Cat on the Scent (26 page)

60

On a glorious afternoon the following week, Sarah Vane-Tempest was directing her gardeners. H. Vane-Tempest, in a cashmere-and-linen turtleneck, worked in his secondary office, used only in good weather, a twenty-by-twenty glassed-in porch with French doors across the entire breadth. He could open all the doors on an especially good day.

He had little sense of the ordinary work week. He did whatever he wanted whenever he wanted and expected his help to be there. For this demanding schedule he paid quite well.

Seated across from him, Howard Fenton organized blue-covered legal packets, twelve of them. His assistant, a young man fresh out of Yale Law, carefully double-checked each document.

Vane-Tempest, using a fountain pen, the only appropriate writing utensil, signed the last one. Behind him stood his two secretaries, whose function today was to witness the documents and affix their signatures to the bottoms.

Howard viewed the two men—Vane-Tempest would employ only male secretaries, multilingual at that. “Does the subject appear to be in full possession of his mental faculties?”

“Yes,” they answered in chorus.

“Does he appear to sign this document freely and without coercion?”

“Yes.”

Vane-Tempest raised an eyebrow. “Would you like my blood type?”

Howard, humorless, replied, “Not necessary, sir.”

“Next.” Vane-Tempest held out his hand, his ultrathin watch half hidden by his cuff.

The Yale Law graduate handed him another legal-sized document. This one had beige covers to distinguish it from the others.

“Mmm.” Vane-Tempest read quickly. He understood the law quite well for a civilian. Then, too, those many decades of business, real estate, and one jarring divorce had taught him the basics: Screw them before they screw you.

In this instance he wasn't interested in besting someone. He was acting with largesse.

“I think you'll find it is just as you dictated, sir. . . .”

“I know, Howard, but it's a damn fool who signs a contract without reading it, even if he did dictate it. If you're bored,”—his voice dripped acid and well it should, since he kept this law firm on a million-dollar retainer—“walk with my beautiful wife in her beautiful garden.”

“I'm not bored.”

“I'm so glad to hear it.” He read on and ten minutes later signed the beige-covered documents, again twelve copies.

The black ink, specially purchased from Italy for its richness of hue, glistened on the last page of the last document. Vane-Tempest blew on the page.

The young assistant surreptitiously sneaked a glance at Sarah, the lush light outlining her breathtaking features.
This is what money buys,
he thought to himself.

“Shall I hand deliver the Teotan papers to Mr. Bainbridge?”

“Yes. Mr. Bainbridge, as you know, is in hospital. Don't tire him.”

“Despite his injuries I do believe this will revive his spirits.”

“Hope so, Howard. Nasty business. The police will never find the criminal. They never do, you know. You Americans display a curious disregard for punishment and deterrence.”

“Sir?” Howard stood as his client got to his feet.

“If you catch them you let them off on parole. If they're in jail they work out with weights or watch TV. Devil's Island, by God, send them to Devil's Island. You'll see your crime statistics plunge.”

“I agree.” And he did.

“Off with you, then.” Vane-Tempest smiled genially as Secretary Number One showed the two lawyers the front door.

He clasped his hands behind his back. Butterflies covered his Italian lilacs, late bloomers, but everything was late this year.

He strode outside feeling better than he had in a while. Putting his arm around Sarah's shoulders, he guided her to the expanse of manicured lawn, the croquet pitch, facing the north. The direct western view, the best mountain views, he wisely left unmolested, the lawn merging with the edge of a hayfield.

“Spring. Finally. Unequivocally.”

“Yes.”

“I have resigned my interest and by extension your interest in Teotan,” Vane-Tempest informed his wife.

“What?” Dismay read over her face.

He held up his hand. “Patience. Hear me out. I have turned over the corporation to Blair, to which he has agreed. He has only to sign the documents I have prepared and Teotan is his with my investment. I apologized for taking out my jealousy on him and speaking harshly to him. He apologized for an ‘immoral escapade.' Exact words.”

“What about me?”

“I thought we could go into business together. The two of us. What would you like?”

