Catch as Cat Can

by Rita Mae Brown

  “Mom, you worry too much. She's up in the hayloft with Simon.”

  “Bart, don't you go out there. You can play later.”

  But Bart, young and full of himself, thought he could dash out, grab the ball, and roll it back in. Even if the cat happened to be in the tack room he thought he was quicker than she was. Wrong.

  Bart no sooner scooted out than the full weight of Mrs. Murphy surrounded him. She'd jumped down, pinning him under her beige-striped tummy.

  “Bart! Bart!” his mother screamed.

  “Mom.” His voice was muffled by all the fur.

  Murphy, highly pleased with herself, twisted her body so Bart could stick his head out from under her but couldn't escape. “Worm.”

  “Oh, please, Mrs. Murphy, don't kill me.”

  “I'm going to play with you, I'll let you go, then smack my paw down on your tail. When I'm tired of your foolishness, I'll snap your neck and bite your head off. I'll leave your head right here so Harry can see what a mighty mouser I am. I'll eat the rest. Yum.”

  “Take me.” Bart's mother boldly hurried outside amid screams from the other mice inside.

  “I could have you both, you know, I'm that fast.”

  “You're a fabulous athlete, Mrs. Murphy.” The mother walked right up to Mrs. Murphy's nose. “But he's young. I'm not. Take me.”

  Bart was sobbing. Mrs. Murphy considered the situation. She heard a soft flutter in the rafters. The owl returned from hunting.

  “Go on. Get in there. She will eat you. I won't.”

  “Bless you, Mrs. Murphy.” The mother hugged Mrs. Murphy as best she could as Bart scurried into his home.

  “Just clean up around here. If you don't I won't be nice to you next time.”

  “We will!” the jubilant chorus agreed from behind the wall.

  Satisfied that she'd struck terror into their hearts, the tiger emerged into the center aisle, then climbed the ladder up to the loft. Simon was asleep, his treasures surrounding him.

  She looked straight up into the cupola as the owl, over two feet of her, peered down.

  “Who?”

  “You know who.”

  “Indeed I do. A saucy cat. A spoiled cat. Mrs. Murphy. What are you doing in here? Get caught in the rain?”

  “No. I woke up when it stopped. Have you been hunting in it?”

  “A foray when the worst was over.”

  Mrs. Murphy climbed to the topmost hay bale. “Come down here and talk to me so I don't get a crick in my neck. And I don't want to yell. Sooner or later Simon will wake up and whimper. You know how he is.”

  Although not close friends, the two predators had respect for one another even though the owl did not understand domestication one bit. She glided down, silent as the tomb. Gave Mrs. Murphy the chills because when the owl hunted you didn't know what hit you until it was too late. Even sharp cat ears could only discern her presence when she was already close.

  The owl's bright yellow eyes blinked. “What's on your mind, pussycat?”

  “I have to get over to Tally Urquhart's but I can't cross the creeks.”

  “Over the banks, debris hurtling in the water. The beavers don't even want to come out of their lodges and the lodges are getting holes punched in by tree limbs. You can hear the roar.” The owl blinked.

  “Yes, I heard it when I left the house. I suppose I could open the truck window when we pass Tally's drive and hop out of the car. Mother has to slow for the curve but I don't like her knowing I can manage the windows. It's not good for humans to know what we know.”

  She chuckled. “That's very owl-like of you.” She fluffed her feathers, turned her head almost the whole way around, then settled herself. “Want me to fly over?”

  “I need to get in the house.”

  “Ah, I can't help you there.”

  “You see, two humans have been murdered. One was hanged and the other was shot.”

  “I know.”

  “I guess you would. You're out and about. I didn't think you cared much about human affairs.”

  “I don't, but murder has a certain lurid curiosity. We owls don't murder one another. You cats might tussle, a bad fight, lose an eye, but you don't murder one another. It's one of those depressing curiosities about humans.”

  “So it appears.” Murphy leaned toward the large bird. “I think there's been a third murder. Roger O'Bannon. And either his brother did it or his brother is next in line.”

  “Ah, so I am not my brother's keeper?” She rocked back and forth on her huge feet.

