Cat on the Scent (24 page)

50

Sir H. Vane-Tempest noticed the peculiar waxiness of the magnolias—grandifloras—he'd planted along his southern drive. The long shadows of late afternoon heightened the colors and the sense of melancholy at the day's passing.

A troop of gardeners worked behind the house.

Usually the garden delighted him. Vane-Tempest was not a man to delight in people, since he viewed all relationships as a power struggle, a struggle he must win in order to feel important. He saw people in terms of a vertical scale. Perhaps the Windsor family ranked above him, certain Rothschilds and Von Thyssens, but he believed he sat very near the pinnacle. Usually that fact thrilled him.

Since reading Tareq's transcription he'd been unthrilled, indeed, deeply miserable.

“The days are drained into time's cup and I've drunk it dry,” he whispered to himself, turning on his heel to go inside.

He stopped, turned around, and looked again at the gardens. He noticed Sarah walking among the workers. Her beauty soared beyond explanation, like the beauty of creamy peonies. It just was.

He turned once more and walked into the house. He strolled down the long parquet-floor hallway, barely noticing the Monet. He strode into Sarah's room, opened her closet, clicked on the lights, and closed the door behind him.

Row upon row of cashmere sweaters in plastic see-through boxes attested to her acquisitiveness as well as to her insight into the fact that she was valuable only as long as she was beautiful.

He headed for the long rows of canvas garment bags. He unzipped them one by one. Sumptuous evening gowns of emerald, sapphire, ruby, silver, white, and gold spilled over the sides of the opened bags. He could picture his wife in each of these extravagantly expensive confections.

He reached into the bottom of each garment bag, swished around with his hand, then moved to the next one. The last bag tucked in the cedar-lined closet swayed slightly.

He opened it. The zipper clicked as the tab moved down. Her shimmering peach gown fluttered. He reached down. Nothing.

The door opened. “H., what are you doing?”

“Where is it?”

“What?” She noticed the shine on his brow, the gleam in his eye.

“Your uniform.”

“What uniform?”

“Don't play games with me. You dressed up and shot me. Archie doesn't have the guts.”

“I did no such thing.”

“Liar!” He lunged toward her but the closet was huge.

She slammed the door, locked it, and cut off the lights. She took her unregistered snub-nosed .38 out of the nightstand by her bed and threw it into her purse. Then she ran like hell for her car.

51

Harry was just turning into her driveway when Sarah flew past her without waving, her car a blur.

She stopped at her mailbox, watching as Sarah turned into Blair's driveway a quarter of a mile down the road.

“I wonder—” she said out loud, then shook her head. “Nah.”

Sarah roared up to the house, parked her car next to the Porsche, and ran to the door.

“Archie! Archie!”

Archie, who'd just come back from dragging the U-Haul to Tally's, was surprised to see Sarah burst through the doorway, even more surprised when she flung herself into his arms.

“I think I'll go to my office.” Blair, who'd been helping Archie, put his papers in a box, then walked upstairs.

Sarah waited until she heard the door close. “He's going to kill me.”

“H.?”

“Archie, I've got to get out of here. Help me!”

“Why does he want to kill you?”

“Because I tried to kill him.”

“What!”

“It
was
me at Oak Ridge. You were right. I dressed as a soldier, just as you said. Those damned old rifles—it's a wonder anybody hit the broad side of a barn during that war.”

Archie held her at arm's length. “Sarah, you really shot H. Vane?”

“I'm only sorry I missed killing him.”

“He knows?” Archie was amazed.

“He thinks he knows. I caught him in my closet going through my garment bags—looking for the uniform, damn his eyes. Well, he won't find it. I'm not stupid. I burned the thing.”

“So he has no proof?”

“No, but what does that matter? He's in a rage. He'll kill me if he finds me and he's so rich he'll get off. People like him always do.”

“Why did you want to kill him?” Archie coolly asked.

“Because I couldn't stand his fat body one more minute. Because I hate him. I hate the sight of him. You've never been a servant, Archie, you wouldn't understand.”

“You were a very well-paid one.”

