Murder On The Prowl

The next morning, Fair cruised out to get the paper. The rain continued steady. He dashed back into the kitchen. As he removed the plastic wrapping and opened the paper, an eight-by-ten-inch black-bordered sheet of paper, an insert, fell on the floor. Fair picked it up. "What in the hell is this?"

13

"Maury McKinchie, forty-seven, died suddenly in his home October third," Fair mumbled as he read aloud Maury's cinematic accomplishments and the fact that he lettered in football at USC. He peered over Mrs. Murphy, who jumped on the paper to read it herself.

Both humans and the cat stood reading the insert. Pewter reposed on the counter. She was interested, but Murphy jumped up first. Why start the day with a fight? Tucker raced around the table, finally sitting on her mother's foot.

"What's going on?" Tucker asked.

"Tucker, Maury McKinchie is dead," Mrs. Murphy answered her.

"Miranda," Harry said when she picked up the phone, "I've just seen it."

"Well, I just saw Maury McKinchie jog down the lane between my house and the post office not ten minutes ago!"

"This is too weird." Harry's voice was even. "As weird as that rattail hair of his." She referred to the short little pony tail Maury wore at the nape of his neck. Definitely not Virginia.

"He wore a color-coordinated jogging suit. Really, the clothes that man wears." Miranda exhaled through her nostrils. "Roscoe was jogging with him."

"Guess he hasn't read the paper." Harry laughed.

"No." She paused. "Isn't this the most peculiar thing. If Sean's behind this again, he realized he can't phone in an obituary anymore. It can't be Sean, though—his father would kill him." She thought out loud.

"And he lost his paper route. Fired. At least, that's what I heard," Harry added.

"Bombs away!" Pewter launched herself from the counter onto the table and hit the paper, tearing it. Both cats and paper skidded off the table.

"Pewter!" Fair exclaimed.

"Aha!" Mrs. Hogendobber exclaimed when she heard Fair's voice in the background. "I knew you two would get back together," she gloated to Harry.

"Don't jump the gun, Miranda." Harry gritted her teeth, knowing a grilling would occur at the post office.

"See you at work," Miranda trilled.

14

"Not another prank!" the Reverend Herbert Jones said when he picked up his mail, commenting on the obituary insert in his paper that morning.

"A vicious person with unresolved authority-figure conflicts," BoomBoom Craycroft intoned. "A potent mixture of chamomile and parsley would help purify this tortured soul."

"Disgusting and not at all funny," Big Mini Sanburne declaimed.

"A sick joke," Lucinda Payne Coles said, picking up her mail and that of the Church of the Good Shepherd.

"Hasn't Maury been working with you on the big alumni fund-raising dinner?" Harry inquired.

"Yes," Little Mim replied.

"What's going on at St. Elizabeth's?" Harry walked out front.

"Nothing. Just because Roscoe and Maury are associated with the school doesn't make the school responsible for these—what should I call them—?" Little Mim flared.

Her mother, awash in navy blue cashmere, tapped Little Mim's hand with a rolled-up magazine.

"Premature death notices." Mim laughed. "Sooner or later they will be accurate. Sean Hallahan has apologized to everyone involved. At least, that's what his father told me. Who has the paper route? That's the logical question."

Marilyn sniffed. Her mother could get her goat faster than anyone on earth. "Roger Davis has the paper route."

"Call his mother," Mim snapped. "And ... are you listening to me?"

"Yes, Mother."

"Whoever is writing these upsetting things knows a lot about both men."

"Or is a good researcher," Herb's grave voice chimed in.

"Don't look at me," Harry joked. "I never learned how to correctly write in footnotes. You have to do that to be a good researcher."

"Don't be silly. You couldn't have graduated from Smith with honors without learning how to do footnotes." Big Mim unrolled the magazine, grimaced at the photo of an exploded bus, and rolled it back up again. "I'll tell you what's worse than incorrect footnotes . . . lack of manners. Our social skills are so eroded that people don't write thank-you notes anymore . . . and if they did, they couldn't spell."

"Mother, what does that have to do with Roscoe's and Maury's fake obits?"

"Rude. Bad manners." She tapped the magazine sharply on the edge of the counter.

"Hey!" Little Mim blurted, her head swiveling in the direction of the door.

Maury McKinchie pushed through, beheld the silence and joked, "Who died?"

"You," Harry replied sardonically.

"Ah, come on, my last movie wasn't that bad."

"Haven't you opened your paper?" Little Mim edged toward him.

"No."

Herb handed the insert to Maury. "Take a look."

"Well, I'll be damned." Maury whistled.

"Who do you think did this?" Miranda zoomed to the point.

He laughed heartily. "I can think of two ex-wives who would do it, only they'd shoot me first. The obit would be for real."

"You really don't have any idea?" Herb narrowed his eyes.

"Not a one." Maury raised his bushy eyebrows as well as his voice.

Big Mim checked her expensive Schaffhausen watch. "I'm due up at the Garden Club. We vote on which areas to beautify today. A big tussle, as usual. Good-bye, all. Hope you get to the bottom of this."

" 'Bye ," they called after her.

Maury, though handsome, had developed a paunch. Running would remove it, he hoped. Being a director, he had a habit of taking charge, giving orders. He'd discovered that didn't work in Crozet. An even bigger shock had befallen him when Darla became the breadwinner. He was searching for the right picture to get his career back on track. He flew to L.A. once a month and burned up the phone and fax lines the rest of the time.

"Mother wants to create a garden around the old railroad station. What do you bet she gets her way?" Little Mim jumped to a new topic. There wasn't anything she could do about the fake obituary anyway.

"The odds are on her side." Harry picked up the tall metal wastebasket overflowing with paper.

"I can do that for you." Maury seized the wastebasket. "Where does it go?"

"Market's new dumpster," Miranda said.

"Take me one minute."

As he left, Little Mim said, "He's a terrible flirt, isn't he?"

"Don't pay any attention to him," Harry advised.

"I didn't say he bothered me."

Maury returned, placing the wastebasket next to the table where people sorted their mail.

"Thank you," Harry said.

He winked at her. "My pleasure. You can say you've encountered an angel today."

"Beg pardon?" Harry said.

"If I'm dead, I'm living uptown, Harry, not downtown." He laughed and walked out with a wave.

Susan Tucker arrived just as Miranda had begun her third degree on the subject of Fair staying over.

"Miranda, why do you do this to me?" Harry despaired.

"Because I want to see you happy."

"Telling everyone that my ex-husband spent the night isn't going to make me happy, and I told you, Miranda, nothing happened. I am so tired of this."

"Methinks the lady doth protest too much." Mrs. Hogendobber coyly quoted Shakespeare.

"Oh, pul -lease." Harry threw up her hands.

Susan, one eyebrow arched, said, "Something did happen. Okay, maybe it wasn't sex, but he got his foot in the door."

"And his ass in the guest room. It was raining cats and dogs."

"I beg your pardon," Mrs. Murphy, lounging in the mail cart, called out.

"All right." Harry thought the cat wanted a push so she gave her a ride in the mail cart.

"I love this. ..." Murphy put her paws on the side of the cart.

"Harry, I'm waiting."

"For what?"

"For what's going on with you and Fair."

"NOTHING!"

Her shout made Tucker bark.

Pewter, hearing the noise, hurried in through the back animal door. "What's the matter?"

"Mrs. H. and Susan think Mom's in love with Fair because he stayed at the house last night."

"Oh." Pewter checked the wastebasket for crumbs. "They need to stop for tea."

Susan held up her hands. "You are so sensitive."

"Wouldn't you be?" Harry fired back.

"I guess I would."

"Harry, I didn't mean to upset you." Miranda, genuinely contrite, walked over to the small refrigerator, removing the pie she'd baked the night before.

Pewter was ecstatic.

Harry sighed audibly. "I want his attention, but I don't think I want him. I'm being perverse."

"Maybe vengeful is closer to the mark." Miranda pulled no punches.

"Well—I'd like to think I was a better person than that, but maybe I'm not." She glanced out the big front window. "Going to be a nice day."

"Well, my cherub is playing in the field hockey game, rain or shine," Susan said. "Danny's got football practice, so I'll watch the first half of Brooks's game and the last half of Danny's practice. I wish I could figure out how to be in two places at the same time."

"If I get my chores done, I'll drop by," Harry said. "I'd love to see Brooks on the attack. Which reminds me, got to call and see if my truck is ready."

"I thought you didn't have the money to fix it," Susan said.

"He'll let me pay over time." As she was making the call, Miranda and Susan buzzed about events.

"Miranda, do you think these false obituaries have anything to do with Halloween?" Harry asked as she hung up the phone.

"I don't know."

"It's only the first week of October." Tucker thought out loud. "Hallow een is a long way away."

"What about all those Christmas catalogs clogging the mail?" Pewter hovered over the pie.

"Humans like to feel anxious," Tucker declared.

"Imagine worrying about Christmas now. They might not live to Christmas," Mrs. Murphy cracked.

The other two animals laughed.

"You know what I would do if I were one of them?" Pewter flicked off the dishcloth covering the pie. "I'd go to an Arab country. That would take care of Christmas."

"Take care of a lot else, too," Mrs. Murphy commented wryly.

Miranda noticed in the nick of time. "Shoo!"

Harry grabbed the phone. "Hello, may I have the obituary department?"

Miranda, Susan, the two cats, and the dog froze to listen.

"Obituary."

"Janice, have you heard about the insert?"

"Yes, but it's only in the papers of one route, Roger Davis's route. I can't be blamed for this one."

"I wouldn't want to be in Roger Davis's shoes right now," Harry said.

15

"I didn't do it." Roger, hands in his pants pockets, stared stubbornly at the headmaster and the temporary principal.

"You picked up the newspapers from the building at Rio Road?" Sandy questioned.

"Yes."

"Did you go through the papers?" Roscoe asked.

"No, I just deliver them. I had no idea that death notice on Mr. McKinchie was in there."

"Did anyone else go with you this morning? Like Sean Hallahan?"

"No, sir," Roger answered Roscoe Fletcher. "I don't like Sean."

Sandy took another tack. "Would you say that you and Sean Hallahan are rivals?"

Roger stared at the ceiling, then leveled his gaze at Sandy. "No. I don't like him, that's all."

"He's a bit of a star, isn't he?" Sandy continued his line of reasoning.

"Good football players usually are."

"No, I mean he's really a star now for putting the false obituary in the paper, Mr. Fletcher's obituary."

Roger looked from Sandy to Roscoe, then back to Sandy. "Some kids think it was very cool."

"Did you?" Roscoe inquired.

"No, sir," Roger replied.

"Could anyone have tampered with your papers without you knowing about it?" Roscoe swiveled in his chair to glance out the window. Children were walking briskly between classes.

"I suppose they could. Each of us who has a route goes to pick up our papers . . . they're on the landing. We've each got a spot because each route has a different number of customers. We're supposed to have the same number, but we don't. People cancel. Some areas grow faster than others. So you go to your place on the loading dock and pick up your papers. All I do is fold them to stick them in the tube. And on rainy days, put them in plastic bags."

"So someone could have tampered with your pile?" Roscoe persisted.

"Yes, but I don't know how they could do it without being seen. There are always people at the paper. Not many at that hour." He thought. "I guess it could be done."

"Could someone have followed after you on your route, pulled the paper out of the tube and put in the insert?" Sandy liked Roger but he didn't believe him. "One of your friends, perhaps?"

"Yes. It would be a lot of work."

"Who knows your paper route?" Roscoe glanced at the Queen Anne clock.

"Everyone. I mean, all my friends."

"Okay, Roger. You can go." Roscoe waved him away.

Sandy opened the door for the tall young man. "I really hope you didn't do this, Roger."

"Mr. Brashiers, I didn't."

Sandy closed the door, turning to Roscoe. "Well?"

"I don't know." Roscoe held up his hands. "He's an unlikely candidate, although circumstances certainly point to him."

"Damn kids," Sandy muttered, then spoke louder. "Have you investigated the Jody Miller incident further?"

