The Litter of the Law (11 page)

Harry had once left a thick wool sweater in the tack room only to come back the next morning to find mice had chewed big holes in it, all of that fine wool now lining their nests behind the wall. Those mice lived good.

This perfect October morning, having just finished the barn chores, Harry tossed up some jelly beans for the possum in the hayloft, then shook the hay bits out of her hair.

“Don’t shake that on me,”
complained a perfectly groomed Pewter, languishing below.

“All right, who’s ready to go?” asked Harry.

“Me!”
Tucker ran in from the back of the barn.

“Me, too,”
Mrs. Murphy echoed her friend.

Both eagerly sat in the center aisle as Harry hung up her big wide sweeper. “That’s two. Let me check on Pewts.”

“Leave her here,”
Tucker advised.
“She’s such a priss and a pain.”

Pewter lifted her head from her paws.
“I heard that.”

She’d been sleeping in the tack room, disturbed only when Harry had shaken out the hay while looking in the big mirror.

“Come on,” Harry urged her.

“I have nothing to wear,”
Pewter replied facetiously.

“Just leave her,”
Tucker practically begged.

Much as Pewter wished to languish in the tack room, the prospect of irritating the corgi held greater allure. She rose, stretching fore and aft, then daintily leapt to the floor and sauntered out the tack room door.

“Peon,”
the gray cat remarked to the sitting dog as she passed.

“Pissant,”
Tucker fired back.

Tucker flattened her ears and readied herself to lunge after the large cat, but Mrs. Murphy whispered,
“Cool it.”

“How can I let her get away with that?”
asked Tucker.

“If you growl or chase after her, Mom will leave you here. She hates fights in the truck or car, you know that.”

Tucker’s ears drooped, her expression saddened.
“That cat gets away with murder.”

Pewter, full sashay working—a swing to the right, a swing to the left—called over her shoulder,
“I am fascinating. Harry never likes to go anywhere without me. You, on the other hand, are a mere drooling dog. So eager to please. Peon. You really are a peon.”

Mrs. Murphy walked tightly next to her canine friend.
“Ignore her.”

Harry opened the door to the 1978 Ford F-150, a half-ton
pickup truck you couldn’t kill on Judgment Day. The two cats jumped onto the floorboard while the human bent over to pick up the solid dog. “Onf.”

“Don’t call
me
fat.”
Pewter grinned as the dog was placed on the seat.

“I’m a lot bigger than you,”
Tucker said, defending her weight.

“Oh, la,”
the cat sang out, then crawled onto Harry’s lap once she was behind the wheel.

Harry could easily drive with a cat in her lap, so she fired up the old engine, listened to the melodic deep rumble, then pulled around and down the long drive.

“Where are we going?”
Pewter asked.

“Okay, you all, we’re going to Crème de la Crème. I am finally going to break down and buy two of those heavy Italian mugs.”

“She understood?”
Tucker’s ears shot up.

“Of course she didn’t,”
Pewter laughed.
“She just likes to hear herself yak.”

“Look who’s talking,”
Tucker said in a low voice to Mrs. Murphy.

“I have good ears, you know,”
Pewter said.

“You do,”
Mrs. Murphy agreed.

“It’s your attitude that’s not so good.”
Tucker had to say it.

The gray cat turned her back on the other two on the bench seat, rested her chin on Harry’s left forearm, and watched the passing scenery out the side window.

Slowing for a turn, Harry could see the houses on the ridge at the Old Trail development. Below, she spotted Buddy Janss on his huge tractor, harvesting his soybeans. The other side of the road was filled with corn: some rows cut, others left standing to dry. On the road, yellow metal signs about the size of the old Burma Shave signs marked the rows. Each sign showed a golden ear of corn with two green leaves folded back. Below that, the seed company Demeter was identified in red letters, and under that in black Arabic numerals were the seed ID numbers. Buddy Janss
had worked with Demeter for years and this was his test field. His other acres were dedicated to revenue crops.

Harry pulled off the road as Buddy cut the motor of his tractor. He climbed down to check something on the attachment. Satisfied, he turned to climb back up.

“Buddy!” Harry called out as she walked toward him, with three four-footed friends in tow.

“Harry.” He smacked his baseball hat on his leg. “After hearing the news, I was going to call you, girl, but I figured you’d had enough.”

He wrapped his massive arms around her, giving her a hug as she kissed his cheek.

“I appreciate that. It was crazy.”

He put his hand on her shoulder. “I can’t believe it, just can’t believe it.”

“Me neither.”

“Now, Hester was peculiar, no doubt, but she was a good girl.” He wiped a tear from his eye with his handkerchief.

“I’ve been racking my brain to think who could do such a thing.”

“Can’t think of a soul, can you? Who would want to hurt Hester?” He looked into her eyes. “She could get in your face about things, stuff she really cared about, like ethanol, but you don’t kill someone over ethanol. And there were certain people she just wouldn’t do business with, but how much money would a farmer lose by not having his produce sold at Hester’s? I’m like you, racking my brain.”

