The Purrfect Murder (15 page)

“The hard-nosed could always use the Bible to justify it.” Susan knew her history, as did the other two.

“Yeah, but I think most people felt something…oh, I don't have the word, but something. Virginia would have had to end it.” Harry was convinced of that, perhaps rightly. “The Mid-Atlantic states would have done it probably before the turn of the century, but the Delta, probably not.”

“Hopefully, folks would have put a stop to it before 1900.” Susan thought Harry's time frame too long.

“I don't know. It's like a nuclear reaction, isn't it? You reach a critical mass. Then boom! I hope you're right and it would have ended earlier.” She stopped herself from musing further. “Robert, you're a Virginian, as are we. You may have noticed that Tazio is part African-American.”

“I noticed she was beautiful and, yes, African-American—to what percent, I don't know.”

“Do you think she'll encounter trouble in jail or in court if we can't spring her before a trial?” Harry was worried.

“God, Harry, I hope we're past that in Bedford County.”

“They're racist in Boston.” Susan, anger in her voice, started back toward the house. “But the South takes the rap for it; we're the scapegoat. Do you know they still had slaves in Delaware after the war's end?”

“Lose a war and all sins are heaped on your head. That's just the way it is.” Harry accepted that.

“Makes you wonder if we'll ever know the truth about Japan or Germany, doesn't it?” Robert shrewdly remarked. “Not that both countries weren't guilty of creating hell on earth, but it does become difficult to accept official histories when every American is a hero and saint, every German a bloodthirsty Nazi, every Japanese screaming, ‘Banzai,' or whatever they are reputed to have screamed. I become dispirited.”

“Don't.” Harry suddenly smiled. “We're still swallowing lies from the War of the Roses, and that was in the fifteenth century. Never ends. I just nod, smile, and go on my way. But I do try to read original sources and not interpretations when I have time. Character is fate. Character creates history. That's why I believe, believe like a fanatic, that Tazio did not kill Carla Paulson. It makes no sense in terms of character.”

         

Back in the house, the three musketeers located the tittering. It came from behind a wall in the large room behind the south portico.

“I know you're in there.”
Pewter slashed her tail back and forth.

“We know you're out there,”
a deep voice responded.

“Big.”
Tucker's ears moved as far forward as they could go.

“Show yourself,”
Mrs. Murphy requested.
“We've seen the work of your ancestors. I suppose you are all FRV, First Rats of Virginia.”

“Of course we are, you silly twits.”
Another voice answered, this one slightly higher.

“Did you see anyone in here the night of the murder?”
Mrs. Murphy got right to the point.

“Three hundred people,”
the deep voice replied, and then a sleek nose and clean whiskers appeared just underneath the window west of the door out to the south portico.

Pewter began to wiggle her hind end, but Mrs. Murphy commanded,
“Don't.”

“You can try, fatso,”
the male rat taunted.
“I'll duck back in here so fast…”

“Sooner or later the humans will find this opening.”
Tucker peered at the spot.

“Doesn't matter. They'll close it up, we'll chew a new one. We know this place better than they do,”
he sassed.

“What if they put out rat poison?”
Pewter sounded tough.

“What? Kill Mr. Jefferson's rats? Heaven forbid,”
he joked.

“Was anyone in here? Anyone besides the staff person?”
Mrs. Murphy kept to business.

“Melvin spent most of the night with his face pressed to the window—until the murder, that is.”
The female voice chimed in, and now she stuck her head out.

“Did you see anyone else?”
Tucker sounded pleasant.

“No, someone was here, though, because when we went downstairs—we have passages everywhere, you know, we don't have to show ourselves—well, anyway, I found a cigarette. Fresh. Hadn't been smoked.”
The female rat was jubilant.

“My wife likes to chew tobacco, and it gets harder to find these days.”

“Randolph, they don't have to know that,”
she chided him, then by way of explanation said,
“Soothes my nerves. You try living with him.”

“You didn't see the person. It could be Melvin's cigarette.”
Tucker made conversation.

“Oh, no, no one is allowed to smoke in here. Even the workmen have to stop and go outside for a smoke or a chew. Then again, not as many people smoke as they did in Grandma's day.”
The lady rat, Sarah, sounded sorrowful about that.
“Even Melvin, who smokes, doesn't cheat and smoke in the house when he's here alone.”

“You say you found it downstairs?”
Mrs. Murphy asked again.

“Not a puff.”
She beamed.

“Well, maybe whoever ducked inside knew there was no smoking,”
Tucker posited.

