Puss 'N Cahoots

feet by twelve feet, the size of a nice stall.
    Mrs. Murphy, pupils as wide as they could get, also noticed the tack trunk askew.
“A human could hide behind that. It’s a huge tack trunk.”
    “Maybe he didn’t have to hide,”
Cookie replied.
    “True enough,”
Tucker, now sniffing every surface, agreed.
    Apart from her formidable kitty curiosity, Mrs. Murphy possessed sangfroid. She walked onto the man’s lap, stood on her hind legs, and peered at the wound, a little blood still seeping; the huge squirts from when the throat was first severed had shot out onto the sisal rug. As the heartbeat had slowed, the blood ran over his shirtfront and jeans.
    Mrs. Murphy didn’t like getting sticky blood on her paws, but there was no time to waste. Who knew when a human would barge in, screwing up everything? She sniffed the wound, noticing the edges of it.
    “Whoever did this used a razor-sharp blade or even a big hand razor like professional barbers use. It’s neat. Not ragged.”
    “Professional job?”
Tucker wondered.
    “That or someone accustomed to sharp tools,”
Murphy answered.
    “A doctor, a vet, a butcher, a barber.”
Cookie was fascinated, as this was her first exposure to human killing.
    “The cut is left to right,”
the keenly observant tiger informed the others.
“If he grabbed him from behind, hand over mouth, and pulled his head back to really expose the neck, he’d slice left to right if he was right-handed.”
    As the cat scrutinized the wound, Tucker touched her nose to his opened right palm. His temperature hadn’t dropped; the blood hadn’t started to dry or clot. This murder was just minutes old.
    “Hey.”
Tucker stepped back, blinking.
    Cookie, who had touched her nose to his left hand, walked over to Tucker.
“That’s weird.”
    Mrs. Murphy dropped back on all fours and looked at his opened palm from the vantage point of sitting on his thigh.
“Two crosses.”
Tucker wondered,
“Two? Maybe he was extra religious.”
    “It’s cut into his palm but more scratched than cut real deep.”
Cookie turned her head to view the palm from another angle.
    Just then the curtain was pulled back and Harry and Joan stepped inside, flashlights in hand, quickly pulling the curtain behind them.
    “Oh, my God,” Joan gasped, but she held steady.
    “Jorge!” Harry exclaimed.
    Larry, having grabbed one of the many stashed flashlights, pushed his way into the changing room. Fair, right behind, guarded the curtained entrance once inside.
    Meanwhile, Renata had collapsed in the aisle right outside the hospitality room. Frances, mother of eight children, was equal to any crisis. She propped up the beautiful actress, called for a bottle of water. In the darkness, people fumbled about; a few slipped out, knowing the authorities would show up sooner or later and they’d be questioned, held for who knew how long.
    Manuel, another flashlight in hand, fetched water and knelt beside Renata.
    As Renata’s eyelids fluttered, Frances fanned her with a lace handkerchief. “You need a little water, Renata.”
    When Renata opened her eyes, she let out another bone-chilling scream that was so loud, Frances dropped the bottle of water she’d just taken from Manuel. The water spurted out, but Frances quickly picked it up, wiping off the mouthpiece.
    Manuel held Renata steady, for she was prepared to scream more. Finally the two got her under some control.
    Paul Hamilton, soaked to the skin, hurried over from the large grandstand. Despite the thunder and rain, the piercing scream had reached the hundreds of people huddled there. All he could think about when he heard the screams was the safety of his wife and daughter. He didn’t know, initially, that the terror was coming from Barn Five.
    Joan, always fast-thinking, called her father on his cell as he hurried through the downpour.
    Larry had stepped back out of the changing room to see if he could find an umbrella for Paul. He found none. Larry walked outside into the storm just as Paul ran toward him, oblivious to the trees bending over, the rain slashing sideways. Joan’s call had given him a few minutes to compose himself.
    Larry led Paul through the people in the hospitality room. As Larry threw open the changing-room curtain, people tried to see, but there wasn’t enough light for them. Paul stepped in.
    Dead bodies didn’t rattle him—he’d seen enough in the war—but murder upset him. He felt a sudden chill as water dripped over his face, his