Murder On The Prowl

"Well, I liked you, too, but we were friends. It wasn't a"—he thought for a neutral word—"like a hot romance. Friends."

"Friends don't sleep with each other's best friends . . . and besides, you wouldn't be the first."

"First what?"

"First guy to sleep with Karen. She tells me everything."

"Who did she sleep with?" Tension and a note of misery edged his voice.

"That's for me to know and for you to find out," she taunted. "I'm never letting you touch me again." As an afterthought she added, "And you can't drive my BMW either!"

"Do your parents know about the car?" he asked wearily, his brain racing for ways to get the information about Karen from Jody.

"No."

"Jody, if you had wanted . . . more, I wish you'd told me then, not now. And if you don't speak to me at school, people will think it's because of the obit."

"All you think about is yourself. What about me?"

"I like you." He wasn't convincing.

"I'm convenient."

"Jody, we have fun together. This summer was—great."

"But you've got the hots for Karen."

"I wouldn't put it like that."

"You'd better forget all about Karen. First of all, she knows you've slept with me. She's not going to believe a word you say. And furthermore, I can make life really miserable for you if I feel like it. I'll tell everyone you gave me my black eye."

"Jody, I never told anyone I slept with you. Why would you tell?" He ignored the black eye threat. Jody had told him her father gave her the black eye.

"Because I felt like it." Exasperated, she hung up the phone, leaving a dejected Sean shivering in the garage.

34

Larry Johnson removed his spectacles, rubbing the bridge of his nose where they pinched it. He replaced them, glanced over Jody Miller's file, and then left his office, joining her in an examining room.

"How are you?"

"I'm okay, I think." She sat on the examining table when he motioned for her to do so.

"You were just here in August for your school physical."

"I know. I think it's stupid that I have to have a physical before every season. Coach Hallvard insists on it."

"Every coach insists on it." He smiled. "Now what seems to be the problem?"

"Well"—Jody swallowed hard—"I, uh, I've missed my period for two months in a row."

"I see." He touched his stethoscope. "Have you been eating properly?"

"Uh—I guess."

"The reason I ask that is often female athletes, especially the ones in endurance sports, put the body under such stress that they go without their period for a time. It's the body's way of protecting itself because they couldn't bring a baby to term. Nature is wise."

"Oh." She smiled reflexively. "I don't think field hockey is one of those sports."

"Next question." He paused. "Have you had sexual relations?"

"Yes—but I'm not telling."

"I'm not asking." He held up his hand like a traffic cop. "But there are a few things I need to know. You're seventeen. Have you discussed this with your parents?"

"No," she said quickly.

"I see."

"I don't talk to them. I don't want to talk to them."

"I understand."

"No, you don't."

"Let's start over, Jody. Did you use any form of birth control?"

"No."

"Well, then"—he exhaled—"let's get going."

He took blood for a pregnancy test, at the same time pulling a vial of blood to be tested for infectious diseases. He declined to inform Jody of this. If something turned up, he'd tell her then.

"I hate that." She turned away as the needle was pulled from her arm.

"I do, too." He held the small cotton ball on her arm. "Did your mother ever talk to you about birth control?"

"Yes."

"I see."

She shrugged. "Dr. Johnson, it's not as easy as she made it sound."

"Perhaps not. The truth is, Jody, we don't really understand human sexuality, but we do know that when those hormones start flowing through your body, a fair amount of irrationality seems to flow with them. And sometimes we turn to people for comfort during difficult times, and sex becomes part of the comfort." He smiled. "Come back on Friday." He glanced at his calendar. "Umm, make it Monday."

"All right." She paled. "You won't tell anyone, will you?"

"No. Will you?"

She shook her head no.

"Jody, if you can't talk to your mother, you ought to talk to another older woman. Whether you're pregnant or not, you might be surprised to learn that you aren't alone. Other people have felt what you're feeling."

"I'm not feeling much."

He patted her on the back. "Okay, then. Call me Monday."

She mischievously winked as she left the examining room.

35

Not wishing to appear pushy, Sandy Brashiers transferred his office to the one next to Roscoe Fletcher's but made no move to occupy the late headmaster's sacred space.

April Shively stayed just this side of rude. If Naomi asked her to perform a chore, retrieve information, or screen calls, April complied. She and Naomi had a cordial, if not warm, relationship. If Sandy asked, she found a variety of ways to drag her heels.

Although the jolt of Roscoe's death affected her every minute of the day, Naomi Fletcher resumed her duties as head of the lower school. She needed the work to keep her mind from constantly returning to the shock, and the lower school needed her guidance during this difficult time.

During lunch hour, Sandy walked to Naomi's office, then both of them walked across the quad to the upper school administration building—Old Main.

"Becoming the leader is easier than being the teacher, isn't it?" Naomi asked him.

"I guess for these last seven years I've been the loyal opposition." He tightened the school scarf around his neck. "I'm finding out that no matter what decision I make there's someone to 'yes' me, someone to 'no' me, and everyone to second-guess me. It's curious to realize how people want to have their own way without doing the work.

She smiled. "Monday morning quarterbacks. Roscoe used to say that they never had to take the hits." She wiggled her fingers in her fur-lined gloves. "He wasn't your favorite person, Sandy, but he was an effective headmaster."

"Yes. My major disagreement with Roscoe was not over daily operations. You know I respected his administrative skills. My view of St. Elizabeth's curriculum was one hundred eighty degrees from his, though. We must emphasize the basics. Take, for instance, his computer drive. Great. We've got every kid in this school computer literate. So?" He threw up his hands. "They stare into a lighted screen. Knowing how to use the technology is useless if you have nothing to say, and the only way you can have something to say is by studying the great texts of our culture. The computer can't read and comprehend The Federalist Papers for them."

"Teaching people to think is an ancient struggle," she said. "That's why I love working in the lower school . . . they're so young . . . their minds are open. They soak up everything."

He opened the door for her. They stepped into the administration building, which also had some classrooms on the first floor. A blast of warm radiator heat welcomed them.

They climbed the wide stairs to the second floor, entering Roscoe's office from the direction that did not require them to pass April's office.

She was on her hands and knees putting videotapes into a cardboard box. The tapes had lined a bottom shelf of the bookcase.

"April, I can do that," Naomi said.

Not rising, April replied, "These are McKinchie's. I thought I'd return them to him this afternoon.'' She held up a tape of Red River. "He lent us his library for film history week."

"Yes, he did, and I forgot all about it." Naomi noticed the girls of the field hockey team leaving the cafeteria together. Karen Jensen, in the lead, was tossing an apple to Brooks Tucker.

"April, I'll be moving into this office next week. I can't conduct meetings in that small temporary office. Will you call Design Interiors for me? I'd like them to come out here." Sandy's voice was clear.

"What's wrong with keeping things just as they are? It will save money." She dropped more tapes into the box, avoiding eye contact.

"I need this office to be comfortable—"

"This is comfortable," she interrupted.

"—for me," he continued.

"Well, you might not be appointed permanent headmaster. The board will conduct a search. Why spend money?"

"April, that won't happen before this school year is finished." Naomi stepped in, kind but firm. "Sandy needs our support in order to do the best job he can for St. Elizabeth's. Working in Roscoe's shadow"—she indicated the room, the paintings—"isn't the way to do that."

April scrambled to her feet. "Why are you helping him? He dogged Roscoe every step of the way!"

Naomi held up her hands, still gloved, in a gesture of peace. "April, Sandy raised issues inside our circle that allowed us to prepare for hard questions from the board. He wasn't my husband's best friend, but he has always had the good of St. Elizabeth's at heart."

April clamped her lips shut. "I don't want to do it, but I'll do it for you." She picked up the carton and walked by Sandy, closing the door behind her.

He exhaled, jamming his hands in his pockets. "Naomi, I don't ask that April be fired. She's given long years of service, but there's absolutely no way I can work with her or her with me. I need to find my own secretary—and that will bump up the budget."

She finally took off her gloves to sit on the edge of Roscoe's massive desk. "We'll have to fire her, Sandy. She'll foment rebellion from wherever she sits."

"Maybe McKinchie could use her. He has enough money, and she'd be happy in his little home office."

"She won't be happy anywhere." Naomi hated this whole subject. "She was so in love with Roscoe—I used to tease him about it. No one will ever measure up to him in her eyes. You know, I believe if he had asked her to walk to hell and back, she would have." She smiled ruefully. "Of course, she didn't have to live with him."

"Well, I won't ask her to walk that far, but I guess you're right. She'll have to go."

"Let's talk to Marilyn Sanburne first. Perhaps she'll have an idea—or Mim."

"Good God, Mim will run St. Elizabeth's if you let her." "The world." Naomi swung her legs to and fro. "St. Elizabeth's is too small a stage for Mim the Magnificent."

April opened the door. "I know you two are talking about me." "At this precise moment we were talking about Mim." Sourly, April shut the door. Sandy and Naomi looked at each other and shrugged.

36

"How did I get roped into this?" Harry complained.

Her furry family said nothing as she fumbled with her hastily improvised costume. Preferring a small group of friends to big parties, Harry had to be dragged to larger affairs. Even though this was a high school dance and she was a chaperon, she still had to unearth something to wear, snag a date, stand on her feet, and chat up crashing bores. She thought of the other chaperons. One such would be Maury McKinchie, fascinating to most people but not to Harry. Since he was a chaperon, she'd have to gab with him. His standard fare, those delicious stories of what star did what and to whom on his various films, filled her with ennui. Had he been a hunting man she might have endured him, but he was not. He also appeared much too interested in her breasts. Maury was one of those men who didn't look you in the eye when he spoke to you—he spoke to your breasts.

Sandy Brashiers she liked until he grew waspish about the other faculty at St. Elizabeth's. With Roscoe dead he would need to find a new whipping boy. Still, he looked her in the eye when he spoke to her, and that was refreshing.

Ed Sugarman collected old cigarette advertisements. He might expound on the chemical properties of nicotine, but if she could steer him toward soccer, he proved knowledgeable and entertaining.

Coach Hallvard could be lively. Harry then remembered that the dreaded Florence Rubicon would be prowling the dance floor. Harry's Latin ebbed away with each year but she remembered enough Catullus to keep the old girl happy.

Harry laughed to herself. Every Latin teacher and subsequent professor she had ever studied under had been an odd duck, but there was something so endearing about them all. She kept reading Latin partly to bask in the full bloom of eccentricity.

"I can't wear this!" Harry winced, throwing off a tight pump. The patent leather shoe scuttled across the floor. She checked the clock, groaning anew.

"There's time," Mrs. Murphy said. "Can the tuxedo. It isn't you."

"I fed you."

"Don't be obtuse. Get out of the tuxedo." Murphy spoke louder, a habit of hers when humans proved dense. "You need something with imagination."

"Harry doesn't have imagination," Tucker declared honestly.

"She has good legs," Pewter replied.

"What does that have to do with imagination?" Tucker wanted to know.

"Nothing, but she should wear something that shows off her legs."

Mrs. Murphy padded into the closet. "There's one sorry skirt hanging in here."

"I didn't even know Mom owned a skirt."

"This has to be a leftover from college." The tiger inspected the brown skirt.

Pewter joined her. "I thought she was going to clean out her closet?"

"She organized her chest of drawers; that's a start."

The two cats peered upward at the skirt, then at each other.

"Shall we?"

"Let's." Pewter's eyes widened.

They reached up, claws unsheathed, and shredded the skirt.

" Wheee !" They dug in.

Harry, hearing the sound of cloth shredding, poked her head in the closet, the single light bulb swaying overhead. "Hey!"

With one last mighty yank, Mrs. Murphy scooted out of the closet. Pewter, a trifle slower, followed.

Harry, aghast, took out the skirt. "I could brain you two. I've had this skirt since my sophomore year at Crozet High."

"We know," came the titters from under the bed.

"Cats can be so destructive." Tucker's soulful eyes brimmed with sympathy.

"Brownnoser!" Murphy accused.

"I am a mighty cat. What wondrous claws have I. I can rip and tear and even shred the sky," Pewter sang.

"Great. Ruin my skirt and now caterwaul underneath the bed." Harry knelt down to behold four luminous chartreuse eyes peeking at her. "Bad kitties."

" Hee hee ."

"I mean it. No treats for you."

Pewter leaned into Murphy. "This is your fault."

"Sell me out for a treatie." Mrs. Murphy bumped her.

