Catch as Cat Can

by Rita Mae Brown

  “Tucker, I'm sorry. Come on.” She disappeared through the door, her tail swishing through last.

  As Tucker hurried after the sleek tiger, Pewter wailed, “I smell rain. I'll get wet.”

  “Stay here, fatso.” The corgi couldn't resist a parting shot.

  “Don't leave me! I hate to miss anything.” Under her breath the gray cat grumbled, “I know I'm going to regret this.”

  “What is going on?” Harry scratched her head as Pewter's gray bottom vanished through the door.

  “Must be a good party somewhere.” Miranda laughed. “Here, let me hold that package or you'll tip the shelf over.”

  The three animals streaked along the lawns. Tucker held other dogs at bay, declaring they were just crossing and would be off that particular dog's property soon enough. The corgi also advised other dogs they would probably be returning that way and she was sorry to disturb them but important business was at hand.

  The other domesticated animals behaved reasonably, except for one Australian shepherd who mouthed off so abusively that Tucker told the cats to run on. She advanced on the medium-sized dog, who, seeing the determination of the corgi plus the bared fangs, decided that passage through his lawn might not be so offensive.

  Tucker caught up with the cats as they entered the rye field.

  “Guess you shut him up.” Murphy brushed the slender rye blades.

  “For now.”

  “How much farther?” Pewter sneezed as pollen tickled her nose.

  “I told you to stay at the post office,” Tucker chided her.

  “I'm not complaining. I just want to know how far,” she snapped back.

  “Ten minutes.” Tucker pushed through the rye.

  They journeyed in silence until emerging on the farm road. The ruts seemed even deeper to Tucker this time. In the near distance they could hear a tractor whine.

  “Doesn't sound right, does it?” Pewter noted.

  “No.” Tucker, spying the tobacco barn up ahead, put on speed. She rounded the structure, the long-distant whiff of decades of smoke still pungently perceptible. “What!”

  The two cats almost collided into her.

  “Where's the truck?” Pewter caustically asked.

  “It was here. I swear it!”

  “That tractor sounds stuck. Let's find it. Maybe Booty's using the truck to pull it out,” Mrs. Murphy suggested.

  Finding Booty proved easy enough not only because of the whine of the tractor but because he was cussing a blue streak. The animals heard words they'd never heard before.

  The tractor had sunk into a soft pothole that must have been deceptive from the driver's seat. The rear wheels were mired a quarter of the way up the large yellow hubcaps. Booty, overalls shiny with fresh mud, placed stones, anything he could find, in front of the wheels, then he'd swing back up into the seat to try again.

  Abraham, a bluetick hound, mournfully watched his human have fits. Abraham, two years older than God, endured some loss of hearing, stiff hips, and fading sight, but his nose stayed keen.

  “Abraham,” Tucker called loudly to him as they approached. “How are you?”

  “Tucker? Who's with you? Are those Chihuahuas?” He squinted.

  “I resent that,” Pewter flared up.

  “Pewter, he's nearly as old as Booty.” Mrs. Murphy bumped the gray just to put her in her place.

  “Mrs. Murphy and Pewter are with me,” Tucker answered.

  “Hello, girls,” Abraham greeted them, his manner courtly. “I apologize for my human but as you can surmise, he's struggling with the elements and if my nose is any good at all, we'll be wet within the half hour. He'll need another tractor to pull out this one. Oh, me.” He let out a long, long sigh.

  “No need to ever apologize for a human.” Tucker laughed.

  “He's right about the rain,” Pewter whispered to Mrs. Murphy. “I feel it coming. If I get wet it will take me hours to dry. I can't stand it when my hair gets matted down. Murphy, are you listening?”

  “Stop worrying.” She edged up to Abraham, then rubbed against his chest.

  “Mrs. Murphy, you smell like nutmeg.” He chuckled. “Pewter.”

  “Here I am.” Pewter rubbed against him also.

  “We're hoping you can help us.” Tucker sat down as Booty cursed to high heaven. “There's a farm truck parked behind the curing shed. I chanced by not an hour and a half ago and now on my return, it's gone. Might you know of its whereabouts?”

  “No. I didn't hear the truck being driven off but then I don't hear so good anymore.”

  “Do you recall Booty driving the truck to town?” Mrs. Murphy spoke up.

