Sour Puss (17 page)

29

A
nd that’s the difference between red and white wine,” Arch explained to Miranda at Mim’s redbud party. She always threw an “impromptu,” or as impromptu as Mim could be, celebration of the redbuds when in full bloom. Given the wild bounce in temperatures, it was only now that the gorgeous trees opened their cerise buds.

“I never knew that. Is the pigment of the skin extracted when you make the wine?” Miranda, not a drinker at all, was nonetheless interested. She had just returned from a visit to Greenville, South Carolina.

Arch puffed on his Dunhill pipe, the burly bulldog bowl emitting a beguiling odor, a hint of spice among the rich dark tobacco. He found smoking just one pipe in the evening very relaxing. “You need the right kind of grape for your region, but the aging is every bit as important. The fruity reds, the ones so much in vogue,” he shrugged, “I don’t like them. Depth and complexity are the mark of a master and
terroir
—place. The grape, the wine, expresses the place. Americans don’t understand that. We’re so busy talking about the variety, the shape, the topography, the climate. People confuse soil with
terroir
.
Terroir
is soul. The wine—red, white, rosé—expresses the soul of the place. The Italians and French I worked with in California taught me that.”

Lingering by the bar, Harry and Susan drank Jim’s special lemonade. “Are things settling down?” Susan asked, although she’d spoken to Harry that morning.

“Yeah, but the whole thing creeps me out.” A piece of lemon pulp caught in her teeth.

“It would upset anyone.” Susan pointed with her forefinger to her own tooth so Harry would remove the lemon pulp, which she did. “Look how upset Christy was when Toby was killed, and that wasn’t even her property. Everyone’s on pins and needles.”

“When that happens other stuff surfaces, ever notice?”

“Yes.” Susan smiled as Reverend Jones approached. “Soon time to go fishing, Herbie.”

“It is.” He smiled broadly. “You know, I believe Jesus favors fishing. After all, He went out as the men cast their nets.”

“And as I recall, a great storm came up,” Harry said.

“And He calmed the waters.” Herb glanced outside as a stiff breeze zipped through the rooms at that moment. “And I think He might consider calming this one. Look.”

The two women saw inky clouds swiftly moving from the west.

“You know, I think I was wrong. Jesus wasn’t fishing when the storm arose. He went out after preaching. Miranda will know.”

“She can quote the Good Book better than I can.” Herb smiled, although he did know this story by heart. “Miranda, we need you.”

Miranda left off Arch and joined them. “I’m so glad to be back from South Carolina, even if we are about to be blown off the map.”

“Not the same without you.” Susan genuinely complimented her.

“Okay, what’s the story about Jesus calming the seas in a storm?” Harry, as usual, stuck to whatever was on her mind.

“Ah, yes, Matthew, Chapter eight, Verses twenty-three through twenty-seven, and the same story is also recounted in Mark and in Luke. John doesn’t mention it, but he doesn’t mention a lot of things.” She jumped as a mighty clap of thunder rattled the china. “Must be right over the post office and soon to be here.”

“But not a drop of rain—yet.” Herb noticed Blair shutting up the doors and, out of the corner of his eye, Arch and Fair talking by the coffee table. “Excuse me, ladies, I’ll help shut up the house before we get blown to kingdom come.”

“Clouds black as the devil’s eyebrows.” Miranda gave a shiver.

“‘Why are ye fearful, O ye of little faith?’ ” Harry quoted the most famous line from the story.

“Why, Harry Haristeen, I’m impressed.” Miranda smiled.

“I can also quote the Pledge of Allegiance, but that’s about it.” Harry heard the first great splat as raindrops big as plums hit the windows. “Glad Paul put up the horses.”

“Yours in?”

“Put everyone in for a little rest from one another.”

A blinding bolt of lightning struck perhaps a half mile away. The lights flickered, then died. Within seconds another bolt struck a lone shed out in one of the large pastures. The color was pale pink, and Harry saw spots when the powerful lightning touched the lightning rod.

“Jesus Christ,” Susan blurted out, for it was pitch black except for lightning flashes.

“Candles,” Mim called, as Little Mim and Gretchen, her majordomo, followed, the matches and lighters flicked to help them.

Within five minutes, beeswax candles glowed in hurricane lamps in the various downstairs rooms.

“She is always prepared.” Miranda admired her childhood friend.

However, even Big Mim wasn’t prepared for the crash when Fair flew backward into the coffee table. People’s drinks splattered all over the floor, along with a candle, which Jim quickly picked up before it could burn anything.

Arch, without a word, turned on his heel, walked down the front hall, opened the door, and went outside into the storm.

Fair followed, also without a word.

Harry put down her lemonade, then sprinted after them.

