Рита Браун - Nine Lives To Die

Fangs bared, she threatened, “I could grab you by the neck.”

“Ha.” The gray butterball nonchalantly closed her eyes for a moment.

Watching a coyote, Mrs. Murphy suddenly shot off the log, heading east.

“What’s gotten into her?” Pewter’s eyes widened. Never one to miss any event if possible, the gray cat tore out after her friend, bits of snow flying off her claws.

The corgi followed, somewhat slowed down when she veered off to a deer path.

Now smelling the heavy scent of the coyote, Tucker barked loudly.

The unconcerned marauder loped off, carrying in his jaws the bones of an intact human arm from the elbow down. A bracelet hung at the wrist.

Pewter caught up with the tiger cat. “Are you crazy, running after a coyote?”

“He has a prize. He’s not interested in me.” Mrs. Murphy searched the snow, saw the shiny object that had caught her attention, and walked over. “I saw the arm, saw something slide off.”

Pewter reached out to pat a gold bracelet: a simple band of hammered gold with a small buckle.

Tucker plowed through the snow. “Murph, don’t you ever do that again!” Seeing the bracelet, she put her nose on it. “Nothing.”

“Considering it slid off bones, I doubt there’d be any scent.” The tiger cat inspected the lovely gold object. “Nothing else on it.”

“What would be on it?” Pewter was now intrigued, which held off any complaints about the cold.

“Oh, you know now how humans write all over stuff. ‘Love Forever’ or initials, silly stuff like that. This is gold and it’s heavy. Expensive.”

“Maybe that’s why it fell off the bone. Heavy,” Tucker opined. “It was my barking that did it.”

The two cats humored her. “Of course.”

The motion probably jostled the lovely gold bracelet off.

“Let’s leave it here.” Pewter’s stomach growled.

“No.” Mrs. Murphy considered its value. “We’ll hide it in the tack room. Someday it might prove useful.”

“Give it to Mom.” Tucker knew Harry would like it. Their human admired simple, well-designed things.

“Not yet,” said Mrs. Murphy. “Let’s hide it, then figure out how to give it to her for Christmas. She’ll be shocked.” Ever practical, Mrs. Murphy had already hit upon a use for the late-nineteenth-century bracelet.

“That’s a good idea,” the dog agreed. “She likes jewelry. This looks like something good.”

“Then you two can take turns carrying it,” grumbled Pewter. “I’m not putting metal in my mouth in this cold.” She made for the barn, a half mile distant.

Tucker and Mrs. Murphy did just that, taking turns. Finally reaching the tack room, they considered hiding places.

“Can’t put it behind the tack trunk—the mice will steal it.” Pewter offered good advice, from her vantage point on the desk, for the mice would carry off anything they could.

“How about this pile of clean saddle pads?” Tucker walked over to the white square sheepskin pads.

“What if she pulls out a pad?” Mrs. Murphy could hear the mice scurrying behind the tack trunk. The tiger cat inclined her head toward the trunk.

Pewter jumped up, sweeping her right paw down behind it.

A mouse ducked in and a chorus of mice sang out, “Fatty, fatty.”

“I’ll kill you. I’ll crush your skull!” Ever sensitive to what she deemed fat-phobia, Pewter spat.

An old velvet-covered riding hard-hat helmet lay on its side on the floor, along with worn paddock boots and other items that Harry intended to repair or clean.

Mrs. Murphy carried the bracelet over, pulled the helmet lining out a bit with one long claw, dropped the bracelet inside, and released her claw. The bracelet had disappeared.

“That will do for now. You two remember where this is. We can fetch it Christmas Eve.”

“What if she uses that helmet?” Tucker asked.

“The covering is all ripped to shreds,” replied the tiger cat. “She uses that helmet hanging on the peg. She’s been talking about getting this recovered for a year.” Mrs. Murphy was confident she’d found the right hiding place.

Tucker smiled. “This will be the best Christmas present.”

“What a surprise,” Pewter added.

Tyler Higham shoveled food into his mouth at the breakfast table while his father watched, nostrils flared with disgust at his teenage son’s eating habits.

“Slow down,” Lou reprimanded Tyler as he folded the newspaper, quite forgetting what he himself was like at fourteen.

“Dad, I’ll be late for school.”

“I drive you to St. Anne’s five days a week. You haven’t been late yet.”

Tyler did slow down but scraped his utensils loudly on the plate to irritate his father.

Lou picked up the paper again as his wife said from across the table, “Lou.”

He paid no attention, so Arden raised her voice. “Lou.”

Startled slightly, he set aside the paper before glancing at her. He jabbed at another waffle on the serving plate.

“Will you pick up the dry cleaning?” Arden asked.

“Yes, of course.” Lou poured maple syrup on the waffles.

Tyler resumed speed-eating. Arden laid her hand on his forearm. He frowned but did slow down.

“This isn’t a barnyard,” she said and sighed.

Pushing away from the table, Tyler stomped out of the room.

“I can’t win,” she said resignedly.

“Give him sixteen years.” Lou checked the large kitchen clock. “By the time he’s thirty maybe he’ll act like a man instead of a spoiled brat.”

“If we live that long.” Arden put down her fork.

Lou rose. “I don’t know if that’s a blessing or a curse. I’ll tell you when I get there.”

He walked into the hall, picked up the large artwork folder by the front door, and yelled, “Tyler.”

Tyler thudded down the stairs, slamming the door as he left the house. It’s doubtful he ever thought about it. He didn’t think he was uncooperative, uncommunicative. He thought his parents were unreasonable and petty tyrants.

Arden heard the whine of the electric garage door as it opened, the whine and thud as it closed. She exhaled loudly. Like many mothers, she found herself in the middle between her husband and her son. Both drove her nuts.

After clearing the table, she loaded the dishwasher. Then she walked into the living room to pick up her iPad to check what still needed to be done for the St. Cyril’s deliveries. The trees and the living room were all decorated in blue and silver, Lou’s demand. It did look seasonal, but it didn’t feel very Christmassy.

Father and son rode in silence in Lou’s Acura MDX. Lou kept his eyes on the road. Tyler stared out the passenger window.

Lou finally said, “Homework done?”

“Yeah.”

“You doing okay?”

“Yeah,” came the unconvincing monosyllabic reply.

Silence followed, then Lou broke in. “If you want to talk about Pete’s death, I can listen. I know he gave you a lot of attention on the soccer team. He was a good coach.”