The Purrfect Murder

Cooper could see an officer walking toward them. “I wonder if Little Mim alerted them. You know she’s never without her cell. It’s attached to her like an enema bag.”

“You think I killed her, don’t you?” Tazio gulped.

“I hope you didn’t, but I can’t let emotion sway the evidence. You were standing over the body with the knife in your right hand. Her wound indicates she was slashed by a right-hander. Of course, that’s about ninety percent of the population. I have to do my job, Tazio.”

“I understand.” Tazio fought to control her emotions.

“I’m sorry.”

“I am, too, but I swear to you by all that’s holy, I did not kill Carla Paulson.”

A young officer with a buzz cut arrived. Clearly this was the first murder victim he’d seen.

Cooper had to hold her tongue, because she almost said, “Cadet.” Instead, she introduced herself, said her rank, and gave a brief rundown.

He quickly called a superior officer.

Cooper sighed for so many reasons, not the least of which was she had so looked forward to this evening.

“Who’s he?” The cadet tilted his head in the direction of a man in white tie, standing off to the side out of Cooper’s range of vision.

She said, “Lorenzo McCracken.”

He stepped toward them and said, “This beautiful lady is my date. I worried when she didn’t return to the table, so I came looking for her. When I perceived the situation, I thought it best not to disturb her since she was”—he thought a moment—“working.”

Within minutes a gaggle of officers was there, including the sheriff. He’d had the presence of mind not to drive over the lawn or turn on sirens and lights.

Again Cooper recounted what she’d witnessed and how long she thought the victim had been dead.

The sheriff, Eli Grundy, knelt down, felt the side of Carla’s neck. “You’re right, Deputy, it couldn’t have happened more than ten minutes before you found her.” He stood back up, grass stains on his knees. He nodded at his deputy, who began reading the Miranda Act to Tazio. “Take her away.”

Tazio said nothing but looked at Coop, and Coop smiled slightly.

“Sheriff, we’d better get back there before people leave,” the novice said.

“Son, let me handle this,” Sheriff Grundy grunted.

Cooper spoke up. “Currently, they know nothing and the speeches are about to begin, followed by dancing. If I might make a suggestion, Sheriff, it could save time.”

Although not a fan of women in law enforcement, Eli Grundy had bowed to the inevitable. And this woman had done everything by the book, so he listened. “What?”

“If you and your men stayed unobtrusively in the background, that wouldn’t be unusual. After all, you are security. Allow me, if you will, to go to each table and ask them to write on a napkin who was absent from their table during the time of the murder. The organizing committee has all the table names, so we don’t need to waste time with that.” She took a breath. “While it certainly appears that you have apprehended the murderer, it is possible there’s an accomplice or more to it than meets the eye.”

He pondered this. “And we can keep anyone from leaving.”

“Right. If we go in now, with your people in uniform, and try to get this information, it will upset people. My experience is if they are calm they recall more clearly.”

“We have to tell them.”

“We do, Sheriff Grundy, but if I could secure this information first, I think you’ll have much of what you need, in addition to the prime suspect. As Lorenzo and I are in evening clothes, we aren’t going to arouse suspicion.”

“Go ahead.” He crossed his arms over his chest and for a moment wished he had someone that sharp on his force. He was staring at the novice officer when he thought that, but the kid had to learn sometime.

As Lorenzo walked with Cooper back to the tables, he said, “You’re something, you know that?”

She didn’t, really. She smiled and replied, “Thank you. You take the first twenty-five, I’ll take the last. They can write on napkins.”

“Good.”

The two quickly went from table to table.

Cooper swept by Harry’s table, Number 11, leaned down, and whispered into Ned’s ear. “Tazio’s being taken to jail. Can you help her?”

Ned’s face registered surprise as he said, “Of course.”

“You can’t leave until the sheriff gives the all-clear. He’s over under the south portico. Lorenzo and I will take Susan home.”

“Okay.” A grim look passed over Ned’s face before he could rearrange his features as though this was a social conversation.

Within fifteen minutes Cooper and Lorenzo had scribbled-on napkins from each table.

Lorenzo returned to Table 11, while Cooper delivered the napkins to Sheriff Grundy.

“Thank you.”

“Sheriff, the deceased’s husband, Jurgen Paulson, is seated at Table One. He knows nothing except that his wife hasn’t returned to the table for a half hour.”

“I’ll take care of it.” The sheriff knew who Big Mim was, an Urquhart before her marriage, thanks to Cooper’s tip-off. Like most Virginians of many generations, he knew his pedigrees. The Virginian—indeed, the Southern—obsession with blood seems silly, even punitive sometimes, to non-Southerners. However, Harry’s grandmother and mother used to intone like a mantra, “Know your people.” Knowing bloodlines meant you knew your people. While it could be used in the pettiest forms of snobbery, it could also be extremely useful. Certain traits, as well as certain medical conditions, tended to run in families. Socially, of course, the knowledge was invaluable.

The rich Urquharts had always been forces for progress and justice, even if high-handed in manner.

Given his station in life, Sheriff Grundy had not met Big Mim before. He looked at Cooper and smiled tightly. She’d helped him twice tonight. He’d remember.

Cooper memorized as many of the Albemarle County names as she could. Margaret Westlake, Kylie Kraft, Harvey Tillach, Ron Steinhauser, and Little Mim had left their tables. She made a rhyme out of it, hoping the names from her county wouldn’t drop out of memory. The people she had already thought of knew Dr. Wylde. The minute she had a chance, she’d write all this down.

As Jurgen Paulson strode toward the dais, an officer came up and gently led him away.

Folly Steinhauser, who was announcing the names for thanks, looked down to behold the sheriff walking toward her. She hoped she could finish her thank-yous.

He waited. She concluded and held her hand over the mic and said, “Sheriff.”

“I need to address the folks, ma’am, and I need you to help keep order.”

“Something’s wrong, isn’t it? That scream.”

“I’m afraid it is, ma’am.”

He stepped up to the mic, his very pleasant voice contained in the tone of command. “Ladies and gentlemen, we ask for your forbearance and cooperation tonight. There has been an unfortunate occurrence. We have, we believe, apprehended the perpetrator. It is my duty to inform you that Mrs. Jurgen Paulson has been murdered—” The crowd gasped. He continued, “If anyone feels they have information relevant to this event, please contact one of my men.” He swept his arm and, as if by magic, the uniformed officers stepped forward. “I know this will spoil this very special occasion, and I’m sorry for it. No one will be allowed to leave until I tell you to do so.”

The moment he released the mic, Folly stepped up to it. “Will the organizing committee please raise your hands? Sheriff, if you need any of us to help expedite matters, we are only too willing to serve.”

He nodded thanks. The place exploded with talk. Kylie Kraft screamed and then fainted. Sophie fanned her. Margaret said to her husband, “One murder too many for Kylie.” He replied, “High-strung.”

Sophie rejoined, “Young,” as Kylie’s eyelids fluttered. Once they sat her up she asked for a cigarette, which made Margaret laugh.

Kylie, smoking from a pack of borrowed Marlboros, lit one with the stub of another.

Thanks to Cooper’s securing of names, the brief questioning at each table proceeded with efficiency. Within an hour, the initial questioning was completed, and the gathering was dismissed.

Crestfallen, Folly slumped in her seat, watching people stream out to their cars.

“Cheer up, Folly, you raised a great deal of money,” Big Mim said as she stopped by on her way out. “And no one will ever, ever forget the event.”

Smiling weakly, Folly replied, “I guess not.”

At Table 11, Cooper took Susan in tow as Ned hurried to the Audi wagon.

“I can’t believe Tazio killed her,” Harry stated flatly.

Cooper, tired by now, replied sharply, “Harry, she was standing over the body with a dripping knife in her hand. People we like, we admire, can do terrible things.”

“Not Taz.” Harry was going to say more, but Fair squeezed her arm and said to Cooper, “You know how Harry is. If it were you, she’d be on your side. Seems you rarely get a break, Coop. Here it was to be a night of dancing and you wind up working.”

Cooper, appreciating Fair’s sensitivity, touched his shoulder. “Thanks.” As Lorenzo touched her elbow she apologized, “I am so sorry. I’ve hardly asked you one thing about yourself. Please forgive me.”

He smiled gently. “No apology needed, and if you will allow me, I’ll give you plenty of time to ask me questions.”

Suddenly, Cooper didn’t think her evening had been spoiled at all.

19

Most of the country people attended the first service at St. Luke’s or whatever church they attended. The town and suburban people usually went to the eleven o’clock service.

Big Mim, Jim, Aunt Tally, Harry, Fair, Little Mim, Blair, Alicia, and BoomBoom gathered in Big Mim’s living room at eleven.

The door opened without a knock. “Sorry,” Susan apologized. “Folly Steinhauser waylaid me about Ned representing Tazio.” Her mouth was running as she came into the light-filled room. “She can talk when she wants to, that woman.”

“Where is Ned?” Big Mim inquired.

“On his way back down to Bedford County.”

Paul slipped in by the back door. He attended the Catholic church.

Jim threw his arms around the wiry young man. “Paul, we’ll get her out of there. Hold on, buddy, hold on.”

“You know she didn’t kill that woman.” The worry made him appear ten years older.

A moment of silence followed this cry from the heart, then Harry concurred. “That’s why we’re here, Paul.”

Aunt Tally, hands on cane as she sat in a satin-striped wing chair, said, “Even if she did, we’ll do all we can to reduce the sentence.” Noting the horror on Paul’s face, she quickly added, “But I don’t think she did.”

“Never. Never would Tazio kill anything. She won’t even kill a spider.”

“Where’s Brinkley?” Harry thought of the yellow lab.

“With me.” Paul took a seat, being guided there by Jim.

Gretchen, the majordomo, brought in a large tray of tidbits. On the Sheraton sideboard, coffee percolated in an enormous silver pot, a handsome teapot beside it. People served themselves.

Once everyone was seated, Big Mim conducted the meeting per usual. She found herself missing Miranda, who had an uncanny sense of people’s inner workings. But Miranda at this very moment would be lifting her golden voice in the Church of the Holy Light’s choir, since the choir performed at both services. Well, she could be counted on when need be.

“I wish I’d noticed who else was there. There were short lines.” Little Mim was mad at herself for not being alert when she had used the bathroom at the ball.

“How could you know? That’s the thing about a dreadful event, one has no idea what may be significant.” Big Mim was soothing, part of it due to her former intransigence over what she deemed her daughter’s political foolishness.

Big Mim could be flexible, could change her mind. Rare it was, but it did happen.

“Cooper collected the names of everyone who had left the tables. I wonder if she looked at them,” Fair said.

“Bet she did.” Harry leaned back, balancing her teacup and saucer as she did so.

“Carla has been—or had been—provoking Tazio for months,” Paul spoke up. “She probably provoked others. It’s one of the others who killed her.”

“She provoked Mike McElvoy on a daily basis.” Harry put in her two cents.

“He deserves it,” Susan simply said.

“We’re about to find out ourselves,” Blair mentioned. “We hoped we’d get Tony Long as our inspector, but, no, we landed Mr.”—he was about to utter a profanity and then substituted—“Jerk.”

Fair smiled slightly at him for being quick-witted.

Big Mim decried profanity. Profanity delighted Aunt Tally, who would pepper her comments with some just to see the sulfur hiss out of her niece’s bejeweled ears.

“Balls.” Aunt Tally lived up to her reputation.

“Aunt Tally.” Big Mim stared crossly at her.

“I mean Mike McElvoy doesn’t have the balls to kill anyone.” She sniffed. “Don’t trust him, though. He’s like a trombone slightly off-key, but I can’t identify what’s weird, what’s off.”

For a moment everyone looked at Aunt Tally, for she had expressed something each had felt.

“On the take?” Fair put his hands on his knees. “It would be so easy to do.”

