Cat on the Scent

            “I can’t do that until you present your idea to the public.”

            “Which is where Sarah comes in.” Vane-Tempest smiled without warmth.

            “Let me think about this. I’m not saying no, I just want to think. Give me a week.”

            “Fair enough.” Vane-Tempest opened his palms, a gesture of appeasement. “Now, another matter. Which one of us killed Tommy Van Allen? We all had something to gain.”

            Stunned, Archie reacted first. “That’s a sick joke!”

            As the men wrangled, Mrs. Murphy emerged from the Range Rover. She’d already investigated the 911, loath to leave it because it smelled so good. Being small, the Porsche took no time at all. The Range Rover, however, sucked up almost forty-five minutes of precise sniffing and opening compartments.

            Next on the list was the U-Haul.

            The U-Haul had an open back like a stall with a Dutch door. It hadn’t been unpacked. Looked like Archie couldn’t make up his mind what to do.

            Once inside, Mrs. Murphy picked her way over the suitcases, one small desk, and a chair. Her eyes were adjusting to the light. She noticed a cardboard box with a picture of handcuffs on the outside, haphazardly tossed into a carton. She pushed the box, and something rattled inside. She tried to open it but it was shut tight.

            Claws out, Murphy smashed into the cardboard full-force. With her claws embedded all the way through the cardboard, she easily lifted the lid. A pair of shiny handcuffs, key in the lock, gleamed up at her.

            The slapping shut of the porch door alerted her to the approach of a human.

            The tiger scrambled over the desk and chair, managing to propel herself out the back. She dropped onto the ground as H. Vane-Tempest reached his car.

            Archie cursed on seeing her. “If that damn cat peed on my stuff I’ll kill her!”

            Pewter scurried out of the house, racing for the old graveyard. “Vamoose!”

            Mrs. Murphy flew down the farm road to catch her, Archie’s curses still ringing in her ears.

            38

            The old gravestones, worn thin by time, stood out bleakly on the meadow’s horizon. The buried were members of Herb Jones’s family who had once farmed the land now owned by Blair Bainbridge. As is the custom in Virginia, when land passes hands, family members nonetheless continue to care for the graves of their ancestors.

            Once a year Herb righted tombstones, planted flowers, and trimmed the magnificent English boxwood hedge bordering the southwest side. Over time Herb’s bad back hurt him more and more. Blair had begun to help tend the graveyard and to learn the history of its inhabitants.

            Blair mowed the lawn, pruned trees, and trimmed around the edges of the stones. He performed this service out of respect for Herb, who had a large flock and not much help. The good reverend’s natural generosity meant he had but little time for himself and even less money.

            Pewter caught her breath on a flat gravestone set on graceful piers. “You won’t believe what I heard!”

            “Well, I found handcuffs.”

            “You did?”

            “In the U-Haul.”

            “So it is Archie Ingram.” Pewter scanned the fresh green shoots in the field.

            “How many people carry handcuffs?”

            “Cops and cop wanna-bes. Now listen to what those guys were talking about. The map makes sense. The marked-off squares are lands they’ve bought through a corporation called Teotan. They’ve tapped underground rivers and streams. They’re sinking wells on these properties and the flow is so strong they can sell water to the county. The county will need to put up water towers or build cisterns—which are a lot better-looking. This plan will save the county a mess of money and provide a good water supply for all of the newcomers. So far no other humans have put two and two together although the well drillers know a mess of wells are being dug.”

            “Hmm, where’s the hole?”