Рита Браун: Murder On The Prowl

"Doesn't have the same ring to it," Mrs. Murphy replied.

"Humans think they art the center of everything. Bunch of dumb Doras." Pewter burped.

The unpleasant prospect of cricket parts being regurgitated on the counter made Mrs. Murphy take a step back.

"How do you like your car?" Roscoe pointed to the Subaru station wagon, newly washed and waxed.

"Looks brand-new. Thank you."

"You were good to lend me wheels. Gary at the dealership will bring my car to the house. If you'll drop me home, I'll be fine."

"Where's Naomi today?" Miranda inquired about his wife.

"In Staunton. She took the third grade to see the Pioneer Museum ." He chuckled. "Better her than me. Those lower-school kids drive me bananas."

"That's why she's principal of the lower school, and you're headmaster. We call you 'the Big Cheese.' " Harry smiled.

"No, it's because I'm a good fund-raiser. Anyone want to cough up some cash?" He laughed, showing broad, straight teeth, darkened by smoking. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a pack of Tootsie Rolls, then offered them around.

"You're not getting blood from this stone. Besides, I graduated from Crozet High." Harry waved off the candy.

"Me, too, a bit earlier than she did," Miranda said coyly.

"I graduated in 1945," Herb said boldly.

"I can't get arrested with you guys, can I? You don't even want my Tootsie Rolls." Roscoe smiled. He had a jovial face as well as manner. "Tell you what, if you win the lottery, give St. Elizabeth's a little bit. Education is important."

"For what?" Pewter stared at him. "You-all don't do a damn thing except fuss at each other."

"Some humans farm," Tucker responded.

Pewter glared down at the pretty corgi. "So?"

"It's productive," Mrs. Murphy added.

"It's only productive so they can feed each other. Doesn't have anything to do with us."

"They can fish," Tucker said. ,

"Big deal."

"It's a big deal when you want your tuna." Murphy laughed.

"They're a worthless species."

"Pewter, that cricket made you out of sorts. Gives you gas. You don't see me eating those things," Mrs. Murphy said.

"You know, my car does look new, really." Herb again cast his blue eyes over the station wagon.

"Went to the car wash on Twenty-ninth and Greenbrier Drive ," Roscoe told him. "I love that car wash."

"You love a car wash?" Miranda was incredulous.

"You've got to go there. I'll take you." He held out his meaty arms in an expansive gesture. "You drive up—Karen Jensen and some of our other kids work there, and they guide your left tire onto the track. The kids work late afternoons and weekends—good kids. Anyway, you have a smorgasbord of choices. I chose what they call 'the works.' So they beep you in, car in neutral, radio off, and you lurch into the fray. First, a yellow neon light flashes, a wall of water hits you, and then a blue neon light tells you your undercarriage is being cleaned, then there's a white light and a pink light and a green light—why it's almost like a Broadway show. And"—he pointed outside—"there's the result. A hit."

"Roscoe, if the car wash excites you that much, your life needs a pickup." Herb laughed good-naturedly.

"You go to the car wash and see for yourself."

The two men left, Herb slipping into the driver's seat as Harry and Miranda gazed out the window.

"You been to that car wash?"

"No, I feel like I should wear my Sunday pearls and rush right out." Miranda folded her arms across her ample chest.

"I'm not going through any car wash. I hate it," Tucker grumbled.

"You hear thunder and you hide under the bed."

The dog snapped at Murphy, "I do not, that's a fib."

"Slobber, too." Since Murphy was on the counter, she could be as hateful as she pleased; the dog couldn't reach her.

"You peed in the truck," Tucker fired back.

Mrs. Murphy's pupils widened. "I was sick."

"Were not."

"Was, too."

"You were on your way to the vet and you were scared!"

"I was on my way to the vet because I was sick." The tiger vehemently defended herself.

"Going for your annual shots," Tucker sang in three-quarter time.

"Liar."

"Chicken."

"That was two years ago."

"Truck smelled for months." Tucker rubbed it in.

Mrs. Murphy, using her hind foot, with one savage kick pushed a stack of mail on the dog's head. "Creep."

"Hey!" Harry hollered. "Settle down."

"Vamoose!" Mrs. Murphy shot off the counter, soaring over the corgi, who was mired in a mudslide of mail, as she zoomed out the opened backdoor.

Tucker hurried after her, shedding envelopes as she ran.

Pewter relaxed on the counter, declining to run.

Harry walked to the backdoor to watch her pets chase one another through Miranda's yard, narrowly missing her mums, a riot of color. "I wish I could play like that just once."

"They are beguiling." Miranda watched, too, then noticed the sparkling light. "The equinox, it's such a special time, you know. Light and darkness are in perfect balance."

What she didn't say was that after today, darkness would slowly win out.

2

On her back, legs in the air, Mrs. Murphy displayed her slender beige tummy, the stripes muted, unlike the tiger stripes on her back, which were shiny jet-black. She heard the Audi Quattro a quarter of a mile down the driveway, long before Harry realized anyone had turned onto the farm drive.

Tucker, usually on guard, had trotted over to the creek that divided Harry's farm from Blair Bainbridge's farm on the southern boundary. A groundhog lived near the huge hickory there. Tucker, being a herding animal, possessed no burning desire to kill. Still, she enjoyed watching quarry, occasionally engaging a wild animal in conversation. She was too far away to sound a warning about the car.

Not that she needed to, for the visitor was Susan Tucker, Harry's best friend since toddler days. As Susan had traded in her old Volvo for an Audi Quattro, the tire sound was different and Tucker wasn't used to it yet. Mrs. Murphy possessed a better memory for such sounds than Tucker.

Pewter, flopped under the kitchen table, could not have cared less about the visitor. She was dreaming of a giant marlin garnished with mackerel. What made the dream especially sweet was that she didn't have to share the fish with anyone else.

Harry, on an organizing jag, was dumping the contents of her bureau drawers onto her bed.

Mrs. Murphy opened one eye. She heard the slam of the car door. A second slam lifted her head. Usually Susan cruised out to Harry's alone. Escaping her offspring saved her mental health. The back screen door opened. Susan walked in, her beautiful fifteen-year-old daughter, Brooks, following behind. No escape today.

"Toodle-oo," Susan called out.

Pewter, irritated at being awakened, snarled, "I have never heard anything so insipid in my life."

Mrs. Murphy rested her head back down on her paw. "Crab."

"Well, that's just it, Murphy, I was having the best dream of my life and now—vanished." Pewter mourned the loss.

"Hi, Murphy." Susan scratched behind the cat's delicate ears.

"Oh, look, Pewts is underneath the kitchen table." Brooks, who loved cats, bent down to pet Pewter. Her auburn hair fell in a curtain across her face.

"What I endure," the gray cat complained; however, she made no effort to leave, so the complaint was pro forma.

"I'm organizing," Harry called from the bedroom.

"God help us all." Susan laughed as she walked into the chaos. "Harry, you'll be up all night."

"I couldn't stand it anymore. It takes me five minutes to find a pair of socks that match and"—she pointed to a few pathetic silken remnants—"my underwear is shot."

"You haven't bought new lingerie since your mother died."