“You mean find problems and then shake down the owner, maybe even the construction boss?” Harry, even though not an idealist, was always upset when a public servant proved crooked.

“Lord,” Little Mim simply said. “That makes perfect sense.”

“How can we find out?” Big Mim asked. “Is it possible that Carla was being…? It’s not blackmail, I guess, it’s theft, pure and simple. Maybe Tazio found out.” She was puzzled. “And, well, I know this sounds crazy, but Carla was such a drama queen when Will Wylde was killed. It kind of makes one wonder if there’s a connection.”

“I don’t see how,” Susan replied, then returned to the subject of Mike. “If Carla was getting squeezed, she wouldn’t want anyone to know. Pride.”

“Goeth before a fall.” Aunt Tally tapped her cane once on the floor, then added, “But if Carla had had an abortion, she wouldn’t want anyone to know, either. Yet another fall.”

“She may not be the only one to fall on both counts.” Fair’s mind whirred. “If Mike is dishonest, and I’m not saying he is, but for the purposes of discussion—”

Aunt Tally interrupted, “You don’t have to hedge your bets. We’re family here.”

“Thank you for that singular honor.” He inclined his head toward Aunt Tally, who was thrilled at the male attention.

“Mike crawls through a great many extremely expensive new houses built by new people. Because they don’t understand our ways, they’re vulnerable. Their first impulse is to sue. Right?” Everyone nodded in agreement. “It stands to reason that an outright bribe might not be the wisest policy for Mike.”

“What do you mean?” Big Mim was fascinated.

Harry replied. “However he did it, Mike was putting the squeeze on Carla by finding things wrong in the house.” She paused. “He couldn’t come out directly and ask for a payoff or he’d find himself in court.”

“How does this relate to Taz?” Paul’s purpose was single-minded, as befitted a man in love.

“I don’t know.” Fair put his hands together. “I wish I did, but I do know she didn’t kill Carla.”

“Could a woman have slashed Carla’s throat?” Little Mim asked.

“Why not?” Harry shrugged. “You can slice the jugular without hitting the neckbones.”

“It’s not as easy as you think,” Fair said. “It takes force. Muscle is thick, especially living muscle. It’s not like cutting into a steak. But a woman could surely do it.”

“According to Ned, who asked the Bedford County sheriff, Carla faced her attacker. The blood covered her bosoms, the front of her dress, her left arm. But he said, and this surprised me, her right arm was untouched.” Susan paused. “She didn’t defend herself Didn’t throw her arm up.”

“Maybe Carla didn’t have time to defend herself.” Big Mim thought of the seconds of terror Carla must have felt.

“Possible.” Jim seconded his wife’s opinion.

“Or she knew her attacker and discounted him or her,” Harry added. “She may not have liked whomever she was talking with but she didn’t fear him.”

A long silence followed this.

“Question Folly, Penny, and Elise Brennan. They’ve all built huge houses in the last year or added onto what they have,” Aunt Tally suggested.

“Why would they tell the truth?” BoomBoom spoke at last. She’d been drinking in everything, as had Alicia.

“Why not?” Aunt Tally held a hand palm up.

“No one likes looking the fool,” Big Mim countered.

“What if what he asked for wasn’t money, wasn’t material?” Alicia surprised them.

“Influence peddling?” Jim thought in political terms.

“Sex.” Alicia was brisk.

“What?” Fair couldn’t believe it, but then again, women had thrown themselves at him ever since puberty. He couldn’t fathom men who had trouble with women—well, trouble attracting them.

“Happens all the time in Hollywood. At least, it did when I was there. I escaped because I was protected, first by Mary Pat and then by my first husband.”

Mary Pat Reines had been Alicia’s first lover, who taught her manners, diction, foxhunting, and quiet grace.

“But these women are—” Susan stopped herself.

“What?” Harry found herself suddenly irritated, angry, really.

“Why would they? They’re rich, all quite good looking, looks on which they’ve spent a small fortune. Why?” Susan finished her thought, glad that Harry had interrupted her, because Big Mim had certainly made use of plastic surgery’s advances. She hadn’t wanted to insult Big Mim in any way.

“It’s not what they have and how they look, it’s how they feel.” BoomBoom knew women very well. “Doesn’t seem to me that any of them are in very happy marriages, and Elise is divorced. No one would be the wiser if they paid Mike off in the oldest way possible.”

“You know, that’s really, truly disgusting. I’d tear his face off,” Harry blurted out.

“You would.” Fair smiled.

“Most women lack your self-regard, Harry.” BoomBoom looked levelly at her. “I don’t mean conceit, I mean regard. And you are very strong, as am I. Most women purposefully keep their upper bodies weak because they think that’s attractive to men. Obviously you’ve never been to a gym where women working out with a trainer fret that their muscles will get too big. Can you imagine a poor farm woman in Nebraska in 1880 worrying about muscles?”

“Or a poor woman in Virginia or a slave woman working in the fields. All our ideas of female beauty are based on privilege. I should know. I’m very privileged.” Aunt Tally had often thought such things but had not discussed them, so BoomBoom’s remark triggered hers.

“If Mike leaned on them in some fashion, threatened them physically or because he knew, say, Carla was having an affair, he’d get what he wanted,” Alicia said, steering them back on track.

“Money would be easier.” Jim noticed Gretchen out of the corner of his eye and nodded slightly.

She came in, took the tray, soon replaced it with another.

“I wish Herb were here. He hears things.” Little Mim sighed.

“He won’t be free until late afternoon. Not on a Sunday. And even though he hears things, he often can’t tell us.” Big Mim pressed her lips together. “It could be that Mike killed Carla, if this theory holds water.” She turned to her aunt. “I know you don’t think he has the courage, but if he was frightened of exposure, he could kill. Most people could.”

“It’s possible,” Aunt Tally agreed, although not convinced.

“And Tazio had the bad luck to find Carla right afterward,” Paul half-moaned.

“There’s something so wrong, so bizarre, and I can’t even imagine what it is.” Harry was dumbfounded.

“We’ve got to get Tazio out of jail,” Paul pleaded.

With some tenderness, Big Mim counseled, “Paul, we all understand your distress. For someone of Tazio’s breeding and sensibility to be in such an environment is outrageous, but,” she waited for a dramatic moment, “she may be safer in there for now. If Mike really did kill Carla, Tazio could get in his way. You know she’s sitting in that cell trying to put the puzzle together, and she may not come up with all the jigsaw pieces we have, but she’ll come up with a few. We have to root this out first. We don’t need two murders.”

“We already have two.” Aunt Tally gleefully took the martini that Blair had made for her.

His mother-in-law’s eyes had watched him as he rose and walked to the bar, but Blair had learned by living close to Aunt Tally that it was better to keep her happy.

“How can we find out if Mike took bribes or forced women into sex?” Susan was ready to go to work.

“I think Rick can look into his bank account without arousing opposition. Mike doesn’t have to know. It’s not kosher, but, well…” Jim’s voice trailed off.

“What about a safety-deposit box?” Alicia asked.

“That might be more difficult. His accounts can be called up on a computer,” Blair told them. “And there is the problem of the second key for a safety-deposit box.”

“They have skeleton keys,” Aunt Tally posited.

“No doubt, but one step at a time. He’s not accused of a crime, and if he’s tipped off, we’ll never get to the bottom of it, at least where he’s concerned.” Fair comprehended the delicacy of the situation.

“You think after what happened, if it is Mike, that Folly, Penny, and Elise aren’t nervous? They might be ready to talk.” Harry was hopeful.

“If so, I’d hope they’d go to Rick,” Big Mim said.

“That’s just it. If they go to Rick, they let their cat out of the bag, don’t they?” Harry began to feel that odd tingle when she’d get hooked on a problem. “Susan, let’s go back to Poplar Forest tomorrow and look in the daylight.”

“We’ll go with you,” BoomBoom volunteered.

Monday was one of Fair’s operating days, so he wouldn’t be making the trip.

“Ears open. Come back to me with what you learn,” Big Mim requested. “Susan, have they set bail yet?”

“Tomorrow.”

Big Mim turned to Paul. “The bail will be very stiff. A couple of hundred thousand, I think. I agree that we need to get her out of there but, as I said before, not right away. It will take time to raise the bail, and then we have to secure her safety. This could get a lot worse before it gets better.” She then addressed her aunt, who was visibly improving from the effects of her martini, the little olive resting comfortably at the bottom of the glass. “You’re right, there have been two murders, but Will’s killer is in jail and he’ll never see daylight as a free man again.”

“Still, it’s very strange, two murders so close together.” The old woman considered it.

“Happens all the time in big cities. It’s a jolt for us. But at least one murder is solved. Now we’ve got to solve this one.” Jim, who’d bulked up over the years, loomed over the room, a large presence but a genial one.

“I don’t like it.” Aunt Tally closed the matter.

As they broke up to chat before leaving, Harry asked Aunt Tally, “Where’s your date?”

“Home in bed. I wore him out.” She plucked the olive out of her martini, popping it into her mouth.

20

Poplar Forest reflected Jefferson’s love of the octagon. The main entrance welcomed the visitor with seven wide steps. Four Tuscan columns, severe in their simplicity, supported a simple pediment with a fanlight in the center and, above that, a balustrade. A simple door with two twelve-paned windows on either side completed the entrance.

Poplar Forest had not been built to inspire awe. This was no Sans Souci nor even a Trianon. The structure reflected the cleansing Palladian ideal. For Jefferson, this strict elegance was to be the externalization of the American political philosophy: a people’s nation, not one in thrall to the hereditary principle.

He succeeded.

Harry and Susan wound up coming alone because, at the last minute, Alicia’s housekeeper suffered a wicked angina attack and Alicia had rushed her to the hospital. BoomBoom drove over to Alicia’s to finish feeding the foals. Although Alicia could and did hire good people, she liked to manage the mares and foals herself. She’d learned so much from Mary Pat those thirty years ago. Mostly, Alicia learned she couldn’t live without horses. The longer she stayed in Hollywood, the more films she made, the more acclaim she received, the lonelier she ultimately felt. She came home to the warm estate willed to her by Mary Pat Reines. Alicia, in her mid-fifties, had shed two husbands over the years, so returning to the place of her greatest happiness was easy. When she landed in Crozet, she felt light as a feather.

Harry wished she had Alicia with her today, because the gorgeous star had an original manner of seeing things, things Harry missed.

Formidable as Harry’s powers of logic could be, she missed emotional nuance more often than not. The broad strokes, she saw, but the tiny feathered strokes on the emotional canvas, she missed. Alicia missed nothing; Fair missed very little, too.

They’d arrived at seven in the morning, being indulged by the director, Robert Taney, who had known Harry’s mother in his youth. Mrs. Minor’s great love of history—of telling the stories of the past through the lives of people instead of dates and battles—had inspired him to study history, specializing in architectural history. Thus began the journey that was to culminate in his directorship at Poplar Forest.

Harry and Susan had known it would be best if they got there before the doors opened to the public.

The two women had risen at four-thirty and hit the road at five-fifteen. They were slowed by dense fog in the swales as well as over the Upper James River, but they made it on the button.

Their footfalls echoed in the foyer.

“It’s been trying,” Robert admitted.

“Shocking.” Susan glanced at the smooth walls. “Why commit such a heinous act at the fund-raiser? Surely Carla could have been dispatched on another day. Not that I’m countenancing murder.”

Robert, glad that he’d worn a good cotton sweater because of a chill that still permeated the air, nodded. “I know what you mean. It’s almost as though she wanted us to fail. After all her work.”

“Tazio didn’t kill Carla Paulson.” Harry clasped her hands behind her back. “I know it looks like she did, but she didn’t. I think in her shock and confusion, she picked up the knife. But no matter, she didn’t kill Carla, and I don’t care how it looks. That’s why we’re here, as you know. If we could look around.” Harry spied a striped shape blurring past her. “How’d you get out?”