Sensing his withdrawal, she said, “I couldn't tell you. You would have tried to stop me. As long as he's alive I can't be with you. And why should I go to the poorhouse? I've worked for that money. If he caught us together my divorce would be an open-and-shut case. Shut the door. Bang.”

“I see.”

“Archie, help me!” She threw her arms around him.

“Where is he now?”

“Locked in my closet. He'll eventually break the door down. His shoulder still hurts but he's strong. You've got to hide me until I can figure something out.”

“Jesus, Sarah, didn't your mother tell you, Look before you leap?”

“If I'd done that I'd never have fallen in love with you.”

“I wish I believed that.” He sighed. Beautiful women acquired men like dogs acquire fleas. All they had to do was walk through a room.

“Did you shoot Tommy? Tell me the truth this time.”

“No. I loved Tommy once.” She looked him square in the eye. “He had magic. It didn't last long but I was so miserable with H. Archie, can't you understand?”

“I—”

“He'll kill me!”

“All right. All right.” He stroked her hair.

Try as he might, he couldn't stop loving her. He kissed her. “Everything will be all right.” He walked to the foot of the stairs. “Blair.”

The door opened. “Yes.”

“I'm taking Sarah to the airport.”

Blair clomped halfway down the stairs. “Everything okay?”

“No,” Sarah tearfully confessed. “Blair, I can explain everything later. I just have to get out of here.”

Archie hustled her into his Land Rover. Blair watched them start down the driveway. If he'd watched longer he would have seen that Archie turned right out of his driveway, not left toward the airport.

52

Pewter wedged herself underneath the camellia bush. She felt certain the blue jay would perch there and since she'd squeezed herself in and was still, he wouldn't notice.

Hunting was best in the morning or late afternoon. No animal likes to go to bed on an empty stomach. She knew she could grab the blue jay. She'd even gone to the trouble of scattering about bread crusts, which she fished out of the garbage when Harry's back was turned.

Pewter dreamed of ways to dispatch the bird, her favorite being a straight vertical leap, grasping the offender between her mighty paws, pulling him to the ground, and staring him in the eye before breaking his neck.

“She who laughs last laughs best!” she told herself, revving her motor.

She was ready!

Pop.

Mrs. Murphy, sitting on the haywagon next to the barn, out of Pewter's way, heard it, too. She looked out toward Harry, who'd been inspired by the vision of that new John Deere to get up on Johnny Pop and overseed the front acres. Harry rolled along, the small seeder attached to the back of the tractor.

“Pewter.”

Pewter wouldn't answer.

Tucker, half-asleep under the haywagon, did.
“What?”

“Hear that?”

“Yes.”

“That wasn't Johnny Pop.”
Mrs. Murphy was worried.

The old tractor would
pop, pop, pop
along but this
pop
was crisp.

Pop!

“Pewter, get out from under there. We've got to get to Blair's.”

Pewter backed farther underneath the camellia bush.
She'll do anything to spoil this. She
doesn't
think I can kill the blue jay. She thinks she's the Great Striped Hunter. I'll show her,
she thought to herself.

Mrs. Murphy peeled off the haywagon, covering eight feet in the launch without even pushing hard. Tucker scrambled out.

Pewter noticed the two racing across the fields toward Blair's house. Torn, she grumbled, then slowly extricated herself from her perfect hiding place.

“Fatso!”
The blue jay, who'd been perched on the weathervane on top of the barn, screamed as he swooped over Pewter's head.

She leapt up, twisting in the air, but missed.
“You're toast,”
she threatened but hurried after Mrs. Murphy and Tucker. The jay dive-bombed her part of the way, shrieking with delight.

Mrs. Murphy didn't turn to look for Pewter or wait.

Pewter switched on the afterburners, her ears swept back, her whiskers flat against her face, her tail level to the ground. She veered right toward the creek, then dropped down onto the bank, ran alongside, found a shallow place, and ran through the water. No time to fool around and find another path. She reached Mrs. Murphy and Tucker as they crossed over by the old graveyard on the hill. The three animals flew down to Blair's house.

