Murder On The Prowl

Murder on the Prowl

RITA MAE BROWN

SNEAKY PIE BROWN

BANTAM BOOKS NEWYORK • TORONTO • LONDON • SYDNEY • AUCKLAND

Cast of Characters

Mary Minor Haristeen (Harry), young postmistress of Crozet

Mrs. Murphy, Harry's gray tiger cat

Tee Tucker, Harry's Welsh corgi, Mrs. Murphy's friend and confidante

Pharamond Haristeen (Fair), veterinarian, formerly married to Harry

Mrs. George Hogendobber (Miranda), a widow who works with Harry in the post office

Market Shiflett, owner of Shiflett's Market, next to the post office

Pewter, Market's shamelessly fat gray cat, who now lives with Harry and family

Susan Tucker, Harry's best friend

Big Marilyn Sanburne (Mim), Queen of Crozet society

Rick Shaw, sheriff

Cynthia Cooper, police officer

Herbert C. Jones, pastor of Crozet Lutheran Church

Roscoe Fletcher, headmaster of the exclusive St. Elizabeth's private school

Naomi Fletcher, principal of the lower school at St. Elizabeth's. She supports her husband's vision 100%

Alexander Brashiers (Sandy), an English teacher at St. Elizabeth's who believes he should be headmaster

April Shively, secretary to the headmaster, whom she loves

Maury McKinchie, a film director who's lost his way, lost his fire, and seems to be losing his wife

Brooks Tucker, Susan Tucker's daughter. She has transferred to St. Elizabeth's

Karen Jensen, irreverent, a star of the field hockey team, and lusted after by most of the boys

Jody Miller, another good field hockey player, she seems to be suffering the ill effects of an evaporating romance with Sean Hallahan

Sean Hallahan, the star of the football team

Roger Davis, calm, quiet, and watchful, he is overshadowed by Sean

Kendrick Miller, driven, insular, and hot-tempered, he's built a thriving nursery business as he's lost his family ... he barely notices them

Irene Miller, a fading beauty who deals with her husband's absorption in his work and her daughter's mood swings by ignoring them

Father Michael, priest at the Catholic church, a friend of the Reverend Herbert Jones

Jimbo Anson, owner of the technologically advanced car wash on Route 29

Coach Renee Hallvard, a favorite with the St. Elizabeth's students, she coaches the girls' field hockey team

Murder on the Prowl

1

Towns, like people, have souls. The little town of Crozet, Virginia, latitude 38°, longitude 78° 60', had the soul of an Irish tenor.

On this beautiful equinox day, September 21, every soul was lifted, if not every voice—for it was perfect: creamy clouds lazed across a turquoise sky. The Blue Ridge Mountains, startling in their color, hovered protectively at the edge of emerald meadows. The temperature held at 72° F with low humidity.

This Thursday, Mary Minor Haristeen worked unenthusiastically in the post office. As she was the postmistress, she could hardly skip out, however tempted she was. Her tiger cat, Mrs. Murphy, and her corgi, Tee Tucker, blasted in and out of the animal door, the little flap echoing with each arrival or departure. It was the animals' version of teenagers slamming the door, and each whap reminded Harry that while they could escape, she was stuck.

Harry, as she was known, was industrious if a bit undirected. Her cohort at the P.O., Mrs. Miranda Hogendobber, felt that if Harry remarried, this questioning of her life's purpose would evaporate. Being quite a bit older than Harry, Miranda viewed marriage as purpose enough for a woman.

"What are you humming?" 'A Mighty Fortress Is Our God.' Martin Luther wrote it in 1529," Mrs. H. informed her.

"I should know that."

"If you'd come to choir practice you would."

"There is the small matter that I am not a member of your church." Harry folded an empty canvas mail sack.

"I can fix that in a jiffy."

"And what would the Reverend Jones do? He baptized me in Crozet Lutheran Church ."

"Piffle."

Mrs. Murphy barreled through the door, a large cricket in her mouth.

Close in pursuit was Pewter, the fat gray cat who worked days next door at the grocery store: nights she traveled home with Harry. Market Shiflett, the grocer, declared Pewter had never caught a mouse and never would, so she might as well go play with her friends.

In Pewter's defense, she was built round; her skull was round, her ears, small and delicate, were round. Her tail was a bit short. She thought of herself as stout. Her gray paunch swung when she walked. She swore this was the result of her having "the operation," not because she was fat. In truth it was both. The cat lived to eat.

Mrs. Murphy, a handsome tiger, stayed fit being a ferocious mouser.

The two cats were followed by the dog, Tee Tucker.

Mrs. Murphy bounded onto the counter, the cricket wriggling in her mouth.

"That cat has brought in a winged irritant. She lives to kill," Miranda harrumphed.

"A cricket doesn't have wings."

Miranda moved closer to the brown shiny prey clamped in the cat's jaws. "It certainly is a major cricket—it ought to have wings. Why, I believe this cricket is as big as a praying mantis." She cupped her chin in her hand, giving her a wise appearance.

Harry strolled over to inspect just as Mrs. Murphy dispatched the insect with a swift bite through the innards, then laid the remains on the counter.

The dog asked, "You're not going to eat that cricket, are you?"

"No, they taste awful."

"I'll eat it," Pewter volunteered. "Well, someone has to keep up appear ances! After all, we are predators."

"Pewter, that's disgusting." Harry grimaced as the rotund animal gobbled down the cricket.

"Maybe they're like nachos." Miranda Hogendobber heard the loud crunch.

"I'll never eat a nacho again." Harry glared at her coworker and friend.

"It's the crunchiness. I bet you any money," Miranda teased.

"It is." Pewter licked her lips in answer to the older woman. She was glad cats didn't wear lipstick like Mrs. Hogendobber. Imagine getting lipstick on a cricket or mouse. Spoil the taste.

"Hey, girls." The Reverend Herbert Jones strolled through the front door. He called all women girls, and they had long since given up hope of sensitizing him. Ninety-two-year-old Catherine I. Earnhart was called a girl. She rather liked it.

"Hey, Rev." Harry smiled at him. "You're late today."

He fished in his pocket for his key and inserted it in his brass mailbox, pulling out a fistful of mail, most of it useless advertisements.

"If I'm late, it's because I lent my car to Roscoe Fletcher. He was supposed to bring it back to me by one o'clock, and here it is three. I finally decided to walk."

"His car break down?" Miranda opened the backdoor for a little breeze and sunshine.

"That new car of his is the biggest lemon."

Harry glanced up from counting out second-day air packets to see Roscoe pulling into the post office parking lot out front. "Speak of the devil."

Herb turned around. "Is that my car?"

"Looks different with the mud washed off, doesn't it?" Harry laughed.

"Oh, I know I should clean it up, and I ought to fix my truck, too, but I don't have the time. Not enough hours in the day."

"Amen," Miranda said.

"Why, Miranda, how nice of you to join the service." His eyes twinkled.

"Herb, I'm sorry," Roscoe said before he closed the door behind him. "Mim Sanburne stopped me in the hall, and I thought I'd never get away. You know how the Queen of Crozet talks."

"Indeed," they said.

"Why do they call Mim the Queen of Crozet?" Mrs. Murphy licked her front paw. "Queen of the Universe is more like it."

"No, just the Solar System," Tucker barked.

"Doesn't have the same ring to it," Mrs. Murphy replied.

"Humans think they art the center of everything. Bunch of dumb Doras." Pewter burped.

The unpleasant prospect of cricket parts being regurgitated on the counter made Mrs. Murphy take a step back.

"How do you like your car?" Roscoe pointed to the Subaru station wagon, newly washed and waxed.

"Looks brand-new. Thank you."

"You were good to lend me wheels. Gary at the dealership will bring my car to the house. If you'll drop me home, I'll be fine."

"Where's Naomi today?" Miranda inquired about his wife.

"In Staunton. She took the third grade to see the Pioneer Museum ." He chuckled. "Better her than me. Those lower-school kids drive me bananas."

"That's why she's principal of the lower school, and you're headmaster. We call you 'the Big Cheese.' " Harry smiled.

"No, it's because I'm a good fund-raiser. Anyone want to cough up some cash?" He laughed, showing broad, straight teeth, darkened by smoking. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a pack of Tootsie Rolls, then offered them around.

"You're not getting blood from this stone. Besides, I graduated from Crozet High." Harry waved off the candy.

"Me, too, a bit earlier than she did," Miranda said coyly.

"I graduated in 1945," Herb said boldly.

"I can't get arrested with you guys, can I? You don't even want my Tootsie Rolls." Roscoe smiled. He had a jovial face as well as manner. "Tell you what, if you win the lottery, give St. Elizabeth's a little bit. Education is important."

"For what?" Pewter stared at him. "You-all don't do a damn thing except fuss at each other."

"Some humans farm," Tucker responded.

Pewter glared down at the pretty corgi. "So?"

"It's productive," Mrs. Murphy added.

"It's only productive so they can feed each other. Doesn't have anything to do with us."

"They can fish," Tucker said. ,

"Big deal."

"It's a big deal when you want your tuna." Murphy laughed.

"They're a worthless species."

"Pewter, that cricket made you out of sorts. Gives you gas. You don't see me eating those things," Mrs. Murphy said.

"You know, my car does look new, really." Herb again cast his blue eyes over the station wagon.

"Went to the car wash on Twenty-ninth and Greenbrier Drive," Roscoe told him. "I love that car wash."

"You love a car wash?" Miranda was incredulous.

"You've got to go there. I'll take you." He held out his meaty arms in an expansive gesture. "You drive up—Karen Jensen and some of our other kids work there, and they guide your left tire onto the track. The kids work late afternoons and weekends—good kids. Anyway, you have a smorgasbord of choices. I chose what they call 'the works.' So they beep you in, car in neutral, radio off, and you lurch into the fray. First, a yellow neon light flashes, a wall of water hits you, and then a blue neon light tells you your undercarriage is being cleaned, then there's a white light and a pink light and a green light—why it's almost like a Broadway show. And"—he pointed outside—"there's the result. A hit."

"Roscoe, if the car wash excites you that much, your life needs a pickup." Herb laughed good-naturedly.

"You go to the car wash and see for yourself."

The two men left, Herb slipping into the driver's seat as Harry and Miranda gazed out the window.

"You been to that car wash?"

"No, I feel like I should wear my Sunday pearls and rush right out." Miranda folded her arms across her ample chest.

"I'm not going through any car wash. I hate it," Tucker grumbled.

"You hear thunder and you hide under the bed."

The dog snapped at Murphy, "I do not, that's a fib."

"Slobber, too." Since Murphy was on the counter, she could be as hateful as she pleased; the dog couldn't reach her.

"You peed in the truck," Tucker fired back.

Mrs. Murphy's pupils widened. "I was sick."

"Were not."

"Was, too."

"You were on your way to the vet and you were scared!"

"I was on my way to the vet because I was sick." The tiger vehemently defended herself.

"Going for your annual shots," Tucker sang in three-quarter time.

"Liar."

"Chicken."

"That was two years ago."

"Truck smelled for months." Tucker rubbed it in.

Mrs. Murphy, using her hind foot, with one savage kick pushed a stack of mail on the dog's head. "Creep."

"Hey!" Harry hollered. "Settle down."

"Vamoose!" Mrs. Murphy shot off the counter, soaring over the corgi, who was mired in a mudslide of mail, as she zoomed out the opened backdoor.

Tucker hurried after her, shedding envelopes as she ran.

Pewter relaxed on the counter, declining to run.

Harry walked to the backdoor to watch her pets chase one another through Miranda's yard, narrowly missing her mums, a riot of color. "I wish I could play like that just once."

"They are beguiling." Miranda watched, too, then noticed the sparkling light. "The equinox, it's such a special time, you know. Light and darkness are in perfect balance."

