Wish You Were Here by Rita Mae Brown Page A

didn’t know what possessed her. Maybe it was the suppressed suffering in the Craycroft house, or the sight of Mim grimly doing her duty. Wouldn’t everyone be better off if they bellowed fury at God and tore their hair? This containment oddly frightened her. At any rate she stared Little Marilyn right in those deep blue eyes and said, “Marilyn, does Stafford know you’re getting married?”
    Little Marilyn, thrown, stuttered, “No.”
    â€œWe aren’t close, Marilyn. But if I never do anything else for you in your life let me do this one thing: Ask your brother to your wedding. You love him and he loves you.” Harry put down her ginger ale and left.
    Little Marilyn Sanburne, face burning, said nothing, then quickly sought out her mother and father.
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    Bob Berryman’s hand rested on the doorknob of Maude’s shop. She had turned the lights out. No one could see them, or so they thought.
    â€œDoes she suspect?” Maude whispered.
    â€œNo,” Berryman told her to reassure her. “No one suspects anything.”
    He quietly slipped out the back door, keeping to the deep shadows. He had parked his truck blocks away.
    Pewter, out for a midnight stroll, observed his exit. She made a mental note of it and of the fact that Maude waited a few moments before going upstairs to her apartment over the shop. The lights clicked on, giving Pewter a tantalizing view of the bats darting in and out of the high trees near Maude’s window.
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    That night Mrs. Murphy and Tucker tried to distract Harry from her low mood. One of their favorite tricks was the Plains Indian game. Mrs. Murphy would lie on her back, reach around Tucker, and hang on like an Indian under a pony. Tucker would yell,
“Yi, yi, yi,”
as though she were scared, then try to dump her passenger. Harry laughed when they did this. Tonight she just smiled.
    The dog and cat followed her to bed and when they were sure she was sound asleep they bolted out the back door, which contained an animal door that opened into a dog run. Mrs. Murphy knew how to throw the latch, though, and the two of them loped across the meadows, fresh-smelling with new-mown hay.
    There wasn’t a car on the road.
    About half a mile from the concrete plant Mrs. Murphy spied glittering eyes in the brush.
“Coon up ahead.”
    â€œThink he’ll fight?”
Tucker stopped for a minute.
    â€œIf we have to make a detour, we might not get back by morning.”
    Tucker called out,
“We won’t chase you. We’re on our way to the concrete plant.”
    â€œThe hell you won’t,”
the raccoon snarled.
    â€œHonest, we won’t.”
Mrs. Murphy sounded more convincing than Tucker.
    â€œMaybe you will and maybe you won’t. Give me a head start. I might believe you then.”
With that the wily animal disappeared into the bushes.
    â€œLet’s go,”
Mrs. Murphy said.
    â€œAnd let’s hope he keeps his promise. I’m not up for a fight with one of those guys tonight.”
    The raccoon kept his word, didn’t jump out at them, and they arrived at the plant within fifteen minutes.
    The dew held what scent there was on the ground. Much had evaporated. Gasoline fumes and rock dust pervaded. Human smells were everywhere, as was the scent of wet concrete and stale blood. Tucker, nose to the ground, kept at it. Mrs. Murphy checked out the office building. She couldn’t get in. No windows were open; there were no holes in the foundation. She grumbled.
    A tang exploded in Tucker’s nostrils.
“Here!”
    Mrs. Murphy raced over and put her nose to the ground.
“Where’s it go?”
    â€œIt doesn’t.”
Tucker couldn’t fathom this.
“It’s just a whiff, like a little dot. No line. Like something spilled.”
    â€œIt does smell like a turtle.”
The cat scratched behind her ears.
    â€œKinda.”
    â€œI’ve never smelled anything