Cat's Eyewitness

Cat's Eyewitness

Cat’s

Eyewitness

RITA MAE BROWN

& SNEAKY PIE BROWN

ILLUSTRATIONS BY MICHAEL GELLATLY

BANTAM BOOKS Ÿ NEW YORK Ÿ TORONTO Ÿ LONDON Ÿ SYDNEY Ÿ AUCKLAND

CAT'S EYEWITNESS

A Bantam Book / February 2005

Published by

Bantam Dell

A Division of Random House, Inc.

New York, New York

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the

product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to

actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Quote from the Book of Common Prayer (contains Bible passages) of the Episcopal Church of USA, 1928, amended 1952.

All rights reserved.

Copyright © 2005 by American Artists, Inc.

Illustrations copyright © 2005 Michael Gellatly

Bantam Books is a registered trademark of Random House, Inc., and the colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Brown, Rita Mae.

Cat's eyewitness / Rita Mae Brown & Sneaky Pie Brown.

p. cm.

ISBN 0-553-80164-3

1. Haristeen, Harry (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Murphy, Mrs. (Fictitious

character)—Fiction. 3. Women postal service employees—Fiction. 4.Women

detectives—Virginia—Fiction. 5. Women cat owners—Fiction. 6. Monasteries—

Fiction. 7. Cats—Fiction. 8.Virginia—Fiction. 9. Mystery fiction.

PS3552.R698C+ 2005

813'.54 22 2004046207

Printed in the United States of America

Published simultaneously in Canada

www.bantamdell.com

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

BVG

Dedicated to

The Almost Home Pet Adoption Center

of Nelson County

Cast of Characters

Mary Minor "Harry" Haristeen The postmistress of Crozet, Virginia, is curious, sometimes bull-headed, and often in the midst of trouble. Her life is changing and she's struggling to change with it.

Mrs. Murphy Harry's tiger cat accepts change better than her human does. She's tough, smart, and ready for action, and she'll always take a little catnip, too.

Tee Tucker Harry's corgi bubbles with happiness and bravery in equal measure. She loves Harry as only a dog can love.

Pewter Harry's gray cat affects aloofness but underneath it all, she does care. What irritates her are comments about her plumpness and her hunting abilities.

Mrs. Miranda Hogendobber Miranda observes a great deal but keeps most of it to herself. A widow, she's a surrogate mother to Harry and the relationship means a great deal to both women.

Susan Tucker Harry's best friend has been putting up with Harry's curiosity and attraction to danger since they were children. They have their ups and downs like most friends but they stick together.

Ned Tucker Susan's husband and a lawyer who is now running for political office.

Fair Haristeen, D.V.M. Once Harry's childhood sweetheart and then her husband, he hopes to be her husband again. He has a good mind, a stout heart, and the patience to put up with her.

Olivia Craycroft "BoomBoom" Once Harry's nemesis, the two have settled into a slightly strained rapprochement. BoomBoom is quite beautiful, a fact never lost on men.

Alicia Palmer A former resident of Crozet, she keeps an estate there. She conquered Hollywood as an actress and now in her mid-fifties, she's come home. She's retained all of her glamour while losing most of her illusions.

Rev. Herbert C. Jones Beloved, humorous, fond of fishing, all of Crozet knows that when the chips are down, "The Rev" will come through.

Marilyn Sanburne "Big Mim" The queen of Crozet exerts her social power with whatever force is needed to accomplish her task. She can be a snob but she's fair in her own fashion and believes strongly in justice.

Jim Sanburne As the mayor of Crozet, he presides over the town, which is easier to do sometimes than to be Big Mim's husband.

Marilyn Sanburne, Jr. "Little Mim" She is emerging from her mother's influence. She's a contemporary of Harry, Susan, and BoomBoom but she's always been set apart by her family's wealth. She is the vice-mayor of Crozet and a Republican, which is quite interesting since her father is a Democrat.

Deputy Cynthia Cooper A young, bright officer in the Sheriff's Department, she likes law enforcement but wonders if it keeps romance at bay. She's become a buddy of Harry's, and the cats and dog like her, too.

Sheriff Rick Shaw There are days now when Rick is tired of criminals, tired of their lies, tired of pressing the county commissioners for more funds. But when a murder occurs, he focuses his sharp mind to bring the pieces of the puzzle together—if only that damned Harry and her pets would get out of the way.

Tazio Chappars A young architect, she gets men's hearts racing. She's a rather serious sort of woman but kind and considerate.

Paul de Silva Big Mim's new stable manager is handsome, efficient, and a little bit shy. He's crazy about Tazio.

Brother Handle The Prior of Mt. Carmel Monastery is hard-headed and focused on saving his order in an increasingly secularized world. Events at the monastery shake him to his core.

Brother Prescott The second-in-command, he humors Brother Handle while trying to keep peace among the brothers.

Brother Frank The dour, mistrustful and hard-working treasurer. Others can indulge in flights of fancy, he has to pay the bills.

Brother Thomas Susan Tucker's great-uncle. Kind, patient, fond of good cognac, he is the oldest monk at eighty-two.

Brother Mark He never met a substance he didn't try to ingest. He woke up one bitter winter night in the middle of Beverly St. in Staunton and found Jesus. He's the emotional type.

Nordy Elliott A young, handsome, conceited newscaster at Channel 29. He has an eye for the main chance and when it comes, he makes the most of it.

Brother Andrew A physician at the monastery who bends the rules when he feels justified in doing so.

Brother John Also a doctor, goes along with bending those rules.

Bo and Nancy Newell They own and run Mountain Area Realty in Nellysford.

Pete Osborne The program director at Channel 29, he gives Nordy Elliott his big break and deeply repents unleashing that fulsome ego of his. Soon he has cause for other worries.

Mt. Carmel A monastery founded in 1866 modeled on the Carmelite order.

Cat's Eyewitness

1

A thin trickle of water zigzagged over the Virgin Mary's cold face. She gazed westward from her home on top of the Blue Ridge Mountains, between Afton Gap and Humpback Mountain. Her elevation approached two thousand two hundred feet. The fertile expanse of the Shenandoah Valley spread below, rolling westward to the Allegheny Mountains. The Valley, made immortal by the military genius of Stonewall Jackson, had been beloved of the Native Americans long before the European immigrants, refugees, and mountebanks ever beheld its calming beauty.

Had the Blessed Virgin Mother been able to turn her head and look east, undulating hills traversed with ravines and ridges stopping at the Southwest Range would have delighted her eyes. The last spur of the Appalachian Mountain chain, the Southwest Range gives way on its eastern slopes to land with a gentle roll. These rich fields and forests drop until the Fall Line, the true geographic boundary between low country and up-country, between sandy soils, red clay, and loam mixtures. This line also divided the Iroquois-speaking peoples from the Sioux-speaking peoples. Neither side liked the other much, warfare and raids occurring with savage regularity. Into this political hot zone trooped the English, the first surviving colony founded in 1607. Those that lived, learned.

The conclusion of the Revolutionary War in 1781, one hundred and seventy-four years after Jamestown was founded, unleashed an exuberance of trade, exploration, birthrate, and optimism. Even the fierce Monocan tribe and their allies, who had kept the whites from building safe communities ever westward of the Fall Line, couldn't hold them back.

The land on which Mary stood was settled in 1794 by Catholics more comfortable on the crest of the mountains than walking among their hustling Protestant neighbors in Richmond or the Tidewater. They built a log chapel. The land and altitude were good for apples. Orchards flourished. After the Constitutional Convention, the new Constitution made crystal clear the separation between church and state. Many of the apple-growing Catholics moved down the mountain into Nelson and Albemarle Counties on the eastern slopes, Augusta County on the western slopes. Nestled in the valleys, the temperature warmer, the winds less fierce than on the mountaintop, the former religious refugees prospered.

The hard-core mountain people, many of them distillers of clear liquor—the mountain streams being wonderful for such endeavors—stayed in the hollows. They didn't want to live on a mountaintop.

Finally in 1866 a war-weary Confederate captain founded a monastic order based on the Carmelites. He called it Mt. Carmel after the original in Palestine. Carmelite orders were being founded in the north after the War Between the States. Captain Ainsly was defiant and remained independent of the international monastic order even though he followed their rules. Instead of being known as Whitefriars, the monks on Afton Mountain were called Greyfriars because of their gray wool robes, an echo of their uniform color.

The monastery itself was not open to the public. The dairy, the chandler's building, the food building with honey and jams, and the ironmonger's forge were open, though, as were the exquisite gardens. The products were made by the monks themselves. Applejack was their biggest seller. Made on the grounds from apples grown in the old orchards, the brothers took special care with their distillery. Folks said Greyfriars' applejack could kick one harder than a mule.

The Virgin Mary stood on the highest point of land, the spring gardens nestled below her. She was carved from native soapstone by another Confederate veteran sick of war and worldly corruption. The Blessed Virgin Mother radiated a sorrow, a forgiveness that touched many who looked upon her. The stones leading to her, worn concave from many feet, bore testimony to her grace and power.

On this day, November 24, Thanksgiving, snow settled in the folds of her raiment. It covered the earth down to a thousand feet above sea level. Below that, freezing rain pelted farm and forest.

Mary Minor "Harry" Haristeen had driven up before the rain reached the eastern meadows. But as she squinted upward into a leaden sky, she knew getting down Afton Mountain would take a steady hand and a steady foot, no jamming on the brakes.

Her three dearest companions—Mrs. Murphy, a tiger cat, Pewter, a gray cat, and Tee Tucker, a brave corgi—had smelled the shift in the weather before their human friend knew it was coming. Confident in her driving ability, Harry wouldn't have turned back even if she had foreseen the change. She was determined to spend an hour on the mountain, alone and in thought, before plunging into Thanksgiving cheer. She'd quit her job as postmistress after sixteen years because the U.S. Postal Service was building a large, modern post office in Crozet by the railroad track. In this fit of improvement, the bigwigs decided that Mrs. Murphy, Pewter, and Tucker could no longer "work" with her. How could she live without the cats and dog? How could millions of Americans sit in windowless cubicles without even a bird to keep them connected to real life? Harry couldn't live like that. Not yet forty, she felt a disquieting alienation from so-called modern life. What seemed vital to others, like wading through their e-mail, seemed fake to her. Harry was at a crossroads, not sure which way to jump.

The dear older woman she worked with, Miranda Hogendobber, walked out when she did. But Miranda had her deceased husband's retirement to draw upon; she'd been frugal and was in good shape.

Harry wasn't in good shape financially. Taxes crept upward like kudzu threatening to choke her small farm profits, in particular, and ultimately free enterprise, in general. Services became ever more expensive and gas prices bounced up and down like a basketball in an NBA game.

On top of those worries was her ex-husband, Fair Haristeen, who still loved her and had made significant amends for what Harry saw as bad behavior. Fair had grown up and wanted her back, wanted a mature bond. He was handsome. Harry had a weak spot for a handsome man. Fair qualified at six five, blond hair, all muscle. An equine veterinarian, he specialized in reproduction. They both shared a profound love of horses.

Harry, at last, had made peace with the bombshell Fair had dallied with four years back when their marriage blew up. Olivia "BoomBoom" Craycroft slew men the way longhaired Samson slew his enemies. BoomBoom had enjoyed Fair's impressive physique and his Virginia gentleman ways, but she bored easily, soon dismissing him. "Think of this as recess from class," were her exact words. For all of BoomBoom's heartlessness with men where romance was concerned, she loved animals, was a good athlete, and demonstrated great community spirit. In a word, she was fabulous, until you slept with her or if you were the woman left in the dust by your boyfriend or husband.

As Harry stared up at the unearthly face of the Virgin, she shivered. Tucker, at her feet, shook off the thickening snow.

"She's beautiful," the corgi said.

Harry bent down, patting the glossy head. "Bet you think I'm crazy standing out here. Probably am."

Tucker lifted her nose, breathed deeply. "Susan." The little dog took off toward the enticing scent, skidding to a halt about forty yards away where a curved stone bench overlooked The Valley. The bench, situated on a winding path below the statue, was hidden from view if one was standing in front of the Virgin Mary.

The Valley was usually colder than the eastern slopes. Snow was falling there, a patchwork quilt of white, beige, and corn stubble two thousand feet below.

"Tucker," Susan said, surprised. "Where's Mom?"

Harry, pursuing her dog, slipped along the walkway between tall magnificent English boxwoods, only to be equally surprised when she saw her best friend. "Susan, what are you doing here?"

"I could ask you the same thing," Susan replied, smiling.

Harry brushed off the snow to sit next to Susan. Tucker wedged between them. "I'm here because I, well, I need help. I know the Blessed Virgin Mother has always been reputed to have powers—the statue, I mean. Miranda says whenever times get tough she comes up here and talks with Mary."

