The Purrfect Murder (22 page)

“Ah.” Susan liked history, although modern history fascinated her less than the eighteenth century, her favorite time. “But have we learned anything from World War One and World War Two?”

“I think we did. The real question is, did we learn anything from Vietnam?”

“God, Harry, I hope so.”

They drove along, thinking about these issues. These two dear friends, born with lively minds, might delight in daily doings and local events, but they could and did consider larger issues. Chances are, the Founding Fathers and Mothers would see in them a vindication of their hopes for an enlightened citizenry. What else the Founding Fathers and Mothers might think of the times was anybody's guess.

“Susan, I have got to get into that shed.” Harry was allowing her desperation to free Tazio and to pin the crimes on Mike to muddy her usually clear head.

“Don't you dare.” Susan's voice rose.

“There might be evidence.”

“If that man is a killer, you're putting yourself in grave danger, forgive the pun.”

“You'd do it for me.”

“I'd like to think I would.” Susan turned onto the ramp heading west onto 64.

“Tazio deserves it. She's not close like you and I are close, but she deserves help.”

“Let Paul do it. Tell him.”

“Susan, I can't do that and you know it. Paul wouldn't be any good at something like this.”

“You may be right about that, but, Harry, don't even think about it. If you're that worried, send Cooper or Rick there.”

“Can't do that without compelling evidence of either corruption or murder or both. I have to find some evidence. We know Carla loathed him. We know he's antiabortion.”

“That's hardly enough to convict a man, and being antiabortion doesn't make him Bechtal's accomplice. I beg you, don't do this.”

As they rode in silence, everyone in that Audi station wagon knew that Harry would not listen to Susan's good sense.

31

S
unday, October 5, flourished under the stationary high-pressure system that had ushered in the heartbreakingly beautiful weather of yesterday. The sky, intense blue, domed an emerald-green Virginia quickening to the accelerated pace of fall.

Harry dutifully sat in church with her equally dutiful husband. She soon forgot to be antsy, because Herb gave a sermon based on Mark, Chapter 10, Verse 16.

“And he took them up in his arms, put his hands upon them, and blessed them.”

The good reverend expounded on this theme. How do we nurture one another, comfort one another, walk through life together?

She hoped she could remember not just what he said but also how he said it in his deep, resonant voice, because she wanted to repeat it word for word to Miranda. He would return to the sentence from Mark as a refrain. She was pretty sure she could remember that.

As the service ended and the choir sang, the parishioners marched out to where Herb, as was his custom, stood at the front door, shaking everyone's hand, inquiring as to their health and welfare before sending them on their way. Such a simple act—putting his hand upon them—bound them all closer together. When she felt his warm hand shake hers, his left hand touch her shoulder, she realized with a thud that Herb had been practicing what he had been preaching for decades.

She left him, warmed as well as wondering how she could miss something so obvious. She determined to try to be more like Herb. Given her focus on task, this would be a challenge.

“Honey, give me a minute. I have to catch up on Zenaida.”

As Fair nodded, turning to talk to other congregants, she raced over to the woman in charge of food for the October 25 St. Luke's reunion. Harry promised four bushels of Silver Queen corn, harvested in August and put in cold storage. She worried it might not be enough and that the corn might not be as tasty as she'd hoped. Silver Queen should be eaten the second it's plucked off the stalk. However, good yellow corn was still being harvested in the southernmost counties of Virginia, and she wondered if she should purchase some as a backup.

Harry noticed while she and Zenaida spoke that Fair, lively and laughing, was talking with Susan and Ned. His countenance changed for a moment, becoming concerned.

He is the most empathetic man, she thought to herself, then returned to corn. “If it has to be Silver Queen, I expect I can get it sent up from Georgia. Florida? Want me to call around?”

“That gets pricey.” Zenaida furrowed her gray brows. “Yellow will do.”

“I'll pick up a couple of ears from the refrigeration plant and do a test run. With any luck, we might be okay.”

“Good. Do that first.” Zenaida, easy to work with, smiled underneath her burgundy velvet hat.

Ladies still wore hats to service at St. Luke's. Harry usually plucked whatever complemented her outfit, but if she felt like spiting whoever sat behind her—an un-Christian action—in summer she'd wear a broad-brimmed hat with flowers. Since she spent most of her day wearing a baseball hat, she felt denuded without something on her head.

