Рита Браун - Rest In Pieces

High in the hayloft Mrs. Murphy watched her friend through a crack in the boards. When she lost sight of Tucker she gave up her conversation with Simon to hurry backward down the ladder. Cursing under her breath, she surrendered hope of keeping dry and ran across the fields. Water splashed up on her creamy beige belly, exacerbating her bad mood. Tucker could do the dumbest things. By the time Mrs. Murphy reached the creek the corgi was right in the middle of it, teetering on the tip of a huge rock.

“Get back here,” Mrs. Murphy demanded.

“No,” Tucker refused. “Sniff.”

Mrs. Murphy held her nose up in the air. “I smell mud, sap, and stale water.”

“It’s the faintest whiff. Sweet and then it disappears. I’ve got to find it.”

“What do you mean, sweet?” Mrs. Murphy swished her tail.

“Damn, I lost it.”

“Tucker, you’ve got short little legs—swimming in this current isn’t a smart idea.”

“I’ve got to find that odor.” With that she pushed off the rock, hit the water, and pulled with all her might. The muddy water swept over her head. She popped up again, swimming on an angle toward the far shore.

Mrs. Murphy screeched and screamed but Tucker paid no heed. By the time the corgi reached the bank she was so tired she had to rest for a moment. But the scent was slightly stronger now. Standing up on wobbly legs, she shook herself and laboriously climbed the mudslide that was the creek bank.

“Are you all right?” the cat called.

“Yes.”

“I’m staying right here until you come back.”

“All right.” Tucker scrambled over the bank and sniffed again. She got her bearings and trotted across Blair Bainbridge’s land. The scent increased in power with each step. Tucker pulled up at the little cemetery.

The high winds had knocked over the tombstones Blair had righted, and the bad side of the wrought-iron fence had crashed down again. Carefully, the dog picked her way through the debris in the cemetery. The scent was now crystal clear and enticing, very enticing.

Nose to the ground, she walked over to the tombstone with the carved angel playing the harp. The fingers of a human hand pointed at the sky in front of the stone. The violence of the wind and rain had sheared off the loose topsoil; a section was rolled back like a tiny carpet. Tucker sniffed that too. When she and Mrs. Murphy passed the graveyard last week there was no enticing scent, no apparent change in the topsoil. The odor of decay, exhilarating to a dog, overcame her curiosity about the turf. She dug at the hand. Soon the whole hand was visible. She bit into the fleshy, swollen palm and tugged. The hand easily pulled out of the ground. Then she noticed that it had been severed at the wrist, a clean job of it, too, and the finger pads were missing.

Ecstatic with her booty, forgetting how tired she was, Tucker flew across the bog to the creek. She stopped because she was afraid to plunge into the creek. She didn’t want to lose her pungent prize.

Mrs. Murphy, transfixed by the sight, was speechless.

Tucker delicately laid down the hand. “I knew it! I knew I smelled something deliciously dead.”

“Tucker, don’t chew on that.” Mrs. Murphy was disgusted.

“Why not? I found it. I did the work. It’s mine!” She barked, high-pitched because she was excited and upset.

“I don’t want the hand, Tucker, but it’s a bad omen.”

“No, it’s not. Remember the time Harry read to us about a dog bringing a hand to Vespasian when he was a general and the seers interpreting this to mean that he would be Emperor of Rome and he was? It’s a good sign.”

Mrs. Murphy dimly remembered Harry’s reading aloud from one of her many history books but that was hardly her main concern. “Listen to me. Humans put their dead in boxes. You know that if you found a hand it means the body wasn’t packaged.”

“So what? It’s my hand!” Tucker hollered at the top of her lungs, although with a moment to reflect she knew that Mrs. Murphy was right. Humans didn’t cut up their dead.

“Tucker, if you destroy that hand then you’ve destroyed evidence. You’re going to be in a shitload of trouble and you’ll get Mother in trouble.”

Dejected, Tucker squatted down next to the treasured hand, a gruesome sight. “But it’s mine.”

“I’m sorry. But something’s wrong, don’t you see?”

“No.” Her voice was fainter now.

“A dead human not in a box means either he or she was ill and died far away from others or that he or she was murdered. The other humans have to know this. You know how they are, Tucker. Some of them kill for pleasure. It’s dangerous for the others.”

Tucker sat up. “Why are they like that?”

“I don’t know and they don’t know. It’s some sickness in the species. You know, like dogs pass parvo. Please, Tucker, don’t mess up that evidence. Let me go get Mother if I can. Promise me you’ll wait.”

“It might take her hours to figure out what you’re telling her.”

“I know. You’ve got to wait.”

One miserable dog cocked her head and sighed. “All right, Murphy.”

Mrs. Murphy skimmed across the pastures, her feet barely grazing the sodden earth. She found Harry in the bed of the truck. Nimbly Mrs. Murphy launched herself onto the truck bed. She meowed. She rubbed against Harry’s leg. She meowed louder.

“Hey, little pussycat, I’ve got work to do.”

The twilight was fading. Mrs. Murphy was getting desperate. “Follow me, Mom. Come on. Right now.”

“What’s gotten into you?” Harry was puzzled.

Mrs. Murphy hooted and hollered as much as she could. Finally she sprang up and dug her claws into Harry’s jeans, climbing up her leg. Harry yelped and Mrs. Murphy jumped off her leg and ran a few paces. Harry rubbed her leg. Mrs. Murphy ran back and prepared to climb the other leg.

“Don’t you dare!” Harry held out her hand.

“Then follow me, stupid.” Mrs. Murphy moved away from her again.

Finally, Harry did. She didn’t know what was going on but she’d lived with Mrs. Murphy for seven years, long enough and close enough to learn a little bit of cat ways.

The cat hurried across the meadow. When Harry slowed down, Mrs. Murphy would run back and then zip away again, encouraging her constantly. Harry picked up speed.

When Tucker saw them coming she started barking.

Breathing hard, Harry stopped at the bank. “Oh, damn, Tucker, how’d you get over there.”

“Look!” the cat shouted.

“Mommy, I found it and it’s mine. If I have to give this up I want a knuckle bone,” Tucker bargained. She picked up the hand in her mouth.