Claws and Effect (17 page)

34

Coop pulled white cartons of Chinese food out of a brown paper bag, setting them in the middle of Harry's kitchen table. Harry put out the plates, silverware, and napkins.

“Milk, Coke, tea, coffee, beer?”

“Beer.” Coop wearily sat down, narrowly avoiding Tucker, who had positioned herself by the chair leg. She appeared glued to it. “I'll have coffee with dessert.”

“You got dessert?”

“Yes, but I'm not telling you what it is until we eat this first. Sit down.”

“Okay.” Harry sat down, reaching for the pork lo mein as Coop dished out cashew chicken.

“I don't do Chinese.”
Mrs. Murphy sat in the kitchen window.

“Worth a try. You can fish out the pork bits.”
Pewter extended one talon.

“I had enough to eat,”
said the tiger cat, who kept her figure.

“I thought you'd be spending the night with Fair after picking him up at the airport.”

“Oh, I wasn't in the mood for manly bullshit tonight,” Harry airily replied.

“Like what?”

“Like him telling me what to do and how to do it.”

“Mother, that's not exactly the way Fair does things. He suggests and you get pissed off.”
Murphy laughed.

“And what did he tell you to do? Something for your own good.” Cynthia mixed soy sauce in her white rice, then dug in with her chopsticks. “Right?”

“Well—well, I know it's for my own good but I don't like hearing it. He told me not to go back to the hospital and not to snoop around anywhere by myself, and then he said I looked like a punk rocker who couldn't quite make it.” She pointed to her stitches. “I suppose I could spend the next six weeks wearing a beret.”

“Not you, Harry.”

“Okay, a baseball cap. Orioles or maybe the Braves. Nah, don't like the logo.”

“I was thinking more along the lines of a black cowboy hat—with black chaps and black fringe.”

“Coop, is there something about you I should know?” Harry's eyes twinkled.

“Uh—no.” She bent her blonde head over the food. “Just a thought. Fair would like it.”

“Maybe you ought to play dress-up.” Harry giggled.

“For one thing I don't own a pair of chaps and I won't buy the ready-made ones. If you're going to have chaps you've got two choices and only two choices: Chuck Pinnell or Journeyman Saddlery.”

“How do you know that?”

“You told me.”

“Early Alzheimer's.” Harry smacked her head with the butt of her palm.

“Maybe it's not so early.”

“Up yours, Coop. I'm a long way from forty.”

“Oh—I suppose you were never a whiz at arithmetic. I count three years.”

“Thirty-seven is a long way—” Harry smirked slightly. “And you aren't far behind, girlfriend.”

“Scary, isn't it? What would I do with those chaps? No one to play dress-up with and I'm not going to wear them in the squad car.”

“Oh, why not? It would be such a nice touch. Everyone thinks lady cops are butch anyway.”

“You really know how to please a girl.” Coop sighed because she knew it was true.

“Yeah, but I didn't say you were butch. You're not, you know. You're really very feminine. Lots more than I am.”

“No, I'm not.”

“You're tall and willowy. People think that's feminine until they see the badge and the pressed pleats in your pants. The shoes are winners, too. High heels. You could kick some poor bastard into next week but you'd never get your heel out of his butt. Police brutality.”

“Harry.” Cynthia laughed.

“See what Fair does to me. Just turns me into an evil wench. I think unclean thoughts.”

“You don't need Fair for that. It's just that usually you keep them to yourself.”

“Can you imagine me talking like this to Miranda? Smelling salts. And when she came to she'd have to pray for me at the Church of the Holy Light. I love her but there are things you don't say to Mrs. H.”

Chopsticks poised in the air, Coop put them down for a moment. “I bet she knows more than she says. That generation didn't talk about stuff.”

“Do you really think so?”

“Yeah. I think they did everything we do but they were quiet about it. Not out of shame or anything but because they were raised with guidelines about proper conversation. I bet they didn't even discuss some of this stuff with their doctors.”

“The chaps. I wouldn't discuss that either.” Harry laughed. “Better chaps than some of those silk things at Victoria's Secret. They look good on the models but if I put something like that on I'd get laughed out of the bedroom.”

“I wish they'd stop talking about sex and drop some food,”
Tucker whined.

“Get on your hind legs. Coop's a sucker for that,”
Pewter advised.
“I'll rub Mother's legs. It ought to be good for one little piece of cashew chicken.”

The two performed their routine. It worked.

“You guys.”
Murphy giggled, then glanced back out the window.
“Simon's on a food search.”
She saw the possum leave the barn.

“All he has to do is go to the feed room or get under the feed bucket in Tomahawk's stall. That horse throws grain around like there's no tomorrow. He wouldn't be so wasteful if he had to pay the feed bill.”
Pewter hated food being wasted.

“He's a pig. Wouldn't matter if he paid the bill or not.”
Murphy liked Tomahawk but was conversant with his faults.

“Any word on Tracy selling his house in Hawaii?”

Harry leaned over to grab another egg roll. “No takers yet but he'll sell it soon. He writes her every day. Isn't that romantic? It's much better than a phone call or e-mail. There's something so personal about a person's handwriting.”

“I can't imagine a man sitting down to write me a letter a day.”

“Me neither. I suppose Fair would write me a prescription a day—for the horses.” She laughed.

“He's a good guy.” Coop paused. “You love him?”

“I love him. I always loved him. I don't know about the in-love part, though. Sometimes I look at him and think it's still there. Other times, I don't know. You see, he's all I know. I dated him in high school and married him out of college. I dated a few men after our divorce but nothing clicked. Know what I mean?”

