The Purrfect Murder (10 page)

14

E
ach day contains twenty-four hours, except Monday, the longest day of the week. It contains thirty. That's how Harry felt when she opened the back door, dropped her gear bag on the bench outside the kitchen door, and walked inside.

The phone rang just as she closed the door behind her.

“Hello.”

“Honey, I won't get home until late,” Fair apologized. “I'm behind on the billing.”

“How about if I leave a casserole in the oven? You can heat it up when you get home.”

“Thanks, but I'll order something.”

“Crozet Pizza,” she teased him.

“I love Crozet Pizza.” The little pizza joint was his favorite.

“You know how you're always at me to streamline, become more efficient? Why don't you hire a true office manager? Someone who can bill, answer the phones, and code.”

A veterinarian's files, like a physician's, have colored stripes called codes on their edges.

The process is so complicated that people take courses to understand it. If the bill doesn't go out on time, the vet doesn't get paid. If insurance companies are involved—and increasingly they were for horses—the cycle slowed even more.

“I can't make up my mind. It's not just the salary, it's the payroll taxes, their insurance. Remember, I'm a small business, and there aren't insurance packages that won't blast the budget. We get by with workers' compensation, another government cook-up. By the time I'm done paying out, that's fifty or sixty thousand a year.”

“Be so much better if you could just hand the money to your employee.”

“What? Just think what would happen to all those sticky fingers along the way. No money would be on them. The whole thing is a giant con, and for the life of me, I can't figure out why people just go along.”

“Me, neither.” Harry's impulse was to fight.

It seemed to Harry that most other people's impulse was to allow themselves to be used, robbed, herded, so long as they could buy what they wanted. They told themselves, “You can't fight city hall.” Funny, Harry thought, our ancestors did.

“How'd today go?”

“Poplar Forest—you won't believe how much they've done. We stayed outside. I can't wait to get inside, but the foundations for the old outside offices are uncovered. It's just amazing.”

“I'll soon see. How about Will's murderer getting caught? That's a blessing.”

“Sure is.” She paused. “But I'm suspicious. I don't think it's the whole story.”

“You wouldn't be you if you weren't, but, Harry, stay out of it,” Fair warned. “Let me go back to the salt mines. Love you.”

“Love you, too.”

After hanging up the phone, Harry fed the kids. The Fancy Feast smelled so good that she realized she was hungry.

“I hope you know, your food costs as much as mine.” She washed out the two tiny tins of cat food.

“We're worth it,”
Pewter replied saucily.

Harry then opened a small can of dog food, which she mixed into kibble for Tucker. Tucker could put on weight quickly, so she monitored the corgi's diet.

“Here you go, Wonderdog.”

“Thank you.”

Harry checked the time on the old railroad wall clock. Six-thirty. She walked outside; the sun was setting behind the mountains. Whatever time was listed for sunset in the papers, it was earlier on her farm because of the mountains. Once the equinox approached, a chill seemed to descend upon the earth along with the sun. Along lower ridges, long golden slanting rays still pierced through. No one day looked like any other, and that pleased her.

She walked back inside and dialed Cooper. “You on your way home?”

“Yep.”

“I made a tuna casserole and need help eating it.”

“Glad to be of service.” Cooper laughed.

Figuring she had about twenty-five minutes before the deputy showed up, Harry popped the casserole in the oven on low. She'd made it last night. Although not much for cooking, occasionally she could be roused to culinary labors—simple labors, nothing fancy.

She used the time to check the mares and foals, now six and seven months old. Time to wean. The hunters greeted her. She brought them in the barn in the mornings to eat a bit of grain and to have some alone time, then back out in the pastures they'd go. In winter's bitter cold she'd usually bring them in at sunset, turning them out again in the morning. But the late-September nights, though carrying a chill, would stay in the high forties, low fifties. Pleasant enough, especially for horses, as these were their optimum temperatures, in contrast to those of humans.

No sooner had she come back in and set the table than Tucker announced Cooper's arrival.

