Рита Браун - The Big Cat Nap

Harry drove onto the bypass as she headed for Route 250 west. Taking the bypass, she’d avoid a lot of local traffic.

That plan came to a halt, literally. Flashing lights, policemen, and firemen stopped the flow of cars, trucks, delivery trucks. The line looked to be long.

“Dammit,” Harry cussed, then read her gas gauge.

Half a tank. She’d be fine, even if the wait dragged on. She saw Rick Shaw and Coop up ahead, in a heated discussion with a state trooper. He had his hands on his hips, then walked to his cruiser, got in, and called.

Seeing Harry’s Volvo, Coop walked down to her.

“Hey, what’s going on?” asked Harry.

“Milk truck overturned.”

“So.”

“Federal law: The butterfat in milk is oil. We have to treat this as an environmental hazard. I’ve just been read the EPA guidelines. Rick and I are trying to convince Johnny Jump Up”—Coop called all state troopers this—“to allow us to create a single lane, since the spill has flowed over the far right lane and into the runoff. But, hey, milk is a danger.”

“I don’t believe this.”

“Believe it.” Coop dealt with the endless costly mandates that spewed forth from D.C. every single day.

Coop turned as Rick called for her, slapping the side of the station wagon as she did so.

“Mom is boiling hot,” Mrs. Murphy warned.

The traffic, directed into a single lane, began moving. As Harry passed the overturned milk truck, Coop winked at her.

Once finally home, she hurried to her little office in the tack room and turned on her MacBook Pro computer, bought for her by her husband, as she didn’t want to spend the money. He said they needed it for his work. But he really hoped she’d learn to use it. Fair carried his own high-powered laptop. He’d go through one a year, but it was invaluable for veterinary medicine.

Harry, peering into the seventeen-inch screen, called out to her friends, “The EPA, after direction by the White House, proposed in 2009 to exempt spilled milk from being treated the same as oil and fuel spills. That was years ago.” She slapped the desk in frustration. She’d made up her mind to snoop at ReNu tomorrow and wanted to avoid a slowdown in case the milk had soaked into the road on the one lane. It really was absurd.

Simon, the possum, leaned over the side of the hayloft. “Is she one step ahead of a running fit?”

Tucker, upset because Harry was upset, sat looking upward, the center aisle cool underneath her butt. “She’s pretty hot.”

Mrs. Murphy, on a tack trunk, added, “She has her breast checkup Wednesday. She’s more irritable than usual.”

“Mom isn’t very irritable.” Tucker quickly defended Harry.

Pewter, next to Mrs. Murphy, smiled sweetly. “True, but you are.”

“I am not.” Tucker growled.

“The truth hurts.” Pewter puffed out her chest.

Tucker, now on her hind legs, lunged after Pewter, who easily eluded the corgi.

A frightened Simon scurried to his nest filled with treasures, in the back of the hayloft.

Pewter climbed up the side of the ladder, Tucker snapping at her heels.

Harry thumped out of the office. “That’s enough. Do you all hear me? Enough!” Then she turned again, glaring at Tucker. “Tucker.”

Dropping her ears, Tucker plopped down but continued to bare her teeth at the gloating cat overhead.

Tired of tormenting the dog, Pewter found Simon in his den, a big hollowed-out space in a hay bale. Harry knew the location of his den and never disturbed it.

Mrs. Murphy, having heard enough of Tucker’s complaint of disrespect, no matter how well founded, climbed up the ladder to join Simon and Pewter.

“Look at this.” Simon, dexterous, picked up a shiny pen with metallic lime-green dots on the surface.

“Very pretty.” Pewter complimented his taste.

“And how about this? It’s kind of snaky.” Simon held up a narrow-gauge rubber hose, which had been reinforced with fiber put into the various layers. “It wiggles.”

“Smells like oil,” Mrs. Murphy, nose keen, noted. “Not burning oil, gear kind of oil.”

As it came off the big John Deere tractor, it indeed smelled of gear oil.

The mention of oil provoked Pewter to recount to Simon the saga of the spilled milk.

Dear little Simon believed every word of Pewter’s embellished story, and Mrs. Murphy had the wisdom not to contradict her.

S he’s mental.” Pewter fastidiously stepped over a grease spot that had permanently soaked into the concrete floors at ReNu.

Asking permission from no one, Harry had driven to town to examine the garage. She’d bribed her way past the front desk.

Mrs. Murphy, also avoiding the grease, replied, “She’s never going to change. We’re accused of being curious, but she’s worse than any cat could ever be.”

“Curiosity killed the cat. I hate that phrase. She’s come closer to death because of it than we have. If it weren’t for us, Harry would be dead.” Pewter was most certainly right about that, too.

Over the years, Harry’s desire to solve any puzzle had put her, the cats and dog, even her friends, in jeopardy. The animals, thanks to their superior senses, always knew the hammer was dropping long before their human did. Sometimes they could nudge her out of harm’s way. Other times she was knocked down with a thump. She never seemed to learn. Her husband had accepted this irritating personality trait. The animals were less flexible about it, although Pewter could always be brought around with fresh tuna.

“What nearly killed her was giving that slug at the front desk twenty dollars to let us in here at lunchtime.” Tucker laughed. “Twenty dollars. She’s out of control.”

“Out of control” may have been too strong a description of Harry’s behavior, but at the very least she was intrusive and foolhardy.

Nose to the ground, the corgi shot straight over to where Walt’s body once sprawled. “Mmm. Old blood. Old brains. Nothing left, but the aroma is heaven.”

The two cats, not carrion eaters, appreciated the canine stomach nonetheless. Even Pewter, now interested, passed up this opportunity to criticize the dog.

After the forensics team left, Victor Gatzembizi had called in a special crew to clean up the mess before the next day’s work. The husband-and-wife duo couldn’t lift the bloodstains out of the concrete, but they’d managed to clean up all the tiny bits of hair and skull. The forensics team had collected most of it, but there were always tiny fragments left or stuck under a cabinet. It’s amazing what flies out of and off a body that has been dramatically violated.

Good as the cleanup job had been, those kitty noses and that corgi nose could still detect information.

“I think his head was here.” Tucker stood on a spot.

“Well, something was here.” Pewter found the place where the tire iron had been.

Harry saw where her animals were, once again reminded of how keen their senses were. “That’s the place. He didn’t have a chance.”

She drew in a notebook. The garage, spotless as a matter of course, shone even more now after an incredible cleaning. Each of the four hydraulic lifts had a vehicle on it. Every workstation had a tall red toolbox with many pullout doors. Taped across the front drawer was the name of the mechanic. The boxes, on casters, could be moved about. Having each man responsible for his tools was another of Victor’s prudent decisions. Victor bought all the tools, but every man was held accountable for his toolbox. If anyone was fired, the contents of his red toolbox were immediately inventoried. Victor knew all about the old game of someone bringing tools to work but when the employee left claiming others. This way, Victor paid for tools but he paid only once.