Harry dropped the dust ruffle back down. She stared at the ruined skirt.

Murphy called out from her place of safety, "Go as a vagabond. You know, go as one of those poor characters from a Victor Hugo novel."

"Wonder if I could make a costume out of this?"

"She got it!" Pewter was amazed.

"Don't count your chickens." Mrs. Murphy slithered out from under the bed. "I'll make sure she puts two and two together."

With that she launched herself onto the bed and from the bed she hurtled toward the closet, catching the clothes. She hung there, swaying, then found the tattiest shirt she could find. She sank her claws in and slid down to the floor, the intoxicating sound of rent fabric heralding her descent.

"You're crazy!" Harry dashed after her, but Murphy blasted into the living room, jumped on a chair arm, then wiggled her rear end as though she was going to leap into the bookshelves filled not only with books but with Harry's ribbons and trophies. "Don't you dare."

"Then leave me alone," Murphy sassed, "and put together your vagabond costume. Time's a-wasting."

The human and the cat squared off, eye to eye. "You're in a mood, pussycat."

Tucker tiptoed out. Pewter remained under the bed, straining to hear.

"What's got into you?"

"It's Halloween," Murphy screeched.

Harry reached over to grab the insouciant feline, but Mrs. Murphy easily avoided her. She hopped to the other side of the chair, then ran back into the bedroom where she leapt into the clothes and tore them up some more.

"Yahoo! Banzai! Death to the Emperor!"

"Have you been watching those World War Two movies again?" Tucker laughed.

"Don't shoot until you see the whites of their eyes." Murphy leapt in the air, turning full circle and landing in the middle of the clothes.

"She's on a military kick." Pewter snuck out from under the bed. "If you get us both punished, Murphy, I will be really upset."

Murphy catapulted off the bed right onto Pewter. The two rolled across the bedroom floor, entertaining Harry with their catfight.

Finally Pewter, put out, extricated herself from the grasp of Murphy. She stalked off to the kitchen.

"Fraidycat."

"Mental case," Pewter shot back.

"Anything that happens tonight will be dull after this," Harry said with a sigh.

Boy, did she have a wrong number.

37

Little Mim, taut under her powdered face, wig hobbling, wandered across the highly polished gym floor to Harry. At least she thought it was Harry because the vagabond's escort, a pirate, was too tall to be anyone but Fair.

The dance was turning into a huge success, thanks to the band, Yada Yada Yada .

The curved sword, stuck through his sash, gave Fair a dangerous air. Other partyers wore swords. There was Stonewall Jackson and Julius Caesar. A few wore pistols that upon close examination turned out to be squirt guns.

Karen Jensen, behind a golden mask, drove the boys wild because she came as a golden-haired Artemis. Quite a bit of Karen was showing, and it was prime grade.

But then, quite a bit of Harry was showing, and that wasn't bad either.

Little Mim put her hand on Harry's forearm. ''Could I have a minute?"

"Sure. Fair, I'll be right back."

"Okay," he replied from under his twirling mustache.

Marilyn pulled Harry into a corner of the auditorium. Madonna and King Kong were making out behind them. King Kong was having a hard time of it.

"I hope you aren't cross with me. I should have called you."

"About what?"

"I asked Blair to the dance. Well, it wasn't just that I needed an escort, but I thought I might interest him in the school and—"

"I have no claim on him. Anyway, we're just friends," Harry said soothingly.

"Thanks. I'd hoped you'd understand." Her wig wobbled. "How did they manage with these things?" She glanced around. "Can you guess who Stonewall Jackson is?"

"Mmm, the paunch means he's a chaperon," Harry stated.

"Kendrick Miller."

"Where's Irene? It isn't World War Three yet with those two, is it?"

"Irene's over there. It'd be a perfect costume if she were twenty years younger. Some women can't accept getting old, I guess." She indicated the woodland fairy, the wings diaphanous over the thin wire. Then, lowering her voice, "Did you see April Shively? Dressed as a witch. How appropriate."

"I thought you liked April?"

Realizing she might have said too much, Little Mim backtracked. "She's not herself since Roscoe's death, and she's making life difficult for everyone from the board on down to the faculty. It will pass."

"Or she will," Harry joked.

"Two bewitching masked beauties." Maury McKinchie compli mented them from behind his Rhett Butler mask.

"What a line!" Harry laughed, her voice giving her away.

"May I have this dance?" Maury bowed to Harry, who took a turn on the floor.

Little Mim, happy she wasn't asked, hastened to Blair as fast as her wig would allow.

Sean Hallahan, dressed as a Hell's Angel, danced with Karen Jensen. After the dance ended, he escorted her off the floor. "Karen, is everyone mad at me?"

Jody, dragged along by her mother, glared at Sean. She was in a skeleton outfit that concealed her face, but Sean knew it was Jody.

"Jody is."

"Are you mad at me?"

"No."

"I feel like you've been avoiding me."

"Field hockey practice takes up as much time as football practice." She paused, clearing her throat. "And you've been a little weird lately—distant.

"Yeah, I know."

"Sean, you couldn't help the way things turned out—Mr. Fletcher's dying—and until then it was pretty funny. Even the phony obituary for Mr. McKinchie was funny."

"I didn't do that."

"I know, it was on Roger's paper route, and he says he didn't do it either."

"But I really didn't." He sensed her disbelief.

"Okay, okay."

"That's an incredible costume," he said admiringly.

"Thanks."

"Karen—do you like me a little?"

"A little," she said teasingly, "but what about Jody?"

"It's not—well, you know. We're close but not that way. We practiced a lot this summer and—"

"Practiced what?"

"Tennis. It's our spring sport." He swallowed hard.

"Oh." She remembered Jody's version of the summer.

"Will you go out with me next Friday after the game?"

"Yes," she said without hesitation.

He smiled, pushing her back out on the dance floor.

Coach Renee Hallvard, dressed as Garfield the cat, sidled up next to Harry.

"Harry, is that you?"

"Coach?"

"Yes, or should I say 'Meow'?"

"Wonder what Mrs. Murphy would say about this?"

Coach reached back, draping her tail over her arm. "Get a life."

They both laughed.

"She probably would say that."

"If you don't mind, I'll drop off this year's field hockey rule book on Monday."

"Why?" Harry murmured expectantly.

"I need a backup referee—just in case. You know the game."

"Oh, Coach. Make Susan do it."

"She can't." Coach Hallvard laughed at Harry. "Brooks is on the team."

"Well—okay."

Coach Hallvard clapped her on the back. "You're a good sport."

"Sucker is more like it."

Rhett Butler asked Harry to dance a second time. "You've got beautiful legs."

"Thank you," she murmured.

"I ought to give you a screen test."

"Get out of here." Harry thumped his back with her left hand.

"You're very attractive. The camera likes some people. It might like you." He paused. "What's so curious is that even professionals don't know who will be good on-screen and who won't."

"Rhett," she joked because she knew it was Maury, "I bet you say that to all the girls."

"Ha." He threw his head back and laughed. "Just the pretty ones."

"In fact, I heard you have a car full of vital essences, so you must have said something to BoomBoom."

"Oh!" His voice lowered. "What was I thinking?"

Part of Maury's charm was that he never pretended to be better than he was.

"Hey, I'll never tell."

"You won't have to. She will." He sighed, "You see, Harry, I'm a man who needs a lot of attention, female attention. I admit it."

Stonewall and Garfield, dancing near them, turned their heads. "You don't give a damn who you seduce and who you hurt. You don't need attention, you need your block knocked off," Kendrick Miller, as Stonewall, mumbled.

Rhett danced on. "Kendrick Miller, you're a barrel of laughs. I say what I think. You think being a repressed Virginian is a triumph. I think you're pathetic."

Kendrick stopped. Coach Hallvard stepped back.

"Guys. Chill out," Harry told them.

"I'll meet you after the dance, McKinchie. You say where and when."

"Are we going to fight a duel, Kendrick? Do I get the choice of weapons?"

"Sure."

"Pies. You need a pie in the face."

Harry dragged Maury backward. She had heard about Kendrick's flash temper.

"Since we can't use guns, we can start with fists," Kendrick called after him as Renee Hallvard pulled him in the direction opposite Maury.

As the dancers closed the spaces left by the vacating couples, a few noticed the minor hostilities. Fortunately, most of the students were wrapped up in the music and one another.

Jody put her hands on her hips, turned her back on her father, and walked to the water fountain. She had to take off the mask to drink.

"What a putz!" Maury shook his head.

"No one has ever accused Kendrick of having a good time or a sense of humor." Harry half laughed.

"Totally humorless." Maury emphasized the word. "Thank God his kid doesn't take after him. Funny thing, though, the camera liked Jody, and yet Karen Jensen is the more beautiful girl. I noticed that when we had our one-day film clinic."

"Hmm."

"Ah, the camera . . . it reveals things the naked eye can't see." He bowed. "Thank you, madam. Don't forget your screen test."

She curtseyed. "Sir." Then she whispered, "Where's your bodyguard?"

He winked. "I made that up."

Fair ambled over when he'd gone. "Slinging the bull, as usual?"

"Actually, we were talking about the camera . . . after he had a few words with Kendrick Miller. Testosterone poisoning."

"If you keep saying that, I'll counter with 'raging hormones.' "

"You do, anyway, behind our backs."

"I do not."

"Most men do."

"I'm not most men."

"No, you aren't." She slipped her arm through his.

The evening progressed without further incident, except that Sean Hallahan had a flask of booze in his motorcycle jacket. No one saw him drinking from it, but he swayed on his feet after each return from outside.

He got polluted, and when someone dressed as a Musketeer showed up at the party, sword in hand, and knocked him down, he couldn't get up.

As Yada Yada Yada played the last song of the evening, some of the kids began sneaking off. Roger and Brooks danced the last dance. They were a hit as Lucy and Desi.

A piercing scream didn't stop the dancers. After all, ghosts and goblins were about.

The piercing scream was followed by moans that seemed frightening enough. Finally, Harry and Fair left the dance to investigate. They found Rhett Butler lying bleeding on the hall floor, gasping for breath as the blood spurted from his throat and his chest. Bending over him, sword in hand, was a paunchy Stonewall Jackson.

38

Maury McKinchie died before the rescue squad arrived at St. Eliza beth's. Rick Shaw, sirens blaring, arrived seconds after his final gurgle.

Rick lifted Kendrick's bloodied sword from his hand.

"It wasn't me, it was the Musketeer. I fought him off, but it was too late," Kendrick babbled.

"Kendrick Miller, I am booking you under suspicion of murder. You have the right to remain silent ..." Rick began.

Harry, Fair, Little Mim, and the other chaperons quickly cordoned off the hallway leading to the big outside doors, making sure that Irene was hurried out of the gym. Florence Rubicon ushered the dancers out by another exit at the end of the gym floor. Still, a few kids managed to creep in to view the corpse.

Karen and Sean, both mute, simply stared.

Jody walked up behind them, her mask off, her hair tousled, the horror of the scene sinking in. "Dad? Dad, what's going on?"

Cynthia flipped open her notebook and started asking questions.

Sandy Brashiers, in a low voice, said to Little Mim, "People are going to yank their kids out of here. By Monday this school will be a ghost town."

39

A light brown stubble covered Rick Shaw's square chin. As his thinning hair was light brown, the contrast amused Cynthia Cooper, although little was amusing at the moment.

The ashtray in the office overflowed. The coffee machine pumped out cup after cup of the stimulant.

Cynthia regretted Maury McKinchie's murder, not just because a man was cut down, literally, but because Sunday, which would dawn in a couple of hours, was her day off. She had planned to drive over to the beautiful town of Monterey, almost on the West Virginia border. She'd be driving alone. Her job prevented her from having much of a social life. It wasn't that she didn't meet men. She did. Usually they were speeding seventy-five miles per hour in a fifty-five zone. They rarely smiled when they saw her, even though she was easy on the eyes. The roundup of drunks at the mall furnished her with scores of men, and they fell all over her—literally. The occasional white-collar criminal enlivened her harvest of captive males.

Over the last years of working together she and Rick had grown close. As he was a happily married man, not a hint of impropriety tainted their relationship. She relied on his friendship, hard won because when she joined the force as the first woman Rick was less than thrilled.

The one man she truly liked, Blair Bainbridge, set many hearts on fire. She felt she didn't have a chance.

Rick liked to work from flow charts. He'd started three, ultimately throwing out each of them.