“I hate Mondays.” Cooper, in uniform, strode through the door.

“What would you like to drink?”

“A beer.”

With Fair back in the house, there was always good beer in the refrigerator. He limited himself to one a day, but he really wanted that one.

Out came the beer, the beer glass placed before Cooper. Harry, hotpads to the ready, pulled out the casserole, the aroma filling the kitchen.

“Do you want a salad?”

“Let's eat the casserole. If I have room left, I'll make it myself.” Cooper was delighted to have supper with her neighbor and friend. “Where's Fair?”

“At the office doing the billing.”

“He needs help.”

“You tell him.” Harry put the casserole on a trivet, a large spoon alongside it, and sat down herself. “Dig in.”

Cooper did just that when Harry filled her plate. They ate in silence for a few minutes.

“Can you believe they're not running their mouths?”
Pewter thought it amusing.

“They will,”
Tucker predicted.

Halfway through her first helping, Cooper started the conversation. “What a day. If I have to talk to one more person, I will just blow up.”

“Person or media?”

“Both. Reporters are already digging up reasons why Jonathan Bechtal is a killer.”

Cooper's worldview was black and white. If you as an individual broke the law, you went to the slammer. Her job was to find you and arrest you. The rest was up to judge and jury, and usually her work was undone in the courtroom. You do wrong, wham. That was Cooper's attitude. Gender, race, a bad mother had nothing to do with it. Thousands upon thousands of people endured similar circumstances and they didn't rob, maim, or kill. But someone would make out Bechtal to be a victim.

Harry, on the other hand, did think about mitigating factors.

Coop fired up again. “And this creep, Bechtal—full beard like an Old Testament prophet—is screaming about how God talks to him. How he is an instrument of the Lord. Damn!”

“Well, honeybun, it must have been quite a day.”

“It was. This was one of the most irritating days of my whole life. I'm glad the perp turned himself in, but I don't want to listen to him. The media is making a celebrity out of him.”

“Take another drink.” Harry, not usually one to push alcohol, thought this a wise course tonight.

Calming a little, Cooper leaned back in the chair. “This is really good. If you don't watch it, you can get fat as a tick being a cop.” She laughed. “I go to the gym three times a week, and now that I have that place to take care of, I work outside a lot. That helps. Helps to just be away from people.”

“Decompression.”

She ate some more hot food. “I feel better.” She sighed. “I need a wife.”

“Doesn't every woman?” Harry smiled. “Although I give Fair credit: he really does his share, and he's a good cook. He's better than I am, but, of course, he has to cook on the grill. I think this passion for the grill occurs when they start to shave.”

“Does taste good, though, and the different wood adds flavor.”

“Have you seen my husband's different wood piles? He puts them in small garbage cans—clean, I mean. He has mesquite, charred oak, regular charcoal, even dried sassafras roots. He has special sauces. He won't give the recipe. That'd be like asking for the Coca-Cola formula.”

Coop returned to the topic of the killer after listening to Harry.

“Once you weed out the philosophy, the justification, the sheer insanity of Bechtal, you're left with details, most of which correspond to the shooting.”

“Most?” Harry's interest spiked.

“He puts the elevator bay on the west side of the lobby. It's on the east.”

“Is that so important?”

“Harry, I don't know, but I'm,” she paused, “unconvinced.”

“That he's the killer?”

Mrs. Murphy's ears pricked up. She walked over to the table. Pewter, face in food bowl, figured she'd get the information later from Mrs. Murphy, in case she missed anything while chewing lustily.

“When Rick and I first arrived on the scene, we secured the area, investigated the body. Fortunately, backup came in less than five minutes. We walked over to the other building, because you could see immediately from his wound that he wasn't shot face-to-face. We went inside. He couldn't have been shot from an office window, because people were there. Nor could the killer have taken the elevator. We went to the roof. That's where he had to have been, and forensics will confirm it. Oh, he confessed to using a silencer, too. When we came down the stairwell, there was a crushed Virginia Slims butt on the floor. I bagged it. Neither Rick nor I thought it came from our killer. Men don't usually smoke Virginia Slims, not butch enough.” She smiled. “But maybe he did. A nicotine fit is a nicotine fit.”

