Рита Браун: Murder On The Prowl

"It is ghastly." The Reverend Jones shuddered.

"What tipped you off?" Pewter asked Murphy.

"It took me a long time to figure it out. I think finding that address label at the bottom of Roscoe's desk was my first inkling. Neptune Film Lab. And wonderful though it might be to have a film department at a private secondary school—it seemed like a great expense even if Maury was supposedly going to make a huge contribution."

"Kendrick was more of a man than we've given him credit for," Susan said.

"He guessed Jody was the killer. He didn't know why." Cynthia recalled the expression on his face when Jody confessed. "She'd told Irene and Kendrick that she was pregnant by Sean. It was actually Roscoe."

"I'd kill him myself." Fair's face flushed. "Sorry, Herb."

"Quite understandable under the circumstances."

"She had slept with Sean and told him he was the father of her child. That's when he stole the BMW. He was running away and asking for help at the same time," Cynthia continued. "But she now says the father might be Roscoe. And she said this is the second film made at St. Elizabeth's. Last year they used Courtney Frere. He'd pick one favorite girl for his films. We tracked her down at Tulane. Poor kid. That's what the sleeping pills were about, not low board scores. The film she was in was shot at Maury's house, but then Roscoe and Maury got bolder. They came up with the bright idea of setting up shop at St. Elizabeth's. It certainly gave them the opportunity to troll for victims."

"Monsters." Miranda shook her head.

"There have always been bad people." Brooks surprised everyone by speaking up. "Bad as Mr. Fletcher and Mr. McKinchie were, she didn't have to kill them."

"She snapped." Susan thought out loud. "All of a sudden she must have realized that one mistake—that movie—could ruin the rest of her life."

"Exactly." Cynthia confirmed this. "She drove out with Winifred Thalman, thinking she could get the footage back, but Winifred had already mailed the rough cut to Neptune Lab. She only had outtakes with her, so Jody killed her. She threw the outtakes in the pond."

"How," Harry asked, "did she kill her?"

"Blow to the head. Maybe used her hockey stick. She walked across the fields after dark and arrived home in time for supper. After that she was driven by revenge. She wanted power over the people she felt had humiliated her—even though she'd agreed to be in these movies for money."

"The slush fund?" Harry asked.

"Right. Forty-one thousand dollars withdrawn by Maury, as it turns out. Forty-one thousand dollars for her BMW ... it all added up. Imagine how Kendrick must have felt when he saw that figure in Roscoe's secret ledger. The deposits were from other films. Maury and Roscoe shot porno movies in New York, too. There they used professionals. Roscoe's fund-raising trips were successful on both counts," Cynthia said.

"How'd she kill Maury?" Brooks was curious.

"She slipped into the girls' locker room, put on the Musketeer outfit, and rejoined the party. She saw Maury start to leave and stabbed him, with plenty of time to get back to the locker and change into her skeleton costume. She may even have lured Maury out of the dance, but she says she didn't," Cynthia answered.

"Does she feel any remorse?" Miranda hoped she did.

"For killing three people? No, not a bit. But she feels terrible that she lied to Sean about being the father. About goading him into calling in the false obituary and about following Roger on his paper route and stuffing in the Maury obit. That's the extent of her remorse!"

"Do you believe she's crazy?" Fair said.

"No. And I am sick of that defense. She knows right from wrong. Revenge and power. She should be tried as an adult. The truth is: she enjoyed the killing." Cynthia stabbed her broccoli.

"Why would a human pay to watch another human have sex?" Pewter laughed.

"Boredom." Tucker ate table scraps slipped her by Fair.

"I wouldn't pay to watch another cat, would you?" Pewter addressed Murphy.

"Of course not, but we're cats. We're superior to humans." She glanced at Tucker.

"I wouldn't do it, I'm superior, too," Tucker swiftly said, around a mouthful.

"Yes—but not quite as superior as we are." Mrs. Murphy laughed.

Dear Highly Intelligent Feline:

Tired of the same old ball of string? Well, I've developed my own line of catnip toys, all tested by Pewter and me. Not that I love for Pewter to play with my little sockies, but if I don't let her, she shreds my manuscripts. You see how that is!

Just so the humans won't feel left out, I've designed a T-shirt for them.

If you'd like to see how creative I am, write to me and I'll send you a brochure.

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In felinity,

SNEAKY PIE BROWN

P.S. Dogs, get a cat to write for you