What she didn't say was that after today, darkness would slowly win out.

2

On her back, legs in the air, Mrs. Murphy displayed her slender beige tummy, the stripes muted, unlike the tiger stripes on her back, which were shiny jet-black. She heard the Audi Quattro a quarter of a mile down the driveway, long before Harry realized anyone had turned onto the farm drive.

Tucker, usually on guard, had trotted over to the creek that divided Harry's farm from Blair Bainbridge's farm on the southern boundary. A groundhog lived near the huge hickory there. Tucker, being a herding animal, possessed no burning desire to kill. Still, she enjoyed watching quarry, occasionally engaging a wild animal in conversation. She was too far away to sound a warning about the car.

Not that she needed to, for the visitor was Susan Tucker, Harry's best friend since toddler days. As Susan had traded in her old Volvo for an Audi Quattro, the tire sound was different and Tucker wasn't used to it yet. Mrs. Murphy possessed a better memory for such sounds than Tucker.

Pewter, flopped under the kitchen table, could not have cared less about the visitor. She was dreaming of a giant marlin garnished with mackerel. What made the dream especially sweet was that she didn't have to share the fish with anyone else.

Harry, on an organizing jag, was dumping the contents of her bureau drawers onto her bed.

Mrs. Murphy opened one eye. She heard the slam of the car door. A second slam lifted her head. Usually Susan cruised out to Harry's alone. Escaping her offspring saved her mental health. The back screen door opened. Susan walked in, her beautiful fifteen-year-old daughter, Brooks, following behind. No escape today.

"Toodle-oo," Susan called out.

Pewter, irritated at being awakened, snarled, "I have never heard anything so insipid in my life."

Mrs. Murphy rested her head back down on her paw. "Crab."

"Well, that's just it, Murphy, I was having the best dream of my life and now—vanished." Pewter mourned the loss.

"Hi, Murphy." Susan scratched behind the cat's delicate ears.

"Oh, look, Pewts is underneath the kitchen table." Brooks, who loved cats, bent down to pet Pewter. Her auburn hair fell in a curtain across her face.

"What I endure," the gray cat complained; however, she made no effort to leave, so the complaint was pro forma.

"I'm organizing," Harry called from the bedroom.

"God help us all." Susan laughed as she walked into the chaos. "Harry, you'll be up all night."

"I couldn't stand it anymore. It takes me five minutes to find a pair of socks that match and"—she pointed to a few pathetic silken remnants—"my underwear is shot."

"You haven't bought new lingerie since your mother died."

Harry plopped on the bed. "As long as Mom bought the stuff, I didn't have to—anyway, I can't stand traipsing into Victoria's Secret. There's something faintly pornographic about it."

"Oh, bull, you just can't stand seeing bra sizes bigger than your own.

"I'm not so bad."

Susan smiled. "I didn't say you were, I only hinted that you are a touch competitive."

"I am not. I most certainly am not. If I were competitive, I'd be applying my art history degree somewhere instead of being the postmistress of Crozet."

"I seem to remember one vicious field hockey game our senior year.

"That doesn't count."

"You didn't like BoomBoom Craycroft even then," Susan recalled.

"Speaking of jugs ... I hear she seduced my ex-husband wearing a large selection of lingerie."

"Who told you that?"

"She did, the idiot."

Susan sat down on the opposite side of the bed because she was laughing too hard to stand up.

"She did! Can you believe it? Told me all about the black lace teddy she wore when he came out to the farm on a call," Harry added.

Pharamond Haristeen, "Fair," happened to be one of the best equine vets in the state.

"Mom, Pewter's hungry," Brooks called from the kitchen.

Tucker, having raced back, pushed open the screen door and hurried over to Susan only to sit on her foot. As it was Susan who bred her and gave her to Harry, she felt quite close to the auburn-haired woman.

"Pewter's always hungry, Brooks; don't fall for her starving kitty routine."

"Shut up," Pewter called back, then purred and rubbed against Brooks's leg.

"Mom, she's really hungry."

"Con artist." Walking back to the kitchen, Harry sternly addressed the cat, who was frantically purring. "If they gave Academy Awards to cats, you would surely win 'best actress.'

"I am so-o-o-o hungry," the cat warbled.

"If I could use the electric can opener, I'd feed you just to shut you up." Mrs. Murphy sat up and swept her whiskers forward, then back.

Harry, arriving at the same conclusion, grabbed a can of Mariner's Delight. "What's up?"

"We're having a family crisis." Brooks giggled.

"No, we're not."

"Mom." Brooks contradicted her mother by the tone of her voice.

"I'm all ears." Harry ladled out the fishy-smelling food. Pewter, blissfully happy, stuck her face in it. Mrs. Murphy approached her food with more finesse. She liked to pat the edge of her dish with her paw, sniff, then take a morsel in her teeth, carefully chewing it. She believed this was an aid to digestion, also keeping her weight down. Pewter gobbled everything. Calorie Kitty.

"I hate my teachers this year, especially Home Room." Brooks dropped on a brightly painted kitchen chair.

"Miss Tucker, you were not invited to sit down." Susan put her hands on her hips.

"Mom, it's Harry. I mean, it's not like I'm at Big Mim's or anything." She referred to Mim Sanburne, a fierce enforcer of etiquette.

"Practice makes perfect."

"Please have a seat." Harry invited her to the seat she already occupied.

"Thank you," Brooks replied.

"Just see that you don't forget your manners."

"Fat chance." Brooks laughed at her mother.

They strongly resembled each other, and despite their spats, a deep love existed between mother and daughter.

Danny, Susan's older child, was also the recipient of oceans of maternal affection.

Brooks abruptly got up and dashed outside.

"Where are you going?"

"Back in a flash."

Susan sat down. "I ask myself daily, sometimes hourly, whatever made me think I could be a mother."

"Oh, Susan." Harry waved her hand. "Stop trolling for compliments."

"I'm not."

"You know you're a good mother."

Brooks reappeared, Saturday newspaper in hand, and placed it on the table. "Sorry."

"Oh, thanks. I didn't get out to the mailbox this morning." She took the rubber band off the folded newspaper. The small white envelope underneath the rubber band contained the monthly bill. "I don't know why I pay for this damned paper. Half the time it isn't delivered.

"Well, they delivered it today."

"Hallelujah. Well—?" Harry shrugged. "What's the family crisis?"

"We're not having a family crisis," Susan replied calmly. "Brooks doesn't like her teachers, so we're discussing—"

"I hate my teachers, and Mom is getting bent out of shape. Because she graduated from Crozet High, she wants me to graduate from Crozet High. Danny graduates this year. That ought to be enough. Batting five hundred, Mom," Brooks interrupted.

Harry's eyes widened. "You can't drop out, Brooks."

"I don't want to drop out. I want to go back to St. Elizabeth's."

"That damned snob school costs an arm and a leg." Susan looked up at Pewter, who was eating very loudly. "That cat sounds like an old man smacking his gums."

Pewter, insulted, whirled around to face Susan, but she only proved the statement as little food bits dangled from her whiskers.

Susan smiled. "Like an old man who can't clean his mustache."

"Ha!" Mrs. Murphy laughed loudly.

"She really does look like that," Tucker agreed as she sat on the floor under the counter where Pewter chowed down. In case the cat dropped any food, Tucker would vacuum it up.

"Hey, I've got some cookies," Harry said.

"Thank you, no. We ate a big breakfast."

"What about coffee, tea?"

"No." Susan smiled.

"You don't think you can get along with your teachers or overlook them?" Harry switched back to the subject at hand.

"I hate Mrs. Berryhill."

"She's not so bad." Harry defended a middle-aged lady widowed a few years back.

"Gives me heaves." Brooks pretended to gag.

"If it's that bad, you aren't going to learn anything."

"See, Mom, see—I told you."

"I think it's important not to bail out before you've given it a month or two."

"By that time I'll have failed French!" She knew her mother especially wanted her to learn French.

"Don't be so dramatic."

"Go on, be dramatic." Harry poked at Susan's arm while encouraging Brooks.

"We need a little drama around here." Tucker agreed with Harry.

"I won't learn a thing. I'll be learning-deprived. I'll shrink into oblivion—''

Harry interrupted, "Say, that's good, Brooks. You must be reading good novels or studying vocabulary boosters."

Brooks smiled shyly, then continued. "I will be disadvantaged for life, and then I'll never get into Smith."

"That's a low blow," said Susan, who had graduated from Smith with Harry.

"Then you'll marry a gas station attendant and—"

"Harry, don't egg her on. She doesn't have to pay the bills."

"What does Ned say?" Harry inquired of Susan's husband, a lawyer and a likable man.

"He's worried about the money, too, but he's determined that she get a good foundation."

"St. Elizabeth's is a fine school even if I do think they're a bunch of snobs," Harry said forthrightly. "Roscoe Fletcher is doing a good job. At least everyone says he is. I can't say that I know a lot about education, but remember last year's graduating class put two kids in Yale, one in Princeton, one in Harvard." She paused. "I think everyone got into great schools. Can't argue with that."

"If I'm going to spend that much money, then I should send her to St. Catherine's in Richmond," Susan replied to Harry.

"Mom, I don't want to go away from home. I just want to get out of Crozet High. I'll be away soon enough when I go to college. Smith, Mom, Smith," she reminded her mother.

"Well—" Susan considered this.

"Call Roscoe Fletcher," Harry suggested. "Brooks has only been in school for two weeks. See if he'll let her transfer now or if she'll have to wait for the second semester."

Susan stood up to make herself a cup of tea.

"I asked you if you wanted tea," Harry said.

"I changed my mind. You want some?"

"Yeah, sure." Harry sat back down.

"I already called Roscoe. That officious bombshell of a secretary of his, April Shively, took forever to put me through. It's a contradiction in terms, bombshell and secretary." She thought a moment, then continued. "Of course, he said wondrous things about St. Elizabeth's, which one would expect. What headmaster won't take your money?"

"He has raised a lot of money, at least, that's what Mim says." Harry paused, "Mim graduated from Madeira, you know. You'd think she would have gone to St. Elizabeth's. Little Mim didn't graduate from St. Elizabeth's either."

"Mim is a law unto herself," Susan replied.

"Miranda will know why Big Mim didn't go there."

"If she chooses to tell. What a secret keeper that one is." Susan loved Miranda Hogendobber, being fully acquainted with her quirks. Miranda's secrets usually involved age or the petty politics of her various civic and church organizations.

"The big question: Can Brooks get in?"

"Of course she can get in," Susan replied in a loud voice. "She's carrying a three point eight average. And her record was great when she was there before, in the lower school."

"What about Danny? Will he be jealous?"

"No," Brooks answered. "I asked him."

Harry took her cup of tea as Susan sat back down.

"I just bought that Audi Quattro," Susan moaned. "How can I pay for all of this?"

"I can work after school," Brooks volunteered.

"I want those grades to stay up, up, up. By the time you get into college, you might have to win a scholarship. Two kids in college at the same time—when I got pregnant, why didn't I space them four years apart instead of two?" She wailed in mock horror.

"Because this way they're friends, and this way Danny can drive Brooks everywhere."

"And that's another thing." Susan smacked her hand on the table. "They'll be going to different after-school activities. He won't be driving her anywhere."

"Mom, half my friends go to St. Elizabeth's. I'll cop rides."

"Brooks, I am not enamored of the St. Elizabeth's crowd. They're too—superficial, and I hear there's a lot of drugs at the school."

"Get real. There's a lot of drugs at Crozet High. If I wanted to take drugs, I could get them no matter where I went to school." She frowned.

"That's a hell of a note," Harry exclaimed.

"It's true, I'm afraid." Susan sighed. "Harry, the world looks very different when you have children."

"I can see that," Harry agreed. "Brooks, just who are your friends at St. Elizabeth's?"