“Does the sun rise in the east?”

“I don't even know if I'm searching for anything or anyone. But he is a good man. And I'm over it.”

“What?”

“Over the mess we made.”

“At least you have a mess, a past.”

“Coop?”

“All I meet are deadbeat dads, drunks, drug addicts, and the occasional armed burglar. The armed-robbery guys are actually pretty bright. You might even say sexy.” The pretty officer smiled.

“Really?” Harry pushed out the last of the lo mein with her chopsticks. “If you want more of this you'd better holler.”

“I'll finish off the chicken.”

“Deal. So the armed robbers are sexy?”

“Yes. They're usually very masculine, intelligent, risk takers. Unfortunately they don't believe in any form of restraint, hence their profession.”

“What about murderers?”

“Funny you ask that. Murderers are usually quite ordinary. Well, set aside the occasional whacked-out serial killer. But the guy who blasts his girlfriend's new lover into kingdom come, ordinary.”

“No electricity?”

“No.”

“Maybe murder is closer to us than we think. We're all capable of it, but we aren't all capable of armed robbery. Does that make sense?”

“Yes. Given the right set of circumstances or the wrong set, I believe most of us are capable of just about anything.”

“Probably true.”

“Drop one last little piece of chicken,”
Pewter meowed.

“Pewter, I don't have anything else unless you want fried noodles.”

“I'll try them.”

Harry laughed and put down a handful of the noodles, which the cat devoured in an instant because Tucker was moving in her direction.

“Your claws click. That always gives you away.”
Pewter laughed.

“There are more important things in this life than retractable claws.”

“Name one,”
Pewter challenged the dog, although she sounded garbled since her mouth was full.

“The ability to scent a dead body three feet underground.”

“Gross!”
Pewter grimaced.

“She's trying to get a rise out of you.”
Mrs. Murphy watched as Simon re-entered the barn.
“Simon's heading for the tack room. I guess he walked around the barn and decided no bears were near. He's a funny fellow.”

“I'd like to know what good possums contribute to the world.”
Pewter licked her lips with her shockingly pink tongue.

“Think what possums say about cats,”
Tucker needled the gray cat.

“I catch mice. I dispatch vermin.”

“Not lately,”
came the dry canine reply, which so enraged the fat cat she bopped the corgi right on her sensitive nose.

“Pewter. Hateful.” Harry noticed.

“I'm leaving.”
Pewter turned, sashaying into the living room with the hauteur of a disgruntled cat.

“I think cats and dogs are more expressive than we are.” Cynthia laughed as Pewter exaggerated her walk for effect. “They can use their ears, turn them back and forth and out, they can wiggle their whiskers and their tail, they can make the hackles rise on their neck and back. They have lots of facial expressions.”

“Pewter's major expression is boredom.”
Tucker giggled.

“Don't start with me.”

“Start? She hasn't stopped,”
Murphy called from the window.

“Lots of talk. Lots of talk.” Harry pointed her finger at each animal in succession, then returned to Coop. “I agree. They are more expressive.”

“I'm beat.”

“Go in the living room. I'll bring you a cup of coffee and dessert. What is it, by the way?”

“Phish Food. I put it in the freezer.”

“Ben and Jerry's. Coop, the best.” Harry raced for the freezer, retrieved the pint of ice cream, pulled two bowls out of the cupboard. “The ice cream can soften while I make coffee. I've got Colombian, hazelnut, chicory, and regular. Oh, I've got decaf, too.”

“Colombian.” Cynthia sat on the sofa, bent over, and removed her shoes. “Oh, that feels too good. Foot massage. We need someone in Crozet who can give a good foot massage.”

“Body massage. It's been years since I had a massage. Oh, they feel so good. I get such knots in my back.” She waited for the coffee to run through the coffeemaker, filling the kitchen with rich aroma.

Cynthia got up to retrieve her briefcase, which she had put down by the kitchen door. She reached the sofa and lay down. She couldn't resist. When Harry brought in the coffee and a bowl of ice cream she sat up.

“Work?”

“Yeah. I need just enough energy to go over these bills from the hospital.”

“I'll help you.”

“It's supposed to be confidential.”

“I won't tell anyone. Cross my heart and hope to—”

“Don't finish that,”
Mrs. Murphy hollered as she jumped off the kitchen counter.
“Enough has happened around here.”

“Murphy?” Harry wondered if something was wrong with her cat, who hurried over, leaping into her lap.

“Okay, here are the procedure billings, you know, cost of a tonsillectomy. I'll go over the equipment bills.”

“What am I looking for?”

“I don't know. Anything that seems off.”

Harry's eyes fell onto a bill for a gallbladder operation. “Jeez, two thousand dollars for the surgeon, a thousand for the anesthesiologist, two hundred a day for a semi-private room. Wow, look at these medication prices. This is outrageous!”

“And this is a nation that doesn't want comprehensive health care. It will kill you—getting sick.”

“Sure will at Crozet Hospital.” Harry smiled weakly. “Sorry.”

Coop flipped her fingers, a dismissive gesture. “You develop gallows humor after a while. Otherwise you lose it.”

“Here's a bill for breast removal. When you break down these bills it's like an avalanche. I mean every single physician bills separately. The rent on your room is separate. I can imagine you'd think you'd seen the last bill and here comes another one.”

They worked in silence for about an hour, occasionally commenting on the cost of this or the fact that they didn't know so-and-so's sister had a pin put in her leg.

“Hank Brevard kept meticulous records,” Harry noted.