Turning to view her garden she replied, with a hint of determination and excitement, “A nursery. A wholesale business to supply the landscape architects.”

“How interesting. I thought you might pick a dress shop or a theater.”

“A nursery. It's healthier.” She beamed at him.

“So it is.”

“H., why are you relinquishing Teotan? There are other ways to buy off Blair Bainbridge.”

“The fellow doesn't have to be bought off. He doesn't remember much about that afternoon. Not uncommon with head injuries, I'm told. So let's just call it insurance . . . in case he does remember on some distant day. Besides, I think it imprudent for us to be in business with your former lover. I thought I was very clever in keeping Blair and Tommy close to me. They never suspected, I know, and I had ample time to study them. Archie, however, was a complete and dismal surprise.” He didn't admit that he figured out about Blair from hearing her answer Archie's accusation during their tryst in Archie's office. He knew from the tone of her voice.

Not missing a beat, she said, “I hated you, H. You dismissed me.”

“How did you keep all those balls in the air, forgive the pun.” He heard what she said but changed the subject.

“I've always been good at scheduling.” She stifled a laugh.

“Did you love any of them?”

“No. Blair is a sweet fellow but too languid, ultimately. And that
was
the briefest of affairs, H. Two weeks.”

“Tommy Van Allen?”

“A flameout. It was fading before he died.” She bit her lower lip, turning to face her husband. “I hated you and I wanted to hurt you. Don't change the subject. I wanted to hurt you, Henry. You hurt me.”

H. Vane-Tempest could withstand news, no matter how bad, as long as he was the center of it. “You succeeded.”

“I'm desperately sorry.”

“No, you're not. But you will behave and we will create a successful nursery. And I suggest you give Mrs. Woo a great deal of business, for all the trouble you've caused her.” As Sarah remained silent he continued. “The reason you'll behave, Sarah, is that I changed my will just now. If my death is in any way suspicious you inherit nothing. Nothing. You do understand?”

“I understand that you will live a long and healthy life.” She kissed him on the cheek.

“You had pluck trying to kill me. I underestimated you, undervalued you. That won't happen again.”

“You killed Tommy Van Allen, didn't you?”

He shrugged. “I doubt Rick Shaw will solve that crime.”

“Henry, I know you . . .”

“Tommy Van Allen was an impulsive fool. He had enough cocaine in his bloodstream to kill three people. The rest was window dressing.” He neglected to mention that he had shot the cocaine into Tommy's veins. Cocaine was ridiculously easy to get in this wealthy county. She stuck her thumb in the waistband of her wraparound skirt. “Teotan is, I should think, generous recompense to Blair.” She paused. “Do you think the county will buy the well water?”

“I do. I think Blair will become a wealthy man, not serious money, but some money.”

Sarah laughed, because in her husband's world, less than ten million dollars qualified as some money.

He kissed her lightly on the mouth. “I'm going to lose forty pounds. I've let myself go.” He kept to himself the daily shots of testosterone he would be taking. Some things were best left unsaid.

As for putting Tommy's bomber jacket in Herb Jones's truck, and the handcuffs in Archie's van—no one had even found those, more's the pity—he did that for the sheer devilment of it. It was exciting to watch everyone come unglued.

The presence of Sarah's black Jaguar at Blair Bainbridge's still bothered the police. But Vane-Tempest had crawled to the top of the heap by understanding people in a cynical fashion. If the police had a solution that the public accepted, then what was one odd piece that didn't fit into the puzzle? They could prove nothing against Sarah or him.

He knew Sarah had been in the plane with Tommy. He had gotten up in the middle of the night, called Tommy to meet him at the food plant under the pretext of a Teotan emergency, shot him, and loaded him with cocaine. It took all of fifteen minutes. He was home in bed by three o'clock, with no one the wiser. Planting cocaine and a locker storage ticket in Tommy's car was child's play. Faking a set of accounting books was easy, too. He'd run numbers off his computer, then put them into a leather binder.

As for himself, he didn't fear Sarah. This episode, as he chose to consider it, only whetted his appetite for her. He saw her now for what she was, a tiger. And so was he.