  “Cain and Abel. Mrs. Hogendobber would know the exact quote from the Bible. I don't but I know the story.”

  “As do I. Cain slew Abel because he was jealous. The Hebrew God favored Abel. All religions have such a story. Being sacred to Athena, I'm partial to the Greek myths myself. But it would have to be a powerful motive for blood to kill blood. Either that or Sean O'Bannon is one cold-blooded creature.”

  “I don't think he is. I could be wrong. Crozet is so small. You think you know people but you don't. But I really don't think Sean is cold-blooded. What puzzles me the most is what the victims have gotten themselves into—over five hundred thousand dollars was found in Donny Clatterbuck's safe. So I would have to say that money is the motive and if that's just Clatterbuck's cut then we are talking about a great, great deal of money. But I can't for the life of me think of what they could be doing to generate that kind of cash. It's not drugs, at least I don't think so, and we know the money's not counterfeit. I've thought and thought. I even thought what if they've been selling state secrets but there are no state secrets in Albemarle County. The government officials and military brass retired here are just that, retired.”

  “Slavery.”

  “Huh?”

  “Mrs. Murphy, there's still slavery. Children are bought and sold. People from Asia and South America are sold as domestic slaves smuggled into the U.S. Oh, it's called something else but it's slavery. When you can't speak the language, you can't go out on your own. You work for nothing or next to nothing and another human, maybe the one who smuggled you in, controls your life. There's a lot of money in smuggling people across the border.”

  “I never thought of that. I don't know, but it's something and it's here. This I do know, if Sean O'Bannon isn't part of it he'll be dead before too long. If he lives, I have to assume the worst.”

  “Can't you set a trap for him? If he doesn't fall into it, he's innocent,” the owl said with deliberation.

  “That's just it, since I don't know what it is that they're doing, I can't bait a trap.”

  “You are in a pickle.” The owl chuckled. “But your human is safe. Why worry?”

  “No, she's not. She was there when the safe was cut open by BoomBoom Craycroft, of all people. So now her blood is up. She's as curious as a cat but without the nine lives.”

  “Harry does have an odd way of stumbling onto the truth.” The owl scratched her head with her foot.

  “You could do me a favor. When weather permits, fly over O'Bannon Salvage. See if anything looks peculiar from the air. Sometimes land betrays things. Oh, and there's a very offensive rat that lives there, he calls himself Pope Rat. I think he knows a lot.”

  “If I catch him and carry him aloft he'll sing like a robin.” She chuckled low and deep, the idea of swinging the rat in the air appealing to her.

  “When we find out what it is we'll no doubt wonder how we missed it,” the cat sighed.

  “Or be completely amazed. Humans, for all their faults, can be damnably clever.”

  34

  Although the rain had stopped, the runoff slopped over highways, and culverts, jammed with gunk, backed up and overflowed. Everywhere one looked there was running water. The shoulders off the sides of the roads shone with it.

  Driving slowly, Harry gave thanks that her lands rested high above the floodplain. Structures built in lowlands had flooded basements at the least.

  Mrs. Murphy, Pewter, and Tucker had been arguing
since climbing into the truck. Murphy was determined to jump out when Harry slowed for the curve by Tally Urquhart's farm entrance.

  Pewter vowed she would not launch herself from a moving vehicle. What did she care if Sean might be in danger? Besides, the long, long driveway meant she'd get her feet wet.

  Tucker moaned because she might squeeze out the window but not being as agile as the cat, she feared the drop. No point in collecting broken bones.

  “But I need your nose,” Murphy pouted.

  “Won't do you a bit of good if I can't haul myself up the driveway. It's not a good plan, Murphy. Be patient. Sooner or later, Mom will call on Tally.”

  “By that time it will be too late.” The sleek cat put her paw on the window crank as the old truck didn't have electric windows.

  “No, it won't.” Pewter was nervous that if Murphy rolled down the window and shot out of the truck, Harry would swerve and they'd slide off the road into the muck. Not an appealing prospect to a fastidious cat.

  Tally's farm lay up ahead, marked by a big rectangular sign with a white rose on a dark green background and the name “Rose Hill” swinging in the light breeze. Mrs. Murphy, using both paws, started cranking down the window when to her delight, Harry turned right onto the drive.

