Sour Puss Read online

  “We don’t know that.” Harry reached for more cheese.

  “True, but say that Toby’s murder is exactly what it seems to be: the end result of an ongoing feud, of bad feelings. There’s still something we don’t know.”

  “That’s not consoling.”

  “No, it isn’t.”

  Pewter, who had soaked up every word, turned to Mrs. Murphy and Tucker again. “Don’t you want to know where I’ve been?”

  “Oh, Pewter.” Mrs. Murphy dismissed her.

  “All right, then.” Miffed though she was, Pewter looked like the cat who swallowed the canary.

  24

  I don’t know.” Big Mim stood in the middle of the quad in front of her old stable, originally built in 1802.

  The new stable under construction, its back facing north, was sited at a right angle to the old stable.

  Tazio Chappars had designed the new stable so it harmonized with the old, using the same graceful proportions and the same roof pitch.

  The 1802 structure, which was brick and painted white, bore testimony to the enduring quality of the materials and the design. Both stables had excellent drainage.

  The new one had pipes running underneath to two huge buried holding tanks, four thousand gallons each. Each drain in the new stable was covered with a perforated lid. This kept out much of the debris while allowing a stable hand to lift it and clean it out with a plumber’s snake.

  The new stable, instead of being infested with wires, had a small dish facing due south so Paul de Silva could use his computer without electricity.

  A backup generator was housed in an insulated room that also contained a large hot water heater. A small heat pump for the office would be hidden outside behind the office once construction was finished and bushes could be planted.

  The work stall had recessed lights, some of which were heat lamps controlled by a separate switch.

  The brilliant design never shouted. The tranquillity of the stable would be further enhanced by the landscaping once the last truck rolled away.

  Harry, next to Mim, admired Violet Hill, the stunning four-year-old blood bay that Mim loved.

  “You know what you really want to do.” Harry thought the filly one of the best movers she had ever seen.

  “Mom will tell Big Mim to do what she wants to do,” Mrs. Murphy, resting under the eaves of the old stable, commented to Press Man, the springer spaniel puppy Mim had purchased to enliven her old, much loved springer spaniel, currently asleep at the house.

  The little guy, all of five months, thought Mrs. Murphy hung the moon because she talked to him.

  Mim’s barn cats hissed and swatted at Press.

  Tucker observed Paul now running alongside Violet Hill, encouraging the beautiful horse to extend her trot, which she did.

  Pewter, also under the eaves, kept her eye on purple finches eating fennel seed from a feeder hung not far from the barn.

  “Paul, thank you. Any more and you’ll have completed the marathon.” The elegant older woman laughed.

  “Anyone else you’d like to see, Señora?”

  “No, thank you.”

  Handsome, tightly built, and light on his feet, the young trainer walked Violet Hill back to the old stable. She would be wiped down, then turned out.

  Mim, like Harry, believed horses needed to be out.

  “I can’t decide.” Big Mim crossed her arms over her crisp white cotton shirt.

  “If you send her out,” Harry meant on the steeplechase circuit, “she may do very well. She has a large heart girth, large nostrils, and a big throat latch. I like that. Makes it easy to get air into those big lungs. But it’s a risk to the mind.”

  “Yes.”

  “She may like ’chasing, you never know.”

  “Yes.”

  “But, as you know more than I, it can change a horse’s personality forever. Some can retire to hunt. Others can’t do it.”

  “She could always be a broodmare. There’s not that much wolf blood out there.” Big Mim named her sire, an Argentine import.

  “You’d look fabulous in the hunt field on a blood bay.”

  A light flickered in Big Mim’s eyes. “I’ve never had one, you know. Not in all these years.”

  “Blood bays are unusual. A true blood bay.”

  A long, happy sigh escaped Mim’s lips. “I’ll hunt her. She’s been bold over the small fences here. She loves being outside; plus, we get along. Wonderful smooth gaits. That’s good on these old bones.”

  “You’ve ridden her, then?” Harry thought to herself how deep the bond ran between a true horseman and the horse.

  “With Paul on Toodles. Dear old Mr. Toodles is so calm. I think he talks to her.”

  “Lucky?”