"What time is it?"

"Five thirty."

"It's always darkest before the dawn." Rick quoted the old saw. He swung his feet onto his desktop. "I hate to admit that I'm stumped, but I am."

"We've got Kendrick Miller in custody."

"Not for long. He'll get a big-money lawyer, and that will be that. And it had occurred to me that Kendrick isn't the kind of man to get caught committing a murder. Standing over a writhing victim doesn't compute."

"Could have lost his head." She emptied her cup. She couldn't face another swig of coffee. "But you're not buying, are you?"

"No." He paused. "We deal in the facts. The facts are, he had a bloody sword in his hand."

"And there were two other partyers wearing swords. One of whom vanished into thin air."

"Or knew where to hide."

"Not one kid there knew who the Musketeer was or had heard him speak." Cooper leaned against the small sink in the corner of the old room. She held her fingers to her temples, which throbbed. "Boss, let's back up. Let's start with Roscoe Fletcher."

"I'm listening."

"Sandy Brashiers coveted Roscoe's job. They never saw eye to eye."

He held up his hand. "Granted, but killing to become headmaster of St. Elizabeth's—is the game worth the candle?"

"People have killed for less."

"You're right. You're right." He folded his hands over his chest and made a mental note to dig into Sandy's past.

"Anyone could have poisoned Roscoe. He left his car unlocked, his office unlocked. It wouldn't take a rocket scientist to put a hard candy drenched in poison in his car or in his pocket or to hand it to him. Anyone could do it."

"Who would want to do it, though?" She put her hands behind her head, "Not one trace of poison was found in the tin of strawberry hard candies in his car. And the way he handed out candy, half the county would be dead. So we know the killer had a conscience, sort of."

"That's a quaint way of looking at it."

"I have a hunch Roscoe was sleeping with Irene Miller." Cynthia shook her feet, which were falling asleep in her regulation shoes. "That would be a motive for the first murder."

"We have no proof that he was carrying on an extramarital affair."

Cynthia smirked. "This is Albemarle County."

Rick half laughed, then stood up to stretch. "Everyone's got secrets, Coop. The longer I work this show, the more I realize that every single person harbors secrets."

"What about that money in the Jiffy bag?" Cynthia said.

"Too many prints on the bag and not a single one on the money." Rick sighed. "I am flat running into walls. The obvious conclusion is drug money, but we haven't got one scrap of evidence."

Cynthia shot a rubber band in the air. It landed with a flop on Rick's desk. "These murders are tied together, I'll bet my badge on that, but what I can't figure out is what an expensive school like St. Elizabeth's has to do with it. All roads lead back to that school."

"Roscoe's murder was premeditated. Maury's was not—or so it

appears . Kendrick Miller has a tie to St. Elizabeth's, but—" He shrugged.

"But"—Cooper shot another rubber band straight in the air— "while we're just postulating—"

"Postulating? I'm pissing in the wind."

"You do that." She caught the rubber band as it fell back. "Listen to me. St. Elizabeth's is the tie. What if Fletcher and McKinchie were filching alumni contributions?"

"Kendrick Miller isn't going to kill over alumni misappropriations." He batted down her line of thought.

The phone rang. The on-duty operator, Joyce Thomson, picked it up.

Cynthia said, "I've always wanted to pick up the phone and say, 'Cops and Robbers.' "

Rick's line buzzed. He punched in the button so Cynthia could listen. "Yo."

"Sheriff," Joyce Thomson said, "it's John Aurieano. Mrs. Berry-hill's cows are on his land, and he's going to shoot them if you don't remove them."

Rick punched the line and listened to the torrent of outrage. "Mrs. Berryhill's a small woman, Mr. Aurieano. She can't round up her cattle without help, and it will take me hours to send someone over to help. We're shorthanded."

More explosions.

"Tell you what, I'll send someone to move them, but let me give you some friendly advice. . . . This is the country. Cows are part of the country, and I'll let you in on something quite shocking—they can't read 'No Trespassing' signs. You shoot the cows, Mr. Aurieano, and you're going to be in a lot more trouble than you can imagine. If you don't like the way things are, then move back to the city!" He put the phone down. "You know, there are days when this job is a real pain in the ass."

40

A subdued congregation received early-morning mass. Jody Miller and her mother, Irene, sat in a middle pew. The entire Hallahan family occupied a pew on the left. Samson Coles made a point of sitting beside Jody. Lucinda squeezed next to Irene. Whatever Kendrick Miller may or may not have done, the opprobrium shouldn't attach to his wife and child.

Still, parishioners couldn't help staring.

Rick and Cooper knelt in the back row. Rick's head bobbed as he started to drift off, and his forehead touched his hand. He jerked his head up. "Sorry," he whispered.

He and Cynthia waited in the vestibule while people shuffled out after the service. Curious looks passed among the churchgoers as everyone watched to see if the police would stop Irene. She and Jody passed Rick without looking right or left. The Hallahans nodded a greeting but kept moving.

Finally, disappointed, the rest of the congregation walked into the brisk air, started their cars, and drove away.

Rick checked his watch, then knocked on the door at the left of the vestibule.

"Who's there?" Father Michael called out, hearing the knock.

"Rick Shaw and Deputy Cooper."

Father Michael, wearing his robe and surplice, opened the door. "Come in, Sheriff, Deputy."

"I don't mean to disturb you on Sunday. I have a few quick questions, Father."

He motioned. "Come in. Sit down for a minute."

"Thanks." They stepped inside, collapsing on the old leather sofa. "We're beat. No sleep."

"I didn't sleep much myself. . . ."

"Have you been threatened, Father?" Rick's voice cracked from fatigue.

"No."

"In your capacity as chaplain to St. Elizabeth's, have you noticed anything unusual, say, within the faculty? Arguments with Roscoe? Problems with the alumni committee?"

Father Michael paused a long time, his narrow but attractive face solemn. "Roscoe and Sandy Brashiers were inclined to go at it. Nothing that intense, though. They never learned to agree to disagree, if you know what I mean."

"I think I do." Rick nodded. "Apart from the inviolate nature of the confessional, do you know or have you heard of any sexual improprieties involving Roscoe?"

"Uh—" The middle-aged man paused a long time again. "There was talk. But that's part and parcel of a small community."

"Any names mentioned?" Cynthia said. "Like Irene Miller, maybe?"

"No."

"What about Sandy Brashiers and Naomi Fletcher?"

"I'd heard that one. The version goes something like, Naomi tires of Roscoe's infidelities and enlists his enemy, or shall we say rival, to dispose of him."

Rick stood up. "Father, thank you for your time. If anything occurs to you or you want to talk, call me or Coop."

"Sheriff"—Father Michael weighed his words—"am I in danger?"

"I hope not," Rick answered honestly.

41

April Shively was arrested Monday morning at the school. She was charged with obstructing justice since she had consistently refused to hand over the school records, first to Sandy, then to the police. As she and Roscoe had worked hand in glove, not even Naomi knew how much April had removed and hidden.

Sandy Brashiers wasted no time in terminating her employment. On her way out of the school, April turned and slapped his face. Cynthia Cooper hustled her to the squad car.

St. Elizabeth's, deserted save for faculty, stood forlorn in the strong early November winds. Sandy and Naomi convened an emergency meeting of faculty and interested parties. Neither could answer the most important question: What was happening at St. Elizabeth's?

The Reverend Herbert C. Jones received an infuriating phone call from Darla McKinchie. No, she would not be returning to Albemarle County for a funeral service. She would be shipping her late husband's body to Los Angeles immediately. Would the Reverend please handle the arrangements with Dale and Delaney Funeral Home? She would make a handsome contribution to the church. Naturally, he agreed, but was upset by her high-handed manner and the fact that she cared so little for Maury's local friends, but then again, she seemed to care little for Maury himself.

Blue Monday yielded surprises every hour on the hour, it seemed. Jody Miller learned that yes, she was pregnant. She begged Dr. Larry Johnson not to call her mother. He wouldn't agree since she was under twenty-one, so she pitched a hissy fit right there in the examining room. Hayden Mclntire, the doctor's much younger partner, and two nurses rushed in to restrain Jody.

The odd thing was that when Irene Miller arrived it was she who cried, not Jody. The shame of an out-of-wedlock pregnancy cut Irene to the core. She was fragile enough, thanks to the tensions inside her house and now outside it as well. As for Jody, she had no shame about her condition, she simply didn't want to be pregnant. Larry advised mother and daughter to have a heart-to-heart but not in his examining room.

At twelve noon Kendrick Miller was released on $250,000 bail into the custody of his lawyer, Ned Tucker. At one in the afternoon, he told his divorce lawyer not to serve papers on Irene. She didn't need that crisis on top of this one, he said. What he really wanted was for Irene to stand beside him, but Kendrick being Kendrick, he had to make it sound as though he were doing his wife a big favor.

At two thirty he blasted Sandy Brashiers on the phone and said he was taking his daughter out of that sorry excuse for a school until things got straightened out over there. By three thirty the situation was so volatile that Kendrick picked up the phone and asked Father Michael for help. For him to admit he needed help was a step in the right direction.

By four forty-five the last surprise of the day occurred when BoomBoom Craycroft lost control of her shiny brand-new 7 series BMW. She had roared up the alleyway behind the post office where she spun in a 360-degree turn, smashing into Harry's blue Ford.

Hearing the crash, the animals rushed out of the post office. BoomBoom, without a scratch herself, opened the door to her metallic green machine, put one foot on the ground, and started to wail.

"Is she hurt?" Tucker ran over.

Mrs. Murphy, moving at a possum trot, declared, "Her essences are shaken."

In the collision the plastic case in which BoomBoom kept her potions slammed up against the dash, cracking and spilling out a concoction of rose, sage, and comfrey.

Harry opened the backdoor. "Oh, no!"

"I couldn't help it! My heel got stuck in the mat." BoomBoom wept.

Mrs. Hogendobber stuck her head out the door. Her body immediately followed. "Are you all right?"

"My neck hurts."

"Do you want me to call the rescue squad?" Harry asked, dubious but giving BoomBoom the benefit of the doubt.

"No. I'll go over to Larry's. It's probably whiplash." She viewed the caved-in side of the truck. "I'm insured, Harry, don't worry."

Harry sighed. Her poor truck. Tucker ran underneath to inspect the frame, which was undamaged. The BMW had suffered one little dent in the right fender.

Pewter, moving at a slower pace, walked around the truck. "We can still drive home in it. It's only the side that's bashed in."

"I'll call the sheriff's department." Miranda, satisfied that BoomBoom was fine, walked back into the post office.

Market Shiflett opened his backdoor. "I thought I heard something." He surveyed the situation.

Before he could speak, BoomBoom said, "No bones broken."

"Good." He heard the front door ring and ducked back into his store.

"Come inside." Harry helped her former rival out of the car. "It's cold out here."

"My heel stuck in that brand-new mat I bought." She pointed to a fuzzy mat with the BMW logo on it.

"BoomBoom, why wear high heels to run your errands?"

"Oh—well—" Her hand fluttered.

"Where have you been? You always come down to pick up your mail."

"I've been under the weather. These murders upset me."

Once inside, Mrs. Hogendobber brewed a strong cup of tea while they waited for someone to appear from the sheriff's department.

"I think it's dreadful that Darla McKinchie, that self-centered nothing of an actress, isn't having the service here." BoomBoom, revived by the tea, told them about Herb's phone call. She'd seen Herbie Jones at the florist.

"That is pretty cold-blooded." Harry bent down to tie her shoelaces. Mrs. Murphy helped.

"Someone should sponsor a service here."

"That would be lovely, BoomBoom, why don't you do it?" Miranda smiled, knowing she'd told BoomBoom to do what she wanted to do anyway.

After the officer left, having asked questions about the accident and taken pictures, the insurance agent showed up and did the same. Then he was gone, and finally BoomBoom herself left, which greatly relieved Harry, who strained to be civil to a woman she disliked. BoomBoom said she was too rattled to drive her car, so Lucinda Coles picked her up. BoomBoom left her car at the post office, keys in the ignition.

42

"April, cooperate, for Christ's sake." Cooper, exasperated, rapped her knuckles on the table.

"No, I'll stay here and live off the county for a while. My taxes paid for this jail." She pushed back a stray forelock.

"Removing documents pertinent to the murder of Roscoe Fletcher—''

April interrupted. "But they're not! They're pertinent to the operations of St. Elizabeth's, and that's none of your business."

