Wish You Were Here (23 page)

“You drive a hard bargain.”

“Never underestimate the power of a woman,” Harry mocked. “I'd hate for one of us to kill the other, because you couldn't remove the body until the middle of the night, and in this flaming heat the corpse will start to stink in two to three hours. That's disagreeable.”

“Quite so,” came Josiah's clipped response. “What would you do if you killed me?”

“What you did to Maude. Then I'd wait a year, and Coop and I would sell off your stash. Oh, we don't have your contacts, Josiah, but I'm sure we'd make some kind of profit.” She lied through her teeth.

“Don't be an ass! With me you can make a fortune. By yourself, you'll get caught.”

“I got this far, didn't I?”

A long silence followed. The unlit Molotov cocktail was placed at the opening. Josiah's hand quickly withdrew.

“Proof positive of what a saint I am. There's the Molotov cocktail.”

“Josiah”—Harry hoped to keep him talking—“how did you fake the postmarks?”

“My latent artistic impulses surged to the fore.” He smiled. “I've got waxes, inks, stains, bits of ormolu, you name it, to repair the furniture. I mixed up a color and then tapped the postmark letters with old typeface. The inscription came compliments of my computer. I thought the postcards a flourish. I rather relished the picture of poor Rick Shaw's face as he tried to make sense of it—once he realized the postcards were a signature. You realized quite quickly. I was terribly impressed.”

“But not scared?”

“Me? Never.”

“Your gun.” Harry's voice made the demand sound like a social request.

“What about Coop? Is she really in there? I want to hear her voice. How do I know you haven't killed her?” Josiah made a demand of his own. What he wanted was to hear where she was.

“Here.” Cooper nodded to Harry. She then swiftly moved to stand right beneath Mrs. Murphy. Tucker put her front paws on the lorry.

Harry, on Coop's signal, said, “On the count of three, you throw down your gun. She'll throw down hers. One . . . two . . . three.” She tossed out her gun as Josiah threw his in the opening.

He had a second gun. He didn't waste time. He bolted into the tunnel, firing randomly. Mrs. Murphy jumped, claws at the ready, onto his head. Then slid to his back. Tucker, on her hind legs, pushed the lorry, which, despite its slow pace, knocked him off balance when it bumped into him. Tucker then bit his gun hand as he stumbled to the tunnel floor, his knee hitting a steel rail. Josiah lifted his gun hand, the dog still hanging on his wrist, and aimed straight for Harry, who dropped and rolled. Mrs. Murphy hung on his back, digging into him full force. Cooper, with deliberate precision and trained self-control, fired once. Josiah grunted as the bullet sank into his torso with a thud. He fired wildly. Cooper fired one more shot. Between the eyes. He twitched and was dead.

“Tucker!” Harry rushed to the dog, bruised but wagging her tail.

Cooper scooped up Mrs. Murphy as she walked over to Harry. She kissed the kitty, whose fur still stood straight up. “Bless you, Mrs. Murphy.” She reached down and felt for Josiah's pulse. She dropped his arm as if it were rotten meat. “Harry, if these two hadn't thrown him off balance he would have hit one of us. His gun was on rapid fire. The tunnel isn't that wide. He was no dummy, except for his little slip in the post office.”

Harry sat on the moist earth, Tucker licking the tears from her face. Mrs. Murphy stood on her hind legs, her front paws wrapped around Harry's neck. Harry rubbed her cheek against Mrs. Murphy's soft fur.

“It's a funny thing, Cooper. I didn't think about myself. I thought about these two. If he had hurt Mrs. Murphy or Tucker, I would have killed him with my bare hands if I could have. My mind was perfectly composed and crystal-clear.”

“You've got guts, Harry. I was armed. You threw out your gun to sucker him in.”

“He wouldn't have come in otherwise. I don't know—maybe he would have. God, it seems like a dream. What a cunning son of a bitch. He had two guns.”

Cooper frisked the body. “And a stiletto.”

