Catch as Cat Can (19 page)

36

Harry hopped up, surprised to see who stood at her back door. “Lottie, come in.”

Lottie stepped through, removed her coat, hanging it on a peg. “I'm sorry to barge in.”

“It's a pleasure to see you,” Harry replied, just as her mother had taught her. “How about a hot cup of coffee or tea? I have cider and hot chocolate, too. It's easy to take a chill in this kind of weather.”

“Actually, I'd love a hot chocolate.” She moved toward the kitchen table, remembered her cigarettes, and returned to retrieve them and a matchbook from her coat pocket, which she slid under the cellophane of the cigarette pack. “This is the coldest, wettest spring.”

“Sit down. I'll have this ready in no time.” Harry pointed to the kitchen chair. “We could go in the living room.”

“The kitchen is fine. Everything important happens in there anyway.” She dropped in a chair, Tucker sitting next to her, on guard.

“Let's plop by our food bowls. We won't look as nosy there,”
Mrs. Murphy whispered to Pewter.

“Good idea.”
Pewter crouched, gathered steam, then soared up on the counter. Sitting by the food bowl was her natural position.

Lottie exhaled through her nostrils. “Do you get the Weather Channel?”

“Yes.”

“Every blip is treated as though it's the beginning of some millennial trend. First there's a warming trend. Then it's El Niño followed by La Niña. Seventeen-year cycles more or less. How can anyone predict a trend? We haven't kept accurate records long enough.”

“I wonder about that, too.”

The milk warmed in the saucepan. Harry poured some cold milk for the kitties and gave Tucker a treat. When the temperature in the milk reached perfection, just before boiling, she poured the milk over the powdered cocoa, stirred it, grabbed a can of whipped cream out of the refrigerator, and spritzed a mound on top. Then she lifted an orange out of the fruit basket and skimmed a thin strip of orange peel. She placed that on top of the whipped cream, setting the concoction before Lottie.

“How pretty it looks.”

“Give it a minute, still hot.” Harry, with her extra-large mug of chocolate, sat down opposite her.

“I like the glaze on your mugs. They're almost big enough to be soup bowls.”

“Bought them in the kitchen shop in Middleburg.”

“Such a beautiful town. I wonder for how long.” Lottie dipped her spoon into the whipped cream. “M-m-m.” She grew serious again. “Washington encroaches. The big cities will swallow the entire East Coast in our lifetime.”

“God, I hope not.”

“West Coast, too.” Lottie pressed on with her pessimistic conviction. “Everyone goes to the city then leaves the city and for whatever reason they all want to live in the beautiful countryside, which they immediately desecrate. If we were smart we'd restore passenger train service. Spur lines. Would cut the pollution by half if not more. Trains pollute eight times less than airplanes and four times less than cars. And you can read the paper while you commute. I can't read the paper while I drive. In fact, I can't do anything when I drive except drive. I'm so worried about someone slamming into me or jumping the meridian. You can't trust anyone these days.”

“I suppose.” Harry wondered how long it would take Lottie to reach the point of her impromptu visit.

Lottie fiddled with her cigarette pack, which she'd dropped into her lap. She couldn't light up until after the hot chocolate, much as she wanted to—wouldn't be proper to smoke and eat simultaneously.

“We've heard about the weather and urban sprawl.”
Pewter licked the milk off her lips.
“What's next?”

As if in response to the gray cat, Lottie propped her right elbow on the table. It wasn't perfect etiquette but under the circumstances she thought Harry wouldn't mind. One can be too proper. “You know, Harry, that my position at the university requires a lot of socializing. I enjoy it. I enjoy meeting people and cultivating relationships. And,” she quickly tacked on, “not all those relationships will result in major gifts to the university. Big Mim will never write us a check. Her money goes to her alma mater and I appreciate that. After all, when she was young the university was males only. Her son attended Cornell. So as I said not all of my socializing revolves around donations.”

“That's nice to know.” Harry drank half of her hot chocolate. She hadn't realized she was thirsty.

“I'm a people person.” Lottie smiled.

“You'd have to be to be good at your job.” Harry smiled back at her, wondering if she should heat more milk.

