Murder She Meowed

MURDER, SHE MEOWED

A Bantam Book / December 1996

All rights reserved.

Copyright © 1996 by American Artists, Inc.

Illustrations copyright © 1996 by Wendy Wray.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or

mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system,

without permission in writing from the publisher.

For information address: Bantam Books.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Brown, Rita Mae.

Murder, she meowed / Rita Mae Brown Sneaky Pie Brown; illustrations by Wendy Wray.

p.cm.

ISBN-0-S53-09604-4

1. Montpelier Hunt Races, Montpelier Station, Va.—Fiction. 2. Haristeen, Harry (Fictitious

character)—Fiction. 3. Murphy, Mrs. (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 4. Women detectives—

Virginia —Fiction. S. Women cat owners—Virginia —Fiction. 6. Cats—Fiction. I. Title.

PS3552.R698M89 1996

813'.S4—dc20 96-20727

CIP

Published simultaneously in the United States and Canada

Bantam Books are published by Bantam Books, a division of Bantam Doubleday Dell Publishing Group, Inc. Its trademark, consisting of the words "Bantam Books" and the portrayal of a rooster, is Registered in U.S. Patent and Trademark Office and in other countries. Marca Registrada. Bantam Books, 1540 Broadway, New York, New York 10036.

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

BVG 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Dedicated to Pooh Bear and Coye who love and guard Mrs. William O. Moss

Cast of Characters

Mary Minor Haristeen (Harry), the young postmistress of Crozet, whose curiosity almost kills the cat and herself

Mrs. Murphy, Harry's gray tiger cat, who bears an uncanny resemblance to authoress Sneaky Pie and who is wonderfully intelligent!

Tee Tucker, Harry's Welsh corgi. Mrs. Murphy's friend and confidante; a buoyant soul

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

Mrs. George Hogendobber (Miranda), a widow who thumps her own Bible!

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

Pewter, Market's fat gray cat, who, when need be, can be pulled away from the food bowl

Susan Tucker, Harry's best friend, who doesn't take life too seriously until her neighbors get murdered

Big Marilyn Sanburne (Mim), queen of Crozet

Rick Shaw, Albemarle sheriff

Cynthia Cooper, police officer

Herbert C. Jones, Pastor of Crozet Lutheran Church, a kindly, ecumenical soul who has been known to share his sermons with his two cats, Lucy Fur and Elocution

Arthur Tetrick, distinguished steeplechase officer and lawyer

Charles Valiant (Chark), young to be a steeplechase trainer but quite talented

Adelia Valiant (Addie), she turns twenty-one in November, catapulting her and Chark into their inheritance. She's a jockey—headstrong and impulsive

Marylou Valiant, Chark and Addie's mother, who disappeared five years ago

Mickey Townsend, a trainer much loved by Addie and much deplored by Chark

Nigel Danforfh, recently arrived from England, he rides for Mickey Townsend

Coty Lamont, the best steeplechase jockey of the decade

Linda Forloines, vicious lying white trash whose highest value is the dollar

Will Forloines, on the same ethical level as his wife but perching on a lower intelligence rung

Bazooka, a hot 'chaser owned by Mim Sanburne

Orion, Mim's hunter, who displays an equine sense of humor

Rodger Dodger, Mim's aging ginger barn cat, newly rejuvenated by his girlfriend, Pusskin. Rodger likes to do things by the book

Pusskin, a beautiful tortoiseshell cat, she dotes on Rodger and irritates Mrs. Murphy

Dear Reader:

Thank you for your letters. While I try to answer every one I can answer some of the more frequent questions here.

Do I use a typewriter? No. Mother does. I use a Toshiba laptop that costs as much as a used Toyota. I like the mouse.

Do I write every day? Only when the real mousing is bad.

Do I live with other cats and dogs? Yes, and horses, too, but I'm not giving them any free advertising. After all, I'm the one who writes the books therefore I deserve the lion's share of the attention.

Is Pewter really fat? Well, parts of her have their own zip code. And I just saw her eat a mushroom not ten minutes ago. A mushroom is a fungus. What self-respecting cat eats fungus? She drinks beer, too.

Is Mother fun? Most times. She slides into the slough of despond when she has to pay bills. She had a lot to pay this year because floods washed out part of our road and bridge. The insurance didn't cover it but I could have told her that. She's been working very hard and while I sympathize it does keep her out of my fur.

Am I a Dixiecat? Well, I was born in the great state of Virginia so I believe we're not here for a long time but we're here for a good time. I sure hope you're having as good a time as I am!

Love,

SNEAKY PIE

Murder, She Meowed

The entrance to Montpelier, once the home of James and Dolley Madison, is marked by two ivy-covered pillars. An eagle, wings outstretched, perches atop each pillar. This first Saturday in November, Mary Minor Haristeen—"Harry"—drove through the elegant, understated entrance as she had done for thirty-four years. Her parents had brought her to Montpelier's 2,700 acres in the first year of her life, and she had not missed a race meet since. Like Thanksgiving, her birthday, Christmas, and Easter, the steeplechase races held at the Madisons' estate four miles west of Orange, Virginia, marked her life. A touchstone.

As she rolled past the pillars, she glanced at the eagles but gave them little thought. The eagle is a raptor, a bird of prey, capturing its victims in sharp talons, swooping out of the air with deadly accuracy. Nature divides into victor and victim. Human-kind attempts to soften such clarity. It's not that humans don't recognize that there are victors and victims in life but that they prefer to cast their experiences in such terms as good or evil, not feaster and feast. However she chose to look at it, Harry would remember this crisp, azure day, and what would return to her mind would be the eagles . . . how she had driven past those sentinels so many times yet missed their significance.

One thing was for sure—neither she nor any of the fifteen thousand spectators would ever forget this particular Montpelier meet.

Mrs. Miranda Hogendobber, Harry's older friend and partner at work, rode with her in Harry's battered pickup truck, of slightly younger vintage than Mrs. Hogendobber's ancient Ford Falcon. Since Harry had promised Arthur Tetrick, the race director, that she'd be a fence judge, she needed to arrive early.

They passed through the gates, clambering onto the bridge arching over the Southern Railroad tracks and through the spate of hardwoods, thence emerging onto the emerald expanse of the racecourse circling the 100-acre center field. Brush and timber jumps dotted the track bound by white rails that determined the width of the difficult course. On her right, raised above the road, was the dirt flat track, which the late Mrs. Marion duPont Scott had built in 1929 to exercise her Thoroughbreds. Currently rented, the track remained in use and, along with the estate, had passed to the National Historic Trust upon Mrs. Scott's death in the fall of 1983.

Straight ahead through more pillared gates loomed Montpelier itself, a peach-colored house shining like a chunk of soft sunrise that had fallen from the heavens to lodge in the foothills of the Southwest Range of the Blue Ridge Mountains. Harry thought to herself that Montpelier, built while Americalabored under the punitive taxes of King George III, was a kind of sunrise, a peep over the horizon of a new political force, a nation made up of people from everywhere united by a vision of democracy. That the vision had darkened or become distorted didn't lessen the glory of its birth, and Harry, not an especially political person, believed passionately that Americans had to hold on to the concepts of their forefathers and foremothers.

One such concept was enjoying a cracking good time. James and Dolley Madison adored a good horse race and agreed that the supreme horseman of their time had been George Washington. Even before James was born in 1752, the colonists wagered on, argued over, and loved fine horses. Virginians, mindful of their history, continued the pastime.

Tee Tucker, Harry's corgi, sat in her lap staring out the window. She, too, loved horses, but she was especially thrilled today because her best friend and fiercest competitor, Mrs. Murphy, a tiger cat of formidable intelligence, was forced to stay home. Mrs. Murphy had screeched "dirty pool" at the top of her kitty lungs, but it had done no good because Harry had told her the crowd would upset her and she'd either run into the truck and pout or, worse, make the rounds of everyone's tailgates. Murphy had no control when it came to fresh roasted chicken, and there'd be plenty of that today. Truth be told, Tucker had no self-control either when it came to savoring meat dishes, but she couldn't jump up into the food the way the cat could.

Oh, the savage pleasure of pressing her wet, cold nose to the window as the truck pulled out of the farm's driveway and watching Mrs. Murphy standing on her hind legs at the kitchen window. Tucker was certain that when they returned early in the evening Murphy would have shredded the fringes on the old couch, torn the curtains, and chewed the phone cord, for starters. Then the cat would be in even more trouble while Tucker, the usual scapegoat, would polish her halo. If she had a tail, she'd wag it, she was so happy. Instead she wiggled.

"Tucker, sit still, we're almost there," Harry chided her.

"There's Mim." Mrs. Hogendobber waved to Marilyn Sanburne, whose combination of money and bossiness made her the queen of Crozet. "Boiled wool, I see. She's going Bavarian.