"I spoke to Coach Hallvard. She said no fight occurred at practice. I'm going to see Kendrick Miller later today. I wish I knew what I was going to say."

16

Rumbling along toward St. Elizabeth's, Harry felt her heart sink lower and lower. The truck repairs cost $289.16, which demolished her budget. Paying over time helped, but $289 was $289. She wanted to cry but felt that it wasn't right to cry over money. She sniffled instead.

"There's got to be a way to make more money," Mrs. Murphy whispered.

"Catnip," Pewter replied authoritatively. "She could grow acres of catnip, dry it, and sell it."

"Not such a bad idea—could you keep out of the crop?"

"Could you?" Pewter challenged.

They pulled into the school parking lot peppered with Mercedes Benzes, BMWs, Volvos, a few Porsches, and one Ford Falcon.

The game was just starting with the captains in the center of the field, Karen Jensen for St. Elizabeth's and Darcy Kelly for St. Anne's Belfield from Charlottesville.

Roscoe had pride of place on the sidelines. Naomi squeezed next to him. April Shively sat on Roscoe's left side. She took notes as he spoke, which drove Naomi wild. She struggled to contain her irritation. Susan and Miranda waved to Harry as she climbed up to them. Little Mim sat directly behind Roscoe. Maury, flirtatious, amused her with Hollywood stories about star antics. He told her she was naturally prettier than those women who had the help of plastic surgery, two-hundred-dollar haircuts, and fabulous lighting. Little Mim began to brighten.

Pretty Coach Renee Hallvard, her shiny blond pageboy swinging with each stride, paced the sidelines. St. Anne's won the toss. While Karen Jensen trotted to midfield, the other midfielder, Jody Miller, twirled her stick in anticipation.

Irene and Kendrick Miller sat high in the stands for a better view. Kendrick had requested that he and Roscoe get together after the game. His attendance was noted since he rarely turned up at school functions, claiming work kept him pinned down.

People commented on the fact that Sean Hallahan and Roger Davis weren't at the game. Everyone had an opinion on that.

St. Anne's, a powerhouse in field hockey and lacrosse, worked the ball downfield, but Karen Jensen, strong and fast, stole the ball from the attacker in a display of finesse that brought the Redhawk supporters to their feet.

Brooks, an attacker, sped along the side, then cut in, a basic pattern, but Brooks, slight and swift, dusted her defender to pick up Karen's pinpoint pass. She fired a shot at the goalie, one of the best in the state, who gave St. Anne's enormous confidence.

The first quarter, speedy, resulted in no score.

"Brooks has a lot of poise under pressure." Harry was proud of the young woman.

"She's going to need it," Susan predicted.

"Quite a game." Miranda, face flushed, was remembering her days of field hockey for Crozet High in 1950.

The second quarter the girls played even faster and harder. Darcy Kelly drew first blood for St. Anne's. Karen Jensen, jogging back to the center, breathed a few words to her team. They struck back immediately with three razor-sharp passes resulting in a goal off the stick of Elizabeth Davis, Roger's older sister.

At halftime both coaches huddled with their girls. The trainers exhausted themselves putting the teams back together. The body checks, brutal, were taking their toll.

Sandy Brashiers, arriving late, sat on the corner of the bleachers.

"Jody's playing a good game." Roscoe leaned down to talk low to Sandy. "Maybe this will be easier than I thought."

"Hope so," Sandy said.

"Roscoe," Maury McKinchie teased him, "what kind of headmaster are you when a kid puts your obituary in the paper?"

"Looks who's talking. Maury, the walking dead," Roscoe bellowed.

"Only in Hollywood," Maury said, making fun of himself. "Oh, well, I've made a lot of mistakes on all fronts."

Father Michael, sitting next to Maury, said, "To err is human, to forgive divine."

"To err is human, to forgive is extraordinary." Roscoe chuckled.

They both shut up when Mrs. Florence Rubicon, the aptly, or perhaps prophetically, named Latin teacher, waved a red-and-gold Redhawks pennant and shouted, "Carpe diem—"

Sandy shouted back, finishing the sentence, "Quam minimum credula postero ." Meaning "Don't trust in tomorrow."

Those who remembered their Latin laughed.

A chill made Harry shiver.

"Cold?" Miranda asked.

"No—just"—she shrugged—"a notion."

The game was turning into a great one. Both sides cheered themselves hoarse, and at the very end Teresa Pietro scored a blazing goal for St. Anne's. The Redhawks, crestfallen, dragged off the field, hurt so badly by the defeat that they couldn't rejoice in how spectacularly they had played. It would take time for them to realize they'd participated in one of the legendary field hockey games.

Jody Miller, utterly wretched because Teresa Pietro had streaked by her, was stomping off the field, her head down. Her mother ran out to console her; her father stayed in the stands to talk to people and to wait for Roscoe, besieged, as always.

When Maury McKinchie walked over to soothe her, she hit him in the gut with her stick. He keeled over.

Irene, horrified, grabbed the stick from her daughter's hand. She looked toward Kendrick, who had missed the incident.

Coach Hallvard quickly ran over. Brooks, Karen, Elizabeth, and Jody's other teammates stared in disbelief.

"Jody, go to the lockers—NOW," the coach ordered.

"I think she'd better come home with me," Irene said tightly.

"Mrs. Miller, I'll send her straight home. In fact, I'll drive her home, but I need to talk to her first. Her behavior affects the entire team."

Jody, white-lipped, glared at everyone, then suddenly laughed. "I'm sorry, Mr. McKinchie. If only I'd done that to Teresa Pietro."

Maury, gasping for breath, smiled gamely. "I don't look anything like Teresa Pietro."

"Are you all right?" Coach Hallvard asked him.

"Yes, it's the only time I've been grateful for my spare tire."

Coach Hallvard put her hand under Jody's elbow, propelling her toward the lockers.

Roscoe turned around to look up to Kendrick, who was being filled in on the incident. He whispered to his wife, "Go see what you can do for Maury." Then he said to April, hovering nearby, "I think you'd better go to the locker room with Coach Hallvard and the team, right?"

"Right." April trotted across the field, catching up with Naomi, who pretended she was happy for the company.

Father Michael felt a pang for not pursuing Jody the morning she came to see him. He was realizing how much she had needed him then.

Brooks, confused like the rest of her teammates, obediently walked back to the locker room while the St. Anne's team piled on the bus.

Mrs. Murphy, prowling the bleachers now that everyone was down on the sidelines, jerked her head up when she caught a whiff, a remnant of strong perfume.

"Ugh." Pewter seconded her opinion.

They watched Harry chat with her friends about the incident as Roscoe glided over to Kendrick Miller. Sandy Brashiers also watched him, his eyes narrow as slits.

The two men strolled back to the bleachers, not thinking twice about the cats sitting there.

Kendrick glanced across the field at a now upright Maury attended by Irene and Naomi. "He's got both our wives buzzing around him. I guess he'll live."

Roscoe, surprised at Kendrick's cool response, said, "Doesn't sound as if you want him to—"

Kendrick, standing, propped one foot on the bleacher higher than the one he was standing on. "Don't like him. One of those dudes who comes here with money and thinks he's superior to us. That posture of detached amusement wears thin."

"Perhaps, but he's been very good to St. Elizabeth's."

Quickly Kendrick said, "I understand your position, Roscoe, you'd take money from the devil if you had to. You're a good businessman.

"I'd rather be a good headmaster," Roscoe replied coolly. "I was hoping you could illuminate me concerning Jody."

"Because she hit Maury?" His voice rose. "Wish I'd seen it."

"No, although that's an issue now. She skipped school the other day with a black eye. She said she got it in practice, but Coach Hallvard said, no, she didn't and as far as she knew there were no fights after practice. Does she roughhouse with neighborhood kids or—?"

"Do I beat her?" Kendrick's face darkened. "I know what people say behind my back, Roscoe. I don't beat my daughter. I don't beat my wife. Hell, I'm not home enough to get mad at them. And yes—I have a bad temper."

Roscoe demurred. "Please, don't misunderstand me. My concern is the well-being of every student at St. Elizabeth's. Jody, a charming young girl, is, well, more up and down lately. And her grades aren't what they were last year."

"I'll worry about it when the first report card comes out." Kendrick leaned on his knee.

"That will be in another month. Let's try to pull together and get those grades up before then." Roscoe's smile was all mouth, no eyes.

"You're telling me I'm not a good father." Kendrick glowered. "You've been talking to my bride, I suppose." The word "bride" dripped with venom.

"No, no, I haven't." Roscoe's patience began to erode.

"You're a rotten liar." Kendrick laughed harshly.

"Kendrick, I'm sorry I'm wasting your time." He stepped down out of the bleachers and left a furious Kendrick to pound down and leave in the opposite direction.

Sandy Brashiers awaited Roscoe at the other end. "He doesn't look too happy."

"He's an ass." Roscoe, sensitive and tired, thought he heard implicit criticism in Sandy's voice.

"I waited for you because I think we need to have an assembly or small workshop about how to handle losing. Jody's behavior was outrageous."

Roscoe hunched his massive shoulders. "I don't think we have to make that big a deal out of it.''

"You and I will never see eye to eye, will we?" Sandy said.

"I'll handle it," Roscoe said sternly.

A pause followed, broken by Sandy. "I don't want to make you angry. I'm not trying to obstruct you, but this gives us a chance to address the subject of winning and losing. Sports are blown out of proportion anyway."

"They may be blown out of proportion, but they bring in alumni funds." Roscoe shifted his weight.

"We're an institution of learning, not an academy for sports."

"Sandy, not now. I'm fresh out of patience," Roscoe warned.

"If not now, when?"

"This isn't the time or place for a philosophical discussion of the direction of secondary education in general or St. Elizabeth's in particular." Roscoe popped a hard strawberry candy in his mouth and moved off in the direction of the girls' locker room. Perhaps April had some information for him. He noticed that Naomi had shepherded Maury toward the quad, so he assumed she would be serving him coffee, tea, or spirits in her office. She had a sure touch with people.

The cats scampered out from under the bleachers, catching up with Harry, who was in the parking lot calling for them.

17

Late that night the waxing moon flitted between inky boiling clouds. Mrs. Murphy, unable to sleep, was hunting in the paddock closest to the barn. A sudden gust of wind brought her nose up from the ground. She sniffed the air. A storm, a big one, was streaking in.

Simon, moving fast for him, ran in from the creek. Overhead Flatface swooped low, banked, then headed out to the far fields for one more pass before the storm broke.

"That's it for me." Simon headed to the open barn door. "Besides, bobcat tracks in the creekbed."

"Good enough reason."

"Are you coming in?"

"In a minute." She watched the gray animal with the long rat tail shuffle into the barn.

A light wind rustled the leaves. She saw the cornstalks sway, then wiggle in Harry's small garden by the corner of the barn. This proved a handy repository for her "cooked" manure. A red fox, half grown, sashayed out the end, glanced over her shoulder, beheld Mrs. Murphy, put her nose up, and walked away.

Mrs. Murphy loved no fox, for they competed for the same game.

"You stay out of my corn rows," she growled.

"You don't own the world," came the belligerent reply.

A lone screech froze both of them.

"She's a killer." The fox flattened for a minute, then got up.

"You're between a storm and a bobcat. Where's your den?"

"I'm not telling you."

"Don't tell me, but you'd better hike to it fast." A big splat landed on the cat. She thought about the fox's predicament. "Go into the shavings shed until the storm blows over and the bobcat's gone. Just don't make a habit of it."

Without a word the fox scooted into the shavings shed, burrowing down in the sweet-smelling chips as the storm broke overhead.

The tiger cat, eyes widened, listened for the bobcat. Another more distant cry, like a woman screaming, told her that the beast headed back to the forest, her natural home. Since the pickings were so good in the fall—lots of fat mice and rats gorged on fallen grain plus fruits left drying on the vine—the bobcat ventured closer to the human habitation.

