Claws and Effect, page 27
“Who was it said, ‘The unexamined life is not worth living’? That contradicts your point,” Tucker said.
“Yeah, who said that?” Pewter asked.
“Not a cat so who cares?” Mrs. Murphy burst into uproarious laughter.
* * *
Dear Reader,
You’ll never guess what just happened. My Aunt Betty makes catnip sockies. She brought in two huge bags full, two hundred little toys just loaded, jammed, stuffed, reeking of potent, powerful, intoxicating home-grown Virginia catnip. She placed the bags on two kitchen chairs and then left the room. I expect something diverted her attention because Pewter and I shredded the bags, wallowed in all those toys.
Mother walked in to find us sound asleep, burrowed in those sockies. Now Aunt Betty has to make a bunch more since we’ve “tested” these. Mother says she can’t send them out. I argued that they’d be even more valuable but she said I really ought to shut up.
A few other things. No, Mother still hasn’t gotten up the money to totally repair her bridge. Many of you write and ask. More dogs seem interested in our bridge than cats. This doesn’t mean I think dogs are reading. No. I bet their humans read to them.
Another question you ask is are there other cats on the farm. Mother says I have to name them, that I’m selfish and hogging all the limelight. Oh? Do my friends write mysteries? No. They chase mice, moles, birds, skinks, lizards, and even the chickens (who chase right back). I’m the one who works around here! But to keep the peace allow me to introduce my friends. First my daughter, Ibid. She looks just like me except she has green eyes. Pewter you know, of course. Every time someone knocks on the door, Pewter rushes out to greet them since she believes they’ve come to see her. Oh, the ego. She has a double, Gracie Louise, and together they play tricks on people. One jumps out from the left then runs away and a few seconds later the other one jumps out from the right. Personally, I think they’ve read too many plays, from Plautus to Shakespeare, about twins. Then there’s Mr. Murphy, a large tiger cat named for Mrs. Murphy, obviously. He’s hunting quite a bit, but a nice fellow. There’s another tiger cat, Nenee. The calicos are Pippin and Peaches. All very pretty, young, slim. Loretta is about four months old. She follows me around when she isn’t shadowing Mother. Usually I can put up with her questions but some days she plucks my last nerve. Maybelline guards the lower barn and Zydeco commands the upper.
As you can see there are many of us. Everyone has all their shots and everyone gets spayed. If a stray has kittens, she gets spayed after her babies are weaned.
Mother gives speeches for various animal shelters and SPCAs. She loves animals, sometimes to the despair of her friends because she’s always taking in some stray. She’s even fed and gotten shots for fox cubs.
We also have ten dogs. With the exception of Liška, an ancient Shiba Inu, and Godzilla, the Jack Russell, they, too, are strays or hounds rescued from the pound.
Together, over the years, Mother and I have placed many abandoned animals in homes. We’re proud of our efforts.
We don’t understand how humans can bear children or have animals and then mistreat them. Cats don’t do that. Nor dogs.
I was talking to Pewter the other day and I said, concerning humans, “They left Eden. We didn’t.”
Nuff said.
Oh, one lovely thing happened to Mom. As you’ve probably gathered, all her money goes toward animals and she doesn’t have very much left for herself. She doesn’t mind but when her best clothes were stolen a few years ago on a book tour she hadn’t the money to replace them, especially at today’s prices. One day the postman dropped off a large box. She signed for it. I helped her open it. Four beautiful Turnbull & Asser shirts were inside, made to Mom’s pattern, registered at that British company. I wanted to wear them but she wouldn’t let me touch them. The colors: lavender, silky blue, and a black patterned one, and a pink—ain’t life grand!
We called Turnbull & Asser in New York (the home company is on Jermyn Street, London). Yes, they had taken the order but they wouldn’t tell us who sent the shirts.
Now, that’s a mystery.
I love everyone.