  “Not much. She certainly notices everything, but then, Thoroughbreds do. Saddlebreds, too. They’re so intelligent. I can’t believe people think otherwise.” Mim stopped a moment. “She didn’t even shy when a big, red-shouldered hawk flew low over here. Scared me. She stopped, then walked in. I am just besotted with this horse.”

  “I would be, too,” Harry honestly replied.

  “I’m so glad you dropped by. I’ve been wanting you to see her again. Fair’s quite taken with her.”

  “I know. That’s one of the reasons I came by. He’s talked about Violet Hill so much that I had to see her. I haven’t really seen her much since she was a yearling. As you know, Fair is one of her—and your—biggest fans.” Harry followed Big Mim as she walked to the old stable. This pleased Mim, because she knew Harry was being genuine.

  Wrought-iron benches bearing Mim’s colors, red and gold, in a center medallion beckoned.

  Mim sat on the long cushion, with Harry next to her.

  “Well?”

  Harry laughed. After all, Big Mim knew her when she was in her mother’s womb. She launched right in. “Toby Pittman was killed with his own gun.”

  “Yes.” Mim knew from Rick as well as her husband about the disposition of the body.

  “Fair never heard the shots. He should have heard them.”

  “True, but he could have arrived just after Hy killed Toby.” Mim’s logic was strong. “And when the coroner examined the body he found signs of struggle. Marks on Toby’s wrist. A smashed finger, as though he’d been held on the ground and his hand pummeled against the earth. He had a broken cheekbone, as well.”

  “How come Fair missed that? He’s observant.”

  “Toby had on a long-sleeved shirt. And according to Rick his face wasn’t caved in. It might have looked like a red mark where he was hit. One other thing: three shots were fired.”

  “Ah.” Harry crossed her feet at the ankles. “Maybe he did get a shot off at Hy.”

  “They haven’t found the bullet. Not on the farm or in Hy’s truck. It would help if that third bullet were found.”

  “Do you think Hy killed Toby?”

  “Yes.”

  The third bullet preyed on Harry’s mind. She wanted to find it.

  When she did, finally, it nearly killed her.

  As the humans talked, Mrs. Murphy, enticed by the chirping, also came out on the lawn.

  “I was here first.” Pewter had a territorial moment.

  “I can watch the birds as well as you can.”

  Up on the bird feeder, the purple finches, who had been joined by goldfinches, eyed the cats inching forward.

  “Want to fly away?” the brightest purple finch asked the others.

  “They can’t get us,” answered a goldfinch.

  “I know. But we could poop on them.” The bright purple finch cracked a fennel seed.

  “Yay!” the others answered, lifting off the perches as if in fear of the felines, only to circle, then fly over, releasing their contents.

  “No fair.” Pewter skedaddled back under the eaves.

  The two dogs laughed, which did not improve Mrs. Murphy’s humor as she took a direct hit.

  Driving home, the three animals listened to the radio. Mrs.
Murphy, grumbling, cleaned furiously.

  “Square in the center of the back. That’s hard to reach,” Tucker commiserated.

  “Finches are supposed to be mean.” Pewter got off lightly with a sprinkle on her paw. She’d already cleaned it.

  “Birds are birds,” a disgusted Mrs. Murphy said, then further complained, “I wish she’d turn off that country music. I hate that stuff.”

  “She’s singing along, and even she doesn’t much like it. Must be in a mood. Fat chance.” Pewter so rarely heard popular music that she wasn’t yet irritated by it. “Guess you two still don’t want to know where I went.”

  Exasperated, Mrs. Murphy narrowed her pupils. “We’re dying to hear.”

  “You’re sarcastic. I’m not talking to you when you’re like that.”

  “I really want to know.” Tucker had no stomach for a cat fight.

  With great satisfaction, Pewter said, “Stealth bombers.”

  25

  That wasn’t here before.” Pewter indicated some sticky strips, old-time fly catchers, twirling from a few lower branches.

  “Maybe you didn’t notice.” Tucker knew she shouldn’t have said that the minute it popped out of her mouth.

  “I saw everything!” Pewter’s pupils became slits for a second. “I’m not human. They can’t see the nose on their faces.”