"Karen Jensen. There's other kids I know, but Karen's my best friend there."

"She seems like a nice kid," Harry said.

"She is. Though she's also older than Brooks." Susan was frustrated. "But the rest of them are balls-to-the-wall consumers. I'm telling you, Harry, the values there are so superficial and—"

Harry interrupted her. "But Brooks is not superficial, and St. E isn't going to make her that way. It didn't before and it won't this time. She's her own person, Susan."

Susan dipped a teaspoon in her tea, slowly stirring in clover honey. She hated refined sugar. "Darling, go visit Harry's horses. I need a private word with my best bud."

"Sure, Mom." Brooks reluctantly left the kitchen, Tucker at her heels.

Putting the teaspoon on the saucer, Susan leaned forward. "It's so competitive at that school, some kids can't make it. Remember last year when Courtney Frere broke down?"

Trying to recall the incident, Harry dredged up vague details. "Bad college-board scores—was that it?"

"She was so afraid she'd disappoint her parents and not get into a good school that she took an overdose of sleeping pills.

"Now I remember." Harry pressed her lips together. "That can happen anywhere. She's a high-strung girl. She got into, uh, Tulane, wasn't it?"

"Yes." Susan nodded her head. "But it isn't just competitive between the students, it's competitive between the faculty and the administration. Sandy Brashiers is still fuming that he wasn't made upper-school principal."

"Politics exists in every profession. Even mine," Harry calmly stated. "You worry too much, Susan."

"You don't know what it's like being a mother!" Susan flared up.

"Then why ask my opinion?" Harry shot back.

"Because—" Susan snapped her teaspoon on the table.

"Hey!" Tucker barked.

"Hush, Tucker," Harry told her.

"What's the worst that can happen?" Harry grabbed the spoon out of Susan's hand. "If she hates it, you take her out of there. If she falls in with the wrong crowd, yank her out."

"This little detour could destroy her grade-point average."

"Well, she'll either go to a lesser college than our alma mater or she can go to a junior college for a year or two to pull her grades back up. Susan, it isn't the end of the world if Brooks doesn't do as well as you wish—but it's a hard lesson."

"I don't think Mrs. Berryhill is that bad."

"We aren't fifteen. Berryhill's not exactly a barrel of laughs even for us."

Susan breathed deeply. "The contacts she makes at St. Elizabeth's could prove valuable later, I suppose."

"She's a good girl. She'll bloom where planted."

"You're right." Susan exhaled, then reached over for the folded paper. "Speaking of the paper, let's see what fresh hell the world is in today."

She unfolded the first section of the paper, the sound of which inflamed Mrs. Murphy, who jumped over from the counter to sit on the sports section, the living section, and the classifieds.

"Murphy, move a minute." Harry tried to pull the living section out from under the cat.

"I enjoy sitting on the newspaper. Best of all, I love the tissue paper in present boxes, but this will do."

Harry gently lifted up Mrs. Murphy's rear end and pulled out a section of paper as the tail swished displeasure. "Thank you."

"I beg your pardon," Mrs. Murphy grumbled as Harry let her rear end down.

"Another fight in Congress over the federal budget," Susan read out loud.

"What a rook." Harry shrugged. "Nobody's going to do anything anyway."

"Isn't that the truth? What's in your section?"

"Car wreck on Twenty-ninth and Hydralic . Officer Crystal Limerick was on the scene."

"Anything in there about Coop?" She mentioned their mutual friend who was now a deputy for the Albemarle County Sheriff's Department.

"No." Harry flipped pages, disappointed that she didn't find what she was looking for.

"You've got the obit section, let's see who went to their reward."

"You're getting as bad as Mom."

"Your mother was a wonderful woman, and it's one's civic duty to read the obituary column. After all, we must be ready to assist in case—''

She didn't finish her sentence because Harry nipped open the section of the paper to the obituary page suddenly shouting, "Holy shit!"

3

"I just spoke to him yesterday." Susan gasped in shock as she read over Harry's shoulder the name Roscoe Harvey Fletcher, forty-five, who died unexpectedly September 22. She'd jumped up to see for herself.

"The paper certainly got it in the obit section quickly." Harry couldn't believe it either.

"Obit section has the latest closing." Susan again read the information to be sure she wasn't hallucinating. "Doesn't say how he died. Oh, that's not good. When they don't say it means suicide or—"

"AIDS."

"They never tell you in this paper how people die. I think it's important." Susan snapped the back of the paper.

" 'The family requests donations be made to the Roscoe Harvey Fletcher Memorial Fund for scholarships to St. Elizabeth's. . . .' What the hell happened?" Harry shot up and grabbed the phone.

She dialed Miranda's number. Busy. She then dialed Dr. Larry Johnson. He knew everything about everybody. Busy. She dialed the Reverend Herbert Jones.

"Rev," she said as he picked up the phone, "it's Mary Minor."

"I know your voice."

"How did Roscoe die?"

"I don't know." His voice lowered. "I was on my way over there to see what I could do. Nobody knows anything. I've spoken to Mini and Miranda. I even called Sheriff Shaw to see if there had been a late-night accident. Everyone is in the dark, and there's no funeral information. Naomi hasn't had time to select a funeral home. She's probably in shock."

"She'll use Hill and Wood."

"Yes, I would think so, but, well—" His voice trailed off a moment, then he turned up the volume. "He wasn't sick. I reached Larry. Clean bill of health, so this has to be an accident of some kind. Let me get over there to help. I'll talk to you later."

"Sorry," Harry apologized for slowing him down.

"No, no, I'm glad you called."

"Nobody called me."

"Miranda did. If you had an answering machine you'd have known early on. She called at seven a.m., the minute she saw the paper."

"I was in the barn."

"Called there, too."

"Maybe I was out on the manure spreader. Well, it doesn't matter. There's work to be done. I'll meet you over at the Fletchers'. I've got Susan and Brooks with me. We can help do whatever needs to be done."

"That would be greatly appreciated. See you there." He breathed in sharply. "I don't know what we're going to find."

As Harry hung up the phone, Susan stood up expectantly. "Well?"

"Let's shoot over to the Fletchers'. Herbie's on his way."

"Know anything?" They'd been friends for so long they could speak in shorthand to each other, and many times they didn't need to speak at all.

"No."

"Let's move 'em out." Susan made the roundup sign.

Tucker, assisted by Brooks, sneaked into the roundup. She lay on the floor of the Audi until halfway to Crozet. Mrs. Murphy and Pewter, both livid at being left behind, stared crossly as the car pulled out of the driveway.

Once at the Fletchers' the friends endured another shock. Fifty to sixty cars lined the street in the Ednam subdivision. Deputy Cynthia Cooper directed traffic. This wasn't her job, but the department was shorthanded over the weekend.

"Coop?" Harry waved at her.

"Craziest thing I've ever heard of," the nice-looking officer said.

"What do you mean?" Susan asked.

"He's not dead."

"WHAT?" all three humans said in unison.

Tucker, meanwhile, wasted no time. She walked in the front door, left open because of the incredible number of friends, acquaintances, and St. Elizabeth's students who were paying condolence calls. Tucker, low to the ground, threaded her way through the humans to the kitchen.

Brooks quickly found her friends, Karen Jensen and Jody Miller. They didn't know anything either.

As Harry and Susan entered the living room, Roscoe held up a glass of champagne, calling to the assembled, "The reports of my death are greatly exaggerated!" He sipped. "Bierce."

"Twain," Sandy Brashiers corrected. He was head of the English department and a rival for Roscoe's power.

"Ambrose Bierce." Roscoe smiled but his teeth were clenched.

"It doesn't matter, Roscoe, you're alive." Naomi, a handsome woman in her late thirties, toasted her husband.

April Shively, adoringly staring at her florid boss, clinked her glass with that of Ed Sugarman, the chemistry teacher.

"Hear, hear," said the group, which contained most of Harry's best friends, as well as a few enemies.

Blair Bainbridge, not an enemy but a potential suitor, stood next to Marilyn, or Little Mini, the well-groomed daughter of Big Mini Sanburne.

"When did you get home?" Harry managed to ask Blair after expressing to Roscoe her thanks for his deliverance.

"Last night."

"Hi, Marilyn." She greeted Little Mim by her real name.

"Good to see you." It wasn't. Marilyn was afraid Blair liked Harry more than herself.

Fair Haristeen, towering above the other men, strode over to his ex-wife, with whom he was still in love. "Isn't this the damnedest thing you've ever seen?" He reached into the big bowl of hard candies sitting on an end table. Roscoe always had candy around.

"Pretty weird." She kissed him on the cheek and made note that Morris "Maury" McKinchie, Roscoe Fletcher's best friend, was absent.

Meanwhile Tucker sat in the kitchen with Winston, the family English bulldog, a wise and kind animal. They had been exchanging pleasantries before Tucker got to the point.

"What's going on, Winston?"

"I don't know," came the grave reply.

"Has he gone to doctors in Richmond or New York? Because Harry heard from Herb Jones that he was healthy."

"Nothing wrong with Roscoe except too many women in his life."

The corgi cocked her head. "Ah, well," she said, "a prank, I guess, this obit thing."

"Roscoe now knows how many people care about him. If people could attend their funerals, they'd be gratified, I should think," Winston said.

"Never thought of that."

"Umm." Winston waddled over to the backdoor, overlooking the sunken garden upon which Naomi lavished much attention.

"Winston, what's worrying you?"

The massive head turned to reveal those fearsome teeth. "What if this is a warning?"

"Who'd do a thing like that?"

"Tucker, Roscoe can't keep it in his pants. I've lost count of his affairs, and Naomi has reached the boiling point. She always catches him. After many lies, he does finally confess. He promises never to do it again. Three months, six months later—he's off and running."

"Who?"

"The woman?" The wrinkled brow furrowed more deeply. "April, maybe, except she's so obvious even the humans get it. Let's see, a young woman from New York , I forget her name. Oh, he's made a pass at BoomBoom, but I think she's otherwise engaged. You know, I lose count."

"Bet Naomi doesn't," the little corgi sagely replied.

4

That evening a heavy fog crept down Yellow Mountain . Harry, in the stable, walked outside to watch a lone wisp float over the creek. The wisp was followed by fingers spreading over the meadow until the farm was enveloped in gray.

She shivered; the temperature was dropping.

"Put on your down vest, you'll catch your death," Mrs. Murphy advised.

"What are you talking about, Miss Puss?" Harry smiled at her chatty cat.

"You, I'm talking about you. You need a keeper." The tiger sighed, know ing that the last person Harry would take care of would be herself.

Tucker lifted her head. Moisture carried good scent. "That bobcat's near."

"Let's get into the barn then." The cat feared her larger cousin.

As the little family plodded into the barn, the horses nickered. Darkness came as swiftly as the fog. Harry pulled her red down vest off a tack hook. She flipped on the light switch. Having stayed overlong at Roscoe Fletcher's to celebrate, she was now behind on her farm chores.

Tomahawk, the oldest horse in the barn, loved the advent of fall. A true foxhunting fellow, he couldn't wait for the season to begin. Gin Fizz and Pop tart, the younger equines, perked their ears.

"That old bobcat is prowling around." Mrs. Murphy leapt onto the Dutch door, the top held open by a nickel-plated hook.

Tomahawk gazed at her with his huge brown eyes. "Mean, that one."

Two bright beady black eyes appeared at the edge of the hayloft. "What's this I hear about a bobcat?"

"Simon, I thought you'd still be asleep," Tucker barked.

The opossum moved closer to the edge, revealing his entire light gray face. "You-all make enough noise to wake the dead. Any minute now and Flatface up there will swoop down and bitterly chastise us."

Simon referred to the large owl who nested in the cupola. The owl disliked the domesticated animals, especially Mrs. Murphy. There was also a black snake who hibernated in the hayloft, but she was antisocial, even in summertime. A cornucopia of mice kept the predators fat and happy.