  “Murphy, what are you doing?”

  “Damn, now she knows I know how to roll down the window.”

  “I told you not to do it.” Pewter smugly moved over to sit next to Harry.

  “Brownnoser,” Murphy spat.

  “That does us no good at all. What if this is a short visit? We need a plan,” Tucker, being practical, said.

  “All right. When we get there, Tucker, go straight to the dining room. The flooring is old random-width. There are cracks between the boards. Sniff the cracks. Would be a bitter smell, I think. Pewter, go into the pantry. You do the same thing but get on the shelves. You'll have to stick your nose in sugar bowls, creamers, any small bowl, but be careful. You don't want to inhale anything into your system. Stuff would be lethal. Think how quickly it killed Roger O'Bannon.”

  “If it did,” Pewter replied. “We'll never know without an autopsy. He could have died of natural causes.”

  “We'd best hope he did,” Tucker grimly said.

  “Sean should have ordered an autopsy.” Pewter eagerly moved toward the passenger door as Harry parked at the back of Tally's beautiful house. “It's weird.”

  “Some humans feel strongly that the body shouldn't be disturbed. And no one thought of murder at the time. It's not so weird.” Tucker allowed Harry to lift her down.

  The blossoms, knocked off the trees and bushes, scattered on the grass like pink and white confetti. Harry rapped on the back door as she scraped the petals off her boots.

  As no one came directly to the door she opened it a crack. “Aunt Tally, it's Harry.”

  The sound of footsteps reverberated through the back hall. Reverend Herb Jones appeared. “Harry, come in.”

  “Hi. I didn't see your car.”

  “In the garage. The storm was so bad I thought I'd better come out here and stay, especially since Mim and family are in New York.” He closed the door behind Harry and the animals, who headed to their respective assignments. “When the help goes home she's out here all alone and those were nasty storms. One right after the other.”

  “Gee, I'm happy you're here. That's why I stopped by. I was worried about Tally being alone, too.” She followed Herb into the huge kitchen.

  Tally glanced up from yellowed hunt-territory maps, drawn in the 1930s. “I'm still alive, thank you.”

  “Never a doubt in my mind.” Harry laughed. “Hey, those are something.”

  “Forgot I had them and then Herb and I were talking about the old Albemarle Hunt, which hunted the Greenwood territory. I was just a kid then but that hunt unraveled, odds and ends, and in 1929 Farmington took over the territory. Anyway, these old maps will show you.”

  Harry propped on her elbows to study the maps. She loved old prints, photographs, aquatints. “I think people had better lives back then.”

  “Well, I'm inclined to agree—until you had a toothache,” Aunt Tally sensibly replied.

  As the humans enjoyed one another's company, Tally recalling her girlhood, Herb remembering the big jumps from hunt days gone by, the animals worked quickly.

  Pewter, nosy anyway, quietly pulled open the pantry cabinets. They had glass window fronts so she didn't waste any time. She pushed the lids off the two sugar bowls, one silver and formal, one informal. Plain white sugar rested inside. She sniffed. Plain white sugar, pure and simple.

  For good measure she inspected every small bowl, tureen, creamer. Everything was in order. Disappointed, she hopped down, pulling open the bottom cabinets that didn't have glass window fronts. Nothing in there but big pots and pans and serving dishes.

  Mrs. Murphy had intended to prowl around the kitchen but with the humans in there she decided to join Tucker.

  The corgi, diligent and intelligent, carefully started with the joinings between two boards, following it from end to end. Murphy walked in just as she reached the place where the table had been set.

  The cat sat on her haunches.

  Tucker stopped, checked out a spot, lifted her nose up, then put it back down. “Murph, try this.”

  The cat joined her friend and although her nose wasn't as refined as the dog's, a scent so faint as to be ethereal wafted up from a crack. “Bitter.”

  “Smells like a bad poison, but we can't prove it.” The dog cocked her head, then put her nose down again, wrinkled it, bringing her head up. “Not rat poison. I've never smelled this.”

  Pewter sauntered in. “Big fat nothing.”