“There goes my hair,” Harry grumbled to herself, as she was soaked in seconds.

Susan stood at the door, rain lashing in, and shouted, “Harry, come back in here. Let them settle it.” She then hurried to the closet to rummage for a raincoat or umbrella.

Harry didn’t waste energy yelling at the men to stop. Her shoes sunk into the earth; the rain was coming at her sideways. She could barely see the hand in front of her face.

“You son of a bitch!” Fair slugged Arch.

Both men, in the prime of life, hurt each other when they landed a blow, which wasn’t as often as they would have liked, since footing was slick. They fell down, scrambled up, traded blows, only to slide into the grass again.

Fair, more powerful, taller, in a little bit better shape, and with a longer reach, connected with Arch more than Arch could hit him.

Men, donning raincoats, hurried out of the house behind Susan, the borrowed umbrella now blown inside out.

Ned opened his car door and turned on the headlights, for it was pitch black.

The headlights created a ghostly tableaux in the unrelenting rain. Blair, also tall and strong, grabbed Fair, as Jim and Ned pulled Arch away, blood pouring over his left eye, only to be washed clean by the rain.

Harry walked on Fair’s other side, Susan with her, as Blair opened Harry’s truck door, passenger side, and Fair climbed in.

“Thank you, Blair,” Harry simply said as she scrambled into the driver’s seat.

“You okay?” Harry, now cold, shivered as she turned on the engine. She waved to Susan, who followed the others back into Mim’s house. Ned and Jim, however, walked Arch toward the stables, no doubt to clean him up. Also, the enforced march was calming Arch down.

“Broke the heel of my shoe.” Harry grinned, water still running down her face from her wet head. “A genuine tragedy.” She took Fair’s swollen hand. “Hurt?” She noticed his left cheek was bright red also.

“I’ll put it in ice when we get home.” He looked down the front of his suit. “Ruined my new tie.”

“I can fix that, too, once it dries out.” She prudently did not ask him what the fight was about, because it would anger him all over. In time, he’d calm down and she’d find out.

The cab of the truck was warm now that the motor was running. Harry, driving slowly in the undiminishing rain, made it home in a half hour. It usually took ten minutes.

They stripped off their clothes on the screened-in porch, the slate floor cold underneath their feet.

Harry, shivering, hung his bedraggled tie over a peg. They then both burst into the kitchen.

“Two drowned rats.
” Pewter opened one eye from her bed.

Fair dashed into the bathroom, returning with two large bath towels. He wrapped one around Harry and the other around himself.

As he did so, Harry devilishly said, “Honey, looks like your part got shrink-wrapped.”

Teeth chattering, he managed to say, “Things do contract in the cold.”

“I can fix that.” She laughed as she opened the refrigerator, took out ice, putting it in a bowl. “First, let’s work on your hand.”

30

T
he storm purified the air. At sunrise the mountains turned red, then pink, and finally gold. The trees at the very top were beginning to bud. Spring marched onward.

Mrs. Murphy marched onward, too. She liked hunting alone. Pewter complained the farther from the house they traveled, so the tiger pounced on field mice without the whining of the fat gray cat to warn them of a feline presence.

She reached the confluence of the two creeks, Potlicker with Harry’s Creek. The oak torn open by the bear served as a shattered sentinel.

The hard rains had knocked blossoms off trees and bushes but also brought down the pine pollen, a relief to anyone suffering from spring allergies. Mrs. Murphy saw globs of yellow pollen swirling in the creek. She peered down at a deep spot where the water, swollen from the hard rains, came perilously close to the bank. She liked watching fish, turtles, and crawfish, but the current and silt nixed that.

She walked along the eastern bank. Even with the beaver dams and lodges, some damaged by the debris moving in the water, she couldn’t cross the creek. Not that it mattered. There was plenty of game on this side of the creek.

Two mourning doves flew overhead as the sun rose higher. Flatface, the great horned owl, silently winged toward the barn. The mighty bird dipped her wings as Mrs. Murphy looked up at her, then continued on her way. Mrs. Murphy respected Flatface for her hunting prowess and for her good sense. Good hunters usually respected one another, including humans. The bad ones pulled everyone down with them, unfortunately.

A surge of water sent a small wave crashing against the bank. The cat jumped high, then turned and trotted away from the creek. Getting her paws wet in the pastures and soggy ground was one thing, being sprayed by the creek was another.

As she headed down toward the back pastures of the farm, she thought she heard a motor on the other side of the creek. The water muffled the sound. She stopped, listened intently, then burst into a run, heading straight for the old hickory in the center of the back pasture. She leapt onto the textured bark, dug in her claws, and rapidly climbed up.