“I meet all kinds of people and I have to get along with all kinds of people. But mostly what I do is woo the wealthy. They are more alike than different.” She drained her cup.

“I'm going to have some more.”

“Oh, I couldn't.”

“I bet you could and forgive me for not putting cookies on the table. I don't know where my mind is these days.” She opened the cupboard, put some cookies on a plate, then heated more milk.

The rain drummed steadily outside; the night was blacker than black.

“Thank you. What I find is that most, now I said most, not all, people with money react to visual cues. They're quick to size other people up, if you know what I mean. What kind of earrings does she wear? What kind of watch does he have on and what does she or he drive? The cut of one's clothes. The cues are very, very important. The way in which one speaks. One's manners at the table. I swear that's why Southerners are so successful at fund-raising. We know how to act if nothing else.”

“Good manners beaten into our skins.” Harry laughed as she had heard a constant stream of corrections from her mother, aunts, adults as a child.

“That's one way to put it.” Lottie turned in her seat toward the stove as the milk simmered. “You'd be amazed to know how much I spend on clothing alone. And I'm not really a clotheshorse but I have to look good.”

“You're one of the best-groomed women I know. You, the two Mims, and BoomBoom, always.”

“Boom's too flashy.” Lottie waved her hand, dismissing even the thought of BoomBoom Craycroft. “It takes time, imagination, and money on my budget. After all, I wasn't born with a silver spoon in my mouth.”

“I often wonder what life would be like if I had been,” Harry mused as she finished making another delicious cup of hot chocolate. This time she shook a little powdered nutmeg on top, placing the orange rind on top of that. She'd forgotten the nutmeg the first time around.

“We'd both be in a better place.” Lottie turned back toward the table as Harry sat down. “It's grinding. I love what I do but it's exhausting to pay bills, keep up appearances, pay taxes. There's so little left for me.”

“Yes, I know the feeling but we have our health, we live in one of the most beautiful places in the world.”

“That's true.” Lottie breathed in, lifted her heavy cup, then put it down. Still too hot. She spooned up some whipped cream. “Apart from your company, I dropped by to pose two questions to you. The first is, did you put Cynthia Cooper up to questioning me?”

“No,” Harry abruptly said. “I didn't know she had questioned you.”

“You two are close. You're a, what shall I say, amateur sleuth. She came to my office and that really upset me. She could have picked another place.”

“I suppose she could have but if she was really worried or suspicious she probably would have met you somewhere else or simply hauled you in. If she came to your office it means she needed your help. I'd think that your superiors would know that.”

“Maybe. It made me quite nervous.”

“Lottie, two men have been murdered. I should think that would take precedence over any of us feeling nervous or put out.”

“Yeah, and Lottie may have poisoned one of them,”
Pewter catcalled.

“Hush, Pewter. Don't call attention to us. Besides, the humans think Roger died a natural death and our smelling what we think is poison in the cracks of Aunt Tally's floor doesn't constitute proof. For all we know it could have been ant poison.”

“It wasn't,”
Tucker rumbled.

“Be that as it may, let's be quiet.”
Mrs. Murphy half closed her eyes, pretending to sleep.

Pewter followed suit so Tucker walked a bit away from Lottie's chair and flopped down with her head on her paws. She never took her eyes off Lottie, though.

“It is gruesome. I know.” She sighed. “I never even saw that hanged man. He didn't park my car. And as for Donald, well, it's too bizarre, just too bizarre.”

“Okay, I answered your first question.”

“Thank you. I feel better. I was terribly upset when Coop came in uniform and everything.”

“Lottie, I assume you explained her presence to the people around you. You're making too much out of it.”

“You work in the post office. It's different for you. I'm judged by a different standard and I'm telling you, people are not fair, not for an instant. Furthermore, women are judged more harshly than men.”

“Oh, Lottie, I don't believe that.”

“I do. We're held to a higher moral standard.”

Harry considered this. “Do the Ten Commandments come with gender specifications?”

“No.” Lottie frowned.