  Mrs. Murphy inhaled the odor of the abandoned Alverta peach grove that Harry was reviving. The tang of the tree bark, the lingering scent of tiny dots where blossoms had been, where the delicious fruit could ripen, all informed her. This small orchard, bursting with life, was inviting. Few folks remained who grew Alverta peaches. Harry understood the need for crop diversity. Agribusiness, however, was becoming monocrop farming, a dangerous development genetically.

  “You’re silent as the tomb,” Pewter sassed.

  “I see the stealth bombers.” Mrs. Murphy noted the glassy-winged insects that looked like the famed combat jet.

  “Some died on the sticky strips.” Tucker marveled at how many little corpses there were.

  “Along with every kind of fly in the county.” Pewter loathed flies. They tried to deposit tiny white eggs in her tuna.

  Mrs. Murphy asked the gray cat, “Footprints yesterday?”

  “I don’t think so.” In truth, Pewter hadn’t noticed.

  “There are today.” Tucker put her gifted nose down on the large treads left by work boots.

  “Tire tracks?” Mrs. Murphy asked Pewter.

  “No.”

  “Anyone could park behind the equipment sheds and walk up here. We wouldn’t know. It’s too far away.” Mrs. Murphy sat staring up at the insects on the sticky strips, listening to the variety of insects flying. “What a strange bug.”

  A scarlet tanager chirped as he sat on a branch farther down the orchard row.

  “Anything with six legs is strange.” Pewter wasn’t making the connection.

  Tucker walked into the orchard, followed by Mrs. Murphy.

  The orchard faced south, to soak up the warmth and light. A northern exposure would be too fierce at this latitude. A rise behind the small orchard protected the peaches from the north winds.

  Peaches could grow in central Virginia, but the farmer had to protect the tree much more than apple trees.

  Tucker reached the disturbed earth. Mrs. Murphy sat on the edge of the packed dirt.

  Pewter, on her haunches, fretted, then joined Mrs. Murphy, asking, “What? What’s noticeable?”

  “This grave-size slight depression.” The tiger paced the long side, seven feet, of the depression.

  “That’s what the bear said.” Pewter recalled the unintended visit.

  “I half-believed her and half didn’t.” Tucker kept sniffing the earth. “Bears can be such fibbers.”

  “I believed her. I didn’t know how we could get Harry here, and then all that other stuff happened.” Mrs. Murphy put her nose down, then asked Tucker, “Can you smell a body?”

  “If it’s above six feet, I can. Below I can’t. So if there’s a body in here, whoever buried it dug deep.”

  “We have to get Harry here.” Mrs. Murphy started for home.

  The animals trotted down the sloping pasture, crossed the rutted-dirt farm road, slipped under the old fencing, the locust posts holding firm.

  Tucker started running. The cats followed her lead, over another pasture, then under more old fencing. They saw the Jones graveyard below to their right. Usually they’d linger there a moment, for it was so peaceful and often wild animals were there, as well, so they could chat. Not today.

  Upon reaching Harry’s Creek, Tucker plunged in. She enjoyed a good swim. Mrs. Murphy followed, although she hated getting wet.

  Pewter halted a moment, opened her mouth to complain, her deep pink tongue bright against her gray color. Her two friends reached the creek bank.

  “Bother,” she mumbled to herself, jumping in, dog-paddling for all she was worth, her ears flat against her head held high.

  Mrs. Murphy turned once on top of the creek bank. Satisfying herself that Pewter wouldn’t drown, she kicked into high gear to catch up with Tucker, hustling toward home.

  Corgis, fast, can turn on a dime, too. Mrs. Murphy flew alongside the determined canine.

  A wet Pewter, sputtering with fury, lagged fifty yards behind. Beads of water sprayed off her fur, turning into tiny rainbows.

  The two front-runners skidded into the barn not two minutes after crossing the creek a half mile away.

  Harry had to be in the barn or house, because they didn’t see or smell her outside.

  Sure enough, Harry, on her hands and knees, was in the wash stall. The drain cover was removed, the trap sat on the floor, and she scrubbed down into the eight-inch-wide pipe with a long, thin stiff brush. The drain rarely clogged, because she repeated this procedure once a week, and because years ago when she rehabbed the barn she put in large pipes.