“What'd Rick make of it?”

“Nothing.” She smiled again. “He owes me five dollars, though. I bet the killer was a man. Always is in a case like this. He said he'd be wild and bet it was a woman.”

“People are supposed to go outside to smoke, but,” Harry shrugged, “probably someone in that building who wanted to stay in the air-conditioning.”

“Could be.”

“Have you mentioned the elevator-bay location to Rick?”

“No. I will, but he's distracted. All the chaos, plus he's working up a budget request for the county commissioners. It's always a fight. There are a couple of people on the commission who question him as though he were the enemy, not a public servant trying to protect life and property.”

“Don't you think Bechtal's surrender might put them in a better mood?”

“We can hope.” She paused. “I'll bring this up to Rick in a couple of days.”

“Want to hear about my day?” Harry smiled.

“I'm sorry.” Cooper drained her beer.

“Want another?”

“No. But if you have green tea, I'll take a cup.”

“Do. Fair's buying green tea, white tea, orange tea, and Sleepytime tea to drink at night. He reads everything about this stuff. I try it and if it works, fine. If not, I learned my lesson.”

She rose, put the kettle on, and sat back down. “Not much for dessert, but I have cookies.”

“No. I made a pig of myself.” Cooper patted her stomach. “I am sorry. Tell me about your day.”

Harry related the events, laughing about Carla's harassing Tazio.

“She is a piece of work.”

“Tazio swears she'll kill her.” Harry's peals of laughter filled the kitchen.

“Well, if she does, I'm off duty and in my ball gown. Someone else can take care of it.”

They both laughed.

15

B
ig Mim might be despotic, but she kept the large goal of a harmonious, well-knit community in mind. Although Mim passionately pursued politics, she gave democracy lip service. The most effective forms of organization were run by a strong individual with a clear purpose.

Although much of what she pursued tended to duty, she possessed a kind heart, and her visits to those in distress, be it emotional or financial, buoyed her as well as the recipient.

On Tuesday afternoon, September 23, she sat across from Benita Wylde, the humorous needlepoint pillow behind Benita's back underscoring her loss. It read, “He's my husband, my lover, my friend, but he's not my responsibility.”

It had been a strong marriage, enlivened by vibrant humor and a few good fights now and again.

The deep buttery gold of late-afternoon sun filled the room, decorated by Benita herself and a source of pride. Although too modern for Mim's taste—she ran to Colefax and Fowler or Parish-Hadley—she recognized that Benita had an eye for proportion, color, and quality. Nonetheless, the stark lines never felt homey.

“You've been so good to visit me every day. I keep thinking this will lift, but it doesn't.” Her light-brown eyes registered confusion and pain.

“The first year is dreadful. The second is numbness.” Big Mim smiled as Benita's oldest daughter, home from Portland, Oregon, placed a tea tray on the sleek, lacquered coffee table.

“Thank you, dear.”

“Georgina, if you want to ride, let me know. Sometimes a nice trail ride helps.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Sanburne. I'd love to, but there's so much to do, and I have to return to Oregon Sunday.”

Georgina left them.

“She's turned into a beautiful young woman,” Big Mim noted.

“Loves her job. I keep hoping she'll come home, but she says the only way she can come home is if she gets a job in Richmond or Washington. Those markets are so competitive, but I think she'll land in a big market eventually.”

“Did you think she'd wind up in television?”

“Well, I knew she always was fascinated by the weather, but both Will and I were surprised when she chose meteorology as her career and then double-majored in broadcasting—journalism, really.”

“She is in a perfect spot, with all those storms sweeping in off the Pacific.”

“That's what she says.” Benita poured them both tea. “In a way, the impact didn't fully hit me until the kids came home. They've been wonderful,” she paused, “although my son says he's going to kill Bechtal if he can figure out how to get into the jail.”

