The Purrfect Murder (4 page)

They climbed back into the squat golf cart. Rick drove, the noisy little engine competing with the usual sounds of a late afternoon on a prestigious golf course.

Coop flipped open her notebook. “Want to give me names to question?”

“In a minute. The first thing we've got to do is pull in as many people as we can on this case. Right now it's a local murder. If the FBI agent for our territory decides this is a civil-rights violation, then we have to deal with the agency.”

Coop grimaced, since the feds often treated local law-enforcement people like water bugs. “Been there. Done that. Remember the fuss five years ago when the pro-life people barricaded Will's clinic? Boom! Civil-rights violations, because he couldn't operate his business. Let's hope this is just murder.”

“Yep, sure as shooting.” He realized what he'd said but grinned despite himself. “Sorry.”

4

D
eath and destruction didn't seem to shake up country people quite as much as it did their city cousins. The cycle of the seasons, the thrilling rebirth of spring and the rich harvests of fall, allowed people to know that death and life weave together each day. Not that anyone celebrated the untimely death of Dr. Will Wylde, but the people it sent off into the deep end were only those hovering on the precipice anyway. His family and friends, overwhelmed by deep grief, remained calm. It had always been in the back of their minds that this could happen, but nothing really prepares one for the dolorous reality.

Carla Paulson was all but suffering grand mal seizures because of the shooting. Weeping, she called Tazio Chappars, informing her that she wouldn't be at the construction site today, Friday, but she advised—which meant ordered—Tazio to go.

The house, which was situated on a three-hundred-foot-high knoll, commanded 270-degree views. The 90-degree area behind the house was filled with large rock outcroppings, which blocked the view in that direction. Carla, who was determined to improve nature, had worked on drawings with a San Francisco landscape company to stick wondrous plants in crevices. Eventually, the outcroppings would underline Carla's vibrant creativity. That was the plan. Surely, a spread in
Garden Design
would follow.

Interior work goes more slowly than the initial framing up and roofing, and this house proved no exception.

Tazio and Mike McElvoy stood in the cavernous living room while the marble, green-veined and hideously expensive, was being placed around the fireplace. The Italian workmen had a gift for the task.

With arms folded across his chest, Mike watched Butch Olivera supervise. One tiny crack meant another slab would be cut, which would mean more delay, more expense. Carla would spend money, but she possessed little tolerance for other people's mistakes. Then, too, she harbored the not entirely unfounded suspicion that she might be charged more than the “old families”—or “tired blood,” as she dubbed those Virginians only too ready to recite their pedigree. Her pedigree was her bank balance; it was also a crowbar to open doors and windows.

“Lattimores used the same marble when they built Raven's Roost.” Mike enjoyed passing on these tidbits. “She's already adding a wing. Penny can't stop building.”

Tazio had been a guest of the Lattimores from time to time, so she already knew this. She simply smiled. Why take away Mike's little moment? “Penny and Marvin are a bit more understated than the Paulsons.”

“Christ.” Mike shook his head. “Waste. That's what I see but, hey, gives me a job.”

“Me too.” Tazio smiled, hoping this meeting wouldn't be lengthy, for Mike liked to hear himself talk.

The more he talked, the smarter he thought he was—not that he was stupid, but he needed attention.

“Let's go to the kitchen.”

They walked through the living room, which was being painted then sponged to create a dappled effect. They passed from there through the “transition room,” as Carla called it. It was really a discreet bar. Then they moved into a truly magnificent country kitchen.

The appliances weren't in yet, of course, but the cabinetry was up. Carla's ideas for the kitchen proved she could get it right if she just thought things through. She did spend money here, but it wasn't quite so gaudy. The cabinets, glass fronted, had six panes of beveled glass. The wood, a lovely warm simple pine, had been lightly stained. The floors, beautiful blue slate with radiant heat underneath, set off the whole room, which was full of light.

“Every time Carla drops one piece of glass, poof.” Mike spread his fingers wide to indicate the flying bits.

“Yes, but it does look fabulous.”

“Does. Didn't use Buckingham slate, did she?”

“No. For some odd reason, she thinks anything local can't be that good. She wants wormwood for the library. Good old cherry, walnut, or mahogany won't do. Well, mahogany isn't local, but you know what I mean.”

“Do.” He stopped in front of the space where the six-burner stainless-steel Vulcan stove with grill would be placed. “Before I get into this, what do you think about Wylde's murder?”

“Terrible.”

“Think the antiabortionists did it?”

“Well, I don't know, but it certainly seems most likely. What do you think?” she asked, knowing what he really wanted to do was expound.

