Claws and Effect (20 page)

39

The two cats and the dog had heard about the trip to Upper-ville and Middleburg. They huddled in the back of the post office by the animal door. Outside a hard frost was melting as the temperature at ten in the morning was forty-five degrees and rising quickly. February could run you crazy with the wild weather fluctuations.

“That's what those machines are we found. The pumps that should have gone to Salvage Masters.”
Pewter held her tail in her paw. She'd meant to clean it but in the excitement of the news she'd forgotten.

Mrs. Murphy, already one step ahead of her, replied,
“Yes, of course, but that's not the real problem. You see—”
As the two animals drew closer to her she lowered her voice.
“Those machines have to be rehabbed. That's why they're down there. Whoever is stashing them can't put them back into use without cleaning them, right?”

“Why not?”
Tucker asked.

“Either they won't work or they'll work improperly. Which means complaints to Salvage Masters and the game is up. Whoever is doing this has to crawl down in that space and clean the pumps. I should think that part wouldn't be too hard. Well, the person has to get in and out undetected. What's difficult is if a machine needs more work than just cleaning. See?”
Mrs. Murphy swept her pointed, refined ears forward.

“No, I don't see,”
Pewter confessed.

“I do.”
Tucker licked the gray cat's face.
“Someone has to understand these machines.”

“Oh.”
Pewter's face brightened.
“I get it.”

“Think it through,”
Murphy counseled patiently.
“The infusion pumps are small. One person, a small person, a child even, can pick them up, roll them, move them around. The hospital routine isn't ruffled. For years these pumps have been removed for cleaning. Right?”
The dog and other cat nodded in agreement.
“Whoever picks them up is in on it.”

“Not necessarily,”
Tucker contradicted her.
“An orderly or janitor could pick them up and take them to the basement for shipping out. Then they could be removed to where we found them.”

“True.”
The pretty tiger was getting excited because she felt she was getting close to figuring this out.
“That's a good point, Tucker. The fewer people who know, the better. And someone has to run off the fake invoices. H-m-m.”

“Okay, let's review.”
Tucker caught Murphy's excitement.
“We have a person or persons good at using a computer. It sounds easy, copying a bill, but it isn't and the paper matches, too. So they're pretty good. We have a person or persons with mechanical skill. Right?”

“Right,”
the two kitties echoed.

“And there has to be someone higher up. Someone who can cover for them. Someone very, very smart because the chances are, that's the mastermind behind this. That person recruited the others. How often does an employee woo the boss into crime?”
Tucker stood up, panting from her mental efforts.

“Well done, Tucker.”
Mrs. Murphy rubbed along the dog's body.

“How can we get a human to the hidden room?”
Pewter cocked her head, her long whiskers twitching.

“We can't,”
Mrs. Murphy flatly replied.
“First off, anyone we might lure there in the hospital could be in on it. We'd wait downstairs and who is downstairs but the plant crew, as Sam Mahanes calls them. You know one of them has to be in on it. Has to be. We'd be toast.”

“Hank Brevard.”
Pewter's green eyes grew large.
“He was the one. And he had his throat slit.”

“Maybe he got greedy. If he'd kept at his task why kill him? Think about it. Whoever is on top of this sordid little pyramid is creaming the bulk of the profits. Hank figured out somewhere along the line that he was an important person in the profit chain and he wanted more. He asks for more or threatens. Sayonara.”
Murphy glanced at Miranda and Harry sorting out the parcels, tossing them in various bins or putting them on the shelves, numbers like the postboxes.

“Which means if the money is to keep rolling in, our Number One Guy will soon need to recruit someone else.”
Tucker was getting an uneasy feeling.

“He might be able to do the work himself,”
Pewter said.

“That's possible but if he's high up on the totem pole he isn't going to have the time, number one, and number two, he isn't going to be seen heading to the basement a lot.
Eventually that would be a tip-off, especially after Hank's death.”
Mrs. Murphy's mind raced along.

