Free Puss 'N Cahoots by Rita Mae Brown Page B

sideways; some clothes were off the hangers. Two slight indentations, like skid marks, were on the sisal rug thrown on the dirt floor.
    â€œHe didn’t have time to put up much of a fight, but he tried,”
Mrs. Murphy noted.
“His killer dragged him backward, see.”
    Tucker walked over to Mrs. Murphy.
“His boot heels dug in.”
    The changing room was twelve feet by twelve feet, the size of a nice stall.
    Mrs. Murphy, pupils as wide as they could get, also noticed the tack trunk askew.
“A human could hide behind that. It’s a huge tack trunk.”
    â€œMaybe he didn’t have to hide,”
Cookie replied.
    â€œTrue enough,”
Tucker, now sniffing every surface, agreed.
    Apart from her formidable kitty curiosity, Mrs. Murphy possessed sangfroid. She walked onto the man’s lap, stood on her hind legs, and peered at the wound, a little blood still seeping; the huge squirts from when the throat was first severed had shot out onto the sisal rug. As the heartbeat had slowed, the blood ran over his shirtfront and jeans.
    Mrs. Murphy didn’t like getting sticky blood on her paws, but there was no time to waste. Who knew when a human would barge in, screwing up everything? She sniffed the wound, noticing the edges of it.
    â€œWhoever did this used a razor-sharp blade or even a big hand razor like professional barbers use. It’s neat. Not ragged.”
    â€œProfessional job?”
Tucker wondered.
    â€œThat or someone accustomed to sharp tools,”
Murphy answered.
    â€œA doctor, a vet, a butcher, a barber.”
Cookie was fascinated, as this was her first exposure to human killing.
    â€œThe cut is left to right,”
the keenly observant tiger informed the others.
“If he grabbed him from behind, hand over mouth, and pulled his head back to really expose the neck, he’d slice left to right if he was right-handed.”
    As the cat scrutinized the wound, Tucker touched her nose to his opened right palm. His temperature hadn’t dropped; the blood hadn’t started to dry or clot. This murder was just minutes old.
    â€œHey.”
Tucker stepped back, blinking.
    Cookie, who had touched her nose to his left hand, walked over to Tucker.
“That’s weird.”
    Mrs. Murphy dropped back on all fours and looked at his opened palm from the vantage point of sitting on his thigh.
“Two crosses.”
Tucker wondered,
“Two? Maybe he was extra religious.”
    â€œIt’s cut into his palm but more scratched than cut real deep.”
Cookie turned her head to view the palm from another angle.
    Just then the curtain was pulled back and Harry and Joan stepped inside, flashlights in hand, quickly pulling the curtain behind them.
    â€œOh, my God,” Joan gasped, but she held steady.
    â€œJorge!” Harry exclaimed.
    Larry, having grabbed one of the many stashed flashlights, pushed his way into the changing room. Fair, right behind, guarded the curtained entrance once inside.
    Meanwhile, Renata had collapsed in the aisle right outside the hospitality room. Frances, mother of eight children, was equal to any crisis. She propped up the beautiful actress, called for a bottle of water. In the darkness, people fumbled about; a few slipped out, knowing the authorities would show up sooner or later and they’d be questioned, held for who knew how long.
    Manuel, another flashlight in hand, fetched water and knelt beside Renata.
    As Renata’s eyelids fluttered, Frances fanned her with a lace handkerchief. “You need a little water, Renata.”
    When Renata opened her eyes, she let out another bone-chilling scream that was so loud, Frances dropped the bottle of water she’d just taken from Manuel. The water spurted out, but Frances quickly picked it up, wiping off the mouthpiece.
    Manuel held Renata steady, for she was prepared to scream more. Finally the two got her under some control.
    Paul Hamilton, soaked to the skin, hurried