Рита Браун - The Purrfect Murder

“Fair?”

“Yes, honey.”

“Say something.”

“I’m thinking. It’s sticky.” He sliced a succulent cooked chicken. He’d stopped on the way home and bought supper, along with treats for “the kids.”

“I don’t want Big Mim mad at me.”

“She isn’t going to be mad at you. You’re trying to bring Little Mim around.”

“What if I fail—and I probably will?”

“First of all, baby doll, don’t underrate yourself. Tell yourself you’re going to succeed. And if, for some reason, you don’t, Big Mim will know you tried your best. Here.” He handed her a heaping plate.

While they listened to the conversation, the cats, on the counter, chewed their chicken bits with delight, as did Tucker, who loved chicken almost as much as beef.

Harry, with a small voice, said, “Will you go with me? I know you can’t be part of the conversation but I’d feel better if you were close by.”

“Of course I will. You talk to Little Mim by yourself, I’ll chat with Blair. I was going to drop by, anyway, because Alicia gave me some cigars today and I thought he’d enjoy a good smoke.”

“Horses okay?”

“Fine. She dropped by the office. Actually, that damned place was Grand Central today. Only had one call, a client of Dean’s.” Dean Vargas was the vet who’d taken the weekend off. “But every time I turned around, someone was walking through the door.”

Harry exhaled. “I feel much better now. I really didn’t want to go over there by myself.” She filled her fork with sliced green beans. “These are good. Why do you think people were coming by the office on a Saturday?”

“Oh, hunt season’s started, so some people had questions about this and that, some wanted to pick up vitamin supplements, and all of them wanted to talk. The murder has upset everyone. Will was a much-loved man, and he delivered half the people we know.”

“Do you think there’s a chance his murder has nothing at all to do with abortion?”

“It’s possible.” He nodded. “Back to your conversation with Miranda: she’s right. If Little Mim won’t come around, it will make the ball difficult socially. Who would dare cross Mim and host Little Mim after this?”

“Someone who wants to challenge the queen,” Mrs. Murphy sagely noted.

8

Rose Hill, harking back to 1810, was nestled under a low ridge, this ridge being the last line before the Blue Ridge Mountains rose up in their ancient glory. Eons ago these were the highest mountains in the world.

The drive to the lovely peach-painted clapboard house, four miles from Harry’s farm as the crow flies, took a little longer on the two-lane state road.

The pink, red, yellow, and white climbing roses on the stone fences enlivened the winding drive. The rain had ended at four this Sunday morning, September 21, leaving a sheen on everything. Fair drove slowly, and Harry could see tiny raindrops tucked into the folds of the rose blooms.

She’d called Little Mim last night after supper, and Little Mim said she’d be happy to see her. Harry felt that her friend needed to give her side of the story to someone sympathetic, which Harry was, although she truly believed the vice mayor needed to make a forceful public statement.

Aunt Tally, silver-headed cane in hand, greeted them at the door. In her nineties, Big Mim’s mother’s sister had deeded her wonderful farm to Little Mim and Blair, with the proviso that she had life estate. The newlyweds lived in a stone two-story cottage one hundred yards from the main house, with a glorious formal garden between the structures. Aunt Tally’s high spirits bubbled over even more ebulliently, because she loved having them near.

Old as she was, she evidenced not a jot of slowing down, apart from the cane, which she needed thanks to years of riding and a bit of hip damage. Nor did she pop pills. Long ago, in her forties, she discovered the medicinal benefits of doping her coffee. Each morning she poured in a dollop of Bombay Sapphire gin, another hit at noon, and one true cocktail when the sun passed over the yardarm. Worked a treat.

“Aren’t you the best,” Aunt Tally enthused as Harry handed her a bottle of Bombay Sapphire adorned with a huge blue bow. “Come on in.” As she led them toward the sunroom, she asked, “What did you think of Herb’s sermon this morning?”

Fair answered, “Provocative.”

“But dead on.” She swung out her cane, then planted it on the hard maple floors.

Old maple trees still dotted the landscape of the original land grant.

“What he said about the sanctity of life was eloquent. That voice of his, you know—well, you believe everything that comes out of his mouth. Voice like Orson Welles. Maybe better.” Aunt Tally nodded as she sat down in a large, comfortable “summer” chair, which meant intricately woven willow, graced with wonderfully comfortable pillows.

“Doodles.” Harry greeted the year-old Gordon setter.

“You know, when my old buddy died I just went to pieces. Swore I’d never have another dog. Then every time I’d visit Alicia I noticed how lovely her Gordon setter was. When she gave me a puppy I was half thrilled. Now I’m all thrilled.” She smiled. “I think I’ll always have a Gordon setter.” She paused. “Where are your three hooligans?”

“In the truck.” Harry leaned back in the seductive chair. She could have fallen asleep.

“Well, for goodness sake, bring them in.”

“Their paws will be wet,” Fair said.

“That’s what mops are for.” Aunt Tally lifted up her cane like a marshal’s baton.

“I’ll get them, honey.” Fair stood up, then left the room.

“Smartest thing you ever did, remarrying that divinely handsome man. He’s a good man.”

“He is.”

Aunt Tally, shockingly white hair in a French twist, leaned forward. “Hell to pay. I’m so glad you’ve come over to talk to Little Mim. I know you’ll try to get her to come ‘round, and I quite agree.” She shook her head. “Don’t think she’ll do it. She finally has an issue where she can square off against my niece, the tyrant, and it won’t look like a mother-daughter blowup.” She inhaled deeply. “Which, of course, it is.”

“It’s delicate.”

Aunt Tally leaned even farther forward. “I know exactly why, which is why I’m glad Fair went out to the truck. She told me everything. Riven with guilt. I understand—I do, you know.”

“Yes, Aunt Tally, you would know better than anyone how painful this can be.”

Tally had had an affair with Harry’s grandfather, a rollicking handsome devil of a man. Tally’s father put a stop to the affair and broke his daughter’s heart. The pain subsided, the scar remained.

“You and Susan are the only other people who know. Blair knows nothing, and I told her to keep it that way.”

“Right.”

“We’re here!” In raced Tucker, Mrs. Murphy, and Pewter, although the gray cat, in sight of the humans, slowed down to affect a nonchalant entrance.

“I have a fuzzy toy! Wanna see?” The glistening Gordon setter immediately picked up a well-worn green froggie, which Tucker grasped for tug-of-war.

“I wouldn’t dirty my mouth with that thing,” Pewter sniffed.

“Me, neither.” Mrs. Murphy found a wet, chewed toy unappealing. “Wouldn’t mind a ham biscuit.”

“Think she has some?” Pewter showed some excitement.

“Aunt Tally always has ham biscuits and cheese straws,” Mrs. Murphy replied.

“She can keep the cheese straws” Pewter hated those things almost as much as a slobbery toy.

Fair didn’t sit down, but he said, “I’ll go over to Blair.” He patted his sport-coat pocket, where the cigars were. He couldn’t wait to try the H. Upmann Corona Junior. He also had a Romeo y Julieta Short Churchill for Blair.