Cat on the Scent

            “It doesn’t matter whether he was wearing it, left it in a car, or whether this jacket was in someone else’s car or someone else’s house. That’s really irrelevant at this point.” Murphy’s words were clipped.

            Pewter disagreed. “I think it’s relevant. The killer or accomplice wanted to get rid of evidence. Maybe he forgot this jacket was in his car or trunk or something?”

            “No way.” The tiger stood up. “He’s putting down bad scent.”

            “Deliberately misleading us?” Lucy Fur sat on Herb’s sturdy walking shoe.

            “You’d better believe it—and enjoying himself in the bargain.” Mrs. Murphy felt the whole complexion of the events had changed, like a lighting-change during a play. The mood shifts with the light. It can suddenly become treacherous.

            24

            Tubes invaded H. Vane-Tempest’s body. Alert but in pain, he lay in the hospital bed counting the minutes until the next shot would bring him relief. What hurt most was his reset shoulder blade.

            “Honey, drink a little water. You’ll get dehydrated.” Sarah held a plastic water cup with a big plastic bent straw in it.

            Dutifully he drank. “Where’s that goddamn nurse?”

            “She’ll be here in a minute.” Sarah checked her watch.

            The heavyset nurse appeared, right on time. “How are you feeling?”

            “I’ve felt better.”

            She checked his chart and took his pulse.

            “He’s very uncomfortable. Can’t you increase his dosage?”

            “No. Only the doctor can do that.” The nurse gently removed her fingers from his wrist. “This will help for now. I know it wears off sooner than you’d like, but Dr. Svarski is a firm believer in getting people up and out of here as soon as possible. If you become dependent on painkillers it’s that much harder.”

            H. Vane glared at her as she stuck the needle into his left arm.

            “What about his sleep? If you give him a higher dosage at night he’ll at least be able to sleep right through. As it is now, he wakes up.”

            “Mrs. Tempest—”

            “Lady Vane-Tempest.” Sarah was testy.

            “Ma’am, you’ll have to discuss this with Dr. Svarski. I cannot increase your husband’s dosage.” She abruptly left the room.

            “I hate nurses.” Sarah closed the door, then sat next to him. “Would you like me to read to you?”

            He smiled at her. “Thank you, but I can’t seem to stay focused on anything. My mind wanders. I couldn’t even answer Shaw’s questions.”

            “He understands.” She lowered her voice. “Henry, it’s just us. No repercussions. I understand you don’t want to make accusations you can’t support. You’re exceedingly fair that way. But between us, who would want to shoot you? Is there something I don’t know?”

            He looked into his wife’s imploring eyes. “Sarah, the only person I can think of is Archie.”

            “Yes, of course.” She put her hand on his.

            “Lately I’d have gladly shot him.” He laughed but it hurt so badly he stopped.

            She shook her head. “He’s snapped, I suppose. The sheriff can’t arrest him until they have more proof… How are you holding up, honey, you look done in.”

            “Tired.”

            “Sleep. You need lots of sleep.”

            “Yes, but it’s so boring.” He squeezed her hand and promptly fell asleep.

            25

            News of the bomber jacket appeared in the Daily Progress. A storm of speculation followed and a plethora of leads—all dead ends.

            This Saturday, Harry was determined to wax her Barbour coat. If she didn’t do it now she’d regret it in about two days, when more rain was predicted.

            She warmed the wax as she brushed the coat, inspected the seams, emptied the pockets. An old movie ticket fell out.

            “I can’t even remember the last time I went to the movies.”

            “You need to get out more often,” Tucker advised.

            Mrs. Murphy, grooming her tail, listened to the blue jay squawking outside the barn door. Birds excited her senses. Blue jays were saucy, fearless, and expert dive-bombers.

            “Shut up,” Pewter called out.

            “Shut up yourself, fatso!”

            “I have half a mind to go out there and teach him a lesson,” Pewter grumbled.

            Murphy admired her tail. Having this appendage gave her better balance than Harry but the maintenance could be tiresome. If she forgot to hoist it, she picked up mud or dust. If she was caught in pouring rain, her tail looked like a very long rattail, which offended her exalted vanity. If she brushed by a lily she would smear her tail with sticky rust-colored pollen. In fall she picked up “hitchhikers.” Biting them out of her tail was a time-consuming process. Still, she’d rather have a tail than not.