"Girl talk." Susan smiled, her auburn hair peeking out from underneath her lad's cap.

"Wish she could talk. I'd like to hear that Jesus wasn't perfect." Harry sighed. "It's too hard having perfect Gods—you know, God the Father, God the Son, and I have no idea who or what the Holy Ghost is. I mean it," she said as Susan laughed. "You went to Bible school in the summers, same as I did; we suffered through two years of catechism together. We only made Confirmation because Reverend Jones took pity on us. I can recite the Nicene Creed but I still can't tell you why I'm supposed to care about it. What is the Holy Ghost?" She threw up her hands, red gloves bright against the gloom. "But I understand Mary, the Blessed Virgin Mother. She's one of us; oh, better, but still, she's one of us."

"Yes." Susan reached for her friend's hand, her tan glove twining with the red. "I talk to her, too. Questions. Life. Big questions. Little questions." Susan shrugged.

"The questions get bigger as we get older, don't you think?"

"I do."

Harry took a deep breath, the air scouring her lungs. "I'm here because I don't know what I'm doing. I feel dumb and maybe I really am dumb. And Fair asked me to marry him again."

"Ah." Susan smiled.

"That means you think it's a good idea."

"I'm glad he loves you. You're worth loving." She squeezed Harry's hand.

"Susan." Tears filled Harry's eyes, for kindness and praise affected her more deeply than criticism or meanness. She could stand up to that.

"You are, dear heart. You're my best friend and you know you can tell me anything."

"Tell you? Susan, all I've done for the last three months is bitch and moan."

"Oh, you have not. Anyone in your position is bound to be anxious. No money is coming in and you have to be careful. At least the farm is free and clear and so is the equipment."

"There's the dually payment." Harry mentioned the big one-ton Ford truck with the double wheels that she bought at a great price from Art Bushey, Jr., the Ford dealer and a good friend. His sense of humor was as twisted as hers, so of course they adored each other.

"Four hundred something a month."

"Yes. The feed bill, the gas and electric. I mean, I'm okay, but I've got to do something here pretty soon."

"You're still investigating growing grapes, aren't you? Sounds like a good idea." Susan was encouraging.

"I need to bring money in while I study that. I can't afford to get started anytime soon, since the capital outlay is outrageous. Patricia Kluge said she'd sit down with me. Her vineyards are a booming success. Felicia Rogan, who really revived the whole wine industry in Virginia, said she'd talk to me, too. Still, I need to do something, just get some money coming in. Fair said I could work with him as a vet tech. I know the drill but it's not a great idea. I mean, not until I come to a decision, and I've dragged it out far too long. I'm such a chicken." She brightened a moment. "What I understand, know like the back of my hand, is hay. I'm thinking I could become a hay dealer, not just grow it but buy it from the Midwest, Pennsylvania, and Canada, then sell it. As I do that I could keep learning about grape stuff and see if I could add another string to my bow."

"Sounds like a good plan to me."

"Except I need a paycheck now."

"Pug would take you back in the post office." Susan mentioned the federal employee in charge of postal services for the area.

"No."

"Pride goeth before a fall."

"It's not pride. I'm not working without my babies."

"Where are Mrs. Murphy and Pewter?"

"In the truck, steaming up the windows." Harry leaned toward Susan. "Why are you here?"

Susan quietly looked over the Shenandoah Valley. "It's really coming down. Let's hope by the time we drive down Route 250 it's snowing on our side."

"Susan." Harry knew her friend inside and out.

"Ned and I are drifting apart."

Harry's face registered shock. "How? You seem close to me."

"He's distant. He doesn't much want sex anymore. He's all wrapped up in being our newly elected senator to Richmond. He's spending more time in the apartment he just rented there than at home."

"Mmm, the sex part is disturbing."

"Tell me."

"He's got a lot to learn about the job." Harry hoped this would help Susan push upsetting thoughts about Ned aside.

"Brooks graduates from high school this year. Danny loves Cornell. The house will soon be empty. He's starting a whole new life. I feel like my life, or at least my usefulness, is vanishing, ending."

Harry leaned into Tucker as Susan did, too. "All of this is a big change for both of you. He's handling it differently than you, that's all."

"I hope so." Tears now ran down Susan's face. "You know I'm not cut out to be a political wife. I'm no good at it." She wiped away a tear. "Ned is handsome. I've heard all those stories about politicians and pretty interns."

Harry wrapped an arm around Susan's shoulders. "Oh, honey, don't cry."

"I remember when it happened to you."

"Fair and Ned are different kinds of men. I knew, like a little seismic rumble underneath, that Fair thought he was missing something marrying his high-school sweetheart. He"—she paused—"well, he just jumped out of the paddock."

Susan cried harder. "I feel so awful. I know now how you felt."

"You were good to me." Harry hugged her.

"But I didn't really know how you felt. I do now."

Harry hugged her again, then straightened up. "Know who can help us?" Susan shook her head, so Harry continued, "BoomBoom. She's got the best radar for men of any of us. If he's up to no good, she'll figure it out. And really, Susan, I don't think he is."

Susan considered this as she again wiped away her tears, the soft leather of the glove cool against her colder skin. "Think she would?"

"Help? Sure."

"Well—"

"Let's call her on my cell in the truck. If she's free we can go down the mountain and meet her. It will ease your mind."

"I can't right this minute," Susan replied. "I came here to think but also to pick up Great-Uncle Thomas for Thanksgiving dinner. He's eighty-two now. Hard to believe. Anyway," she paused, "it's quite strange, really. He said to me, 'Susan, my time is near. I'd like to spend Thanksgiving with you.' He's healthy as a horse. I told him he was a long way from death's door."

"Some people know. Like animals know." Harry considered what Thomas had told Susan.

"Don't you start." Susan frowned for a moment. "People get older and anytime something happens to them they attribute it to age. I'm telling you, G-Uncle"—Susan called him "G" for "great"—"will outlive most of the brothers of this order."

"Already has." Harry laughed.

"That's true." Susan shook a snowflake from her nose. "He was a chatterbox. He went on about how he loves his work here. He repairs the plumbing, he keeps the fountains in the gardens going. He gardens. It was really touching to hear him." Susan paused. "He brought up the legend of the Blessed Virgin Mother's statue. How she cried in 1914, and then in 1941 after Pearl Harbor was attacked. He said he'd like to believe it, to see her tears, but if he did, it would herald a dreadful crisis, so he supposed he would die without seeing the tears. He believes she works miracles for those who believe. He really is touching."

"Wonder if it's true?" Harry was skeptical. "A stain of runny bird poop could look like tears."

"Harry, you are awful!"

"Says you," Harry laughed.

Susan stood up, linked her arm through Harry's as Tucker jumped off the bench, dashing in front of them. "Come on, I'll walk you to the statue, then I'll go fetch G-Uncle. He should be ready by now."

Tucker, senses sharper, wanted to protect the humans whose senses—except for their eyes—weren't as keen. She'd race ahead, stop, sniff, swivel her ears. The coast was clear, so she'd look back at the humans, wait for them to approach, then scout ahead. Tucker reached the base of the Virgin Mary's statue, where she waited for the two friends.

As they reached the tall statue, both reflexively looked up at her face.

"My God!" Susan exclaimed.

Harry's hand went to her heart. "She's crying blood."

2

Brother Prescott, hands tucked into the thick gray wool sleeves of his robe, watched the Virgin Mary's face intently. His large, watery blue eyes never wavered from her face. "Hmm."

A trickle of fading pink slid down her cheeks.

"It was blood when we left her." Harry felt slightly foolish.

"There certainly seems to be something, but—" He stood on his tiptoes. The statue towered above him on the large boulder on which she was securely replaced after being removed and repaired during the summer.

"I'm sorry to have you come out in this cold. The mercury's diving." Susan shivered.

"Oh, that's all right. After all, there could be red veins deep inside the stone. She was quarried from Nelson County, you know, over in Schuyler." His voice carried a note of pride.

"Yes, she's one of the treasures of the Blue Ridge." Harry, her art history background from Smith College serving her well, appreciated the artistry of the statue.

"The Blessed Virgin works miracles. The visions at Lourdes get all the attention even to this day, but the Blessed Virgin Mary works miracles every day all over the world. Her love surpasses understanding," Brother Prescott, second in command at the monastery, said.

Harry opened her mouth but nothing came out. A large white snowflake touched her tongue, melting. She intended to say something skeptical, but the words escaped her. Better to allow Brother Prescott—as well as Brother Thomas, standing silently beside him—his belief. She didn't know what she believed about the Virgin Mary except she was glad there was a woman in the holy hierarchy. Her pastor, the Rev. Herbert Jones, a wise and compassionate man, sidestepped dogma, the dogma of any church including his own, which was Lutheran. He preferred to concentrate on the emotional and spiritual well-being of his flock. He'd often said that Mary's fortunes throughout the centuries reflected the status of woman.

Harry wanted to call him.

"Herb?" Susan whispered to Harry.

"How'd you know what I was thinking?" Harry whispered back as they walked away from the statue. Brother Thomas hurried to his room to pick up a few odds and ends to contribute to dinner. Brother Prescott bid them good-bye, following Brother Thomas.

Susan raised her eyebrows. "Harry, I usually know what you're thinking."

"You do, don't you?" They held on to each other as they slipped and slid down the sloping, winding path to the first parking lot where Susan's Audi wagon sat, windshield covered with snow.

"Mom!" Owen, Susan's corgi, brother to Tucker, greeted her with delight.

"I'm here." Tucker announced with glee.

Susan opened the door, and sister and brother rapturously touched noses and wagged nonexistent tails, as Harry wiped off the passenger side of the windshield and Susan cleaned the driver's side.

"Too bad this machine doesn't have a creep gear." Susan sighed, mentioning first gear in vehicles such as the Wrangler, which allows the driver to go slowly without stalling out. She thought a moment. "G-Uncle was overwhelmed by the fading tears. He couldn't speak."

Harry replied. "Yeah. I hope this doesn't presage disaster."

Harry left Susan as she warmed up her car. By the time she reached her old Ford F-150 truck, the bottoms of her jeans were soaked.

She opened the door.

"I hate you!" Mrs. Murphy jumped off the seat onto the snow, instantly regretting it.

Harry, Tucker, and Pewter giggled as the sleek tiger cat laid her ears back, shaking each paw in turn.

"Fuss." Harry leaned over, picked up the beautiful animal, wiped off her paws, and set her back on the front seat next to Pewter, who didn't budge. She wasn't going to get her paws cold and wet. Harry reached in, turned on the ignition as she depressed the clutch. She had parked in gear, also, putting the brake on. The truck was a manual shift with over 160,000 miles on the speedometer. She preferred manual transmission; she felt it gave her much better control of the vehicle. As this was a 1978 Ford half ton, she was right. The new trucks with automatic contained a computer chip that sensed when gears needed shifting better than most humans could. Having an automatic wasn't such a bad thing in the new F-15 0s.

The powerful eight-cylinder engine turned over despite the cold, the low rumble music to Harry's ears. If it had an engine in it, she loved it. She put the gear in neutral, pulled on the emergency brake. She yanked out a long-handled brush from behind the bench seat covered with an old Baker blanket. After wiping off the snow on the windshield, she manually turned the hubcap centers on the front wheels to four-wheel drive, locking them.

"I told you not to leave the truck," Pewter smugly said as Mrs. Murphy licked her paws. "Where would you run, anyway? All that does is put her in a bad mood. No catnip."

"Thought I'd run back up the hill, make her huff and puff." The tiger cat bit a tiny piece of ice from between her toes. "Grooming takes so much time."

"You go overboard," Tucker, who was still outside, called up. Harry picked her up, putting her next to the cats.

"You're a sloppy pig." Mrs. Murphy's mood could use a lift.

"Crab. Because you're such a crab I'm not going to tell you what I saw."

Repenting instantly, Mrs. Murphy, hind leg still in midair, looked over. "What? I'm really not in a bad mood. This little ice bit irritates me, that's all," she fibbed.

"Tell, Tucker. I'll let you play with my catnip mousie." Pewter, so easy to bribe, thought she could do the same to the corgi.

"That old thing." Tucker enjoyed her moment of glory as exhaust belched from the new tailpipe Harry had installed last summer.

Harry backed out, shifting the gears into four-wheel drive.

As Harry carefully drove along the Skyline Drive to the turnoff for Route 250 East, Tucker excitedly told the cats about the Virgin Mary crying blood.

"But that's a statue," Pewter sensibly replied.

"Was it truly blood?" Mrs. Murphy wondered.

