Cat on the Scent

            “Well, let’s go.” Murphy opened the screen door, Tucker immediately behind her. The door flapped twice. Pewter watched them bound over the meadow by the barn. She felt a pang of missing out but not enough to follow. She walked back inside, deciding to curl up on the 1930s chair with the mohair throw. She liked to snuggle in the mohair but wished Harry were wealthy enough to afford cashmere. Pewter craved luxury.

            Reaching the first creek dividing Harry’s property from Blair Bainbridge’s, the cat and dog were stopped by high water.

            “Ugly.” Tucker paced the bank.

            “Let’s go up to the beaver dam.”

            “If it’s standing.”

            “Hasn’t been that much water. Come on.”

            “I hate those beavers.” Tucker did, too.

            “We’ll be across before they know it.”

            A quarter of a mile upstream the log-and-sapling lodge dominated the creek along with the sturdy dam the beavers had constructed.

            Carefully, Mrs. Murphy put one paw on the dam. She tested its sturdiness, then sped across, small splashes of water in her wake.

            Tucker whined but followed. Her progress wasn’t as graceful but she made it. They were halfway across Blair’s easternmost meadow before the beavers emerged from their lodge to inspect their dam.

            Lights at Blair’s place caught their attention. A white Land Rover was parked in the driveway.

            “Wonder what Archie’s doing at Blair’s?”

            Mrs. Murphy kept moving. “Trying to borrow the Porsche.”

            They laughed until they reached the ridge, about seven hundred feet above sea level. They paused at the top, which bristled with rock outcroppings. Although only four miles across, the terrain was rugged in parts.

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            After catching her breath, Mrs. Murphy nudged Tucker. “Ready?”

            “Yeah.”

            They swept down the ridge, skirting the thorn creepers and the underbrush, where they startled rabbits and one lurking fox. Mrs. Murphy hoped the bobcat was hunting somewhere else tonight.

            The last creek had an upturned tree fallen over it. Mrs. Murphy danced across it. Tucker chose to swim the creek.

            The abandoned buildings of the Urquhart farm shone silver in the moonlight, the slate roofs sparkling as though obsidian.

            The doors to the barn were shut.

            The two animals circled the barn, searching for burrows, preferably uninhabited. Mrs. Murphy looked up.

            The Dutch door of a stall was partially open, flapping in the gentle breeze.

            “I’ll try it.” Mrs. Murphy squatted down, paused a second, then sprang upward, reaching the slight opening before the top door banged back again. She dropped to the old hay on the stall floor.

            Walking over to the big doors, she pulled with her paw just enough to create a crack. Tucker wedged her nose in and both cat and dog pushed. The big door creaked back on its overhead track just enough for the powerful dog to push herself inside.

            Tucker stopped. Tommy Van Allen’s plane was still parked in the middle of the vast center aisle. “I’ll be.”

            “You sniff around the plane,” Mrs. Murphy ordered. “I’ll get in the cockpit.”

            The tiger unleashed her claws, vaulting at a stall post. She shimmied up, reaching a massive cross beam, and walked along the top of it until the white plane was directly underneath, ten feet below.

            “That’s a big drop, Murphy.”

            “I know.” Murphy stared down at the wing, backed up a bit, then jumped off the beam. She hit the wing with a thud, sliding a little in the process, leaving red clay marks to disturb the pristine whiteness.

            “You okay?” the dog called.

            “Yes, but it’s slick.” The cat tiptoed to the edge of the cockpit. She easily opened the door, as the handle was large and turned down, and the door was slightly ajar. Then she hopped inside, leaving the door hanging wide open. The odor of old leather filled her nostrils.

            “See anything?” Tucker called up.

            “Lots of dials and a throttle.”

            “Blood?”

            “No, squeaky-clean.”

            Tucker, somewhat disappointed, returned to the task of sniffing around the plane. The odor of gas killed other scents.

            Mrs. Murphy poked at knobs, put one eye close to the throttle to see if anything had fallen into the slidpath. She hopped around, unwittingly leaving muddy paw prints as a signature.

            Finding nothing, she readied to jump back down on the wing. Then, on the pilot’s-side door, she noticed a leather pocket like a map pocket on an old car door. She reached over but couldn’t quite get to it. She reached again and caught the very inside of the pocket, slowly moving the door toward her. She didn’t want to shut the door since the inside handle might not open easily.