The wind stiffened, the trees gracefully bent lower. The field mouse Mrs. Murphy patiently tracked wanted to stay dry. She refused to poke her nose out of her nest.

More raindrops sent the cat into the barn. She climbed the ladder. Simon was arranging his sleeping quarters. His treasures, spread around him, included a worn towel, one leather riding glove, a few scraps of newspaper, and a candy bar that he was saving for a rainy day, which it was.

"Simon, don't you ever throw anything out?"

He smiled. "My mother said I was a pack rat, not a possum."

The force of the rain, unleashed, hit like a baseball bat against the north side of the barn. Flatface, claws down, landed in her cupola. She glanced down at the two friends, ruffled her feathers, then shut her eyes. She disdained earthbound creatures.

"Flatface," Simon called up to her, "before you go to sleep, how big is the bobcat?"

"Big enough to eat you." She laughed with a whooing sound.

"Really, how big?" he pressed.

She turned her big head nearly upside down. "Thirty to forty pounds and still growing. She's quick, lightning-quick, and smart. Now, if you two peons don't mind, I'm going to sleep. It's turning into a filthy night."

Mrs. Murphy and Simon caught up on the location of the latest beaver dam, fox dens, and one bald eagle nest. Then the cat told him about the false obituaries.

"Bizarre, isn't it?"

Simon pulled his towel into his hollowed-out nest in the straw. "People put out marshmallows to catch raccoons. Us, too. We love marshmallows. Sure enough, one of us will grab the marshmallow. If we're lucky, the human wants to watch us. If we're unlucky, we're trapped or the marshmallow is poisoned. I think a human is putting out a marshmallow for another human."

Mrs. Murphy sat a long time, the tip of her tail slowly wafting to and fro. "It's damned queer bait, Simon, telling someone he's dead."

"Not just him—everyone."

18

The storm lashed central Virginia for two days, finally moving north to discomfort the Yankees.

Harry's father said storms did Nature's pruning. The farm, apart from some downed limbs, suffered little damage, but a tree was down on the way to Blair Bainbridge's house.

On Saturday, Harry borrowed his thousand-dollar power washer. Merrily she blasted the old green-and-yellow John Deere tractor, her truck, the manure spreader, and, in a fit of squeaky-clean mania, the entire interior of the barn. Not a cobweb remained.

The three horses observed this from the far paddock. By now they were accustomed to Harry's spring and fall fits.

Other humans feeling those same urges worked on Saturday. Miranda aired her linens as she planted her spring bulbs. She'd need the rest of Sunday to finish the bulbs.

The Reverend Jones stocked his woodpile and greeted the chimney sweep by touching his top hat. A little superstition never hurt a pastor.

Fair Haristeen decided to run an inventory on equine drugs at the clinic only to repent as the task devoured the day.

BoomBoom Craycroft, adding orange zest to her list of essences, peeled a dozen of them.

Susan Tucker attacked the attic while Ned edged every tree and flower bed until he thought his fillings would fall out of his teeth from the vibrations of the machine.

Big Mim supervised the overhaul of her once-sunk pontoon boat.

Little Marilyn transferred the old records of St. Elizabeth's benefactors to a computer. Like Fair, she was sorry she had started the job.

Sandy Brashiers made up the questions for a quiz on Macbeth.

Jody Miller worked at the car wash with Brooks, Karen, and Roger.

Because of the storm, the car wash was jam-packed. The kids hadn't had time for lunch, so Jody took everyone's order. It was her turn to cross Route 29 and get sandwiches at the gas station-deli on the southwest corner. The Texaco sat between the car wash and the intersection. If only that station had a deli, she wouldn't have to cross the busy highway.

Jimbo Anson slipped her twenty-five dollars for everyone's lunch, his included, as they were famished.

As the day wore on, the temperature climbed into the mid-sixties. The line of cars extended out to Route 29.

Roscoe Fletcher, his Mercedes station wagon caked in mud, patiently waited in line. He had turned off Route 29 and moved forward enough to be right in front of the Texaco station. The car wash was behind the gas station itself, so the kids did not yet know their headmaster was in line and he didn't know how many cars were in front of him. The car stereo played The Marriage of Figaro. He sang aloud with gusto.

The line crept forward.

Jody headed down to the intersection. Five minutes later she dashed back into the office.

"Where's the food?" Roger, hungry, inquired as he reached in for another dry towel.

She announced, "Mr. Fletcher is in line! He hasn't seen me yet. I'll go as soon as he gets through the line."

"I'll starve by then," Roger said.

"He'll be cool." Karen stuck her head in the door as Roger threw her a bottle of mag washer for aluminum hubcaps.

"Maybe—but I don't want a lecture. I know I was wrong to hit Mr. McKinchie." Her voice rose. "I've had about all the help I can stand. I was wrong. Okay. I apologized. Guess you don't want to see him either." She pointed at Roger, who ignored her.

"Well, he's past the Texaco station. You'd better hide under the desk," Karen yelled. "Jeez, I think everyone in the world is here today." She heard horns beeping out on Route 29. Irene Miller had pulled in behind Roscoe, then Naomi Fletcher in her blue Miata. BoomBoom Craycroft, car wafting fragrances, was just ahead of him.

Roger waved up another car. He bent his tall frame in two as the driver rolled down the window. "What will it be?"

"How about a wash only?"

"Great. Put it in neutral and turn off your car radio."

The driver obeyed instructions while Karen and Brooks slopped the big brushes into the soapy water, working off the worst of the mud.

"Hey, there's Father Michael." Karen noticed the priest's black old-model Mercury. "You'd think the church would get him a better car." She yelled so Jody, scrunched under the desk, could hear her.

"It runs," Brooks commented on the car.

"How many are in the line now?" Roger wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his arm as Jimbo walked down to the intersection to direct drivers to form a double line. He needed to unclog the main north-south artery of Charlottesville.

"Number twenty-two just pulled in," Brooks replied.

"Unreal." Karen whistled.

Roscoe rolled down his window, flooding the car wash with Mozart. He was three cars away from his turn.

"You-all should learn your Mozart," he called to them. "Greatest composer who ever lived."

His wife shouted from her car, "It's the weekend, Roscoe. You can't tell them what to do."

"Right!" Karen laughed, waving at Naomi.

"I bet you listen to Melissa Etheridge and Sophie B. Hawkins," Roscoe said as he offered her strawberry hard candy, which she refused.

"Yeah." Karen turned her attention to the car in front of her. "They're great. I like Billy Ray Cyrus and Reba McEntire, too."

Irene rolled her window down. "Where's Jody?"

"She went to the deli to get our lunches, and I hope she hurries up!" Roger told a half-truth.

"What about Bach?" Roscoe sang out, still on his music topic.

"The Beatles," Karen answered. "I mean, that's like rock Bach."

"No, Bill Haley and the Comets are like rock Bach," Roscoe said as he sucked on the candy in his mouth. "Jerry Lee Lewis."

The kids took a deep breath and yelled and swung their hips in unison, "Elvis!"

By the time Roscoe put his left tire into the groove, everyone was singing "Hound Dog," which made him laugh. He noticed Jody peeking out of the office. The laughter, too much for her, had lured her from under the desk.

He pointed his finger at her. "You ain't nothin' but a hound dog."

She laughed, but her smile disappeared when her mother yelled at her. "I thought you were at the deli?"

"I'm on my way. We're backed up," she said since she'd heard what Roger told her mother.

"Mr. Fletcher, shut your window," Karen advised as the station wagon lurched into the car wash.

"Oh, right." He hit the electric button, and the window slid shut with a hum.

As the tail end of the Mercedes disappeared in a sheet of water, the yellow neon light flashed on and Karen waved Irene on. "He's so full of shit," she said under her breath.

BoomBoom hollered out her window, "Stress. Irene, this is too much stress. Come meet me at Ruby Tuesday's after the car wash."

"Okay," Irene agreed. Her left tire was in the groove now. "I want the works." Irene handed over fifteen dollars. Karen made change.

Roger, at the button to engage the track, waited for Roscoe to finish. The light telling him to put through the next vehicle didn't come on. Minutes passed.

"I'm in a hurry." Irene tried to sound pleasant.

"It's been like this all day, Mrs. Miller." Karen smiled tightly.

Brooks looked down the line. "Maybe Mr. Fletcher's out but the light didn't come on. I'll go see."

Brooks loped alongside the car wash, arriving at the end where the brown station wagon, nose out, squatted. The tail of the vehicle remained on the track. The little metal cleats in the track kept pushing the car.

Brooks knocked on the window. Roscoe, sitting upright, eyes straight ahead, didn't reply.

"Mr. Fletcher, you need to move out."

No reply. She knocked harder. Still no reply.

"Mr. Fletcher, please drive out." She waited, then opened the door. The first thing she noticed was that Mr. Fletcher had wet his pants, which shocked her. Then she realized he was dead.

19

It wasn't funny, but Rick Shaw wanted to laugh. Mozart blared through the speakers, and the car's rear end shone like diamonds after endless washings.

Naomi Fletcher, in shock, had been taken home by an officer.

Diana Robb, a paramedic with the rescue squad, patiently waited while Sheriff Shaw and Deputy Cooper painstakingly examined the car.

Jimbo Anson turned off the water when Rick told him it was okay.

Roger Davis directed traffic around the waiting line. He was relieved when a young officer pulled up in a squad car.

"Don't go yet," Tom Kline told Roger. "I'll need your help."

Obediently, Roger continued to direct traffic onto the Greenbrier side street. He wanted to comfort Brooks for the shock she had suffered, but that would have to wait.

Rick said under his breath to Coop, "Ever tell you about the guy who died on the escalator over in Richmond? I was fresh out of school. This was my first call as a rookie. No one could get on or off until cleared, and the store didn't turn off the motor. People were running in place. Super aerobics. 'Course the stiff rolled right up to the step-off, where his hair caught in the steps. By the time I reached him, he was half scalped."

"Gross." She knew that Rick wasn't unfeeling, but a law enforcement officer sees so much that a protective shell develops over emotions.

"Let's have the boys take photos, bag the contents of the station wagon." He reached in and, with his gloves on, snapped off the stereo. "Okay, we're done," he called over his shoulder to Diana Robb and Cooper behind him.

"Sheriff, what do you think?" the paramedic asked him.

"Looks like a heart attack. He's the right age for it. I've learned over the years, though, to defer to the experts. Unless Mrs. Fletcher objects, we'll send the body to Bill Moscowitz—he's a good coroner.

"If you don't stop smoking those Chesterfields, I'll be picking you up one of these days."

"Ah, I've stopped smoking so many times." He should have taken his pack out of his pocket and left it in the unmarked car; then she wouldn't have noticed. "Drop him at the morgue. I'll stop by Naomi's, so tell Bill to hold off until he hears from me." He turned to Coop. "Anything else?"

"Yeah, Roscoe's obituary was in the paper, remember?"

He rubbed his chin, the light chestnut stubble already appearing even though he'd shaved at six this morning. "We thought it was a joke."

"Boss, let's question a few people, starting with Sean Hallahan."

He folded his arms and leaned against the green unmarked car. "Let's wait—well, let me think about it. I don't want to jump the gun."

"Maury McKinchie's obituary was stuffed in the paper as well."

"I know. I know." He swept his eyes over the distressed Irene Miller and BoomBoom. Father Michael had administered the last rites. In the corner of his eye the lumpish figure of Jimbo Anson loomed. "I'd better talk to him before he runs to Dunkin' Donuts and eats another dozen jelly rolls." Jimbo ate when distressed. He was distressed a lot.

He half whispered, "Coop, take the basics from these folks, then let them go. I think BoomBoom is going to code on us." He used the medic slang word for "die."

Rick straightened his shoulders and walked the thirty yards to Jimbo.

"Sheriff, I don't know what to do. Nothing like this has ever happened to me. I just feel awful. Poor Naomi."

"Jimbo, death always upsets the applecart. Breathe deeply." He clapped the man on the back. "That's better. Now you tell me what happened."

