Cat on the Scent

            The post office buzzed. People were in shock but everyone had a theory. No one was quite prepared for the sight of Tommy’s widow, Jessica, cruising down Main Street behind the wheel of Tommy’s blazing-red Porsche.

            Harry and Mrs. Murphy noticed her first. “She could have waited until he was cold in the ground.” Realizing what she’d said, she quickly added, “Sorry.”

            The group crowding into the post office all talked at once. The Reverend Jones was still upset that Tommy’s bomber jacket was discovered on his truck seat. Big Mim declared that no one had manners anymore so they shouldn’t be shocked at the behavior of Mrs. Van Allen—formerly of Crozet and now hailing from Aiken. It was rumored she had a polo-player lover who had discreetly stayed back in South Carolina. Tally Urquhart sorted her mail. Sarah Vane-Tempest suggested the whole world had gone nuts. Susan Tucker warned people about jumping to conclusions.

            When Blair walked in, Big Mim buttonholed him at once.

            “What do you think?”

            “It’s macabre,” he replied.

            “Not that. What do you think of—” She stopped mid-sentence because she had spotted Archie Ingram driving by, pulling a U-Haul trailer behind his Land Rover. “What in the world?”

            Blair swallowed. “Damn. Pardon me, Mrs. Sanburne. I’ve got to go.”

            “Blair, your mail,” Harry called out.

            He shut the door, not hearing her.

            “Isn’t that the most peculiar thing?” Miranda Hogendobber walked out to the door.

            Cynthia Cooper pulled up, as did Ridley Kent, dapper even in an old tweed jacket. He bowed and opened the door for her as Miranda stepped back. Cooper wished Ridley’s courtesies presaged genuine interest but she knew they did not.

            Everyone said their hellos.

            “I knew I’d find the gang here,” Cynthia muttered, walking over to her mailbox.

            Tucker sat outside the front door. She figured the cats could tell her who said what to whom. She wanted to watch the cars and pick up tidbits of conversation in the parking lot.

            “Herb, when’s the service?” Mim asked.

            “Thursday at ten.”

            Mrs. Murphy sat next to Pewter on the divider counter, both cats careful to avoid the burgundy stamp pad.

            “Why haven’t you arrested Archie Ingram?” Sarah pursued Cynthia.

            “We did yesterday. He’s out on bail today.”

            The silence was complete.

            “For murder?” Mrs. Murphy asked.

            All eyes swiveled to the cat, who meowed, then back to Cooper, her left cheek covered with a reddish bruise soon to turn other colors. Cynthia walked over and petted Murphy and Pewter.

            “I don’t mean for hitting you—I mean for shooting my husband.” Sarah’s pleasant voice turned shrill.

            “Mrs. Vane-Tempest, we don’t know that,” Cynthia said simply.

            Ridley Kent spoke up, his rich baritone filling the room. “We’re all worried. How could we not be?” He glanced around the group for affirmation. “We’re all here now. Why don’t we put our heads together?”

            Mim, usually the group organizer, coolly appraised the usurper. “Good idea.”

            Ridley, appreciating his mistake, deferred to the Queen of Crozet. “With your permission, Mim. You’re better at this kind of thing than any of us.”

            She smiled and stepped forward. “The circumstances of Tommy’s death are still unknown, are they not?”

            Cynthia nodded. “We know he was shot in the head, just as the paper tells you. It will take a while to establish the time of death because he was perfectly preserved, you see. But he did have coke in his blood.”

            “I don’t care about Tommy. He’s gone to his reward. I care about Henry. What if the killer comes back for him?” Sarah’s eyes filled.

            “Is it possible it was an accident?” Herb suggested, not believing that it was.

            “Three shots? No.” Ridley folded his arms across his chest.

            “Is there a connection between Sir H. Vane-Tempest and Van Allen? Something that one of us might have overlooked?” Harry interjected.

            “On the surface, no, but we’re digging,” Cynthia replied. “These things take time, and I understand your frustration. Be patient.”

            “Wouldn’t it make sense to question the people who sold the guns and uniforms?” Harry thought out loud. “Maybe there’s something peculiar. You’ve tested Archie’s Enfield rifle, and other people’s rifles,”—she nodded to the assembled—“but what about other suppliers? Whoever shot H. Vane had to come up with the stuff. He had to have contact with these people.”

            “Along with every other reenactor. But yes, we are chasing them down one by one. I had no idea that Civil War reenactments were this precise.”

            “Obsessive,” Sarah said curtly.

            “Do you know of any connection between Tommy Van Allen and your husband, other than social?” Herb asked Sarah.

            “No,” she lied.

            “Doesn’t Mrs. Woo make period uniforms?” Harry remembered the seamstress with a small shop behind Rio Road Shopping Center.

            “She does everything.” Mim nodded. “She can whip up a dress from the 1830s that would fool a museum curator. She made a lot of the uniforms.”