“When Mom got clunked on the head—it must have been him.”
Tucker hoped Harry wouldn't go back to the hospital but she knew her mother's burning curiosity, which was why she'd been feeling uneasy.

“Everyone knows that Harry is both smart and curious. Smart for a human. I hope as long as she stays away from the hospital, she's okay, but she's friends with Coop. If I were the killer that would be worrisome. Look how fast he struck when Larry was finding discrepancies, and they probably weren't critical yet because if they were Larry would have gone straight to Sheriff Shaw. He wouldn't have waited.”
The tiger began to pace.

“If it were just one person . . .”
Pewter's voice trailed off; then she spoke louder.
“We've got at least two. Mom might be able to handle one but two—well, I don't know.”

“And no bites yet on Bristol, the missing dog? We've got to find out who that is,”
Mrs. Murphy fretted.

“Mim would tell Rick if anything had happened,”
Tucker said.

“Well, nothing's happened on that front yet.”
Murphy sighed. They were wrong about that.

40

Fair stood at the divider counter sorting out his mail. “You know Dr. Flynn's got two gorgeous stallions standing at Barracks Stud.”

“Yeah. I thought I'd breed Poptart in a few years. She's still pretty young and I need her. If she's bred . . .” Harry's voice trailed off as there was no need to say she'd be out of work for at least the last three months of her pregnancy and then out of work until the foal was weaned.

“I like Fred Astaire, too.” Fair mentioned a beautifully bred Thoroughbred stallion at Albemarle Stud.

“Doesn't everyone?” Harry smiled as she threw metered mail in one pile, since it needed a second hand-cancellation for the date.

“Now's what's the difference between one stallion and another?” Mrs. Hogendobber, not a horse person, asked.

“Kind of the difference between one man and another.” Fair laughed.

“Don't get racy. I'll blush.” Miranda's cheeks did turn rosier.

“It depends on what you're looking for, Miranda. Let's say you have a good Thoroughbred mare, she's well bred and she has good conformation. She didn't win a lot of races but she's pretty good. You'll search around—and you can do this on the Net, by the way—for a stallion whose bloodlines are compatible and who also has good conformation. You might want more speed or more bone or more staying power. That's in the blood. Breeding is as much an art as a science.”

“Don't forget luck.” Harry pressed the heavy rubber stamp in the maroon postal ink.

“There sure is that,” the tall blond man agreed. “Miranda, if breeding were just a matter of study, we'd all be winning the Triple Crown. So much can happen. If you get a live foal—”

“What do you mean, a live foal?” The older woman assumed they'd all be live.

“A mare can slip or not catch in the first place.” Noticing the puzzled look he explained, “A mare can not get pregnant even though you've done everything by the book. Or she can get pregnant yet abort early in the pregnancy. Strange as it may sound, it isn't that easy to get mares pregnant. A conception rate of sixty percent by a vet specializing in breeding is respectable. There's a vet in Pennsylvania who averages in the ninety percent range, but he's extraordinary. Let's say your mare gives birth. A mare can have a breech delivery the same as a woman but it's much worse for a mare. If those long legs with hooves get twisted up or tear her womb you can imagine the crisis. Foals can strangle on the umbilical cord or be starved for oxygen and never be quite right. They can be born dead.”

“It sounds awful.”

“Most times it isn't but sometimes it really is and your heart sinks to your toes. You know how much the owner has put into the breeding both financially and emotionally. Around here people are attached to their mares. We don't have huge breeding establishments so just about everything I see is a homebred. Lots of emotion.”

“Yes, I can see that. Why, if Mrs. Murphy had kittens I think I'd be so concerned for her.”

“Thank you.”
Murphy, half asleep in the mail cart, yawned.

Pewter, curled up next to her, giggled.
“Some mother you'd be.”

“Look who's talking. You selfish thing, you'd starve your own children if there weren't enough food. I can see the headlines now. ‘Cat starves kittens. Is fat as a tick.'”

“Shut up.”

