Cat on the Scent (23 page)

47

The underside of a Porsche is sealed. It's as though the bottom is covered by a series of interconnecting skid plates. The mechanic, in white overalls, removed one gray underbody rectangle. Rick peered up as the mechanic shone a light.

“Couldn't hardly hide a tin of snuff up there,” the mechanic said.

“Would you like us to remove each panel?” Mike Gage, the owner of Pegasus Motor Cars, politely asked the sheriff.

“No, bring her down. Body panels make more sense.”

“Of course.”

Blair Bainbridge watched. “You aren't going to cut the upholstery, are you?” He had cooperated with the search, not demanding a warrant, but he wasn't sure what he'd do if it went that far.

“I don't know.” Rick ducked his head in the car once it returned to earth. “There's no place to hide anything in those backseats. Hardly big enough for a cat.”

“Somebody could remove the padding in the front seats and replace it with cocaine. I think you'd be able to feel it, though.” Mike pressed down on the seat.

“Harvey, bring up the new Targa. Let him feel those seats so he has a point of comparison.”

Within minutes a lush polar-silver Targa gutturally announced its arrival. Rick opened the door. The smell of a new car made him giddy with possibilities. Dutifully, he pressed on the seats, then pressed again on the seats of Blair's Turbo.

Blair, clasping and unclasping his hands, murmured, “Look, I don't know why you're doing this. You know I'm not involved in drugs.”

“Your buddy Tommy Van Allen sure was. Cocaine packed behind his hubcaps—come on, it must have given you a charge to fake out everybody.”

“No,” Blair flatly replied.

“Fast money. Fast cars.”

“I don't sell drugs.”

Mike Gage interrupted the increasingly tense exchange. “Let me show you something, Rick. See these air inlets on the front end?”

“Yes.” Rick pressed at the small sloops in the metal.

“Could stash small amounts of coke in them but it would lead to undesirable consequences later.” Mike had briefed Rick earlier on the basics of an air-cooled engine.

Blair spoke up. “If I was going to deal drugs I'd find a better place than that.”

Rick ignored him as Mike continued to point out small areas where drugs could be secreted.

Blair shifted his weight from foot to foot. “You know I'm innocent.”

“You knew about Tommy.” Rick pushed him.

“Tommy didn't run drugs. It's crazy. A Porsche attracts attention. It'd be crazy to carry drugs in a Porsche.”

“If you don't calm down I'll haul you out of here,” Rick threatened.

“Listen, I'm allowing you to search my car out of courtesy. You don't have a warrant. I have nothing to hide, so give me some credit.”

Mike looked away as Rick scowled.

Rick hesitated a moment, then spoke to Mike. “Don't rip up the leather. Keep searching, though. Mr. Bainbridge and I will be right over there in the squad car if you need me.”

“Okay.” Mike nodded.

Blair slid into the squad car passenger seat, slamming the door.

Rick wedged himself behind the wheel. “Would you like to tell me the purpose of Teotan? I have Tommy's maps. I know you've sunk wells. Let's have it.”

Blair waited a moment, then cleared his throat. “Teotan's purpose is to supply potable water to the northwest quadrant of the county while saving the taxpayers considerable expense. We were intending to present our plan at the next water commission meeting—next week, in fact.”

“No new reservoir?”

Blair shrugged. “My hope would be no. Teotan could save this county a fortune in construction costs. There's enough water running underground to fill the need. Millions of gallons.”

Rick dropped his head a moment, then raised it. “Sir H. Vane-Tempest said the same thing.”

“It
is
a good plan.”

“Have you approached Archie Ingram? He opposes any idea of Vane-Tempest's.” Rick didn't know of Archie's involvement, for Vane-Tempest, true to his word, had said nothing.

“Archie's a weathervane.” Blair sounded noncommittal. “He's not the same man since his wife kicked him out.”

“Wasn't impressed with the original.” Rick sighed a long sigh. “I'm a paid public servant. I'm not supposed to harbor political opinions.”

Blair shrugged. “Won't go past me.”

“Changing the subject, what are you going to do if the county rejects your concept? I suppose you have supporting figures?” Rick asked.

