Whisker of Evil (28 page)

Catching and scaring her cats energized Harry. She couldn't sleep. She grabbed a book, read a few lines, then laughed. She laughed harder and harder. “Scared the poop out of you two.”

Indignant, the two felines thumped out of the room and repaired to their bowl of crunchies in the kitchen, where Pewter proceeded to bite the tips off the little Xs of dry cat food.

“Eat the whole thing, Pewter. I'm not eating what you drop back in the bowl,”
Mrs. Murphy said, wrinkling her nose.

“It's like biting the little ends off pretzels. Tastes the best.”
Pewter half-closed her chartreuse eyes.

“Selfish pig.”

“You are jus-s-s-t perfect.”
She drew out the
s-s-t
.

Mrs. Murphy, furious at being outsmarted by a human, jumped up on the counter and sat in the window behind the kitchen sink. She could see the barn, the new shed, and the nearest paddocks.
“Pewter, has it occurred to you that Marshall Kressenberg may not be the killer? Mother's getting herself all fired up over this and she might be wrong. Dead wrong.”

“He's in on it. Harry called Old Wampum Farm and asked if they'd fax the record of Ziggy Dark Star's sale to Fair at the clinic. They had no such record.”
Pewter brushed the tidbits of food off her whiskers.

“I know. The old man who supposedly sold the horse died in 1984. The subsequent owners say they don't have adequate records. He wasn't much of a record keeper. I reckon he was either in on it or Marshall paid him off. But what if there's more than one—killer, I mean?”

“Harry's thought of that.”
Pewter, full, felt better.

“Yes, but she's prepared for the wrong one.”
Mrs. Murphy sighed.
“She trapped us, but a human is much larger than we are. I'd feel better if I knew just what she was up to or what Big Mim had said to her. She isn't going to hold down this killer.”

“You worry too much,”
Pewter flippantly said, but Mrs. Murphy's words had their effect.
“What can we do?”

49

T
he early-morning news carried the story of Carmen Gamble's disappearance, along with footage of the sign at St. James Farm and the Shear Heaven beauty salon.

By eight o'clock the only people in Albemarle County not informed of this latest development were either dead themselves or about to be. And if any of those hovering at death's door happened to revive, the clarion of democracy—the free press—would make certain they were aware of this latest bizarre event in Crozet. The whole rabies story was pumped up and rehashed, as well.

By nine o'clock, eleven stray dogs had been shot and killed by citizens convinced that panting equaled frothing at the mouth. Feral cats, being smaller, hid in outbuildings and barns. They escaped the vigilance of alert suburbanites living in the new developments that had sprung up in Crozet. Cats with human companions hid, too.

Harry and Miranda showed up at the post office to help Amy Wade, who would be swamped not with mail but with the media, citizens, and every crackpot in western Albemarle County. If no one else will listen to you, the poor soul behind the postal counter must.

Amy nearly cried when they came through the front door. The three of them knocked the mail out in forty-five minutes.

Wisely, Harry had left her cohorts at home.

Since the post office is a federal building, the doors cannot be locked against citizens. When the TV van with the antennae on top drove up, all three women groaned.

A reporter, hair perfectly cut and wearing tan pants, a navy blazer, a blue shirt, and red, white, and blue tie, sailed through the door. Cords trailed behind him, kind of like a Portuguese man-of-war jellyfish.

“I am here in the Crozet Post Office, a small, tidy building in this nondescript town.” He walked over to the counter as the cameraman walked in front of him, then swung behind for the reaction shot of Harry, Miranda, and Amy. The reaction shot suggested someone was flatulent.

The reporter's cue cards were held up by an assistant behind the long-suffering cameraman. Now he lifted one with Harry's name on it.

“The postmistress is Mary Minor Haristeen.” He then looked to see which one was Harry.

“I'm no longer the postmistress. That office belongs to Mrs. Amy Wade,” Harry said levelly.

“Ah, which of you is Mrs. Wade?”

“I am.” The dark-haired, pretty young woman with the merry freckles smiled.

“In a small town the post office is one of the nerve centers. What's the feeling here in Crozet about this unprecedented epidemic of rabies?”

“Two cases don't constitute an epidemic,” Harry tartly replied.

“And those two young men knew each other. They were in business together,” Miranda chimed in.

“We don't think that's an epidemic. We think it's rotten bad luck.” Amy finally wedged a sentence in.

“Are you aware that stray dogs have been shot throughout Crozet this morning? People are taking this seriously,” the reporter intoned, voice low for emphasis.

“Idiots!” Harry exclaimed.

“Why do you say that, uh, Mrs. Haristeen?”

“The incidence of rabies among cats and dogs is practically negligible thanks to vaccination. And if you'd done your homework, you would know the strain of rabies that killed Barry and Sugar was that of the silver-haired bat.”

He ignored that, saying in a louder voice, “How do you know Carmen Gamble isn't dead of rabies? Perhaps her body is in the woods.”

Before Harry could erupt—and she was close to it—the door opened and Fair and Tavener pushed through the cables, assistants, and hangers-on valiantly trying to get their faces on camera.

“Didn't I just see you two?” The reporter blinked.

“You did. We couldn't even get through St. James's front gate. There were more reporters and cameras than at White House conferences.” Tavener, face ruddy with anger, barked, “Pack up and go back from whence you came. All you're doing is creating panic, injuring innocent animals, and getting in the way. This is my post office. I have a postbox, and I'd like to get to it.” Tavener brushed by an assistant.

“Me, too,” Fair echoed Tavener.

The cameraman tilted the camera upward to capture Fair, tall and imposing.

The reporter bore down on Harry. “You resigned your position because of your animals, didn't you, Mrs. Haristeen?”

“No, not exactly.” Harry leaned over the counter.