The hayloft covered one-third of the barn, which gave the space a lighter, airier feeling than if it had run the full length of the structure. Harry, using salvaged lumber, had built a hay shed thirty yards from the barn. She had painted it dark green with white trim; that was her summer project. Each summer she tried to improve the farm. She loved building, but after nailing on shingles in the scorching sun, she had decided she'd think long and hard before doing that again.

Mrs. Murphy climbed the ladder to the hayloft. "Fog is thick as pea soup."

"Doesn't matter. I can smell her well enough." Simon referred to the dreaded bobcat.

"Maybe so, but she can run faster than anyone here except for the horses."

"I'm hungry."

"I'll get Mom to put crunchies in my bowl. You can have that."

Simon brightened. "Goody."

Mrs. Murphy walked the top beam of the stalls, greeting each horse as she passed over its head. Then she jumped down on the tall wooden medicine chest standing next to the tack-room door. From there it was an easy drop to the floor.

Harry, having fed the horses, knelt on her hands and knees in the feed room. Little holes in the wooden walls testified to the industry of the mice. She lined her feed bins in tin, which baffled them, but they gobbled every crumb left on the floor. They also ate holes in her barn jacket, which enraged her.

"Mother, you aren't going to catch one."

"Murphy, do something!"

The cat sat next to Harry and patted the hole in the wall. "They've got a system like the New York subway."

"You're certainly talkative," Harry commented.

"And you don't understand a word I'm saying." The cat smiled. "I'm hungry."

"Jeez, Murphy, lower the volume."

"Food, glorious food—" She sang the song from Oliver.

Tucker, reposing in the tack room, hollered, "You sing about as well as I do."

"Thanks. I could have lived my whole life without knowing that."

Her entreaties worked. Harry shook triangular crunchies out of the bag, putting the bowl on top of the medicine cabinet so Tucker wouldn't steal the food.

"Thanks," Simon called down, showing his appreciation.

"Anytime." Murphy nibbled a few mouthfuls to satisfy Harry.

"I suppose Pewter will be hungry." Harry checked her watch. "She's not an outdoor girl." She laughed.

"If she gets any fatter, you'll need to buy a red wagon so you can haul her gut around," Mrs. Murphy commented.

Harry sat on her old tack trunk. She glanced around. While there were always chores to be done, the regular maintenance ones were finished: feed, water, muck stalls, clean tack, sweep out the barn.

As soon as the horses finished eating, she would turn them out. With the first frost, usually around mid-October, she would flip their schedule. They'd be outside during the day and in their stalls at night. In the heat of summer they stayed inside the barn during the day; it was well ventilated from the breeze always blowing down the mountain. Kept the flies down, too.

She got up, her knees cracking, and walked to the open barn door. "You know, we could have an early frost." She returned to Fizz's stall. "I wonder if we should get on the new schedule now."

"Go ahead. If there are a couple of hot days, we'll come inside during the day. We're flexible."

"Let's stay inside." Poptart ground his sweet feed.

"Who wants to argue with the bobcat? I don't," Tomahawk said sensibly.

Harry cupped her chin with her hand. "You know, let's go to our fall schedule."

Hooray!" the horses called out.

"Nighty night," she called back, turning off the lights.

Although the distance between the stable and the house couldn't have been more than one hundred yards, the heavy fog and mist soaked the three friends by the time they reached the backdoor.

The cat and dog shook themselves in the porch area. Harry would pitch a fit if they did it in the kitchen. Even Harry shook herself. Once inside she raced to put on the kettle for tea. She was chilled.

Pewter, lounging on the sofa, head on a colorful pillow, purred, "I'm glad I stayed inside."

"You're always glad you stayed inside," Tucker answered.

Harry puttered around. She drank some tea, then walked back into her bedroom. "Oh, no." In the turmoil of the day, she'd rushed out with Susan and Brooks, forgetting the mess she had left behind. The contents of her bureau drawers lay all over her bed. "I will not be conquered by underpants."

She gulped her tea, ruthlessly tossing out anything with holes in it or where the fabric was worn thin. That meant she had only enough socks left for half a drawer, one satin bra, and three pairs of underpants.

"Mom, you need to shop," said Mrs. Murphy, who adored shopping although she rarely got the opportunity for it.

Harry beheld the pile of old clothes. "Use it up, wear it out, make it do, or do without."

"You can't wear these things. They're tired," Pewter, now in the middle of the pile, told her. "I'm tired, too."

"You didn't do anything." Murphy laughed.

Harry stomped out to the pantry, returning armed with a big scissors.

"What's she going to do?" Pewter wondered aloud.

"Make rags. Mother can't stand to throw anything out if it can be used for something. She'll cut everything into squares or rectangles and then divide the pile between the house and the barn."

"The bras, too?"

"No, I think those are truly dead," Mrs. Murphy replied.

"Harry is a frugal soul," Pewter commented. She herself was profligate.

"She has to be." Tucker cleaned her hind paws, not easy for a corgi. "That post office job pays for food and gas and that's all. Luckily, she inherited the farm when her parents died. It's paid for, but she doesn't have much else. A little savings and a few stocks her father left her, but he wasn't a financial wizard either. Her one extravagance, if you can call it that, is the horses. 'Course, they help in 'mowing' the fields."

"Humans are funny, aren't they?" Pewter said thoughtfully. "Big Mim wallows in possessions, and Harry has so little. Why doesn't Mim give things to Harry?"

"You forget, she gave her Poptart. She and Fair went halfsies on it."

"I did forget. Still, you know what I mean."

Tucker shrugged. "They're funny about things. Things mean a lot to them. Like bones to us, I guess."

"I couldn't care less about bones. Catnip is another matter," the tiger said gleefully, wishing for a catnip treat.

"Ever see that T-shirt? You know, the one that says 'He who dies with the most toys wins'?" Pewter, snuggling in the new rag pile, asked.

"Yeah. Samson Coles used to wear it—before he was disgraced by dipping into escrow funds." Tucker giggled.

"Stupid T-shirt," Mrs. Murphy said briskly. "When you're dead, you're dead. You can't win anything."

"That reminds me. The bobcat's out there tonight," Tucker told Pewter.

"I'm not going outside."

"We know that." Mrs. Murphy swished her tail. "Wonder if the Fletchers will find out who put that phony obituary in the paper? If they don't, Mother will. You know how nosy she gets."

The phone rang. Harry put down her scissors to pick it up. "Hi."

Blair Bainbridge's deep voice had a soothing quality. "Sorry I didn't call on you the minute I got home, but I was dog tired. I happened to be down at the cafe when Marilyn ran in to tell me about Roscoe dying. We drove over to his house, and I—"

"Blair, it's okay. She's crazy about you, as I'm sure you know."

"Oh, well, she's lonesome." Since he was one of the highest paid male models in the country, he knew perfectly well that women needed smelling salts in his presence. All but Harry. Therefore she fascinated him.

"Susan and I are riding tomorrow after church if you want to come along."

"Thanks. What time?"

"Eleven."

He cheerfully said, "I'll see you at eleven, and, Harry, I can tack my own horse. Who do you want me to ride?"

"Tomahawk."

"Great. See you then. 'Bye."

" 'Bye ."

The animals said nothing. They knew she was talking to Blair, and they were divided in their opinions. Tucker wanted Harry to get back with Fair. She knew it wasn't unusual for humans to remarry after divorcing. Pewter thought Blair was the better deal because he was rich and Harry needed help in that department. Mrs. Murphy, while having affection for both men, always said that Mr. Right hadn't appeared. Be patient.

The phone rang again.

"Coop. How are you?"

"Tired. Hey, don't want to bug you, but did you have any idea who might have put that false obit in the papers?"

"No."

"Roscoe says he hasn't a clue. Naomi doesn't think it's quite as funny as he does. Herb doesn't have any ideas. April Shively thinks it was Karen Jensen since she's such a cutup. BoomBoom says Maury McKinchie did it, and he'll use our reactions as the basis for a movie. I even called the school chaplain, Father Michael. He was noncommittal."

"What do you mean?"

Father Michael, the priest of the Church of the Good Shepherd between Crozet and Charlottesville, had close ties to the private school. Although nondenominational for a number of years, St. Elizabeth's each year invited a local clergyman to be the chaplain of the school. This exposed the students to different religious approaches. This year it was the Catholics' turn. Apart from a few gripes from extremists, the rotating system worked well.

"He shut up fast," Coop replied.

"That's weird."

"I think so, too."

"What does Rick think?" Harry referred to Sheriff Shaw by his first name.

"He sees the humor in this, but he wants to find out who did it. If kids were behind this, they need to learn that you can't jerk people around like that."

"If I hear of anything, I'll buzz."

"Thanks."

"Don't work too hard, Coop."

"Look who's talking. See you soon. 'Bye."

Harry hung up the phone and picked up the small throw-out pile. Then she carefully divided the newly cut rags, placing half by the kitchen door. That way she would remember to take them to the barn in the morning. She noticed it was ten at night.

"Where does the time go?"

She hopped in the shower and then crawled into bed.

Mrs. Murphy, Pewter, and Tucker were already on the bed.

"What do you guys think about Roscoe's fake obituary?" she asked her animal friends.

Like many people who love animals, she talked to them, doing her best to understand. They understood her, of course.

"Joke." Pewter stuck out one claw, which she hooked into the quilt.

"Ditto." Tucker agreed. "Although Winston said Naomi is furious with him. Mad enough to kill."

"Humans are boring—" Pewter rested her head on an outstretched arm.

"See, you think like I do." Harry wiggled under the blankets. "Just some dumb thing. For all I know, Roscoe did it himself. He's not above it."

"Winston said Roscoe's running the women. Can't leave them alone." Tucker was back on her conversation with the bulldog.

"Maybe this isn't a joke." Mrs. Murphy, who had strong opinions about monogamy, curled on Harry's pillow next to her head.

"Oh, Murphy, it will all blow over." Tucker wanted to go to sleep.

5

The woody aroma of expensive tobacco curled up from Sandy Brashiers's pipe. The leather patches on his tweed jacket were worn to a perfect degree. His silk rep tie, stripes running in the English direction, left to right, was from Oxford University Motor Car Club. He had studied at Oxford after graduating from Harvard. A cashmere V neck, the navy underscoring the navy stripe in the tie, completed his English-professor look.

However, the Fates or Sandy himself had not been kind. Not only was he not attached to a university, he was teaching high-school English, even if it was at a good prep school. This was not the future his own professors or he himself had envisioned when he was a star student.

He never fell from grace because he never reached high enough to tumble. Cowardice and alcohol already marred his good looks at forty-two. As for the cowardice, no one but Sandy seemed to know

why he hung back when he was capable of much more. Then again, perhaps even he didn't know.

He did know he was being publicly humiliated by headmaster Roscoe Fletcher. When the ancient Peter Abbott retired as principal of the upper school at the end of last year's term, Sandy should have automatically been selected to succeed Abbott. Roscoe dithered, then dallied, finally naming Sandy principal pro tern. He declared a genuine search should take place, much as he wished to promote from within.

This split the board of directors and enraged the faculty, most of whom believed the post should go to Sandy. If Roscoe was going to form a search committee each time a position opened, could any faculty member march assuredly into administration?

Fortunately for Brooks Tucker, she knew nothing of the prep school's politics. She was entranced as Mr. Brashiers discussed the moral turpitude of Lady Macbeth in the highly popular Shakespeare elective class.

"What would have happened if Lady Macbeth could have acted directly, if she didn't have to channel her ambition through her husband?"

Roger Davis raised his hand. "She would have challenged the king right in his face."

"No way," pretty Jody Miller blurted before she raised her hand.

"Would you like to expand on that theme after I call on you?" Sandy wryly nodded to the model-tall girl.