When she rejoined Fair and they walked back to his truck, she asked, “How are Susan and Ned?”

“Fine. Susan told me how badly our two little girls behaved yesterday.”

“They still aren't speaking.”

“Ned said they've made bail. Big Mim will have all the money together. He'll go down Tuesday.”

“Oh, thank God.” Harry's right hand flew to her breast. “Does Paul know?”

“Ned called him this morning before Mass. The paperwork this takes.” He furrowed his brow. “Ned was telling me and all I could think of is that it doesn't matter what profession one's in, we're drowning in paperwork.”

“Wasteful.” She wrinkled her nose.

“It is that, but on the other hand, it creates a lot of paper-pushing jobs, which means fewer people are unemployed, more people are paying mortgages and have a stake in the system, hence political stability.”

“Aren't you smart.” She reached for his hand and squeezed it.

“Just realistic. He said Little Mim has come through the firestorm and he thinks, although she's lost the support of groups like Love of Life, she's gained more from others. He thinks she can run for governor maybe in six or eight years.”

“He wants it first.”

“He did, but this first year down in Richmond has been a real eye-opener for him. I would guess any first-timer to politics faces entrenched interests and even more entrenched egos. Given his touch of idealism, it's hard for him.”

“There's where Little Mim shines. She inherited her mother's hardness. But Big Mim does have a vision, and I suppose it's progressive. Just no illusions about how you get things done.”

“She's an honorable woman, but she knows you crack eggs to make an omelet.” He smiled.

“I'm proud of Little Mim.” Harry waited as he opened the door for her. “Any word on Penny Lattimore?”

“No.” He shook his head. “Ned called Rick, who said they hadn't heard from her.”

“I hope she's not dead. This scares me. When someone like Penny disappears, it's…” She didn't know how to finish the sentence. Events were spinning out of control, and apart from Tazio's bail, she perceived little progress.

“I don't know how much more of this our little community can stand.” He echoed her worry.

32

M
onday felt like the freight train that pulls all those cars behind it. Harry stoked the engine. She'd whipped through her basic farm chores like the proverbial tornado and then she gathered up her buddies—the cats still on the outs with each other—cranked up the F-150 enhanced by a new alternator, and drove to Woolen Mills.

At two-thirty in the afternoon, she figured Mike would be on a job site, Noddy would be at the office, and she could sneak into his shed.

Mike could come and go as he pleased, as long as he got to the job sites on his list for that week. She didn't factor his flexible schedule into her plans.

She parked the truck down the street. Most of the neighbors worked. A few dogs barked, but quiet reigned.

She carefully walked up the front walk, flanked by those beautiful English boxwoods, then ducked between them. As she did, the peculiar odor of the plant rubbed on her. The cats and dogs scooted through, as well.

She walked around the shed, hoping there'd be a door in the back, but there wasn't. She tried the only door. Locked. No surprise.

However, she had a thin file, a cigarette lighter, and a pocketknife. She kept the lighter in the truck, because she'd learned that sometimes you need to light a candle, burn off the end of a rope.

Given that the house sat at the end of the road and the shed reposed on the back of the lawn, she didn't worry about anyone seeing her.

The lock, although simple, resisted her clumsy attempts at picking with the file. Exasperated, she opened the long blade from the pocketknife, wedged it in, and began slowly urging the tongue of the lock to move it back. Sweating, cursing, she finally managed to press it back after fifteen minutes, and she swung open the door, closing it behind her.

“Wow,” she exclaimed as she admired the organized work space, tools hung up on Peg-Board, nails in jars, all marked in a row. The gun parts fascinated her. He'd know how to procure a silencer, she was certain, but a hunch wasn't hard evidence. Still, it spurred her on. At the back of the work space rested a large red metal toolbox, about four feet high. She pulled open one drawer. Again, every implement was clean, carefully laid in place.

She walked around the space. Nothing indicated wrongdoing. She tried the door to the office. Fortunately, it was unlocked. The cats scooted in first. Once inside the room, she unlocked the window, in case she needed to make a quick escape.

“She's more curious than we are,”
Pewter grumbled.
“And not as smart.”