"I don't rightly know. It was the color of blood, the consistency, but I couldn't smell it. She's high and it's too cold. By the time the blood reached her heart it washed away"

"Blood carries a powerful scent, almost metallic." Mrs. Murphy knew the odor well.

"By the time we returned with Brother Prescott and Brother Thomas, she was weeping pale pink. The tears were slowing down. Probably something to do with the temperature."

"Did Mom say prayers?" Pewter, curious as to human religious impulses, asked.

"She was thoughtful and still before we saw the tears. I smelled Susan, so I ran down to her. Mom followed. The statue cried when Susan and Mom walked back up to it. Susan's upset."

"Why?" both cats said in unison.

Mrs. Murphy quickly yelled, "Jigs for tuna!"

Pewter, long whiskers swept forward, grumbled, "You win."

In the South, if two people say the same thing at the same time, the first person to say, "Jigs for " gets whatever they ask for—in this case, tuna. Pewter, ever solicitous of her stomach, would have to share a morsel of flaky tuna.

"Susan is afraid her marriage is getting stale." Tucker gave her opinion of the conversation. "Maybe tempted by young women in Richmond."

"Ooo," Pewter crooned.

"Oh, boy, there will be hell to pay if he doesn't resist temptation." Mrs. Murphy considered monogamy one of those peculiar human concepts. They tried, but it was against their nature. Some could do it but most couldn't, and she thought the idea nothing but misery.

"Glad Mom put snow tires on this truck last week," Pewter noted appreciatively.

"Yeah." Mrs. Murphy, hind paws on the seat, leaned forward so her front paws rested on the dash. "Coming down thick now. We're lucky the temperature dropped so it's not raining anymore. That's the worst."

"Spring is so far away" Tucker hoped ice wasn't underneath the new-fallen snow.

Harry didn't punch in BoomBoom's number until she was safely down Afton Mountain. "Boom, Harry."

"Where are you?"

"Foot of Afton Mountain."

"Getting rough out there," the statuesque blonde said.

"Could I stop by for a minute, unless you're in the midst of cooking?"

"Come on. Alicia's here. We're going to the club later for Thanksgiving dinner. We've plenty of time."

"Fifteen minutes," Harry succinctly replied. They'd grown up together so could employ shorthand without offending.

Alicia Palmer, in her mid-fifties, had been a huge star in film. She retired in her middle forties, having married well on a few occasions; divorcing well, too. But the great love of Alicia's life had been Mary Pat Reines, a kind, generous, and fabulously wealthy woman who'd died when Alicia was in her mid-twenties. Alicia had inherited Mary Pat's estate. Over the years she'd visit the place once or twice a year, but she finally came home from Santa Barbara to settle in last year. She wondered why it took her so long to return to Virginia, only realizing once she came home that she had never laid Mary Pat's ghost to rest. Once this emotional milestone was crossed, Alicia's heart lightened.

BoomBoom, an avid golfer and rider, found Alicia a warm and understanding friend. As both women were stunning beauties, they had spent their lives fending off men or, in BoomBoom's case, toying with them. Alicia didn't do that. She had tried to love her two husbands. The strain proved more than she could bear as she never felt deeply close or connected to either man.

When BoomBoom hung up the phone she turned to Alicia, who was throwing cherry wood on the fire in the huge kitchen fireplace.

"Harry is stopping by."

"Good. She's a tonic, that one." Alicia smiled her dazzling smile.

Older people said she looked like Hedy Lamarr, younger people said she looked like Catherine Zeta-Jones, but, really, Alicia looked like Alicia.

"Wonder what's going on? Not like Harry." BoomBoom had heard a note of urgency in Harry's voice.

"You two have made up."

"Pretty much." BoomBoom, blond hair curling around her shoulders, inhaled. "I was an ass. I could have slept with a lot of men. I didn't have to pick her husband, even though they were separated."

"He's uncommonly handsome. And nice. Fair is a genuinely nice man."

"Six months is my limit." BoomBoom tossed this off as she confronted the enormous espresso machine. "Espresso with cream and a curl of orange rind would be perfect on a day like this. You know, I need an engineering degree to work this thing."

"Mocha latte with lots of cream." Alicia watched as BoomBoom's two rescue kittens charged into the kitchen, tumbling over each other. "Cream. I swear they know the word."

The two women laughed as BoomBoom knelt down to scratch the cats' ears, one black and white and the other a red tabby.

"Hard to believe they came from the same litter."

"I know." BoomBoom again faced the espresso machine. "Since I can work this, I have full confidence I could work for NASA. Have you ever seen anything so complicated in your life?"

"Yes, the iDrive on the seven-series BMW Worst piece of you-know-what to come down the pike. And that ugly sawed-off truck lid—the designers have lost their minds, screwing up a fabulous machine like that."

"Heard BMW has gotten so many complaints they'll simplify the iDrive soon."

"Not soon enough. The unflattering design has now carried over into the five-series, the five-series!" Alicia threw up her hands, the large diamond on her ring finger catching the light. "How could they?"

Both women were motorheads, as was Harry, and the three could blab for hours about cars, trucks, and tractors. BoomBoom didn't like the changes made by BMW either so instead of trading in her four-year-old 7-series for a new one, she traded it for a Mercedes S600.

Alicia drove a Porsche C4 911 in good weather. She also owned a Land Cruiser, a spanking-new F-150, and an older F-350 dually. With her wealth she should have just bought a dealership.

The deep-throated rumble of the old Ford truck alerted them and the kittens that Harry had arrived.

"This isn't the day, but we'll have to get Harry in a corner about the redesigned F-l50. You know she'll know everything about it." BoomBoom peeled rind off an orange as Alicia set out large mugs.

"I could make my famous chicken potpie. Given the weather I'm not sure I want to drive over to the club. I can live without turkey and sweet potato pie."

"Doubt she'll stay that long," BoomBoom replied.

"Actually, I shouldn't, either. I'd better get home before it turns pitch black." Alicia noted the ever-darkening skies.

BoomBoom, walking toward the mudroom where the back door was located, stopped and surprised herself by turning to Alicia and saying, "I miss you when we're not together."

"BoomBoom, that's the greatest compliment you could give me." Alicia beamed at her.

"Knock, knock." Harry opened the back door a crack.

"Come on in." BoomBoom peered out into the snow. "Bring in the kids. They won't want to sit in the truck."

"You don't mind? I heard you found two kittens." Harry loved kittens better than anything on earth and had just spied the black and white one, four legs spread out, looking up at her from under a kitchen chair.

"Lucy and Desi will have to get used to other animals. Yours are so well behaved."

"Most times."

Within seconds Mrs. Murphy, Pewter, and Tucker marched through the mudroom into the kitchen, the delicious smells curling into their nostrils.

Desi, the black and white kitten, and Lucy, the red tabby, puffed up like blowfish.

Tucker ignored them as they spit at her.

"Worms," Pewter said.

"Oh, Pewts, they're scared enough."

As the kittens crouched low and crept forward toward the visiting animals, Harry sat down and took a sip of her espresso, whipped cream swaying on top. "God, this is fabulous." She then relayed Susan's fears.

"She could ask him," Alicia kindly said.

"Susan won't. She's kind of paralyzed," Harry observed. "Also, she doesn't want to hear a lie."

"She's feeling left out. Overreacting. Right now he can't spend a lot of time with her," BoomBoom remarked. "And he never flirted with me. She has nothing to worry about."

"That puts him in a special class." Alicia ate some of her whipped cream with the small demitasse spoon. "I don't know Ned as you all do, but, without intending to stray, people do fall into one another's arms." Alicia turned to Harry, who never could get used to looking into those fabulous violet-tinged eyes. "And Susan is ninety miles away, beginning to worry about turning forty, I expect. I'm not saying Ned is having an affair, but sometimes it just... happens."

"It never happened to me."

BoomBoom couldn't resist. "Put on a little makeup, hike up your boobs in a lace lift-and-separate bra, and, Harry, it will happen."

The two women laughed as Harry, face red, looked deeply into her cup. "I can read whipped cream. Did you all know that? Other fortune-tellers read tea leaves or tarot cards, but I read whipped cream, and this whipped cream tells me there are two bad girls tormenting a saint. Karma! Beware of karma." As they laughed, Harry's mind flashed back to the statue. Since she had grown up with BoomBoom, she knew the blonde was accustomed to her hopping from subject to subject. "Susan and I saw the Virgin Mary cry blood! Today. Weird. Scary, actually."

Harry filled in BoomBoom and Alicia about this strange event as well as why both she and Susan were at the monastery grounds.

The kittens became emboldened enough to slink toward the grown cats.

Little Lucy, belly flat on the heart-pine floor, reached out and batted Pewter's fat, fluffy tail.

"Hey." Pewter flicked her tail.

"Its alive!" Lucy shrieked, jumping back.

Desi, rocking back and forth, eyes wide, couldn't believe Pewter's tail.

"It's too short. Now, my tail is the proper length for my body." Mrs. Murphy slyly thrashed her tail a bit.

"My tail is not too short. It's full. I have Russian blue blood. My bones are big."

"Oh, la." Mrs. Murphy rolled her lustrous eyes.

"What's a Russian blue?" Desi squeaked.

"A figment of her ever-active imagination." Mrs. Murphy rolled over, displaying a creamy beige tummy.

Pewter turned her back on Mrs. Murphy. "Alley cat."

"Oh, bull, Pewter, we're all alley cats. This is America. Even the humans are alley cats."

"Am I an alley cat?" Little Lucy softly came up to Mrs. Murphy, who rolled over to look the tiny bundle of red fur in the eye.

"You are."

"Are you my mommy?" Lucy asked.

"Ha!" Pewter hooted.

Desi padded up to Mrs. Murphy. He squeezed tight against his sister. "We don't remember our mommy very well. She didn't come home one night."

"Where were you?" Tucker joined with the cats.

At first the kittens puffed up, then calmed down when Tucker, who seemed very big, smiled at them reassuringly.

"We lived in a washing machine down in the ravine."

"Ah." None of the adults said anything after that, since all knew their mother had been killed in some fashion.

"How did you find BoomBoom?" Mrs. Murphy inquired.

"She and the other pretty lady were riding and we screamed. She got off her horse and we were really scared, but she kept talking to us and we were so hungry. Then she picked us up and put us in her jacket and we felt warm. We were cold. She's a nice lady."

"She fed us," Desi chimed in. He wasn't as talkative as his sister.

"And then," Lucy's voice rose, "the next day she took us to a man with a beard who gave us pills and shots. That was awful."

"But necessary." Tucker's brown eyes sparkled.

"I'm not going back there," Desi boasted.

"That's what we all say" Tucker laughed.

"I saw a dog with hair the color of BoomBoom's at the vet's," Lucy remarked. "Are they related?"

At this, the grown-up cats and dog laughed so hard the humans noticed.

"Isn't that sweet? Mrs. Murphy is grooming Lucy." Alicia smiled broadly.

"She has a maternal streak," Harry commented.

"Oh, I am going to throw up." Pewter pretended to gag.

"Roundworms," Mrs. Murphy said sarcastically as she pushed Pewter with her front paw.

Pewter pushed back. This escalated into a boxing match, then Pewter took off, Mrs. Murphy in hot pursuit.

Desi's jaw dropped. "Gosh."

"Mental." Tucker touched noses with the little guy. "If one says apples, the other says bananas. They live to disagree." She sighed, then added, "But that's cats for you."

"We're cats." Lucy blinked, her eyes still blue.

"Don't get me wrong. Cats are very fine." Tucker sounded very worldly. "But dogs are much more logical, especially corgis."

"Don't believe a word of it." Mrs. Murphy, having heard everything, soared over all the seated animals in a dazzling display of athletic ability.

Pewter cleared the kittens, only to land smack on Tucker, who took it with her usual sense of humor.

As the cat and dog rolled over each other, the humans laughed and refilled their cups while trying to sort out Susan's dilemma.

"Why don't I discreetly poke around?" BoomBoom turned her attention for a second to the TV, which was on but muted. It was the start of the news report.

"Susan's upset. It surprises me. I mean, her imagining something unproven. If Susan gets upset it's about an event or someone being ill. It's not in her head." Although not much of a coffee drinker, Harry found the espresso delicious, especially after the biting cold up on Afton Mountain.

"People respond to different situations in ways even they don't understand." BoomBoom again checked the TV.

Harry crossed one leg over the other. "Isn't it odd how we don't know ourselves? We think we do, but if life is a circle of three hundred sixty degrees, has there ever been any human being who experienced all three hundred sixty degrees? We'll never know everything about ourselves."

"Then how can we know about anyone else?" BoomBoom asked.

"Because it's easier to look out than to look in," Alicia briskly replied. "Don't you think?"

