Рита Браун - Probable Claws

“Yes they are. Passing by. Another hour and I’ll be off work. Gary, how are you doing? Is she being a good client?”

“Harry is always thoughtful and”—he paused—“cost conscious.”

Cooper laughed. “What a nice way to say cheap.”

“I am not cheap. I’m careful. Money doesn’t grow on trees.”

“I’m teasing you,” Cooper replied. “You are tight with a buck, true, but you are generous with your time, food, your hospitality. You’re always ready to pitch in and help.”

Not expecting a compliment, Harry took a little time then said, “Thank you.”

“She’s right. You put your shoulder to the wheel,” Gary agreed.

Gary, tiny sandbags in hand, lifted off the first sheet of large drawing paper, placing it under the others.

Harry’s gaze wandered back to the square bookshelves covering one wall, so pleasing to the eye. He placed his treasures throughout his shelves. Snow globes had been stuck into many squares, smooth rocks from wherever he had gone rafting, one huge empty hornet’s nest took up an entire square, a giant tooth reposed in another square, and tiny rubber dinosaurs peeped out from many places.

One globe always tickled Harry, a flamingo in a snow globe looking startled when you turned over the globe and snow fell on the pink bird.

Across the room hung an artillery officer’s sword from the war of 1861–1865. The gilt still gleamed, the red sash with large tassels looked impressive. One could imagine them swinging when the officer walked in full dress regalia. A photograph of the fellow hung alongside the sword. This was Gary’s great-great-grandfather, a slender young man with a serious mustache. How young he looked—but then, all wars are fought by the young.

“You and your snow globes.” She smiled.

“Given the weather, we’re in a snow globe,” he replied.

“Got that right.” Cooper nodded.

Harry returned to the drawings. “Forgot to ask you what else you’re working on. Saw some of the redo for Nature First.”

“Ah. I quite like how that is turning out. What did you think of the enameled bookshelves and cabinets?”

“Gorgeous.”

He grinned. “I think so, too. It’s been a fun project.”

“Where did you get the idea for the slanting walls?”

“Flipping through some of the books on the shelves. Something will jump out at me and I start to fool with the idea.”

“So you saw Pirate, her puppy?”

“He’s hard to miss. I’m glad she has him. Nature First goes up against some deeply vested interests. A big dog will be a deterrent if some large corporation hires a goon.”

“Nature First does take them on,” Cooper agreed.

“You think someone would harm her?” Harry was aghast.

“I certainly hope not but I wouldn’t put it past one of these huge companies to try and scare her,” Cooper replied. “Implied violence can be as effective as genuine violence.”

“Harry, I didn’t mean to disturb you.” Gary put his hand on her shoulder. “We happen to be living through an incredibly corrupt time. Seems like every institution, including the churches, are corrupt. Ah well, perhaps we should envy Pirate and your four-legged fellow sidekicks. They have more sense than we do.”

The door swung open. Tazio shut the cold air out behind her. Wearing leggings, high boots, a turtleneck peeping out from under her sheepskin coat, she looked great. Brinkley had a tiny wreath on his leather collar.

“Am I too late for the party?”

As the humans greeted one another so did the animals.

Gary motioned for Tazio and Cooper to sit in a chair. “Just in time. I was showing Harry my sketches for her shed. I want to recreate La Petite Trianon but she won’t have it.”

Deadpan, Taz came back, “The Taj Mahal?”

“Too foreign. Mount Vernon would fit in.” Cooper joined the play.

Harry, stroking her jaw as though in deep thought, said, “What about a yurt?”

All three at once responded, “Never. That’s not Virginia.”

“Who cares what it looks like?” Pewter fussed. “She’d better have ceramic bowls with our names on them and a small refrigerator full of prime rib.”

Tucker said, “I’m sure she’ll do it just for you.”

“Taz, Gary, come on out. I made a big pot of chicken corn soup, my grandmother’s recipe. Best thing for a cold day. Coop will be there. We can chew the fat.”

“Literally.” Tucker giggled as she stared adoringly at her human.

“Her secret is white corn, fresh parsley. I watch. She hard-boils eggs, makes the rice, she is serious about chicken corn soup. I quite like it.” Mrs. Murphy twitched her whiskers.

“Thank you. I’d love to but I have a date with Paul, which really means we’ll be with Big Mim, breeding papers all over the house.” Tazio named Big Mim Sanborne, a wealthy woman, leader of society such as it was.

Big Mim would be breeding a few of her Thoroughbred mares in the early spring. She was breeding late but she didn’t intend to race the foals. She wanted her stable manager, Paul, to turn them into foxhunters. With the exception of steeplechasing, a demanding sport for horse and jockey, Mim’s flat racing days were over. It had all gotten too complicated, too expensive, and the variation of drug conditions from state to state drove her wild. She finally said, “The hell with it.”

But by breeding in early spring the foals would arrive after the severe heat of a Virginia summer. Horses have an eleven-month gestation period.

“What about you, Gary?”

“I, too, must pass with regret. I told Hank Severson I’d meet him at his house to look at some flooring he took up from old granaries. Tell you what, he has a booming business. First he gets the job of dismantling old buildings then he resells the timber, hardware. He has a wonderful eye.”

“Does.” Harry had admired a floor Gary put in years ago at a friend’s house, granary oak, how it glowed.

“Hey, Gary, see if he has any old cherry,” Taz requested.

“Sure enough. If he doesn’t have any, he’ll find it.”

They chatted, poured over the drawings again, all of them; then the little gathering broke up. They headed for the door, the animals tight behind Harry.

Opening it, a frigid wind, sharp, sliced them all in the face.

“It has gotten colder.” Taz pulled up her heavy turtleneck, as Brinkley stood next to her.

“December.” Gary shrugged.

He’d run out to see the ladies off, had not pulled on a coat.

“Gary, you’ll freeze to death,” Cooper remarked.

A motorcycle turned the corner, slowed, making its way to the small group of people.

Brinkley barked. “I hate the sound of motorcycles.”

“Another appointment?” Harry inquired.

“No.” Gary, puzzled, shivered a moment.

The motorcycle, a large one, stopped. The driver, all in black leather, a tinted visor attached to the helmet, unzipped a pocket, pulled out a Glock handgun, pointed it at Gary, fired, paused a moment, the barrel of the gun visible to the three women, revved the engine, and sped off.

Gary, hand clutched to his heart, sagged. Cooper immediately put her hands under his armpits to steady him.

Harry ran out to see if she could read a license plate. She recognized the bike as a Ducati.

Taz moved over to help Cooper. “Let’s get him in the warmth.”

A gurgle told them it was too late.

Cooper tried to revive him. People came out of their stores. The three women managed to get him into his shop. His neighbor, Orrie Carson, rushed out, knelt down to see if he, too, could help.