Humans fascinated Mrs. Murphy. Their time was squandered in pursuing nonessential objects. Food, clothing, and shelter weren’t enough for them, and they drove themselves and everyone around them crazy, including animals, for their toys. Mrs. Murphy thought cars, a motor toy, absurd. That’s why horses were born. What’s the big hurry, anyway? But if people wanted speed she could accept that—after all, it was a physical pleasure. What she couldn’t accept was that these creatures worked and worked and then didn’t enjoy what they worked for; they were too busy paying for things they couldn’t afford. By the time they paid for the toy it was worn out and they wanted another one. Worse, they weren’t satisfied with themselves. They were always on some self-improvement jag. This astonished Mrs. Murphy. Why couldn’t people just be? But they couldn’t justbe—they had to be the best. Poor sick things. No wonder they died from diseases they brought on themselves.
One of the reasons she loved Harry was that Harry was more animal-like than other people. She loved the outdoors. She wasn’t driven to own a lot of toys. She was happy with what she had. She wished that Harry didn’t have to go to the post office every day but it was fun to see the other people, so if the woman had to work, this wasn’t so bad. However, people disregarded Harry because she wasn’t driven. Mrs. Murphy thought they were foolish. Harry was better than any of them.
Good as Harry was, she displayed the weaknesses of her breed. Mating was complicated for her. Divorce, a human invention, further complicated the simplicity of biology. Also, Harry missed communication from Mrs. Murphy. Although Harry wasn’t afraid of the night, she was vulnerable in it. Perhaps because their eyes are bad, humans feel like prey in the darkness.
Night animals are associated with evil by humans. Bats especially scared them, which Mrs. Murphy thought silly. Humans didn’t know enough about the chain of life to go about killing animals that offended them. They killed bats, coyotes, foxes—the night hunters. Their fears and their inability to comprehend how animals are connected, including themselves, would bring everyone to a sorry state. Mrs. Murphy, semidomesticated and enjoying her closeness to Harry, had no desire to see the nondomesticated animals killed. She understood why the wild animals hated people. Sometimes she hated them, too, except for Harry.
A shadowy movement caught her eye. Her ears moved forward. She inhaled deeply. What was he doing here?
A sleek, handsome Paddy moved toward the back porch.
“Hello, Paddy.”
“Hello, my sweet.” Paddy’s deep purr was hypnotic.“How are you on this fine, soft night?”
“Thinking long thoughts and watching the clouds swirl around the moon. Were you hunting?”
“A little of this and a little of that. I’m out for the medicinal powers of the velvety night air. And what were your long thoughts?” His whiskers sparkled against his black face.
“That the so-called bad animals like coyotes, bats, and snakes are more useful to earth than human drug addicts.”
“I don’t like snakes.”
“But they are useful.”
“Yes. They can be useful far away from me.” He licked his paw and then rubbed his face.“Why don’t you come out and play?”
He was tempting, even though she knew how worthless he was. He was still the best-looking tom in Crozet.“I’ve got to watch over Harry.”
“It’s the middle of the night and she’s safe.”
“I hope so, Paddy. I’m worried about this killer.”
“Oh, that. What’s that got to do with Harry?”
“She’s sticking her nose where it doesn’t belong. Miss Amateur Detective.”
“Does the killer know?”
“That’s just it, isn’t it? We don’t know who it is, only that it’s someone we know.”
“Summer’s a strange time to kill anyone,” Paddy reflected.“I can understand it in the winter when the food supply is low—not that I approve of it. But in the summer there’s enough for everyone.”
“They don’t kill over food.”
“True enough.” Humans bored Paddy.“See those fireflies dancing? That’s what I want to do: dance in the moonlight, sing to the stars, jump straight up at the moon.” He turned a somersault.
“I’m staying inside.”
“Oh, Mrs. Murphy, you’ve become much too serious. I remember you when you would chase sunbeams. You even chased me.”
“I did not. You chased me.” Her fur ruffled.
“Ha, all the girls chased me. I thought it was wonderful to be chased by a bright tiger lass whose name, of all things, was Mrs. Murphy. Humans give us the silliest names.”
“Paddy, you’re full of catnip and moonshine.”
“Not Muffy or Skippy or Snowball or Scooter or even Rambette, but Mrs. Murphy.” He shook his head.
“I was named for Harry’s maternal grandmother and well you know it.”
“I thought they named their children after their grandparents, not their cats. Oh, come on out here. For old times’ sake.”
“Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me,” Mrs. Murphy said with firmness but without rancor.
He sighed.“I’m faithful in my fashion. I’m here tonight, aren’t I?”
“And you can keep on going.”
“You’re a hard girl, M.M.” He was the only animal that called her M.M.
“No, just a wise one. But you can do me a favor.”
“What?” He grinned.
“If you hear or see or smell anything that seems suspicious, tell me.”
“I will. Now stop worrying about it. Time will do justice all around.” He flicked his luxurious tail to the vertical and trotted off.
22
The dark-red doors of Crozet Lutheran Church reflected the intense heat of the morning. Outside the church, sweltering, shuffled the camera crews from television stations in Washington, D.C., Richmond, and Charlottesville. What little peace remained in the town was shattered by the news teams, whose producers decided to bump up the story. The second murder was God’s gift to producers in the summer news doldrums.
Inside the simple church, people huddled together, unsure of who was friend and who was foe, although externally everyone acted the same: friendly.
The casket, adorned with a beautiful spray of white lilies, rested before the altar railing. Josiah forgot nothing. Two chaste floral displays stood on either side of the gold altar cross. Maude’s Crozet friends filled the church with flowers. Few knew her well but only one among the congregation wanted her dead. The others truly mourned Maude, as much for her as for themselves. She added something to the town and she would be missed.
The organ music, Bach, filled the church with somber majesty.
Sitting at the rear of the church and to the side was Rick Shaw. He was impressed that Josiah DeWitt and Ned Tucker canvassed the townspeople for this funeral. Ned refused to divulge who gave what but Rick shrewdly allowed Josiah the opportunity to tell all, which he did.
People of modest means, like Mary Minor Haristeen, gave as generously as they could. Mim Sanburne gave a bit more and begrudged every penny. Jim gave separately—a lot. The biggest surprise was Bob Berryman, who contributed $1,000. Apparently Bob’s wife, a portly woman determined to wear miniskirts, was kept ignorant of this bequest until Josiah’s judicious hints reached even her. Linda Berryman, glued to her husband’s side, appeared more grim thansad.
After the mercifully short service, Reverend Jones, preceded by an acolyte, walked down the aisle to the front door. He stopped for a moment. Rick saw him wince. The good reverend did not want the camera crews to sully the sanctity of this moment. But the doors must open and news ratings meant more to producers than human decency. Reverend Jones nodded slightly and the acolyte opened the door.