Robert saw a gray shape behind him.

Tucker walked in and sat down. “Hello.”

“I’m sorry. I’ll fetch them.” Harry sighed.

“Don’t worry about it. We still have the pack rats living here. Maybe those two cats will give them a scare.”

“Pack rats are big. Might be the other way around.” Tucker giggled.

They left the central room and entered the east bedroom.

Mrs. Murphy and Pewter, rapt and standing on their hind legs, sniffed at the exposed pack-rat living quarters.

“How’d you all get out?” Harry demanded, for Susan had parked under a tree, leaving the windows open only a crack.

Pewter, without taking her eyes off the pack-rat home, replied, “We have our ways.”

Mrs. Murphy had learned to open doors by practicing in the old 1978 Ford truck. She’d press down on the indoor latch but not push the door all the way open, lest Harry discover the secret. She also stood on her hind legs on the aftermarket running board and yanked the door handle down. The door would then swing open and Mrs. Murphy would run away. When Harry would return to her truck or walk by, she worried that her memory was failing her, since she was sure she hadn’t opened the door.

“We? You don’t do a thing. I’m the one who can open the car door,” the tiger said with slight disgust.

Robert walked over to where the cats stood. “Even the rats are architects here. It’s almost like a pink-chambered nautilus, isn’t it?” He pointed to successive chambers, each holding treasures. “When we started the restoration in this room, we found all these items. Generations after generations of rats lived here. We left their wealth.” He smiled.

In each chamber, the forage of that generation of rats reposed—in some cases, glittered. An amethyst earring in one chamber dated to about 1821. Bits of paper, orange rind, a few apple seeds, all in neat piles, testified to the expert taste and thievery of the rats. They didn’t consider this thievery. If the humans were going to leave things lying around and those items might be useful or pretty, then a rat had every right to liberate it.

“How pretty.” Harry pointed to a pearl stud.

“1890 or thereabouts. Same family.” Robert looked closer. “The human ownership changed, but these fellows are descended from, dare I say, Jefferson’s rats.”

“I can kill a rat with one big bite,” Pewter bragged.

“You can’t even catch the blue jay.” Mrs. Murphy dropped back on all fours.

“Who can? Birds fly. Rats run, and I can run faster than any rat.” Pewter also dropped to all fours.

A tittering from afar alerted the cats and dog that wild creatures still made Poplar Forest home. They sped off to locate the sound.

“Were the doors locked?” Susan asked.

“No.” Robert walked back to the central room and then into the western bedroom. “We had Melvin here. Melvin Rankin is on our staff. In retrospect, I should have placed two people here for each floor.”

“There’s no way you could have known,” Susan said consolingly.

“No, I know that, but still…” He paused. “The staff has worked so very hard. I didn’t want to take the night away from them. We had security. I just never imagined…” His voice strengthened again. “But I felt that one of us should be in the house, not a member of the sheriff’s department.”

“Why Melvin?” Harry inquired.

“He’s a shy fellow. I don’t know why—he’s a good-looking man, mid-twenties, just out of William and Mary. Anyway, Melvin wasn’t up to such a huge party, but he was happy to be in the house, to watch and listen to the music.”

“Did he see anything?” Harry pushed on.

“He thought he heard the front door close. He walked to the door but didn’t see anything. Not in the house. He looked out the window and saw Carla walking toward the center of the lawn.”

“Melvin might not have seen anyone because, if the killer stood right up against the front door, well, you wouldn’t see him, would you?” To prove her point, Harry opened the front door, stepped outside, closed the door behind her, and flattened herself against it.

Susan looked out one window, Robert the other. They could just see the tip of her boots as she stood inside the recessed doorway. But they knew she was there. Otherwise, they’d have missed her.

She came back in. “Possible.”

“Yes.” Robert nodded.

“Did the sheriff think of this?” Susan wondered.

“Well, no, but he questioned Melvin. The killer could have been in the house. If we go outside and check where both lines of Porta-Johns were, you’ll get a better idea.”

Once outside, Robert walked to the east, where the mist was lifting. “We put a line here, out of the way but easy for the company renting them to pick them up.” He strode across the lawn and toward the parking lot. “Another line here, and then we had one single unit behind the platform, for the musicians and if anyone got nervous before their speech.”

“Nervous?” Harry didn’t put two and two together.

Susan laughed. “Some people have to wee. You know, they get scared, and, well…”

“Ah, well, I don’t give public addresses.”

“You took public speaking in high school. I was there. You were pretty good.” Susan counted the depressions on the grass where the toilets had been. “How many altogether?”

“Twenty-five. I thought that was overkill, but Tazio and Folly declared it wasn’t and nothing was worse than waiting in line. They were right: we could have done with thirty. Well, excuse me, twenty-six counting the one behind the platform.”

“Did anyone see Tazio come from the Porta-John?” Harry inquired.

“I don’t know. The sheriff hasn’t made me privy, excuse the pun, to his information.” Robert sighed.

“Little Mim did,” Susan stated. “Ned asked Tazio if anyone saw her. Remember, she left the table early because she knew the timetable and wanted to be clear of everyone and to be ready for the speeches. Ned checked with Little Mim, who said she did see Tazio as she was entering one green box, Harvey Tillach another. But Harvey came out before Tazio did, since men can, well, go a lot faster than women.”

The Porta-Johns were green.

“She could have waited behind a tree afterward. I suppose she could have gone into the house.” Robert believed Tazio had done the deed.

“We can’t dismiss a committee member.” Harry didn’t censor herself. “Or even a staff member from the possibility of committing the murder.”

“There’s no reason whatsoever for one of my people to do such a terrible thing.” Robert was tetchy.

“Forgive her. She gets like this when she’s seized by a notion or a mystery.”

“Huh? I do. I’m sorry, Robert. I can’t think of any reason why someone who is part of this incredible project would want to do anything like this, but then, that’s the key to solving a crime, isn’t it?”

“What?” the attractive, well-turned-out man asked.

“Motive, opportunity, will to kill. If you figure that out, you can almost always find who did it. Motive. Tazio did have a motive, in that she hated Carla—well, hate is a strong word. Carla got on her nerves.”

“It’s rather an extreme way to soothe the nerves,” Robert slyly said.

“She had the opportunity,” Susan added.

“Did she have the will to kill?” Harry put her hand on her hip. “No. Emphatically no. She’s at the top of her game, she’s well respected, she’s making very good money, and she’s in love with a great-looking, terrific guy who loves her back. She’d have to be certifiably insane to muck that up.”

“Is she impulsive?”

Susan shook her head no as the words came out of Robert’s mouth. “If anything she’s too controlled. Too cool. It’s completely out of character.”

“People do fool you,” Robert replied simply.

“They do, but if Tazio had cut Carla’s jugular, given the force of the first pulsations, wouldn’t her dress have blood on it?” Harry, ever logical, asked.

“Not if she jumped out of the way fast enough,” Robert came back, although chances were the killer couldn’t have gotten out of the way fast enough.

“But she’d have to have some knowledge of how the jugular shoots. I mean, it really shoots, and I know that because my husband is a vet, but he has had to work on people in extreme situations.”

“Harry, most people know if you cut an artery it spurts. They may not know how much and how far the jugular can spurt, but it’s not a secret. Whoever killed her faced her, then jumped away.” Susan bought the idea.

“Do they know she wasn’t surprised from behind?” Robert rubbed his chin.

“Sheriff Grundy believes she was killed face to face. And she didn’t defend herself.” Harry told him what they’d all discussed prior. “She wasn’t scared.”

“Not until the knife flashed.” Robert shuddered. “It’s too awful.”

“It is, but if you knew Carla you would understand how she could provoke it.” Susan was beginning to wonder where the pets were.

“Isn’t the spouse a suspect? I mean, it’s usually people we know well who kill us.” Robert was right.

“Jurgen? He was at the table.” Susan had gathered some of the table information from Ned, who, wisely, had called each table head; he knew he wouldn’t be getting the napkins with names on them.

“Ah.” Robert seemed disappointed.

“He’s rich. He could have paid someone.” Harry couldn’t explain why, but she was feeling better, feeling she could clear Tazio with a bit of luck and a lot of hard work.

“And this was a good place. Activity, enough alcohol to raise the spirits and maybe dull the senses. The moon was about full, but in the front of the house the trees provided some cover and there were no artificial lights. It was a good place for someone bold with a plan.” Harry looked around one more time. “Robert, I know we’ve disrupted you and your routine. Thank you for helping us.”

“Not at all. I want to get to the bottom of this, too. Anything that touches Poplar Forest is critical to me. I love this place. You know,” a wistful note crept into his voice, “I imagine I can hear Jefferson sometimes, the slaves, the horses. Oh, it’s silly, but when I’m here alone, I feel them.”

Susan remarked, “At least you said slaves and not servants.”

“Our ancestors put a good face on it.” Robert thought about slavery quite a lot, since he could see so much evidence of those long-ago lives. It hadn’t been plowed under or paved over.

“The hard-nosed could always use the Bible to justify it.” Susan knew her history, as did the other two.

“Yeah, but I think most people felt something… oh, I don’t have the word, but something. Virginia would have had to end it.” Harry was convinced of that, perhaps rightly. “The Mid-Atlantic states would have done it probably before the turn of the century, but the Delta, probably not.”

“Hopefully, folks would have put a stop to it before 1900.” Susan thought Harry’s time frame too long.

“I don’t know. It’s like a nuclear reaction, isn’t it? You reach a critical mass. Then boom! I hope you’re right and it would have ended earlier.” She stopped herself from musing further. “Robert, you’re a Virginian, as are we. You may have noticed that Tazio is part African-American.”

“I noticed she was beautiful and, yes, African-American—to what percent, I don’t know.”

“Do you think she’ll encounter trouble in jail or in court if we can’t spring her before a trial?” Harry was worried.

“God, Harry, I hope we’re past that in Bedford County.”

“They’re racist in Boston.” Susan, anger in her voice, started back toward the house. “But the South takes the rap for it; we’re the scapegoat. Do you know they still had slaves in Delaware after the war’s end?”

“Lose a war and all sins are heaped on your head. That’s just the way it is.” Harry accepted that.

“Makes you wonder if we’ll ever know the truth about Japan or Germany, doesn’t it?” Robert shrewdly remarked. “Not that both countries weren’t guilty of creating hell on earth, but it does become difficult to accept official histories when every American is a hero and saint, every German a bloodthirsty Nazi, every Japanese screaming, ”Banzai,“ or whatever they are reputed to have screamed. I become dispirited.”

“Don’t.” Harry suddenly smiled. “We’re still swallowing lies from the War of the Roses, and that was in the fifteenth century. Never ends. I just nod, smile, and go on my way. But I do try to read original sources and not interpretations when I have time. Character is fate. Character creates history. That’s why I believe, believe like a fanatic, that Tazio did not kill Car la Paulson. It makes no sense in terms of character.”

Back in the house, the three musketeers located the tittering. It came from behind a wall in the large room behind the south portico.

“I know you’re in there.” Pewter slashed her tail back and forth.

“We know you’re out there,” a deep voice responded.

“Big.” Tucker’s ears moved as far forward as they could go.

“Show yourself,” Mrs. Murphy requested. “We’ve seen the work of your ancestors. I suppose you are all ¥RV, First Rats of Virginia.”

“Of course we are, you silly twits.” Another voice answered, this one slightly higher.

“Did you see anyone in here the night of the murder?” Mrs. Murphy got right to the point.

“Three hundred people,” the deep voice replied, and then a sleek nose and clean whiskers appeared just underneath the window west of the door out to the south portico.

Pewter began to wiggle her hind end, but Mrs. Murphy commanded, “Don’t.”

