The Purrfect Murder

helpful. In this case, she was blissfully ignorant of her daughter’s dilemma.
    “She’ll come out both guns blazing.”
    “She will.” Little Mim reached down to touch Doodle’s glossy head. Touching the dog reassured her, calmed her. “Harry, I can’t thank you enough.”
    “Don’t mention it, but, Little Mim, please, please be careful, and whatever you do, don’t lose your temper with your mother.”
    Easier said than done.

10
    Y esterday’s rains had scrubbed the sky, and the cleanness of the air intoxicated Mrs. Murphy as she sat on a paddock fence post, gazing at the twilight. Pewter perched on another fence post, and Tucker sat on the ground.
    Around the time of the autumnal equinox, the light began to change slightly, the winds from the west began to hum low over the mountains, and summer’s thick haze melted as if on command. Even the humans noticed.
    The nights grew cooler, the days shorter. Animals stepped lively, the vital business of securing food for the winter taking precedence for squirrels and other hoarders. The foxes, who usually found fresh supplies, created bigger caches just in case.
    This Sunday evening, the fiery sunset splashed red gold across the western horizon. It was all the more dramatic as the Blue Ridge Mountains deepened from blue to cobalt in front of Apollo’s show. Now streaks of pink and lavender enlivened the deepening velvet of oncoming night.
    “I love this time,”
Mrs. Murphy purred.
    “Me, too. The big moths come out,”
Pewter said.
    “You’ve never caught a moth, not even a rosy maple, and they sit still on boxwoods for a long time,”
Tucker taunted Pewter.
    “I didn’t say I wanted to catch one. I like to look at them and smell them.”
The gray cat lifted her chin.
“Since when have you caught anything, bubble butt?”
    “I don’t hunt, I herd.”
Tucker’s large brown eyes were merry.
“If you’d jump down, I’d herd you.”
    “You and what army? One swipe from my razor-sharp claws and your nose will look like a plowed field.”
Pewter lifted the fur on her back for effect.
    “Shut up,”
Mrs. Murphy snapped. She was intently looking way across all the fields toward the creek that separated Harry’s farm, which had always been in her paternal family, from the farm that Cooper rented, which originally belonged to Herb Jones’s ancestors.
    Pewter widened her pupils. She then saw the shuffling movement about a half mile away. The bear that lived up in the hardwoods behind the farm was moving toward the high ridges. They knew this bear; she’d had two cubs, which would be full grown and on hunting missions of their own by now. Sometimes the families would stay close, but usually they established their own hunting territories. Fortunately, this year game was plentiful.
    “Think she’d remember us?”
Pewter whispered.
    “Sure. Bears are smart.”
Mrs. Murphy respected the large, usually gentle bear.
    Then again, she was grateful that grizzlies lived in the west and not Virginia. The native bears usually kept to themselves and were no bother, although they might rip out the side of a clapboard house if a bees’ nest was behind it.
    “I can’t see,”
Tucker complained.
    “Runt.”
Pewter giggled.
    “You can be hateful, you know that?”
Tucker sat down, resting her head on the lowest plank of the three-board fence.
    A slight rustle picked all their heads up. Talons extended, Flatface, the great horned owl, flew not one inch over Pewter’s head. It scared the cat so badly, she soared off the fence post, rolling in the fragrant white clover.
    “Hoo hoo.”
The huge bird laughed, tipped a wing in greeting, and continued on her way.
    Tonight would be perfect for hunting.
    “That was mean!”
Pewter scrambled to her feet, tiny bits of grass stuck in her claws.

    “You know how she is.”
Tucker marveled at how silently the winged predator could fly.
    “Makes me think of Matilda and Simon. Those three live in the loft and everyone gets along,”
Pewter said.
“How they can get along with her, I don’t know.”
    “They get along because Flatface rules the roost, forgive the obvious statement,”
Mrs. Murphy replied.
“And Simon really is a generous fellow. He’ll share treats with Flatface. Matilda doesn’t like the sweets, but the owl will eat them. Course, Matilda usually goes into a semihibernation state. Have you noticed she’s been on that tree limb for two days?”
    “She’s waiting for a victim.”
Tucker