The Purrfect Murder

she’s the first to choose the easy path.

    Simon
—Living in the barn with all the horses pleases this opossum, who also likes Harry, as much as he can like humans. She gives him treats.

    Flatface
—Sharing the loft with Simon, the great horned owl looks down on earthbound creatures, figuratively and literally. However, in a pinch, Flatface can be counted on.

    Matilda
—She’s a big blacksnake and the third roommate in the barn loft. Her sense of humor borders on the black, too.

    Owen
—Tee Tucker’s brother belongs to Susan Tucker, who bred the litter. He doesn’t know how his sister can tolerate the cats. When in feline company, he behaves, but he thinks the cats are snobs.

    Brinkley
—This smart yellow Lab loves and adores Tazio.

    Since Mrs. Murphy, Tucker, and Pewter live on a farm, various creatures cross their paths, from bears to foxes to one nasty blue jay. They love all the horses, which can’t be said for some of the other creatures, but then, the horses are domesticated. Pewter declares she is not domesticated, merely resting in a house with regular meals.

1
    M orning light, which looked like thin spun gold, reminded Harry Haristeen why she loved September so much. The light softened, the nights grew crisp, while the days remained warm. This Thursday, September 18, there was only a vague tinge of yellow at the tops of the willow trees, which would become a cascade of color by mid-October.
    The old 1978 Ford F-150 rumbled along the macadam road. The big engine’s sound thrilled Harry. If it had a motor in it, she liked it.
    Her two cats, Mrs. Murphy, a tiger, and Pewter, a gray cat, along with her corgi, Tee Tucker, also enjoyed the rumble, which often put them to sleep. Today, all sitting on the bench seat, they were wide awake. A trip to town meant treats and visiting other animals, plus one never knew what would happen.
    Harry had just turned forty on August 7, and she declared it didn’t faze her. Maybe. Maybe not. Fair, her adored husband, threw a big surprise birthday party and she reveled in being the center of attention, even though it was for entering her Middle Ages. She wore the gorgeous horseshoe ring her husband had bought her at the Shelbyville Horse Show. She wasn’t much for display or girly things, but every time she looked down at the glitter, she grinned.
    “All right, kids, you behave. You hear me? I don’t want you jumping on Tazio’s blueprints. No knocking erasers on the floor. No chewing the rubber ends of pencils. Tucker.” Harry’s voice kept the command tone. “Don’t you dare steal Brinkley’s bones. I mean it.”

    The three animals cast their eyes at her, those eyes brimming with love and the promise of obedience.
    Tazio Chappars, a young architect in Crozet, won large commissions for public buildings, but she also accepted a healthy string of commissions for beautiful, expensive homes, most paid for by non-Virginians. The houses were too flashy for a blue-blooded Virginian. However, Tazio, like all of us in this world, needed to make a living, so if the client wanted a marble-clad bathroom as big as most people’s garages, so be it.
    As Harry parked, she noticed a brand-new Range Rover in the small lot. It had been painted a burnt orange. She walked over to admire it.
    “Good wheels,” she muttered to herself.
    Good indeed, but the closest dealer was ninety miles away in Richmond, which somewhat dimmed the appeal. If that didn’t do it, the price did.
    Before she reached the door, a stream of invective assaulted her ears. When she opened the door, the blast hit her.
    “Wormwood! I don’t care what it costs and I don’t care if termites get in it. I want wormwood!” An extremely well cared for woman in her mid-forties shook colored plans in Tazio’s face.
    “Mrs. Paulson, I understand. But it’s going to slow down the library because it takes months to secure it.”
    “I don’t care. You’ll do what I tell you.”
    Tazio, face darkening, said nothing.
    Mrs. Paulson spun around on her bright aqua three-hundred-dollar shoes to glare at Harry. Harry’s white T-shirt revealed an ample chest, and her jeans hugged a trim body with a healthy tan. Mrs. Paulson paused for a minute because, even though not of Virginia, she had divined that often the richest people or the ones with the oldest blood wore what to her were migrant-labor fashions. Carla Paulson wouldn’t be caught dead in a white T-shirt and Wranglers. She couldn’t fathom why