“Sweet Jesus.” Harry wiped away the tears.
That Saturday morning, crisp, clear, and beautiful, had held the alluring promise of a perfect May 29. The promise had just curdled.
Harry had finished her early-morning chores and, despite a list of projects, decided to take a walk for an hour. She followed Potlicker Creek to see if the beavers had built any new dams. Barry was sprawled at the creek’s edge on a dirt road two miles from her farm that wound up over the mountains into adjoining Augusta County. It edged the vast land holdings of Tally Urquhart, who, well into her nineties and spry, loathed traffic. Three cars constituted traffic in her mind. The only time the road saw much use was during deer-hunting season in the fall.
“Tucker, Mrs. Murphy, and Pewter, stay. I’m going to run to Tally’s and phone the sheriff.”
If Harry hit a steady lope, crossed the fields and one set of woods, she figured she could reach the phone in Tally’s stable within fifteen minutes, though the pitch and roll of the land including one steep ravine would cost time.
As she left her animals, they inspected Barry.
“What could rip his throat like that? A bear swipe?” Pewter’s pupils widened.
“Perhaps.” Mrs. Murphy, noncommittal, sniffed the gaping wound, as did Tucker.
The cat curled her upper lip to waft more scent into her nostrils. The dog, whose nose was much longer and nostrils larger, simply inhaled.
“I don’t smell bear,” Tucker declared. “That’s an overpowering scent, and on a morning like this it would stick.”
Pewter, who cherished luxury and beauty, found that Barry’s corpse disturbed her equilibrium. “Let’s be grateful we found him today and not three days from now.”
“Stop jabbering, Pewter, and look around, will you? Look for tracks.”
Grumbling, the gray cat daintily stepped down the dirt road. “You mean like car tracks?”
“Yes, or animal tracks,” Mrs. Murphy directed, then returned her attention to Tucker. “Even though coyote scent isn’t as strong as bear, we’d still smell a whiff. Bobcat? I don’t smell anything like that. Or dog. There are wild dogs and wild pigs back in the mountains. The humans don’t even realize they’re there.”
Tucker cocked her perfectly shaped head. “No dirt around the wound. No saliva, either.”
“I don’t see anything. Not even a birdie foot,” Pewter, irritated, called out from a hundred yards down the road.
“Well, go across the creek then and look over there.” Mrs. Murphy’s patience wore thin.
“And get my paws wet?” Pewter’s voice rose.
“It’s a ford. Hop from rock to rock. Go on, Pewt, stop being a chicken.”
Angrily, Pewter puffed up, tearing past them to launch herself over the ford. She almost made it, but a splash indicated she’d gotten her hind paws wet.
If circumstances had been different, Mrs. Murphy and Tucker would have laughed. Instead, they returned to Barry.
“I can’t identify the animal that tore him up.” The tiger shook her head.
“Well, the wound is jagged but clean. Like I said, no dirt.” Tucker studied the folds of flesh laid back.
“He was killed lying down,” the cat sagely noted. “If he was standing up, don’t you think blood would be everywhere?”
“Not necessarily,” the dog replied, thinking how strong heartbeats sent blood straight out from the jugular. Tucker was puzzled by the odd calmness of the scene.
“Pewter, have you found anything on that side?”
“Deer tracks. Big deer tracks.”
“Keep looking,” Mrs. Murphy requested.
“I hate it when you’re bossy.” Nonetheless, Pewter moved down the dirt road heading west.
“Barry was such a nice man.” Tucker mournfully looked at the square-jawed face, wide-open eyes staring at heaven.
Mrs. Murphy circled the body. “Tucker, I’m climbing up that sycamore. If I look down maybe I’ll see something.”
Her claws, razor sharp, dug into the thin surface of the tree, strips of darker outer bark peeling, exposing the whitish underbark. The odor of fresh water, of the tufted titmouse above her, all informed her. She scanned around for broken limbs, bent bushes, anything indicating Barry—or other humans or large animals—had traveled to this spot avoiding the dirt road.
“Pewter?”
“Big fat nothing.” The gray kitty noted that her hind paws were wet. She was getting little clods of dirt stuck between her toes. This bothered her more than Barry did. After all, he was dead. Nothing she could do for him. But the hardening brown earth between her toes, that was discomfiting.
“Well, come on back. We’ll wait for Mom.” Mrs. Murphy dropped her hind legs over the limb where she was sitting. Her hind paws reached for the trunk, the claws dug in, and she released her grip, swinging her front paws to the trunk. She backed down.
Tucker touched noses with Pewter, who had recrossed the creek more successfully this time.
Mrs. Murphy came up and sat beside them.
“Hope his face doesn’t change colors while we’re waiting for the humans. I hate that. They get all mottled.” Pewter wrinkled her nose.
“I wouldn’t worry.” Tucker sighed.
In the distance they heard sirens.
“Bet they won’t know what to make of this, either,” Tucker said.
“It’s peculiar.” Mrs. Murphy turned her head in the direction of the sirens.
“Weird and creepy.” Pewter pronounced judgment as she picked at her hind toes, and she was right.
Welcome to the charming world of
MRS. MURPHY
Don’t miss these earlier mysteries . . .
THE TAIL OF THE TIP-OFF
When winter hits Crozet, Virginia, it hits hard. That’s nothing new to postmistress Mary Minor “Harry” Haristeen and her friends, who keep warm with hard work, hot toddies, and rabid rooting for the University of Virginia’s women’s basketball team. But post-game high spirits are laid low when contractor H.H. Donaldson drops dead in the parking lot. And soon word spreads that it wasn’t a heart attack that did him in. It just doesn’t sit right with Harry that one of her fellow fans is a murderer. And as tiger cat Mrs. Murphy knows, things that don’t sit right with Harry lead her to poke her not-very-sensitive human nose into dangerous places. To make sure their intrepid mom lands on her feet, the feisty feline and her furry cohorts Pewter and corgi Tee Tucker are about to have their paws full helping Harry uncover a killer with no sense of fair play. . . .
“You don’t have to be a cat lover to enjoy Brown’s 11th Mrs. Murphy novel. . . . Brown writes so compellingly . . . [she] breathes believability into every aspect of this smart and sassy novel.”
—Publishers Weekly (starred review)
CATCH AS CAT CAN
Spring fever comes to the small town of Crozet, Virginia. As the annual Dogwood Festival approaches, postmistress Mary Minor “Harry” Haristeen feels her own mating instincts stir. As for tiger cat Mrs. Murphy, feline intuition tells her there’s more in the air than just pheromones. It begins with a case of stolen hubcaps and proceeds to the mysterious death of a dissolute young mechanic over a sobering cup of coffee. Then another death and a shooting lead to the discovery of a half-million crisp, clean dollar bills that look to be very dirty. Now Harry is on the trail of a cold-blooded murderer. Mrs. Murphy already knows who it is—and who’s next in line. She also knows that Harry, curious as a cat, does not have nine lives. And the one she does have is hanging by the thinnest of threads.