"I don't know," BoomBoom honestly answered.

"I'm not sure I do, either." Harry smiled.

"I guess we spend our lives finding out." BoomBoom laughed.

"I'd rather work on my tractor or fix the barn roof." Harry shook her head. "The interior stuff is too much for me."

"You have a good mind for solving problems. The interior stuff, as you call it, is a different kind of problem." BoomBoom complimented her, then blinked her eyes, a slight jerk to her head as a handsome young man appeared on the TV. She rose to turn on the sound.

Wearing a deep-green silk tie against an ecru shirt, and an expensive tweed jacket over that, Nordy Elliott smiled the biggest, phoniest smile he could muster at the petite redhead sitting beside him. "So, Jessica, how's it look for football? And what about travel tonight? A lot of people are on the road on turkey day."

"Nordy, a low pressure system is—"

BoomBoom, who had brought the remote back to the table, clicked off the sound. "Nordy Elliott is like sand in my eye, a major irritant. I can't stand the note of false urgency in his voice, which is always the same whether he's interviewing shoppers at the mall or covering a car wreck."

"He irritates you because he pesters you." Alicia reached down to entice one of the cats to come over.

"He doesn't listen." BoomBoom turned to Harry. "I told him over and over—I mean, I tell him every time I see him or he calls that I am taking a year's vacation from dating. So he calls each week and says"—she imitated his delivery—"one more week bites the dust. Twenty more to go!"

"Give him credit for persistence." Alicia laughed.

Ruefully, BoomBoom shrugged. "Yes and no. I hate it when men don't listen."

"Sometimes they can't." Harry offered an unexpected insight. "Their bodies trump their minds. When most men look at either one of you, the blood heads south."

"Harry, you flatter me," Alicia demurred.

"True, though." BoomBoom exhaled. "Men fall in love with their eyes."

"For us, the true hook is, 'Honey, I'll take care of it.' " Harry's mouth turned up as the other two laughed, since that, too, was true.

"A sweeter sound coming from a man than 'I love you.' " Alicia reached over and touched Harry's forearm.

" 'I love you' is too easy. Fixing the dead battery in your car or doing your taxes—that's love." BoomBoom's laughter sounded like perfect crystal when struck. It filled the room.

"I can do all that," Harry boasted.

"Can't we all?" Alicia said. "But how wonderful when a man does it."

"Sometimes." BoomBoom pointed toward Harry's cup and Harry indicated she'd had enough. "But sometimes I'd rather get my hands dirty. Is it just me? Maybe it is, but I feel constrained around a man and I don't want to feel I owe him something."

"You're beautiful, Boom. A man wants to keep you to himself. I suppose that feels, urn, restrictive?" Alicia replied.

"You're the most beautiful woman I've ever seen, Alicia. It doesn't happen to you?" BoomBoom's large, expressive eyes seemed even larger.

"Yes."

"Constrained is an interesting word." Harry wiggled her toes in her boots. "I don't want a man telling me what to do. I don't want anyone telling me what to do, including the damned government. I can make my own decisions. If I make a mistake, it's my mistake."

"Hear, hear," Alicia agreed.

"Oh, call the Duncans." BoomBoom changed the subject, mentioning the couple, Fred and Doris, who ran Alicia's farm. They were wonderful people. "You can stay here, safe and sound. We'll sit by the fire and tell stories."

Alicia didn't reply to that directly. "When this storm clears, let's go up to see the Virgin Mary."

"Speaking of going, I'd better hit the road. Sun's set and it's looking like a real storm." Harry checked outside the window, then back to the TV screen as the news cut frequently to Jessica, the weatherwoman.

BoomBoom also watched. "Snuck up on us, this one. Alicia, we'd better bag going to the country club."

"That's what makes it so exciting living at the foot of the mountains," Alicia said as she rose. "I'd better head home, too."

3

The red taillights of Alicia's Land Cruiser disappeared in the gathering snow. From the paned glass windows in her elegant living room, BoomBoom watched the two ruby dots become swallowed up.

She folded her arms across the ample chest for which she earned her nickname. The soft three-ply cashmere felt glorious against her skin.

Lucy and Desi, perched on top of an overstuffed chair, watched BoomBoom watching Alicia.

"If she'd take off that sweater and put it on the floor we could sleep on it." Desi had fallen in love with the sweater when BoomBoom had picked him up to pet and kiss him. He loved that, too.

"Drawers," Lucy replied.

"Huh?"

"Drawers. She puts her clothes in drawers. The boxes that slide in the big box in the bedroom."

"How do you know that's what they're called?" Desi admired his sister's acumen.

"When she showed Alicia the sweater she bought from that expensive store in New York, whatever New York is, Alicia was impressed. She said/Paul Stuart.' Then BoomBoom said how they ought to go to New York." Lucy pricked her ears as the wind rattled the outside shutters. "And she said, 'I keep all the sweaters in the drawers.'"

BoomBoom exhaled through her nostrils, a mark of discontent, a touch of the blues. She walked over to the kittens, petting each. "If she were a man she would have stayed." This was followed by a silence. "What am I thinking?"

The tall blonde strode into her den, a high-tech, bright space very unlike the rest of the house. She sat down at her bloodred enamel curving desk with the heavy inlaid glass top. On the left side of the curve rested her computer. In the middle of the curve was the gleaming glass inlay where she could handwrite letters on stationery printed by Tiffany's. On the right side of this exquisite creation rested a small pile of tan, green, or red leather-bound foxhunting books from the eighteenth century.

BoomBoom ran her deceased husband's quarry and business. A keen mind and one that rejoiced in profit, she proved better at this than Kelly had been. She imported marble from Italy as well as from Barre, Vermont. She specialized in the stones for fencing. Her quarry also carried every grade of gravel needed in construction. Twice-washed sand for riding rings, for masonry, was also a lucrative product. BoomBoom enjoyed a business that could change its selling methods, change the speed of delivery, upgrade customer services, but the actual process of building a stone fence, cutting marble for a fireplace, or putting down number-five stone on a farm road would never change. For this, she was exceedingly grateful.

She was also grateful that the men who worked at Craycroft Quarry remained loyal to her. Once she'd proved she knew what she was doing and those Christmas bonuses fattened, the teamwork only got better and better.

Each day she'd stop by the office. She always checked a job. She listened to her customers; she listened to her staff. She couldn't work a nine-to-five job, but many days she worked from five in the morning until eleven at night. It was her business and she loved it. Often she could schedule her hobbies—foxhunting in fall and winter, golf in spring and summer—around work. She lived a fabulous life and she knew it, except for one thing: she had no partner, no true love.

BoomBoom checked addresses on her computer, writing down those people to whom she could speak discreetly about Ned. Since BoomBoom gave generously to the Democratic Party, she had many strings to pull.

"Damned Republicans," she said out loud, which caused Lucy to try and crawl up her leg to see what this outburst was all about. "Come on, you little girl. You, too, Desi!" She placed them on the desk. Both were mesmerized by the computer as she switched it to the pattern of shifting, different-colored shapes. "Here are the desk rules. You can come up here anytime you like once you're big enough to get up on your own. But you can never pee here or anywhere but your dirt box. You can't chew my papers. I don't care if you play with the computer, but you can't chew the wires or pull them out of the back. You can't press the phone buttons and, oh, yes, this is the most important thing, no biting or chewing my old leather-bound books. See this book right here?" She held up a large tome, dark green with gilt lettering "Notitia Venatica." "This cost me three hundred seventy-five dollars. Three hundred seventy-five dollars!"

"What's three hundred seventy-five dollars?" Lucy cocked her head.

"Must be important." Desi noted BoomBoom's stern tone.

"Follow the rules and we'll have a wonderful life." She kissed their soft tiny heads, right between their ears. "We already have a wonderful life."

"I can catch mice." Desi puffed out his white chest. Set against his black body, he looked like he was wearing a tuxedo.

"You can not." Lucy giggled.

"Can, too." He swatted her and she swatted back.

"You two may be the cutest little kittens God has put on earth." BoomBoom laughed, then punched in numbers on her thin, flat phone. "You're home. I was so worried about you."

A laugh, clear, greeted her concern. "Honey chile, I was driving before you were born."

"Oh, you were not."

"Pretty close to it." Alicia replied. "You're sweet not to think I'm old. As I recall you're thirty-seven," she paused, "just a sprig, a green sapling and such a pretty one at that."

BoomBoom laughed. "Are you flirting with me, Alicia? I'm not used to these things."

"Do you expect me to believe that? Beauty is a magnet."

"Look who's talking." She paused. "But, no, women have not flirted with me, or if they have, it's gone right over my head, like the Blue Angels." She made a jet sound, which startled the kittens, who had fallen asleep on the desk.

"Silly girls. "Alicia's voice, part of her outrageous allure, sounded exactly as it did on the big screen.

BoomBoom experienced an uncustomary flutter; she stuttered for a second, then caught herself. "Well, I'm so glad you're home safe and sound."

"Once the weather clears, let's go up to Greyfriars'. You wanted to go, right?" Alicia asked.

"Can't wait," BoomBoom responded. "I look to Mary for light. Not that I'm in danger of being a good Catholic, mind you."

"Actually, sugar, I'm a bad Christian, but it's too late to be a good anything else." Alicia laughed.

As the two women bid their good-byes with promises to call first thing in the morning, high on top of the Blue Ridge Mountains, the Virgin Mary was again crying tears of blood, quickly freezing in the cold.

4

What do you think of that?" A puff of air streamed from Harry's lips as she spoke on her cell phone, a gift from Fair on her birthday.

The horses, including the brood mares, munched in their stalls. The minute Harry reached home she had brought in the horses, thrown them flakes of hay, and topped off their water. She turned them out during the day unless the ground was covered in ice. Horses that spend most of their times outdoors, grazing and playing, are far happier than horses stuck in stalls.

She wore a tiny earpiece, phone tucked in her belt, as she swept out the aisles. Although the mercury would drop into the twenties, she knew the inside of the barn wouldn't get below freezing. The outside air would have to stay in the teens or below for the water buckets to freeze inside. Some of this was due to the good construction of the barn, well built but still airy. A tight barn is bad for equine breathing. The warmth of those large thousand-plus-pound bodies did the rest, so the barn stayed reasonably warm—if one considers the high thirties or the low forties warm.

"The Lord moves in mysterious ways His wonders to perform," Miranda Hogendobber replied, as Harry had been telling her about the Virgin Mary.

"Oh, Miranda, you don't believe it's a miracle, do you?"

"Does it matter? Does it matter if it can be explained by natural causes or if she truly cries blood? If this helps someone, provides light in a dark world, then it's a miracle."

Harry stopped, propped the broom against Tomahawk's stall. "I never thought of it that way."

"You don't think of a lot of things," Miranda said with warmth, not rancor.

Harry moaned, "Fair says I'm more of a guy than he is, in the mind. Actually, everyone says that. Even my mother used to say that. Irritates the hell out of me."

"I'm not saying that." Miranda thought of Harry as a daughter, since she herself had not been blessed with children. "I'm saying you seek practical solutions. From time to time, you need to sit quietly, or take a walk, allow your spirit to roam. God's love will find you."

"You're right. I suppose I'd say, 'Take time to smell the roses.' "

"I am never closer to the Good Lord than when I'm in my garden." Miranda, a gifted gardener, engaged in hot competition with Mim Sanburne, not nearly as gifted but tremendously rich. "You know Tazio and I are drawing up plans for my dream garden shed." She mentioned a young friend and architect.

"Speaking of gardens, when I visited the monastery gardens, I found Susan there, too. I've never seen Susan so blue. She thinks Ned is drifting away from her. She's questioning the marriage."

"She needs her friends." Miranda, not prone to gossip, was always prepared to assist a friend. "I'll ask her to tea. This is about Ned's getting elected to the state senate. It's changing her whole life. For one thing, Susan is going to be on display, and that requires a great deal of discipline as well as an extensive wardrobe."

"Expensive and extensive."

"Yes. Political wives are judged rather harshly, you know."

"Thank heaven Fair doesn't have the political bug."

"So you are going to remarry him?"

"That's why I visited the monastery. I prayed for answers. There's something about that statue of the Virgin Mary that settles my mind." She paused a moment, then picked up the broom. "I can't believe you didn't ask me why I was there in the first place."

"You'd get around to it," Miranda chuckled.

"You know me too well."

"I watched you grow up, sweetie pie. Takes you awhile to get to the point, especially if the point is emotional."

"Funny, isn't it, and Fair wears his heart on his sleeve."

"He trusts himself."

"Oh." This had never occurred to Harry.

"Did the Blessed Virgin Mary answer your prayers?"

