Claws And Effect

Coop, voice low, whispered, "They can help." She tilted her head toward Mim.

"Help with what?" Mim cried. "He's gone! The best man God ever put on this earth is gone."

Miranda hurried over, acknowledged Rick, and then knelt down next to Mim. She shuddered when she saw Larry's frozen body. "Mim, I'm going to take you to my place."

"I can't leave him. I left him once, you know."

Miranda did know. Friends since birth, they shared the secrets of their generation, secrets hardly suspected by their children or younger friends who always thought the world began with their arrival.

Taking a deep breath, Miranda put her cheek next to Mim's. "You did what you had to do, Mimsy. And your mother would have killed you."

"I was a coward!" Mim screamed so loud she scared everyone.

Susan and Harry hung back. They wouldn't come forward until Miranda got Mim out of there.

"Make a wide circle so the humans don't notice," Mrs. Murphy told Pewter and Tucker. "We need to inspect the body before other humans muck it up."

"I'm not big on dead bodies." Pewter turned up her nose.

"It's not like he's been moldering out here for days," Murphy snapped. "Follow me."

The three animals walked in a semicircle, reaching the back of the two-horse trailer. They scrunched under the trailer, wriggling out by the body but careful not to move too quickly.

"Come on, Mim, you can't stay here. This can't get in the papers. I'll take care of you." Miranda struggled to lift up Mim, who was dead weight even though she was elegant and thin. Coop gently held Mim's right arm, pulling her up along with Miranda's efforts.

"I don't care. I don't care who knows."

"You can make that decision later," Miranda wisely counseled.

Mim glanced over her shoulder at the fallen man. "I loved him. I don't care who knows it. I loved him. He was the only man I ever truly loved, and I threw him aside. For what?"

"Those were different times. We did what we were told." Miranda tugged.

Mim turned to Cynthia. "I don't know if you know what love is but I did. If you do fall in love, don't lose it. Don't lose it because someone tells you he isn't a suitable husband."

"I won't, Mrs. Sanburne." Coop asked Miranda, "What car?"

"Hers. I'll drive. Ask Harry to bring my car home later."

"Yes." Coop helped fold Mim into the passenger seat. Her eyes were glassy. She looked ahead without seeing.

Miranda turned on the ignition, found the seat controls, moved the seat back, then reached over to grasp Mim's left hand. "It's going to be a long, long night, honey. I don't know how to use that thing." She indicated the built-in telephone. "But if you call Jim or Marilyn, I'll tell them we're having a slumber party. Just leave it to me."

Wordlessly, Mim dialed her home number, handing the phone to Miranda.

As they drove back down the drive, they passed the coroner driving in.

Tucker, nose to the ground, sniffed around the body. Rick noticed and shooed her away. The cats climbed into the two-horse trailer tack room.

Although the night was dark they could see well enough. No spent shells glittered on the floor of the trailer. A plastic bucket, red, with a rag and a brush in it sat on the floor of the small tack room. The dirty bridle still hung on the tack hook, a bar of glycerin soap on the floor.

"Guess he was going to clean his bridle and saddle before going home," Pewter speculated.

"I don't smell anything but the horse and Larry. No other human was in here." Mrs. Murphy spoke low. "Although Tucker is better at this than we are."

Tucker, chased off again by Rick, hopped into the tack room. "Nothing."

"Check in here," Pewter requested.

With diligence and speed, the corgi moved through the trailer. "Nothing."

"That's what we thought, too." Mrs. Murphy jumped out of the open tack room door, breaking into a run away from the parking lot and the barns.

"Where's she going?" Tucker's ears stood straight up.

Pewter hesitated for a second. "We'd better find out."

Harry didn't notice her pets streaking across the paddock. She and Susan walked over to Larry's body.

"I'll kill whoever did this!" Harry started crying.

"I didn't hear that." Rick sighed, for he, too, admired the older man.

"He brought me into this world." Susan cried, too. "Of all people, why Larry?"

"He got too close." Coop, not one to usually express an opinion unsolicited, buttoned up her coat.

"This is my fault." A wave of sickening guilt washed over the sheriff. "I asked him to keep his eyes and ears open at the hospital and he did. He sure did."

"If only we knew. Boss, he kind of said something at Harry's breakfast today. He'd had a little bit to drink, a little loud. He said-" She thought a moment to try and accurately quote him. "'Yes,' he said, 'I'll catch up with you tomorrow.'"

"Who heard him?" Rick was glad when Tom Yancy pulled up. He trusted the coroner absolutely.

"Everyone," Harry answered for her. "It wasn't like he had a big secret. He didn't say it that way. He was happy, just-happy and flushed."

"Harry, I want a list of everyone who was at your breakfast this morning," Rick ordered.

"Yes, sir."

"Go sit in the car to get warm and write it out. Susan, help her. A sharp pencil is better than a long memory." He pointed toward Susan's station wagon.

The two women walked back to Susan's vehicle as Tom Yancy bent down over the body. He, too, was upset but he was professional. His old friend Dr. Larry Johnson would have expected nothing less of him.

Mrs. Murphy stopped on a medium-sized hill about a quarter of a mile from the barn.

"What?" Tucker, whose eyes weren't as good in the dark, asked.

"Two places the killer could stand. On top of the barn. On top of this hill-or he could have been flat on his stomach."

"How do you figure that?" Pewter asked.

"Powder burns. No powder burns or Tucker would have mentioned it. He had to have been killed with a high-powered rifle. With a scope-easy."

"Shooting from here would be easier than climbing on the roof of one of the barns," Pewter suggested. "And the killer could hide his car."

The three animals stared behind them where an old farm road meandered into the woods.

"It would have been simple. Hide the car, walk to here. Wait for your chance. Someone who knew his routine." Tucker appreciated Mrs. Murphy's logic.

"Yeah. And it's hunting season. People carry rifles, handguns. There's nothing unusual about that." Pewter ruffled her fur. She wasn't a kitty who enjoyed the cold.

"We'd better go back before Harry starts worrying." Mrs. Murphy lifted her head to the sky. The stars shone icy bright as they only do in the winter. "Whoever this guy is, he's able to move quickly. He was at the breakfast. He heard Larry. I guarantee that."

"Do you think it's the same person who hit Mother over the head?" Pewter asked.

"Could be." Mrs. Murphy loped down the hill.

"That doesn't give me a warm and fuzzy feeling." Tucker felt a sinking pit in her stomach.

26

The fire crackled in Miranda's fireplace, the Napoleon clock on the mantel ticked in counter rhythm to the flames. Mim reclined on the sofa, an afghan Miranda had knitted decades ago wrapped over her legs. A cup of hot cocoa steamed on the coffee table. Miranda sat in an overstuffed chair across from Mim.

"I hope he didn't suffer."

"I don't think he did." Miranda sipped from her big cup of cocoa. She enjoyed cocoa at night or warm milk and hoped the substance might soothe her friend a little bit.

"Miranda, I've been a fool." Mim's lovely features contracted in pain.

Mim could pass for a woman in her middle forties and often did. Rich, she could afford every possible procedure to ensure that beauty. She'd grown distant and haughty with the years. She was always imperious, even as a child. Giving orders was the breath of life to Mim. She had to be in the center of everything and those who knew and loved her accepted it. Others loathed it. The people jockeying for power in their groups, the developer ready to rip through the countryside, the errant politician, promising one thing and delivering another or nothing, Mim was anathema to them.

Her relationship with her daughter alternated between adversarial and cordial, depending on the day, for Mim was not an effusive mother. Her relationship with her son, married and living in New York City, had transformed from adulation to fury to coldness to gradual acceptance of him. The fury erupted because he married an African-American model and that just wasn't done by people of Mim's generation. But Stafford displayed that independence of spirit exhibited and prized by his mother. Over time and with the help of Mary Minor Haristeen, a friend to Stafford, Mim confronted her own racism and laid it to rest.

Her aunt, Tally Urquhart, flying along in her nineties, said to Mim constantly, "Change is life." Sometimes Mim understood and sometimes she didn't. Usually she thought change involved other people, not herself.

"You haven't been a fool. You've done a lot of good in this life," Miranda truthfully told her.

Mim looked at her directly, light eyes bright. "But have I been good to myself? I want for nothing. I suppose in that way I've been good to myself but in other ways, I've treated myself harshly. I've suppressed things, I've put off others, I've throttled my deepest emotions." She patted a tear away with an embroidered linen handkerchief. "And now he's gone. I can never make it up to him."

The years allowed Miranda to be brutally direct. "Would you? He was in his seventies. Would you?"

Mim cried anew. "Oh, I wish I could say yes. I wish I had done a lot of things. Why didn't you tell me?"

"Tell you? Mim, no one can tell you anything. You tell us."

"But you know me, Miranda. You know how I am."

"It's been a long road, hasn't it? Long and full of surprises." She breathed in deeply. "If it was meant to be, it was meant to be. You and Larry." She gazed into the fire for a moment. "What a long time ago that was. You were beautiful. I envied you, your beauty. Never the money. Just the beauty. And he was handsome in his naval uniform."

"Somewhere along the way we grew old." Mim dropped a bejeweled hand on her breast. "I'm not quite sure how." She sat up. "Miranda, I will find who killed Larry. I will pursue him to the ends of the earth like the harpies pursued Orestes. With God as my witness, I swear it."

"The Lord will extract His vengeance. You go about your business, Mimsy. Whoever did this wouldn't stop at killing you either. They hit Harry on the head."

"Yes, her story sounded fishy."

Miranda shut her eyes. It had popped out of her mouth, and after she'd promised Harry not to tell. "Oh, me. Well, the cat's out of the bag. Harry snooped in the basement of the hospital and someone cracked her on the noggin. It's supposed to be a secret and I, well, you can keep a secret-obviously."

"Funny, isn't it? We live cheek by jowl, everyone knows everyone in Crozet, and yet each of us carries secrets-sometimes to the grave."

"People say we should be honest, we should tell the truth, but they aren't ready to hear it," Miranda sagely noted.

"Mother certainly wasn't," Mim simply said.

"Well, dear, Jim Sanburne was quite a payback."

A slight smile played over Mim's lips. "Damn near killed her. Aunt Tally understood but then Aunt Tally understands more than the rest of us. She keeps reminding me, too."

"Why did you marry Jim?"

"He was big, handsome, a take-charge guy. An up-and-comer as Dad would say. Of course, he came from the lower orders. That killed Mother but by then I'd learned."

"What?"

"I'd learned to just go ahead. The hell with everybody. I knew she wasn't going to cut me out of the will."

"But did you love him?"

A long, long silence transpired; then Mim leaned back. "I wanted to be in love. I wanted, well, I wanted the things you want when you're young. I never loved Jim the way I loved Larry. He's a different sort of man. You know, those early years I'd see Larry driving to work at the hospital, driving back to his private practice, at the country club with Bella. At first the sight of him hurt me because I was wrong. I knew I was wrong. But he always said he forgave me. I was young. I wasn't quite twenty, you know, when I fell in love with Larry. He was so kind. I think a little part of me died when he got married but I understood. And-" She opened her hands as though they might have contained treasure. "What could I do?"

