Рита Браун: The Litter Of The Law

Hester asked, “You’ve got crop coverage, Buddy? After the drought of 1988, surely you started paying for an insurance policy, revenue protection.”

“I do. I elected an eighty percent revenue protection policy. Yes, I did learn from 1988 but, girl, every time I turn around I’m writing another check and I see my return diminish. Farming gets harder and harder,” said the well-organized man, a true steward of the land. “Just to keep up, I have to plant more acreage. Plant an early crop, then come back and throw soybeans down. I feel like I’m running to stay in place.”

“Think we all do,” Hester agreed.

“Only way I can buy or rent—and renting makes sense in the short term—is to sell some of my land closer in to Crozet or Charlottesville.”

Hester’s shoulders snapped back. “Don’t do that, Buddy. Don’t ever do that.”

“Before I forget, Hester, do you have any pattypan squash?” Harry didn’t want to keep Fair or the arguing animals in limbo.

“I do. Wait until you see it.” Hester nodded to Buddy, who winked at Harry.

The two women walked inside, where there was crooknecked squash, acorn squash, and Harry’s favorite, cream-white pattypan squash that looked like scalloped discuses.

“Beautiful! And the right size.”

“Right about now the pattypan is usually over, but this year with the long, long summer, I’m still getting some,” said Hester. “The melons are over, though. I do so love melons. Before I forget, now, you and Fair are buying tickets for the hayride. You must. The library is built but there’s a lot to be done. We need $59,696 just for adult computers and, oh my, the adult area needs tables and we need furniture for a meditative reading room. The list is endless.”

“Of course we’ll buy tickets. I’ll even buy tickets for Mrs. Murphy, Pewter, and Tucker.”

“If that gray cat of yours gets any fatter, I’ll have to find a special wagon and pony just for her.” Hester laughed.

“You’re looking pretty Halloweeny yourself, all orange and black.”

“Oh, this is just my warm-up. Next week I’ll be out here in my witch’s costume.”

“So long as you don’t scare customers away.”

“I could be a Halloween fairy except I’ve never seen a Halloween fairy.”

They kept chatting as Harry picked out two succulent squashes, then paid at the cash register run by Lolly Currie, a young woman looking for a better job but making ends meet at Hester’s stand until then.

Back on the road, Fair grinned. “That is the shortest time you have ever spent at Martin’s Stand.”

“Buddy Janss helped me out, because as soon as I paid for my squash, he came back to chat up Hester, about late produce deliveries. I swear, Buddy has put on more weight. His chins now have chins.”

“Buddy may be fat but he’s light on his feet. He was a hell of a football player in high school and college. It’s a pity that retired linemen run to fat so often.”

“Boxers, too.” She watched rolling hills pass by.

“Maybe you should go live with Buddy. The two of you could be Team Tubby.” Tucker knew this would start a fight.

“Don’t,” Mrs. Murphy counseled in vain.

“Bubble Butt. Poop Breath!” Pewter hissed loudly.

Harry twisted around in the front seat just in time to see Pewter hook the dog’s shoulder with one claw.

“Ouch,” Tucker yelped.

“Next, your eyes.”

“Pull over, honey. There will be fur all over the car if I don’t stop this right now.”

He pulled over on the side of the road. The field on the north side of the two-lane road was jammed with corn. Morrowdale Farm usually put these fields in good hay, but this year row after row of healthy corn filled them. They had somehow escaped the small drought.

Opening the door to again castigate the backseat passengers, Harry remarked, “This has to be one of the best-run and prettiest farms in Albemarle County.”

“Sure is.”

They looked out to the scarecrow in the middle of the field, currently being mobbed by crows.

“I thought scarecrows were supposed to frighten crows,” Fair said.

“Those crows are having a party. Look at that. Pulling on the wig under the hat.” Harry laughed. “What are all those birds doing?”

Fair stepped out of the car to stare intently as a crow plucked out an eyeball.

“Honey, that’s not a scarecrow.”

“Tucker, come back!” Harry called to the corgi as the dog raced across the cornfield.

Fair, in his shock, hadn’t closed the station wagon door, so all three animals had rushed out after deciding to see what was going on.

The corn rustled as the strong little dog bounded through.

The two cats also sped down a row, curiosity raging.

“Selective hearing.” Harry shook her head as she followed, starting into a corn row.

“Honey, they’ll be back. You should stay where you are, otherwise you might destroy footprints or some other kind of evidence.”

She stopped, turned to face her husband. “You’re right.”

“I’m not sure you want to see the corpse anyway.”

Harry leaned up against the Volvo. “Death really is ugly and this one is probably especially so. But, Fair, why truss someone up like a scarecrow?”

He folded his arms across his chest. “Clever, really. How many people passed by this field on Garth Road? Plenty, I bet, and still no one stopped or called the sheriff’s department. The only reason we did was because of the ruckus raised by our passengers, and then the crows caught our eye, and … well.”

As the married couple waited for the sheriff’s department to arrive, the three investigating animals reached the base of the scarecrow.

A blue-black crow perched on the straw hat looked down. “Beat it!” he squawked.

Mrs. Murphy knew she could climb the dead man’s leg if need be, so she stood on her hind legs reaching far up, feeling the cold flesh under the faux scarecrow’s pants. “I can climb up and shoo all of you away,” she threatened the birds.

A second crow in this mob, on an outstretched arm, gibed, “Go ahead. We’ll fly away, circle, and come right on back.”

The first crow opened his wings to their full span, the light picking up the blue highlights. “What do you want with this feast? Cats don’t eat carrion.”

Pewter ignored the question and asked one of her own: “Did you see the scarecrow being set up?”

The second crow spoke. “No, but he hasn’t been here long. We caught a whiff as we flew over this cornfield on our way to Shelford Farm. When we tear off a juicy piece of meat, some blood still drips.”

Few scarecrows are well dressed. Neither was this one. It wore a drab, wrinkled shirt over a red undershirt. Worn, old pants, rope for a belt, took care of his bottom half. Old work boots, the sole separated from the left one, covered his feet. The straw hat, edges frayed, hatband missing, gave the fellow the final country touch.

As blood pools in the extremities, the crows provided valuable information. The scarecrow wouldn’t show the signs of rigor mortis because the body was tied, arms outstretched, legs tied down, too. No blood was moving, the body temperature had cooled down, but this was a fresh kill, relatively.

Mrs. Murphy noticed that the eyes had been plucked out and a lot of flesh had already been eaten off his face and hands. Eventually, the crows would have torn through the clothing.

“Did you smell another human?” the tiger cat asked.