Рита Браун - Murder On The Prowl

"Roger, I want to zip through this extravaganza." Susan reached in her purse for the $5.25 for exterior wash only.

"Mom, let's shoot the works."

"That's eleven ninety-five."

"I'll contribute!" Harry fished a five out of her hip pocket and handed it to Roger.

"Harry, don't do that."

"Shut up, Suz, we're holding up traffic."

"Here's the one." Brooks forked over a one-dollar bill.

"Okay then, a little to the right, Mrs. Tucker. There, you've got it. Now put your car in neutral and turn off the radio, if you have it on. Oh, and roll up the windows."

She rolled up the driver's side window as Roger picked up a long scrub brush to scrub her headlights and front grille while Karen Jensen worked the rear bumper. She waved.

"Hey, I didn't know Karen worked here. Jody, too." She saw Jody putting on mascara as she sat behind the cash register.

"Brooks, don't you dare open that window," Susan commanded as she felt the belt hook under the left car wheel. They lurched forward.

"Hey, hey, I can't see!" Pewter screeched.

"Early blindness," Mrs. Murphy said maliciously as the yellow neon light flashed on, a bell rang, and a wall of water hit them with force.

Each cleansing function—waxing, underbody scrub and coat, rinsing—was preceded by a neon light accompanied by a bell and buzzer noise. By the time they hit the blowers, Pewter frothed at the mouth.

"Poor kitty." Brooks petted her.

"Pewter, it really is okay. We're not in any danger." Mrs. Murphy felt bad that she had tormented her.

The gray kitty shook.

"Last time I take her through a car wash." Harry, too, felt sorry for the cat's plight.

They finally emerged with a bump from the tunnel of cleanliness. Susan popped the car in gear and parked it in a lot on the other side of the car wash.

As she and Brooks got out to meet with Jimbo Anson, Harry consoled Pewter, who crawled into her lap. The other animals kept quiet.

A light rap on the window startled Harry, she was so intent on soothing the cat.

"Hi, Roscoe. You're right, it is like a Broadway show with all those lights."

"Funny, huh?" He offered her a tiny sweet, a miniature strawberry in a LaVossienne tin, French in origin. "Just discovered these. Les Fraises Bonbon Fruits pack a punch. Go on and try one."

"Okay." She reached in and plucked out a miniature strawberry. " Whooo."

"That'll pucker those lips. Naomi is trying to get me to stop eating so much sugar but I love sweetness." He noticed Brooks and Susan in the small office with Jimbo Anson. "Has she said anything about school?"

"She likes it."

"Good, good. You been to the vet?"

"No, we're out for a family drive."

"I can't remember the times I've seen you without Mrs. Murphy and Tucker. Now you've got Pewter, too. Market said she was eating him out of house and home."

"No-o-o," the cat wailed, shaken but insulted.

"Hey, Pewter, we'll get even. We can pee on his mail before Mom stuffs it in his box," Murphy sang out gaily. "Or we could shred it to bits, except the bills. Keep them intact."

St. Elizabeth's mail was delivered directly to the school. Personal mail was delivered to the Crozet post office.

"Yeah." Pewter perked up.

"Good to see you, the animals, too." He waved and Harry hit the button to close the window.

Then she called after him, "Where'd you get the strawberry drops?"

"Foods of All Nations," he replied.

She noticed Karen Jensen making a face after he passed by. Roger laughed. "Kids," Harry thought to herself. Then she remembered the time she stuck Elmer's Glue in the locks of her most unfavorite teacher's desk drawer.

After ten minutes Susan and Brooks returned to the car.

Brooks was excited. "I'll work after school on Monday 'cause there's no field hockey practice, and I'll work Saturdays. Cool!"

"Sounds good to me." Harry held up her hand for a high five as Brooks bounced into the backseat.

Susan turned on the ignition. "This way she won't miss practice. After all, part of school is sports."

"Can we go home now?" Pewter cried.

"Roscoe must live at this place," Susan said lightly as they pulled out of the parking lot.

6

Little squeaks behind the tack-room walls distracted Harry from dialing. She pressed the disconnect button to redial.

Mrs. Murphy sauntered into the tack room, then paused, her ears swept forward. "What balls!"

"Beg pardon?" Pewter opened one chartreuse eye.

"Mouse balls. Can you hear them?"

Pewter closed her eye. "Yes, but it's not worth fretting over."

Harry, finger still on the disconnect button, rested the telephone receiver on her shoulder. "What in the hell are they doing, Murphy?"

"Having a party," the tiger replied, frustrated that she couldn't get at her quarry.

Harry lifted the receiver off her shoulder, pointing at the cat with it. "I can't put down poison. If you catch a sick mouse, then you'll die. I can't put the hose into their holes because I'll flood the tack room. I really thought you could solve this problem."

"If one would pop out of there, I would." The cat, angry, stomped out.

"Temper, temper," Harry called out after her, which only made things worse.

She redialed the number as Murphy sat in the barn aisle, her back to Harry and her ears swept back.

"Hi, Janice. Harry Haristeen."

"How are you?" the bright voice on the other end of the line responded.

"Pretty good. And you?"

"Great."

"I hope you'll indulge me. I have a question. You're still editing the obituary page, aren't you?"

"Yep. Ninety-five cents a line. Five dollars for a photo." Her voice softened. "Has, uh—"

"No. I'm curious about how Roscoe Fletcher's obituary appeared in the paper."

"Oh, that." Janice's voice dropped. "Boy, did I get in trouble."

"Sorry."

"All I can tell you is, two days ago I received a call from Hallahan Funeral Home saying they had Roscoe's body as well as the particulars."

"So I couldn't call in and report a death?"

"No. If you're a family member or best friend you might call or fax the life details, but we verify death with the funeral home or the hospital. Usually they call us. The hospital won't give me cause of death either. Sometimes family members will put it in, but we can't demand any information other than verification that the person is dead." She took a deep breath. "And I had that!"

"Do you generally deal with the same people at each of the funeral homes?"

"Yes, I do, and I recognize their voices, too. Skip Hallahan called in Roscoe's death."

"I guess you told that to the sheriff."

"Told it to Roscoe, too. I'm sick of this."

"I'm sorry, Janice. I made you go over it one more time."

"That's different—you're a friend. Skip is being a bunghole, I can tell you that. He swears he never made the call."

"I think I know who did."

"Tell me."

"I will as soon as I make sure I'm right."

7

The high shine on Roscoe Fletcher's car surrendered to dust, red from the clay, as he drove down Mim Sanburne's two-mile driveway to the mansion Mim had inherited from her mother's family, the Urquharts.

He passed the mansion, coasting to a stop before a lovely cottage a quarter mile behind the imposing pile. Cars parked neatly along the farm road bore testimony to the gathering within.

Raising money for St. Elizabeth's was one of Little Mini's key jobs. She wanted to show she could be as powerful as her mother.

Breezing through Little Mim's front door, Roscoe heard Maury McKinchie shout, "The phoenix rises from the ashes!"

The members of the fund-raising committee, many of them alumnae, laughed at the film director's quip.

"You missed the resurrection party, my man." Roscoe clapped McKinchie on the back. "Lasted until dawn."