"Love never dies. The people die but love is eternal. I believe that with all my heart and soul. And I believe God gives us chances to love again."

"If you envy me my looks, I envy you your faith."

"You can't reason your way to faith, Mim. You just open your heart."

"As we both know, I haven't been too good at that. I sometimes wonder if I would have been a more loving woman had I rebelled earlier against my family and married Larry. I think I would have. I closed off. I became guarded. I lost myself along the way. Now I've lost him. You see, even though we weren't lovers anymore, even though we lived separate lives, I knew he was there. I knew he was there." She cried harder now. "Oh, Miranda, I loved him so."

Miranda rose from her chair to sit on the edge of the sofa. She took Mim's hand in both of hers. "Mimsy, he knew you loved him."

"In time, Jim knew, too. I think that's why he redefined the word 'unfaithful'-well, that and the fact that he wearied of me bossing him around. It's rather difficult for a man when the wife has all the money. I think it's difficult in reverse, too, but the culture supports it, plus we've been raised to be simpletons. Really." Mim's modulated voice wavered. "That, too, was one of the things I loved about Larry. He respected my mind."

"It's like that Amish saying, 'We grow too soon old and too late smart.'" Miranda smiled. "But Jim grew out of it or he grew old. I don't know which."

"Breast cancer. Scared both of us. I believe that's when Jim came back to me, realized he loved me and maybe we'd both been foolish. Well, that's all behind me. My cancer hasn't recurred in five years' time nor has Jim's unfaithfulness." She smiled slightly. She sighed. "What did Jim say when you spoke to him? I don't remember. I know you told me but I don't even remember you driving me here."

"He said to call him if you needed him. He was going straight to Twisted Creek Stables." She let go of Mim's hand, reached over to the coffee table, and brought up Mim's cup. "This really will make you feel a little better."

Mim drank, handed the cup back to Miranda. "Thank you."

"I wouldn't want to be in Sheriff Shaw's shoes right now."

"I mistakenly assumed this had nothing to do with us." She made a dismissive gesture with her hand. "When Hank Brevard was found with a slit throat I thought it was brutal, but Hank lacked the fine art of endearing himself to others. That someone would finally kill him didn't seem too far-fetched. One had only to find the reason. But now-everything's different now."

"Yes." Miranda nodded.

"I think of death as an affront. I know you don't. You think you'll join up with Jesus. I hope you're right."

"'For I have no pleasure in the death of anyone, says the Lord God; so turn and live.' Ezekiel, chapter eighteen, verse thirty-two. Turn and live," Miranda emphasized.

"You've changed, too, Miranda."

"I know. After George's death the church was my comfort. Perhaps I tried too strenuously to comfort others." A smile played on her lips. "It all takes time."

"And Tracy." Mim mentioned Miranda's high-school boyfriend, who had returned to her life but was currently in Hawaii selling his home.

"I feel alive again. And you will, too. We need to think of something to do to honor Larry, something he would have loved."

"I thought I'd establish a scholarship at the University of Virginia Medical School in his name-for family practice."

"Jim?"

"He'll like the idea. Jim's not mean-spirited."

"I know that." Miranda smiled. "Do you think you could ever talk to him about those years?"

Mim shook her head no. "Why? You know, Miranda, I believe there are some things best left unsaid in a marriage. And I think every woman knows that."

"Mim, I think every man knows that, too."

"I always think they know less than we do, most of them anyway."

"Don't fool yourself." Miranda got up and threw another log on the fire. "More cocoa?"

"No."

"Do you think you can sleep? The spare bedroom is toasty."

"I think I can." Mim threw off the afghan and stood up. "I take you for granted, Miranda. I think I've taken many people for granted. You're a good friend to me. Better than I am to you."

"I don't think like that, Mim. There's only love. You do for the people you love."

"Well." This was hard for Mim. "I love you."

"I love you, too."

The old friends embraced. Miranda led Mim to the spare bedroom.

"Miranda, whoever killed Larry had no conscience. That's the real danger."

27

While most of the residents of Crozet spent the night in shock and tears, Sheriff Shaw worked like a demon, as did Cynthia Cooper.

Once Larry's body was loaded on the ambulance, Shaw and Cooper sped on their way to Sam Mahanes.

They knocked on the door.

Sally opened it. "Sheriff Shaw, Coop, come on in."

They could hear the boys upstairs in the bathroom, splashing and shouting.

"Sorry to disturb you, Sally, but it's important."

"I know that." She smiled genuinely, revealing broad, even teeth. "He's in his shop."

"We'll just go on down." Rick had his hand on the doorknob.

"Fine." She turned back, heading up the stairs, since the water noise was taking on a tidal wave quality.

"Sam," Rick called to him.

The tall director, bent over a workbench, his hands gripping a tiny soldering iron, finished the small seam, then turned off the implement. "Rick, had to finish this or it'd be ruined."

Rick and Cynthia admired the thin wooden box with inlaid gold and silver.

"Beautiful." Coop admired his work.

"Thank you. Keeps me sane."

Rick scoped the shop. Sam had the best woodworking equipment, soldering equipment, even a small, very expensive lapidary saw. "Back door?"

"Sometimes I slip in to escape the boys. I love 'em but I need to get away. Dennis is at the age where he wants to pick up everything. I lock the doors. I think when they're a little older I'll let them work with me."

"Good idea." Rick smiled. As there was no place to sit down, he suggested going upstairs.

Once settled in the library Rick got to the point. "Sam, Larry Johnson was shot twice and killed at Twisted Creek Stables."

"What?"

"As soon as we finished examining the body and the scene of the murder I drove to you. I wanted to talk to you before the reporters get to you."

"Thank you," Sam said.

"And I wanted to reach you before your phone started ringing off the hook." Rick noticed how pale Sam's face was, so pale from the shock that his cheeks looked like chalk. "Level with me, Sam. Do you know what's going on at your hospital? Any idea?"

"I don't. Nothing makes sense to me and-this may not be related to Crozet Hospital."

"No, but I have to take into consideration that Larry's murder might be connected to events there."

Cynthia discreetly flipped open her notepad.

"Yes-of course." Sam swallowed hard.

"We've considered black-market traffic in organs."

"Good God, Rick, you can't be serious."

"I have to think of anything worth killing for and money surely seems to be number one on the list."

"There's no selling of kidneys and livers. I'd know about it."

"Sam, maybe not. Hypothetical situation. You've got a young intern on the take. A person dies-someone in fairly good condition-the intern harvests the kidney, packs it up, and sends it off."

"But we have records of pickups and deliveries. Besides, families often request autopsies. If a kidney were missing we'd know. The family would know. There'd be hell to pay and lawsuits until kingdom come."

"What if the person responsible for the autopsies is in on it, too?"

Sam's brow furrowed, he ran his forefinger across the top of his lip, a nervous gesture. "The more people involved, the more opportunity for mistakes or loose talk."

"If there is a ring, Hank Brevard would have been in a good position to reap the benefits. He could ship organs out of there without anyone knowing."

"The pickup would know."

"The pickup gets a cut. You don't know how many trucks go down to the back door or to loading and unloading. But the back door is my guess there because it's simply a service entrance for the workers. All someone has to do is walk in, go to Hank's office or wherever the organs are stored, and walk out. They could be in a carton, surrounded by a plastic bag filled with dry ice-any number of unobtrusive carriers."

"For one thing, Sheriff, we know who uses operating rooms. I don't think it's possible. Just not possible."

"The patients are dead, Sam. They could cut them and sew them in a broom closet, in a bathtub. All they'd need is water to wash the blood, then zip the body back up in a body bag and off to the morgue-or they could cut them up at the morgue."

"Procedures in the morgue are as strict as in the operating room. Sheriff, I understand you need to consider every angle but this one is just not possible."

"What about fraud? Double-billing-?"

Sam shrugged. "Over time that, too, would show up. And we have few complaints in that department-other than shock at medical costs, but no, that's out."

"Has anyone been acting peculiar? Anyone attracting your attention?"

"No." Sam held out his hands as if in supplication. "Apart from Hank Brevard's death, everything is routine. The trains run on time. I can't think of anyone behaving in an untoward manner. Bruce is hostile towards me but he's always hostile towards me." Sam smirked slightly.

Rick persisted. "Are there other ways to create illicit profit, if you can stand that phrase? Something specific to hospitals of which Coop and I might be unaware?"

"Drugs. That's obvious. We keep them under lock and key but a clever head nurse or doctor can find ways to pilfer."

"Enough to make a lot of money?"

"We'd notice fairly soon but enough to make one quick, big hit. It's possible to do that and get away with it."

"Do you think any of your staff is on drugs?" Rick kept his face impassive.

"Yes. It's part of the hospital business. It takes some time to find them out but there's usually a nurse, a doctor, an orderly taking uppers or downers. The doctor creates false dosages for a patient. Again, we'll sniff it out but it takes some time-and I hasten to add it's part of our culture."

"How often has this happened at the hospital?"

Sam hesitated. "I think I ought to have the hospital lawyer here for this conversation."

"For Christ's sake, Sam, Larry Johnson is dead and you're worried about hospital liability! I'm not going to the press with this but I've got to know and if you don't tell me I'll dig it out and in the process uproot other things as well. It will get everyone in an uproar. How often has this happened?"

"Last year we found two people stealing Darvocet, codeine-based pills, Quaaludes. We fired them. End of story." He took a deep breath. "As I said, drug abuse is as American as apple pie."

"Once fired from a hospital that person will never work in a hospital again unless he or she goes to Honduras-am I right?"

"And they might not even get work in Central America. They'd have to go where people were so desperate they didn't care about their records from anywhere else. It definitely would be a career killer."

"All those years of medical school, all those bills-for nothing." Rick folded his hands together, leaning forward. "Other ways to steal or make money?"

"Oh, patient jewelry, wallets, and credit cards."

"Equipment?"

Sam exhaled. "No. Who would they sell it to? Also, we'd notice it immediately."

"Was Hank Brevard a good plant manager?"

"Yes. We discussed that before. He was conscientious. Apart from his obvious personality flaw that he was resistant to new technology. He wanted to do everything the way it always had been done."

"Remind me, had he ever been disciplined during his career at Crozet Hospital?" Rick glanced over at Coop.

"No. Well." Sam opened his hands, palms upward. "I'd routinely meet with him and request he, uh, lighten up. But no, Hank was no trouble."

"Ever hear about affairs?"

"Hank?" Sam's eyebrows shot upward. "No."

"Gambling?"

"No. Sheriff, we've been over this."

"You're right. Was Larry Johnson off the rails at any time?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Did people feel he was too old to practice? Was he carried for old times' sake?"