“Normal.”

Benita nodded. “Would it solve anything? One more death?”

“I know I'm supposed to say no, but the years have taught me that killing the right person at the right time can make all the difference. Think what would have happened in the world if the plot against Hitler had succeeded. There would have been a struggle between those dwindling few who wanted to pursue the war and the rest, who knew Germany was lost. We would have had an earlier peace. So many lives would have been saved.” She held her cup with all the grace of one who had manners drilled into her upon leaving the womb. “The older I get, Benita, the less convinced I am that turning the other cheek is the answer. You can imagine how Miranda and I go 'round on this.”

“She's visited regularly, too.” Benita smiled slightly. “Reads germane passages from the Bible, but she's not as bad as she used to be. We read the Twenty-third Psalm together and it was comforting.”

“Beautiful voice, Miranda has, speaking or singing.”

“She brought me some cuttings from the garden, and, would you believe it, Alicia Palmer, down on her knees, put them in. I can tell my grandchildren, if ever they get born, that a movie star planted my pachysandra and variegated ivy. Miranda brought some American Beauty roses, too.”

Big Mim, ever competitive on the garden scene, simply said, “Miranda displays a great gift.”

“Her only vanity, I think.” Benita's eyes filled with tears as she looked out the huge windows. “Will's maple. It was four feet high when he planted it. Look at it now.”

Big Mim guessed the maple to be twenty-five feet high. “Just blushing orange at the top.”

“Should be a spectacular fall.”

“You never know. The conditions can be perfect and a big windstorm comes up. Poof.” She waved her hand, the spectacular diamond on her ring throwing tiny rainbows of light. “Is there anything I can do to help with the funeral?”

“No. Because of the publicity, we decided to cremate him and to have only family here. I think we'll commission a celebration of his life on the first anniversary of his death.” Benita looked back at the older, quite attractive woman. “I can't bear the people, the questions. A year from now, only those of us who loved him will honor him.”

“Wise.”

Benita's rich-brown hair evidenced a few red highlights. Apart from being ten pounds heavier than when in college, she looked marvelous for a woman in middle age. The suffering told on her face, but that was to be expected. And the ten pounds added to the womanliness of her figure.

“Mim, I don't know how I can live,” she said without fanfare, a flat statement.

“You will. You must.” A gust of fierceness invaded the older woman's voice.

“For the children, I know, but inside,” she touched her heart, “I feel dead.”

“That's natural, Benita. It passes, but slowly. You can't give up or give in.”

Benita's lustrous eyes registered the challenge. “I know.”

“It's not what the world throws at us, it's how we handle it. Even inflicted pain, something as terrible as this, can be borne because one must. The duty of life is to live and to give.”

“We do let others control our emotions. If I collapse, then this hideous person wins. I see that.” She stopped, placed her cup and saucer on the table. “How dare anyone play God! Even Will, a physician, did not, and when anyone used that phrase about doctors he corrected them. He used to say, ‘I'm a skilled mechanic. I deal in the human body, not cars.' He was right.”

“Did he ever question abortion?”

Benita shook her head. “Never. Not once. He believed the fetus contained the possibility of life but was not life. He always said, when he slapped the bottom and heard that first cry, that was life. And you know,” she leaned forward, “his mission was intelligent planning. When all this hoopla started about global warming, Will would throw down the paper or talk back to the TV: ‘What do you expect when people breed with no sense of responsibility to the environment?' Oh, he could get worked up.”

“He's right. Was right.” A slight breeze lifted the top leaves of Will's maple. “Benita, nature makes sense. People don't.”

“I tend to agree.” She was quiet for a few moments. “You know who else has been reading the Bible to me? Alicia. Another voice like liquid gold. She surprises me. We play golf when we can, but I…well, she feels for people. She reaches out, where others keep their distance. And when she and BoomBoom come, they check in with the kids and do whatever needs to be done—which is quite a lot, I'm afraid, because I haven't lifted a finger. I feel like I can't move.”

