The Tail of the Tip-Off (7 page)

11

P
reparing a sermon vexed Herb even though he'd been doing it all of his adult life. He'd jot down a few notes throughout the week and then each Saturday morning he'd settle into his office at the rectory to pull those notes together. Sometimes he'd work in his study at home but he often found his mind would wander. He'd pull a book off the shelf and hours would pass. He'd learn a great deal about Francis I of France or trout fishing but he hadn't written a word of his sermon.

As it was the second Sunday after Epiphany, he wanted to expand on the theme of discovery, of finding that which you have been seeking.

Cazenovia, her fluffy tail languidly swaying, sat on the desk. She closed her eyes and was soon swaying slightly in rhythm with her tail. Was the tail wagging the cat or the cat the tail?

Elocution slept in front of the fireplace, framed by an old mantel with delicate scrollwork carved on it.

Each morning the cats would cross the small quad from the house to the rectory. Bound by a brick wall three feet high, the complex exuded a peacefulness and a purpose of peace.

Not having to pay a mortgage proved a blessing for Herb. He'd saved from his modest salary and was considering buying a cottage as a retreat for himself. Herb was drawn to the Charleston, South Carolina, area, and he thought when the time came, he'd find something there. Escaping the worst of winter's depredations appealed to him, especially this Saturday afternoon, for the sky was a snarling gray, the temperature dropping back from its high in the mid-forties. He rose from his desk to look out the window toward the northwest. The clouds, much darker in that direction, promised another storm.

“Oh well, at least the cold will kill some of the larvae. We'll suffer fewer bugs come summer.”

His rich, resonant voice caused Elocution to open one eye. She closed it again.

He opened the dark blue hymnal on his desk. He'd selected his biblical passages, the ones open to him from the church year readings, organized for centuries. Picking just the right mix of hymns appealed to him and he often wished as he hummed to himself that Miranda Hogendobber were a Lutheran. With that angelic voice the choir would surely improve.

“Yes, this is perfect.” He reached over to pet Cazenovia as he sung the first stanza of Hymn 47:

“O Christ, our true and only Light,
                  Illumine those who sit in night;

Let those afar now hear Thy voice,
                  And in Thy fold with us rejoice.”

He cleared his throat. “Cazzie, that was written in 1630 by Johann Heermann, six stanzas. Isn't it glorious how such gifts come down to us?”

“True, true,”
Cazzie agreed with him but wished Herb could appreciate the gifts of the cats who'd kept Johann Heermann company.

Many times Cazenovia, Elocution, Mrs. Murphy, Pewter, and Tucker discussed the outrageous self-centeredness of human beings. Good as they might be as individuals, they assumed the world revolved around them, blinded by their arrogance to the extraordinary contributions of other creatures to this life.

Herb hummed some more. For all his nervousness about writing his sermon, he cherished his Saturdays in the rectory. He had it all to himself.

The large square carriage clock on the mantelpiece ticked.

“Two-thirty! How did it get to be two-thirty?”

Just then the wind stirred the bare branches of the majestic walnut tree by his office. The tree looked as if it were dancing, its black arms moving against the backdrop of racing clouds.

“Fast,”
was all that Cazenovia said.

“Low pressure. That's why I've been sleepy.”
Elocution opened her eyes, stretched fore and aft, and walked over to the window, a large one with a deep sill. She jumped up.
“Fifteen minutes before it snows. Want to time it?”

The older cat checked the clock.
“What do I get if I win?”

“My catnip sockie.”

“That old thing?”
Cazenovia nonetheless added,
“Two thirty-seven on the clock. What do you want of mine?”

“Two bites of your special chow.”

Being older, the large calico cat was on a senior diet and Elocution liked the taste of Cazzie's food better than her own.

“All right.”

A rap on the front door drew all their eyes.

“Bother,” Herb muttered but he rose, walking to the door, the two cats marching behind him. He opened the door and Mrs. Murphy, Pewter, and Tucker raced in.

“Did he find it? Did he?”
Pewter's hair was puffed out because it was cold outside.

“Not yet.”
Cazenovia wanted to hear his shouts but she didn't want to be too close, either.

“Isn't communion tomorrow?”
Tucker just knew the blowup would occur when they were all there and she, like Cazenovia, didn't want to be too much in evidence because
she
was the evidence.