"No. Quite the contrary. He was a G.P., of course." Sam abbreviated General Practitioner. "So he wasn't a glamour boy but he was a good, solid doctor and always open to new procedures, medical advances. He is, I mean was, a remarkable human being."

"Could he have been stealing drugs?"

"Absolutely not." Sam's voice raised. "Never."

"Sam, I have to ask these questions."

"There is no blemish on that man's record."

"Then I must respectfully suggest he got too close to whoever is blemished."

"The murder of Larry Johnson may not be related to Crozet Hospital. You're jumping to conclusions."

"Perhaps but you see, Sam, he was my man on the inside." The color drained from Sam's face as Rick continued, "I believe the murders are related and I will prove it."

"You should have told me."

"What if you're in on it?" Rick said bluntly.

"Thank you for the vote of confidence." Sam's face now turned red, and he fought back his anger.

"Or Jordan Ivanic. He's in a position to pull strings-excuse the worn phrase."

"Jordan." Sam's lips pursed together. "No. He's a man devoid of all imagination. He does everything by the book."

"You don't like him?"

"Oh, he's one of those men who can't think on his own. He has to find a precedent, a procedure, but he's honest. We aren't the best team personality-wise but Jordan isn't a criminal."

"He has three speeding tickets in two years' time. Had to take a driver's course mandated by the state."

"That doesn't make him a criminal." Sam's patience was wearing thin.

"Did you know about the tickets?"

"No. Sheriff, why would I know? You're grasping at straws. You assume my hospital, and I do think of it as my hospital, is a hotbed of crime. You connect two murders which while heinous may not be connected. As for Larry Johnson being your spy, that still doesn't prove his murder's connected to the hospital. He may have had a secret life." Sam's eyes blazed.

"I see." Rick stared at his shoes for a moment, then looked up at Sam. "What about the hospital killing people through negligence?"

"I resent that!"

"It happens." Rick raised his voice. "It happens every day all over America. It has to have happened at your hospital, too."

"I won't discuss this without a lawyer." Sam's jaw hardened.

"Well, you just do that, Sam. You'd better hire a public-relations firm, too, because I won't rest until I find out everything, Sam, everything and that means just who the hell was killed at your hospital because some bozo forgot to read their chart, gave the wrong medicine, or the anesthesiologist screwed up. Shit happens even in Crozet Hospital!" Rick stood up, his face darkening. Coop stood up, too. "And I'll have your ass for interfering with a law-enforcement officer in the prosecution of his duties!"

Rick stormed out, leaving an angry Sam sitting in the library with his mouth hanging wide open.

Coop, wisely, slipped behind the wheel of the squad car before Rick could do it. She had no desire to peel out of the Mahanes' driveway, then careen down the road at eighty miles an hour. Rick drove fast anyway; angry, he flew.

He slammed the passenger door.

"Where to?"

"Goddamned Jordan Ivanic, that's where. Maybe that smart bastard will tell us something."

She headed toward the hospital, saying nothing because she knew the boss. The misery over Larry's death swamped him and this was his way of showing it. Then again, he had a good reason to be livid. Someone was killing people and making him look like a jerk.

"Boss, this is a tough case. Go easy on yourself."

"Shut up."

"Right."

"I'll nail Sam Mahanes. I will fry him. I will slice and dice him. You know patients have died from stupidity. It happens!"

"Yes, but Sam's job is to protect the reputation of the hospital. Covering up one or two mistakes is one thing, covering up a rash of them is something else-and Larry would have known, boss. Doctors may be able to keep secrets from patients and patient families but not from one another, not for long, anyway."

"Larry would have known." Rick lit a cigarette. "Coop, I'm stuck. Everywhere I turn there's a wall." He slammed his fist into the dash. "I know this is about the hospital. I know it!"

"Any one of our ideas could provoke someone to kill."

"You know what really worries me?" He turned his face to her. "What if it's something else? What if it's something we can't imagine?"

No sooner had Rick Shaw and Cynthia Cooper pulled out of the driveway than Sam Mahanes made a beeline to his shop, grabbed his cell phone, and dialed Tussie Logan.

"Hello."

"Tussie."

"Oh, hello." Her voice softened.

"I'm glad you're home. Have you heard the terrible news about Larry Johnson?"

"No."

"He was found shot at Twisted Creek Stables."

"Larry Johnson." She couldn't believe it.

"Listen, Tussie, Sheriff Shaw and that tall deputy of his are going to be all over the hospital. We're going to have to cool it for a while."

A long pause followed. "I understand."

28

The streets, alleys, and byways leading to the Lutheran Church were parked solid. The funeral service slated to start at eleven A.M. brought out all of Crozet, much of Albemarle County, plus the friends and family flying in from places Virginians often forgot, like Oklahoma.

At quarter to eleven some people were frantically trying to find places to park. Sheriff Shaw figured this would happen. He instructed the two officer escorts for the funeral cortege to ignore double-parking and parking in a No Parking zone. He did not waive the rules on parking by a fire hydrant.

Businesses opened their parking lots to everyone. The crush of people was so great that over two hundred had to file into the offices and hallways of the church, the church itself being full. At eleven there were still over seventy-five people standing outside, and the day turned crisp, clear, and cold.

The Reverend Herbert C. Jones, anticipating this, hung up speakers outside as well as in the hallways. Yesterday had been Ash Wednesday, so he wore his Lenten vestments.

Herb had known Larry all his life. He pondered over his eulogy, pondered over the life of a good man being snuffed out so violently. As a man of God he accepted the will of God but as a friend, a human of great feeling, he couldn't help but question.

The upper-management staff of Crozet Hospital filled the left-hand, front side of the church. Behind Sam Mahanes, Jordan Ivanic, Dr. Bruce Buxton, and others were those support people who worked with Larry over the years, Tussie Logan, other nurses, secretaries, people who had learned to love him because he valued them. Larry hadn't had an ounce of snobbery in his soul.

On the right-hand side of the church, at the front, sat distant relatives, nephews and nieces and their children. Larry's brother, a lawyer who had moved to Norman, Oklahoma, after World War II, was there. Handsome people, the Johnsons shared many of Larry's qualities: down-to-earth, respectful, hardworking. One great-nephew in particular looked much like Larry himself at twenty-five.

When Mim Sanburne saw this young man she burst into tears. Both Jim and Little Mim put their arms around her, but this reminder in the flesh, this genetic recall, tore at her heart. Larry was irretrievably gone and with him, Mim's youth and passion.

Harry, Susan, and Miranda sat together near the front on the right-hand side of the church. All three women wore hats, as was proper. In Harry's case the hat also served to cover the stitches.

The walnut casket, closed, sat at the nave, down below the altar. The scent of the massed floral arrangements overpowered those in the front. For those in the rear the sweet odors brought hopes of the not-too-distant spring, an exquisite season in the Blue Ridge Mountains.

The murmur of voices hushed when Herb opened the door behind the lectern. Two acolytes were already seated, one by the lectern, the other by the pulpit. When Herb entered, the congregation stood. He walked to the center, held his hands up, and the congregation was seated.

As the service for the dead progressed, those who knew the good reverend felt the force of his deep voice, felt the genuine emotion. By the time he read his sermon, liberally sprinkled with pawprints from his cats, people knew this was the greatest sermon Herb had ever given.

He eschewed the usual easy words about the deceased being with the angels. He spoke of a life well lived, of a life spent in service to others, of a life devoted to easing pain, to healing, to friendship. He spoke of foxhunting and fly-fishing, Larry's favorite pastimes. He recalled his record in the Navy, his youthful practice, his rapport with people. He argued with God, Herb did.

"Lord, why did you take Thy faithful servant when we have such need of him here on earth?" He read Psalm 102. "'Hear my prayer, O Lord; let my cry come to Thee! Do not hide thy face from me in the day of my distress! Incline thy ear to me; answer me speedily in the day when I call! For my days pass away like smoke and my bones burn like a furnace. My heart is smitten like grass, and withered; I forget to eat my bread.'"

As Herb continued with the psalm, Mrs. Hogendobber quietly recited it with him, her memory of the Good Book being a source of comfort to her and astonishment to others.

At the end of the service, Herb asked that people join hands and repeat the prayers with him. "Larry spent his life bringing people together. Whoever is on your right, whoever is on your left, remember that Dr. Larry Johnson has brought you together even in death."

After the service the church doors opened. People slowly left the church, almost unwilling to go because the emotions holding them there were so powerful.

Mim, in control now, walked to the car. From here the group would wind its way to the cemetery just southwest of town.

Harry reached her truck, stepped on the running board to get in, and noticed a dead chicken, its neck broken, in the bed of the truck.

She reached over, picking it up. There was nothing special about it except that it was tossed deliberately in the back of her truck.

She had an old canvas tarp which she pulled over the bird. It wouldn't do to drive to the entombment with feathers flying.

She knew in her bones this was a cheap warning.

29

Mrs. Murphy's tail stuck out from under the canvas in the back of the truck.

"Throw it down to me," Tucker's bright eyes implored her kitty friend.

"No way, José." The tiger cat sank her fangs in one red leg, backing out, pulling the heavy chicken with her.

Pewter, also sitting in the bed of the truck, called out, "We aren't stupid, Tucker."

"I just want to sniff it. I can tell you how long it's been dead."

"Liar." Murphy inspected the corpse. "Been dead since this morning."

"It's cold. Maybe it's freezing up," Tucker called from the ground.

"Maybe." Murphy hopped over the side of the truck, softly landing on the ground.

Pewter chose the less athletic route. She carefully eased herself over the closed tailgate, her hind paws touching the bumper. Then she dropped down on her front paws and jumped off to the ground.

The animals heard the story of the funeral and the dead chicken when Harry and Miranda returned to work. The post office front door was always unlocked but the back door and the counter divider could be locked. There was a pulldown door, like a garage door, which pulled to the counter divider, locking from the back side. Because stamps were valuable, Miranda and Harry had wrapped up everything tight before leaving for the funeral. It wasn't that anyone had ever stolen anything from the post office other than rubber bands and pencils but the murders inspired them to caution. Then, too, they had put the cats and dog in the locked portion along with a big bowl of water and crunchies on the small table out of Tucker's reach. As there was an animal door in the back of the post office, Harry had locked that, too.

Usually when humans returned, the animals bolted outside, but they wanted to hear the events. Once Harry told about the chicken they bolted and now they sat, fur ruffled against the cold with the northwest wind kicking up. Harry planned on taking the chicken home to feed the fox living on her land.

"I say we go to the hospital." Tucker was resolute. "It's a fifteen-minute jog." Tucker cut time off the trip to make it more attractive.

"We'll last five minutes. You know how fussy humans are at hospitals. Insulting, really. We're cleaner than they are. All those humans with diseases." Pewter shuddered in distaste.

"We won't go in the front door." Tucker knew Pewter was trying to get out of the walk in the cold to the hospital.

"Oh." The gray cat ducked underneath the truck to escape the wind. It was a good idea but the wind whipped underneath the truck as well as swirling around it.

