"Now you can relax. You've got your answer."
"Fair"—Harry gestured, both hands open—"there's no way that vain kid is going to walk into chemistry class with a fresh shiner. Jody Miller fusses with her makeup more than most movie stars. Besides, Ed Sugarman would have sent her to the infirmary. Irene Miller is either dumb as a stick or not telling the truth."
"I vote for dumb as a stick." He smiled. "You're making a mountain out of a molehill. If Jody Miller lied to her mother, it's not a federal case. I recall you fibbing to your mother on the odd occasion."
"Not very often."
"Your nose is growing." He laughed.
Harry dialed Ed Sugarman, the chemistry teacher. "Hi, Ed, it's Mary Minor Haristeen." She paused a moment. "Do I need chemistry lessons? Well, I guess it depends on the kind of chemistry you're talking about." She paused. "First off, excuse me for butting in, but I want to know if Jody Miller came to your class today."
"Jody never came to class today," Ed replied.
"Well—that answers my question."
"In fact, I was about to call her parents. I know she was at field hockey practice because I drove by the field on my way in this morning. Is something wrong?"
"Uh—I don't know. She was behind Market's store this morning sporting a black eye and tears."
"I'm sorry to hear that. She's a bright girl, but her grades are sliding . . ." He hesitated. "One sees this often if there's tension in the home."
"Thanks, Ed. I hope I haven't disturbed you."
"You haven't disturbed me." He paused for a moment and then said as an aside, "Okay, honey." He then returned to Harry. "Doris says hello."
"Tell Doris I said hello also," Harry said.
Harry bid Ed good-bye, pressed the disconnect button, and thought for a minute.
"Want to go to a movie?"
"I'm not going out in that."
The rain pounded even harder on the tin roof. "Like bullets."
"I rented The Madness of King George. We could watch that."
"Popcorn?"
"Yep."
"If you'd buy a microwave, you could pop the corn a lot faster." He read the directions on the back of the popcorn packet.
"I'm not buying a microwave. The truck needs new starter wires—the mice chewed them—needs new tires, too, and I'm even putting that off until I'm driving on threads." She slapped a pot on the stove. "And it needs a new carburetor."
After the movie, Fair hoped she'd ask him to stay. He made comment after comment about how slick the roads were.
Finally Harry said, "Sleep in the guest room."
"I was hoping I could sleep with you."
"Not tonight." She smiled, evading hurting his feelings. Since she was also evading her own feelings, it worked out nicely for her, temporarily, anyway.
The next morning, Fair cruised out to get the paper. The rain continued steady. He dashed back into the kitchen. As he removed the plastic wrapping and opened the paper, an eight-by-ten-inch black-bordered sheet of paper, an insert, fell on the floor. Fair picked it up. "What in the hell is this?"
13
"Maury McKinchie, forty-seven, died suddenly in his home October third," Fair mumbled as he read aloud Maury's cinematic accomplishments and the fact that he lettered in football at USC. He peered over Mrs. Murphy, who jumped on the paper to read it herself.
Both humans and the cat stood reading the insert. Pewter reposed on the counter. She was interested, but Murphy jumped up first. Why start the day with a fight? Tucker raced around the table, finally sitting on her mother's foot.
"What's going on?" Tucker asked.
"Tucker, Maury McKinchie is dead," Mrs. Murphy answered her.
"Miranda," Harry said when she picked up the phone, "I've just seen it."
"Well, I just saw Maury McKinchie jog down the lane between my house and the post office not ten minutes ago!"
"This is too weird." Harry's voice was even. "As weird as that rattail hair of his." She referred to the short little pony tail Maury wore at the nape of his neck. Definitely not Virginia.
"He wore a color-coordinated jogging suit. Really, the clothes that man wears." Miranda exhaled through her nostrils. "Roscoe was jogging with him."
"Guess he hasn't read the paper." Harry laughed.
"No." She paused. "Isn't this the most peculiar thing. If Sean's behind this again, he realized he can't phone in an obituary anymore. It can't be Sean, though—his father would kill him." She thought out loud.
"And he lost his paper route. Fired. At least, that's what I heard," Harry added.
"Bombs away!" Pewter launched herself from the counter onto the table and hit the paper, tearing it. Both cats and paper skidded off the table.
"Pewter!" Fair exclaimed.
"Aha!" Mrs. Hogendobber exclaimed when she heard Fair's voice in the background. "I knew you two would get back together," she gloated to Harry.
"Don't jump the gun, Miranda." Harry gritted her teeth, knowing a grilling would occur at the post office.
"See you at work," Miranda trilled.
14
"Not another prank!" the Reverend Herbert Jones said when he picked up his mail, commenting on the obituary insert in his paper that morning.
"A vicious person with unresolved authority-figure conflicts," BoomBoom Craycroft intoned. "A potent mixture of chamomile and parsley would help purify this tortured soul."
"Disgusting and not at all funny," Big Mini Sanburne declaimed.
"A sick joke," Lucinda Payne Coles said, picking up her mail and that of the Church of the Good Shepherd.
"Hasn't Maury been working with you on the big alumni fund-raising dinner?" Harry inquired.
"Yes," Little Mim replied.
"What's going on at St. Elizabeth's?" Harry walked out front.
"Nothing. Just because Roscoe and Maury are associated with the school doesn't make the school responsible for these—what should I call them—?" Little Mim flared.
Her mother, awash in navy blue cashmere, tapped Little Mim's hand with a rolled-up magazine.
"Premature death notices." Mim laughed. "Sooner or later they will be accurate. Sean Hallahan has apologized to everyone involved. At least, that's what his father told me. Who has the paper route? That's the logical question."
Marilyn sniffed. Her mother could get her goat faster than anyone on earth. "Roger Davis has the paper route."
"Call his mother," Mim snapped. "And ... are you listening to me?"
"Yes, Mother."
"Whoever is writing these upsetting things knows a lot about both men."
"Or is a good researcher," Herb's grave voice chimed in.
"Don't look at me," Harry joked. "I never learned how to correctly write in footnotes. You have to do that to be a good researcher."
"Don't be silly. You couldn't have graduated from Smith with honors without learning how to do footnotes." Big Mim unrolled the magazine, grimaced at the photo of an exploded bus, and rolled it back up again. "I'll tell you what's worse than incorrect footnotes . . . lack of manners. Our social skills are so eroded that people don't write thank-you notes anymore . . . and if they did, they couldn't spell."
"Mother, what does that have to do with Roscoe's and Maury's fake obits?"
"Rude. Bad manners." She tapped the magazine sharply on the edge of the counter.
"Hey!" Little Mim blurted, her head swiveling in the direction of the door.
Maury McKinchie pushed through, beheld the silence and joked, "Who died?"
"You," Harry replied sardonically.
"Ah, come on, my last movie wasn't that bad."
"Haven't you opened your paper?" Little Mim edged toward him.
"No."
Herb handed the insert to Maury. "Take a look."
"Well, I'll be damned." Maury whistled.
"Who do you think did this?" Miranda zoomed to the point.
He laughed heartily. "I can think of two ex-wives who would do it, only they'd shoot me first. The obit would be for real."