Karen didn't know how to answer that, so she said, "Let's go in and get the mail."
"Yeah." Jody started walking.
Pewter and Murphy, now at the backdoor of the post office, sat on the steps. Pewter washed her face. Mrs. Murphy dropped her head so Pewter could wash her, too.
"Didn't you think the newspaper's write-up of Roscoe's death was strange?" Murphy's eyes were half closed.
"You mean the bit about an autopsy and routine investigation?"
"If he died of a heart attack, why a routine investigation? Mom better pump Coop when she sees her—and hey, she hasn't been in to pick up her mail for the last two days."
"Nothing in there but catalogs." Pewter took it upon herself to check out everyone's mailbox. She said she wasn't being nosy, only checking for mice.
Shouting in the post office sent them zipping through the animal door.
They crossed the back section of the post office and bounded onto the counter. Both Harry and Mrs. Hogendobber were in the front section as were Jody, an astonished Samson Coles, and Karen Jensen. Tucker was at Harry's feet, squared off against Jody. The animals had arrived in the middle of an angry scene.
"You're the one!"
"Jody, that's enough," Mrs. Hogendobber, aghast, admonished the girl.
Samson, his gravelly voice sad, said quietly, "It's all right, Miranda."
"You're the one sleeping with Mom!" Jody shrieked.
"I am not having an affair with your mother." He was gentle.
"Jody, come on. I'll ride you home." Karen tugged at the tall girl's sleeve, at a loss for what to do. Her friend exploded when Samson put his arm around her shoulders, telling her how sorry he was that the headmaster had died.
"You cheated on Lucinda—everyone knows you did—and then Ansley killed herself. She drove her Porsche into that pond because of you . . . and now you're fucking my mother."
"JODY!" Mrs. Hogendobber raised her voice, which scared everyone.
Jody burst into tears and Karen pushed her out the front door. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Hogendobber and Mr. Coles. I'm sorry, Mrs. Haristeen. She's, uh . . ." Karen couldn't finish her thought. She closed the door behind her.
Samson curled his lips inward until they disappeared. "Well, I know I'm the town pariah, but this is the first time I've heard that I caused Ansley's death."
A shocked Miranda grasped the counter for support. "Samson, no one in this town blames you for that unstable woman's unfortunate end. She caused unhappiness to herself and others." She gulped in air. "That child needs help."
"Help? She needs a good slap in the face." Pewter paced the counter.
Tucker grumbled. "Stinks of fear."
"They can't smell it. They only trust their eyes. Why, I don't know—their eyes are terrible." Mrs. Murphy, concerned, sat at the counter's edge watching Karen force Jody into her car, an old dark green Volvo.
"We'd better call Irene," Harry, upset, suggested.
"No." Samson shook his head. "Then the kid will think we're ganging up on her. Obviously, she doesn't trust her mother if she thinks she's having an affair with me."
"Then I'll call her father."
"Harry, Kendrick's no help," Mrs. Hogendobber, rarely a criticizer, replied. "His love affair with himself is the problem in that family. It's a love that brooks no rivals."
This made Harry laugh; Miranda hadn't intended to be funny, but she had hit the nail on the head.
Samson folded his arms across his chest. "Some people shouldn't have children. Kendrick is one of them."
"We can't let the child behave this way. She's going to make a terrific mess." Miranda added sensibly, "Not everyone will be as tolerant as we are." She tapped her chin with her forefinger, shifting her weight to her right foot. "I'll call Father Michael."
Samson hesitated, then spoke. "Miranda, what does a middle-aged priest know of teenage girls . . . of women?"
"About the same as any other man," Harry fired off.
"Touche," Samson replied.
"Samson, I didn't mean to sound nasty. You're probably more upset than you're letting on. Jody may be a kid, but a low blow is a low blow," Harry said.
"I could leave this town where people occasionally forgive but never forget. I think about it, you know, but"—he jammed his hands in his pockets—"I'm not the only person living in Crozet who's made a mistake. I'm too stubborn to turn tail. I belong here as much as the next guy."
"I hope you don't think I'm sitting in judgment." Miranda's hand fluttered to her throat.
"Me neither." Harry smiled. "It's hard for me to be open-minded about that subject, thanks to my own history ... I mean, BoomBoom Craycroft of all people. Fair could have picked someone—well, you know."
"That was the excitement for Fair. That BoomBoom was so obvious." Samson realized he'd left his mail on the counter. "I'm going back to work." He scooped his mail up before Pewter, recovering from the drama, could squat on it. "What I really feel bad about is tampering with the escrow accounts. That was rotten. Falling in love with Ansley may have been imprudent, but it wasn't criminal. Betraying a responsibility to clients, that was wrong." He sighed. "I've paid for it. I've lost my license. Lost respect. Lost my house. Nearly lost Lucinda." He paused again, then said, "Well, girls, we've had enough soap opera for one day." He pushed the door open and breathed in the crisp fall air.
Miranda ambled over to the phone, dialed, and got Lucinda Coles. "Lucinda, is Father Michael there?"
He was, and she buzzed the good woman through.
"Father Michael, have you a moment?" Miranda accurately re peated the events of the afternoon.
When she hung up, Harry asked, "Is he going to talk to her?"
"Yes. He seemed distracted, though."
"Maybe the news upset him."
"Of course." She nodded. "I'm going to clean out that refrigerator. It needs a good scrub."
"Before you do that, there's a pile of mail for Roscoe Fletcher. Why don't we sort it out and run it over to Naomi after work?"
The two women dumped the mail out on the work table in the back. A flutter of bills made them both feel guilty. The woman had lost her husband. Handing over bills seemed heartless. Catalogs, magazines, and handwritten personal letters filled up one of the plastic boxes they used in the back to carry mail after sorting it out of the big canvas duffel bags.
A Jiffy bag, the end torn, the gray stuffing spilling out, sent Harry to the counter for Scotch tape.
Tucker observed this. She wanted to play, but the cats were hashing over the scene they'd just witnessed. She barked.
"Tucker, if you need to go to the bathroom, there's the door."
"Can't we walk, just a little walk? You deserve a break."
"Butterfingers." Harry dropped the bag. The tiny tear in the cover opened wider.
Mrs. Murphy and Pewter stopped their gabbing and jumped down.
"Yahoo!" Mrs. Murphy pounced on the tear and the gray stuffing burst out.
" Aachoo ." Pewter sneezed as the featherlight stuffing floated into the air.
"I've got it!" Mrs. Murphy crowed.
Pewter pounced, both paws on one end of the bag, claws out as the tiger cat ripped away at the other corner, enlarging the tear until she could reach into the bag with her paw.
If Mrs. Murphy had been a boxer, she would have been hailed for her lightning hands.
Lying flat on her side, she fished in the Jiffy bag with her right paw.
"Any thing to eat?"
"No, it's paper, but it's crisp and crinkly."
The large gray cat blinked, somewhat disappointed. Food, the ultimate pleasure, was denied her. She'd have to make do with fresh paper, a lesser pleasure but a pleasure nonetheless.
"You girls are loony tunes." Tucker, bored, turned her back. Paper held no interest for her.
"Hooked it. I can get it out of the bag. I know I can." Murphy yanked hard at the contents of the package, pulling the paper partways through the tear.
"Look!" Pewter shouted.
Mrs. Murphy stopped for a second to focus on her booty. "Wow!" She yanked harder.