"We go to the back door."

"Tucker, the back door is closed." Pewter didn't like this idea one bit.

"The loading dock isn't," Murphy thought out loud. "We could slip in there and work our way to the basement."

"What if we get locked in? We could starve in there."

"Pewter." Mrs. Murphy maliciously smiled. "You could eat cast-off body parts. How about a fresh liver?"

"I hate you," Pewter spit.

"Well, fine, you big weenie. You stay here and we'll go." Tucker wanted to get over there.

"Oh sure, and hear from you two for the next eleven years about what a fat chicken I am." She thought about the chicken a moment, then continued, "Besides, you don't know everything. I see things you miss."

"Then shut up and come on. Time's a-wasting. Harry will be out of here at five and it's already one-thirty." Mrs. Murphy looked down both sides of the road, then scampered across heading north toward the hospital, the wind in her face.

The three animals stayed off the road, dashing through lawns, hopping creeks, and eluding the occasional house dog upset because three animals crossed his or her lawn.

They reached the hospital by two-ten. To test their luck they hurried to the back door first. The doorknob was reachable but the cats couldn't turn it.

By now they were cold so they ran around the side of the building to the loading dock, one level up from the back door. It was child's play to elude the humans working the dock. There was only one truck and one unloader. Neither noticed the animals. Once inside the building, grateful for the warmth, the three headed away from the dock.

Murphy led them to an elevator pool.

"We can't take that," Tucker said.

"I know but stairwells are usually near elevator pools so start looking, genius." Her voice was sarcastic.

Sure enough, the stairwell was tucked in the corner, the door unlocked. Tucker, a strong dog for her size, pushed it open and the animals sped downstairs, opening the unlocked door with a red BASEMENT neatly painted across it.

They had landed on the east side of the building, site of the elevator bank.

"Come on, let's get out of here before someone steps off that thing." Murphy turned left, not out of any sense of where she was going but just to escape possible detection. They raced past storage rooms, finally arriving at the boiler room, the hub of all corridors.

"Oh." Pewter saw the blood on the wall; most of it had been washed off, but enough had stained into the old stone wall that she could see it.

The three sat down for a moment, considering where Hank Brevard's body had been crumpled.

"This is where Mom got hit on the head. In this room." Tucker put her nose to the ground but all she could smell was oil from the furnace.

"She should never have come in here by herself," Pewter complained. "She has no fear and that isn't always a good thing."

"Boy, you'd think the hospital could afford better lights." The dog noted the low wattage.

"That's why we're here." Mrs. Murphy systematically checked out each corner of the room. "Let's go outside."

"Which door?" Tucker asked.

"The one in the opposite direction. We came in from the east. Let's go west."

"I hope you remember because it all looks the same to me." The basement gave Pewter the creeps.

"Wimp."

"I'm not a wimp." Pewter smacked Murphy, who smacked her back.

"Girls," Tucker growled.

The cats stopped following the dog as she pushed open the door, which wasn't latched. A hallway led to the end of the building. The light from the small square in the door was brighter than the lights overhead.

"Is that the door we first tried?" Pewter asked.

"Yes. It's the only door downstairs on the west side."

They slowly walked down the hall, the storage rooms appearing as innocuous to them as they had to the humans. Satisfying themselves that nothing was amiss in that hall, they returned to the boiler room and went down the southerly corridor, the one which contained the incinerator.

Tucker sniffed when they entered the room. "This incinerator could destroy a multitude of sins."

"And does, I'm sure," Pewter said.

"Nothing in here." Tucker had thoroughly sniffed everything.

They returned to the corridor, poking their heads in rooms. Hearing voices, they ducked into a room that had empty cartons neatly stacked against the wall.

Bobby Minifee and Booty Weyman walked by. Bobby had been promoted to Hank's job and Booty had moved up to day schedule. Engrossed in conversation, they didn't even glance into the storage room.

Tucker put her nose to the ground once the men passed. The cats heard them turn toward the boiler room.

"Someone's been here recently." Tucker moved along the cartons.

"That doesn't mean anything. People have probably been in each of these rooms for one thing or another." Pewter was getting peckish.

Tucker paid no attention to her. Murphy knew her canine friend well enough to put her own nose to the ground. She could smell shoes, one with leather soles, one with rubber.

"Hands." Tucker stopped over a spot on the old slate floor. "I can smell the oil on their hands. They've been here today."

"Hands on the floor?" Pewter's gray eyebrows shot upward, for the dog was sniffing where the wall met the floor.

"Yes." Tucker kept sniffing. "Here, just above the floor."

"Pewter, look for a handle or something," Murphy ordered her.

"In the wall?"

"Yes, you dimwit!"

"I'm not a dimwit." Pewter declined to further the argument because she, too, was intrigued.

The animals sniffed the walls. Murphy, claws out, tapped and patted each stone, part of the original foundation.

"Hey." Pewter stopped. "Do that again."

The two cats strained to hear. Murphy rapped her claws harder this time. A faint hollow sound rewarded her efforts.

"Flat down," Tucker whispered as Bobby and Booty returned, but once again the two men didn't look toward the room full of boxes.

When they passed, the dog came over to the cats. She sniffed the wall as high up as she reached. "Yes, here. Human hands."

"Let's push it," Murphy said and the three leaned against the square stone.

A smooth, soft sliding sound rewarded their efforts, then a soft clink surprised them. The floor opened up. One big slate stone slid under another one, revealing a ladder. It was dark as pitch down there.

"Tucker, you stay here. Pewter, you with me?" Murphy climbed down the ladder.

Wordlessly, Pewter followed. Once down there their eyes adjusted.

"It's a bunch of machines." Pewter was puzzled.

"Yeah, those drip things. They don't look broken up."

"Get out of there. Someone's coming!" Tucker yelled.

The two cats shot up the ladder, the three animals leaned against the stone in the wall, and the slate rolled back into place.

Breathlessly they listened as the steps came closer.

"Behind this carton." They crouched behind a tumbled-down carton as Jordan Ivanic walked into the room and threw a switch. He plucked a carton off the top of the neat pile, turned, hit the switch off, and left.

"Let's get out of here before we're trapped," Pewter whispered.

"You know, I think you're right," Mrs. Murphy agreed.

They hurried down the corridor, pushed open the stairwell door, ran back up one flight of stairs, and dashed out onto the loading dock. They jumped off and ran the whole way back to the post office, bursting through the animals' door.

"Where have you been?" Harry noted the time at four-thirty.

"You'll never guess what we found," Pewter breathlessly told her.

"She won't get it." Tucker sat down.

"It's just as well. The last thing we want is Harry back in that hospital." Murphy wondered what to do next.

30

"What is this?" Mim pushed a letter across the counter.

Mrs. Murphy, with quick reflexes, smacked her paw down on the 8'' x 11'' white sheet of paper before it skidded off onto the floor. "Got it."

Pewter, also on the counter, peered down at the typewritten page. She read aloud,

Meet me. I will be the next victim. I need your help to escape. Why you? You are the only person rich enough not to be corrupted. Put a notice for a lost dog named Bristol on the post office bulletin board if you will help me. I will get back to you with when and where."

Harry slid the paper from underneath the tiger's paw.

"Well?" Miranda walked over to read over her shoulder.

"Well, this is a crackpot of the first water." Miranda pushed her glasses back up on her head. "I'm calling the sheriff." She flipped up the divider.

"Wait. Let's talk about this for a minute," Harry said.

"This could be the killer playing some kind of weird game." Mim headed for the phone.

"Sit down, Mim. You've had a shock." Miranda propelled her to the table.

"Shock? Seismic." The thin, beautifully dressed woman sank into the wooden kitchen chair at the back table.

"This letter is from someone who knows our community, knows it well." Miranda searched her mind for some explanation but could come up with nothing.

Harry noticed the time, eight-thirty in the morning. She had a habit of checking clocks when she'd walk or drive by, then she'd check her wristwatch, her father's old watch. Ran like a top. Mim usually preceded everyone else into the post office in the morning. Like Harry and Miranda she was an early riser and early risers find each other just as night owls do. She tiptoed around Mim, knowing how hard Larry's death had hit her.

"Trap." Tucker found the letter irritating.

"Possibly." Mrs. Murphy twitched the fur along her spine.

"Flea?" Pewter innocently asked.

"In February?" Mrs. Murphy shot her a dirty look.

"We spend much of our time indoors. They could be laying eggs in the carpet, the eggs hatch, and you know the rest of the story."

"You're getting some kind of thrill out of this. Besides, if I had fleas you'd have them, too." The tiger swatted at the gray cat.

"Not me." Pewter smiled, revealing her white fangs. "I'm allergic to fleas."

"Doesn't mean you don't get them, Pewter, it means once you do get them you also get scabs all over." Tucker giggled. "Then Mother has to wash and powder you and it's a big mess."

"She hides the powder until she's grabbed you." Mrs. Murphy relished Pewter's discomfort at bath time. "First the sink, a little warm water, baby shampoo, lots of lather. My what a pretty cat you are in soapsuds. Then a rinsing. A second soaping. More rinsing. A dip with medicated junk. Drying with a towel. You look like a rock star with your spiky do. Pewter, the Queen of Hip-Hop."

"I don't listen to hip-hop." The rotund gray kitty sniffed.

"You hip-hop. You shake one hind leg, then the other. Real disco." Murphy howled with laughter.

"You know." Tucker, on the floor, paced as the humans discussed the letter. "What if this plea is like Mom with the flea powder? What's hidden?"

Murphy leapt down to sit next to her friend. "But we know what's hidden."

Pewter put her front paws on the wood, then slowly slid down. "Not exactly, Murphy. We know those machines, those IVAC units are under the basement floor but maybe that was the only place to store them. So we don't really know what's hidden and we don't know what this letter is hiding."

"Why Mim? Why not Sheriff Shaw?" Tucker frowned, confused.

"Because the writer is tainted somehow. The sheriff would pose a danger. Mim's powerful but not the law." Mrs. Murphy leaned into Tucker. She often sat tight with the dog or slept with her, her head curled up next to Tucker's head.

"Put up the notice. Put one up in the supermarket, too." Harry put her hands together, making a steeple with her forefingers. "Everyone will see it. That we know. Then do like the letter requests: wait for directions."

"Without calling Sheriff Shaw!" Mim was incredulous.

"Well-don't you think he'll want to keep you under watch? It would be clumsy. The letter writer would notice."

"Are you suggesting I be bait?" Mim slapped her hand on the table.

"No."

"What are you suggesting, Harry?" Miranda folded her arms across her chest.

"That we wait for directions."

"We? You don't know when and where I might receive these directions. I could be hustled into a car and no one would know."

"She's right," Miranda agreed.

"Yeah." Harry sighed. "Instant meeting. Just add danger."

"My point exactly. Harry, let the professionals deal with this." Mim got up and dialed Sheriff Shaw.

