Catch As Cat Can

29

Would you look at this!” Harry followed her observation with a string of curses. One of the joints on the old disc used to break up earth had cracked, small ball bearings scattered underneath. The rain pelted the tin roof of the equipment shed. She'd just gotten home after work and decided since she couldn't work outside, she'd grease the manure spreader, the disc, check the tines on the drag, the fluid levels in the 1958 John Deere tractor.

Mostly she couldn't bear the thought of being inside for one more minute. By the end of the day at the post office she wanted to be outside as long as possible.

The cats, less enthusiastic about her work ethic in the rain, repaired to the house. Only Tucker accompanied her. The shed, tidy and tight, kept the rain out, but the wind added to the gloom.

“Boiling black out there.” Tucker felt the electricity of the storm building.

Harry reached down, rubbing one of Tucker's ears between her thumb and forefinger. “I can't complain, really. This disc is almost as old as the tractor. You know on the new ones the joints are sealed after being packed in grease. I guess that works, I don't know. Wonder how much it will cost to fix it? Oh, well.” She leaned against the tractor. “What we need is a drill seeder. Fat chance.” She laughed because the type she needed retailed for $22,000. That was practically a year's salary for Harry.

She lifted up the hood of the dually, checked the oil, the windshield fluids, and the pressure in the tires. She repeated the process on the 1978 Ford F150 which she'd pulled into the shed. Finally satisfying herself that everything was fine, she sprinted to the barn. She'd left the back stall doors open and the three horses had wisely chosen to come in from the storm.

“Phone's been ringing off the hook,” Poptart told Tucker.

The corgi hopped up on the tack trunk to speak to the youngest horse eye to eye. She stood on her hind legs, sticking her head through the square opening with the big feed bucket underneath. “Ever wish you could answer it?”

“No.” Poptart laughed. “Makes more work. Every time one human calls another there's usually a chore attached or something that sends Harry flying out of here. Can't see why any reasonable human would wish to be interrupted like that.”

“And who would call you?” Gin Fizz, the oldest of the three, asked.

“Anne Kursinski.” Poptart laughed, naming one of the most famous show-jumping riders in the world.

“Princess Anne would dial me.” Tomahawk put in his two cents.

“Oh, I'm sure the next time the Princess visits America, she'll make a special request to come see workaday hunters right here in Crozet.” Gin Fizz guffawed.

“And why not?” Tomahawk stoutly replied. “Most horse sports come from foxhunting. Point-to-point races, steeplechasing, hunter shows, jumper shows.” He ended with authority.

“Three-day eventing,” Tucker added.

“Thank you, Tucker. I forgot that one,” Tomahawk called from his stall.

“I thought three-day eventing came from cavalry drills,” Gin Fizz said.

“Cavalry were foxhunted. Eventing is still related to foxhunting,” Tucker declared, although the connection was slender.

Harry walked in to close Tomahawk's back stall door. The wind blew with such ferocity she thought the doors would bend. “You all are so talkative.”

“Evil out there, Mom.” Tomahawk nuzzled her.

She kissed his nose, giving him a molasses cookie. She had two for each horse.

“Dressage doesn't come from foxhunting.” Poptart was thinking out loud. “Haute école. Guess it's centuries old. I can't do it. I can't canter in place, half halt at the letter B or whatever. Just can't do it. I want to run!”

“Don't we all.” Gin Fizz eagerly awaited Harry's visit to his stall. “The trick is, Poppy, to stop.”

At this all four animals laughed loudly, even Poptart, since she had the tendency to run right through the bridle. Young, she'd become so excited when the other horses took off that she wanted to pass everyone. This wouldn't do. Harry schooled her but it was going to take time. There are no perfect horses just as there are no perfect people. Her one flaw was small compared to Poptart's gift: the ability to jump the moon. Nothing was too high or too wide and she was clever with her hooves.

Gin Fizz admired the youngster's ability but wished he could give her some of his wisdom. Whenever she'd cut a shine the old fellow would sigh and murmur, “Youth.”

Tomahawk, less impressed with Poppy's talents since he was fairly talented himself, usually responded, “Mares.”

The two geldings felt that mares were emotional, erratic, and a royal pain in the ass. However, they loved Poppy despite her moodiness.

She thought highly of herself, too.

“You'd better not run away with Mom,” Tucker warned her.

“I won't,” Poppy said halfheartedly.

“I can bite your ankles before you can kick me. Fetlocks, I should say. Well, I can bite and bite hard.”

“Squirt.” Poptart pinned her ears but in good fun.

Harry closed the last outside door. “What's going on with you all? I've never heard such carryings-on.”

“Just shooting the breeze.” Gin Fizz laughed.

The phone rang again.

“You'd better pick it up, Mom. It's been ringing off the hook,” Tomahawk advised the human.

With a great sigh, Harry trotted into the tack room to pick up the phone. “Hello.”

“Hey, Donny Clatterbuck's been shot dead.” Susan got straight to the point.

“What?”

“It must have just happened. Lottie called me and I tried calling you first, then called Miranda. Where have you been?”

“In the equipment shed.” She drew in her breath, thought a moment. “Susan, where was he? I mean, what do you know?”

“He was found in Culpeper by the side of the road. Shot through the temple. Oh, he had your woodpecker.”

“What!”

“Mim said he had your woodpecker and he was in the truck Rick's been trying to find. The truck Wesley Partlow drove. Am I making sense?”

“Kind of. Who's going to tell his parents? Oh, this is really awful.”

“Rick.”

“Glad I don't have that job. I can't believe anyone would shoot Donny Clatterbuck. And what was he doing in the GMC?”

Tucker pricked up her ears since she could hear Susan's voice, then tore out of the tack room, down the center aisle barn, through the deluge, pushed open the screen door, then barged through the animal door into the kitchen.

“Mrs. Murphy, Pewter, Don Clatterbuck was found dead, shot, in the farm truck.”

Mrs. Murphy, dozing on the bookshelf in the living room, raised her head, her eyes now wide open. “I knew this would come back at us. Too close to home.”

“You knew no such thing.” Pewter, also awake now, sat up on the sofa.

“Whoever strung up Wesley Partlow was in Crozet. Right?” the tiger argued.

“Yes, but that doesn't mean they live in Crozet,” Pewter countered.

“No, but Donny sure did. I can't figure out what Wesley Partlow and Donny would have in common.”

“Maybe nothing. People die without there being a connection.”

“Pewter, they didn't just die, they were murdered and within a few days of one another. Think about it . . . and Partlow was seen in the truck. Am I right, Tucker? It was Booty's farm truck?”

“That's what Susan told Mom.” Tucker walked over to the bookshelf as Murphy jumped down. “I hope Booty's not in danger. The truck's cursed.”

“Oh, Tucker.” Pewter sniffed. “Inanimate objects aren't cursed.”

“The pyramids. The curse of the Pharaohs.” Tucker thought objects did, indeed, carry curses.

In a way Tucker was right.