“Loony. Smart loony though. Cased the buildings. I mean, you have to do something like that exactly right or you're toast yourself. You know, the way things are today, I'd never go into women's medicine if I were in medical school.”

“You mean OB/GYN?”

He nodded. “All it takes is one mistake and everyone's down your throat. Can you imagine the cost of insurance?”

“You're right, but an OB/GYN usually has happy customers. There aren't that many problems in pregnancy. I'd hate to be in oncology.”

“Got a point there.” He paused, put one hand on his hip. “What do you think of abortion?”

“That it's a woman's decision.”

“You don't think it's taking a life?”

“No.” She held up her hand. “Mike, I can't imagine anyone dancing in the street saying, ‘Hooray, I just terminated a pregnancy,' but isn't it better than just outright killing girl babies like they do in India and China?”

“That is pretty terrible.”

“I read in the
Manchester Guardian
from March 2007—I saved the issue because it was so upsetting—that the rough guess is that in the last ten years, God knows how many million girls have been destroyed either in the womb or at birth.”

His eyes popped. “God.”

“In some places in China the ratio of males to females is one hundred twenty-eight to one hundred. That spells disaster. It also points to mass violence, because most crimes are committed by males between the ages of fifteen and twenty-nine. Didn't the governments of those countries think of that? And how will they find enough jobs for all those men? It's a sure bet they won't want to work in day care. They're planting the seeds for their own overthrow, especially China.”

“You've made quite a study of it.”

“Oh, well, I was forced into it by Folly Steinhauser. When I designed her house last year, she peppered me with Planned Parenthood information plus everything else she could find.” Tazio shrugged. “At first I resented it, I'll be honest, but then I actually became interested. Global warming is caused as much by overpopulation as by cars. I mean, who drives the cars? Who uses electricity, furnaces? If you have six billion people, you have more emissions. If you have 7.2 or 9 billion by the end of this century, what do you think will happen? And what about the water table?” She threw up her hands.

“Never really thought of it that way.” Mike reached into his back pants pocket for his small notebook. “Funny, all those people breeding so easily, and Noddy and I never could. We're still in the game,” he smiled, “but you know we don't have but so much longer.” He flipped open his notebook. “All right…”

A car drove up outside, and Carla emerged from her burnt-orange Range Rover. “Hello,” she called as she walked through the front door.

“In the kitchen,” Tazio called back, then under her breath said to Mike, “She said she was too upset to come.”

Wearing lime-green driving loafers with tiny rubber pebbles on the soles, Carla silently walked into the kitchen. Her eyes were swollen. “There you are.” She turned to Mike. “What do you think?”

“Coming along. We have a problem here. You need a larger outtake for the stove you're putting in.”

“Why?” Carla walked into the alcove where the stove would be located, looking up at the four-inch opening.

“Six inches.”

“Why?”

“That's the code for this type of stove. You could change the stove, of course.” He knew perfectly well she wouldn't.

“Why didn't you know this?” Carla turned on Tazio.

“I thought I did.”

“She did.” Mike came to her defense. “This has been under discussion for the last two months.”

“Is it code yet?”

“Yes and no.” He hesitated. “Let me put it this way: it will be in writing by the time your stove gets here, and then the kitchen will be finished and you'll have to tear things up, make a mess, wash all this glass. Just do it now.”

Face reddening, Carla took it out on Tazio. “I expect this done in the next week, and if you can't get Arnie back”—she named the fellow responsible for ductwork—“I expect you to do it yourself!”

“Now, Carla, it's not her fault.” Mike winked at Tazio, which Carla saw.

“I don't give a damn! I want it done and I want it done now, and if there's anything else, Mike McElvoy, find it now, because I'm not backtracking.”

He stiffened. “I'm doing my job.”

“Sure. That's what everyone says, but I know you can do it better for some people than for others.”

“That's not true.”

She turned silently on her heel and walked out.

Mike called after her, “Carla, I resent that.”

She stopped, wheeled to look at him. “You know, Mike McElvoy, you're not as smart as you think you are, and I'm on to you.”

As Carla left, Tazio noticed Mike's hands shaking as he slapped shut his Moleskine notebook. “I hate that bitch.”

“Join the club.” She did wonder why he'd misinformed Carla, though. The building code didn't change that quickly. This house was under way. The county couldn't make the code retroactive. There was nothing wrong with her four-inch outtake duct.

He took a deep breath. “Can't let it get under my skin. You know how these people are. I thought Penny Lattimore was a pain in the ass. Hell, she's an angel compared to this one.”

Tazio, no fan of Mike's, did appreciate his task. “Call her tonight. Spread a little oil on the waters.”