She strained to hear. The rise of the land on the western bank blocked sight of the farm road. She definitely heard a truck. Frustrated, she listened as the motor cut off. Ten minutes passed, the motor cut on again, and the truck, in low gear, drove away.

Whoever had been on the Jones land didn’t stay long.

Mrs. Murphy backed down the hickory. Back at the barn, she climbed into the hayloft, where Simon slept, tiny snoring noises coming from his long nose. She noted the Pelham chain prominently displayed. Simon loved his stolen treasures.

She padded across the expanse, half open and swept clean; the other half was filled with high-grade alfalfa-orchard grass mix. Harry always kept a hayloft’s supply of good forage in case someone needed to be kept in a stall. Luckily all the horses were easy keepers and didn’t need fancy grain mixes. One or two scoops of crimped oats mixed with sweet feed kept everyone happy.

Simon liked the oats, too, eagerly dining on what the horses dropped along with the bits of dry molasses. Harry, after wetting her hand, tossed in a small handful of molasses if someone was picky. Never failed.

Mrs. Murphy inhaled the tang of a working barn, the best perfume in the world. She passed Matilda, the enormous blacksnake, curled up in her hole in a hay bale. Mrs. Murphy gave Matilda and her hay bale a wide berth. This year her eggs, next to her own snake apartment, seemed fatter than last year’s. Like most farmers, Harry knew that her best friends apart from the domesticated animals were owls, blacksnakes, bats, honeybees, praying mantises, most spiders, swallowtails, and purple martins. Each of these creatures rid the premises of pests, whether small rodents or insects. The bees kept things pollinated. Abundance rests on the wings of bees.

Mrs. Murphy got along with most of these creatures, but Matilda gave her the willies. She hopped from hay bale to hay bale until she sat on top of the carefully stacked, sweet-smelling mass.

“You asleep yet?”

“Fat chance with your big mouth.”
Flatface glared down at her.

“Any eggs up there?”
Mrs. Murphy liked owlets.

“No. I can have babies more than once a year, you know. I’ll raise a ferocious brood when I’m good and ready.”

“Better to plan these things,”
Mrs. Murphy agreed. She harbored a great secret, which was that a few years ago, when Harry took her in to be spayed, the vet—not Marty, of course—spayed the wrong cat. But they had shaved her belly before mixing up patients, both tiger cats.

“All the crops that Harry has planted will bring flying and crawling pests from everywhere. The grapes alone will keep the day birds chubby. And wait until the sunflowers lift their heavy heads; won’t be for a while, but those seeds bring bugs and bad birds. We both know who the bad birds are. There will be so much to do.”
Flatface forgot about having owlets.

“Thought you hunted at night.”

“If someone tasty shows up during the day, I can be roused.”
She laughed her deep
“Hoo hoo, hoo hoo hoo.”

“The crows will be a problem.”

“You and Pewter will be on duty for them. They are very intelligent. You have to give them that.”

Mrs. Murphy sniffed,
“Pewter has the attention span of a gnat. Worse, she’s obsessed with the blue jay.”

“A most arrogant bird, besotted with his plumage and his topknot.”
Flatface sighed, then changed the subject.
“Thought I might pick up something juicy this morning once the storms passed, but my protein sources are still holed up,”
she said.

Mrs. Murphy moved to the subject she truly wanted to discuss.
“You didn’t happen to fly over the peach orchard?”

“Yes.”

“I heard a truck maybe five minutes before I saw you. Did you see it or who was in it?”

“White truck with a gold lily painted on it.”

“Hy Maudant,”
Mrs. Murphy exclaimed.

Later that day, the contents of Toby’s computer, finally transcribed, reached Rick Shaw’s desk with a thud.

Cooper looked up. “Can you imagine how many trees died for that?”

“Very funny.” Rick sighed, fished out a Camel, and lit up despite the “No Smoking” signs that the county government felt compelled to post in every county government building.

“Let me help.” She rolled her chair next to his. They started reading.

“Sure a lot of chemical equations,” Rick mumbled.

“Soil stuff. Sugars in the grapes. That kind of thing.”

“How do you know that?” Rick asked, surprised.

“Took organic chem in college.”

“Why?” He was incredulous.

“I liked it.”

“I thought people only took that under pain of death or to get into med school.”

“Always knew I wanted to go into this field. Thought it would help me read toxicology reports, stuff like that. It does, too.”

“Anything unusual?”

“Pretty much what you’d expect from Toby.” The distinctive, inviting odor of tobacco enticed her to bum one of Rick’s Camels.

Rick’s phone rang, he picked it up, listened, then hung up. “Ballistics. The bullet in Professor Forland was from—Toby’s gun.”

Startled for a moment, Cooper said, “Well, that’s not what you’d expect from Toby.”