"I still think we should try the missing-dog notice by ourselves," Harry said to Miranda, who shook her head no as Mim read the letter over the phone to Rick Shaw.

"Now that Larry Johnson's been killed, Mother won't rest. She wants to find the killer probably worse than Rick Shaw and Coop." Murphy worried. "I don't know if we can keep her away from the hospital."

"Well, I know one thing," Tucker solemnly declared. "We'd better stick with her."

"And I think what's under the floor is dangerous. Pewter, those IVAC units aren't down there for lack of space. I predict if someone stumbles onto that room there will be another dead human." Mrs. Murphy put her paw on the postage scale.

31

For Sheriff Rick Shaw and Deputy Cynthia Cooper it was the week from hell. The ballistics report ascertained that Larry Johnson was killed by a shell from a twenty-gauge shotgun.

While Rick spent the week questioning everyone who had been at the hunt meet, the barns, on Larry's patient list, Coop dipped into the state computer file on twenty-gauge shotguns.

There were twenty-six registered firearms of that description in Albemarle County, ranging from a handmade Italian model costing $252,000, owned by Sir H. Vane-Tempest, a very wealthy Englishman who had moved to Crozet five years ago, to the more common $2,789 version, a good working shotgun made by Sturm Ruger.

Coop patiently called on each shotgun owner. No one reported a firearm stolen. She asked each owner if they would allow the shotgun to be checked to see if it had been fired recently. Everyone agreed. Everyone wrote down the last time they had used their shotgun. Even Vane-Tempest, a pompous man whom she intensely disliked, cooperated.

Of the twenty-six firearms, four had been used recently and each owner readily volunteered when and where they had used their shotgun. All four belonged to the Kettle and Drum Gun Club. None of the four had any connection that Coop could discover to anyone at the hospital.

Being in law enforcement, she expected people to lie to her. She knew in time she might find a connection but she also knew the chances were slim.

The weapon that killed Larry was most likely unregistered. It could have been bought years ago, before registration became the norm in America. It could have been stolen from another state. Could have, should have, would have-it was driving Coop crazy.

Rick and Coop studied patient logs, pored over maintenance records kept by Hank Brevard. They even walked through the delivery of a human kidney right up to the operating room.

The hospital routine was becoming familiar to them. The various doctors, nurses, orderlies, and receptionists were fixed in their minds. The one unit that upset both of them was Tussie Logan's. The sight of those terminally ill children brought them close to tears.

When Rick came back into the office he found Coop bent over the blueprints of the hospital.

"So?" He grunted as he removed his heavy jacket, quick to pluck the cigarette pack from the pocket. He offered her one, which she gratefully took. He lit hers, then he lit his. They both inhaled deeply, then relaxed imperceptibly.

Nicotine's faults were publicized and criticized but the drug's power to soothe temporarily never abated.

She pointed to the center of the blueprint with the glowing tip of the cigarette. "There."

He put his elbows on the table to look closely. "There what? You're back at the boiler room."

"This old part of the building. Eighteen thirty-one, this old square right here. The boiler room and the one hallway off of the boiler room. The rest was added in 1929. And it's been renovated three times since then. Right?"

"Right." He put his weight on his elbows as the pressure eased off his lower back, which felt stiff in the cold.

"The old part was originally built as a granary. Heavy stone flooring, heavy stone walls, whole tree-trunk beams. The original structure will last centuries. I was thinking about that. Now what I've been able to piece together about the history here"-she paused, took another drag-"thanks to Herb Jones's help, he's quite the history buff, well, anyway, he says the rumors always were that the granary was a way station on the Underground Railroad. No one was ever able to prove it but the owners, the Craycrofts, opposed slavery. Peaceably, but opposed, nonetheless. But as Herb says, no one ever proved a thing and the Craycrofts, despite their opposition to slavery, fought for the Confederacy."

"Yeah, well, you tend to do that when people invade your backyard." Rick straightened up.

"The Craycrofts lost everything, like everyone else around here. They sold the granary in 1877 to the Yancys. Herb also said that the granary was used as a makeshift hospital during the war, but then so was every other building in the county."

"Yeah, they shipped in the wounded by rail from Manassas, Richmond, Fredericksburg. God, it must have been awful. Did you know that the War Between the States was the first where the railroad was used?"

"Yes, I did." She pointed again to the boiler room. "If this was a way station on the Underground Railroad then there are probably hidden rooms. I doubt there'd be anything like that in the new part."

"When did the granary cease being a granary?" Rick sat down, realizing he was more tired than he thought.

"Nineteen hundred and eleven. The Krakenbills bought it. Kept it in good repair and used it for hay storage. They were the ones who sold it to Crozet United, Incorporated, the parent company for the hospital. There are Krakenbills in Louisa County. I contacted Roger, the eldest. He said he remembered his great-uncle mentioning the granary. He doesn't remember much else but he, too, had heard stories about the Underground Railroad."

"What you're getting at is that maybe the location of Hank's murder is more important than we thought."

"I don't know. Boss, maybe I'm grasping at straws, but it looked like a hurry-up job."

"Yeah." He exhaled heavily, a spiral of gray-blue smoke swirling upward.

"I keep coming back to how Hank was killed and where he was killed. If this were a revenge killing, the murderer, unless he is stone-stupid, would pick a better place. The risks of killing Hank at work are pretty high-for an outsider. For an insider, knowing the routine and the physical layout of the hospital, killing Hank could be a matter of opportunity as well as planning. The risk diminishes. The way he was killed strongly suggests knowledge of the human body, height, and physical power. Whoever killed him had to hold him long enough to slit his throat from left to right. Hank wasn't a weak man."

"I'll agree with you except on the point about knowledge of the human body. Most of us could slit a throat if we had to. It doesn't take a surgeon."

"But it was so neat, a clean, one-sweep wound."

"I could do that."

"I don't know if I could."

"If your victim were weaker than you or you had him helpless in some way, sure, you could make a neat cut. The trick to slitting a throat is speed and force. If you hesitate or stick the knife straight in instead of starting from the side, you botch it. I've seen the botched jobs."

She tightened her lips. "Yeah, me, too. But boss, the weapon was perfect, sharp."

"A layman could grind a knife to perfection, but I grant you this looks like an inside job, someone picked up a big scalpel or whatever and s-s-s-t. You know, it would be easy to throw away the instrument or return it to where surgical instruments are cleaned. We've been through that."

"Okay. We're on the same wave here." She held out her hands as if on a surfboard, which made him laugh, then cough because he'd inhaled too much. She slapped him on the back, then continued. "Big foxhunt at Harry's farm. Everyone's in a great mood. They view the fox. The fox gets away per usual. People are lined up for the breakfast like a movie premiere. Everyone and her brother is there. You can hardly move it's so packed. The food is great. Larry drinks a little, gets a little loud, and says he'll meet up with me. There couldn't be too many reasons for Larry to meet with me. I'm not a patient. It's not a big stretch to think he had something professional to tell me, my profession, that is. But it's not like it's a big deal. He didn't make it a big deal. Over fifteen or twenty people near the table had to have heard him. But again, it didn't seem like a big deal. He didn't use a dark tone of voice, no hints at evil deeds. However, he knew procedures cold. He knew the people. He probably knew more than even he knew he knew. What I'm saying is that he's known his stuff for so long he forgot how much he did know. An observation from him was worth a hell of a lot more than an observation, say, from Bruce Buxton. See?"

"Kind of."

"I don't think Larry knew what was wrong at Crozet Hospital. Not yet anyway but our killer feared him, feared he'd put two and two together quickly once he sobered up. Whatever Larry did observe, our killer made certain I wouldn't know."

Rick's eyes opened wider. "Our perp was in the room, or if he or she has an accomplice they could have called to warn about Larry spilling the beans." He inhaled. "We know from ballistics and the entry point of the bullet that the killer was flat on the hill about a quarter of a mile from the barn. Larry never knew what hit him. The killer crawls back off the hill in case anyone hears the shots. He was damned lucky those kids keep the radio on full blast but maybe he knew that. Maybe he rides. Or he's a hunt follower. He knew where Larry stabled his horse."

Coop added her thoughts. "He crawls back down the hill, gets in his car or truck, whatever, and pulls away as the sun sets. I checked for tracks. Too many of them. Nothing definitive. I had casts taken just in case."

"Good work." He crossed his arms over his chest, bit his lower lip for a moment.

"There's one last thing."

"What?"

"The attack on Harry."

His face fell. He took a last drag, then stubbed out the cigarette, the odor of smoke and tar wafting up from the ashtray. "Damn."

"In the boiler room."

He looked back at the blueprints. "Damn!"

32

"Box of rocks." Fair touched his forehead with his right forefinger.

"Don't start with me," Harry warned as she walked down the steps to the lower parking lot.

On the tarmac the jet warmed its engine, the whine piercing the still February air. Fair had just returned from his conference.

"You didn't even call to tell me."

"Accident." Harry felt like picking a fight.

"I'm so glad I have a girlfriend with a bald spot." He indicated the small patch on her head with the stitches.

"Yeah, be glad you have a girlfriend. Of course, BoomBoom could always fill in if I'm gone."

"You know, Harry, you find the belt and then hit below it."

"Hey, isn't that where you guys live?"

"Thanks a lot, pardner." He reached her truck, swung his bag over the side.

It dropped into the bed with a thud. He put his kit bag on the floor of the passenger side.

They said nothing until Harry paid the parking fee, turned right, and drove down to the Y in the road. "I think I'll go the back way. Through Earlysville."

"I should have known when you didn't call me that you'd gotten in trouble. But 'No,' I told myself, 'she knows how intense these conferences are and she's busy, too.'"

"You could have called me." Harry pouted slightly.

"I wish I had. Not that you would have told me."

"Who did?"

"I've known you since grade school, Sheezits." He called her by her childhood nickname. "You don't have farm accidents."

"I broke my collarbone in seventh grade."

"Roller skating."

"Yeah." She scanned her past for a salvaging incident.

"You stuck your nose where it doesn't belong."

"Did not."

"Miranda told me."

"I knew it!" Harry's face reddened. "I'll never tell her anything again."

Naturally, she would.

A few miles west, the panorama of the Blue Ridge opened before them, deep blue against a grainy, gray sky, a true February sky.

Fair broke the silence. "You could have been killed."

"But I wasn't." She bit her lower lip. "You know, I drove by the hospital and I kind of thought, 'Well, I'll go see where Hank met his maker.' And I walked in the back door. I mean I just didn't think I'd be a threat or whatever I was."

"And now Larry. Oh boy, that's hard to believe. It hasn't really sunk in yet. I think it will when I go by his house or to the next hunt and he's not there."

"Mim's taking it pretty hard. Quietly, obviously."

He stared out at the rolling hills punctuated with barns and houses. "Funny how love persists no matter what."

"Yes."

He looked at her. "Promise me you won't do anything like that again."

"Be specific," she hedged.

"You won't go back into the hospital. You won't snoop around."

"Oh-all right." This was said with no conviction whatsoever.