Affectionately Yours,
Sneaky Pie
www.ritamaebrown.com
or
Sneaky Pie Brown
P.O. Box 696
Crozet, VA 22932
* * *
Books by Rita Mae Brown with Sneaky Pie Brown
WISH YOU WERE HERE
REST IN PIECES
MURDER AT MONTICELLO
PAY DIRT
MURDER, SHE MEOWED
MURDER ON THE PROWL
CAT ON THE SCENT
SNEAKY PIE’S COOKBOOK FOR MYSTERY LOVERS
PAWING THROUGH THE PAST
CLAWS AND EFFECT
CATCH AS CAT CAN
THE TAIL OF THE TIP-OFF
WHISKER OF EVIL
Books by Rita Mae Brown
THE HAND THAT CRADLES THE ROCK
SONGS TO A HANDSOME WOMAN
THE PLAIN BROWN RAPPER
RUBYFRUIT JUNGLE
IN HER DAY
SIX OF ONE
SOUTHERN DISCOMFORT
SUDDEN DEATH
HIGH HEARTS
STARTING FROM SCRATCH:
A DIFFERENT KIND OF WRITERS’ MANUAL
BINGO
VENUS ENVY
DOLLEY: A NOVEL OF DOLLEY MADISON IN LOVE AND WAR
RIDING SHOTGUN
RITA WILL: MEMOIR OF A LITERARY RABBLE-ROUSER
LOOSE LIPS
OUTFOXED
HOTSPUR
FULL CRY
* * *
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RITA MAE BROWN
and
SNEAKY PIE BROWN
Whisker of Evil
Now available in hardcover
from Bantam Books
Please read on for a preview . . .
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Barry Monteith was still breathing when Harry found him. His throat had been ripped out.
Tee Tucker, a corgi, racing ahead of Mary Minor Haristeen as well as the two cats, Mrs. Murphy and Pewter, found him first.
Barry was on his back, eyes open, gasping and gurgling, life ebbing with each spasm. He did not recognize Tucker nor Harry when they reached him.
“Barry, Barry.” Harry tried to comfort him, hoping he could hear her. “It will be all right,” she said, knowing perfectly well he was dying.
The tiger cat, Mrs. Murphy, watched the blood jet upward.
“Jugular,” fat, gray Pewter succinctly commented.
Gently, Harry took the young man’s hand and prayed, “Dear Lord, receive into thy bosom the soul of Barry Monteith, a good man.” Tears welled in her eyes.
Barry jerked, then his suffering ended.
Death, often so shocking to city dwellers, was part of life here in the country. A hawk would swoop down to carry away the chick while the biddy screamed useless defiance. A bull would break his hip and need to be put down. And one day an old farmer would slowly walk to his tractor only to discover he couldn’t climb into the seat. The Angel of Death placed his hand on the stooping shoulder.
It appeared the Angel had offered little peaceful deliverance to Barry Monteith, thirty-four, fit, handsome with brown curly hair, and fun-loving. Barry had started his own business, breeding thoroughbreds, a year ago, with a business partner, Sugar Thierry.
“Sweet Jesus.” Harry wiped away the tears.
That Saturday morning, crisp, clear, and beautiful, had held the alluring promise of a perfect May 29. The promise had just curdled.
Harry had finished her early-morning chores and, despite a list of projects, decided to take a walk for an hour. She followed Potlicker Creek to see if the beavers had built any new dams. Barry was sprawled at the creek’s edge on a dirt road two miles from her farm that wound up over the mountains into adjoining Augusta County. It edged the vast land holdings of Tally Urquhart, who, well into her nineties and spry, loathed traffic. Three cars constituted traffic in her mind. The only time the road saw much use was during deer-hunting season in the fall.
“Tucker, Mrs. Murphy, and Pewter, stay. I’m going to run to Tally’s and phone the sheriff.”
If Harry hit a steady lope, crossed the fields and one set of woods, she figured she could reach the phone in Tally’s stable within fifteen minutes, though the pitch and roll of the land including one steep ravine would cost time.
As she left her animals, they inspected Barry.
“What could rip his throat like that? A bear swipe?” Pewter’s pupils widened.