46

Mrs. Hogendobber rapturously returned on the day following Harry's shoot-out with Josiah. The media had a field day with the heroic postmistress, her valiant cat and gallant dog, as well as stalwart Officer Cooper, so cool under fire. Harry found the hoopla almost as bad as being trapped in the tunnel.

Rick Shaw, fully briefed on the engagement with Josiah DeWitt, never mentioned in his prepared statement that Josiah's entry into wealthy homes was on Mim Sanburne's arm. Naturally, all of Crozet knew it, as well as Mim's rich friends, but at least that detail wasn't splashed across America. Jim secretly relished that his wife's snobbery had been her undoing, and he was thrilled to be rid of Josiah.

Pewter envied her friends terribly and ate twice as much to make up for being denied stardom.

Fair and BoomBoom dated. No promises were made yet. They struggled to find some equilibrium amid the torrid gossip concerning them. Harry went from being the tough wife who threw out her husband to the innocent victim—in public, but not Harry's, opinion.

Susan got Harry to take up golf for relaxation. Harry wasn't certain that it relaxed her, but it began to obsess her.

Little Marilyn and Mim made up, sort of. Mim had brains enough to know that she would never dominate her daughter again.

On schedule, Rob brought the mail and picked it up. Harry kept reading postcards. Lindsay Astrove returned from Europe, sorry to have missed the drama. Jim Sanburne and the town council of Crozet decided to make money from the scandal. They offered tours of the tunnel. Tourists rode up in handcarts. A nice booklet on the life of Claudius Crozet was printed and sold for $12.50.

Life returned to normal, whatever that is.

Crozet was an imperfect corner of the world with rare moments of perfection. Harry, Mrs. Murphy, and Tucker witnessed one of them on a crisp September day.

Harry looked out the post office window and saw Stafford Sanburne, with his beautiful wife, step off the train. He was greeted by Mim and Little Marilyn. He had a big smile on his face. So did Harry.

Afterword

I hope you enjoyed my first crime novel. Tell my publishers if you did. Maybe they'll give me an advance for another one.

Uh-oh, I hear footsteps in the hall.

“Sneaky Pie, what is this in my typewriter?”

Books by Rita Mae Brown with Sneaky Pie Brown

WISH YOU WERE HERE

REST IN PIECES

MURDER AT MONTICELLO

PAY DIRT

MURDER, SHE MEOWED

MURDER ON THE PROWL

CAT ON THE SCENT

SNEAKY PIE'S COOKBOOK FOR MYSTERY LOVERS

PAWING THROUGH THE PAST

CLAWS AND EFFECT

CATCH AS CAT CAN

THE TAIL OF THE TIP-OFF

WHISKER OF EVIL

Books by Rita Mae Brown

THE HAND THAT CRADLES THE ROCK

SONGS TO A HANDSOME WOMAN

THE PLAIN BROWN RAPPER

RUBYFRUIT JUNGLE

IN HER DAY

SIX OF ONE

SOUTHERN DISCOMFORT

SUDDEN DEATH

HIGH HEARTS

STARTING FROM SCRATCH:

A DIFFERENT KIND OF WRITERS' MANUAL

BINGO

VENUS ENVY

DOLLEY: A NOVEL OF DOLLEY MADISON IN LOVE AND WAR

RIDING SHOTGUN

RITA WILL: MEMOIR OF A LITERARY RABBLE-ROUSER

LOOSE LIPS

OUTFOXED

HOTSPUR

FULL CRY

Praise for

The Mrs. Murphy Series

THE TAIL OF THE TIP-OFF

“You don't have to be a cat lover to enjoy Brown's eleventh Mrs. Murphy novel. . . . Brown writes so compellingly . . . [she] breathes believability into every aspect of this smart and sassy novel.”
—
Publishers Weekly
(starred review)

“Rita Mae Brown's series remains one of the best cat mysteries. . . . Brown keeps the series fresh.”
—
The Post & Courier
(Charleston, SC)

“The animals' droll commentary provides comic relief and clues helpful in solving the crime.”
—
The Washington Post

