Claws and Effect (15 page)

29

Mrs. Murphy's tail stuck out from under the canvas in the back of the truck.

“Throw it down to me,”
Tucker's bright eyes implored her kitty friend.

“No way, José.”
The tiger cat sank her fangs in one red leg, backing out, pulling the heavy chicken with her.

Pewter, also sitting in the bed of the truck, called out,
“We aren't stupid, Tucker.”

“I just want to sniff it. I can tell you how long it's been dead.”

“Liar.”
Murphy inspected the corpse.
“Been dead since this morning.”

“It's cold. Maybe it's freezing up,”
Tucker called from the ground.

“Maybe.”
Murphy hopped over the side of the truck, softly landing on the ground.

Pewter chose the less athletic route. She carefully eased herself over the closed tailgate, her hind paws touching the bumper. Then she dropped down on her front paws and jumped off to the ground.

The animals heard the story of the funeral and the dead chicken when Harry and Miranda returned to work. The post office front door was always unlocked but the back door and the counter divider could be locked. There was a pulldown door, like a garage door, which pulled to the counter divider, locking from the back side. Because stamps were valuable, Miranda and Harry had wrapped up everything tight before leaving for the funeral. It wasn't that anyone had ever stolen anything from the post office other than rubber bands and pencils but the murders inspired them to caution. Then, too, they had put the cats and dog in the locked portion along with a big bowl of water and crunchies on the small table out of Tucker's reach. As there was an animal door in the back of the post office, Harry had locked that, too.

Usually when humans returned, the animals bolted outside, but they wanted to hear the events. Once Harry told about the chicken they bolted and now they sat, fur ruffled against the cold with the northwest wind kicking up. Harry planned on taking the chicken home to feed the fox living on her land.

“I say we go to the hospital.”
Tucker was resolute.
“It's a fifteen-minute jog.”
Tucker cut time off the trip to make it more attractive.

“We'll last five minutes. You know how fussy humans are at hospitals. Insulting, really. We're cleaner than they are. All those humans with diseases.”
Pewter shuddered in distaste.

“We won't go in the front door.”
Tucker knew Pewter was trying to get out of the walk in the cold to the hospital.

“Oh.”
The gray cat ducked underneath the truck to escape the wind. It was a good idea but the wind whipped underneath the truck as well as swirling around it.

“We go to the back door.”

“Tucker, the back door is closed.”
Pewter didn't like this idea one bit.

“The loading dock isn't,”
Murphy thought out loud.
“We could slip in there and work our way to the basement.”

“What if we get locked in? We could starve in there.”

“Pewter.”
Mrs. Murphy maliciously smiled.
“You could eat cast-off body parts. How about a fresh liver?”

“I hate you,”
Pewter spit.

“Well, fine, you big weenie. You stay here and we'll go.”
Tucker wanted to get over there.

“Oh sure, and hear from you two for the next eleven years about what a fat chicken I am.”
She thought about the chicken a moment, then continued,
“Besides, you don't know everything. I see things you miss.”

“Then shut up and come on. Time's a-wasting. Harry will be out of here at five and it's already one-thirty.”
Mrs. Murphy looked down both sides of the road, then scampered across heading north toward the hospital, the wind in her face.

The three animals stayed off the road, dashing through lawns, hopping creeks, and eluding the occasional house dog upset because three animals crossed his or her lawn.

They reached the hospital by two-ten. To test their luck they hurried to the back door first. The doorknob was reachable but the cats couldn't turn it.

By now they were cold so they ran around the side of the building to the loading dock, one level up from the back door. It was child's play to elude the humans working the dock. There was only one truck and one unloader. Neither noticed the animals. Once inside the building, grateful for the warmth, the three headed away from the dock.

Murphy led them to an elevator pool.

“We can't take that,”
Tucker said.

“I know but stairwells are usually near elevator pools so start looking, genius.”
Her voice was sarcastic.

Sure enough, the stairwell was tucked in the corner, the door unlocked. Tucker, a strong dog for her size, pushed it open and the animals sped downstairs, opening the unlocked door with a red
BASEMENT
neatly painted across it.

They had landed on the east side of the building, site of the elevator bank.

“Come on, let's get out of here before someone steps off that thing.”
Murphy turned left, not out of any sense of where she was going but just to escape possible detection. They raced past storage rooms, finally arriving at the boiler room, the hub of all corridors.

“Oh.”
Pewter saw the blood on the wall; most of it had been washed off, but enough had stained into the old stone wall that she could see it.

The three sat down for a moment, considering where Hank Brevard's body had been crumpled.

“This is where Mom got hit on the head. In this room.”
Tucker put her nose to the ground but all she could smell was oil from the furnace.

“She should never have come in here by herself,”
Pewter complained.
“She has no fear and that isn't always a good thing.”

