Murder on the Prowl (13 page)

27

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Pewter cracks me up.”
Mrs. Murphy laughed.

“Me, too.”
Tucker stopped and lifted her nose.
“Deer.”

“Close?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Tucker, she was hardly your typical wife.”

“No, but she made concessions.”

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

“No,”
came the distant reply.

“Next week they'll leave from Old Greenwood Farm.”

“Thanks.”

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

“Nah, only some of them.”

“Hypocrite.”

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

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

“Here, there, and everywhere.”
Mrs. Murphy swished her tail.

“Goody.”
The dog loved wandering with no special plan.

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

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

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

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

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

“I win!”
the dog shouted.

“Only because I let you.”

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

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

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

“No way.”

“Wanna bet?”

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

Tucker stopped and sniffed.
“Uh-oh.”

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

“How dead?”

“Extremely dead.”

“That's what I thought. Who is it?”

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

“We'd better go get Mom.”

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

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

“Maybe by that time she'll be bones.”

“Tucker!”

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

“Lots of ways.”

“I never met a dog that committed suicide.”

“How could you? The dog would be dead.”

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

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

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

“Then come with us.”

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

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

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

28

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

“You hand those files over!”

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

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

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

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

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“Take it any way you like.”

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

“You
were
in love with him.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

29

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I tried.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Finally Maury sighed. “I can try. I have little history with her, which under the circumstances seems an advantage. And Roscoe and I were close friends.”

Little Mim smiled wanly. “Thank you, Maury, no matter what the consequences.”

“Hear, hear!”

         

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

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

“Maury, where are you going?”

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

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

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

“Goes with the territory,” came the flat reply.

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

“I believe that.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“To ask questions.” Maury opened the gym door for Sandy.

“Thank you.” Sandy waited as Maury closed the door.

The two men found places in the bleachers.

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

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

Brooks and Jody attacked each other with épées.

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

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

“Feels good,” Jody said.

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

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

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

“How did you like it?” he asked her.

“Okay.”

“I never tried fencing. You need quick reflexes.”

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

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

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

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

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

“No, Coach took away my saber.”

Roger, in position, lunged at Brooks. “Power thighs.”

“Sounds—uh—” Brooks giggled, not finishing her sentence.

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

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

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

“When did this happen?” Brooks asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“She likes older men,” Jody tormented him.

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

“Drop dead, Hallahan,” Roger said.

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

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

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

Sean's eyes followed Karen.

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

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

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

“Uh—” She brightened. “Yes.”