BoomBoom interjected, “Plus you feel the air from the vents. It’s below body temperature, so it always feels cold.”
“Yes, it does.” He nodded. “However, how many days does the temperature sink like that?” He held up his hands, questioning. “A total of three weeks in the winter. Granted, you might not be as comfortable as you’d like during those three weeks, but you have fireplaces and that helps.”
“Smells great, too.” Harry used her fireplaces throughout the cold, plus she had a wood-burning stove in the basement, which worked wonders in keeping costs down. She kept the door to the basement open; the big stove was equipped with a blower, and the warm air curled up the stairs and throughout the house. She kept her thermostat at sixty-seven degrees, but the old frame house remained toasty.
Depend on Harry to find the least expensive way to do something without compromising value.
“What about oil prices?” Susan asked the obvious, pressing question.
“They’re going to stay erratic, and it’s not just the Middle East.” Nolan leaned back on the big sofa. “As long as Nigeria is unstable and they blow up oil fields, it’ll cost us. That’s a high-grade oil, some of the best in the world. The short answer is: beware.”
“Puts you in a spot,” Folly said.
“Folly”—he turned to her—“it’s more than a spot. I have elderly people on fixed incomes. They won’t be able to pay their heating bills.
If I don’t deliver, they’ll freeze. What do I do? Hurt myself or be a good Samaritan? And it’s going to get worse.“
“You are a good Samaritan, Nolan,” Herb praised him.
“I think, at this time, go with the heat pump. The system she’s selected here should be good for at least thirty years. By that time there has to be better technology available.”
“Nolan, why couldn’t we put in the oil furnace and burn ethanol?” BoomBoom liked technical problems.
“No, no.” He shook his head. “I know that’s hyped as the answer. Someone touts a new technology as the answer and then it isn’t. We’ve got real problems, and I don’t see any shortcuts, despite what the press tells you. Get the heat pump.”
Herb scanned the gathered. “What do you think? Shall we vote on it?”
“I move we vote to buy the heat-pump system selected by Tazio,” Harry said.
“I second the motion.” BoomBoom knew her Robert’s Rules of Order.
“All in favor signify by raising your right hand and saying, ”Aye.“ ” Herb knew them, too. “The ayes have it.” He chuckled because it was unanimous. “Now for the next question. Do we just do here or do we replace the church system, as well?”
A silence followed this. No one wished to scoot the budget into the red, but all realized if they put it off it would cost more later, possibly as much as twenty-five percent more.
Folly had been quieter than usual, but she did smile warmly at Harry, who was glad that she, herself, didn’t carry heavy secrets.
While this discussion unfolded, the cats and corgi played soccer with a canvas frog jammed full with aromatic catnip.
When Pewter got the frog, she inhaled deeply, her pupils enlarged, then she batted the frog and rolled over.
Tucker liked the catnip aroma, but it didn’t have the same effect on her.
After ten minutes of this, the cats were silly. They flopped on their sides and giggled, the frog now between Cazenovia’s paws.
The cats’ giggling—little puffs of expelled air—made Tucker giggle, too. She expelled air, too, but it came out with a bit more force and sounded like, “Ho.”
Most people don’t think that animals can laugh, but cats, dogs, and horses can.
Elocution, on her side, reached out to snag the frog.
“No you don’t.” Cazenovia sank her claws in the canvas with a pleasing crunch sound.
“Did I tell you Mom visited Tazio yesterday?” Mrs. Murphy said to Lucy Fur.
“No, how is she?” Lucy asked.
“Going downhill, Mom thinks. Said she looked worn, thin, just drawn out.” Pewter supplied the information.
“But the big news is, the two rats that live in Poplar Forest destroyed evidence,” Tucker exclaimed.
Mrs. Murphy, Pewter, and Tucker eagerly related how Randolph and Sarah had eaten the bloody towel, as well as how Sarah “smoked” the Virginia Slims.
Lucy Fur licked one paw, then sat up, eyes still large. “Poppy could be in danger.”
“You’re not supposed to tell.” Cazenovia sat up, too.
“We can tell. Poppy can’t tell.”
“What did he do?” Pewter loved Herb, as did they all.
“He didn’t do anything,” Lucy Fur announced firmly. “Letters. Some of his parishioners received threatening letters, and when Will was killed they came to him. Others came when Little Mim stepped forward about her own past.”
“Great day.” Tucker sighed.
“Why didn’t he go to Rick straightaway?” Pewter thought this very strange.
“He can’t. He’s a minister, and if a person confesses to him, that information is sacred. He has been carrying this around, knowing what could happen.” Cazenovia thought her poppy very brave.
“Do you know what was in the letters?” Pewter had a good idea.
“Sure. We all sat there during these tearful confessions. The first letters asked for money, not huge sums, but then the sums escalated. After Will was shot, they really skyrocketed,” Lucy Fur informed them.
Elocution, head more clear now, added, “Greedy.”
Cazenovia, her long calico hair lustrous, worried. “Penny Lattimore came in Tuesday. Her latest letter from Jonathan Bechtal—supposedly from him, anyway—reminded her she was number two on the list if she didn’t pay up. She decided she had to go to Rick and she’d have to tell her husband. She asked Poppy to go with her.”
“Did he?” Mrs. Murphy wanted to be certain of her facts.
“He did. I guess the hard part was telling Marvin that she’d had an affair; the abortion was due to that. Whatever became of that talk, I don’t know.” Elocution took a deep breath. “I do know that Rick and Coop have taken her into protective custody. Even Marvin doesn’t know where she is. They’ve put out this story that she’s missing to see if they can flush out the blackmailer.” Lucy Fur eyed the front of the house.
“Well, that might work,” Pewter said.
“Might,” Cazenovia agreed but qualified it. “But what we’re worried about is, what if the blackmailer figures out that some of his victims have confessed to Poppy? He’ll come after him.”
“I hope not.” Tucker’s voice rose. “Mom thinks that Mike McElvoy may have killed Carla. But if you think about it, he could be part of this. He’s against abortion—Tazio told Mom that—but he presents himself as a reasonable person. So he makes money twice, first through his job, if he has been inventing problems at these construction sites and getting paid off, then through this.”
“I don’t know.” Mrs. Murphy inhaled, for the catnip scent remained strong. “Mike would have to have his hands on Will Wylde’s records and he’d have had to set up Jonathan Bechtal.”
“Set up? Jonathan confessed.” Cazenovia thought that was that.
“I think that Jonathan Bechtal is being used as a cat’s paw, forgive the expression.” Mrs. Murphy’s tiger coat glistened. “Is he a fanatic? Obviously. Does he expect to get out in a few years’ time to enjoy whatever money he and whoever have extorted from the patients? Maybe. But even if he isn’t in this for the money, I’m willing to bet one of my nine lives that he believes the money goes to Love of Life, all the money. If he finds out otherwise, it could get ugly for whoever is on the outside.”
“Mike McElvoy would be that person. And he might have a way into Will’s records if he’s a computer whiz.” Elocution was considering all that had been said.
“He’s up to no good, but is it that bad?” Tucker had learned that Mrs. Murphy eventually found the right path.