Cat on the Scent

            “People’ve been shot around here since gunpowder. Before that the Indians used bows and arrows, clubs and knives. Killing is one of our favorite pastimes,” Tally flatly stated.

            “She’s got a point there.” Pewter, riveted by the news, agreed with the old lady.

            “Yeah, but this is—” Tucker was interrupted by Susan continuing.

            “The only good thing is, he wasn’t pinned on the meathook. At least he was hanging by handcuffs.”

            “It’s the handcuffs that worry me.” Murphy paced the counter.

            “Why?” Tucker’s pink tongue contrasted with her white fangs.

            “This was thought out. I wonder how long Tommy was alive wearing those handcuffs before he was killed?”

            Pewter flattened her ears, then swept them forward again. “Torture?”

            “Physical or psychological… or even sexual. Those handcuffs bother me.”

            29

            The other news of the day, not quite as shocking as the discovery of Tommy Van Allen, concerned Archie Ingram. When Deputy Cooper met him at the county offices to question him further about the shooting at Oak Ridge he asked her about the Van Allen murder.

            He said he had heard about it on his C-band radio.

            Cooper, suspicious as to how quickly information like that would get on the C-band, drilled him on this. He lost his temper and slugged her.

            The county commissioner was sitting in the county jail for assaulting an officer. Bail wouldn’t be set until the next morning.

            Cynthia, glad to put Archie in his place, nonetheless called around to check Archie’s story. Dabney Shiflett had put the news on C-band along with a most unflattering portrait of the man who had just fired him.

            Since Wilson McGaughey drove a car, not a truck, and had no two-way radio, Dabney rightly figured it would be days before McGaughey learned what had been said about him. This small revenge gave Dabney some comfort.

            30

            Harry and Mrs. Hogendobber drove over to Tommy Van Allen’s the evening of the body’s discovery. His housekeeper, Helen Dodds, now in her late fifties, thanked them for their offer of help but was afraid to make any decisions until Tommy’s estranged wife, Jessica, showed up. She was due in from Aiken, South Carolina, in the morning. Aileen Ingram, Archie’s wife, joined them in the living room.

            Mrs. Dodds said everyone had come by to help—the Tuckers, Reverend Jones, Sarah Vane-Tempest, Mim and Little Mim, just everyone, no matter what was happening in their lives. She was grateful, she went on, and was only sorry Tommy hadn’t known he had so many friends. Then she burst into tears.

            Aileen, petite and curly-haired, put her arm around Helen’s shoulders. “There, there, Helen. I’m so sorry for all this.” She glanced up at Miranda. “Helen feels this is her fault.”

            Helen sobbed anew. “I always tried to keep track of Tommy’s schedule but lately I’ve fallen behind and”—she dropped her voice—“he’s been secretive.”

            Helen had been a dear friend of Aileen’s now-deceased mother, and Aileen had remained close to the older woman. As soon as she heard the news of the body’s discovery, she hurried to Helen’s side.

            “Helen, this isn’t your fault. It may not even be Tommy’s fault. Terrible things happen.”

            Before Miranda could guide Helen toward heavenly support, Helen startled everyone by shouting. “Well, I hope they get him. I hope whoever killed Tommy fries in the electric chair!”

            Harry cut off any attempt by Miranda to describe the Lord’s justice. “Helen, I’m sure Sheriff Shaw will get to the bottom of this. We all need to keep our eyes and ears open. The smallest thing may have significance.”

            Mrs. Murphy climbed out of the truck. Tucker was stuck in the cab, complaining bitterly. Pewter had stayed back at Market Shiflett’s store to be picked up on the way home.

            Tommy’s fiery red Porsche 911 Targa was parked in the garage. Tommy, Vane-Tempest, and Blair Bainbridge had indulged in competitive consumption. Murphy sniffed the driver’s-side door, the tires, the front and back of the machine. Not that she expected to find anything—just force of habit.

            On her hind paws, she stretched her full height to look in the driver’s window. The keys were in the ignition.

            “Mrs. Murphy,” Harry called.

            The cat scampered back to the truck. Miranda was already in the passenger side, Tucker wedged between her and Harry. The cat soared onto Harry’s lap, then snuggled next to Tucker.

            Harry backed out, heading toward town. “It was good of Aileen Ingram to come by, considering her troubles.”

            “Archie needs to turn to the Lord. How much plainer must his message be?”

            “Miranda, these days when people are in trouble they think of turning to a therapist if they think of anything at all.”

            “Won’t work.”

            “I wouldn’t know.” They passed BoomBoom and waved. “My point proven.”