Catch As Cat Can

34

Although the rain had stopped, the runoff slopped over highways, and culverts, jammed with gunk, backed up and overflowed. Everywhere one looked there was running water. The shoulders off the sides of the roads shone with it.

Driving slowly, Harry gave thanks that her lands rested high above the floodplain. Structures built in lowlands had flooded basements at the least.

Mrs. Murphy, Pewter, and Tucker had been arguing since climbing into the truck. Murphy was determined to jump out when Harry slowed for the curve by Tally Urquhart's farm entrance.

Pewter vowed she would not launch herself from a moving vehicle. What did she care if Sean might be in danger? Besides, the long, long driveway meant she'd get her feet wet.

Tucker moaned because she might squeeze out the window but not being as agile as the cat, she feared the drop. No point in collecting broken bones.

“But I need your nose,” Murphy pouted.

“Won't do you a bit of good if I can't haul myself up the driveway. It's not a good plan, Murphy. Be patient. Sooner or later, Mom will call on Tally.”

“By that time it will be too late.” The sleek cat put her paw on the window crank as the old truck didn't have electric windows.

“No, it won't.” Pewter was nervous that if Murphy rolled down the window and shot out of the truck, Harry would swerve and they'd slide off the road into the muck. Not an appealing prospect to a fastidious cat.

Tally's farm lay up ahead, marked by a big rectangular sign with a white rose on a dark green background and the name “Rose Hill” swinging in the light breeze. Mrs. Murphy, using both paws, started cranking down the window when to her delight, Harry turned right onto the drive.

“Murphy, what are you doing?”

“Damn, now she knows I know how to roll down the window.”

“I told you not to do it.” Pewter smugly moved over to sit next to Harry.

“Brownnoser,” Murphy spat.

“That does us no good at all. What if this is a short visit? We need a plan,” Tucker, being practical, said.

“All right. When we get there, Tucker, go straight to the dining room. The flooring is old random-width. There are cracks between the boards. Sniff the cracks. Would be a bitter smell, I think. Pewter, go into the pantry. You do the same thing but get on the shelves. You'll have to stick your nose in sugar bowls, creamers, any small bowl, but be careful. You don't want to inhale anything into your system. Stuff would be lethal. Think how quickly it killed Roger O'Bannon.”

“If it did,” Pewter replied. “We'll never know without an autopsy. He could have died of natural causes.”

“We'd best hope he did,” Tucker grimly said.

“Sean should have ordered an autopsy.” Pewter eagerly moved toward the passenger door as Harry parked at the back of Tally's beautiful house. “It's weird.”

“Some humans feel strongly that the body shouldn't be disturbed. And no one thought of murder at the time. It's not so weird.” Tucker allowed Harry to lift her down.

The blossoms, knocked off the trees and bushes, scattered on the grass like pink and white confetti. Harry rapped on the back door as she scraped the petals off her boots.

As no one came directly to the door she opened it a crack. “Aunt Tally, it's Harry.”

The sound of footsteps reverberated through the back hall. Reverend Herb Jones appeared. “Harry, come in.”

“Hi. I didn't see your car.”

“In the garage. The storm was so bad I thought I'd better come out here and stay, especially since Mim and family are in New York.” He closed the door behind Harry and the animals, who headed to their respective assignments. “When the help goes home she's out here all alone and those were nasty storms. One right after the other.”

“Gee, I'm happy you're here. That's why I stopped by. I was worried about Tally being alone, too.” She followed Herb into the huge kitchen.

Tally glanced up from yellowed hunt-territory maps, drawn in the 1930s. “I'm still alive, thank you.”

“Never a doubt in my mind.” Harry laughed. “Hey, those are something.”

“Forgot I had them and then Herb and I were talking about the old Albemarle Hunt, which hunted the Greenwood territory. I was just a kid then but that hunt unraveled, odds and ends, and in 1929 Farmington took over the territory. Anyway, these old maps will show you.”

