Murder On The Prowl

53

Rick Shaw set up a temporary command post in April Shively's office. Little Mim and Sandy Brashiers requested over the radio and in the newspaper that students return to St. Elizabeth's for questioning.

Every hand Rick could spare was placed at the school. Little Mim organized and Sandy assisted.

"—the year started out great. Practice started out great—" Karen Jensen smiled at the sheriff. "Our class had a special film week. We wrote a story, broke it down into shots, and then Friday, we filmed it. Mr. McKinchie and Miss Thalman from New York directed us. That was great. I can't think of anything weird."

"Sean?"

"Oh, you know Sean, he likes playing the bad boy, but he seemed okay." She was relaxed, wanting to be helpful.

"If you think of anything, come on back or give me a call." Rick smiled reflexively. When Karen had left, he said to Cooper, "No running nose, no red eyes or dilated pupils or pupils the size of a pin. No signs of drug abuse. We're halfway through the class—if only Sean would regain consciousness."

"If he is going to be a father, that explains a lot."

"Not enough," Rick grumbled.

Cynthia flipped through her notes. "He used to run errands for April Shively. Jody Miller said Sean had a permanent pink pass." She flipped the notebook shut.

A bark outside the door confused them for a moment, then Cynthia opened the door.

Fur ruffled, Tucker bounded in. "We can help!"

With less obvious enthusiasm Mrs. Murphy and Pewter followed.

"Where's Harry?"

As if to answer Coop's question, Harry walked through the door carrying a white square plastic container overflowing with mail. "Roscoe's and Maury's mail." She plopped the box on the table. "I put Naomi's mail in her mailbox."

"Anything unusual?" Rick inquired.

"No. Personal letters and bills, no Jiffy bags or anything suspicious."

"Has she been coming to pick up her mail?"

"'Naomi comes in each day. But not today. At least not before I left."

Cynthia asked, "Does she ever say anything at all?"

"She's downcast. We exchange pleasantries and that's it."

"Good of Blair to lend you his Dually." Coop hoped her severe crush on the handsome man wouldn't show. It did.

"He's a good neighbor." Harry smiled. "Little Mim's pegged him for every social occasion between now and Christmas, I swear."

"He doesn't seem to mind."

"What choice does he have? Piss off a Sanburne?" Her eyebrows rose.

"Point taken." Cynthia nodded, feeling better already.

"When you girls stop chewing the fat, I'd be tickled pink to get back to business."

"Yes, boss."

"Spoilsport," Harry teased him. "If we take our minds off the problem, we usually find the answer."

"That's the biggest bunch of bull I've heard since 'Read my lips: No new taxes,' " Rick snorted.

"Read my lips: Come to the locker room." The tiger cat let out a hoot.

"Was that a hiccup?" Cynthia bent down to pat Mrs. Murphy.

"Let's try the old run away—run back routine." Tucker ripped out of the room and ran halfway down the hall, her claws clicking on the wooden floor, then raced back.

"Let's all do it." Mrs. Murphy followed the dog. Pewter spun out so fast her hind legs slipped away from her.

"Nuts." Rick watched, shaking his head.

"Playful." Coop checked the mail. There wasn't anything that caught her eye as odd.

Halfway down the hall the animals screeched to a halt, bumping into one another.

"Idiots." Mrs. Murphy puffed her tail. The fur on the back of her neck stood up.

"We could try again." Tucker felt that repetition was the key with humans.

"No. I'll crawl up Mother's leg. That gets her attention."

"Doesn't mean she'll follow us," Pewter replied pragmatically.

"Have you got a better idea?" The tiger whirled on the gray cat.

"No, Your Highness."

The silent animals reentered the room. Mrs. Murphy walked over to Harry, rubbed against her leg, and purred.

"Sweetie, we'll go in a minute."

That fast Murphy climbed up Harry's legs. The jeans blunted the claws, yet enough of those sharp daggers pierced the material to make Harry yelp.

"Follow me!" She dropped off Harry's leg and ran to the door, stopping to turn a somersault.

"Show-off," Pewter muttered under her breath.

"You can't do a somersault," Murphy taunted her.

"Oh, yes, I can." Pewter ran to the door and leapt into the air. Her somersault was a little wobbly and lopsided, but it was a somersault.

"You know, every now and then they get like this," Harry explained sheepishly. "Maybe I'll see what's up."

"I'll go with you."

"You're both loose as ashes." Rick grabbed the mail.

As Harry and Cynthia followed the animals, they noticed a few classrooms back in use.

"That's good, I guess," Cynthia remarked.

"Well, once you-all decided to work out of the school to question students, some of the parents figured it would be safe to send the kids back." Harry giggled. "Easier than having them at home, no matter what."

"Are we on a hike?" Cynthia noticed the three animals had stopped at the backdoor to the main building and were staring at the humans with upturned faces.

When Harry opened the door, they shot out, galloping across the quad. "All right, you guys, this is a con!"

"No, it isn't." The tiger trotted back to reassure the two wavering humans. "Come on. We've got an idea. It's more than any of you have."

"I could use some fresh air." Cynthia felt the first snowflake of winter alight on her nose.

"Me, too. Miranda will have to wait."

They crossed the quad, the snowflakes making a light tapping sound as they hit tree branches. The walkway was slick but not white yet. In the distance between the main building and the gymnasium, the snow thickened.

"Hurry up. It's cold," Pewter exhorted them.

The humans reached the front door of the gym and opened it. The animals dashed inside.

Mrs. Murphy glanced over her shoulder to see if they were behind her. She ran to the girls' gym door at one corner of the trophy hall. The other two animals marched behind her.

"This is a wild-goose chase." Cynthia laughed.

"Who knows, but it gives you a break from Rick. He's just seething up there."

"He gets like that until he cracks a case. He blames himself for everything."

They walked into the locker room. All three animals sat in front of 114. The line of dead ants was still there.

Since each locker wore a combination lock like a ring hanging from a bull's nose, they couldn't get into the locker.

But it gave Cynthia an idea. She found Coach Hallvard, who checked her list. Number 114 belonged to Jody Miller. Cynthia requested that the coach call her girls in to open their lockers.

An hour later, Coach Hallvard, an engine of energy, had each field hockey player, lacrosse, basketball, track and field, anyone on junior varsity or varsity standing in front of her locker.

Harry, back at work, missed the fireworks. When 114 was opened, an open can of Coca-Cola was the source of the ant patrol. However, 117 contained a Musketeer costume. The locker belonged to Karen Jensen.

54

Rick paced, his hands behind his back. Karen sobbed that she knew nothing about the costume, which was an expensive one.

"Ask anybody. I was Artemis, and I never left the dance," she protested. She was also feeling low because a small amount of marijuana had been found in her gym bag.

Rick got a court order to open lockers, cutting locks off if necessary. He had found a virtual pharmacy at St. Elizabeth's. These kids raided Mora and Dad's medicine chest with regularity or they had a good supplier. Valium, Percodan, Quaaludes, speed, amyl nitrate, a touch of cocaine, and a good amount of marijuana competed with handfuls of anabolic steroids in the boys' varsity lockers.

Hardened though he was, he was unprepared for the extent of drug use at the school. When he pressured one of the football players, he heard the standard argument: if you're playing football against guys who use steroids and you don't, you get creamed. If a boy wants to excel at certain sports, he's got to get into drugs sooner or later. The drug of choice was human growth hormone, but none of the kids could find it, and it was outrageously expensive. Steroids were a lot easier to cop.

The next shocker came when Cynthia checked the rental of the Musketeer costume using a label sewn into the neck of the tunic. She reached an outfitter in Washington, D.C. They reported they were missing a Musketeer costume, high quality.

It had been rented by Maury McKinchie using his MasterCard.

55

The snow swirled, obscuring Yellow Mountain. Harry trudged to the barn, knowing that no matter how deep the snow fell, it wouldn't last. The hard snows arrived punctually after Christmas. Occasionally a whopper would hit before the holidays, but most residents of central Virginia could count on real winter socking them January through March.

The winds, stiff, blew the fall foliage clean off the trees. Overnight the riotous color of fall gave way to the spare monochrome of winter.

A rumble sent Tucker out into the white. Fair pulled up. He clapped his cowboy hat on his head as he dashed for the barn.

"Harry, I need your help."

"What happened?"

"BoomBoom is pitching a royal hissy. She says she has to talk to someone she can trust. She has a heavy heart. You should hear it."

"No, I shouldn't."

"What should I do?" He fidgeted. "She sounded really distressed."

Harry leaned against a stall door. Gin Fizz poked his white nose over the top of the Dutch doors, feed falling from his mouth as he chewed. Usually he'd stick his head out and chat. Today he was too hungry and the feed was too delicious.

"Mom, go along. That will give BoomBoom cardiac arrest." Murphy laughed.

"I'll tell you exactly what I think. She was sleeping with Maury McKinchie."

"You don't know that for a fact." He removed his hat and shook his head.

"Woman's instinct. Anyway, if you don't want to hear what I have to say, I'll go back to work and you can do whatever."

"I want to know."

"The more I think about the horrible events around here, the more it points to the battle between Roscoe and Sandy Brashiers over the future direction of St. Elizabeth's." She held up her hand. "I know. Doesn't take a genius to figure that out."

"Well, I hadn't thought about it that way."

"Comfort BoomBoom—within reason. She might have a piece of the puzzle and not know it. Or she may be in danger. On the other hand, BoomBoom won't miss a chance to emote extravagantly." She smiled. "And, of course, you'll tell me everything."

56

What was working on BoomBoom was her mouth. She confessed to Fair that she had been having an affair with Maury McKinchie. She had broken it off when she discovered he was having affairs with other women or at least with one important woman. He wouldn't tell her who it was.

She thought that the Other Woman, not his wife, of course, might have killed him.

"What a fool I was to believe him." Her expressive gray-blue eyes spilled over with salty tears.

Fair wanted to hug her, console her, but his mistrust of her ran deep enough for him to throttle his best impulses. One hug from him and she'd be telling everyone they had engaged in deep, meaningful discussions. Gossip would take it from there.

"Did he promise to divorce Darla?"

"No. She was his meal ticket."

"Ah, then what was there to believe? I'm missing a beat here. I don't mean to be dense."

"You're not dense, Fair, darling, you're just a man." She forgot her misery long enough to puff up his ego. "Men don't look below the surface. Believe? I believed him when he said he loved me." She renewed her sobs and no amount of light sea kelp essence could dispel her gloom.

"Maybe he did love you."

"Then how could he carry on with another woman? It was bad enough he had a wife!"

"You don't know for certain—do you?"

"Oh, yes, I do." She wiped her eyes with her handkerchief. "I ransacked his car when he was 'taking a meeting,' as he used to say, with Roscoe. He kept everything important in that car. Here." She reached into her silk robe, a luscious lavender, and pulled out a handful of envelopes, which she thrust into his hands. "See for yourself."

Fair held the light gray envelopes, Tiffany paper, wrapped in a white ribbon. He untied the ribbon. "Shouldn't you give these to Rick Shaw?"

"I should do a lot of things; that's why I need to talk to you. How do I know Rick will keep this out of the papers?"

"He will." Fair read the first letter rapidly. Love stuff only interested him if it was his love stuff. His mood changed considerably when he reached the signature at the bottom of the next page. In lovely cursive handwriting the name of "Your Naomi" appeared. "Oh, shit."

"Killed him."

"You think Naomi killed him?"

"She could parade around in a Musketeer costume as easily as the rest of us."

"Finding that costume in Karen Jensen's locker sure was lucky for Kendrick." Fair raised an eyebrow. "I wouldn't let him off the hook yet myself. That guy's got serious problems."