"Sorry, Mr. Brashiers." She twirled her pencil, a nervous habit. "Lady Macbeth was devious. It would be out of character to challenge the king openly. I don't think her position in society would change that part of her character. She'd be sneaky even if she were a man."

Brooks, eyebrows knit together, wondered if that was true. She wanted to participate, but she was shy in her new surroundings even though she knew many of her classmates from social activities outside of school.

Sean Hallahan, the star halfback on the football team, was called on and said in his deep voice, "She's devious, Jody, because she has to hide her ambition."

This pleased Sandy Brashiers, although it did not please Jody Miller, who was angry at Sean. Ten years ago the boys rarely understood the pressures on women's lives, but enough progress had been made that his male students could read a text bearing those pressures in mind.

Karen Jensen, blond and green-eyed, the most popular girl in the junior class, chirped, "Maybe she was having a bad hair day."

Everyone laughed.

After class Brooks, Karen, and Jody walked to the cafeteria—or the Ptomaine Pit, as it was known. Roger Davis, tall and not yet filled out, trailed behind. He wanted to talk to Brooks. Still awkward, he racked his brain about how to open a conversation.

He who hesitates is lost. Sean scooted by him, skidding next to the girls, secure in his welcome.

"Think the president's wife is Lady Macbeth?"

The three girls kept walking while Jody sarcastically said, "Sean, how long did it take you to think of that?"

"You inspire me, Jody." He cocked his head, full of himself.

Roger watched this from behind them. He swallowed hard, took two big strides and caught up.

"Hey, bean," Sean offhandedly greeted him, not at all happy that he might have to share the attention of three pretty girls.

If Roger had been a smart-ass kid, he would have called Sean a bonehead or something. Sean was bright enough, but his attitude infuriated the other boys. Roger was too nice a guy to put someone else down, though. Instead he smiled and forgot what he was going to say to Brooks.

Luckily, she initiated the conversation. "Are you still working at the car wash?"

"Yes."

"Do they need help? I mean, I'd like to get a job and—" Her voice faced away.

"Jimbo always needs help. I'll ask him," Roger said firmly, now filled with a mission: to help Brooks.

Jimbo C. Anson, as wide as he was tall, owned the car wash, the local heating-fuel company, and a small asphalt plant that he had bought when the owner, Kelly Craycroft, died unexpectedly. Living proof of the capitalist vision of life, Jimbo was also a soft touch. Brooks would be certain to get that after-school job.

Brooks was surprised when she walked through the backdoor of her house that afternoon to find her mother on the phone with Roger. He'd already gotten her the job. She needed to decide whether to work after school, weekends, or both.

After Brooks profusely thanked Roger, she said she'd call him back since she needed to talk to her mother.

"I guess you do." Susan stared at her after Brooks hung up the phone.

"Mom, St. Elizabeth's is expensive. I want to make money."

"Honey, we aren't on food stamps. At least, not yet." Susan sighed, loath to admit that the few fights she ever had with Ned were over money.

"If I can pay for my clothes and stuff, that will help some."

Susan stared into those soft hazel eyes, just like Ned's. Happy as she was to hear of Brooks's willingness to be responsible, she was oddly saddened or perhaps nostalgic: her babies were growing up fast. Somehow life went by in a blur. Wasn't it just yesterday she was holding this beautiful young woman in her arms, wondering at her tiny fingers and toes?

Susan cleared her throat. "I'm proud of you." She paused. "Let's go take a look at the car wash before you make a decision."

"Great." Brooks smiled, revealing the wonders of orthodontic work.

"Yeehaw!" came a holler from outside the backdoor.

"I'm here, too," Tucker barked.

Neither Mrs. Murphy nor Pewter was going to brazenly advertise her presence.

The Tuckers' own corgi, Tee Tucker's brother, Owen Tudor, raced to the backdoor as it swung open. Their mother had died of old age that spring. It was now a one-corgi household.

"Tucker." Owen kissed his sister. He would have kissed the two cats except they deftly sidestepped his advances.

"I didn't hear your truck," Susan said.

"Dead. This time it's the carburetor." Harry sighed. "One of these years I will buy a new truck."

"And the cows will fly," Pewter added sardonically.

"Mom might win the lottery." Tucker, ever the optimist, pricked up her ears.

"Need a ride home?" Susan offered.

"I'll walk. Good for me and good for the critters."

"It's not good for me," Pewter objected instantly. "My paws are too delicate."

"You're too fat," Mrs. Murphy said bluntly.

"I have big bones."

"Pewter—" Tucker started to say something but was interrupted by Susan, who reached down to pet her.

"Why don't you all hop in the car, and we'll go to the car wash? Brooks took a job there, but I want to check it out. If you go with me, I'll feel better."

"Sure."

Everyone piled into the Audi. Mrs. Murphy enjoyed riding in cars. Pewter endured it. The two dogs loved every minute of it, but they were so low to the ground the only way they could see out the window was to sit on human laps, which were never in short supply.

They waved to Big Mim in her Bentley Turbo R, heading back toward Crozet.

Mrs. Murphy, lying down in the back window, watched the opulent and powerful machine glide by. "She's still in her Bavarian phase."

"Huh?" Tucker asked.

"Caps with pheasant feathers, boiled wool jackets. For all I know she's wearing lederhosen, or one of those long skirts that weigh a sweet ton."

"You know, if I were German, I'd be embarrassed when Americans dress like that," Pewter noted sagely.

"If I were German, I'd be embarrassed if Germans dressed like that," Owen Tudor piped up, which made the animals laugh.

"You-all are being awfully noisy," Harry chided them.

"They're just talking," Brooks protested.

"If animals could talk, do you know what they'd say?" Susan then told them: "What's to eat? Where's the food? Can I sleep with it? Okay, can I sleep on it?"

"I resent that," Mrs. Murphy growled.

"Who cares?" Pewter airily dismissed the human's gibe.

"What else can they do but joke about their betters? Low self-esteem." Owen chuckled.

"Yeah, and whoever invented that term ought to be hung at sundown." Mrs. Murphy, not one given to psychologizing, put one paw on Harry's shoulder. "In fact, the idea that a person is fully formed in childhood is absurd. Only a human could come up with that one."

"They can't help it," Tucker said.

"Well, they could certainly shut up about it," Mrs. Murphy suggested strongly.

"BoomBoom Craycroft can sure sling that crap around." Tucker didn't really dislike the woman, but then again, she didn't really like her either.

"You haven't heard the latest!" Pewter eagerly sat up by Brooks in the backseat.

"What?" The other animals leaned toward the cat.

"Heard it at Market's."

"Well!" Mrs. Murphy imperiously prodded.

"As I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted—"

"I did not interrupt you." Tucker was testy.

Owen stepped in. "Shut up, Tucker, let her tell her story."

"Well, BoomBoom was buying little glass bottles and a mess of Q-Tips, I mean enough Q-Tips to clean all the ears in Albemarle County. So Market asks, naturally enough, what is she going to do with all this stuff. Poor guy, next thing you know she launches into an explanation about fragrance therapy. No kidding. How certain essences will create emotional states or certain smells will soothe human ailments. She must have blabbed on for forty-five minutes. I thought I would fall off the counter laughing at her."

"She's off her nut," Owen said.

"Market asked for an example." Pewter relished her tale. "She allowed as how she didn't have any essence with her but, for instance, if he felt a headache coming on, he should turn off the lights, sit in a silent room, and put a pot of water on the stove with a few drops of sage essence. It would be even better if he had a wood-burning stove. Then he could put the essence of sage in the little humidifier on top."

"Essence of bullshit," Mrs. Murphy replied sardonically.

"Will you-all be quiet? This is embarrassing. Susan will never let you in her car again," Harry complained.

"All right by me," Pewter replied saucily, which made the animals laugh again.

Brooks petted Pewter's round head. "They have their own language."

"You know, that's a frightening thought." Susan glanced at her daughter in the rearview mirror, surrounded as she was by animals. "My Owen and poor dear departed Champion Beatitude of Grace—"

"Just call her Shortstop. I hate it when Susan uses Mom's full title." Owen's eyes saddened.

"She was a champion. She won more corgi firsts than Pewter and Murphy have fleas," Tucker said.

Murphy swatted at Tucker's stump. "If you had a tail, I would chew it to bits."

"I saw you scratching."

"Tucker, that was not fleas."

"What was it then, your highness? Eczema? Psoriasis? Hives?"

"Shut up." Mrs. Murphy bopped her hard.

"That is enough!" Harry twisted around in the front passenger seat and missed them because the car reached the entrance to the brand-new car wash, and the stop threw her forward.

Roger dashed out of the small glass booth by the entrance to the car-wash corridor.

"Hi, Mrs. Tucker." He smiled broadly. "Hi, Brooks. Hi, Mrs. Haristeen . . . and everybody."

"Is Jimbo here?"

"Yes, ma'am."

A car pulled up behind them, and one behind that. Roscoe Fletcher squirmed impatiently in the second car.

"Roger, I want to zip through this extravaganza." Susan reached in her purse for the $5.25 for exterior wash only.

"Mom, let's shoot the works."

"That's eleven ninety-five."

"I'll contribute!" Harry fished a five out of her hip pocket and handed it to Roger.

"Harry, don't do that."

"Shut up, Suz, we're holding up traffic."

"Here's the one." Brooks forked over a one-dollar bill.

"Okay then, a little to the right, Mrs. Tucker. There, you've got it. Now put your car in neutral and turn off the radio, if you have it on. Oh, and roll up the windows."

She rolled up the driver's side window as Roger picked up a long scrub brush to scrub her headlights and front grille while Karen Jensen worked the rear bumper. She waved.

"Hey, I didn't know Karen worked here. Jody, too." She saw Jody putting on mascara as she sat behind the cash register.

"Brooks, don't you dare open that window," Susan commanded as she felt the belt hook under the left car wheel. They lurched forward.

"Hey, hey, I can't see!" Pewter screeched.

"Early blindness," Mrs. Murphy said maliciously as the yellow neon light flashed on, a bell rang, and a wall of water hit them with force.

Each cleansing function—waxing, underbody scrub and coat, rinsing—was preceded by a neon light accompanied by a bell and buzzer noise. By the time they hit the blowers, Pewter frothed at the mouth.

"Poor kitty." Brooks petted her.

"Pewter, it really is okay. We're not in any danger." Mrs. Murphy felt bad that she had tormented her.

The gray kitty shook.

"Last time I take her through a car wash." Harry, too, felt sorry for the cat's plight.

They finally emerged with a bump from the tunnel of cleanliness. Susan popped the car in gear and parked it in a lot on the other side of the car wash.

As she and Brooks got out to meet with Jimbo Anson, Harry consoled Pewter, who crawled into her lap. The other animals kept quiet.

A light rap on the window startled Harry, she was so intent on soothing the cat.

"Hi, Roscoe. You're right, it is like a Broadway show with all those lights."

"Funny, huh?" He offered her a tiny sweet, a miniature strawberry in a LaVossienne tin, French in origin. "Just discovered these. Les Fraises Bonbon Fruits pack a punch. Go on and try one."

"Okay." She reached in and plucked out a miniature strawberry. " Whooo."

"That'll pucker those lips. Naomi is trying to get me to stop eating so much sugar but I love sweetness." He noticed Brooks and Susan in the small office with Jimbo Anson. "Has she said anything about school?"

"She likes it."

"Good, good. You been to the vet?"

"No, we're out for a family drive."

"I can't remember the times I've seen you without Mrs. Murphy and Tucker. Now you've got Pewter, too. Market said she was eating him out of house and home."

"No-o-o," the cat wailed, shaken but insulted.

"Hey, Pewter, we'll get even. We can pee on his mail before Mom stuffs it in his box," Murphy sang out gaily. "Or we could shred it to bits, except the bills. Keep them intact."

