Cat on the Scent by Rita Mae Brown Page A

forward.
    â€œI'm staying home.”
Pewter sat down.
    â€œChicken,”
the dog teased her.
    â€œI'm not chicken. I don't feel like getting dirty, especially since I've just given myself a bath.”
    â€œWell, let's go.”
Murphy opened the screen door, Tucker immediately behind her. The door flapped twice. Pewter watched them bound over the meadow by the barn. She felt a pang of missing out but not enough to follow. She walked back inside, deciding to curl up on the 1930s chair with the mohair throw. She liked to snuggle in the mohair but wished Harry were wealthy enough to afford cashmere. Pewter craved luxury.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â 
    Reaching the first creek dividing Harry's property from Blair Bainbridge's, the cat and dog were stopped by high water.
    â€œUgly.”
Tucker paced the bank.
    â€œLet's go up to the beaver dam.”
    â€œIf it's standing.”
    â€œHasn't been that much water. Come on.”
    â€œI hate those beavers.”
Tucker did, too.
    â€œWe'll be across before they know it.”
    A quarter of a mile upstream the log-and-sapling lodge dominated the creek along with the sturdy dam the beavers had constructed.
    Carefully, Mrs. Murphy put one paw on the dam. She tested its sturdiness, then sped across, small splashes of water in her wake.
    Tucker whined but followed. Her progress wasn't as graceful but she made it. They were halfway across Blair's easternmost meadow before the beavers emerged from their lodge to inspect their dam.
    Lights at Blair's place caught their attention. A white Land Rover was parked in the driveway.
    â€œWonder what Archie's doing at Blair's?”
    Mrs. Murphy kept moving.
“Trying to borrow the Porsche.”
    They laughed until they reached the ridge, about seven hundred feet above sea level. They paused at the top, which bristled with rock outcroppings. Although only four miles across, the terrain was rugged in parts.

    After catching her breath, Mrs. Murphy nudged Tucker.
“Ready?”
    â€œYeah.”
    They swept down the ridge, skirting the thorn creepers and the underbrush, where they startled rabbits and one lurking fox. Mrs. Murphy hoped the bobcat was hunting somewhere else tonight.
    The last creek had an upturned tree fallen over it. Mrs. Murphy danced across it. Tucker chose to swim the creek.
    The abandoned buildings of the Urquhart farm shone silver in the moonlight, the slate roofs sparkling as though obsidian.
    The doors to the barn were shut.
    The two animals circled the barn, searching for burrows, preferably uninhabited. Mrs. Murphy looked up.
    The Dutch door of a stall was partially open, flapping in the gentle breeze.
    â€œI'll try it.”
Mrs. Murphy squatted down, paused a second, then sprang upward, reaching the slight opening before the top door banged back again. She dropped to the old hay on the stall floor.
    Walking over to the big doors, she pulled with her paw just enough to create a crack. Tucker wedged her nose in and both cat and dog pushed. The big door creaked back on its overhead track just enough for the powerful dog to push herself inside.
    Tucker stopped. Tommy Van Allen's plane was still parked in the middle of the vast center aisle.
“I'll be.”
    â€œYou sniff around the plane,”
Mrs. Murphy ordered.
“I'll get in the cockpit.”
    The tiger unleashed her claws, vaulting at a stall post. She shimmied up, reaching a massive cross beam, and walked along the top of it until the white plane was directly underneath, ten feet below.
    â€œThat's a big drop, Murphy.”
    â€œI know.”
Murphy stared down at the wing, backed up a bit, then jumped off the beam. She hit the wing with a thud, sliding a little in the process, leaving red clay marks to disturb the pristine whiteness.
    â€œYou okay?”
the dog called.
    â€œYes, but it's slick.”
The cat tiptoed to the edge of the cockpit. She easily opened the door, as the handle was large and turned