from Handel’s Messiah, raised the rafters. The audience cheered and clapped for an encore. The choir sang another lovely spiritual and then took a final bow, separating in the middle and filing out both sides of the stage.
The audience stirred. Harry walked over to the table, ready to scoop up Mrs. Murphy and Pewter when Mim, Jim, Charles, and Arthur came over, Fair immediately behind them.
Harry, overcome with emotion at the sight of the murderer, blurted out, “How could you? How could you kill all those people? How could you kill someone you loved?”
Arthur’s face froze. He started to laugh but a horrible flash of recognition gleamed in Mim’s eyes and in Chark’s. Lightning fast he grabbed Harry, pulled a .38 from under his coat, and put it to her head. “Get out of the way.”
Fair ducked low to tackle him. Arthur fired, grazing his leg. Fair’s leg collapsed under him as people screamed and ran.
Mrs. Hogendobber, not yet off the stage, ran out the side door and hopped into her Ford Falcon. She started the motor.
Rick and Cynthia, hearing the shot, rushed back in through the double doors just as Arthur dragged Harry out.
“You come one step closer and she’s dead.”
“What’s another one, Arthur? You’re going to kill me anyway.” Harry thought how curious it was to die with everyone looking on. She felt the cold circle of the barrel against her head, saw the contorted anguish on the faces of her friends, the snarling rage of her dog.
No one noticed the two cats streaking by. Tucker stayed with Harry.
“Don’t rile him, Mother. The minute he shifts his eyes I’ll nail him,” the sturdy little dog growled.
“Arthur Tetrick!” Mim shrieked. “You’ll rot in hell for this. You killed Marylou Valiant, didn’t you?”
Arthur fired over her head just for the joy of seeing Mim frightened. Except she wasn’t. People around her hit the ground but she shook her fist at him. “You’ll never get away with it.”
Murder, She Meowed Page 22