St. Elizabeth's mail was delivered directly to the school. Personal mail was delivered to the Crozet post office.

"Yeah." Pewter perked up.

"Good to see you, the animals, too." He waved and Harry hit the button to close the window.

Then she called after him, "Where'd you get the strawberry drops?"

"Foods of All Nations," he replied.

She noticed Karen Jensen making a face after he passed by. Roger laughed. "Kids," Harry thought to herself. Then she remembered the time she stuck Elmer's Glue in the locks of her most unfavorite teacher's desk drawer.

After ten minutes Susan and Brooks returned to the car.

Brooks was excited. "I'll work after school on Monday 'cause there's no field hockey practice, and I'll work Saturdays. Cool!"

"Sounds good to me." Harry held up her hand for a high five as Brooks bounced into the backseat.

Susan turned on the ignition. "This way she won't miss practice. After all, part of school is sports."

"Can we go home now?" Pewter cried.

"Roscoe must live at this place," Susan said lightly as they pulled out of the parking lot.

6

Little squeaks behind the tack-room walls distracted Harry from dialing. She pressed the disconnect button to redial.

Mrs. Murphy sauntered into the tack room, then paused, her ears swept forward. "What balls!"

"Beg pardon?" Pewter opened one chartreuse eye.

"Mouse balls. Can you hear them?"

Pewter closed her eye. "Yes, but it's not worth fretting over."

Harry, finger still on the disconnect button, rested the telephone receiver on her shoulder. "What in the hell are they doing, Murphy?"

"Having a party," the tiger replied, frustrated that she couldn't get at her quarry.

Harry lifted the receiver off her shoulder, pointing at the cat with it. "I can't put down poison. If you catch a sick mouse, then you'll die. I can't put the hose into their holes because I'll flood the tack room. I really thought you could solve this problem."

"If one would pop out of there, I would." The cat, angry, stomped out.

"Temper, temper," Harry called out after her, which only made things worse.

She redialed the number as Murphy sat in the barn aisle, her back to Harry and her ears swept back.

"Hi, Janice. Harry Haristeen."

"How are you?" the bright voice on the other end of the line responded.

"Pretty good. And you?"

"Great."

"I hope you'll indulge me. I have a question. You're still editing the obituary page, aren't you?"

"Yep. Ninety-five cents a line. Five dollars for a photo." Her voice softened. "Has, uh—"

"No. I'm curious about how Roscoe Fletcher's obituary appeared in the paper."

"Oh, that." Janice's voice dropped. "Boy, did I get in trouble."

"Sorry."

"All I can tell you is, two days ago I received a call from Hallahan Funeral Home saying they had Roscoe's body as well as the particulars."

"So I couldn't call in and report a death?"

"No. If you're a family member or best friend you might call or fax the life details, but we verify death with the funeral home or the hospital. Usually they call us. The hospital won't give me cause of death either. Sometimes family members will put it in, but we can't demand any information other than verification that the person is dead." She took a deep breath. "And I had that!"

"Do you generally deal with the same people at each of the funeral homes?"

"Yes, I do, and I recognize their voices, too. Skip Hallahan called in Roscoe's death."

"I guess you told that to the sheriff."

"Told it to Roscoe, too. I'm sick of this."

"I'm sorry, Janice. I made you go over it one more time."

"That's different—you're a friend. Skip is being a bunghole, I can tell you that. He swears he never made the call."

"I think I know who did."

"Tell me."

"I will as soon as I make sure I'm right."

7

The high shine on Roscoe Fletcher's car surrendered to dust, red from the clay, as he drove down Mim Sanburne's two-mile driveway to the mansion Mim had inherited from her mother's family, the Urquharts.

He passed the mansion, coasting to a stop before a lovely cottage a quarter mile behind the imposing pile. Cars parked neatly along the farm road bore testimony to the gathering within.

Raising money for St. Elizabeth's was one of Little Mini's key jobs. She wanted to show she could be as powerful as her mother.

Breezing through Little Mim's front door, Roscoe heard Maury McKinchie shout, "The phoenix rises from the ashes!"

The members of the fund-raising committee, many of them alumnae, laughed at the film director's quip.

"You missed the resurrection party, my man." Roscoe clapped McKinchie on the back. "Lasted until dawn."

"Every day is a party for Roscoe," April Shively, stenographer's notebook nipped open at the ready, said admiringly.

April, not a member of the committee, attended all meetings as the headmaster's secretary, which saved the committee from appointing one of its own. It also meant that only information deemed important by Roscoe made it to the typed minutes. Lastly, it gave the two a legitimate excuse to be together.

"Where were you this time?" Irene Miller, Jody's mother, asked, an edge of disapproval in her voice since Maury McKinchie missed too many meetings, in her estimation.

"New York." He waited until Roscoe took a seat then continued. "I have good news." The group leaned toward him. "I met with Walter Harnett at Columbia. He loves our idea of a film department. He has promised us two video cameras. These are old models, but they work fine. New, this camera sells for fifty-four thousand dollars. We're on our way." He beamed.

After the applause, Little Mini, chair of the fund-raising committee, spoke. "That is the most exciting news! With preparation on our part, I think we can get approval from the board of directors to develop a curriculum."

"Only if we can finance the department." Roscoe folded his hands together. "You know how conservative the board is. Reading, writing, and arithmetic. That's it. But if we can finance one year— and I have the base figures here—then I hope and believe the positive response of students and parents will see us through the ensuing year. The board will be forced into the twentieth century''—he paused for effect—"just as we cross into the twenty-first."

They laughed.

"Is the faculty for us?" Irene Miller asked, eager to hitch on to whatever new bandwagon promised to deliver the social cachet she so desired.

"With a few notable exceptions, yes," Roscoe replied.

"Sandy Brashiers," April blurted out, then quickly clamped her mouth shut. Her porcelain cheeks flushed. "You know what a purist he is," she mumbled.

"Give him an enema," Maury said, and noted the group's shocked expression. "Sorry. We say that a lot on a film shoot. If someone is really a pain in the ass, he's called the D.B. for douche bag."

"Maury." Irene cast her eyes down in fake embarrassment.

"Sorry. The fact remains, he is an impediment."

"I'll take care of Sandy," Roscoe Fletcher smoothly asserted.

"I wish someone would." Doak Mincer, a local bank president, sighed. "Sandy has been actively lobbying against this. Even when told the film department would be a one-year experimental program, totally self-sufficient, funded separately, the whole nine yards, he's opposed—adamantly.

"Has no place in academia, he says." Irene, too, had been lobbied.

"What about that cinematographer you had here mid-September? I thought that engendered enthusiasm." Marilyn pointed her pencil at Roscoe.

"She was a big hit. Shot film of some of the more popular kids, Jody being one, Irene."

"She loved it." Irene smiled. "You aren't going to encounter resistance from parents. What parent would be opposed to their child learning new skills? Or working with a pro like Maury? Why, it's a thrill."

"Thank you." Maury smiled his big smile, the one usually reserved for paid photographers.

He had enjoyed a wonderful directing career in the 1980s, which faded in the '90s as his wife's acting career catapulted into the stratosphere. She was on location so much that Maury often forgot he had a wife. Then again, he might have done so regardless of circumstances.

He had also promised Darla would lecture once a year at St. Elizabeth's. He had neglected to inform Darla, stage name Darla Keene. Real name Michelle Gumbacher. He'd cajole her into it on one of her respites home.

"Irene, did you bring your list of potential donors?" Little Mim asked. Irene nodded, launching into an intensely boring recitation of each potential candidate.

After the meeting Maury and Irene walked out to his country car, a Range Rover. His Porsche 911 was saved for warm days.

"How's Kendrick?" he inquired about her husband.

"Same old, same old."

This meant that all Kendrick did was work at the gardening center he had built from scratch and which at long last was generating profit.

She spied a carton full of tiny bottles in the passenger seat of the Rover. "What's all that?"

"Uh"—long pause—"essences."

"What?"

"Essences. Some cure headaches. Others are for success. Not that I believe it, but they can be soothing, I suppose."

"Did you bring this stuff back from New York?" Irene lifted an eyebrow.

"Uh—no. I bought them from BoomBoom Craycroft."

"Good God." Irene turned on her heel, leaving him next to his wildly expensive vehicle much favored by the British royals.

Later that evening when Little Mim reluctantly briefed her mother on the meeting—reluctant because her mother had to know everything—she said, "I think I can make the film department happen."

"That would be a victory, dear."

"Don't be so enthusiastic, Mother."

"I am enthusiastic. Quietly so, that's all. And I do think Roscoe enjoys chumming with the stars, such as they are, entirely too much. Greta Garbo. That was a star."

"Yes, Mother."

"And Maury—well, West Coast ways, my dear. Not Virginia."

"Not Virginia," a description, usually whispered by whites and blacks alike to set apart those who didn't measure up. This included multitudes.

Little Mim bristled. "The West Coast, well, they're more open-minded."

"Open-minded? They're porous."

8

"What have you got to say for yourself?" A florid Skip Hallahan glared at his handsome son.

"I'm sorry, Dad," Sean muttered.

"Don't talk to me. Talk to him!"

"I'm sorry, Mr. Fletcher."

Roscoe, hands folded across his chest, unfolded them. "I accept your apology, but did you really think phoning in my obituary was funny?"

"Uh—at the time. Guess not," he replied weakly.

"Your voice does sound a lot like your father's." Roscoe leaned forward. "No detentions. But—I think you can volunteer at the hospital for four hours each week. That would satisfy me."

"Dad, I already have a paper route. How can I work at the hospital?"

"I'll see that he does his job," Skip snapped, still mortified.

"If he falters, no more football."

"What?" Sean, horrified, nearly leapt out of his chair.

"You heard me," Roscoe calmly stated.

"Without me St. Elizabeth's doesn't have a prayer," Sean arrogantly predicted.

"Sean, the football season isn't as important as you learning: actions have consequences. I'd be a sorry headmaster if I let you off the hook because you're our best halfback . . . because someday you'd run smack into trouble. Actions have consequences. You're going to learn that right now. Four hours a week until New Year's Day. Am I clearly understood?" Roscoe stood up.

"Yes, sir."

"I asked you this before. I'll ask it one last time. Were you alone in this prank?"

"Yes, sir," Sean lied.

9

A ruddy sun climbed over the horizon. Father Michael, an early riser, enjoyed his sunrises as much as most people enjoyed sunsets. Armed with hot Jamaican coffee, his little luxury, he sat reading the paper at the small pine breakfast table overlooking the church's beautifully tended graveyard.

The Church of the Good Shepherd, blessed with a reasonably affluent congregation, afforded him a pleasant albeit small home on the church grounds. A competent secretary, Lucinda Payne Coles, provided much-needed assistance Mondays through Fridays. He liked Lucinda, who, despite moments of bitterness, bore her hardships well.

After her husband, Samson, lost all his money and got caught with his pants down in the bargain in an extramarital affair, Lucinda sank into a slough of despond. She applied when the job at the church became available and was happily hired even though she'd never worked a day in her life. She typed adequately, but, more important, she knew everyone and everyone knew her.

As for Samson, Father Michael remembered him daily in his prayers. Samson had been reduced to physical labor at Kendrick Miller's gardening business. At least he was in the best shape of his life and was learning to speak fluent Spanish, as some of his coworkers were Mexican immigrants.

Father Michael, starting on a second cup of coffee—two lumps of brown sugar and a dollop of Devonshire cream—blinked in surprise. He thought he saw a figure sliding through the early-morning mist.

That needed jolt of caffeine blasted him out of his seat. He grabbed a Barbour jacket to hurry outside. Quietly he moved closer to a figure lurking in the graveyard.

Samson Coles placed a bouquet of flowers on Ansley Randolph's grave.