"Not yet. I talked to her about money, too. Am I going down the right path? I even talked to her about the meaning of life. Sounds ridiculous coming from me, but am I here to pay bills? Am I here to farm? Am I here to serve on the St. Luke's vestry board, which I enjoy, actually. I asked so many deep questions I made myself dizzy."

"The answers will come."

Harry exhaled, real emotion in her voice because she trusted Miranda completely. "I hope so, Miranda. I do. Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night and I'm scared to death. My heart is racing. I don't know if I can pay my feed bills, I don't know if I can afford to fill up the diesel gas pumps." She mentioned the large outdoor pumps with underground tanks that she used for the tractor. "I can't afford dress-up clothes, and I know I embarrass Susan, BoomBoom, Big Mini. I probably embarrass Fair, too, but he's too much of a gentleman to say that."

"Now, honey, you listen to me. I can't speak for the Blessed Virgin Mother, but I can speak as someone who loves you. You're pretty even without doing one thing to yourself. Yes, you do need some frocks. But there's no point fretting over it until money starts coming in again. Let it go. You're researching growing grapes. That takes time, soil, and sun tests. Maybe you can find a temporary job to get a paycheck for your electric and phone bill."

"I've been racking my brain."

"What about Fair's offer of working with him?"

"I don't want to be with him twenty-four hours a day. I don't love him that much."

Miranda exploded with laughter. "To tell you the truth, much as I loved George, I didn't want to be with him around the clock, either. Now, Tracy is a different story." She mentioned her current boyfriend, an athletic man who had been her high-school boyfriend and who moved back to Crozet two years ago after his wife died.

"Two peas in a pod."

"Sometimes I wonder what life would have been like if I had married Tracy out of high school," Miranda mused. "Well, I have no complaints."

"If you want to ruin a relationship, get married," Harry said teasingly with a hint of seriousness.

"Now, Harry, you don't mean that."

"People get married and think they own each other. It's the unspoken expectations that get you. Once a woman becomes a wife, society expects things of her even if her husband doesn't. I can be a friend, a lover, a pal, but I'm not much of a wife. Fair makes a better wife than I do, all six feet five inches of him. And you make a good wife. Not me."

Miranda thought for a moment. "Wife. Husband. Those are words and the meaning changes with the times, but marriage is a sacrament. It's a vow before God and man. Do I think marriage can keep people together? No. But mind your mouth about this. People are peculiar."

"Hypocritical is more like it."

"That, too," Miranda agreed.

As they were chatting, Fair drove to the barn. He cracked open the large sliding doors and slipped in, closing them behind him.

"Fair, we were just talking about you." Harry kissed him on the cheek. "Your other girlfriend wants to say hello."

Pewter, in the warm tackroom, which had electric heat, pricked up her ears. She heard the mice behind the paneled walls. Mrs. Murphy had climbed into the hayloft to visit the possum, Simon. Pewter could climb the ladder, which was flat against the wall, nailed to it, but she preferred the warmth. Anyway, Simon, a kleptomaniac, had to show his most recent treasures, which bored the gray cat mightily. Tucker stuck close to Harry. Pewter liked Tucker but thought dogs so slavish. She closed her eyes, then opened one. The mice were singing, "The old gray mare." As she was gray, she knew this was directed at her.

Pewter roused herself from the toasty sheepskin saddle pad to creep over to the small opening shrewdly hidden behind the tack trunk.

"You aren't nearly as funny as you think you are," she growled.

A tiny set of dark gray whiskers appeared in the mouse doorway, then a little head stuck out. "You scared me half to death," came the insolent reply.

"Your day will come," Pewter warned. "But you'd better shut up. If Harry comes in here and hears you, we're all in trouble. A deal is a deal."

The deal was that the barn mice wouldn't get into the grain bins, chew tack, or steal the hard candies that Harry kept in a bowl on the old desk. In return they could have all the grain the horses dropped from their buckets, which was plenty. The cats wouldn't kill them. If any human, Harry or a visitor, left food out, unwrapped, the mice could have it.

"She's in the center aisle," the head mouse replied.

"Fair walked in and they'll both be back in here in a minute, and don't tell me humans don't have good ears, because Harry hears almost as well as we do. It's her sharpest sense. Kind of odd."

"Okay, okay," the head mouse grumbled, then called back to the group. "Cut it."

Later that Thursday night, at the monastery, the temperature was ten degrees colder than down below. The wind whipped through the conifers, intensifying the howling sound. Snow swirled around.

Curiosity got the better of Brother Prescott. He trudged through the darkness, a strong-beamed flashlight in hand. He was followed by Brother Mark, a young man who had nearly killed himself on drugs when at Michigan State but now gave himself wholeheartedly to Jesus, to the discipline of the order. Brother Frank, a middle-aged, sensible man who was the treasurer, also accompanied them.

No one said anything as each man concentrated on keeping his footing. Their long sleeves and long robes furled outward, with the winds dragging them backward at times.

Finally they reached the Virgin Mary.

Brother Prescott shone the beam on her face, snow so thick he had to squint, shielding his eyes with his left hand.

The wind abated for a second.

"Holy Mary, Mother of Our Lord, Christ Jesus." Brother Mark fell to his knees, then prostrated himself in the snow.

Brother Frank, not given to gusts of emotion, took a step back.

Brother Prescott crossed himself. "Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee, blessed art thou amongst women."

"She's bleeding for our sins. She's crying tears of blood to save mankind." When Brother Mark lifted his face from the snow, he, too, was crying, the tears cold on his rosy cheeks.

"UP." Brother Frank reached down grabbed the noun man's hand, and pulled him up.

"She's exhorting us to save mankind," Brother Mark sobbed, sides heaving.

"You save mankind one man, one woman, one child at a time," Brother Prescott evenly replied, but he, too, was moved deeply by the sight of frozen blood, which had coursed down Mary's cheeks and spilled onto the upper folds of her robe.

"Don't jump to conclusions," Brother Frank, face framed by the hood of his robe, admonished. "We don't know what's going on here. It looks like tears, it looks like blood, but we don't know and we won't know in the middle of this snowstorm. So I advise each of us to keep his mouth shut."

"She's speaking to us, Brother Frank, she's speaking to us through her tears. We can't keep quiet."

"For a day or two." The older man held to his opinion. "Brother Prescott, you say two women came to you? And you and Brother Thomas followed them up here?"

"Harry Haristeen and Susan Tucker." Brother Prescott knew them, not well, but in passing, as did Brother Frank.

"Won't stay a secret, then." Brother Frank pinched his lips together. "Women can't keep secrets."

"Men can't, either." Brother Prescott bridled at Brother Frank's sexism.

"We have to tell the other brothers. We have to tell Brother Handle," added Brother Mark. The young man's eyes widened.

"It can wait until morning. I need to think about this." Brother Frank took the icy cold flashlight from Brother Prescott's hand, stepped forward, and peered intently up at the beatific face, winds renewing their assault. "Forgive me, Blessed Mother, I am a skeptic and must investigate," he said matter-of-factly.

Brother Prescott shouted, for the wind was now a steady roar, "This could be the best thing to happen to us. You're the treasurer, you know that."

"It could also be the worst," came the measured reply, as Brother Frank wondered not only what was happening but what to do about it.

5

What a beautiful color, rich with depth." Susan commented on the cranberry sauce as she handed it to Brooks on her right.

"You look good in this color, Mom."

"Sweet thing." Susan beamed at her daughter. "I could hold the sauce up to my face."

"I remember when you were tiny, Susan, you spilled more food than made it to your mouth." Brother Thomas accepted the cranberry sauce when Brooks handed it to him. He glanced at the window. "Look at that."

Ned, at the head of the table, watched the snow whirl by the old-paned, handblown glass windows. "We've had an early winter and a hard one. I'm crossing my fingers for the January thaw."

"Might be the March thaw this year." The thin old fellow smiled. "When does Danny come home for Christmas vacation?"

"December eleventh. I miss him at Thanksgiving, but it's such a long way from Ithaca, New York, to here. He's spending Christmas with the Wadsworths, just outside Cazenovia. He's made so many friends up there. They all fight to have him," Susan bragged.

"Brooks, what are you thinking about college?" her great-great-uncle asked her.

She simply addressed him as "Uncle." "Uncle Thomas, I'd like to go to Stanford. It's real expensive, though."

Susan and Ned looked at each other but said nothing.

"Saw California when I was in the service." Brother Thomas gleefully cut into the juicy turkey slices on his plate. "Guess I wouldn't recognize it now, but, oh, it was beautiful. I couldn't get used to the days being hot and the nights being so cold." He laughed.

"I like Mary Baldwin, too, even though it's real different from Stanford," Brooks added as an afterthought.

The dinner continued with talk of the future, what Ned hoped to accomplish in Richmond, Susan's determination to finally make the A team in golf at the country club.

Outside, the snow piled up, making it cozier to be inside.

After their feast they retired to the small den, which Susan had smothered in chintz. She couldn't help herself.

Ned and Brother Thomas talked about whether Ned could continue his legal practice. Susan and Brooks cleaned up before joining them, bringing in yet another round of desserts and hot coffee.

The fire crackled as Brother Thomas reached for a small shortbread cookie dipped in bitter chocolate. "If only we ate like this at Afton."

"You'd all be fat as ticks." Susan laughed.

He replied with assurance, "The Bland Wades don't get fat."

"Well, I take after the other side of the family," Susan groaned.

"Now, Susan, your father's people weren't fat." He paused a minute. "Come to think of it, Minnie was big as a house. Remember Minnie?"

"Those polka-dot dresses!" Susan's eyes brightened, then she said to Brooks, "Honey, I'm sorry you didn't know my father's Aunt Minnie. She died long before you were born. She had a sweet tooth but she was funny."

"Your father put on a little weight in his fifties," Ned remarked, immediately wishing he hadn't brought that up.

"At least he didn't blow up like Aunt Minnie." Susan snuggled into the overstuffed chair, a needlepoint pillow behind her back.

"What a blessing that we could have a quiet Thanksgiving together." Brother Thomas leaned back into his own overstuffed chair, reveling in the comfort. "You know, the contemplative life is fading. Few young people are called these days. In fact, anyone desiring to dedicate themselves to work, prayer, abstinence, and good works, if possible, is considered mentally ill." He waved his hand. "It's all going. Two thousand years of spiritual life, going. Each year our prior struggles to make ends meet with less. It's aging him. Brother Frank, too. There really isn't anyone to whom they can pass the torch."

Brooks, having been raised properly as a Virginia lady, knew that since her great-great-uncle was their special guest, he must be the center of attention. "Don't you think it's possible some young people will turn to a contemplative life? I mean, don't you think some people will find success—what we call success—empty?"

He smiled at her, this lovely young girl, embarking on life as he was disembarking. "Ah, I hope so, but for contemplative life to be valued, to flourish, spiritual life must be paramount. If you think about it, the so-called Dark Ages and then the Middle Ages were a fertile ground for this kind of a life." The fire illuminated his face as he continued. "When Henry the Eighth dissolved the monasteries in England, that was the true beginning of the rise of secular life. Each century has witnessed a further erosion of spiritual values as the center of individual life and community life. Oh, there are revivals, spasms of religious energy, but truthfully, it's over. That time has passed, never to return in a way central to civilization. That's how I read history. And with each passing century, the concept of a whole community's relationship to God, the concept of one's relationship to God, has eroded. It's one's relationship to the dollar today." He shrugged his bony shoulders. "Which isn't to say people weren't interested in money in the Middle Ages; they were, but they put it in a different perspective."

"More dreadful events might bring people back to monasteries," Ned thought out loud. "Not that I wish for them."

"I don't think so." Brother Thomas tasted the rich coffee. "Susan, this is quite something."

"My husband bought me a coffeemaker for my birthday that cost more than my monthly car payment. I love coffee and I love Ned." She smiled a touch nervously at her husband, who smiled back.

"Ah." Brother Thomas loved Susan as he had loved her mother and her grandmother before her. When he looked at Susan he could see three generations reflected in her face. "Well, Ned, you made all the right choices." He placed the bone-china cup on the side table, then folded his hands. "I've lived a long time. I don't know if I've done much good in this life, but I hope I haven't done harm. The war—" He stopped. "I did harm in the war, for which I ask God's forgiveness. I put the desires of my government before the tenets of God. 'Thou shalt not kill,' and I killed."

Susan interrupted, "If you hadn't gone to war, Uncle Thomas, we might not be here today."

