Рита Браун - Murder On The Prowl

Harry dusted her library shelves, a slow process since she'd take a book off the shelf, read passages, and then replace it. A light snow fell outside, which made her all the happier to be inside.

Tucker snored in front of the fire. Pewter, curled in a ball at the other end of the sofa, dreamed of tiny mice singing her praise. "0 Mighty Pewter, Queen of Cats."

"Lord of the Flies." Harry pulled the old paperback off the shelf. "Had to read it in college, but I hated it." She dropped to the next shelf. "Fielding, love him. Austen." She turned to Mrs. Murphy. "Literature is about sensibility. Really, Murphy, John Milton is one of the greatest poets who ever lived, but he bores me silly. I have trouble liking any art form trying to beat a program into my head. I suppose it's the difference between the hedgehog and the fox."

"Isaiah Berlin." Mrs. Murphy recalled the important work of criticism dividing writers into hedgehogs or foxes, hedgehogs being fixed on one grand idea or worldview whereas foxes ran through the territory; life was life with no special agenda. That was how she thought of it anyway.

"What I mean is, Murphy, readers are hedgehogs or foxes. Some people read to remember. Some read to forget. Some read to be challenged. Others want their prejudices confirmed."

"Why do you read, Mother?" the cat asked.

"I read," Harry said, knowing exactly what her cat had asked her, "for the sheer exultant pleasure of the English language."

"Ah, me, too." The tiger purred. Harry couldn't open a book without Mrs. Murphy sitting on her shoulder or in her lap.

Sometimes Pewter would read, but she favored mysteries or thrillers. Pewter couldn't raise her sights above genre fiction.

Mrs. Murphy thought the gray cat might read some diet books as well. She stretched and walked over to Harry. She jumped on a shelf to be closer to Harry's face. She scanned the book spines, picking out her favorites. She enjoyed biographies more than Harry did. She stopped at Michael Powell's My Life In The Movies.

She blinked and leapt off the shelf, cuffing Tucker awake. "Come on, Tucker, come on."

"I'm so comfortable."

"Just follow me." She skidded out the animal door, Tucker on her heels.

"What in God's name gets into her?" Harry held The Iliad.

Forty-five minutes later both animals, winded, pulled up at Bowden's pond where the Camry and the grisly remains still sat, undiscovered by humans.

"Tucker, you cover the east side of the pond. I'll cover the west. Look for a video or a can of film."

Both animals searched through the snow, which was beginning to cover the ground; still the shapes would have been obvious.

An hour later they gave up.

"Nothing," Tucker reported.

"Me either."

A growl made their hair stand on end.

"The bobcat!" Mrs. Murphy charged up the slippery farm road, leaping the ruts. Tucker, fast as grease, ran beside her.

They reached the cutover hayfields, wide open with no place to hide.

"She's gaining on us." Tucker's tongue hung out.

And she was, a compact, powerful creature, tufts on the ends of her ears.

"This is my fault." The cat ached from running so hard.

"Save your breath." Tucker whirled to confront the foe, her long fangs bared.

The bobcat stopped for a moment. She wanted dinner, but she didn't want to get hurt. She loped around Tucker, deciding Murphy was the better chance. Tucker followed the bobcat.

"Run, Murphy, run. I'll keep her busy."

"You domesticated worm," the bobcat spat.

Seeing her friend in danger, Murphy stopped panting. She puffed up, turning to face the enemy. Together she and Tucker flanked the bobcat about twenty yards from her.

The bobcat crouched, moving low toward Mrs. Murphy, who jumped sideways. The bobcat ran and flung herself in the air. Murphy sidestepped her. The big cat whirled and charged just as Tucker hurtled toward her. The dog hit the bobcat in the legs as she was ready to pounce on Murphy. The bobcat rolled, then sprang to her feet. Both friends were side to side now, fangs bared.

"In here!" a voice called from the copse of trees a spring away.

"Let's back toward it," Murphy gasped.

"Where are we going?" Tucker whispered.

"To the trees."

"She's more dangerous there than in the open."

"It's our only hope."

"You two are worthless." The bobcat stalked them, savoring the moment.

"That's your opinion." Mrs. Murphy growled deep in her throat.

"You're the hors d'oeuvre, your canine sidekick is the main meal."

"Don't count your chickens." Murphy spun around and flew over the snow.

Tucker did likewise, the bobcat closing in on her. She heard breathing behind her and then saw Mrs. Murphy dive into a fox hole. Tucker spun around and snapped at the bobcat's forelegs, which caught her completely by surprise. It gave Tucker the split second she needed to dive into the fox hole after her friend.

"I can wait all night," the bobcat muttered.

"Don't waste time over spilt milk," Mrs. Murphy taunted.

"I'm glad some of you are big foxes." Tucker panted on the floor of the den. "I'd have never gotten into your earth otherwise."

The slight red vixen said to Murphy, "You told me once to stay in the shed during a bad storm. I owe you one."

"You've more than repaid me." Murphy listened as the bobcat prowled around, unwilling to give up.

"What were you two doing out here tonight?"

"Looking for a film or a video back where the dead human in the car is," Tucker said.

"Nobody will find that human until deer-hunting season starts, and that's two weeks away," the vixen noted wisely.

"Did you-all see anything?"

"No, although when we first found her at the end of September she'd only been dead a few weeks."

"September! I think the killer threw the evidence in the pond." Murphy was a figuring cat.

"How do you know?" Tucker knew that the feline was usually a few steps ahead of her.

"Because the murders are about film and Roscoe's film department. It was right in front of my face, but I didn't see it. Whoever is in that car is the missing link."

"Murphy," Tucker softly said, "have you figured out what's going on?"

"Yes, I think I have, but not in time—not in time."

61

Kendrick and Jody sat on a bench outside the intensive care unit. An officer guarded Sean inside. His grandfather was there, too.

Kendrick stopped Dr. Hayden Mclntire when he came out of the room. "How is he?"

"We're guardedly optimistic." He looked at Jody. "Quite a few of his friends have stopped by. He's a popular boy."

"Has Karen Jensen been here?" Jody asked.

"Yes. So were Brooks Tucker, Roger Davis, and the whole foot ball team, of course. They can't go in, but it was good that they came."

"Well, that's nice." Kendrick smiled unconvincingly.

After Hayden left, Kendrick took his daughter by the elbow. "Come on, he isn't going to rise up and walk just because you're here."

She stared at the closed doors. "I wish he would."

"I'll attend to Sean in good time."

"Dad, you can't make anybody do anything. One mistake isn't cured by making a bigger one."

They walked down the hall. "That's a mature statement."

"Maybe I'm learning something."

"Well, learn this. I'm not having bastards in my house, so you're going to marry somebody."

"It's my body."

He grabbed her arm hard. "There is no other option."

"Let me go or I'll scream bloody murder right here at University of Virginia Hospital. And you're in enough trouble." She said this without rancor.

"Yes." He unhanded her.

"Did you kill Maury McKinchie?"

"What?" He was shocked that she asked.

"Did you kill Maury McKinchie?"

"No."

62

Neither Mrs. Murphy nor Tucker returned home all night. Harry had called and called. Finally she fed the horses and, last of all, Pewter.