"Harry."

"Okay, okay, I won't go alone. How's that for a compromise?"

"Not a very good one. You are the most curious thing."

"Runs in the family."

"And that reminds me, if you don't think about reproducing soon the line stops with you." He spoke like a vet whose specialty was breeding. "You've got that good Hepworth and Minor blood, Harry. Time."

"I see. Who's the stud?"

"I'd thought that would be obvious."

33

"You and I will never see eye to eye." Bruce Buxton slammed the door to Sam Mahanes's office.

Sam, on his feet, hurried to the door, yanking it open. "Because you don't see the whole picture. You only see your part, dammit."

Bruce kept walking but Sam's secretary buried her head in her work.

"Ruth, how do you stand that asshole?" Bruce said as he walked by, ignored the elevator, and opened the door to the stairwell. He needed the steps to cool down.

Sam stopped at Ruth's desk. "He thinks I should open all the books, everything, to Sheriff Shaw. Says forget the lawyers. All they do is make everything worse. This was interspersed with complaints about everything but the weather."

"Perhaps he doesn't hold you responsible for that," Ruth dryly replied.

"Huh? Oh." Sam half smiled, then darkened. "Ruth, you're on the pipeline. What are people saying?"

"About what?"

"For starters, about Hank Brevard. Then Larry."

"Well." She put down her pencil, neatly, parallel to her computer keyboard. "At first no one knew what to make of Hank's murder. He wasn't popular and, well-" She paused, collecting her thoughts. "Larry's killing set them off. Now people think the two are connected."

"Are they criticizing me?"

"Uh-some do, most don't."

"I don't know what more I can do." His voice dropped low. "I'm not hiding anything but I can't just open our books to Rick Shaw. I will allow him to study anything and everything with our lawyers present."

"The Board of Directors will find some comfort in that de-cision, Sam." Her tone of voice betrayed neither agreement nor disagreement. As they were close, Ruth used his first name when it was only the two of them around. Otherwise she called him Mr. Mahanes.

"Bruce also wants me to issue a press statement emphasizing all the good things about Crozet Hospital and also emphasizing that-" He stopped. "What the hell good is a press statement? Larry wasn't killed on hospital grounds. Until it's proven that his murder is connected to Hank's murder, I'd be a damn fool to issue a press statement. All that would do is link the two murders in people's minds-those who haven't made that linkage. You ride out bad publicity. A press statement is just asking for trouble at this time. Now I'm not saying I won't do one-" he paused-"when the time is right."

"How long can we fend off the reporters? We can't stop the television crew from shooting in front of the hospital. We can stop them from coming inside but they've made the connection despite us."

"Six o'clock news." He sat on the edge of her desk. "Well, all Dee"-he used the reporter's name-"said was that a member of the staff was killed. She couldn't say Larry's death was related to Hank's."

"No, but she said Hank was killed two weeks ago. Was it two weeks ago?" Ruth sighed. "It seems like a year."

"Yes, it does." He ran his fingers through his hair, thick wavy hair of which he was quite proud.

"Sam, issue the press statement. A good offense is better than a good defense."

He crossed his arms over his chest. "I hate for that jerk to think he's one ahead of me or that I listened to him."

"Oh, Bruce is Bruce. Ignore him. I do. If he's really obnoxious just imagine what he'd be like as an ob-gyn."

"Huh?"

"He'd think every baby he delivered was his." She tittered.

Sam laughed. "You're right." He slid off her desk, stretching his arms over his head. "Rick or Coop pestering you?"

"Not as much as I thought they would. Mostly they wanted to know hospital routine, my duties, anything unusual. They were to the point. That Coop is an attractive woman. I think I'll tell my nephew about her."

"Ruth, you must have been Cupid in another life."

"I thought I was Cupid in this one." She picked up her pencil, sliding it behind her ear, and turned back to her computer.

"All right. I'll write the damned press release." He trudged back to his office.

34

Coop pulled white cartons of Chinese food out of a brown paper bag, setting them in the middle of Harry's kitchen table. Harry put out the plates, silverware, and napkins.

"Milk, Coke, tea, coffee, beer?"

"Beer." Coop wearily sat down, narrowly avoiding Tucker, who had positioned herself by the chair leg. She appeared glued to it. "I'll have coffee with dessert."

"You got dessert?"

"Yes, but I'm not telling you what it is until we eat this first. Sit down."

"Okay." Harry sat down, reaching for the pork lo mein as Coop dished out cashew chicken.

"I don't do Chinese." Mrs. Murphy sat in the kitchen window.

"Worth a try. You can fish out the pork bits." Pewter extended one talon.

"I had enough to eat," said the tiger cat, who kept her figure.

"I thought you'd be spending the night with Fair after picking him up at the airport."

"Oh, I wasn't in the mood for manly bullshit tonight," Harry airily replied.

"Like what?"

"Like him telling me what to do and how to do it."

"Mother, that's not exactly the way Fair does things. He suggests and you get pissed off." Murphy laughed.

"And what did he tell you to do? Something for your own good." Cynthia mixed soy sauce in her white rice, then dug in with her chopsticks. "Right?"

"Well-well, I know it's for my own good but I don't like hearing it. He told me not to go back to the hospital and not to snoop around anywhere by myself, and then he said I looked like a punk rocker who couldn't quite make it." She pointed to her stitches. "I suppose I could spend the next six weeks wearing a beret."

"Not you, Harry."

"Okay, a baseball cap. Orioles or maybe the Braves. Nah, don't like the logo."

"I was thinking more along the lines of a black cowboy hat-with black chaps and black fringe."

"Coop, is there something about you I should know?" Harry's eyes twinkled.

"Uh-no." She bent her blonde head over the food. "Just a thought. Fair would like it."

"Maybe you ought to play dress-up." Harry giggled.

"For one thing I don't own a pair of chaps and I won't buy the ready-made ones. If you're going to have chaps you've got two choices and only two choices: Chuck Pinnell or Journeyman Saddlery."

"How do you know that?"

"You told me."

"Early Alzheimer's." Harry smacked her head with the butt of her palm.

"Maybe it's not so early."

"Up yours, Coop. I'm a long way from forty."

"Oh-I suppose you were never a whiz at arithmetic. I count three years."

"Thirty-seven is a long way-" Harry smirked slightly. "And you aren't far behind, girlfriend."

"Scary, isn't it? What would I do with those chaps? No one to play dress-up with and I'm not going to wear them in the squad car."

"Oh, why not? It would be such a nice touch. Everyone thinks lady cops are butch anyway."

"You really know how to please a girl." Coop sighed because she knew it was true.

"Yeah, but I didn't say you were butch. You're not, you know. You're really very feminine. Lots more than I am."

"No, I'm not."

"You're tall and willowy. People think that's feminine until they see the badge and the pressed pleats in your pants. The shoes are winners, too. High heels. You could kick some poor bastard into next week but you'd never get your heel out of his butt. Police brutality."

"Harry." Cynthia laughed.

"See what Fair does to me. Just turns me into an evil wench. I think unclean thoughts."

"You don't need Fair for that. It's just that usually you keep them to yourself."

"Can you imagine me talking like this to Miranda? Smelling salts. And when she came to she'd have to pray for me at the Church of the Holy Light. I love her but there are things you don't say to Mrs. H."

Chopsticks poised in the air, Coop put them down for a moment. "I bet she knows more than she says. That generation didn't talk about stuff."

"Do you really think so?"

"Yeah. I think they did everything we do but they were quiet about it. Not out of shame or anything but because they were raised with guidelines about proper conversation. I bet they didn't even discuss some of this stuff with their doctors."

"The chaps. I wouldn't discuss that either." Harry laughed. "Better chaps than some of those silk things at Victoria's Secret. They look good on the models but if I put something like that on I'd get laughed out of the bedroom."

"I wish they'd stop talking about sex and drop some food," Tucker whined.

"Get on your hind legs. Coop's a sucker for that," Pewter advised. "I'll rub Mother's legs. It ought to be good for one little piece of cashew chicken."

The two performed their routine. It worked.

"You guys." Murphy giggled, then glanced back out the window. "Simon's on a food search." She saw the possum leave the barn.

"All he has to do is go to the feed room or get under the feed bucket in Tomahawk's stall. That horse throws grain around like there's no tomorrow. He wouldn't be so wasteful if he had to pay the feed bill." Pewter hated food being wasted.

"He's a pig. Wouldn't matter if he paid the bill or not." Murphy liked Tomahawk but was conversant with his faults.

"Any word on Tracy selling his house in Hawaii?"

Harry leaned over to grab another egg roll. "No takers yet but he'll sell it soon. He writes her every day. Isn't that romantic? It's much better than a phone call or e-mail. There's something so personal about a person's handwriting."

"I can't imagine a man sitting down to write me a letter a day."

"Me neither. I suppose Fair would write me a prescription a day-for the horses." She laughed.

"He's a good guy." Coop paused. "You love him?"

"I love him. I always loved him. I don't know about the in-love part, though. Sometimes I look at him and think it's still there. Other times, I don't know. You see, he's all I know. I dated him in high school and married him out of college. I dated a few men after our divorce but nothing clicked. Know what I mean?"

"Does the sun rise in the east?"

"I don't even know if I'm searching for anything or anyone. But he is a good man. And I'm over it."

"What?"

"Over the mess we made."

"At least you have a mess, a past."

"Coop?"

"All I meet are deadbeat dads, drunks, drug addicts, and the occasional armed burglar. The armed-robbery guys are actually pretty bright. You might even say sexy." The pretty officer smiled.

"Really?" Harry pushed out the last of the lo mein with her chopsticks. "If you want more of this you'd better holler."

"I'll finish off the chicken."

"Deal. So the armed robbers are sexy?"

"Yes. They're usually very masculine, intelligent, risk takers. Unfortunately they don't believe in any form of restraint, hence their profession."

"What about murderers?"

"Funny you ask that. Murderers are usually quite ordinary. Well, set aside the occasional whacked-out serial killer. But the guy who blasts his girlfriend's new lover into kingdom come, ordinary."

"No electricity?"

"No."

"Maybe murder is closer to us than we think. We're all capable of it, but we aren't all capable of armed robbery. Does that make sense?"

"Yes. Given the right set of circumstances or the wrong set, I believe most of us are capable of just about anything."

"Probably true."

"Drop one last little piece of chicken," Pewter meowed.

"Pewter, I don't have anything else unless you want fried noodles."

"I'll try them."

Harry laughed and put down a handful of the noodles, which the cat devoured in an instant because Tucker was moving in her direction.

"Your claws click. That always gives you away." Pewter laughed.

"There are more important things in this life than retractable claws."

"Name one," Pewter challenged the dog, although she sounded garbled since her mouth was full.

"The ability to scent a dead body three feet underground."

"Gross!" Pewter grimaced.

"She's trying to get a rise out of you." Mrs. Murphy watched as Simon re-entered the barn. "Simon's heading for the tack room. I guess he walked around the barn and decided no bears were near. He's a funny fellow."

