The Purrfect Murder

recipient.
    On Tuesday afternoon, September 23, she sat across from Benita Wylde, the humorous needlepoint pillow behind Benita’s back underscoring her loss. It read, “He’s my husband, my lover, my friend, but he’s not my responsibility.”
    It had been a strong marriage, enlivened by vibrant humor and a few good fights now and again.
    The deep buttery gold of late-afternoon sun filled the room, decorated by Benita herself and a source of pride. Although too modern for Mim’s taste—she ran to Colefax and Fowler or Parish-Hadley—she recognized that Benita had an eye for proportion, color, and quality. Nonetheless, the stark lines never felt homey.
    “You’ve been so good to visit me every day. I keep thinking this will lift, but it doesn’t.” Her light-brown eyes registered confusion and pain.
    “The first year is dreadful. The second is numbness.” Big Mim smiled as Benita’s oldest daughter, home from Portland, Oregon, placed a tea tray on the sleek, lacquered coffee table.
    “Thank you, dear.”
    “Georgina, if you want to ride, let me know. Sometimes a nice trail ride helps.”
    “Thank you, Mrs. Sanburne. I’d love to, but there’s so much to do, and I have to return to Oregon Sunday.”
    Georgina left them.
    “She’s turned into a beautiful young woman,” Big Mim noted.
    “Loves her job. I keep hoping she’ll come home, but she says the only way she can come home is if she gets a job in Richmond or Washington. Those markets are so competitive, but I think she’ll land in a big market eventually.”
    “Did you think she’d wind up in television?”
    “Well, I knew she always was fascinated by the weather, but both Will and I were surprised when she chose meteorology as her career and then double-majored in broadcasting—journalism, really.”
    “She is in a perfect spot, with all those storms sweeping in off the Pacific.”
    “That’s what she says.” Benita poured them both tea. “In a way, the impact didn’t fully hit me until the kids came home. They’ve been wonderful,” she paused, “although my son says he’s going to kill Bechtal if he can figure out how to get into the jail.”
    “Normal.”
    Benita nodded. “Would it solve anything? One more death?”
    “I know I’m supposed to say no, but the years have taught me that killing the right person at the right time can make all the difference. Think what would have happened in the world if the plot against Hitler had succeeded. There would have been a struggle between those dwindling few who wanted to pursue the war and the rest, who knew Germany was lost. We would have had an earlier peace. So many lives would have been saved.” She held her cup with all the grace of one who had manners drilled into her upon leaving the womb. “The older I get, Benita, the less convinced I am that turning the other cheek is the answer. You can imagine how Miranda and I go ’round on this.”
    “She’s visited regularly, too.” Benita smiled slightly. “Reads germane passages from the Bible, but she’s not as bad as she used to be. We read the Twenty-third Psalm together and it was comforting.”
    “Beautiful voice, Miranda has, speaking or singing.”
    “She brought me some cuttings from the garden, and, would you believe it, Alicia Palmer, down on her knees, put them in. I can tell my grandchildren, if ever they get born, that a movie star planted my pachysandra and variegated ivy. Miranda brought some American Beauty roses, too.”
    Big Mim, ever competitive on the garden scene, simply said, “Miranda displays a great gift.”
    “Her only vanity, I think.” Benita’s eyes filled with tears as she looked out the huge windows. “Will’s maple. It was four feet high when he planted it. Look at it now.”
    Big Mim guessed the maple to be twenty-five feet high. “Just blushing orange at the top.”
    “Should be a spectacular fall.”
    “You never know. The conditions can be perfect and a big windstorm comes up. Poof.” She waved her hand, the spectacular diamond on her ring throwing tiny rainbows of light. “Is there anything I can do to help with the funeral?”
    “No. Because of the publicity, we decided to cremate him and to have only family here. I think we’ll commission a celebration of his life on the first anniversary of his death.” Benita looked back at the older, quite attractive woman. “I can’t bear the people, the questions. A year from now, only those of us who loved him will honor