Probable Claws

by Rita Mae Brown

  “I don’t need a bathroom.”

  “Harry, I know you can pinch a nickle until the Indian rides the buffalo, but you do need a bathroom and you will thank me for tucking one into this structure. The other thing is I’ve made the ceilings fourteen feet high. A fan will push warm air down. It’s not wasteful and the reason I’ve done that is over here; look, you have a quarter of the top space for storage. Just a small loft space. You can slide lumber up there or file boxes. It will be out of sight but protected.” He paused. “Skylights in a high roofline always look good. Even the loft has a skylight.”

  “You can never get enough natural light.”

  “Trust me on the storage space and on the bathroom.” His voice registered quiet command.

  She sighed, sat on a high chair. “I’ll have to talk to Fair.”

  “Your husband told me to give you the best shed in the county. And he said he wanted a cedar shake roof with clapboard siding. He swore he would keep it painted.”

  “He did?”

  “Indeed. You married a most agreeable man.” He beamed.

  She beamed right back. “I did.”

  “I don’t know why he puts up with you. He knows you don’t give us enough home-cooked food. And he’s a vet,” Pewter complained.

  “An equine vet,” Tucker corrected her.

  “So what. He knows how sensitive my system is.”

  “Pewter” was all Mrs. Murphy could say because Pewter could and did eat anything.

  Her girth testified to the effectiveness of her digestive system.

  “I should have fresh food. Nothing mixed into commercial food. And you don’t know if that stuff came from China. Death!” Her eyes grew large.

  Before the other two could vouch for the food not containing ingredients from China, a tap on the window drew their attention.

  Gary motioned for Deputy Cynthia Cooper to step in.

  She opened the door, closed it. “Getting colder out there.” Then to Harry she said, “Saw your wagon.”

  “My stickers are updated.” Harry smiled at her neighbor.

  “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.

  “He’s dead,” Mrs. Murphy quietly announced.

  3

  December 27, 2016

  Tuesday 6:00 PM

  Shock or not the farm chores needed to be done. Home by three-thirty, Harry brought in the horses, put two scoops of grain in their feed buckets hanging in the corner of the stall, tossed in three flakes of hay.

  Darkness came early. She liked to bring the horses in while light. She just made it. Large round bales dotted the various paddocks and pastures so the horses could eat when they felt like it. The large bales like shredded wheat looked coated in sugar due to the snow. Harry grew good hay, which her horses greatly appreciated. She’d place the bales together in some fields to break the wind. When eaten she’d bring in more. Some days the horses would all be next to the hay.

  The top barn doors, closed against the cold, the bottom ones, too, kept the temperature pleasant for the horses. Their ideal temperature is much lower than for humans. About fifty degrees Fahrenheit with their blankets on, fresh water in the two buckets per stall, life was good.

  Pewter listened as Mrs. Murphy replayed the shooting. Tucker walked from stall to stall with Harry, who was always glad of the canine company.

  “Quick,” Pewter said.

  “Couldn’t see the killer’s face, came right up to the edge of the sidewalk and boom.” Mrs. Murphy sat on a saddle pad in the heated tack room.

  “People kill one another like we kill mice.”

  Hearing Pewter, the mice came in behind the tack trunk, a small hole in the wall allowing them easy access. Their living quarters were stuffed with chewed up old towels, rag bits, and grain scattered about. They shouted, “Better not!”

  “As long as you keep the deal, you’re safe,” the tiger cat reassured them.

  “If anyone dies we should ask them to push out the body so we can bring it to Harry,” Pewter suggested.

  “Not now. She’s too shook up,” Mrs. Murphy responded.

  “I mean when an old mouse dies. They seem to live forever those guys.” Pewter sniffed.

  “All the animals on this farm enjoy good health.” Mrs. Murphy nodded.

  “Hateful, hateful trips to the vet. Gives me angina. I just feel the palpitations.” Pewter rolled her eyes.

  “Tucker slobbers.” Mrs. Murphy giggled.

  “It’s the needles!” Pewter’s eyes now widened.

  “Yeah,” her buddy agreed.

  “But back to people killing one another all the time. Gary must have done something wrong.” Pewter inhaled the scent of cleaned leather.

  “Mom told Cooper as they waited for the ambulance that years ago, like fifteen, he went through a horrible divorce. It brings out the worst in people.”

  “Fifteen years is a long time to wait.” Pewter thought this unlikely as a cause.

  “Revenge is a dish best eaten cold,” Mrs. Murphy pronounced.

  “I think if someone bloodies your nose you bloody them right back.” Pewter appeared fierce.

  “Humans, if they do that, get caught. Impulse killing. Waiting makes sense for them. All those laws perverting nature pretty much.” The tiger believed humans got it all backward.

