Рита Браун - Pawing Through The Past

People assumed Marcy had been having an affair with Charlie. He tired of her. She snapped. Others said Bill killed Charlie but there was no evidence to link Bill to her demise. Rick and Cooper had been thorough on that count. She couldn't live with her guilt for betraying her husband. No one could figure out why she wanted to do in Leo but the scientific fact remained: it was her gun.

She did leave a suicide note which simply said, "I can't stand it anymore. Forgive me. Marcy."

The rest of September passed with no more murders. People breathed a sigh of relief.

The plans for the reunion remained in full swing. Dennis Rablan dated Chris Sharpton, which set tongues wagging. Some people thought she was wasting her time. Others thought he was dating her in hopes of getting her to wisely invest what little he had left. A few thought they made a cute couple. Dennis was happy again. Market asked her out once but she gracefully declined, saying she was focusing on Dennis. Blair Bainbridge dated Little Mim under the glare of a silently disapproving Big Mim. Everyone remarked how well they danced together but not in front of Big Mim, of course. The speculation on Blair and Little Mim was even hotter than the gossip concerning Dennis and Chris.

Harry went to the movies every Wednesday night with Fair, Tracy, and Miranda. However, she was in no hurry to get closer to her ex, but she did draw closer to Tracy-closer than she could have imagined. Theirs was a father-daughter sort of relationship. He, wisely, never asked about her romantic status with Fair, figuring sooner or later she would discuss it.

Once the sirocco of gossip died down, Crozet returned to normal. Mim bossed everyone about-but she was gaining more support for her gardening project. BoomBoom obsessed about the reunion. Harry was doing a great job on publicity. Susan had the caterers lined up. One for breakfast and lunch, a different one for dinner only because two of the participants ran catering businesses.

The horses gained weight on the alfalfa cubes. Harry had to cut back on the amount she was feeding them.

Pewter actually lost some weight during the September heat wave. Everyone commented on how good she looked.

Tucker endured a flea bath once a week.

Mrs. Murphy refused to accept that Marcy Wiggins had killed two men. No one paid any attention to her, so she finally shut up. Murphy kept repeating that she "wasn't the type." It was Leo Burkey's murder that kept Murphy on alert.

She crouched in the tackroom just to the side of a mouse hole on this beautiful early-October day. Pewter walked in, as did Tucker.

"Hear anything?" Pewter inquired.

"They're singing again."

Tucker cocked her head. "'The Old Gray Mare'-where do they get these old songs?"

"Beats me." Mrs. Murphy, disgusted, shook her head. "I'll figure that out just about the time I figure out the murders."

"Oh, Murph, don't start that again. It's over and done." Tucker put her head flat on the tackroom floor as she tried to peer into the mouse hole.

"All right, but I'm telling you, something is coming out of left field. Just wait."

Pewter, opinionated, said, "Why would a murderer jeopardize himself after getting off scot-free? I mean, if it wasn't Marcy, why would that person kill again?"

"Because the job isn't finished."

Tucker gave up on seeing the mice. "Murphy, you always say that murders are committed over love or money. Marcy had the love angle."

"No one was robbed. Nix the money," Pewter chipped in.

"Remember the humans thought there might be an insurance payoff, but Leo left no insurance and Marcy's policy was quite small. No trust funds either," Tucker said.

"'. . . she ain't what she used to be, ain't what she used to be . . .'" The mice boomed out the chorus.

"I hate them." Mrs. Murphy's striped tail lashed back and forth.

"Let's go outside. Then we don't have to listen," Pewter sensibly suggested, and the three animals trotted to the roses at the back of the house.

"Great year for roses." Pewter sniffed the huge blooms.

"Silly refrain, 'ain't what she used to be many long years ago,'" Murphy sang the chorus. Much as she scorned the song, she couldn't get it out of her head.

32

Crozet's citizens walked with a snap in their step. They were two days from a big weekend.

Crozet High would play Western Albemarle for Homecoming. The class of 1950 was having its fiftieth reunion and the class of 1980 was celebrating its twentieth.

The Apple Harvest Festival would follow that, filling up the following week.

Fall had arrived with its spectacular display of color and perfect sixty-degree days, followed by nights of light frost.

Everyone was in a good mood.

Harry sorted the mail. She liked the sound the paper made when she slipped envelopes into the metal post office boxes. She tossed her own mail over her shoulder. It scattered all over the floor.

Miranda glanced at the old railroad clock hanging on the wall. "Another fifteen minutes and Big Mim will be at the door." She pointed to Harry's mail on the floor. "Better get that up."

"Not yet!" Pewter meowed as she skidded onto the papers.

Mrs. Murphy followed.

"Copycat," Tucker smirked.

"If this were a dead chicken you'd be rolling in it." Murphy bit into a brown manila envelope.

"Of course." Tucker put her nose to the floor so her eyes would be even with Murphy, now on a maniacal destruction mission.

"Dead chickens!" Pewter pushed a white envelope with a cellophane window deeper into the small pile of increasingly tattered paper.

Harry knelt down. Two pairs of eyes, pupils huge, stared back at her. "Crazy cats."

"Sorry human," Pewter replied.

"You can't say that." Tucker defended Harry.

"All humans are sorry. Doesn't mean I don't love her. Oh, this sounds divine." Pewter sank her fangs into the clear address panel and it crackled.

"Tucker, you take life too seriously." Murphy had stretched to her full width over the mail.

"Enough." Harry started pulling papers from underneath the cats, who would smack down on the moving paper with their paws. "Let go."

"No," Pewter sassed.

"She's a strong little booger." Harry finally pulled out a triple-folded piece of paper, stapled shut. Four claw rips shredded the top part. The staple popped off as she pulled on a small piece of paper attached to it.

Harry opened what was left. A small black ball, no message, was in the middle of the page. She checked the postmark: 22901, the main post office in Charlottesville. "Looks like another one."

"Oh, no." Miranda hurried over. "Well, I don't know."

"I'll check the other boxes."

Her classmates each had a letter, too.

Miranda was already dialing Rick Shaw.

Big Mim knocked at the front door. Harry unlocked it, letting her in at eight A.M. on the dot.

"Good morning, Harry."