"I like the pheasant feather in her cap myself." Harry smiled and waved too.

"How many horses does she have running today?"

"Three. She's having a good year with Bazooka, her big gelding. The other two are green and coming along." Harry used the term that described a young animal gaining experience. "It's wonderful that she's giving the Valiants a chance to train her horses. Having good stock makes all the difference, but then Mim would know."

Harry pulled into her parking space. She fished her gloves out of her pocket. At ten in the morning the temperature was forty-five degrees. By 12:30 and the first race, it might nudge into the high fifties, a perfect temperature for early November.

"Don't forget your badge." Mrs. Hogendobber, a good deal older than Harry, was inclined to mother her.

"I won't." Harry pinned on her badge, a green ribbon with official stamped in gold down the length of it. "I've even got one for Tucker." She tied a ribbon on the dog's leather collar.

The Hepworths, Harry's mother's family, had attended the first running of the Montpelier Hunt Races in 1928 when it was run over a cross-country course. It was always the "Hepworth space" until a few years ago when it became simply number 175.

Harry and Tucker hopped out of the car, ducked under the white rail, sprinted across the soft, perfect turf, and joined the other officials in the paddock area graced by large oak trees, their leaves still splashes of orange and yellow. In the center sat a small green building and a tent where jockeys changed into their silks and picked up their saddle pad numbers. Large striped tents were set up alongside the paddock in a restricted area for patrons of the event. Harry could smell the ham cooking in one tent and hoped she'd have time to scoot in for fresh ham biscuits and a cup of hot tea. Although it was sunny, a light wind chilled her face.

"Harry!" Fair Haristeen, her ex-husband and the race veterinarian, was striding over to her, looking like Thor himself.

"Hi, honey. I'm ready for anything."

Before the blond giant could answer, Chark Valiant and his sister, Adelia, walked over.

Chark, so-called because he was the sixth Charles Valiant, hugged Harry. "It's good to see you, Harry. Great day for 'chasing."

"Sure is."

"Oh, look at Tucker." Addie knelt down to pet her. "I'd trust your judgment anytime."

"A corgi official or an Official Corgi?" Chark asked, his tone arch.

"The best corgi," the little dog answered, smiling.

"You ready?" Harry peered at Addie, soon to be twenty-one, who'd followed her older brother into the steeplechasing world. He was the trainer, she was the jockey, a gifted and gutsy one.

"This is our Montpelier." She beamed, her youthful face already creased by sun and wind.

"Mim's the nervous one." Chark laughed because Mim Sanburne, who owned more horses than she could count, paced more than the horses did before the races.

"We passed her on the way in. Looked like she was heading up to the big house." Harry was referring to Montpelier.

"I don't know how she keeps up with her dozens of committees. I thought Monticello was her favorite cause." Fair rubbed his hands through his hair, then put his lad's cap back on.

"It is, but she promised to help give elected officials a tour, and the Montpelier staff is on overload.'' Harry did not need to explain that in this election year, anyone running for public office, even dogcatcher, would die before they'd miss the races and miss having a photo of themselves at the Madison house run in the local newspaper.

"Well, I'm heading back to the stable." Chark touched Harry on the shoulder. "Find me when the races are over. I hope we'll have something to celebrate."

"Sure."

Fair, called away by Colbert Mason, director of the National Hunt and Steeplechase Association, winked and left Harry and Addie.

"Adelia!" Arthur Tetrick called, then noticed Harry, and a big smile crossed his angular, distinguished face.

Striding over to chat with "the girls," as he called them, Arthur nodded and waved to people. A lawyer of solid reputation, he was not only acting race director for Montpelier but was often an official at other steeplechases. As executor of Marylou Valiant's will, he was also her two children's guardian—their father being dead—until Adelia turned twenty-one later that month and came into her considerable inheritance. Chark, though older than his sister, would not receive his money, either, until Addie's birthday. His mother had felt that men, being slower to mature, should have their inheritance delayed. She couldn't have been more wrong concerning her own offspring, for Chark was prudent if not parsimonious, whereas Addie's philosophy was the financial equivalent of the Biblical "consider the lilies of the field." But Marylou, who had disappeared five years earlier and was presumed dead, had missed crucial years in the development of her children. She couldn't have known that her theory was backward in their case.

"Don't you look the part." Addie kidded her guardian, taking in his fine English tweed vest and jacket.

"Can't be shabby. Mrs. Scott would come back to haunt me. Harry, we're delighted you're helping us out today."

"Glad to help."

Putting his hand over Addie's slender shoulder, he murmured, "Tomorrow—a little sit-down."

"Oh, Arthur, all you want to do is talk about stocks and bonds and—" she mocked his solemn voice as she intoned, "—NEVER TOUCH THE PRINCIPAL. I can't stand it! Bores me."

With an avuncular air, he chuckled. "Nonetheless, we must review your responsibilities before your birthday."

"Why? We review them once a bloody month."

Arthur shrugged, his bright eyes seeking support from Harry. "Wine, women, and song are the male vices. In your case it's horses, jockeys, and song. You won't have a penny left by the time you're forty." His tone was light but his eyes were intense.

Wary, Addie stepped back. "Don't start on Nigel."

"Nigel Danforth has all the appeal of an investment in Sarajevo."

"I like him." She clamped her lips shut.

Arthur snorted. "Being attracted to irresponsible men is a female vice in your family. Nigel Danforth is not worthy of you and—''

Addie slipped her arm through Harry's while finishing Arthur's sentence for him, "—he's a gold digger, mark my words." Irritated, she sighed. "I've got to get ready. We can fight about this after the races."

"Nothing to fight about. Nothing at all." Arthur's tone softened. "Good riding. Safe races. God bless. See you after the day's run."

"Sure." Addie propelled Harry toward the weigh-in stand as Arthur joined Fair and other jovial officials. "You'll adore Nigel—you haven't met him, have you? Arthur's being an old poop, as usual."

"He worries about you."

"Tough." Addie's face cleared. "Nigel's riding for Mickey Townsend. Just started for him. I warned him to get his money at the end of each day, though. Mickey's got good horses but he's always broke. Nigel's new, you know—he came over from England."

Harry smiled. "Americans don't name their sons Nigel."

"He's got the smoothest voice. Like silk." Addie was ignoring the wry observation.

"How long have you been dating him?"

"Two months. Chark can't stand him but Charles the Sixth can be such a moose sometimes. I wish he and Arthur would stop hovering over me. Just because a few of my boyfriends in the past have turned out to be blister bugs."

Harry laughed. "Hey, you know what they say, you gotta kiss a lot of toads before finding the prince."

"Better than getting a blister."

"Addie, anything is better than a blister bug." She paused. "Except drugs. Does Nigel take them? You can't be too careful." Harry believed in grabbing the bull by the horns.

Quickly, Addie said, "I don't do drugs anymore," then changed the subject. "Hey, is Susan coming today?"

"Later. The Reverend Jones will be here, too. The whole Crozet gang. We've got to root for Bazooka."

Chark waved for his sister to join him.

"Oops. Big Brother is watching me." She dropped Harry's arm. "Harry, I'll see you after the races. I want you to meet Nigel."

"After the races then." Harry walked over to get her fence assignment.

Harry, as usual, had been assigned the east gate jump, so-called because it lay closest to the east gate entrance to the main house. She vaulted over the rail to the patrons' tents, put together a ham biscuit and a cup of tea, turned too fast without looking, and bumped into a slender dark man accompanied by a jockey she recognized.

"I'm sorry," she said.

"Another woman falling over you," Coty Lamont said sarcastically.

"Coty, you aren't using the right cologne. Old manure doesn't attract women." The other man spoke in a light English accent.

Harry, who knew Coty slightly—the best jockey riding at this time—smiled at him. "Smells good to me, Coty."

He recognized her since she occasionally worked other steeplechase races. "The post office lady."

"Mary Minor Haristeen." She held out her hand.

He shook her hand. He couldn't extend his hand until she offered hers . . . rough as Coty appeared, he had absorbed the minimum of social graces.

"And this here's Nigel Danforth."

"Pleased to meet you Mr. Danforth." Harry shook his hand. "I'm a friend of Addie's."

Their faces relaxed.

"Ah," Nigel said simply, and smiled.

"Then be ready to part-tee," Coty said.

"Uh—sure," Harry, a bit confused by their sudden enthusiasm, said softly.

"See you later." Coty headed for the jockeys' changing tent.

Nigel winked. "Any friend of Addie's . . ." Then he, too, hurried to the tent.

Harry watched the diminutive men walk away from her, struck by how tiny their butts were. She did not know what to make of those two. Their whole demeanor had changed when she mentioned Addie. She felt as if she'd given the password to an exclusive club.

She blinked, sipped some tea, then walked out the east side of the tent area and stepped over the cordon. Tucker ducked under it.