"He went through the car wash, well I mean, I didn't see him, the kids were up front, and when the car didn't roll off she, I mean Brooks, ran around to see if the pedal hadn't released on the belt and, well, Roscoe was gone."

"Did you see him at all?"

"No, I mean, not until I came back with Brookie. Kid had some sense, I can tell you. She didn't scream or cry. She ran to my office, told me Roscoe was dead, and I followed her to there." He pointed.

"That's fine. I may be talking to you again, but it looks like a heart attack or stroke. These things happen."

"Business was great today." A mournful note crept into his voice.

"You'll be able to reopen before long. I'm going to impound the car, just routine, Jimbo. You won't have to worry about the vehicle being parked here."

"Thanks, Sheriff."

Rick clapped him on the back again and walked into the air-conditioned office—the day had turned unusually hot—where Brooks, Jody, and Karen sat. Cooper was already there.

"Sheriff, we were establishing a time line." Coop smiled at the three young women.

"One thirty, about," Brooks said.

"Mr. Anson said you showed presence of mind," Rick complimented Brooks.

"I don't know. I feel so bad for Mr. Fletcher. He helped me get into St. Elizabeth's after the semester started."

"Well, I'm not the Reverend Jones but I do believe that Roscoe Fletcher is in a better place. Much as you'll miss him, try to think of that."

"Jody, did you notice anything?" Coop asked.

"No. He said 'hi' and that was it. Karen and Brooks scrubbed down his bumpers. I think Roger pressed the button to send him in."

"Where is Roger?" Rick said.

"Directing traffic," Karen replied.

"Good man to have around."

This startled the two girls, who had never thought of Roger as anything other than a tall boy who was quiet even in kindergarten. Brooks was beginning to appreciate Roger's special qualities.

"Was there anything unusual about Mr. Fletcher or anyone else today?"

"No." Karen twirled a golden hair around her forefinger.

"Girls, if anything comes to mind, call me." He handed around his card.

"Is something wrong, something other than the fact that Mr. Fletcher is dead?" Brooks inquired shrewdly.

"No. This is routine."

"It's weird to be questioned." Brooks was forthright.

"I'm sorry you all lost Mr. Fletcher. I know it was a shock. I have to ask questions, though. I don't mean to further upset you. My job is to collect details, facts, like little pieces of a mosaic."

"We understand," Karen said.

"We're okay," Brooks fibbed.

"Okay then." He rose and Coop also handed her card to the three girls.

As she trudged across the blacktop to motion Roger from Greenbrier Drive, she marveled at the self-possession of the three high school girls. Usually, something like this sent teenage girls into a crying jag. As far as she could tell, not one tear had fallen, but then BoomBoom, never one to pass up the opportunity to emote, was crying enough for all of them.

20

Johnny Pop, the 1958 John Deere tractor, rolled through the meadow thick with goldenrod. Tucker pouted by a fallen walnut at the creek. Mrs. Murphy sat in Harry's lap. Tucker, a trifle too big and heavy, envied the tiger her lap status.

As the tractor popped by, she turned and gazed into the creek. A pair of fishy eyes gazed right back. Startled, Tucker took a step back and barked, then sheepishly sat down again.

The baking sun and two days of light winds had dried out the wet earth. Harry, determined to get one more hay cutting before winter, fired up Johnny Pop the minute she thought she wouldn't get stuck. She couldn't hear anything, so Mrs. Hogendobber startled her when she walked out into the meadow.

Tucker, intent on her bad mood, missed observing the black Falcon rumbling down the drive.

Miranda waved her arms over her head. "Harry, stop!"

Harry immediately nipped the lever to the left, cutting off the motor. "Miranda, what's the matter? What are you doing out here on gardening day?"

"Roscoe Fletcher's dead—for real, this time."

"What happened?" Harry gasped.

Mrs. Murphy listened. Tucker, upon hearing the subject, hurried over from the creek.

Pewter was asleep in the house.

"Died at the car wash. Heart attack or stroke. That's what Mim says."

"Was she there?"

"No. I forgot to ask her how she found out. Rick Shaw told Jim Sanburne, most likely, and Jim told Mim."

"It's ironic." Harry shuddered.

"The obit?"

Harry nodded. Mrs. Murphy disagreed. "It's not ironic. It's murder. Wait and see. Cat intuition."

21

Sean Hallahan pushed a laundry cart along a hallway so polished it reflected his image.

The double doors at the other end of the corridor swung open. Karen and Jody hurried toward him.

"How'd you get in here?" he asked.

Ignoring the question, Jody solemnly said, "Mr. Fletcher's dead. He died at the car wash."

"What?" Sean stopped the cart from rolling into them.

Karen tossed her ponytail. "He went in and never came out."

"Went in what?" Sean appeared stricken, his face white.

"The car wash," Jody said impatiently. "He went in the car wash, but at the other end, he just sat. Looks like he died of a heart attack.

"Are you making this up?" He smiled feebly.

"No. We were there. It was awful. Brooks Tucker found him."

"For real," he whispered.

"For real." Jody put her arm around his waist. "No one's going to think anything. Really."

"If only I hadn't put that phony obituary in the paper." He gulped.

"Yeah," the girls chimed in unison.

"Wait until my dad hears about this. He's going to kill me." He paused. "Who knows?"

"Depends on who gets to the phone first, I guess." Karen hadn't expected Sean to be this upset. She felt sorry for him.

"We came here first before going home. We thought you should know before your dad picks you up."

"Thanks," he replied, tears welling in his eyes.

22

Father Michael led the assembled upper and lower schools of St. Elizabeth's in a memorial service. Naomi Fletcher, wearing a veil, was supported by Sandy Brashiers with Florence Rubicon, the Latin teacher, on her left side. Ed Sugarman, the chemistry teacher, escorted a devastated April Shively.

Many of the younger children cried because they were supposed to or because they saw older kids crying. In the upper school some of the girls carried on, whipping through boxes of tissues. A few of the boys were red-eyed as well, including, to everyone's surprise, Sean Hallahan, captain of the football team.

Brooks reported all this to Susan, who told Harry and Miranda when they joined her at home for lunch.

"Well, he ate too much, he drank too much, and who knows what else he did—too much." Susan summed up Roscoe's life.

"How's Brooks handling it?" Harry inquired.

"Okay. She knows people die; after all, she watched her grandma die by inches with cancer. In fact, she said, 'When it's my time I want to go fast like Mr. Fletcher.'

"I don't remember thinking about dying at all at her age," Harry wondered out loud.

"You didn't think of anything much at her age," Susan replied.

"Thanks."

"Children think of death often; they are haunted by it because they can't understand it." Miranda rested her elbows on the table to lean forward. "That's why they go to horror movies—it's a safe way to approach death, scary but safe."

Harry stared at Miranda's elbows on the table. "I never thought of that."

"I know I'm not supposed to have my elbows on the table, Harry, but I can't always be perfect."

Harry blinked. "It's not that at all—it's just that you usually are—perfect."

"Aren't you sweet."

"Harry puts her feet on the table, she's so imperfect."

"Susan, I do not."

"You know what was rather odd, though?" Susan reached for the sugar bowl. "Brooks told me Jody said she was glad Roscoe was dead. That she didn't like him anyway. Now that's a bit extreme even for a teenager."

"Yeah, but Jody's been extreme lately." Harry got up when the phone rang. Force of habit.

"Sit down. I'll answer it." Susan walked over to the counter and lifted the receiver.

"Yes. Of course, I understand. Marilyn, it could have an impact on your fund-raising campaign. I do suggest that you appoint an interim headmaster immediately." Susan paused and held the phone away from her ear so the others could hear Little Mim's voice. Then she spoke again. "Sandy Brashiers. Who else? No, no, and no," she said after listening to three questions. "Do you want me to call anyone? Don't fret, doesn't solve a thing."

"She'll turn into her mother," Miranda predicted as Susan hung up the receiver.

"Little Mim doesn't have her mother's drive."

"Harry, not only do I think she has her mother's drive, I think she'll run for her father's seat once he steps down as mayor."

"No way." Harry couldn't believe the timid woman she had known since childhood could become that confident.

"Bet you five dollars," Miranda smugly said.

"According to Little Mim, the Millers are divorcing."

"Oh, dear." Miranda hated such events.

"About time." Harry didn't like hearing of divorce either, but there were exceptions. "Still, there is no such thing as a good divorce."

"You managed," Susan replied.

"How quickly you forget. During the enforced six months' separation every married couple and single woman in this town invited my ex-husband to dinner. Who had me to dinner, I ask you?"

"I did." Miranda and Susan spoke in chorus.

"And that was it. The fact that I filed for the divorce made me an ogre. He was the one having the damned affair."

"Sexism is alive and well." Susan apportioned out seven-layer salad, one of her specialties. She stopped, utensils in midair. "Did either of you like Roscoe Fletcher?"

"De mortuis nil nisi bonum," Miranda advised.

"Speak nothing but good about the dead," Harry translated although it was unnecessary. "Maybe people said that because they feared the departed spirit was nearby. If they gave you trouble while alive, think what they could do to you as a ghost."

"Did you like Roscoe Fletcher?" Susan repeated her question.

Harry paused. "Yes, he had a lot of energy and good humor."

"A little too hearty for my taste." Miranda found the salad delicious. "Did you like him?"

Susan shrugged. "I felt neutral. He seemed a bit phony sometimes. But maybe that was the fund-raiser in him. He had to be a backslapper and glad-hander, I suppose."

"Aren't we awful, sitting here picking the poor man apart?" Miranda dabbed her lipstick-coated lips with a napkin.

The phone rang again. Susan jumped up. "Speaking of letting someone rest in peace, I'd like to eat in peace."

"You don't have to answer it," Harry suggested.

"Mothers always answer telephones." She picked up the jangling device. "Hello." She paused a long time. "Thanks for telling me. You've done the right thing."

Little Mim had rung back to say St. Elizabeth's had held an emergency meeting by conference call.

Sandy Brashiers had been selected interim headmaster.

23

Late that afternoon, a tired Father Michael bent his lean frame, folding himself into the confessional.

He usually read until someone entered the other side of the booth. The residents of Crozet had been particularly virtuous this week because traffic was light.

The swish of the fabric woke him as he half dozed over the volume of Thomas Merton, a writer he usually found provocative.

"Father, forgive me for I have sinned," came the formalistic opening.

"Go on, my child."

"I have killed and I will kill again." The voice was muffled, disguised.

He snapped to attention, but before he could open his mouth, the penitent slipped out of the booth. Confused, Father Michael pondered what to do. He felt he must stay in the booth for the confessional hours were well-known—he had a responsibility to his flock—but he wanted to call Rick Shaw immediately. Paralyzed, he grasped the book so hard his knuckles were white. The curtain swished again.

A man's voice spoke, deep and low. "Father forgive me for I have sinned."

"Go on, my child," Father Michael said as his mind raced.

"I've cheated on my wife. I can't help myself. I have strong desires." He stopped.

Father Michael advised him by rote, gave him a slew of Hail Marys and novenas. He kept rubbing his wristwatch until eventually his wrist began to hurt. As the last second of his time in the booth expired, he bolted out, grabbed the phone, and dialed Rick Shaw.

When Coop picked up the phone, he insisted he speak to the sheriff himself.

"Sheriff Shaw."

"Yes."

"This is Father Michael. I don't know"—sweat beaded on his forehead; he couldn't violate what was said in the confessional booth—"I believe a murder may have taken place."

"One has, Father Michael."

The priest's hands were shaking. "Oh, no. Who?"

"Roscoe Fletcher." Rick breathed deeply. "The lab report came back. He was poisoned by malathion. Not hard to get around here, so many farmers use it. It works with the speed of light so he had to have eaten it at the car wash. We've tested the strawberry hard candy in his car. Nothing."

"There couldn't be any mistake?"

"No. We have to talk, Father."

After Father Michael hung up the phone, he needed to collect his thoughts. He paced outside, winding up in the graveyard. Ansley Randolph's mums bloomed beautifully.