Cooper slapped her hand hard on the table. "Embezzlement is my business!"

April, not one to be shaken by an accusation, pursed her lips. "Prove it."

Cynthia stretched her long legs, took a deep breath, counted to ten, and started anew. "You have an important place in this community. Don't throw it away to protect a dead man."

Folding her arms across her chest, April withdrew into hostile silence.

Cooper did likewise.

Twenty minutes later April piped up, "You can't prove I had an affair with him either. That's what everyone thinks. Don't give me this baloney about having an important place in the community."

"But you do. You're important to St. Elizabeth's."

April leaned forward, both elbows on the table. "I'm a secretary. That's nothing"—she made a gesture of dismissal with her hand— "to people around here. But I'm a damned good secretary."

"I'm sure you are."

"And"—she lurched forward a bit more—"Sandy Brashiers will ruin everything we worked for, I guarantee it. That man lives in a dream world, and he's sneaky. Well, he may be temporary headmaster, but headmaster of what! No one was at school today."

"You were."

"That's my job. Besides, no one is going to kill me—I'm too low on the totem pole."

"If you know why Roscoe was killed, they might."

"I don't know."

"If you did, would you tell me?"

A brief silence followed this question as a clap of thunder follows lightning.

Looking Cynthia square in the eye, April answered resolutely. "Yes. And I'll tell you something else. Roscoe had something on Sandy Brashiers. He never told me what it was, but it helped him keep Sandy in line."

"Any ideas—any ideas at all?"

"No." She gulped air. "I wish I knew. I really do."

43

Kendrick stared at Jody's red BMW as she exploded. "No! I paid for it with Grandpa K's money. He left the money to me, not you."

"He left it to pay for college, and you promised to keep it in savings." His face reddened.

Irene, attempting to defuse a full-scale blowup, stepped in. "We're all tired. Let's discuss this tomorrow." She knew perfectly well this was not the time to bring up the much larger issue of Jody's pregnancy.

"Stop protecting her," Kendrick ordered.

"You know, Dad, we're not employees. You can't order us around."

He slammed the side door of the kitchen, returning inside with the BMW keys in his hand. He dangled them under his daughter's nose. "You're not going anywhere."

She shrugged since she'd stashed away the second set of keys.

Kendrick calmed down for a moment. "Did you pick the car up today?"

"Uh—"

"No, she's had it for a few days."

"Three days."

Irene didn't know how long Jody had had the car, but that was hardly a major worry. She'd become accustomed to her daughter's lying to her. Other parents said their children did the same, especially in the adolescent years, but Irene still felt uneasy about it. Getting used to something didn't mean one liked it.

"If you've had this car three days, where was it?"

"I lent it to a friend."

"Don't lie to me!" The veins stood out in Kendrick's neck.

"Isn't it a little late to try and be a dad now?" she mumbled.

He backhanded her across the face hard. Tears sprang into her eyes. "The car goes back!"

"No way."

He hit her again.

"Kendrick, please!"

"Stay out of this."

"She's my daughter, too. She's made a foolish purchase, but that's how we learn, by making foolish mistakes," Irene pleaded.

"Where did you hide the car?" Kendrick bellowed.

"You can beat me to a pulp. I'll never tell you."

He raised his hand again. Irene hung on to it as Jody ducked. He threw his wife onto the floor.

"Go to your room."

Jody instantly scurried to her room.

Kendrick checked his watch. "It's too late to take the car back now. You can follow me over tomorrow."

Irene scrambled to her feet. "She'll lose a lot of money, won't she?"

"Twenty-one percent." He turned from Irene's slightly bedraggled form to walk into the kitchen, where he turned on the television to watch CNN.

He forgot or didn't care that Jody had a telephone in her room, which she used the second she shut her door.

"Hello, is Sean there?"

Moments later Sean picked up the phone.

"It's Jody."

"Oh, hi." He was wary.

"I just found out today that I'm pregnant."

A gasp followed. "What are you going to do?"

"Tell everyone it was you."

"You can't do that!"

"Why not? You didn't find me that repulsive this summer."

A flash of anger hit him. "How do you know it was me?"

"You asshole!" She slammed down the receiver.

A shaken, lonely Sean Hallahan put the receiver back on the cradle.

44

The front-office staff at Crozet High, frazzled by parental requests to accept transfers from St. Elizabeth's, stopped answering the phone. The line in the hall took precedence.

The middle school and grammar school suffered the same influx.

Sandy Brashiers took out an ad in the newspaper. He had had the presence of mind to place the full-page ad the moment Maury was killed. Given lag time, it ran today.

The ad stated that the board of directors and temporary headmaster regretted the recent incidents at St. Elizabeth's, but these involved adults, not students.

He invited parents to come to his office at Old Main Building or to visit him at home . . . and he begged parents not to pull their children out of the school.

A few parents read the ad as they stood in line.

Meanwhile, the St. Elizabeth's students were thoroughly enjoying their unscheduled vacation.

Karen Jensen had called Coach Hallvard asking that the hockey team be allowed to practice with Crozet High in the afternoon until things straightened out.

Roger Davis used the time to work at the car wash. Jody said she needed money, so she was there, too.

Karen borrowed her daddy's car, more reliable than her own old Volvo, and took Brooks with her to see Mary Baldwin College in Staunton . She was considering applying there but wanted to see it without her mom and dad.

The college was only thirty-five miles from Crozet.

"I'd rather finish out at St. Elizabeth's than go to Crozet High." Karen cruised along, the old station wagon swaying on the highway. "Transferring now could mess up my grade-point average, and besides, we're not the ones in danger. So I'd just as soon go back."

' 'My parents are having a fit." Brooks sighed and looked out the window as they rolled west down Waynesboro's Main Street.

"Everybody's are. Major weird. BoomBoom Craycroft said it's karma.

"Karma is celestial recycling," Brooks cracked.

"Three points."

"I thought so, too." She smiled. "It is bizarre. Do you think the killer is someone at St. Elizabeth's?"

"Sean." Karen giggled.

"Hey, some people really think he did kill Mr. Fletcher. And everyone thinks Mr. Miller skewered Mr. McKinchie. He just got out of jail because he's rich. He was standing over him, sword in hand."

Brooks stared at the sumac, reddening, by the side of the road as they passed the outskirts of Waynesboro. "Did you hear April Shively's in jail? Maybe she did it."

"Women don't kill," Karen said.

"Of course they do."

"Not like men. Ninety-five percent of all murders are committed by men, so the odds are it's a man."

"Karen, women are smarter. They don't get caught."

They both laughed as they rolled into Staunton on Route 250.

45

November can be a tricky month. Delightful warm interludes cast a soft golden glow on tree limbs, a few still sporting colorful leaves. The temperature hovers in the high fifties or low sixties for a few glorious days, then cold air knifes in, a potent reminder that winter truly is around the corner.

This was one of those coppery, warm days, and Harry sat out back of the post office eating a ham sandwich. Sitting in a semicircle at her feet, rapturous in their attentions, were Mrs. Murphy, Pewter, and Tucker.

Mrs. Hogendobber stuck her head out the backdoor. "Take your time with lunch. Nothing much is going on."

Harry swallowed so she wouldn't be talking with her mouth full. "It's a perfect, perfect day. Push the door open and sit out here with me."

"Bring a sandwich," Pewter requested.

"Later. I am determined to reorganize the back shelves. Looks like a storm hit them."

"Save it for a rainy day. Come on," Harry cajoled.

"Well, it is awfully pretty, isn't it?" She disappeared quickly, returning with a sandwich and two orange-glazed buns, her specialty.

Although Mrs. Hogendobber's house was right across the alley from the post office, she liked to bring her lunch and pastries to work with her. A small refrigerator and a hot plate in the back allowed the two women to operate Chez Post, as they sometimes called it.

"The last of my mums." Miranda pointed out the deep russet-colored flowers bordering her fall gardens. "What is there about fall that makes one melancholy?"

"Loss of the light." Harry enjoyed the sharp mustard she'd put on her sandwich.

' 'And color, although I battle that with pyracantha, the December-blooming camellias, and lots of holly in strategic places. Still, I miss the fragrance of summer." Hummingbirds.''

"Baby snakes." Mrs. Murphy offered her delectables.

"Baby mice," Pewter chimed in.

"You have yet to kill a mouse." Mrs. Murphy leaned close to Harry just in case her mother felt like sharing.

Pewter, preferring the direct approach, sat in front of Harry, chartreuse eyes lifted upward in appeal. "Look who's talking. The barn is turning into Mouse Manhattan."

Tucker drooled. Mrs. Hogendobber handed her a tidbit of ham, to the fury of the two cats. She tore off two small pieces for them, too.

"Mine has mustard on it," Mrs. Murphy complained.

"I'll eat it," Tucker gallantly volunteered.

"In a pig's eye."

"Aren't we lucky that Miranda makes all these goodies?" Pewter nibbled. "She's the best cook in Crozet."

Cynthia Cooper slowly rolled down the alleyway, pulling in next to BoomBoom's BMW. "Great day."

"Join us."

She checked her watch. "Fifteen minutes."

"Make it thirty, and leave your radio on." Harry smiled.

"Good idea." Cynthia cut off the ignition, then turned the volume up on the two-way radio. "Mrs. H., did you make sandwiches for Market today?"

"Indeed, I did."

Cynthia sprinted down the narrow alley between the post office and the market. Within minutes she returned with a smoked turkey sandwich slathered in tarragon mayonnaise, Boston lettuce peeping out from the sides of the whole wheat bread.

The three sat on the back stoop. Every now and then the radio squawked, but no calls for Coop.

"Why did you paint your fingernails?" Harry noticed the raspberry polish.

"Got bored."

"Isn't it funny how Little Mim changes her hairdo? Each time it's a new style or color, you know something is up," Miranda noted.

Sean Hallahan ambled down the alleyway.

"You look like the dogs got at you under the porch." Harry laughed at his disheveled appearance.

"Oh"—he glanced down at his wrinkled clothes—"guess I do."

"Is the football team going to practice at Crozet High? Field hockey is," Harry said.

"Nobody's called me. I don't know what we're going to do. I don't even know if I'm going back to St. Elizabeth's."

"Do you want to?" Cynthia asked.

"Yeah, we've got a good team this year. And it's my senior year. I don't want to go anywhere else."

"That makes sense," Mrs. Hogendobber said.

He ran his finger over the hood of the BMW. "Cool."

"Ultra," Harry replied.

"Just a car." Pewter remained unimpressed by machines.

He bent over, shading his eyes, and peered inside. "Leather. Sure stinks, though."

"She spilled her essences," Harry said.

"Don't be squirrelly," Mrs. Murphy advised.

Sean opened the door, and the competing scents rolled out like a wave. "I hope I get rich."

"Hope you do, too." Harry gave the last of her sandwich to the animals.

He turned on the ignition, rolled down the windows, and clicked on the radio. "Too cool. This is just too cool."

"Where is BoomBoom, anyway?" Cynthia drank iced tea out of a can.

"Who knows? She needs someone to follow her to the BMW dealer. She slightly dented her bumper, not even a dent actually—she rubbed off some of the finish." Harry indicated the spot.

Sean, paying no attention to the conversation, leaned his head back and turned up the radio a bit. He was surrounded by speakers. Then he let off the emergency brake, popped her in reverse, and backed out into the alleyway. He waved at the three women and three animals and carefully rolled forward.

"Should I yank his chain?" Cynthia craned her neck.

"Nah."

They waited a few moments, expecting him to go around the block and reappear. Then they heard the squeal of rubber.

Cooper put down what was left of her sandwich. She stood up. The car was pulling away.

Mrs. Hogendobber listened. "He's not coming back."

"I don't believe this!" Cooper hurried to the squad car as Tucker scarfed down the sandwich remains. She pulled out the speaker, telling the dispatcher where she was and what she was doing. She didn't ask for assistance yet because she thought he was taking a joyride. She hoped to catch him and turn him back before he got into more trouble—he was in enough as it was.

"Can I come?" Harry asked.

"Hop in."

Harry opened the door. Mrs. Murphy and Tucker jumped in with her. "Miranda, do you care?"

"Go on." She waved her off, then glanced down. "Pewter, are you staying with me?"

"Yes, I am." The gray cat followed her back into the post office.