"Come on, Tucker, let's check our fence before the hordes arrive."

"Good idea," Tucker said. "You know how everyone stops to pass and repass. If you don't get over there now you'll never get over."

Harry glanced down at the dog. "You've got a lot to say."

"Yes, but you don't listen."

From the east gate jump Harry couldn't see the cars driving in, but she could hear the steady increase in noise. Glad to be alone, she bit into the succulent ham biscuit and noticed Mim walking back through the gates to the big house, toward the races. She thought to herself that the political tour must be over, another reason she was happy to be in the back—no handshaking.

Working in the Crozet post office allowed Harry weekends and a minimum of hassle. The P.O. was open Saturdays from 8 a.m. to noon. Sally Dohner and Liz Beer alternated Saturdays so Harry enjoyed two full days of freedom. Her friends took their work home with them, fretted, burned the midnight oil. Harry locked the door to the small postal building on Crozet's main drag, drove home, and forgot about work until the next morning. If she was going to fret over something, it would be her farm at the base of Yellow Mountain or some problem with a friend. Often accused of lacking ambition, she readily agreed with her critics. Her Smith College classmates, just beginning to nudge forward in their high-powered careers in New York, Boston, Richmond, and far-flung cities in the Midwest and West, reminded her she had graduated in the top 10 percent of her class. They felt she was wasting her life. She felt her life was lived from within. It was a rich life. She used a different measuring stick than they did.

She had one thing they didn't: time. Of course, they had one thing she didn't: money. She never could figure out how you could have both. Well, Marilyn "Mim" Sanburne did, but she had inherited more money than God. In Mim's defense, she used it wisely, often to help others, but to be a beneficiary of her largesse, one had to tolerate her grandeur. Little Marilyn, Harry's age, who glowered in her mother's shadow, was tiring of good works. A flaming romance would take precedence over good deeds, but Little Mim, now divorced, couldn't find Mr. Right, or rather, her mother couldn't find Mr. Right for her.

Harry's mouth curled upward. She had found Mr. Right who'd turned into Mr. Wrong and now wanted to be Mr. Right again. She loved Fair but she didn't know if she could ever again love him in that way.

A roar told her that the Bledsoe/Butler Cup, the first race of the day, one mile on the dirt, $1,000 winner-take-all—had started. Tempted as she was to run up to the flat track and watch, she knew she'd better stay put.

"Tucker, I've been daydreaming about marriage, men"—she sighed—"ex-husbands. The time ran away with me."

Tucker perked up her big ears. "Fair still loves you. You could marry him all over again."

Harry peered into the light brown eyes. "Sometimes you seem almost human—as if you know exactly what I'm saying."

"Sometimes you seem almost canine." Tucker stared back at her. "But you have no nose, Harry."

"Are you barking at me?" Harry laughed.

"I'm telling you to stop living so much in your mind, that's what I'm saying. Why you think I'm barking is beyond me. I know what you're saying."

Harry reached over, hugged the sturdy dog, and kissed the soft fur on her head. "You really are the most adorable dog."

She heard the announcer begin to call the jockeys for the second race, the first division of the Marion duPont Scott Montpelier Cup, purse $10,000, two miles and one furlong over brush for "maidens" three years old and upward, a maiden being a horse that had never won a race. She could see people walking over the hill. Many race fans, the knowledgeable ones, wanted to get away from the crowds and watch the horses.

A brand-new Land Rover drove at the edge of the course, its midnight blue shining in the November light. Harry couldn't imagine being able to purchase such an expensive vehicle. She was saving her pennies to replace the '78 Ford truck, which despite its age was still chugging along.

Dr. Larry Johnson stuck his head out the Land Rover's passenger window. "Everything shipshape?"

"Yes, sir." Harry saluted.

"Hello, Tucker." Larry spoke to the sweet-eyed dog.

"Hi, Doc."

"We've got about ten minutes." Larry turned to Jim Sanburne, Mim's husband and the mayor of Crozet, who was driving. "Don't we, Jim?"

"I reckon." Jim leaned toward the passenger window, his huge frame blotting out the light from the driver's side. "Harry, you know that Charles Valiant and Mickey Townsend are fighting like cats and dogs, so pay close attention to those races where they've both got entries."

"What's the buzz?" Harry had heard nothing of the feud.

"Hell, I don't know. These damn trainers are prima donnas."

"Mickey accused Chark of instructing Addie to bump his jockey at the Maryland Hunt Cup last year. His horse faltered at the sixth fence and then just couldn't quite pick it up."

"Mickey's a sore loser," Jim growled to Larry. "He'll break your fingers if you beat him at checkers—especially if there's money bet on the game."

"Goes back further than that." Harry sighed.

"You're right. Charles hated Mickey from the very first date Mickey had with his mother." Jim ran his finger under his belt. "Takes some boys like that. But you know Charles had sense enough to worry that Townsend only wanted her money."

"Chark couldn't understand how Marylou could prefer Mickey to Arthur." Larry Johnson recalled the romance, which had started seven years ago, ending in shock and dismay for everyone. "I guess any woman who compares Arthur to Mickey is bound to favor Mickey. I don't think it had to do with money."

"Off the top of your head, do you know what races—"

Before Harry could finish her question, Jim Sanburne bellowed, "The third, the fifth, and the sixth."

"Nigel Danforth is riding for Townsend," Larry added.

"Addie told me," Harry said.

"You heard about them too." Jim smiled.

"Kinda. I mean, I know that Addie is crazy for him."

"Her brother isn't." Larry folded his arms across his chest.

"Hey, just another day in Virginia." Harry smacked the door of the Land Rover.

"Ain't that the truth," Jim said. "Put two Virginians in a room and you get five opinions."

"No, Jim, put you in a room and we get five opinions," Larry tweaked him.

Jim laughed. "I'm just the mayor of a small town reflecting the various opinions of my voters."

"We'll come by after the first race. Need anything? Food? Drink?" Larry asked while Jim was still laughing at himself.

"Thanks, no."

"Okay, Harry, catch you in about a half hour then." Jim rolled up the hill as Larry waved.

Harry put her hands on her hips and thought to herself. Jim, in his sixties, and Larry, in his seventies, had known her since she was born. They knew her inside and out, as she knew them. That was another reason she didn't much feel like being the Queen of Madison Avenue. She belonged here with her people. There was a lot that never needed to be said when you knew people so intimately.

This shorthand form of communication did not apply to Boom Boom Craycroft, creaming over the top of the hill like a clipper in full sail. Since Boom Boom had once enjoyed an affair with Harry's ex-husband, the buxom, tall, and fashionable woman was not Harry's favorite person on earth. Boom Boom reveled in the emotional texture of life. Today she reveled in the intense pleasure of swooping down on Harry, who couldn't move away since she was the fence judge.

"Harry!" Boom Boom cruised over, her square white teeth gleaming, her heavy, expensive red cape moving gently in the breeze.

"Hi, Boom." Harry shortened her nickname, one won in high school because her large bosoms seemed to boom-boom with each step. The boys adored her.

"You're dressed for the job." Boom Boom appraised Harry's pressed jeans and L. L. Bean duck boots—the high-topped ones, which reached only nine inches for women, a fact that infuriated Harry since she could have used twelve inches on the farm; only the men's boots had twelve-inch uppers. Harry also wore a silk undershirt, an ironed flannel tartan plaid, MacLeod, and a goosedown vest, in red. If the day warmed up, she would shed her layers.

"Boom Boom, I'm usually dressed this way."

"I know," came the tart reply from the woman standing there in Versace from head to foot. Her crocodile boots alone cost over a thousand dollars.

"I don't have your budget."

"Even if you did you'd look exactly the same."

"All right, Boom, what's the deal? You come over here to give me your fashion lecture 101, to visit uneasiness upon me, or do you want something from Tucker?"

Tucker squeezed next to her mother. "She's got on too much perfume, Mom. She's stuffing my nose up."

Boom Boom leaned over to pat the silky head. "Tucker, very impressive with your official's badge."

"Boom, those fake fingernails have got to go," the dog replied.

"I'm here to visit and to watch the first race from the back."

"Have a fight with Carlos?"

Boom Boom had been dating a wealthy South American who lived in New York City and Buenos Aires.

"He's not here this weekend."

"Trolling, then?" Harry wryly used the term for going around picking up men.

"You can be so snide, Harry. It's not your best feature. I'm here to patch up our relationship."

"We don't have a relationship."

"Oh, yes, we do."

"They're lining up, the starter's tape is up,"—the announcer's voice rang out as he waited for the tape to drop—"and they're off."

"I've got to work this race." Harry moved Boom Boom forcibly back, then took up her stance on the rail dead even with the jump. If a rider went down, she could reach the jockey quickly, as soon as all the other horses were over the fence, while the outriders went after the runaway horse.

