Cat on the Scent

            “Oh, no.” Tally saw the child’s bones.

            Mrs. Murphy and Pewter silently watched. Tucker sat by the skeleton.

            “Put it back,” Tally sobbed.

            Mim sank to her knees with the old lady. No fool, she said, “What do you know about this child?”

            “It’s mine!” Tally sobbed so hard Mrs. Murphy thought her old heart would break.

            “Is this why Uncle Jamie shot Biddy Minor?”

            “Yes. I wanted to die. I loved Biddy Minor. I loved him like no other man on earth and he loved me.”

            Mim put her arms around her aunt and softly asked, “Did you kill your baby?”

            “No, no, I could never do that.”

            “Did Biddy?”

            “No.”

            “Who, then?”

            “Daddy. He took the baby from my arms and he smothered her.”

            Mim shivered. “I’m so sorry.”

            “I didn’t show much. I got away with being pregnant. Momma suspected but I lied through my teeth.”

            “What did Biddy do?”

            “Daddy said if Biddy set foot on his property he’d kill him—a married man trifling with a young thing, that’s what he called me, a young thing. But, oh, I loved Biddy Minor and I found a way to get a message to him. Veenie—do you remember our maid? She was born in slavery she was so old—Veenie told him I delivered the baby and Daddy killed her. I wanted that baby. She was all I would ever have of Biddy. He couldn’t divorce, you see. Nobody could then.”

            “Yes, I remember.”

            “And Daddy wanted me to marry well. If anyone knew I’d had an illegitimate child he couldn’t have married me off to the milkman.”

            “I see.” Mim stood up and brushed off her knees. She helped Tally up.

            Tally, once on her feet, walked over to the skeleton with hesitant steps. She knelt down. Tucker whimpered.

            Tally looked at Tucker. “She was the most beautiful little girl, with red curls, red curls just like mine when I was little.” She touched the hand. “And I’ll never forget when she wrapped her tiny fingers around my finger. She was my living memory of Biddy.” Tally put her head in her hands and sobbed, racking sobs.

            Mim, eyes wet, too, knelt down and gathered up the bones, putting them back into the suitcase.

            “I thought Daddy buried her but one night he got drunk and said he put her in a suitcase and threw her in with the junk. I thought about looking for her but I couldn’t, you know, Mimsy, I couldn’t.”

            “You were a girl and had no control over your life. How is it that Jamie shot Biddy?”

            “When Biddy heard what Daddy did to the baby, he came up here to kill him. I told Jamie I trusted him, and he loved me, I thought. Wild as he was, you could trust Jamie. But as soon as Biddy put one foot on our land Jamie killed him because he knew Biddy would kill Daddy for what he’d done. And I think in Jamie’s heart he thought he was protecting me. He knew I’d run after Biddy again and ruin all our lives. I never hated Jamie for what he did but I hated Daddy. I hated Daddy for the rest of his life and I hate him still.” She touched a piece of pink ribbon on the bonnet and pleaded, “Don’t give her to the sheriff.”

            “I won’t. We’ll bury her on the hill with the rest of the family. She’s one of us. You can tell or not tell.” Mim closed the suitcase as though it carried the most precious items in the world, then she helped up Tally and they both walked slowly back to Mim’s Bentley.

            Tucker walked over to the girls. “Poor Tally.”

            “It’s like a tom killing kittens,” Pewter said.

            “Bet old man Urquhart went to his grave believing he did the right thing.” Tucker watched as Mim opened the door for her aunt, setting the suitcase on her lap.

            “Humans can justify anything. Kill one. Kill millions. They’ll come up with a reason why it’s all right.” Pewter had the last word.

            60

            On a glorious afternoon the following week, Sarah Vane-Tempest was directing her gardeners. H. Vane-Tempest, in a cashmere-and-linen turtleneck, worked in his secondary office, used only in good weather, a twenty-by-twenty glassed-in porch with French doors across the entire breadth. He could open all the doors on an especially good day.

            He had little sense of the ordinary work week. He did whatever he wanted whenever he wanted and expected his help to be there. For this demanding schedule he paid quite well.

            Seated across from him, Howard Fenton organized blue-covered legal packets, twelve of them. His assistant, a young man fresh out of Yale Law, carefully double-checked each document.

            Vane-Tempest, using a fountain pen, the only appropriate writing utensil, signed the last one. Behind him stood his two secretaries, whose function today was to witness the documents and affix their signatures to the bottoms.

            Howard viewed the two men—Vane-Tempest would employ only male secretaries, multilingual at that. “Does the subject appear to be in full possession of his mental faculties?”

            “Yes,” they answered in chorus.

            “Does he appear to sign this document freely and without coercion?”

            “Yes.”