“She and BoomBoom do seem to have brought out the best in each other. We seem to be surrounded by surprises of all manner.” Big Mim now placed her cup and saucer on the silver tray. “I'm sure all is secure, but if some unforeseen financial burden should…well, you know, don't hesitate to call me, Benita. That's what friends are for, and I hope you won't let pride stand in the way.”

A long pause followed as Benita searched for words. “I don't know where I stand, Mim. I hope I would accept assistance if I needed it. I went through some of Will's papers when I went down to the office. Georgina drove me. I don't trust myself to drive, because I burst into tears at the most inopportune moments. Anyway, I went through the business checking account. I asked Kylie Kraft for the outstanding invoices. Actually, Margaret does that. I didn't really know the girls' specific jobs. Everything was in order, although I noticed there wasn't as much money in the account as I anticipated. I asked Margaret—she sends out the bills—why it was a bit low, and she said some of the larger payments were still outstanding.”

“Is Margaret good at the details?”

“Yes. Each time a check comes in, she copies it along with the invoice. Everything goes on a disc. The original copy is kept in the backroom files—which are bulging, I might add. When those files overflow, they are transferred to a U-Store-It.”

“Why?”

“If there's a fire or flood, no records. Without records, no money. The insurance companies will leave you in the lurch. They make life hard enough, the insurers. Do you know we carry thirteen policies? Thirteen! And only one is for the house, one for the cars. All the others are medical in one way or the other. Mim, it's a nightmare. People have no idea what's happened to medicine.”

“I know.” Her curiosity aroused, Big Mim inquired, “Who had a key to the storage unit?”

“Will, and there's one in his desk here. Margaret keeps one on her key ring.”

“Will was smart on so many levels.”

Benita changed the subject. “By the way, I was grateful when your daughter made a statement.”

“Finally.” Big Mim's face flushed. “She won't say anything about terminating pregnancy, though. She's toadying to the religious right in her party, which, as you know, I feel is a party of untrammeled greed and corruption.”

“Of which I am a member,” Benita said lightly.

“I forgot. I'm sorry, but you know I'm a yellow-dog Democrat.” Meaning she'd vote for a yellow dog before she'd vote for a Republican.

Benita waved her hand. “Will registered Republican, so I did, too. He always said one party was as bad as the other, but he felt that doctors received slightly more consideration from the Republicans. You know me, Mim, no interest in politics and no stomach for it.”

“Saves indigestion,” Big Mim joked.

The grandfather clock in the hall, an eighteenth-century one of high value, struck five. While it could have looked out of place in the house, it didn't, which was a testimony to Benita's abilities.

“Soon Daylight Savings will be over and night will fall so much more quickly.” Benita noted the lovely light. “I've never much liked winter.”

“Because you can't play golf. Now, if you'd foxhunt, winter would fly by.”

“And so would I.” Benita laughed for the first time.

They chatted some more; Benita cried a little.

Big Mim actually quoted a passage she herself remembered from the Bible, Philippians, Chapter 4, Verse 13: “‘I can do all things in him who strengthens me.'”

“Miranda has rubbed off on you,” Benita remarked.

“She can go on. She must have the entire Bible memorized. I try to have her faith but I'm too logical, I fear.”

“I'm discovering mine.”

“What I have I found when I was diagnosed with breast cancer those years ago. I looked inward. Something I don't usually do.” She inhaled. “Who wants pain? Who desires suffering? I can't imagine anyone in their right mind wanting a dose, but one learns such important lessons that can't be learned any other way. My mother, when I complained, used to tell me that suffering was a gift if you looked it in the eye. I never believed her, but now I do.”

“I'm learning.”

As Big Mim rose to leave, she stopped for a moment and glanced again at Will's maple, the slanting rays hitting the top perfectly so the blush became more radiant, promising outrageous color soon. “Benita, keep your eyes on those unpaid invoices. With Will's death, some people may drag their heels sending in the check.”

Little did she know she'd hit the nail on the head. Almost.