“You can try, fatso,” the male rat taunted. “I’ll duck back in here so fast…”

“Sooner or later the humans will find this opening.” Tucker peered at the spot.

“Doesn’t matter. They’ll close it up, we’ll chew a new one. We know this place better than they do,” he sassed.

“What if they put out rat poison?” Pewter sounded tough.

“What? Kill Mr. Jefferson’s rats? Heaven forbid,” he joked.

“Was anyone in here? .Anyone besides the staff person?” Mrs. Murphy kept to business.

“Melvin spent most of the night with his face pressed to the window—until the murder, that is.” The female voice chimed in, and now she stuck her head out.

“Did you see anyone else?” Tucker sounded pleasant.

“No, someone was here, though, because when we went downstairs—we have passages everywhere, you know, we don’t have to show ourselves—well, anyway, I found a cigarette. Fresh. Hadn’t been smoked.” The female rat was jubilant.

“My wife likes to chew tobacco, and it gets harder to find these days.”

“Randolph, they don’t have to know that,” she chided him, then by way of explanation said, “Soothes my nerves. You try living with him.”

“You didn’t see the person. It could be Melvin’s cigarette.” Tucker made conversation.

“Oh, no, no one is allowed to smoke in here. Even the workmen have to stop and go outside for a smoke or a chew. Then again, not as many people smoke as they did in Grandmas day.” The lady rat, Sarah, sounded sorrowful about that. “Even Melvin, who smokes, doesn’t cheat and smoke in the house when he’s here alone.”

“You say you found it downstairs?” Mrs. Murphy asked again.

“Not a puff.” She beamed.

“Well, maybe whoever ducked inside knew there was no smoking,” Tucker posited.

“Maybe.” Pewter’s brain started turning over, but she was behind Murphy. “Then again, maybe they needed to move on and put it aside.”

“Where’d you find it?” Tucker inquired.

“On the floor. It might have been on the table and rolled off. Right by the corner it was, very convenient to snatch up.” She came out the whole way now, and she was quite sleek, gray and fat. “You know, Randolph and I and our ancestors have even more treasures than what they’ve found in the bedroom wall. They’ll never find ours, though. We learned when they started removing walls.”

Mrs. Murphy, surprised at how big the rats were, remembered the conversation Cooper had had in Harry’s kitchen. “Ma’am, do you remember what brand it is?”

“Virginia Slims.”

Little Mim drove down the long, twisting drive of Rose Hill. She liked picking up the mail, delivered in the afternoon, and sorting it. Aunt Tally, awash in magazines, would read them quickly and pass them on to Little Mim and Blair. They need never fill out a subscription form again.

She lifted the rubber-band-bound bundle and tossed it in the car. Then she pulled out that day’s magazine haul, which totaled six, not including one from the National Rifle Association. Although the magazine was improving, it was so thin she thought of it as a colorful pamphlet.

She drove to the main house, put Aunt Tally’s magazines on the table in the front main hall, then started sorting the mail.

A blue airmail envelope with her name on it caught her eye. She slit it open with her fingernail and read. Her face turned white, her hands shook, and she stuffed the letter in her pocket.

21

Along the southeastern side of her house, Big Mim had planted hundreds of hydrangeas of all manner in the gardens. Even though they had been long out of fashion, Big Mim loved them, so she planted them. Now that hydrangeas had come back in a big way, people cooed over the massive white, blue, pink, and purple heads.

One of the secrets to her success was that fifteen years ago she’d supervised the digging of narrow trenches, a foot and three-quarters deep. She had placed leaky pipe—piping with tiny holes—there.

Although despite her best efforts it took years for the lawn and the garden to recover from this scarring, the leaky pipe proved a godsend in the long run. Watering was no longer a chore.

She’d dutifully go out and give everything a little spray so the leaves could drink, too, but the leaky pipe was the key.

Standing in the afternoon sun as it washed over her gardens this Monday, she heard a car coming down the drive.

Pressman, her young springer spaniel, heard it first and bounded to the front to greet Little Mim.

Absentmindedly, Little Mim bent down to pet the exuberant dog, who was a beauty.

Little Mim figured her mother, a creature of order, would be in the gardens, since she usually did her weeding, planting, and thinking then. She walked around to the back of the house.

“Aren’t they stupendous?” Big Mim swept her arm toward the hydrangeas.

“They are.” Little Mim watched a black swallowtail flutter to the massing of butterfly bushes. “Mother, I have to talk to you.”

Noting her daughter’s grim visage, Big Mim removed her floppy straw hat and said, “Would you like to sit on the bench under the weeping willow? It’s so refreshing out this afternoon.”

“Yes, fine.” Little Mim, glad to be in comfortable espadrilles, took long strides toward the long bench, a copy of an eighteenth-century English one.

“Fight with Blair?”

“No, no, he’s an angel.” She reached into her skirt pocket, pulling out the blue envelope. “I received this in the mail.”

Big Mim used her clear-coated fingernail to tease out the thin paper, same blue as the envelope. She read the two lines:

Put $100,000 in the

Love of Life Fund by this Friday.

If you don’t, I’ll talk.

Jonathan Bechtal

She dropped her hand, the letter still in her fingers, to her lap. “Have you paid him before?”

The speed of her mother’s mind always surprised Little Mim. Her own mind, which was good, very good, couldn’t work as quickly as her mother’s.

“Yes.”

“Before Will Wylde’s murder.” Big Mim again studied the letter. Yes.

“Why didn’t you tell me? I would have helped you.”

“Mother, it’s not about the money.”

“Blackmail is always about money—and shame.” Her light-brown eyes flickered, a flash of sympathy, for she knew she wasn’t a warm person.

She wasn’t the easiest person to confide in. She would have kept Little Mim’s secret, but her daughter did not feel especially close to her mother emotionally and hadn’t opened her heart to her.

Miranda would throw her arms around Little Mim, would comfort her and pray with her, if necessary. Big Mim thought first.

“Well…” Little Mim took a deep breath, her bosom heaving upward under her pale-yellow camp shirt. “I had an abortion my sophomore year in college. I couldn’t tell you. I couldn’t.”

Big Mim’s voice was soft. “Honey, I was one of those women who fought for reproductive control.”

“Mother, somehow I don’t think it’s the same when it’s your own daughter.”

“I’m sorry.” Big Mim meant it. “I’m sorry you felt you couldn’t come to me. How you’ve carried this all these years.”

Tears rolled down Little Mim’s cheeks as her mother reached for her hand. “I was stupid.” She wiped away the tears with her free left hand. “I got drunk at a fraternity party, and I don’t even remember going to bed with my date. Obviously, I did.”

“Can you still have children? Sometimes…” Her voice trailed off.

Little Mim nodded. “Yes.” Then she said, “I never wanted to, because I thought I was a terrible person. First I did what I did, and then I had an abortion. I believe ‘slut’ is the word. And to Jonathan, I am a murderer.”

“You’re not.”

“Mother, I don’t know. Even now when I think about that time, I feel like I’ve fallen into a cesspool of guilt.”

“Darling, I am sorry. I am so, so sorry.” She looked down, turned over the envelope. “Marilyn, this wasn’t sent from prison.”

Little Mim, wiping away more tears, took the envelope from her mother’s hand. “22905. That’s the Barracks Road Shopping Center post office.”

“I assume Will Wylde performed the termination.” Big Mim was trying to put the pieces together.

Little Mim sucked in her breath. “Bechtal must have the records.” Her right hand flew up to her temple, envelope and paper still in it. “Mother, what can I do?”

“We must see Rick at once.”

“This could destroy my political career.”

Big Mim removed the letter from her daughter’s hand and folded the paper, slipping it back into the envelope. “You have to take that chance. By some great stroke of fortune, this may not be made public.”

“I doubt that. I’ve been in office only two years and already the Democrats poke for any chink in my armor.” She smiled ruefully. “I’ve been good at my work, so they haven’t found any, but this, this…” She then said, “I kept my mouth shut about the fanatical right wing of the party. That will be my undoing.”

“You didn’t kiss their ass in Macy’s window, excuse the vulgar expression.” Big Mim rarely descended to same.

“No, but I sure kept my mouth shut about abortion.”

“I don’t know what to tell you about that, because I don’t feel the way you do.”

“You never had one.”

“No, I did not, but I think I know myself well enough to know I wouldn’t feel guilty. I believe life starts when you emerge from the womb—sentient life, if you will. Anyway, nothing I can say will ever convince the opponents of abortion, nor vice versa, but if I could think of something to say to dispel your malaise, I would.”

“Malaise? Mother, it’s gold-plated guilt.”

“I don’t mean to make light of it. Does Blair know?”

Little Mim shook her head again. “No. There was no reason to tell him.”

“I think you must.”

“I will.”

“Are you worried about him?”

“No. I don’t expect any man likes to hear about his wife’s sex life before him, even if it was in college, but Blair’s open-minded. I mean, he’s not one to trumpet that double standard.”

“Who was it who said that if men could get pregnant, abortion would be a sacrament? Gloria Steinem?” Big Mim studied the postmark again.

“I don’t know.” Little Mim bent over to read the postmark, too. “Friday, September twenty-sixth. Mother, how did he get these letters out?”

“He didn’t. There’s a partner on the outside. There has to be.” She slapped the envelope on her knee, which made Pressman’s head swivel from the cowbird he was watching. “How much have you paid?”

“Nothing.”

“No, Marilyn, before this?”

“The threats started three months ago. Each time the demand was for ten thousand dollars. I paid by postal note made out to Jonathan Bechtal. Not even a cashier’s check.”

“How?”

“I sent it to Jonathan Bechtal, care of Love of Life, P.O. Box Fifteen, Charlottesville, Virginia. That is a legitimate organization.”

“So to speak,” Big Mim wryly commented.

“What do you mean?”

“You know how I feel about charities. The accounting rules differ from Chapter C corporations, and more to the point, it’s so bloody easy to steal in so many ways that someone whose IQ would make a good golf score could easily enrich themselves. I’d be willing to bet ten thousand dollars myself that what you paid dropped into someone’s pocket.”

“Jonathan Bechtal, but the address was Love of Life?”

“We’ll see about that.” Big Mim leaned back on the wooden bench, feeling the slats press into her back. “I haven’t met Bechtal, but from what Rick and Cooper have said—I peppered them with questions, naturally—he’s a true believer. Those kind of puritans rarely are larcenous. I could be wrong.” She pressed her forefingers to her temples. “This is strange. What’s truly strange is, why is Bechtal taking the fall? Is there more violence to come? Is the money going to fund it? Or is he the dupe?” She began to rub her temples, her mind almost overheating.

“Do you have a headache?”

“I do now.” Big Mim smiled, then again reached for her daughter’s hand. “We’ll get through this. And—I hope you know this—about the Democrats, you know your father has nothing to do with them going after you or what may come next.”

“I know. He can’t help being a Democrat.” Little Mim smiled, a bit of relief flowing into her thanks to her mother’s response. “Any more than you can.”

“It’s a generation mark. My generation would sooner die than register Republican. But in those days a Southern Democrat was a conservative. Well, that’s irrelevant. We have to get to the bottom of this. How were you asked for the money before?”

“Same.”

“Seems stupid to send a local letter airmail, doesn’t it?”

“Does. But I never got a phone call or anything like that. Just three letters and now the fourth.”

“When you had the procedure, did anyone else know?”

“Harry and Susan.”

“You all were never close. Although you’re closer now. How did Harry come to know?”

“Serendipity. It’s a long story.”

“Did she have an abortion, too?”

Little Mim replied, “No, no. Harry and Susan just happened to be there when I opened the letter with my pregnancy report. They helped me after that. Right now, let’s go to Rick Shaw. You’re right. I can’t go along hoping the worst doesn’t happen. I might as well face the music.”

Big Mim rose; Pressman followed. “I’ll go with you.” As they walked toward the house, Big Mim said, “She’s solid, that Harry.” Yes.

