Susan recovered enough to talk. “I was on the fifteenth hole at Keswick. I like to play once a week there and once a week at Farmington. Actually, I'd play every day if I could, but that's neither here nor there. Anyway, there I was moving along at a pretty good clip when who should roll by me in her personalized golf cart but Sarah Vane-Tempest. She was by herself, so I asked if she wanted to join me. She said no, she was on her way home. She'd lost track of the time. She wanted to be there when H. Vane got home. Said she was furious with him because he was driving his car and she didn't think he should be doing that. Then she zoomed on by.”
“She's overprotective.” Harry reached for another brownie.
“Treats us like dirt.” Cynthia shrugged. “But then, a lot of people do.”
“What have we here?” Susan noticed Mrs. Murphy carrying what looked like folded paper in her mouth.
Pewter stopped eating. “Won't help.”
Murphy dropped the map at Cynthia Cooper's feet.
She bent over to pick it up, carefully opening it. The name in small block print on the right-hand corner read TOMMY VAN ALLEN.
Her expression motivated both Harry and Susan to rise out of their chairs and lean over her shoulder.
“Good Lord!” Susan exclaimed.
Harry picked up her cat and kissed her cheek. “Where'd you find this, pusskin?”
“In the airplane.”
Cynthia traced the outlined blocks with her forefinger. She quickly folded the map back up and headed for the door. “Not a word of this to anyone. I mean it. Not even Miranda.”
Harry followed her out to the car as Susan cleared the table.
Cynthia slid behind the wheel, buckled up, reached over onto the passenger seat, and gave Harry a folder. “I came over so we could read this together, but I don't think it matters too much if you keep it for tonight. I'll pick it up from you at work tomorrow.” She started the motor. “Do you have any idea where Mrs. Murphy could have gotten this map?”
“Not one.”
Cynthia handed her the file, labeled BARBER C. MINOR, and drove off.
40
“Umph.” Pewter bit at her hind claws, trying to pull out the mud caked there.
“Why don't you relax? The stuff will fall out tomorrow,” Mrs. Murphy advised.
“I'm not going to bed with mud in my claws.”
“Least you're not complaining about how you came by it.”
“Wish I'd been with you guys.” Tucker lay down with her head between her paws, her expressive eyes turned upward to the cats, each of which sat on an arm of the old wing chair. Harry was intently reading the file on her great-grandfather.
“You're good at what you do,” Murphy complimented Tucker.
“Anything big happen in the P.O.?” Pewter yanked out another tiny pellet of mud.
“Reverend Jones said Elocution is on special foods to control her weight. Harry wrote down the information.” Tucker gleefully directed this at Pewter. “Then BoomBoom and Sarah waltzed in. Major shopping spree but Sarah said that even though she'd spent a lot of H. Vane's money she was still mad at him for driving himself around. She thinks he should go slow and after all, they can afford a chauffeur. Then Big Mim arrived for her mail, told Sarah to shut up and let her husband do whatever he wants, the worst thing she can do is make him feel like an invalid. So Sarah got mad and huffed out to the car. Said she had to play golf. BoomBoom fussed at Mim, said Sarah'd suffered a hideous shock. Mim told Boom to get a life and stop feeding off other people's tragedies. Then Boom huffed out and Harry and Big Mim laughed themselves silly. That was my day.”
“We told you ours.”
“What's she so absorbed in?” Tucker rolled over to reveal a sparkling white stomach, a tiny paunch growing ever more noticeable.
Murphy moved to the back of the wing chair and read over Harry's shoulder. “‘File. Barber Clark Minor, aka Biddy. Born April 2, 1890. Shot dead, May 30, 1927. Born in Albemarle County. Duke University, B.A. 1911. Law school, University of Virginia. Left before receiving degree. Enlisted in the Army. Saw action in France. Achieved rank of captain. Wounded three times. (Awarded Bronze Star.) Returned to Crozet. Finished law school. Entered practice with firm of Roscoe, Commons. Later Roscoe, Commons, and Minor.
“‘Married Elizabeth Carhart, 1919. Three children. Howard, born 1920. Anne, born 1921. Barber Clark Jr., 1923.
“‘No criminal record.
“‘Killed by James Urquhart. Mr. Minor's widow did not press charges.'”
Tucker broke into the cat's oration, saying, “You'd think Mrs. Minor would have brought charges. What else does it say?”
“‘Testimony of witnesses. Sheriff Hogendobber'—must be George's father or uncle or something.” She referred to Mrs. Hogendobber's deceased husband, George. “Anyway the sheriff questioned three eyewitnesses, the first being Isabelle Urquhart, Mim's mother. She saw Biddy drive up to the Urquhart farm the morning of May 30. She was being driven by her father to market. They had passed the Urquhart driveway and Biddy waved.”
Harry turned the page, absentimindedly reaching up to tickle Mrs. Murphy under her chin.
“Go on,” Tucker urged as Pewter also moved to the back of the chair to read over Harry's shoulder.
“‘The second witness was James Urquhart himself, aged nineteen. The boy stated, “Mr. Minor called on me at ten in the morning unexpectedly. One thing led to another. I lost my temper and struck him in the face. He hit me back. I usually carry a side arm. Copperheads. All over this spring. I pulled it out and shot him in the chest. He kept coming at me and I shot him again. He fell down on his knees and then fell over backward. When I reached him he was dead.”
“‘The third witness was Thalia Urquhart, aged twenty. “Mr. Minor called on my brother,” she stated. “They had words. Jamie went into a rage and shot him. He should have never shot Biddy Minor. He was such a nice man.” '”
Three brown photographs of the body were neatly pasted on the last page—Biddy's stiff, prone body, blood spreading over his white shirt, his eyes open, gazing to heaven. But even in death Biddy Minor was a fabulously handsome man.
“That's it?” Tucker asked.
“Except for the three old photographs.” Pewter added, “You've seen a lot worse.”
Harry closed the folder, crossing her legs under her. “Not much of an investigation for a murder. You'd think Sheriff Hogendobber would have shown more curiosity and you'd think Biddy's wife would have thrown the book at him,” she thought out loud as the three animals hung on each word. “Course, the Urquharts were rich. The Minors were not.”
“He admitted to the shooting,” Pewter mentioned. “She had an open-and-shut case.”
“Know what I think?” Harry leaned against the backrest. “A gentleman's agreement. And gentlewoman's. Bet Tally knows the truth.”
“Maybe.” Mrs. Murphy listened. The owl hooted in the barn. “What's she blabbing about?”
“Who?”
“The owl.” Murphy crawled into Harry's lap before Pewter had the chance to think of it.
“Calling for a boyfriend.” Tucker giggled.
“That's all we need. More owls,” Murphy grumbled.