Cynthia turned left, heading toward Route 250. "Sounded like he was heading this way."

"Don't you think he'll make a big circle and come back?"

"Yeah, I do. Right under my nose. . . . Jeez, what a dumb thing to do." She shook her head.

"He hasn't shown the best judgment lately."

Mrs. Murphy settled in Harry's lap while Tucker sat between the humans.

As they reached Route 250, they noticed a lumber truck pulling off to the right side of the road. Cynthia slowed, putting on her flashers. "Stay here." She stepped out. Harry watched as the driver spoke to her and pointed toward the west. A few choice words escaped his tobacco-stained lips. Coop dashed back to the car.

She hit the accelerator and the sirens.

"Trouble?"

"Yep."

Other cars pulled off to the right as Cynthia's car screeched down Route 250 to the base of Afton Mountain. Then they started the climb to the summit, some 1850 feet.

"You think he got on Sixty-four?"

"Yeah. A great big four-lane highway. He's gonna bury the speedometer."

"Shit, Cooper, he's going to bury himself."

"That thought has occurred to me."

Mrs. Murphy leaned over Harry and said to Tucker, "Fasten your seat belt."

"Yeah," the dog replied, wishing there were seat belts made for animals.

Cynthia hurtled past the Howard Johnson's at the top of the mountain, turning left, then turning right to get onto Interstate 64. Vehicles jerked to the right as best they could but in some places on the entrance ramp the shoulder was inadequate. She swerved to avoid the cars.

The Rockfish Valley left behind was supplanted by the Shenandoah Valley. There was a glimpse of Waynesboro off to the right as they got onto I 64.

Remnants of fall foliage blurred. Cynthia negotiated the large sweeping curves on top of the Blue Ridge Mountains.

"What if he took the Skyline Drive?" Harry asked.

"I'm going to have to call in the state police and Augusta County's police, too. Damn!"

"He asked for it," Harry replied sensibly.

"Yes, he did." Cooper called the dispatcher, gave her location, and requested assistance as well as help on the Skyline Drive.

"Doesn't compute." Mrs. Murphy snuggled as Harry held her in the curves.

"That he stole the car?"

"That he did it right in front of them. He wants to get caught." Her eyes widened as they hung another curve. "He's in on it, or he knows something."

"Then why steal a car in front of Coop?" Tucker asked the obvious question.

"That's what I mean—something doesn't compute," Murphy replied.

Up ahead they caught sight of Sean. Cynthia checked her speedometer. She was hitting ninety, and this was not the safest stretch of road in the state of Virginia.

She slowed a bit. "He's not only going to hurt himself, he's going to hurt someone else." She clicked on the black two-way radio button. "Subject in sight. Just past Ninety-nine on the guardrail." She repeated a number posted on a small metal sign. "Damn, he's going one hundred." She shook her head.

As good as the BMW was, Sean was not accustomed to driving a high-performance machine in challenging circumstances. The blue flashing lights behind him didn't scare him as much as the blue flashing lights he saw in the near distance, coming from the opposite direction. He took his eyes off the road for a split second, but a split second at 100 miles an hour is a fraction too long. He spun out, steered hard in the other direction, and did a 360, blasting through the guardrail and taking the metal with him as he soared over the ravine.

"Oh, my God!" Harry exclaimed.

Cynthia screeched to a stop. The BMW seemed airborne for an eternity, then finally crashed deep into the mountain laurels below.

Both Cynthia and Harry were out of the squad car when it stopped. Mrs. Murphy and Tucker could run down the mountainside much better than the two humans could as they stumbled, rolled, and got up again.

"We've got to get him before the car blows up!" Mrs. Murphy shouted to the corgi, who realized the situation also.

The BMW had landed upside down. The animals reached it, and Tucker tried to open the door by standing on her hind legs.

"Impossible."

The tiger raced around the car, hoping windows would have been smashed to bits on the other side.

Harry and Cooper, both covered in mud, scratched, and torn, reached the car. Cooper opened the door. Sean was held in place upside down by the safety belt. She reached in and clicked the belt. Both she and Harry dragged him out.

"Haul," Cynthia commanded.

Harry grabbed his left arm, Cynthia his right, and Tucker grabbed the back of his collar. They struggled and strained but managed to get the unconscious, bloodied boy fifty yards up the mountainside. Mrs. Murphy scampered ahead.

The BMW made a definite clicking sound and then boom, the beautiful machine was engulfed in flames.

The two women sat for a moment, holding Sean so he wouldn't slide back down. Mrs. Murphy walked ahead, searching for the easiest path up. Tucker, panting, sat for a moment, too.

They heard more sirens and a voice at the lip of the ravine.

Tucker barked. "We're down here!"

Harry, still holding Sean, turned around to see rescue workers scrambling down to help. She felt for the vein in his neck; a faint pulse rippled underneath her fingertips. "He's alive."

Mrs. Murphy said under her breath, "For how long?"

46

The cherry wood in the fireplace crackled, releasing the heavy aroma of the wood. Tucker, asleep in front of the fire, occasionally chattered, dreaming of squirrels.

Mrs. Murphy curled up in Harry's lap as she sat on the sofa while Pewter sprawled over Fair's bigger lap in the other wing chair. Exhausted from the trauma as well as the climb back up the deep ravine, Harry pulled the worn afghan around her legs, her feet resting on a hassock.

Fair broke the stillness. "I know Rick told you not to reveal Sean's condition, but you can tell me."

"Fair, the sheriff has put a guard in his hospital room. And to tell the truth, I don't know his condition."

"He was mixed up in whatever is going on over at St. Elizabeth's?"

"I guess he is." She leaned her head against a needlepoint pillow. "In your teens you think you know everything. Your parents are out of it. You're invincible. Especially Sean, the football star. I wonder how he got mixed up in this mess, and I wonder what's really behind it."

"I heard April was released from jail today, and she didn't want to leave," Fair remarked. "She must know what's going on, too."

"That's so strange. She doesn't look like a criminal, does she?"

"I always thought she was in love with Roscoe and that he used her," Fair said.

"Slept with her?"

"I don't know. Maybe"—he thought a moment—"but more than that, he used her. She jumped through all his hoops. April was one of the reasons that St. E's ran so smoothly. Sure as hell wasn't Roscoe. His talents rested in directions other than details." He rose and tossed another log on the fire. "He ever offer you candy?"

"Every time he saw me."

"Never offered me catnip," Pewter grumbled.

"Mom's got that look on her face. She's having a brainstorm." Tucker closely observed Harry.

"Humans are fundamentally irrational. They use what precious rationality they have justifying their irrational behavior. A brainstorm is an excuse not to be logical," Pewter said.

"i4men." Murphy laughed.

Harry tickled Murphy's ears. "Aren't we verbal?"

"I can recite entire passages from Macbeth, if you'd care to hear it. 'Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow creeps—' "

"Show-off." Pewter swished her tail once. "Quoting Shakespeare is no harder than quoting 'Katie went to Haiti looking for a thrill.' '

"Cole Porter." Mrs. Murphy sang the rest of the song with Pewter.

"What's going on with these two?" Harry laughed.

"Mrs. Murphy's telling her about her narrow escape from death."

"That's the first thing I did when we got home." Mrs. Murphy sat up now and belted out the chorus from "Katie Went to Haiti."

"Jesus," Tucker moaned, flattening her ears, "you could wake the dead."

Pewter, on a Cole Porter kick, warbled, "When They Begin the Beguine."

The humans shook their heads, then returned to their conversation.

"Maybe the link is Sean's connection to Roscoe and Maury." Harry's eyes brightened. "He could easily have stuffed Roger's newspapers with the second obituary. Those kids all know one another's schedules. They must have been using Sean for something—" Her brow wrinkled; for the life of her she couldn't figure out what a teenage boy might have that both men wanted.

"Not necessarily." Fair played devil's advocate. "It really could be coincidence. Just dumb luck."

Harry shook her head, "No, I really don't think so. Sean is up to his neck in this mess."

Fair cracked his knuckles, a habit Harry had tried to forget. "Kendrick Miller stabbed Maury. Maury's murder has nothing to do with Roscoe's. And the kid liberated the BMW, so to speak, and just got carried away. Started something he didn't know how to finish."

"But Rick Shaw's guarding him in the hospital." Harry came back to that very important fact.

"You're right—but connecting him to Roscoe's murder and Maury's seems so far-fetched."

Harry leapt off the sofa. "Sorry, Murphy."

"I was so-o-o comfortable," Murphy moaned angrily. "Pewter, let's give it to them. Let's sing 'Dixie.' '

The two cats blended their voices in a rousing version of the song beloved of some folks south of the Mason-Dixon Line.

"You're a veterinarian. You shut them up," Tucker begged.

Fair shrugged, laughing at the two performers.

"Here." Harry tossed Fair a bag of treats. "I know this works." It did, and she dialed Susan. "Hey, Suz."

"Miranda's here. Why didn't you tell me!"

"I am."

"How long have you been home? Oh, Harry, you could have been barbecued."

"I've been home an hour. Fair's here."

"Tell me what happened."

"I will, Susan, tomorrow. I promise. Right now I need to talk to Brooks. Are you sending her to St. Elizabeth's tomorrow?"

"No. Although she wants to go back." Susan called her daughter to the phone.

Harry got right to the point. "Brooks, do you remember who Roscoe Fletcher offered candy to when he waited in line at the car wash?"

"Everybody."

"Try very hard to remember, Brooks."

"Uh, okay . . . when I first saw him he was almost out on Route Twenty-nine. I don't think he talked to anyone unless it was the guys at the Texaco station. I didn't notice him again until he was halfway to the entrance. Uh—" She strained to picture the event. "Mrs. Fletcher beeped her horn at him. He got out to talk to her, I think. The line was that slow. Then he got back in. Mrs. Miller talked to him. Karen walked over for a second. He called her over. Jody, when she saw him, hid back in the office. She'd been reamed out, remember, 'cause of losing her temper after the field hockey game. Uh—this is hard."

"I know, but it's extremely important."

"Roger, once Mr. Fletcher reached the port—we call it the port."

"Can you think of anyone else?"

"No. But, I was scrubbing down bumpers. Someone else could have walked over for a second and I might not have seen them."

"I realize that. You've done a good job remembering."

"Want Mom back?"

"Sure."

"What are you up to?" Susan asked.

"Narrowing down who was offered candy by Roscoe at the car wash.

Susan, recognizing Harry was obsessed, told her she would see her in the morning.

Harry then dialed Karen Jensen's number. She asked Karen the same questions and received close to the same answers, although Karen thought Jody had been off the premises of the car wash, had walked back, seen Roscoe and ducked inside Jimbo's office. She remembered both Naomi and Irene waiting in line, but she couldn't recall if they got out of their cars. She wanted to know if Sean was all right.

"I don't know."

Karen's voice thickened. "I really like Sean—even if he can be a jerk."

"Can you think of any reason why he'd take Mrs. Craycroft's car?"

"No—well, I mean, he's sort of a cutup. He would never steal it, though. He just wouldn't."

"Thanks, Karen." Harry hung up the phone. She didn't think Sean would steal a car either. Joyride, yes. Steal, no.

She called Jimbo next. He remembered talking to Roscoe himself, then going back into his office to take a phone call. Harry asked if Jody was in the office with him. He said yes, she came in shortly after he spoke to Roscoe, although he couldn't be precise as to the time.

She next tried Roger, who thought Roscoe offered candy to one of the gas jockeys at the Texaco. He had glanced up to count the cars in the line. He remembered both Naomi and Irene getting out of their cars and talking to Roscoe as opposed to Roscoe getting out to talk to his wife. He was pretty sure that was what he saw, and he affirmed that Jody emphatically did not want to talk to Roscoe. He didn't know when Jody first caught sight of Roscoe. She was supposed to be picking up their lunch, but she never made it.

The last call was to Jody. Irene reluctantly called her daughter to the phone.

"Jody, I'm sorry to disturb you."

"That's okay." Jody whispered, "How's Sean? It's all over town that he wrecked BoomBoom Craycroft's new car."

"I don't know how he is."

"Did he say anything?"

"I can't answer that."

"But you pulled him out of the vehicle. He must have said something . . . like why he did it."

"Sheriff Shaw instructed me not to say anything, Jody."

"I called the hospital. They won't tell me anything either." A note of rising panic crept into her voice.

"They always do that, Jody. It's standard procedure. If you were in there with a hangnail, they wouldn't give out information."

