By seven, everyone was there, even a few uninvited guests. Mrs. Murphy, Pewter, and Tucker knew how to soften up Fair.
Fair had bought a new black Volvo station wagon. He grew tired of showing up everywhere in his vet truck so he finally sprang for the Volvo. Harry told him to leave the pets home before she remembered the knocked-over lamps, shredded lamp shades, books on the floor. The depredations escalated with feline anger. A put-out puss might stop at knocking over a glass but to be left out of a big occasion called forth torrents of destructive abuse. She agreed to allow them to attend the ball. After all, they knew their way around the salvage yard and it was far enough off the paved state road to pose no danger to them. Fair opened the back hatch so they could come and go as they pleased. Harry put down a beach towel so they wouldn't get the beige car mat dirty.
“Let's find Pope Rat,” Tucker panted, eager to chase the rascal.
“No.” Murphy reposed in the back of the Volvo. “Let's sit here for a while and eavesdrop on conversations as people park or come back to their cars. I want to know if anyone comes back for a toot of cocaine.”
“You're going with Coop's theory?” Pewter happily snuggled onto the beach towel.
“It certainly makes the most sense and yet—let's keep our eyes and ears open. No one expects us to be here. If they see us they'll make kitchy-coo sounds. They'll never know what we're up to—humans are dependable that way.” The tiger laughed.
“But, Murphy, even if people do come back here or find a place outside for a snort that doesn't mean they're in on the murders,” Tucker sensibly reminded her.
“I know that. I'm hoping we'll glean something.”
“Pope Rat knows.” Pewter scratched behind her ear. “What a rat.” Realizing he was a rat, she burst out laughing.
Rick Shaw pulled up in the next lane of parked cars. He looked good in a tuxedo and his wife wore a white floor-length dress that was very becoming.
The animals could hear their discussion.
“Honey, if my beeper goes off I've got to go. The Reverend Jones said he'd take you home.”
“I know, dear.” She smiled, accustomed to his odd hours and sudden departures. “I'm just thrilled to be here.”
They headed toward the strains of the string quartet. The dance band would rock out after dinner.
The chimes sounded, signaling that dinner would be served. Guests checked their table numbers, moving to their assigned seats.
Sean, as host, sat with the director of Building for Life. Lottie sat on his right. BoomBoom, who'd been head of publicity on this one, sat with Thomas, who was a darker shade of tan than he had been at the Dogwood Festival.
As Diego guided Little Mim to their table, number two, he winked at Harry, who winked back. Fair chose not to notice.
Liberally lubricated by the open bar, the conversation flowed, the volume rising with the courses of wine attending dinner. The nymph and satyrs in the fountain, having sampled drinks offered them by admirers, became friskier than intended, the satyrs most particularly. It wouldn't be long before they took their mythology literally.
After dinner, liqueurs were served along with a staggering array of desserts, fruits, cheeses, and sherbets.
Sated, the guests sat, eyes glazed with happiness.
As the tables were cleared, Sean stood up. “Excuse me, folks, I'm going outside for a smoke.”
“I didn't know you smoked.” Lottie stood up, too.
“I didn't until now. They can say what they want about nicotine, it really does soothe the nerves.” He smiled wanly.
“I guess a little puff can't hurt you too much.” Lottie smiled indulgently.
Other people filtered out. Thomas, chest pocket filled with divine Cuban cigars, trailed men behind him. They resembled penguins following the Big Penguin.
Lottie ducked off into the ladies' room before joining the smokers. Harry was in there brushing her teeth.
“Harry, I can't believe anyone is that obsessed with their teeth.” Lottie turned up her nose in disgust.
Harry rinsed out her mouth. “Those nuts on the chocolate cake got stuck in my teeth. It drives me crazy.”
“H-mmph.” Lottie marched off.
As Harry emerged she bumped into Aunt Tally. “Isn't he divine?”
“Who, Aunt Tally?”
“The Marine.” She indicated with her eyes a fit man in early middle age wearing his Marine uniform for just this occasion, a carryover from the nineteenth century and one that delighted ladies. His short waist-length tunic fit him tightly, his medal ribbons, four rows deep, bedecked his left chest. His blue-black closely fitted trousers carried a thin red stripe on the outside. His patent leather dancing shoes gleamed.
“What happened to your date?”
“Harry, too old. I can't stand old men.” Tally flicked up her cane.
“Well, what about that other guy?” Harry hadn't met the lawyer.
“Uh.” She shrugged. “Dull. But now this one, he's a man all right.” She covered her mouth with her gloved hand and looked exactly as she must have looked at seventeen at her coming-out debutante ball—minus the wrinkles, of course.
Harry lowered her voice conspiratorially. “I know you can't be good but go slow.”
“At my age, sugar, there is no slow. Get it while you can! And I will, I will!” Tally giggled, then hurried into the ladies' room.
Rick, dying for a smoke, had been waylaid by Jim Sanburne. As they were talking Rick's beeper went off.
“Excuse me. I'd better take this.” A little printout read DON. Rick's face registered no emotion. “Jim, I've got to go.” He briskly walked to Coop, herself walking outside for a smoke. “Come with me.”
Hoping not to call attention to themselves they walked fast but not frantically to Rick's car.
“Something's up,” Mrs. Murphy noted.
51
Pulling into Don Clatterbuck's, they grabbed their guns and opened the car doors, crouching behind them. Coop dearly wished she weren't in a ball gown.
Rick moved away from the door, running low. He stood outside the shop door, reached over, and opened it. He flattened himself against the building. Nothing.
Coop, keeping as low as her dress would allow, joined him on the other side of the door.
Rick reached in, flicking on the light switch.
No sound. No movement. He ran inside, diving for the workbench. Nothing.
“Coop, come on.” He scrambled to his feet, brushing off his tuxedo.
The door to the safe hung wide open. It was empty.
“Our birdie can't be too far away.” Coop grabbed a chair, placing it under the camera. She turned off the camera, removing the tape inside.
Yancy had set it up, locking the tiny TV playback box in Don's broom closet. Coop hiked her long skirt up, stepped down as Rick opened the closet. They quickly plugged in the small monitor.
“Dammit!” Rick exploded.
A masked figure. A black cloth covering the face, slits for eyes and mouth, wrapped in what could be a black bedsheet or long cloak, it stopped in front of the camera after emptying out the safe to give them the finger.
“I'd like to see his face when he discovers the money's no good.”
“Won't discover that until he gets it in a bright light.” Rick slipped his gun back in his chest holster. “Whoever did this knew we'd be at the ball tonight.”
“Boss, that's no surprise. Everyone's at the ball tonight.”
“Maybe, but we know this—he knows that we're here. I think we've just been suckered.” He sprinted for the car, Coop right behind him. She turned out the lights as she ran out.
“Boss, Boss, I can't run as fast as you.”