"Heartless. Not cruel, mind you, just devoid of feeling unless there's a dollar sign somewhere in the exchange." BoomBoom tapped a long fingernail in the palm of her other hand. "Think how easy it would have been for Naomi to dump that costume in a kid's locker. Piece of cake."

"Maybe." Fair handed the envelopes back to BoomBoom.

"You aren't going to read the rest of them? They sizzle."

"It's none of my business. You should hand them over to Rick. Especially if you think Naomi killed McKinchie."

"That's just it. She must have found out about me and let him have it after offing Roscoe. Ha. She thought she was free and clear, and then she finds out there's another woman. I give him credit for energy. A wife and two lovers." She smirked, her deep dimple, so alluring, drawing deeper.

"I guess it's possible. Anything's possible. But then again, who's to say you didn't kill Maury McKinchie?" Fair, usually indirect in such circumstances, bluntly stated the obvious.

"Me? Me? I couldn't kill anyone. I want to heal people, bind their inner wounds. I wouldn't hurt anyone."

"I'm telling you how it looks to a—"

"A scumbag! Anyone who knows me knows I wouldn't kill, and most emphatically not over love."

"Sex? Or love?"

"I thought you'd be on my side!"

"I am on your side." He leveled his gaze at the distressed woman, beautiful even in her foolishness. "That's why I'm asking you questions."

"I thought I loved Maury. Now I'm not so sure. He used me. He even gave me a screen test."

"From a sheriff's point of view, I'd say you had a motive."

"Well, I didn't have a motive to kill Roscoe Fletcher!"

"No, it would appear not. Did anyone have it in for Roscoe? Anyone you know?"

"Naomi. That's what I'm telling you."

"We don't know that he was cheating on her."

"He gathered his rosebuds while he may. Don't all you men do that—I mean, given the opportunity, you're all whores."

"I was." His jaw locked on him.

"Oh, Fair, I didn't mean you. You and Harry weren't suited for each other. The marriage would have come apart sooner or later. You know I cherish every moment we shared, and that's why, in my hour of need, I called you."

How could he have ever slept with this woman? Was he that blinded by beauty? A wave of disgust rose up from his stomach. He fought it down. Why be angry at her? She was what she was. She hadn't changed. He had.

"Fair?" She questioned the silence between them.

"If you truly believe that Naomi Fletcher killed her husband because she wanted to be with Maury McKinchie and then killed him in a fit of passion because she found out about you, you must go to the sheriff. Turn over those letters."

"I can't. It's too awful."

He changed his tack. "BoomBoom, what if she comes after you—assuming your hypothesis is correct."

"No!" Genuine alarm spread over her face.

"What about April Shively?" he pressed on.

"A good foundation base would have changed her life. That and rose petals in her bathwater." BoomBoom's facial muscles were taut; the veins in her neck stood out. "O-o-o, I'm cramping up. A charley horse. Rub it out for me."

"Your calf is fine. Don't start that stuff with me."

"What stuff?" She flared her nostrils.

"You know. Now I'm calling the sheriff. You can't withhold evidence like this."

"Don't!"

"BoomBoom, for once put your vanity aside for the public good. A murderer is out there. It may be Naomi, as you've said, but"—he shrugged—"if news leaks out that you had a fling with Maury, it's not the end of the world."

"Easy for you to say."

"I thought the man was a perfect ass."

"He made me laugh. And I can act as well as half of those people you see on television."

"I would never argue that point." He paused a moment, a flicker, a jolt to the brain. "BoomBoom, have you ever watched any of Maury's movies?"

"Sure. Every one."

"Did you like them? I mean, can you tell me something about them?"

"He used hot, hot leading ladies. He gave Darla her big break, you know."

"Hot? As in sex?"

"Oh"—she flipped her fingers downward, a lightning-fast gesture, half dismissal—"everything Maury did was about sex: the liberating power of sex and how we are transformed by it. The true self is revealed in the act. I mean, the stories could be about the Manhattan district attorney's office or about a Vietnamese immigrant in Los Angeles—that's my favorite, Rice Sky—but sex takes over sooner or later."

"Huh." He walked over to the phone.

"Don't leave me."

"I'm not." He called Harry first. "Honey, I'm waiting for Rick Shaw. I'll explain when I get to your place. Is your video machine working? Good. I'm bringing some movies. We're going to eat a lot of popcorn." Then he dialed Rick.

In fifteen minutes Rick and Cynthia arrived, picked up the envelopes, and left after commanding BoomBoom not to leave town.

When she begged Fair not to leave, he replied, not unkindly, "You need to learn to be alone."

"Not tonight! I'm scared."

"Call someone else."

"You're going back to Harry."

"I'm going to watch movies with her."

"Don't do it. It's a big mistake."

"Do what?"

"Fall in love with her."

"I never fell out of love with her. I lost me first, then I lost my wife. Sorry, BoomBoom."

57

"Girl, you'd better have a good explanation." Kendrick's eyes, bloodshot with rage, bored into his daughter.

"I told you. I paid with Grandpa's legacy."

"I checked the bank. You're a minor, so they gave me the information. Your account is not missing forty-one thousand dollars, which is what that damned BMW cost!"

"The check hasn't cleared yet," she replied coolly.

"Pegasus Motor Cars says you paid with a certified check. Who gave you the money!"

"Grandpa!" She sat on the edge of the sofa, knees together like a proper young lady.

"Don't lie to me." He stepped toward her, fists clenched.

"Dad, don't you dare hit me, I'm pregnant."

He stopped in his tracks. "WHAT?"

"I . . . am . . . pregnant."

"Does your mother know?"

"Yes."

If Irene had appeared at that moment, Kendrick might have killed her. Luckily she was grocery shopping. He transferred his rage to the man responsible.

"Who did this to you?"

"None of your business."

"It is my business. Whoever he is, he's going to make good on this deal. He'll marry you."

"I don't want to get married."

"Oh, you don't?" Venom dripped from his voice. "Well, what you want is irrelevant. You got into this mess by following your wants. My God, Jody, what's happened to you?" He sat down with a thud, the anger draining into fear and confusion.

"Don't be mad at Mom. She did what a mother is supposed to do. She went to the doctor with me—once I knew. We were going to tell you, Dad, but with everything that's happened to you—we put it off."

"Who is the father?"

"I'm not sure."

"How many boys have you slept with?" His voice cracked.

"A couple."

"Well, who do you think it is?"

"Sean Hallahan—maybe."

"Oh, shit."

58

"Don't lie to me." Susan hovered over Brooks.

"I'm not. I don't do drugs, Mom."

"You hang out with someone who does."

"Jensen's not a druggie. She had one joint in her bag. Chill out."

Ned stepped in. "I think it's time we all went to bed."

"Danny's already in bed." Brooks envied her brother, off the hook on this one.

"Now look, daughter, if you are hiding something, you'd better come clean. Whatever you're doing, we'll deal with it."

"I'm not doing anything."

"Susan." Ned rubbed his forehead. A headache nibbled at his temples.

"I want to get to the bottom of this. Sheriff Shaw asked each of you questions after the marijuana was found and after that costume showed up. I can't believe it. It's too preposterous. Karen Jensen.

"Mom, Karen didn't kill Mr. McKinchie. Really. It's nuts."

"How do you suppose the costume got in her locker?"

"Easy. Everyone on the team knows everyone else's combination. We're always borrowing stuff."

Susan hovered over Brooks. "What do you know about Karen Jensen that we don't?"

"Karen's okay. She's not a druggie. The only thing I know about Karen is that she was dating an older guy from UVA this summer and got a little too close. Really. She's okay."

Susan put her arm around her daughter's shoulders. "I hope you are, too."

Later Susan called Harry, relaying the conversation with Brooks. Harry treated her to a synopsis of Rice Sky.

"Sounds boring."

"Made a lot of money. I think the real reason Roscoe was pushing the film-department idea was to punch up Maury. He was so overshadowed by Darla. Roscoe was smart. Cater to Maury and good things would follow."

"Money. Tons of money."

"Sure. They'd name the department after Maury. He'd donate all his scripts, round up old equipment; the whole thing would be an ego trip."

"How much do you think an ego trip like that would cost?"

"It would take at least a million-dollar endowment, I'd think. Probably more." Harry scribbled on a brown paper bag. "I'm not too good at knowing what it would be worth, really, but it would have to be a lot."

"What's Fair think?"

"Millions," he called out.

"Sandy Brashiers can't be that stupid," Harry said. "For a couple of million dollars even he would cave in on the film-department idea."

"I doubt Roscoe put it in dollars and cents."

"Yeah. Maybe it's in April's books."

"Susan, if that's all that's in there, what's to hide?"

"Damned if I know. We called about Sean, by the way. No change."

"I called, too."

"That kid has to know something. Larry Johnson said he'd heard the main swelling was diminishing. Maybe he'll snap out of the coma once the swelling is down."

"He's lucky to be alive."

59

"Why don't you just tell me the truth?" Rick rapped his fingers on the highly polished table.

"You have no right to push me like this." Naomi Fletcher had her back up.

"You know more than you're telling me." He remained cool and professional.

"No, I don't. And I resent you badgering me when I'm in mourning."

Wordlessly, Cynthia Cooper slid the packet of envelopes, retied with a neat bow, across the table to Naomi. Her face bled bone white.

"How—?"

"The 'how' doesn't matter, Naomi. If you are in on these murders, come clean." Cynthia sounded sympathetic. "Maybe we can work a deal."

"I didn't kill anyone."

"You didn't kill Roscoe to clear the way for McKinchie to marry you?" Rick pressured her.

"Marry Maury McKinchie? I'd sooner have a root canal." Her even features contorted in scorn.

"You liked him enough to sleep with him." Cynthia felt the intimate information should best come from her, not Rick.

"That doesn't mean I wanted to spend my life with him. Maury was a good-time Charlie, and that's all he was. He wasn't marriage material."

"Apparently, neither was Roscoe."

She shrugged. "He was in the beginning, but men change."

"So do women." Cynthia pointed to the envelopes.

"What's good for the gander was good for the goose, in this instance. The marriage vows are quite lovely, and one would hope to live up to them, but they are exceedingly unrealistic. I didn't do anything wrong. I didn't kill anyone. I played with Maury McKinchie. You can't arrest me for that."

"Played with him and then killed him when you learned he wasn't serious about you and he was sleeping with another woman."

"BoomBoom." She waved her hand in the air as though at an irritating gnat. "I'd hardly worry about her."

"Plenty of other women have." Cynthia bluntly stated the truth.

"BoomBoom was too self-centered for Maury. One was never really in danger of a rival because he loved himself too much, if you know what I mean." She smiled coldly.

"You were at the car wash the day your husband died. You spoke to him. You could have easily given him poisoned candy."

"I could have, but I didn't."

"You're tough," Rick said, half admiringly.

"I'm not tough, I'm innocent."

"If I had a dollar for every killer who said that, I'd be a rich man." Rick felt in his coat pocket for his cigarettes. "Mind if I smoke?"

"I most certainly do. The whole house will stink when you leave, which I hope is soon."

Cynthia and Rick shared a secret acknowledgment. No Southern lady would have said that.

"How well did you know Darla?"

"A nodding acquaintance. She was rarely here."

"If you didn't kill Roscoe, do you know who did?"

"No."

"How does withholding evidence sound to you, Mrs. Fletcher?" Rick hunched forward.

"Like a bluff."

"For chrissake, Naomi, two men are dead!" Cynthia couldn't contain her disgust. Then she quickly fired a question. "Was your husband sleeping with April Shively?"

"God, no," Naomi hooted. "Roscoe thought April was pretty but deadly dull." Naomi had to admit to herself that dullness didn't keep men from sleeping with women. However, she wasn't going to admit that to Shaw and Cooper.

