Catch as Cat Can (24 page)

49

A light southerly breeze carried the fragrance of honeysuckle over meadows and mountains. The bumblebees showed up in full force, as did the carpenter bees. Tiny praying mantis babies crawled over trumpet vines, greening up nicely but no deep-orange blooms as yet.

A curving hill at the back of Harry's land provided the perfect spot for a picnic. Still not trusting the footing, she didn't drive the truck back there but loaded up the hamper and cooler with drinks on the John Deere tractor. She made it in one trip, spread out the checkered tablecloth blanket, and put a spray of thyme tied with ribbon in the middle of the blanket. A votive candle in a clear glass holder was next to the spray.

When Diego arrived he sat in the tractor seat while she stood in front of him, driving.

Tucker ambled along since she didn't pop out of second gear. Mrs. Murphy and Pewter stayed back, laying a trap for the blue jay. They carried sweet feed in their mouths to the lawn near the lilacs. They opened their mouths, dropping it. Three trips and they'd created an enticing pile. They repaired under the lilacs to wait.

Up on the hill, Harry and Diego chattered away, never experiencing that awkward lull that sometimes occurs when people are getting to know one another.

“. . . swollen from handshaking.” He recalled how Lottie introduced him to anyone and everyone at the alumni dinner.

“She was in her glory.”

“She was and she's good at it. She'll pry money out of those old men and maybe even some of the middle-aged ones. Oh, why does it take so long to make money?” He laughed. “We need it most when we're young.”

“You think?”

“Oh, yes, while we're still open for adventure, before we become too accustomed to creature comforts, before the children arrive.” He surveyed the pastoral scene. “Perfect.”

“That it is.” She leaned against the maple tree. “What adventures would you like to have before settling down?”

His eyes sparkled. “Rafting the rivers on the western side of the South Island of New Zealand. Riding through Patagonia at springtime. Hiking Wyoming's Grand Tetons and the Bighorn Mountains. Sailing throughout the Greek isles, although one could do that with children, I think. Ah, I'd love to play tennis in Cape Town, croquet in England, polo in Argentina. I want to see the aurora borealis and I want to have more picnics in Crozet, Virginia. What about you?”

“The Dublin Horse Show. I'd like to see that. I'd like to see the south of France and Tuscany and the opera house in Vienna. I'd like to see the Ostsee and then go over to Stockholm and tour the Swedish countryside. And I'd like to see the British Museum, but if I don't get to see any of those things I can read about them. Mostly, I'm happy with what I have. It isn't much by the standards of the wealthy and the powerful but it pleases me, and, Diego, how much does one need to be happy?”

“For some people, enough is not enough. They have cracks in their soul. No?”

She nodded. “Here I am, the postmistress in Crozet, Virginia. Most of humanity has never heard of Crozet and certainly not of me. But I think about the world. I wish people good lives and I know there's not much I can do to help them except take care of myself and not be a burden to others. I don't know if the human race can be helped.”

“A very Protestant concern.” He smiled, his teeth white against his tanned skin.

“I suppose it is, isn't it? This dreadful concern to improve one's self and the world. You'd think after all these centuries we would have learned to thank God for what we have and leave well enough alone.” She smiled sadly.

“Do you believe in fate?”

A honeybee darted down on the mayonnaise while Harry considered this, then darted off again. “Yes.”

“So long?” He laughed.

“I had to think about it. It drives my friends crazy. I'm not very spontaneous. I think things through and I don't know if I make fewer mistakes that way but it's just the way I am.”

“I can see that. I'm the opposite, naturally. Opposites attract.”

“I wonder.” She laughed; his bubbling spirits delighted her. “Another sandwich?”

“Yes.” He knew the ham sandwiches would make him too thirsty.

She handed him a sandwich, then pulled a small piece from her sandwich for Tucker, who devoured it instantly. “Forgot to light the candle.” She reached into her jeans pocket. “Oops, forgot to bring matches, too.”

Diego fished in his pocket, pulling out a brightly colored matchbook. “Here.”

Harry stared at the Roy and Nadine's matchbook in his hand. “Diego, where did you get those matches?”

“These?” He read the address. “Lottie's car.”

Harry fervently hoped he was telling the truth. She knew the minute the picnic was over she'd call Coop.

“Have you ever been to Lexington, Kentucky?”

“No. I'll add that to my list of adventures.”

Back at the house another small adventure was unfolding. The blue jay, perched on the weather vane on the roof, had observed the two felines laying the trap. He waited until the humans returned, Diego left, and the cats, disappointed, walked back into the house. Then he swooped down, gobbled up the grain, shouting in triumph. By the time the cats raced back out of the house half the sweet feed was gone.

“I hate you!”
Pewter yowled at the top of her lungs.

“Ha ha,”
the blue jay called from atop the weather vane.