“Too late,”
Mrs. Murphy said.

Blair sat in his car, the door open. Blood ran down his forehead, marring the leather seat. He was slumped over to the right, his long torso behind the gearshift, his head on the passenger seat. The motor was running. He appeared to have been shot.

Tucker licked his hand but Blair didn't move.

Sarah Vane-Tempest's car was parked in front of the barn. Archie Ingram's car was gone.

Mrs. Murphy jumped into his lap. Pewter followed by gingerly stepping onto the floor on the driver's side. The car was in neutral. Blair's left foot was on the clutch, his right had turned up sideways.

“Where's he hit?”
Tucker stood on her hind legs.

“I don't know.”

“His legs are okay.”
Pewter sniffed for blood.
“What about his head?”

Mrs. Murphy put her nose to Blair's nose. She sniffed his lips, put a paw on his lower lip, and pulled it down.
“Gums are white.”

“But is he hit in the head?”

“There's a lot of blood, but I can only see the left side of his face.”

“Put your nose to the seat. See if you smell blood or powder,”
Tucker advised.

Murphy carefully laid the side of her face on the seat, her eye level with Blair's closed one.
“Blood's oozing on the seat. Must be the right side of his head,”
she said, cool in a crisis.
“Pewter, sit in his lap and lean on the horn. I'll keep licking him.”

Pewter, both paws on the horn, put her weight into it. The horn sounded.

“Who's going to hear it?”
Tucker sat down.
“Archie's not here. Mom's on her tractor.”

“He's in a bad way.”
Murphy kept licking Blair's face.
“We've got to do something fast.”

“Let's think.”
Pewter, over with Murphy now, put her paw on Blair's wrist. His pulse was erratic.

“We could run back to Harry,”
Pewter said.

“She's on the tractor. Can't hear us. She might not notice us. We've got to convince her to come over here.”
Murphy checked the gearshift on the floor.
“Tucker, are you thinking what I'm thinking?”

“It's his only chance,”
the dog solemnly said.

“I wish somebody would tell me!”
an upset gray kitty exploded.

“We're going to drive this sucker,”
Murphy resolutely stated.

“You're out of your mind!”

“Pewter, go home then,”
Murphy sharply told her.
“Tucker, give him a shove.”

Tucker nudged Blair with her front paws and her head. He slowly slumped over just a bit more.

“Pewter, are you in or out of this car?”

“I'm in. What do you want me to do?”

“We've got to get the car in first gear.”

“His foot is on the clutch,”
Pewter said.

“Okay, Tucker, can you fit in down there?”

“Yes.”

“Sit on his foot while Pewter and I push the gearshift into first. Then slowly move his foot off the clutch and we'll steer.”

“Won't work. We'll stall out,”
Tucker panted.
“The trick is, I have to get his foot off the clutch and mine on the gas pedal. Luckily his foot isn't on the gas pedal.”

“We have to get this right on the first try.”
Murphy crawled over into Blair's lap while Pewter sat in the passenger seat, patting his face with her paw.

The idea was for Murphy to push the shift stick from the top while Pewter pulled from the bottom.

“Ready?”
Murphy tersely asked.

“Yes,”
the other two replied.

The cats moved the gearshift into first. That part was easy. The next part was hard because if they stalled out they'd have to turn the key and feed gas at the same time. They didn't think they could do that.

“Tucker, it's better if we shoot ahead than stall out,”
Murphy advised.

Pewter had joined her in the driver's seat. She stood on her hind legs, staring out the window. Murphy sat in Blair's lap, her paws on the bottom of the steering wheel.

“God, I hope this car is as responsive as all those ads say it is.”
Murphy sent up a little prayer to the Great Cat in the sky for Blair.
“Let's go.”

Tucker pushed off Blair's foot as she pushed down on the gas pedal with her right paw. The car lurched forward and sputtered.

“More gas.”

Tucker, both feet free now, pressed on the accelerator.

The car smoothly accelerated at amazing speed.

“Keep on the road! Not so much gas!”

“Help me,”
Murphy called out.