"Do you think Kendrick killed Maury?" Rick switched his bait.

"Unlikely." She closed her eyes, as if worn-out.

Cooper interjected. "Why?"

Naomi perked up. "Kendrick doesn't have the balls."

"Did you love your husband?" Rick asked.

She grew sober, sad even. "You live with a man for eighteen years, you tend to know him. Roscoe might wander off the reservation from time to time. He could indulge in little cruelties—his treatment of Sandy Brashiers being a case in point. He kept Sandy in the dark about everything." She paused, "Did I love him? I was accustomed to him, but I did love him. Yes, I did."

Cynthia mustered a smile. "Why?"

Naomi shrugged. "Habit."

"What did Roscoe have against Sandy Brashiers?"

"Roscoe always had it in for Harvard men. He said the arrogance of their red robes infuriated him. You know, during academic ceremonies only Harvard wears the crimson robe."

"Do you have any feeling about the false obituaries?" Cynthia prodded.

"Those?" Naomi wrinkled her brow. "Kids' prank. Sean apolo gized."

"Do you think he was also responsible for the second one?"

"No. I think it was a copycat. Sean got the luxury of being a bad dude. Very seductive at that age. Another boy wanted the glory. Is it that important?"

"It might be." Rick reached for his hat.

"Have you searched April Shively's house?" Naomi asked.

"House, car, office, even her storage unit. Nothing."

Naomi stood up to usher them out. "She doesn't live high on the hog. I don't think she embezzled funds."

"She could be covering up for someone else." Cynthia reached the door first.

"You mean Roscoe, of course." Naomi didn't miss a beat. "Why not? He's dead. He can be accused of anything. You have to find criminals in order to keep your jobs, don't you?"

Rick halted at the door as Naomi's hand reached the knob. "You work well with Sandy, don't you? Under the circumstances?"

"Yes."

"Did you know that Sandy got a student pregnant at White Academy, the school he worked at before St. Elizabeth's?"

Cooper struck next. "Roscoe knew."

"You two have been very busy." Her lips tightened.

"Like you said, Mrs. Fletcher, we have to find criminals in order to keep our jobs." Rick half smiled.

She grimaced and closed the door.

60

Mrs. Murphy leaned against the pillow on the sofa. She stretched her right hind leg out straight and held it there. Then she unsheathed her claws and stared at her toes. What stupendously perfect toes. She repeated the process with the left hind leg. Then she reached with her front paws together, a kitty aerobic exercise. Satisfied, she lay back on the pillow, happily staring into the fire. She reviewed in her mind recent events.

Harry dusted her library shelves, a slow process since she'd take a book off the shelf, read passages, and then replace it. A light snow fell outside, which made her all the happier to be inside.

Tucker snored in front of the fire. Pewter, curled in a ball at the other end of the sofa, dreamed of tiny mice singing her praise. "0 Mighty Pewter, Queen of Cats."

"Lord of the Flies." Harry pulled the old paperback off the shelf. "Had to read it in college, but I hated it." She dropped to the next shelf. "Fielding, love him. Austen." She turned to Mrs. Murphy. "Literature is about sensibility. Really, Murphy, John Milton is one of the greatest poets who ever lived, but he bores me silly. I have trouble liking any art form trying to beat a program into my head. I suppose it's the difference between the hedgehog and the fox."

"Isaiah Berlin." Mrs. Murphy recalled the important work of criticism dividing writers into hedgehogs or foxes, hedgehogs being fixed on one grand idea or worldview whereas foxes ran through the territory; life was life with no special agenda. That was how she thought of it anyway.

"What I mean is, Murphy, readers are hedgehogs or foxes. Some people read to remember. Some read to forget. Some read to be challenged. Others want their prejudices confirmed."

"Why do you read, Mother?" the cat asked.

"I read," Harry said, knowing exactly what her cat had asked her, "for the sheer exultant pleasure of the English language."

"Ah, me, too." The tiger purred. Harry couldn't open a book without Mrs. Murphy sitting on her shoulder or in her lap.

Sometimes Pewter would read, but she favored mysteries or thrillers. Pewter couldn't raise her sights above genre fiction.

Mrs. Murphy thought the gray cat might read some diet books as well. She stretched and walked over to Harry. She jumped on a shelf to be closer to Harry's face. She scanned the book spines, picking out her favorites. She enjoyed biographies more than Harry did. She stopped at Michael Powell's My Life In The Movies.

She blinked and leapt off the shelf, cuffing Tucker awake. "Come on, Tucker, come on."

"I'm so comfortable."

"Just follow me." She skidded out the animal door, Tucker on her heels.

"What in God's name gets into her?" Harry held The Iliad.

Forty-five minutes later both animals, winded, pulled up at Bowden's pond where the Camry and the grisly remains still sat, undiscovered by humans.

"Tucker, you cover the east side of the pond. I'll cover the west. Look for a video or a can of film."

Both animals searched through the snow, which was beginning to cover the ground; still the shapes would have been obvious.

An hour later they gave up.

"Nothing," Tucker reported.

"Me either."

A growl made their hair stand on end.

"The bobcat!" Mrs. Murphy charged up the slippery farm road, leaping the ruts. Tucker, fast as grease, ran beside her.

They reached the cutover hayfields, wide open with no place to hide.

"She's gaining on us." Tucker's tongue hung out.

And she was, a compact, powerful creature, tufts on the ends of her ears.

"This is my fault." The cat ached from running so hard.

"Save your breath." Tucker whirled to confront the foe, her long fangs bared.

The bobcat stopped for a moment. She wanted dinner, but she didn't want to get hurt. She loped around Tucker, deciding Murphy was the better chance. Tucker followed the bobcat.

"Run, Murphy, run. I'll keep her busy."

"You domesticated worm," the bobcat spat.

Seeing her friend in danger, Murphy stopped panting. She puffed up, turning to face the enemy. Together she and Tucker flanked the bobcat about twenty yards from her.

The bobcat crouched, moving low toward Mrs. Murphy, who jumped sideways. The bobcat ran and flung herself in the air. Murphy sidestepped her. The big cat whirled and charged just as Tucker hurtled toward her. The dog hit the bobcat in the legs as she was ready to pounce on Murphy. The bobcat rolled, then sprang to her feet. Both friends were side to side now, fangs bared.

"In here!" a voice called from the copse of trees a spring away.

"Let's back toward it," Murphy gasped.

"Where are we going?" Tucker whispered.

"To the trees."

"She's more dangerous there than in the open."

"It's our only hope."

"You two are worthless." The bobcat stalked them, savoring the moment.

"That's your opinion." Mrs. Murphy growled deep in her throat.

"You're the hors d'oeuvre, your canine sidekick is the main meal."

"Don't count your chickens." Murphy spun around and flew over the snow.

Tucker did likewise, the bobcat closing in on her. She heard breathing behind her and then saw Mrs. Murphy dive into a fox hole. Tucker spun around and snapped at the bobcat's forelegs, which caught her completely by surprise. It gave Tucker the split second she needed to dive into the fox hole after her friend.

"I can wait all night," the bobcat muttered.

"Don't waste time over spilt milk," Mrs. Murphy taunted.

"I'm glad some of you are big foxes." Tucker panted on the floor of the den. "I'd have never gotten into your earth otherwise."

The slight red vixen said to Murphy, "You told me once to stay in the shed during a bad storm. I owe you one."

"You've more than repaid me." Murphy listened as the bobcat prowled around, unwilling to give up.

"What were you two doing out here tonight?"

"Looking for a film or a video back where the dead human in the car is," Tucker said.

"Nobody will find that human until deer-hunting season starts, and that's two weeks away," the vixen noted wisely.

"Did you-all see anything?"

"No, although when we first found her at the end of September she'd only been dead a few weeks."

"September! I think the killer threw the evidence in the pond." Murphy was a figuring cat.

"How do you know?" Tucker knew that the feline was usually a few steps ahead of her.

"Because the murders are about film and Roscoe's film department. It was right in front of my face, but I didn't see it. Whoever is in that car is the missing link."

"Murphy," Tucker softly said, "have you figured out what's going on?"

"Yes, I think I have, but not in time—not in time."

61

Kendrick and Jody sat on a bench outside the intensive care unit. An officer guarded Sean inside. His grandfather was there, too.

Kendrick stopped Dr. Hayden Mclntire when he came out of the room. "How is he?"

"We're guardedly optimistic." He looked at Jody. "Quite a few of his friends have stopped by. He's a popular boy."

"Has Karen Jensen been here?" Jody asked.

"Yes. So were Brooks Tucker, Roger Davis, and the whole foot ball team, of course. They can't go in, but it was good that they came."

"Well, that's nice." Kendrick smiled unconvincingly.

After Hayden left, Kendrick took his daughter by the elbow. "Come on, he isn't going to rise up and walk just because you're here."

She stared at the closed doors. "I wish he would."

"I'll attend to Sean in good time."

"Dad, you can't make anybody do anything. One mistake isn't cured by making a bigger one."

They walked down the hall. "That's a mature statement."

"Maybe I'm learning something."

"Well, learn this. I'm not having bastards in my house, so you're going to marry somebody."

"It's my body."

He grabbed her arm hard. "There is no other option."

"Let me go or I'll scream bloody murder right here at University of Virginia Hospital. And you're in enough trouble." She said this without rancor.

"Yes." He unhanded her.

"Did you kill Maury McKinchie?"

"What?" He was shocked that she asked.

"Did you kill Maury McKinchie?"

"No."

62

Neither Mrs. Murphy nor Tucker returned home all night. Harry had called and called. Finally she fed the horses and, last of all, Pewter.

Walking down to get the paper, she heard Tucker bark. "We're safe!"

"Yahoo!" Mrs. Murphy sped beside the dog, stopping from time to time to jump for joy, straight in the air, the snow flying up and catching the sunlight, making thousands of tiny rainbows.

"Where have you two been?" Harry hunched down to gather them both in her arms. "I was worried sick about you." She sniffed. "You smell like a fox."

"We spent the night with our hosts," Murphy said.

Tucker, turning in excited circles, interrupted. "We think there's evidence in Bowden's pond, and then we stayed too late and the bobcat tracked us. Oh, it was a close call."

"Tucker was brave!"

"You, too."

"Such talk." Harry laughed at their unintelligible chatter. "You must be starving. Come on. We've got to hurry or I'll be late for work."

Driving Blair's Dually into Crozet, Harry noticed the snow lying blue in the deep hollows.

The three rushed into the post office, nearly getting stuck in the animal door. Mrs. Hogendobber, who usually greeted them, was so excited, she barely noticed their entry.

"Hi, Miranda—"

"Where have you been?" Miranda clapped her hands in anticipation of telling her the news.

"What is the matter?"

"Kendrick Miller confessed to Rick Shaw that he had killed Maury McKinchie and Roscoe Fletcher. He had made up the story about the Musketeer because he remembered the Musketeer was wearing a sword. The costume hanging in Jensen's locker was irrelevant to the case. He confessed last night at midnight."

"I don't believe it," Mrs. Murphy exclaimed.

63

A crowd had gathered at Mim's ... a good thing, since she put them to work stuffing and hand-addressing envelopes for the Multiple Sclerosis Foundation in which she was typically active.

Brooks, Roger, and Karen were relieved now that St. Elizabeth's could return to normal. Sandy Brashiers, at the head of the envelope line, told them to pipe down.

Gretchen, Mim's cook, served drinks.

When Cynthia walked through the door, everyone cheered. Accorded center stage, she endured question after question.

"One at a time." Cynthia laughed.