“Boy, you'd think the hospital could afford better lights.”
The dog noted the low wattage.

“That's why we're here.”
Mrs. Murphy systematically checked out each corner of the room.
“Let's go outside.”

“Which door?”
Tucker asked.

“The one in the opposite direction. We came in from the east. Let's go west.”

“I hope you remember because it all looks the same to me.”
The basement gave Pewter the creeps.

“Wimp.”

“I'm not a wimp.”
Pewter smacked Murphy, who smacked her back.

“Girls,”
Tucker growled.

The cats stopped following the dog as she pushed open the door, which wasn't latched. A hallway led to the end of the building. The light from the small square in the door was brighter than the lights overhead.

“Is that the door we first tried?”
Pewter asked.

“Yes. It's the only door downstairs on the west side.”

They slowly walked down the hall, the storage rooms appearing as innocuous to them as they had to the humans. Satisfying themselves that nothing was amiss in that hall, they returned to the boiler room and went down the southerly corridor, the one which contained the incinerator.

Tucker sniffed when they entered the room.
“This incinerator could destroy a multitude of sins.”

“And does, I'm sure,”
Pewter said.

“Nothing in here.”
Tucker had thoroughly sniffed everything.

They returned to the corridor, poking their heads in rooms. Hearing voices, they ducked into a room that had empty cartons neatly stacked against the wall.

Bobby Minifee and Booty Weyman walked by. Bobby had been promoted to Hank's job and Booty had moved up to day schedule. Engrossed in conversation, they didn't even glance into the storage room.

Tucker put her nose to the ground once the men passed. The cats heard them turn toward the boiler room.

“Someone's been here recently.”
Tucker moved along the cartons.

“That doesn't mean anything. People have probably been in each of these rooms for one thing or another.”
Pewter was getting peckish.

Tucker paid no attention to her. Murphy knew her canine friend well enough to put her own nose to the ground. She could smell shoes, one with leather soles, one with rubber.

“Hands.”
Tucker stopped over a spot on the old slate floor.
“I can smell the oil on their hands. They've been here today.”

“Hands on the floor?”
Pewter's gray eyebrows shot upward, for the dog was sniffing where the wall met the floor.

“Yes.”
Tucker kept sniffing.
“Here, just above the floor.”

“Pewter, look for a handle or something,”
Murphy ordered her.

“In the wall?”

“Yes, you dimwit!”

“I'm not a dimwit.”
Pewter declined to further the argument because she, too, was intrigued.

The animals sniffed the walls. Murphy, claws out, tapped and patted each stone, part of the original foundation.

“Hey.”
Pewter stopped.
“Do that again.”

The two cats strained to hear. Murphy rapped her claws harder this time. A faint hollow sound rewarded her efforts.

“Flat down,”
Tucker whispered as Bobby and Booty returned, but once again the two men didn't look toward the room full of boxes.

When they passed, the dog came over to the cats. She sniffed the wall as high up as she reached.
“Yes, here. Human hands.”

“Let's push it,”
Murphy said and the three leaned against the square stone.

A smooth, soft sliding sound rewarded their efforts, then a soft clink surprised them. The floor opened up. One big slate stone slid under another one, revealing a ladder. It was dark as pitch down there.

“Tucker, you stay here. Pewter, you with me?”
Murphy climbed down the ladder.

Wordlessly, Pewter followed. Once down there their eyes adjusted.

“It's a bunch of machines.”
Pewter was puzzled.

“Yeah, those drip things. They don't look broken up.”

“Get out of there. Someone's coming!”
Tucker yelled.

The two cats shot up the ladder, the three animals leaned against the stone in the wall, and the slate rolled back into place.

Breathlessly they listened as the steps came closer.

“Behind this carton.”
They crouched behind a tumbled-down carton as Jordan Ivanic walked into the room and threw a switch. He plucked a carton off the top of the neat pile, turned, hit the switch off, and left.

“Let's get out of here before we're trapped,”
Pewter whispered.

“You know, I think you're right,”
Mrs. Murphy agreed.

They hurried down the corridor, pushed open the stairwell door, ran back up one flight of stairs, and dashed out onto the loading dock. They jumped off and ran the whole way back to the post office, bursting through the animals' door.

“Where have you been?” Harry noted the time at four-thirty.

“You'll never guess what we found,”
Pewter breathlessly told her.

“She won't get it.”
Tucker sat down.

“It's just as well. The last thing we want is Harry back in that hospital.”
Murphy wondered what to do next.

30

“What is this?” Mim pushed a letter across the counter.

Mrs. Murphy, with quick reflexes, smacked her paw down on the 8'' x 11'' white sheet of paper before it skidded off onto the floor.
“Got it.”