“Darling, don’t shy away from motherhood. You will find it changes you profoundly. Blair, too. Don’t deny yourself that love and, well, all that work, too.” She smiled, a small but sweet smile. “I know I wasn’t what people would call a loving mother. I’m too reserved, but I did love having you, raising you, watching your first steps, hearing your first words. Do you know what they were?”

“Momma?”

“I’ve told you,” Big Mim answered in a mock scolding tone. “Your very first words were ‘nana, nana,” and you were in your daddy’s arms down at the stable, looking into a stall. We laughed because we thought you were trying to neigh.“

“Bet I was. Well, at least I’m consistent. I’d rather be in the stable than anywhere else.”

“Even the governor’s mansion?”

“Fat chance of that now. Mother, I love politics, it’s in my blood, but if you put a knife to my throat—God, I wish I hadn’t just said that.”

Big Mim waved the comment away. “Figure of speech.”

“I’d rather be in the stable.” She paused as they reached her car. “I think I can do some good. I’m practical and I don’t give in to fads, pressure.”

“Then you will get there. This is a test. You will come through. I don’t have to tell you how ugly it may get if Jonathan spills the beans, or if his accomplice does. Stand firm, be clear, and speak the truth. That alone puts you in the minority.” She waited a moment as Little Mim opened the driver’s door. “Don’t pass up motherhood because of a college mistake.”

“You just want to be a grandmother.” A bit of Little Mim’s contrariness was returning, so she was feeling better.

Also, being around Aunt Tally morning, noon, and night had an effect.

“I do, but, darling, I love you. I want you to feel the happiness a child, children, can bring. I know I wasn’t a good mother. I was responsible, but I’m not, you know, a Miranda or a BoomBoom or a Susan, where the love bubbles up on the surface and overflows. I’m too rational. I’m sorry. I’m sorry for a lot of things, but I have always loved you, and I love you more now than I ever have. I’m proud of you.”

Stunned, Little Mim burst into tears, reaching for her mother. The two stood there, crying, hugging.

At last, Little Marilyn caught her breath. “Mother, I’ve always wanted to be like you, but I can’t. I’m not as smart as you are. I’m not the woman you are.”

“Oh, Marilyn, you are your own woman, and you had to fight me to get there. I’m no example.” She released her daughter. Tears ran down both their faces. “And you are smart.”

“Mother, your mind flies at the speed of light. I’ve never met anyone like you. Sometimes you scare me. You scare all of us.”

“I don’t mean to, darling, truly, I don’t. Don’t compare yourself to me. My failings would fill the house.” She breathed deeply. “Do you have Kleenex in the car?”

Little Marilyn laughed, the laugh of one for whom a great emotion had been resolved. “Yes. Come on. We need to repair our makeup before getting to the sheriff’s office.”

Pressman hopped in the backseat as the two wiped away their tears and their mascara, too. As Little Mim drove, her mother flipped down the sunshade with the mirror on the back on the passenger side. She didn’t have her purse, but Little Mim, well armed, always filled the center console with the necessities of a woman’s life.

Big Mim plucked out a long tube of mascara. “You know, I’ve never tried Lancôme. I’m still using Stendhal. I wonder if they named it for The Red and the Black, one of my favorite novels.”

“I don’t have the patience to use cake mascara—standing there over the sink, wetting the brush, applying it, doing it over two or three times—but it does give your lashes the best look. I know that, but I guess I’m like most other people in the world. I’m getting lazy.”

“Overcommitted is more like it.” Big Mim liked how smoothly the mascara rolled on her lashes.

“There’s blusher in there, too.”

“You could do makeup for a film shoot with what you’ve stashed in there.” Big Mim teased her and then that mind clicked on again. “You know, I don’t believe you are the only woman to receive those letters.”

Little Mim’s hands suddenly gripped the steering wheel with added pressure. “I hadn’t thought of that. I was so caught up in my own misery.”

“My experience is that emotions cloud the mind, although in some rare instances they sharpen the mind and one has epiphanies. Something terrible is going on around us. I don’t know what it is. Well, I assume blackmail, but I don’t know who. The motive would be clear enough—money, perhaps revenge. But, mmm, do you remember seven years ago when we were down at the stables? Snowed. We knew it was going to snow, but it turned into a blizzard, and we couldn’t see the hand in front of our faces.”

“Yes, we wanted to get back to the house, and you realized we might not make it, we might wander around in circles. Luckily, you turned me back before even the stable was swallowed up in white, and we weren’t ten yards from it.”

“You couldn’t hear anything but the wind and the snow blowing back into one’s ears. Stung. But we managed to get back into the stables and we spent the night there. When we woke up, it was still snowing, but we could see. This is like that. We can’t see. We can only hope that, in time, there’s a clearing.”

“It can’t go on.”

“Were you ever physically threatened?”

“No. My career was the focus. Like a fool, I was so angry and upset I burned the letters.”

“Understandable. Did you check the postmarks?”

“22905. At least I had the presence of mind to do that and remember.”

“I hope whoever else is receiving letters will come forward. I doubt their careers are being threatened.”

22

“What is it about Mondays?” Cooper sat down at her desk and viewed the pile of paperwork with distaste.

A law-enforcement officer saves lives, pulls injured and dead people out of car wrecks, faces armed men hopped up on crank, endures abuse from angry people over whatever it is that has gone wrong in their lives, and listens to lies, a tidal wave of lies. However, the paperwork, mounting with each year as Americans became ever more dazzled by worthless litigation, seemed much worse than the physical dangers.

“Court appearance.” She tossed that aside. “Why do people protest speeding tickets?”

“Because sometimes they win.” Rick also faced a daunting pile. “Big Mim called. She and her daughter are on their way.”

“She was just here this morning.” Surprise, then resignation, filled her voice. “We can’t do a thing about Tazio Chappars. Surely she must understand that. The murder took place in Bedford County.”

“What Big Mim wants, Big Mim gets.” He smiled wanly. “One way or the other. And she might be on to something about payoffs to our beloved building inspector.”

“Ah, yes, Mike McElvoy. Actually, I look forward to poking around in his business.”

“I do, too. Something’s rotten in Denmark.”

“The king dies, the queen dies, Ham dies, they all die.” Cooper smiled, remembering the old joke about Hamlet, a play she didn’t like.

She didn’t like Shakespeare, but if she breathed a word of it, Harry, Susan, Alicia, BoomBoom, Big Mim, even Fair, would be scandalized.

“Come on outside with me for a minute. I need a nicotine hit before they get here. I have no idea why I am being treated to Big Mim twice in one day. More curious, she’s coming to me.”

The two rose, walked down the narrow hall and out the back door. Rick reached into his shirt pocket, fetching a pack of Camels.

“A black pack?”

“Little different coffin nail, so the package is black. Actually, they’re pretty good. Want one?”

Coop looked around like a criminal might before breaking and entering. “Yeah. Did I ever tell you about the time I gave Harry a cigarette and she smoked it? Funniest thing I ever saw.”

“That was during the monastery case.”

“Good memory.”

“Susan’s great-uncle.” He thought a moment. “A good fellow. Shame about how he died. People.” He shook his head. “But then, if this were a crime-free world, you and I wouldn’t have a job.”

“Not one so exciting.”

“Except for the paperwork.” He winked at her.

“Got that right.” She used the old expression with the correct intonation, a Tidewater lyricism.

“This is a good cigarette. Burns too fast, though.”

He replied, “Does. If I were a rich man I’d smoke Dunhills and Shepherd’s Hotel, but this is a good compromise. Some of the cheap stuff that’s out there.” He inhaled gratefully. “Don’t know how the French can smoke what they do.”

“Or eat snails.”

“I like snails.”

Cooper made a face. “You would. Well, boss, if we start rooting around Mike McElvoy, we’d better do the same with Tony Long. Otherwise, we’ll frighten Mike more than we need to, and this way we can make it look like a department check.”

“Authorized by whom?” Rick had to face the county commissioners.

“By Carla Paulson’s murder. We can say we are working with the Bedford County Sheriff’s Department—no lie—and we need to check everything and everybody involved with her.”

“Tony Long and Mike take different construction jobs.”

“True, but that doesn’t mean if Mike were indisposed that Tony wouldn’t go out to the site to inspect. So we have to be fair-handed and check both.”

“Sounds like a plan.” He looked up at the bright September sky. “Isn’t it something how the haze disappears come fall?”

“Love that sky blue, that deep sky blue.”

“Looks good on you.”

“When did you see me in sky blue?” She was surprised.

“July. You wore a T-shirt that color. I stopped by the farm.”

She tried to remember and finally did. “Oh, yeah. The women’s magazines say men don’t remember clothes, details.”

“Wrong. Men remember a lot. All that stuff is bunk. Anyway, I’m a cop. It’s my job to remember, and you look good in sky blue.” He stubbed out his cigarette. “Which women’s magazines?”

Blushing slightly, she answered, “Cosmopolitan and O.”

He grunted. “Helen reads them all. House is littered with them. I’ll give her credit, she reads my Men’s Health from cover to cover, too.” He crunched the cigarette butt again, for he spied a dim glow. “I think I have to accept that I am not going to stop smoking.”

“Oh, you might.” Cooper put out her Camel. “I stick to one a day.”

“From me.”

“All right. All right. I’ll buy a pack just for you. After all, I have that five dollars I won from you. Want the black kind?”

“No, I want Dunhills.” He grinned.

Cooper’s eyebrows lifted. “Well, I do owe you.”

A rap came on the door, then the front desk officer stuck his head out and said, “Herself is here, along with Junior.”

The two friends and partners looked at each other. Then Rick held out his hand and Cooper swept through the door, as the young officer smiled devilishly. “Lucky man, boss. Twice in a day.”

“Shut up, Dooley.” He smacked the young man in the stomach, hard and flat. “Working out.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, try working the brain, too,” Rick kidded him.

Cooper said, “Your closed office or the big room?”

“Office.”

“Too bad you don’t have a floral display. She’d feel more at home.”

Rick growled, “Big Mim would be at home in a flooded house in New Orleans or the Taj Mahal. Woman is remarkable.”

The two met Big Mim and Little Mim as though this was the highlight of their day.

The cops ushered them into the private office, which Rick kept scrupulously clean mostly because he usually sat outside at a desk in the bullpen. He liked being among his “men”—even though one was a woman—and this way, his glassed-in sheriff’s office was tidy.

The sheriff did not sit behind his desk. Mother and daughter sat in two worn but comfortable leather chairs, Rick leaned against his desk facing them, and Cooper sat on a stool.

Wordlessly, Little Mim produced the airmail envelope, handing it to Rick.

As he read, his face betrayed a hint of questioning. He passed it to Cooper.

“Arrived in today’s mail.” Little Mim started the ball rolling.

Cooper handed the letter and envelope back to Little Mim. “What a scam.”

“Exactly,” Big Mim spoke at last.

“I’ve received three letters before this, all before Will was killed. Each asked for ten thousand dollars in a postal order made out to Jonathan Bechtal.”

“You paid.” Rick knew she had; it was a given.

“I did.”

Cooper put her hands on her knees. “What I want to know is, how did he get this letter out of jail? We’d know. He’s allowed to write, this isn’t a hellhole in the Sudan.”

“No hellholes. They’re too busy killing one another to bother with incarceration,” Big Mim said without sarcasm. “Do you read the letters?”

“I don’t, but there is censorship. There has to be, because some of these creeps would write vile stuff to the people they hold responsible for their plight and they’d go right onto someone’s blog. So, yes, the letters are read.”

“Paid someone off?” Cooper hated the idea.

“I don’t think so.” Big Mim repeated what she had said to her daughter earlier. “There’s someone on the outside.”