"Why did he do it?" Sandy Brashiers asked.

Cynthia waited a moment, then said, "These were crimes of passion, in a sense. I don't want to offend anyone but—"

"Murder is the offense," Sandy said. "We can handle his reasons."

"Well—Roscoe was carrying on an affair with Irene Miller and Kendrick blew up."

"Roscoe? What about Maury?" Fair Haristeen, tired from a day in the operating room, sat in a chair. Enough people were folding and stuffing. He needed a break.

"Kendrick has identified the poison used. He said Maury was on to him, knew he'd killed Roscoe, and was going to prove it. He killed him to shut him up."

Harry listened with interest. She felt such relief even as she felt sorrow for Irene and Jody. Irene had had an affair. No cheers for that, but to have a husband snap and go on a killing spree had to be dreadful. No wonder Jody had beaned Maury McKinchie at the hockey game. The tension in the Miller household must have been unbearable. "Nouveau riche," Mini cried.

"I'd rather be nouveau riche than not riche at all," Fair rejoined, and since Mim adored her vet, he could get away with it.

Everyone truly laughed this time.

"How did Kendrick get such powerful poison?" Reverend Herb Jones wondered.

"The nursery and gardening business needs pesticides."

Harry noticed BoomBoom's unusual reticence. "Aren't you relieved?"

"Uh—yes," said the baffled beauty. She'd had no idea about Roscoe and Irene. Why didn't Maury tell her? He'd relished sexual tidbits.

Sandy Brashiers put his hands on his hips. "This still doesn't get April Shively off the hook. After all, she is withholding papers relevant to school operation."

"Maybe she will come forward now," Little Mim hoped out loud.

"How do you know for sure it was Mr. Miller?" Karen said to everyone's amazement.

Cynthia answered, "A detailed confession is about as close to a lock as you can get."

"Why'd he tell?" Harry wondered aloud.

Cynthia winked at her. "Couldn't live with the guilt. Said he confessed to Father Michael first, and over time realized he had to give himself up."

"Well, it's over. Let's praise the Lord for our deliverance," Miranda instructed them.

"Amen," Herb agreed and the others joined in.

"You know, I keep thinking about Irene and Jody sitting home alone. They must be wretched. We should extend our sympathy." Miranda folded her hands as if in prayer.

Everyone looked at Mrs. Hogendobber, thought for a moment, and then agreed that she had a point. It might not be fun to go over to the Millers', but it was the right thing to do.

After the work party, Harry, Fair, Big Mim, Little Mim, Herb Jones, Miranda, and Susan Tucker drove over. The kids piled into Roger's old car. Father Michael had been with the family since Ken-drick gave himself up late that afternoon. It was the priest who answered the door. Surprised to see so many people, he asked Irene if she would be willing to see her neighbors. She burst into tears and nodded "yes."

The first person Irene greeted was Big Mim, who after the formalities offered them a sojourn in one of her farm dependencies if they should need privacy from the press.

Irene thanked her and began crying again.

Miranda put her arm around her. "There, there, Irene. This is too strange to contemplate. You must be feeling confused and terrible."

"Bizarre," Jody said forthrightly. "I can't believe he lost it like that."

Irene, not ready to give up on her husband, sputtered, "He's no murderer!"

"He confessed," Jody said flatly.

"We're your friends, no matter what." Softhearted Roger couldn't bear to see Jody's mother cry.

"Mom, I want to go back to school. I know this won't go away, but something in our lives has to be normal."

"Jody, that only puts more pressure on you." Irene worried about the reaction of the other students.

"Hey, I'm not responsible for Dad. I need my friends."

"We'll see."

"Mom, I'm going."

"We'll watch over her," Karen volunteered.

As this issue was hashed out, Father Michael and Herb Jones huddled in a corner. Father Michael, secure in the company of another cleric, whispered to him that he was tremendously relieved that Kendrick was behind bars. After all, he himself was likely to be the next victim.

"Bragging?"

"Not exactly. The first confession was straightforward. The second one, he said he liked killing. He liked the power. I can't say I ever recognized his voice."

"Was there a sense of vindication?" Herb inclined his head close to Father Michael's.

"I couldn't say."

"A touch dramatic."

"The entire episode was certainly that."

Later that evening Harry told Mrs. Murphy, Tucker, and Pewter all that had transpired at Big Mim's and then over at Irene Miller's. Angry though they were at not being included, they listened as she babbled while doing her chores.

"They're so far away from the truth it hurts," Tucker said and Pewter agreed, since Mrs. Murphy had briefed them on what she felt was truly going on.

"It's going to hurt a whole lot more." Mrs. Murphy stared out the window into the black night. Try as she might, she couldn't think of what to do.

64

Typical of central Virginia in late November, a rush of warm wind rolled up from the Gulf of Mexico. Temperatures soared into the low sixties.

Students were now back at St. Elizabeth's, thanks to Kendrick's midnight confession.

Harry and Miranda shoveled through the landslide of mail.

Jody Miller and Karen Jensen pulled in front of Market Shiflett's store.

"Things are finally settling down." Miranda watched the girls, smiling, enter the grocery store.

"Thank God." Harry tossed a catalog into the Tucker post box. "Now if my truck would just get fixed! I'm getting spoiled driving Blair's Dually and I don't want to wear out my welcome."

"Think of all the string and rubber bands they have to remove," Pewter quipped sarcastically. "What are Jody and Karen doing out of school?"

"Hookey," Tucker thought out loud.

Mrs. Murphy said, "There's a big field hockey game after school today, and a huge football game Friday. Maybe their coach got them out of class."

"Wish we'd get out of work early." Pewter rubbed the plastic comb Harry had just installed on the corner of the post boxes. It was advertised as a cat-grooming aid.

" 'Course St. E's won't be worth squat—they lost too much practice time, but Crozet High ought to have a good game." The tiger enjoyed sports.

"St. E's practiced," Tucker said. "Of course, how well they practiced with all the uproar is anyone's guess."

Jody and Karen came out of the store, placed a big carton in the back of Karen's old car, and drove off.

Susan zoomed into the post office through the backdoor. "Good news!"

"What?" came the animal and human chorus.

"Sean Hallahan has regained consciousness." She beamed. "He's not out of the woods yet, but he knows his name, where he is, he recognizes his parents. He's still in intensive care. Still no visitors."

"That's great news." Harry smiled.

"Once he's really clear, off some of the painkillers, he'll have other pains to deal with . . . still, isn't it wonderful?"

65

The deep golden rays of the late afternoon sun slanted over the manicured field hockey pitch. The high winds and snow of the previous week had stripped the trees of their leaves, but the mild temperature balanced the starkness of early winter.

Knowing how rapidly the mercury could fall, Harry tossed four blankets over her shoulder.

As she made her way to the bleachers, the Reverend Herb Jones called out, "You opening a trading post?"

"Four beaver pelts for one heavy blanket." She draped a royal-blue buffalo plaid blanket over her arm as if to display her wares.

Miranda, warm in her MacLeod tartan kilt with a matching tam-o'-shanter, soon joined them. She carried two hot thermoses, one of tea, the other of chocolate.

"You come sit by me." Herb patted the hard wooden bleacher seat next to him.

Sandy Brashiers, beaming, shook the hands of parents, telling each of them how grateful he was that St. Elizabeth's frightful ordeal was behind them. He thanked everyone for their support, and he promised the best for the remainder of the semester.

Coach Hallvard, about to face the formidable St. Catherine's team from Richmond, had not a second to glad-hand anyone.

Mim accompanied her daughter, which put Little Mim's nose out of joint because she wanted to be accompanied by Blair Bain-bridge. He, however, had been roped into setting up the hot dog stand since his Dually, the newest in town, could pull the structure. Not only did Blair's Dually have a setup for a gooseneck trailer, he also had a Reese hitch welded to the frame.

"Mother, why don't you sit with the girls?" Little Mim waved broadly at Miranda in MacLeod tartan splendor.

Mim , sotto voce, replied, "Trying to get rid of me?"

"Why, Mother, whatever gave you such a silly idea?"

"Humph. You need me to extract money out of these tightwads, Marilyn. You haven't been a raging success."

"Considering all that's happened here, I've done pretty damn well, Mother. And I don't need you to advertise my shortcomings. I'm conversant with them."

"Well, aren't we testy?"

"Yes, we are." Little Mim gave her a sickeningly sweet smile.

These last two years Little Mim had found some backbone. Her mother enjoyed friction on the odd occasion, although she wasn't accustomed to receiving it from her formerly obsequious daughter. However, it did spice up the day.

"Mimsy," Miranda called out, knowing Mim hated "Mimsy." She felt devilish. "Sit with us."

Mim , throwing her alpaca shawl, deep raspberry, over her wildly overpriced Wathne coat, paraded grandly to the bleachers, leaving Little Mim to scoot to the hot dog stand where she found, to her dismay, Cynthia Cooper helping Blair set up shop.

The home team trotted across the field as the rhythm section of the band beat the drums.

Karen Jensen ran with Brooks. "Toni Freeman has moves like a snake," Karen said about the opponent who would be covering Brooks.

"I'll be a mongoose."

"This is going to be a tough game." Karen grew increasingly fierce before the game.

"Zone. You'll be in the zone."

"Yeah. There's Rog."

Brooks waved back at Roger.

"Tossed salad." Karen laughed, meaning Roger had flipped over Brooks.

Jody loped up from behind. "Let's skin 'em alive, pound 'em senseless! Yes!" She moved by them.

As the team approached the bench, the stands erupted in a roar. St. Catherine's also shouted. The entire senior class had trekked out from Richmond. This was a grudge match because St. Catherine's had edged out St. E's in the semifinals at last year's state tournament.

The three animal friends sat with the humans on the bleachers.

Pewter hated the crowd noises. "I'm going back to the car."

"Miranda closed up the Falcon; you can't get in," Mrs. Murphy told her.

"Then I'll go to the hot dog stand." Pewter's eyes glistened.

"Stay with us," Murphy told her loudly.

"Will you two stop fussing at each other!" Harry commanded.

"She started it." Pewter oozed innocence.

A phone rang in Herb's pocket.

"What on earth?" Miranda exclaimed when he pulled a fold-up cellular out of his Norfolk jacket.

"The modern age, Miranda, the modern age." He pulled out the antenna, hit a button, and said, "Hello."

Susan answered, "Herb, tell the gang I'm on my way. Oh, and tell Harry I dropped off BoomBoom to pick up her truck. It's ready."

"Okay. Anything else?"

"No. Be there in ten minutes."

"Fine. 'Bye." He pressed the green button again, sliding the aerial down. "Harry, Susan will be here in ten minutes, and Boom-Boom is bringing your truck. Susan dropped her off."

"BoomBoom? Great. Now I have to be terminally grateful."

"No, you don't. After all, she wrecked your truck in the first place."

"Given the way she drives, she'll wreck it again."

"Mother, you're irrational about BoomBoom." Mrs. Murphy scratched her neck.

"No, she won't," Herb answered. "Here we go!"

The game started with St. Catherine's racing downfield, taking a shot on goal, saved.

"Jeez, that was fast." Harry hoped St. Elizabeth's defense would kick in soon.

"May I see that?"

"Sure." Herb handed Miranda the cellular phone.

She slipped the aerial out and held it to her ear. "It's so light."

"I'll pick up my messages; listen to how clear it is." He punched in what must have been seventeen or more numbers and held the phone to Miranda's ear.

"Amazing." Suddenly her face changed. "Herbie, look."

Parading in front of the bleachers was April Shively wearing a St. Elizabeth's jacket. She was carrying three closed cartons that she dumped at Sandy Brashiers's feet.

Blair noticed this from the hot dog stand. Cynthia hurried over, Little Mini at her heels.

