Рита Браун - Pay Dirt

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By noon the biker still had not appeared. Harry couldn't stand it anymore. She went out front and sat on the Harley. It did feel great, nice and lowdown. She checked around to make sure the Hell's Angel wouldn't charge out of a building and scream at her for touching his precious bike.

By three, still no sign of the owner.

"Harry, I'm calling Rick Shaw." Miranda picked up the phone.

Harry considered this a moment. "Wait a second. Let me go get the license plate number." She ran outside and scribbled the number on a scrap of paper.

Miranda dialed the sheriff's department. Cynthia Cooper picked up the phone. "Why aren't you in the squad car?"

Miranda's voice was distinctive. Cynthia knew the caller at once. "I was. What can I do you for?"

"A black Harley-Davidson motorcycle has been parked in front of the post office all day and the owner doesn't seem to be around."

"Do you know the owner?"

"No, but Harry does. Hold on a minute." Miranda handed the phone to Harry.

"Hi, Cynthia. Actually, I don't know the owner but I saw him at Ash Lawn last week."

"Do you suspect anything?"

"Uh, no, I guess we're just wondering why the bike has been here all day. Maybe he copped a ride in a car or something, but we're not a public parking lot. Want the license number?"

"Yeah, okay."

She read off the number. "California plates. Pretty ones."

"They are. Pretty state taxes too. If I paid that much, I'd want gold-plated tags. Okay, Skeezits, I'll run a check and get back to you," she said, calling Harry by her childhood nickname.

The phone rang in fifteen minutes. It was Cynthia.

"The bike belongs to Michael Huckstep, Los Angeles, California. He's a Caucasian—thirty-four years old."

"That was fast." Harry was impressed.

"Computers. If the bike is still there tomorrow, call me. Actually, I'll swing by tonight and check on it anyway, but call me in the morning. Sometimes people do take advantage of federal facilities. It will probably be gone tomorrow."

8

But it wasn't. The next morning, Tuesday, the Harley was right there.

Cynthia cruised on over and inspected the bike while Harry and Mrs. Hogendobber hurried to finish their morning sorting. Mrs. Hogendobber kept running in and out of the office, she was so afraid she'd miss something.

On her last pass into the post office she breathlessly informed Harry, "She's going to have them dust for prints—you know, in case its stolen."

"Well, if it were stolen, don't you think he'd know it and report it?"

"Not if he's the thief."

Harry cocked her head. "Do criminals have legitimate driver's licenses?"

"Little Marilyn does. The way she drives is a crime." Miranda laughed at her own joke.

Unable to contain her curiosity any longer, Mrs. Murphy strolled out the front door on yet another pass by Miranda. Tucker, lying on her back, legs straight up in the air, was dead to the world. The cat chose not to wake her.

Cynthia, tall and slender, knelt down on the left side of the machine and wrote down the serial number.

Mrs. Murphy jumped on the seat of the motorcycle. She quickly jumped off since it was boiling hot. " Ouch! Don't they make sheepskin seat covers for bikes ?"

The humans forgot the task at hand for a moment to gossip about Little Marilyn's latest beau—a man both Mrs. Hogendobber and Cynthia considered unsuitable. They moved on to BoomBoom Craycroft's summer vacation, their hope that Kerry McCray would find a decent guy following her loss of Norman, and the delightful fact that Miranda's baked goods were sold out by eight-thirty that morning.

The tiger, her coat shiny as patent leather in the sunlight, sniffed around the motorcycle. She was careful not to get too close, as the metal would be hot as well. A familiar whiff on the right saddlebag, jet black like the rest of the bike, made her stop. She stood on her hind legs, perfectly balanced, and sniffed deeper. Then she got as close as she dared and inhaled. " Cynthia, Cynthia, there's blood on the saddlebag ."

"—Blair Bainbridge, but you know if BoomBoom lays siege to him again, he might give in. Men find her sexy." Cynthia couldn't help indulging in a light gossip.

"She won't turn his head." Mrs. Hogendobber crossed her arms over her large bosoms.

"They all look at BoomBoom." Cynthia never could understand why a good makeup job and big tits made idiots out of supposedly intelligent men.

"Hey, hey, will someone listen to me!"

"Aren't you a Chatty Cathy?" Miranda reached down to stroke the cat's pretty head.

"There's blood on the saddlebag. Want me to spell it foryou?"The cat yowled. She vented her frustrations concerning human stupidity.

"My, she is out of sorts." Cynthia brushed her hands on her pants.

" You're about as smart as a pig's blister . "Mrs. Murphy spat in disgust.

"I've never seen Mrs. Murphy spit like that." Miranda involuntarily took a step backward.

The cat whirled around and diumped to the front door. She called over her shoulder, " It's not chicken blood. It's human blood, and it's a couple of days old. If you all would use those pathetic senses of yours, you might even find it yourselves . "She banged on the door. " Let me in, dammit. It's hot out here ."

Since Harry failed to rush right over, Mrs. Murphy, now in a towering rage, shot around to the back of the post office. She smacked open die kitty door, walked in, and whapped Tucker right on the nose.

"Wake up!"

" Ow . "The dog raised her head, then dropped it. " You are hateful mean ."

"Come outside with me. Now, Tucker. It's important."

"More important than sleeping in the air-conditioning?"

Mrs. Murphy whapped her again. Harry noticed. "Murphy, retrieve your patience."

"You can just shut up too. None of you know bugjuice. You rely on your eyes far too much, and they aren't that good anyway. Humans are weak, vain, and smelly!"

By now Tucker was on her feet and had shaken herself awake. " Humans can't help being what they are any more than we can ."

" Come on . "She vanished out die door.

Tucker joined her at the motorcycle. Both Miranda and Cynthia had ducked into the market.

" Here . "The cat pointed.

Tucker lifted her nose. " Oh, yes ."

"Don't touch the bike, Tucker, it's scorching."

" Okay . "The corgi moved closer. Her head was tilted back, her eyes bright and clear, her ears forward. " Human. Definitely human and fading ."

"I say four days."

" Hard to tell in this heat, but it sure has been a couple of days. It's only a drop or two. If the saddlebag were soaked, even they'd notice it. The aroma of blood is powerful "

"They don't like the smell, assuming they can smell it."

"Ifthere's enough of it, even they can pick it up. I don't know why they don't like it. They eat meat just like we do."

" Yeah, but they eat broccoli and tomatoes too. Their systems are fussier ." Mrs. Murphy brushed by Tucker. "/ trust your nose. I'm glad you came out with me ."

"Have you tried pointing this out to them?"

" Yes . "The cat shrugged. " Same old same old. They'll never get it ."

" Well, it's a few drops of blood. No big deal — is it ?"

"Tucker, a Hell's Angel shows up at Ash Lawn, makes a scene asking for a woman named after a town. Blair gets him out of there. Right?"

"Right."

"Then he sideswipes us as he flies out of Sugar Hollow. And now his motorcycle has been parked in front of the post office for two days."