A soul was in peril. But if the confession he had heard was true, then another immortal soul was in danger as well. He was a priest. He should do something, but he didn't know what. It then occurred to him that he himself might be in danger—his body, not his soul.

Like a rabbit who hears the beagle pack, he twitched and cast his eyes around the graveyard to the Avenging Angel. It looked so peaceful.

24

His shirtsleeves rolled up, Kendrick Miller sat in his favorite chair to read the paper.

Irene swept by. "Looking for your obituary?" She arched a delicate eyebrow.

"Ha ha ." He rustled the paper.

Jody, reluctantly doing her math homework at the dining-room table so both parents could supervise, reacted. "Mom, that's not funny."

"I didn't say it was."

"Who knows, maybe your obituary will show up." She dropped her pencil inside her book, closing it.

"If it does, Jody, you'll have placed it there." Irene sank gracefully onto the sofa.

Jody grimaced. "Sick."

"I can read it now: 'Beloved mother driven to death by child— and husband.' "

"Irene . . ." Kendrick reproved, putting down the paper.

"Yeah, Mom."

"Well"—she propped her left leg over an embroidered pillow— "I thought Roscoe Fletcher could have sold ice to Eskimos and probably did. He was good for St. Elizabeth's, and I'm sorry he died. I was even sorrier that we were all there. I would have preferred to hear about it rather than see it."

"He didn't look bad." Jody opened her book again. "I hope he didn't suffer."

"Too quick to suffer." Irene stared absently at her nails, a discreet pale pink. "What's going to happen at St. Elizabeth's?"

Kendrick lifted his eyebrows. "The board will appoint Sandy Brashiers headmaster. Sandy will try to kill Roscoe's film-course idea, which will bring him into a firefight with Maury McKinchie, Marilyn Sanburne, and April Shively. Ought to be worth the price of admission.

"How do you know that?" Jody asked.

"I don't know it for certain, but the board is under duress. And the faculty likes Brashiers."

"Oh, I almost forgot. Father Michael can see us tomorrow at two thirty."

"Irene, I have landscaping plans to show the Doubletree people tomorrow." He was bidding for the hotel's business. "It's important."

"I'd like to think I'm important. That this marriage is important," Irene said sarcastically.

"Then you pay the bills."

"You turn my stomach." Irene swung her legs to the floor and left.

"Way to go, Dad."

"You keep out of this."

"I love when you spend the evening at home. Just gives me warm fuzzies." She hugged herself in a mock embrace.

"I ought to—" He shut up.

"Hit me. Go ahead. Everyone thinks you gave me the shiner."

He threw the newspaper on the floor. "I've never once hit you."

"I'll never tell," she goaded him.

"Who did hit you?"

"Field hockey practice. I told you."

"I don't believe you."

"Fine, Dad. I'm a liar."

"I don't know what you are, but you aren't happy."

"Neither are you," she taunted.

"No, I'm not." He stood up, put his hands in his pockets. "I'm going out."

"Take me with you."

"Why?"

"I don't want to stay home with her."

"You haven't finished your homework."

"How come you get to run away and I have to stay home?"

"I—" He stopped because a determined Irene reentered the living room.

"Father Michael says he can see us at nine in the morning," she announced.

His face reddening, Kendrick sat back down, defeated. "Fine."

"Why do you go for marriage counseling, Mom? You go to mass every day. You see Father Michael every day."

"Jody, this is none of your business."

"If you discuss it in front of me, it is," she replied flippantly.

"She's got a point there." Kendrick appreciated how intelligent his daughter was, and how frustrated. However, he didn't know how to talk to her or his manipulative—in his opinion—wife. Irene suffocated him and Jody irritated him. The only place he felt good was at work.

"Dad, are you going to give St. E's a lot of money?"

"I wouldn't tell you if I were."

"Why not?"

"You'd use it as an excuse to skip classes." He half laughed.

"Kendrick"—Irene sat back on the sofa—"where do you get these ideas?"

"Contrary to popular opinion, I was young once, and Jody likes to—" He put his hand out level to the floor and wobbled it.

"Learned it from you." Jody flared up.

"Can't we have one night of peace?" Irene wailed, unwilling to really examine why they couldn't.

"Hey, Mom, we're dysfunctional."

"That's a bullshit word." Kendrick picked his paper up. "All those words are ridiculous. Codependent. Enabler. Jesus Christ. People can't accept reality anymore. They've invented a vocabulary for their illusions."

Both his wife and daughter stared at him.

"Dad, are you going to give us the lecture on professional victims?"

"No." He buried his nose in the paper.

"Jody, finish your homework," Irene directed.

Jody stood up. She had no intention of doing homework. "I hated seeing Mr. Fletcher dead. You two don't care. It was a shock, you know." She swept her books onto the floor; they hit with thuds equal to their differing weights. She stomped out the front door, slamming it hard.

"Kendrick, you deal with it. I was at the car wash, remember?"

He glared at her, rolled his paper up, threw it on the chair, and stalked out.

Irene heard him call for Jody. No response.

25

"You cheated!" Jody, angry, squared off at Karen Jensen.

"I did not."

"You didn't even understand Macbeth. There's no way you could have gotten ninety-five on Mr. Brashiers's quiz."

"I read it and I understand it."

"Liar."

"I went over to Brooks Tucker's and she helped me."

Jody's face twisted in sarcasm. "She read aloud to you?"

"No. Brooks gets all that stuff. It's hard for me."

"She's your new best friend."

"So what if she is?" Karen tossed her blond hair.

"You'd better keep your mouth shut."

"You're the one talking, not me."

"No, I'm not."

"You're weirding out."

Jody's eyes narrowed. "I lost my temper. That doesn't mean I'm weirding out."

"Then why call me a cheater?"

"Because"—Jody sucked in the cool air—"you're on a scholarship. You have to make good grades. And English is not your subject. I don't know why you even took Shakespeare."

"Because Mr. Brashiers is a great teacher." Karen Jensen glanced down the alleyway. She saw only Mrs. Murphy and Pewter, strolling through Mrs. Hogendobber's fall garden, a riot of reds, rusts, oranges, and yellows.

Taking a step closer, Jody leaned toward her. "You and I vowed to—"

Karen held up her hands, palms outward. "Jody, chill out. I'd be crazy to open my mouth. I don't want anyone to know I went to bed with a guy this summer, and neither do you. Just chill out."

Jody relaxed. "Everything's getting on my nerves . . . especially Mom and Dad. I just want to move out."

Karen noticed the tiger cat coming closer. ' 'Guess everyone feels that way sometimes."

"Yeah," Jody replied, "but your parents are better than mine."

Karen didn't know how to answer that, so she said, "Let's go in and get the mail."

"Yeah." Jody started walking.

Pewter and Murphy, now at the backdoor of the post office, sat on the steps. Pewter washed her face. Mrs. Murphy dropped her head so Pewter could wash her, too.

"Didn't you think the newspaper's write-up of Roscoe's death was strange?" Murphy's eyes were half closed.

"You mean the bit about an autopsy and routine investigation?"

"If he died of a heart attack, why a routine investigation? Mom better pump Coop when she sees her—and hey, she hasn't been in to pick up her mail for the last two days."

"Nothing in there but catalogs." Pewter took it upon herself to check out everyone's mailbox. She said she wasn't being nosy, only checking for mice.

Shouting in the post office sent them zipping through the animal door.

They crossed the back section of the post office and bounded onto the counter. Both Harry and Mrs. Hogendobber were in the front section as were Jody, an astonished Samson Coles, and Karen Jensen. Tucker was at Harry's feet, squared off against Jody. The animals had arrived in the middle of an angry scene.

"You're the one!"

"Jody, that's enough," Mrs. Hogendobber, aghast, admonished the girl.

Samson, his gravelly voice sad, said quietly, "It's all right, Miranda."

"You're the one sleeping with Mom!" Jody shrieked.

"I am not having an affair with your mother." He was gentle.

"Jody, come on. I'll ride you home." Karen tugged at the tall girl's sleeve, at a loss for what to do. Her friend exploded when Samson put his arm around her shoulders, telling her how sorry he was that the headmaster had died.

"You cheated on Lucinda—everyone knows you did—and then Ansley killed herself. She drove her Porsche into that pond because of you . . . and now you're fucking my mother."

"JODY!" Mrs. Hogendobber raised her voice, which scared everyone.

Jody burst into tears and Karen pushed her out the front door. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Hogendobber and Mr. Coles. I'm sorry, Mrs. Haristeen. She's, uh . . ." Karen couldn't finish her thought. She closed the door behind her.

Samson curled his lips inward until they disappeared. "Well, I know I'm the town pariah, but this is the first time I've heard that I caused Ansley's death."

A shocked Miranda grasped the counter for support. "Samson, no one in this town blames you for that unstable woman's unfortunate end. She caused unhappiness to herself and others." She gulped in air. "That child needs help."

"Help? She needs a good slap in the face." Pewter paced the counter.

Tucker grumbled. "Stinks of fear."

"They can't smell it. They only trust their eyes. Why, I don't know—their eyes are terrible." Mrs. Murphy, concerned, sat at the counter's edge watching Karen force Jody into her car, an old dark green Volvo.

"We'd better call Irene," Harry, upset, suggested.

"No." Samson shook his head. "Then the kid will think we're ganging up on her. Obviously, she doesn't trust her mother if she thinks she's having an affair with me."

"Then I'll call her father."

"Harry, Kendrick's no help," Mrs. Hogendobber, rarely a criticizer, replied. "His love affair with himself is the problem in that family. It's a love that brooks no rivals."

This made Harry laugh; Miranda hadn't intended to be funny, but she had hit the nail on the head.

Samson folded his arms across his chest. "Some people shouldn't have children. Kendrick is one of them."

"We can't let the child behave this way. She's going to make a terrific mess." Miranda added sensibly, "Not everyone will be as tolerant as we are." She tapped her chin with her forefinger, shifting her weight to her right foot. "I'll call Father Michael."

Samson hesitated, then spoke. "Miranda, what does a middle-aged priest know of teenage girls . . . of women?"

"About the same as any other man," Harry fired off.

"Touche," Samson replied.

"Samson, I didn't mean to sound nasty. You're probably more upset than you're letting on. Jody may be a kid, but a low blow is a low blow," Harry said.

"I could leave this town where people occasionally forgive but never forget. I think about it, you know, but"—he jammed his hands in his pockets—"I'm not the only person living in Crozet who's made a mistake. I'm too stubborn to turn tail. I belong here as much as the next guy."

"I hope you don't think I'm sitting in judgment." Miranda's hand fluttered to her throat.

"Me neither." Harry smiled. "It's hard for me to be open-minded about that subject, thanks to my own history ... I mean, BoomBoom Craycroft of all people. Fair could have picked someone—well, you know."

"That was the excitement for Fair. That BoomBoom was so obvious." Samson realized he'd left his mail on the counter. "I'm going back to work." He scooped his mail up before Pewter, recovering from the drama, could squat on it. "What I really feel bad about is tampering with the escrow accounts. That was rotten. Falling in love with Ansley may have been imprudent, but it wasn't criminal. Betraying a responsibility to clients, that was wrong." He sighed. "I've paid for it. I've lost my license. Lost respect. Lost my house. Nearly lost Lucinda." He paused again, then said, "Well, girls, we've had enough soap opera for one day." He pushed the door open and breathed in the crisp fall air.

Miranda ambled over to the phone, dialed, and got Lucinda Coles. "Lucinda, is Father Michael there?"

He was, and she buzzed the good woman through.

"Father Michael, have you a moment?" Miranda accurately re peated the events of the afternoon.

When she hung up, Harry asked, "Is he going to talk to her?"

"Yes. He seemed distracted, though."

"Maybe the news upset him."

"Of course." She nodded. "I'm going to clean out that refrigerator. It needs a good scrub."

"Before you do that, there's a pile of mail for Roscoe Fletcher. Why don't we sort it out and run it over to Naomi after work?"