"Deputy Cooper." A surprised Sandy put his hand on the boxes. "Marilyn."

"I'll take those." Little Mim bent over and picked up a rather heavy carton.

"No." Sandy smiled falsely.

April, her grin widening, turned on her heel and left. "Ta-ta!"

"Damn her," Sandy said under his breath.

"Cynthia, you can't have these." Little Mim squared her shoulders.

"Why don't we examine them together? It will only help St. Elizabeth's if everything is aboveboard from the start." Cynthia made a strong argument.

"As headmaster, I'll take charge of those documents."

"Down in front!" a fan, oblivious to the drama, yelled at them.

"Without me you won't be headmaster for long." Little Mim clipped her words, then smiled at the deputy as she changed course. "Come on, Cynthia. You're absolutely right. We should do this together."

As they hauled off the cartons, the announcer blared over the loudspeaker, "We are happy to announce that St. Elizabeth's own Sean Hallahan has regained consciousness, and we know all your prayers have helped."

A huge cheer went up from the stands.

66

After the game, won by St. Elizabeth's, Jody, who'd played brilliantly, drove alone to the University of Virginia Hospital.

Sean, removed to a private room, no longer had a guard since Kendrick had confessed. His father was sitting with him when Jody, wearing a visitor's pass, lightly knocked on the door.

"May I come in?"

Sean turned his head toward her, stared blankly for a moment, then focused. "Sure."

"Hello, Mr. Hallahan."

"Hello, Jody. I'm sorry this is such a troubling time for you."

"It can't be as bad as what you're going through." She walked over to Sean. "Hey."

"Hey." He turned his head to address his father. "Dad, could we be alone?"

In that moment Mr. Hallahan knew Jody was the girl in question, for his wife had told him Sean's words during his first, brief moment of lucidity when Cynthia Cooper was on guard.

"I'll be just down the hall if you need me."

When he had left, Jody leaned over, kissing Sean on the cheek. "I'm sorry, I'm really sorry."

"I was stupid. It wasn't your fault."

"Yes, it was. I told you—well, the news—when I was pissed off at you and the world."

"I'll marry you if you like," he gallantly offered.

"No. Sean, I was angry because you were paying attention to Karen. I wanted to hurt you."

"You mean you aren't pregnant?" His eyes brightened.

"No, I am."

"Oh." He dropped his head back on the pillow. "Jody, you can't face this alone. Lying here has given me a lot of time to think."

"Do you love Karen?"

"No. I haven't even gone out with her."

"But you want to."

He drew a long breath. "Yeah. But that was then. This is now."

"Will you walk again?"

"Yes." He spoke with determination. "The doctors say I'll never play football again . . . but they don't know me. I don't care what it takes. I will."

"Everyone's back at school. My dad confessed to the murders."

"Mom told me." He didn't know what to say. "I wish I could be at Homecoming."

"Team won't be worth squat without you."

"Paul Briscoe will do okay. He's just a sophomore, but he'll be good."

"Do you hate me?" Her eyes, misty, implored him.

"No. I hate myself."

"Did you tell anyone—"

"Of course not."

"Don't."

"What are you going to do?"

"Get rid of it."

He breathed hard, remaining quiet for a long time. "I wish you wouldn't do that."

"Sean, the truth is—I'm not ready to be a mother. You're not ready to be a father, either, and besides—it may not be yours."

"But you said—"

"I wanted to hurt you. It may be yours and it may not. So just forget it. Forget everything. My dad's in jail. Just remember—my dad's in jail."

"Why would he kill Mr. Fletcher and Mr. McKinchie?"

"I don't know."

His pain medication was wearing off. Sweat beaded on Sean's forehead. "We were having such a good time." He pushed the button for the nurse. "Jody, I need a shot."

"I'll go. Don't worry. You're sure you didn't tell anyone anything?"

"I didn't."

"I'll see you later." She passed Mr. Hallahan, who walked back into Sean's room the minute she left.

"She's the one."

"No." Grimacing, Sean pleaded, "Dad, get the nurse, will you? I really hurt."

67

That same night Cynthia Cooper and Little Mim sifted through papers at Little Mim's beautiful cottage on her mother's vast estate.

"Why do you think April finally changed her mind?" Little Mim said.

"Had to be that she heard about Roscoe's affair with Irene," Coop answered. "Her hero suddenly had feet of clay."

The minutes from the various committee meetings provided no surprises.

Roscoe's record book containing handwritten notes made after informal meetings or calls on possible donors did pack some punch.

After a meeting with Kendrick Miller, Roscoe had scrawled, "Discussed women's athletics, especially a new training room for the girls. Whirlpool bath. Won't give a penny. Cheap bastard."

On Father Michael's long prayers during assembly: "A simple 'Bless us, dear Lord' would suffice." After a particularly bruising staff meeting where a small but well-organized contingent opposed athletic expansion and a film department, he wrote concerning Sandy Brashiers, "Judas."

As Little Mim occasionally read pungent passages aloud, Cynthia, using a pocket calculator, went through the accounting books.

"I had no idea it cost so much money to run St. E's." She double-checked the figures.

"What hurts most is maintenance. The older buildings suck up money.

"Guess they were built before insulation."

"Old Main was put up in 1834."

Cynthia picked up the last book, a green clothbound book, longer than it was wide. She opened it to the figures page without checking the front. As she merrily clicked in numbers, she hummed. "Do you remember what cost five thousand dollars the first week of September? It says 'W.T.' " She pointed to the ledger.

"Doesn't ring a bell."

Cynthia punched in more numbers.

"Hey, here's a good one." Little Mim laughed, reading out loud. " 'Big Mim suggested I butter up Darla McKinchie and get her to pry money out of Kendrick. I told her Darla has no interest in St. Elizabeth's, in her husband's career and, as best I can tell, no affection for the state of Virginia . She replied, "How common!"

Little Mim shook her head. "Leave it to Mother. She can't ever let me have something for myself. I'm on the board, she isn't."

"She's trying to help."

Marilyn's hazel eyes clouded. "Help? My mother wants to run every committee, organization, potential campaign. She's indefatigable."

"What cost forty-one thousand dollars?"

Little Mim put down Roscoe's record book to look at the ledger. "Forty-one thousand dollars October twenty-eighth. Roscoe was dead by then." She grabbed the ledger, flipping back to the front. "Slush fund. What the hell is this?"

Coop couldn't believe she'd heard Little Mini swear. "I suppose most organizations have a kitty, although this is quite a large one."

"I'll say." Little Mini glanced over the incoming sums. "We'll get to the bottom of this." She reached for the phone, punching numbers as she exhaled loudly. "April, it's Marilyn Sanburne." She pressed the "speaker" button so that Coop could hear as well.

"Are you enjoying yourself?"

"Actually, I am," came the curt reply. "Roscoe's record book is priceless. What is this green ledger?"

"I have no idea."

"April, don't expect me to believe you. Why else would you remove these papers and accounting books? You must have known about the slush fund."

"First of all, given everyone's temper these days, a public reading of Roscoe's record book is not a good idea. Second, I have no idea what the slush fund was. Roscoe never once mentioned it to me. I found that book in his desk."

"Could Maury have started giving St. Elizabeth's an endowment?"

"Without fanfare? He was going to give, all right, but we were going to have to kiss his ass in Macy's window."

Little Mim bit her lip. "April, I've misjudged you."

"Is that a formal apology?" April asked. Yes.

"I accept."

"Sandy Brashiers couldn't have handled this," Little Mim admit ted.

"He'd have fumbled the ball. All we need is for the papers to get wind of this before we know what it's all about," April said.

"You have no idea?" Little Mim pressed.

"No. But you'll notice the incoming sums are large and regular. Usually between the tenth and fifteenth of each month."

"Let me see that." Coop snatched the green book out of Little Mim's hands. "Damn!"

"What?" Little Mim said.

Cynthia grabbed the phone. "April, seventy-five thousand dollars came in the week after Roscoe died. It's not reflected in the ledger, but there is a red dot by October tenth. For the other deposits, there's a red dot with a black line through it."

"Primitive but effective bookkeeping," April said.

"Did you know a Jiffy bag with seventy-five thousand dollars arrived in Roscoe's mailbox at Crozet on October"—she figured a moment—"twelfth. I'm pretty sure it was the twelfth."

"I didn't know a thing about it."

"But sometimes you would pick up Roscoe's personal mail for him?"

"Infrequently . . . but yes."

"Do you remember other Jiffy bags?"

"Cooper, most books are sent in bags like that."

"Do you swear to me you don't know what this money represents?"

"I swear, but I know it represents something not right. That's why I cleaned everything out. I didn't mind sitting in jail. I felt safe."

"One last question."

"Shoot."

"Do you believe that Kendrick Miller killed Roscoe and Maury?"

"Roscoe loathed him. But, no, I don't."

"He says he blew up in a rage."

"Show him the ledger."

"I'm going to do just that. One more question. I promise this is the last one. Do you think Naomi knows about the ledger?"

A pause. "If she did, we'd see the money. Even if just a pair of expensive earrings."

"Thanks, April."

"Are you going to prosecute me for obstructing justice?"

"I'm not the legal eagle, but I'll do what I can."

"Okay." April hung up, satisfied.

"Marilyn, I need this ledger. I won't publicize it, but I need to show it to Kendrick and Naomi. This is starting to look like money-laundering. Question is, was Kendrick Miller involved in it?"

The next day Kendrick examined the figures closely but said nothing. Cynthia could have bashed him.

Naomi appeared genuinely shocked by the secret bookkeeping.

All Rick Shaw said when he read through the book was, "Dammit to hell!"

68

"Stick Vicks VapoRub up your nose." Rick handed over the small blue glass jar to Cynthia Cooper as they cut the motor to the squad car.

She fished out a big dab, smoothing it inside each nostril. The tears sprang from her eyes.

"Ready?"

"Yep." She noticed that the photographer was already there. The rescue squad would soon follow. "Boy, George Bowden looks rough."

"Probably puked his guts out. Natural reaction."

"George." Rick walked over, leaves crunching underfoot. "Feel up to some questions?"

"Uh-huh." He nodded.

"What time did you discover the body?"

"Well, now, let me see. I set the alarm for four o'clock 'cause I wanted to be at the edge of the oat fields just on my way down to the hayfields. Good year for grouse, I can tell you. Anyway, uh"—he rubbed his back pockets in an upward motion—"got here about four forty-five, thereabouts. The kids set up a ruckus. Followed them." He indicated his hunting dogs as the kids.

Cynthia carefully walked around the car. The Vicks killed the stench but couldn't do much about the sight. She dusted each door handle. As she was quietly doing her job, another member of the department, Tom Kline, arrived. He gagged.

"Vicks." She pointed to the squad car.

He jammed the stuff up his nose, then returned, carefully investigating the car.

"Guys, I'm going to open the door. It'll be a real hit even with the Vicks. We need to dust the inside door handles, the glove compartment, just hope we're lucky. We aren't going to get anything off the body."

When the door was opened, George, although twenty yards away, stepped backward. "My God."

"Walk on back here with me." Rick led him out of olfactory range. "It's overpowering. The carbon cycle."

"What?"

"Carbon. The breakdown of flesh." Since George wasn't getting it, Rick switched back to business. "Did you notice anything unusual apart from the corpse? Footprints?"

"Sheriff, that thing's been out here so long, any footprints would be washed out."

"A month to six weeks. 'Course, we've had some cold spells. Bill Moscowitz can pinpoint the time for us. Bad as it is, the corpse would be torn apart if it had been out of the car. The fact that it's relatively intact may help us."