"But he's all right, isn't he?"

"I can't answer that. I honestly don't know." Harry paused. "You're good friends, aren't you?"

"We got close this summer, playing tennis at the club."

"Did you date?"

"Sort of. We both went out with other people." She sniffed. "He's got to be okay."

"He's young and he's strong." Harry waited a beat, then switched the subject. "I'm trying to reconstruct how many people Mr. Fletcher offered strawberry drops to since, of course, anyone might have been poisoned." Harry wasn't telling the truth of what she was thinking, although she was telling the truth, a neat trick.

"Everyone."

Harry laughed. "That's the general consensus."

"Who else have you talked to?"

"Roger, Brooks, Karen, and Jimbo. Everybody says about the same thing although the sequence is scrambled."

"Oh."

"Did Mr. Fletcher offer you candy?"

"No. I chickened out and ran into Mr. Anson's office. I was in the doghouse."

"Yeah. Well, it was still a great game, and you played superbly."

"Really?" She brightened.

"You could make All-State. That is, if St. Elizabeth's has a season. Who knows what will happen with so many people taking their kids out of there."

"School's school." Jody confidently predicted, "I'm going back, others will, too. I'd rather be there than"—she whispered again— "here."

"Uh, Jody, are your mother and father near?"

"No, but I don't trust them. Dad's truly weird now that he's out on bail. Mom could be on the extension for all I know."

"Only because she's worried about you."

"Because she's a snoop. Hear that, Mom? If you're on the line, get off!"

Harry ignored the flash of bad manners. "Jody, can you tell me specifically who Mr. Fletcher offered candy to, that is, if you were watching from Jimbo's office?"

"Mr. Anson went out to talk to him. I sat behind the desk. I didn't really notice."

"Did you see Mrs. Fletcher or your mom get out of their cars and talk to Mr. Fletcher?"

"I don't remember Mom doing anything—but I wasn't really watching them."

"Oh, hey, before I forget it, 'cause I don't go over there much, the kids said you were on lunch duty that day. Where do you get good food around there?"

"You don't."

"You were on lunch duty?" Harry double-checked.

"Yeah, and Roger got pissed at me because he was starving and I saw Mr. Fletcher before I crossed the road so I ran back. If I'd crossed the road he would have seen me. The line was so long he was almost out at the stoplight."

"Did he see you?"

"I don't think so. He saw me in the office later. He wasn't even mad. He waved."

"Did you give Jim his money back?" Harry laughed.

"Uh—no." Jody's voice tightened. "I forgot. It was—uh—well, I guess he forgot, too."

"Didn't mean to upset you."

"I'll pay him back tomorrow."

"I know you will." Harry's voice was warm. "Thanks for giving me your time. Oh, one more thing. I forgot to ask the others this. What do you, or did you, think of Mr. Fletcher's film department idea?"

'Today St. Elizabeth's, tomorrow Hollywood,' that's what he used to say. It was a great idea, but it'll never happen now."

"Thanks, Jody." Harry hung up the phone, returning to the sofa where she nestled in.

Mrs. Murphy crawled back in her lap. "Now stay put."

"Satisfied?" Fair asked.

"No, but I'm on the right track." She rested her hand on Mrs. Murphy's back. "I'm convinced. The real question is not who Roscoe offered candy to but who gave him candy. Rick Shaw must have come to the same conclusion." She tickled Murphy's ear. "He's not saying anything, though."

"Not to you."

" Mmm ." Harry's mind drifted off. "Jody's upset over Sean. I guess they had a romance and I missed it."

"At that age you blink and they're off to a new thrill." He put his hands behind his head, stretching his upper body. Pewter didn't budge. "Everyone's upset. BoomBoom will be doubly upset." He exhaled, wishing he hadn't mentioned that name. "I'm surprised that you aren't more upset."

"I am upset. Two people are dead. Sean may well join them in the hereafter, and I can't figure it out. I hate secrets."

"That's what we pay the sheriff to do, to untie our filthy knots of passion, duplicity, and greed."

"Fair"—Harry smiled—"that's poetic."

He smiled back. "Go on."

"BoomBoom Craycroft." Harry simply repeated the name of Fair's former lover, then started laughing.

He smiled ruefully. "A brand-new BMW."

"She's such a flake. Pretty, I grant you that. I think I could have handled just about anyone else but BoomBoom." Harry took a sideswipe at Fair.

"That's not true, Harry, a betrayal is a betrayal, and it wouldn't have mattered who the woman was. You'd still feel like shit, and you'd say the same thing you're saying now but about her. I am rebuilding my whole life, my inner life. My outer life is okay." He paused. "I want to spend my life with you. Always did."

"Do you know why you ran around?"

"Fear."

"Of what?"

"Of being trapped. Of not living. When we married, I'd slept with three other women. I was a dutiful son. I studied hard. Kept my nose clean. Went to college. Went to vet school. Graduated and married you, the girl next door. I hit thirty and thought I was missing something. Had I married you at thirty, I would have gotten that out of my system." He softened his voice. "Haven't you ever worried that you're missing out?"

"Yeah, but then I watch the sunrise flooding the mountains with light and I think, 'Life is perfect.' "

"You aren't curious about other men?"

"What men?"

"Blair Bainbridge."

"Oh." She took her sweet time answering, thoroughly enjoying his discomfort. "Sometimes."

"How curious?"

"You just want to know if I'm sleeping with anyone, and that's my business. It's all about sex and possession, isn't it?"

"It's about love and responsibility. Sex is part of that."

"This is what I know: I like living alone. I like answering to no one but myself. I like not having to attend social functions as though we are joined at the hip. I like not having a knot in my stomach when you don't come home until two in the morning."

"I'm a vet."

She held up her hand. "With so many chances to jump ladies' bones, I can't even count them."

"I'm not doing that." He took her hand. "Our divorce was so painful, I didn't think I could live through it. I knew I was wrong. I didn't know how to make it right. Enough time has passed that I can be trusted, and I can be more sensitive to you."

"Don't push me."

"If I don't push you, you do nothing. If I ask anyone else to a party or the movies because I'd like to enjoy someone's companionship, you freeze me out for a week or more. I'm damned if I do and damned if I don't."

"He's right, Mom," Mrs. Murphy agreed with Fair.

"Yeah," Tucker echoed.

"They talk too much." Pewter, weary from her singing and all the spoon bread she'd stolen, wanted to sleep.

"Cheap revenge, I guess." Harry honestly assessed herself.

"Does it make you happy?"

"Actually, it does. Anyone who underestimates the joy of revenge has no emotions." She laughed. "But it doesn't get you what you want."

"Which is?"

"That's just it. I don't really know anymore."

"I love you. I've always loved you, and I always will love you." A burst of passion illuminated his handsome face.

She squeezed his hand. "I love you, too, but—"

"Can't we get back together? If you aren't ready for a commitment, we can date."

"We date now."

"No, we don't. It's hit or miss."

"You're not talking about dating. You're talking about sleeping together."

"Yes."

"I'll consider it."

"Harry, that's a gray reply."

"I didn't say no, nor did I say maybe. I have to think about it."

"But you know how I feel. You know what I've wanted."

"Not the same as a direct request—you just made a direct request, and I have to think about it."

"Do you love me at all?"

"The funny part of all this is that I do love you. I love you more now than when we married, but it's different. I just don't know if I can trust you. I'd like to, truly I would, because apart from Susan, Miranda, and my girlfriends, I know you better than anyone on the face of the earth, and I think you know me. I don't always like you. I'm sure I'm not likable at times, but it's odd how you can love someone and not like them." She hastened to add, "Most times I like you. Really, it's just when you start giving orders. I hate that."

"I'm working on that. Most women want to be told what to do."

"Some do, I know. Most don't. It's a big fake act they put on to make men feel intelligent and powerful. Then they laugh at you behind your back."

"You don't do that."

"No way."

"That's why I love you. One of the many reasons. You always stand up to me. I need that. I need you. You bring out the best in me, Harry."

"I'm glad to hear it," she replied dryly, "but I'm not on earth to bring out the best in you. I'm on earth to bring out the best in me."

"Wouldn't it be right if we could do that for each other? Isn't that what marriage is supposed to be?"

She waited a long time. "Yes. Marriage is probably more compli cated than that, but I'm too tired to figure it out ... if I ever could. And every marriage isn't the same. Our marriage was different from Miranda and George's, but theirs worked for them. I think you do bring out good things in me—after all, I wouldn't be having this conversation with anyone else, and that's a tribute to you. You know I loathe this emotional stuff."

He laughed. "Harry, I do love you."

She got up and kissed his cheek, disturbing a disgruntled Murphy one more time. "Let me think."

He mused. "I never knew love could be this complicated, or even that I could be this complicated!" He laughed. "I always knew you were complicated."

"See—and I think I'm simple."

Mrs. Murphy settled down in front of the fireplace to stare into the flames. "You know what worries me?"

"What?" Pewter yawned.

"If Sean is part of Roscoe's murder, if he's in on this somehow, Mother was one of the last people to be with him. Only Cooper knows he didn't speak to her and Rick."

"So?" The gray cat fluttered her fur.

"So, Pewter, the killer might think he told Mother what's what."

Pewter's eyes opened wide as did Tucker's. They said in unison, "I never thought of that."

47

The antiseptic odor of hospitals turned Deputy Cooper's stomach. It stung her nostrils even though it wasn't as overpowering as, say, garbage. She wondered if the real offender was the associations she had concerning hospitals, or if truly she just hated the antiseptic.

Shorthanded though the department was, Rick was ferocious about maintaining vigilance over Sean. He'd broken half the bones in his body, his legs being the worst. His left arm was smashed in two places. His spleen was ruptured, and his left lung was punctured by his rib, which caved inward.

His right arm was fine. His skull was not crushed, but the force of the impact had created a severe concussion with some swelling in the brain. He had not regained consciousness, but his vital signs, though weak, had stabilized.

There was a good chance he'd live, although he'd never play football again. Sean's mother and father took turns watching over him. His grandparents flew in from Olathe, Kansas, to help.

Cynthia half dozed on the hard-backed chair. On the other side of the bed his mother slept in another chair, equally uncomfortable.

A low moan alerted Cynthia. Her eyes opened, as did Sean's.

He blinked strongly to make sense of where he was.

"Sean," Cynthia said in a clear low voice.

His mother awakened with a start and leaned over her son. "Honey, honey, it's Mom."

He blinked again, then whispered, "I'm a father." His lips moved but no more sound escaped. Then, as if he had never spoken, he shut his eyes again and lost consciousness.

48

A howitzer ripped through Harry's meticulously planned schedule. Each night before retiring she would take a sheet of tablet paper, eight by eleven inches, fold it in half, and number her chores in order of priority. She used to watch her mother do it, absorbing the habit.

Harry was an organized person. Her disorganization involved major life questions such as "Whither thou goest?" She told herself Americans put too much emphasis on direction, management, and material success instead of just jumping into life.

Awaking each morning between five thirty and six, she first drank a piping hot cup of tea, fed the horses, picked out the stalls, stripping them on Saturdays, turned the horses out, fed Mrs. Murphy, Tucker, and now Pewter. Then she usually walked the mile out to the road to get her paper. That woke her up. If she was running behind or the weather proved filthy, she'd drive out in the blue truck.

Thanks to BoomBoom, the blue truck reposed again at the service station. Fortunately, BoomBoom's insurance really did cover the damages. And she'd get a new BMW since Sean had destroyed hers. Harry's worry involved the ever-decreasing life span of the 1978 Ford. She had to get a new truck. Paying for it, even a decent used one, seemed impossible.

The morning, crisp and clear at 36° F, promised a glorious fall day ahead. She jogged back, never opening the newspaper. Reading it with her second cup of tea and breakfast rewarded her for finishing the farm chores before heading off to the post office. She adored these small rituals of pleasure. Another concept she'd learned from her mother.

She bit into a light biscuit . . . then stopped, the biscuit hanging from her mouth. As she opened her mouth, the biscuit dropped onto the plate.

She knocked the chair over calling Susan. "You up?"

"Barely."

"Open the paper."

"Mmm. Holy shit! What's going on around here?" Susan exploded.

On the front page of the newspaper ran the story of the highspeed car chase. Harry was quoted as saying, "Another ten seconds and he'd have been blown to bits."