“You started it.”

“Did not,”
Pewter hissed.

“Did too.”

“Not.”

“Too.”
Murphy swatted Pewter right on the head.

“Bully!”
Pewter rolled over to grapple with the thinner cat.

A great hissing, growling, and flailing was heard from the mail cart. Harry and Miranda tiptoed over to view the excitement. Fair watched from the other side of the counter.

Tucker, on her side, lifted her head, then dropped it.
“Cats.”

“Fatty, fatty, two by four,”
Murphy sang out.

“Mean. Hateful and mean!”
Pewter was holding her own.

The mail cart rolled a bit. Harry, devilish, gave it a shove.

“Hey!”
Murphy clambered over the side, dropped to the ground, put her ears back, and stomped right by her mother.

“Whee!”
Pewter crouched down for the ride.

Harry trotted over, grabbed the end of the mail cart. “Okey dokey, smoky. Here we go.” She pushed the mail cart all around the back of the post office as Pewter rose up to put her paws on the front. The cat loved it. Murphy sulked, finally going over to Tucker to sit next to the dog, who wanted no part of a cat fight.

“It's a three-ring circus around here.” Miranda laughed.

“You look good in hunter green. I meant to tell you that when I walked in.” Fair complimented her dress.

“Why, thank you, Fair. Now where were we before Mrs. Murphy and Pewter interrupted us?”

“Mares. Actually once you deliver a healthy foal life begins to shine a little. There are always worries. The mare's milk could be lacking in proper nutrition. The foal's legs could be crooked although usually they straighten out and if not then I go to work. Nothing intrusive. I believe less is more and let nature do her work. But short of a foal running through a board fence in a thunderstorm, once you've got a healthy baby on the ground, you're doing great.”

“What about diseases?”

“Usually protection comes in the mother's milk. In that sense it's like kittens or puppies. They receive immunity from the mother. In time that immunity wears off and then you need to be vigilant. But nature truly is amazing and a foal arrives much more prepared to negotiate the world than a human baby. With both babies, the more they're handled the better they become. I think, anyway.”

“You're the doctor.” Mrs. H. smiled.

“Here, why don't you take these back?” He shoved bills across the counter.

“Happy to.” She playfully grabbed them.

“Want mine, too?” Harry usually got to her own mail last.

“We could burn them,” Fair suggested.

“They'd just come back,” Harry ruefully observed.

“Somewhere in this vast nation exists a person with an incredible mind, a person who can crack computer codes. I pray that person will wipe out everyone's IRS files and save our country. I dream about it at night. I believe in a national sales tax. Then everyone knows what they're paying. No hidden taxes. If the government can't run itself on those monies then the government can cut back. If I have to cut back as a private citizen I can expect my government to do the same. That's exactly what I think.”

“Bravo.” Harry finished canceling the metered mail. “Run for office.”

“Little Mim has beat me to it.” He shuffled his mail, organizing it into a pile according to letter size.

“That rebellion has taken second place to the mess around here. Maybe that's a good thing. Little Mim doesn't seem to know what she's searching for but young people worry more these days than we did.”

“I don't know,” said Harry. “Maybe after a long time you forget. You know, you forget the pain but hold on to the good part of the memory.”

“Could be. Could be.” Miranda smiled at Fair, who smiled back, as both were hoping Harry had done this with memories of her marriage.

         

“Tucker, why don't we sneak out tonight and go to the hospital? I bet those pumps get brought in as well as cleaned at night.”

Pewter called out from the mail cart.
“That's a seven-mile hike and it's cold at night, real cold.”
Her voice lowered.

“I don't mean from the farm, dimwit. I mean just before Harry leaves work we run off.”

“Oh, I don't know. She'll catch us.”
Pewter wanted to go home after work. Supper beckoned.

“Not if we run under Mrs. Hogendobber's porch.”

“Murphy, we could head straight to the hospital. All we have to do is go through yards. One road crossing but we can handle that.”
Tucker was thinking out loud.