"Tire tracks washed out, too. I mean, I would have noticed tire tracks before. Would have come on down."

"You haven't been over here?"

"Been up on the mountain fields, no reason to come down here. Hay's not worth cutting this year anyway. Forgot to fertilize. Mostly I've been working on the mountainside of the farm because of the apples. Good year."

"What about grapes?"

"Got them in 'fore the rains. Be real sweet 'cause of the light drought this summer."

"Do you recognize that corpse?"

"How would I?"

"Odd though it may seem, if that body belonged to someone you knew, you would probably recognize it even in its current condition. Nine times out of ten people do."

"You mean, you show people something like that?"

"Only if we can't make an identification by any other means. Naturally, you try to spare the family as much pain as possible."

"I don't know that"—he gesticulated—"don't know the car. Don't know why she came down this lane. Don't know nothing."

"George, I'm sorry this has happened to you. Why don't you go on home? If I need you, I'll call or come by."

"You gonna take that outta here, aren't you?"

"As soon as we finish dusting the car and taking photos."

"Something in the air, Sheriff."

"I beg pardon?" Rick leaned forward as if to draw closer to George's meaning.

"Evil. Something in the air. The headmaster fella at the rich kids' school and then that Hollywood blowhard stabbed by Kendrick Miller. Sometimes I think a door to the underworld opens and bad spirits fly out."

"That's very interesting," said Rick, who thought George was slightly demented: nice but tilted.

"I was saying to Hilary the other day, evil flowing down the mountain with that cold wind. Life is an endless struggle between good and evil."

"I expect it is." Rick patted him on the back. "You go on home, now."

George nodded good-bye. The dogs tagged at his heels. George, not more than thirty-five, thought and acted like a man in his sixties.

"Boss, we're finished down here. You want a look before we wrap up?"

"Yeah." Rick ambled over. There were no weapons in the car or in the trunk, which ruled out a self-inflicted wound. There was no purse. Usually if someone committed suicide by drug overdose, the vial would be around. Given the body's state of decay, how she died would have to be determined by the coroner. "You satisfied?"

"Yes," Cooper replied, holding out the car registration. "Winifred Thalman."

"Okay." He nodded to the rescue squad.

Diana Robb moved forward with a net. When a body was decomposed, they placed a net around it to keep bones and disintegrating flesh together as much as possible.

"I'm going back to the office," Rick told Cynthia. "I'll call New York Department of Motor Vehicles and start from there. If there's a super at her address, I'll call him, too. I want you to make the rounds."

"You thinking what I'm thinking?"

"Yeah."

"She would have been killed close to the time of Roscoe's death."

He picked up a brittle leaf, pulling away the drying upper epidermis, exposing the veins. "Could have." He released the leaf to fall dizzily back to earth. "It's the why."

They looked at each other a long time. "Boss, how we gonna prove it?"

He shrugged. "Wait for a mistake."

69

The drive back from Richmond, hypnotic in its boredom, found Irene and Jody silent. Irene swung onto the exit at Manakin-Sabot.

"Why are you getting off sixty-four?"

"I'll stay more alert on two-fifty. More to see."

"Oh." Jody slumped back in her seat.

"Do you feel all right?"

"Tired."

"That's natural after what your body has just been through."

"Mom, did you ever have an abortion?"

Irene cleared her throat. "No."

"Would you?"

"I don't know. I was never in your position. Your father thinks it's murder." Her brow furrowed. "How are you going to break this to him?"

"He should talk."

"Don't start, today. He's a flawed man but he's not a killer. Now, I'm going to tell him you had a miscarriage. Leave it to me."

"We're lucky he's in jail." Jody smiled weakly, adding, "If he was home he'd kill us!"

"Jody!"

"I'm sorry, but, Mom, he's confused. People do have secret lives, and Dad is weird."

Irene raised her voice. "You think he did it, don't you? You think he killed Roscoe and McKinchie. I don't know why. You ought to give your father more support."

"Dad's got an evil temper."

"Not that evil."

"You were going to divorce him. All of a sudden he's this great guy. He's not so great. Even in jail he's not much different from when he was out of jail."

A strangled silence followed. Then Irene said, "Everyone can change and learn. I know your pregnancy shocked him into looking at himself. He can't change the past, but he can certainly improve the future."

"Not if he gets convicted, he can't."

"Jody, shut up. I don't want to hear another word about your father getting convicted."

"It's better to be prepared for the worst."

"I'm taking this a day at a time. I can't handle any more than I'm handling now, and you aren't helping. You know your father is innocent."

"I almost don't care." Jody sat up straight. "Just let me have what's left of this year, Mom, please."

Irene considered what her daughter said. Jody could seem so controlled on the outside, like her father, but her moods could also shift violently and quickly. Her outburst at the field hockey game, which now seemed years away, was proof of how unhappy Jody had been. She hadn't seen her daughter's problems because she was too wrapped up in her own. A wave of guilt engulfed her. A tear trickled down Irene's pale cheek.

Jody noticed. "We'll be okay."

"Yes, but we'll never be the same."

"Good."

Irene breathed in deeply. "I guess things were worse than I realized. The lack of affection at home sent you looking for it from other people . . . Sean in particular."

"It was nice being"—she considered the next word—"important."

They swooped right into the Crozet exit. As they decelerated to the stop sign, Irene asked, "Did you tell anyone else you were pregnant?"

"No!"

"I don't believe you. You can't resist talking to your girlfriends."

"And you never talk to anyone."

"Not about family secrets."

"Maybe you should have, Mother. What's the big deal about keeping up appearances? It didn't work, did it?"

"Did you tell anyone?"

"No."

"You told Karen Jensen."

"I did not."

"You two are as thick as thieves."

"She hangs out with Brooks Tucker as much as she hangs out with me." A thin edge of jealousy lined Jody's voice. "Mom, hang it up."

Irene burst into tears. "This will come back to haunt you. You'll feel so guilty."

"It was the right thing to do."

"It violates everything we've been taught. Oh, why did I agree to this? I am so ashamed of myself."

"Mother, get a grip." Icy control and icy fury were in Jody's young face. "Dad's accused of murder. You're going to run the business. I'm going to college so I can come home and run the business. You can't take care of a baby. I can't take care of a baby."

"You should have thought of that in the first place," Irene, a hard edge now in her voice, too, shot back.

"Maybe you should have thought about your actions, too." Jody's glacial tone frosted the interior of the car.

"What do you mean?" Irene paused. "That silly idea you had that I was sleeping with Samson Coles. Where do you get those ideas? And then to accuse the poor man in the post office."

"To cover your ass."

"What!" Irene's eyes bugged out of her head.

"You heard what I said—to cover your ass. You'd been sleeping with Roscoe. You thought I didn't know."

Irene sputtered, her hands gripping the steering wheel until her knuckles were white. "How dare you."

"Save it, Mom. I know because he told me."

"The bastard!"

"Got that right."

Irene calmed down a moment. "Why would he tell you?" She still hadn't admitted to Jody the veracity of the accusation.

"Because I was sleeping with him, too."

"Oh, my God." Irene's foot dropped heavier on the gas pedal.

"So don't tell me right from wrong." Jody half smiled.

"I'm glad he's dead."

Jody smiled fully. "He didn't tell me, really—I figured it out for myself."

"You—" Irene sputtered.

"It doesn't matter." Jody shrugged.

"The hell it doesn't." She slowed down a bit since the red speedometer needle had surged past eighty. "Did you sleep with him?"

"Yes. Each year Roscoe picked his chosen one. My turn, I guess."

"Why?" Irene moaned.

"Because he'd give me anything I wanted and because I'd get into whatever school I wanted. Roscoe would fix it."

"Jody, I'm having a hard time taking all this in." Irene's lower lip trembled.

"Stop," Jody commanded.

"Stop what?"

"The car!"

"Why?"

"We need to pick up the mail."

"I'm too shook up to see people."

"Well, I'm not. So stop the damned car and I'll get the mail."

Irene parked at the post office, while Jody got out. Then she worried about what her daughter would say to Harry and Miranda, so she followed her inside.

Harry called out, "In the nick of time."

Miranda, busy cleaning, called out a hello.

"Irene, you look peaked. Come on back here and sit down. I'll make you a cup of tea."

Irene burst into tears at Miranda's kindness. "Everything is so awful. I want my husband out of jail."

"Mom, come on." Jody tugged at her, smiling weakly at Miranda and Harry.

"Poor Irene." Tucker hated to see humans cry.

"She's better off without him," Pewter stated matter-of-factly.

Two squad cars roared by the post office, sirens wailing, followed by the rescue squad. Cynthia trailed in her squad car. But she pulled away and stopped at the post office. She opened the door and saw Irene and Jody.

"What's going on?" Miranda asked.

"A corpse was found at Bowden's farm." She cleared her throat. "The car is registered to Winifred Thalman of New York City."

"I wonder who—" Miranda never finished her sentence.

"Mom, I'm really tired."

"Okay, honey." Irene wiped her eyes. "You can't accuse Kendrick of this one! He's in jail."

Cooper quietly replied, "I don't know about that, Mrs. Miller, she's been dead quite some time."

Tears of frustration and rage flooded Irene's cheeks. She slapped Cynthia hard.

"Mom!" Jody pulled her mother out of there.

"Striking an officer is a serious offense, isn't it?" Harry asked.

"Under the circumstances, let's just forget it."

"They finally found the body." Tucker sighed.

"Yes." The tiger squinted as the dying sun sparked off Irene's windshield as she pulled away from the post office. "They're getting closer to the truth."

"What is the truth?" Pewter said philosophically.

"Oh, shut up." Mrs. Murphy cuffed her friend's ears.

"I couldn't resist." The gray cat giggled.

"We might as well laugh now," Tucker said. "We aren't going to laugh later."

70

Mrs. Murphy worked feverishly catching field mice, moles, shrews, and one sickly baby bunny, which she quickly put out of its misery. Pewter opened the kitchen cabinets while Harry slept. She had a knack for flipping open cabinet doors. She'd grab the knob and then fall back. She rooted around the shelf until she found a bottle of catsup. Fortunately, the bottle was plastic because she knocked it out of the cabinet, shoving it onto the floor for Tucker to pick up.

The corgi's jaws were strong enough to carry the oddly shaped object out to the truck.

"I can put all the kill here in the bed," Mrs. Murphy directed the other two. "If you'll help me, Pewter." "Harry's going to find all this." "Not if Tucker can drag out the old barn towel." "How are we going to get it up in the bed of the truck?" "Pewter, let me do the thinking. Just help me, will you?"

"What do you want me to do with this bottle of catsup?"

"Put it behind the front wheel of the truck. When Harry opens the door for us, pick it up and jump in the truck. Pewter and I will distract her. You can drop it and kick it under the seat. Remember, gang, she's not looking for this stuff. She won't notice."

Tucker hid the catsup behind the front wheel, then strolled into the barn and yanked the towel off the tack trunk with Harry's maiden initials on it, MM. She tripped over the towel as she walked to the truck, so she dragged it sideways.

Murphy and Pewter placed the small dead prey at the back corner of the truck bed.

"Pewter, perch on the bumper step."

"You'd better do it. You're thinner." Pewter hated to admit that she was overweight.

"All right." Murphy jumped down on the back bumper step while Pewter hoisted herself over the side of the tailgate. Tucker sat patiently, the towel in her mouth.

Simon, returning home in the early dawn from foraging, stopped to wonder at this activity. "What are you-all doing?"

"Trying to get the towel into the bed of the truck. It's too big to put in my mouth and jump in," Mrs. Murphy informed him. "Okay, Tucker, stand on your hind legs and see if you can reach Pewter."

Tucker put her paws on the bumper, her nose edging over the top.