  “Come here,” Murphy said.

  Pewter placed her nose where Tucker indicated she should. She sniffed, then blinked her eyes, jerking her head back. “Nasty, what's left of it.” She turned to Murphy. “You might be right.”

  “You two slept under the table. What I remember”—the tiger jumped up on the fireplace mantel where she'd been sitting during the tea dance—“is that Roger was already in the chair. Lottie came into the room. She'd been out dancing or in the garden. I don't know. The desserts had just been placed on the table. Everything was buffet style. People started to come in and crowd the table. They needed the coffee. Lots of drinking. Lottie picked up a piece of chocolate cake. She was in the line. Next she poured a cup of coffee from the silver samovar and then she put in three scoops of raw sugar. I remember it was raw sugar because she took a step back to put the sugar on the table, bumped into Thomas Steinmetz just as he reached for the sugar, and spilled it all over the floor. She apologized, he said it was his fault, and then she carried the cake and the coffee over to Roger, who was happy that she paid attention to him. I don't know what they said because I was, by then, watching the other humans.” She thought a moment. “She'd made a mess of the sugar. Thomas cleaned it up before one of the kids hired to serve got there. He picked up the broken pieces of the bowl and swept up the sugar with his napkin. When one of the servers got there he handed it to him to put in the trash. He'd wrapped everything in his napkin. I didn't pay much attention to it at the time except to think that he was nice to do it because there was enough on the floor that someone could have slipped on it. Drunk as many were, I'd say that was a sound conclusion on his part. And, well, within ten minutes, Roger was dead. And quiet. No gurgling or choking. I was sitting right here. Quiet!”

  “Lottie Pearson gives Roger coffee and cake. She went with Don Clatterbuck to the dance that night.” Pewter frowned. “Lottie Pearson.”

  “And she's not very happy with Mom.” Tucker flattened her ears.

  “Yes.” Murphy remained silent for a long time. “I was thinking that Sean—but now I don't know. But what would Lottie Pearson have to do with three dead men, Wesley Partlow, Donny Clatterbuck, and Roger O'Bannon? Is she a black widow or something?”

  “She could have been killing men before now, but thinking on it
, maybe her animosity toward Roger was a big act,” Pewter, suspicious, said.

  “If she isn't acting, someone around here sure is.” Tucker hit the nail on the head.

  35

  Harry, not knowing what her animals were thinking, was working from her own ideas. Satisfied that Aunt Tally flourished, she headed her truck toward the old folks' home, the highest building in Crozet, which wasn't saying much.

  An expanse of asphalt surrounded the beige block building, still wet so the parking lot surface shone like mica. She pulled her truck to the back, cut the motor, and emerged followed by the “kids,” Pewter shaking water off her paws at every step.

  Harry walked around the building. Nothing unusual presented itself. She then stopped at the edge of the tarmac to study the railroad tracks that swooped right next to the building with a long curve. Wesley had been found near those tracks. The brush, already grown up at this time of year, could easily conceal activity. She pushed through the bushes and brambles, leaves spraying water on her. An old mud road pockmarked with huge holes filled with brown water followed the tracks. The hanging tree, a fiddle oak, sat just south of that road, maybe fifty yards. From the tree the distance to the tracks measured about two hundred yards.

  Harry looked up at the strong, spreading limbs and shuddered. The sun peeked out from the clouds, then immediately disappeared again. Thunder shook the other side of the Blue Ridge Mountains. It was far enough away that it sounded like one of the gods, clearing his throat.

  “Not more rain.” Harry exhaled. “I tell you, it's either floods or drought these days.”

  “You're exactly right. Let's go back to the truck,” Pewter strongly suggested.

  “H-m-m.” Harry walked around the tree, searched the ground, then checked the tree bark. Her curiosity was getting the better of her, a condition her pets feared.

  After ten minutes she returned to the truck, Pewter racing ahead of everyone. The skies grew dark gray rapidly. Harry opened the driver's door a crack, reached behind the seat, pulling out a towel. She wiped off each animal's paws before allowing them in the truck. Then she climbed in herself, opened the window about two inches, and sat. A fine mist slowly enveloped the old folks' building.