  “Come with me!” Tucker barked.

  Pewter brought up the rear.

  “Pewter, you look like something the cat dragged in,” Harry laughed.

  “This isn’t funny. Stop what you’re doing and come with us.” Pewter ignored Harry’s jest.

  “She’s right, Mom. Just leave everything. You can put it back later.” Mrs. Murphy leapt onto Harry’s shoulders.

  “Murphy.” Harry felt creek droplets soak through her white T-shirt. Pawprints festooned the shoulders. “Oh, well.” Harry reached back to pat her friend.

  Mrs. Murphy licked her hand while Pewter continued to urge Harry to get up and go.

  “Come on. Follow me,” Tucker pleaded.

  Harry replaced the drain trap as Mrs. Murphy dug into the human’s shoulders to hang on.

  “Those claws hurt.”

  “You’re lucky I don’t really use them.”

  Pewter encouraged Tucker. “Try the running-away-and-coming-back routine. She usually pays attention to that.”

  Tucker barked loudly, dashed down the center aisle, returned, barked more. She repeated this until Harry gently placed Mrs. Murphy on the floor.

  “All right.”

  “Let’s go!” As Tucker hustled out the opened doors, light streamed in.

  Harry grew up on this farm. Animals surrounded her. Given the limitations of her species, she knew as best she could that all three were worked up and needed her attention. It wasn’t until she was halfway to the creek that she realized this was going to be a hike. But her friends, insistent, prodded her on. When she hesitated at the creek swollen with spring rains, Tucker boldly nipped at her heels.

  “Tucker, I get the picture. And don’t you dare tear up my new work boots, you hear me?”

  “Come on. Come on. It’s not that bad. We’ll show you the best place,” the mighty dog cajoled.

  Although the ford was the best place, the banks were steep. Tucker, without glancing back, catapulted off the bank.

  Harry watched Tucker’s tail-less rump disappear under the water. When Mrs. Murphy follow
ed suit, Harry ran back about twenty yards, picked up speed, and pushed off the bank. She made it to the other side, hearing a crescent of the bank’s lip tumble into the water.

  “I’m not going in here again!” Pewter wailed.

  Neither Mrs. Murphy nor Tucker paid any mind to the gray cat.

  Harry looked across the creek. “Pewts, go on back to the barn.”

  “Carry me!” Pewter wailed piteously.

  “Dear God, give me patience,” Harry muttered, then gauged the distance, walked back thirty yards this time, ran hard, and sailed over. She picked up Pewter, now purring, put her on her shoulders. “Hang on.”

  Crouching low on Harry’s broad shoulders, claws sunk in, Pewter gushed, “I love you.”

  Taking into account her feline burden, Harry hit the turbocharger and made it, although her right foot just found purchase on the bank. Part of the softened earth gave way and she lurched forward as Pewter leapt off. When she righted herself, she had to laugh, for the gray cat had the good manners to wait for her when she could have run ahead.

  Mrs. Murphy and Tucker, frustrated, sat down until Harry and Pewter drew closer. Then they again took the lead.

  Sweat rolled over Harry’s forehead by the time she reached the peach orchard. The sun, high, drenched with golden light the tiny first nubs, the dark bark incised with thin horizontal lines raised at the edges.

  The two cats and dog darted into the peach rows. Harry shrugged but dutifully followed.

  Tucker stopped, as did Mrs. Murphy, nearly dry from running. Pewter was perfectly dry.

  Harry blinked at the sight of the sticky strips. She examined one. She walked to the next one, peering intently.

  Noticing the stealth-bomber bugs, different from the others, she almost got her nose stuck on the yellow strip.

  “What in the hell is going on?” she exclaimed.

  Tucker barked, “Come here.”

  Harry did. She beheld the earth and her heart dipped deeper than the sunken dirt.

  26

  Because of the peach rows, the sheriff did not bring in a backhoe. Two men rhythmically dug into the reasonably workable dirt. If it had rained within the last week the task would have been easier, but at least the earth wasn’t hard.