“But it is a fact that you brought two cats and a dog to work even after the rabies cases were diagnosed.”

“They have their shots and so do I.” She bared her teeth as though fangs, which made Miranda laugh.

“Harry, you know that's what will be on the news,” Miranda said.

“I don't give a damn.” Harry defiantly grinned.

“Shots or no shots, don't you think the sight of those animals might frighten people? It's against the law to bring pets to a federal building unless they're seeing-eye dogs.” The reporter at least knew that much.

“This is Crozet.” Amy Wade shrugged.

“But under the circumstances such behavior seems if not irresponsible then insensitive.” The reporter—delighted for the footage, something a little different than the other stations covering the news—kept at Harry. He looked up suddenly, aware that a very tall, powerfully built blond man was staring down at him.

“Leave her alone,” Fair flatly said.

The reporter stood his ground. “And who are you?”

“Dr. Pharamond Haristeen.”

“I see.” The reporter smiled weakly.

Tavener stepped up next to the reporter. “And I'm Dr. Tavener Heyward. We're both veterinarians. Since your camera is running, let me state unequivocably that there is no danger to citizens of Albemarle County or the state of Virginia from cats and dogs. Furthermore, there is slim danger from the silver-haired bat—scientific name,
Lasionycteris noctivagans
. Both Dr. Haristeen and myself have thoroughly inspected the barns at St. James. The health department has crawled through the attics of the main house and all the dependencies. There is no evidence of rabies there.”

“How can you tell?” The reporter asked a reasonable question.

“No carcasses,” Tavener replied.

“If there is rabies in the bat population, you'll find a disproportionate amount of dead bats. And we didn't. We found a few deceased bats, we took tissue samples. No rabies. This is a strange and upsetting case—the deaths of Barry Monteith and Sugar Thierry—but there is no proof that rabies is sweeping through the bat population, or through other reservoirs of the virus, such as raccoons or skunks.”

“Then how did these two men die from rabies?” The reporter leaned forward, mike thrusting close to Tavener. “And there is a young woman missing who was close to the men. It may all be related!”

“We don't know.” Tavener sounded professional and at ease before the camera. “My guess—and it is only a guess—is that one or both of the men, while traveling to other barns and to other states, may have been bitten by a bat at one of those locations. The bite is almost always painless and the mark quite tiny. It's possible they never knew.”

“I'd certainly know if a bat bit me.” The reporter sounded disbelieving and a trifle boastful.

“Not if you were asleep.” Fair put him in his place.

“What
about
Carmen Gamble?” the reporter prodded.

“We're hoping she'll show up. Carmen is—well, mercurial.”

“She often traveled with Barry Monteith. They were dating,” Harry piped up.

“Isn't it true that if there were a rabies epidemic in Crozet, the town would lose tourist money? Like the seaside town in
Jaws
?” The reporter sounded aggressive and smart.

His audience would just eat this up.

“No. The money doesn't stop here. It goes straight to Charlottesville.” Tavener walked back to the table to sort his mail.

Fair leaned against the counter. “Crozet is just Crozet. Nothing pretty about us but beautiful country and great people.”

“Great people? The animal-control officer is shot dead. Two other men are dead. Doesn't sound like too many great people to me. Jerome Stoltfus, former county animal-control officer, may have held the key to the rabies epidemic!” The reporter really didn't know when to stop, trusting his editor to put together the footage he was churning out. “And weren't the remains of Mary Pat Reines, a leading citizen and wealthy woman who disappeared in 1974, just uncovered? Great people? Crozet is becoming the murder capital of Virginia!”

“Do you know any place on earth where there hasn't been a murder?” Miranda was irritated but covering it.

“That's not the point,” the reporter snapped, not really angry but putting on a show for the camera.

“We'll see.” Tavener tucked his mail under his arm. “Boy, why don't you run along?”

“Uh, before I go . . .” The reporter checked his name cards, handed him by the assistant. “Haristeen. Are you two related?”

“Married,” Miranda called out.

“Were,” Harry corrected her.

“Will be again!” Fair grinned from ear to ear, brimming with bravado, but, then again, faint heart ne'er won fair lady.

As Tavener ushered, pushed, propelled the gaggle of unwanted media people out, shutting the door behind them, Harry punched Fair in the arm. “Who says?”

“I says,” Fair, uncharacteristically, bragged.

“The woman has to give her consent. Otherwise there's an ugly word for it.” Harry replied in a light tone.

“Foolish. The word is foolish.” Fair smiled. “Miranda, Tavener, Amy, you heard it here first. I want this woman to be my wedded wife, again. And I'll keep asking her until she says yes.”

“God.” Harry covered her eyes.

“Give the man points for perseverance.” Tavener laughed.

“And good looks.” Amy winked.

“And love.” Miranda adored the big vet.

“Harry, take your time.” Fair squeezed her hand.

“Oh, hell, she's had three years of you pursuing her. The first year after the divorce you were worthless. The last three you've been assiduously courting her.” Tavener slapped his mail on the counter for emphasis. “Say yes and be done with it, Harry.”

“You two made a great team when you were married,” Amy Wade said encouragingly.

Fair leaned down and kissed Harry. “You're outnumbered.”

Harry, embarrassed but secretly thrilled, murmured, “Let me think about it. I won't take three more years.”

“Heart. Not head.” Miranda smiled.

Tavener walked to the front door, where the sight of the reporter bagging people on their way to the post office infuriated him. “I have half a mind to tell that jerk I'll show him where Mary Pat was found.”

“Why?” Fair asked.

“Because I'll haul him up to those high meadows, to the corner of the stone wall, turn around, and leave him there. Let him find his way down in the dark.” He slapped the mail against his leg, opened the door, and called over his shoulder, “Harry, he's a great vet and a good man. Say yes.”