Cat on the Scent полностью

            “I wish I believed that.” He sighed. Beautiful women acquired men like dogs acquire fleas. All they had to do was walk through a room.

            “Did you shoot Tommy? Tell me the truth this time.”

            “No. I loved Tommy once.” She looked him square in the eye. “He had magic. It didn’t last long but I was so miserable with H. Archie, can’t you understand?”

            “I—”

            “He’ll kill me!”

            “All right. All right.” He stroked her hair.

            Try as he might, he couldn’t stop loving her. He kissed her. “Everything will be all right.” He walked to the foot of the stairs. “Blair.”

            The door opened. “Yes.”

            “I’m taking Sarah to the airport.”

            Blair clomped halfway down the stairs. “Everything okay?”

            “No,” Sarah tearfully confessed. “Blair, I can explain everything later. I just have to get out of here.”

            Archie hustled her into his Land Rover. Blair watched them start down the driveway. If he’d watched longer he would have seen that Archie turned right out of his driveway, not left toward the airport.

            52

            Pewter wedged herself underneath the camellia bush. She felt certain the blue jay would perch there and since she’d squeezed herself in and was still, he wouldn’t notice.

            Hunting was best in the morning or late afternoon. No animal likes to go to bed on an empty stomach. She knew she could grab the blue jay. She’d even gone to the trouble of scattering about bread crusts, which she fished out of the garbage when Harry’s back was turned.

            Pewter dreamed of ways to dispatch the bird, her favorite being a straight vertical leap, grasping the offender between her mighty paws, pulling him to the ground, and staring him in the eye before breaking his neck.

            “She who laughs last laughs best!” she told herself, revving her motor.

            She was ready!

            Pop.

            Mrs. Murphy, sitting on the haywagon next to the barn, out of Pewter’s way, heard it, too. She looked out toward Harry, who’d been inspired by the vision of that new John Deere to get up on Johnny Pop and overseed the front acres. Harry rolled along, the small seeder attached to the back of the tractor.

            “Pewter.”

            Pewter wouldn’t answer.

            Tucker, half-asleep under the haywagon, did. “What?”

            “Hear that?”

            “Yes.”

            “That wasn’t Johnny Pop.” Mrs. Murphy was worried.

            The old tractor would pop, pop, pop along but this pop was crisp.

            Pop!

            “Pewter, get out from under there. We’ve got to get to Blair’s.”

            Pewter backed farther underneath the camellia bush. She’ll do anything to spoil this. She doesn’t think I can kill the blue jay. She thinks she’s the Great Striped Hunter. I’ll show her, she thought to herself.

            Mrs. Murphy peeled off the haywagon, covering eight feet in the launch without even pushing hard. Tucker scrambled out.

            Pewter noticed the two racing across the fields toward Blair’s house. Torn, she grumbled, then slowly extricated herself from her perfect hiding place.

            “Fatso!” The blue jay, who’d been perched on the weathervane on top of the barn, screamed as he swooped over Pewter’s head.

            She leapt up, twisting in the air, but missed. “You’re toast,” she threatened but hurried after Mrs. Murphy and Tucker. The jay dive-bombed her part of the way, shrieking with delight.

            Mrs. Murphy didn’t turn to look for Pewter or wait.

            Pewter switched on the afterburners, her ears swept back, her whiskers flat against her face, her tail level to the ground. She veered right toward the creek, then dropped down onto the bank, ran alongside, found a shallow place, and ran through the water. No time to fool around and find another path. She reached Mrs. Murphy and Tucker as they crossed over by the old graveyard on the hill. The three animals flew down to Blair’s house.

            “Too late,” Mrs. Murphy said.

            Blair sat in his car, the door open. Blood ran down his forehead, marring the leather seat. He was slumped over to the right, his long torso behind the gearshift, his head on the passenger seat. The motor was running. He appeared to have been shot.

            Tucker licked his hand but Blair didn’t move.

            Sarah Vane-Tempest’s car was parked in front of the barn. Archie Ingram’s car was gone.

            Mrs. Murphy jumped into his lap. Pewter followed by gingerly stepping onto the floor on the driver’s side. The car was in neutral. Blair’s left foot was on the clutch, his right had turned up sideways.

            “Where’s he hit?” Tucker stood on her hind legs.

            “I don’t know.”

            “His legs are okay.” Pewter sniffed for blood. “What about his head?”

            Mrs. Murphy put her nose to Blair’s nose. She sniffed his lips, put a paw on his lower lip, and pulled it down. “Gums are white.”

            “But is he hit in the head?”