Рита Браун - Cat On The Scent

“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.