Рита Браун - Whisker Of Evil

The moonshine men became ever more adept at hiding or moving. Potlicker Creek would see a still erected for a season then moved deeper into a sheltering mountain crevice. As Albemarle County became more and more desirable, the distillers took their trade to Nelson County, meeting stout resistance from those Nelson County men already in the business.

Harry, Fair, Alicia, and Aunt Tally, who was making a habit of visiting Alicia, stood at a narrow crossing of Potlicker Creek a mile behind the training track at St. James. The slick slide along the creek bank bore testimony to the work of muskrats, an animal as industrious as the beaver.

Along the creek, mountain laurel and blackberries spilled over one another. A canopy of various oaks, hickories, maples, and black walnuts added to the cool stillness of the morning.

Indomitable as she was, Aunt Tally couldn’t walk far on the uneven ground, slick with dew. Alicia, driving Big Mim’s second vehicle, a Land Cruiser—on loan so Alicia could see if she liked it—rolled along until the farm road played out near Potlicker Creek. The short walk to the creek took ten minutes, with Fair clearing away the low brush with a machete. Aunt Tally refused an arm under her elbow, gamely stepping forward with the help of her cane.

“High winds.” Aunt Tally pointed to a tulip poplar broken in half across the creek. “Must have been that storm firing through here two weeks ago.”

“When Mary Pat was alive she had the men keep the trails cleared. Remember, she had trails on both sides of the creek?” Alicia said.

“Used to have wonderful hunts up here. Picnics, too. When I was a little girl, Sharkey Southwell kept a big still not four hundred yards east of here. Then he got religion and that was the end of the still. It was also the end of Sharkey’s easy money. He became a roofer after that,” Aunt Tally grumbled. “Sharkey added a few blackberries to his waters. In those days you could take your pick: blackberries, cherries, and, oh, the apple brandy. You never tasted anything so good in your life. Only one place makes apple brandy anymore. Down in Covesville. Legal, too. Never tastes as good when it’s legal.” She laughed, a dry laugh.

“Alicia, aren’t there high pastures back there?” Fair inquired.

“Yes, St. James goes to the top of the mountain. There are hundreds of acres of summer pastures, which we used for the cattle. Every May we’d drive them up, bringing them back in September. Royal Orchard still has high pastures.” Alicia mentioned a farm atop a spur of the Blue Ridge that ran east–west along Route 64. “Once Mary Pat was gone, I sold the cattle, and there wasn’t a reason to keep up the pastures. Also, the cost of labor kept going up.” She paused a moment. “I’m glad I kept St. James. You know, those three years I had with Mary Pat taught me to love central Virginia.”

“Mary Pat’s up there, close by.” Mrs. Murphy remembered what the fox had told her.

“Hush. Alicia was extra kind letting you tag along,” Harry admonished her.

“Did the fox say the high meadows?” Tucker asked.

“Yes. At least, that’s the story foxes have passed down. Her ring traveled a long way, didn’t it?” Mrs. Murphy looked up at Mary Pat’s ring on Harry’s finger.

“If Mary Pat or what’s left of her is up there under a cairn of stone, Ziggy’s up there, too,” Pewter said.

“No.” Mrs. Murphy was putting the pieces of this strange puzzle together, but she was missing some large ones. “I think the killer, when all was safe, brought Ziggy down and got him out of here.”

“He’d never stay up there by himself. He would jump those fences. Stallions need high, high fences, and those were cattle pastures,” Pewter sensibly replied.

“Whoever killed Mary Pat knew horses. That’s why he kept Ziggy. He or she would have been smart enough to take a mare up there to keep him company if Ziggy had to stay up there for a while. I don’t know if this was a crime of passion or a crime of money, but whoever did it has kept it covered up for thirty years. Until now.” Mrs. Murphy wanted to get up to the high meadows. They’d be overgrown, but who knows what she might find? Her senses and sensibility were superior to the human variety.

“How does Barry fit in?” Pewter, frustrated at not understanding, growled.

“He rented the stables. He may have gone up to those meadows. It’d be a stiff hike but fun. Maybe it got him to thinking. But he did have Mary Pat’s breeding notes. He clearly was working toward something. And he was found two miles downstream. That part brings up questions.”

“Mrs. Murphy, it would take a Hercules to carry a man like Barry two miles downstream.” Pewter was right.

“Whoever killed him threw him in an SUV or the back of a truck and drove on the road. Regular road. Turned up an old farm road, came to the stream; there are old trails. He could have made it without too much effort. Then he picked up the body and walked downstream. He or she didn’t need to walk miles. It was a good plan. Few people come up to Potlicker Creek,” Tucker, voice low, said, her ears forward.

“Why didn’t the sheriff figure that out?” Pewter played devil’s advocate.

“Oh, I think he did, but too late. Too late,” Mrs. Murphy replied.

“What do you mean?” Tucker walked to the edge of the creek. The bank was steep.

“Rick was thorough. They combed the banks of this creek for miles in both directions, but by the time it occurred to him to come up the unused roads leading in, it was too late. And remember, whoever did this was smart enough not to pick a road that would come straight up to the creek. So walking along the creek wouldn’t get you any tire tracks. And it rained a few days after we found Barry. There’s luck involved in crime detection, not just science and observation. Rick has had bad luck. We’ve got to get up to those high meadows.” Mrs. Murphy, deep in thought, peered down at the muskrat slide.

“Murphy, there’s rabies here. At St. James.” Pewter sat down. “And for all you know it’s sweeping down from those high meadows. I’m not going up there.”

“Don’t be a chicken. You have your rabies shot.” Tucker pushed through the blackberries to a clear space on the bank. She peered over the side, seeing the opening to the muskrat den.

“I’m not a chicken. I’m cautious, that’s all. Anyway, how do you think you’re going to get up there? If you run away now, Harry will never take you out again.” Pewter puffed out her chest, secure in her conviction.

“Harry will get up there. I bet you one catnip sockie.” Mrs. Murphy’s green eyes twinkled.

The plump gray cat considered this. “I’m not taking that bet.”

The three animals laughed.

Tucker addressed Mrs. Murphy. “You know, you said this was a crime of passion or money. If Alicia is the killer it would be both.”

Pewter perked right up. “She came back to see the ring. Aha! I knew it.”

“You two.” Mrs. Murphy shook her head. “And where was Alicia when Barry was killed?”

“Barry has nothing to do with this.” Pewter didn’t like to be refuted. “I believe Carmen Gamble killed him. Or Sugar. But Carmen was in the middle of it.”

“Well, if it’s Carmen, Harry sees her often enough, and if it’s Alicia, our dear human is standing right next to her.” Tucker marveled at Harry’s ability to land in the middle of danger.

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