“No. We had communion on Epiphany Sunday. We won't have it again until the first Sunday in February.”
Elocution used “we” since she felt she and Cazenovia were part of the service.

“Rats.”
Pewter was disappointed.

“Haven't got any.”
Cazenovia followed the humans into the office as did the other animals.

“You should see Pope Rat, that huge fellow over at the salvage yard.”
Tucker loathed that rat.

“Yeah, he could start the bubonic plague all by himself.”
Pewter hated him, too.

“Wrong kind of rat,”
Mrs. Murphy advised them.
“A European type of rat caused the plague. Pope Rat is American.”

Cazenovia checked the time when they all gathered in the office. It was two forty-five.

The humans sat opposite one another in the two wing chairs flanking the fireplace, a long low coffee table made from an old ship's door between them.

“Rev, I just wanted to drop off the books I borrowed,” Harry said.

“I know that, I know that, but I'd like a little company on this gloomy day. Started out sunny enough.”

“Finished your sermon?” She knew his routine.

“Half. You'll like it because it's about discovery and I start with the discovery of the New World. Actually it's been discovered successively over the centuries. And by New World, I mean North America, not Iceland or Greenland.”

“Can't wait.” She placed the books on the table.

An extra one was on the pile. “What's this?
The Voyage of the Narwhal
.”

“You'll love it. Apart from being an incredible story, it's well written.”

“Oh yes, she wrote
Ship Fever.
I'm sure I'll like this. Thank you, Harry.” His eyes scanned his shelves. He stood up. “While I'm thinking of it, let me give you that book about Byzantium I mentioned the other day at the P.O.” If he were blind, he could have found his books, he knew their placement so well. He tapped the spine with his forefinger then slid out the book, returning to his chair and placing it before Harry.

“Fat book.”

“You need it for these cold, dark nights.” He sighed. “Coffee? Tea?”

“I win!”
Elocution shouted.

The clock read two fifty-two.

“Elo, control yourself.” Herb laughed, not knowing his youngest cat, who was only two, had just won her bet as the first large snowflake twirled by the window.

Cazenovia explained the bet to the other animals while the humans talked.

“When do they start laying the carpets?”

“Wednesday, if all goes well. But hopefully this week no matter what. It should take two full days. We couldn't have done this without Matthew.” He rubbed the old carpet with his shoe. “In a way I agree with Tazio, it'd be so handsome to have the floors done and, say, a nice Oriental carpet in here but there's too much traffic.”

“Even in your office?”

“If I sand the floors in here the dust will be everywhere so I might as well just rip it up and do the wall-to-wall thing. It will be just fine.” He changed the subject. “Called on Anne Donaldson this morning. She's pretty broken up.”

The Donaldsons weren't Lutherans but Crozet was a small enough town that everyone knew everyone else and Herb, quite naturally, paid his respects.

“I dropped by, too. I must have just missed you. Susan and I were out running errands and—”

“Where's Susan? I saw your truck but no Susan.”

“Oh well, we started out in her car. We went to the Clam and then I wanted to go up to the New Gate shopping center and she ran out of time. She dropped me back home and I realized I hadn't returned your books, so I'm here. Before the storm. The clouds were hanging on the mountains.” She looked out the window. “Aha.”

Herb looked at Harry, whom he had known for most of her life. Her curiosity was both a good and a bad quality. She had a lively mind, read voraciously and indiscriminately, but she could also get herself into trouble. She wasn't always as smart as she thought she was. If Harry had gone to the Clam and then up to New Gate shopping center, it meant something was up.

Herb decided not to tip his hand. “Forget something at the Clam?”

“No, I just wanted to review events and, my luck, Rick Shaw was sitting at the timekeeper's table. So much for my sneaking around.”

Herb had his answer. “Harry, hear me out.”

The tone of his voice made her sit up straight. “Yes, sir.”

“I know you. Everyone in this town knows you. Their cats and dogs know you. You are as curious as a cat and you think you're a detective. Because of your curiosity I know H.H.'s demise might be, shall we say, suspicious? There's nothing in the paper. Anne said nothing to me. The sheriff hasn't been by but I know
you
. You took yourself to where he died and then to the shopping center he was building. Am I correct?”

“Well—” She'd promised Rick not to tell.

“I thought so.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “Who else knows?”

“Fair and Ned because they went back to the Clam Friday night. They were there all night with Rick and his crew.”