“We do. Much of the seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars apiece we each put up to create Teotan went for a feasibility study. We used a firm out of Atlanta. Washington, New York, and Richmond were too close in the respect that too many people from Albemarle work in those cities or have strong ties there. What we are about to offer this county is economical and sound.”

“What if they reject it?”

“If we can get it on the ballot as a referendum, I think we'll prevail despite the vested interests in a reservoir and dam. But, should we fail, we'll sell the water as bottled water.”

“You'll have to tap-dance again on that one. Environmental studies and water purity.” He shook his head. “We're so over-regulated. It's lunacy. Generations of Virginians drank water right out of the ground. They had more common sense. They didn't build on drained marshland or put their homes where runoff would leak into the well. People sit in front of computers and know nothing of the real world.”

“We're prepared for the bottled-water battle. We've retained Fernley, Stubbs, and Marshall in Richmond.”

“Then you are prepared.” He tapped on the steering wheel. “One member of your company is dead. No suspects. One member was shot. Many suspects, including Mr. Ingram. Is there something about Teotan I ought to know?”

“No.”

Rick warned Blair, “If I were you, I'd look over my shoulder. I don't think it's coincidence but I still couldn't say why, exactly.”

“Unfortunately, I don't know why either. If our plan works it means a steady flow of profits for as long as we live. If one partner dies, his share is equally divided among the survivors. On the surface of it that would be motivation for murder.”

“Blair, have you seen this ticket before?” Rick reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a white locker ticket, Number 349.

Blair examined the Greyhound locker ticket. “No.”

“We found this in Tommy's car.”

“I assume you went to the locker?”

“Yes. We found accounting books for cocaine deals.”

“That's too easy. I know Tommy Van Allen wouldn't sell drugs. No way!”

Rick paused. “Actually, Blair, I think you're right but I have nothing else to go on.”

“I don't sell drugs. Tommy didn't sell drugs. I don't know what this is all about or why, but it's not true.”

“Is there something about Teotan I don't know? That might have a bearing on this case? Blair, for God's sake, a man has been killed and another wounded.
Tell
me.”

Blair inhaled sharply. “Archie is a hidden partner.”

“Arch doesn't have that kind of money. You other boys put up big bucks.”

“He put in work.” Blair left it at that.

Rick whistled. “He's using public office for private gain. And H. Vane-Tempest risks nothing. Archie risks everything.”

“H. Vane risks the start-up money.”

“That's nothing to him and you know it.” Rick turned to face Blair. “This changes everything.”

“I don't know. I mean, yes, it compromises Archie politically but people's attention span is two minutes. Look at all the crap politicians get away with, Rick.”

“I'd say Archie Ingram has more motivation to kill than any of you. He'd be sitting atop a fountain of profits.”

“It doesn't seem possible.”

“A lot of things don't seem possible but they happen anyway. Blair, I'd be careful if I were you.”

48

Mrs. Murphy slept on the divider counter, her tail hanging down. Pewter, on her back on the small table, meowed in her sleep. Tucker snored under the big canvas mail cart.

Harry felt like sleeping herself. A low-pressure system was moving in.

The front door swung open as her head nodded. She blinked. Dr. Larry Johnson waved.

“I'm ready for a nap, too, Harry. Where's Miranda?”

“Next door. She's planning a menu for Market. He wants to sell complete meals. It's a good idea.”

“And Miranda will cook them?”

“Part of them. She works hard enough as it is, and the garden comes first.”

Larry eyed Murphy's tail. “Tempting.”

Harry stood on her tiptoes, leaning over the counter. “She's proud of that tail.”

Mrs. Hogendobber entered through the back door. “Hello,” she sang out.

Mrs. Murphy opened one eye.
“Keep your voices down.”

Sarah and Sir H. Vane-Tempest came in with Herb right behind them.

“Glad I ran into you,” Larry said. He walked back outside and returned, handing Vane-Tempest his Confederate tunic top. “Is this genuine homespun?”

Vane-Tempest examined the material in his hands.

Miranda flipped up the countertop and walked out to the front. “I can tell you.”

“I wish everyone would shut up.”
Mrs. Murphy opened both eyes.

Tucker lifted her head.
“They complain when I bark.”

Miranda held the material in her hands, rubbing it between forefinger and thumb. “Machine.”