61

Harry and Miranda sat on two chairs next to Blair's bed. Each woman had visited him two and three times a day since his shooting.

“Is any memory coming back at all?” Miranda politely inquired.

“No,” he truthfully replied. “But the doctor said bits and pieces may come back to me. Then again, I may never remember. The last thing I remember—and it's so stupid—is I heard a car come up the driveway. I opened the back screened door and I tripped. Just took a mistep. That's all I can remember.”

“You must be tired of everyone asking you.” Harry smiled. “You look good.”

“I feel pretty good. The swelling is down. Doc wants me to wait a few more days to be certain. I'll tell you what's driving me crazy.” He pointed to the bandages on his head. “My scalp itches like poison ivy. I can't scratch it.”

“Means it's healing.” Miranda patted his hand. “You'll be back to good health in no time. Thank you, Jesus.” She closed her eyes in fervent prayer.

“Yes. I have been very lucky.” Blair's eyes misted. “Thank God for you, Harry.”

“You've thanked me enough already.” Harry warmly smiled.

“And Mrs. Murphy, Pewter, and Tucker.” Blair smiled broadly.

“Yes.” Harry hadn't told him or anyone the full extent of their efforts. She knew no one would believe her.

“Maybe it's better not to remember. You and Archie had been friends.” Miranda assumed Blair's attacker had been Archie.

“I just don't know, Miranda. I don't know if it's better to know or not to know and there's not much I can do about it. I'm just so grateful to be alive.” He stopped as his eyes filled with tears, and Harry's and Miranda's eyes filled also.

62

Miranda's hand flew to her face. “I hate to hear about drug deals. I so liked Tommy.”

Cynthia, in regulation sunglasses, continued her story. “He must have brought the stuff in by private plane after picking it up in Florida or from local airports closer by. You know those training runs that Tommy used to do? They weren't training runs.”

“Good job,” Miranda congratulated her.

“We've got the records. That's the real break. We found cocaine and a locker ticket from the bus station in Tommy's Porsche. So we went over to the bus station, of course, opened the locker, and that's where the accounting books were.”

“How about that?”
Tucker watched people drive by the post office. Spring worked its magic on everyone. People were smiling.

It galled Cynthia that Blair could not remember whoever shot him. The bullet had never been found—the sign of a careful killer. She knew the other shoe hadn't dropped and she suspected H. Vane-Tempest. Whatever her suspicions might be, suspicions weren't facts, and Blair's doctors confirmed he could have “lost” the hours leading up to his being shot. She sighed. “How is Blair today?”

“His color is better.” Mrs. Hogendobber offered a biscuit to Cynthia after shooing Pewter off the table.

Too late, though, for Pewter had yet another fresh biscuit firmly clamped in her jaws. She chewed some of it, then tore the remainder with her claws.
“That's what I'm going to do to that blue jay.”

“Dream on.”
Murphy listened, unmoved, to the details.

“Doubting Thomas,”
cooed Pewter, who at that moment felt glorious, since she had successfully stolen a biscuit.

“We're lucky.”
Murphy hopped off the counter and rubbed against the corgi's snow-white chest. She dearly loved that dog, although she wouldn't say it out loud.

“We saved Blair.”
Tucker licked Murphy's ear.

“Yes.”
She rubbed her cheek against Tucker's cheek.

Big Mim, Little Mim, Herb, and Tally came in. Cynthia didn't tell them the news about finding the drug records because Big Mim already knew. If Rick Shaw didn't call her the second he knew something, she'd make his life miserable. It helped that she made major contributions to various law-enforcement events and charities.

“We're all feeling better, thanks to you.” Mim shook Cynthia's hand.

“I don't deserve any credit, really.”

“You're too modest. All those hours of questioning people, investigating sites, poring over evidence—no one sees how much work there is.” Mim smiled.

Tally spoke up abruptly. “This Saturday at three at my place, the old cemetery, you are invited to a funeral.”

“Oh, no! Who has—” Miranda rushed to console Tally, who held up her hand for silence.