         

Before dressing for the ball, Harry dialed Cooper to report Diego's possession of the Roy and Nadine's matchbook.

“I'd call and ask her myself,” Harry offered, “to save you the call but she'd think I was calling about Diego. It's as plain as the nose on your face she means to have him.”

“You'd call because you're as curious as your cats,” Coop responded. “However, I'll make the call. What time do you think you'll get to the ball?”

“Oh, seven. Starts at six-thirty, uh, wait, the invitation is on the fridge. Let me double-check. Okay, open bar at six-thirty, dinner at seven, dancing at eight. So I suppose we'll get there at six-thirty. Fair enjoys a drink. I'll pass.”

“Did you ever really drink?”

“Not really, a beer here and there. Champagne at a wedding. What about you?”

“College.”

“What time are you arriving?”

“Six-thirty.” She laughed.

“Are you on duty tonight?”

“Yeah, but I'll be dressed to the nines. Rick, too.”

“The minute you see me, tell me what Lottie said about the matchbook. I hope he picked it up off the floor of her car. If he didn't—”

“Yeah, I know.”

50

The floodlights illuminating the old wrecker's ball shone cool blue. The lights on the sign for O'Bannon Salvage remained white but all around the edges of the yard that faced the road into the yard, lights cheerfully beamed in red, yellow, green, more blue, some pink, some white.

As celebrants drove in they cruised through an allée of light.

The new main building, the site of the dance, drew gasps of admiration from guests. Sean had built all his shelving on rollers so the shelves were rolled to the sides of the large building. In front of these, painters' spattered drop cloths were suspended from the ceiling to the floor. Beautiful salvaged objects, old fireplace mantels, marvelous huge coaching lights were arranged around the room or hung from the rafters. The centerpiece of the room, an Art Nouveau fountain complete with living nymph and satyrs, overflowed with flowers instead of water. Sean had filled the fountain with wisteria, hiring the gymnastics team from the university to display themselves in costume. The sculpted form of a stag stood atop the fountain, an unusual but dramatic symbol.

Each table's centerpiece boasted wisteria wrapped around salvage—a hand-carved finial, a porcelain wash pitcher, a mound of crystal doorknobs. People, drinks in hand, walked from table to table admiring the centerpieces, all of which were for sale for the benefit of the charity.

Other beautiful items, like old gold picture frames, had been bought by committee members and then donated for the charity ball. No one expected Sean to foot the bill for everything. As it was he'd gone to quite a bit of expense buying and painting the drop cloths à la Jackson Pollock. He and his staff cleaned the building, moved back the shelves, hung the cloths, and brought in the heavy statuary on a forklift. Fortunately, the floor was concrete. Plus he donated the fountain to be sold. He built the dance floor with a raised platform for the band. He told everyone he needed the work to keep his mind off Roger.

Miranda posed for a photo in front of the fountain with a satyr. The photographer was also paid by Sean. People bought the pictures, the proceeds going to Building for Life.

Aunt Tally was a sensation wearing a white tuxedo, a red rosebud in her lapel. Big Mim brought down a gentleman in his eighties to escort her aunt but Tally proved too much for him, ditching him for a forty-year-old lawyer dazzled by her wit.

Mim, herself swathed in St. Laurent from head to foot in colors as bright as a macaw, darted here, there, everywhere.

Harry and Fair looked as handsome together as they did when married. She wore her mother's beautiful classic Christian Dior dress and he wore a tuxedo that he'd bought from Bergdorf Goodman's over Christmas.

Susan chose lavender and Brooks chose white, for her first grown-up ball.

Lottie, sticking close to Sean, wore a simple but elegant off-the-shoulder black gown.

Diego escorted Little Mim, which set tongues wagging. Declaring independence from her mother, Little Mim was sponsoring a struggling designer in New York known as Mikel. He probably wouldn't struggle after the Wrecker's Ball because he made Little Mim look ravishing, not always the easiest task. Her emerald-green dress, exquisitely beaded, made a soft, unusual sound when she walked. It wasn't that Little Mim was bad-looking—far from it—but she was usually overshadowed by her mother. This dress ensured she wouldn't be tonight.

Coop, blond head towering above the other ladies, chose red for the simple reason that blondes usually don't. She felt like breaking rules tonight.

By seven, everyone was there, even a few uninvited guests. Mrs. Murphy, Pewter, and Tucker knew how to soften up Fair.

Fair had bought a new black Volvo station wagon. He grew tired of showing up everywhere in his vet truck so he finally sprang for the Volvo. Harry told him to leave the pets home before she remembered the knocked-over lamps, shredded lamp shades, books on the floor. The depredations escalated with feline anger. A put-out puss might stop at knocking over a glass but to be left out of a big occasion called forth torrents of destructive abuse. She agreed to allow them to attend the ball. After all, they knew their way around the salvage yard and it was far enough off the paved state road to pose no danger to them. Fair opened the back hatch so they could come and go as they pleased. Harry put down a beach towel so they wouldn't get the beige car mat dirty.

