Cat on the Scent

            “Mmm.” Miranda let pass the opportunity to reprimand Harry for her snideness toward BoomBoom. “I suppose Aileen was on her way to bail out Archie.”

            “If she had any sense she’d leave him in there.”

            “”Whoever exalts himself will be humbled, and whoever humbles himself will be exalted.“” Mrs. Hogendobber quoted Matthew 23, Verse 12.

            “Did that just pop into your head or is there a point to it?”

            “Harry, don’t be ugly.”

            “I’m sorry. You’re right.” She sighed heavily. “I’m upset. Seeing poor Mrs. Dodds break down like that—and what’s going to happen to her? Who knows what’s in Tommy’s will or if he even had one.”

            “He had one. You don’t run a big construction company without something like that. Probably had a fat insurance policy, too. I suppose Jessica will get all of it, even if they have separated.”

            “He could have changed his will.”

            “Yes, but they aren’t legally divorced yet.”

            “What made you think of the Bible verse about pride?”

            “Oh.” Mrs. Hogendobber had forgotten to answer Harry’s query. “Tommy, H. Vane, Blair, and even Archie. Ridley was part of it for a little while. It’s a rich-boys’ club. Expensive sports cars, airplanes…”

            “Archie doesn’t have that much money,” Harry interrupted.

            “Enough for a Land whatever-you-call-it.”

            “Land Rover.” Harry paused. “I never thought about that. I mean, it seemed discreet enough. White.”

            Cynthia Cooper’s squad car was parked in front of the bank although it was after banking hours. Harry turned into the parking lot, pulling in front of the old brick freestanding bank building.

            “Hey.”

            “Hey there.” Cooper rolled down her window.

            “We just came from Tommy Van Allen’s. Poor Mrs. Dodds.”

            “And Aileen Ingram was there to help out.” Miranda spoke over the animals’ heads.

            “She can’t spring Archie until tomorrow.”

            “What?” both women said.

            “The judge won’t set bail until then.”

            “He can do that?” Harry wondered.

            “He can do whatever he wants. He’s the judge.” Coop smiled.

            “You’ve had a hard day,” Miranda said sympathetically.

            “I’ve had better ones.” Cooper smiled weakly.

            All heads turned as Sarah Vane-Tempest drove by with H. Vane-Tempest in the passenger seat.

            “He’s made a remarkable recovery,” Miranda noted.

            “For how long?” Mrs. Murphy cryptically said.

            31

            Sir H. Vane-Tempest had recovered sufficiently to fight with his wife, who started it.

            “Why are you protecting him?” Sarah tossed her shoulder-length blond hair.

            “I’m not protecting him.”

            “The man tried to kill you. I insist you press charges.”

            “Sarah, my love, he was behind me. Hundreds of men were behind me. Anyone could have fired that shot.”

            “Archie had it in for you. The other hundreds did not. Why are you protecting him?”

            “I am not protecting him.”

            “Then what are you protecting?” She sat across from him as he reclined on the sofa, more tired from this exchange than from his physical trauma.

            “Nothing. Why don’t you fix me a real cuppa? That tepid slop at the hospital was torture.”

            Angry but composing herself, Sarah walked into the kitchen. It was six-thirty, and the maid and cook had left for the day. However, she could brew an invigorating cup of tea without help. She measured out the loose Irish blend, placing it in the ceramic leaf tray of the Brown Betty teapot. She shook her head as if to return to the moment and brought out two fragile china cups delicately edged in rose gold. These had belonged to H. Vane’s mother. She hoped the sight of them would improve his mood.

            He beamed indulgently when she returned pushing the tea caddy. Scones, jams, white butter, and small watercress sandwiches swirled around the plate, a pinwheel of edibles. The cook made up scones and tea sandwiches fresh each day. The Vane-Tempests practiced the civilized tradition of high tea at four.

            He eagerly accepted the cup filled with the intoxicating brew.

            He put raw sugar, one teaspoonful exactly, into the cup.

            “Ah.” He closed his eyes in pleasure as he drank. “My dear, you are unsurpassed.”

            “Thank you.” She sipped her cup of tea.

            “My mother loved this china. It was given to her as a wedding present from her aunt Davida. Aunt Davida, you know, served as a missionary in China before World War I. I always thought she was a little cracked, myself, but her china wasn’t.” He lifted his eyebrows, waiting for the appreciative titter.

            Sarah smiled dutifully. “H., you’re awful.”

            Pleased, he replied, “You wouldn’t have me any other way.”

            Sarah wanted to say that she’d be happy to have him forty pounds lighter, with a full head of hair, and perhaps twenty years younger. Some wishes were best left unsaid. “Darling, you’re right. I knew from the first moment I saw you that I couldn’t live without you.”

            He nibbled on a scone. “Americans do some things supremely well. Airplanes, for instance. They build good airplanes. However, they can’t make a decent scone and they haven’t a clue as to how to produce thick Devonshire cream. Odd.”

            “That’s why you brought over a Scottish cook, yes?”