Рита Браун - A Hiss Before Dying

Harry, surprised, blurted out, “People think you killed the birds or bears for furs and talons?”

MaryJo replied, “That’s why she has chain of title.”

“People trap endangered species as well as animals with thick winter pelts. Whenever the pelt prices go up for furs, the trappers work overtime just killing beaver, fox, wolf, even bear,” Liz told them, disgusted.

“Good thing cat fur isn’t valuable.” Tucker giggled. “Pewter, you’d be first on everyone’s list. Why, your pelt would be as big as a coyote’s.”

Pewter, on the back of Liz’s chair, narrowed her green eyes. “Yours would make a good coat. Warm, too.”

Mrs. Murphy, in Harry’s lap, added her two cents. “Corgi fur isn’t as soft as ours.”

“Whose side are you on?” Pewter sat up.

“She’s right. Your fur is softer. If someone didn’t want a coat, they could use you for a big pillow.”

Pewter shot off the chair, attacked the dog. The two rolled around on the floor, complete with sound effects, unleashed claws, gnashing teeth. Quite the spectacle.

“Harry, you have an attack cat.” MaryJo, never having met Pewter before, was apprehensive.

Susan laughed. “We always feel safer when Pewter’s around.”

Tucker freed herself from the grip of the large cat and scrambled out of the living room with Pewter right behind. The humans heard the door flap smack in the kitchen door, then the second door flap smack in the screened-in porch.

They also heard a yell. “Watch it!”

Cooper came inside, took off her coat, hung it on the coat peg in the kitchen, and joined the group. “Harry, they about took me out.”

The women laughed and chatted with Cooper until Susan restored a semblance of order. “Cooper, we were just finishing up. Bow season’s started for deer. We were talking about poachers.”

“Not my department, but bow season’s more calm than black powder or regular season, which starts November nineteenth.”

“Think we’ll ever see open season on humans?” BoomBoom half-jokingly said.

“Boom, we have that now,” the sheriff’s department officer replied.

“I thought this was a quiet year?” Susan leaned back in her chair, inhaling the fire’s fragrance.

“Actually, it has been a quiet year. So far only two murders in the county, both domestic violence.”

“Weren’t those two murders related?” Liz asked.

“They were,” Cooper replied. “A small meth lab behind the high school, of all places, run by a husband and wife and another couple. Argument escalated. The usual. Let’s hope that’s it for the year.”

The door flap smacked again and Pewter sauntered in with a satisfied look. “I terrified that miserable dog. Just scared the poop out of her.”

The tiger cat complimented her friend. “Is she hiding in the barn?”

“Cowering in the tack room. Shaking. Pathetic sight. Don’t mess with me.” Pewter puffed out her considerable chest, strolled to the fireplace, sat down in front of the screen, and licked a paw.

Tucker had outrun the fatty. Granted, the dog did run to the barn and did shoot into the tack room—because Harry always had a dish of food for her there.

Liz, never having been in Harry’s old farmhouse, observed the preening cat. “That may be the biggest cat I’ve ever seen.”

“And you could open a beer can with your nose,” Pewter sassed.

Liz’s nose evidenced a slight hook, but it wasn’t that bad.

“We’d love it if you’d join our Virginians for Sustainable Wildlife,” MaryJo invited Cooper, handing her a printed sheet with wildlife statistics and issues.

“I’ll be supportive, but MaryJo, I can’t really commit to meetings. I’m never sure about my schedule. I’m studying ballistics online. I really do think that what you all are doing is terrific,” Cooper replied.

“What got you interested in ballistics? It seems an unusual area of study,” BoomBoom questioned.

She shrugged. “So much of what involves solving crimes is technical. I need to keep learning. Ed Clark suggested I study online.”

“Ed Clark. Really.” MaryJo was impressed.

Ed Clark, one of the founders of the Wildlife Center of Virginia, had a passion for firearm history, even owning old rifles and pistols.

“I was over at the Lyndhurst building. Wanted some wildlife information, recovery rates, that sort of thing, and when I walked by Ed’s car, I noticed a beautiful flintlock rifle in the backseat. I asked him about it,” MaryJo continued. “He really does know a lot.”

“Some of those firearms are works of art. The engraving on the metal, just exquisite. Plus, I like the proportions of the old guns.” Susan appreciated anything aesthetically accomplished.

“Harry, you have an old flintlock,” BoomBoom remembered. “When we were studying the Revolutionary War in school, your father showed it to the class.”

Harry got up, pulled the small library ladder to the bookshelf, climbed up, pulled a wooden box off it, stepped down, and opened it to show the group. The well-preserved firearm rested on satin.

“Harry, take that to a gunsmith. First, it’s valuable. Second, it’s probably serviceable,” MaryJo enthused.

“I never thought of it. Kind of like my great-grandfather’s Army saber. It’s always been there.” She looked closely at the pistol, realizing it was beautiful.

“Who did it belong to?” Liz wondered.

Harry replaced the pistol and returned to the circle. “Mother’s family. They fought in the Revolutionary War. One of my great-greats was at Yorktown. Dad’s family, Johnny-come-latelies, didn’t get here until afterward. I used to tease Mom and tell her we’ve been here since the earth was cooling.”

Susan sighed. “Both of our families go way, way back. My paternal grandmother had a few snotty moments about it. She’s gone now, but Harry’s mother nor mine ever took the grand and airy road.”

BoomBoom laughed. “Oh, there’s nothing quite like a Virginia blood snob.”

“Charleston, south of Broad, is pretty bad.” Susan’s mouth, closed, curled upward.

“Charleston is so beautiful. If we lived there we’d all be snobs.” Liz Potter laughed.

MaryJo returned to her flintlock subject. “Harry, do take that pistol to a gunsmith.” She put her hands on her knees. “Well, let me tell you the best part about Ed’s flintlock.

“He took me away from where the animals are kept. He didn’t want noise to upset them, and he showed me how to fire the rifle.”

Cooper smiled but said nothing. In his enthusiasm he’d had her fire a flintlock pistol. Animal control, wildlife preservation was not her territory, but Cooper met Ed years ago when he was testifying in court about pelt values, illegal trapping. They struck up a friendship, both finding common territory over firearms.

“Cool!” Harry enthused.

“Isn’t it complicated?” Jessica inquired.

“Well, you have to ram the bullet, a ball, down; actually, first you have to put the powder in, or if it’s a rifle with a pan, you put the powder there,” MaryJo babbled on. “Anyway, I guess it is complicated. You have to do the steps in the exact order.”

“And?” Cooper used a Glock in her line of work.

“You pull back the trigger, which as you know is fancy and stands upright, and boom! Lots of smoke. I loved it.”

“Keep your powder dry.” BoomBoom grinned.

“It’s the truth. Anyway, Ed told me about an old firearms club; they have a firing range and I’m going to join. It’s like living history,” MaryJo enthused.