"Perhaps." He smiled at her. "I won't be here next Thanksgiving. I feel fine, but I feel my time on earth is nearly over. I really do feel fine. Poor Brother Sidney, only sixty-two, has to get transfusions of blood to keep going. And here I am, no obvious problems. Yet, I feel I will soon be called to our Lord. I want you to know, Susan, that I have arranged for the Bland Wade land, those fifteen hundred acres that wrap behind Tally Urquhart's over to the edge of the Minor place"—he used Harry's maiden name—"to go to you. There's not much else that I have of value. I thought for years about what to do about the land. As our numbers dwindled I knew the monastery couldn't manage the Bland Wade tract, and I can't bear the thought of it begin broken up and sold. So few large tracts these days. A great pity. Land is the ultimate wealth, you know." He paused again, took a deep breath. "All the pastures are overgrown, second-growth timber on them pretty much. I can't tell you what to do, but if I were a young man, I'd restore the pastures, because the soil is good. And I wouldn't harvest the hardwoods, although I'd thin them. Whatever you do, Susan, and you, too, Brooks, don't sell the land. I assume some day the Bland Wade tract will pass to you and Danny. No matter how great the temptation, don't sell that land. It's one of the last land grants intact. Land is a breathing thing."

A silence followed this, then Susan, overcome, said, "Uncle, I never expected anything like this. I promise we will cherish the land, and I promise Ned will create easements so it can't be subdivided."

"Just leave me room to build a house, Dad," Brooks blurted out.

Ned, with gravity, stood up, walked over, and shook the old man's hand, inhaling as he did so the odor of lanolin from the virgin wool of Brother Thomas's robe. "This is a great blessing to our family. I don't think I can properly express my gratitude."

Brother Thomas smiled, squeezing Ned's hand. "Care for the land, Ned; she is under all of us." Then he laughed. "Since not one of you is a good Catholic, I can't exhort you there." He laughed again. "A Lutheran, Susan. I could have died from mortification when your mother became a Lutheran before her marriage." He paused a moment. "But then, the years have taught me perhaps that the denomination isn't as important as I once thought, so long as one fears and loves God."

Brooks didn't take to the fear part, but she kept that to herself. "Uncle Thomas, how do I know God loves me?"

He blinked, then replied with a depth of feeling that reached each of them. "Every time you behold the Blue Ridge Mountains, every time you feel a snowflake on your eyelashes, every time you see a frog on a lily pad, every time a friend gives you his hand, Brooks, God loves you. You're surrounded by His love. We look for it in all the wrong places as we pray for worldly success. We say that must be proof of God's love. Some people pray not for material success but for an easy life." He shook his head. "No, even our pains are a sign of His love, for they will lead you to the right path, if you'll only listen." He opened his eyes wide, touching his fingertips together. "Ah, well, I'm not much of a preacher. I didn't mean to go on. I spend so much time in prayer or fixing pipes or both," he laughed, "or with Brother Mark, my apprentice. This summer when we repaired the statue of the Blessed Virgin Mother he asked so many questions he made me dizzy. He's still a chatterbox around me." His eyes twinkled. "Sometimes I forget how to carry on a true conversation."

"We will never forget what you've said," Ned replied.

"Well, you're kind. I'm an old man with an audience. That's more intoxicating than wine." He laughed at himself. "Or cognac?" He lifted his white eyebrows.

Ned rose, returning with three brands of cognac—each expensive—and four snifters, all on a silver tray. He placed them before Brother Thomas, pointing to one brand. "I think this was first made by monks." Ned wasn't sure that the precious liquid had been created in a monastery, but the possibility shouldn't be overlooked.

"Yes. Well, I mustn't disappoint my brethren. I'll try just a taste of each of these to see if the spiritual life improved the product."

Ned poured Hennessy Paradis for Susan and a little drop of Remy Martin Louis XIII for Brooks after he poured Uncle Thomas's Hors d'Age No. 9. "Ladies." He then poured some of the amber liquid into his own snifter, holding it high. "To Brother Thomas, a man of love and a man of light."

They toasted Brother Thomas and he acknowledged the accolade, savored his cognac, then held up his glass for Ned to fill it with another brand. He tasted that. "Hmm, the distiller may not have been a monk, but I'm certain he was a Christian." He took another sip. "A very good Christian."

6

Driving slowly through the fast-falling snow, Fair kept his eyes on the road.

"Can't see the center line." Harry squinted.

"It's the side I'm worried about. Damn, it's easy to slide off. We'd be sitting in a snowbank until morning."

"Well, at least we'd be well fed. Miranda knocked herself out."

Fair smiled. "And who would have thought that a big, tough Korean vet like Tracy could bake? I still can't believe he made the pumpkin pie." His shoulders dropped a bit as he could just make out the sign to the farm. "Whew."

As he turned his truck off the road, the wheels sank deep into the snow. He geared down.

"Glad I put the snow blade on the tractor. It must be snowing two inches per hour. Jeez, I'll be out on the tractor all day," Harry exclaimed. "Any scheduled calls?"

"A full book, but it's exams and X rays; can be rescheduled if need be. It's the emergency calls that worry me."

"Maybe I'd better plow the drive tonight. Still be covered with snow tomorrow but not as deep." She turned to look at him as the bed of the truck slowly swung right.

He corrected the slide but didn't breathe normally until he pulled up by the back porch door. "Thank God."

They hurried inside, Harry carrying a take-out bag. "Aunt Miranda made Thanksgiving dinner for you all."

She picked up their bowls, putting in giblets, gravy, and some dressing.

"Hooray," the three cheered in unison as they pounced when the food was placed on the floor.

"Honey, don't plow. It's late. Let's trust to luck. If I get an emergency call we can worry about it."

"Sure?"

"Sure. Let's sit in front of the fire and remember Thanksgivings past." He walked into the living room, removed the fire screen, and began placing hardwood—oak, walnut, one precious pear log on top—in a square.

Harry picked up the bowls, instantly licked clean. She rinsed them in the sink.

"Is a saint bigger than the Blessed Virgin Mother?" Tucker thought for a second.

"No. The BVM is the Big Cheese." Mrs. Murphy cleaned her whiskers.

"Think any human has ever made a statue to cheese?" Pewter thought honoring food with a statue not a bad idea.

"Not that I know of." Mrs. Murphy intended to join Harry, who had just walked into the living room, but her belly was full and the distance seemed too great.

Harry inhaled. "Pear wood smells fabulous."

Fair smiled, holding out his hand.

She took it and he led her to the sofa. They put their feet on the coffee table, continuing to hold hands.

"Remember the other Thanksgiving when it snowed so much? Not that common. We were in junior high."

"Yeah. Dad had to put chains on the tires."

The fire crackled and glowed. The two cats were fast asleep in the large basket filled with old towels that Harry saved. They were in the kitchen. Tucker managed to totter to the hearth before conking out.

"I remember digging Mrs. Clark out of that big snow. So many of our teachers are gone now. Mrs. Clark died back in 1989. Liver disease, and she never even drank."

"An entire generation is leaving us. Funny how fast time goes." He squeezed Harry's hand. "I don't have anything else to say about what I did, what I learned, where I am at this exact moment. You've heard it all. I want to marry you. I won't ask again. I know making a big decision is very hard for you. You can be so good in a crisis, but you don't like change, and life is change."

"I'm trying. I'm studying viticulture, other ways to make money," she softly replied.

"I know. Skeezits, give me an answer by Christmas Eve."

"This is an ultimatum?" She liked ultimatums about as much as she liked change.

"I guess it is, but I don't think about it quite like that. There's a lot of life left to me. I'm staring at forty. I want to love a true partner. I want a family. I love you." He took a deep breath. "But if I'm not really the man for you, I have to move on. It will kill me, but I have to go. I can't live in limbo."

Harry heard him in her heart, yet she feared making the same mistake twice. And it was true, she feared change. She'd adjusted to single life. She liked it. No, it wasn't as fulfilling as a deep partnership, but could she be that partner?

"Fair, you'll have your answer by Christmas Eve." She paused. "And whatever it is, I do love you."

Tucker, ears sharp, eyes closed, heard every word.

7

The long, slanting rays of the rising sun reached the statue of the Virgin Mary at 7:02 A.M., Friday. The back of her snow-covered robes shone pale pink, then deepened to crimson. The frozen blood on her cheeks glowed dark in the blue light for she faced west and it would be hours before the sun would climb high enough to warm her face.

Brother Mark, trembling in the biting air, again threw himself in the snow. He wept, he wailed, he prayed.

He pulled himself to his knees, his hands bright red from cold. He clasped them together, his face upturned to that most perfect of faces.

"Blessed Virgin Mother, forgive me, for I have sinned. Forgive me for the hours I have wasted, for the destructive things I did. Forgive me for being weak." A persistent memory of himself lying comatose at three in the morning in the middle of Beverly Street, Staunton, crept into his head. He had nearly died from a speedball overdose. "I come to you. I come to your Son. I give my life to this life, to your wishes. Make me your vessel."

He prayed dramatically, fervently. He seemed not to hear footsteps coming up behind him.

"Brother Mark, you'll catch your death," Brother Frank said gruffly.

"My life is of no importance."

Brother Frank was about to say, "Your history confirms that attitude," but instead he said, "Your life matters to our Blessed Virgin Mother, otherwise you wouldn't be on your knees before her. You must stay strong and become wise, Brother Mark. There is much to do and fewer and fewer young men to do it."

A radiance washed over the young man's face at this. He clasped his hands tighter. "Yes, yes, of course. I must be strong. We must bind the wounds of the world."

"What we can." Brother Frank long ago gave up on improving the world. He'd even given up improving himself. "Now, please, Brother, on your feet and come back inside."

"Isn't she beautiful?" Brother Mark couldn't tear his eyes away from that face.

"Yes." Brother Frank remembered only too well the beauty of women. He felt he had been led astray by women. Perhaps he had, but then again, blaming women for one's own weakness was a central part of Judaism and Christianity, starting with Adam and Eve.

As the two men, one middle-aged, stout, the other younger, slight, carefully walked back to the main section of the old stone buildings, Brother Mark alternated between tears and euphoria.

"This sign must be shared. I know it. In my heart."

"Not yet," Brother Frank chided.

"We have to tell the world."

"No. The world is, well, a world away. This is our world now, Brother Mark. We need to think this through before, like Pandora, we open the box."

"Our Lady will overcome all obstacles, including the evils of man."

"Why make her task more difficult?"

"Two women already know. Why should we remain silent?"

"Brother Mark, give me one day. You're a fully stoked furnace and, I confess, I'm embers. But the years give one perspective. Announce this prematurely, and our haven will be overrun, and not just by those coming to worship or coming to Mary for her intercession. The media, the mountebanks, will turn this into a circus, a degenerate entertainment." He drew in his breath, the cold air filling his lungs, painful to inhale. "She deserves better."

Unconvinced, Brother Mark did promise. "Twenty-four hours."

People visited the grounds, the various shops. This was the only mark of the outside world on the Greyfriars. The products the monks made barely kept the order in the black. Some monks had more contact with the outside world than others due to their special skills. All of the brothers, whether totally withdrawn or more "worldly," would feel the impact of people flocking to see the miracle.

The lures of the Internet disturbed the older brothers greatly, partly because the temptations therein could so easily be hidden from others. Each shop contained a computer to keep accounts of their wares, the candles, goat's milk soap, jellies and jams, iron trinkets, flowers, and potent applejack, their best seller. The order sold every kind of apple product, including even dried apples for decoration. Every Christmas the brothers wove huge wreaths, some as costly as five hundred dollars, filled with gleaming red apples and other dried tidbits, wide flat gold and red ribbons adorning the soft pine needles of the wreath itself.

Brother Frank walked down the long, cold corridor to his office. The job of treasurer suited him. He had hoped to find a successor among the few younger men in the order, but no one seemed suitable.

As treasurer, he used a computer for business purposes. He used the telephone sparingly. He found the hidden costs for both on-line and phone service infuriating. He checked his file, then dialed.

Harry, in the barn, heard the silly "Jingle Bells" ring on her cell phone. Fair had programmed it for Christmas. She pulled the tiny cell phone out of her belt.

"Hello."

"Mrs. Haristeen, it's Brother Frank."

Harry sensed Brother Frank did not like women, despite his good manners. "Hello, Brother Frank, how are you this crisp morning?"

"Crisp? It's cold as ice. But I'm well and thank you for asking. How about you?"

"I love the snow."

"Well, at least one of us does. I'm calling to ask you a favor. You beheld an unusual occurrence yesterday, I believe."

"The statue. Yes." She dropped her voice slightly. "Very strange."

"Indeed it is, and I don't want to jump to conclusions. Would you mind keeping quiet about this? Now, I'm sure you've told a few friends. May I rely on you to ask them to also remain silent as a favor to the brotherhood? I'm afraid a premature announcement could send people here looking for, well, miracles, perhaps. We need more information first."