The first jumps limbered up the horses and settled the jockeys. By the time they reached Harry's jump, the competition would be fierce. The first race over fences covered a distance of two miles and one furlong; competitors would pass her obstacle only once. This race, and in fact all races but the fifth, the Virginia Hunt Cup, were run over brush, meaning the synthetic Grand National brush fences, which had replaced natural brush some years ago. The reasoning behind the change was that the natural brush varied in density. Because steeplechase horses literally "brushed" through the top of these jumps, any inconsistency in texture or depth or solidity could cause a fall or injury. The Grand National fences provided horses with a safer jump. Timber horses, on the other hand, had to jump cleanly over the whole obstacle, although the top timbers were notched on the back so they would give way if rapped hard enough. Even so, the last thing a timber trainer or jockey wanted was for one of their horses to "brush" through a timber fence.

Harry heard the crowd. Then in the distance she heard the thunder. The earth shook. The sensation sent chills up her spine, and in an instant the horses turned the distant corner, a kaleidoscope of finely conditioned bays, chestnuts, and seal browns, hooves reaching out as they lengthened their stride. She recognized the purple silks of Mim Sanburne as well as Addie's determined gaze. The Urquharts, Mim's family, had registered the first year that the Jockey Club was organized, 1894, so their horses ran in solid color silks. Harry also saw the other silks: emerald green with a red hoop around the chest, blue with yellow dots, yellow with a diagonal black sash, the colors intense, rippling with the wind, heightening the sensation of speed, beauty, and power.

The first three horses cleared the brush, their hooves tipping the top of the synthetic cedar, making an odd swishing sound, then she heard the reassuring thump-thump as those front hooves reached the earth followed by the hind. The three leaders pulled away, and the remainder of the pack cleared the jump, a Degas painting come to life.

She breathed a sigh of relief. No one went down at her fence. No fouls. As the hoofbeats died away, moving back up the hill toward the last several jumps and the homestretch, the crowd screamed while the announcer called out the positions of the horses.

"Closing hard, Ransom Mine, but Devil Fox hanging on to the lead, and here they come down the stretch, and Ransom Mine is two strides out, but oh, what a burst of speed, it's Devil Fox under the wire!"

"Hurray for Mim!" Harry whispered. "A strong second."

Boom Boom drew alongside her. "She didn't expect much from Ransom Mine, did she?"

"She's only had him about six months. Picked him up in Maryland, I think."

"Changing trainers helped," Boom Boom said, "Chark is working out really well for her."

"Will and Linda Forloines are still going around telling horror stories about how much they did for Mim, and how vile she was to fire them." Harry shook her head, recalling Mim's former trainer and his wife, a jockey. "Will couldn't find his ass with both hands."

"No, but he sure found the checkbook," Boom Boom said. "And I don't think Will has a clue as to how much Linda makes selling cocaine or how much she takes herself."

"They're lucky Big Mim didn't prosecute them, padding the stable budget the way they did."

"She'd spend thousands of dollars in court and still never see a penny back. They've squandered all of it. Her revenge will be watching them blow out. Mim's too smart to directly cross druggies. She'll let them kill themselves—or take the cure. Thank God Addie took the cure."

"Yes," Harry said succinctly. She hated people who took advantage of others and justified it by saying the people they were stealing from were rich. If she remembered her Ten Commandments, one said, Thou Shalt Not Steal. It didn't say, Thou Shalt Not Steal Except When the Employer is Wealthy. Will and Linda Forloines still hung around the edges of the steeplechase world. The previous year Will had been reduced to working in a convenience store outside of Middleburg. Finally they had latched on to a rich doctor who moved down from New Jersey and who wanted to "get into horses." Poor man.

"They're here."

"Here?" Harry said. Boom Boom's deep voice could lull one, it was so lovely, she thought.

"You'd think they'd have the sense not to show their faces."

"Will never was the brightest bulb on the Christmas tree." Harry peeled off her down vest as Boom Boom changed the subject.

"I'm here to tell you that I'm sorry I had a fling with Fair, but it was after your divorce. He's a sweet man, but we weren't the right two people. I hadn't dated anyone seriously since Kelly died, and I needed to put my toes in the water."

Harry didn't think it was Boom Boom's toes that had fascinated Fair, but she resisted the urge to make a comment. Also, she didn't believe for one minute that the relationship had magically started right after the divorce. "Can you understand how it would upset me?"

"No. You divorced him."

"That didn't mean I was over him, dammit." Harry decided not to try to pinpoint the exact date of Boom Boom's liaison with Fair. At least they hadn't appeared in public until after the divorce.

"Why take it out on me? Take it out on him."

"I did, sorta."

"Well, Harry, what about the women, uh, while you were married? Those were your enemies, not me."

"Did I ever say I was emotionally mature?" Harry crossed her arms over her chest as Tucker followed the conversation closely.

"No."

"So."

"So what?"

"So, I could see you. I couldn't see those affairettes he was having while we were married. I got mad at you for all of them, I guess. I never said I was right to get mad at you but I did."

"You're still mad at me."

"No, I'm not." Harry half lied.

"You certainly never go out of your way to be nice to me."

"I'm cordial."

"Harry, we're both born and raised in Virginia. You know exactly what I mean." And Boom Boom was right. One could be correct but cool. Virginians practiced cutting one another with precise elegance.

"Yeah, well, since we were both raised in Virginia, we know how to avoid subjects like this, Boom Boom. I have no desire to explore my emotions with you or anybody."

"Exactly!"

Harry squinted at the triumphant face. "Don't start with me."

"We've got to grow beyond our conditioning. We've got to cast aside or break through our repression. You can't hold your emotions in, they'll eat away at you until you become ill or dry up like some people I could mention."

"I'm very healthy."

"You're also not twenty anymore. You've been holding these emotions in for too long."

"Now, look." Harry's voice oozed reasonableness. "What you call repressed, I call disciplined. I am not teetering on the brink of self-annihilation. I don't drink. I don't take drugs. I don't even smoke. I like my life. I'd like a little more money maybe, but I like my life."

"You're in denial."

"Denial is a river in Egypt."

"Harry," her voice lowered, "that joke's got gray hairs. You don't fool me with your quips. I want you to come with me to Lifeline. It's changed my life, absolutely. Six months ago I would never have been able to approach you, I would have held on to my own anger, but now I want to reach out. I want us to be friends. Lifeline teaches you to take responsibility for yourself. For your own emotions. It's a structured process, and I know you like structure. You can learn these things, learn new ways to be with people in a group that will encourage you. You'll feel safe. Trust me, Harry, it will make you happy."

Trusting Boom Boom was the last thing Harry would ever do. "I'm not the type."

"I'll even pay for it."

"What?"

"I mean it. I'll pay for it. I feel so bad that you're still mad at me. I want us to be friends. Please consider my offer."

"I—" Harry, caught off guard, stuttered, "I, I—Jesus, Boom Boom."

"Think about it. I know you'll find a thousand reasons not to do this, but why don't you take out a pad of paper and list the pros and cons? You might find more reasons to engage in Lifeline than you know."

"Uh—I'll think about it."

"One other little thing."

"Oh, God."

"Think about the fact that you're still in love with Fair."

"I am not! I love him but I'm not in love with him."

"Lifeline." Boom Boom smiled seraphically, moving off.

Harry breathed deeply, conscious of her heart pounding. Jim Sanburne's midnight-blue Land Rover hove into view. She collected herself.

"News?" Larry inquired.

"Clean as a whistle," Harry said.

"Are you all right?" the doctor asked, observing her flushed face and rapid breathing.

"I'm fine. How long till the next race?"

"Half hour. Just about," Jim answered her.

"I need a co—cola."

"You need something," Larry joked. "You're breathing like a freight train. Why don't you come to my office Monday? How long's it been since you had a checkup?"

"Larry, I'm fine. I had a little tête-à-tête with Boom Boom."

"Say no more." He smiled and as the two men drove off, Jim said, "Did she say tit a tat?"

"No." Larry laughed loudly. "Jim, you're just a redneck with money."

Jim grunted. "Sounded like body parts to me, good buddy."

"Mom, I'm hungry."

"Tucker, stop yapping, you're getting on my nerves."

"You've had a ham biscuit and I haven't had anything since breakfast." The aroma from the food tents drove Tucker to distraction.

Harry checked her watch. Twenty minutes. She dashed into a tent, grabbed fried chicken, a small container of coleslaw, another one of beans, one cold Coke, and a big cup of hot tea with a plastic cover on it.

As Harry threaded her way through the crowd, she passed the jockeys' tent. A commotion stopped her. The flap of the tent opened to reveal colorful silks on hangers dangling from a rope strung across the tent. Ace bandages, caps, and socks were tossed on low benches.

