The Purrfect Murder (17 page)

“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

M
rs. 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 shorthanded 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.