Рита Браун - Tail Gait

Harry walked to a hanging tack hook by the corner of the tack room, slipped halters over her shoulder, when she heard a creak. Looking up, she saw the barrel of a gun pointing right at her.

“Harry, I’m sorry to do this,” Marshall Reese apologized. “I like you. I’ve always liked you.”

Keeping calm, Harry replaced the halters with which she would have led the horses back in. She was glad they were out in their paddocks just in case he started shooting wild. She put her hands on the ladder, began climbing up. Harry was nothing if not brave. She also bet on Marshall’s desire for her information. More important, even, who did she tell?

“Let’s talk about this,” said Harry. “You don’t know what I know.”

Keeping the gun level on her, his curiosity aroused, Marshall warned, “You know enough.”

“I know you killed Ginger and Frank. Is that the gun that killed Ginger? Is three the charm?”

In a way, Marshall admired her. “You’re cheeky, you know that? Why tell you about the gun? It’s unregistered, I’ll tell you that.”

Mrs. Murphy edged closer to his left leg. “Pewter, take the right. Don’t do anything yet.”

While poor Tucker howled in the center aisle, Pewter did as she was told without argument.

Harry took a small step toward Marshall. He stepped back. “Ginger told you about his phone call from Sarah Lincoln of Cambridge, didn’t he?” she asked.

“He did. I had to act quickly before he released his research. I told him this could cost me untold millions. I would have to stop the project, spend years in court with the state while the homes disintegrated without proper care. Millions. And that’s not counting the historic tax credits.”

“Did you tell Ginger this?”

“I did.” As Harry had stepped toward him again, he stepped back. “Don’t push, Harry. I will shoot.”

“I know you will, but you want to know what I know, don’t you? Or who I’ve told? I mean, how many people can you kill?”

“As many as I have to kill. But I told Ginger, and he said all would be well. The state would drop it. They might after I shelled out millions, if they didn’t drag me through court. It’s not like I’m a criminal. I didn’t know. No one knew, but when Ginger found out when Peter Ashcombe died, he would have to write about it. He was a historian. It makes a great story about those days, but the man had no business sense at all. None. He would have ruined me.”

“Do Paul and Rudy know?”

“Nothing. The fewer people who know, the better.”

“Which means you need to know who I have spoken to because one of them will tell.” Taking another step forward, she was guiding him bit by bit back to Matilda, who watched the entire drama with great interest.

Matilda tolerated the opossum, ignored the cats, tolerated Harry because she put out food to help her in early spring. But one human was the limit. Matilda curled up, ready to strike.

“Well, who did you tell?” asked Marshall.

“Put down the gun and we can discuss it.”

“Harry, I’m not a fool. I’m not putting down the gun.”

She shrugged as though this was of no account. “All right, then. You killed Ginger. You killed Frank. Killing Ginger, thanks to the woods at the country club, all the people playing golf that day, was pretty easy especially since you’re a cool customer.”

“Thank you for that.” He kept the gun leveled at her.

“And I figure you probably lured Frank with some kind of promise.”

“Jim Beam.” He smirked as he mentioned the brand of bourbon. “Too easy, really.”

“But exactly how did you bury him under the tree?”

“Killing Frank was the easy part. Burying him was hard. Remember all the Band-Aids and the gauze on my palm? From burying Frank. First I had to dig up the tree which, although newly planted, took a lot of effort. Then I had to fold him up and tie him up. Otherwise, a rectangle would have been noticeable. So I pulled the tree out, dug deep as I could so I could put the tree back. Fortunately, he was pliable. No rigor mortis. Tied him up, dropped him down, put the tree back, covered it all up. Even though I wore gloves”—he sighed—“it tore my hands to hell. And you know that would have been the healthiest tree in the line. Nothing like good compost.” He laughed. “Your damn dog and cats figured it out. Never underestimate the olfactory powers of dogs or I guess cats. So you see you’ve been a thorn in my side one way or another.”

“Still am. You need to know if I’ve told Coop or my husband or anyone. If you put the gun down, we can discuss it.”

“Harry,” he replied with some disbelief, “I can blow a hole through you. You do what I say.”

“It’s kind of like offense versus defense, isn’t it?”

“What?”

“Nelson Yarbrough says that defense men are spoilers. They have to get whipped up, especially in the locker room. The offense can stay quiet and calm.”

“What does that have to do with this?”

She took another step. He moved within Matilda’s striking range. Matilda eyed the two cats, then returned her concentration on the man’s leg moving closer.

“But I’m offense,” she said. “I have the ball, so to speak. I have the information. You want it. Offense versus defense.” Harry spoke as though they were chatting in her kitchen, anywhere but here with a gun pointed at her. She figured if she was going to die she wasn’t going to be a ninny about it. She took one more step toward him.

“Stop right there.” He was right in front of Matilda’s hay bale with his left foot.

“Now!” Mrs. Murphy commanded.

Each cat clawed a leg, which made Marshall step back again. Matilda struck, sinking those long curved fangs into his right calf.

Screaming, Marshall lurched forward, gun firing into the air. Matilda wasn’t finished yet. She sank those fangs as deeply as she could while the cats shredded his pants and then his legs.

Finally released by Matilda, Marshall stumbled forward. The snake slithered back into her home.

Emboldened by Marshall’s scream, Mrs. Murphy and Pewter chomped their fangs deeper into each leg. He ran a few steps, cats hanging on, then tottered, falling over the edge of the hayloft onto the aisle below. Below, his gun clattered across the concrete surface.

Harry looked over, then slid down the ladder, hands and feet on the outside. She didn’t waste time on the rungs. The cats climbed down on the rungs. Tucker growled in Marshall’s face, ready to tear him apart.

Harry picked up the gun first thing, then turned to Marshall. From the angle of his head, she knew he was dead. He’d broken his neck.

Cooper pulled up in the driveway. Harry ran outside, gun in hand. Cooper jumped out of the car, saw the gun, looked at Harry, and sped inside the barn.

Kneeling down over Marshall, she felt for a pulse. “Dead.”

“Good,” Harry succinctly replied.

“I did it.” Pewter puffed up.

“We both did,” Mrs. Murphy corrected her.

“He’s lucky I couldn’t get to him.” Tucker regretted not being able to inflict damage.

Harry suddenly felt the gun in her hand; she hadn’t been paying attention to it. She turned it around, handing the butt end to Cooper.

“You could have been killed.” Cooper was a bit shaken herself.

“But I wasn’t. I have two cats and a snake to thank for that. Coop, while you call the department, let me tell you what happened. By the time the other officers get here, you’ll have the whole story.”

“First, did he act alone?”

“He did, and it was all about greed.”

“One of the good old seven deadly sins.” Cooper stared at the sprawled figure who seemed to have had everything except morals.