Cat on the Scent

            “Skedaddle.” Murphy shot out from her hay bale, streaking toward the back of the loft where the bales were stacked higher.

            Pewter flattened as Harry tromped by, not even noticing her. Then the gray cat silently circled, dropping behind an old tack trunk put in the loft with odds and ends of bits, bridles, and old tools.

            Harry craned to see around the tall bales. A pair of gleaming eyes stared right back at her.

            “Go to work.”

            “Come on out of there.”

            “No.”

            She checked her watch, her father’s old Bulova. “Damn.”

            “Go on.”

            “I know you’re saying ugly things about me.”

            “No, I’m not.” Murphy didn’t like Harry’s misinterpretation of her meow. “Just go on.”

            Harry checked her watch again. “You’d better be in that house when I come home.”

            “I will be.”

            “Me, too,” Pewter called out.

            Harry put her hands outside the ladder and her feet, too, to slide down.

            As she walked toward the truck a fat raindrop splattered on her cheek.

            “The weatherman said it wouldn’t rain until after midnight.”

            Tucker, sitting in the driver’s seat, said, “He lied.”

            36

            The two cats walked over to Simon’s nest. He opened an eye, then closed it.

            “I know you’re awake.” Murphy tickled the possum’s nose with her tail.

            “I’m tired. I was out foraging all night,” he grumbled.

            “In the feed room.” Pewter laughed.

            “Go back to sleep. I’m borrowing this map that I stashed here. I’ll bring it back.”

            “Fine.” He closed his eyes again.

            They carried the map to the opened hayloft door, unfolded it, and studied it.

            “It’s the watershed, like you said.” Pewter sat on the corner.

            “Wish I knew what the separate squares meant. Any ideas?”

            “No. They’re in or adjacent to the watershed.”

            SPECIAL_IMAGE-BMP-REPLACE_ME

            “Well, let’s put this back. There may be a good time to show the humans.”

            The blue jay streaked past the hayloft, spied the cats, and shrieked, “Tuna breath!”

            Pewter lunged for the bird but Murphy caught her. “Don’t let him bug you like that. Do you want to fall out of the hayloft?”

            “I will kill that bird if it’s the last thing I do.”

            “Self-control.”

            Complaining, Pewter put the map in Simon’s nest along with his ever-expanding treasures. The latest find was a broken fan belt.

            “Mrs. Murphy, let’s do nothing today. Nothing at all.”

            “Good idea.”

            37

            The massive green Range Rover, outfitted for its owner with a hamper basket from Harrods, rolled down Blair Bainbridge’s driveway at precisely 2:55 P. M. Mrs. Murphy and Pewter, halfway across Blair’s hay field, observed Sir H. at the wheel. He wore a bush hat, which offset his safari jacket nicely.

            Sir H. Vane-Tempest never believed in buying a bargain when he could pay full price. He’d bought his attire at Hunting World in Paris. The French soaked him good.

            The brief morning rain had subsided, leaving a sparkling sky with impressive cumulus clouds tipping over the mountains.

            Pewter loathed mud. She hated the sensation when it curled up between her toes. She’d have to wait until it dried, then pick it out with her teeth. Mrs. Murphy, while not lax in her personal grooming, wasn’t as fastidious as Pewter. But then Pewter was a lustrous gunmetal-gray, which showed any soiling, whereas Mrs. Murphy was a brown tiger with black stripes, her mottled coat hiding any imperfections.

            Pewter felt that she was a rare color, a more desirable color than the tabby. After all, tabbies were a dime a dozen.

            The cats reached the porch door as Sir H. Vane-Tempest stepped out of his Rover. He’d lost weight since the shooting and actually looked better than he had before he’d been drilled with three holes.

            He knocked on the screened-porch door.

            “Come in, H.” Blair walked out to greet him. “Arch is in the living room.”

            Mrs. Murphy shot through Blair’s tall legs. Pewter slid through, too. “You stinkers!” He laughed.

            As Blair served drinks, Murphy and Pewter edged to the living-room door. Vane-Tempest noticed them when he entered the house, but he paid little attention. To him cats were dumb animals.

            “Arch—” Vane-Tempest nodded.

            “H.,” Arch replied coolly. “How did you leave Sarah?”

            “I told you she’d do as I asked.” A wrinkle creased his brow. “Actually, BoomBoom came over to give her some soothing herbs. Don’t look at me like that—it’s what she called them, soothing herbs.”

            “She still selling that herb stuff? What’s she call it, aromatherapy?”