Рита Браун - Probable Claws

Pewter batted at the eight-legged creature again. It moved with speed to the back door before she could catch it. Although she didn’t really want to catch it, she did want to chase it. A small chip in the baseboard gave the spider safety. She ducked in.

“Bet she has a nest in there,” Mrs. Murphy said.

“How could Gary work here and not know he was keeping a big spider?” Pewter questioned.

“The spider could hear him walking. The floor would tremble, right? So she could always hide.” Tucker was right about that.

Pewter watched the little chip in the baseboard, tapped it, then moved a few feet to the bottom of the door.

“Here’s another little space.” Pewter flattened, squinted, fished at the small space with an extended claw. “A dime.”

Disappointed, she dropped the dime, wasn’t exciting. The three walked into the workroom. The door between the small back entrance and the workroom was kept closed to conserve heat. Harry and Coop had parked in the back, entered through the back, and left the door to the workroom slightly ajar.

Harry looked at her friends, who walked in to sit at her feet.

“Spider patrol,” Pewter announced.

Harry smiled at the gray cat as she pulled out pencils from a jar clamped on the right side of the drafting table.

“Clever. This way he didn’t have to get up and down for pencils. The drafting board is on a slant. He was always coming up with ideas.” She read the inscription on the pencil. “Sanford Design Ebony Jet Extra Smooth 14420. All the same.” She lifted each one out. One was worn down a bit. The others sharp. “This must have been the one he was using that day. He sharpened them every morning.” She carefully replaced the pencils. “Makes me sick. Just sick. And it makes me mad.”

“That’s understandable but emotion clouds judgment.”

“Does,” Harry agreed with Cooper. “It can also be a motivator.”

“Can, but you’d better not be too motivated. I asked you here because you knew his office and this work space. You can’t whizz off and try to find his murderer.”

“Coop, I have no idea. I have no place to whiz off.” She threw up her hands. “Stymied.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Pewter saw the spider emerge, race across the little space, go under the bathroom door. She took off into the small back room. The others followed.

“It’s in the bathroom.”

“Pewter, don’t disturb it. Maybe it has to go,” Tucker teased the frustrated cat.

Pewter, pupils large, dashed over to the baseboard from which the spider had emerged. She couldn’t reach in with her entire paw but she could extend two claws. She hooked a tiny metal triangle.

“Ha.”

Mrs. Murphy got up, examined Pewter’s find.

“Look. This spider’s like Simon, a hoarder.”

The possum in the barn didn’t hoard, but he kept treasures.

Mrs. Murphy cocked her head. “Looks like a little spike from a dog collar.”

Hearing “dog collar,” Tucker peered into the space. “Could be.”

“Or it could be a stud from a motorcycle jacket.” Mrs. Murphy remembered the black leather jacket on the killer. They barked and meowed until Harry, irritated, came to them. She knelt down with the three to stare at this small shiny object.

Harry, picking up the stud, said, “Coop.”

The deputy walked in as Harry dropped the little stud in her hand. “The animals had this on the floor. Don’t know where they found it.”

“I know our team went over this place with a fine-tooth comb.” Cooper was frustrated by the breaking into Gary’s office.

“I’m sure they did but this might be easy to miss depending on where it was.”

“A spider had it,” Pewter announced.

“You don’t know that,” Tucker grumbled.

“Well, you could open the bathroom door and ask her,” Mrs. Murphy ever so helpfully suggested.

Neither woman said anything about the small stud. Cooper reached into her pocket, pulled out her clean handkerchief, and folded it inside.

“I found it.” Pewter stood on her hind legs to bat at the handkerchief in Cooper’s hand.

Harry reached down to push the gray cat back a little. “Could be anything.”

“Could, but just to be sure I’ll take it to the lab. Could be off a dress, one with stud patterns, could be from a dog collar. Old Gringo makes a boot with a kind of swirling stud pattern over the toe. I’d love to buy that pair of boots. Too expensive.”

“Or it could have come off a motorcycle jacket.” Harry exhaled through her nose loudly.

“Could, but it would be a stupid killer to come back here wearing the same jacket.”

Harry turned to go back into the workroom. “Noisy, obvious, and how could he carry the file boxes? That’s the only thing that was missing from here.”

“1984. I’d better start digging into 1984.” Cooper had no idea how literal that would be.

12

January 6, 2017

Friday

“Marvella, how are you?” Harry spoke on the phone to a new friend in Richmond, Marvella Rice Lawson.

The elegant older woman, a power in the art and African American communities, replied, “Good. The snow is beautiful, the main streets are plowed. Big piles of snow everywhere, but Tinsdale and I,” she mentioned her husband, “bundle up and take our walks. What about you?”

“Same story. Main roads plowed. Fair plowed out our farm road, paths to the barn, and outbuildings.” Harry looked out the window. “Right now the snow is blood red. The sun first turned it gold but now it’s setting, blood red. Quite a sight.”

“You know, Sotheby’s for the last few years has been selling collections of Russian art. Lots of snow scenes, troika rides, that sort of thing, but some of the work is lovely. And it’s the first time we’ve seen any of it.”

“Isn’t it strange to think how politics affects the arts? Of course, there’s the good side, like those wonderful Renaissance painters giving us all their versions of the idealized Madonna.”

“Usually their mistresses.” Marvella laughed.

“Well, yes.” Harry laughed with her. “I was hoping you would be free next Friday and we could go to the Museum of Fine Arts. Have you seen the Architectural Etchings exhibit? They call it ‘Remnants and Revivals.’ Very uncommon work.”

“I have, but I’m happy to go again. Shall I meet you there in the lobby, say, at high noon?” She paused. “Unless there’s another snowstorm. I’ve dutifully watched the projected weather report for the next week but one can’t go by it.”

“There is that. Can you tell me where I might find a book containing some of those Russian paintings?”

“I can do better than that. I’ll give you a thumb drive I made. I’ve been leaning on my friend, Sean Rankin of Rankin Construction, to sponsor an exhibit of Russian art. So I made one for him. Made extras. If Rankin won’t sponsor it someone else will. After all, look at all those incredible Fabergé eggs the museum has in its collection.”

Hearing the surname Rankin, Harry replied, “Rankin Construction? The firm that began building the early high-rises in the seventies and beyond?”

“The same, and they’re still doing it. They’re already digging the deep foundations for the Cloudcroft Building. On the site of an earlier building.”

“Too many big buildings. They cut off the sunlight.” Harry gauged.

“And they suck in the money.” Marvella paused. “Oops, here comes the UPS man. I’ll see you next Friday.”