Tucker sat inside by the office door, which Harry had closed, watching, listening with those marvelous ears.

Harry opened Mike's desk drawers, checked the shelves. She checked her watch. Three forty-five. The trip to Woolen Mills from Crozet had taken forty minutes, thanks to traffic. She picked up the pace. She rapped on the walls. She located the studs, but nothing sounded as though it was filled with treasure. She hoped to hear that
thunk.

She rolled the chair away and pulled back the heavy rubber mat. The trapdoor ring, black, caught her eye. Eagerly, she pulled it upright, tugged, and the door swung up, a musty smell rising with it.

“Aha.” She climbed down, the cats readily following her, since they climbed the wall ladder at the barn daily. Harry pulled the string on the overhead light, which revealed rows of boxes. She began opening them.

She found the jewelry, the money, and the panties. “I've got him! I've got him!”

As she put the lids back on, closed up the metal box, too, they heard Tucker barking in the toolshed.

“Dumb dog.”
Pewter's eyes widened.

Mrs. Murphy quickly said,
“Pewter, jump on a shelf.”

“Why?”

“Just do it.”

“Mike!”
Tucker warned.

“Shut up, Tucker.”
Mrs. Murphy commanded, but it was too late.

As Mike ran toward his shed, Harry climbed up the ladder. But before she could reach the window, Mike blasted into the room.

Without a word, he hit her hard across the face.

Tucker jumped out from behind the door and bit his leg. He shook the dog off, grabbed a heavy coffee mug, and slammed Harry on the side of the head.

It didn't knock her out, but it made her woozy. He quickly kicked her down the hole, climbing down after her. Even the cats jumping on his back didn't stop him. He stuffed his handkerchief in her mouth, whipped off his belt, and wrapped it around her hands behind her back.

He climbed back up, slammed the door down, pulled the rubber mat over it, and rolled the chair back on the mat. He had forgotten to switch off the light, although no one would see it.

He tried to catch Tucker, but those long fangs and her quick maneuvers prevented that. Instead, he shut the door behind him, leaving the dog inside.

He hurried back to the house. He didn't know what he was going to do; Noddy would be home soon. She left work at four every day because she went into the office at seven-thirty in the morning.

         

“Lick her face,”
Mrs. Murphy ordered Pewter.

The two cats licked, their rough tongues providing what a facialist would term “exfoliation.”

Harry's eyes fluttered. She grunted a little. “Damn, my head hurts.”

“Tucker,”
Mrs. Murphy meowed as loudly as she could.
“Only bark if someone comes back.”

They heard the claws click across the boards then soften as the dog walked on the heavy mat.

“I drew blood.”
Tucker wished she could have reached his throat.

“So did he,”
Pewter called up.

“Is she all right?”

“Cut on her forehead and temple. A lump is coming up, but she's all right. We have to get the handkerchief out of her mouth so she doesn't choke on it.”

“I will, Murphy, I will,”
Pewter said.

The mighty little dog sat down, deeply worried. Their only prayer was that Mike wouldn't shoot. Too many people in the neighborhood would hear him, even if he closed the trapdoor. A gun makes a smart report. He probably wouldn't slash her throat in his shed, because of the mess. He would have to get Harry out after Noddy was asleep.

All three of the animals figured that out, and so did Harry.

She struggled to free her hands from the belt. The cats bit on it. They might be able to bite through enough of it to weaken it, but it would take maybe a half hour, maybe an hour.

         

Fair called her cell. She didn't answer. He called home. He called the barn. Finally, he called Susan.

“Susan, is Harry with you?”

“No.”

“It's four-thirty. She's a creature of habit, and on Mondays she'd be putting back bedding in the stalls she stripped and aired out yesterday. I think she's done what you predicted. She's not answering her cell. Something's wrong.”

“I'll call Coop.”

“Good. I'm going to Mike's.”

Susan gave him directions, and it took him until five-thirty to get there, because of rush-hour traffic. Fortunately, most of it was heading west, but there was enough to make him truly worry.

Fair saw Harry's truck parked on the street, and he hoped he was in time. He was so scared he wasn't even mad at her.

He parked, hurried out, but didn't go up the walk, because Susan had told him where the shed was.

Tucker barked,
“Fair! It's Fair.”

