Pay Dirt. Murder, She Meowed. Murder On The Prowl

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 mightas welllaugh 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.“Andif 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 bea hellof 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 shooedawayfrom 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 knockin. 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’salion 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?”

“Motherwason the right track when she said that whoever killed Roscoe Fletcher did it at the car wash.Anyone 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 herwayto the deli. The station blocks the view from the car wash. She gave him the candy; no onesawher, 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. Shewaswaiting for an opportunity. She was smart enough to know thiswasa 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 mealong 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 Maurywassupposedly 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 fundraising 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 wouldahuman 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 quiteassuperioraswe are.” Mrs. Murphy laughed.