The Litter Of The Law

On the kitchen table, Pewter flopped on her side, her tail gently swaying. She thought this her best angle. Mrs. Murphy and Tucker thought otherwise.

As Harry opened the oven door to pop in a casserole, Pewter lifted her head.

“I know you’re making that for me.” Her voice hit the dulcet-tone register.

Mrs. Murphy and Tucker, each curled up in their faux-sheepskin-lined animal beds by the door to the back porch, observed with amusement.

Mrs. Murphy imitated the gray cat’s voice: “I am the most loving kitty in the world.”

Pointedly ignoring this, Pewter again sweetly meowed. “I could use a little tuna until the casserole is ready.”

Harry closed the door, set the timer, then turned to behold the cat, whose head was now raised, tail moving a bit faster. “Does smell good, doesn’t it, Pewts?” Harry said. She caressed the cat’s silken fur.

“I have suffered a terrible shock,” Pewter panted, pushing her head into Harry’s hand. “The sight of a shredded face. Crows devouring human flesh before being impertinent to me. If one of those vile birds had dropped even two feet, I could have leapt up and torn it to bits.”

“You’re laying it on a little thick.” The dog raised her head.

“Shut up, Bubble Butt. If she breaks out the cookies, you owe me big-time.” Pewter rolled onto her back, cocking her head to one side.

“All right.” Harry opened the treat cabinet, counted out two greenies, and gave them to Tucker. Next she opened a bag of cat treats in the shape of fishes. She gave half of these to Pewter, then walked over and gave the rest to Mrs. Murphy.

“You owe me!” Pewter cried in triumph as she gulped her tiny yellow fish.

Harry—unaware of the exchange, it sounded like meows and catcalling to her—walked back to her husband’s small office in the old farmhouse.

“Forty-five minutes,” she told him.

“Huh.” He looked up from the screen. “Okay.”

“Work?”

Fair was the best equine veterinarian in central Virginia.

He smiled sheepishly. “No. That’s the trouble with the Internet. Easy to get sidetracked.”

“And?” She came up behind him, placing her hands on his broad shoulders.

Not an inch of fat on the man.

“Uh, well, I’ve been kind of reading about bizarre murders. This website has examples going back to the eighteenth century. Really weird things, like duels fought in costumes or heads put on London Bridge with fake crowns. I guess that’s political. But here’s one from Wisconsin in the 1850s that caught my eye: A guy would kill men for no particular reason, or at least one no one could find, and he’d put them in a boat, push it out onto Lake Michigan, and set it afire. A Viking funeral. His victims were all men he had admired.”

“Sometimes I wonder when I hear or read these things whether anyone is normal.”

Fair leaned back in his chair. “I guess that’s debatable.” He rolled his chair around to face her, the rollers clicking on the hardwood floor. “I guess I can’t fuss at you. Sometimes I’m a little too curious myself.”

She kissed his cheek. “Makes me feel better,” she said, then headed to the kitchen.

He followed the wonderful aroma of her chicken casserole, her mother’s recipe.

“That scent brings back so many memories,” Harry said. “And, hey, Halloween is what, two and a half weeks away? More memories.”

“Heads in pumpkins,” Pewter blathered.

Tucker listened, then put her head back on her paws. “I thought they were about to discuss food. They’d be much better off focusing on things that matter rather than random corpses.”

The tiger cat silently agreed as she left her own bed to curl up with the corgi.

Both animals felt the chill of premonition.