The two women dumped the mail out on the work table in the back. A flutter of bills made them both feel guilty. The woman had lost her husband. Handing over bills seemed heartless. Catalogs, magazines, and handwritten personal letters filled up one of the plastic boxes they used in the back to carry mail after sorting it out of the big canvas duffel bags.

A Jiffy bag, the end torn, the gray stuffing spilling out, sent Harry to the counter for Scotch tape.

Tucker observed this. She wanted to play, but the cats were hashing over the scene they'd just witnessed. She barked.

"Tucker, if you need to go to the bathroom, there's the door."

"Can't we walk, just a little walk? You deserve a break."

"Butterfingers." Harry dropped the bag. The tiny tear in the cover opened wider.

Mrs. Murphy and Pewter stopped their gabbing and jumped down.

"Yahoo!" Mrs. Murphy pounced on the tear and the gray stuffing burst out.

" Aachoo ." Pewter sneezed as the featherlight stuffing floated into the air.

"I've got it!" Mrs. Murphy crowed.

Pewter pounced, both paws on one end of the bag, claws out as the tiger cat ripped away at the other corner, enlarging the tear until she could reach into the bag with her paw.

If Mrs. Murphy had been a boxer, she would have been hailed for her lightning hands.

Lying flat on her side, she fished in the Jiffy bag with her right paw.

"Any thing to eat?"

"No, it's paper, but it's crisp and crinkly."

The large gray cat blinked, somewhat disappointed. Food, the ultimate pleasure, was denied her. She'd have to make do with fresh paper, a lesser pleasure but a pleasure nonetheless.

"You girls are loony tunes." Tucker, bored, turned her back. Paper held no interest for her.

"Hooked it. I can get it out of the bag. I know I can." Murphy yanked hard at the contents of the package, pulling the paper partways through the tear.

"Look!" Pewter shouted.

Mrs. Murphy stopped for a second to focus on her booty. "Wow!" She yanked harder.

Tucker turned back around thanks to the feline excitement. "Give it to Mom. She needs it."

Mrs. Murphy ripped into the bag so fast the humans hadn't time to react, and the cat turned a somersault to land on her side, then put her paw into the bag. Her antics had them doubled over.

However funny she was, Mrs. Murphy was destroying government property.

"Mom, we're rich!" Mrs. Murphy let out a jubilant meow.

Harry and Miranda, dumbfounded, bent over the demolished bag.

"My word." Miranda's eyes about popped from her head. She reached out with her left hand, fingers to the floor, to steady herself.

The humans and animals stared at a stack of one-hundred-dollar bills, freshly minted.

"We'd better call Rick Shaw. No one sends that much money in the mail." Harry stood up, feeling a little dizzy.

"Harry, I don't know the law on this, but we can't open this packet."

"I know that," Harry, a trifle irritated, snapped.

"It's not our business." Miranda slowly thought out loud.

"I'll call Ned."

"No. That's still interfering in the proper delivery of the mail."

"Miranda, there's something fishy about this."

"Fishy or not, we are employees of the United States Postal Service, and we can't blow the whistle just because there's money in a package."

"We sure could if it were a bomb."

"But it's not."

"You mean we deliver it?"

"Exactly."

"Oh." Mrs. Murphy's whiskers drooped. "We need that money."

26

Naomi Fletcher called Rick Shaw herself. She asked Miranda and Harry to stay until the sheriff arrived.

Mrs. Murphy, Pewter, and Tucker languished in the cab of the truck. When the sheriff pulled in with Cooper at his side, the animals set up such a racket that Cynthia opened the truck door.

"Bet you guys need to go to the bathroom."

"Sure," they yelled over their shoulders as they made a beeline for the front door.

"You'd better stop for a minute," Tucker advised the cats.

"I'm not peeing in public. You do it," the tiger, insulted, replied.

"Fine." The corgi found a spot under a tree, did enough to convince Cynthia that she had saved the interior of Harry's truck, then hurried to the front door.

Once inside they huddled under the coffee table while Cynthia dusted the bag and the bills for prints.

After an exhaustive discussion Rick told Roscoe Fletcher's widow to deposit the money in her account. He could not impound the cash. There was no evidence of wrongdoing.

"There are no assumptions in my job, only facts." He ran his right hand through his thinning hair.

Naomi, both worried and thrilled, for the sum had turned out to be seventy-five thousand dollars, thanked the sheriff and his deputy for responding to her call.

Rick, hat in hand, said, "Mrs. Fletcher, brace yourself. The story will be out in the papers tomorrow. A coroner's report is public knowledge. Bill Moscowitz has delayed writing up the autopsy report for as long as he can."

"I know you're doing your best." Naomi choked up.

Harry and Miranda, confused, looked at each other and then back at Rick.

Naomi nodded at him, so he spoke. "Roscoe was poisoned."

"What!" Tucker exclaimed.

"I told you," Mrs. Murphy said.

"Don't be so superior," Pewter complained.

"Naomi, I'm sorry, so very sorry." Mrs. Hogendobber reached over and grasped Naomi's hand.

"Who'd want to kill him?" Pewter's long white eyebrows rose.

"Someone who failed algebra?" Mrs. Murphy couldn't resist.

"Hey, where's Tucker?" Pewter asked.

Tucker had sneaked off alone to find Winston, the bulldog.

Harry said, "I'm sorry, Naomi."

Naomi wiped her thin nose with a pink tissue. "Poisoned! One of those strawberry drops was poison."

Cooper filled in the details. "He ingested malathion, which usually takes just minutes to kill someone."

Harry blurted out, "I ate one of those!"

"When?" Rick asked.

"Oh, two days before his death. Maybe three. You know Roscoe . . . always offering everyone candy." She felt queasy.

"Unfortunately, we don't know how he came to be poisoned. The candy in his car was safe."

• • •

They squeezed back into Harry's truck, the cats on Miranda's lap. Tucker, between the two humans, told everyone what Winston had said. "Naomi cries all the time. She didn't kill him. Winston's positive."

"There goes the obvious suspect in every murder case." Pewter curled up on Miranda's lap, which left little room for Mrs. Murphy.

"You could move over."

"Go sit on Harry's lap."

"Thanks, I will, you selfish toad."

Tucker nudged Murphy. "Winston said Sandy Brashiers is over all the time."

"Why?" Pewter inquired.

"Trying to figure out Roscoe's plans for this school year. He left few documents or guidelines, and April Shively is being a real bitch—according to Winston."

"Secretaries always fall in love with their bosses," Pewter added noncha lantly.

"Oh, Pewter." Murphy wrinkled her nose.

"They do!"

"Even if she was in love with him, it doesn't mean she'd be an obstructionist— good word, huh?" Tucker smiled, her big fangs gleaming.

"I'm impressed, Tucker." The tiger laughed. "Of course she's an obstruc tionist. April doesn't like Sandy. Roscoe didn't either."

"Guess Sandy's in for a rough ride." Pewter noticed one of Herb Jones's two cats sitting on the steps to his house. "Look at Lucy Fur. She always shows off after her visit to the beauty parlor."

"That long hair is pretty, but can you imagine taking care of it?" Mrs. Murphy, a practical puss, replied.

"I don't know what this world is coming to." Miranda shook her head.

"Poison is the coward's way to kill someone." Harry, still shaken from realizing she had eaten Roscoe's candies, growled, "Whoever it was was chickenshit."

"That's one way to put it." Miranda frowned.

"The question is, where did he get the poison and is there a tin of lethal candies out there waiting for another innocent victim?" Harry stroked Murphy, keeping her left hand on the wheel.

"We know one thing," Miranda pronounced firmly. "Whoever killed him was close to him ... if malathion kills as fast as Coop says it does."

"Close and weak. I mean it. Poison is the coward's weapon."

In that Harry was half right and half wrong.

27

A light wind from the southeast raised the temperature into the low seventies. The day sparkled, leaves the color of butter vibrated in the breeze, and the shadows disappeared since it was noon.

Harry, home after cub hunting early in the morning, had rubbed down Poptart, turned her out with the other two horses, and was now scouring her stock trailer. Each year she repacked the bearings, inspected the boards, sanded off any rust, and repainted those areas. Right now her trailer resembled a dalmatian, spots everywhere. She'd put on the primer but didn't finish her task before cub hunting started, which was usually in September. Cubbing meant young hounds joined older ones, and young foxes learned along with the young hounds what was expected of them. With today's good weather she'd hoped to finish the job.

Blair lent her his spray painter. As Blair bought the best of everything, she figured she could get the job done in two hours, tops. She'd bought metallic Superman-blue paint from Art Bushey, who gave her a good deal.

"That stuff smells awful." Tucker wrinkled her nose at the paint cans.

"She's going to shoot the whole afternoon on this." Pewter stretched. "I'll mosey on up to the house."

"Wimp. You could sleep under the maple tree and soak up the sunshine," Mrs. Murphy suggested.

"Don't start one of your outdoor exercise lectures about how we felines are meant to run, jump, and kill. This feline was meant to rest on silk cushions and eat steak tartare ."

"Tucker, let's boogie." Mrs. Murphy shook herself, then scampered across the stable yard.

"I'm not going, and don't you come back here and make up stories about what I've missed," Pewter called after them. "And I don't want to hear about the bobcat either. That's a tall tale if I ever heard one." Then she giggled. " ' Cept they don't have tails." By now she was heading toward the house, carrying on a conversation with herself. "Oh, and if it isn't the bobcat, then it's the bear and her two cubs. And if I hear one more time about how Tucker was almost drug under by an irate beaver while crossing the creek . . . next they'll tell me there's an elephant out there. Fine, they can get their pads cut up. I'm not." She sashayed into the screened-in porch and through the open door to the kitchen. " Mmm." Pewter jumped onto the counter to gobble up crumbs of Danish. "What a pity that Harry isn't a cook."

She curled up on the counter, the sun flooding through the window over the sink, and fell fast asleep.

The cat and dog trotted toward the northwest. Usually they'd head to the creek that divided Harry's land from Blair Bainbridge's land, but as they'd seen him this morning when he brought over the paint sprayer on his way to cubbing, they decided to sprint in the other direction.

"Pewter cracks me up." Mrs. Murphy laughed.

"Me, too." Tucker stopped and lifted her nose. "Deer."

"Close?"

"Over there." The corgi indicated a copse of trees surrounded by high grass.

"Let's not disturb them. It's black-powder season, and there's bound to be some idiot around with a rifle."

"I don't mind a good hunter. They're doing us a favor. But the other ones ..." The dog shuddered, then trotted on. "Mom and Blair didn't have much to say to each other, did they?"

"She was in a hurry. So was he." Mrs. Murphy continued, "Sometimes I worry about her. She's getting set in her ways. Makes it hard to mesh with a partner, know what I mean?"

"She likes living alone. All that time I wanted Fair to come back, which he's tried to do—I really think she likes being her own boss."

"Tucker, she was hardly your typical wife."

"No, but she made concessions."

"So did he." Mrs. Murphy stopped a moment to examine a large fox den. "Hey, you guys run this morning?"

"No," came the distant reply.

"Next week they'll leave from Old Greenwood Farm."

"Thanks."

"Since when did you get matey with foxes?" Tucker asked. "I thought you hated them."

"Nah, only some of them."

"Hypocrite."

"Stick-in-the-mud. Remember what Emerson said, A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds.' "

"Where are we going?" Tucker ignored Murphy's reference.

"Here, there, and everywhere." Mrs. Murphy swished her tail.

"Goody." The dog loved wandering with no special plan.

They ran through a newly mown hayfield. Grasshoppers flew up in the air, the faint rattle of their wings sounding like thousands pf tiny castanets. The last of the summer's butterflies swooped around. Wolf spiders, some lugging egg sacs, hurried out of their way.

At the end of the field a line of large old hickories stood sentinel over a farm road rarely used since the Bowdens put down a better road fifty yards distant.

"Race you!" the cat called over her shoulder as she turned left on the road heading down to a deep ravine and a pond.

"Ha!" The dog bounced for joy, screeching after the cat.