“A tightly woven mystery, peopled with the delightful characters of small-town Virginia . . . a real three-point play: an intriguing mystery, great characters, and an engaging sense of humor.”
—
I Love a Mystery

“A fast-paced plot and enough animated feline personalities to keep readers entertained.”
—
Daily News
(New York)

“A not-to-be-missed exciting cozy.”
—
The Midwest Book Review

“Nobody can put words in the mouths of animals better than Rita Mae Brown . . . fast-paced action . . . Harry and her menagerie are simply great.”
—
Abilene Reporter-News

CATCH AS CAT CAN

“This latest is as good as its predecessors . . . thoroughly enjoyable.”
—
Winston-Salem Journal

“Brown's proven brand of murder and mayhem played out against a background of Virginia gentility and idealized animals is once again up to scratch.”
—
Publishers Weekly

“Any new Mrs. Murphy is a joyful reading experience, and
Catch as Cat Can
is no exception. . . . An adult mystery that appeals to the child in all of us.”
—
The Midwest Book Review

“The[se] mysteries continue to be a true treat.”
—
The Post & Courier
(Charleston, SC)

“An entertaining read in a fun series.”
—
Mystery News

CLAWS AND EFFECT

“Reading a Mrs. Murphy mystery is like eating a potato chip. You always go back for more. . . . Whimsical and enchanting . . . the latest expert tale from a deserving bestselling series.”
—
The Midwest Book Review

“Mrs. Murphy, the incomparable feline sleuth with attitude, returns to captivate readers. . . . An intriguing and well-executed mystery . . . Grateful fans will relish this charming addition by a master of the cozy cat genre.”
—
Publishers Weekly

“As charming as ever.”
—
The Tennessean

“With intricate plot twists that will keep readers guessing right up until the end,
Claws and Effect
once again blends murder and mayhem with animal antics.”
—
Pet Life

“Another charming and elegantly spun yarn.”
—
The Providence Sunday Journal

“Excellent series . . . Another murder in Crozet would be most welcome.”
—
Winston-Salem Journal

PAWING THROUGH THE PAST

“This is a cat-lover's dream of a mystery. . . . ‘Harry' is simply irresistible. . . . [Rita Mae] Brown once again proves herself ‘Queen of Cat Crimes.' . . . Don't miss out on this lively series, for it's one of the best around.”
—
Old Book Barn Gazette

“Apparently eight's the charm for Rita Mae Brown and her cat, Sneaky Pie, whose latest adventure just may be the best in this long-running series.”
—
Booklist

“Another delightful mystery . . . Once again, Rita Mae Brown proves she can capture the ambiance of life in a small southern town and, more impressively, get readers to accept thinking, mystery-solving cats and dogs.”
—
The Virginian-Pilot

“Cleverly crafted . . . Fans of the Mrs. Murphy series will want to immediately read this novel, while newcomers will search for the previous books.”
—
The Midwest Book Review

“A delightful cozy mystery, all the more so because of the active role the pets take in solving the crime . . . [The] puzzling mystery will shock and delight you.”
—
Romantic Times

“Rita Mae Brown's books are always well written, always entertaining, always full of interesting people becoming involved with plots, plans, and emotional entanglements.
Pawing Through the Past
is no exception.”
—
I Love a Mystery

CAT ON THE SCENT

“Rita and Sneaky Pie know how to grab a reader. This fun-loving and delightful mystery is a must even if you're not a cat lover.”
—
The Pilot
(Southern Pines, NC)

“These provocative mysteries just glow.”
—
Mystery Lovers Bookshop News

“Features all the traits of purebred fun. . . . The antics of the animals, Brown's witty observations, the

history-revering Virginians, and the Blue Ridge setting make

this a pleasurable read for lovers of this popular genre.”
—
BookPage

“Animal antics and criminal capers combine captivatingly in
Cat on the Scent
.”
—
The San Diego Union-Tribune

“A charming and keen-eyed take on human misdeeds and animal shenanigans . . . Told with spunk and plenty of whimsy, this is another delightful entry in a very popular series.”
—
Publishers Weekly

“A fine murder mystery . . . For fans of Mrs. Murphy and her pals, both two- and four-legged,
Cat on the Scent
smells like a winner.”
—
The Virginian-Pilot

“Charming.”
—
People

Don't miss the new mystery from

RITA MAE BROWN

and

SNEAKY PIE BROWN

Whisker of Evil

Now available in hardcover
from Bantam Books

Please read on for a preview . . .

