The Purrfect Murder

the department is shorthanded and there’s only one woman. This is best handled between women.”
    Penny’s sandy eyebrows lifted. “Yes, yes, I can understand that.”
    Her next stop—Elise’s grand pile, nestled amid towering pin oaks—proved even less successful. Elise slammed the door in her face.
    Harry climbed back in the truck and wondered if Penny had called Elise. It was rare for someone to slam the door in another’s face before they even got a word out.
    Harry next turned down the long tree-lined drive to Folly Steinhauser’s palatial home. She parked to the side of the curving raised stairway.
    The huge double doors had brass horse-head knockers. Harry clanged away.
    Sienna Rappaport, Folly’s female butler—a revolution in itself—answered the door.
    “Good morning, Sienna. I don’t have an appointment. I was hoping to speak to Mrs. Steinhauser.”
    “Of course. Wait in the library and I’ll see if she’s available.”
    At least she was civilized. Harry sat on a tufted hassock in the extraordinary library, which was temperature-controlled to protect the rare first editions Folly so prized. Within minutes she heard two sets of footfalls. One stopped, heading in another direction. The other came to the library door.
    “Harry, what an unexpected pleasure.” Folly seemed to mean it.
    “Forgive me. I wouldn’t have come without calling if it weren’t important.”
    “Would you like something to drink?”
    “No, no thank you.”
    Folly took a seat and motioned for Harry to sit opposite her.
    As Harry moved from the hassock to the buttery-soft leather club chair, she noticed a gorgeous red lacquer humidor edged in black and yellow on the end table by Folly’s chair.
    “What can I do for you?” Folly uttered those lines usually spoken by the person in power.
    “First off, I want to thank you for all you did for the Poplar Forest fund-raiser. It was extraordinary, so in keeping with the spirit of the place. The shock of Carla’s murder…well,” Harry threw up her hands, “of all places and all times. The other thing—and I’m at fault for this—I have never thanked you for the burden you’re lifting from Herb’s shoulders, for all you are doing on our vestry board. Serving with you is teaching me a lot.”
    “Harry, that’s so kind of you.”
    “I don’t have your organizational skills, but I’m trying to soak some up.”
    “Ah, but, Harry, dear, you have the blood, the connections, and your mind is so very logical.”
    This surprised Harry. “Thank you.” She paused. “I’m here because I’m desperately worried.” As Folly’s face registered rapt attention, Harry plunged in. “Before Will Wylde’s death, a series of women—we don’t know whom—received letters from Jonathan Bechtal, ordering them to send money to P.O. Box Fifteen at the Barracks Road Shopping Center post office. If not, he threatened to expose them for having abortions.” Harry paused. “There is reason to believe that Carla had received them. Someone I know called me after she received her last one. She finally went to Sheriff Shaw. We are all worried, because there’s someone on the outside.”
    Folly, hand shaking slightly, opened the humidor and plucked out a cigarette. “Smoke?”
    “No thank you. I didn’t know that you did.”
    “I hide it, but every now and then I do. Tell me more.”
    “Well, the early letters asked for ten thousand dollars, which my friend paid. The last one asked for one hundred thousand, which she will not pay. The money is due Friday.”
    Folly took a long drag, rose, opened a first-edition copy of Cobbett’s
Rural Rides
in excellent condition, pulled out an airmail blue envelope, and handed it to Harry. “Like this?”
    Harry—hands also shaking, for she never expected this—opened the letter and read it. “God. You aren’t going to pay, are you?”
    “I don’t know.”
    “Oh, don’t, Folly, please. This has got to stop. I truly think Will’s murder and Carla’s are connected, but I don’t know how. The only suspect I can think of on the outside is Mike McElvoy, because he had contact with Carla. But I don’t see how he connects to Will’s murder. It’s a long shot right now.”
    “They may not be connected. Charlottesville is growing. It’s entirely possible that two murders could be committed in short order and not be linked. And there is the problem of Tazio.”
    “You don’t think Tazio killed her, do you?”
    “I don’t