Рита Браун - The Tail Of The Tip-Off

The best fertilizer was goose, duck, or chicken manure if you could find someone to haul it and spread it. But it was expensive by Harry's standards-sometimes as high as eighteen dollars a ton-so she used it sparingly on the few trouble spots she had in her own garden. Her pastures, lush in all but the worst droughts, displayed the effects of her management.

She'd built two such pits for her neighbor, Blair. He had cattle so his mulch/manure was pretty good, too. She tended it for him since he was on the road quite a bit. Their deal was that she could haul out six pickup loads each year which she then mixed into her own piles.

The steam climbed upward as she turned the pile. The temperature skidded with the sunset. There'd be a hard frost tonight.

Mrs. Murphy, fluffed out against the encroaching cold, sat on the corner of the pit, above it all.

"You know, the birds pick through here. You don't need to spend money buying special feeds for them."

"You're a good companion, Mrs. Murphy." Harry observed the scarlet sky deepen to a blood red with mauve tendrils snaking through the color.

"Thank you. I have other ideas on saving money. Feed Pewter less." She could say this without an accompanying yowl because Pewter was in the kitchen consoling Tucker, utterly morose because she couldn't help the injured human.

"Beautiful." She scratched the cat behind the ears. "Why would anyone watch television when they can see this? The human race would rather watch something made up than something real. Sometimes I wonder why I'm human. Really, Murphy, I find my own species bizarre."

"'Stupid' is closer to the mark." The cat inhaled the peaty odor of pit mingled with the sharp tang of cooling air. A silent large figure flew out of the barn cupola. The owl began her first foray of the evening. She circled Harry and Murphy, banked, then headed toward the creek.

"Damn, she is big. She gets bigger every year." Harry respected the predator; her huge claws, balled up, could knock a person off balance. If the claws were unleashed the owl could slice open flesh as easily as a butcher with a knife.

"And haughty."

"Who said that?" the owl, who had keen hearing, called as she soared away from the barn. "Who-o-o. You-ou-ou, Mrs. Murphy. Groundling."

"I cannot tell a lie. It was I."

"You two must be talking to one another," said Harry, who half-believed they were. She grew up in the country and knew animals could communicate. She just didn't realize how effectively they did.

"Come on, Mom, time to close up the barn. Head to the house."

Harry carried her pitchfork back to the toolshed. She checked the outside water troughs to make sure the heaters, built especially for that purpose, were floating. It was a great luxury not to chop ice in the morning. These small units either dropped to the bottom of the trough or floated, depending on the brand. Plugged into an electrical outlet, they could keep the water temperature above freezing. Horses appreciated that because they didn't want to drink ice-cold water. Less water consumption meant greater chances of colic or impaction. Harry didn't feed pellets which she thought added to winter digestive problems. She only fed lots and lots of high-quality hay-she swore by it and her horses stayed happy and healthy, no gut problems.

She walked back into the barn, closed the big sliding doors, checked everyone's water buckets, and readjusted Tomahawk's blanket which he'd managed to push toward the right.

Simon peered over the hayloft. "Murphy, marshmallows."

The possum adored marshmallows. His sweet tooth caused him to rummage through the wastebasket searching for candy wrappers. He ate all the grain spilled onto the feed-room floor, too.

"I'll do my best but she doesn't listen," Murphy answered Simon.

Harry checked and double-checked, then cut the lights at the switch housed at the end of the center aisle. She opened the doors enough to slip through, then shut them tight.

Back in the kitchen, she made herself a cup of hot chocolate. Tucker, ears drooping, Pewter at her side, barely lifted her head.

Harry felt the dog's ears. Not hot. She checked her gums. Fine. "Little girl, you look so sad."

"I am."

"She blames herself," Pewter explained.

"If I'd run away from Mom maybe she would have chased me. If I'd kept coming back to the closet door she might have figured it out. I just didn't think fast enough." Tears formed in the dog's eyes.

"She's a good human but she's only human." Mrs. Murphy joined Pewter in consoling the corgi. "She probably wouldn't have figured it out no matter what you did. There was nothing you could do."

Tucker was grateful for their kindness but she felt so horrible she closed her eyes. "Someone has to find whoever is in there."

She was right. Someone was in for a nasty shock.

20

Billy Satterfield, a student, worked as a janitor. He was a sandy-haired, slight boy with clean features, a regular kid who fit in with the rest of the student body when in the jeans and flannel shirts he wore to classes. On the weekends when he wore coveralls, though, students never looked his way. He was invisible, a member of the working class. People's responses to him as a broom pusher taught him a lot. He never wanted to be a negligible person, a grunt. He made good grades if for no other reason than because he was determined to graduate and make money.

A long, loopy key chain hung from his belt, the keys tucked in his right pocket. He walked to the broom closet, pulled out the keys, found the right one, and opened the door.

The sight of a youngish woman, bound and gagged, scared him half to death. Her glassy eyes stared right through him. He wanted to scream, to run down the hall, but he had enough presence of mind to make certain she was truly dead. Gingerly he touched her shoulder. Cold. Stiff.

His knees shaking, his stomach churning, he backed out of the closet, shutting the door. He leaned his head against the door for a minute fighting for his composure. It was seven-thirty in the morning. No other custodial person was on duty. As there was a basketball game tonight, other men would show up later at nine if he was lucky. He breathed deeply.

He pulled out his cell phone, a tiny folding one, and dialed 911. Within seconds he was connected to the Sheriff's Department and grateful.

Coop, working the weekend, spoke to Billy, did her best to soothe him. She was by his side within fifteen minutes, calling Rick on the way.

She heard Rick open the door, the squeaking of his rubber-soled shoes. He wore a dark charcoal suit, as he was on his way to the early service at church.

"What have we got?"

"Knife wound, bled to death internally. Let's just say our killer wasn't skillful. It was a slow death, I would think. Oh sorry, Sheriff Shaw, this is Billy Satterfield. He found the body about thirty minutes ago."

Rick extended his hand. "Sorry, Mr. Satterfield. Do you mind telling me what you saw?"

"Billy, call me Billy." He took a breath and did not look at the corpse. "I usually come in early on Saturdays and Sundays. I got here right at seven-thirty so I opened the door to the closet probably seven thirty-five and that's what I saw. I touched her shoulder-to make sure." He shivered.

Cooper reassured him. "Most people have the same reaction."

"Really?"

"They do."

Rick pulled on thin latex gloves, bent down on one knee, and carefully examined the body. He didn't move it. No sign of struggle. No other cuts. Bruising on the neck. He shook his head. "Is this your rope?"

"No, sir."

"Sorry, I didn't mean yours personally. Was this rope in the closet?"

"No, sir."

"Clothesline." Rick stood up. "I'll call the boys," he said, referring to his crime lab team. "Maybe we'll get lucky and come up with prints or at least fibers or something." He exhaled. "She wasn't winning any popularity contests but this-"