The Big Cat Nap

a face. “You looked.” She stopped, hands idle for a moment. “I used to think I’d make a good detective. You’re proving me wrong.”
    “What you are is a nosy neighbor—a good neighbor, but a nosy one who stumbles on evidence.” Coop elbowed her lightly. “But you see things I don’t. I have to go by the book. You can rely on inspiration.”
    They both laughed at that.
    “Last thing our mother needs to hear,”
Mrs. Murphy said.
“Now she’ll really be nosy.”
    “Odd that humans use that particular word when they have such terrible senses of smell,”
Tucker mused.
    “I gave a call to Susan and then Herb,” said Harry. “To check in. They’re okay.”
    “When I first came to the department, the reverend was driving a big Bronco. They’re so cool. The old Jeep Wagoneers are, too.”
    “Listen to you, and you’re not even a motorhead,” Harry teased her. “Speaking of motorheads, maybe you should go to the drag races. Just a thought.”
    Cooper smiled. “If I don’t, you will.”
    “Ah, come on, Coop. I love cars. Why shouldn’t I go?”
    “Why haven’t you gone before?” Cooper shrewdly asked.
    “I’m so busy with the farm. Get tired at night and the weekends. Fair’s home more now, but he’s not much for any kind of racing.”
    “Odd. You think he’d like horse racing.” Coop waited a moment. “When’s your next checkup?”
    “Next week.”
    “You’ll be fine,” Coop said encouragingly.
    “I think so, but it’s always in the back of my mind that the cancer may do a boomerang on me. Even when I pass the five-year mark, I expect I’ll still wonder. I know, I know, they say they got it all and nothing traveled.” She shrugged.
    “I’d feel the same way. On the other hand, I reckon a scare like that makes you appreciate life more. You don’t sweat the small stuff.”
    “That’s a fact, but, Coop, I’ve been looking out this kitchen window for forty years. Mom and Dad would hold me up or carry me out to the barn when I could hardly walk. For forty years I’ve looked at the Blue Ridge Mountains, heard the red-shouldered hawks, seen the raccoons, the deer, the fox, the bobcats, the dogwoods, redbuds, jack-in-the-pulpits, the wild roses. I’ve always appreciated life. The big difference is, now I know mine can end. Oh, we all know it.” She tapped her head. “But now I really know it.” She tapped her heart.
    “Karma.” Coop wrapped the lettuce in a dish towel.
    “What?”
    “To know that. And for all of us to be here together. I believe it’s karma.”
    “And what about what happened to Walt? Was that karma?” Harry wasn’t looking for an argument, just curious about Coop’s thoughts on the subject.
    “Yes. Had no friends. Family in Iowa. That’s all I’ve found out so far, but, yes, his death is karma.”
    A devilish gleam lit Mrs. Murphy’s gorgeous green eyes.
“Hey, Pewts, that means the blue jay that keeps attacking you, it’s your karma.”
    Pewter’s eyes widened, her pupils filling out, her tail lifting slightly, her whiskers a little back.
“Tapeworms are yours.”

A mister on a timer released tiny droplets of cool water as Harry lingered over the various types of lettuce, some varieties named with imagination, like Tidewater Romaine and Low Country Early Lettuce. Taking a step back, Harry looked down at the produce section of Yancy Hampton’s grocery store. Harry marveled at the freshness of it all, beholding the bounty: shiny eggplants, deep oranges, tangerines, apples in every red and green imaginable. She also marveled that these sumptuous vegetables and fruits were truly organic.
    As a farmer, Harry knew how insects, blight, various fungi, too much rain or not enough, could affect a crop. Few organic goodies glowed as these beauties did. Any of them would have been at home in a still-life painting of superabundance.
    Then, too, how do you define organic? Fresh. Yancy stressed the point by naming his store “Fresh! Fresh! Fresh!” The market constantly advertised the purity of its goods.
    The store also heavily advertised that it bought from local farmers. Walking its aisles, Harry conceded that buying tomatoes might be easy after all. They were the number-four crop in the state. Tobacco was third, corn second, and soybeans first.
    While she’d never seen a tobacco leaf in any store, the varieties of corn and tomatoes were prominently displayed. Maybe they were trucked in.
    Virginia collected $1.8 million in wine liter tax