Рита Браун - Catch As Cat Can

PAY DIRT

“If you must work with a collaborator, you want it to be someone with intelligence, wit and an infinite capacity for subtlety—someone, in fact, very much like a cat. It's always a pleasure to visit this cozy world. [T]here's no resisting Harry's droll sense of humor . . . or Mrs. Murphy's tart commentary.” — The New York Times Book Review

“The superb narration . . . resonates with small-town intimacy and wit. . . . Sure to delight anyone who loves cozy mysteries.” — Mostly Murder

Don't miss the new

Sneaky Pie mystery

Coming from Bantam Books

in March 2003

READ ON FOR A PREVIEW

A gray sleety drizzle rattled against the handblown windowpanes in the rectory at St. Luke's Lutheran Church. As if in counterpoint, a fire crackled in the large but simple fireplace, the mantel adorned by a strip of dentil carving. The hands of that carver had turned to dust in 1797.

The members of the Parish Guild were seated in a semicircle around the fireplace, at a graceful coffee table in the middle. As anyone knows, serving on a board or a committee is a dubious honor. Most people recognize their duty in time to avoid it. However, the work must be done and some good folks bow their heads to the yoke.

Mary Minor Haristeen had succumbed to the thrill of being elected, of being considered responsible, by the congregation. This thrill thinned as the tangle of tasks presented themselves in meeting after meeting. She liked the physical problems better than the people problems. Fixing a fallen drainspout was within her compass of expertise. Fixing a broken heart, offering succor to the ill, well, she was learning.

The good pastor of St. Luke's, the Reverend Herbert C. Jones, excelled at both the people problems and teaching. He gladly gave of himself to any board member, any parishioner. As he'd baptized Mrs. Haristeen, nicknamed Harry, he felt a special affection for the good-looking woman in her late thirties. It was an affection bounteously returned, for Harry loved the Rev, as she called him, with all her heart.

Although the guild was bickering at this exact moment, it'd be fair to say that every member loved the Reverend Jones. It would be also fair to say that most of them liked—if not loved—Harry. The one exception being BoomBoom Craycroft who sort of liked her and sort of didn't. The feeling was mutual.

Like large white confetti, papers rested on the coffee table along with mugs. The aroma of coffee and hot chocolate somewhat dissipated the tension.

“We just can't go off half-cocked here and authorize an expenditure of twelve thousand dollars.” Tazio Chappars crossed her arms over her chest. She was an architect and a young, attractive woman of color, with an Italian mother and an African-American father.

“Well, we have to do something,” Herb said in his resonant, hypnotic voice.

“Why?” Tazio, combative, shifted in her seat.

“Because the place looks like hell,” Harry blurted out. “Sorry, Rev.”

“Quite all right. It does.” Herb laughed.

Hayden McIntyre, the town's general practitioner, was a fleshy man with an air of command if not a touch of arrogance. He slipped his pencil out from behind his ear and began scribbling on the budget papers which had been handed out at the beginning of the meeting. “Let's try this. I am not arguing replacing the carpet in the rectory. We've put this off for four years now. I remember hearing arguments pro and con when I first came on board. This is one of the loveliest, most graceful churches in the Piedmont and it should reflect that.” An appreciative murmur accompanied this statement. “I've broken this down into three areas of immediate need. First the sacristy: must be done.” He held up his hand as Tazio opened her mouth. “It must. I know what you're going to say.”

“No you don't.” Her hazel eyes brightened. “Well, okay, maybe you do. Pick up the carpet and sand the floors.”

“Tazio, we've been over that. We can't do that because the floorboards are so thin they can't take it.” Matthew Crickenberger, head of Charlottesville's largest construction firm, clapped his hands together softly for emphasis. “Those floorboards are chestnut. They've been doing their job since 1797 and frankly they're tired and we can't really replace them. If you think the bill for new carpeting is high, wait until you see the bill for chestnut flooring even if we could find it. Mountain Lumber up there off Route 29 might be able to scare some up and give us a preacher's price, but we're still talking about thousands and thousands of dollars. Chestnut is as rare as hen's teeth and we'd need a great deal of it.” He glanced down at his notes. “Six thousand square feet if we were to replace everything now under carpet and this doesn't factor in the other areas currently in use but not quite ready for recarpeting.”

Tazio exhaled, flopping back in her chair. She wanted everything just so but she didn't have to foot the bill. Still, it rankled to have a vision amputated because of a small pocketbook. Such was an architect's fate.

“Hayden, you had a plan?” Herb pushed the meeting along. No one wanted to be late to the basketball game and this discussion was eating up time.

“Yes,” he smiled, “what people see first is the sacristy. If we can't come to an arrangement among us, can we at least agree to go ahead with that? The cost would be about four thousand.”

“If we are going to have the place ripped up, then let's just get it over with. We know we have to do this.” BoomBoom, gorgeous as always, shimmered in her teal suede dress.

“I agree. We'll find the money someplace.”

“We'd better find the money first or we'll have to answer to the congregation in the church, in the supermarket, and”—Matthew winked at Harry—“in the post office.”

Harry, the postmistress, sheepishly smiled. “And you know my partner in crime, Miranda, is a member of the Church of the Holy Light, so she won't bail me out.”

The little gathering laughed. Miranda Hogendobber, who was a good thirty years older than Harry, quoted Scriptures with more ease than the Reverend Jones and while she tolerated other faiths she felt the charismatic church to which she belonged truly had the best path to Jesus.

As the humans batted around the cost, the need, and the choice of color for the carpeting, Harry's three dear friends lurked in the hallway outside the large room.

Mrs. Murphy, a most intelligent tiger cat, listened to the intensifying sleet. Her sidekick, a large round gray cat named Pewter, was getting fidgety waiting for the meeting to end. Tucker, the corgi, patient and steady as only a good dog can be, was happy to be inside and not outside.

The Christ cats—as Herb's two cats were called by the other animals—had escorted Murphy, Pewter, and Tucker around. They'd gossiped about every animal in the small Virginia town of Crozet, but as the meeting was entering its second hour, they'd finally exhausted that topic.

Cazenovia, the elder of the two cats, nestled down, her fluffy tail around her nose. A large calico, she had aged gracefully. The young foundling which Herb had taken in a few years ago, Elocution, had grown into a sleek pretty cat. A touch of Siamese in her, she never stopped talking.

“—tuna breath!” Elocution uttered this insult. “How can you stand it?”

“She doesn't.” Mrs. Murphy giggled.

They'd been discussing the blue jay who tormented Pewter. He also tormented Mrs. Murphy but with less enthusiasm, probably because he couldn't get a rise out of the tiger.

“Oh, I will snap his neck like a toothpick someday. You take my word for it,” Pewter promised.