Corgis, low to the ground, can run amazingly fast when stretched out to full body length. Since Mrs. Murphy zigged and zagged when she ran, Tucker soon overtook her.

"I win!" the dog shouted.

"Only because I let you."

They tumbled onto each other, rolling in the sunshine. Springing to their feet, they ran some more, this time with the tiger soaring over the corgi, dipping in front of her and then jumping her from the opposite direction.

The sheer joy of it wore them out. They sat under a gnarled walnut at the base of a small spring.

Mrs. Murphy climbed the tree, gracefully walking out on a limb. "Hey, there's a car over that rise."

"No way."

"Wanna bet?"

They hurried up and over the small rise, the ruts in the road deeper than their own height. Stranded in the middle of the road was a 1992 red Toyota Camry with the license plates removed. As they drew closer they could see a figure in the driver's seat.

Tucker stopped and sniffed. "Uh-oh."

Mrs. Murphy bounded onto the hood and stared, hair rising all over her body. Quickly she jumped off. "There's a dead human in there."

"How dead?"

"Extremely dead."

"That's what I thought. Who is it?"

"Given the condition of the body, your guess is as good as mine. But it was once a woman. There's a blue barrette in her hair with roses on it, little yellow plastic roses."

"We'd better go get Mom."

Mrs. Murphy walked away from the Camry and sat on the rise. She needed to collect her thoughts.

"Tucker, it won't do any good. Mother won't know what we're telling her. The humans don't use this road anymore. It might be days, weeks, or even months before anyone finds this, uh, mess."

"Maybe by that time she'll be bones."

"Tucker!"

"Just joking." The dog leaned next to her dear friend. "Trying to lighten the moment. After all, you don't know who it is. I can't see that high up. Humans commit suicide, you know. Could be one of those things. They like to shoot themselves in cars or hotel rooms. Drugs are for the wimps, I guess. I mean, how many ways can they kill themselves?"

"Lots of ways."

"I never met a dog that committed suicide."

"How could you? The dog would be dead."

"Smart-ass." Tucker exhaled. "Guess we'd better go back home."

On the way across the mown hayfleld Murphy said out loud what they both were thinking. "Let's hope it's a suicide."

They reached the farm in twenty minutes, rushing inside to tell Pewter, who refused to believe it.

"Then come with us."

"Murphy, I am not traipsing all over creation. It's soon time for supper. Anyway, what's a dead human to me?"

"You'd think someone would report a missing person, wouldn't you?" Tucker scratched her shoulder.

"So many humans live alone, they aren't missed for a long time. And she's been dead a couple of weeks," Murphy replied.

28

Puce-faced Little Marilyn, hands on hips, stood in the middle of Roscoe Fletcher's office, as angry as April Shively.

"You hand those files over!"

Coolly, relishing her moment of power, April replied, "Roscoe told me not to release any of this information until our Homecoming banquet."

Little Mim, a petite woman, advanced on April, not quite petite but small enough to be described as perky. ' 'I am chair of the fund-raising committee. If I am to properly present St. Elizabeth's to potential donors, I need information. Roscoe and I were to have our meeting today and the files were to be released to me."

"I don't know that. It's not written in his schedule book." April shoved the book across his desk toward Marilyn, who ignored it.

Marilyn baited her. "I thought you knew everything there was to know about Roscoe."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Take it any way you like."

"Don't you dare accuse me of improper conduct with Roscoe! People always say that. They say it behind my back and think I don't know it." Her words were clipped, her speech precise.

"You were in love with him."

"I don't have to answer that. And I don't have to give you this file either."

"Then you're hiding something. I will convene the board and request an immediate audit."

"What I'm hiding is something good!" She sputtered. "It's a large donation by Maury McKinchie for the film department."

"Then show it to me. We'll celebrate together." Little Mim reached out her left hand, with the pinkie ring bearing the crest of the Urquharts.

"No! I take his last words to me as a sacred duty."

Exasperated, tired, and ready to bat April silly, Little Mim left, calling over her shoulder, "You will hear from a lawyer selected by the board and from an accounting firm. Good or bad, we must know the financial health of this institution."

"If Roscoe were alive, you wouldn't talk to me this way."

"April, if Roscoe were alive, I wouldn't talk to you at all."

29

Little Mim was as good as her word. She convened an emergency board meeting chaired by Sandy Brashiers. Sandy had the dolorous duty of telling the group that he believed April had removed files from Roscoe's office: she refused to cooperate even with Sheriff Shaw. The suspicion lurked in many minds that she might have taken other items, perhaps valuable ones like Roscoe's Cartier desk clock.

Alum bigwigs blew like bomb fragments. Kendrick Miller called Ned Tucker at home, asking him to represent the board. Ned agreed. Kendrick then handed State Senator Guyot his mobile phone to call the senior partner of a high-powered accounting firm in Richmond, rousing him from a tense game of snooker. He, too, agreed to help the board, waiving his not inconsiderable fee.

Maury McKinchie, the newest member of the board, suggested this unsettling news not be discussed until the Homecoming banquet. He made no mention of his large bequest.

Sandy Brashiers then made a motion to dismiss April from her post.

Fair Haristeen, serving his last year on the board, stood up. "We need time to think this over before voting. April is out of line, but she's overcome by grief."

"That doesn't give her the right to steal school records and God knows what else." Sandy leaned back in his chair. Underneath the table he tapped his foot, thrilled that revenge was so quickly his.

"Perhaps one of us could talk to her," Fair urged.

"I tried."

"Marilyn," Maury folded his hands on the table, "she may resent you because you're a strong supporter of Sandy."

"I am," Little Mim said forthrightly, as Sandy tried not to grin from ear to ear. "We have put our differences behind us."

"I don't want to open a can of worms—after all that has happened—but there had been tension inside the administration, two camps, you might say, and we all know where April's sympathies rest," Fair said.

"As well as her body," Kendrick said, a bit too quickly.

"Come on, Kendrick!" Fair was disgusted. "We don't know that."

"I'm sorry," Kendrick said, "but she's grieving more than Naomi."

"That's inappropriate!" Maury banged the table, which surprised them all.

"She spent more time with him than his wife did." Kendrick held up his hands before him, palms outward, a calm-down signal.

"Who then will bell the cat?" Sandy returned to business, secretly loving this uproar.

No one raised a hand. An uncomfortable silence hung over the conference room.

Finally Maury sighed. "I can try. I have little history with her, which under the circumstances seems an advantage. And Roscoe and I were close friends." Little Mini smiled wanly. "Thank you, Maury, no matter what the consequences." "Hear, hear!"

Sandy noticed the lights were on in the gymnasium after the meeting adjourned. He threw on his scarf and his tweed jacket, crossing the quad to see what activity was in progress. He couldn't remember, but then he had a great deal on his mind.

Ahead of him, striding through the darkness, was Maury McKinchie, hands jammed into the pockets of an expensive lambskin jacket.

"Maury, where are you going?"

"Fencing exhibition." Maury's voice was level but he had little enthusiasm for Sandy Brashiers.

"Oh, Lord, I forgot all about it." Sandy recalled the university fencing club was visiting St. Elizabeth's hoping to find recruits for the future. One of Coach Hallvard's pet projects was to introduce fencing at the secondary-school level. It was her sport. She coached field hockey and lacrosse, and had even played on the World Cup lacrosse team in 1990, but fencing was her true love.

Sandy jogged up to Maury. "I'm starting to feel like the absent-minded professor."

"Goes with the territory," came the flat reply.

"I know how you must feel, Maury, and I'm sorry. Losing a friend is never easy. And I know Roscoe did not favor me. We were just—too different to really get along. But we both wanted the best for St. Elizabeth's."

"I believe that."

"I'm glad you're on the board. We can use someone whose vision and experience is larger than Albemarle County. I hope we can work together."

"Well, we can try. I'm going to keep my eye on things, going to try to physically be here, too—until some equilibrium is achieved.

Both men sidestepped the volatile question of a film department. And neither man yet knew that Roscoe had been poisoned, which would have cast a pall over their conversation.

Sandy smiled. "This must seem like small beer to you—after Hollywood."

Maury replied, "At least you're doing something important: teaching the next generation. That was one of the things I most respected about Roscoe."

"Ah, but the question is, what do we teach them?"

"To ask questions." Maury opened the gym door for Sandy.

"Thank you." Sandy waited as Maury closed the door.

The two men found places in the bleachers.

Sean Hallahan was practicing thrusts with Roger Davis, not quite so nimble as the football player.

Karen Jensen, face mask down, parried with a University of Virginia sophomore.

Brooks and Jody attacked each other with epees.

Jody flipped up her mask. "I want to try the saber."

"Okay." Coach Hallvard switched Roger and Sean from saber to epee, giving the girls a chance at the heavier sword.

"Feels good," Jody said.

Brooks picked up the saber, resuming her position. Jody slashed at her, pressing as Brooks retreated.

Hallvard observed this burst of aggression out of the corner of her eye. "Jody, give me the saber."

Jody hesitated, then handed over the weapon. She walked off the gym floor, taking the bleacher steps two at a time to sit next to Maury.

"How did you like it?" he asked her.

"Okay."

"I never tried fencing. You need quick reflexes."

"Mr. McKinchie." She lowered her voice so Sandy Brashiers wouldn't hear. His attention was focused on the UVA fencers. "Have you seen the BMW Z3, the retro sports car? It's just beautiful."

"It is a great-looking machine." He kept his eyes on the other students.

"I want a bright red one." She smiled girlishly, which accentuated her smashing good looks.

He held his breath for an instant, then exhaled sharply. She squeezed his knee, then jumped up gracefully and rejoined her teammates.

Karen Jensen flipped up her face mask, glaring at Jody, who glared right back. "Did you give out already?"

"No, Coach took away my saber."

Roger, in position, lunged at Brooks. "Power thighs."

"Sounds—uh—" Brooks giggled, not finishing her sentence.

"You never know what's going to happen at St. E's." With Sean in tow, Karen joined them. "At least this is better than shooting those one-minute stories. I hated that."

"If it's not sports, you don't like it," Jody blandly commented on Karen's attitude.

"Took too long." Karen wiped her brow with a towel. "All that worrying about light. I thought our week of film studies was one of the most boring things we ever did."

"When did this happen?" Brooks asked.

"First week of school," Karen said. "Lucky you missed it."

"That's why Mr. Fletcher and Mr. McKinchie are, I mean, were, so tight," Sean said. " 'Cause Mr. Fletcher said if we are to be a modern school, then we have to teach modern art forms."

"Stick with me, I'll make you a star." Jody mimicked the dead headmaster.

"Mr. McKinchie said he'd try to get old equipment donated to the school."

"I didn't think it was boring," Sean told Brooks.

"Mr. Fletcher said we'd be the only prep school in the nation with a hands-on film department," Karen added. "Hey, see you guys in a minute." She left to talk to one of the young men on the fencing team. Sean seethed.

"She likes older men," Jody tormented him.

"At least she likes men," Sean, mean-spirited, snarled at her.

"Drop dead, Hallahan," Roger said.

Jody, surprisingly calm considering her behavior the last two weeks, replied, "He can call me anything he wants, Roger. I couldn't care less. This dipshit school is not the world, you know. It's just his world."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Sean, angry, took it out on Jody.

"You're a big frog in a small pond. Like—who cares?" She smiled, a hint of malice in her eyes. "Karen's after bigger game than a St. Elizabeth halfback."

Sean's eyes followed Karen.

"She's not the only woman in the world." He feigned indifference.

"No, but she's the one you want," Jody said, needling him more.

Roger gently put his hand under Brooks's elbow, wheeling her away from the squabbling Jody and Sean. "Would you go with me to the Halloween dance?"

"Uh—" She brightened. "Yes."

30

Harry dropped the feed scoop in the sweet feed when the phone rang in the tack room.

She hurried in and picked up the phone. It was 6:30 a.m.

"Miranda, it had to be you."

