Murder At Monticello (2004)
“Paddy promised.
“No, you won’t,” Simon, the possum, called down from the hayloft. “You’ll steal my treasures. You’re no good, Paddy. You were born no good and you’ll die no good.”
“Quit flapping your gums, you overgrown rat. When I want your opinion, I’ll ask for it.” Paddy washed one of his white spats.
A large black cat permanently wearing a tuxedo and spats, Paddy was handsome and knew it. His white bib gleamed, and despite his propensity for fighting, he always cleaned himself up.
Mrs. Murphy sat on a director’s chair in the tack room. Paddy sat in the chair opposite her while Tucker sprawled on the floor. Simon wouldn’t come down. He hated strange animals.
The last light of day cast a peachy-pink glow through the outside window. The horses chatted to one another in their stalls.
“I wish Mom would come home,” Tucker said.
“She’ll be at Eagle’s Rest a long time.” Mrs. Murphy knew that calling upon the bereaved took time, plus everyone else in Crozet would be there.
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