"I'd like to know what good possums contribute to the world." Pewter licked her lips with her shockingly pink tongue.

"Think what possums say about cats," Tucker needled the gray cat.

"I catch mice. I dispatch vermin."

"Not lately," came the dry canine reply, which so enraged the fat cat she bopped the corgi right on her sensitive nose.

"Pewter. Hateful." Harry noticed.

"I'm leaving." Pewter turned, sashaying into the living room with the hauteur of a disgruntled cat.

"I think cats and dogs are more expressive than we are." Cynthia laughed as Pewter exaggerated her walk for effect. "They can use their ears, turn them back and forth and out, they can wiggle their whiskers and their tail, they can make the hackles rise on their neck and back. They have lots of facial expressions."

"Pewter's major expression is boredom." Tucker giggled.

"Don't start with me."

"Start? She hasn't stopped," Murphy called from the window.

"Lots of talk. Lots of talk." Harry pointed her finger at each animal in succession, then returned to Coop. "I agree. They are more expressive."

"I'm beat."

"Go in the living room. I'll bring you a cup of coffee and dessert. What is it, by the way?"

"Phish Food. I put it in the freezer."

"Ben and Jerry's. Coop, the best." Harry raced for the freezer, retrieved the pint of ice cream, pulled two bowls out of the cupboard. "The ice cream can soften while I make coffee. I've got Colombian, hazelnut, chicory, and regular. Oh, I've got decaf, too."

"Colombian." Cynthia sat on the sofa, bent over, and removed her shoes. "Oh, that feels too good. Foot massage. We need someone in Crozet who can give a good foot massage."

"Body massage. It's been years since I had a massage. Oh, they feel so good. I get such knots in my back." She waited for the coffee to run through the coffeemaker, filling the kitchen with rich aroma.

Cynthia got up to retrieve her briefcase, which she had put down by the kitchen door. She reached the sofa and lay down. She couldn't resist. When Harry brought in the coffee and a bowl of ice cream she sat up.

"Work?"

"Yeah. I need just enough energy to go over these bills from the hospital."

"I'll help you."

"It's supposed to be confidential."

"I won't tell anyone. Cross my heart and hope to-"

"Don't finish that," Mrs. Murphy hollered as she jumped off the kitchen counter. "Enough has happened around here."

"Murphy?" Harry wondered if something was wrong with her cat, who hurried over, leaping into her lap.

"Okay, here are the procedure billings, you know, cost of a tonsillectomy. I'll go over the equipment bills."

"What am I looking for?"

"I don't know. Anything that seems off."

Harry's eyes fell onto a bill for a gallbladder operation. "Jeez, two thousand dollars for the surgeon, a thousand for the anesthesiologist, two hundred a day for a semi-private room. Wow, look at these medication prices. This is outrageous!"

"And this is a nation that doesn't want comprehensive health care. It will kill you-getting sick."

"Sure will at Crozet Hospital." Harry smiled weakly. "Sorry."

Coop flipped her fingers, a dismissive gesture. "You develop gallows humor after a while. Otherwise you lose it."

"Here's a bill for breast removal. When you break down these bills it's like an avalanche. I mean every single physician bills separately. The rent on your room is separate. I can imagine you'd think you'd seen the last bill and here comes another one."

They worked in silence for about an hour, occasionally commenting on the cost of this or the fact that they didn't know so-and-so's sister had a pin put in her leg.

"Hank Brevard kept meticulous records," Harry noted.

"He wrote them out by hand and then I think someone else entered them on the computer. Hank wasn't that computer literate." Coop paused. "Boy, am I dumb. I'd better find out who did that for him."

Harry frowned. "I guess so. After a while everything and everyone seems suspicious. It's weird."

"Salvage Masters."

"Oh, that's a good one. The Dumpster people?"

"No, a company that rehabilitates infusion pumps. You know, the units next to a patient's bed that drip saline solution or morphine or whatever." She studied the bill. "Middleburg postmark. I think I'll drive up there Saturday if Rick says okay."

"He will."

"Want to go with me?"

"Yeah. I'd love to go."

35

"Mug shot." Mrs. Murphy scrutinized the lost-dog photo taped on the wall by the postboxes.

"Ever notice you hardly ever see photographs of lost cats? We don't get lost." Pewter ran her tongue over her lips.

"Ha. It means people don't care as much about their cats," Tucker said, malice intended.

"Bull!" Pewter snarled and was about to attack the sturdy canine when the first human of the day entered the post office.

Reverend Herb Jones picked up the church's mail, then strode over to the sign. "Now that's a new one."

"What?" Harry called out from behind the divider.

She was dumping out a mail sack, letters cascading over the table, onto the floor.

"Bristol. I thought I knew every dog in this district. Who owns Bristol?" Herb frowned.

"You know, I don't know. The notice was slipped under the front door. I put it up. I don't recognize the pooch either except that he's awfully cute."

"Yeah. Hope he's found," Herb agreed.

"Where's Miranda?"

"Home. She said she'd be a little late this morning."

"Well, I'd better get a move on. The vestry committee meets this morning and I have to deliver the blow that we must replumb the rectory."

"That will cost a pretty penny."

"Yes, it will." He leaned over the counter for a second. "If money is your objective, Harry, become a plumber."

"I'll remember that."

He waved as he left.

A few minutes later BoomBoom Craycroft, tanned, came in. "I'm back!"

"So I see."

"She really is beautiful," Tucker had to admit.

"A week in Florida in the winter restores my spirits." She stopped. "Except I've come home to such-such sadness."

"No one quite believes it." Harry continued to sort through catalogues.

BoomBoom glanced at the lost-dog notice, said nothing, cleaned out her mailbox, then went over to the counter. "More."

Harry walked over, taking the yellow slip indicating there was more mail than the mailbox could hold. She put the overflow in a white plastic box with handles. She retrieved it, heaving it over the counter.

"Here you go."

"Thanks." BoomBoom picked up the box.

Harry flipped up the divider, trotting to the front door, which she opened. "It's slippery."

"Sometimes I think winter will never end. Thanks."

Harry closed the front door as Miranda entered through the back.

"Yoo-hoo."

"Hi." The animals greeted the older woman.

"Hello, you little furry angels."

"Oh, yes." Tucker flopped over on her back.

"That's more stomach than I care to see," Pewter snipped.

"Look who's talking," Tucker responded.

Tussie hurried through the front door. "Hi, late." She slipped her key in the brass mailbox, scooped out the contents, shut the door with a clang, glancing at the lost-dog notice. "Poor puppy." She dashed out the front door.

Jordan Ivanic followed, read the notice, said nothing.

Later that day Susan dropped by. "We ought to put up posters of marriageable daughters."

"Right next to lost dogs," Harry remarked.

"Or goats."

By the end of the day neither Harry nor Miranda had observed anything unusual regarding the poster. Harry called in to Coop.

"You know, even though Rick must have someone watching Mim, I'd rather she hadn't done that," Miranda worried out loud as Harry spoke to Coop.

"If it's the killer versus Mim, catnip's on Mim," Mrs. Murphy declared.

"It's been a while since I've been up there. I enjoy walking around the shops-after my duty is done, of course." Coop referred to their planned trip to Middleburg.

"You could get measured for chaps."

"Harry."

"Hee hee."

36

"Mother, do you really think you can stay neutral?"

A languid, melancholy Mim replied, "I have no choice."

"You don't think I should run against Dad, do you?"

"No."

A slight red blotch appeared on Little Mim's forehead, a hint of suppressed anger. "Why? He's been mayor long enough."

"I believe in letting sleeping dogs lie." The older woman patted the arm of her overstuffed chair; a fire crackling in the fireplace added to the warm atmosphere of the drawing room.

"Change never happens that way."

"Oh, Marilyn, change happens even when you sleep. I just don't see the point in stirring things up. Your father is a wonderful mayor and this town has flourished under his guidance."

"And your money."

"That, too." Mim glanced out the window. Low gray clouds moved in fast from the west.

"You never support me."

A flicker of irritation crossed Mim's regular, lovely features. "Oh? You live in a handsome house, provided by me. You have a car, clothing, horses, jewelry. You are denied nothing. You had the best education money can buy and when you married, I believe the only wedding more sumptuous was that between Grace Kelly and Prince Rainier. And when you divorced we dealt with that, too. Just exactly what is the problem?"

Pouting, not an attractive trait in a woman in her mid-thirties, Little Mim rose from her chair opposite her mother's and walked to the window. "I want to do something on my own. Is that so hard to understand?"

"No. Get a job."

"Doing what?"

"How should I know, Marilyn? It's your life. You have talents. I think you do a wonderful job with the hunt club newsletter. Really, I do."

"Thanks. Storm's coming in."

"Yes. February never fails to depress."

"Mother." She bit her lower lip, then continued. "I have no purpose in life."

"I'm sorry. No one can provide that for you."

Turning to face her mother, arms crossed over her chest, Little Mim said, "I want to do something."

"Charity work has meaning."

"No. That was for your generation. You married and that was that."

"Marriage might improve your humor." A slight smile played over Mim's lips, mocha lipstick perfectly applied.

"And what's that supposed to mean?"

"Just that we are meant to go in twos. Remember the animals on Noah's Ark?"

The younger woman, lithe and as well dressed as her mother, returned, gracefully lowering herself into the chair. "I'd like to marry again but Blair isn't going to ask me. He's not in love with me."

"I'm glad you realize that. Anyway, he travels too much for his work. Men who travel are never faithful."

"Neither are men who stay at home." Marilyn was fully aware of her father's peccadilloes.

"Touché."

"I'm sorry. That was a low blow."

Mim smoothed her skirt. "The truth isn't tidy, is it?"

"I'm out of sorts. Every time I think of Blair my heart leaps but when I'm with him I don't feel-I don't feel there. Does that make sense?"

"Any man that gorgeous will get your blood up. That's the animal in you. When you're with him you don't feel anything because there's nothing coming off his body. When a man likes you, wants you, you feel it. It's electric."

The daughter looked at her mother, a flash of recognition illuminating her features. "Right. Did you feel that for Dad?"

"Eventually. I learned to love your father."

"You were always in love with Larry, weren't you, Mother?"

As they had never discussed this, a surprising silence fell over them for a few moments.

"Yes."

"I'm sorry, Mother." Marilyn meant it.

"Life is strange. Hardly a profound thought but I never know what will happen from one minute to the next even though I live a well-ordered life. The mistake I made, and I share this with you only in the hopes that you won't repeat my mistakes, is that I valued form over substance, appearances over emotion. I was a perfect fool."

"Mother." Little Mim was shocked.

"The money gets in the way, darling. And social expectations are deadening. I ought to know, I've spent a lifetime meeting and enforcing them." She leaned over to turn on the lamp by her chair as the sky darkened. "Going to be a good one."

"First snowflake."

They both stopped to watch the skies open.

