Cat on the Scent

            “”The second witness was James Urquhart himself, aged nineteen. The boy stated, “Mr. Minor called on me at ten in the morning unexpectedly. One thing led to another. I lost my temper and struck him in the face. He hit me back. I usually carry a side arm. Copperheads. All over this spring. I pulled it out and shot him in the chest. He kept coming at me and I shot him again. He fell down on his knees and then fell over backward. When I reached him he was dead.”

            “”The third witness was Thalia Urquhart, aged twenty. “Mr. Minor called on my brother,” she stated. “They had words. Jamie went into a rage and shot him. He should have never shot Biddy Minor. He was such a nice man.” ‘“

            Three brown photographs of the body were neatly pasted on the last page—Biddy’s stiff, prone body, blood spreading over his white shirt, his eyes open, gazing to heaven. But even in death Biddy Minor was a fabulously handsome man.

            “That’s it?” Tucker asked.

            “Except for the three old photographs.” Pewter added, “You’ve seen a lot worse.”

            Harry closed the folder, crossing her legs under her. “Not much of an investigation for a murder. You’d think Sheriff Hogendobber would have shown more curiosity and you’d think Biddy’s wife would have thrown the book at him,” she thought out loud as the three animals hung on each word. “Course, the Urquharts were rich. The Minors were not.”

            “He admitted to the shooting,” Pewter mentioned. “She had an open-and-shut case.”

            “Know what I think?” Harry leaned against the backrest. “A gentleman’s agreement. And gentlewoman’s. Bet Tally knows the truth.”

            “Maybe.” Mrs. Murphy listened. The owl hooted in the barn. “What’s she blabbing about?”

            “Who?”

            “The owl.” Murphy crawled into Harry’s lap before Pewter had the chance to think of it.

            “Calling for a boyfriend.” Tucker giggled.

            “That’s all we need. More owls,” Murphy grumbled.

            “I’d rather have owls than blue jays.”

            “Pewter, you’re obsessed with that blue jay.” Harry rubbed Murphy’s ears so she purred the last part of the sentence.

            “Apart from the insults, blue jays steal. Anything shiny. They’re so greedy.”

            41

            Rick Shaw’s ashtray overflowed with butts. As he absentmindedly put a live cigarette into the deep tray, the whole mess caught on fire, a miniature volcano of stale nicotine and discarded ideas.

            Coop, laughing, trotted to the water cooler, filled a cup, and dumped the contents onto the smoldering ashtray. She had prudently carried a paper towel with her to clean up the mess.

            “Goddammit!” He stood up, knocking his chair over backward.

            “You set the place on fire, not me, grouch.”

            “I didn’t mean you. I meant me.”

            “Boss, you take these cases too personal.”

            “I liked Tommy. I like Mary Woo. Hell, I can’t even find out who burned her shop down, and she’s too upset to remember anything to do with her records. Or maybe too scared. Yes, I take this personal.” He parodied Cynthia’s incorrect English.

            “Come on, let’s go home.” She pointed to the wall clock.

            It was two-thirty in the morning.

            “No. Not yet.”

            “Your wife probably forgets what you look like.”

            “Right now that’s good. I look like a vampire reject. One more time.” He pointed to the map on the table. “What do these properties have in common?”

            “Nothing that I can tell. They aren’t connected. They aren’t on major roadways or potential road expansions. They aren’t in the path of the beltway that the state threatens to build but never does. Just looks like speculation.”

            “Land speculation ruined Lighthorse Harry Lee.”

            “And plenty more.” Like Rick, Cynthia knew her history—but most Virginians did.