“I see.” Herb softened somewhat. “They won't tell. What provoked this? I mean, what led Rick to believe H.H. was killed?”

“The autopsy. It was done while the body was still warm, perfect conditions, I guess.”

“How?”

“Well, I don't think anyone knows, but there was something odd at the autopsy. I don't know what it was. When the lab tests come back the sheriff will know for certain if it was murder.”

“He wasn't shot. He wasn't stabbed. He wasn't run over. That leaves poison.” Herb made a steeple out of his fingers, leaning forward. “Who knows you were at the Clam?”

“Rick.”

“Pass anyone in the halls?”

“No. It was really quiet.”

“The only place you can hide a car is at the service entrance. Did you?”

“No. It was Susan's station wagon.”

“Harry.” He was upset.

“Well?” She held up her palms in supplication.

“And then you went up to the New Gate shopping center. Who saw you there?”

“The men working to finish the discount store. Rob Collier's moonlighting. Uh, Peter Gianakos is the foreman. I don't know the other guys. Oh, the assistant building code inspector, Mychelle Burns. She and Peter were at it so maybe she noticed me and maybe she didn't. Uh—”

“Harry”—his voice lowered—“the murderer, if there is one, thinks that no one knows yet.”

“Not necessarily. Rick had his crew at the Clam. The person might know that.”

“But it is not public knowledge at this point and Sheriff Shaw's wily. He could have told people at the auditorium that this was strictly routine. They may or may not have believed him but late Friday night no one is there. The roads did not invite cruising around. By Saturday morning, okay, a few more people might have noticed the squad car and other official vehicles, but still, it's not public knowledge and no one is talking about it because our phones would be off the hook. People are all saying he dropped dead of a heart attack. People in their twenties can drop dead of a heart attack. There hasn't been word one about a questionable death. So—”

“You were stupid, Mom. I love you but you blew it.”
Mrs. Murphy hopped into Harry's lap.

The animals sat, faces upturned to Harry.

“I've got an audience here.” She half-laughed.

“My point, but you've got an audience that may be dangerous. The killer may now know that you know.”

“Oh, Rev, maybe he's not a local.” Harry was hoping against hope.

“Sure, he flew through bad weather, rented a car, went to the basketball game, then killed H.H. in the parking lot.” Herb stopped a moment, digesting just how H.H. could get poisoned. “The murderer knows you, Harry.”

A chill edged down Harry's spine. “Yeah, yeah, I guess he does.”

“And you've dragged Susan into it.”

Harry now felt really wretched. “Damn, I am such an ignorant ass.” She glanced out the window then back to Herb. “Sorry.”

“I say worse when no one's around.”

“That's the truth.”
Cazenovia corroborated his admission.

“What can I do?”

“Hope that killing H.H. has settled his score. Whatever that score might be.”

“Yeah,” Harry agreed, her voice faint.

But the score wasn't settled. The killer had every intention of putting more points on the board.

12

S
omeone else was running ahead of the storm. A yellow Lab, perhaps eight months old, abandoned by its humans, hungry and frightened, was looking for a place to hide. An expensive house under construction, set back on fields west of Beaverdam Road, held promise. He loped up to the rear, checking the doors. He moved around counterclockwise until he reached the garage, where the automatic door had not yet been installed. Shivering, the thin fellow ducked in.

Within a few minutes Tazio Chappars, the architect for this edifice, turned down the drive. She wanted to check it before the storm's battering to make certain every window was double-locked. She'd hurried from Matthew's office.

As she parked her half-ton truck, a forest-green Silverado, she opened the front door with the key. Methodically, she started at the top floor, working her way down. She set the thermostat at sixty degrees Fahrenheit. The foreman had it at forty-eight degrees. Much too low, she thought. Satisfied, she locked the front door from the inside, passed through the mudroom off the kitchen, and opened the door into the garage.

The dog, tired, didn't run. He wagged his bedraggled tail.
“Will you help me? I'm very hungry. I'll be your friend for life. I'll love you and protect you if you'll help me.”

Tazio's mouth dropped open. “You poor guy.”

Lowering his head, still wagging his tail, he came to her, sat down and offered his right paw.
“You're very pretty.”

“No collar.” She shook her head, for she knew a bit about dogs. Labs weren't wanderers like hounds on scent. “Buddy, I need you like a hole in the head.”

“You do need me. You just don't know it.”
He smiled shyly.