“Then it's the same for everyone, male or female. If people want to use gender as an excuse for their behavior, have at it. The rules are the same for everyone.”

“Harry, you've been around Miranda Hogendobber too long. The real world doesn't work like that. The real world is still controlled by rich white men and it is in their self-interest to have their cake and eat it, too. So when Bill Clinton slept with every tart that came his way there was finger-wagging and fussing but finally people just figured that's what men do.”

“Lottie, as I recall he nearly got impeached.”

“I still maintain the standards are different. If I sleep around it's one thing. If Fair sleeps around, it's another.”

“Lost him his wife,” Harry coolly replied, then laughed.

“Uh—I'm sorry. Bad example.” She blushed.

Harry leaned forward. “Lottie, what's the second question?”

“Oh, yes.” She fiddled. “Do you mind if I smoke?”

“No.”

She lifted her pack of king-sized filtered Salems from her lap, slid the matchbook out of the cellophane, tapped out a cigarette, and lit up, placing the pack and matches on the table.

Harry rose to fetch an ashtray, placing it to the right of her cup. “That's pretty.” She picked up the matchbook. “Like a little work of art. Roy and Nadine's.” She paused. “Roy and Nadine's.” The matchbook Cooper had mentioned. “Lottie, where did you get this?”

“That? Oh, I don't know.”

Harry turned it around. “Been to Lexington, Kentucky?”

“No. Let me think. I was at Aunt Tally's, needed a light. Uh—Roger. He wanted to light my cigarette; his hand was so shaky I had to hold his wrist. He gave me the matchbook.” She paused. “Poor Roger. He was a pest but I didn't wish him dead.”

“Lottie, this may be important. I'm going to call Coop.”

“The matchbook?”

“Yes.” Harry jumped up, lifted the receiver off the wall phone, and dialed Coop's home number. Luckily she was there. “Coop, hi.”

“What's cooking? Or not cooking?”

“I'm sitting here in my kitchen with Lottie Pearson. She just lit up her cigarette with a Roy and Nadine's matchbook.”

“Put her on.”

Harry walked over to Lottie; the phone cord was long. “Here.”

As Lottie repeated her story to Coop, Harry sipped her hot chocolate. Slender though the clue was, at least it was something. The other pack found in the Cowboys windbreaker could have belonged to either Wesley or Don, since the exact ownership of the windbreaker was undetermined. Identical matchbooks from Lexington, Kentucky, wouldn't just be floating around Crozet, Virginia. The connection could be something as simple and unsavory as Wesley selling Roger stolen hubcaps. She found the fact that Roger and Wesley must have known one another deeply disquieting. But what if the matchbook had been Don's? What else did they know? And what did Sean know?

Lottie's voice pierced her thoughts. “She wants you back.”

Harry reached for the phone. “Well?”

“Interesting. Thanks for getting to me so fast. I'll drop by sometime when I get a minute.”

“Okay.” She stood to hang up the receiver, then closed the cupboard door that Pewter had opened when the humans were occupied. “Pewter, you're not getting that catnip until I say so.” Harry closed the door.

“Meanie.”

“She's going into a sulk.”

“Cats are funny that way.” Lottie sighed. “Everything is so strange right now. I'll drop this matchbook off at the sheriff's office on my way home. Odd.” She pushed the matchbook around with her forefinger.

“Lottie, the second question.”

“Oh, yes. I need a presentable date for the huge alumni dinner in two weeks. Someone very impressive, and I was wondering if you would mind terribly if I asked Diego. He'd be perfect at something like that.”

“Yes, he would. I have no claim on him. If he wants to go that's his choice, not mine.”

“Yes, but you like him. I don't want to step on toes.”

“You're not stepping on my toes. It was good of you to ask me but it seems to me if a man and a woman aren't married they come and go as they please. Right?”

“It's not that simple. You see things in black and white.”

“No, but I do think things are simpler than we make them.”

“But you like him. You're attracted to him.”

“I'll bet you just about every woman who sees that man is attracted to him.” Harry smiled. “He's to die for, as they used to say.”

Lottie puckered her lips, inhaled deeply, and exhaled. “There's been enough dying around here.”