Tucker turned back around thanks to the feline excitement. "Give it to Mom. She needs it."
Mrs. Murphy ripped into the bag so fast the humans hadn't time to react, and the cat turned a somersault to land on her side, then put her paw into the bag. Her antics had them doubled over.
However funny she was, Mrs. Murphy was destroying government property.
"Mom, we're rich!" Mrs. Murphy let out a jubilant meow.
Harry and Miranda, dumbfounded, bent over the demolished bag.
"My word." Miranda's eyes about popped from her head. She reached out with her left hand, fingers to the floor, to steady herself.
The humans and animals stared at a stack of one-hundred-dollar bills, freshly minted.
"We'd better call Rick Shaw. No one sends that much money in the mail." Harry stood up, feeling a little dizzy.
"Harry, I don't know the law on this, but we can't open this packet."
"I know that," Harry, a trifle irritated, snapped.
"It's not our business." Miranda slowly thought out loud.
"I'll call Ned."
"No. That's still interfering in the proper delivery of the mail."
"Miranda, there's something fishy about this."
"Fishy or not, we are employees of the United States Postal Service, and we can't blow the whistle just because there's money in a package."
"We sure could if it were a bomb."
"But it's not."
"You mean we deliver it?"
"Exactly."
"Oh." Mrs. Murphy's whiskers drooped. "We need that money."
26
Naomi Fletcher called Rick Shaw herself. She asked Miranda and Harry to stay until the sheriff arrived.
Mrs. Murphy, Pewter, and Tucker languished in the cab of the truck. When the sheriff pulled in with Cooper at his side, the animals set up such a racket that Cynthia opened the truck door.
"Bet you guys need to go to the bathroom."
"Sure," they yelled over their shoulders as they made a beeline for the front door.
"You'd better stop for a minute," Tucker advised the cats.
"I'm not peeing in public. You do it," the tiger, insulted, replied.
"Fine." The corgi found a spot under a tree, did enough to convince Cynthia that she had saved the interior of Harry's truck, then hurried to the front door.
Once inside they huddled under the coffee table while Cynthia dusted the bag and the bills for prints.
After an exhaustive discussion Rick told Roscoe Fletcher's widow to deposit the money in her account. He could not impound the cash. There was no evidence of wrongdoing.
"There are no assumptions in my job, only facts." He ran his right hand through his thinning hair.
Naomi, both worried and thrilled, for the sum had turned out to be seventy-five thousand dollars, thanked the sheriff and his deputy for responding to her call.
Rick, hat in hand, said, "Mrs. Fletcher, brace yourself. The story will be out in the papers tomorrow. A coroner's report is public knowledge. Bill Moscowitz has delayed writing up the autopsy report for as long as he can."
"I know you're doing your best." Naomi choked up.
Harry and Miranda, confused, looked at each other and then back at Rick.
Naomi nodded at him, so he spoke. "Roscoe was poisoned."
"What!" Tucker exclaimed.
"I told you," Mrs. Murphy said.
"Don't be so superior," Pewter complained.
"Naomi, I'm sorry, so very sorry." Mrs. Hogendobber reached over and grasped Naomi's hand.
"Who'd want to kill him?" Pewter's long white eyebrows rose.
"Someone who failed algebra?" Mrs. Murphy couldn't resist.
"Hey, where's Tucker?" Pewter asked.
Tucker had sneaked off alone to find Winston, the bulldog.
Harry said, "I'm sorry, Naomi."
Naomi wiped her thin nose with a pink tissue. "Poisoned! One of those strawberry drops was poison."
Cooper filled in the details. "He ingested malathion, which usually takes just minutes to kill someone."
Harry blurted out, "I ate one of those!"
"When?" Rick asked.
"Oh, two days before his death. Maybe three. You know Roscoe . . . always offering everyone candy." She felt queasy.
"Unfortunately, we don't know how he came to be poisoned. The candy in his car was safe."
• • •
They squeezed back into Harry's truck, the cats on Miranda's lap. Tucker, between the two humans, told everyone what Winston had said. "Naomi cries all the time. She didn't kill him. Winston's positive."
"There goes the obvious suspect in every murder case." Pewter curled up on Miranda's lap, which left little room for Mrs. Murphy.
"You could move over."
"Go sit on Harry's lap."
"Thanks, I will, you selfish toad."
Tucker nudged Murphy. "Winston said Sandy Brashiers is over all the time."
"Why?" Pewter inquired.
"Trying to figure out Roscoe's plans for this school year. He left few documents or guidelines, and April Shively is being a real bitch—according to Winston."
"Secretaries always fall in love with their bosses," Pewter added noncha lantly.
"Oh, Pewter." Murphy wrinkled her nose.
"They do!"
"Even if she was in love with him, it doesn't mean she'd be an obstructionist— good word, huh?" Tucker smiled, her big fangs gleaming.
"I'm impressed, Tucker." The tiger laughed. "Of course she's an obstruc tionist. April doesn't like Sandy. Roscoe didn't either."
"Guess Sandy's in for a rough ride." Pewter noticed one of Herb Jones's two cats sitting on the steps to his house. "Look at Lucy Fur. She always shows off after her visit to the beauty parlor."
"That long hair is pretty, but can you imagine taking care of it?" Mrs. Murphy, a practical puss, replied.
"I don't know what this world is coming to." Miranda shook her head.
"Poison is the coward's way to kill someone." Harry, still shaken from realizing she had eaten Roscoe's candies, growled, "Whoever it was was chickenshit."
"That's one way to put it." Miranda frowned.
"The question is, where did he get the poison and is there a tin of lethal candies out there waiting for another innocent victim?" Harry stroked Murphy, keeping her left hand on the wheel.
"We know one thing," Miranda pronounced firmly. "Whoever killed him was close to him ... if malathion kills as fast as Coop says it does."
"Close and weak. I mean it. Poison is the coward's weapon."
In that Harry was half right and half wrong.
27
A light wind from the southeast raised the temperature into the low seventies. The day sparkled, leaves the color of butter vibrated in the breeze, and the shadows disappeared since it was noon.
Harry, home after cub hunting early in the morning, had rubbed down Poptart, turned her out with the other two horses, and was now scouring her stock trailer. Each year she repacked the bearings, inspected the boards, sanded off any rust, and repainted those areas. Right now her trailer resembled a dalmatian, spots everywhere. She'd put on the primer but didn't finish her task before cub hunting started, which was usually in September. Cubbing meant young hounds joined older ones, and young foxes learned along with the young hounds what was expected of them. With today's good weather she'd hoped to finish the job.
Blair lent her his spray painter. As Blair bought the best of everything, she figured she could get the job done in two hours, tops. She'd bought metallic Superman-blue paint from Art Bushey, who gave her a good deal.
"That stuff smells awful." Tucker wrinkled her nose at the paint cans.
"She's going to shoot the whole afternoon on this." Pewter stretched. "I'll mosey on up to the house."
"Wimp. You could sleep under the maple tree and soak up the sunshine," Mrs. Murphy suggested.
"Don't start one of your outdoor exercise lectures about how we felines are meant to run, jump, and kill. This feline was meant to rest on silk cushions and eat steak tartare ."