Finally, Mim said, "If you're determined to run against your father, go ahead, but consider what you really want to do as mayor. If you win, stick to it. If you lose, support your father."

"I suppose."

"Maybe there's another path. I don't know. I haven't been thinking too clearly these last days."

"It's awful that Larry's dead." Marilyn had loved him as though he were a kindly uncle.

"Quite. Snatched from life. He had so much to give. He'd given so much and someone took aim. I don't think Rick Shaw has one clue."

"They have the ballistics report." Marilyn wanted to sound hopeful.

"Little good it does without the finger that pulled the trigger." Mim's eyes clouded over. "As you age you learn there is such a thing as a good death. His was a good death in that it was swift, and apart from the shock of getting hit with a bullet, I should think the pain didn't last. He died as he lived, no trouble to anyone."

"I don't have any ideas; do you?"

"No, unfortunately. So often you have a premonition, an inkling, a sense of what's wrong or who's wrong. I don't have that. I'd give my eyeteeth to find Larry's murderer. I don't know where to look. The hospital? A lunatic patient? I just have no feel for this."

"I don't think anyone does, but now that you mention the hospital, what do you think of Bruce Buxton?"

"Arrogant."

"That's all?"

"Arrogant and handsome. Does that make you feel better?"

"He's brilliant. Everyone says that."

"I suppose he is."

"But you don't like him, do you?"

"Ah, well, I can't explain it, Marilyn. And it's not important anyway. Are you interested in Bruce? At least he rides reasonably well. You can't possibly be interested in a man who can't ride, you know. Another reason Blair's not for you."

Little Mim laughed because it was true. Horse people shouldn't marry non-horse people. It rarely worked. "That's something."

"Bruce rides like most men. Squeeze, jerk. Squeeze, jerk, but a bit of teaching could improve that. He doesn't intend to be abusive and he's not as abusive as most. Women are better with horses. Always will be." This was stated with ironclad conviction. "Women make up eighty percent of the hunt field but only twenty percent of the accidents."

"Harry's been riding well, hasn't she?"

"You two ought to ride in the hunt pairs when we have our hunter trials."

"Harry and I aren't close."

"You don't have to be close. Your horses are matched."

This was followed by an exhaustive discussion of the merits of relative mounts, carried out with the enthusiasm and total concentration peculiar to horse people. To anyone else the conversation would have been a bloody bore.

"Mother," Little Mim said, changing the subject. "Would you give one of your famous teas and invite Bruce?"

"I can't see the stables." Mim noted the thickness of the falling snow. "A tea?"

"You give the best teas. Things always happen at your parties. I wish I had your gift."

"You could have it if you wanted it, Marilyn. One learns to give parties just as one learns to dress. Oh, what was that I heard Harry and Susan say a few days ago? The 'fashion police.' Yes, the fashion police. They were laughing about Jordan Ivanic's tie and said he needed to be arrested by the fashion police."

"Harry in her white T-shirt, jeans, and paddock boots?"

"Ah, but Marilyn, it works for her. It really does and she has a wonderful body. I wish she and Fair would get back together again but once trust is broken it's hard to mend that fence. Well, a tea? You can learn."

"I can do the physical stuff. I will. I'll help with all that, but you have a gift for putting people together. Like I said, Mother, something always happens at your parties."

"The time Ulrich jumped the fence, cantered across the lawn, and jumped the picnic table was unforgettable." She smiled, remembering a naughty horse.

"What about the time Fair and Blair got into a fistfight and Herb Jones had to break it up? That was pretty exciting."

Mim brightened. "Or the time Aunt Tally cracked her cane over Ned Tucker's head and we had to take Ned to the emergency room."

"Why did Aunt Tally do that?"

"You were eleven at the time, I think. Your brother, Stafford, was thirteen. I'll tell you why. Ned became head of the Republican Party in the county and Aunt Tally took umbrage. She told him Tucker was an old Virginia name and he had no business registering Republican. He could vote Republican but he couldn't register that way. It just wasn't done. And Ned, who is usually an intelligent man, was dumb enough to argue with her. He said Lyndon Johnson handed the South to the Republican Party in 1968 when he signed the Voter Rights Act. That did it. Pow!" Mim clapped her hands. "I suppose Aunt Tally will enliven this tea as well. Let's sic her on Sam Mahanes, who is getting entirely too serious."

"With good reason."

"He's not the only person with troubles. All right. Your tea. How about two weeks from today? March sixth."

"Mother, you're lovely."

"I wouldn't go that far."

37

Bruce dropped by Pediatrics to check on a ten-year-old boy on whom he had operated.

Tussie Logan stood by the sleeping boy, hair dirty blond. She adjusted the drip of the infusion pump, took his pulse, and whispered on his progress to Bruce, who didn't wish to wake him.

They walked back into the hall.

"That pump's old, an IVAC 560 model. I keep pushing Sam for new equipment but I might as well be talking to a wall."

"Forget new pumps. These work perfectly well and the nurses know how to use them." Tussie had no desire to get in the middle of a Bruce versus Sam disagreement. The nurse always loses.

"They can learn."

"Dr. Buxton, they are overworked now. Keep it simple. The old pumps are really simple."

"You sound like Sam."

Her face tightened. "I hope not."

"Cheap."

"We do have budget restraints."

"We're falling way behind the technology curve, Nurse Logan. He's got to spend money to catch up. Go in debt, if necessary. He's too cheap, I tell you."

"Dr. Buxton, I can't really criticize the director of this hospital. It's not a wise policy." A flicker of fear danced in her hazel eyes. "And if you're going to fight for new equipment, fight for another MRI unit or something. Leave the nurses out of it."

"Afraid to lose your job?" He snorted. "Cover your ass. Ah, yes, the great American answer to the future, cover your ass."

"If you'll excuse me." She turned, walking down the hall to disappear into another patient's room.

"Chickenshit. Everyone around here is just chickenshit." Disgusted, he headed back toward his office in the newest wing of the hospital.

38

Chain store after chain store lined Route 29; fast-food restaurants, large signs blazing, further added to the dolorous destruction of what had once been beautiful and usable farmland. The strip, as it was known, could have been anywhere in the United States: same stores, same merchandise, same food. Whatever comfort value there was in consistency was lost aesthetically.

Back in the late sixties the Barracks Road shopping center at the intersection of Garth Road and Emmet Street, Route 29, broadcast the first hint of things to come. It seemed so far out then, three miles north of the University of Virginia.

By the year 2000 the shopping centers had marched north almost to the Greene County line. Even Greene County had a shopping center, at the intersection of Routes 29 and 33.

The city of Warrenton wisely submitted to a beltway around its old town. Charlottesville eschewed this solution to traffic congestion, with the result that anyone wishing to travel through that fair city could expect to lose a half hour to forty-five minutes, depending on the time of day.

As Harry and Coop headed north on Route 29 they wondered how long before gridlock would become a fact of life.

They chatted through Culpeper, the Blue Ridge standing sentinel to their left, the west. At Warrenton they latched onto Route 17 North which ran them straight up to Route 50 where they turned right and within six miles, they were at the door of Salvage Masters, a new four-story building nestled in the wealthy hills of Upperville, ten miles west of Middleburg proper.

Harry's chaps, needing repair, were tossed in the back of the Jeep, Coop's personal vehicle. She didn't want to draw attention to herself by driving a squad car, although she could have flown up Route 29 without fear of reprisal from another policeman lurking in the hollows, radar at the ready. The small towns relied on that income although they were loath to admit it, ever declaring public safety as their primary concern for ticketing speeders.

"Think my chaps will be okay?" Harry asked automatically, then grinned.

"There must be millions of people here just waiting to steal a pair of chaps needing repair-because you wore them." The blonde woman laughed as she picked up a leather envelope containing papers.

When they knocked on the door, a pleasant assistant ushered them in.

Joe Cramer, a tall muscular man at six four walked out of his office. "Hello. Come on in. Would either of you like coffee, or a Coke?"

"No thanks. I'm Deputy Cynthia Cooper and this is Mary Minor Haristeen, Harry, who has been involved in the case." Cynthia shook his hand, as did Harry.

"Come on." He guided them into his office, a comfortable space.

"This is quite an operation." Coop looked around at the employees seated at benches, working on IVAC units.

"Infusion pumps are sent to us from all over the world. These machines are built to last and for the most part, they do."

"You aren't from Virginia, are you, Mr. Cramer?" The lean deputy smiled. "Do you mind giving me a little background about how you developed this business?"

"No. I'm originally from Long Island. Went to college in the Northeast and started working in the medical industry. I was fascinated by the technology of medicine. I worked for years for a huge corporation in New Jersey, Medtronic. That's when I came up with the idea of rehabilitating infusion pumps and other equipment. The smaller hospitals can afford to repair their equipment and they can often afford to buy used equipment, but they often can't afford to buy new equipment. As I said, most of these machines are well built and will last for decades if properly maintained."

"Do you visit your accounts?"

"Yes. I haven't visited our accounts in India," he answered in his warm light baritone. "But I've visited many of the accounts here."

"What about Crozet Hospital?"

"Oh, I think I was there four years ago. I haven't had much business from them in the last few years."

"You haven't?" Cynthia's voice rose.

"No. And the machines need to be serviced every six months."

"Let me show you something." She pulled invoices out of the leather envelope, placing them before him.

Joe studied the invoices, then hit a button on his telephone. "Honey, can you come over to the shop for a minute?"

A voice answered. "Sure. Be a minute."

"My wife," he said. "We put everything on the computer but I trust her memory more than the computer." He punched another button. "Michael, pull up the Crozet Hospital file, will you?"

"Okay."

A tall, elegant woman swept into Joe's office. "Hello."

"Honey, this is Deputy Cynthia Cooper from the Albemarle Sheriff's Department and Mary Haristeen. Uh, Harry."

"Laura Cramer." She shook their hands.

"Do you remember the last time we got an order from Crozet Hospital?"

"Oh-at least four years."

Just then Michael walked into the office. "Here."

Joe reached up for the papers as Michael left. He and Laura read over the figures. "Here, Deputy, look at this."

She reached for the papers. The bills stopped four years ago. "They've given us no notice of moving their business," Laura said.

"Well, Mr. and Mrs. Cramer, the last billing date on the last invoice I have is December second of last year."

"It's our letterhead," Joe said, as Coop handed him an invoice.

"It's our paper, too." Laura studied the invoices, tapping them with her forefinger. "But Joe, these aren't our numbers." She looked up at Coop and Harry. "We have our own numbering system. These fake invoices copied the numbers from four years ago, running them up sequentially. But each year I alter the numbers. It's our internal code for keeping track of business, repair cycles, and it's all in those numbers."

"It'd be a pretty easy matter to print up invoices with your logo," Harry volunteered. "Someone with a good laser printer could do it and it would be cheaper than going to a printer. Also, no records of the printing job."

"Some of those laser systems are very sophisticated," Laura said, obviously upset.