Struggling with herself, she reached down to pat the broad head. “I can at least get you to the vet. Come on.”

“Whatever you say, ma'am.”
He obediently followed.

She had a folded canvas in the bed of the truck and a couple of old towels behind the seat. She shook out the canvas, placing it on the seat, then she toweled off the dirty, thin dog. “I can count every rib. Goddamn, what's wrong with people?”

“I got too big. I had too much energy so they put me in the car, drove up from Lynchburg, and dropped me along Route 250. I've been moving for two weeks and the weather's been bad. No one would help me.”

“Come on.”

He hopped in, curled up, grateful for the warmth and the attention.
“I won't make a sound.”

She punched in the numbers for information on her cell phone mounted beneath the dash. A small speaker was in the upper left-hand corner of the driver's side so she could keep both hands on the wheel after she dialed. She asked for the number of the vet right outside of Crozet, Dr. Shulman.

A pleasant receptionist, Sharon Cortez, answered. She recognized Taz's voice from the Pilates class they took together.

“Hi, I know a storm is coming, but—”

Hearing the distress in Tazio's voice, Sharon said simply, “Where are you?”

“Ten to fifteen minutes from your door.”

“We'll be here.”

The Lab went willingly into Dr. Shulman's office although the medicine smells weren't enticing. Humans missed most of the pungency.

“Tazio, what have you here?” The handsome bearded veterinarian bent down to run his hands over the dog's frame.

“I found him in the garage at the Lindsay house. I don't think this fellow has had a meal in a long time.”

“Just what he could catch and with this weather that wouldn't be much.” Dr. Shulman checked the dog's eyes, ears, opened his mouth. “Not quite a year, I'd say eight or nine months.” He took a small stool swab, checked under the microscope. “Okay, no tapeworms, which should come as no surprise. No fleas or ticks thanks to the cold. Tapeworms come from infected fleas, so the cold has been useful. Given what he must have gone through he's in pretty good shape. We'll get some muscle and pounds on him in no time.”

As Dr. Shulman quietly gave orders, Sharon gathered up some cans of food, a large bag of dry food, a brush, a collar, a leash, and a dog bed. Then he closed the door and efficiently gave the dog a barrage of shots.

“Dr. Shulman, I—” Tazio stuttered.

“Oh, don't worry. You just pay for the exam and the shots. I've given him his basic shots. Put his rabies tag on the collar. You can buy a commercial dog food, certainly, but given the weather the stores will be crowded so I thought maybe you'd best take some home. This will get you started.”

“Oh, that's fine, but—” She picked up the collar.

“You know”—he knelt down to clean out the sweet dog's ears—“Mindy Creighton came in today. She had to say goodbye to Brinkley. He was almost twenty years old.” Dr. Shulman fought a little mist in his eyes. “She left his collar, leash, and bed, asking me to give them to someone who might need them. Said she just couldn't bear to bring them back home. So next time you see her, thank her, not me.”

“I thought I'd pay to get this boy back on his feet and find a good home for him.”

“No! I want you.”
The Lab put his head under her hand.

Dr. Shulman smiled slightly. “Well, you'll need these things until you do and—uh—Tazio, I should tell you that Labrador retrievers are excellent companions. They are used to lead the blind because they're so rock steady.”

“I'll put signs up describing him. Someone might be searching for him.”

Dr. Shulman looked down at the dog and, when Tazio's head was turned, he winked.

Sharon had already put the rabies tag on the collar, a bright royal blue. She placed it around the dog's neck. “Perfect.” Then she tidied the papers at the front desk. “All right now. What shall we call this fellow?”

Tazio, knowing an ambush when she saw one, nevertheless smiled, “Brinkley Two. Seems only right.”

“I think so.” And she wrote down the name in black ink, block letters.

“Sharon, I guess you heard about H. H. Donaldson?”

“Sure did.” Sharon glanced up from her paperwork. “I shed not a tear.” A note of sarcasm was inflected in her voice. She looked up again. “I'm one of H.H.'s castoffs.” She waved her hand. “Oh, it was years ago but it still stings a little.”

“I'm sorry. I had no idea.”

“I didn't broadcast it.” She handed Tazio the papers with the day written down, the list of shots given, and when the dog would need boosters. “But it's weird—now I don't care.”

“Could be the shock.”

Sharon shrugged. “Maybe. I feel sorry for his little girl. And Anne. She's a nice lady.”

