Cat on the Scent Read online

  Mrs. Murphy moved over to sit on the apples. “Friendship is like a love affair. When it sours, pfff-t!”

  “Ours won’t.” Pewter rubbed her cheek against the slender tiger.

  “We’re cats. We’re smarter than people,” Murphy purred. She liked attention and she especially liked being groomed.

  “Don’t you wonder what’s happened?”

  “It’s the rock quarry,” Pewter said.

  “That was ages ago,” Mrs. Murphy remembered.

  “Some people are on slow fuses,” Pewter remarked.

  Tucker stepped away from the fruit stand to better see the cats. “Bet there’s a woman involved.”

  “Maybe,” Mrs. Murphy noted.

  “Who would go out with H. Vane-Tempest apart from his very expensive wife? A puff adder, that man!” Pewter likened people to animals.

  “Who said it was H. Vane?” Tucker winked.

  “Gross,” came the tiger’s tart comment.

  They walked over to the post office, going in by the front door as yet another resident opened it. Sir H. Vane-Tempest was loudly explaining his side of the story.

  “He’s become irrational. He thinks everyone is against him. Even Aileen has noticed it. I spoke to her last week about Archie’s personality disintegration.”

  Aileen was Archie’s wife.

  “It’s difficult being on the county commission when opinion in the county is so divided,” Miranda offered.

  “He asked for the job,” Big Mim tartly observed.

  “Won’t have it for long,” Little Mim said, which made her mother smile slightly.

  “Ever since the storms this winter when Sugar Hollow washed—the terrible flooding—he’s not been the same,” Vane-Tempest said.

  “It can’t be that,” Miranda shrewdly noticed. “You don’t think so either.”

  Vane-Tempest eyed her. “Well—well, whatever has come over him has been intensifying since that time. I was the man’s friend . . . when no one else wanted to hear about preserving the environment.”

  Tucker interrupted. “He’s sure tooting his own horn.”

  “Quiet,” Harry reprimanded her.

  Vane-Tempest continued. “He’s argued with everyone. Aileen says he hardly speaks to her when he comes home at night. He goes into his den and pores over papers and maps. And yes, I am angry that he lobbied the commission to deny permission for me to establish a rock quarry. But I’ll get over it.”

  “Will he?” Mim sharply said.

  “I didn’t act that badly,” Vane-Tempest defended himself. “He did.”

  “He certainly did today.” Little Mim played with the soft leather weave of her Bottega Veneta bag.

  “You should have offered him a share of the business when his term expired.” Mim surprised everyone with her comment, then added, “Really, people, how do you think anything gets done here?”

  “That’s a bribe,” Miranda said firmly.

  “No. You don’t ask him to vote your way, you simply offer him a job when his term expires. It’s done in Washington on an hourly basis and the pity of it is, it isn’t done well. We’d have better government if it were.”

  “Cynic.” Vane-Tempest smiled.

  “Realist.” Mim tapped her foot on the polished wooden floors, polished with use. “People in government can’t make money while they’re in government. So you must use your position to develop contacts for when your term expires.”

  No one said a word for a minute. Mim had a way of boring straight to the heart of a problem. The truth was that Archie, a small printer by trade, didn’t make much money. The county-commission post carried no stipend and the time it sucked up diverted his attention from a business that could have been more lucrative.

  “He’d never give up his business.” Vane-Tempest betrayed his own thoughts, which was exactly what Mim had hoped to achieve by being forthright. Being an Englishman, he couldn’t have known she was baiting him. The Virginians knew exactly what she was doing, which was why they fell silent after she spoke.

  “Aileen could run it.” Little Mim worked well with her mother despite her irritation with her overbearing parent. “She runs it anyway.”

  “Archie lacks the common touch and a good printer has to be able to deal with people who have little idea of how long it takes to print anything or what it costs. You’re right. He ought to turn the whole business over to Aileen. As for why he wanted to be a county commissioner, well, he has his pet concerns, but truthfully, he wanted the power.” Vane-Tempest cracked a knuckle, revealing his rare nervousness.

  “Human meetings waste time,” Pewter blandly noted. “Everyone has to express an opinion. Then everyone else has to rebut it or add to it. I say shut up and get the job done.”

  “They can’t,” Mrs. Murphy shrewdly observed. “Most cats are roughly equal, if you think about it. I mean, we can all jump about the same height, run about the same speed. They’re very different from one another. Their talents are wildly different. The only way they can survive is to talk to one another and reach a consensus. All herd animals are like that. We’re not herd animals.”

  “Neither am I,” Tucker protested.

  “You’re a pack animal. Same difference.”

  “I am an individual.”

  “I never said you weren’t an individual, Tucker. But dogs tend to run in packs and kill in packs.”

  “I herd cows, sheep, anything. I’m not a hunting dog.”

  “You’re an argumentative one.” Mrs. Murphy flicked her tail.

