Rita Mae Brown: Catch as Cat Can, Kartoniert / Broschiert

Kurzbeschreibung

Ein neuer Mrs. Murphy-Krimi für jeden Fan und den, der es werden möchte. Frühling in Crozet, Zeit der Feste. Doch die heitere Stimmung wird durch zwei mysteriöse Todesfälle reichlich getrübt. New Mrs Murphy detective story for old fans and new. Spring in Crozet, time of celebrations. The upbeat mood is dampened by two mysterious deaths.

Rezension

"As feline collaborators go, you couldn't ask for better than Sneaky Pie Brown." - The New York Times Book Review
"Mrs. Murphy is [a] cat who detects her way into our hearts." - San Francisco Chronicle Book Review

Klappentext

Spring fever comes to the small town of Crozet, Virginia. As the annual Dogwood Festival approaches, postmistress Mary Minor "Harry” Haristeen feels her own mating instincts stir.

As for tiger cat Mrs. Murphy, feline intuition tells her there's more in the air than just pheromones. It begins with a case of stolen hubcaps and proceeds to the mysterious death of a dissolute young mechanic over a sobering cup of coffee. Then another death and a shooting lead to the discovery of a half-million crisp, clean dollar bills that look to be very dirty.

Now Harry is on the trail of a cold-blooded murderer. Mrs. Murphy already knows who it is--and who's next in line. She also knows that Harry, curious as a cat, does not have nine lives. And the one she does have is hanging by the thinnest of threads.

Auszüge aus dem Buch

Chapter One
Long, low strips of silver fog filled the green hollows and ravines of the Blue Ridge Mountains. The mists feathered over the creeks and rivers at six-thirty in the morning. Redbud was blooming, the tulips had opened. The white and pink dogwoods would explode in another week.
Mrs. Murphy, awake since five-thirty, snuggled next to Pewter, whose small snore sounded like a mud dauber at work, a low buzz. The two cats rested in the hollow of Mary Minor Haristeen's back while Tucker, the corgi, stretched out to her full length, most impressive, on the hooked rug next to the bed. She, too, snored slightly.
Murphy loved spring. Her undercoat would shed out, making her look sleeker and feel lighter. The robins returned, indigo buntings and bluebirds filled the skies. Down by the creek the redwing blackbirds snatched insects, gobbling them in one swallow. The scarlet tanagers flew into the orchards for their forays. The rise in the bird population excited the tiger cat even though she rarely caught one. Both she and Pewter dreamed of killing the blue jay who made their lives miserable. Hateful and aggressive, he would dart at them in a nosedive, scream as he got close, then pull up at the last moment just out of paw's reach. This particular blue jay also made a point of pooping on the clean clothes hung on the line to dry. Harry hated him, too. Harry was Mary Minor's nickname, which often surprised people upon meeting the young, good-looking woman.
People assumed her nickname derived from her married name but she had earned it in grade school because her clothes were liberally decorated with cat and dog hair. Her little friends hadn't yet mastered spelling, so hairy became harry. To this day some of her classmates remained on uneasy terms with spelling but rarely with Harry.
Outside the opened window, the cat heard the loud rat-ta-tat-tat of woodpeckers. She couldn't remember a spring with so many woodpeckers or so many yellow swallowtail butterflies.
The giant pileated woodpecker, close to two feet in length, proved a fearsome sight. This bird, found throughout the hickory and oak forests of central Virginia, was a primitive life-form and in repose one could almost see his flying reptile ancestors reflected in his visage.
The smaller woodpeckers, though large enough, seemed less fearsome. Mrs. Murphy enjoyed watching woodpeckers circle a tree, stop, peck for insects, then circle again. She noticed that some birds circled up and some circled down and she wondered why. She couldn't get close enough to one to ask because as soon as they'd see her, they'd fly off to another juicy tree.
As a rule, birds disdained conversation with cats. The mice, moles, and shrews happily chattered away from the safety of their holes. "Chattered" being a polite term, because they'd taunt the cats. The barn mice even sang, because their high-pitched voices drove Mrs. Murphy crazy.
The tiger glanced over at the clock. Harry, usually up at five-thirty, had overslept. Fortunately, today was Saturday, so she wouldn't have to rush in to work at the post office in Crozet. A part-time worker took care of Saturday's mail. But Harry, an organized soul, hated to waste daylight. Murphy knew she'd fret when she awoke and discovered how late it was.
Pewter opened one chartreuse eye. "I'm hungry."
"There are crunchies in the bowl."
"Tuna." The fat gray cat opened the other eye, slightly lifting her pretty round head.
"I wouldn't mind some myself. Let's wake up our can opener." Murphy laughed.
Pewter stretched, then gleefully sat, her back to Harry's face. She gently swept her tail over the woman's nose.
Mrs. Murphy walked up and down Harry's back. When that didn't produce the desired effect she jumped up and down.
"Uh." Harry sneezed as she pushed the tail out of her face. "