Nigel, close-cropped black hair gleaming in the sun, charged out. Chark Valiant charged out after him.

"Leave him alone," Addie called after her brother. She opened the tent flap, sticking her head through. She hadn't finished changing and couldn't come all the way out.

"Shut up, Adelia." Chark pushed her head back behind the flaps, then twirled on the young man. "You flaming phony—you don't fool me. If my sister weren't a Valiant, you wouldn't give her the time of day."

Addie popped her head back out of the tent as a florid Mickey Townsend bore down on the scene from one direction.

Arthur Tetrick leaned out of the top of the two-story finish-line tower. "Mickey, don't—" He shut up, realizing he'd cause a bigger scene.

The jockey kept walking away from Chark, who grabbed him by the right shoulder, spinning him around.

"Stop it." Nigel's voice was clipped and furious.

"You stay away from my sister."

"She's old enough to make her own decisions."

Chark shook his finger in Nigel's face. "You want her money, you lying sack of shit."

"Bugger off," Nigel growled.

Chark hauled off to hit him but Mickey Townsend grabbed Chark from behind, pulling him back. "Settle this later."

Chark twisted his head to see Mickey as Nigel returned to Addie, who'd stuck her head out of the tent again. He slipped into the tent with her as three other jockeys slipped out.

"Takes one gold digger to know another." Chark struggled.

Mickey, square-built and powerful, continued dragging him away. "Shove it."

Arthur, who had hurried down from the tower, approached the two men. "Mickey, I'll take over from here."

"Suit yourself." Mickey unleashed his iron grip on the young man.

"Thank you for defusing an embarrassing situation." Arthur grabbed Chark's elbow.

"Yeah, sure." Mickey inclined his handsome, crew-cut head, then ambled back to the paddock.

"Charles, this will not do," Arthur sternly admonished him.

"I'll kill that creep."

Arthur rolled his eyes heavenward. ' 'The more resistance you offer, the more irresistible he becomes. Besides, Adelia's a baby. She's not going to date men you find attractive."

"I don't find men attractive," Chark sassed back.

"A slip of the tongue. You know what I mean." Arthur draped his arm over Chark's shoulder. "Calm down. Ignore this absurd romance. If you do, it will die of its own accord." The horses were now in the paddock. "Tell you what, after the races I have to fax in the paperwork to National from the big house. Take everyone maybe an hour. How about if I meet you at the Keswick Club for a drink? We can talk this over then. Okay? Then we'll look in on Mim's party or she'll banish us to Siberia."

"Okay," Chark replied, trying to settle his churning emotions. "But I just don't get it."

Arthur chuckled. "That's what makes the world go 'round. They don't think like we do—"

Chark interrupted. "They don't think."

"Be that as it may, men and women see the world quite differently. I've got to climb back up to my perch. Keswick Club at eight."

"Yeah." Chark smiled at the man who had become his surrogate father, then headed to the paddock where Addie, already up on a rangy bay called Chattanooga Choo, ignored his approach.

Nigel, in orange silks with three royal blue hoops, rode a striking chestnut beside her as they walked the horses around.

Chark sighed deeply, deciding not to give his sister instructions for the third race. She usually ignored them anyway.

Harry jogged back to her position, nodding to friends as she weaved her way through the dense throng. As they spied the official's badge, they waved her on, a few calling that they'd drop by to see her. She wondered what it was about romantic energy or sexual energy that made everybody crazy, producing a scene like the one she had just witnessed.

She returned to the east gate jump, sat down, and opened her tea. A plume of steam spiraled upward.

"Mother!" Tucker's voice rose.

"Beggar." Harry tore off a piece of hot chicken which Tucker gobbled. "Fat beggar."

"I'm not a beggar, but I can't reach the tables and you can. And I'm not fat. Fat is Pewter." Tucker aptly described the gray cat who worked at Market Shiflett's convenience store next to the post office in Crozet. Pewter couldn't come to the races either, doubling Tucker's supreme satisfaction.

The announcer called out post time. Harry started eating as fast as Tucker. She hadn't realized how famished she was, but she'd been up since five that morning with only a few bites to sustain her.

Each morning Harry fed her three horses, then turned them out into the pasture. She left marshmallows for the possum who lived in the hayloft. Then she'd feed her pets . . . but sometimes she forgot to feed herself. Mrs. Murphy, apart from a good breakfast, had a huge bowl of crunchies in mixed flavors. Usually Harry left open the animal door that she had installed in her back kitchen door. The screen door off the screened-in porch, which ran the length of the kitchen, was easy for Mrs. Murphy and Tucker to push open. But this morning she had closed up the animal door, deciding she'd keep Mrs. Murphy in the house since the cat had been known to follow the car. By the time she left to fetch Mira, she'd put in three hours of hard work on the farm.

The trumpet call to the third race made Harry eat even faster. She rinsed the food down with tea and Coke.

"Got any left?"

"Tucker, get your nose out of that cup."

"Just curious."

Harry brushed herself off, picked up her debris, and stood at her position.

She heard a crack, then a double shot fired. False start. Those wore on the nerves of riders and horses. The announcer called out the renewed lineup. "Horses in position. They're off!" The third race, the Noel Laing Stakes, two and a half miles over brush, was the second biggest race of the day, with a purse of $30,000—60 percent to the winner.

The crowd yelped in anticipation. The horses charged out of sight and Harry heard the rumble of hooves, the ground shaking like Jell-O. The leader, a bright bay, was way ahead of the others. Every one cleared her fence, although one horse faltered. The jockey pulled up, his green silks with a blue cross already pasted with sweat to his body.

Harry knew this race was two and a half miles long. The horses would be around again in a few minutes. She ran out to the jockey, Coty Lamont.

"You okay?"

"He's come up lame. I'll walk up on the inside rail." Coty dismounted, careful to hold on to the reins as Harry held the horse by the bridle. "Vet's up there."

"Blown tendon, I'm afraid, Coty." Harry hoped she was wrong, because tendon injuries took a long time to heal and the risk of re-injury on a bowed tendon was high.

"Yeah." Coty touched his crop to his cap by way of thanks. He slowly walked the gelding across the course and up the inside rail as Harry raced back to her post.

Seconds later the field came around for another lap. All jumped clean.

As Harry waited for the announcer's report on the victor, she saw Will and Linda Forloines walking down the grassy slope toward her. They had in tow a man all but wrapped in Barbour.

Linda called out, "Hello, Harry."

"Hi." Harry waved to both of them. No reason to be impolite, much as she disliked the couple. She knew instantly the fellow in country drag had to be their soon-to-be-fleeced Yankee employer. She also knew that Will and Linda were making a point of showing him they knew everyone in the steeplechase world. Linda, more cunning than Will, wouldn't stop to talk to many people since she knew they would not warmly welcome her. The New Jersey gentleman wouldn't realize she was not on friendly terms since everyone would be polite. They turned and walked in the other direction as the Land Rover drove toward Harry. Linda ducked her head at the sight of Jim Sanburne.

Jim and Larry pulled up again. This time Mim, in the backseat, hopped out. She hadn't seen Will and Linda. The men drove on.

"I want to watch the fourth race from here. I can't bear listening to Boom Boom tell me about spiced cream cheese on endive for another second! It's either endives or Lifeline." She twirled her wool cape behind her.

"This fence is too far away for most people to walk." Harry glanced down the rail. "Uh, but not too far for Greg Satterwaite. I see he's working the outside rail. I guess he'll be going to the outside barns next. God forbid he should miss anyone."

"Don't tell me," Mim exclaimed. "Has the good senator seen me?"

"Not yet. He's busy pumping hands and smiling big." Harry pulled a huge fake smile as demonstration.

Mim scurried behind one of the big trees. A telltale whiff of smoke would give her away should anyone be looking. Harry ignored Mim's cheating; she knew Mim wasn't supposed to smoke. Still, she wasn't going to tell Mim what to do or what not to do.

"Hi, there. How are you?" Satterwaite held out his hand, already swollen.

Harry suppressed an evil urge to squeeze it. "Morning, Senator."

"I surely hope I may count on your vote. This is a tough election for me."

"You can," Harry replied with little enthusiasm. She hated politics.

A jet of smoke shot upward from behind the tree.

"Thank you, thank you for your support." He smiled, capped teeth gleaming, then moved on to his next victim.

A few moments later Mim sneaked out from behind the tree. "Whew! Saved. When a politician knows you have money they'll talk until they're blue in the face. Save us from our government!"

"We're supposed to be a democracy. Save us from ourselves." Harry laughed, then noticed the cigarette still in Mim's fingers; it was burning down to a stub.

Mim stomped it into the ground. "Don't tell Jim."

"I won't." But she was surprised to see Mim gambling with her health after her bout with breast cancer.