  “Tucker is the exception that proves the rule.” Pewter didn’t feel like a fight. Hearing Archie and H. Vane was enough for her.

  Vane-Tempest threw back his shoulders. “I can’t talk to Arch, obviously, but I do think some of you can. Maybe you can cast oil upon the waters.”

  “‘Yet man is born into trouble, as the sparks fly upward.’” Miranda quoted Job, Chapter 5, Verse 7.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” the Englishman mildly inquired.

  “I don’t know. Just popped into my head.” Mrs. H. laughed at herself.

  Just then the Reverend Herbert Jones pushed open the door. Everyone stopped to stare at him.

  “What do you think?” Herb asked.

  He stood there, shoulders back, head erect, wearing his Confederate sergeant major’s uniform with the red facings of the artillery.

  Then everyone started talking at once.

  “Odd,” Tucker said.

  “Why?” the cats asked.

  “Like the dead coming to life, isn’t it?”

  * * *

  12

  The Reverend Herbert Jones, accustomed as he was to the confessions of his flock, still managed to be surprised by them.

  He ushered Archie Ingram into his cozy library, where Herb’s two magnificent cats, Lucy Fur and Elocution, snoozed on a bearskin rug before the fire. Herb had shot the bear as a boy. Lost in the woods, he had riled the normally passive animal although he didn’t know how he had done it. All he knew was that a black bear was charging him. Luckily he had his .22 rifle, but it was too light to bring down the animal. He stood his ground, waited, and then fired, hitting the beast in the eye and killing it instantly. And then he started to shake all over. His daddy, thanks to the gunfire, found him.

  Archie Ingram took a seat near the fire.

  “I’ll be brief, Herb. I’m having an affair. My wife suspects. Sooner or later this will blow up in my face. Even though we’ve drifted apart, I know I have a good wife but . . . I can’t seem to help myself. And the strange thing is, I don’t feel guilty.”

  Herb poured a small glass of port, Dow’s 1972, for Archie and for himself. Port and a fine cigar were the perfect finish to an evening. He’d sworn off cigars, missing them terribly, but he still enjoyed his evening glass of port. Stashed away in his small wine cellar he had a bottle of Cockburn’s from 1937. He was saving it for a special occasion but he could never figure out what would be that special.

  He held
the glass in his hand, admiring the ruby color, which came to life as the firelight flickered through it. “Archie, we’ve known each other a long time.”

  “Yes, we have.”

  “How old are you now?”

  “Forty-three.”

  Herb sipped, leaned back in his chair, and thought awhile. “Ever think how wine is made?”

  “Peasants step on grapes.”

  Herb laughed. “I guess we could say the grapes are bruised and tortured, but out of this suffering, combined with time, comes a liquid of refinement and comfort. I enjoy port, you know. I’ve got bottles ranging from the recent—say ten years ago—all the way back to 1937. Port improves with age. Men do, too. You’re being bruised now.”

  “Except I’m the one committing the sin.”

  “You hurt yourself more by sinning than you hurt anyone else. Some people never realize that. You’re at a vulnerable age.”

  “Yeah, youth is checking out . . .”

  “And leaving no forwarding address.” Herb laughed. “It’s a hard time for both men and women. Takes us differently, though. So many marriages break up.”

  “I don’t want to lose my wife.”

  “Then you’d better lose the other woman.”

  Sweat poured down Archie’s face. “I know that. Each time I see her I tell myself, this is it . . . break it off and then . . .”

  “Younger?”

  “A little,” Archie admitted.

  A rueful smile covered the minister’s expansive face. “You’ve heard that feminist joke, ‘When God made man she was practicing.’ I don’t think of myself as a feminist but I agree with that one.” He paused. “Arch, there’s not a man alive who hasn’t been torn between two women at one time in his life. And I expect there isn’t a woman alive who hasn’t been torn between two men at one time in her life. Pray for guidance. Consider what has drawn you to the other woman and what has drawn her to you. There may be answers there that surprise you.”

  “Should I tell Aileen?”

  “I can’t answer that.” He shook his head. “I don’t know.”

  Archie drained his glass. “Crazy time.”

  “You’ve ruffled a lot of feathers lately. I always say it’s easy to be an angel if no one ruffles your feathers.”

  Archie carefully placed his glass on the coaster. “Everybody wants something, don’t they?”

  “Most times, yes. Quid pro quo makes sense in the business world but it has no meaning in the spiritual world. God’s love is unconditional.”

  Archie smiled weakly. He wanted to believe that but he didn’t. No matter, talking to Herb had helped him. He now felt he could sort this out somehow, over time.

  As Herb opened the door for Archie and waved good-bye he noticed how cool it was. May could be tricky.

  * * *

  13

  Mrs. Murphy loped along fields swallowed in darkness, skirting the creek dividing Harry’s land from Blair Bainbridge’s picturesque farm. She wanted to visit the 911 Turbo. The humans hadn’t given her enough time to thoroughly inspect the car.

