Рита Браун - Sour Puss

"Mrs. Burrows is very upset, so see what you can find out up there."

"Sure. Come up and visit sometime."

"Same here. I have tickets to Tech football next fall but, hey, don't wait that long."

After Coop hung up she checked all the accident reports in the county since seven in the morning. She checked with the state police to see if there had been any accidents on I-64 or 1-81, Professor Forland's probable routes. There hadn't been any that involved him.

Then she called tow and wrecker services in case he'd had car trouble. He could be sitting at a gas station or at a car dealer's service center. Maybe he was too upset or busy to inform Mrs. Burrows, but that wasn't her concern. Her concern was tracking him down.

On the fourth wrecker-service call she hit pay dirt. Big Jake's Towing Service had towed a Scion bearing Professor Forland's plates from the underground parking lot at Queen Charlotte Square. It had been Parked in a reserved spot, and the owner of that parking space was one step ahead of a running fit on coming in to work to find her slot filled.

Big Jake, aptly named, walked Cooper to the chain-link fenced-in area where cars

were impounded until their owners forked over the cash to release them.

Big Jake handed her the keys. "You sure got here fast."

"Just hit the flasher button." She smiled at him. "Where did you find the keys?"

"Behind the sun visor."

"Did you open the trunk?"

"No."

She walked to the trunk. "Big Jake, I don't know what's in here, so fair warning."

He nodded, stepped to the side as she popped the lid. A banker's box filled with notes, a flashlight, and an emergency kit seemed a pathetic amount of stuff.

Putting on thin latex gloves, she opened the car door and checked every cubbyhole and compartment. The day turned from crisp to cold, the usual April inconsistency. She flipped down the sun visors.

"You expecting trouble?"

"I don't know. I sure hope not." She hunkered down to check under the seats. From under the driver's seat she pulled out Professor Forland's thick, square, black-rimmed glasses. She then replaced them exactly where they had been. "Who comes in and out of here?"

"Me, Fatty Hazlette, Kerry, the other driver."

"Anyone touch this car?"

"No, just me. I was the one who towed it in."

"Thanks." She pulled her cell out of her jacket pocket and called Rick. "Boss, I think we've got a major problem."

11

A fence board popped off due to a combination of age and too much attention from a naughty mare. Harry, using the claw of her large hammer, pried off each end, carried the two pieces to the dump pile behind her large equipment shed. The sun was setting and she hurried to finish the job.

The pile, used for wood bits, would be picked over. Odd bits of wood can often be useful, and Harry, true to form, wasted precious little. At the end of the fall, the ground still soft, she'd scoop out what remained using the big bucket of the front-end loader. This would be burned in a pit and then covered over. For fun, she'd stick in a couple of potatoes, carrots, and onions wrapped in tinfoil. Later she'd use the rake, pull them out, and eat them for supper.

The pile today consisted of three or four wood pieces and a little wagon with the wheels off, placed to one side. Early spring meant the debris pile was sparse.

Conscious of fire, the pile was thirty feet away from the equipment shed on lower ground. One couldn't see it unless one walked behind the shed and looked down. Harry was as tidy as Fair, a good thing because it's the little things about another person that drive you up the wall.

A flatbed load of cured fence boards rested on pallets on the far left side of the big shed. She hoisted a board on her shoulder and returned to the paddock. She nailed it in place, enjoying the helpfulness of the mares and foals. She'd paint it in the early evening when the horses were back in the barn. Otherwise she'd have zebra-striped foals.

Dozing in the hayloft, Mrs. Murphy raised her head. A car was turning off the state road, a half mile away. She heard the tires crunch on the bluestone.

Tucker, standing dutifully beside Harry, pricked up her ears.

"Cooper."She recognized the tire tread.

Pewter, asleep on the tack trunk, dreaming of today's adventure, heard nothing. Little dust motes floated upward in the air each time she exhaled. Martha sat and watched, a tiny bit of peppermint she'd found on the floor in her paws. The foals liked peppermints. Harry had dropped one, stepped on it, and figured she'd clean it up when she came back in.

By the time Harry's ears, good for a human, picked up the sound, Coop was a quarter mile from the barn, sound zinging clear on the clear day.

She tapped the last nail in place. She'd put on a little dab of wood putty later. She sunk in the tiny nail heads and didn't want the depression to show. She wouldn't use nails with large flat heads, because the playing horses might scratch their faces. Like all young mammals, foals couldn't always distinguish between playing and playing that might be dangerous.

"Hey, girl." Coop closed the door to the squad car.

"Back at you." Harry slipped the hammer into her belt. "I've got deviled eggs. I've never known you to pass up food."

Coop laughed. "Word is out."

"At least your stomach isn't. You stay in good shape." Harry complimented her as they pushed open the screen door.

"Volleyball and running."

Mrs. Murphy, on her feet now, stuck her head out the opened loft doors. Harry would close them come nightfall, leaving them open enough for air to circulate, but as the nights warmed, she'd eventually leave them wide open.

Tight barns sickened horses.

Simon, a broken Pelham chain in his paws, lay fast asleep.

Mrs. Murphy marveled at his penchant for anything shiny. He already had one broken Pelham chain, but he thought this one even better.

She shook off the last of the hay, looked straight down. Too far. She trotted back to the ladder, shimmying down, then dashed into the kitchen just as Harry put out the deviled eggs, butter, sandwich meats, cheese, lettuce, and sliced tomatoes, along with a big jar of Hellmann's mayonnaise.

A loaf of whole-grain bread rested on the thick cutting board, a bread knife alongside.

"Miranda?"

"Her latest. She says it's seven-grain. Have you ever kneaded bread?"

"No." Coop sliced two pieces for Harry, two for herself.

"Makes your hands and forearms strong. Think about laundrywomen throughout the centuries. My God, their forearms had to be bigger than bodybuilders'."

"When you think about it, we live soft lives."

"Pretty much." Harry, lean as a slab, knew that despite her farm labors she enjoyed electricity, central heating, the best dental care in the world, and all manner of vaccinations to prevent disease.

"Turkey,"Tucker informed Mrs. Murphy, who smelled it the second she slipped through the cat door into the kitchen.

"If we're good, you know one of them will give us some."Mrs. Murphy sat by Harry's right side, Tucker on Harry's left.

"I'm here on business." Cooper reached for the mayonnaise jar.

"What did I do now? Or maybe it's these two beggars here." Harry glanced down at the attentive animals. "Where's Lardass?"

"Out cold in the tack room,"Mrs. Murphy informed her.

"When she finds out there was turkey, she'll turn into a big grump."Tucker giggled.

Ice cubes clinked in the tall glasses. Harry put them on the table, then two Cokes. She finally sat down.

"Thanks." Coop poured her Coke, the fizz rising. "Professor Forland didn't stop by here today, did he?"

"No, why?"

"His car was towed from the underground Queen Charlotte parking today, but no sign of Professor Forland."

"Odd."