Mrs. Murphy leaned down, grabbing the towel with her left paw. "Got it."

Pewter, half hanging over the tailgate, quickly snatched the towel before Murphy dropped it—it was heavy. With Pewter pulling and Mrs. Murphy pushing, the two cats dumped the towel into the truck bed. Mrs. Murphy gaily leapt in, and the two of them placed the towel over the kill, bunching it up to avoid its looking obvious.

"I'll be," Simon said admiringly.

"Teamwork," Mrs. Murphy triumphantly replied.

"What are you going to do with those bodies?" Simon giggled.

"Lay a trail to the killer. Mom's going over to St. Elizabeth's today, so I think we can get the job done."

The possum scoffed. "The humans won't notice, or, if they do, they'll discount it."

The tiger and the gray cat peeped over the side of the truck. "You might be right, but the killer will notice. That's what we want."

"I don't know." Simon shook his head.

"Anything is better than nothing," Murphy said forcefully. "And if this doesn't work, we'll find something else."

"Why are you so worried?" Simon's furry nose twitched.

"Because Mother will eventually figure out who the murderer really is."

"Oh." The possum pondered. "We can't let anything happen to Harry." He didn't want to sound soft on any human. "Who else will feed me marshmallows?"

71

The animals, exhausted from running back and forth across the playing fields, sacked out immediately after eating.

Pewter and Mrs. Murphy curled up on either side of Tucker on the sofa in front of the fire. Pewter snored, a tiny little nasal gurgle.

Fair brought Chinese food. Harry, good with chopsticks, greedily shoved pork chow mein into her mouth. A light knock on the door was followed by Cynthia Cooper, sticking her head in. She pulled up a chair and joined them.

"Where are the critters?"

"Knocked out. Every time I called them, they were running across the football field today. Having their own Homecoming game, I guess. Can I get you anything else?"

"Catsup." She pointed at her plate. "My noodles."

"You're kidding me." Harry thought of catsup on noodles as she opened her cabinet. "Damn, I had a brand-new bottle of catsup, and it walked away."

"Catsup ghost." Fair bit into a succulent egg roll, the tiny shrimp bits assaulting his taste buds.

"What were you doing at St. E's?"

"Like a fool, I agreed to help Renee Hallvard referee the field hockey games if she can't find anyone else. She can't for the next game, so I went over to review the rules. I wish I'd never said yes."

"I have a hard time saying no, too. The year I agreed to coach Little League I lost twenty pounds"—Fair laughed—"from worrying about the kids, my work, getting to practice on time."

"Is this a social call, Cynthia? Come on," Harry teased her.

"Yes and no. The corpse, Winifred Thalman, was a freelance cinematographer. I called April Shively before anyone else—after I stopped at the post office. She says Thalman was the person who shot the little movies the seniors made their first week back at school."

"Wouldn't someone have missed her in New York? Family?"

Cooper put down her egg roll. "She was estranged from her only brother. Parents dead. As a cinematographer, her neighbors were accustomed to her being absent for months at a time. No pets. No plants. No relationships. Rick tracked down the super in her building."

"You didn't stop at the post office to tell me the news first, did you?" Harry smiled.

"Saw Irene's car."

"Ah."

"Kendrick's got to be lying. Only reason we can come up with for him to do that is he's protecting his wife or his daughter."

"They killed Roscoe and Maury?" Fair was incredulous.

"We think one of them did. Rick's spent hours going over Kendrick's books and bank accounts, and there's just no evidence of any financial misdoing. Even if you buy the sexual jealousy motive, why would he have killed this Thalman woman?"

"Well, why would Irene or Jody have done it?" Harry asked.

"If we knew that, we'd know everything." Cynthia broke the egg roll in two. "Irene will be at the field hockey game tomorrow. We'll have her covered by a plainclothesman from Waynesboro's department. You'll be on the field. Keep your eyes open."

"Irene or Jody stabbed Maury? Jeesh," Fair exclaimed. "Takes a lot of nerve to get that close at a public gathering."

"Wasn't that hard to do," Harry said. "Sometimes the easiest crimes are the ones committed in crowds."

"The killer confessed twice to Father Michael. Since Kendrick has confessed, Father Michael hasn't heard a peep. Nothing unusual about that—if you're a murderer and someone has taken the rap for you. Still, the impulse to confess is curious. Guilt?"

"Pride," Harry rejoined.

"Irene or Jody ... I still can't get over it."

"Do you think they know? I mean, does one of them know the other is a killer?" Harry asked.

"I don't know. But I hope whoever it is gets sloppy or gets rattled."

"Guess this new murder will be on the eleven o'clock news"— Harry checked the old wall clock—"and in the papers."

"Whole town will be talking." Cynthia poured half a carton of noodles on her plate. "Maybe that'll rattle our killer. I don't know, she's been cold as ice."

"Yeah, well, even ice has a melting point." Fair tinkled the ice in his water glass.

"Harry, because you're in the middle of the field, you're secure. If it is Jody, she can't stab you or poison you without revealing herself. Are you willing to bait her? If we're wrong, there will be plenty of time to apologize."

"I'll do it." She nodded her head, "Can you set a trap for Irene?"

"Fair?"

"Oh, hell!" He put down his glass.

72

The colored cars and trucks filling the St. Elizabeth's back parking lot looked like jelly beans. The St. Elizabeth's supporters flew pennants off their antennas. So did the Chatham Hall fans. When the wind picked up, it resembled a used-car parking lot. All that was missing were the prices in thick grease crayon on the windshields.

Harry, despite all, read and reread the rule book in the faculty locker room. She knew the hardest part of refereeing would be blowing the whistle. Once she grew confident, she'd overcome that. And she had to establish her authority early on because if the kids thought they could get away with fouling, some would.

Mrs. Murphy sat on the wooden bench next to her. Pewter and Tucker guarded the door. Deputy Cooper waited in the hall.

The noise of a locker being pulled over, followed by shouting, reverberated down the hall.

"What the hell?" Harry ran out the door toward the commotion.

Cooper jerked her head in the direction of the noise. "It's World War Three in there, and the game hasn't even started."

"Well, it is the qualifier for state." Harry tucked her whistle in the whistle pocket.

Pewter giggled. "She found it."

The animals ran down the hall. Tucker, losing her hind footing on the slick waxed surface, spun around once. They reached the locker room and crept along the aisle.

"What a dirty trick! I'll kill whoever did this!" Jody kicked her locker again for good measure. Dead mice, moles, and shrews were scattered over the floor. A bottle of catsup, red stuff oozing out of the bite marks, splattered everywhere. Jody's stick had catsup on it, too.

"Gross." Karen Jensen jumped backward as the tiny dead animals spilled everywhere.

"You did this!" Jody lost her composure, accusing the last person who would do such a thing.

"You're crazy," Karen shot back.

Jody picked up her hockey stick and swung at Karen's head. Fortunately, Karen, the best player on the team and blessed with lightning reflexes, ducked. Brooks grabbed Jody from behind, but Jody, six inches taller, was hard to hold.

Coach Hallvard dashed into the room. "Cut it out!" She surveyed the mess. "All right. Out of here. Everyone out of here."

"Someone filled my locker with dead mice and catsup!" Jody shrieked. "And it's your fault. You won't let us keep locks on our lockers anymore!"

"We'll solve this after the game." Coach put her hands on her hips. "It could have been someone from Chatham Hall. It certainly would benefit them to rattle one of our best players and set this team fighting among ourselves, wouldn't it?"

The girls drank in this motivating theory, none of which Hallvard believed. However, it provided a temporary solution. She'd talk to Deputy Cooper after the game. Coach was intelligent enough to know that anything out of the ordinary at St. Elizabeth's must be treated with the utmost suspicion, and Cynthia had briefed her to be alert. She didn't identify Jody as a possible suspect.

"You're right, Coach." Jensen, the natural leader of the team, finally spoke. "Let's wipe them off the face of the earth!"

The girls cheered. As they grabbed their sticks and filed out of the room, Brooks noticed Mrs. Murphy.

"Murphy, hi, kitty."

"Keep your cool, Brooks, this will be a hell of a game."

When the home team ran across the field to the benches, the home crowd roared.

Fair sat next to Irene, as he promised Cynthia he would. The plainclothes officer from Waynesboro sat behind her, pretending to be a Chatham Hall supporter.

Miranda, also alerted, huddled with Mim in the center of the bleachers.

Cynthia stayed behind the Chatham Hall bench, which gave her a shorter sprint to the gym if need be. She knew Irene was well covered, so she watched Jody.

Herb Jones joined Sandy Brashiers and some of the faculty on the lower bench seats.

Harry met her co-official, Lily Norton, a former All-American, who drove over from Richmond.

"I'm a last minute fill-in, Miss Norton. Bear with me." Harry shook her hand.

"I was a freshman at Lee High the year you-all won state." She warmly returned the handshake. "You'll do fine, and please, call me Lily."

"Okay." Harry smiled.

They both synchronized their watches, then Lily put the whistle to her lips, blew, and the two captains trotted out to the center of the field.

Mrs. Murphy, Pewter, and Tucker, on the gym side of the field, watched closely, too.

"Tucker, stay on the center line on this side. You know what to do?"

"Yes," Tucker answered forcefully.

"Pewter, you hang out by the north goal. There's a maple tree about twenty yards back from the goal. If you get up in there, you can see what's going on. If anything worries you, holler."

"You-all won't be able to hear me because of the crowd noise."

"Well"—Mrs. Murphy thought a minute—"about all you can do is run down the tree. We'll keep glancing in your direction."

"Why can't we stay on the edges of the field?" Tucker said.

"The referees will chase us off. Mom will put us in the truck. We've got to work with what we have."

"That field is a lot of territory to cover," Pewter, not the fastest cat in the world, noted.

"We'll do what we can. I'll stay under the St. Elizabeth's bench. If I get shooed away from there, I'll head down to the south goal. We clear?"

"Yes," they both said.

"Why can't Coop shoot if Jody or Irene goes nuts?"

"She can, but let's hope she doesn't need to do that." Murphy exhaled from her delicate nostrils. "Good luck."

The three animals fanned out to their places. Mrs. Murphy ducked feet and the squeals of the players who saw her. She scrunched up under the players' bench, listening intently.

The first quarter provided no fireworks but showed off each team's defensive skills. Jody blocked an onrushing Chatham Hall player but got knocked sideways in the process. She leapt up, ready to sock the girl, but Karen yelled at her, "Stay in your zone, Miller."

"Up yours," Jody shot back, but she obeyed.

The first half passed, back and forth but no real excitement.

Pewter wished she were under the bench because the wind was picking up. Her perch was getting colder and colder.

The second half opened with Brooks stealing a Chatham Hall pass and running like mad toward the goal where, at the last minute, now covered, she fired off a pinpoint pass to Karen Jensen, who blazed her shot past the goalie. A roar went up from the St. Elizabeth's bleachers.

Susan jumped up and down. Irene, too, was screaming. Even Sandy Brashiers, not especially interested in athletics, was caught up in the moment.

The big girl whom Jody had blocked took advantage of the run back to the center to tell Jody just what she thought of her. "Asshole."

"It's not my fault you're fat and slow," Jody needled her.

"Very funny. There's a lot of game left. You'd better watch out."

"Yeah, sure." Jody ignored her.

Chatham Hall grabbed the ball out of the knock-in. The big player, a midfielder, took the pass and barreled straight at Jody, who stepped out of the way, pretended to be hit, rolled, and flicked her stick out to catch the girl on the back of the leg.

Harry blew the whistle and called the foul.

Jody glared at Harry, and as Chatham Hall moved downfield, she brushed by Harry, close enough to make Harry step back and close enough for Harry to say, "Jody, you're the killer."