“Then why send the money orders to Love of Life?” Cooper wasn’t discounting the idea, just pondering, as well as realizing Big Mim was one step ahead of her.

“I don’t know,” Big Mim replied. “It’s more than possible that his accomplice is an officer or member of Love of Life. Someone who can access the treasury or bogus accounts. Most charities have a variety of very imaginative slush funds.”

Rick and Cooper glanced at each other. They had questioned the officers of the organization as well as those of other right-to-life groups.

Rick spoke. “Who else knows about this?”

“No one. Not even my husband.” Little Mim, finding her courage, spilled her story in an abbreviated fashion. “I had an abortion in college. Will was my doctor. The other letters threatened to expose me. So I paid like a stupid—cow.”

“For a woman being blackmailed, you’ve remained sensible.” Cooper smiled.

“Coop, I should have come to you right away, but I was ashamed and, even more embarrassing, I put my career first.”

Rick exhaled from his nostrils. “Most people who find themselves in your situation pay if they can and hope their tormentor will go away. Naturally, it emboldens the blackmailer.” He shifted his weight while he leaned against his desk.

“Mother knew nothing. She didn’t even know I’d had an abortion.” Little Mim wanted the two officers to know that her mother hadn’t helped her make the payoff. “I’m done with it. I don’t look forward to what happens next.”

“What do you mean?” Cooper spoke as though this were an ordinary conversation, no hard edge to the questioning.

“They go public and try to ruin me. How they’ll do this, I don’t know, but the deadline for payment is this Friday.”

Cooper reached for the letter again, which Little Mim gave her. “P.O. Box Fifteen, 22905.”

“I noticed that, too,” Rick mentioned. “We’ll have this dusted for fingerprints, test the seal on the envelope to see if whoever did this licked it. You’d think by now people would wear rubber gloves and sponge envelopes shut, but there are still a lot of stupid people out there, thank God.”

“I hope so.” Little Mim sighed, knowing the hard task would be finding whoever did lick the envelope, DNA notwithstanding.

“I’ll keep this, then?” Rick’s tone of voice asked more than demanded.

“Of course,” Little Mim agreed.

“Do you have the other three letters?” Cooper hoped she did.

“I burned them.” Little Mim held her forehead for a moment. “I’ve been abysmally stupid. I didn’t want Blair to find them.”

“No phone calls?” Rick pressed.

“No.”

“If my daughter has received these letters and the threat is to end her political career, I think we can surmise that other women have received letters, as well. More than likely exposure was promised, too, and for all we know, their lives may be threatened. Prying money out of the unwilling often takes force.”

“No one has come forward with any complaint,” Rick said.

Cooper, sensitive to the situation, met Rick’s eyes. “If a woman can keep paying, she might not come forward. There are good reasons not to, as you know.”

“Well, yes,” Rick agreed.

“And if Little Mim’s medical past is broadcast in some way, that will do one of two things.” Coop took a breath. “Drive someone out or drive them further in.”

After more discussion, Rick told Big Mim that he would be visiting Tony Long on site tomorrow and Coop would find Mike. “Have to check out both. If Mike is corrupt, no point waving the red flag at him alone.”

“Wise.” Big Mim rose and put her arm around Little Mim’s waist for a moment, then dropped it. As the two were turning to leave, Big Mim said, “I think, Rick, that Carla may have received these letters, too.”

Cooper and Rick remained in his office for a few minutes after the two women left.

Coop dialed the Barracks Road Shopping Center to check on Box IS, which was in Bechtal’s name. Then she called Love of Life. The lady answering the phone gave their street address. They had no box at the post office, and she was upset that someone had used their name for a EO. box.

“Well, what a surprise,” Rick said, without surprise.

“If they killed Will Wylde, they’ll kill again,” Cooper said flatly.

“That has crossed my mind. And you can be sure it’s crossed Big Mim’s, as well. Even if her daughter’s political career is smashed, it may be what saves her life.” He sighed. “Let’s go to the post office and check the paperwork for whoever rented Box Fifteen.”

“So you think there are more letters?” Yep.

“Me, too.”

And there were.

Later that evening, sitting outside in the twilight, Mrs. Murphy, Pewter, and Tucker watched barn swallows dart in for their night’s rest. Next the bats came out, their tiny little cries tantalizing to the other animals. The humans could hear a squeak now and then, but the two cats and dog heard the entire concerto, the dominant key being A—at least, they thought so.

Harry and Fair leaned over a paddock fence, watching the three fillies and one colt.

“Time to wean.” Harry never liked that chore; the screaming upset her.

“Yes, it is. Won’t be long before I’ll need to geld the fellow, too.” He pointed to Venus, huge and bright above the Blue Ridge. “She’s impressive. I like it when Mars is in the sky, too, that pulsating red dot—a dot compared to her, anyway.”

“They had an affair, remember?”

“I do. Her husband threw a net over them.” He squeezed her hand. “The myths ring true.”

“Powerful stories that reveal to us what we are. Maybe that’s why the Christians felt the need to suppress them.”

“Didn’t work.”

“No. The truth will out. That’s why I know we can help Tazio.”

“Honey, everyone will do their best.”

“We have to help Tazio.” Mrs. Murphy noticed a small moth zigzag in front of her, then lift straight up.

“Why?” Pewter preferred a more sedentary routine than chasing after culprits.

“For Brinkley.” The tiger felt such pity for the yellow lab.

“Oh.” Pewter couldn’t argue with that. “But he’s with Paul.”

“Not the same,” Tucker responded. “And he knows what’s going on. He’s got to be wretched. Mrs. Murphy is right. We have to help Tazio.”

“What do we do?” Pewter hoped it wouldn’t require too much physical exertion.

She didn’t mind some exertion, but she preferred it in short bursts, like when she tried to grab the blue jay.

“We go everywhere that Mom goes. We shoot into her truck before she even picks up her purse.” Mrs. Murphy smiled. “I can always sense when she’s fixing to leave.”

“We all can do that,” Pewter snidely replied.

“Everywhere she goes, if there’s another animal, we ask questions. Did they know Carla? Do they know Jurgen? Have they seen or heard any trouble? You know what to do. The wild animals see things we don’t, too, because of their hunting patterns. If we can, we need to talk to them.”

“No rats.”

Tucker, tongue hanging out slightly, asked, “And why not?”

“I didn’t think those two at Poplar Forest gave us our proper respect.” Pewter huffed some more.

“They’re rats, not mice, Pewts.” Mrs. Murphy felt a beetle crawl over her tail, which she flicked, and the beetle flew off.

“Still, cats have precedence over rats. It’s like a duke over a count, you know.”

Mrs. Murphy and Tucker looked at each other and rolled their eyes.

“For Brinkley,” the tiger said.

“For Brinkley,” Tucker chimed in.

Finally, “For Brinkley,” Pewter sighed.

23

Mrs. Murphy, Pewter, and Tucker failed the next morning because Harry, knowing she would be out most of the day, had slipped the sliding door down on the animal door. The two cats and dog remained in the house. Pewter grumbled, then slept. Tucker howled. Mrs. Murphy tore a hotpad to pieces, throwing it all over the kitchen.

Blithely unaware of her hotpad’s fate, Harry first stopped by Planned Parenthood to see if Folly Steinhauser was in.

Kylie Kraft, in crisp white, walked into the lobby after Harry had spoken to the receptionist, Anita Cowper. “Harry, how are you?”

“ Good. Yourself?”

Kylie’s pretty features darkened. “As well as can be expected. Nothing will ever be the same, and none of us knows what will become of Dr. Wylde’s practice.”

“Are you looking for another job?”

Kylie replied, “Not yet.” Then she brightened. “But I am looking for another boyfriend.”

“What happened to the one you were with at Poplar Forest?”

She wrinkled her nose, her red curls bright around her face. She spelled it out: “B-o-r-i-n-g.”

“You won’t have too much trouble finding another one.”

“All I want is a young, handsome, funny, sweet man with tons and tons of money. Working isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.”

Harry laughed. “Depends on whether you love your work.”

A stout middle-aged lady came out from the back hallway and handed Kylie some flyers. “That ought to hold the office.” She turned to Harry. “May I help you?”

“Thank you, no. I asked Anita if Folly was in, and she told me this was her day to be home.”

The woman walked back down the hall.

“Harry, if you hear of a good job in another doctor’s office, would you let me know? But I don’t want to work OB/GYN anymore.”

“I’ll let you know.”

A half hour later, Harry had tracked down Penny Lattimore at Keswick Country Club. She’d started her round of golf early and finished early.

Before Penny could go to the sports-club lunchroom for morning tea with the girls, Harry smiled and asked for a minute of her time.

“Harry, what are you doing out here?”

“Thought I might find Greg Schmidt.” She named a prominent equine vet.

“He doesn’t play golf, does he?”

“You know, I don’t know, but I thought he might stop by for late breakfast or early lunch. How have you been?”

“Fine. Well, it’s been terribly upsetting, what with Carla’s murder. She really had put her heart and soul into building that house. She often asked me to go over things with her, since I had so recently built mine, plus I had to deal with that slimeball Mike.”

“He’s not the most popular guy around.”

“He’d be pompous if he were smart enough. Instead, he’s just ridiculous.”

“Penny, I don’t want to upset you, but I must ask if you’ve ever received letters from Jonathan Bechtal asking for money.”

The shock on Penny’s face—which she then quickly composed—told Harry what she needed to know.

“No.”

“Ah. Should you ever receive any, will you please go to Cynthia Cooper or Rick immediately?”

“Why?” A note of harshness crept into Penny’s voice.

“There’s good cause to believe that Carla had been receiving threats from him—extortion—before she was killed.” Harry fibbed, for that was only conjecture.

Penny’s face blanched, but she held firm. “Tazio killed Carla.”

“No, she didn’t, but it will take time to prove her innocence. The important thing now is that no one else be killed.”

“Thank you, Harry But tell me, why are you coming to me and not Deputy Cooper?”

“She is on the case, but, as you know, the department is short-handed and there’s only one woman. This is best handled between women.”

Penny’s sandy eyebrows lifted. “Yes, yes, I can understand that.”

Her next stop—Elise’s grand pile, nestled amid towering pin oaks—proved even less successful. Elise slammed the door in her face.

Harry climbed back in the truck and wondered if Penny had called Elise. It was rare for someone to slam the door in another’s face before they even got a word out.

Harry next turned down the long tree-lined drive to Folly Steinhauser’s palatial home. She parked to the side of the curving raised stairway.

The huge double doors had brass horse-head knockers. Harry clanged away.

Sienna Rappaport, Folly’s female butler—a revolution in itself—answered the door.

“Good morning, Sienna. I don’t have an appointment. I was hoping to speak to Mrs. Steinhauser.”

“Of course. Wait in the library and I’ll see if she’s available.”

At least she was civilized. Harry sat on a tufted hassock in the extraordinary library, which was temperature-controlled to protect the rare first editions Folly so prized. Within minutes she heard two sets of footfalls. One stopped, heading in another direction. The other came to the library door.

“Harry, what an unexpected pleasure.” Folly seemed to mean it.

“Forgive me. I wouldn’t have come without calling if it weren’t important.”

“Would you like something to drink?”

“No, no thank you.”

Folly took a seat and motioned for Harry to sit opposite her.

As Harry moved from the hassock to the buttery-soft leather club chair, she noticed a gorgeous red lacquer humidor edged in black and yellow on the end table by Folly’s chair.

“What can I do for you?” Folly uttered those lines usually spoken by the person in power.

“First off, I want to thank you for all you did for the Poplar Forest fund-raiser. It was extraordinary, so in keeping with the spirit of the place. The shock of Carla’s murder… well,” Harry threw up her hands, “of all places and all times. The other thing—and I’m at fault for this—I have never thanked you for the burden you’re lifting from Herb’s shoulders, for all you are doing on our vestry board. Serving with you is teaching me a lot.”

