Рита Браун - Rest In Pieces

“I read you loud and clear.”

They pulled up in front of the barn and the two men got out. Harry was mucking the stalls. Her winter boots bore testament to the task. The doors to the stalls hung open as the used shavings were tossed into the wheelbarrow. At the end of the aisle another wheelbarrow, filled with sweet-smelling shavings, stood. The door to the tack room was open also. Tucker greeted everyone and Mrs. Murphy stuck her head out of the loft opening. An errant sliver of hay dangled on her whisker. When Harry saw the two men she waved and called out, “Hola!” This amused Orlando.

“Who is it?” Simon asked.

“Blair and his friend Orlando.”

“She won’t bring them up here, will she?” The possum nervously paced. “She brought Susan up once and I didn’t think that was right.”

“Because of the earring. That was a special case. They won’t climb up the ladder. The one guy’s too well-dressed, anyway.”

“Shut up down there.” The owl ruffled her feathers, turned around, and settled down while expanding on everyone’s deficiencies.

Down below Orlando admired the barn and the beautiful construction work. The barn had been built in the late 1880’s, the massive square beams prepared to bear weight for centuries to come.

Tucker barked, “Someone’s coming.”

A white Range Rover pulled up next to Blair’s Explorer. Fitz-Gilbert Hamilton opened the door and hurried into the barn.

“Orlando, I’ve been looking at Blair’s for you, and then thought you might be here.”

“Fitz . . . is it really you?” Orlando squinted. “You look different.”

“Fatter, older. A little bald.” Fitz laughed. “You look the same, only better. It’s amazing what the years do to people—inside and outside.”

As the two men shook hands, Harry noticed a bulge, chest-high, in Fitz’s bomber jacket. This wasn’t an ordinary bomber jacket—it was lined with goose down so Fitz could be both warm and dashing.

Tucker lifted her nose and sniffed. “Murphy, Murphy.”

The cat again stuck her head out the opening. “What?”

“Fitz has the stench of fear on him.”

Mrs. Murphy wiggled her nose. A frightened human being threw off a powerful, acrid scent. It was unmistakable, so strong that a human with a good nose—for a human—could even smell it once they had learned to identify it. “You’re right, Tucker.”

“Something’s wrong,” Tucker barked.

Harry leaned down to pat the corgi’s head. “Pipe down, short stuff.”

Mrs. Murphy called down, “Maybe he found another body.” She stopped herself. If he’d found another body he would have said that immediately. “Tucker, get behind him.”

The little dog slunk behind Fitz, who continued to chat merrily with Orlando, Blair, and Harry. Then he changed gears. “What made you think that picture was Tommy Norton?”

Orlando tipped his head. “Looked like him to me. How is it you didn’t notice?”

Fitz unzipped his jacket and pulled out a lethal, shiny .45. “I did, as a matter of fact. You three get against the wall there. I don’t have time for an extended farewell. I need to get to the bank and the airport before Rick Shaw finds out I’m here and I’ll be damned if you’re going to wreck things for me—so.”

As Orlando stood there, puzzled, Tucker sank her teeth up to the gums into Fitz’s leg. He screamed and whirled around, the tough dog hanging on. The humans scattered. Harry ran into one of the stalls, Orlando dove into the tack room, shutting the door, and Blair lunged for the wall phone in the aisle, but Fitz recovered enough to fire.

Blair grunted and rolled away into Gin’s stall.

“You all right?” Harry called. She didn’t see Blair get hit.

“Yeah,” Blair, stunned, said through gritted teeth. The force of being struck by a bullet is as painful as the lead intruding into the flesh. Blair’s shoulder throbbed and stung.

Tucker let go of Fitz’s leg and scrambled to the barn doors, bullets flying after her. Once she wriggled out of the barn she slunk alongside the building. Tucker didn’t know what to do.

Mrs. Murphy, who had been peering down from the loft, ran to the side and peeked through an opening in the boards. “Tucker, Tucker, are you all right?”

“Yes.” Tucker’s voice was throaty and raw. “We’ve got to save Mother.”

“See if you can get Tomahawk and Gin Fizz up to the barn.”

“I’ll try.” The corgi set out into the pastures. Fortunately, the cold had hardened the crust of the snow and she could travel on the surface. A few times she sank into the powder but she struggled out.

Simon, scared, shivered next to Mrs. Murphy.

Down below, Fitz slowly stalked toward the stalls. The cat again peered down. She realized that he would be under the ladder in a few moments.

Harry called out, “Fitz, why did you kill those people?” She played for time.

Mrs. Murphy hoped her mother could stall him, because she had a desperate idea.

“Ben got greedy, Harry. He wanted more and more.”

As Fitz spoke, Orlando, flattened against the wall, moved nearer to the door of the tack room.

“Why did you pay him off in the first place?”

“Ah, well, that’s a long story.” He moved a step closer to the loft opening.

Tucker, panting, reached Tomahawk first. “Come to the barn, Tommy. There’s trouble inside. Fitz-Gilbert wants to kill Mom.”

Tomahawk snorted, called Gin, and they thundered toward the barn, leaving Tucker to follow as best she could.

Inside, the tiger cat heard the hoofbeats. Their pasture was on the west side of the barn. She vaulted over hay bales and called through a space in the siding. “Can you jump the fence?”

Gin answered, “Not with our turn-out rugs in this much snow.”

Simon wrung his pink paws. “Oh, this is awful.”

“Crash the fence then. Make as much noise as you can but count to ten.” Tucker caught up to the horses. “Tucker,” Mrs. Murphy called, “help them count to ten. Got it? Slow.” She spun around and called to Simon over her shoulder. “Help me, Simon.”

The gray possum shuttled over the timothy and alfalfa as quickly as he could. He joined Mrs. Murphy at the south side of the barn. Hay flew everywhere as the cat clawed at a bale.

“What are you doing?”

“Getting the blacksnake. She’s hibernating, so she won’t curl around us and spit and bite.”

“Well, she’s going to wake up!” Simon’s voice rose.

“Worry about that later. Come on, help me get her out of here.”