“I'll explain at the funeral. Reverend Herb will conduct the service and afterward I will serve refreshments with the help of my niece and tell you who died and why. I won't live much longer myself. I need to tell you—” She paused, reaching for the counter to steady herself. “I need to tell you how things stay with you. The past, I mean. The past lives right through us. Even if no one ever reads another history book, even if whole nations resign themselves to ignorance, the past pulls like the moon on tides. Please come.”

“Of course we'll come.” Miranda's voice, filled with warm sympathy, almost made Tally cry.

“I'll be there. Thank you for inviting me,” Harry said.

“How about that?”
Pewter was amazed.

After the group left, including Cynthia, Harry and Miranda sorted, then swept the floors.

“I wonder why Tally invited me to this funeral?” Harry asked.

“I believe it has something to do with you.”

“Me?”

“Your blood. There was talk about Tally and your great-grandfather. I was too young to pay attention. But there was talk. This was before my time. Mother remembered, though.”

“I guess we'll find out on Saturday.”

“You know that you were ransomed from the futile ways inherited from your fathers, not with perishable things such as silver or gold, but with the precious blood of Christ, like that of a lamb without blemish or spot.” She put the broom back into the broom closet. “Redemption. I should think that whatever she tells us, Saturday is about redemption.”

“What chapter and verse?”

“First Peter, Chapter 1, Verses 18 and 19.”

“You amaze me.”

“In my day we learned by rote. Stays with you.”

Harry scooped up Murphy and kissed her head. She was thinking about the animals driving the Porsche and knowing she couldn't tell anyone.

“Miranda, do you really believe that people can be redeemed? A murderer can be redeemed?”

“Certainly I do, if he but accepts Christ as his savior.”

“What about Murphy and Tucker, and Pewter, even though she's a little thief?” She smiled.

“A thief is the only person guaranteed a place in paradise. Remember, it was a thief crucified with Christ who accepted him as the Son of God, and Jesus promised him everlasting life.”

“Hope for Pewter.”

Miranda, years ago, would have been offended at this discussion, at the idea that animals have immortal souls and spiritual lives . . . but working with them and watching them, she had changed her mind. Not loudly. Not even so much that others might notice by observation. “There's redemption for Pewter. God loves all his creatures and I believe we will be reunited in heaven.” She stopped, and this, for her, was a revelation. “Harry, sometimes I think that animals are closer to God than we are.”

“Not blue jays,”
Pewter announced, being uninterested in theological discussions.

“I do, too.” Harry looked around. “It's a wrap, partner.”

Miranda put her hand on Harry's shoulder. “I've known you since you were born, Mary Minor. And I know you have doubts. Your faith gets shaken. But it's there. Your mother and father gave you rock-solid beliefs. When you need it, it's there.”

“I hope so.”

“In time of trouble—” Then Miranda stopped herself. “Let's hope few troubles come your way. I think of them as tests, God's tests. Blair is being tested. He needs us. He's hurt physically and harmed morally.”

“Little Mim will be at his side.”

“We must all be there.” She glanced at the old railroad wall clock. “Oh, dear, I'd better hustle my bustle.”

Harry laughed as Miranda scooted out of the post office. Her old-fashioned phrases delighted Harry. She dropped the paper shades and double-checked the lock on the sliding door that closed off the office part of the post office, then walked to the back, dropped the hard plastic sheet in metal slots through the animal door, and secured it with a steel pin. Lastly she opened the back door. “Come on, gang.”

Three furry behinds scampered into the late afternoon as Harry locked the back door to the post office.

She opened the door to the blue Ford truck, lifting Tucker in. Pewter and Mrs. Murphy had already jumped up onto the bench seat.

Harry turned the key. The starter clicked, then the motor turned over. She let it idle for a few minutes. No point in pushing the old girl.

Once the motor hummed, she pushed down on the clutch, reaching for the long black stick shift on the floor.

Mrs. Murphy moved over to sit in her lap.

“Want to drive?” Harry asked her as Pewter laughed.

“I only drive Porsches.”
Mrs. Murphy giggled.