Dogs and cats can identify footfalls and tire sounds, but humans can't.

Hearing the corgi, Fair ran. The door was locked. He slammed his shoulder against it and broke it down.

Mike heard the dog, then saw Fair. Noddy ran to the back kitchen window, too.

“What is Fair Haristeen doing?” She put her hand on the doorknob.

He covered her hand. “You stay here.”

He ran outside just as Fair, who now could hear his wife and the cats, reached the desk. Frantically, Fair kicked the chair back, pulled the mat off, and flipped up the trapdoor as Mike barreled through the shed door.

Tucker cunningly hid behind the office door. As Mike opened the door, ready to brain Fair with a crowbar he'd snatched off his workroom wall, the corgi sank his fangs all the way into Mike's calf.

Fair spun on his heels and hit Mike with a right cross, using all his weight and six feet five inches. Mike's eyes rolled back in his head and he fell clean backward, half out the door.

The crowbar hit the floor with a heavy clunk.

Noddy ran in after him, shocked at what she saw.

“Noddy, stay right there.” Fair scared her. “The police will be here in a minute. Don't try to run.”

“Why?” She hadn't a clue.

Fair slid down the ladder like a fireman and quickly undid the belt, which the cats had worked on.

“He was going to kill me,” Harry, shaken, gasped, but she kept possession of herself.

Fair spied the handkerchief on the floor and knew what Mike had done. “How'd you get the handkerchief out of your mouth?”

“The cats pulled it out, or I'd be dead. It was slipping back in my throat.”

Fair picked up Mrs. Murphy in one arm, Pewter in the other, and kissed their heads, then kissed his wife. Noddy had crept to the opened trapdoor and knelt down.

“Don't shut that, Noddy.”

“I didn't even know it was here,” she, bug-eyed, answered Fair.

“Help her out, will you?” Fair boosted Harry up.

Noddy gently lifted her out.

Mike rolled over, shook his head, spit out some teeth, just as Fair came up behind Harry.

Lightning-fast, Fair put his knee on Mike's back, yanked his arms behind him, and used his own belt to tie him up. Then he kicked him over, as Noddy grimaced.

“You killed Carla, and Penny, too, didn't you?”

“They found Penny?” Noddy slumped in the office chair.

“No,” Fair told her. “Not yet.”

Even though her head was splitting, Harry thought she had never heard a sound so sweet as Cooper's squad-car siren, followed by another.

Within minutes Cooper and Rick hurried into the shed.

“Down there.” Harry pointed to the opened trapdoor.

“Penny?” Noddy feared the worst.

“No. No bodies, Noddy, but enough to send your husband down the river for a long, long time.”

She put her head in her hands and wept.

“Did you know?” Fair asked.

She shook her head no, as Rick bent over and dropped down into the space.

Cooper read Mike his rights.

Another squad car arrived, and the officer stood patiently in the office doorway.

Rick's head popped up, his hands on the floor. “Doak, cordon the place off. I want everything photographed, cataloged, tabulated. There's enough here to convict him.”

“For murder?” Dooley hoped.

“For theft, extortion, and maybe even rape. With luck, murder will follow.”

“Rape,” Noddy wailed.

“I didn't kill anybody!” Mike's broken teeth made him suck in air. He shut his mouth in a hurry after he spoke.

“That's what they all say.” Cooper wanted to kick the rest of his teeth in.

After Harry provided what information she could, she and Fair left. “Ride with me. We can come back for your truck tomorrow.”

A grateful and chastened Harry cuddled the cats and dog. As Fair drove them home, she said in a small voice, “I'm sorry. If you hadn't saved me he would have killed me tonight.”

“Susan told me about your drive by. It didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out where you were. She called Coop.”

“I'm sure he's Bechtal's outside man. I just know. Crazy ass, to do what he did to those women. He had money, he had jewels, you wouldn't believe what he had down there.”

“He almost had you.”

“I thought about that, too.” She rubbed her temple, then winced. “You know, these cats and dog would have died to save me.”

“I know.” Tears came into Fair's eyes.

“I was a fool.”

“Yes,” he quietly said. “And you were very, very lucky.”

“Well, maybe we can celebrate that.” She sighed, feeling both guilty and vindicated.

Not quite.