Harry checked her program. "You've got Royal Danzig in this race. Congratulations on the first division of the Montpelier Cup, by the way. Ransom Mine took this fence with so much daylight he was flying."

"If he stays sound, he'll be one of the great ones, like Victorian Hill." Mim mentioned a wonderful horse, a star in the early '90s.

"Who was the greatest 'chaser you ever saw?"

Mim replied without hesitation. "Battleship, by Man-O'-War out of Quarantine, bred in 1927. To see that horse in Mrs. Scott's pale blue silks with the pink-and-silver cross was something I'll never forget. I was tiny then, but it made such an impression. This place was hopping because Mrs. Scott was in her prime. To have seen Battleship, that was heaven."

"What about Marylou Valiant's Zinger?" Harry remembered the leggy chestnut colt.

"If he hadn't injured his stifle, yes, I think he could have been very fine indeed." She looked up at the sky. "I hope she's up there watching today. People will say I hired Adelia and Charles out of affection. Granted that may have played some small part, but the truth is they're good . . . and getting better. And the difference in the stable since that dreadful couple is gone!" She crossed her arms over her chest. "You know it was a drip-drip like Chinese water torture after Marylou disappeared. The day I admitted to myself she must be dead was one of the darkest days of my life. And I promised to do what I could for her children."

"You more than kept your promise."

"The hard work was done. Marylou and Charley did that. When Chark went to Cornell and Addie to Foxcroft, I saw them at holidays and special school functions. What was hard was knowing when to be firm." She laughed at herself. "Now with Marilyn I never had trouble with that, but . . . well, their loss had been so profound. I sometimes wonder if I should have been tougher, especially with Addie."

Before Harry could say anything, they both heard the shot. Mim moved back. Harry trained her eyes on the roll of the land where she would first see the field.

Again that eerie rumble, and then the horses, packed tightly together, surged into view. Mim's purple silks were in the middle of the pack, a good place for this point in a race of just over two miles. Goggles over her eyes, Addie concentrated on the jump. Harry listened to the grunts and shouts of the jockeys as they cleared the brush, the whap-whap and whoosh as the hind hooves touched the greenery. And then they were gone, raging on, slipping into the dip of the land, and charging uphill again for the next fence.

Mim strained to hear the announcer call out positions. As they cleared Harry's jump, one horse in the rear of the pack took off too early and crashed through the jump, stumbling on the other side but recovering.

Harry watched the horse, which wasn't injured but was tiring badly. "Dammit, why doesn't he pull up?"

"Because it's Linda Forloines. She'll drive a horse to death."

"But I just saw Linda not twenty minutes ago."

"Zack Merchant's jockey got stepped on in the paddock as he was mounting up. Linda scurried right up to Zack, and of course he was desperate. The results speak for themselves."

The crowd noises followed the horses, an odd muffle of congregated voices, and then the field again appeared on the hill, Royal Danzig still safely in the middle.

Harry shook her head. "Linda's a piece of work."

"Precisely." Mim pursed her lips. She was not one to spread negative gossip, but she despised the Forloines to such a degree it took all her formidable discipline not to share her loathing with anyone who would listen.

"Zack Merchant's not exactly a prince among men either." Harry hated the way he treated horses, although to customers and new clients he put on a show of caring for the animals. Other horsemen knew his brutal methods, but as yet there was no way to address abuse inside the racing game. It was a little like telling a man he couldn't beat his wife. You might hate him for it. You might want to smash his face in, but somehow—you just couldn't until you caught him in the act.

The announcer's voice rose in frenzy. "Four lengths and pulling away, this race is all Royal Danzig, Royal Danzig, Royal Danzig, with Isotone crossing the finish line a distant second followed by Hercule and Vitamin Therapy."

"Congratulations!" Harry shook Mim's hand. Mim wasn't a woman designed for a spontaneous hug.

Mim carefully took the proffered hand. Her face flushed. She was wary against her own happiness. After all, the results weren't official yet. "Thank you." She blinked. "I'll find Chark and Addie. Quite a smart race she rode, staying with the pack until the stretch."

"You're having a sensational day." Harry smiled. "And it's not over yet."

"The official results of the Montpelier Cup, second division, are Royal Danzig, Isotone, and Hercule." The announcer's voice crinkled with metallic sound.

Mim relaxed. "Ah—" She couldn't think of anything to say.

"Congratulations, Mrs. Sanburne." Tucker panted with excitement.

Mim said, "Tucker wants something."

"No, I'm just happy for you," Tucker replied.

"Tucker."

"Why do you always tell me to be quiet when I'm being polite?" Tucker's ears swept back and forth.

"I'd better head up to the winner's circle. Oh, here comes my knight in shining armor."

Jim Sanburne rolled down in the Land Rover. "Come on, honeybunch."

"Well done, Mim The Magnificent!" Larry laughed.

"Hi, guys." Harry poked her head in the window. "Tell Fair to check on the horse Linda Forloines rode. He looks wrung out."

"Will do," Larry Johnson said as Jim kissed his wife, who was sliding into the front seat.

Larry Johnson moved to the back, and for an instant as Mim swung her attractive legs under her, close together as befits a proper Southern lady, Harry had an intimation of what Mim must have been like when young: graceful, reserved, lovely. The lovely had turned to impeccably groomed once she reached 39.999 and holding ... as Miranda Hogendobber had put it when she reached sixty herself. However, the graceful and reserved stayed the course. That Mim was a tyrant and always had been was so much the warp and woof of life in these parts that few bothered to comment on it anymore. At least her tyrannies usually were in the service of issues larger than her own ego.

Harry walked to Mim's tree, leaning against the rough bark. Tucker sat at her feet. The temperature climbed to the high fifties, the sky's startling pure blue punctuated with clouds the color of Devonshire cream. Harry felt oddly tired.

Miranda, her brogues giving her firm purchase on the grass, strode straight over the hill, ducked under the inside rail, crossed the course, and ducked under the outside rail. Her tartan skirt held in place with a large brass pin completed an outfit only Miranda could contemplate. The whole look murmured "country life" except for the hunter-green beret, which Miranda insisted on wearing because she couldn't stand for the wind to muss her hair. "No feathers for me," she had announced when Harry had picked her up. Harry's idea of a chapeau was her Smith College baseball cap or an ancient 10X felt cowboy hat with cattleman's crease that her father had worn.

"Tired blood?" Miranda slowly sat down beside her.

"Hmm, my daily sinking spell."

"Mine comes at four, which you know only too well since I collapse on the chair and force you to brew tea.'' Miranda folded her hands together. "Mayhem up there. I have never seen so many people, and Mim can't take a step forward or backward. This is her Montpelier."

"Sure seems to be."

"Isn't it wonderful about the Valiant children?" Miranda still referred to them as children. "They're giving Mim what she wants—winners!

"Uh-huh."

'"When I think of what those two young people endured— well, I can't bear it. The loss of both parents when they were not even out of their teens. It makes me think of the Fortieth Psalm." She launched into her spiritual voice. " T waited patiently for the Lord; he inclined to me and heard my cry. He drew me up from the desolate pit, out of the miry bog, and set my feet upon a rock, making my steps secure—' " She caught her breath.

Harry broke in, "Miranda, how do you remember so much? You could recite from the Bible two weeks running."

"Love the Good Book. If you would join me at the Church of the Holy Light, you'd see why I lift up my voice—"

Harry interrupted again; not her style, but a religious discussion held no appeal for her. "I come to your recitals."

Miranda, possessed of a beautiful singing voice, responded, "And so you do. Now don't forget our big songfest the third weekend in November. I do wish you'd come to a regular service."

"Can't. Well, I could, but you know I'm a member of the Reverend Jones's flock."

"Oh, Herbie, the silver-tongued! When he climbs up in the pulpit, I think the angels bend down to listen. Still, the Lutheran Church contains many flaws that"—she tried to sound large-minded about it—"are bound to creep in over the centuries."

"Miranda, you know how I am." Harry's tone grew firm. "For some reason I must be today's target. Boom Boom appeared to force a heart-to-heart on me. Large ugh. Then Senator Satterwaite came over, but I didn't give him a chance to turn on the tapedeck under his tongue. And now you."

Miranda squinted. "You get out on the wrong side of bed today?"

"No."

"You shouldn't let Boom Boom control your mood."

"I don't," fired back Harry, who suspected it might be true.

"Uh-huh." This was drenched with meaning. Miranda crossed her arms over her chest.

Harry changed the subject. "You're right, the Valiants have been through a lot. These victories must be sweet."

"What would torment me is not knowing where my mother's body was. We all know she's dead. You can only hope but so long, and it's been five years since Marylou disappeared. But when you don't know how someone died, or where, you can't put it to rest. I can go out and visit my George anytime I want. I like to put flowers on his grave. It helps." George, Miranda's husband, had been dead for nine years. He had been the postmaster at Crozet before Harry took over his job.