"Yes, I understand. Of course, I'll do what I can. Luckily, no one will want to drive the icy roads up the mountain today; you'll be alone."

"I appreciate that. God bless you."

"You, too, Brother Frank."

Harry called Susan first, since they had seen the tears together, and filled her in on the conversation.

"Not an unreasonable request." She reached for an ashtray. "What a time Ned had last night getting G-Uncle back to the monastery. We wanted him to spend the night, but he pleaded to go back up. He's a little obsessed with the statue—and perhaps a little dotty, too. Then again, I don't trust my own judgment these days. Maybe I'm dotty."

Susan was sneaking a cigarette, letting out a loud exhale. A recent gain of ten pounds had driven her back to her blue menthol Marlboros. Her worry over Ned accentuated her fretting over her weight. She thought her kitchen needed an overhaul and she was falling behind in the decor department. She was nervous about so many things.

"You're not losing it." Harry paused. "Something's wrong up there on the mountain."

"Harry, you're always looking for a mystery." Susan laughed, then coughed.

"I told you smoking isn't a good way to lose weight. Help me muck stalls or go to the gym. ACAC is really good." She mentioned a local gym.

"Who said I was smoking?"

"Susan."

"Oh, all right! One."

"Well, if you're going to lose weight, then one isn't going to do it, is it? Either light up or hit the gym. So there."

"You're a big help."

"What do you want me to say? I think you look great. You're the one who complains that your thighs rub together when you walk."

"Must you be so graphic?"

Harry giggled. "You look good. You and Brooks could be sisters."

"Liar."

"No. That's true. I'll forgo a lecture about smoking. It's your body. But back to this Virgin Mary thing. My sixth sense tells me something's not right."

"Your sixth sense has gotten us both into one mess after another. I wish you'd turn it off."

Harry was right, though. Brother Mark proved unable to contain his deep emotions. He snuck into the chandler shop when Brother Michael, a nearsighted man, was helping a customer. Since he'd grown up with the computer, using one was natural to him. Brother Mark fired off an e-mail to Pete Osborne, an executive at the Charlottesville NBC affiliate, Channel 29. Whenever he could he'd watch the local channel, since Nordy Elliott, his college friend, anchored the news. He'd learned who was who at Channel 29.

When Pete, a witty man, read the e-mail, he blinked and read it twice.

Pete, the Blessed Virgin Mother who overlooks us all from the top of the Blue Ridge Mountains is crying tears of blood. These are shed for the sins of the world. I have seen her weep with my own eyes. Some of the other brothers don't want people to know. They are afraid of what might happen. How can they be afraid of a miracle? A miracle from Our Lady, who is love and only love! The world should know that Our Blessed Mother is speaking to them. Brother Mark (Mark Croydon)

Pete reread the message, sat at his desk for a moment, tapping a yellow pencil against a large white coffee cup. True. Mark Croydon had scrambled his brains. Pete had met him once last year when the station ran a spring special on the apple blossoms in the orchard. He thought the young man quite peculiar. However, it would cost only one reporter two hours and a quarter tank of gas to drive to the top of Afton Mountain, then turn north for a mile to the iron-gated entrance to Mt. Carmel. Okay, maybe half a tank, because they'd need an SUV

He stood up, flung open the door to his office, and strode down to the newsroom. "Nordy!"

8

So, there you have it." Harry threw up her hands in quasi-defeat as Mrs. Murphy, Tucker, and Pewter looked on along with BoomBoom, Alicia, Susan, Miranda, Big Mim, and Little Mim.

An impromptu gathering had occurred at Alicia's farm. Harry called around, and BoomBoom informed her that the state roads were plowed. Alicia's farm wasn't far off Route 250, so they gathered there.

The living-room walls, painted eggshell cream, and the woodwork, trimmed out in linen white, bespoke quiet elegance and warmth, like Alicia herself. Although she regularly visited the farm she had inherited, over the decades she'd changed it little from Mary Pat's taste. Once it was finally home, Alicia began to exert her own tastes, which proved bolder than Mary Pat's. Alicia, much as she loved sporting art and the great masters, wasn't afraid of modern art. Nor was she afraid of a splash of bright color here and there, like magenta silk moire pillows on the mustard-colored Sheraton couch.

Big Mim, arbiter of taste in Crozet, at first was shocked at Alicia's "statements," as she called them. Gradually, the controlling doyenne warmed to the color and airiness of the place. Her daughter, Little Mim, a contemporary of Harry's, reveled in Alicia's palette, style, cleverness. Little Mini, ever keen to differentiate herself from her mother, even painted her bedroom pale lavender, inspired by Alicia.

The women ate chicken sandwiches, a thin veneer of herbed mayonnaise on them, the bread freshly baked. Alicia, ever a thoughtful hostess, put out crisp vegetables to nibble on, a wide variety of cheeses, and an array of drinks, including a yerba mate tea that gave the girls a buzz. As a joke, she placed a tiny card with the calorie count by each item.

"No wonder you stay so trim," Big Mim, in her sixties and in excellent shape herself, noted.

"Work out, walk, ride horses, and stop eating before you're full." Alicia smiled her incredible smile, a bit crooked, which added to her high-octane allure. Even sitting there in men's Levi's 5 01 s, a crisp white Brooks Brothers' shirt, a farmer's red hanky tied around her throat, and wide gold Tiffany hoops in her ears, Alicia couldn't be anything but a movie star.

"Good genes." Big Mim reached for a raw carrot. "Good for the eyes, you know."

"Maybe that's why the horses like them so much," Harry replied. "What do you make of all this?"

Susan reached for her second sandwich. Her willpower, not her strongest feature, had faltered during the holidays—hence the cigarettes. Harry teased her that the real reason she visited the top of the mountain on November 24 was that it was Thanksgiving and she was praying she wouldn't eat too much.

"What do you make of Brother Frank's call?"

Big Mim spoke first, her custom. "Until he can ascertain whether this is something in the stone, something explainable, his request for a news blackout, if you will, is sensible. This so-called miracle could become terribly embarrassing."

"All God's work." Miranda smiled. "Whether it's explainable or not."

"Of course it is, Miranda"—Big Mim and Miranda were contemporaries, so Mim couldn't sway her friend by hauteur— "but if the monastery advertises the Miracle of the Blue Ridge, which is subsequently discovered to be nothing more than a vein of iron deep in the soapstone, the order will appear in a less than holy light."

"Can it be worse than priests molesting boys?" Alicia replied with a hint of sarcasm.

"And covering it up!" Little Mim smacked her sandwich on the plate. "You know what else? I think they're still covering it up."

"Why boys?" BoomBoom shrugged. "Are they all gay? For the last two thousand years we've been herded and prodded by a bunch of pederasts. Does that ever explain a lot—think about it."

"This isn't to say you wished they'd molested girls, dear." Big Mim coolly drank some piping hot yerba mate tea. "But it is most peculiar, as is the response from the Vatican."

"In keeping." Alicia took a restorative sip of the bitter brew herself. "Pope Pius the Twelfth knew perfectly well what was going on in Nazi Germany. Not a word. Politics is politics. The Vatican is about power, not about saving souls."

"You don't find God in a building with a cross on it, you find God in your heart and in the hearts of others," Miranda, who was devout, agreed. "But that doesn't mean we rejoice in the sorrows of the Catholic Church. We're enduring a little contretemps in the Church of the Holy Light." She mentioned her church, a charismatic Baptist one, where she sang in the choir. "All about money."

"Always is. When I served on the vestry board I nearly went bald from tearing my hair out." Susan laughed. "Now Harry's taken my spot. And you were thrilled when you were elected."

"Oh, it's not so bad, but you have to sit there while everyone shoots off their mouth. Time-consuming. Once we settled the issue of new carpets, things calmed down." She reached for a gooey brownie. "But I swear what was running down the face of Mary's statue wasn't rust."

"She's right. It really did look like blood: the color, the consistency. I tell you, it was eerie." Susan shook her head.

"Why don't we go up there when the ice is off the roads?" Big Mim suggested, unaware that, with the exception of her daughter, the others had agreed to this.

Miranda nodded. "If we see it with our own eyes, we'll know more."

That settled, Harry changed the subject. "Doing my grape research. Grape expectations." Everyone groaned. She plugged on. "Virginia is home to eighty wineries, which bring in five-hundred thousand tourists a year and put ninety-five million dollars into the state economy. Read it in the Daily Progress." She named the local newspaper, which paid its staff a pittance, but since they were dedicated newspeople they did a bang-up job, anyway, out of pride, pure pride in their craft.

"Well and good, but let us not forget that the horse industry brings over one point five billion dollars annually to this state, and as Colonial Downs gets better and better, if we can finally convince the legislature to authorize more offtrack-betting sites, you will see that double in five years. I promise you." Big Mim bred Thoroughbreds, mostly for steeplechase racing, some for foxhunting, but she kept a keen eye on the overall equine picture.

"The equine industry should be one of our most protected industries. As tobacco slides, it will be horses that make up lost revenue, if the state is smart enough to offer generous incentives." Little Mim, vice-mayor of Crozet, supported her mother one hundred percent in that area.

"You never know down there in Richmond." Harry laughed. "Are they smoking tobacco, weed, or opium? When you look at some of their decisions, you have to wonder."

"Harry, you're a rebel underneath it all." Alicia smiled at her with warmth. "Any state has its share of blistering idiots elected to public office, but this state has a solid government. If you want to observe entrenched corruption, watch Massachusetts; the reason they were the only state not to vote for Nixon was because the voters could spot a crook before anyone else." She paused. "Ah, but you're too young to remember all that, and I'm sounding like sour grapes. Let's go back to your grapes."

"Just doing my research. Good soil, rainfall, and sunshine for whites I've got. Maybe I can put in a row or two to see how they turn out. One good thing our legislature did was pass that Farm Wineries Act in 1990, which taxes wineries like farms, not like commercial businesses. That shows some foresight. But for now I'll stick to hay and timber."

"What about ginseng?" Big Mim kept up with the agricultural market.

"Down by the creek I might could grow some." Harry looked around the room. "You know, here I am talking about myself and my little world. I'm lucky you put up with me. I'm even luckier that you all help me."

"Harry, we're all family here." Miranda meant that. "We circle the wagons when we need to do so."

"Or open them up." Little Mim's face was flushed.

"Yes?" Big Mim pushed her glasses down on her nose, looking over the top.

"Nothing, Mother, just adding to the conversation." Little Mim didn't fib; she was merely withholding the major news that Blair Bainbridge had proposed to her after Thanksgiving dinner. As her mother and father were herding the guests toward what Big Mim referred to as the "just desserts room," Blair had taken her by the hand and trotted her to the den. She thought the big question might be coming. She answered yes with blazing speed. They kissed, then joined the others, deciding to tell her mother and father in private when it seemed propitious.

"Let's see what the weather holds. If we're going to climb the mountain we might as well make our plans now." Alicia clicked on the large flat TV screen mounted on the wall in her den.

"You can do that from here? From the living room?" Miranda was incredulous.

Alicia held up a small remote. "I can turn on the radio, the TV, the security system, I can specify the rooms. Easy."

"She's so high-tech." BoomBoom was impressed. "I thought I was cutting edge, but Alicia is way ahead of me. Do you know she even had a computer built to her own specifications?"

"Don't be too impressed. Most of making a film is sitting in a chair trying not to wear off your makeup or crinkle your wardrobe. I had plenty of time to learn from the techies. I liked it.

"Why don't we take our tea into the den and see what the report is? Dessert, too, if anyone would like more."

Susan's eyes fell on the brownies next to the small lemon-curd pastries. Lust filled her. "I can't."

"Susan, honest to God, you make me miserable by denying yourself," Harry complained.

"I don't deny myself enough."

They filed into the den, a large room painted lobster bisque with creamy white trim. History, military history, and natural-science books filled the shelves. Alicia, an avid reader, skipped through a book every two or three days. In Hollywood she'd kept her brains to herself, which only proved how very smart she was.

The tail end of the news finished just as they found seats. The weather report came on.

"Should be good tomorrow. Mid-forties. You never know." Big Mim, like most residents of central Virginia, was continually surprised, even enchanted, by the changeable weather.

The news returned after ads for carpet cleaner, aspirin, the Dodge Durango, and pet food.

"Hey!" Harry shouted, which caused her pets to run into the room followed by Alicia's steady, placid, and terribly handsome Gordon setter, Maxwell.

A close-up of the Virgin Mary's face, bloody tears still frozen, filled the screen. The camera pulled away to reveal the entire statue, with Nordy Elliott at the base, looking dapper in his navy winter coat, tan gloves, and red plaid cashmere scarf.