“How can you tell?” Vane-Tempest held the other sleeve.

“If this were spun on a home loom there'd be more slubs and the color dye wouldn't be as even. Also, the boys in gray were often called butternut. Dyes weren't colorfast, you see, and dyeing could be an expensive process. A foot soldier would wear homespun for so long that the color would go from a sort of light brown to a gray-white over time.”

Harry joined them. “Bet that stuff itches to high heaven.”

“Your shirt would be spun from cotton. Probably better cotton than what you buy today,” Miranda noted. “So you wouldn't feel your tunic so much.”

Harry took the jacket from Vane-Tempest, slipping it on.

Herb laughed. “You'll drown in that.”

Mrs. Murphy sat bolt upright. She soared from the counter into the mail bin.
“Wake up.”

“Dammit!”
Pewter, surprised and therefore scared, spit at Murphy.

Tally and Big Mim dropped by to pick up their mail.

“You know what I don't understand?” Tally put one hand on her hip. “If a man dresses as a woman, everybody laughs. They'll pay money to see him. If a woman dresses as a man, stone silence.”

By now Pewter had hopped onto the divider counter and Murphy roused Tucker, who padded out front to the people.

“Want to try?” Harry handed the tunic to Big Mim.

“I'll leave that to the boys.”

“That's it!”
Murphy crowed.

Pewter blinked, thought, then she got it. So did Tucker.

That same afternoon, as Sarah fed the domestic ducks on her pond, private investigator Tareq Said discreetly delivered county-commission tapes to her husband, as he did once a week. He'd bugged Archie's office along with the others. Vane-Tempest did not fully trust Arch and wanted to make certain he was getting his money's worth. Also, this way he could keep tabs on the other commissioners. Surprisingly, Arch had not disappointed him. He really was working for Teotan's acceptance. He was all business.

However, this week's tape proved substantially different. Tareq handed over the legal-sized folder, then swiftly left.

49

The brass buttons rolled around in the palm of her hand with a dull
clank
. Harry pushed them with her forefinger.

“First Virginia.” Blair leaned against his 110 HP John Deere tractor—new, of course, like everything on his farm. “They're genuine. Cost five hundred and fifty dollars.”

“Wonder who wore them and if he survived the war?”

Blair shrugged. “I don't know.”

The warm sun skidded over Mrs. Murphy's coat; she glistened as she lounged on the hood of the 911 Turbo. Neither human had yet noticed her chosen place to display her glories.

Pewter prowled around Blair's equipment shed with Tucker. She was on a blue-jay kick. Determined to find and bait the raucous bird wherever she could, she had sharpened her claws on the side of the shed. Pewter could perform surgery with those claws.

“Looks like you're throwing yourself whole hog into reenacting,” Harry said.

“I kind of thought it was silly at first. But I felt something at Oak Ridge, and, Harry, that wasn't even a true reenactment. We weren't on sacred ground, if you will. I want to go to the Seven Days, Sharpsburg.” He looked sober at the word; Sharpsburg was the scene of the worst carnage in that bloodiest of wars. “I can't explain what I felt, just—just that I have to do this.”

“Have you ever noticed that all the reenactors are white?”

“The combatants were mostly white.”

“I'll feel a little better about this when someone resurrects the 54th Massachusetts.” Harry cited the all-black regiment renowned for its courage.

“Harry, I'm sure someone is already doing that. Really, I don't think this is a racist program.” His warm hazel eyes flickered.

“Maybe you're right.” She sighed. “Maybe it's me. Maybe I don't like being reminded of a war of supreme foolishness, a foolishness that soaked this state in blood. So many battles have been fought here in Virginia since the Revolutionary War. All that blood has soaked into our soil. Makes me sick, kinda. I think I fail to see the romance of it.”

“Maybe it's a guy thing.” He smiled.

“Guess so.” She paused, then swung up into the cab of the elegant, expensive, coveted John Deere. “Blair, I've been thinking. A guy thing?” she said, louder than she intended. “What if Sarah was in uniform? What if she shot H. Vane?”

“What?”

The animals stopped in the shed. Mrs. Murphy, on the Porsche, pricked her ears.