“I’ve been thinking over her many pet projects, pet peeves,” said Harry. “We all know she loved the Crozet Library. She loved history and wanted to preserve as much of our history as she could. She also cared about farming practices.” Harry laughed as the tears rolled down her face. “I don’t think Hester ever saw an
abandoned building she didn’t want to save. Like some people save animals, she tried to save existing buildings or raise funds for a building the community needs. Remember when she was afraid the old Coca-Cola building would be torn down? And I think she checked into the three abandoned school buildings there by your one hundred acres. Oh, also she wanted to have designated as a historical spot the house where Georgia O’Keeffe lived ever so briefly. You don’t murder someone over any of that.” Harry cried more, which made Buddy join in.

Buddy, like most powerful men in this part of the world, readily showed emotion. Bighearted to a fault, they wanted to hold babies, pet your dogs, take your arm as though you needed guidance, and to help any lady, old, young, pretty or not.

Harry wiped her eyes, then reached up and wiped Buddy’s. “I hate that someone made a mockery of her in her death,” she said.

“You know, girl, sooner or later that S.O.B. will make a mistake, and I want to be there.”

Little did Buddy or Harry know, he would get his wish.

T
hat afternoon, Harry peered down at Mrs. Murphy, Pewter, and Tucker, all sitting at her feet in the tack room. “Remind me never to buy an Italian desk lamp again.”

After two years, the high-intensity bulb had burned out. The lamp boasted appealingly sleek design, but getting its bulb out was proving infuriating. She had to flip back the head of the angular lamp, figure out how to remove the frosted-glass square, then dislodge the small cylindrical bulb.

A rustle of mice behind the tack box irritated Mrs. Murphy. She left her human and jumped on top of the box, squinting behind it.
“Stay put,”
she warned.

Martha, the savvy mother of many, giggled.
“We’ve never heard so much cussing in our lives.”

The tiger cat smiled.
“You know our bargain.”

“I do, but think of my children. Such language.”
Martha looked up into the predator’s green eyes.

Years ago the two cats had made a deal with the mice who lived behind the baseboard in the tack room. The insulated tack room walls provided toasty winter lodging, along with the yarn, hay bits, and old rag pieces the mice brought in to further line their nests. So long as the mice didn’t show themselves or chew tack or saddle pads, they could eat whatever fell in the horses’ stalls. This way the cats didn’t look as though they’d fallen down on the job and the mice could tidy up the horses’ mess. Also, mice heard things domestic animals did not. They occasionally provided useful information.

About once a month, Mrs. Murphy or Pewter would dispatch a field mouse or mole and dutifully drop it at Harry’s feet, after which the attractive woman praised them lavishly. She never knew the difference, bragging to her friends about how she never saw a mouse in her house or barn. Well, she never did.

Having finally pried out the oddly shaped light bulb, Harry turned it around in her hand. “How am I supposed to find something like this?”

“Go to Eck,”
Tucker said, sensibly suggesting an electrical supply firm because Harry would never find such a replacement bulb at Wal-Mart.

Harry glanced down as the dog offered unintelligible advice, then looked up again.

“Car!”
Tucker immediately charged out the tack room’s animal door, then charged back in.
“Coop!”

“I could have told you that,”
Pewter said, sprawled on the desk behind the offending lamp.

“It’s my job to announce any intruder or visitor,”
Tucker said.
“I am good at my work.”
The corgi pouted for a moment.

“You are,”
Mrs. Murphy complimented the dog, then looked behind the tack trunk and addressed Martha the mouse.
“I can’t control what she says. Cover your children’s ears.”

Cooper entered the tack room and took a look around. “Is this another Haristeen project?”

Harry motioned for her to sit in one of the director’s chairs. “You can call it that. I will never buy anything based on design again.”

Cooper, studying the lamp on its side, said, “Pain in the ass. All this fabulous-looking stuff. Like Gucci high heels that torture the feet. Just a royal pain. I’m ready to break out the oil lamps.”

“I have them for emergencies. The smell isn’t all that bad but the little plume of smoke will have you scrubbing ceilings and walls.”

“If it’s dark, you won’t see it,” Cooper laughed. “Less light now anyway. Every day gets shorter until December twenty-first, the solstice.”

Harry dropped her hands into her lamp. “Always gets me a little.” Then she handed the light bulb to her neighbor. “Look at this.”

Bringing the tiny bulb close to her eyes, Cooper said, “To get another one of these, you’ll have to go into town, spend time and burn gas. Oil lamps, I’m telling you, and think what we’d save on electricity.”

“My darned electric bill for the house, the barn, and the big shed ran me over five hundred dollars last month, and you know that figure will go up with the darkness. Electric bills never get cheaper.”

“Nope,” Cooper said. “Of course, our entire society is dependent on it, and I’m as dependent as the next guy. Sometimes I wonder what kind of corner we have painted ourselves into.”

“Me, too.” Harry took the bulb back, placing it in the long desk drawer.

Pewter would knock it on the floor if Harry didn’t hide it. She had to remember where she put it, though. Sometimes when a lot was happening all at once, Harry would forget the little things.

“I brought my seed book, thinking I’d swing by on my way home,” said Coop.

“Where’s the book?”

“Out in the car,” Cooper said, standing. “I figured I’d ask first if you had the time.”

“You don’t have to ask. Go get it.”

Within a few minutes the lanky police officer returned with a large, fat seed catalogue.

“If they go through that whole thing, we will never get supper,”
said Pewter, mildly alarmed.

“Do you some good.”
Tucker mischievously grinned.

Pewter sat up.
“I’m laying for you, Bubble Butt.”