"Just as Rick Shaw said, the story of Roscoe's poisoning is finally in the paper. But no one is using the word 'murder.' '

"Huh—well, what does it say?"

"There's the possibility of accidental ingestion, but deliberate poisoning can't be ruled out. Rick's soft-pedaling it."

"What has me baffled is the motive. Roscoe was a good headmaster. He liked the students. They liked him, and the parents did, too. There's just something missing—or who knows, maybe it was random, like when a disgruntled employee put poison in Tylenol.

"That was heinous."

"Except—I don't know—I'm just lost. I can't think of any reason for him to be killed."

"He wasn't rich. He appeared to have no real enemies. He had disagreements with people like Sandy Brashiers, but"—Miranda stopped to cough—"well, I guess that's why we have a sheriff's department. If there is something, they'll find it."

"You're right," Harry responded with no conviction whatsoever.

31

The repeated honking of a car horn brought Harry to the front window of the post office. Tucker, annoyed, started barking. Mrs. Murphy opened one eye. Then she opened both eyes.

"Would you look at that?" Harry exclaimed.

Miranda, swathed in an old cashmere cardigan—she was fighting off the sniffles—craned her neck. "Isn't that the cutest thing you ever saw?"

Pewter bustled out of Market's store. She had put in an appearance today, primarily because she knew sides of pork would be carried in to hang in the huge back freezer.

Jody Miller, her black eye fading, emerged from a red BMW sports car. The fenders were rounded, the windshield swept back at an appealing angle. She hopped up the steps to the post office.

Harry opened the door for her. "What a beautiful car!"

"I know." The youngster shivered with delight.

"Did your father buy you that?" Miranda thought of her little Ford Falcon. As far as she was concerned, the styling was as good as this far more expensive vehicle's.

"No, I bought it myself. When Grandpa died, he left money for me, and it's been drawing interest. It finally made enough to buy a new car!"

"Has everyone at school seen it?" Harry asked.

"Yeah, and are they jealous."

Since she was the first student to come in to pick up mail that day, neither woman knew what the kids' responses were to the newspaper story.

"How are people taking the news about Mr. Fletcher?" Miranda inquired.

Jody shrugged. "Most people think it was some kind of accident. People are really mad at Sean, though. A lot of kids won't talk to him now. I'm not talking to him either."

"Rather a strange accident," Miranda mumbled.

"Mr. Fletcher was kind of absentminded." Jody bounced the mail on the counter, evening it. "I liked him. I'll miss him, too, but Dad says people have a shelf life and Mr. Fletcher's ran out. He said there really aren't accidents. People decide when to go."

"Only the Lord decides that." Miranda firmly set her jaw.

"Mrs. Hogendobber, you'll have to take that up with Dad. It's"—she glanced at the ceiling, then back at the two women—"too deep for me. 'Bye." She breezed out the door.

"Kendrick sounds like a misguided man—and a cold-blooded one." Miranda shook her head as Pewter popped through the animal door, sending the flap whapping.

"Hey, I'd look good in that car."

"Pewter, you need a station wagon." Mrs. Murphy jabbed at her when she jumped on the counter.

"I am growing weary, very weary, of these jokes about my weight. I am a healthy cat. My bones are different from yours. I don't say anything about your hair thinning on your belly."

"Is not!"

" Mmm ." The gray cat was noncommittal, which infuriated the tiger.

"Do cats get bald?" Tucker asked.

"She is."

"Pewter, I am not." Mrs. Murphy flopped on her back, showing the world her furry tummy.

Harry noticed this brazen display. "Aren't you the pretty puss?"

"Bald."

"Am not." Mrs. Murphy twisted her head to glare at Pewter.

"Wouldn't you love to know what this is about?" Harry laughed.

"Yes, I would." Miranda looked at the animals pensively. "How do I know they aren't talking about us?"

"And this coming from a woman who didn't like cats."

"Well—"

"You used to rail at me for bringing Mrs. Murphy and Tucker to work, and you said it was unclean for Market to have Pewter in the store."

Mrs. Hogendobber tickled Mrs. Murphy's stomach. "I have repented of my ways. 'O Lord, how manifold are thy works! In wisdom hast thou made them all: the earth is full of thy riches.' Psalm one hundred four." She smiled. "Cats and dogs are part of His riches."

As if on cue, the Reverend Herbert Jones strolled in. "Girls."

"Herb, how are you?"

"Worried." He opened his mailbox, the metal rim clicking when it hit the next box because he opened it hard. ' 'Roscoe Fletcher murdered . . ."He shook his head.

"The paper didn't say he was murdered—just poisoned," Harry said.

"Harry, I've known you all your life. You think he was murdered, just as I do."

"I do. I wanted to see if you knew something I didn't," she replied sheepishly.

"You think his wife killed him?" Herb closed the mailbox, ignoring her subterfuge.

"I don't know," Harry said slowly.

"Fooling around, I'll bet you," Miranda commented.

"A lot of men fool around. That doesn't mean they're killed for it." Herb lightly slapped the envelopes against his palm.

Miranda shook her head. "Perhaps retribution is at work, but there's something eerie about Roscoe's obituary appearing in the paper. The murderer was advertising!"

"Some kind of power trip." He paused, staring at Mrs. Murphy. "And Sean Hallahan is the cat's-paw."

"Yes, Herb, just so." Miranda removed her half glasses to clean them. "I know I've harped to Harry about the obituary, but it upsets me so much. I can't get it out of my mind."

"So the killer, who I still say is a coward, is taunting us?"

"No, Harry, the killer was taunting Roscoe, although I doubt he recognized that. He thought it was a joke, I really believe that. The killer was someone or is someone he discounted." Herb waved his envelopes with an emphatic flourish. "And Sean Hallahan was the fall

guy ."

"In that case I wouldn't want to be in Maury McKinchie's shoes or Sean's."

"Me neither." Harry echoed Miranda.

"Then perhaps the killer is someone we've discounted." The Reverend Jones pointed his envelopes at Harry.

"You've got to be pushed to the edge to kill. Being ignored or belittled isn't a powerful enough motive to kill," Harry said sensibly.

"I agree with you there." Herb's deep voice filled the room. "There's more to it. You think Rick is guarding McKinchie?"

"I'll ask him." Miranda picked up the phone. She explained their thinking to Rick, who responded that he, too, had considered that Maury and Sean might be in jeopardy. He didn't have enough people in the department for a guard, but he sent officers to cruise by the farm. Maury himself had hired a bodyguard. Rick requested that Miranda, Harry, and Herb stop playing amateur detective.

Miranda then replayed this information minus the crack about being amateurs.

"Cool customer," Herb said.

"Huh?"

"Harry, Maury never said anything about a bodyguard."

"I'd sure tell—if for no other reason than hoping it got back to the killer. It'd put him on notice."

"Miranda, the killer could be in Paris by now," Herb said.

"No." Miranda pushed aside the mail cart. "We'd know who it is then. The killer can't go, and furthermore, he or she doesn't want to go."

"The old girl is cooking today, isn't she?" Pewter meowed admiringly.

"That body in the Toyota has something to do with this," Mrs. Murphy stated firmly.

"Nah."

"Pewter, when we get home tonight, I'll take you there," Mrs. Murphy promised.

"I'm not walking across all those fields in the cold."

"Fine." Mrs. Murphy stomped away from her.

Susan walked in the backdoor. "Harry, you've got to help me."

"Why?"

"Danny's in charge of the Halloween maze at Crozet High this year. I forgot and like an idiot promised to be a chaperon at the St. Elizabeth's Halloween dance."

"You still haven't figured out how to be in two places at the same time?" Harry laughed at her. As they had exhaustively discussed Roscoe's demise over the phone, there was no reason to repeat their thoughts.

"All the St. Elizabeth's kids will go through the maze and then go on to their own dance." Susan paused. "I can't keep everyone's schedules straight. I wouldn't even remember my own name if it wasn't sewn inside my coat."

"I'll do it"—Harry folded her arms across her chest—"and extract my price later."

"I do not have enough money to buy you a new truck." Susan caught her mail as Harry tossed it to her, a blue nylon belt wrapped around it. "Actually, your truck looks new now that you've painted it."

"Everything on our farm is Superman blue," Murphy cracked, "even the manure spreader."

That evening Mrs. Murphy and Tucker discussed how to lure a human to the ditched car. They couldn't think of a way to get Harry to follow them for that great a distance. A human might go one hundred yards or possibly even two hundred yards, but after that their attention span wavered.

"I think we'll have to trust to luck." Tucker paced the barn center aisle.

"You know, they say that killers return to the scene of the crime." Mrs. Murphy thought out loud.

"That's stupid," Pewter interjected. "If they had a brain in their head, they'd get out of there as fast as they could."

"The emotion. Murder must be a powerful emotion for them. Maybe they go back to tap into that power." The tiger, on the rafters, passed over the top of Gin Fizz's stall.

Pewter, curled on a toasty horse blanket atop the tack trunk, disagreed. "Powerful or not, it would be blind stupid to go down Bowden's Lane. Think about it."

"I am thinking about it! I can't figure out how to get somebody out there."

"You really don't want Mother to see it, do you?" Tucker saw a shadowy little figure zip into a stall. "Mouse."

"I know." Mrs. Murphy focused on the disappearing tail. "Does it to torment. Anyway, you're right. It's a grisly sight, and it would give Mother nightmares. Didn't like it much myself, and we're tougher about those things than humans."

"In the old days humans left their criminals hanging from gibbets or rotting in cages. They put heads on the gates in London." Tucker imagined a city filled with the aroma of decay, quite pleasing to a dog.

"Those days are long gone. Death is sanitized now." Pewter watched the mouse emerge and dash in the opposite direction. "What is this, the Mouse Olympics?"

A squeaky laugh followed this remark.

"Those mice have no respect," Tucker grumbled.

32

Hands patiently folded in his lap, Rick sat in the Hallahan living room. Sean, his mother, father, and younger brother sat listening.

Cynthia had perched on the raised fireplace hearth and was taking notes.

"Sean, I don't want to be an alarmist, but if you did not act alone in placing that obituary, you've got to tell me. The other person may have pertinent information about Mr. Fletcher's death."

"So he was murdered?" Mr. Hallahan exclaimed.

Rick soothingly replied, opening his hands for effect, "I'm a sheriff. I have to investigate all possibilities. It could have been an accident."

Sean, voice clear, replied, "I did it. Alone. I wish I hadn't done it. Kids won't talk to me at school. I mean, some will, but others are acting like I killed him. It's like I've got the plague."

Sympathetically Cooper said, "It will pass, but we need your help."

Rick looked at each family member. "If any of you know anything, please, don't hold back."

"I wish we did," Mrs. Hallahan, a very pretty brunette, replied.

"Did anyone ever accompany your son on his paper route?"

"Sheriff, not to my knowledge." Mr. Hallahan crossed and un crossed his legs, a nervous habit. "He lost the route, as I'm sure you know.

"Sean?" Rick said.

"No. No one else wanted to get up that early."

Rick stood up. "Folks, if anything comes to mind—anything— call me or Deputy Cooper."

"Are we in danger?" Mrs. Hallahan asked sensibly.

"If Sean is telling the truth—no."

33

Later that evening Sean walked into the garage to use the telephone. His father had phones in the bathrooms, bedrooms, kitchen, and in his car. Sean felt the garage was the most private place; no one would walk in on him.

He dialed and waited. "Hello."

"What do you want?"

"I don't appreciate you not talking to me at school. That's a crock of shit.

Jody seethed on the other end of her private line. "That's not why I'm ignoring you."

"Oh?" His voice dripped sarcasm.

"I'm ignoring you because you've got a crush on Karen Jensen. I was just convenient this summer, wasn't I?"

A pause followed this astute accusation. "You said we were friends, Jody. You said—"

"I know what I said, but I hardly expected us to go back to school and you try to jump Karen's bones. Jeez."

"I am not trying to jump her bones."

"You certainly jumped mine. I can't believe I was that stupid."

"Stupid. You wanted to do it as much as I did."

"Because I liked you."