“Perhaps.” Mrs. Murphy, noncommittal, sniffed the gaping wound, as did Tucker.
The cat curled her upper lip to waft more scent into her nostrils. The dog, whose nose was much longer and nostrils larger, simply inhaled.
“I don’t smell bear,” Tucker declared. “That’s an overpowering scent, and on a morning like this it would stick.”
Pewter, who cherished luxury and beauty, found that Barry’s corpse disturbed her equilibrium. “Let’s be grateful we found him today and not three days from now.”
“Stop jabbering, Pewter, and look around, will you? Look for tracks.”
Grumbling, the gray cat daintily stepped down the dirt road. “You mean like car tracks?”
“Yes, or animal tracks,” Mrs. Murphy directed, then returned her attention to Tucker. “Even though coyote scent isn’t as strong as bear, we’d still smell a whiff. Bobcat? I don’t smell anything like that. Or dog. There are wild dogs and wild pigs back in the mountains. The humans don’t even realize they’re there.”
Tucker cocked her perfectly shaped head. “No dirt around the wound. No saliva, either.”
“I don’t see anything. Not even a birdie foot,” Pewter, irritated, called out from a hundred yards down the road.
“Well, go across the creek then and look over there.” Mrs. Murphy’s patience wore thin.
“And get my paws wet?” Pewter’s voice rose.
“It’s a ford. Hop from rock to rock. Go on, Pewt, stop being a chicken.”
Angrily, Pewter puffed up, tearing past them to launch herself over the ford. She almost made it, but a splash indicated she’d gotten her hind paws wet.
If circumstances had been different, Mrs. Murphy and Tucker would have laughed. Instead, they returned to Barry.
“I can’t identify the animal that tore him up.” The tiger shook her head.
“Well, the wound is jagged but clean. Like I said, no dirt.” Tucker studied the folds of flesh laid back.
“He was killed lying down,” the cat sagely noted. “If he was standing up, don’t you think blood would be everywhere?”
“Not necessarily,” the dog replied, thinking how strong heartbeats sent blood straight out from the jugular. Tucker was puzzled by the odd calmness of the scene.
“Pewter, have you found anything on that side?”
“Deer tracks. Big deer tracks.”
“Keep looking,” Mrs. Murphy requested.
“I hate it when you’re bossy.” Nonetheless, Pewter moved down the dirt road heading west.
“Barry was such a nice man.” Tucker mournfully looked at the square-jawed face, wide-open eyes staring at heaven.
Mrs. Murphy circled the body. “Tucker, I’m climbing up that sycamore. If I look down maybe I’ll see something.”
Her claws, razor sharp, dug into the thin surface of the tree, strips of darker outer bark peeling, exposing the whitish underbark. The odor of fresh water, of the tufted titmouse above her, all informed her. She scanned around for broken limbs, bent bushes, anything indicating Barry—or other humans or large animals—had traveled to this spot avoiding the dirt road.
“Pewter?”
“Big fat nothing.” The gray kitty noted that her hind paws were wet. She was getting little clods of dirt stuck between her toes. This bothered her more than Barry did. After all, he was dead. Nothing she could do for him. But the hardening brown earth between her toes, that was discomfiting.
“Well, come on back. We’ll wait for Mom.” Mrs. Murphy dropped her hind legs over the limb where she was sitting. Her hind paws reached for the trunk, the claws dug in, and she released her grip, swinging her front paws to the trunk. She backed down.
Tucker touched noses with Pewter, who had recrossed the creek more successfully this time.
Mrs. Murphy came up and sat beside them.
“Hope his face doesn’t change colors while we’re waiting for the humans. I hate that. They get all mottled.” Pewter wrinkled her nose.
“I wouldn’t worry.” Tucker sighed.
In the distance they heard sirens.
“Bet they won’t know what to make of this, either,” Tucker said.
“It’s peculiar.” Mrs. Murphy turned her head in the direction of the sirens.
“Weird and creepy.” Pewter pronounced judgment as she picked at her hind toes, and she was right.
Rita Mae Brown, Claws and Effect