  A movement out of the corner of her eye caught her attention, about fifty yards away, a swaying in the bushes along the upper creek.

  She stopped. In a split second she whirled around, blasting for home as fast as she could run. She heard the quick swish of the spring grasses behind her. Longer strides than hers were gaining on her.

  With a surge of her own turbo, Mrs. Murphy ran flat out, her belly skimming the earth, her tail horizontal, her whiskers and ears swept back.

  She charged into the paddock on the west side of the barn where Poptart, Gin Fizz, and Tomahawk were munching.

  “Help me!” She streaked past Harry’s horses.

  The three horses spread out as the forty-pound bobcat tore over the earth. They pawed, snorted, and ran around, forcing the big cat to weave. It gave Mrs. Murphy just enough time to dodge into the barn and climb into the hayloft. She ran to the open hayloft door.

  “Tucker, help me!”

  The horses continued to chase the bobcat, who easily evaded them.

  The powerful animal slid out of the paddock to sit outside in front of the hayloft, where she eyed her quarry above.

  The owl, on a trip back to her nest with a mouse, swooped low over the bobcat but the animal wasn’t afraid.

  Simon, in the feed room, gobbling up sweet feed that had fallen on the floor, froze stiff. He was all ready to flop over and play dead if necessary.

  Gin Fizz, old and wise, ordered the others, “Make a lot of noise. We’ve got to wake Harry.”

  Pewter, asleep on the kitchen table, woke up at the din of neighing and dashed to the window. Seeing in an instant what was going on, she hurried into the bedroom, leaping on Harry with all her weight.

  “Uh.” Harry opened one eye.

  “Tucker, wake up!” Pewter shouted at the dog, sleeping on her side. “Bobcat!”

  “Huh?”

  “The bobcat’s sitting under the hayloft and she’ll get Murphy.”

  “Where’s Murphy?”

  “In the hayloft, stupid!”

  Tucker shook her head. Why did cats hunt at night? Nonetheless the corgi scrambled to her feet and barreled through the animal door in the kitchen door.

  * * *

  * * *

  “Wake up! Wake up!” Pewter jumped up and down on Harry.

  The neighing and snorting finally filtered into Harry’s ears.

  “Dammit!” She shot out of bed, switched on a light, and grabbed her shotgun from the closet. She slipped four shells into the pocket of her robe, which was half on, half off, as she ran in her bare feet for the kitchen door.

  Tucker squared off against the bobcat, who was spoiling for a fight.

  “Don’t risk it.” Mrs. Murphy leaned so far over the hayloft opening, she nearly fell out.

  The bobcat coolly waited until Harry switched on the outside lights. Then she turned, calling over her shoulder, “Beware, little cousin, the hunter can become the hunted.”

  With one mighty bound the bobcat cleared the paddock fence and ran out the northern side, Gin Fizz giving chase.

  By the time Harry reached the fence line she saw the bobcat cruising along, maybe one hundred yards out. She put down the shotgun to climb over the fence.

  “You guys all right?” In the moonlight she carefully checked the horses for scratches or injuries. Dawn was a half hour away. Then she hurried back to the barn, looking up at her friend. “Are you all right? Come down here so I can see you.”

  She walked into the barn and clicked on the lights. As Mrs. Murphy was backing down the ladder, Harry ducked her head in the feed room to see if any mice were in evidence.

  “Simon.”

  Simon was playing possum. He’d been so traumatized by the bobcat that when he heard Harry’s voice he couldn’t move forward or backward, so he dropped over.

  One eye opened when Harry cut off the light.

  Mrs. Murphy landed on the tack trunk. “Let me look at you. If I have to make a screaming run over to Chris Middleton’s at this hour I won’t stay friends with our vet for long. You’d better be okay.”

  “I am.” Mrs. Murphy’s fur was still puffed.

  Tucker, who’d run around the other side of the barn in case the bobcat pulled a fast one, trotted down the center aisle from the back.

  “Brave dog.” Harry patted the broad head.

  “I’m a corgi.” Tucker shrugged.

  “Thanks, Tucker. I owe you one.” Mrs. Murphy jumped down to rub along Tucker’s side.

  The three walked back to the house, Harry stepping lively since her bare feet were cold.

  Pewter greeted them at the door. “I told you not to hunt far from the barn!”

  “You stayed inside, chicken.”

  “I’d have come out and fought if I had to,” she growled.

  And in truth, Pewter could be a lion when needs be.

  Mrs. Murphy laughed now that the danger was over. “Close call.”<
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  Harry, wide awake, made a pot of coffee as she fed the animals. She’d grown up in the country. She understood the ways of predators. She knew that life could change in the blink of an eye. One false step and you were a bigger animal’s breakfast—or a smaller animal’s, if it was smart and strong enough.