But what caused Susan's eruption was a story in the next column concerning April Shively's release on twenty thousand dollars' bail. That was followed by April's declaring she would not release the papers she had taken from St. Elizabeth's until the board of governors audited the current accounting books in the possession of the temporary headmaster, Sandy Brashiers. She all but accused him of financial misdeeds just this side of embezzlement.

As Harry and Susan excitedly talked in the background, Mrs. Murphy sat on the newspaper to read. Pewter joined her.

"Sean's not in the obit column, so we know he's still fighting." Murphy touched her nose to the paper.

"Going to be a hell of a day at the post office," Tucker predicted.

How right she was. A gathering place in the best and worst of times, it was packed with people.

Big Mim, hoisted up on the counter by the Reverend Jones, clapped her hands. "Order. Could I have some order, please?"

Accustomed to obeying the Queen of Crozet, they fell silent.

"Honeybun, we could move to city hall," her husband, the mayor, offered.

"We're here now, let's get on with it." Mim sat down and crossed her legs. Mrs. Murphy and Pewter flanked her. Tucker wandered among the crowd. The animals decided they would pay attention to faces and smells. Someone might give himself or herself away in a fashion a human couldn't comprehend.

Mim stared sternly at Karen, Jody, Brooks, and Roger. "Why aren't you in school?"

Karen answered for all of them. "Which school? We want to go back to St. Elizabeth's. Our parents won't let us."

"Then what are you doing here?" She pounded them like a schoolmarm.

"The post office is where everything happens, sort of," Brooks replied.

"Smart kid," Mrs. Murphy said.

Irene called out, "Marilyn, can you guarantee my child's safety?"

"Irene, no school can do that anymore, but within reason, yes." Marilyn Sanburne felt she spoke for the board.

Harry leaned across the counter. "Guys, I don't mind that you all meet here, but if someone comes in to get their mail, you have to clear a path for them. This is a federal building."

"The hell with Washington," Market Shiflett brazenly called out. "We had the right idea in 1861."

Cheers rose from many throats. Miranda laughed as did Harry. Those transplanted Yankees in the crowd would find this charming, anachronistic proof that Southerners are not only backward but incapable of forgetting the war.

What Southerners knew in their souls was that given half the chance, they'd leave the oppressive Union in a skinny minute. Let the Yankees tax themselves to death. Southerners had better things to do with their time and money, although it is doubtful those "better things" would be productive.

"Now we must remain calm, provoking as these hideous events have been." Mini turned to Harry. "Why don't you call Rick Shaw? He ought to be here."

"No." Herbie gently contradicted her. "If you'll forgive me, madam"—he often called Mini "madam"—"I think we'll all be more forthcoming without the law here."

"Yes." Other voices agreed.

Mim cast her flashing blue gaze over the crowd. "I don't know what's going on, I don't know why it's going on, but I think we must assume we know the person or persons responsible for Roscoe's demise as well as Maury's bizarre death. This community must organize to protect itself."

"How do we know the killer isn't in this room?" Dr. Larry Johnson asked.

Father Michael replied, "We don't."

"Well, Kendrick was found bending over Maury. Sorry, Irene, but it's true," Market said.

"Then we're telling the killer or killers our plans. How can we protect ourselves?" Lucinda Payne Coles, her brow furrowed, echoed what many others felt as well.

Harry raised her hand, a gesture left over from school.

"Harry." Mim nodded toward her.

"The question is not if the killer or killers could be in this room. The question is, why are people being killed? We'll worry ourselves into a fit if we think each of us is vulnerable."

"But we are!" Market exclaimed. "Two people are dead—and one seventeen-year-old boy who admitted planting the first obituary is in the hospital. Who or what next?"

Harry replied evenly, "Marilyn, I know you don't want to hear this, but everything points to St. Elizabeth's."

"Does that mean we're suspects?" Jody Miller joked.

Irene put her hand on her daughter's shoulder. "No one is suspecting students, dear." She cast a knowing look at Larry Johnson. She needed to talk to him. Jody was in the first trimester of her pregnancy. A major decision had to be made. On the other hand, she watched Father Michael and thought maybe she should talk to him. It didn't occur to her that Jody was the one who needed to do the talking.

Neither Sandy Brashiers nor any faculty members from the school were there to defend themselves or the institution. They were holding back a tidal wave of questions, recriminations, and fear at their own faculty meeting. The reporters, like jackals, camped at the door.

"You must put aside April's absurd accusations," Marilyn said nervously, "and we will audit the books this week to lay her accusations to rest. She's only trying to divert our attention."

"It's true," Roger said in his quiet voice. "The problem is at St. E's."

Mim asked, "Do you have any idea, any idea at all, what is going on at your school? Is there a drug problem?"

"Mrs. Sanburne, drugs are everywhere. Not just at St. E's," Karen said solemnly.

"But you're rich kids. If you get in trouble, Daddy can bail you out." Samson Coles bluntly added his two cents even though many people shunned him.

"That's neither here nor there," Market said impatiently. "What are we going to do?"

"Can we afford more protection? A private police force?" Fair was pretty sure they couldn't.

"No." Jim, towering over everyone but Fair, answered that query. "We're on a shoestring."

"The rescue squad and other groups like the Firehouse gang could pitch in." Larry, getting warm, removed his glen plaid porkpie hat.

"Good idea, Larry." Mim turned to her husband. "Can we do that? Of course we can. You're the mayor."

"I'll put them on patrol. We can set up a cruise pattern. It's a start."

Mini went on. "While they're doing that, the rest of us can go over our contacts with Roscoe, April, Maury, and Sean. There may be a telling clue, something you know that seems unimportant but is really significant, the missing link, so to speak."

"Like, who gave Roscoe Fletcher candy at the car wash?" Miranda said innocently. "Harry thinks the killer was right there and gave him the poisoned candy right under everyone's nose."

"She just let the cat out of the bag." Murphy's eyes widened.

"What can we do?" Tucker cried.

"Pray the killer's not in this room," Mrs. Murphy said, knowing in her bones that the killer was looking her right in the face.

"But Rick Shaw and Cynthia must have figured out the same thing." Pewter tried to allay their fears.

"Of course they have, but until this moment the person who wiped out Roscoe didn't realize Mom had figured out most people were approaching Roscoe's murder backward. Now they'll wonder what else she's figured out."

"It's Kendrick Miller." Pewter licked her paw, rubbing her ear with it.

"If he is the one, he can get at Mom easily," Tucker responded. "At least he's not here."

"Don't worry, Irene will repeat every syllable of this meeting." Murphy's tail tip swayed back and forth, a sign of light agitation.

"We need to ask Fair to stay with Mom." Tucker rightly assumed that would help protect her.

"Fat chance." Murphy stood up, stretched, and called to her friends, "Come on out back with me. Humans need to huff and puff. We've got work to do."

Tucker resisted. "We ought to stay here and observe."

"The damage is done. We need to hotfoot it. Come on."

Tucker threaded her way through the many feet and dashed through the animal door. Once outside she said, "Where are we going?"

"St. Elizabeth's."

"Murphy, that's too far." Pewter envisioned the trek.

"Do you want to help, or do you want to be a wuss?"

"I'm not a wuss." Pewter defiantly swatted at the tiger cat.

"Then let's go."

Within forty-five minutes they reached the football and soccer fields. Tired, they sat down for a minute.

"Stick together. We're going to work room to room."

"What are we looking for?"

"I'm not sure yet. If April took other books, they're truly cooked now. But none of these people thought they were going to be killed. They must have left unfinished business somewhere, and if the offices are clean as a whistle, then it means April knows the story—the whole story, doesn't it?"

49

Eerie quiet greeted the animals as they padded down the hallway of the Old Main Building, the administration building. The faculty meeting was heating up in the auditorium across the quad. Not one soul was in Old Main, not even a receptionist.

"Think the cafeteria is in Old Main?" Pewter inquired plaintively.

"No. Besides, I bet no one is working in the cafeteria." Tucker was anxious to get in and get out of the place before the post office closed. If Harry couldn't find them, she'd pitch a fit.

"Perfect." Mrs. Murphy read headmaster in gold letters on the heavy oak door, slightly ajar. The cat checked the door width using her whiskers, knew she could make it, and squeezed through. Fatty behind her squeezed a little harder.

Tucker wedged her long nose in the door. Mrs. Murphy turned around and couldn't resist batting Tucker.

"No fair."

"Where's your sense of humor? Pewter, help me with the door."

The two cats pulled with their front paws as Tucker pushed with her nose. Finally the heavy door opened wide enough for the corgi to slip through. Everything had been moved out except for the majestic partner's desk and the rich red Persian carpet resting in front of the desk.

"Tucker, sniff the walls, the bottom of the desk, the bookcases, everything. Pewter, you check along the edge of the bookcases. Maybe there's a hidden door or something."

"What are you going to do?" Pewter dived into the emptied bookshelves.

"Open these drawers."

"That's hard work."

"Not for me. I learned to do this at home because Harry used to hide the fresh catnip in the right-hand drawer of her desk . . . until she found out I could open it."

"Where does she hide it now?" Pewter eagerly asked.

"Top of the kitchen cabinet, inside."

"Damn." Pewter rarely swore.

"Let's get to work." Mrs. Murphy flopped on her side, putting her paw through the burnished brass handle. Using her hind feet she pushed forward. The long center drawer creaked a bit, then rolled right out. Pens, pencils, and an avalanche of paper clips and engraved St. Elizabeth's stationery filled the drawer. She stuck her paws to the very back of the drawer. Mrs. Murphy shivered. She wanted so badly to throw the paper on the floor, then plunge into it headfirst. A paper bag was fun enough but expensive, lush, engraved laid bond—that was heaven. She disciplined herself, hopping on the floor to pull out the right-hand bottom drawer. The contents proved even more disappointing than the center drawer's: a hand squeezer to strengthen the hand muscles, a few floppy discs even though no computer was in the room, and one old jump rope.

"Anything?" She pulled on the left-hand drawer.

Tucker lifted her head, "Too many people in here. I smell mice. But then that's not surprising. They like buildings where people go home at night—less interfer ence."

"Nothing on the bookshelves. No hidden buttons."

Murphy, frustrated at not finding anything, jumped into the drawer, wiggling toward the back. Murphy's pupils, big from the darkness at the back of the drawer, quickly retracted to smaller circles as she jumped out. She noticed a small adhesive mailing label, ends curled, which must have fallen off a package. "Here's an old mailing label. Neptune Film Laboratory, Brooklyn, New York—and three chewed pencils, the erasers chewed off. This room has been picked cleaner than a chicken bone."

"We could go over to where Maury McKinchie was killed, in the hall outside the gymnasium," Tucker suggested.

"Good idea." Mrs. Murphy hurried out the door.

"She could at least wait for us. She can be so rude." Pewter followed.

The cavernous gymnasium echoed with silence. The click of Tucker's unretractable claws reverberated like tin drums.

"Know what hall?"

"No," Mrs. Murphy answered Tucker, "but there's only one possibility. The two side halls go to the locker rooms. I don't think Maury was heading that way. He probably went through the double doors, which lead to the trophy hall and the big front door."

"Then why did we come in the backdoor?" Pewter grumbled.

"Because our senses are sharper. We could pick up something in the lockers that a human couldn't. Not just dirty socks but cocaine lets off a sharp rancid odor, and marijuana is so easy a puppy could pick it up."

"I resent that. A hound puppy is born with a golden nose."

"Tucker, I hate to tell you this but you're a corgi."

"I know that perfectly well, smart-ass." Ready to fight, she stopped in front of a battered light green locker. "Wait a minute." She sniffed around the base of the locker, putting her nose next to the vent. "Sugary, sticky."

"Hey, look at that." Pewter involuntarily lifted her paw, taking a step back.

"Dead." Mrs. Murphy noted the line of dead ants going into the locker. She glanced up. "Number one fourteen."

"How do we get in there? I mean, if we want to?" Pewter gingerly leapt over the ants.

"We don't." Tucker indicated the big combination lock hanging on the locker door.

"Why go to school if you have to lock away your possessions? Kids stealing from kids. It's not right."

"It's not right, but it's real," Mrs. Murphy answered pragmatically. "We aren't going to get anyone into this locker. Even the janitor has burnt rubber."

"He rides a bicycle," Tucker said laconically, picturing Powder Hadly, thirties and simpleminded. He was so simpleminded he couldn't pass the written part of the driving test although he could drive just fine.

