Рита Браун - The Purrfect Murder

Just as he left, Little Mim came in and kissed Aunt Tally as well as Harry on the cheek.

The two younger women, quite different in temperament and not good friends as children, had grown closer over the years. Both were remarried months apart, so discussing their upcoming weddings had brought out the happy side of each woman.

“Precious, there’s a tray in the fridge. Would you bring it in? And the lemonade and tea, too?”

“Of course.”

Tally’s maid—really a majordomo—had Sundays off.

When Little Mim returned, Aunt Tally gracefully excused herself under the pretext of catching up on her correspondence. Well, she did go to the den and sit at her desk, but not before she swept past the bar and poured a shot of gin in her iced tea. Sounds awful, but tasted divine to Aunt Tally. On Sundays she allowed herself some extra liquid cheer.

“I’m glad you came. Mother’s being a beast, as only she can be, but this time it’s the worst. The worst!” Little Mim launched right in.

“She does have a habit of living all our lives for us. Must get exhausting.” Harry lifted her iced tea in tribute. “In her defense, she’s often right. Look how she bore down on me for years to remarry Fair.”

“She was right about that,” Little Mim ruefully conceded. “But not about this.”

“Are you worried that it will look as though you’re breaking from the party?”

“Yes and no. We all know that right now the party looks like the Party of Hatefulness and Repression.” She flopped back in the chair, but didn’t spill a drop of her drink. “Going to take us a long, long time to overcome the legacy of Karl Rove and Company.”

“The problem was, he was effective in getting people elected. The radical Christian right is about five million people out of almost three hundred million, but they are organized and well funded. Rove gave them a political focus. The ends justify the means.”

“Do you believe that?” Little Mim raised her eyebrow, looking very much like her good-looking, perfectly coiffed mother.

“No, but millions of Republicans do. They aren’t right wing, but they’d rather have a Republican in office no matter what they have to do to get him or her there.”

“It’s going to cost us power, for a long time. Two election terms, at least. I need to walk a fine line. I didn’t come in on right-wing coattails, but I soft-pedaled. Well, you know that. You remonstrated with me.”

“We did have a good fight about that, didn’t we?”

“Ned Tucker’s always good for a fuss, too, but since he’s a Democrat that’s to be expected. He’s doing a good job down there in Richmond, and Aunt Tally counsels me not to buck him and not to run against him, so we have to divide up who will run for what and when. I fully intend to become the first woman governor of this state.”

“You will.” Harry relaxed a little.

“Give me your pitch, Harry.” Little Mim smiled slightly.

“Oh, you know.” Harry shrugged. “This terrible shooting of Will Wylde is a Pandora’s box. It’s let out fear, recrimination, wild rumor. We need to pray retribution doesn’t follow, especially since there’s no perp in sight.”

“That scares me. Although, you know, Harvey Tillach was there around the time of the shooting.”

“Well, Sheriff Shaw hasn’t arrested him. We have to assume the killer is loose.”

“Or killers. This could be the work of a group,” Little Mim said.

“Because there’s so much rumor and fear, you should speak to the press. You don’t have to come out in favor of abortion. You only need to decry violence.”

“Any statement I make, I’m going to be grilled. I’ll be forced into a discussion about abortion.” Little Mim reached for a thin lemon wedge to drop in her tea glass, which she refilled. “More?”

“No, I’m fine.” Harry felt a heavy kitty run right across her foot.

Pewter had found a little ball that emitted a glow when rolled. Mrs. Murphy ran alongside her, but Pewter, good at kitty soccer, maintained possession with fancy dribbling.

“Harry, you understand.”

“I do. I do, but it seems to me you’ll be grilled anyway, sooner or later. It’s one of those hot-button issues used to divert us from the real issues, the ones no one has the guts to solve.”

Little Mim smiled appreciatively. “I’m not afraid of them. But I’d like to sidestep or downplay all the fluff stuff.”

“Yep.” Harry leaned back and stretched out her feet. “If people want to get farted up about abortion, homosexual marriage, whatever, let them settle it in church. Doesn’t belong in politics.” She crossed her feet at the ankles just as Pewter, reversing field, leapt over them, as did Mrs. Murphy. “Do you really want to go to war with your mother?”

“Oh,” Little Mim waved her hand dismissively, “it’s always something with Mother.”

Finally Harry fired her arrow. “Are you sure your reluctance isn’t because of your history?”

Flushing suddenly, Little Mim almost barked, “Don’t tell me the personal is political. I hear that from Herself all the time. And she knows nothing.”

“All I know is this is a deeply personal issue and many women have to face it. It’s been made political. You faced it.” Harry lowered her voice.

A long pause followed where the only sounds were the cats batting the ball—since Mrs. Murphy had managed to snag it, then Pewter got it back—the dogs joyously tossing the fuzzy, and the pronounced breathing of Little Mim.

“I feel terrible. I was wrong. You heard Herb’s sermon today about the sanctity of life, but the issue is when life begins. We all agree it’s sacred, or at least Christians do.” Her hand flew to her mouth. “Better never say that in public.”

“Just think what your Buddhist constituency would say.” Harry couldn’t resist the dig, although the Sangsters, remarkable souls, were the few Buddhists in Crozet.

Little Mim folded her hands. “If I’m pushed by my constituency, I will say something. But I won’t do it because of Mother. I just won’t.” Her jaw jutted outward.

“Back to feeling guilty: you were a sophomore in college. How could you have cared for a child? You weren’t ready.”

“Millions of other women do it.”

“They do, but you,” Harry chose her words carefully, “you are highly educated. You could make choices. Many of those other women really can’t, the law notwithstanding. And what comes of it? Poverty. A cycle of poverty that’s hard to break, and we all know the men tend to leave.”

“Yes, for the most part they do.”

“I don’t think men have any right to vote on women’s reproductive decisions. I feel the same way in reverse. What if vasectomy became a political issue? I don’t believe you or I should vote on it. I don’t have a right to make decisions about a man’s body.”

“But we did when we sent them to war through the draft.” Little Mim hit the bull’s-eye.

“Yes, but those days are gone.” Harry considered this. “And being drafted wasn’t about their reproductive equipment or their future as fathers.”

“Fine line, I think.”

“It’s absurd, isn’t it?”

“What?”

“The times in which we live. Do you think other Americans see the contradictions and the corruption?”

Little Mim took a long sip. “I do, but no one has emerged to focus the anger, to build for the future. Most of what’s done is Band-Aids. It’s going to take tremendous courage to reform root and branch.”

“Think you can do it?”

“Yes.”

“You know, you’re a lot like your mother.”

Little Mim sat bolt upright. “No woman ever wants to hear that!” Then she flopped back. “But I suppose there’s some truth to it. I wish I were more extroverted, like Dad. I have to work at this shake-and-howdy stuff.”