"People do have heart attacks without consulting you." The daughter smiled sweetly as she drove home a light barb.
"They shouldn't. They shouldn't do anything without consulting me." Mim smiled sweetly right back. "I suppose I ought to buy some brownies."
"The orange cinnamons are all gone."
"Really, Miranda should open her own bakery. She's got a gift." Mim noticed the squad car with Rick and Coop stopping at the post office. "Here." She handed her daughter fifty dollars. "I'm going across the street."
"Without me?"
"Oh, Marilyn. Just buy the stuff and join me." Mim was out the door before she finished her sentence.
Rick and Cooper set foot in the post office but before they could open their mouths, Mim charged in. "Did Natalie call you?"
"About one minute ago." He exhaled from his nostrils. "I was going to call you as soon as I finished here."
Big Mim's eyebrows raised up. What could be so important that Harry had to be consulted first?
"Bad news." Pewter trotted over from the small table in the rear.
"Why don't you all come back here?" Harry flipped up the divider as Mrs. Murphy stretched herself on the narrow shelf behind the postboxes. Tucker, awake, watched.
Rick realized he was going to have to tell Mim something, so he thought he'd get that over with first. "Randy Sands found Tussie Logan in her bathtub shot to death."
"What?" Mim clapped her hands together, a gesture of surprise.
"How did he know?" Harry asked the pointed question.
"The water was running and it came through his ceiling below. He came home from work, noticed it, and ran upstairs. He's in a bad way. I called Reverend Jones to go on out there."
"Shot." Mim sat down hard in one of the wooden chairs at the table.
"Well, that's no surprise to us," Mrs. Murphy said.
"Being in on it and being dead are two different things," Tucker sagely noted.
"Ugh." Pewter hated the thought of dead big bodies. She didn't mind mice, mole, or bird bodies but anything larger than that turned her stomach.
"Good Lord. I wonder if it was Tussie who called me?" Mim was incredulous.
"Her death ought to tell you that." Murphy paced on the narrow ledge.
"If they knew what we knew, it would." Tucker had more patience with human frailty than the cat.
"How long had she been dead?" Harry was figuring in her mind whether the killer crept up by night or by day.
Rick added, "It's hard to tell. Tom Yancy will know."
"Struggle?" Harry was still reeling from the news of the murder and that Tussie was the chain-letter writer.
"No," Coop simply stated.
"Whoever it was may have been known to her but having anyone walk into your bath ought to provoke some sort of response from a lady." Mim saw her daughter, laden with food, leave the train station to put the booty in her car.
"I don't know but it wouldn't be terribly difficult to walk into a bathroom and pull the trigger. She wouldn't have time to struggle. This was fast and effective." Rick slipped a cigarette out of the pack. "Ladies?"
"No. I thought you quit." Mim didn't care if anyone smoked or not.
"I quit frequently." He lit up.
"Why do humans do that?" Pewter hated the smell.
"To soothe their nerves," Murphy said.
"It ruins their lungs." Tucker also hated the smell.
"You don't see cats smoking," Pewter smugly said, secure that this proved yet again the superiority of cats.
Murphy kept pacing. "Rick's not just here to deliver the news. Mom wouldn't be first for that."
"Yeah, that's true," Tucker agreed.
"Harry, I think we'd better cancel having the Cramers hunt tomorrow. It's too dangerous. And I'm going to have Coop stay with you at night until-" He noticed Little Mim walking toward the post office.
"The Cramers?" Mim's voice rose. "Do I know the Cramers?"
"No." Harry quickly spoke for she, too, saw Little Mim. "They hunt with Orange and Middleburg."
"Must be good." Mim wanted to know what was going on.
"Mrs. Sanburne." Rick leaned over. "We're close to our killer here. I know you like to be in on everything but right now I would expose you to danger, serious danger. The reason I'm here with Harry is that she was struck over the head at the hospital."
Mim raised an eyebrow, saying nothing, since Miranda had sworn her to secrecy when she told her, but Mim had figured it out anyway. Rick continued. "I can't take a chance. The killer or killers may think she knows more than she does."
"And I don't know anything." Harry shrugged. "Wish I did."
"What do the Cramers have to do with Harry?"
"Well, uh, we were going to hunt together tomorrow. They're in the hospital business and-"
"Mrs. Sanburne, I promise you I'll fill you in as soon as we're-" He paused, searching for the right words. "Over the hump. Now could I ask you to intercept your daughter before she gets in here? Just give me two minutes with Harry."
Mollified slightly, Mim stood up, walked over, flipping up the divider, and caught Marilyn just as her hand was on the doorknob. She ushered her back toward the car across the street.
"Rick. Let the Cramers hunt. It will be the straw that breaks the camel's back. We've got Graham, we've got Dennis. They're military men. They're horsemen. They know what they're doing. They can protect the Cramers. Dennis is riding down with them in their rig and he'll ride back. I really believe we can shake our gorilla out of the tree tomorrow."
"It's a hell of a chance." Rick ran his fingers through his thinning hair. He knew Harry had a point but he hated to risk civilians, as he thought of them.
"Coop, I know we can do this. I wouldn't use the Cramers as bait if I didn't think it would flush him out," Harry pleaded.
"Yeah, Harry, I know, but I just saw Tussie Logan."
Rick and Coop stared at one another.
Rick puffed, then put down his cigarette. "Okay."
44
The Hunt Club hounds met at Tally Urquhart's farm at ten in the morning. Rose Hill, one of the oldest and most beautiful farms in Albemarle County, was a plum fixture, fixture being what meeting places are called.
The home itself, built of bricks baked on-site in the mid-eighteenth century, glowed with the patina of age. Tally herself glowed with the patina of age at ninety-two. She said ninety-two. Mim, her niece, swore that Tally was a hair older but at least everyone agreed she was triumphantly in her nineties.
Tally would stride into a room, still walking mostly upright, shake her silver-headed cane, a hound's head, at the congregation and declare, "I am two years older than God so do what I say and get out of my way."
And people did. Even Mim.
Years ago, back in the 1960s, Tally had been Master of the Jefferson Hunt. Her imperiousness wore thin but her ample contributions to the treasury ensured a long mastership. She finally retired on her eightieth birthday, amid much fanfare.
Everyone thought Mim would vie to be Master but she declined, saying she had enough to do, which was true. But truthfully, Mim wanted to keep her hunting pure fun and if she were Master it would be pure politics. She practiced that in other arenas.
Jane Arnold found herself elected Master and had remained at her post ever since.
A chill from the mountains settled into the meadows. Harry's hands were so cold she stiffly fastened Poptart's girth. She had introduced Laura and Joe Cramer to Jane per custom. There was no need to introduce Graham Pitsenberger, Joint-Master of Glenmore Hunt, nor Lt. Col. Dennis Foster, the Director of the Master of Foxhounds of America Association.
Master and staff didn't know the true reason for their company. Jane graciously invited these guests to ride up front with her.
Harry breathed a sigh of relief. If Joe and Laura were up front, nothing much could happen that she could foresee. If they fell behind, well, anything was possible.
Aunt Tally waved everyone off, then hurried back to the house before the chill could get her. Also, she was hosting the breakfast and it had to be perfect.