Mim chimed in, "I remember that. He said he couldn't go on without Marylou. It was her sport. He'd officiate but he'd run no more horses. What an actor he was."
"When Marylou disappeared, the two prime suspects were Arthur and Mickey Townsend for obvious reasons. We had no way of knowing whether Marylou was even dead, though. Technically we had no crime, we had no victim, we had a missing person," Rick said.
"And Arthur was a most conscientious executor of Marylou's will." Jim Sanburne hooked his fingers in his belt.
"Well, then, what happened to start this killing spree?" Fair stretched his bandaged leg out slowly. It felt better if he moved it around every now and then.
"Sargent came back," Cynthia said. "Wooed Addie. And stirred up Coty, who had been content up until then, to make more demands."
"Oh, that must have scared the bejesus out of Arthur," Herbie blurted out.
"Not as much as seeing Marylou's St. Christopher's medal around Addie's neck before the Colonial Cup," Cynthia said.
"He thought she knew?" Miranda questioned.
"He realized Sargent or Coty must have taken the medal. He feared Nigel—Sargent—had told Addie and that she would tell Rick after the race. Imagine his shock when he saw that royal blue medal just before she went out on the course," Rick said.
"I know how shocked I was to see it." Mim shook her head.
"Sargent and Coty were bleeding him heavily. He had no designs other than killing them. Addie upset the applecart," Cynthia added.
"What about Linda and Will? They're still missing."
Rick held up his palms, "Don't know. We have no idea if they're alive. Their absence is certainly not lamented and I doubt Arthur would need to kill them. I don't think they knew anything. We only know that sooner or later drug dealers sometimes get what they deserve."
As the group talked, Harry fed the cats and dog tidbits from the ham sandwiches Market had brought over.
"What was the significance of the queens?" Mim asked.
"Arthur said that was just meant to drive us all nuts. The bloody queen, he said and laughed in my face. Marylou was a bloody queen when she dumped him for Mickey. Arthur exploded . . . and strangled her."
"Addie is lucky to be alive," Miranda said softly. "Poor children. What they've been through."
"Yes." Mim reached in her purse for a handkerchief to dab her eyes.
Mrs. Murphy chimed in, "Men like Arthur aren't accustomed to rejection."
"Here, have some more ham." Miranda offered a piece to the cat since she interpreted the meows as requests for food.
"I bet he ran Mickey Townsend off the road that terrible rainy day—he was quietly going out of control." Miranda remembered that cold day.
Harry watched Pewter as she reached up and snagged half of a ham sandwich. "Market, we should share Pewter. What if I take her home with me every night, but she can work in the store during the day and work here, too?"
"Yes!" Pewter meowed.
Market laughed, "Think of the money I'll save."
"Yeah, Pewter's a lion under the lard," Mrs. Murphy teased her friend.
The phone rang. Harry answered it, "Oh, hello, Mrs. Carpenter. You can? That's great. Let me give you my credit card number." Harry reached into her purse, pulled out a credit card, and read off her number.
"What are you buying?" Miranda demanded.
"L.L. Bean is making me a special pair of duck boots in my size, with twelve-inch uppers."
Poised on a hay bale, Mrs. Murphy waited. Pewter stayed inside with Harry. Mrs. Murphy rather liked having another cat around. Tucker didn't mind either.
There'd been so much commotion this weekend, she needed to be alone to collect her thoughts. She heard the squeaks from inside the hay bale. When an unsuspecting mouse darted out, with a jet-fast pounce Mrs. Murphy had her.
"Gotcha!"
The mouse stayed still under the cat's paws. "Make it fast. I don't want to suffer."
Mrs. Murphy carefully lifted the corner of her paw to behold those tiny obsidian eyes. She remembered the help of Mim's barn mice. "Oh, go on. I just wanted to prove to you that I'm faster than you."
"You aren't going to kill me?"
"No, but don't run around where Harry can see you."
"I won't." The tiny creature streaked back into the hay bale, and Mrs. Murphy heard excited squeals. Then she walked outside the barn and watched through the kitchen window. Harry was filling up her teapot, a task she performed at least twice a day. Mrs. Murphy was struck by how divine, how lovely, how unique such a mundane task could be. She purred, realizing how lucky she was, how lucky they all were to be alive on this crisp fall day.
Harry, glancing out of the kitchen window, observed Mrs. Murphy, tail to the vertical, come out of the barn.
The phone rang.
"Hello."
"Harry, it's Boom Boom. You were supposed to go with me to Lifeline last week, but considering all the excitement I didn't call. How about Monday at one o'clock?"
"Sure."
"I'll pick you up at the P.O."
"Fine."
"See you then. Bye-bye." Boom Boom signed off.
"Damn!" Harry hung up the phone. She looked out at Mrs. Murphy in the sunlight and thought how wonderful, how glorious, how relaxing it must be to be a cat.
Dear Highly Intelligent Feline:
Tired of the same old ball of string? Well, I've developed my own line of catnip toys, all tested by Pewter and me. Not that I love for Pewter to play with my little sockies, but if I don't let her, she shreds my manuscripts. You see how that is!
Just so the humans won't feel left out, I've designed a T-shirt for them.
If you'd like to see how creative I am, write to me and I'll send you a brochure.
Sneaky Pie's Flea Market
c/o American Artists, Inc.
P.O. Box 4671
Charlottesville , VA 22905
In felinity,
SNEAKY PIE BROWN
P.S. Dogs, get a cat to write for you