Father Michael, a slightly built man, turned to tiptoe back to the cottage, but Samson heard him.

"Father?"

"Sorry to disturb you, Samson. I couldn't see clearly in the mist. Sometimes the kids drink in here, you know. I thought I could catch one in the act. I am sorry."

Samson cleared his throat. "No one visits her."

"She ruined herself, poor woman." Father Michael sighed.

"I know. I loved her anyway. I still loved Lucinda but ... I couldn't stay away from Ansley." He sighed. "I don't know why Lucinda doesn't leave me."

"She loves you, and she's working on forgiveness. God sends us the lessons we need."

"Well, if mine is humility, I'm learning." He paused. "You won't tell her you saw me here, will you?"

"No."

"It's just that . . . sometimes I feel so bad. Warren doesn't visit her grave, and neither do the boys. You'd think at least once they'd visit their mother's grave."

"They're young. They think if they ignore pain and loss, it will fade away. Doesn't."

"I know." He turned, and both men left the graveyard, carefully shutting the wrought iron gate behind them.

At the northwest corner of the graveyard a massive statue of the Avenging Angel seemed to follow them with his eyes.

"I just so happen to have some of the best Jamaican coffee you would ever want to drink. How about joining me for a cup?"

"I hate to trouble you, Father."

"No trouble at all."

They imbibed the marvelous coffee and talked of love, responsibility, the chances for the Virginia football team this fall, and the curiousness of human nature as evidenced by the false obituary.

A light knock on the backdoor got Father Michael out of his chair. He opened the door. Jody Miller, one of his parishioners, wearing her sweats as she was on her way to early-morning field hockey practice, stood in the doorway, a bruise prominent on her cheek and a red mark near her eye that would soon blacken.

"Father Michael, I have to talk to you." She saw Samson at the table. "Uh—"

"Come on in."

"I'll be late for practice." She ran down the back brick walkway as Father Michael watched her with his deep brown eyes. He finally closed the door.

"Speaking of curious." Samson half smiled. "Everything is so important at that age."

It was.

Five minutes after Samson left, Skip Hallahan pulled into Father Michael's driveway with Sean in the passenger seat. Reluctantly, Sean got out.

"Father!" Skip bellowed.

Father Michael stuck his head out the backdoor. "Come in, Skip and Sean, I'm not deaf, you know."

"Sorry," Skip mumbled, then launched into Sean's misdeed before he'd taken a seat.

After Skip ranted for a half hour, Father Michael asked him to leave the room for a few minutes.

"Sean, I can see the humor in calling in the obituary. I really can. But can you see how you've upset people? Think of Mrs. Fletcher.

"I'm getting the idea," Sean replied ruefully.

"I suggest you call on Mrs. Fletcher and apologize. I also suggest you call Janice Walker, editor of the obituary page at the paper, and apologize, and lastly, write a letter of apology and send it to 'Letters to the Editor.' After that, I expect the paper will take your route away from you." The good priest tried to prepare him for retaliation.

Sean sat immobile for a long time. "All right, Father, I will."

"What possessed you to do this? Especially to your headmaster."

"Well, that was kind of the point." Sean suppressed a smile. "It wouldn't have been nearly as funny if I'd called in, uh, your obituary."

Father Michael rapped the table with his fingertips. "I see. Well, make your apologies. I'll calm down your father." He stood up to summon Skip Hallahan.

Sean stood also. "Thanks, Father."

"Go on. Get out of here." The priest clapped the young man on the back.

10

Every hamlet and town has its nerve centers, those places where people congregate to enjoy the delights of gossip. Not that men admit to gossiping: for them it's "exchanging information."

A small group of men stood outside the post office on the first Monday in October in buttery Indian-summer sunshine. The Reverend Herbert Jones, Fair Haristeen, Ned Tucker, Jim Sanburne—the mayor of Crozet—and Sandy Brashiers spoke forcefully about the football teams of Virginia, Tech, William and Mary, and, with a shudder, Maryland.

"Maryland's the one to beat, and it hurts me to say that," the Reverend Jones intoned. "And I never will say it in front of John Klossner."

John, a friend of Herb's, graduated from Maryland and never let his buddies forget it.

Another one of the "in" group, Art Bushey—absent this morning—had graduated from Virginia Military Institute, so there was no reason for argument there. Poor VMI's team couldn't do squat, a wretched reality for those who loved the institution and a sheer joy for those who did not.

"This is the year for Virginia, Herb. I don't care how hot Maryland has been up to now." Sandy Brashiers crossed his arms over his chest.

"Say, why aren't you in school today?" Herb asked.

"I've worked out a schedule with King Fletcher, so I don't go in until noon on Mondays." Sandy breathed in. "You know, I love young people, but they'll suck you dry."

"Too young to know what they're asking of us." Fair toed the gravel. "Now before we get totally off the subject, I want to put in a good word for William and Mary."

"Ha!" Jim Sanburne, a huge man in his middle sixties, almost as tall as Fair but twice as broad, guffawed.

"Give it up, Fair." Ned laughed.

"One of these days the Tribe will prevail." Fair, an undergraduate alumnus, held up the Victory V.

"How come you don't root for Auburn? That's where you went to veterinary school," Sandy said.

"Oh, I like Auburn well enough."

Harry, from the inside, opened the door to the post office and stood, framed in the light. "What are you guys jawing about? This is government property. No riffraff."

"Guess you'll have to go, Fair," Ned said slyly.

The other men laughed.

"We're picking our teams for this year." Jim explained the reasoning behind each man's choice.

"I pick Smith!"

"Since when does Smith have a football team?" Sandy Brashiers asked innocently.

"They don't, but if they did they'd beat VMI," Harry replied. "Think I'll call Art Bushey and torment him about it."

This provoked more laughter. Mrs. Murphy, roused from a mid-morning catnap, walked to the open doorway and sat down. She exhaled, picked up a paw, and licked the side of it, which she rubbed on her face. She liked football, occasionally trying to catch the tiny ball as it streaked across the television screen. In her mind she'd caught many a bomb. Today football interested her not a jot. She ruffled her fur, smoothed it down, then strolled alongside the path between the post office and the market. She could hear Harry and the men teasing one another with outbursts of laughter. Then Miranda joined them to even more laughter.

Mrs. Murphy had lived all her life on this plot of Virginia soil. She watched the news at six and sometimes at eleven, although usually she was asleep by then. She read the newspapers by sitting right in front of Harry when she read. As near as she could tell, humans lived miserable lives in big cities. It was either that or newspapers worked on the Puritan principle of underlining misery so the reader would feel better about his or her own life. Whatever the reason, the cat found human news dull. It was one murder, car wreck, and natural disaster after another.

People liked one another here. They knew one another all their lives, with the occasional newcomer adding spice and speculation to the mix. And it wasn't as though Crozet never had bad things happen. People being what they are, jealousy, greed, and lust existed. Those caught paid the price. But in the main, the people were good. If nothing else they took care of their pets.

She heard a small, muffled sob behind Market Shiflett's store. She trotted to the back. Jody Miller, head in hands, was crying her heart out. Pewter sat at her sneakers, putting her paw on the girl's leg from time to time, offering comfort.

"I wondered where you were." Murphy touched noses with Pewter, then stared at the girl.

Jody's blackening eye caught her attention when the girl removed her hands from her face. She wiped her nose with the back of her hand, blinking through her tears. "Hello, Mrs. Murphy."

"Hello, Jody. What's the matter?" Murphy rubbed against her leg.

Jody stared out at the alleyway, absentmindedly stroking both cats.

"Did she say anything to you?"

"No," Pewter replied.

"Poor kid. She took a pounding." Mrs. Murphy stood on her hind legs, putting her paws on Jody's left knee for a closer look at the young woman's injury. "This just happened."

"Maybe she got in a fight on the way to school."

"She has field hockey practice early in the morning—Brooks does, too."

"Oh, yeah." Pewter cocked her head, trying to capture Jody's attention. "Maybe her father hit her."

Kendrick Miller possessed a vicious temper. Not that anyone outside of the family ever saw him hit his wife or only child, but people looked at him sideways sometimes.

The light crunch of a footfall alerted the cats. Jody, still crying, heard nothing. Sandy Brashiers, whose car was parked behind the market, stopped in his tracks.

"Jody!" he exclaimed, quickly bending down to help her.

She swung her body away from him. The cats moved out of the way. "I'm all right."

He peered at her shiner. "You've been better. Come on, I'll run you over to Larry Johnson. Can't hurt to have the doctor take a look. You can't take a chance with your eyes, honey."

"Don't call me honey." Her vehemence astonished even her.

"I'm sorry." He blushed. "Come on."

"No."

"Jody, if you won't let me take you to Dr. Johnson, then I'll have to take you home. I can't just leave you here."

The backdoor of the post office swung open, and Harry stepped out; she had heard Jody's voice. Miranda was right behind her.

"Oh, dear," Miranda whispered.

Harry came over. "Jody, that's got to hurt."

"I'm all right!" She stood up.

"That's debatable." Sandy was losing patience.

Miranda put a motherly arm around the girl's shoulders. "What happened?"

"Nothing."

"She got pasted away," Pewter offered.

"I suggested that I take her to Larry Johnson—to be on the safe side." Sandy shoved his hands into his corduroy pockets.

Jody balefully implored Miranda with her one good eye. "I don't want anyone to see me."

"You can't hide for two weeks. That's about how long it will take for your raccoon eye to disappear." Harry didn't like the look of that eye.

"Now, Jody, you just listen to me," Miranda persisted. "I am taking you to Larry Johnson's. You can't play Russian roulette with your health. Mr. Brashiers will tell Mr. Fletcher that you're at the doctor's office so you won't get in trouble at school."

"Nobody cares about me. And don't call Mr. Fletcher. Just leave him out of it.''

"People care." Miranda patted her and hugged her. "But for right now you come with me."

Encouraged and soothed by Miranda, Jody climbed into the older woman's ancient Ford Falcon.

Harry knitted her eyebrows in concern. Sandy, too. Without knowing it they were mirror images of one another.

Sandy finally spoke. "Coach Hallvard can be rough, but not that rough."

"Maybe she got into a fight with another kid at school," Harry said, thinking out loud.

"Over what?" Pewter asked.

"Boys. Drugs. PMS." Mrs. Murphy flicked her tail in irritation.

"You can be cynical." Pewter noticed a praying mantis in the crepe myrtle.

"Not cynical. Realistic."

Tucker waddled out of the post office. Fast asleep, she had awak ened to find no one in the P.O. "What's going on?"

"High-school drama." The cats rubbed it in. "And yon missed it."

Larry Johnson phoned Irene Miller, who immediately drove to his office. But Jody kept her mouth shut . . . especially in front of her mother.

Later that afternoon, Janice Walker dropped by the post office. "Harry, you ought to be a detective! How did you know it was Sean Hallahan? When you called me back yesterday to tell me, I wasn't sure, but he came by this morning to apologize. He even took time off from school to do it."

"Two and two." Harry flipped up the divider between the mail room and the public area. "He sounds like his dad. He can be a smart-ass, and hey, wouldn't it be wild to do something like that? He'll be a hero to all the kids at St. Elizabeth's."

"Never thought of it that way," Janice replied.

"You know, I was thinking of calling in BoomBoom Craycroft's demise." Harry's eyes twinkled.

Janice burst out laughing. "You're awful!"

11

Roscoe glanced out his window across the pretty quad that was the heart of St. Elizabeth's. Redbrick buildings, simple Federal style, surrounded the green. Two enormous oaks anchored either end, their foliage an electrifying orange-yellow.

Behind the "home" buildings, as they were known, stood later additions, and beyond those the gym and playing fields beckoned, a huge parking lot between them.

The warm oak paneling gave Roscoe's office an inviting air. A burl partner's desk rested in the middle of the room. A leather sofa, two leather chairs, and a coffee table blanketed with books filled up one side of the big office.