“If we do that, she'll follow us. If we get close enough to the hospital I know she'll go in. She'll forget her promises and just go right in. Can't have that.”
Mrs. Murphy knew her human to the bone.

“It will be cold,”
came the mournful whine from the mail cart.

“That's why you have fur,”
Murphy tartly replied.

“Fine.”

Murphy and Tucker looked at one another and shrugged.

At closing the tiger and corgi blasted out the back animal door. Pewter stuck close to Harry as she chased her bad pets. Although curious, the gray cat wanted to snuggle up on the sofa in front of the fire after her tuna supper. She wasn't that curious.

Harry and Miranda tried to cut off the cat and dog but the animals easily eluded them.

“Every now and then.” Harry shook her head.

“I'll keep my eyes open for them.”

“Thanks, Miranda. I'll leave the animal door unlocked, too. I don't know what it is. They get a notion.” She glanced up at the sky. “At least it looks like it will be a clear night. No storms rolling in.”

Defeated, Harry bundled Pewter into the cab of the old truck to head home.

“They're very naughty.”
Pewter sat right next to Harry.

“You're a good kitty.” Harry rubbed her head.

“I'd like fresh tuna, please,”
Pewter purred, half closing her eyes, which gave her a sweet countenance.

Murphy and Tucker reached the hospital just as the loading dock was shutting down. They scooted in, hearing the big rolling doors lock behind them.

“Going to be a long night,”
Murphy observed.

“Yeah but someone might open the back door later. We'll get out.”

“No matter what, we know we can escape in the morning. I bet if we scrounge around we'll find something to eat.”

They could hear the elevator doors open and close. The shift was changing. Day workers were going home and the night crew, much smaller in number, was coming to work. Then silence. Not even a footfall.

Just to make sure they remembered the layout they walked down the halls, checked the boiler room in the center, poked their heads into those closet doors that were open.

Finally they walked into the carton room.

“Clever, leaving this door open, filling it with cartons. As though there is nothing to hide,”
Murphy noted.

“You can hide better than I can.”
Tucker searched the room.
“What if I lie flat over here in the darkest corner and you push a carton over me. I think that will work. After all, no one is expecting a corgi here.”

“Right.”

As Murphy covered up Tucker they both heard a footfall, a light footfall.

Wordlessly, the cat climbed to the top of the cartons, wedging herself between two of them. She could see everything. Tucker's face, ears covered, poked out from the carton in the dark corner. Both held their breath.

Tussie Logan softly walked inside carrying a pump. She pressed the stone in the wall. The floor door slid aside. She climbed down the ladder, pressed a button down there, and the floor quietly closed up.

Neither animal moved. Three hours later the floor yawned open. Tussie climbed up the ladder, then pressed the stone. She watched the flagstone roll back, tested it with her foot, brushed off her hands, put her nurse's cap back on, and left, yawning as she walked.

They could hear her move down the hall but she didn't go to the elevator bank. Instead she opened the back door and left.

Tucker grunted as she shook off the carton.
“That floor is cold.”

“Let's see if we can get out of here.”

The two hurried to the lone door at the end of the hall.

Tucker stood on her hind legs.
“You maybe can do this.”

Murphy reached up but it was a little high.
“Nope.”

“Get on my back.”

The cat hopped onto the corgi's strong back. She easily reached the doorknob and her clever paws did the rest. They opened the door and scooted out without bothering to close it.

Within twenty minutes they were scratching at Miranda's back door.

She opened it. “Nine-thirty at night and cold. Now just what were you two bad critters doing out there?”

“If only we could tell you,”
Mrs. Murphy sighed.

“Come on. Bet you're hungry,” said the kindly woman, who would feed the world if she could figure out how.

When the phone rang at ten that same cold night Mim, early to bed, grudgingly picked it up.

A muffled voice said, “Your barn, tomorrow morning at nine.” Then hung up.

Mim had caller ID and quickly called Sheriff Shaw at home.