Рита Браун - Nine Lives To Die

“Like a missing person?”

“No one is using that terminology just yet. The man’s only been gone for a few hours, and it is Christmastime and it is snowing.”

“Right.”

“Ever hear of any home trouble?”

Harry shook her head. “Like I said, I only know them socially, and things seem to be fine. The kid’s at the gawky stage and just a whiz with computers. I can’t imagine he’d run out on her and Tyler. Probably Lou’s lost his cellphone or he’s tied up somewhere.”

“Yeah.”

“Are you concerned? Do you know something I don’t?”

Cooper teased her. “I know a lot you don’t. I’m not concerned. Yet.”

“Call me if I can help.” Harry felt something run over her foot. She looked down in time to see a tail disappear. “A mouse.”

Cooper reached inside her back pants pocket, rising to do so, retrieved a folded-over sheet of yellow paper, which she put on the desk in front of Harry. “A Christmas mouse. Here. Read my notes and tell me what you think.”

Harry scanned the page. “Peter Vavilov. Well-off. Aggressive. Local. High school star athlete back in the late eighties. Community leader. Member of many nonprofits, such as Silver Linings, Red Cross, Cancer Fund, MS Foundation, et cetera. Church: St. Cyril’s. Wife. Two sons. Well liked.”

“Right?” Coop lifted her eyebrows.

“Right. He was a good fund-raiser.” Harry then continued reading. “No mistresses. Especially concerned with sports and youth.”

“No pretty young things on the side?”

Harry thought for a moment. “I rarely saw Peter around any woman other than Charlene or women at fund-raisers. Never heard any talk about Pete in that way.”

“Can you think of anything else?”

“First, tell me what you mean by writing that he was aggressive.”

Cooper crossed one leg over the other. “When I would question people, that word came up again and again. He was aggressive as a football player. He was aggressive in advertising Fords, competitive with other dealerships, especially other Ford dealerships, like in Richmond. Can you think of an old feud?” the police officer asked. “Maybe someone hated him?”

“No.” Harry felt a tingling sensation at the back of her neck. “I thought Pete died of a heart attack. Why these questions?”

“Curious.” Cooper looked at the two cats. “So peaceful. Hey, that helmet has seen better days.” She rose, picked up the riding helmet.

Tucker barked. “Put that down. You don’t really want it.”

The cats opened their eyes. Mrs. Murphy sat up.

Pewter, also now on her feet, reached up for the helmet but too late. Cooper turned it over and the buckle bracelet fell out.

“Good place to hide your jewelry. Who’d think to look?” The tall blonde woman bent over, picked up the golden object, handing it to Harry.

“Oh, no!” Mrs. Murphy wailed. “There goes our Christmas gift.”

“I didn’t put the bracelet there,” Harry said, surprised. “It’s not my bracelet.” She studied the well-made piece. “Really pretty. Really expensive. It seems familiar somehow.”

Leaning over Harry, Cooper commented, “My grandmother had one sort of like that. Way back when, lots of women wore buckle rings and buckle bracelets or ones with a simple golden knot.”

“That’s probably why it looks familiar. How did it wind up in my old helmet?”

“Couldn’t have been in the lining?”

“Coop, I would have felt it. It’s good luck, a found treasure.”

“Guess you would’ve noticed it in there. Well, it’s yours now.”

“I’ll clean it up and wear it.”

“Now what do we do?” Pewter asked.

Tucker sighed. “The usual. Hope that Fair buys a present and puts our names on it.”

After Cooper left, Harry reviewed her friend’s numerous questions. Something was most definitely amiss.

Outside, snow fell steadily as Mrs. Murphy sat in the hayloft with Simon the possum. Although it was early Saturday morning, the sky remained dark. The horses slept in their stalls. Tomahawk, the old gray Thoroughbred, sprawled on his side snoring, his blanket keeping him snug. The others slept standing up. When Harry opened the barn door, they’d open their eyes, whinny “Hello,” and begin banging their stalls. That sweet feed dumped into their buckets made every morning an exciting time.

The two friends sat side by side, Simon on his haunches as he played with a broken browbrand from a bridle.

“Doesn’t it smell good?”

“Does.” The cat knew to praise his treasures.

“I wish they made blankets for possums.” Simon’s obsidian eyes glittered. “I can keep really warm in my nest, but I’m not going outside.”

“Fortunately, you don’t have to. There’s enough dropped sweet feed in this barn to feed a mess of possums,” the cat remarked.

“Wouldn’t go out anyway. There’s a coyote coming round, especially now that it’s snowy and cold.”

“A male? Medium-sized? Youngish?”

“You’ve seen him, too?” The gray fellow swung his rat tail around his feet.

“For the first time, almost a week ago. He was running across the far pastures. Had a human arm in his mouth. All bones. He didn’t drop the bones, but a bracelet slipped off the wrist when some little bones broke off.”

“All the coyote had to do was turn. He could have killed you all in a flash. And sometimes he comes in here,” Simon added in a dark voice.

“Ah, so that’s the smell. Tucker’s mentioned it, but we weren’t really sure and it doesn’t seem to happen often. The scent.” Mrs. Murphy thought about this. “We’ve never had coyotes before.”

“We’ve got them now. I have to be very careful. They’ll kill and eat anything.”

“Does he try to get you?”

“No. He eats whatever’s dropped on the center aisle. He can’t get into the stalls, so he can’t eat my pickings. He takes anything Tucker drops, too. He only comes when the back door is open, so he won’t be in here in the bitter cold.”

“Have you ever talked to him?” the tiger cat asked.

“No. I just watch. He’ll keep coming close until spring. Game is hard to find now, but he must be a successful hunter, because he’s not ribby.”

“Smart.” The cat half closed her eyes. “Not as smart as a fox, but smart.”

“Pewter ever make up with the fox in the west pasture?” Simon had heard from Pewter all about the torrent of insults the cat had endured last fall.

“Pewter hasn’t even made up with Tucker.” Mrs. Murphy laughed.

Simon, laughing as well, said, “Pewter always has to be the center of attention. Good or bad.”

“Our very own diva.”

Later, back in the house, everyone now awake, Mrs. Murphy told her two companions what Simon saw.

“Tucker, go over the garbage after breakfast, take anything that smells good, you know, like eggshells or a package meat has been in, especially if she makes sausages. That odor really carries.”

“She’ll pitch a fit.” Tucker was not convinced.