Harry propped on her elbows to study the maps. She loved old prints, photographs, aquatints. “I think people had better lives back then.”

“Well, I'm inclined to agree—until you had a toothache,” Aunt Tally sensibly replied.

As the humans enjoyed one another's company, Tally recalling her girlhood, Herb remembering the big jumps from hunt days gone by, the animals worked quickly.

Pewter, nosy anyway, quietly pulled open the pantry cabinets. They had glass window fronts so she didn't waste any time. She pushed the lids off the two sugar bowls, one silver and formal, one informal. Plain white sugar rested inside. She sniffed. Plain white sugar, pure and simple.

For good measure she inspected every small bowl, tureen, creamer. Everything was in order. Disappointed, she hopped down, pulling open the bottom cabinets that didn't have glass window fronts. Nothing in there but big pots and pans and serving dishes.

Mrs. Murphy had intended to prowl around the kitchen but with the humans in there she decided to join Tucker.

The corgi, diligent and intelligent, carefully started with the joinings between two boards, following it from end to end. Murphy walked in just as she reached the place where the table had been set.

The cat sat on her haunches.

Tucker stopped, checked out a spot, lifted her nose up, then put it back down. “Murph, try this.”

The cat joined her friend and although her nose wasn't as refined as the dog's, a scent so faint as to be ethereal wafted up from a crack. “Bitter.”

“Smells like a bad poison, but we can't prove it.” The dog cocked her head, then put her nose down again, wrinkled it, bringing her head up. “Not rat poison. I've never smelled this.”

Pewter sauntered in. “Big fat nothing.”

“Come here,” Murphy said.

Pewter placed her nose where Tucker indicated she should. She sniffed, then blinked her eyes, jerking her head back. “Nasty, what's left of it.” She turned to Murphy. “You might be right.”

“You two slept under the table. What I remember”—the tiger jumped up on the fireplace mantel where she'd been sitting during the tea dance—“is that Roger was already in the chair. Lottie came into the room. She'd been out dancing or in the garden. I don't know. The desserts had just been placed on the table. Everything was buffet style. People started to come in and crowd the table. They needed the coffee. Lots of drinking. Lottie picked up a piece of chocolate cake. She was in the line. Next she poured a cup of coffee from the silver samovar and then she put in three scoops of raw sugar. I remember it was raw sugar because she took a step back to put the sugar on the table, bumped into Thomas Steinmetz just as he reached for the sugar, and spilled it all over the floor. She apologized, he said it was his fault, and then she carried the cake and the coffee over to Roger, who was happy that she paid attention to him. I don't know what they said because I was, by then, watching the other humans.” She thought a moment. “She'd made a mess of the sugar. Thomas cleaned it up before one of the kids hired to serve got there. He picked up the broken pieces of the bowl and swept up the sugar with his napkin. When one of the servers got there he handed it to him to put in the trash. He'd wrapped everything in his napkin. I didn't pay much attention to it at the time except to think that he was nice to do it because there was enough on the floor that someone could have slipped on it. Drunk as many were, I'd say that was a sound conclusion on his part. And, well, within ten minutes, Roger was dead. And quiet. No gurgling or choking. I was sitting right here. Quiet!”

“Lottie Pearson gives Roger coffee and cake. She went with Don Clatterbuck to the dance that night.” Pewter frowned. “Lottie Pearson.”

“And she's not very happy with Mom.” Tucker flattened her ears.

“Yes.” Murphy remained silent for a long time. “I was thinking that Sean—but now I don't know. But what would Lottie Pearson have to do with three dead men, Wesley Partlow, Donny Clatterbuck, and Roger O'Bannon? Is she a black widow or something?”

“She could have been killing men before now, but thinking on it, maybe her animosity toward Roger was a big act,” Pewter, suspicious, said.

“If she isn't acting, someone around here sure is.” Tucker hit the nail on the head.