The Purrfect Murder

smiled.
    “Oh,”
Pewter said airily,
“she doesn’t scare me. You can hear the leaves when she drops. I always know it’s her.”
    Neither Mrs. Murphy nor Tucker responded. Each was praying Matilda would drop on the fat cat and they’d be there to witness the explosion.
    The sky turned from deep blue to Prussian blue and finally to black. The stars glittered brightly, and the three friends picked out blue ones, pink ones, yellow ones, and stark white ones. They hadn’t seen the stars this bright for the last three months, since the summer’s haze dropped its veil over the sky, even at night.
    “Whenever a human is murdered, the apple cart is upset. Ever notice?”
Tucker mused.
    “Like dominoes set on end. Push one and they all fall down,”
Mrs. Murphy commented.
“But if a dog was shot, we’d be upset. We’d want to find out who did it and make them pay.”
    “That’s just it, isn’t it?”
Pewter, back up on the fence post, picked the tiny grass bits from her claws.
“Even if a human gets caught, they get off most of the time, if they’re rich. If they aren’t rich, they sit in jail, get three squares a day. All that manpower wasted.”
She spat out a green tidbit.
“I say, shoot their sorry asses. Harry was reading the paper out loud and said it costs about $100,000 per year per prisoner. Think of the catnip that would buy.”
    Mrs. Murphy laughed.
“That’s why eighty percent of them are in there, selling human catnip.”
    “I don’t understand it,”
Tucker confessed.
    “Neither do the humans. They want to feel good about themselves and waste money. Doesn’t solve squat.”
Pewter, crabby since Flatface scared her, enjoyed moaning about this.
    “Well, that’s the nature of the beast. We aren’t going to change it,”
Mrs. Murphy wisely noted.
“They never really address an issue until it’s a full-blown crisis. Kind of like the War between the States. They knew at the Constitutional Convention they had to resolve slavery as well as some major economic differences between the North and the South. Eighty years pass. Nothing. And then hundreds of thousands die, to say nothing of the million and a half horses and mules. It’s not any different now, whether it’s crime or global warming.”
    “Are you reading over Harry’s shoulder again?”
Tucker asked.
    “Yep.”
Mrs. Murphy watched a shooting star.
“So here’s my question: where’s the crisis? Will Wylde is shot dead. That doesn’t mean that’s the crisis. See?”
    “No, I don’t see.”
Pewter turned to look at her friend.
    “Murder is common, let’s face it.”
The tiger cat watched some rabbits at the far edge of the pasture.
“For all we know, this is a garden-variety murder dressed up in politics. Everyone jumps to conclusions. My hunch is…well, it’s like the equinox: the earth tips on its axis. Something is tipping but we don’t know what. And if it doesn’t involve our humans, I don’t care.”
    “Tipping like a power shift?”
Tucker asked shrewdly.
    “Could be,”
Mrs. Murphy said.
    “You know as well as I do, Murph, that Harry will stick her nose in it. She can’t help herself. Curiosity didn’t kill the cat, it killed the human who made up the statement.”
Pewter had always hated that axiom about curiosity.
    “Let’s not talk about killing. It’s such a beautiful night, I want to enjoy it,”
Tucker pleaded.
    They inhaled the night’s sweet fragrance, enjoying one another’s company for five minutes.
    Flatface returned to the barn with a squirming mouse in her talons, which finally ruined the mood. Mrs. Murphy hoped it wasn’t a portent, but it was.

11
    W hy didn’t you tell me the other day!” Carla, hands on hips, spoke crossly to Mike McElvoy.
    “Because I didn’t check it out. Tazio and I focused on the kitchen.”
    “So now you’re telling me, let me get this right, egress—”
    He interrupted her, further infuriating her. “Forget the terminology; you need a door in the guest bedroom to the outside.”
    “Why? I’ve been in hundreds of houses, and there are no exterior doors from guest bedrooms.”
    “And I’ll guarantee you those houses were built before 2000. The county changed the code.” Mike, sleeves rolled up on his plaid shirt, shrugged.
    “What’s the point? To make more money for the construction crew? You aren’t getting any of it. The county’s not getting any of it.”
    “The point is in case of fire, whoever is in that room can get outside in a