“What the—”
“Pewter, what do you have?” BoomBoom called out.
“Mine. All mine!” The gray cat dropped a fried chicken wing, then picked it up, hurrying to the supply closet, door open.
Just then Harry pushed through the door, her face red. “Pewter.”
“She’s not here,” Pewter called from the closet.
Carmen pointed to the closet, as did the others.
“Your lunch?” Tavener laughed jovially.
“Worse. Herbie’s.”
“It’s half a block from the post office to here. That’s a long haul for such a tubby pussycat.” Tavener thought this was pretty funny.
“The Rev is back in the post office blessing her this very minute.” Harry strode to the closet. “I see you in there.” She stooped down, scooped up the cat, who would not release the chicken wing from her jaws. “God will get you for this, Pewter.”
The cat refused to open her mouth.
As Harry left, Tavener laughed and laughed. “Would you like to hear Herb right now? The air is blue. Then he’ll remember himself and apologize profusely.”
“It’s amazing how strong a little animal can be when it’s defending itself or wants something.” BoomBoom loved all animals.
“That’s what upsets me about Barry.” Carmen looked up at BoomBoom. “His throat was ripped out. Why didn’t he fight? I think there’s something out there.”
“Now, Carmen, don’t let your imagination get the better of you,” Tavener said soothingly.
27
The old wood from the shed, neatly stacked, bore testimony to Harry’s hard work and essential frugality. She wasn’t cheap but she saved anything that might be useful, and the boards could repair breaks in the fence line.
Blair’s new fence posts, in bundles, rested next to the old wood.
She’d worked each night of the week to dismantle the old shed. The supporting posts she pulled out with her tractor, then filled in the holes with pounded rock dust.
At five-thirty Saturday morning, June 19, she fed the new mares, as well as Tomahawk, Poptart, and Gin Fizz. Her tea steamed from the small slit in her carrying cup as she put it down on the desk in the tack room. The mice, sound asleep behind the tack trunk, didn’t stir.
Harry’s favorite time, early morning, was shared by Mrs. Murphy and Tucker. Pewter liked breakfast, but she wasn’t by nature an early riser. Today she awoke, ate, then curled up on the kitchen chair, her tail covering her nose.
“Mrs. Murphy! What a good girl you are.” Harry held up a dead mouse.
“Thank you.” Mrs. Murphy had caught a field mouse and put it on the tack-room desk.
Harry didn’t know where the mouse came from, but she believed her barn was being expertly patrolled.
Harry placed the mouse on the floor. She’d take it outside and bury it as soon as she checked her barn list. Each evening, her last chore in the barn was making tomorrow’s list. A big notepad with different colors of paper sat on the left-hand back corner. Each day she pulled off a different color; today’s was neon yellow. That way she wouldn’t confuse her chores. It irritated her to carry one day’s chores to the next day. She felt she had failed or, worse, had been idle.
“Idle hands do the devil’s work.” This phrase looped through her head regularly, for she had heard it since childhood from her grandparents and her parents.
“Hmm.” Mrs. Murphy read the list with Harry as she was sitting in Harry’s lap. “You’d better stake out the outside wall of your shed before you start digging new post holes.”
Tucker guarded the dead mouse. “We should put this under Pewter’s chair, then listen to her fib about how she killed it. She can tell stories.”
“She’s an honest cat until it comes to hunting. Even a fisherman can’t keep up with her lies.” Mrs. Murphy laughed, the distinctive odor of dark tea curling into her nostrils.
Harry’s list ran in two parallel columns. The left-hand column was the chores she needed to accomplish. The right-hand column was the calls she needed to make.
“All right, let’s go stake this thing.”
“She listened.” Tucker’s ears pricked up.
“Luck, plus it’s the obvious thing to do.”
Harry scooped up the mouse, buried it under the big lilac bush. Since it was a little mouse this took two minutes. Then she grabbed a ball of chalk-impregnated orange twine out of the truck. She’d bought the twine at the building-supply store. She had enough odd wood bits to make stakes.
She walked over to the site. “All right, you two, the trick is to double the size of the old shed and enclose ten feet by twenty feet for tools. I want a workbench, a band saw, and Peg-Board, too. Everything up on the wall, and I’ll put in a sturdy door that I can lock. Might as well do it right. And I’ve still got three huge bays, so I can put the dually and horse trailer in the shed with my tractor. Guess I can put the old Ford truck in, too, but it’s so handy to have that truck by the back door. Oh, this is exciting. And a standing seam tin roof, yes.”
She’d totaled up her sums and knew she could afford it, because Tazio, as clever as she was brilliant—the two qualities being unrelated—had been squirreling away odds and ends from her other jobs.
Harry would need to pay for the roof, gutters, and downspouts, but other than that, she and Tazio had scavenged the other materials, including two windows for the toolroom/workroom.
At eight in the morning, Tazio, Cooper, Blair, and Paul showed up to help. Susan came around ten with a cooler full of fried chicken, macaroni salad, sandwiches, cookies, and a second cooler with drinks. Fair was on call that weekend, so he couldn’t be there.
Butterflies floated overhead. Robins sang as goldfinches and cardinals darted from tree limb to tree limb. The noisy bluejay contented himself by squawking at Pewter, who, now wide awake, was watching the workers from the open door of the hayloft.
“I will kill that bird if it’s the last thing I do,” Pewter swore.
Simon, playing with a broken Pelham chain that once hung on Gin Fizz’s bit, one of his many treasures, said, “Ignore him. He’s a blowhard.”
Mrs. Murphy, hidden under enormous peonies, all of them blooming late because of the unusually cool, long spring, stifled a laugh. The bluejay, intent on tormenting Pewter, swooped in front of the gray cat, then dove like a fighter jet to the lilac bush that was at the corner of the yard by the back door. The peonies, which should have been in a better line, meandered out across the lawn. Mrs. Murphy’s big showy white ones were near the lilac bush.
“Stupid fat cat!” the handsome bluejay rasped, then hopped from the lilac bush to the newly mown lawn. He strutted and screamed more obscenities. He walked straight toward the white peonies, his tail feathers spread and his head high.
Like lightning, Mrs. Murphy sprang from her hiding place, one swift paw slamming onto his tail, but he was quick. He twisted and narrowly escaped, leaving Mrs. Murphy with two long blue-striped tail feathers.
“You almost got him!” Pewter, in her excitement, leaned too far out the hayloft opening and began to fall. Her sharp claws dug into the wood and she hung on, finally hauling herself up.
“Pewts, I would have broken your fall,” Tucker, now looking straight up, promised.
“Thank God for claws.” The gray cat breathed a long sigh.
“I’d have made a hole in the dirt,” Simon said. “My claws aren’t that good.”