“I can make her life more miserable than she can make mine.”

“That you can, but how often do you want to attend special hearings or, worse, testify in court if she brings suit against the county? She's the type, you know.”

Jamming his notebook back in his pocket, he grumbled, “Right.” He paused. “You know, I'm against abortion. But I tell you, Carla Paulson makes a strong case for free abortion on demand. If only she'd been flushed out of the womb.”

Shocked at Mike's harsh statement, Tazio wondered what was happening in his life to make him so crude.

5

R
ain poured at long last. At times Rev. Herb Jones's cats, Elocution, Cazenovia, and Lucy Fur, could barely see out the window. Dutiful, the three felines attended every vestry-board meeting. Sometimes, Harry's cats and dog also attended, but not this morning, Saturday, September 20.

Harry, Susan, Folly, BoomBoom, and Herb eked out a quorum. Nolan Carter, the local oil supplier, was in Tulsa on business. Marvin Lattimore, Penny's husband, was also out of town on business. He bought used airplanes, from Piper Cubs to 747s, refurbished them, and sold them to rich individuals and to corporate clients. For the heck of it, five years back, he'd started a small charter airline, and business had boomed.

“We should table this until Marvin can study the figures,” Folly insisted.

“We can't put this off indefinitely.” Tazio didn't think Marvin knew all that much about heating systems, but Folly was dazzled by him. This fact was not lost on Penny Lattimore, although Ron, Folly's usually jealous husband, didn't seem to notice. Twenty years older than Folly, Ron Steinhauser—brash, controlling, opinionated—had begun to slump into a slower gear. At seventy-five, he'd pushed himself hard, drunk too much at times, and finally his body was rebelling.

“When does Marvin come back from Moscow?” Harry asked the obvious question of Herb.

“Next week. I'll be sure he gets the study, and I will also be sure he knows we are operating under some time constraint. The last thing we want is for the furnace to be torn up when a cold snap hits us.”

Folly listened to Herb, then replied with a lilt of humor in her well-modulated voice, “Doesn't seem likely.”

BoomBoom said, “One October—first week, I think—we had a freak snowstorm, and the weight of the snow with the leaves still on the trees brought down branches all over Virginia. You could hear the creaking and breaking.” She paused a moment. “Actually, we don't have to wait until next week. We can e-mail this to Marvin.”

“Good idea.” Susan nodded.

Folly, not an obstructionist, had never lived in a structure built shortly after the Revolutionary War. She had little sense of how cold it could get even with a half-decent heating system. “Well, do be sure that he doesn't feel pressured. We want Marvin on board.” She smiled at her little pun.

“We do.” Harry smiled at Folly, trying to do as Susan asked.

“All right, then.” Herb turned to BoomBoom. “You do it.”

“Happily,” BoomBoom agreed.

It was not lost on the group that Herb asked BoomBoom instead of Folly to communicate with Marvin. Obviously, he'd heard the gossip, too.

Shortly thereafter, the business part of the meeting frittered away and the group focused on what they really wanted to talk about: Dr. Will Wylde.

Herb glanced at his agenda, noted the request for smokeless tapers, and figured it could wait. He was amazed that he'd kept the lid on it this long.

A gust of wind splashed so much rain on the handblown windowpanes that it sent the cats jumping off the ledge. They joined the group.

“Usually, these political killings, well, someone wants to take credit. The newspaper or TV station receives an acknowledgment. Hasn't happened.” Folly plucked an orange out of a large bowl.

“Maybe they're waiting, or maybe they want people to think this was the work of a single crazy.” BoomBoom got up and left the room, calling over her shoulder, “Tea or coffee?”

“Both.” Susan rose to help her. “Anyone for iced tea?”

Folly raised her hand.

Harry said, “I hope this doesn't kick off a wave of violence across the country—doctors being targeted, clinics blown up.”

“I do, too.” Herb leaned back in the old club chair, Lucy Fur now on his lap. “Benita…” He shook his head, tears welling up. “Remarkable.”

“She is.” Folly also teared up. There was no need to recount that Folly, BoomBoom, and Alicia were with Benita when Rick told her what had happened. Everyone knew.

Susan and BoomBoom reappeared with two trays of drinks.

“What does Ned say?” Folly asked Susan as she poured tea.

Without taking her eyes off the cup, Susan said, “It was funny in a way. They happened to be in session, and when the news crept into the chamber, thanks to a zealous page, the men who came in on the coattails of the far right, vociferously antiabortion, couldn't distance themselves fast enough. Ned said as much as he mourned Will Wylde; it was all he could do not to laugh out loud at these opportunistic buffoons.”

