Cat On The Scent

17

Miranda's house, centrally located behind the post office, provided a gathering place for old friends. Her cooking drew them in as well. Few things delighted Miranda Hogendobber as much as feeding those she loved and even those she didn't love. Holy Scripture bade her to love all mankind but many times she found the theory easier than the practice.

Harry helped serve apple cider and Tom Collinses. BoomBoom had remained at the hospital, but then BoomBoom flourished amid tragedy, especially if the tragedy was visited upon someone other than herself. However, since she and Sarah were friends, her staying on might serve some good purpose.

Cynthia Cooper sat next to Fair. They were both such light blonds they could have been twins, although they were not related, not even distantly, which is always a disappointment to a true Virginian.

“I can understand someone taking a shot at Archie but not Sir H. Vane-Tempest.” Cynthia sipped the most delicious apple cider she had ever tasted. In conjunction with Miranda's piping hot scones it was perfection.

“You don't know that it was on purpose.” Harry passed around the silver tray filled with jellies, preserves, and unsalted butter. She thought the shots were intentional but she wanted to see what others would say.

“Actually, I should be the one to say that.” Cynthia dumped mounds of persimmon jelly on her scone.

“You're off duty.” Harry smiled at her.

“Tell me again about the bullet.” Cynthia split open the scone, releasing a thin waft of moist, fragrant air.

“Tucker dropped it at my feet and I gave it to Sheriff Hill.”

The dog, greedily gobbling the raw hamburger mixed with raw egg that Miranda had made for her, didn't even glance up when her name was spoken. Nor did Mrs. Murphy or Pewter, faces deep in cooked, diced chicken.

“I wonder why she picked it up?” Miranda thought out loud.

“Maybe it had blood on it,” Harry replied, then noticed that everyone stopped eating for a moment. “Sorry.”

A light rap on the back door followed by a “Yoo-hoo” diverted them from the unpleasant thought.

“Come in,” Miranda called from the kitchen.

Herb Jones eased through the door, a blade of cooling night air following him. “Any word?”

“No.”

He sat down. Harry offered the minister his choice of beverage. He requested coffee since Miranda always had a pot on the stove. Miranda bustled in with a tray of fresh scones. She set them on the tea trolley.

“Sit down, Miranda, you work too hard,” Herb told her.

“I will in a minute.” She walked back to the kitchen, returning in moments with a cup of hot coffee.

“People are already saying that Archie shot him.” Herb dabbed his lips with a cocktail napkin. “That's all they're talking about. Even Mim, who's usually circumspect, says it bears all the marks of Archie's scheming.”

“Scheming? In front of everyone?” Harry said.

The taciturn Fair spoke up. “That's her point. No one will ever be able to prove that Archie fired at H. People can talk all they want. They can't prove it. Archie's devious by nature.”

“Fair, I'm surprised to hear you say that.” Miranda's voice shot upward.

“He's played both ends against the middle all his life. That doesn't mean he's bad, just devious.”

“Can't they test weapons?” Miranda directed the question to Cynthia.

“Yes.” She swallowed, then continued, “And I'm sure Sheriff Hill will do just that. But everyone was loading and firing so all the barrels will be filled with powder. And no one was supposed to have real bullets. This could prove very interesting.”

“You know, H. Vane has spent a lifetime abusing his body. I wonder if he can pull through this.” Harry watched Mrs. Murphy and Pewter change dishes. “Why do they each think the other one got something better?”

“We don't.” Mrs. Murphy brushed a bit of chicken off her chin.

“It's our food dance,” said Pewter, nose in the bowl.

“It is not.” Tucker giggled.

“It is too,” Murphy called to the tailless dog. “I can smell what she has in her dish and she can smell what I have in mine. We like to do it, that's all. You stick your face in your food and inhale it. We cats have more delicacy of manner.”

“And more taste buds,” Pewter said.

“You do not.”

“Yes we do. We even have better taste buds than they do.” Pewter indicated the humans.

“That's not saying much.” The dog sat down. She was too full to stand.

“You all are getting awfully chatty over there,” Harry reprimanded her pets as the decibel level of their conversation increased.

Three pairs of eyes glared at her but the animals did pipe down.

“Where's Susan?” Herb asked.

“I don't know, but before Archie left the campground he asked Ned to represent him.”

“Harry, why didn't you say something?” Cynthia was surprised.

“It doesn't mean he did it. The only reason I know is I passed Susan on my way out of the hunter barn.” She paused. “I can't stand Archie Ingram. I really don't give a damn what happens to him and I might even lower myself to enjoy his discomfort.”

Everyone stared at her, including the animals.

“Harry, your mother didn't raise you to be like that,” Miranda chided her.

“No, but my mother didn't have to deal with Archie after he became a county commissioner either. He got the big head. Anyway, I can't always be a proper Virginia lady. I'm too young to be that proper.” A raffish grin crossed her face.

“Lifeline.” Cynthia half smiled.

“I'd sooner bleed from the throat. How do you stand it?”

Since no one there had realized that Cynthia attended the self-help group, they smiled nervously, waiting for her rejoinder.

Cynthia smiled reflexively. “I've seen people bleed from the throat.”

“I'm sorry,” Harry apologized, genuinely upset with herself.

“Does it work?” Fair innocently asked.

“I've only been once but I think it will teach me techniques to handle situations better. It's not really therapy or anything, more of a learning session.”

Miranda was dying to ask more questions but decided she'd do it in private.

The phone rang.

“Hello.” Miranda didn't cover the mouthpiece. “Mim.” She listened. “He's what!” She listened some more. “Thanks.” Miranda hung up the phone and ran over to the television.

She clicked on Channel 29's news. An interview with Archie Ingram was in progress. Archie, dressed in a three-piece suit and a turquoise tie, was answering a reporter's questions. He stood outside the county offices.

“—unfortunate incident. I realize many will point the finger at me because of my recent strained relationship with Sir H. Vane-Tempest but our friendship is deeper than this recent disagreement.”

“What is the nature of the disagreement, Mr. Ingram?”

“We have different visions of how best to serve Albemarle County—political differences.”

The reporter interrupted before Archie could cite his record. “It's about water, isn't it?”

“I'm sick of talking about the damn reservoir!” Archie's face purpled. “Yes, we disagree but I wouldn't shoot him over it.”

“But at the meeting at Crozet High School last week—”

“The hell with you, lady.” Archie walked off camera.

The cameraman swung around and followed him. Archie loomed into the lens of the camera, and the camera bobbled. The sound of it hitting the sidewalk could be heard, then the picture went black for a second. The image switched back to the studio.

“Is he stone stupid or what?” Harry blurted out.

“You know, the funny thing is, it would make sense if someone had shot Archie. Doesn't make sense that H. got it.” Herb shook his head.

“Maybe Archie was the target and H. Vane got in the way,” Harry said. “There's a lot of H. Vane and not much of Archie.”

“Archie's protesting too much,” Mrs. Murphy announced to no one in particular and everyone in general. “He's covering something up.”

“Yeah, he's covering up that he shot H. Vane in broad daylight before thirty thousand people.” Tucker stood up again, felt the effort too great, and sat back down.

“Something else.” The tiger blinked, then swayed in that way that cats do, a light forward and backward motion.