“Harry, that’s so kind of you.”

“I don’t have your organizational skills, but I’m trying to soak some up.”

“Ah, but, Harry, dear, you have the blood, the connections, and your mind is so very logical.”

This surprised Harry. “Thank you.” She paused. “I’m here because I’m desperately worried.” As Folly’s face registered rapt attention, Harry plunged in. “Before Will Wylde’s death, a series of women—we don’t know whom—received letters from Jonathan Bechtal, ordering them to send money to P.O. Box Fifteen at the Barracks Road Shopping Center post office. If not, he threatened to expose them for having abortions.” Harry paused. “There is reason to believe that Carla had received them. Someone I know called me after she received her last one. She finally went to Sheriff Shaw. We are all worried, because there’s someone on the outside.”

Folly, hand shaking slightly, opened the humidor and plucked out a cigarette. “Smoke?”

“No thank you. I didn’t know that you did.”

“I hide it, but every now and then I do. Tell me more.”

“Well, the early letters asked for ten thousand dollars, which my friend paid. The last one asked for one hundred thousand, which she will not pay. The money is due Friday.”

Folly took a long drag, rose, opened a first-edition copy of Cobbett’s Rural Rides in excellent condition, pulled out an airmail blue envelope, and handed it to Harry. “Like this?”

Harry—hands also shaking, for she never expected this—opened the letter and read it. “God. You aren’t going to pay, are you?”

“I don’t know.”

“Oh, don’t, Folly, please. This has got to stop. I truly think Will’s murder and Carla’s are connected, but I don’t know how. The only suspect I can think of on the outside is Mike McElvoy, because he had contact with Carla. But I don’t see how he connects to Will’s murder. It’s a long shot right now.”

“They may not be connected. Charlottesville is growing. It’s entirely possible that two murders could be committed in short order and not be linked. And there is the problem of Tazio.”

“You don’t think Tazio killed her, do you?”

“I don’t know.”

“Folly, you must go to the sheriff about this. I can understand why you’ve hidden it.”

“Can you?” Her voice rose, she sucked again on the long white cigarette.

“I think I can, and I don’t need details. Things happen. We get carried away.” She threw up her hands. “Why is it always the woman’s fault?”

“Control women and you control men,” Folly flatly said. “Therefore we’re always supposed to be morally better than men. When a woman fails, it’s quite a long way down, even today, Harry, even today.”

“It could be worse.” Harry tried to lighten the mood. “Could be living under the Taliban.”

“We’re the only power on earth with the guts to make sure we don’t.”

Harry didn’t reply, because she had a different view although no solution for such extremism. There really are people happy to kill anyone who doesn’t believe as they do. “Please promise me you will go if not to Rick then to Cooper. She’s a woman. She’ll understand. They won’t make it public.”

“No, they won’t, but whoever wrote this letter will.”

“Folly, you can fight it.”

“Harry, I was young when I married into all this wealth. I am sure it has not escaped you that, middle-aged as I am, my husband is quite a bit older. I was naive about the laws, and I signed a prenuptial agreement stating that if I ever had sex with another man, I would be divorced with no settlement. Harsh. However, I was so in love at the time that I signed it with a flourish.”

“Ah.” Harry understood, with attendant sorrow.

She smiled wanly. “I discovered that I am human and, well, fragile.”

“I understand.”

“I can hear Miranda now, telling me not to set my store in earthly treasures. Well, I can’t quote the Bible as she can, but you know what I mean. But the truth is, Harry, I love all this. I love the power it gives me, not just to live fantastically well but because I can do some good with the money. He never interferes with my charities.”

“If you pay, there will only be more letters.”

“I can hope whoever is out there will be caught and killed.”

“If they aren’t killed but caught, well…” Harry turned her hands palms up, a reinforcing gesture. “Folly, go to Cooper. We can always say that you were selected as a victim because of your money. You were so worried about your husband’s response and his health”—a slight smiled played across Harry’s lips—“that you thought the money was well spent to protect him.”

A long pause followed. “I underestimated you, Harry. I promise you I will think about it.”

As Harry rose to leave, she noticed when Folly stubbed out her cigarette in a cut-crystal ashtray that it was a Virginia Slims. She would tell Cooper.

As they walked to the mighty double front doors, Harry said, “I am very sorry to upset you, but your welfare is so important, not just to me but to the entire community.”

“Who knows you’ve come to me?”

“No one.”

“Thank you for that.” Folly kissed her on the cheek.

24

The slap slap of the paintbrush provided a rhythmic counterpoint to Mike McElvoy’s staccato yap. Orrie Eberhard, applying the second coat to the rococo molding, said nothing.

“Emotional, rude, difficult—I mean, I can work with anybody, but she was a whistling bitch.” Mike slapped his clipboard against his thigh.

Orrie fought the urge to dump the bucket of Benjamin Moore paint right on Mike’s head. Some would have splashed on Cynthia Cooper, though, and he liked her, so he kept on doing his job.

“Show me the punch list.” Cooper reached for the clipboard, ran down the list quickly. “All right, Mike, let’s start with the kitchen.”

“Fine.” He thought he could blow his way through this, but her attention to detail was unnerving.

In the cavernous kitchen he pointed to the outtake-exhaust hole in the ceiling.

“Right. It says here that it needs to be widened by two inches.” Coop pulled out a little measuring tape and measured the hole. “Read the code last night. This is code.”

“Well,” he stammered, “she was bringing in one of those twenty-thousand-dollar stoves, and it needs a larger exhaust pipe.”

“That’s not what the code says.”

“Yes, but the county commissioners will change it soon enough, and she’d have to rip out everything. I was doing her a favor.”

“She wouldn’t have to rip out anything, Mike. This house met the code when it was built. To date, the building code has not been retroactive.” Cooper smiled indulgently, which further discomfited Mike. “All right, the disposal. Let’s have a look.”

By now he knew she was going to slide under the sink. He also knew he was sinking.

Two hours later, everything had been measured and written in her notebook, plus she’d snapped photos with a disposable camera, which she’d slipped in her shirt pocket. Cooper wallowed in damning detail.

“We’ve gone through the punch list.” Mike, no longer belligerent, wanted to get out of there.

He wanted to call his lawyer.

“Yes, we have, and you’ve been most helpful. I’m glad Jurgen will finish the house.” She looked up from her copy of the list, which she’d also written down while making him wait. Steely-eyed but quiet, she said, “I’ve kept you from your next appointment. Tell them it was my fault. They can call me if they want to do so.” She handed him two cards, one for him, one for the next poor soul building a house.

He read it, slipped it in his back pants pocket. “You still haven’t told me why you’re doing this. I know the general reason, but this crawl”—he emphasized “crawl”—“seems more than that.”

He used “crawl” in the old way, meaning she was crawling over him, not a crawl on a movie screen.

“We’re working with Bedford’s sheriff department. I know building this caused a lot of stress for Carla and for you. Have to dot the i’s and cross the’t‘s.”

“Well, I didn’t kill her.”

She chilled his blood when she said, “I hope not, but everyone is a suspect until we understand the motive. You were at Poplar Forest, and you’re on the list of those not at their table during the time of the murder.”

“She pushed Tazio Chappars over the edge. Motive enough for me.” He flared up.

“And convenient for you, too, Mike.” Coop needled him. “It takes strength to cut through the gristle and muscle of someone’s neck. Tazio, perhaps, could have sliced through, but I know you could have done it. You’re strong enough.”

His jaw dropped slightly. He looked at her, mouth agape, then closed it. “Wasn’t me.”

“I’m glad to hear that.”

“I need to go.”

“Mim Bainbridge—Little Mim,” Cooper added. “You’ve written down the name and address as well as the date, September thirtieth, Tuesday. The page behind this punch list. You saw me flip it up. Give her my apologies. I kept you too long.”

He nodded curtly, closed the front door without slamming it.

Cooper admired Orrie’s work. “I knew a lady once named Orrie. Guess it’s like Dana or Francis or Douglas. Spelling may be different between the male and female versions, but they sound the same.”

“Sidney is another one. A lot of them when you start counting. I was named for my uncle.”

“Can you tell me anything about this job?”

“Beautiful house. No shortcuts. Best materials. Best architect.”

“From your observation, do you think Tazio could kill someone like Carla? Let me be direct: would she?”

“I don’t know about that.” Orrie wasn’t being evasive but truthful. “I could have killed Carla. She got right under your skin. Raised in a barnyard. No manners. Oh, she had them with people she thought were on her level or above her or she needed, but with the likes of me or Mike or Tazio, she was one hateful bitch.”

“I can see you’re a fan.” Cooper laughed. “How do you feel about Mike?”

“A piece of shit.”

“Well,” Cooper laughed again, “tell me how you really feel.”

“Never liked him. Known him all my life. I was standing on this ladder last Monday when Carla and Mike had their loud creative disagreement—is that the bullshit phrase? Anyway, they were back in the guest room, but I overheard Carla offer him money. She would have paid cold cash to get him the hell out of here, and he refused.”

“Of course he did, Orrie, he knew you were on this ladder.”

“Thought of that myself, later.”

“Think he put the squeeze on people?”

“I never heard any loose talk. On the other hand, he sure buys anything he wants.” Orrie carefully wiped the brush on the rim of the paint bucket, then laid it across the top. He climbed down the ladder to be level with Cooper and because he wanted to stretch.

“Cramps?”

“Get tight. Painting ceilings is the worst. I’ll keep that crick in my neck for days.”

“You’ve won the contracts for a lot of these new houses, haven’t you?”

“I have. We really earned our reputation doing restoration work. I started out with just myself and Nicky Posner. Now I have twenty people working for me plus college kids in the summer. Not good to brag, but me and the boys can do anything.”

“How come you’re here alone?”

“Most everything is done except for this last bit of trim work. Got a crew at Penny Lattimore’s—that’s an outside job; wanted to put another coat on the gardening shed. You and I could live in the shed. Another crew is out in Louisa County at a big place. I figured this would give me a few days of quiet. Course, I never expected Carla to be murdered. Still, it has been quiet.”

“Jurgen came out?”

“No. He called me and told me to keep going.”

“Your jobs—has Mike always been the inspector?”

Orrie fetched a blue bandanna slipped through the loop on the side of his painter’s pants. He dabbed his brow.

“Orrie?” Cooper waited.

“Sorry. Mike and Tony about even.”

“Is there as much acrimony when Tony’s the inspector?”

“No.”

“Orrie, if you think of anything that might be relevant to this case, no matter how trivial it might seem to you, please call.” She handed him a card.

“I will.” He slipped the bandanna back through the pants’ loop. “Don’t think Tazio did it, do you?”

“I found her standing over the body with a bloody knife in her hand. I have to go with what I saw. If I were Bedford County’s prosecuting attorney, I’d have an open-and-shut case.”

“What does your gut tell you?”

“I thought I was supposed to ask the questions,” she said in a genial tone.

“I trust my gut more than my brain, what brain I have.”

“Actually, I do, too, but it takes years to learn that, and some people never do. Sometimes we know without knowing, and sometimes we know and we can’t prove how we know.”

“And?”

“My eyes told me she killed Carla. My gut…” She shook her head. “I’m not sure, Orrie. Doesn’t feel right.”

Orrie put his hand on the side of the ladder, paused. “There is something: I never saw Mike have a run-in with a man. Always the woman, when she was in the house without the husband. Don’t know if that’s important.”

“I think it is. Thank you.”

Twenty minutes later, Cooper pulled the squad car into the south side of the parking lot at Seminole Square, so named for the trail that led from the Mid-Atlantic states down to Florida. Two tobacco shops were relatively close to each other. One was in Barracks Road Shopping Center, the other here.

