Рита Браун - Whisker Of Evil

“Nor do I. But this does change things. I will look the other way if you want to come back to work.”

“Pug, that’s very kind of you.” She took a deep breath, then plunged ahead. “And it might work for a while. But who’s to say the next animal-control officer won’t barge into the post office and order me to remove the cats and dog? And really, Pug, when that new building goes up, everything changes. I know that Amy Wade can handle it. She’s the best of the temps, and now that her kids are in school, I bet she’d be happy for the job.”

“Why don’t you take the weekend to think it over?” He hoped she’d change her mind.

“I made up my mind. For the record, you’re a good postmaster, and I’ve enjoyed all my years on the job.”

“Thank you.” Pug hated to lose Mary Minor Haristeen. “Look, if you do have a change of heart, you call me.”

“I will.”

As she placed the phone back in its cradle, the cats cheered, “Hooray!”

“You’ll find something better. You might even make more money,” Tucker, ever the optimist, prophesied.

She smiled at the animals, then frowned slightly. “Gang, Jerome Stoltfus is deader than a doornail.”

“Goody.” Pewter licked her lips, her pink tongue in sharp contrast to her luxurious dark gray fur.

“Pewter, that’s not very Christian.” Tucker didn’t like Jerome one bit but thought it better not to cheer his demise.

“And you ate communion wafers.” Mrs. Murphy referred to an episode where, together with the Rev. Jones’s cats, Cazenovia and Elocution, they had opened the closet containing the communion wafers. The four cats and dog demolished boxes of the round, white, thin wafers.

Harry dialed Miranda, who said she was just getting ready to call Harry.

“What in the world is going on?” Miranda fretted.

“I guess if we knew that, someone would be behind bars,” Harry replied. “Did Pug Harper call you?”

“No. He’d call you first.”

“Well, he did, but I declined to return. He even said I could bring the kids, but, you know, in the long run it wouldn’t have worked out, so why not just get on with it, whatever it is.”

“You’re right. But it’s going to seem awfully strange not walking across the alley in the morning. How will you live without my orange-glazed cinnamon buns?”

“Drive into town.”

“Or I’ll drive out there,” Miranda offered.

“Thanks for getting so many signatures so fast. Susan told me.”

“You’ll be happy to know that everyone is on your side.”

“Really?”

“People think highly of you and, of course, they adore Mrs. Murphy, Pewter, and Tucker.”

“That makes me feel good. I”—Harry, about to get emotional, stopped herself—“I’m grateful. By the way, I told Pug that Amy Wade would do a great job. I think everyone will work out at the post office. What I’m worried about is rabies. Or whatever is going on.”

“Me, too. When I heard about Jerome I thought of First Peter, Chapter Four, Verse Fifteen; ‘But let none of you suffer as a murderer, or a thief, or a wrongdoer, or a mischief-maker.’ And Jerome suffered being none of those things. He let a little power go to his head, but he wasn’t a murderer or a thief. And really, all he was trying to do, apart from be important for the first time in his life, was protect the public good.”

“You’re right. Maybe I’ll drive down to the sheriff’s office and—”

Miranda interrupted her. “Harry, you’ll give Rick a fit. He’ll think you’re criticizing the way he’s handling this.”

“Yeah, you’re right.” Harry paused. “I didn’t think of that.”

“Why don’t you call Cooper? If you have an idea or whatever, call her. I would imagine right now that Rick is under a lot of pressure.”

“You bet he is.”

Later that morning, as Harry scrubbed out the large outdoor water troughs, the soft breeze rustled the early green leaves, the light color beautiful against the robin’s egg blue sky. As her wet hand caught the sunlight, the ring glistened intensely.

“That’s it, you know?” Harry spoke to Tucker, at her heels. “Someone is shielded by money, power, or position. If only I knew what was at stake.”

36

T he deep golden rays of the late-afternoon sun drenched the racing barns at St. James Farm. All the outbuildings on the property were painted crisp white. The eaves, the doors, and the window frames all shone bright white. On the middle of each post of the shed row barns, Mary Pat’s racing colors gleamed.

Alicia Palmer, Aunt Tally, and Harry stood at the training track, the racing barns behind them.

Harry had called Cooper, who suggested if she wanted to help, she should go over to St. James and go through the barns one more time and look around. Since Harry was a horsewoman and Cooper wasn’t, Cooper was sincere in her request.

Aunt Tally happened to be visiting Alicia when Harry arrived.

While the humans walked out to the deep grassy center oval of the track, Mrs. Murphy, Pewter, and Tucker inspected the last of the racing barns.

“Everyone has trooped through here.” Tucker sniffed. “Raccoons, possums, foxes, mice by the busload, and, ah, yes,” she closed her yes and inhaled, “bobcat.”

Overhead, the barn swallows, always correctly dressed, their wings sweeping back as beautifully as a dark blue morning coat, complained, “Out of our barns. You’re a threat to our children.”

“I’ll eat your children,” Pewter ferociously replied. “They’ll be brunch, just like Tostitos. Those little birdy bones will crunch like corn chips.”

“MAMA!” Thirty little babies squealed throughout the barn, sending their parents darting and bombing the three animals on the ground.

“Bother.” Mrs. Murphy swatted at one bold fellow. “Tucker, do you think the animals were here when Sugar and Barry were here?”

Tucker’s luminous brown eyes opened wider. “That scent’s gone. I can still smell the boys, mostly on the old shirts in the tack room, a wipe-down cloth here and there. Human oil will stay on cloth for quite a while. But the pad scents,” she shook her head, “gone. These tracks” —she meant scent tracks— “are within the last three days.”

“The grain’s still in the feed room. That’s why you’ve got all this traffic. Harry should take the grain,” Pewter suggested.

“You’re right,” Mrs. Murphy agreed. “But even when Barry and Sugar were alive, I bet the foxes came in. Maybe not everybody else, but you know how opportunistic foxes are.”

“MAMA!” the babes squealed from deep in their well-built nests.

Another barn swallow swooped so close, the air brushed against Pewter’s fur.

“We aren’t going to eat your children,” Mrs. Murphy called out. “Pewter’s a comedian.”

“I am not,” Pewter hissed, voice low.

“Pewter, even if you killed one, you’re too lazy to tear off the feathers. Remember when the pileated woodpecker died outside the back door? You didn’t pull out one feather.”

“That was different. He was already dead. The thrill of the kill gives me energy.”

Mrs. Murphy and Tucker looked at each other but said nothing. Then Mrs. Murphy asked Tucker, “Bats?”