Free Murder at Monticello by Rita Mae Brown

decades of treading feet. She, too, was out cold.
    â€œHey, did I tell you that Fair asked me to the movies next week?” Harry attacked a corner.
    â€œHe wants you back.”
    â€œMrs. H., you’ve been saying that since the day we separated. He sure didn’t want me back when he was cavorting with BoomBoom Craycroft, she of the pontoon bosoms.”
    Mrs. Hogendobber waved her dust cloth over her head like a small flag. “A passing fancy. He had to get it out of his system.”
    â€œAnd so he did,” came Harry’s clipped reply.
    â€œYou must forgive and forget.”
    â€œEasy for you to say. It wasn’t your husband.”
    â€œYou’ve got me there.”
    Harry, surprised that Mrs. Hogendobber agreed with her so readily, paused a moment, her broom held off the ground. A knock at the back door brought the broom down again.
    â€œMe,” Market Shiflett called.
    â€œHi.” Harry opened the door and Market, who owned the grocery store next door, came in, followed by Pewter.
    â€œHaven’t seen you today. What have you been up to?” Miranda kept polishing.
    â€œThis and that and who shot the cat.” He smiled, looked down at Pewter, and apologized. “Sorry, Pewter.”
    Pewter, far too subtle to push the dog awake, flicked her fat little tail over Tucker’s nose until the dog opened her eyes.
    â€œI was dead to the world.”
Tucker blinked.
    â€œWhere’s herself?”
Pewter inquired.
    â€œMail cart, last time I saw her.”
    A gleam in her eye betrayed Pewter’s intentions. She walked to the mail cart and halted. She scrunched down and wiggled her rear end, then with a mighty leap she catapulted herself into the mail cart. A holy howl attended this action. Had Mrs. Murphy not been a cat in the prime of her life, had she been, say, an older feline, she surely would have lost her bladder control at such a rude awakening. A great hissing and spitting filled the bin, which was beginning to roll just a bit.
    â€œNow, that’s enough.” Market hurried over to the mail cart, where he beheld the spectacle of his beloved cat, claws out, rolling around the heavy canvas bag with Mrs. Murphy in the same posture. Tufts of fur floated in the air.
    Harry dashed over. “I don’t know what gets into these two. They’re either the best of friends or like Muslims versus Christians.” Harry reached in to separate the two, receiving a scratch for her concern.
    â€œYou fat pig!”
Mrs. Murphy bellowed.
    â€œScaredy-cat, scaredy-cat,”
Pewter taunted.
    â€œYou ought not to make light of religious differences,” Mrs. Hogendobber, faithful to the Church of the Holy Light, admonished Harry. “Cats aren’t religious anyway.”
    â€œWho says?”
Two little heads popped over the side of the cart.
    This moment of peace lasted a millisecond before they dropped back in the cart and rolled over each other again.
    Harry laughed. “I’m not reaching in there. They’re bound to get tired of this sooner or later.”
    â€œGuess you’re right.” Market thought the hissing was awful. “I wanted to tell you I’ve got a special on cat food today. You want me to save you a case?”
    â€œOh, thanks. How about a nice, fresh chicken too?”
    â€œHarry, don’t tell me you’re going to cook a chicken?” Mrs. Hogendobber held her heart as though this was too much. “What’s this world coming to?”
    â€œSpeaking of that, how about them finding a body up at Monticello?”
    Before either woman could respond, Samson Coles blustered in the front door, so Market repeated his question.
    Samson shook his leonine head. “Damn shame. I guarantee you that by tomorrow the television crews will be camped out at Mulberry Row and this unfortunate event will be blown out of all proportion.”
    â€œWell, I don’t know. It does seem strange that a body