Whisker of Evil

on sale now

Barry Monteith was still breathing when Harry found him. His throat had been ripped out.

Tee Tucker, a corgi, racing ahead of Mary Minor Haristeen as well as the two cats, Mrs. Murphy and Pewter, found him first.

Barry was on his back, eyes open, gasping and gurgling, life ebbing with each spasm. He did not recognize Tucker nor Harry when they reached him.

“Barry, Barry.” Harry tried to comfort him, hoping he could hear her. “It will be all right,” she said, knowing perfectly well he was dying.

The tiger cat, Mrs. Murphy, watched the blood jet upward.

“Jugular,”
fat, gray Pewter succinctly commented.

Gently, Harry took the young man's hand and prayed, “Dear Lord, receive into thy bosom the soul of Barry Monteith, a good man.” Tears welled in her eyes.

Barry jerked, then his suffering ended.

Death, often so shocking to city dwellers, was part of life here in the country. A hawk would swoop down to carry away the chick while the biddy screamed useless defiance. A bull would break his hip and need to be put down. And one day an old farmer would slowly walk to his tractor only to discover he couldn't climb into the seat. The Angel of Death placed his hand on the stooping shoulder.

It appeared the Angel had offered little peaceful deliverance to Barry Monteith, thirty-four, fit, handsome with brown curly hair, and fun-loving. Barry had started his own business, breeding thoroughbreds, a year ago, with a business partner, Sugar Thierry.

“Sweet Jesus.” Harry wiped away the tears.

That Saturday morning, crisp, clear, and beautiful, had held the alluring promise of a perfect May 29. The promise had just curdled.

Harry had finished her early-morning chores and, despite a list of projects, decided to take a walk for an hour. She followed Potlicker Creek to see if the beavers had built any new dams. Barry was sprawled at the creek's edge on a dirt road two miles from her farm that wound up over the mountains into adjoining Augusta County. It edged the vast land holdings of Tally Urquhart, who, well into her nineties and spry, loathed traffic. Three cars constituted traffic in her mind. The only time the road saw much use was during deer-hunting season in the fall.

“Tucker, Mrs. Murphy, and Pewter, stay. I'm going to run to Tally's and phone the sheriff.”

If Harry hit a steady lope, crossed the fields and one set of woods, she figured she could reach the phone in Tally's stable within fifteen minutes, though the pitch and roll of the land including one steep ravine would cost time.

As she left her animals, they inspected Barry.

“What could rip his throat like that? A bear swipe?”
Pewter's pupils widened.

“Perhaps.”
Mrs. Murphy, noncommittal, sniffed the gaping wound, as did Tucker.

The cat curled her upper lip to waft more scent into her nostrils. The dog, whose nose was much longer and nostrils larger, simply inhaled.

“I don't smell bear,”
Tucker declared.
“That's an overpowering scent, and on a morning like this it would stick.”

Pewter, who cherished luxury and beauty, found that Barry's corpse disturbed her equilibrium.
“Let's be grateful we found him today and not three days from now.”

“Stop jabbering, Pewter, and look around, will you? Look for tracks.”

Grumbling, the gray cat daintily stepped down the dirt road.
“You mean like car tracks?”

“Yes, or animal tracks,”
Mrs. Murphy directed, then returned her attention to Tucker.
“Even though coyote scent isn't as strong as bear, we'd still smell a whiff. Bobcat? I don't smell anything like that. Or dog. There are wild dogs and wild pigs back in the mountains. The humans don't even realize they're there.”