  “Farm truck. Don't know how it would make it to town and back, really,” Abraham answered.

  “I thought when I came by that Booty was out with his team of horses,” Tucker wondered. “And I thought he didn't own a tractor.”

  “What a memory you have, Tee Tucker. He worked the little field, the garden patch field, I call it, with the horses but Dimples threw a shoe. So he unhitched the horses and he was going to hitch up the second pair, you know he has the young ones he's bringing on, fine matched pair, ah, but I digress here. Well, he checked the weather and thought he'd return Marcus Durant's tractor to him. He'd borrowed it to dig fence holes. Marcus has every attachment made in the U. S. of A. and Booty's getting on in years, he just didn't feature digging fence holes with the hand digger. Luckily he finished that job, earth's soft, has to set the fence posts, of course, so he wanted to return the tractor. Now he's got to hitch up the young horses to pull out the tractor and he'd better wash off the tractor, too. Rain'll help.” He exhaled and his flews fluttered out with his breath.

  “Abraham, would you do me a great favor?” Tucker's pink tongue hung out slightly.

  “If I can, I would certainly not like to disappoint a lady.”

  “Will you walk over to the curing shed with us and work the ground where the truck was parked? Your nose is better than mine.” Tucker flattered the bluetick hound but in truth hound noses were the best of the best.

  “Why, I'd be delighted although I'm sure your nose is keen as can be.” He stood up on all fours, stretched, and moved toward the shed, happy to be useful. Hounds need to be useful or they sink into a torpor.

  Booty turned around and beheld the four animals leaving. “Abraham, Abraham, you are useless as tits on a boar hog.” He sputtered, needing to take out his anger on someone.

  “Going deaf has its advantages,” Abraham chuckled. Once at the shed, he put his nose to the ground, working in small circles around the spot where the truck had been parked. “Grease. Gas. Now, that's odd. Pump's down by the shed. And—” He lifted his head, sniffed in fresh air to clear his nasal passages, then put his nose to the ground again. “Something, something, a chemical? Tucker, get over here.”

  Tucker also put her nose to the ground as the cats watched. A stiff breeze came up quickly, blowing their fur toward their heads.

  “It's not fertilizer yet it smells organic. The man-made chemicals are harsh. This is—h-m-m, familiar.” Abraham inhaled another deep draft. “Acidic. Natural. Ah, I have it. Yes, tannic acid. Yes. Use it sometimes on the backs of new Oriental rugs to make them look old. Use it on skins. That's it.”

  “Any association with a human?” Mrs. Murphy asked as she lowered her head, the wind picking up considerably.

  “Don.” Abraham nodded slowly. “Guess he borrowed the truck. Funny, though, he didn't leave his car. I can't think of anyone else with that scent. The moisture's holding it down pretty good. I don't know if Don did take the truck but I'm sure this is tannic acid.”

  “Forgive me, Abraham, I'm not an initiate into the mysteries of scent.” The tiger smiled, her green eyes glittering. “But isn't it possible that the odor could be from the leather on the bottom of shoes or from the leather upper? It's muddy enough here for a shoe to sink in.”

  “Wouldn't be this pungent.” Abraham's deep voice reverberated. He lifted his head south
, to the wind. “Going to be another blow. You'd better head back or stay here if you'd like. Booty will get over himself.”

  “Thanks. We'll go back. Oh, one more question.” Tucker also lifted her head. “I don't recall Booty being a Dallas Cowboys fan. I thought he was Redskins all the way.”

  “Is.”

  “There was a Cowboys windbreaker on the back of the truck seat,” Tucker said.

  “No one in our family roots for any team but the Redskins. I'm not a football fan myself but I can tell you that. Go on now. You haven't much time.”

  “Thanks again, Abraham,” Tucker said.

  “Yes, thank you,” the cats replied.

  “Glad to be of service.” Abraham turned, ambling back to the house. He'd given up on Booty and the tractor.

  As the three hurried back the first raindrop splattered down behind the grade school.

  “I knew it. I just knew it,” Pewter railed as Mrs. Murphy and Tucker forged ahead, and as the storm worsened her volume level rose. “I should have never left the post office. I should have trusted my first impulse. When am I going to learn to do that? What do I care about an old truck? I mean I don't care about Wesley Partlow. I didn't know Wesley Partlow. I wouldn't care if half the human race vanished. All they do is make a mess. I should have never let Tucker talk me into this. I hate those two. I hate them. Really!”

