Slanting rays of late-afternoon sun kissed the fields as Harry walked through them.

“Like butter.” She held her hand over her eyes as a shield. Today, even her summer straw cowboy hat didn’t do the trick.

Mrs. Murphy, Pewter, and Tucker listened as the human they loved most rambled on.

Like most people, Harry happily babbled to her pets. She thought of them as pets. That wasn’t their attitude.

Mrs. Murphy believed she had to think for both Harry and her husband. They were so slow.

Pewter considered herself a small gray divinity. She felt no call to think for the humans.

Tucker knew her job was to protect and defend, as well as to herd horses into or out of the barn. She used to herd humans, but their resistance to canine direction finally broke her of trying.

“The hay looks good,” said Harry, “especially the alfalfa. I think I can cut it next week. That’s a happy thought. Do you all know I made twenty thousand dollars last year selling hay? Now, I know that’s a drop in the bucket compared to the big hay dealers, but really, really good for me.” She beamed as the slender green blades brushed against her thigh.

“Smells good,” Mrs. Murphy noted.

“Especially when it’s freshly cut.” Tucker lived by her nose.

To a lesser extent, so did Pewter. She stopped as she picked up rabbit scent, a fragile aroma. In her booming meow, she called out, “Mother and baby bunnies passed through, um, maybe fifteen minutes ago.”

“You just figure that out?” Tucker teased her.

“I hate you, I really do.” The gray cat sped through the hay, blew past the dog and cat, and shot in front of Harry, slightly knocking her leg in the process.

“Pewter.”

“Faster than a speeding bullet,” Pewter chanted, having watched the Superman movies with Harry.

“Fatter than a cannonball,” Tucker called out.

That insult provoked the gray cat to stop abruptly, puff up like a broody hen with tail like a bottle brush, hop sideways, and hiss loudly. “Death to corgis.”

Tucker, knowing Pewter’s temper, fell behind Mrs. Murphy.

“Thanks,” the tiger cat drily said.

“She’s not mad at you.” Tucker’s ear dropped in apology.

“Pewter, move.” Harry reached the fearsome cat. “I don’t want to make more paths in the hay.”

Pewter peered around Harry’s legs. “Coward.”

“I am not a coward,” Tucker called back. “You’re in one of your moods.”

“Pewter.” Harry looked down at the cat, still puffed up.

“All right.” She smoothed her fur, then walked in front of Harry, her sashay more pronounced than usual.

Under her breath, Tucker said to Mrs. Murphy, “She’s so conceited.”

The sleek, beautiful tiger turned her head, swept her whiskers forward and back, then continued behind Harry, quite happy to walk in the clearing that the larger, two-legged animal made.

Finally, on the other side of the hay, expanses of rolling pasture unfurled. To their left flowed the strong running creek, its deep banks dividing Harry’s farm from the old Jones place. Even though Cooper had been renting it, it would always be the old Jones place.

About a half mile in front of Harry was the base of the Blue Ridge Mountains, and she had a nice stand of timber, which itself was wrapped by a huge stand—more than a thousand acres—owned by Susan Tucker. This had been inherited from Susan’s much-beloved uncle.

Harry briskly trotted across the pasture to the edge of the forest. She managed her own stand and Susan’s, checking for signs of destructive bugs, curling leaves, or too many woodpecker holes—all signs of disease. The Tuckers were not really farmers or timber people. Ned, Susan’s husband, was serving his first term as a representative in the state senate. Anyway, Harry loved doing it. Never seemed like a chore.

She sat down on a large fallen log, careful that no bees’ nests lurked inside or nasty red ants crawled about. Not seeing any mounds or activity on the hickory trunk, she sat down and told her friends all that she had seen that afternoon.

“Awful,” Tucker sympathized.

Harry dropped her hand on the dog’s broad, glossy skull. “I ask myself, why would someone—in broad daylight, mind you—brain someone? What if one of the fellows came back from lunch early? What if Kyle had wandered back into the garage?” She paused. “Actually, Kyle doesn’t seem like a young man motivated to do any more than necessary.” She thought, propping her chin in the palm of her hand. “The killer must have known that.”

“Mom, how come you always wind up in these messes?” Tucker cast her soft brown eyes upward.

“Bad timing. I mean, it’s not like she went looking for it, which we all know she can do and has.” Mrs. Murphy raised a silky eyebrow.

“Car accident with Miranda, now this.” Pewter washed one paw.

“It seems to me that the killer had a narrow window of opportunity, clearly knew that, and acted. It could be I’m missing something, but that’s what I deduce so far. Oh, and another thing: No one appeared too sorry over Walt’s demise. I mean, when something like this happens, you generally hear the workers or friends expressing pity, sorrow, how many children he left fatherless. Stuff like that. Well, walking through the waiting room I didn’t hear a peep or see one tear.” She lifted her head as a large bird flew over the treetops, letting out a raucous call. “My God, that’s a golden eagle. You hardly ever see them here.” Harry stood up to watch the huge bird continue on.

“Better not come down here.” Pewter puffed out her chest.

“Pewts, that bird could have any one of us for lunch,” Mrs. Murphy said, as she also watched the eagle fly away.

The gray cat didn’t reply, instead focusing her attention on a little slithering lizard, which easily eluded the one exposed claw meant to impale it. Pewter retracted the claw, then returned to her toilet as though she hadn’t cared one iota about the lizard.

Sitting back down, Harry said, “I’ll be glad when Fair gets home. He often has good ideas. I called him after I dropped off Herb and Susan. You know, he is just the sweetest man in the world. He said he’d take the day off, get another vet to cover his calls, and come home if I was shaken up. I’m not, really. I mean, it was gross. Gross. Bits of skull and brains and not lots of blood actually.” Looking intently at her three friends, she said, voice loud, “Do you know that brains are kind of blue?”

“We know.” The three chimed in unison.

“And another thing: Why a tire iron? Well, a gun would draw attention, but a knife would work. Then again, you have to get closer to stab someone. But Walt could have ducked. Maybe he did. Still, a tire iron. Must be a big hate.”

“She’s off and running,” Tucker noted with resignation.

“The killer had to be a man. First of all, it was so violent. You need a lot of power to bash in someone’s brains. But then, well, I could do it. BoomBoom’s strong enough to do it. Know what I mean? Anyway, this really troubles me.”

“We know.” Again, the three chimed in unison.

Harry tickled Mrs. Murphy’s ears as the cat sat next to her on the log. “I think I know people. Then I wonder.”

“Start with yourself,” Pewter smarted off.