Tucker cocked her perfectly shaped head.
“No dirt around the wound. No saliva, either.”

“I don't see anything. Not even a birdie foot,”
Pewter, irritated, called out from a hundred yards down the road.

“Well, go across the creek then and look over there.”
Mrs. Murphy's patience wore thin.

“And get my paws wet?”
Pewter's voice rose.

“It's a ford. Hop from rock to rock. Go on, Pewt, stop being a chicken.”

Angrily, Pewter puffed up, tearing past them to launch herself over the ford. She almost made it, but a splash indicated she'd gotten her hind paws wet.

If circumstances had been different, Mrs. Murphy and Tucker would have laughed. Instead, they returned to Barry.

“I can't identify the animal that tore him up.”
The tiger shook her head.

“Well, the wound is jagged but clean. Like I said, no dirt.”
Tucker studied the folds of flesh laid back.

“He was killed lying down,”
the cat sagely noted.
“If he was standing up, don't you think blood would be everywhere?”

“Not necessarily,”
the dog replied, thinking how strong heartbeats sent blood straight out from the jugular. Tucker was puzzled by the odd calmness of the scene.

“Pewter, have you found anything on that side?”

“Deer tracks. Big deer tracks.”

“Keep looking,”
Mrs. Murphy requested.

“I hate it when you're bossy.”
Nonetheless, Pewter moved down the dirt road heading west.

“Barry was such a nice man.”
Tucker mournfully looked at the square-jawed face, wide-open eyes staring at heaven.

Mrs. Murphy circled the body.
“Tucker, I'm climbing up that sycamore. If I look down maybe I'll see something.”

Her claws, razor sharp, dug into the thin surface of the tree, strips of darker outer bark peeling, exposing the whitish underbark. The odor of fresh water, of the tufted titmouse above her, all informed her. She scanned around for broken limbs, bent bushes, anything indicating Barry—or other humans or large animals—had traveled to this spot avoiding the dirt road.

“Pewter?”

“Big fat nothing.”
The gray kitty noted that her hind paws were wet. She was getting little clods of dirt stuck between her toes. This bothered her more than Barry did. After all, he was dead. Nothing she could do for him. But the hardening brown earth between her toes, that was discomfiting.

“Well, come on back. We'll wait for Mom.”
Mrs. Murphy dropped her hind legs over the limb where she was sitting. Her hind paws reached for the trunk, the claws dug in, and she released her grip, swinging her front paws to the trunk. She backed down.

Tucker touched noses with Pewter, who had recrossed the creek more successfully this time.

Mrs. Murphy came up and sat beside them.

“Hope his face doesn't change colors while we're waiting for the humans. I hate that. They get all mottled.”
Pewter wrinkled her nose.

“I wouldn't worry.”
Tucker sighed.

In the distance they heard sirens.

“Bet they won't know what to make of this, either,”
Tucker said.

“It's peculiar.”
Mrs. Murphy turned her head in the direction of the sirens.

“Weird and creepy.”
Pewter pronounced judgment as she picked at her hind toes, and she was right.

Welcome to the charming world of

MRS. MURPHY

Don't miss these earlier mysteries . . .

THE TAIL OF THE TIP-OFF

When winter hits Crozet, Virginia, it hits hard. That's nothing new to postmistress Mary Minor “Harry” Haristeen and her friends, who keep warm with hard work, hot toddies, and rabid rooting for the University of Virginia's women's basketball team. But post-game high spirits are laid low when contractor H.H. Donaldson drops dead in the parking lot. And soon word spreads that it wasn't a heart attack that did him in. It just doesn't sit right with Harry that one of her fellow fans is a murderer. And as tiger cat Mrs. Murphy knows, things that don't sit right with Harry lead her to poke her not-very-sensitive human nose into dangerous places. To make sure their intrepid mom lands on her feet, the feisty feline and her furry cohorts Pewter and corgi Tee Tucker are about to have their paws full helping Harry uncover a killer with no sense of fair play. . . .

