Рита Браун: Murder On The Prowl

Harry plopped on the bed. "As long as Mom bought the stuff, I didn't have to—anyway, I can't stand traipsing into Victoria's Secret. There's something faintly pornographic about it."

"Oh, bull, you just can't stand seeing bra sizes bigger than your own.

"I'm not so bad."

Susan smiled. "I didn't say you were, I only hinted that you are a touch competitive."

"I am not. I most certainly am not. If I were competitive, I'd be applying my art history degree somewhere instead of being the postmistress of Crozet."

"I seem to remember one vicious field hockey game our senior year.

"That doesn't count."

"You didn't like BoomBoom Craycroft even then," Susan recalled.

"Speaking of jugs ... I hear she seduced my ex-husband wearing a large selection of lingerie."

"Who told you that?"

"She did, the idiot."

Susan sat down on the opposite side of the bed because she was laughing too hard to stand up.

"She did! Can you believe it? Told me all about the black lace teddy she wore when he came out to the farm on a call," Harry added.

Pharamond Haristeen, "Fair," happened to be one of the best equine vets in the state.

"Mom, Pewter's hungry," Brooks called from the kitchen.

Tucker, having raced back, pushed open the screen door and hurried over to Susan only to sit on her foot. As it was Susan who bred her and gave her to Harry, she felt quite close to the auburn-haired woman.

"Pewter's always hungry, Brooks; don't fall for her starving kitty routine."

"Shut up," Pewter called back, then purred and rubbed against Brooks's leg.

"Mom, she's really hungry."

"Con artist." Walking back to the kitchen, Harry sternly addressed the cat, who was frantically purring. "If they gave Academy Awards to cats, you would surely win 'best actress.'

"I am so-o-o-o hungry," the cat warbled.

"If I could use the electric can opener, I'd feed you just to shut you up." Mrs. Murphy sat up and swept her whiskers forward, then back.

Harry, arriving at the same conclusion, grabbed a can of Mariner's Delight. "What's up?"

"We're having a family crisis." Brooks giggled.

"No, we're not."

"Mom." Brooks contradicted her mother by the tone of her voice.

"I'm all ears." Harry ladled out the fishy-smelling food. Pewter, blissfully happy, stuck her face in it. Mrs. Murphy approached her food with more finesse. She liked to pat the edge of her dish with her paw, sniff, then take a morsel in her teeth, carefully chewing it. She believed this was an aid to digestion, also keeping her weight down. Pewter gobbled everything. Calorie Kitty.

"I hate my teachers this year, especially Home Room." Brooks dropped on a brightly painted kitchen chair.

"Miss Tucker, you were not invited to sit down." Susan put her hands on her hips.

"Mom, it's Harry. I mean, it's not like I'm at Big Mim's or anything." She referred to Mim Sanburne, a fierce enforcer of etiquette.

"Practice makes perfect."

"Please have a seat." Harry invited her to the seat she already occupied.

"Thank you," Brooks replied.

"Just see that you don't forget your manners."

"Fat chance." Brooks laughed at her mother.

They strongly resembled each other, and despite their spats, a deep love existed between mother and daughter.

Danny, Susan's older child, was also the recipient of oceans of maternal affection.

Brooks abruptly got up and dashed outside.

"Where are you going?"

"Back in a flash."

Susan sat down. "I ask myself daily, sometimes hourly, whatever made me think I could be a mother."

"Oh, Susan." Harry waved her hand. "Stop trolling for compliments."

"I'm not."

"You know you're a good mother."

Brooks reappeared, Saturday newspaper in hand, and placed it on the table. "Sorry."

"Oh, thanks. I didn't get out to the mailbox this morning." She took the rubber band off the folded newspaper. The small white envelope underneath the rubber band contained the monthly bill. "I don't know why I pay for this damned paper. Half the time it isn't delivered.

"Well, they delivered it today."

"Hallelujah. Well—?" Harry shrugged. "What's the family crisis?"

"We're not having a family crisis," Susan replied calmly. "Brooks doesn't like her teachers, so we're discussing—"

"I hate my teachers, and Mom is getting bent out of shape. Because she graduated from Crozet High, she wants me to graduate from Crozet High. Danny graduates this year. That ought to be enough. Batting five hundred, Mom," Brooks interrupted.

Harry's eyes widened. "You can't drop out, Brooks."

"I don't want to drop out. I want to go back to St. Elizabeth's."

"That damned snob school costs an arm and a leg." Susan looked up at Pewter, who was eating very loudly. "That cat sounds like an old man smacking his gums."

Pewter, insulted, whirled around to face Susan, but she only proved the statement as little food bits dangled from her whiskers.

Susan smiled. "Like an old man who can't clean his mustache."

"Ha!" Mrs. Murphy laughed loudly.

"She really does look like that," Tucker agreed as she sat on the floor under the counter where Pewter chowed down. In case the cat dropped any food, Tucker would vacuum it up.

"Hey, I've got some cookies," Harry said.

"Thank you, no. We ate a big breakfast."

"What about coffee, tea?"

"No." Susan smiled.

"You don't think you can get along with your teachers or overlook them?" Harry switched back to the subject at hand.

"I hate Mrs. Berryhill."

"She's not so bad." Harry defended a middle-aged lady widowed a few years back.

"Gives me heaves." Brooks pretended to gag.

"If it's that bad, you aren't going to learn anything."

"See, Mom, see—I told you."

"I think it's important not to bail out before you've given it a month or two."

"By that time I'll have failed French!" She knew her mother especially wanted her to learn French.

"Don't be so dramatic."

"Go on, be dramatic." Harry poked at Susan's arm while encouraging Brooks.

"We need a little drama around here." Tucker agreed with Harry.

"I won't learn a thing. I'll be learning-deprived. I'll shrink into oblivion—''

Harry interrupted, "Say, that's good, Brooks. You must be reading good novels or studying vocabulary boosters."

Brooks smiled shyly, then continued. "I will be disadvantaged for life, and then I'll never get into Smith."

"That's a low blow," said Susan, who had graduated from Smith with Harry.

"Then you'll marry a gas station attendant and—"

"Harry, don't egg her on. She doesn't have to pay the bills."

"What does Ned say?" Harry inquired of Susan's husband, a lawyer and a likable man.

"He's worried about the money, too, but he's determined that she get a good foundation."

"St. Elizabeth's is a fine school even if I do think they're a bunch of snobs," Harry said forthrightly. "Roscoe Fletcher is doing a good job. At least everyone says he is. I can't say that I know a lot about education, but remember last year's graduating class put two kids in Yale, one in Princeton, one in Harvard." She paused. "I think everyone got into great schools. Can't argue with that."

"If I'm going to spend that much money, then I should send her to St. Catherine's in Richmond," Susan replied to Harry.

"Mom, I don't want to go away from home. I just want to get out of Crozet High. I'll be away soon enough when I go to college. Smith, Mom, Smith," she reminded her mother.

"Well—" Susan considered this.

"Call Roscoe Fletcher," Harry suggested. "Brooks has only been in school for two weeks. See if he'll let her transfer now or if she'll have to wait for the second semester."

Susan stood up to make herself a cup of tea.

"I asked you if you wanted tea," Harry said.