“Maybe.”
Pewter's brain started turning over, but she was behind Murphy.
“Then again, maybe they needed to move on and put it aside.”

“Where'd you find it?”
Tucker inquired.

“On the floor. It might have been on the table and rolled off. Right by the corner it was, very convenient to snatch up.”
She came out the whole way now, and she was quite sleek, gray and fat.
“You know, Randolph and I and our ancestors have even more treasures than what they've found in the bedroom wall. They'll never find ours, though. We learned when they started removing walls.”

Mrs. Murphy, surprised at how big the rats were, remembered the conversation Cooper had had in Harry's kitchen.
“Ma'am, do you remember what brand it is?”

“Virginia Slims.”

         

Little Mim drove down the long, twisting drive of Rose Hill. She liked picking up the mail, delivered in the afternoon, and sorting it. Aunt Tally, awash in magazines, would read them quickly and pass them on to Little Mim and Blair. They need never fill out a subscription form again.

She lifted the rubber-band-bound bundle and tossed it in the car. Then she pulled out that day's magazine haul, which totaled six, not including one from the National Rifle Association. Although the magazine was improving, it was so thin she thought of it as a colorful pamphlet.

She drove to the main house, put Aunt Tally's magazines on the table in the front main hall, then started sorting the mail.

A blue airmail envelope with her name on it caught her eye. She slit it open with her fingernail and read. Her face turned white, her hands shook, and she stuffed the letter in her pocket.

21

A
long the southeastern side of her house, Big Mim had planted hundreds of hydrangeas of all manner in the gardens. Even though they had been long out of fashion, Big Mim loved them, so she planted them. Now that hydrangeas had come back in a big way, people cooed over the massive white, blue, pink, and purple heads.

One of the secrets to her success was that fifteen years ago she'd supervised the digging of narrow trenches, a foot and three-quarters deep. She had placed leaky pipe—piping with tiny holes—there.

Although despite her best efforts it took years for the lawn and the garden to recover from this scarring, the leaky pipe proved a godsend in the long run. Watering was no longer a chore.

She'd dutifully go out and give everything a little spray so the leaves could drink, too, but the leaky pipe was the key.

Standing in the afternoon sun as it washed over her gardens this Monday, she heard a car coming down the drive.

Pressman, her young springer spaniel, heard it first and bounded to the front to greet Little Mim.

Absentmindedly, Little Mim bent down to pet the exuberant dog, who was a beauty.

Little Mim figured her mother, a creature of order, would be in the gardens, since she usually did her weeding, planting, and thinking then. She walked around to the back of the house.

“Aren't they stupendous?” Big Mim swept her arm toward the hydrangeas.

“They are.” Little Mim watched a black swallowtail flutter to the massing of butterfly bushes. “Mother, I have to talk to you.”

Noting her daughter's grim visage, Big Mim removed her floppy straw hat and said, “Would you like to sit on the bench under the weeping willow? It's so refreshing out this afternoon.”

“Yes, fine.” Little Mim, glad to be in comfortable espadrilles, took long strides toward the long bench, a copy of an eighteenth-century English one.

“Fight with Blair?”

“No, no, he's an angel.” She reached into her skirt pocket, pulling out the blue envelope. “I received this in the mail.”

Big Mim used her clear-coated fingernail to tease out the thin paper, same blue as the envelope. She read the two lines:

Put $100,000 in the

Love of Life Fund by this Friday.

If you don't, I'll talk.

Jonathan Bechtal

She dropped her hand, the letter still in her fingers, to her lap. “Have you paid him before?”

The speed of her mother's mind always surprised Little Mim. Her own mind, which was good, very good, couldn't work as quickly as her mother's.

“Yes.”

“Before Will Wylde's murder.” Big Mim again studied the letter.

“Yes.”

“Why didn't you tell me? I would have helped you.”

“Mother, it's not about the money.”

“Blackmail is always about money—and shame.” Her light-brown eyes flickered, a flash of sympathy, for she knew she wasn't a warm person.

She wasn't the easiest person to confide in. She would have kept Little Mim's secret, but her daughter did not feel especially close to her mother emotionally and hadn't opened her heart to her.

Miranda would throw her arms around Little Mim, would comfort her and pray with her, if necessary. Big Mim thought first.

“Well…” Little Mim took a deep breath, her bosom heaving upward under her pale-yellow camp shirt. “I had an abortion my sophomore year in college. I couldn't tell you. I couldn't.”