“You don't have to be a cat lover to enjoy Brown's 11th Mrs. Murphy novel. . . . Brown writes so compellingly . . . [she] breathes believability into every aspect of this smart and sassy novel.”
—
Publishers Weekly
(starred review)

CATCH AS CAT CAN

Spring fever comes to the small town of Crozet, Virginia. As the annual Dogwood Festival approaches, postmistress Mary Minor “Harry” Haristeen feels her own mating instincts stir. As for tiger cat Mrs. Murphy, feline intuition tells her there's more in the air than just pheromones. It begins with a case of stolen hubcaps and proceeds to the mysterious death of a dissolute young mechanic over a sobering cup of coffee. Then another death and a shooting lead to the discovery of a half-million crisp, clean dollar bills that look to be very dirty. Now Harry is on the trail of a cold-blooded murderer. Mrs. Murphy already knows who it is—and who's next in line. She also knows that Harry, curious as a cat, does not have nine lives. And the one she does have is hanging by the thinnest of threads.

“The[se] mysteries continue to be a true treat.”
—
The Post & Courier
(Charleston, SC)

CLAWS AND EFFECT

Winter puts tiny Crozet, Virginia, in a deep freeze and everyone seems to be suffering from the winter blahs, including postmistress Mary Minor “Harry” Haristeen. So all are ripe for the juicy gossip coming out of Crozet Hospital—until the main source of that gossip turns up dead. It's not like Harry to resist a mystery, and she soon finds the hospital a hotbed of ego, jealousy, and illicit love. But it's tiger cat Mrs. Murphy, roaming the netherworld of Crozet Hospital, who sniffs out a secret that dates back to the Underground Railroad. Then Harry is attacked and a doctor is executed in cold blood. Soon only a quick-witted cat and her animal pals feline Pewter and corgi Tee Tucker stand between Harry and a coldly calculating killer with a prescription for murder.

“Reading a Mrs. Murphy mystery is like eating a potato chip. You always go back for more. . . . Whimsical and enchanting . . . the latest expert tale from a deserving bestselling series.”
—
The Midwest Book Review

PAWING THROUGH THE PAST

“You'll never get old.” Each member of the class of 1980 has received the letter. Mary Minor “Harry” Haristeen, who is on the organizing committee for Crozet High's twentieth reunion, decides to take it as a compliment. Others think it's a joke. But Mrs. Murphy senses trouble. And the sly tiger cat is soon proven right . . . when the class womanizer turns up dead with a bullet between his eyes. Then another note followed by another murder makes it clear that someone has waited twenty years to take revenge. While Harry tries to piece together the puzzle, it's up to Mrs. Murphy and her animal pals to sniff out the truth. And there isn't much time. Mrs. Murphy is the first to realize that Harry has been chosen Most Likely to Die, and if she doesn't hurry, Crozet High's twentieth reunion could be Harry's last.

“This is a cat-lover's dream of a mystery. . . . ‘Harry' is simply irresistible. . . . [Rita Mae] Brown once again proves herself ‘Queen of Cat Crimes.'. . . Don't miss out on this lively series, for it's one of the best around.”
—
Old Book Barn Gazette

CAT ON THE SCENT

Things have been pretty exciting lately in Crozet, Virginia—a little too exciting if you ask resident feline investigator Mrs. Murphy. Just as the town starts to buzz over its Civil War reenactment, a popular local man disappears. No one's seen Tommy Van Allen's single-engine plane, either—except for Mrs. Murphy, who spotted it during a foggy evening's mousing. Even Mrs. Murphy's favorite human, postmistress Mary Minor “Harry” Haristeen, can sense that something is amiss. But things really take an ugly turn when the town reenacts the battle of Oak Ridge—and a participant ends up with three very real bullets in his back. While the clever tiger cat and her friends sift through clues that just don't fit together, more than a few locals fear that the scandal will force well-hidden town secrets into the harsh light of day. And when Mrs. Murphy's relentless tracking places loved ones in danger, it takes more than a canny kitty and her team of animal sleuths to set things right again. . . .