“How will you get away for a meeting? And where do you want to have it?” Blair asked.
“Your place. I can drive.”
“Goody,” Murphy told the others. “H. Vane will be here tomorrow at three for a meeting.”
“We'll be at work.” Tucker was disappointed.
“Leave that to me.” Murphy strained to hear more.
“If Sarah knows you're going to meet with me she'll bring out the cannon,” Archie said.
“She'll do what I tell her. I pay the bills, remember?”
“I remember,” Archie replied, a splash of acid in his tone.
35
“Where is that cat?” Harry opened closet doors to make certain she hadn't shut the nosy Mrs. Murphy in one.
The phone rang. Harry figured the caller was Miranda or Susan, early risers like herself. Sometimes Fair called after returning home from an all-night emergency.
It was six o'clock. She'd been up for half an hour.
“Good morning, camper, zip, zip, zip. We sing a song to start the day.”
Before Harry could launch into the second obnoxious lyric, Mrs. Hogendobber tersely said, “More violence.”
“What?”
“Mrs. Woo's shop burned down. They think it's arson.”
“I don't believe it.”
“On the news. If you'd ever turn on your television, you'd . . . Just turn it on. It's the lead story on Channel 29. Her shop burned to a crisp.”
“Roger. See you at work.” Harry hung up, stretched over the counter, and clicked on the small TV, which she hated with all her heart. Since Fair had given it to her for her birthday this year she couldn't toss it out.
“. . . high today expected to be seventy-two degrees Fahrenheit, a light breeze from the south, clouds moving in tonight, and a fifty-percent chance of rainfall after midnight. Back to you, Trish.” Robert Van Winkle, the weatherman, smiled.
Soberly facing the camera, the young woman said, “Our top story this morning, Expert Tailoring Shop behind Rio Road Shopping Center was burned to the ground last night. Nothing is left except the charred remains. Chief Johnson says . . .”
The fire chief faced the camera in the tape from the night before. “We are fully investigating this incident. If anyone saw or heard anything out of the ordinary in the area around two o'clock in the morning, please call the fire department.” He rattled off the number, which was shown on the screen.
“Do you think it was arson?”
Pure frustration on his face, Ted Johnson spoke directly into the camera. “We are investigating all possibilities.” He repeated himself. “If you have any information concerning these events, please call our hotline. It's manned twenty-four hours a day.” The number ran again several times at the bottom of the screen.
“Then you have no leads?”
“I have nothing further to say at this point.” He turned his back on the camera.
“What in holy hell is going on?” Harry exclaimed. “Mrs. Woo is the sweetest person in the whole county.”
Murphy popped out from behind the sofa where she was hiding.
“Mrs. Woo had her shop torched,” Pewter yelled out.
“I know. I heard the TV.”
“Where have you been?” Harry glared at Mrs. Murphy.
“Hiding. I need to stay on the farm today.” She was determined to attend the 3:00 P.M. meeting at Blair Bainbridge's.
“Here.” Harry opened another can of cat food.
Pewter sidled over next to Murphy. “Mariner's Pride.”
“Butt out,” Murphy growled.
Harry scooped a big spoonful into Pewter's oatmeal-colored crockery dish.
UPHOLSTERY DESTROYER was painted on Mrs. Murphy's dish, while Tucker's read SUPER DOG.
“This goes back to the reenactment at Oak Ridge.” Tucker stated. She sat down while the cats ate and Harry dialed Susan Tucker to discuss the latest news.
“The new guys had to have uniforms made or altered in a hurry. Everybody went to Mrs. Woo. She knew who was in that reenactment,” Pewter said.
“Yes, but so do Herb Jones, H. Vane-Tempest, Rick Shaw—each company commander has a list of men. That's what's sticking in my craw. We know!” Mrs. Murphy pushed her food bowl away.
“Mrs. Woo had to know something.”
“It could be unrelated, Tucker.” Pewter pounced on Murphy's rejected food.
“Don't talk with your mouth full. Humans do that. Vile.” Murphy sniffed.
“Miss Manners.” Pewter swished her tail once.
“Listen to me. Tucker, you go with Mother. Stick with her no matter what. We've got to stay here today.”
“Only one of you needs to go to the meeting.”
“Both Pewter and I need to read the map. Really study it.” Mrs. Murphy sat still like the famous Egyptian statue of the cat with earrings in its ears.
“Why are you so worried?” Tucker cocked her head.
“Because Harry found the airplane—my fault. And because Harry suggested checking out all the suppliers for Civil War reenactors. Remember? She mentioned gun sales, uniforms. She's eventually going to go one step too far.”
“She'd better carry her gun,” Pewter sagely advised.
“Let's mention that to her.” Mrs. Murphy rubbed against Harry's arm while she was speaking to Susan. “Carry your side arm.”
“She's—” Pewter's attention was diverted by the bold blue jay swooping by the kitchen window.
Seeing Pewter, he sailed straight for the window, then turned, feetfirst, wings flapping while he threatened at the window.
“I hate that bird!” Pewter spit.
“Not my fave either. Come on,” Murphy said.
He returned for another pass, the bird version of giving the finger. Pewter leapt at the window and smacked it.
“Come on, Pewter.” Murphy kicked her with her hind leg.
Pewter slid down off the counter. Leaping wasn't her first recourse. If she could put her front paws on cabinets and reach way down, sliding, then she'd hit the floor with less of a thump. Hitting with all that lard made a big baboom.
The three hurried into the bedroom. The bedroom door, usually closed, was open, since Harry was still in her robe.
The .357 was in a hard plastic carrying case.
“Ugh. This thing is heavy.” Murphy tried to push it out.
“Let's all three try.” Tucker wedged in next to Murphy on the left, pushing over sneakers and old cowboy boots.
Pewter was already on Murphy's right side.
“On three,” Murphy called out. “One, two, three.”
“Uh.” They all grunted but succeeded in moving the gun case halfway out of the closet. She'd trip over it if she wasn't looking and she had to go to the closet for her boots.
“Think she'll get it?” Pewter scratched behind her ear.
“Fleas?”
“No,” she angrily replied. “An itch.”
“Gray animals have more trouble with fleas.” Mrs. Murphy pronounced this as solemnly as a judge.
“You're so full of it.”
Pewter swatted Murphy, and the two girls mixed it up. Tucker, no fool, stepped away just as Harry stepped into her bedroom.
“Hey!”
Two angry faces greeted hers.
“She started it.”