Big Mim's voice was soft. “Honey, I was one of those women who fought for reproductive control.”

“Mother, somehow I don't think it's the same when it's your own daughter.”

“I'm sorry.” Big Mim meant it. “I'm sorry you felt you couldn't come to me. How you've carried this all these years.”

Tears rolled down Little Mim's cheeks as her mother reached for her hand. “I was stupid.” She wiped away the tears with her free left hand. “I got drunk at a fraternity party, and I don't even remember going to bed with my date. Obviously, I did.”

“Can you still have children? Sometimes…” Her voice trailed off.

Little Mim nodded. “Yes.” Then she said, “I never wanted to, because I thought I was a terrible person. First I did what I did, and then I had an abortion. I believe ‘slut' is the word. And to Jonathan, I am a murderer.”

“You're not.”

“Mother, I don't know. Even now when I think about that time, I feel like I've fallen into a cesspool of guilt.”

“Darling, I am sorry. I am so, so sorry.” She looked down, turned over the envelope. “Marilyn, this wasn't sent from prison.”

Little Mim, wiping away more tears, took the envelope from her mother's hand. “22905. That's the Barracks Road Shopping Center post office.”

“I assume Will Wylde performed the termination.” Big Mim was trying to put the pieces together.

Little Mim sucked in her breath. “Bechtal must have the records.” Her right hand flew up to her temple, envelope and paper still in it. “Mother, what can I do?”

“We must see Rick at once.”

“This could destroy my political career.”

Big Mim removed the letter from her daughter's hand and folded the paper, slipping it back into the envelope. “You have to take that chance. By some great stroke of fortune, this may not be made public.”

“I doubt that. I've been in office only two years and already the Democrats poke for any chink in my armor.” She smiled ruefully. “I've been good at my work, so they haven't found any, but this, this…” She then said, “I kept my mouth shut about the fanatical right wing of the party. That will be my undoing.”

“You didn't kiss their ass in Macy's window, excuse the vulgar expression.” Big Mim rarely descended to same.

“No, but I sure kept my mouth shut about abortion.”

“I don't know what to tell you about that, because I don't feel the way you do.”

“You never had one.”

“No, I did not, but I think I know myself well enough to know I wouldn't feel guilty. I believe life starts when you emerge from the womb—sentient life, if you will. Anyway, nothing I can say will ever convince the opponents of abortion, nor vice versa, but if I could think of something to say to dispel your malaise, I would.”

“Malaise? Mother, it's gold-plated guilt.”

“I don't mean to make light of it. Does Blair know?”

Little Mim shook her head again. “No. There was no reason to tell him.”

“I think you must.”

“I will.”

“Are you worried about him?”

“No. I don't expect any man likes to hear about his wife's sex life before him, even if it was in college, but Blair's open-minded. I mean, he's not one to trumpet that double standard.”

“Who was it who said that if men could get pregnant, abortion would be a sacrament? Gloria Steinem?” Big Mim studied the postmark again.

“I don't know.” Little Mim bent over to read the postmark, too. “Friday, September twenty-sixth. Mother, how did he get these letters out?”

“He didn't. There's a partner on the outside. There has to be.” She slapped the envelope on her knee, which made Pressman's head swivel from the cowbird he was watching. “How much have you paid?”

“Nothing.”

“No, Marilyn, before this?”

“The threats started three months ago. Each time the demand was for ten thousand dollars. I paid by postal note made out to Jonathan Bechtal. Not even a cashier's check.”

“How?”

“I sent it to Jonathan Bechtal, care of Love of Life, P.O. Box Fifteen, Charlottesville, Virginia. That is a legitimate organization.”

“So to speak,” Big Mim wryly commented.

“What do you mean?”

“You know how I feel about charities. The accounting rules differ from Chapter C corporations, and more to the point, it's so bloody easy to steal in so many ways that someone whose IQ would make a good golf score could easily enrich themselves. I'd be willing to bet ten thousand dollars myself that what you paid dropped into someone's pocket.”

“Jonathan Bechtal, but the address was Love of Life?”

“We'll see about that.” Big Mim leaned back on the wooden bench, feeling the slats press into her back. “I haven't met Bechtal, but from what Rick and Cooper have said—I peppered them with questions, naturally—he's a true believer. Those kind of puritans rarely are larcenous. I could be wrong.” She pressed her forefingers to her temples. “This is strange. What's truly strange is, why is Bechtal taking the fall? Is there more violence to come? Is the money going to fund it? Or is he the dupe?” She began to rub her temples, her mind almost overheating.