Charlottesville lacked a true town center. Someone might say it was Court Square at the county courthouse, but not so, not enough life there. Places like Richmond, or Charleston, South Carolina, or even Oxford, Pennsylvania, had true centers around a town square, but this place did not. Hives of activity dotted Albemarle County, and yet it lacked that one special place where every resident knew the core rested.

The proprietor of the shop, a well-groomed Cuban gentleman of some years, greeted her with a smile. She often accompanied Rick here when he’d splurge for a pack of Dunhills.

“How are you?”

“Good, and you?”

He shook his head. “Violence. So much violence lately.”

“Usually the outbursts occur during the sweltering summer days and nights. Can’t quite put this together. Well, Dr. Wylde’s killer I can.”

The gentleman nodded. “No way to solve a problem.” He brightened. “I am glad you are here. What can I do for you?”

“I’d like to buy Rick a carton of Dunhills. What would be better, the blue pack, which are mild, or the red, regular?”

“For him, the red. For you, the mild. Have you ever tried the menthol? Clears the sinus.”

“No. I tell myself I don’t smoke, but I am forever cadging cigarettes off the boss. I owe him a carton.”

He bent over, pulled a carton from under the counter.

“Would you mind if I stepped into the humidor? I love the smell.”

“Go right ahead.” He sprinted out from behind the counter and slid open the glass door. Immediately the place filled with competing, rich aromas.

She stepped inside, looking at all the pretty cigar boxes. After a few huge inhales, she stepped out.

“Thank you.”

“Many ladies smoke cigars.”

“I don’t think I’m up to it.” She smiled.

“Mrs. Steinhauser was in here this morning with Mr. Lattimore. She bought her usual carton of cigarettes. He bought a box of Tito’s. Most people don’t know the brand. It’s not extremely expensive. She bought six Montecristo Petit Edmundos, a very nice cigar. She said she smokes cigars when no one except for Mr. Lattimore is looking.” He smiled like the Cheshire cat.

Neither one needed to comment on their friendship, which may well have tipped over into an affair.

Cooper knew Folly’s husband was jealous. However, he hadn’t stepped in to end the friendship, so maybe it was just that.

“Well, why don’t you select a very mild cigar for me and I will try it tonight?”

He came back with a fat, long Montecristo. “Don’t worry about the size. The longer, the smoother the draw. Just try it, and don’t try to smoke all of it. A few pleasant notes.” He smiled while he rang up the bill, throwing in a large box of cigar matches. “From me to you.” He handed her a blue pack of Dunhills. “You will enjoy them.”

“I know I will. Thank you.”

“You always use a match to light your cigarette, no?”

She nodded. “Yes.”

“Good.” His hand swept over the case in the middle of the room. “Expensive, very pretty to hold in the hand, but the tobacco remembers the butane. A match, yes, always use a match. And don’t tell, because I need to sell those lighters.” He laughed.

He was right, too. The oily note of butane could slightly taint the tobacco. Purists always used matches.

She walked out like a kid from the candy store who was given a swirled cherry sucker. She knew that smoking was bad for your health. She truly believed everyone would be better off without it, but in her job she could be dead in a minute. Right now. An alarm could go off in a car in the parking lot or a store. She’d answer the call and the perp could blow her away. The thought of her mortality stayed close. So why not take a nicotine hit? She told herself she wasn’t really a smoker. She only bummed a cigarette a day from Rick.

She opened the car, put the brown paper bag in the passenger seat, and fired the motor. He’d be thrilled with his carton of exquisite cigarettes.

As Cooper drove back to the station, Harry was leaning over a paddock fence with Paul de Silva, looking at the Mineshaft colt, now nine months old. Big Mim produced good results in everything she did. She’d bred her broodmares to a variety of good sires, most of them middle range in price. The Mineshaft colt was anything but middle range, the stud fee being one hundred thousand dollars.

Big Mim had been smart to take her best mare, the one with the best cross, to Mineshaft when she did, because the sire’s fee was bound to rise. The top end of the Thoroughbred market was very healthy. The middle and the low end had begun to sag, reflecting economic fear, punishing gas prices, and taxes that would most assuredly rise. The situation in the Mideast hardly engendered economic confidence, either.

“What’s she going to do?” Harry admired the dark-bay fellow.

“I think she’s going to keep him.”

“Really?” This was news.

“Says she hasn’t run a horse on the fiat in decades.” Paul loved the horses, but Tazio’s situation had dampened his usual high spirits.

“Heard anything?”

“Ned sees her every day. Even when he’s in Richmond. I went down Sunday.”

“How did she look?”

“Beautiful.” A flash of the courtier returned. “Tired. Worried.”

“I thought I’d go down Friday.”

“Set bail.”

“I heard.” Harry folded her hands as she leaned over the top rail.

“Two hundred fifty thousand dollars. For a woman who has never even had a parking ticket.”

“Murder One.” Harry looked down at her boots. “I’m sorry, Paul. We’ll find a way. You know we’re all trying.”

The cats, Tucker, and Brinkley watched the Mineshaft foal and the others, too.

“I want Mommy.” Brinkley’s soft brown eyes filled with tears.

“Be strong. She needs you to be strong,” Tucker advised. “We’re here to help.”

“I miss her so much. Paul is a nice man, but I miss her scent, her voice. I love her. She loves me. She is my best friend.”

“We know how you feel,” Pewter commiserated.

For a moment, Mrs. Murphy and Tucker remained silent, for Pewter rarely admitted how much she loved Harry. She pretended to be aloof.

“Brinkley, did your mom ever say anything about Carlo? Not how much trouble she was, but if she’d seen her, say, with another man?”

“No. She said that she thought Carlo and Mike McElvoy would kill each other if she didn’t kill them first. She didn’t mean that. It was a figure of speech.”

“Can you think of anyone who hated your mom? Hated her enough to set her up?”

“No. Even Carlo wouldn’t have done that. Carlo needed Mom, even if she did treat her ugly.” The lab’s gorgeous coat appeared almost white in the afternoon sun.

“True.” Mrs. Murphy stretched. “And Tazio needed Carlo. It was an important commission. She couldn’t afford to get a reputation that might turn other people away”

“They’d only have to know Carla to know the truth of that.” Brinkley’s neck fur ruffled in indignation.

“People have to live here for a while to know those things. New people listen. Actually, even people who aren’t new listen. A gossip campaign does damage,” Mrs. Murphy sagely noted. “Humans are prone to it.”

“Remember the Republican primary in South Carolina in 2000?” Tucker followed these things with Harry as they both watched the TV or read the paper. “They saw that Karl Rove started a whispering campaign about John McCain having an affair with a woman of color. You’d think no one would believe it. Did. Carlo’s gossip could have hurt Tazio if Tazio had really set her off.”

“Mother didn’t kill her, no matter what.” Brinkley was adamant.

“Who’s growling?” Harry turned from the fence.

Paul did, as well. “Brinkley, be nice.”

“I am.” Brinkley lay down, putting his head on his paws.

“He’s so sad, poor fellow,” Paul remarked. “I’m not much help. I feel… I can’t even describe how I feel.”

Mrs. Murphy rubbed against Brinkley. “Anything else, anything at all?”

“No. Mother said that Carla was an emotionally unrestrained person. She considered it irresponsible. After Dr. Wylde was shot, Carla called to cancel her meeting with Mom and Mike, and when Mom put down the phone she said Carla was behaving like an idiot, that you would have thought Dr. Wylde was her lover, the way she was sobbing.”

Mrs. Murphy stopped mid-rub. She said nothing, but a tiny piece of this wretched puzzle had fallen into place.

25

There’s an old carny trick, successful over the centuries in rural America. A barker called people to the sideshows. He extolled the beauty and weirdness of the bearded lady, the enormous bulk of the fat man, the frightening aspect of the reptile boy, each in their separate tents. Other human oddities filled a row of tents.

When the crowds became large enough, before the tickets were sold, the barker would helpfully tell the crowd—mostly men, since genteel ladies would be too repelled to attend—to protect their money from pickpockets.

Human nature: the men would reach for their wallet to make sure it was still there. They’d pat a breast pocket if wearing a seersucker coat or their hip pocket if in jeans or overalls. Since the pickpockets worked with the barker, giving him a contested percent—he knew they underreported their take—they were in the crowd. Pickpockets noted who patted what, and the rest was easy as pie.

Mike patted his pocket, so to speak, after checking over Little Mim and Blair’s plans. He had been uncharacteristically mild, mindful that she was the vice mayor of Crozet.

He drove back to Woolen Mills, where he and Noddy owned a well-kept wooden house. Noddy, being queen of that house, suffered few changes to her way of doing things. Mike had his shed for the lawn mower, gun repair, and tools, and a separate office near the tool room. He could live in there, since he’d tricked it out, put in R-19 insulation, added windows. His small desk held a new computer. A small propane fireplace rested along one wall, and in winter it heated the twelve-by-fourteen-foot office area more than enough. He’d also insulated the floor. First, he’d put down a vapor barrier, then the wooden support slats—two-by-fours, running parallel—and stuffed that with insulation. Next he’d put down a good hardwood floor, having been given some nice oak overflow from a construction site. Under his desk he had a trapdoor concealed by a hard rubber floor covering, so he could roll around on his desk chair without marking up the beautiful stained and waxed oak.

He told Noddy he couldn’t stand sitting at a desk in the house when she roared through with the vacuum cleaner, ordering him to lift his feet.

He opened his office door and looked out the windows to see if anyone was around, which they weren’t. He pulled the shades just in case. Noddy wouldn’t come home from work for another hour, given the traffic. Still, one couldn’t be too careful.

He walked into the tool part of the shed, came back with an old towel, put it on the floor, and rolled the chair onto the towel. Mike was as fussy as Noddy. Then he pulled the mat away. Down on his hands and knees, he slipped his forefinger through the recessed brass half ring, which was painted black, and lifted the trapdoor. He stepped down into the small area, not four feet by six feet, which was low but he could stand. Shelves lined the four walls, but only one side of the shelves was filled. He pulled out a key, squatted down, and opened a metal strongbox on the bottom shelf. He counted the cash: sixty-two thousand dollars collected over the years. He examined the jewelry, much of it very valuable. Someday way off in the future he would take the jewelry up to New York and fence it, if he could bear to part with it. Mike appreciated beauty. He shut the small heavy metal door, listening for the sweet click of the automatic lock.

His knees creaked when he stood up. Colored wooden boxes lined the next shelf. He opened one box to gaze at the lace panties within, each one snatched from a conquest—most not terribly willing—over his years as inspector. Smiling broadly, he picked up an emerald-green pair and slipped his hand through a leg opening to gaze at the fine handiwork on the lace. Made by hand, the lace testified that these select undies belonged to a woman of taste and money. Penny Lattimore, in fact. He folded the panties, putting them back in the box.

He loved his victories. He loved the power over women. Hurting a woman wasn’t his goal. Mike wasn’t a mean man, simply a weak and screwed-up man. He liked making them pay. From some he just took jewelry and money. Others, sex. Still others, both. You never knew in this world, and cash was hard to procure. As for the jewelry, he thought of the ears, necks, wrists, and fingers on which they had sparkled. The panties—now, there lay a prize. Oh, he had to wear them down to get those panties off, but he’d learned over the years that most women had secrets, secrets they wanted kept from their husbands, even a child out of wedlock. He’d learned to read the signs: not much communication with their husbands, obsession with their looks. Being unfulfilled, their energies were directed elsewhere, and sometimes he could catch their nervousness when the subject of sex out of wedlock came up. He made sure it filtered into early conversations with a woman; usually he disguised it as a joke. Finding something wrong in the building code occurred after patient research of the lady of the house.

Noddy bragged to friends how hard Mike worked, how dedicated he was to his job. Little did she know.

26

Claustrophobia gripped Benita Wylde. Not the suffocating kind, where a person becomes terrified in an elevator, but the soft claustrophobia of staying in the house. She needed to get out and do something.