  27

  Rick Shaw stopped off at Pantops Shopping Center to grab a snack. He'd slipped back into the car with the sandwiches as Cynthia Cooper returned with drinks and two cartons of cigarettes since the price was so good.

  He turned on the engine. Just as he did he heard the dispatcher's voice. “Sheriff, Sheriff Zakarios of Culpeper needs to talk to you. I've been trying to get you.”

  “Say what he want, Sheila?”

  “No. But he said it's important.”

  “See if you can get him for me. I'll be in the car.”

  “Righto.”

  “Wonder what Zak wants.” Coop bit into a ham-and-cheese sandwich. She hadn't realized how hungry she was until she took her first bite.

  “Rick,” Zakarios's voice boomed over citizen's band radio.

  “Yes, Zak. What's cooking in Culpeper?”

  “Albemarle resident found on White Shop Road just about a half hour ago. Shot through the temple, slumped over the steering wheel. Don Clatterbuck.”

  “I'll be right there, Zak.”

  “We sealed off the site. You know this guy?”

  “Yes.”

  “Damnedest thing, he has a stuffed pileated woodpecker on the seat next to him. Thing's almost two feet tall.”

  “He's a taxidermist on the side. Sirens on, maybe I can get to you in a half hour. I don't know, rain's looking evil.”

  “How far down are you on White Shop Road? This is Deputy Cynthia Cooper.”

  “Hi, Coop. Not two miles. We're a little off the road to the right. You'll see the yellow tape and the squad cars. Ambulance will be here, too. Thought you'd want to see him before—” He was interrupted, then returned. “John says he thinks he's been dead less than an hour.”

  “Be there as fast as I can. Over and out.”

  A gushing rivulet of rainwater poured down in front of Rick Shaw's eyes each time he bent his head. The sheriff's hat, a modified cowboy hat that he and other officers wore, shunted water fore and aft, but the rains were so heavy the hat was soaked through in fifteen minutes.

  Sheriff Zakarios mourned the loss of clean vehicle tracks next to the truck. Tracks could still be seen but the rain wiped out a tread imprint. “We've gone over his truck thoroughly.” He wiped his cheeks, wet; his hands were wet, too. “Not a feather off this woodpecker.”

  Coop leaned against the 1987 GMC truck, now wearing real license plates, her back to it. “The woodpecker belongs to Mary Minor Haristeen. He must have just finished it.”

  “She into drugs or anything?” Chris Zakarios asked.

  “No,” Coop replied. “Straight as an arrow. Why, were you going to tear apart the woodpecker?”

  “Not right off the bat but I'll impound it for a while.”

  “Neat. Small caliber.” Rick opened the door a crack again, inspecting the wound. “Twenty-two, I'd reckon.”

  “Whoever it was walked right up to him,” Chris theorized. “The driver's window wasn't down. The door was closed. So the door had to be opened, perhaps by Clatterbuck himself, bam, then the killer closes the door and drives off. Swift. No sign of struggle.”

  “Well, Don wasn't looking for it.” Rick sighed. “Your people might as well take the body away. I appreciate you calling me. You'll keep the Cowboys windbreaker for evidence, too? You see, we've been looking for this particular truck and windbreaker.”

  “I don't suppose there was anything in the pockets that—” Coop hoped against hope.

  “A matchbook. We dusted it. Here.” He handed it to Coop, who bent over to shelter it from the downpour.

  Beautifully colored with turquoise, airbrushed orange, and yellow with squibbles of purple, the matchbook was expensive to produce. Three inches by two inches, shiny coated paper, the proprietor intended to make an upscale statement. “Roy and Nadine's,” with the Y of Roy as a martini glass, announced the restaurant in Lexington, Kentucky. The address, Palomar Center, Harrodsburg Pike and Man-O-War Drive, was printed on the back. The phone number was printed under the address.

  Rick huddled next to Coop. “Don't jump to conclusions.”

  “I'm not but if this matchbook belongs to Partlow maybe he's from Kentucky.”

  “We sent the fingerprints out nationally,” Rick replied.