“Ned's pretty conservative.” Folly did not yet have the feel for Virginia politics. In her mind, Democrat equaled liberal.

“About financial issues, he certainly is. He's live and let live on everything else.”

Herb smiled at Folly and said, “Ned's what you might call an old-time Southern Democrat. Well, let me amend that: he's a new-time Southern Democrat. He's not racist and he's not pushing women back in the kitchen, but he's part of the old-time religion.”

“Which is…” Folly arched an eyebrow.

BoomBoom, smiling, handed a plate of cookies over to Folly, who passed it on. “When you go into the voting booth you ask one question, ‘Is it good for Dixie?'”

Folly, thinking this was a joke, laughed. “Oh, BoomBoom, you don't mean it.”

The others in the room realized it was best to shut up.

Tazio returned to the murder. “Yesterday I was at the Paulsons' house, meeting with our fave, Mike McElvoy, and I was surprised to learn he's antiabortion. But he seemed genuinely upset about Will.”

“He's a perfect ass,” Folly said venomously.

“That insults mules.” Harry was surprised at Folly's emotion. “He's a dumb human.”

“Ego,” BoomBoom simply said.

“Give a little man a little power and he abuses it every time.” Tazio had Mike's measure.

“Carla's on the floor about Will. She'd gotten to know him socially. He was her doctor, too. She's a mess.” Folly shrugged. “But you know Carla, she's not one to let slip the opportunity to call attention to herself.”

Herb laughed despite himself. “We can pray that Carla…um…Let me think about this.”

That lightened the mood.

“Carla's like Teddy Roosevelt. She wants to be the bride at every wedding and the corpse at every funeral.” Susan used the famous quote.

Herb looked at BoomBoom, then Folly. “Girls, thank you for being with Benita. Boom, give my thoughts to Alicia, too.”

“I will. The kids fly in today, and that will be a big help.”

“Will Junior is the spitting image of his father.” Harry liked the whole Wylde family.

“Funeral date?” Folly wondered.

“Can't do anything until the coroner releases the body.” Susan knew a bit about this procedure, since Ned was a lawyer. “In the case of any suspicious death it takes longer, but I expect the funeral will be next weekend, if all goes as it should.”

“Oh, no, that's the fund-raising ball for Poplar Forest, in Bedford County, September twenty-seventh. Everyone has to be there.” Folly's face registered disappointment.

Poplar Forest was Thomas Jefferson's summer home, which was in the process of a painstaking restoration.

“Even if it is, the funeral will be in the morning and the fund-raiser's at night,” Tazio logically reminded her.

“But people will be…you know,” Folly countered.

“Let's not worry about it until we know. And if the funeral is in the morning, we can all remind people that Will would want us to have a good time and to raise as much money as we can that evening. After all, he was a strong supporter of the restoration and sponsored a table.”

Susan frowned. “In a way, I still can't believe it.”

Folly, head of the ball committee, added, “Benita won't be there, but she's encouraged the office staff to go and to fill out the table. An empty table at a fund-raiser looks forlorn, and as you said, Will would want the project supported.”

“One good thing that's come out of this dreadful event is that every priest, pastor, and preacher is meeting tonight at the Greek Orthodox Church out on Route 250. Even though we don't agree about abortion, we all agree that a killing such as this is the work of man, not the will of God,” Herb interjected.

“Gods may come and go, but greed and the lust for power remain.” Harry listened to the rain.

“That's hardly a Christian statement.” Susan knew Harry hadn't meant to be disrespectful.

“Well, I meant that the Egyptians worshipped a slew of gods, as did the Greeks, Romans, and Norsemen throughout history. Whenever they'd want to justify something, they'd declare it was to serve Ra or Thor. Whoever shot Will is pretty much part of the common herd. You twist religion to serve your own ends.”

“Harry, that's so cynical.” Folly neatly piled up her orange rind.

“Realistic.” Susan shrugged.

“Doesn't mean we can't strive to rise above it.” Herb reached for a large chocolate chip cookie. “I have never wanted riches or power, but I certainly weaken when it comes to cookies.”

The people laughed, but Lucy Fur patted at Herb's hand.
“Poppy, what about your diet?”

Sheepishly, Herb broke a bit off the cookie to give to Lucy but regretted it, since Elocution and Cazenovia zipped right over; they liked chewy dough.

“All right,” Herb sighed, sharing his cookie.

After the meeting Susan drove Harry back to the farm.

Harry found the rhythm of the windshield wipers hypnotic. “Funny crack about Carla wanting to be the bride at every wedding, the corpse at every funeral.”