“I guess I put my foot in it.” Tazio blushed.

“No you didn't. I just felt like casting a weight off my shoulders. You're still relatively new here, Tazio. This place is full of secrets.”

“I guess any small town is.”

“Got that right.” Sharon smiled, then stood up to pat Brinkley's head. “You're going to love this dog. Trust me.”

With a weak little voice, Tazio half-protested. “I work too many hours to have a pet.”

“I will never let you down,”
Brinkley vowed to the architect.
“Not with my last breath.”

On the way home, Taz thought she'd better brave the supermarket. Just in case the storm lasted. The first flakes were falling. She pulled in next to Harry's truck just as Harry put two large bags of groceries into the seat.

“Taz, what have you got there?”

Taz gave her the story.

Mrs. Murphy shouted from the seat,
“Welcome to Crozet, Brinkley. You were named for a good dog, a German shepherd.”

“Thank you. Do you think she'll feed me soon?”

“As soon as you get home, and she lives maybe seven or eight minutes from here. She's very responsible and, oh, make sure you tell her you like her work. She's an architect,”
Tucker helpfully suggested.

“Don't drool on her blueprints,”
Pewter sassily said.

“Oh, forgive me. I'm Mrs. Murphy, this is Tucker, and the smart mouth is Pewter. We live out by Yellow Mountain and we work at the post office so I'm sure we'll see you.”

As Harry and Taz talked about H.H.'s death, the shock of it, they moved on quickly, because it was cold, to the next guild meeting and what they both hoped to accomplish.

“Hey, I was surprised to see you at the basketball game. You haven't been a regular.”

“I thought I'd give it a try.” The cold air tingled in Taz's upturned nose.

“Well, let me know if you need anything for your new best friend.”

“Thanks. I'm hoping to find a home for him. I'd better grab some milk and bread and hurry home. Brinkley needs to eat.”

“Yes,”
Brinkley agreed.

When Taz got home, the first thing she did was mix some canned food into the dry food. She watched while the famished animal gulped the food then drank water. When he finished he smiled up at her.

“You know, even though you're skinny, you're a rather handsome dog.” She walked over to pet him. “You know, oh, I said that already, didn't I? Well, how about if I put your bed in the bedroom? We don't want it where people can see it.”

She picked up the fleece doggie bed, placing it on the floor at the foot of her bed. She thought the dog would curl up and go to sleep for he had to be exhausted but Brinkley was so thrilled to find a person who might love him he followed her everywhere she went until she sat down at her computer. Then he blissfully slept at her feet.

She couldn't help but smile when she glanced down at him.

         

Harry arrived home before the wind started howling. By the time she left the barn, the doors rattled.

Walking to the house she complained to her animals. “First it's El Niño, then it's La Niña. Okay, that passed and with it the mild winters, but this is ridiculous. Second big blow in as many weeks.”

Once in the house she fed her pets, buttered a bagel, pulled out a legal-sized pad, a pencil, and sat at the kitchen table. She diagrammed the inside of the Clam, marking who sat where. She diagrammed the parking lot, noting the spot where H.H. collapsed. Then she wrote down the names of everyone she could remember who either tried to assist or who watched helplessly.

“Didn't she hear a thing Herb told her?”
Pewter crossly complained.

“She heard.”
Tucker gazed at Harry, her expressive brown eyes filled with concern.

“She feels compelled to solve this or to at least shift the focus onto herself and away from Susan,”
the tiger correctly surmised.

“I think she'll be careful.”
Tucker hoped she would.

“I'm sure she will but if she's being watched, it's only going to add fuel to the fire.”
Mrs. Murphy knew her human very well.

“Sooner or later people will know H.H. was murdered,”
Pewter thought out loud.
“Might take some of the onus off her.”

“They won't know until the report comes back from the state lab in Richmond,”
Mrs. Murphy replied.
“January isn't the murdering season so those toxicology reports will be back soon enough, I'll bet. She can get into a lot of trouble in that time.”

“Maybe the storm will slow her down.”
Tucker allowed Pewter to groom her.

“We can hope.”
Mrs. Murphy jumped onto the kitchen table.

Harry looked at the cat and back at her drawing of the parking lot. “Ah, you three were in the truck. I'll add that.” She added their names with a flourish. “Maybe if I can find out who H.H. was sleeping with I can figure this out.”

In a way she was right and in a way she was wrong.