The Purrfect Murder

Achilles’ heel, Orrie, everyone.”
    “Well, Mrs. Paulson, for what it’s worth, I didn’t much like Mike in school and I don’t much like him now, but I get along to go along. Life’s a whole lot easier that way.”
    Carla gave him a tight smile and left. She had never learned to get along to go along, and she always felt there was something vaguely immoral about it or, if not immoral, weak-willed.
    Mike McElvoy wanted something. She was sure of that. Most people, if you hand them a fat envelope of cash, will take it. The question was how much. If he didn’t want cash, what did he want?
    She couldn’t bear more delays on this house or the expense they would entail. Jurgen would fuss.
    Carla had a sense, like many people, that there was a clear division of labor assigned by gender. Jurgen made the money. She spent it. She had to cajole him into it, but she used her arsenal of tricks to good effect.

12
    I wish I’d never said I’d do this.” Tazio slumped down in the passenger seat of Susan’s Audi station wagon.
    “You really didn’t have a choice,” Susan consoled her.
    “Mim’s going to think I’m disloyal. And I don’t want to put pressure on Paul,” Tazio moaned.
    Paul de Silva, Tazio’s boyfriend, managed Big Mim’s stables. Tazio found him charming and irresistible. Fortunately, the feeling was mutual.
    Harry was half dozing in the backseat since the ride was so smooth, plus she was surrounded by the warmth of Mrs. Murphy, Pewter, Tucker, Owen—Tucker’s brother—and Brinkley, Tazio’s yellow lab.
    She opened one eye. “It was Big Mim’s idea.”
    “I know.” Tazio nodded. “But the way things are breaking, she might forget and take it out on me.”
    “She’s not like that. She can be despotic, but she’s fair.” Susan had known Mim all her life.
    “Besides, she’s taking it out on Junior.” Marilyn Sanburne, Jr., was Little Mim’s correct name. “Junior” was a term loathed by Little Mim.
    “Got that right.” Susan checked her speedometer and slowed, for she was doing eighty on Route 29.
    “You don’t know how fast you’re going in this car.” Tazio liked the wagon. “Good thing you slowed. Look up on the curve.”
    There sat a cop car waiting to feast on speeders. It was quota time, although the local police, sheriff’s department, and state police would never, ever, admit they met a monthly quota. The state laws had been changed. Going fifteen miles an hour over the limit netted a Virginian a one-thousand-dollar fine. Out-of-state drivers could go as fast as they wanted but only pay the old lower fees determined by a judge. The results, predictably, were that troopers and cops went after the Virginians. If anything, the new law, in effect July 1, 2007, made the roads more dangerous.
    “Mmm, on the one hand, I’m glad they’re out here. On the other hand, I’m not,” Susan commented. “Given the way cars are built today, the speed limits are outdated and the new laws are beyond absurd. I’m waiting for the citizen revolt.”
    “Wait until you drive the autobahn.” Tazio had piloted a BMW M5 two years ago when visiting Germany.
    “That will be the day.” Harry sat up straight now. “Back to this Poplar Forest do. Big Mim suggested you to head the decorating committee—”
    Tazio interrupted. “Sure, so I could build the scaffolding. You know this fund-raiser is about as elaborate as a Louis the Fourteenth fete. Little did I know.”
    “At least the committee has gotten the materials donated. Can you imagine the cost otherwise?” Susan checked her rearview mirror.
    “Thirty-five thousand dollars.” Tazio’s voice was clipped.
    “What!” Harry grabbed the back of Tazio’s seat.
    “Thirty-five thousand dollars.”
    “Oh, my God.” Harry flopped back. “The fund-raiser won’t make that. Good thing the stuff is donated.”
    “Are you kidding? With Folly Steinhauser heading the committee, they’ve already received fifty thousand dollars in tables. She’s nabbed corporate sponsors for those. By the time individual contributions roll in—the silent auction plus the two live-auction items—this thing could very well clear two hundred thousand dollars.”
    “That’s big money for central Virginia fund-raising.” Susan was astounded. “You know we aren’t unfeeling, but Southerners are taught to take care of our own. What’s left over goes to people you don’t know. That’s why charities can’t raise as much here as they do in the