"You get my drift." The tiger bumped into the corgi. Tucker bumped back, which made the cat stumble.

"Twit."

"It's all right if you do it. If I do anything you bitch and moan and scratch."

"What are you doing then?"

"Describing your behavior. Flat facts."

"The flat facts are, we can't do diddly." She halted. "Well, there is one trick if we could get everyone to open their lockers. Not that the dead-ant locker has poison in it. That would be pretty stupid, wouldn't it? But who knows what's stashed in these things."

"Do the faculty have lockers?" Pewter asked.

"Sure."

"How do you know the faculty lockers from the kids'?"

"I don't know. We're on the girls' side. Maybe there's a small room we've missed that's set aside for the teachers."

They scampered down the hall and found a locker room for the female faculty. But there was nothing of interest except a bottle of Ambush perfume that had been left on the makeup counter. The men's locker room was equally barren of clues.

"This was a wasted trip, and I'm famished."

"Not so wasted." Murphy trotted back toward the post office.

"I'd like to know why. Roscoe's office was bare. We passed through April's office, nothing there. The sheriff has crawled over everything, fouling the scent. The gym is a tomb. And my pads are cold."

"We found out that the killer had to have left the gym before Maury McKinchie to wait outside the front doors. They're glass so he could see Maury come out, or he waited behind one of the doors leading to the boys' locker room or the girls'. He dashed out and stabbed Maury and then either ran outside or he ran back into the gym. In costume, remember. He knew this setup."

"Ah." Tucker appreciated Mrs. Murphy's reasoning. "I see that, but if the killer had been outside, more people would have seen him because he was in costume—unless he changed it. No time for that, I think." Tucker canceled her own idea.

"He was a Musketeer, if Kendrick is telling the truth. My hunch is he came from the side. From out of the locker rooms. No one had reason to go back there unless they wanted to smoke or drink, and they could easily do that outside without some chaperon or bush patrol. No, I'm sure he ran out the locker-room side."

"You don't believe Kendrick did it?" Pewter asked, knowing the answer but wanting to hear her friend's reasons.

"No."

"But what if Maury was sleeping with Irene?" Tucker logically thought that was reason enough for some men to murder.

"Kendrick wouldn't give a damn. A business deal gone bust, or some kind of financial betrayal might provoke him to kill, but he'd be cold-blooded about it. He'd plan. This was slapdash. Not Kendrick's style."

"No wonder Irene mopes around," Pewter thought out loud. "If my husband thought money was more important than me, I'd want a divorce, too."

"Could Maury have been killed by a jilted lover?"

"Sure. So could Roscoe. But it doesn't fit. Not two of them back-to-back. And April Shively wouldn't have vacuumed out the school documents if it was that."

They reached the post office, glad to rush inside for warmth and crunchies.

"Where have you characters been?" Harry counted out change.

"Deeper into this riddle, that's where we've been." Mrs. Murphy watched Pewter stick her face into the crunchies shaped like little fish. She didn't feel hungry herself. "What's driving me crazy is that I'm missing something obvious."

"Murphy, I don't see how we've overlooked anything." Tucker was tired of thinking.

"No, it's obvious, but whatever it is, our minds don't want to see it." The tiger dropped her ears for a moment, then pricked them back up.

"Doesn't make sense," Pewter, thrilled to be eating, said between garbled mouthfuls.

"What is going on is too repulsive for our minds to accept. We're blanking out. It's right under our noses."

50

The uneasiness of Crozet's residents found expression in the memorial service for Maury McKinchie.

There was a full choir and a swelling organ but precious few people in Reverend Jones's church. Darla had indeed flown the body back to Los Angeles, so no exorbitantly expensive casket rested in front of the altar. Miranda, asked to sing a solo, chose "A Mighty Fortress Is Our God" because she was in a Lutheran church and because no one knew enough about Maury's spiritual life to select a more personal hymn. BoomBoom Craycroft wept in the front left row. Ed Sugarman comforted her, a full-time job. Naomi Fletcher, in mourning for Roscoe, sat next to Sandy Brashiers in the front right row. Harry, Susan, and Ned also attended. Other than that tiny crew, the church was bare. Had Darla shown her famous and famously kept face, the church would have been overflowing.

Back at the post office Harry thought about what constituted a life well lived.

At five o'clock, she gathered up April Shively's mail.

"Do you think she'll let you in?"

Harry raised her eyebrows. "Miranda, I don't much care. If not, I'll put it by her backdoor. Need anything while I'm out there? I'll pass Critzer's Nurseries."

"No, thanks. I've put in all my spring bulbs," came the slightly smug reply.

"Okay then—see you tomorrow."

Ten minutes later Harry pulled into a long country lane winding up at a neat two-story frame colonial. Blair Bainbridge had lent Harry his truck until hers was fixed. When she knocked on the door, there was no answer. She waited a few minutes, then placed the mail by the backdoor. As she turned to leave, the upstairs window opened.

"I'm not afraid to come in and get my mail."

"Your box was overflowing. Thought I'd save you a trip."

"Anybody know if Sean's going to make it?"

"No. The hospital won't give out information, and they won't allow anyone to visit. That's all I know."

"Boy doesn't have a brain in his head. Have you seen Sandy Brashiers or Naomi?" April half laughed. Her tone was snide.

Harry sighed impatiently. "I doubt they want to see you any more than you want to see them. Marilyn's not your biggest fan now either."

"Who cares about her?" April waved her hand flippantly. "She's a bad imitation of a bad mother."

"Big Mim's okay. You have to take her on her own terms."

"Think we can get inside?" Tucker asked.

"No," Murphy replied. "She's not budging from that window."

"What are they saying about me?" April demanded.

"Oh—that you hate Sandy, loved Roscoe, and you're accusing Sandy to cover your own tracks. If there's missing money, you've got it or know where it is."

"Ha!"

"But you do know something, April. I know you do," Murphy meowed loudly.

"That cat's got a big mouth."

"So's your old lady," Murphy sassed her.

"Yeah!" Pewter chimed in.

"April, I wish you'd get things right." Harry zipped up her jacket. "The school's like a tomb. Whatever you feel about Sandy—is it worth destroying St. Elizabeth's and everything Roscoe worked so hard to build?"

"Good one, Mom." Tucker knew Harry had struck a raw nerve.

"Me destroy St. Elizabeth's! If you want to talk destruction, let's talk about Sandy Brashiers, who wants us to commit our energies and resources to a nineteenth-century program. He's indifferent to computer education, hostile to the film-course idea, and he only tolerates athletics because he has to—if he takes over, you watch, those athletic budgets will get trimmed and trimmed each year. He'll take it slow at first, but I know him! The two-bit sneak."

"Then come back."

"They fired me!"

"If you give back the papers—"

"Never. Not to Brashiers."

Harry held up her hands. "Give them to Sheriff Shaw."

"Fat lot of good that will do. He'll turn them over to St. Eliza beth's."

"He can impound them as evidence."

"Are you that dumb, or do you think I am?" April yelled. "Little Mim will whine, and Mommy will light the fires of hell under Rick Shaw's butt. Those papers will go to the Sanburne house if not St. Elizabeth's."

"How else can you clear your name?"

"When the time comes, I will. You just wait and see."

"I guess I'll have to." Harry gave up, walking back to the truck. She heard the window slam shut.

"Time has a funny way of running out," Mrs. Murphy noted dryly.

51

Driving back into Crozet, Harry stopped and cajoled Mrs. Hogendobber to drive her through the car wash in her Falcon. Pewter, hysterical at the thought, hid under the seat. Harry filled Miranda in on the conversation with April, a belligerent April.

As they pulled right off Route 29, coasting past the Texaco station, Harry observed the distance between the gas pumps and the port of the car wash. It was a quick sprint away, perhaps fifty yards at the most. The Texaco station building blocked the view of the car wash.

"Go slow."

"I am." Miranda scanned the setup, then coasted to a stop before the port.

Jimbo Anson rolled out, the collar of his jacket turned up against the wind. "Welcome, Mrs. Hogendobber. I don't believe you've ever been here."

"No, I haven't. I wash the car by hand. It's small enough that I can do it, but Harry wants me to become modern." She smiled as Harry reached across her and paid the rate for "the works."

"Come forward . . . there you go." He watched as Miranda's left wheel rolled onto the track. "Put her in neutral, and no radio." Jimbo punched the big button hanging on a thick electrical cord, and the car rolled into the mists.

A buzzer sounded, the yellow neon light flashed, and Miranda exclaimed, "My word."

Harry carefully noted the time it took to complete the cycle as well as how the machinery swung out from the side or dropped from above. The last bump of the track alerted them to put the car in drive. Harry mumbled, "No way."

"No way what?"

"I was thinking maybe the killer came into the car wash, gave Roscoe the poisoned candy, and ran out. I know it's loony, but the sight of someone soaking wet in the car wash, someone he knew, would make him roll down the window or open a door if he could. It was a thought. If you run up here from the Texaco station, which takes less than a minute, no one could see you if you ducked in the car wash exit. But it's impossible. And besides, nobody noticed anyone being all wet."

" 'Cain said to Abel, his brother, "Let us go out to the field." And when they were in the field, Cain rose up against his brother Abel, and killed him. Then the Lord said to Cain, "Where is Abel your brother?" He said, "I do not know; am I my brother's keeper?" And the Lord said, "What have you done? The voice of your brother's blood is crying to me from the ground." ' " Mrs. Hogendobber quoted Genesis. "The first murder of all time. Cain didn't get away with it. Neither will this murderer."

"Rick Shaw is working overtime to tie Kendrick to both murders. Cynthia called me last night. She said it's like trying to stick a square peg in a round hole. It's not working, and Rick is tearing his hair out."

"He can ill afford that." Mrs. Hogendobber turned south on Route 29.

"I keep coming back to cowardice. Poison is the coward's tool."

"Whoever killed McKinchie wasn't a coward. A bold run-through with a sword shows imagination."

"McKinchie was unarmed, though," Harry said. "The killer jumped out and skewered him. Imagination, yes, but cowardice, yes. It's one thing to plan a murder and carry it out, a kind of cold brilliance, if you will. It's another thing to sneak up on people."

"It is possible that these deaths are unrelated," Miranda said tentatively. "But I don't think so; that's what worries me." She braked for a red light.

She couldn't have been more worried than Father Michael, who, dozing in the confession booth, was awakened by the murmur of that familiar muffled voice, taking pains to disguise itself.

"Father, I have sinned."

"Go on, my child."

"I have killed more than once. I like killing, Father. It makes me feel powerful."

A hard lump lodged in Father Michael's thin throat. "All power belongs to God, my child." His voice grew stronger. "And who did you kill?"

"Rats." The disguised voice burst into laughter.

He heard the swish of the heavy black fabric, the light, quick footfall. He bolted out of the other side of the confession booth in time to see a swirl of black, a cloak, at the side door, which quickly closed. He ran to the door and flung it open. No one was there, only a blue jay squawking on the head of the Avenging Angel.

52

"Nobody?"

Lucinda Payne Coles, her heavy skirt draped around her legs to ward off the persistent draft in the old office room, said again, "Nobody. I'm at the back of the church, Sheriff. The only way I'll see who comes in and out of the front is if I walk out there or they park back here."

Cynthia, also feeling the chill, moved closer to the silver-painted radiator. "Have you noticed anyone visiting Father Michael lately, anyone unusual?"

"No. If anything it's quieter than normal for this time of year."

"Thanks, Mrs. Coles. Call me any time of the day or night if anything occurs to you."

Rick and Cynthia walked outside. A clammy mist enshrouded them in the graveyard. They bent down at the side door. Depressions on leaves could be seen, a slight smear on the moisture that they tracked into the cemetery.

"Smart enough to cover his tracks," Cynthia said.

"Or hers. That applies to every country person in the county," Rick replied. "Or anyone who's watched a lot of crime shows." He sat on a tombstone for a moment. "Any ideas?"

"Nope."

"Me neither."

"We know one thing. The killer likes to confess."

"No, Coop, the killer likes to brag. We've got exactly one hope in hell."

"Which is?" She told herself she wasn't really a smoker as she reached into her pocket for a pack.

"I'll take one of those." Rick reached out.

They lit up, inhaling.

"Wonder how many people buried here died of emphysema?"

"Don't know." He laughed. "I might be one of them someday.

"What's your one hope, boss?"

"Pride goeth before a fall."