A hard shot on goal was saved by the St. Elizabeth's goalie. Another roar erupted on the sidelines. But the game became tougher, faster, and rougher. By the end of the third quarter both sides, drenched in sweat, settled in for a last quarter of attrition.

Whether by design or under the leadership of the big Chatham Hall midfielder, their team kept taking the ball down Jody's side. Jody, in excellent condition and built for running, couldn't be worn down, but they picked at her. Each time she'd lose her temper, they'd get the ball by her.

Finally Coach Hallvard took her off the field, substituting a talented but green sophomore, Biff Carstairs.

Jody paced in front of the bench, imploring Renee Hallvard, "Put me back in. Come on. Biff can't handle it."

True enough. As they flew down the right side of the field, Biff stayed with them, but she hadn't been in a game this good, this fast, or this physically punishing.

Chatham Hall scored on that series of plays, which made Jody scream at the top of her lungs. Finally, Hallvard, fearing another quick score, put Jody back in. The St. Elizabeth's side cheered anew.

Fair murmured in a low voice as the crowd cheered, "Irene, give yourself up. We all know it wasn't Kendrick."

She whirled around. "How dare you!"

A pair of hands behind her dropped to her shoulders so she couldn't move. The plainclothesman ordered, "Stay very still." He removed one hand and slipped it inside his coat to retrieve a badge.

"I didn't kill those people." Irene's anger ebbed.

"Okay, just sit tight," the plainclothesman said quietly.

Perhaps Jody felt an extra surge of adrenaline. Whatever, she could do no wrong. She checked her woman, she stole the ball, she cracked the ball right up to her forwards. She felt invincible. She really could do no wrong. With Jody playing all out at midfield and Karen and Brooks lethal up front, St. Elizabeth's crushed Chatham Hall in the last quarter. The final score was four to two. The crowd ran off the bleachers and spilled onto the field. Mrs. Murphy streaked down the sidelines to escape the feet. Pewter climbed down from the tree, relieved that nothing dangerous had happened. The animals rendezvoused at the far sideline at center with Tucker.

"I thought she'd whack at Mom with her stick. I thought we rattled her enough." Pewter was dejected that Jody had proved so self-possessed.

"Oh, well." Tucker sat down.

Mrs. Murphy scanned the wild celebration. Harry and Lily slowly walked off the field. Jody watched out of the corner of her eye even as she jumped all over her teammates.

"Nice to work with you." Lily shook Harry's hand. "You did a good job."

"Thanks. Aren't you going back to change?"

"No, I'd better get on the road." Lily headed toward the parking lot behind the gym.

As Harry entered the gym, Jody drifted away from the group. There was nothing unusual in a player heading back to the gym.

Cynthia, caught in the crowd, fought to get through the bodies when she saw Jody leave.

The three animals raced across the grass, little tufts of it floating up in the wind as it flew off their claws. They reached the door just as Harry opened it.

"Hi, guys." She was tired.

Within a minute Jody, stick in hand, was also in the gym. As Harry turned right down the hall toward the faculty changing room, Jody, on tiptoes now, moved down the hall, carefully listening for another footfall. Without speaking to one another, the animals ducked in doorways. Only Murphy stayed with Harry in case Tucker and Pewter failed.

Jody passed Pewter, who ran out and grabbed the back of her leg with her front claws. Jody howled, whirled around, and slapped at the cat, who let go just as Tucker emerged from the janitor's door. She ran hard at Jody, jumped up, and smashed into her knees. Dog and human collapsed in a heap, and the hockey stick clattered on the shiny floor.

"Goddammit!" Jody reached for her stick as Tucker grabbed the end of it.

They tugged from opposite ends. Tucker slid along the floor, but she wouldn't let go. Jody kicked at the dog, then twisted the stick to force her jaws loose. It didn't work. Pewter jumped on Jody's leg again as Harry, hearing the scramble, opened the locker room door and came back into the hall. Mrs. Murphy stuck with Harry.

"Good work," the tiger encouraged her pals.

Jody, seeing Harry, dropped her hockey stick, lunging for Harry's throat.

Harry raised her forearm to protect herself. She stumbled back against the concrete wall of the gym, which gave her support. She lifted up her knee, catching Jody in the crotch. It slowed Jody, but not enough. Pewter, still hanging on to Jody's right leg, was joined by Murphy on the left. They sank their fangs in as deep as they'd

go .

Jody screamed, loosening her grip on Harry's neck. The enraged girl lurched for her hockey stick. Tucker was dragging it down the hallway, but the corgi couldn't go fast, she being small and the stick being large.

Jody yanked the stick hard out of the dog's jaws. Tucker jumped for the stick, but Jody held it over her head and ran for Harry, who crouched. The hallway was long and narrow. She would use the walls to her benefit. Harry, a good athlete, steadied for the attack.

Jody swung the stick at her head. Harry ducked lower and shifted her weight. The tip of the hockey stick grazed the wall. Harry moved closer to the wall. She prayed Jody would crack her stick on the wall.

Jody, oblivious to the damage the cats were doing to her legs, she was so obsessed, swung again. The stick splintered, and that fast Harry pushed off the wall and flung herself at Jody. The two went down hard on the floor as the cats let go of their quarry. Tucker ran alongside the fighting humans, waiting for an opening. Her fangs, longer than the cats', could do more damage.

Sounds down the hall stopped Jody for a split second. She wriggled from Harry's grasp and raced away from the noise. Tucker caught her quickly and grabbed her ankle. Jody stopped to beat off the dog just as Cynthia Cooper rounded the corner and dropped to one knee, gun out.

"Stop or I'll shoot."

Jody, eyes glazed, stared down the barrel of a .357, stared at the bloody fangs of Tucker, then held up her hands.

73

Because of their bravery, the animals were rewarded with filet mi-gnon cooked by Miranda Hogendobber. Harry, Fair, Susan, Brooks, Cynthia, and the Reverend Jones joined them. The animals had place settings at the big dinner table. Miranda went all out.

"This is heaven," Pewter purred.

"I didn't know Pewter had it in her." Susan smiled at the plump kitty.

"There's a lion beneath that lard," Mrs. Murphy joked.

As the humans put together the pieces of the murderous puzzle, Tucker said, "Murphy, how did you figure it out?"

"Mother was on the right track when she said that whoever killed Roscoe Fletcher did it at the car wash. Any one of the suspects could have done it, but not one person recalled anyone giving Roscoe candy, although he offered it to them. Jody walked past the Texaco station on her way to the deli. The station blocks the view from the car wash. She gave him the candy; no one saw her, and no car was behind Roscoe yet. She could have worked fast, then run back to the office. It would give her a good alibi. She was waiting for an opportunity. She was smart enough to know this was a good shot. Who knows how long she carried that candy around?"

"I don't know whether to pity Jody or hate her," Susan Tucker mused.

'Behold, these are the ungodly, who prosper in the world; they increase in riches!' Psalm Seventy-three, verse twelve," Miranda recited. "Roscoe and Maury did increase in riches, but they paid for it. As for Jody, she was very pretty and vulnerable. But so are many other young people. She participated in her own corruption."

"The slush fund ledger gave me part of the motive—money— but I couldn't find the slushers. Drugs weren't it." Cynthia folded her arms across her chest. "Never would I have thought of porno movies."

"It is ghastly." The Reverend Jones shuddered.

"What tipped you off?" Pewter asked Murphy.

"It took me a long time to figure it out. I think finding that address label at the bottom of Roscoe's desk was my first inkling. Neptune Film Lab. And wonderful though it might be to have a film department at a private secondary school—it seemed like a great expense even if Maury was supposedly going to make a huge contribution."

"Kendrick was more of a man than we've given him credit for," Susan said.

"He guessed Jody was the killer. He didn't know why." Cynthia recalled the expression on his face when Jody confessed. "She'd told Irene and Kendrick that she was pregnant by Sean. It was actually Roscoe."

"I'd kill him myself." Fair's face flushed. "Sorry, Herb."

"Quite understandable under the circumstances."

"She had slept with Sean and told him he was the father of her child. That's when he stole the BMW. He was running away and asking for help at the same time," Cynthia continued. "But she now says the father might be Roscoe. And she said this is the second film made at St. Elizabeth's. Last year they used Courtney Frere. He'd pick one favorite girl for his films. We tracked her down at Tulane. Poor kid. That's what the sleeping pills were about, not low board scores. The film she was in was shot at Maury's house, but then Roscoe and Maury got bolder. They came up with the bright idea of setting up shop at St. Elizabeth's. It certainly gave them the opportunity to troll for victims."

"Monsters." Miranda shook her head.

"There have always been bad people." Brooks surprised everyone by speaking up. "Bad as Mr. Fletcher and Mr. McKinchie were, she didn't have to kill them."

"She snapped." Susan thought out loud. "All of a sudden she must have realized that one mistake—that movie—could ruin the rest of her life."

"Exactly." Cynthia confirmed this. "She drove out with Winifred Thalman, thinking she could get the footage back, but Winifred had already mailed the rough cut to Neptune Lab. She only had outtakes with her, so Jody killed her. She threw the outtakes in the pond."

"How," Harry asked, "did she kill her?"

"Blow to the head. Maybe used her hockey stick. She walked across the fields after dark and arrived home in time for supper. After that she was driven by revenge. She wanted power over the people she felt had humiliated her—even though she'd agreed to be in these movies for money."

"The slush fund?" Harry asked.

"Right. Forty-one thousand dollars withdrawn by Maury, as it turns out. Forty-one thousand dollars for her BMW ... it all added up. Imagine how Kendrick must have felt when he saw that figure in Roscoe's secret ledger. The deposits were from other films. Maury and Roscoe shot porno movies in New York, too. There they used professionals. Roscoe's fund-raising trips were successful on both counts," Cynthia said.

"How'd she kill Maury?" Brooks was curious.

"She slipped into the girls' locker room, put on the Musketeer outfit, and rejoined the party. She saw Maury start to leave and stabbed him, with plenty of time to get back to the locker and change into her skeleton costume. She may even have lured Maury out of the dance, but she says she didn't," Cynthia answered.

"Does she feel any remorse?" Miranda hoped she did.

"For killing three people? No, not a bit. But she feels terrible that she lied to Sean about being the father. About goading him into calling in the false obituary and about following Roger on his paper route and stuffing in the Maury obit. That's the extent of her remorse!"

"Do you believe she's crazy?" Fair said.

"No. And I am sick of that defense. She knows right from wrong. Revenge and power. She should be tried as an adult. The truth is: she enjoyed the killing." Cynthia stabbed her broccoli.

"Why would a human pay to watch another human have sex?" Pewter laughed.

"Boredom." Tucker ate table scraps slipped her by Fair.

"I wouldn't pay to watch another cat, would you?" Pewter addressed Murphy.

"Of course not, but we're cats. We're superior to humans." She glanced at Tucker.

"I wouldn't do it, I'm superior, too," Tucker swiftly said, around a mouthful.

"Yes—but not quite as superior as we are." Mrs. Murphy laughed.

Dear Highly Intelligent Feline:

Tired of the same old ball of string? Well, I've developed my own line of catnip toys, all tested by Pewter and me. Not that I love for Pewter to play with my little sockies, but if I don't let her, she shreds my manuscripts. You see how that is!

Just so the humans won't feel left out, I've designed a T-shirt for them.

If you'd like to see how creative I am, write to me and I'll send you a brochure.

Sneaky Pie's Flea Market c/o American Artists, Inc. P.O. Box 4671 Charlottesville, VA 22905

In felinity,

SNEAKY PIE BROWN

P.S. Dogs, get a cat to write for you