"The monks discovered this unusual phenomenon Thanksgiving morning." No brothers were in sight as Nordy spoke, great puffs of air coming from his mouth like cartoon captions. "At this point no one can say just what is happening, but it appears the statue is crying tears of blood."

As he continued, the women erupted, all talking at once.

"Hear, hear." Big Mim finally called them to order.

"Liar!" Harry's cheeks burned. "Brother Frank lied through his hat or his tonsure or whatever!"

"Don't jump to conclusions," BoomBoom sternly advised. "He's a cold fish, but he's not a liar. Someone else has let the cat out of the bag."

"Why do people say that?" Pewter wondered.

"To irritate you." Mrs. Murphy giggled.

9

Norton "Nordy" Elliott reveled in his good fortune. Pete Osborne called him "Nerdy" to his face, but on this night, Nerdy/ Nordy was a star. Even Pete had to give him that.

The scandals in the Catholic Church, while creating profound misery for the victims, the church hierarchy, and those priests still trying to do God's work, were a boon to the media. A church steeple needed repair. Made the news. One nun in the entire nation left a convent to become a lap dancer. Big news. A priest and a nun found love, rescinded their vows to marry. News. The image of blood on the Virgin Mary's cheeks was picked up as a feed by NBC affiliates throughout the U.S.

Although Pete regarded Nordy as little more than a talking Ken doll, he was not averse to the attention this brought Channel 29.

The switchboard lit up after the first airing, the one the ladies had watched in the early afternoon. By the six o'clock news the switchboard twinkled like Christmas lights. For the eleven o'clock news the station took on a carnival atmosphere. E-mails jammed the system.

Nordy pushed the story. His next planned foray would be interviewing the brothers. As Prior, Brother Handle had sternly declined to give an interview or to have anyone else talk to the reporter. Pete allowed Nordy use of whatever equipment he needed. Nordy was in heaven.

The response proved the opposite at the monastery.

Brother Handle, in his late fifties and feeling it this evening, angrily clicked off the TV, one of two on the grounds, the other one in Brother Frank's office. First he called Brother Frank and Brother Prescott into his office. After a fulsome discussion in which each man pledged complete agreement with the Prior, he called in Brother Mark. Brother Handle's patience, already wafer-thin, wore through to threadbare. He finally ordered the young man to shut up and get out. Seeing Brother Mark slink away made him feel even angrier. Brother Handle never could bear emotional types. He then attended a choral practice.

When the eleven o'clock news aired, the brothers were still singing in the chapel. At eleven-thirty, Brother Handle ended the musical contemplation, as he liked to call it. The chapel, usually chilly, seemed even colder.

"At midnight we shall begin penance and silence. Two hours of private prayer will be followed by a return to your quarters. At five, we will again convene for Mass, followed by breakfast. You shall each go about your tasks in silence. The gates will be locked. No one is allowed onto the grounds and no one shall leave. If anyone speaks before I lift this rigorous rite of prayer and cleansing, a severe penance will be enforced." He turned on his heel, sandal squeaking against the stone, and strode down the center aisle, the gray folds of his raw wool robe swirling outward, the white cape slightly lifting up behind his shoulders. He said under his breath, "Silence, prayer, work, abstinence, austerity, seclusion."

Twenty minutes remained wherein brothers could speak, but as the men filed out, no one did.

Once out of the chapel, Brother Frank motioned to Brother Prescott.

Whispering, Brother Prescott intoned, "Runs a tight ship, our Brother Handle."

"Our tight ship has sprung a leak," Brother Frank whispered back, as both men smiled at the double entendre.

10

I knew I shouldn't have listened to you." Susan mournfully looked out the window of Harry's 1978 Ford F-l50.

Although in four-wheel drive with snow tires, the truck, even in second gear, struggled for traction on the steep climb up Afton Mountain, the fog increasing in density with each ten feet of altitude.

"You always say that." Harry peered ahead, scanning for red taillights.

Mrs. Murphy and Pewter watched the road intently. Tucker sat on Susan's lap.

"Pea soup."

"The mountain wears its mantle of fog all too often." Harry remembered the time a pileup of over thirty cars closed down Interstate 64.

She kept to Route 250. She could swing onto it easily from Crozet. Since it was a two-lane highway, the opportunities to speed remained limited to whatever vehicle chugged along in front of you. At least, that's what she told herself as she kept her foot steadily on the accelerator, her hands moving the steering wheel in the direction of the skid, then back straight again.

"I wish we'd never seen those tears."

"Will you stop being morose? We're almost there. Relax." She coasted under the overpass, turned south onto the Skyline Drive. The fog was almost impenetrable. The Skyline Drive had been plowed out. Often, when weather became treacherous, the Skyline Drive shut down, since far too many people thought they could drive in ice and snow but events proved otherwise. The drop from sections of this extraordinary roadway sheared away at hundreds of feet. The height at the turn onto the Skyline Drive from Afton Mountain was about 1,800 feet.

Harry couldn't see a thing as she passed the Inn at Afton Mountain, its lights diffused to yellow circles in the gray fog. She missed the mobile unit from Channel 29, but they couldn't see her, either. Had they been outside the unit, they would have heard the deep rumble of the big eight-cylinder engine.

She checked her speedometer. The monastery was just a half mile from the inn.

"The icicles are blue." Susan noted the ice covering the rock outcroppings. "True ice blue." She folded her hands on Tucker's back. "I really am crazy to listen to you."

"Hey, takes your mind off your troubles." Harry's concentration was intense, although it did flit through her mind that she had not told her best friend of Fair's latest proposal and deadline.

Seemingly out of nowhere, the great iron gates loomed. Harry wisely did not hit the brakes but slowly applied pressure. The truck skidded slightly to the left, toward the drop side of the road. Susan gasped, reaching for the Jesus strap hanging over the window of the passenger door. Harry calmly corrected, slowly stopping.

She got out as Susan, grumbling, also stepped into the snow, a foot deep now.

"Dammit!" Susan stomped her feet, her Montrail boots leaving a distinct tread print.

"Calm down, Susan. God, you're edgy these days." Harry regretted this the second it escaped her lips. "Sorry. Really. I would be, too." She reasoned that in Susan's current state she really ought not to discuss Fair.

Tucker and the two cats jumped into the snow. Each time Mrs. Murphy and Pewter sank in over their heads, they'd fight their way back up, pyramids of snow between their ears. They resembled kitty coolies. Tucker, who was larger, had an easier time of it.

The cats squeezed through the iron gate. The humans remained on the other side. Tucker looked for a way in, since she was too big to squeeze through the bars.

"Girls, don't go far," Harry admonished them.

"We won't," they lied, plowing through the snow.

"If we had a brain in our head we'd have figured out that the brothers would circle the wagons. I don't blame them. It's all rather bizarre."

"Someone else has been here. Three someone elses." Harry pointed to tracks already filling with snow as another squall descended upon them.

"Hmm." Susan knelt down to inspect the frozen imprint of a boot tread in the compressed snow. "Men or women with big feet."

"We know it wasn't the brothers. They wear sandals despite the weather."

"It doesn't mean squat, Harry. There's nothing wrong with people coming up here. We did. The gates are usually open."

"Yeah, but the news about the statue—" Harry stopped talking mid-sentence as she witnessed her two feline friends disappearing in snow, reemerging, throwing snow everywhere. When the cats would hit a smooth, windblown patch where they didn't sink in, they'd chase each other.

"Can you imagine feeling such joy?" Susan looked at the cats with envy.

"Yes."

Tucker wormed her way under the fence, digging out snow. She finally made it and tore after the cats. "I'll get you."

Both cats puffed up, standing sideways. "Die, dog!" They spit.

Tucker roared past them, a spray of snow splashing both cats in the face. Their whiskers drooped a bit with the debris.

They shook themselves to run after Tucker, though it was harder for them because of the varying snow depths. They persevered.

"Tucker! Mrs. Murphy! Pewter!" Harry called in vain.

"Don't even think about it." Susan put her hand on Harry's forearm, the fabric of her parka crinkling.

"I won't." Harry was considering climbing the fence.

The animals gleefully frolicked. They enjoyed many opportunities to play at home, but Harry's discomfort added to the moment. They paused, hearing buzzards lift up to circle overhead. As it was deer season, a few irresponsible hunters had left carcasses. Most dressed the deer where they dropped. Deer season was feast time for vultures.

Before they knew it, the animals came upon the statue, snow swirling about her, frozen blood on her cheeks. They stopped in their tracks.

There, kneeling in the snow, hands clasped in prayer and resting on the boulder base, no gloves, hood over his head, was one of the brothers.

"Shh," Tucker respectfully ordered the cats.

Mrs. Murphy lifted her nose, followed by Tucker, then Pewter. In the deep cold, the mercury hung at eighteen degrees Fahrenheit; at this altitude, they couldn't smell a thing. That was the problem. A live human at normal body temperature would emanate scent.

The three cautiously crept forward. Tucker sniffed the back of the thick gray robe, white with snow, as white as the wool mantle worn with the robes.

Mrs. Murphy circled around, as did Pewter. Both cats stiffened, jumping back.

The brother's eye sockets were filled with snow. Snow had collected at his neckline, covering halfway up his face. His face, though, remained uplifted to that of the Blessed Virgin Mother, who looked down, her own face lined with snow.

"He's frozen stiff!" Pewter finally could breathe. "A human frozen fish stick!"

Mrs. Murphy stepped forward boldly as Tucker came around. "I can't make out his features."

"Even if you could, we might not know him. There are many of the brothers we don't see," Tucker spoke quietly. "The ones who work in the shops and talk to us are hand picked."

"Why would anyone come out in bitter cold—and he's been here awhile"— Pewter's dark whiskers swept forward and then back—"to kneel and pray? This is beyond devotion. Why would the Virgin Mary want someone to suffer like that? No." The gray cat shook her head, snowflakes flying off like white confetti.

"Maybe he had big sins to expiate." Tucker couldn't believe her eyes.

"Mmm, whatever they were, they had to do with humans. They never pray for forgiveness for what they do to us." A bitter note crept into Mrs. Murphy's voice. "Humans think only of themselves."

"Not Mom. Not Fair." Tucker stoutly defended his beloved Harry and her ex-husband.

"That's true," Mrs. Murphy agreed.

Pewter sat in the snow, her fur fluffing up. "It's hateful cold. Let's go back. There's nothing we can do for this one. Maybe he's found Mother Mary."

"We ought to check for tracks," Tucker sagely noted. "In case there's more than one pair."

The three fanned out, soon returning to the frozen corpse.

"Tucker, there's so much wind and snow this high. The statue's on the highest point here. If there had been someone else, the tracks are covered, which makes me believe he's been here since the middle of the night," Mrs. Murphy said.

"Why did we look for tracks, anyway?" Pewter realized she'd cooperated without putting up a fuss or demanding a reason.

"Maybe he didn't die in prayer," Tucker simply replied.

"Or maybe he died with a little help," Mrs. Murphy added, finding the sight of those snow-filled eyes creepy.

"Absurd. Who would want to kill a praying monk?" Pewter again shook off the snow.

"Maybe I should bark and get someone up here."

"The buildings are down that hill. The brothers can't hear you, and if Mother can, you'll only make her frantic." Mrs. Murphy started down the hill, dropping into deep snow here and there.

Tucker pushed in front of her. "I'll go first. You and Pewter can follow in my wake." She put her head down, pressing forward as the wind suddenly gusted out of the northwest.

Pewter grumbled from the rear, "I still can't imagine going out in the middle of a snowy night to pray in front of a statue, even if she does have blood on her face."

"On her hands." Mrs. Murphy fired back, then corrected herself. "No. Not Virgin Mary She is love."

"He froze to death in prayer or had a heart attack or something. We've all been around Harry too much. She can't resist a mystery. She's still trying to find out who had Charlie Ashcraft's first illegitimate child almost twenty years ago. She's rubbing off on us." Pewter laughed at her friends and herself.

"You're right. The brothers will eventually find whoever that is, then there will be a burial and prayer service. That will be the end of it." Tucker dropped over snow-covered stones.

"Yeah. Who would want to kill a monk? They don't have anything to steal." Pewter could hear Harry calling faintly in the distance. They'd traveled farther than she remembered.

"Like I said, the service will be in the paper and we'll know who it was and that will be the end of it." Tucker, too, heard Harry. "Murph, you're not saying anything."

"I don't think that will be the end of it. This is the beginning." The tiger felt the snow turn to tiny ice bits between her toes. She wanted to hurry back to the truck. She wished the strange, uneasy sensation washing over her would ebb away, a sensation deepened by the sound of wings passing overhead, the snow so thick she couldn't see the buzzards. "Buzzards' luck," she thought to herself.