Yours,
M.J.R.
“God bless her soul.” Mrs. Hogendobber prayed. The little group bowed their heads in prayer and out of respect.
67
Mrs. Murphy sat beside Pewter in Mrs. Hogendobber’s garden. The stakes for the peas and tomatoes all had been driven into place at last.
“I guess you all are lucky to be alive.”
“I guess so. She was crazy behind the wheel of that car.” Mrs. Murphy knocked a small clod of earth over one of the rows. “You know, humans believe in things that aren’t real. We don’t. That’s why it’s better to be an animal.”
“Like a social position?” Pewter followed Mrs. Murphy’s train of thought.
“Money, clothes, jewelry. Foolish things. At least Harry doesn’t do that.”
“Um. Might be better if she did believe in money a little bit.”
Mrs. Murphy shrugged. “Ah, well, can’t have everything. And this color thing. It doesn’t matter if a cat is black or white as long as it catches mice.”
Tucker nosed out of the back door of the post office. “Hey, hey, you all. Come around to the front of the post office.”
The cats trotted down the tiny path between the post office and the market. They screeched to a halt out front. Fair Haristeen, bestride a large gray mare and wearing his hunting clothes, rode into the post office parking lot. Mim Sanburne stood out front.
Harry opened the front door. Mrs. Hogendobber was right on her heels. “What are you doing? Vetting a horse on Main Street?”
“No. I’m giving you your new fox hunter and I’m doing it in front of your friends. If I took her to the farm, you’d turn me down because you don’t like to take anything from anybody. You’re going to have to learn how, Harry.”
“Hear. Hear.” Mim seconded the appeal.
“She’s big—and what bone.” Harry liked her on sight.
“Take the horse, Mom,” Tucker barked.
“May I pet him?” Miranda tentatively reached out.
“Her. Poptart by name and she’s got three floating gaits and jumps smooth as silk.” Fair grinned.
“I can arrange to pay you over time.” Harry folded her arms over her chest.
“No. She’s a gift from Mim and me to you.”
That really surprised Harry.
“I like her color,” said the gray cat.
“Think Mom will take her?” Tucker asked.
Mrs. Murphy nodded. “Oh, it will take a while, but she will. Mother can love. It’s letting someone love her. That’s what’s hard. That’s what this is all about.”
“How’d you get so smart?” Tucker came over and sat next to the tiger cat.
“Feline intuition.”
Dear Highly Intelligent Feline:
Tired of the same old ball of string? Well, I’ve developed my own line of catnip toys, all tested by Pewter and me. Not that I love for Pewter to play with my little sockies, but if I don’t, she shreds my manuscripts. You see how that is!
Just so the humans won’t feel left out, I’ve designed a T-shirt for them.
If you’d like to see how creative I am, write to me and I’ll send you a brochure.
Sneaky Pie Brown
c/o American Artists, Inc.
P.O. Box 4671
Charlottesville, VA 22905
In felinity,
SNEAKY PIE BROWN
P.S. Dogs, get a cat to write for you!
Books by Rita Mae Brown with Sneaky Pie Brown
WISH YOU WERE HERE
REST IN PIECES
MURDER AT MONTICELLO
PAY DIRT
MURDER, SHE MEOWED
MURDER ON THE PROWL
CAT ON THE SCENT
SNEAKY PIE’S COOKBOOK FOR MYSTERY LOVERS
PAWING THROUGH THE PAST
CLAWS AND EFFECT
CATCH AS CAT CAN
THE TAIL OF THE TIP-OFF
WHISKER OF EVIL
Books by Rita Mae Brown
THE HAND THAT CRADLES THE ROCK
SONGS TO A HANDSOME WOMAN
THE PLAIN BROWN RAPPER
RUBYFRUIT JUNGLE
IN HER DAY
SIX OF ONE
SOUTHERN DISCOMFORT
SUDDEN DEATH
HIGH HEARTS
STARTING FROM SCRATCH:
A DIFFERENT KIND OF WRITERS’ MANUAL
BINGO
VENUS ENVY
DOLLEY: A NOVEL OF DOLLEY MADISON IN LOVE AND WAR
RIDING SHOTGUN
RITA WILL: MEMOIR OF A LITERARY RABBLE-ROUSER
LOOSE LIPS
OUTFOXED
HOTSPUR
FULL CRY
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RITA MAE BROWN
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SNEAKY PIE BROWN
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Barry Monteith was still breathing when Harry found him. His throat had been ripped out.
Tee Tucker, a corgi, racing ahead of Mary Minor Haristeen as well as the two cats, Mrs. Murphy and Pewter, found him first.
Barry was on his back, eyes open, gasping and gurgling, life ebbing with each spasm. He did not recognize Tucker nor Harry when they reached him.
“Barry, Barry.” Harry tried to comfort him, hoping he could hear her. “It will be all right,” she said, knowing perfectly well he was dying.
The tiger cat, Mrs. Murphy, watched the blood jet upward.
“Jugular,” fat, gray Pewter succinctly commented.
Gently, Harry took the young man’s hand and prayed, “Dear Lord, receive into thy bosom the soul of Barry Monteith, a good man.” Tears welled in her eyes.
Barry jerked, then his suffering ended.
Death, often so shocking to city dwellers, was part of life here in the country. A hawk would swoop down to carry away the chick while the biddy screamed useless defiance. A bull would break his hip and need to be put down. And one day an old farmer would slowly walk to his tractor only to discover he couldn’t climb into the seat. The Angel of Death placed his hand on the stooping shoulder.
It appeared the Angel had offered little peaceful deliverance to Barry Monteith, thirty-four, fit, handsome with brown curly hair, and fun-loving. Barry had started his own business, breeding thoroughbreds, a year ago, with a business partner, Sugar Thierry.