  “Doesn't mean he's got a record.” She noted that at the bottom of the matchbook, the black lip had printed in white ink, “Contemporary American Cuisine.” The R in the restaurant's name was printed in yellow, the A in deep orange, and the N was hot pink. “Great design. I'll call the restaurant.” She walked back to the squad car, scribbled down the information, then emerged into the deluge, handing the matchbook back to Sheriff Zakarios.

  “Know much about the victim?” the Culpeper sheriff asked.

  “Friendly. No record. A relaxed kind of guy.”

  Coop answered the good-looking, trim Culpeper sheriff. “It's hard to imagine anyone wanting to kill him.”

  “Half of what we do comes back to drugs.” The sheriff squinted as the rain blew sideways. “Maybe he had a secret life.”

  “It's a damn national epidemic.” Rick stepped away from the GMC as the ambulance crew pulled out the body. “Coop, get the license plate number.”

  “Yeah.” She had written down the letters and numbers the minute she got out of the squad car. The license plate, white with blue raised numbers, appeared much older than the truck itself but it had the correct registration stickers on the upper left-hand and upper right-hand corners. She slipped inside the squad car, ran the information, and within minutes was back out. “Nothing. This license plate is from before computer records. Carol Grossman will check back in the files. But the stickers are certainly current. And there's no way you can peel them off another vehicle's plate without tearing the stickers.”

  “We've got a homicide. The victim was reported driving this truck.”

  “Kid hanging from a tree.” Sheriff Zakarios stroked his long, square chin. “That's a hell of a note. So is this.”

  “Thanks for the call.” Rick Shaw clapped Zak's back.

  “I'll help in any way I can.”

  One of Zak's deputies called to him while wrapping the pileated woodpecker in plastic. “Good work.”

  “He did very good work.” Cooper sighed. Don was a likeable man, clearly a man who had either been in the wrong place at the wrong time or had been involved in something she couldn't fathom right then. But she and Rick would figure it out. They usually did, and she always came to the same conclusion: it's easier to keep your nose to the grindstone and be honest. But she couldn't imagine what Don could have done that was dishonest. As far as she knew, criminals
had no need of taxidermy skills.

  As they climbed back into the squad car, Rick tossed his hat in the back, droplets flinging outward. Coop threw hers back there, too.

  “I'll have to get my hat blocked. I forgot my plastic hat cover.”

  “Those things look awful.” She shivered in her seat.

  “Chill?”

  “Yeah. Soaked to the bone.”

  “Me, too, but I've more protection.” He pinched his spare tire, which was decreasing slowly. Rick struggled with dieting. The temptation was to roll into a fast-food joint.

  “When we get back I'd better tell Harry her woodpecker has been impounded.”

  “This woodpecker is news to me. She shooting woodpeckers out there? Isn't that against the law?” He winked.

  “Found it dead by the back porch. Actually, the cats found it.”

  “Those cats of hers.” Rick laughed. “She'd better enlist them for Social Security numbers given all the work they do.” He turned left down Route 29. After about five minutes he asked, “Any ideas?”

  “The truck ties them together. Weird.” She lapsed into silence and then spoke again. “I'll track down Lottie Pearson, too.”

  “Why?”

  “She dragged Don to Mim's charity dance.”

  “And wasn't it Lottie who brought O'Bannon the coffee? It was. Glad you were there. Lottie Pearson.” He whistled low. “Want me to turn up the heat?”

  “No. We'll suffocate. I've got a change of clothes in my locker. I'll talk to Lottie after calling Roy and Nadine's. She'll be a real treat.” Coop folded her arms across her chest.

  28

  No.” Lottie frowned as the rain slashed at the windowpane in her office.

  “Lottie, no one thinks you killed Donny Clatterbuck. Don't get your nose out of joint.” Cynthia Cooper, tired and frustrated, spoke bluntly. “But you were in his company recently. Anything you noticed might create a major breakthrough.” Cooper thought to herself how onerous it was to butter up people like Lottie.

  “Well.” She tapped the desk with a pencil, rose from her ergonomically correct seat, crossed the tidy, attractive office, and closed the door behind Coop. “Of course I want to help. It's just that you put me off coming to my place of work in uniform. I have a position to uphold.” She returned to her seat. “The university would take a dim view of anything incorrect.” She lowered her voice on “incorrect.”