The Purrfect Murder

me. How you’ve carried this all these years.”
    Tears rolled down Little Mim’s cheeks as her mother reached for her hand. “I was stupid.” She wiped away the tears with her free left hand. “I got drunk at a fraternity party, and I don’t even remember going to bed with my date. Obviously, I did.”
    “Can you still have children? Sometimes…” Her voice trailed off.
    Little Mim nodded. “Yes.” Then she said, “I never wanted to, because I thought I was a terrible person. First I did what I did, and then I had an abortion. I believe ‘slut’ is the word. And to Jonathan, I am a murderer.”
    “You’re not.”
    “Mother, I don’t know. Even now when I think about that time, I feel like I’ve fallen into a cesspool of guilt.”
    “Darling, I am sorry. I am so, so sorry.” She looked down, turned over the envelope. “Marilyn, this wasn’t sent from prison.”
    Little Mim, wiping away more tears, took the envelope from her mother’s hand. “22905. That’s the Barracks Road Shopping Center post office.”
    “I assume Will Wylde performed the termination.” Big Mim was trying to put the pieces together.
    Little Mim sucked in her breath. “Bechtal must have the records.” Her right hand flew up to her temple, envelope and paper still in it. “Mother, what can I do?”
    “We must see Rick at once.”
    “This could destroy my political career.”
    Big Mim removed the letter from her daughter’s hand and folded the paper, slipping it back into the envelope. “You have to take that chance. By some great stroke of fortune, this may not be made public.”
    “I doubt that. I’ve been in office only two years and already the Democrats poke for any chink in my armor.” She smiled ruefully. “I’ve been good at my work, so they haven’t found any, but this, this…” She then said, “I kept my mouth shut about the fanatical right wing of the party. That will be my undoing.”
    “You didn’t kiss their ass in Macy’s window, excuse the vulgar expression.” Big Mim rarely descended to same.
    “No, but I sure kept my mouth shut about abortion.”
    “I don’t know what to tell you about that, because I don’t feel the way you do.”
    “You never had one.”
    “No, I did not, but I think I know myself well enough to know I wouldn’t feel guilty. I believe life starts when you emerge from the womb—sentient life, if you will. Anyway, nothing I can say will ever convince the opponents of abortion, nor vice versa, but if I could think of something to say to dispel your malaise, I would.”
    “Malaise? Mother, it’s gold-plated guilt.”
    “I don’t mean to make light of it. Does Blair know?”
    Little Mim shook her head again. “No. There was no reason to tell him.”
    “I think you must.”
    “I will.”
    “Are you worried about him?”
    “No. I don’t expect any man likes to hear about his wife’s sex life before him, even if it was in college, but Blair’s open-minded. I mean, he’s not one to trumpet that double standard.”
    “Who was it who said that if men could get pregnant, abortion would be a sacrament? Gloria Steinem?” Big Mim studied the postmark again.
    “I don’t know.” Little Mim bent over to read the postmark, too. “Friday, September twenty-sixth. Mother, how did he get these letters out?”
    “He didn’t. There’s a partner on the outside. There has to be.” She slapped the envelope on her knee, which made Pressman’s head swivel from the cowbird he was watching. “How much have you paid?”
    “Nothing.”
    “No, Marilyn, before this?”
    “The threats started three months ago. Each time the demand was for ten thousand dollars. I paid by postal note made out to Jonathan Bechtal. Not even a cashier’s check.”
    “How?”
    “I sent it to Jonathan Bechtal, care of Love of Life, P.O. Box Fifteen, Charlottesville, Virginia. That is a legitimate organization.”
    “So to speak,” Big Mim wryly commented.
    “What do you mean?”
    “You know how I feel about charities. The accounting rules differ from Chapter C corporations, and more to the point, it’s so bloody easy to steal in so many ways that someone whose IQ would make a good golf score could easily enrich themselves. I’d be willing to bet ten thousand dollars myself that what you paid dropped into someone’s pocket.”
    “Jonathan Bechtal, but the address was Love of Life?”
    “We’ll see about that.” Big Mim leaned back on the wooden bench, feeling the slats press