As Mrs. Murphy was on the opposite shore, the heron, enormous, worried not at all about the small predator. Then again, the bird was so big that if Mrs. Murphy had swum Swift Run and catapulted onto her back, the heron could have soared into the air, taking the cat with her.
She looked up from her fishing, giving Mrs. Murphy a fierce stare. The heron's methods depended on stillness followed with lightning-fast reflexes as she grabbed a fish—or anything else that caught her fancy—with her long beak.
The tiger cat sat and watched the great bird. An odd ripple of current under the willow's trunk drew her gaze away from the heron. The water would strike the obstacle and whirl around it, the obstacle would roll a bit, then the water would break free on its way downstream.
She walked along the bank to get a better look, reveling in her good eyes, so much better than human or dog eyes. She focused and another little gusher of water lifted up the obstacle. An arm broke through the surface and then sank again. Another hard rain and the corpse would be free from the branches of the willow.
Mrs. Murphy, fur fluffed out, watched. The next surge of water pushed the body up a bit farther, and she saw what was left of Linda Forloines's face. The eyes and nose were gone, courtesy of hungry fish and crawdads. The face was bleached even whiter and bloated, but it was Linda Forloines without a doubt. Mrs. Murphy remembered her from when she had worked at Mim's stable.
She trotted back to her original spot and called out to the heron, "I'm sorry to disturb your hunting. Is this your territory?"
"Of course it's my territory," came the curt reply.
"Do you know there's a dead human back at the willow?"
"Yes."
"Do you know how long it's been there?"
The heron cocked her head, her light violet-crested plume swept back over her head. "Not quite a week. There's another body one mile from here as I fly, more miles on the ground. That one is stuck in a truck." She snapped her long powerful beak. "I wish they'd have the decency to bury their dead."
"The murderer was in a hurry," the cat called over the creek.
"Ah." She stretched her graceful neck to the sky then recoiled it. "They exhibit a strange penchant for killing one another, don't they?"
"A genetic flaw, I suppose." Mrs. Murphy also thought human violence most unanimallike. After all, she and her kind only killed other species, and then for food, although she had a difficult time resisting dispatching the occasional mouse for sport.
The heron spread her wings, exposing each feather to the warming sun. "Oh, that feels good. You know, if I felt like it, I could fly right over there and pick you up by your tail."
"You'd have to catch me first," Mrs. Murphy countered.
"You'd be surprised at how fast I can fly."
"You'd be surprised at how fast I can zig and zag." Mrs. Murphy's toes tingled. She unsheathed her claws. "Tell you what. I'll get a head start and you see if you can catch me. Don't pick me up, though, because I haven't hurt you—why hurt me? Just a game, okay?"
"All right." The heron flapped her wings while still standing.
Mrs. Murphy took off like a shot. She raced along the edge of Jones's Creek back toward the cornfields as the heron lifted off to her cruising altitude. She ducked into the cornfields, which infuriated the crows, who soared up like pepper dashed into the sky. They saw the heron approaching and complained at the top of their considerable lungs.
The heron swooped low over the corn calling, "No fair."
"You never said I couldn't seek cover."
The crows dive-bombed back into the corn, forgetting for a moment about Mrs. Murphy, who leapt forward, nearly swatting one iridescent black tail.
"HEY!" The crow clamped its yellow beak together, then zoomed out of there, the others following.
The heron circled, landing at the edge of the cornfield, eyes glittering. Mrs. Murphy walked to the end of the corn row. She was maybe ten feet from the huge creature.
"You could run out and attack me before I could get airborne," the heron taunted the cat.
"Maybe I could, but why would I want to pull feathers from a bird as elegant as yourself?" Mrs. Murphy flattered her. She knew that gleam in the eye, and she didn't trust the heron even though she wasn't on the bird's customary menu.
The compliment pleased the heron. She preened. "Why, thank you." She stepped toward Mrs. Murphy, who didn't back into the corn row. "You know that dead woman back there at the willow?"
"I know who it was. No one I care about, but there's been a rash of murders among the humans."
"Um. My mother used to tell me that she could give me a fish or she could teach me how to fish. Naturally, I was lazy and wanted her to give me the fish. She didn't. She swallowed it right in front of me. It made me so mad." The big beak opened, revealing a bright pink tongue. "But I got the message, and she taught me how to fish. If you don't know how to fish you look at everyone as a free meal or you become bait yourself. I expect that dead thing back there couldn't fish."
"Partly true. She liked fishing in troubled waters." The cat intently watched the heron. Those huge pronged feet looked out of place in the cornfield.
"Ah. Well, I enjoyed talking to you, pussycat. I'm going back to my nest."
"I enjoyed you too."
With that the heron rose in the sky, circling once. Mrs. Murphy walked out of the cornfield, then made a beeline back to the old barn as the heron made a wider circle and cawed out to her below. Even though she felt the heron wouldn't attack, the sound of that caw pushed her into a run. She flew, belly flat to the land, the whole way home.
"Why, Mrs. Murphy, you look as though you've seen a ghost," Harry said as Murphy careened into the barn, her eyes as big as billiard balls.
"No, just Linda Forloines."
Tucker tilted her head. "Not in the best of health, I presume." Then she laughed at her own joke.
"She was useless in life. At least she's useful in death."
"How?"
"Fish food."
"Do you know what you're doing?" Miranda paced, her leather-soled shoes sliding along the worn shiny floorboards of the post office.
The old railroad clock on the wall read 7:20. Darkness had enveloped the small building. The shades were drawn and only a glimmer of light from the back room spilled out under the back window. The front door, kept unlocked, every now and then opened and closed as Crozet residents, on the way home from work or to a party, dashed in and picked up their mail if they had been unable to get there during the day.
As a federal facility, a post office, no less, the front part of the building where the boxes were had to be kept open to the public. The back was locked, and the crenelated door was pulled down to the counter much like a garage door, and locked from behind.
"I'll be at your choir show a tad late," Harry said.
"You shouldn't be here alone. Not with a killer on the loose."
"She's right," Mrs. Murphy, Tucker and Pewter echoed.
Pewter, seeing the light, had sauntered in from next door. "Market's open until eleven, but still someone could sneak in here and he'd never know. He's too busy watching television."
"Harry, come on. You can do this tomorrow."
"I can't. I've got this one little hunch."
"If you're not at our choirfest by intermission, I am calling Rick Shaw. Do you hear me?"
"Yes."
With reluctance, Mrs. Hogendobber closed the door, and Harry locked it behind her.
Working with the mail meant she saw every catalog under the sun. She knew of three hunting catalogs, five gun catalogs, which also featured knives, and one commando catalog for those who envisioned themselves soldiers of fortune. If the police hadn't traced the knives that the killer used, it might very well be because they had confined themselves to local stores.