Рита Браун - The Big Cat Nap

Harry sat glued to her computer. No T1 lines served her rural community, or most rural communities, for that matter. She had to use an ntelos Air Card, which, though better than nothing, could be slower than she wanted.

“Dammit, hurry up.”

Mrs. Murphy opened one golden eye. “Mama, you need to go to bed.”

Checking the bed-table clock, Fair thought the same thing. He’d fallen asleep reading The Utility of Force , which he’d been intending to read for years. A good read, but he was so tired he conked out, the book falling on his muscled chest.

Setting it aside, he rose and slipped his robe on. Harry wasn’t in the kitchen or the living room, where she’d sometimes fall asleep reading, especially in winter in front of a roaring fire. Walking to the screened-in porch, he spied a light spilling out onto the pasture. She was in the tack room.

Stepping out, he observed the ever-changing sky, the silver stars punctuating the late-June night. Somehow, those June and July nights never seemed as pitch black as a January night.

“Honey.”

Startled, she looked up. “You scared me.”

“It’s one in the morning. Come to bed,” Fair said.

“I lost track of time.”

He grinned devilishly. “Are you out here watching porn?”

“No. I leave that to our congressmen.” She laughed. “Come inside and pull up a chair for a minute.”

“I’m trying to sleep.” Pewter lifted her head.

“I got to thinking about Tara Meola’s Explorer and Herb’s truck being classified as totaled. Made no sense to me, since I knew the Chevy was still pretty good and, after talking to Coop, the Explorer had sustained damage but she thought a repair might be possible.”

“Uh-huh.” He had no idea where she was heading.

“I also knew that both vehicles had been repaired at ReNu for very minor infractions a few years before those later accidents.”

“Define ‘minor infraction.’ ” He pulled his robe tighter, for the night air had a little chill.

“Six months before she was killed, Tara Meola rolled over a concrete divider in a parking lot, screwing up a wheel. When Coop investigated the fatal crash, she also investigated Tara’s driving history, asking Safe and Sound to pull up her VIN number. Insurance companies can run a VIN number through for prior claim information. A dealer can’t. A dealer can run the title, get some idea of vehicle history. That’s it.”

Fair said, “So no one knows the true history of the car.”

“Kinda. I can’t figure it all out. What I do know is there are no rules or legislation concerning aftermarket prices and therefore no reliability statistics or safety information. Also, no one admits using aftermarket parts for repairs.”

“Yes.” He was still wondering when she was coming to bed.

“The other thing is if a car is totaled and the insurance company writes it off as totaled, there is no investigation. You don’t know what went wrong with the car.”

“Presumably there was a collision of some sort.”

She turned to him. “What if the collision was caused by a cheap remanufactured part? What if, say, you are hit like Tara by a deer and the part cracks, gives way, you name it? Also, that Explorer had a repair from a prior owner’s small accident—at least according to Mildred at the salvage yard. I’m onto something, but I don’t know exactly what yet. I think Safe and Sound is part of it. Why three men are dead from ReNu has got to be connected to the insurance company.”

“There’s no reason that Latigo Bly would murder or have murdered three mechanics.”

“We don’t know that. Seems to me that old profit motive has reared its head up again.”

“How’d you find this aftermarket stuff?”

“Searched all over the Internet, using ‘cars,’ ‘collisions,’ ‘auto.’ Finally found the website for the Automotive Education & Policy Institute.” She had found incredibly useful information at www.autoepi.org.

“That’s what you’ve been reading all this time?”

“There’s a lot of fascinating stuff here, and I’m working hard to absorb it all. Kinda overwhelming, really, but what I get loud and clear is this: If someone smashes into our Ford dually, we’ll be directed by our insurance company to go where repairs are cheapest. The company may not pay the full repair at a shop not on their preferred list. And those ‘preferred’ shops are where they use copycat parts. But we’ll never know it. Wouldn’t you rather have the truck repaired with a genuine Ford part, even if it costs more?”

“Yes, but we aren’t paying. Well, I suppose we do pay with our premiums.”

“Right, and so does every other American paying those premiums. The insurance company wants to retain as much of that premium as possible, so they go with cheap repairs.”

“This makes my head swim. Come on, go to bed. You won’t be worth squat tomorrow if you don’t.”

“You’re right. I got carried away. Even if I had a year, I don’t think I could master all this.”

“It is disturbing.” He stood up, leaned over, and turned off her computer. “Now, look, you go to Cooper with this. Don’t go off half-cocked.”

“I won’t,” Harry promised.

Mrs. Murphy, Pewter, and Tucker padded behind the humans. They felt quite sure that Harry would soon forget her promise and do something stupid.

H arry finished her farm chores. Hot and muggy, the late-June day would only grow more stifling in the later afternoon. She had spoken to Coop that morning, telling her what she’d found at the Automotive Education & Policy Institute website.

Coop vowed to pursue this further by checking other collision repair services, talking to other insurance agents.

Harry was restless, though, and thought she might just cruise around and poke into things herself. The WRX STI tempted her. She hopped into the powerful vehicle, putting Tucker in the back. The two cats sat in the seat next to her.

“This car’s too low to the ground.” Pewter preferred the truck.

“So are you,” Tucker told her from the safety of the backseat.

“Ha-ha,” the gray cat sarcastically replied.

“We can stand on the seat, put our paws on the dash. It’s not so bad.” Mrs. Murphy enjoyed any ride, regardless of cab height.

“Hard for Pewter to do. Sixty percent of Pewter’s weight is in the rear, like a Porsche,” Tucker said.

Pewter leapt through the space between the front bucket seats. Tucker bared her teeth, but the gray cat jumped on her back, rendering those fangs useless.

Harry cut the motor and whapped both dog and cat.

“I’ve had enough of this. Three weeks of nonstop fussing and fighting. One peep, one tiny little peep, and I am throwing you two out of this car.”

Both looked up at the angry human. Harry leaned back into the driver’s seat, which felt like a cockpit to her. Pewter returned to the front seat. Harry was falling in love with the car but was in anguish, too, because she wasn’t going to buy it. They weren’t starving—Fair had work, thank heaven, for many didn’t—but money was tight.

The souped-up 2.5-liter four-cylinder turbo awoke with a pleasant rumble. Its six-speed manual transmission thrilled her. She wished her truck, as well as the Volvo station wagon, had a manual transmission. These days, finding manual transmission wasn’t easy: There were a few models of BMW, but not one Mercedes that she knew of. Most all family cars forced the buyer into automatic transmission, which burned more gas, although manufacturers declared the computer chips saved gas. Harry wondered, did the car manufacturers think that because someone had a family they didn’t like to drive, really drive? One could row through gears without being a maniac.