“I know it sounds crazy but today in the post office when I tried on the jacket, it occurred to me—she could have worn the trousers under her hoop skirt, stepped out of it. . . . Of course, she'd have to run back like mad, get out of the uniform, stash it, and get back into her dress—but it's not impossible. Heavy smoke covered everything. You couldn't see the hand in front of your face sometimes. And it was pandemonium. Who would notice one person sneaking off? And besides, nobody noticed H. had been shot for quite a while. She'd have had time.”

He blinked. “I don't know. Never thought of it.”

“Mrs. Woo made lots of the uniforms—too many to remember. But she probably kept receipts, if not records. So what happens? Her store gets burned down.”

Blair wondered if Sarah was capable of murder. “Harry, that's pretty extreme.”

“But why? Everyone just jumped to the conclusion that it was Archie Ingram.”

Slowly, his deep baritone low, Blair said, “Well, I don't know. It's possible. But why kill him? She'll eventually inherit his estate anyway, most of it.”

“He's a tough bird and a demanding one. She's in the prime of life. Servicing H. Vane, you'll forgive the expression, may be losing some of its luster.”

His face reddened. Mrs. Murphy carefully slid off the Porsche hood. She walked over to the tractor as Pewter and Tucker joined her. Harry stepped down from the cockpit.

“Nice, huh?”

“Beautiful. If I had to pick between your Porsche and your John Deere it would be one of the hardest decisions of my life.” She laughed, leaning against the giant rear wheel. “I think I'd better talk to Coop.”

“Don't do that,” he said too rapidly.

“Why not?”

“Because you can't ruin someone's name like that.”

“She's not ruining her name,”
Mrs. Murphy said.
“She's only conveying an idea. Coop has tact.”

“Hadn't thought of that.”

“Mother, you're not ruining her name. And you're right!”
Pewter meowed.

Harry picked up the cat, putting her on her shoulder. “Hush.”

“Put me down.”
She wiggled.

“Pewter, stay put. You'll get her mind distracted. Humans can't focus for very long. That's why they can't catch mice.”

Pewter glared at Mrs. Murphy but settled down on Harry's shoulder.

Tucker lifted her nose in the air.
“Blair's body temperature is rising. He's upset.”

“The other flaw in your theory is that if Sarah shot at H. Vane, then who killed Tommy Van Allen?” Blair said.

“There's no proof that the two murders are connected. We've all been assuming. They could be unrelated.”

“They're related. We just don't know how.”
Tucker was resolute on this point.

Blair blushed. “Yeah.”

“What's the matter?”

“Took her a while,”
Pewter dryly commented.

“Oh.” He clasped his hands behind his back. “Nothing. Say, would you like to borrow my tractor? You could disc your fields in one-third the time.” He pointed to a disc, its round metal spheres tilted slightly inward toward a center line.

Murphy noted,
“That's a quick change of subject.”

Harry eyed the huge implement, which would make short work of her chores. Good farmer that she was, she disced first before plowing. She disced the fields for hay, too. They didn't need plowing but she was a great believer in working the soil thoroughly before planting. If the hay was already established she'd merely thatch and aerate every few years. She loved farming, desperately wishing she could make a good living from it. But she just squeaked by.

“This is brand-new.”

“Hell, you know how to use this equipment better than I do.”

“Tell you what.” Harry would feel better if she could make a trade. “I'll show you how to prepare that cornfield you want to put in down on your bottomland. Then I'll borrow this baby.” She patted the field-green side of the square, powerful tractor.

“Deal.” He stuck out his hand then withdrew it. “Sorry. Forgot my manners.”

“Oh, Blair, I don't care. I think that stuff's outmoded.” She referred to the fact that a man wasn't supposed to extend his hand to a lady, but wait for her to extend hers first.

“Big Mim would kill me.” He grinned.

Harry noticed Archie's U-Haul. “Is he ever leaving?”

“Today, in fact.”

“Bet you're relieved.”

“Archie is curiously stubborn.”

“What a nice way to put it.” Harry smiled as she headed for her truck. “Where's he going?”

“Tally Urquhart's.”

“What?”

“She'll let him live in one of her outbuildings if he'll restore it. He said he needs a positive project.”

“I'm nervous.”
The tiger walked over to Harry's truck.
“We've got to get her to call Coop.”

It was too late for that.