“Let's find Pope Rat,”
Tucker panted, eager to chase the rascal.

“No.”
Murphy reposed in the back of the Volvo.
“Let's sit here for a while and eavesdrop on conversations as people park or come back to their cars. I want to know if anyone comes back for a toot of cocaine.”

“You're going with Coop's theory?”
Pewter happily snuggled onto the beach towel.

“It certainly makes the most sense and yet—let's keep our eyes and ears open. No one expects us to be here. If they see us they'll make kitchy-coo sounds. They'll never know what we're up to—humans are dependable that way.”
The tiger laughed.

“But, Murphy, even if people do come back here or find a place outside for a snort that doesn't mean they're in on the murders,”
Tucker sensibly reminded her.

“I know that. I'm hoping we'll glean something.”

“Pope Rat knows.”
Pewter scratched behind her ear.
“What a rat.”
Realizing he
was
a rat, she burst out laughing.

Rick Shaw pulled up in the next lane of parked cars. He looked good in a tuxedo and his wife wore a white floor-length dress that was very becoming.

The animals could hear their discussion.

“Honey, if my beeper goes off I've got to go. The Reverend Jones said he'd take you home.”

“I know, dear.” She smiled, accustomed to his odd hours and sudden departures. “I'm just thrilled to be here.”

They headed toward the strains of the string quartet. The dance band would rock out after dinner.

The chimes sounded, signaling that dinner would be served. Guests checked their table numbers, moving to their assigned seats.

Sean, as host, sat with the director of Building for Life. Lottie sat on his right. BoomBoom, who'd been head of publicity on this one, sat with Thomas, who was a darker shade of tan than he had been at the Dogwood Festival.

As Diego guided Little Mim to their table, number two, he winked at Harry, who winked back. Fair chose not to notice.

Liberally lubricated by the open bar, the conversation flowed, the volume rising with the courses of wine attending dinner. The nymph and satyrs in the fountain, having sampled drinks offered them by admirers, became friskier than intended, the satyrs most particularly. It wouldn't be long before they took their mythology literally.

After dinner, liqueurs were served along with a staggering array of desserts, fruits, cheeses, and sherbets.

Sated, the guests sat, eyes glazed with happiness.

As the tables were cleared, Sean stood up. “Excuse me, folks, I'm going outside for a smoke.”

“I didn't know you smoked.” Lottie stood up, too.

“I didn't until now. They can say what they want about nicotine, it really does soothe the nerves.” He smiled wanly.

“I guess a little puff can't hurt you too much.” Lottie smiled indulgently.

Other people filtered out. Thomas, chest pocket filled with divine Cuban cigars, trailed men behind him. They resembled penguins following the Big Penguin.

Lottie ducked off into the ladies' room before joining the smokers. Harry was in there brushing her teeth.

“Harry, I can't believe anyone is that obsessed with their teeth.” Lottie turned up her nose in disgust.

Harry rinsed out her mouth. “Those nuts on the chocolate cake got stuck in my teeth. It drives me crazy.”

“H-mmph.” Lottie marched off.

As Harry emerged she bumped into Aunt Tally. “Isn't he divine?”

“Who, Aunt Tally?”

“The Marine.” She indicated with her eyes a fit man in early middle age wearing his Marine uniform for just this occasion, a carryover from the nineteenth century and one that delighted ladies. His short waist-length tunic fit him tightly, his medal ribbons, four rows deep, bedecked his left chest. His blue-black closely fitted trousers carried a thin red stripe on the outside. His patent leather dancing shoes gleamed.

“What happened to your date?”

“Harry, too old. I can't stand old men.” Tally flicked up her cane.

“Well, what about that other guy?” Harry hadn't met the lawyer.

“Uh.” She shrugged. “Dull. But now this one, he's a man all right.” She covered her mouth with her gloved hand and looked exactly as she must have looked at seventeen at her coming-out debutante ball—minus the wrinkles, of course.

Harry lowered her voice conspiratorially. “I know you can't be good but go slow.”

“At my age, sugar, there is no slow. Get it while you can! And I will, I will!” Tally giggled, then hurried into the ladies' room.

Rick, dying for a smoke, had been waylaid by Jim Sanburne. As they were talking Rick's beeper went off.

“Excuse me. I'd better take this.” A little printout read DON. Rick's face registered no emotion. “Jim, I've got to go.” He briskly walked to Coop, herself walking outside for a smoke. “Come with me.”

Hoping not to call attention to themselves they walked fast but not frantically to Rick's car.

“Something's up,”
Mrs. Murphy noted.