Not an academic, Roscoe made a surprisingly good headmaster. His lack of credentials bothered the teaching staff, who had originally wanted one of their own, namely Sandy Brashiers or even Ed Sugarman. But Roscoe over the last seven years had won over most of them. For one thing, he knew how to raise money as he had a "selling" personality and a wealth of good business contacts. For another, he was a good administrator. His MBA from the Wharton School at University of Pennsylvania stood him in good stead.

"Come in." He responded to the firm knock at the door, then heard a loud "Don't you dare!"

He quickly opened the door to find his secretary, April, and Sandy Brashiers yelling at each other.

April apologized. "He didn't ask for an appointment. He walked right by me."

"April, stop being so officious." Sandy brushed her off.

"You have no right to barge in here." She planted her hands on her slim hips.

Roscoe, voice soothing, patted her on her padded shoulder. "That's all right. I'm accustomed to Mr. Brashiers's impetuosity."

He motioned for Sandy to come in while winking at April, who blushed with pleasure.

"What can I do for you, Sandy?"

"Drop dead" was what Sandy wanted to say. Instead he cleared his throat. "I'm worried about Jody Miller. She's become withdrawn, and this morning I found her behind the post office. She had a bruised cheek and a black eye and refused to talk about it."

"There is instability in the home. It was bound to surface in Jody eventually." Roscoe did not motion for Sandy to sit down. He leaned against his desk, folding his arms across his chest.

"A black eye counts for more than instability. That girl needs help."

"Sandy," Roscoe enunciated carefully, "I can't accuse her parents of abuse without her collaboration. And who's to say Kendrick hit her? It could have been anybody."

"How can you turn away?" Sandy impulsively accused the florid, larger man.

"I am not turning away. I will investigate the situation, but I advise you to be prudent. Until we know what's amiss or until Jody herself comes forward, any accusation would be extremely irresponsible."

"Don't lecture me."

"Don't lecture me."

"You don't give a damn about that girl's well-being. You sure as hell give a damn about her father's contributions to your film project—money we could use elsewhere."

"I've got work to do. I told you I'll look into it." Roscoe dropped his folded arms to his sides, then pointed a finger in Sandy's reddening face. "Butt out. If you stir up a hornet's nest, you'll get stung worse than the rest of us."

"What's that shopworn metaphor supposed to mean?" Sandy clenched his teeth.

"That I know your secret."

Sandy blanched. "I don't have any secrets."

Roscoe pointed again. "Try me. Just try me. You'll never teach anywhere again."

Livid, Sandy slammed the door on his way out. April stuck her blond-streaked head back in the office.

Roscoe smiled. "Ignore him. The man thrives on emotional scenes. The first week of school he decried the fostering of competition instead of cooperation. Last week he thought Sean Hallahan should be censured for a sexist remark that I think was addressed to Karen Jensen—'Hey, baby!' " Roscoe imitated Sean. "Today he's frothing at the mouth because Jody Miller has a black eye. My God."

"I don't know how you put up with him," April replied sympathetically.

"It's my job." Roscoe smiled expansively.

"Maury McKinchie's on line two."

"Who's on line one?"

"Your wife."

"Okay." He punched line one. "Honey, let me call you back. Are you in the office?"

Naomi said she was, her office being in the building opposite his on the other side of the quad. He then punched line two. "Hello."

"Roscoe, I'd like to shoot some football and maybe field hockey practice . . . just a few minutes. I'm trying to pull together dynamic images for the alumni dinner in December."

"Got a date in mind?"

"Why don't I just shoot the next few games?" The director paused. "I've got footage for you to check. You'll like it."

"Fine." Roscoe smiled.

"How about a foursome this Saturday? Keswick at nine?"

"Great."

Roscoe hung up. He buzzed April. "You handled Sandy Brashiers very well," he told her.

"He gives me a pain. He just pushed right by me!"

"You did a good job. Your job description doesn't include tackling temporary principals and full-time busybodies."

"Thank you."

"Remind me to tell the coaches that Maury will be filming some football and hockey games."

"Will do."

He took his finger off the intercom button and sat in his swivel chair, feeling satisfied with himself.

12

Harry sorted her own mail, tossing most of it into the wastebasket. She spent each morning stuffing mailboxes. By the time she got to her own mail, she hadn't the patience to wade through appeals for money, catalogs, and flyers. Each evening she threw a canvas totebag jammed with her mail onto the bench seat of the old Ford truck. On those beautiful days when she walked home from work, she slung it over her shoulder.

She'd be walking for the next week regardless of weather because not only was the carburetor fritzed out on the truck, but a mouse had nibbled through the starter wires. Mrs. Murphy needed to step up her rodent control.

Harry dreaded the bill. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn't keep up with expenses. She lived frugally, keeping within a budget, but no matter how careful her plans, telephone companies changed rates, the electric company edged up its prices, and the county commissioners lived to raise Albemarle taxes.

She often wondered how people with children made it. They'd make it better if they didn't work for the postal service, she thought to herself.

Gray clouds, sodden, dropped lower and lower. The first big raindrop splattered as she was about two miles from home. Tee Tucker and Mrs. Murphy moved faster. Pewter, with a horror of getting wet, ran ahead.

"I've never seen that cat move that fast," Harry said out loud.

A dark green Chevy half-ton slowly headed toward her. She waved as Fair braked.

"Come on, kids," she called as the three animals raced toward Fair.

As if on cue the clouds opened the minute Harry closed the passenger door of the truck.

"Hope you put your fertilizer down."

"Back forty," she replied laconically.

He slowed for another curve as they drove in silence.

"You're Mary Sunshine."

"Preoccupied. Sorry."

They drove straight into the barn. Harry hopped out and threw on her raincoat. Fair put on his yellow slicker, then backed the truck out, parking at the house so Pewter could run inside. He returned to help Harry bring in the horses, who were only too happy to get fed.

Mrs. Murphy and Tucker stayed in the barn.

"These guys look good." Fair smiled at Gin Fizz, Tomahawk, and Poptart.

"Thanks. Sometimes I forget how old Tomahawk's getting to be, but then I forget how old I'm getting to be."

"We're only in our thirties. It's a good time."

She scooped out the sweet feed. "Some days I think it is. Some days I think it isn't." She tossed the scoop back into the feed bin. "Fair, you don't have to help. Lucky for me you came along the road when you did."

"Many hands make light work. You won't be riding tonight."

The rain, like gray sheets of iron, obscured the house from view.

"The weatherman didn't call for this, nor did Miranda."

"Her knee failed." He laughed. Miranda predicted rain according to whether her knee throbbed or not.

She clapped on an ancient cowboy hat, her rain hat. "Better make a run for it."

"Why don't you put me under your raincoat?" Mrs. Murphy asked po litely.

Hearing the plaintive meow, Harry paused, then picked up the kitty, cradling her under her coat.

"Ready, steady, GO!" Fair sang out as he cut the lights in the barn.

He reached the backdoor first, opening it for Harry and a wet Tucker.

Once inside the porch they shook off the rain, hung up their coats, stamped their feet, and hurried into the kitchen. A chill had descended with the rain. The temperature plunged ten degrees and was dropping still.

She made fresh coffee while he fed the dog and cats.

Harry had doughnuts left over from the morning.

They sat down and enjoyed this zero-star meal. It was better than going hungry.

"Well—?"

"Well, what?" She swallowed, not wishing to speak with her mouth full.

"What's the matter?"

She put the rest of her glazed doughnut on the plate. "Jody Miller had a black eye and wouldn't tell anyone how she got it. The kid was crying so hard it hurt to see her."

"How'd you find out?"

"She cut classes and was sitting on the stoop behind Market's store."

"I found her first." Pewter lifted her head out of the food bowl.

"Pewter, you're such an egotist."

"Look who's talking," the gray cat answered Mrs. Murphy sarcastically. "You think the sun rises and sets on your fur."

"Miranda carried her over to Larry Johnson's. She stayed until Irene arrived. Irene wasn't too helpful, according to Miranda, a reliable source if ever there was one."

"Jody's a mercurial kid."

"Aren't they all?"

"I suppose." He got up to pour himself another coffee. "I'm finally warming up. Of course, it could be your presence."

"I'm going to throw up." Pewter gagged.

"You don't have a romantic bone in your body," Tucker complained.

"In fact, Pewter, no one can see the bones in your body."

"Ha, ha," the gray cat said dryly.

"Do you think it would be nosy if I called Irene? I'm worried."

"Harry, everyone in Crozet is nosy, so that's not an issue." He smiled. "Besides which, you and Miranda found her."

"I found her," Pewter interjected furiously.

"You are not getting another morsel to eat." Harry shook her finger at the gray cat, who turned her back on her, refusing to have anything to do with this irritating human.

Harry picked up the old wall phone and dialed. "Hi, Irene, it's Mary Minor." She paused. "No trouble at all. I know Miranda was glad to help. I was just calling to see if Jody's all right."

On the other end of the line Irene explained, "She got into a fight with one of the girls at practice—she won't say which one—and then she walked into chemistry class and pulled a D on a pop quiz. Jody has never gotten a D in her life. She'll be fine, and thank you so much for calling. 'Bye."

'Bye." Harry hung up the receiver slowly. "She doesn't know any more than I do. She said the girls got into a fight at field hockey practice, and Jody got a D on a pop quiz in chemistry."

"Now you can relax. You've got your answer."

"Fair"—Harry gestured, both hands open—"there's no way that vain kid is going to walk into chemistry class with a fresh shiner. Jody Miller fusses with her makeup more than most movie stars. Besides, Ed Sugarman would have sent her to the infirmary. Irene Miller is either dumb as a stick or not telling the truth."

"I vote for dumb as a stick." He smiled. "You're making a mountain out of a molehill. If Jody Miller lied to her mother, it's not a federal case. I recall you fibbing to your mother on the odd occasion."

"Not very often."

"Your nose is growing." He laughed.

Harry dialed Ed Sugarman, the chemistry teacher. "Hi, Ed, it's Mary Minor Haristeen." She paused a moment. "Do I need chemistry lessons? Well, I guess it depends on the kind of chemistry you're talking about." She paused. "First off, excuse me for butting in, but I want to know if Jody Miller came to your class today."

"Jody never came to class today," Ed replied.

"Well—that answers my question."

"In fact, I was about to call her parents. I know she was at field hockey practice because I drove by the field on my way in this morning. Is something wrong?"

"Uh—I don't know. She was behind Market's store this morning sporting a black eye and tears."

"I'm sorry to hear that. She's a bright girl, but her grades are sliding . . ." He hesitated. "One sees this often if there's tension in the home."

"Thanks, Ed. I hope I haven't disturbed you."

"You haven't disturbed me." He paused for a moment and then said as an aside, "Okay, honey." He then returned to Harry. "Doris says hello."

"Tell Doris I said hello also," Harry said.

Harry bid Ed good-bye, pressed the disconnect button, and thought for a minute.

"Want to go to a movie?"

"I'm not going out in that."

The rain pounded even harder on the tin roof. "Like bullets."

"I rented The Madness of King George. We could watch that."

"Popcorn?"

"Yep."

"If you'd buy a microwave, you could pop the corn a lot faster." He read the directions on the back of the popcorn packet.

"I'm not buying a microwave. The truck needs new starter wires—the mice chewed them—needs new tires, too, and I'm even putting that off until I'm driving on threads." She slapped a pot on the stove. "And it needs a new carburetor."

After the movie, Fair hoped she'd ask him to stay. He made comment after comment about how slick the roads were.

Finally Harry said, "Sleep in the guest room."

"I was hoping I could sleep with you."

"Not tonight." She smiled, evading hurting his feelings. Since she was also evading her own feelings, it worked out nicely for her, temporarily, anyway.