Pewter, also on the counter, peered down at the typewritten page. She read aloud,

Meet me. I will be the next victim. I need your help to escape. Why you? You are the only person rich enough not to be corrupted. Put a notice for a lost dog named Bristol on the post office bulletin board if you will help me. I will get back to you with when and where.”

Harry slid the paper from underneath the tiger's paw.

“Well?” Miranda walked over to read over her shoulder.

“Well, this is a crackpot of the first water.” Miranda pushed her glasses back up on her head. “I'm calling the sheriff.” She flipped up the divider.

“Wait. Let's talk about this for a minute,” Harry said.

“This could be the killer playing some kind of weird game.” Mim headed for the phone.

“Sit down, Mim. You've had a shock.” Miranda propelled her to the table.

“Shock? Seismic.” The thin, beautifully dressed woman sank into the wooden kitchen chair at the back table.

“This letter is from someone who knows our community, knows it well.” Miranda searched her mind for some explanation but could come up with nothing.

Harry noticed the time, eight-thirty in the morning. She had a habit of checking clocks when she'd walk or drive by, then she'd check her wristwatch, her father's old watch. Ran like a top. Mim usually preceded everyone else into the post office in the morning. Like Harry and Miranda she was an early riser and early risers find each other just as night owls do. She tiptoed around Mim, knowing how hard Larry's death had hit her.

“Trap.”
Tucker found the letter irritating.

“Possibly.”
Mrs. Murphy twitched the fur along her spine.

“Flea?”
Pewter innocently asked.

“In February?”
Mrs. Murphy shot her a dirty look.

“We spend much of our time indoors. They could be laying eggs in the carpet, the eggs hatch, and you know the rest of the story.”

“You're getting some kind of thrill out of this. Besides, if I had fleas you'd have them, too.”
The tiger swatted at the gray cat.

“Not me.”
Pewter smiled, revealing her white fangs.
“I'm allergic to fleas.”

“Doesn't mean you don't get them, Pewter, it means once you do get them you also get scabs all over.”
Tucker giggled.
“Then Mother has to wash and powder you and it's a big mess.”

“She hides the powder until she's grabbed you.”
Mrs. Murphy relished Pewter's discomfort at bath time.
“First the sink, a little warm water, baby shampoo, lots of lather. My what a pretty cat you are in soapsuds. Then a rinsing. A second soaping. More rinsing. A dip with medicated junk. Drying with a towel. You look like a rock star with your spiky do. Pewter, the Queen of Hip-Hop.”

“I don't listen to hip-hop.”
The rotund gray kitty sniffed.

“You hip-hop. You shake one hind leg, then the other. Real disco.”
Murphy howled with laughter.

“You know.”
Tucker, on the floor, paced as the humans discussed the letter.
“What if this plea is like Mom with the flea powder? What's hidden?”

Murphy leapt down to sit next to her friend.
“But we know what's hidden.”

Pewter put her front paws on the wood, then slowly slid down.
“Not exactly, Murphy. We know those machines, those IVAC units are under the basement floor but maybe that was the only place to store them. So we don't really know what's hidden and we don't know what this letter is hiding.”

“Why Mim? Why not Sheriff Shaw?”
Tucker frowned, confused.

“Because the writer is tainted somehow. The sheriff would pose a danger. Mim's powerful but not the law.”
Mrs. Murphy leaned into Tucker. She often sat tight with the dog or slept with her, her head curled up next to Tucker's head.

“Put up the notice. Put one up in the supermarket, too.” Harry put her hands together, making a steeple with her forefingers. “Everyone will see it. That we know. Then do like the letter requests: wait for directions.”

“Without calling Sheriff Shaw!” Mim was incredulous.

“Well—don't you think he'll want to keep you under watch? It would be clumsy. The letter writer would notice.”

“Are you suggesting I be bait?” Mim slapped her hand on the table.

“No.”

“What are you suggesting, Harry?” Miranda folded her arms across her chest.

“That we wait for directions.”

“We? You don't know when and where I might receive these directions. I could be hustled into a car and no one would know.”

“She's right,” Miranda agreed.

“Yeah.” Harry sighed. “Instant meeting. Just add danger.”

“My point exactly. Harry, let the professionals deal with this.” Mim got up and dialed Sheriff Shaw.

“I still think we should try the missing-dog notice by ourselves,” Harry said to Miranda, who shook her head no as Mim read the letter over the phone to Rick Shaw.

“Now that Larry Johnson's been killed, Mother won't rest. She wants to find the killer probably worse than Rick Shaw and Coop.”
Murphy worried.
“I don't know if we can keep her away from the hospital.”

“Well, I know one thing,”
Tucker solemnly declared.
“We'd better stick with her.”

“And I think what's under the floor is dangerous. Pewter, those IVAC units aren't down there for lack of space. I predict if someone stumbles onto that room there will be another dead human.”
Mrs. Murphy put her paw on the postage scale.