Рита Браун - Pay Dirt

Mrs. Murphy somersaulted as she tried to catch a grasshopper. " Spit, spit tobacco juice and then Til let you go ."

" Gotta catch him first ." Tucker thought grasshoppers beneath her attention.

"/ will, O ye of little faith, and when I do I'll say, 'Spit, spit tobacco juice and then Til let you go.'"

" Grasshoppers don't understand English . "Tucker put her nose to the ground again. She wanted to assist the humans, but any trace of scent other than the smell of rot still hanging on the ground was gone. The humans could no longer smell die decay. " There's

nothing here. We've been walking in circles for an hour and I don't know why they want to stick their noses in it anyway ," growled Tucker, who stuck her nose in everything.

" A dull summer. Besides, when has Mother ever been able to sit still ?"

" Isure can . "And with that Tucker plopped down.

The grasshopper or a close relative flipped by Murphy again, and she shot straight up in the air, came down with the insect between her paws, and rolled on the ground.

"Gotcha 1."

However, she opened one paw slightly for a close look at her quarry and the grasshopper pushed off with its hind legs, squirting free. Murphy pounced, but the grasshopper jumped high and opened its wings to freedom. In a rage Murphy clawed at the leaves on the ground.

" Ha-ha , "Tucker tormented her.

" Oh, shut up, stumpy ." She batted the leaves once more in disgust. " Tucker —"

"What now?"

"Look."

The corgi reluctantly rose and walked over to the cat's side. She looked at the small clearing Mrs. Murphy made. " A ring ."

" More than that. A wedding ring . "Murphy touched it with one claw. " There's an inscription inside. You stay here. I'll get Mom ."

"Good luck."

"I'm going straight for the leg. No meowing and brushing by."

"Like I said, good luck."

The leaves crunched underfoot, a fallen tree trunk emanating a dry and powdery aroma blocked her path. The cat soared right over it. She blasted into the middle of the humans.

"Busy bee." Mrs. Hogendobber noticed Murphy's antics.

" ' You ain't seen nothing yet .' "Mrs. Murphy parodied Al Jolson's line. She fixed her gaze on Harry, then turned, ran straight for her leg, and bit it.

"Ouch! What's the matter with you?" Harry swatted at her. Murphy expertly avoided the clumsy hand and bit the other leg.

"Rabies! That cat has rabies." Mrs. Hogendobber stepped backward into a vine and fell right on her large behind.

"Miranda, are you all right?" Susan hurried over to help up the older lady.

"Fortunately, yes. I have ample padding," she grumbled as she brushed off her bottom.

" Come on . "Mrs. Murphy ran around in a tight circle, then sat still in front of Harry. " Okay, Tucker, how about the National Anthem ?"

" 'O say can you see —' "Tucker warbled.

"What an awful racket." Miranda held her hands over her ears.

Susan laughed. "She doesn't think so."

" Come on. Follow me. Come on. You'll get it. Watch the pussycat ." Mrs. Murphy backed up a few steps.

"She's yakking away as well." Susan watched Murphy.

"Might as well see what it is." Harry got the message. "For all I know, Tucker has her foot caught in a root or something. I never know what these two will get into."

"As long as it's not a skunk." Mrs. Hogendobber wrinkled her nose.

"We'd know by now." Susan crawled over the rotted trunk, which Murphy again cleared in one bound.

Mrs. Hogendobber negotiated the obstacle at a slower pace. By the time she was over, Harry had reached Tucker, who didn't budge.

"'— at twilight's last gleaming, whose broad stripes and —' *

" Tucker , "Mrs. Murphy interrupted this outburst of patriotism, " you can stop now ."

"I was just warming up."

" I know . "The cat reached down and touched the ring. " How long do you give them ?"

"A minute. There's three of them, and unless one of them steps on it, someone will see it."

Harry knelt down to pat Tucker. "You okay, girl?"

" Willyou look here!" Mis . Murphy fussed.

Susan did. "Jeez O Pete. Look."

Miranda bent over. "A wedding ring." She reached for it, then withdrew her hand. "Better not."

Harry snapped offa twig from a low branch, slipped it through the ring, and brought it up to her eyes. "M M 6/12/86."

17

Coop decided not to gripe at Harry, Susan, and Miranda. After all, they did find the wedding ring, about fifty yards from where the body was found. She'd sent it out for prints, although she figured that was hopeless.

It wasn't even noon, but the day was getting away from her. Two accidents during rush hour and both on Route 29, which snarled up traffic. She'd sent out one officer, but with summer vacations depleting the staff, she covered the other one herself.

As soon as Cynthia had received the information from the Department of Motor Vehicles in California, she called the Los Angeles Police Department. She wondered if Huckstep had a criminal record. Sure enough, the answer came back positive for offenses in San Francisco.

The San Francisco Police Department told her Mike Huckstep had a record for minor offenses: assault and battery, traffic violations, and one charge of indecent exposure. The officer on duty suggested she call Frank Kenton, the owner of the Anvil, a San Francisco bar where Huckstep had worked. When Cynthia asked why, the officer said that they always believed Huckstep was involved in more than minor crime, but they could never nail him.

Cynthia picked up the phone. It would be eight in the morning in San Francisco. She'd gotten the phone number of the Anvil as well as the owner's name and number.

"Hello, Mr. Kenton, this is Deputy Cynthia Cooper of the Albemarle County Sheriff's Department."

A sleepy, gruff voice said, "Who?"

"Deputy Cooper, Albemarle County Sheriff's Department—"

"Where in the hell is Albemarle County?"

"In central Virginia. Around Charlottesville."

"Well, what in the hell do you want with me? It's early in the morning, lady, and I work till late at night."

"I know. I'm sorry. You are the owner of the Anvil, are you not?"

"If you know that, then you should have known not to call me until after one my time."

"I regret disturbing you, but we're investigating a murder and I think you can help us."

"Huh?" A note of interest crept into the heavy voice.

"We found a body which we've finally identified as Michael Huckstep."

"Good!"

"I beg your pardon."

"Good, I'm glad somebody killed that son of a bitch. I've wanted to do it myself. How'd he get it?" Frank Kenton, wide awake now, was eager for details.

"Three shots at close range to the chest with a .357 Magnum."

"Ha, he must have looked like a blown tire."

"Actually, he looked worse than that. He'd been out in the woods in the July heat for at least three days. Anything you can tell me, anything at all, might help us apprehend the killer."

"Shit, lady, I think you should give the killer a medal."

"Mr. Kenton, I've got a job to do. Maybe he deserved this, maybe he didn't. That's not mine to judge."

"He deserved it all right. I'll tell you why. He used to bartend for me. Mike had that look. Big broad shoulders, narrow waist, tight little buns. Good strong face and he'd let his beard go a few days. He was perfect for the Anvil. Think of him as gorgeous rough trade."

Cynthia knew that "rough trade" was a term originated by homosexuals that had passed into heterosexual parlance. It meant someone out of the class system, someone with the whiff of an outlaw, like a Hell's Angel. The term had devolved to mean anyone with whom one slept who was of a lower class than oneself. However, Cynthia assumed that Mike Huckstep was the real deal.