The Purrfect Murder

have this installed before the reunion, just in case the weather does turn cold.”
    “With luck the old boiler ought to hold out for another month or two. First frost usually hits us mid-October. We’ll make it, I hope. You know, that old furnace is cast iron. A welder will need to dismantle it to get it out of there. That will take days. They don’t build things like they used to,” Tazio said with a big grin.
    Harry finally noticed Tucker. “What did I tell you?”
    Tazio walked back to the supply room, returning with a dog treat called a Greenies. She handed it to a grateful Tucker. “Made in Missouri.”
    “Well, then it has to be good.” Harry laughed. “Come on, kids.”
    “I want the eraser.”
Mrs. Murphy carried the item in her mouth.
    Harry had reached down to pluck it from those jaws when Tazio said, “Keep it. Really. I have a carton.”
    “Thanks. You spoil my buddies.”
    “You don’t?” An eyebrow arched over one green eye.
    “Well…”
    “If you spoiled Fair like you spoil these three, he’d be fat as a tick.” Tazio mentioned Harry’s husband, who was six five, all muscle.
    “You know, I don’t think Fair will ever get fat. For one thing, if he doesn’t work it off, he’ll worry it off.”
    “He doesn’t strike me as a worrier.”
    “Maybe not in the traditional sense, but he’s always thinking about the future, investigating new technology and medications. His mind never stops.”
    “Neither does yours. That’s why you were made for each other.”
    “Guess so. All right, madam. I’ll get back to you.” She paused. “Speaking of made for each other, you and Paul seem to be.”
    Tazio shrugged and blushed.
    Harry opened the door and the three happy friends scooted out ahead of her. She got in the Ford, ran a few errands, then turned west toward the farm. Once down the long driveway, she could see her field of sunflowers, heads straight up to the sun, her quarter acre of Petit Manseng grapes ripening. How perfect.

2
    O ne acre of sunflowers towered over another acre of Italian sunflowers, their beautiful heads turned toward the sun. The centers, heavy with seeds, barely moved in the light breeze, which lifted the leaves on the wide, hollow stalks.
    Harry pulled the truck alongside the barn, cut the motor, and hopped out. Before returning to her chores, she stood, hands on hips, admiring the rich yellows of the big sunflowers and the subtle greenish white of the Italian variety. A twelve-foot grass swath ran between the sunflower acres and the grapes, pendulous beauties drooping on the vine. Since this was their first year, the grapes would not be picked but allowed to winter on the vine. This would thrill the foxes and birds.
    “Come on.”
    Mrs. Murphy and Tucker followed.
    “I need a nap.”
Pewter hesitated.
    “I’m sure you do,”
Mrs. Murphy agreed.
    The tiger’s ready reply made Pewter suspicious. Mrs. Murphy and Tucker must be hiding something.
    Harry walked along, Tucker alongside her, Mrs. Murphy behind, and Pewter bringing up the rear.
    “Thought you wanted a nap,”
Tucker called over her shoulder.
    “Decided I needed the exercise.”
Pewter’s dark-gray fur shone, a sign of her overall health.
    As they walked through the sunflower rows, insects buzzing, Harry paused, ran her fingers over a large head, then moved on. “Time for some rain.”
    A huge fake owl on a stake had thwarted some birds, but the blue jay paid no mind. Consequently, he’d eaten so much over the last month that his speed suffered. A red oak in the pasture next to the sunflower acres provided him with a refuge. He unfurled his topknot once the cats came into view. Lifting off, he circled the party once.
    “Pissants.”
    Pewter glanced up.
“Butt ugly.”
    The jay swooped low, just missing Pewter as he emitted what he’d eaten earlier. Satisfied, he returned to the red oak.
    “One day,”
Pewter grumbled.
    “Least it wasn’t a direct hit.”
Tucker tried to look on the bright side. The dog swiveled her large ears, then barked,
“Susan.”
    The cats stopped, turning their heads to listen for the Audi station wagon. It was a quarter mile from the house, but they, too, could hear the motor. Few humans can distinguish the unique sounds each set of tires produce, but for the dog and cats this was as easy as identifying someone wearing squeaky shoes.
    As the wagon approached the house, Harry finally heard it and turned to behold an arching plume of dust. “Damn, we really do