Pewter, claws unleashed, sank them into the leather steering wheel. She struggled to keep the car on the gravel driveway. Even a small motion turned the wheels.
“Tucker, let up a little,”
Pewter screamed.

“I'm trying.”
Tucker took her full weight off the flat pedal.
“We've got it now. We got it.”

“What are we going to do when we get to the paved road?”
Pewter shivered with fear.

“Pray that no car is coming our way because if we stop we won't get started again.”

Pewter, eyes huge, chin quivering, steered for all she was worth. By God, she might be afraid but she wasn't a coward.

They reached the end of Blair's long driveway. A truck was past them on the right. With all their might the two cats turned the wheel to the left. The car door still hung wide open.

“Not too much! Not too much!”
Pewter directed.

“More?”
Tucker couldn't see a thing. This was truly an act of blind faith.

“No, keep it right like it is, Tucker. You're doing great. Okay, okay, here's our driveway. Another left. Not too much, it's curvy.”
Murphy kept her voice calm.

“Slow, slow. Oh no—there's another car!”
Pewter's fur stood on end.

“He sees us. He's not going to hit us without messing himself up.”

The car swerved around them, horn honking.

“Asshole!”
Murphy spat.
“Yeah, okay, now keep your eyes on the road, Pewts. We'll make it.”
The car dropped down a bit on the dirt road; the stones had moved to the sides, as they always do. It's a waste of money putting stone on a driveway, but who can afford macadam?

“I see Mom!”
Pewter almost wept with relief.

“Tucker, keep it steady. We have to roll past her line of vision. Okay, okay, she sees us. Pewter, hit the horn.”

Pewter laid on that horn for all she was worth.

“Off?”

“Yeah.”

Tucker lifted her weight off the gas pedal. The car shuddered to a stop. Harry stopped the tractor and hit the ground running. She tore over her newly seeded field.

“Oh my God,” was all she could say when she reached the stalled-out Turbo. She put it in neutral, started it, then picked up the activated car phone and dialed 911.

“Crozet Emergency—” Diana Robb didn't get to finish her sentence.

“Diana. Harry. Blair's in my driveway. He's been shot. There's blood everywhere. For God's sake, hurry!”

She dropped the phone. She was shaking so hard that Tucker, now on the ground, licked her hands. Then she remembered to turn off the motor. She no longer needed the power for the telephone. Harry felt Blair's pulse, which was surprisingly strong. Fearful of moving him, she ran around to the passenger side of the car and opened the door. The two cats got out of the car and looked up at her blankly.

Within minutes they heard the siren. The rescue squad halted behind the Porsche. Diana reached Blair first.

“Call the E.R. Let's get him out of here.”

“Is he going to make it?”

“I don't know.” Diana held his head. “Help me lift him upright from the passenger side. We'll slide him out on the driver's side.” She turned to Harry. “How did he ever make it over here?”

“If I told you, you wouldn't believe me.”

The animals watched, tears in their eyes, their ears drooping.

As Harry and Diana lifted out the injured man, Joe Farham, Diana's assistant, rolled out the gurney from the back of the ambulance.

The three humans gently placed Blair on the gurney.

Joe took Blair's pulse as Diana, still stabilizing his head, examined the wound.

“I can't find an entry point.” She stared at the bloody right side of Blair's head.

Blair moaned.

“Dear God, what can I do to help him!” Harry, in tears, cried.

“Take a couple of deep breaths. We'll get him to the E.R. as fast as we can. You wait for Rick to get here. I'll call for him on my way to the hospital. Oh, Harry, don't touch the car. Okay?”

“Okay.” Harry wiped her eyes.

Joe had shut the ambulance doors and hopped into the driver's seat as Diana jumped in next to Blair, closing the doors behind her. They hit the siren and flew down the gravel road as Harry tried to collect herself.

“Please let Blair live,”
Tucker whimpered.

“I don't believe what I saw.” Harry cried anew, reaching down to stroke her animals. “You guys are heroes.”

“We couldn't let him die. He has a fighting chance,”
Murphy solemnly said.

Harry sat down on the grass to wait for Sheriff Shaw.