Cynthia mustered a smile. “Why?”
Naomi shrugged. “Habit.”
“What did Roscoe have against Sandy Brashiers?”
“Roscoe always had it in for Harvard men. He said the arrogance of their red robes infuriated him. You know, during academic ceremonies only Harvard wears the crimson robe.”
“Do you have any feeling about the false obituaries?” Cynthia prodded.
“Those?” Naomi wrinkled her brow. “Kids’ prank. Sean apolo gized.”
“Do you think he was also responsible for the second one?”
“No. I think it was a copycat. Sean got the luxury of being a bad dude. Very seductive at that age. Another boy wanted the glory. Is it that important?”
“It might be.” Rick reached for his hat.
“Have you searched April Shively’s house?” Naomi asked.
“House, car, office, even her storage unit. Nothing.”
Naomi stood up to usher them out. “She doesn’t live high on the hog. I don’t think she embezzled funds.”
“She could be covering up for someone else.” Cynthia reached the door first.
“You mean Roscoe, of course.” Naomi didn’t miss a beat. “Why not? He’s dead. He can be accused of anything. You have to find criminals in order to keep your jobs, don’t you?”
Rick halted at the door as Naomi’s hand reached the knob. “You work well with Sandy, don’t you? Under the circumstances?”
“Yes.”
“Did you know that Sandy got a student pregnant at White Academy, the school he worked at before St. Elizabeth’s?”
Cooper struck next. “Roscoe knew.”
“You two have been very busy.” Her lips tightened.
“Like you said, Mrs. Fletcher, we have to find criminals in order to keep our jobs.” Rick half smiled.
She grimaced and closed the door.
60
Mrs. Murphy leaned against the pillow on the sofa. She stretched her right hind leg out straight and held it there. Then she unsheathed her claws and stared at her toes. What stupendously perfect toes. She repeated the process with the left hind leg. Then she reached with her front paws together, a kitty aerobic exercise. Satisfied, she lay back on the pillow, happily staring into the fire. She reviewed in her mind recent events.
Harry dusted her library shelves, a slow process since she’d take a book off the shelf, read passages, and then replace it. A light snow fell outside, which made her all the happier to be inside.
Tucker snored in front of the fire. Pewter, curled in a ball at the other end of the sofa, dreamed of tiny mice singing her praise. “0 Mighty Pewter, Queen of Cats.”
“Lord of the Flies.” Harry pulled the old paperback off the shelf. “Had to read it in college, but I hated it.” She dropped to the next shelf. “Fielding, love him. Austen.” She turned to Mrs. Murphy. “Literature is about sensibility. Really, Murphy, John Milton is one of the greatest poets who ever lived, but he bores me silly. I have trouble liking any art form trying to beat a program into my head. I suppose it’s the difference between the hedgehog and the fox.”
“Isaiah Berlin.” Mrs. Murphy recalled the important work of criticism dividing writers into hedgehogs or foxes, hedgehogs being fixed on one grand idea or worldview whereas foxes ran through the territory; life was life with no special agenda. That was how she thought of it anyway.
“What I mean is, Murphy, readers are hedgehogs or foxes. Some people read to remember. Some read to forget. Some read to be challenged. Others want their prejudices confirmed.”
“Whydo you read, Mother?” the cat asked.
“I read,” Harry said, knowing exactly what her cat had asked her, “for the sheer exultant pleasure of the English language.”
“Ah, me, too.” The tiger purred. Harry couldn’t open a book without Mrs. Murphy sitting on her shoulder or in her lap.
Sometimes Pewter would read, but she favored mysteries or thrillers. Pewter couldn’t raise her sights above genre fiction.
Mrs. Murphy thought the gray cat might read some diet books as well. She stretched and walked over to Harry. She jumped on a shelf to be closer to Harry’s face. She scanned the book spines, picking out her favorites. She enjoyed biographies more than Harry did. She stopped at Michael Powell’s My Life In The Movies.
She blinked and leapt off the shelf, cuffing Tucker awake. “Come on, Tucker, come on.”
“I’m so comfortable.”
“Just follow me.” She skidded out the animal door, Tucker on her heels.
“What in God’s name gets into her?” Harry held The Iliad.
Forty-five minutes later both animals, winded, pulled up at Bowden’s pond where the Camry and the grisly remains still sat, undiscovered by humans.
“Tucker, you cover the east side of the pond. I’ll cover the west. Look for a video or a can of film.”
Both animals searched through the snow, which was beginning to cover the ground; still the shapes would have been obvious.
An hour later they gave up.
“Nothing,” Tucker reported.
“Me either.”
A growl made their hair stand on end.
“The bobcat!” Mrs. Murphy charged up the slippery farm road, leaping the ruts. Tucker, fast as grease, ran beside her.
They reached the cutover hayfields, wide open with no place to hide.
“She’s gaining on us.” Tucker’s tongue hung out.
And she was, a compact, powerful creature, tufts on the ends of her ears.
“This is my fault.” The cat ached from running so hard.
“Save your breath.” Tucker whirled to confront the foe, her long fangs bared.
The bobcat stopped for a moment. She wanted dinner, but she didn’t want to get hurt. She loped around Tucker, deciding Murphy was the better chance. Tucker followed the bobcat.
“Run, Murphy, run. I’ll keep her busy.”
“You domesticated worm,” the bobcat spat.
Seeing her friend in danger, Murphy stopped panting. She puffed up, turning to face the enemy. Together she and Tucker flanked the bobcat about twenty yards from her.
The bobcat crouched, moving low toward Mrs. Murphy, who jumped sideways. The bobcat ran and flung herself in the air. Murphy sidestepped her. The big cat whirled and charged just as Tucker hurtled toward her. The dog hit the bobcat in the legs as she was ready to pounce on Murphy. The bobcat rolled, then sprang to her feet. Both friends were side to side now, fangs bared.
“In here!” a voice called from the copse of trees a spring away.
“Let’s back toward it,” Murphy gasped.
“Where are we going?” Tucker whispered.
“To the trees.”
“She’s more dangerous there than in the open.”
“It’s our only hope.”
“You two are worthless.” The bobcat stalked them, savoring the moment.
“That’s your opinion.” Mrs. Murphy growled deep in her throat.
“You’re the hors d’oeuvre, your canine sidekick is the main meal.”
“Don’t count your chickens.” Murphy spun around and flew over the snow.
Tucker did likewise, the bobcat closing in on her. She heard breathing behind her and then saw Mrs. Murphy dive into a fox hole. Tucker spun around and snapped at the bobcat’s forelegs, which caught her completely by surprise. It gave Tucker the split second she needed to dive into the fox hole after her friend.
“I can wait all night,” the bobcat muttered.
“Don’t waste time over spilt milk,” Mrs. Murphy taunted.
“I’m glad some of you are big foxes.” Tucker panted on the floor of the den. “I’d have never gotten into your earth otherwise.”
The slight red vixen said to Murphy, “You told me once to stay in the shed during a bad storm. I owe you one.”
“You’ve more than repaid me.” Murphy listened as the bobcat prowled around, unwilling to give up.
“What were you two doing out here tonight?”
“Looking for a film or a video back where the dead human in the car is,” Tucker said.