"Maybe they don't think about it. They don't talk about it— at least, I've never heard them, but I only know them socially."

"It's there—underneath."

"I don't guess we'll ever know what happened to Marylou. Remember when Mim offered the ten-thousand-dollar reward for any information leading to Marylou's discovery?"

"Everyone played detective. Poor Rick." Miranda thought of the Albemarle County sheriff, Rick Shaw, who had been besieged with crackpot theories.

"After Charley died, Marylou kept company with some unimpressive men. She loved Charles Valiant, and I don't think any man measured up for a long time. Then too, he was only thirty-eight when he died. A massive heart attack. Charley was dead before he hit the ground." Miranda held up her hands, palms outward. "Now I am not sitting in judgment. A woman in her late thirties sliding into her early forties, suddenly alone, is vulnerable, indeed. You may not remember, but she dated that fading movie star, Brandon Miles. He wanted her to bankroll his comeback film. She went through men like popcorn . . . until Mickey Townsend, that is."

"Next race!" Harry got up suddenly. The timber jump was alongside the brush jump.

The fifth race, the $40,000 Virginia Hunt Cup, the final leg of the Virginia Fall Timber Championship Series, provided no problems apart from two riders separating company from their mounts, which served to improve the odds for those still in the saddle. Mickey Townsend and Charles Valiant evidenced no antagonism. Their horses and jockeys were so far apart in the four-mile race that neither could cry foul about the other.

As for Linda Forloines, she had picked up Zack Merchant's other horses and had come in third in the Virginia Hunt Cup. She'd take home a little change in her pocket, 10 percent of the $4,400 third-prize money.

The sixth race, the first division of the Battleship, named in memory of Mrs. Scott's famous horse, was two miles and one furlong over brush and carried a $6,000 purse. Miranda, weary of the crowd, stayed with Harry. The tension swept over the hill. They could feel the anticipation. Back on the rail, Mim, wound tighter than a piano wire, tried to keep calm. The jockeys circled the paddock. Addie, perched atop Mim's Bazooka, a 16.3-hand gray, would blaze fast and strong if she could keep him focused. She still avoided Chark. Nigel, wearing Mickey Townsend's red silks with the blue sash, joked with her. Both riders looked up when the low gate was opened so they could enter the grassy track. Linda Forloines, in the brown-and-yellow silks of Zack Merchant, spoke to no one. The sixth race would be difficult enough for those jockeys who knew their horses; she didn't. Coty Lamont exuded confidence, smiling to the crowd as he trotted onto the turf.

The gun fired. "They're off!"

It seemed only seconds before the field rounded toward Harry, soared over the east gate fence, and then pounded away.

"Fast pace," Harry remarked to Miranda.

The crowd noise rolled away over the hill, then rose again as the horses appeared where the largest number of spectators waited. Again the noise died away as the field went up the hill and around the far side of the flat track; only the announcer's voice cut through the tension, calling out the positions and the jumps.

Again the rhythm of hoofbeats electrified Harry, and the field flew around the turn, maintaining a scorching pace.

Bazooka, in splendid condition, held steady at fourth. Harry knew from Mim that Addie's strategy, worked out well in advance with Chark, would call for her to make her move at the next to last fence.

As the horses rushed toward her obstacle, she saw Linda Forloines bump Nigel hard. He lurched to the side as his horse stepped off balance.

"Bloody hell!" he shouted.

Linda laughed. Nigel, on a better horse, pulled alongside her, then began to pull away. In front of the fence Harry saw Linda lash out with her left arm and catch Nigel across the face with her whip. Bloody-lipped, Nigel cleared the fence. Linda cleared a split second behind him. She whipped Nigel again, but this time he was ready for her. He'd transferred his whip from his left to his right hand, and he backhanded her across the face, giving her a dose of her own. Linda screamed. Harry and Miranda watched in astonishment as the two jockeys beat at each other away and up the hill.

"Harry, what do you do?"

"Nothing until after the race. Then I'll have to hurry to the tower and file my report. But unless one of them protests, not a thing will happen. If either one does—what a row!"

"Vicious!"

"Linda Forloines?"

"Oh—well, yes, but the other one was almost as bad."

"Yes, but he was in the unenviable position of having to do something or she'd get worse. People like Linda don't understand fair play. They interpret it as weakness. You need to hit them harder than they hit you."

"In a race?" Miranda puffed up the hill behind Harry as the winner was being announced—Adelia Valiant on Bazooka. Tucker, ears back, scampered on ahead.

"In the best of all possible worlds, no, but that's when people like Linda go after you. When they think you can't or won't fight back. I'd have killed her myself."

They reached the tower, Mrs. Hogendobber panting.

"Miranda, climb up here. You're a witness, too."

Miranda stomped up the three flights of stairs to the tower top where the announcer, Arthur Tetrick, and Colbert Mason, national race director, held sway. Tucker stayed at the foot of the steps.

The horses, cooling down, galloped in front of the stand.

"Harry," Arthur Tetrick said, offering her a drink, "thank you so much for all you've done today. Oh, sorry, Mrs. Hogendobber, I didn't see you."

"Arthur." Harry nodded to Colbert Mason. "Colbert. I'm sorry to report there was a dangerous and unsportsmanlike incident at the east gate jump. Linda Forloines bumped Nigel Dan-forth. It could have been an accident—"

"These things happen." Colbert, in a genial mood, interrupted, for he wanted to rush down to congratulate Mim Sanburne on the stupendous display of winning two races and placing second in another, all in one day. He was especially pleased that Mim had won the Virginia Hunt Cup.

"But wait, Colbert. Then she struck him across the face with her whip. After the jump they flailed at each other like two boxers. Mrs. Hogendobber witnessed it also."

"Miranda?" Arthur's sandy eyebrows were poised above his tortoise-shell glasses.

"Someone could have been seriously injured out there, or worse," Miranda confirmed.

"I see." Arthur leaned over the desk, shouting down to the second level to the race secretary. "Paul, any protest on this race?"

"No, sir."

Just then Colbert leaned over the stand. "I say ..." Now he could see the welts on Nigel's face and his bloody lip as the jockey rode by to the paddock. A look at Linda's face confirmed a battle.

Arthur leaned over to see also. "Good Lord." He shouted, "Nigel Danforth, come here for a moment. Linda Forloines, a word, please."

The two jockeys, neither looking at the other, rode to the bottom of the tower as their trainers and grooms hurried out to grab the bridles of their horses.

"Have you anything to report on the unusual condition of your faces?" Arthur bellowed.

"No, sir," came the Englishman's reply.

"Linda?" Arthur asked.

She shook her head, saying nothing.

"All right, then." Arthur dismissed them as Mim, floating on a cloud, entered the winner's circle. "Harry, there's nothing I can do under the circumstances, but I have a bad feeling that this isn't over yet. If you'll excuse me, I'm due in the winner's circle. I have the check." He patted his chest pocket. "See you ladies at Mim's party."

As the crowd slowly dispersed, the grooms, jockeys, trainers, and owners went about their tasks, until finally only the race officials remained. Even the political candidates had evaporated. One horse van after another rumbled out of the Madison estate.

Harry, Mrs. Hogendobber, and Tucker hopped into the truck as the sun slipped behind the Blue Ridge Mountains. Darkness folded around them as they slowly cruised down the lane.

"Lights are still on in the big barn," Harry noted. "There's so much to do." The horses required a lot of attention after a race—cold-hosing their legs, checking medications, feeding them, and finally cleaning the tack.

"All done," Miranda sang out.

"Huh?"

"The lights just went out."

"Oh." Harry smiled. "Well, good, someone got to go home early."

An hour later the phone jingled up at Montpelier where Arthur and Colbert had repaired for a bit of warmth, then to collate and fax the day's results to the national office in Elkton, Maryland.

"Hello." Arthur's expression changed so dramatically that Colbert stood to assist him if necessary. "We'll be right over." Arthur carefully replaced the receiver in the cradle.

He ran out to his car with Colbert next to him, headed for the big stable.

"Where is he?" Harry grumbled. "You'd think I'd be used to it by now. He's never been on time. Even his own mother admitted he was a week late being born."

"Last time I saw Fair he was checking over that horse with the bowed tendon," Addie said as yet another person came up to congratulate her. "Wherever he is, Nigel's probably with him. He's never on time either."

Mim, champagne glass in hand, raised it. "To the best trainer and jockey in the game, Hip, hip, hooray!" The assemblage ripped out, "Hip, hip, hooray!" Chark lifted his glass in response. "To the best owner." More cheers ricocheted off the tasteful walls of Mim Sanburne's Georgian mansion just northwest of Crozet.

