Cat On The Scent

49

The brass buttons rolled around in the palm of her hand with a dull clank. Harry pushed them with her forefinger.

“First Virginia.” Blair leaned against his 110 HP John Deere tractor—new, of course, like everything on his farm. “They're genuine. Cost five hundred and fifty dollars.”

“Wonder who wore them and if he survived the war?”

Blair shrugged. “I don't know.”

The warm sun skidded over Mrs. Murphy's coat; she glistened as she lounged on the hood of the 911 Turbo. Neither human had yet noticed her chosen place to display her glories.

Pewter prowled around Blair's equipment shed with Tucker. She was on a blue-jay kick. Determined to find and bait the raucous bird wherever she could, she had sharpened her claws on the side of the shed. Pewter could perform surgery with those claws.

“Looks like you're throwing yourself whole hog into reenacting,” Harry said.

“I kind of thought it was silly at first. But I felt something at Oak Ridge, and, Harry, that wasn't even a true reenactment. We weren't on sacred ground, if you will. I want to go to the Seven Days, Sharpsburg.” He looked sober at the word; Sharpsburg was the scene of the worst carnage in that bloodiest of wars. “I can't explain what I felt, just—just that I have to do this.”

“Have you ever noticed that all the reenactors are white?”

“The combatants were mostly white.”

“I'll feel a little better about this when someone resurrects the 54th Massachusetts.” Harry cited the all-black regiment renowned for its courage.

“Harry, I'm sure someone is already doing that. Really, I don't think this is a racist program.” His warm hazel eyes flickered.

“Maybe you're right.” She sighed. “Maybe it's me. Maybe I don't like being reminded of a war of supreme foolishness, a foolishness that soaked this state in blood. So many battles have been fought here in Virginia since the Revolutionary War. All that blood has soaked into our soil. Makes me sick, kinda. I think I fail to see the romance of it.”

“Maybe it's a guy thing.” He smiled.

“Guess so.” She paused, then swung up into the cab of the elegant, expensive, coveted John Deere. “Blair, I've been thinking. A guy thing?” she said, louder than she intended. “What if Sarah was in uniform? What if she shot H. Vane?”

“What?”

The animals stopped in the shed. Mrs. Murphy, on the Porsche, pricked her ears.

“I know it sounds crazy but today in the post office when I tried on the jacket, it occurred to me—she could have worn the trousers under her hoop skirt, stepped out of it. . . . Of course, she'd have to run back like mad, get out of the uniform, stash it, and get back into her dress—but it's not impossible. Heavy smoke covered everything. You couldn't see the hand in front of your face sometimes. And it was pandemonium. Who would notice one person sneaking off? And besides, nobody noticed H. had been shot for quite a while. She'd have had time.”

He blinked. “I don't know. Never thought of it.”

“Mrs. Woo made lots of the uniforms—too many to remember. But she probably kept receipts, if not records. So what happens? Her store gets burned down.”

Blair wondered if Sarah was capable of murder. “Harry, that's pretty extreme.”

“But why? Everyone just jumped to the conclusion that it was Archie Ingram.”

Slowly, his deep baritone low, Blair said, “Well, I don't know. It's possible. But why kill him? She'll eventually inherit his estate anyway, most of it.”

“He's a tough bird and a demanding one. She's in the prime of life. Servicing H. Vane, you'll forgive the expression, may be losing some of its luster.”

His face reddened. Mrs. Murphy carefully slid off the Porsche hood. She walked over to the tractor as Pewter and Tucker joined her. Harry stepped down from the cockpit.

“Nice, huh?”

“Beautiful. If I had to pick between your Porsche and your John Deere it would be one of the hardest decisions of my life.” She laughed, leaning against the giant rear wheel. “I think I'd better talk to Coop.”

“Don't do that,” he said too rapidly.

“Why not?”

“Because you can't ruin someone's name like that.”

“She's not ruining her name,” Mrs. Murphy said. “She's only conveying an idea. Coop has tact.”

“Hadn't thought of that.”

“Mother, you're not ruining her name. And you're right!” Pewter meowed.

Harry picked up the cat, putting her on her shoulder. “Hush.”

“Put me down.” She wiggled.

“Pewter, stay put. You'll get her mind distracted. Humans can't focus for very long. That's why they can't catch mice.”

Pewter glared at Mrs. Murphy but settled down on Harry's shoulder.

Tucker lifted her nose in the air. “Blair's body temperature is rising. He's upset.”

“The other flaw in your theory is that if Sarah shot at H. Vane, then who killed Tommy Van Allen?” Blair said.

“There's no proof that the two murders are connected. We've all been assuming. They could be unrelated.”

“They're related. We just don't know how.” Tucker was resolute on this point.

Blair blushed. “Yeah.”

“What's the matter?”

“Took her a while,” Pewter dryly commented.

“Oh.” He clasped his hands behind his back. “Nothing. Say, would you like to borrow my tractor? You could disc your fields in one-third the time.” He pointed to a disc, its round metal spheres tilted slightly inward toward a center line.

Murphy noted, “That's a quick change of subject.”

Harry eyed the huge implement, which would make short work of her chores. Good farmer that she was, she disced first before plowing. She disced the fields for hay, too. They didn't need plowing but she was a great believer in working the soil thoroughly before planting. If the hay was already established she'd merely thatch and aerate every few years. She loved farming, desperately wishing she could make a good living from it. But she just squeaked by.

“This is brand-new.”

“Hell, you know how to use this equipment better than I do.”

“Tell you what.” Harry would feel better if she could make a trade. “I'll show you how to prepare that cornfield you want to put in down on your bottomland. Then I'll borrow this baby.” She patted the field-green side of the square, powerful tractor.

“Deal.” He stuck out his hand then withdrew it. “Sorry. Forgot my manners.”

“Oh, Blair, I don't care. I think that stuff's outmoded.” She referred to the fact that a man wasn't supposed to extend his hand to a lady, but wait for her to extend hers first.

“Big Mim would kill me.” He grinned.

Harry noticed Archie's U-Haul. “Is he ever leaving?”

“Today, in fact.”

“Bet you're relieved.”

“Archie is curiously stubborn.”

“What a nice way to put it.” Harry smiled as she headed for her truck. “Where's he going?”

“Tally Urquhart's.”

“What?”

“She'll let him live in one of her outbuildings if he'll restore it. He said he needs a positive project.”

“I'm nervous.” The tiger walked over to Harry's truck. “We've got to get her to call Coop.”

It was too late for that.