  “Maybe fifteen years isn’t a long time to wait…but divorce, that’s…I don’t know.”

  “Irrational.” Mrs. Murphy affirmed Pewter’s unspoken thoughts.

  The tack room door opened, cold air entering with Harry and Tucker.

  The corgi joined Mrs. Murphy on the saddle pad. “When the sun sets the mercury goes down with it. Going to be nasty cold tonight.”

  “Is,” Mrs. Murphy agreed.

  Harry checked her feed order, scribbled on a pad by the old landline phone, sank into her chair. She’d called her husband, who would be home from work shortly. She looked forward to Cooper joining them. Fair, sensitive to her distress, could always lift her spirits. As an equine vet his hours could be variable. One good thing about the winter was there were fewer injury calls than during the warm months, with the exception of ice. Horses, like people, could go down on ice.

  “Dad,” Tucker barked.

  The cats, too, heard the rumble of the big diesel-engine truck crunching down the driveway. Soon it stopped, the door slammed, the groan of the huge barn doors came next, then the clunk of their being shut.

  The tack room door opened.

  “Honey.” He walked over and kissed her, pulled up a chair.

  “I am so glad to see you.”

  “Heard a report on the local news driving home. The usual ‘too early to know anything’ stuff.”

  “Out of the blue, Fair, just out of the blue.” She swiveled her chair to face his.

  He slid the chair forward so his knees touched hers. “Thank God you weren’t standing next to Gary.”

  “I was close enough to smell the gunpowder.” She shivered. “He grabbed his chest, a little blood trickled through his fingers, not much at all, he groaned, and sank. There was a split second that it seemed the gun was pointed at me. It was almost like a dream. It just didn’t seem real.”

  “Cooper,” Tucker barked.

  Hearing the motor, Harry looked up. “I told Coop to come by for soup. Let me go in and warm it up. Won’t take a minute. You fix her a drink.”

  They rose, animals first, closed the door behind them and hailed their friend walking up the brick walkway to the back closed-in porch. In the warm weather the wooden sides were removed and it became a screened porch that kept out the bugs.

  Once inside, Fair made Cooper a hot toddy and fed the animals while Harry warmed the soup.

  Sipping her drink, Cooper smiled. “Warms you better than a down jacket.”

  “True.” He toasted her.

  “Won’t be a minute.” Harry pulled fresh bread and butter out of the keeper on the counter.

  “Well,” Cooper started. “Simple .38 caliber, a handgun many people own. Unregistered, of course.” She held up her hand. “I am not anti-science but I think there can be many a slip ‘twixt the cup and the lip.’ This will be a long, hard slog.”

  “Why?” Fair asked.

  “No criminal record. An ugly divorce years back. No complaints against his design company at the Better Business Bureau. A membe
r of Keswick Golf Club. Well liked. I called his old Richmond employer, Rankin Construction. He left on good terms. Had always wanted his own small design company, working with construction companies instead of working for a construction company.”

  “Is that awful yellow crime scene tape up?” Harry asked.

  “It is. Front and back. Photographs of where he fell. The inside of his office. All done. The team, wearing latex gloves, checked drawers, cataloged mail. For now everything is in place as he left it. The forensics will be back tomorrow.” She lifted her hands, palms up. “Nothing out of the ordinary, so far. But I always hope for a clue, for a pattern to emerge,” Coop replied.

  “I suppose you’ll need to examine his projects. Talk to customers and clients.” Harry tested the soup, turned down the burner.

  “Yes. The most obvious problem would be if Gary ever overcharged or took a kickback from a client or construction company. That’s all I can think of right now.”

  “He wouldn’t.” Harry’s voice was firm. “Gary would never do anything like that.”

  “I hope you’re right, but if there’s one thing law enforcement has taught me it’s that you never really know. Look at how Bernie Madoff fooled people.”

  “Coop,” Harry said as she ladled out the fragrant soup. “Gary didn’t live high on the hog like the Ponzi scheme guy. Other than golf and his annual vacations out of the country to see the architecture elsewhere, like the time he went to the Alhambra. Stuff like that. Madoff was an entirely different kind of person. Madoff had to drum up business constantly, whereas Gary really didn’t.” She put the bowls on the table while Fair cut the bread.

  “Harry, this is so good.” Cooper swallowed a spoonful.

  “Easy to make but time-consuming. It’s my grandmother’s recipe. I do it exactly as she did. No shortcuts.”

  “Wonderful.” Cooper sighed. “Wonderful to be off duty, too. It’s been a day. Started with a false burglary alarm at Ivy Farms. Slid downhill from there. What about yours?” She looked at Fair.

  “Not bad. One puncture wound but other than that mostly paperwork and inquiries from new horse owners about keeping the weight on during winter.”

  “That should be easy. Feed them more.” Cooper buttered her bread.