“Do you have a headache?”

“I do now.” Big Mim smiled, then again reached for her daughter's hand. “We'll get through this. And—I hope you know this—about the Democrats, you know your father has nothing to do with them going after you or what may come next.”

“I know. He can't help being a Democrat.” Little Mim smiled, a bit of relief flowing into her thanks to her mother's response. “Any more than you can.”

“It's a generation mark. My generation would sooner die than register Republican. But in those days a Southern Democrat was a conservative. Well, that's irrelevant. We have to get to the bottom of this. How were you asked for the money before?”

“Same.”

“Seems stupid to send a local letter airmail, doesn't it?”

“Does. But I never got a phone call or anything like that. Just three letters and now the fourth.”

“When you had the procedure, did anyone else know?”

“Harry and Susan.”

“You all were never close. Although you're closer now. How did Harry come to know?”

“Serendipity. It's a long story.”

“Did she have an abortion, too?”

Little Mim replied, “No, no. Harry and Susan just happened to be there when I opened the letter with my pregnancy report. They helped me after that. Right now, let's go to Rick Shaw. You're right. I can't go along hoping the worst doesn't happen. I might as well face the music.”

Big Mim rose; Pressman followed. “I'll go with you.” As they walked toward the house, Big Mim said, “She's solid, that Harry.”

“Yes.”

“Darling, don't shy away from motherhood. You will find it changes you profoundly. Blair, too. Don't deny yourself that love and, well, all that work, too.” She smiled, a small but sweet smile. “I know I wasn't what people would call a loving mother. I'm too reserved, but I did love having you, raising you, watching your first steps, hearing your first words. Do you know what they were?”

“Momma?”

“I've told you,” Big Mim answered in a mock scolding tone. “Your very first words were ‘nana, nana,' and you were in your daddy's arms down at the stable, looking into a stall. We laughed because we thought you were trying to neigh.”

“Bet I was. Well, at least I'm consistent. I'd rather be in the stable than anywhere else.”

“Even the governor's mansion?”

“Fat chance of that now. Mother, I love politics, it's in my blood, but if you put a knife to my throat—God, I wish I hadn't just said that.”

Big Mim waved the comment away. “Figure of speech.”

“I'd rather be in the stable.” She paused as they reached her car. “I think I can do some good. I'm practical and I don't give in to fads, pressure.”

“Then you will get there. This is a test. You will come through. I don't have to tell you how ugly it may get if Jonathan spills the beans, or if his accomplice does. Stand firm, be clear, and speak the truth. That alone puts you in the minority.” She waited a moment as Little Mim opened the driver's door. “Don't pass up motherhood because of a college mistake.”

“You just want to be a grandmother.” A bit of Little Mim's contrariness was returning, so she was feeling better.

Also, being around Aunt Tally morning, noon, and night had an effect.

“I do, but, darling, I love you. I want you to feel the happiness a child, children, can bring. I know I wasn't a good mother. I was responsible, but I'm not, you know, a Miranda or a BoomBoom or a Susan, where the love bubbles up on the surface and overflows. I'm too rational. I'm sorry. I'm sorry for a lot of things, but I have always loved you, and I love you more now than I ever have. I'm proud of you.”

Stunned, Little Mim burst into tears, reaching for her mother. The two stood there, crying, hugging.

At last, Little Marilyn caught her breath. “Mother, I've always wanted to be like you, but I can't. I'm not as smart as you are. I'm not the woman you are.”

“Oh, Marilyn, you are your own woman, and you had to fight me to get there. I'm no example.” She released her daughter. Tears ran down both their faces. “And you are smart.”

“Mother, your mind flies at the speed of light. I've never met anyone like you. Sometimes you scare me. You scare all of us.”

“I don't mean to, darling, truly, I don't. Don't compare yourself to me. My failings would fill the house.” She breathed deeply. “Do you have Kleenex in the car?”

Little Marilyn laughed, the laugh of one for whom a great emotion had been resolved. “Yes. Come on. We need to repair our makeup before getting to the sheriff's office.”

Pressman hopped in the backseat as the two wiped away their tears and their mascara, too. As Little Mim drove, her mother flipped down the sunshade with the mirror on the back on the passenger side. She didn't have her purse, but Little Mim, well armed, always filled the center console with the necessities of a woman's life.

Big Mim plucked out a long tube of mascara. “You know, I've never tried Lancôme. I'm still using Stendhal. I wonder if they named it for
The Red and the Black
, one of my favorite novels.”