Her husband, Jim, jovially mixed with the guests as servants in livery provided champagne—Louis Roederer Cristal, caviar, sliced chicken, smoked turkey, delicately cured hams, succotash, spoon bread, and desserts that packed a megaton calorie blast.

Many of the serving staff were University of Virginia students. Even with her vast wealth Mim ran a tight ship, and given Social Security, withholding taxes, workers' compensation, and health insurance to pay, she wasn't about to bloat her budget with lots of salaries. She hired for occasions like this, the rest of the time making do with a cook, a butler, and a maid. A farm manager and two full-time laborers rounded out the payroll.

Charles and Adelia Valiant trained her horses, but they trained other people's as well. Once a month Mim received an itemized bill. Since they enjoyed the use of her facilities for half the year, Mim was granted a deep discount. The other half of the year the Valiants wintered and trained in Aiken, South Carolina.

Mim called steeplechasers slow gypsies since they stayed for four to six months and then moved on.

The Reverend Herbert Jones, tinkling ice cubes in his glass, joined Harry as Addie was pulled away by another celebrant.

"Beautiful day. 'Course, you never know with Montpelier. I've stood in the snow, the rain, and I've basked in seventy-four degrees and sunshine. Today was one of the best."

"Pretty good." Harry smiled.

Herb watched Boom Boom Craycroft out of the corner of his eye. She worked the room, moving in a semicircle toward Harry. "Boom Boom's tacking your way." He lowered his gravelly voice.

"Not again."

"Oh?" His eyebrows shot upward.

"She freely shared her innermost feelings with me between the first and second races. Forgiveness and redemption are just around the corner if I'll join Lifeline."

"I thought forgiveness and redemption were mine to dispense." The Reverend Jones laughed at himself. "Well, now, let her ramble. Who knows, maybe this Lifeline really has helped her in some way. I prefer prayer myself."

In the background the phone rang. Rick Shaw, the Sheriff of Albemarle County, was summoned to it.

"He never gets a break. Coop neither," Harry observed. Shaw's deputy was Cynthia Cooper.

"Lots of drunks on the road after Montpelier."

"They don't need the races for an excuse. I figure they IV the stuff."

Rick hung up the phone, whispered something to Mim, and left the party. Mim's face registered shock. Then she quickly regained her social mask.

Sheriff Rick Shaw, penlight in hand, pulled back an eyelid. Nothing. He continued carefully examining the body before him, with Dr. Larry Johnson observing. Shaw didn't want the corpse moved yet.

Nigel Danforth sat exactly as Fair Haristeen had found him—upright on a tack trunk, wearing his red silks with the blue sash. A knife was plunged through his heart.

Although the murder appeared to have taken place in Orange County and Rick Shaw was sheriff of the adjoining county, Orange 's sheriff, Frank Yancey, had called him in. Rick had handled more murders than he had, and this one was a puzzle, especially since the knife had been plunged through a playing card, the Queen of Clubs, which was placed over Nigel's heart.

Fair, arms crossed, watched, his face still chalky white.

"His body was exactly like this when you found him?" Rick asked the lanky vet.

"Yes."

"See anything, anyone?"

"No, I walked in through the north doors and turned on the lights. All the horses should have been removed by then but I thought I'd double-check. He was sitting there. I didn't know anything was wrong, although I thought it was peculiar that he'd sit in the dark. I called to him, and he didn't answer. When I drew closer, I saw the knife sticking out of his chest. I felt his pulse. Goner."

"What about his body temperature when you touched him?"

"Still warm, Larry. Maybe he had been dead an hour. His extremities hadn't started to fill with fluid. He really looked as though he was just sitting there."

"No sign of anybody—anything?" Rick sighed. He'd known Fair for years, respected him as a vet and therefore as a scientific man. Fair's recollections counted heavily in Rick's book.

"None in the barn. A few big vans pulled out across the road. Their noise could have covered someone running away. I checked the stalls, I climbed into the hayloft, tack room. Nothing, Sheriff."

"The card's a neat trick." Frank Yancey shook his head. "Maybe it's a payback for a gambling debt."

"Helluva payback," Larry Johnson said.

"Helluva debt?" Frank gestured, his hands held upward.

"Frank, you've got the photos and prints you need?" Rick continued when Frank nodded in the affirmative, "Well, let's remove the body then. Do you mind if Larry sits in on the autopsy?"

"No, no, I'd be glad to have him there."

"Guess I can't keep this out of the papers." George Miller, Orange's mayor, unconsciously wrung his hands. He had arrived minutes after Yancey's call. "Colbert Mason and Arthur Tetrick were horrified, but they turned cagey pretty fast. They especially didn't want a photo of the body to get into the papers."

"One murder in the steeplechase world doesn't mean it's seething with corruption," Larry remarked sensibly.

"Five years ago there was another murder." Fair's deep baritone sounded sepulchral in the barn.

"What are you talking about?" Frank leaned forward.

"Marylou Valiant."

"Never found her, did they?" Frank Yancey blinked, remembering.

"No," Rick answered. "We know of no connection to steeplechasing other than that she owned a good string of horses. That's not a motive for murder. There are some who think she's not dead. She just walked away from her life."

"They say that about Elvis, too," Fair replied. "Anyone told Adelia Valiant?"

"Why?" Frank and George said simultaneously.

"She was dating Danforth . . . pretty serious, I think."

Frank eyed the big man. "Well—can you tell her?"

Rick and Fair glanced at each other, then at Larry.

"I'll tell her," the old doctor said gently. "But I'd like you fellows with me. And Rick, don't jump right in, okay?"

The sheriff grimaced. He tried to be sensitive, but the drive to catch a murderer could override his efforts. "Yeah, yeah."

Two ambulance attendants rolled the gurney into the barn from the south doors as Fair, Larry, and Rick left through the north.

Rick turned to Fair. "Was he a good jockey?"

"Not bad."

Will Forloines's face fell longer and longer. His color deepened. He couldn't hold it in any longer. "That was a damn fool thing you did to Nigel."

"Bullshit."

"Don't cuss at me, Linda. I can still kick your ass into next week."

"I love it when you get mad." She sarcastically parodied old movies.

He shifted his eyes from the road to her. "You're lucky he didn't file a complaint."

"Had him by the short hairs."

"Oh—and what if he'd nailed you? You didn't know he wouldn't file against you."

"Will, let me do the thinking."

The wheel of the brand-new Nissan dropped off the road. Will quickly returned his gaze to the road. "You take too many chances. One of these days it will backfire."

"Wimp." While she insulted him, she took the precaution of dropping her hand into his lap.

"Things are going good right now. I don't want them screwed up."

"Will, relax. Drive. And listen." She exhaled through her nose. "Nigel Danforth has bought a shitload of cocaine over the last two months. He can't squeal."

"The hell he can't. He can finger us as the dealers."

"Better to be mad at me over one race than lose his connection. And if he blew the whistle on us, he'd be blowing it on himself—and his girlfriend. All that money isn't coming from race purses."

Will drove a few minutes. "Yeah, but you're cutting it close."

"Paid for this truck." She moved closer to him.

"Linda, you"—he sputtered—"you take too many risks."

"The risk is the rush."

"Not for me, Babe. The money is the rush."

"And we're sitting in the middle of it. Dr. D'Angelo's loaded, and he's dumb as a post."

"No, he's not," Will contradicted her. "He's dumb about horses. He's not dumb about his job or he wouldn't have made all that money. Sooner or later he'll figure things out if you try to sell him too many horses at once. Take it slow. I'd like to live in one place for a couple of years."

She waited a moment. "Sure."

As this was said with no conviction, Will, irritated, shot back, "I like where we live."

She whispered in his ear, enjoying her disagreement with him just so she could "win" the argument, get him under her control. She might have loved her husband, but she truly needed him. He was so easy to manipulate that it made her feel powerful and smart. "We'll make so much money we can buy our own farm."

"Yeah ..." His voice trailed off.

She smiled. "Nigel will forget all about it. I guarantee it. He owes me for a kilo. He's coming up tomorrow to pay off the rest of it. I got part of the money today before the race." She laughed, "Bet he couldn't believe it when I whipped him. He'll forget though. He'll be so full of toot, I'll be his best friend."

When Fair Haristeen walked through the door of Mim's party, Harry determined to pay no attention to him. However, she couldn't help noticing his jaw muscles tightening, which she recognized as a sign of distress. Dr. Larry Johnson and Sheriff Rick Shaw flanked him, and Larry headed straight for Addie Valiant. Fair turned to follow them.

"Doom and gloom," Susan Tucker observed.

"Hope someone didn't lose a horse," Harry said.

"I know. It was such an unusual Montpelier. The worst was that bowed tendon, pretty fabulous when you consider some of the accidents in the past. But maybe it's because the course is so difficult. People are careful."

"Huh?"

"Harry, are you paying attention?" her best friend said.

"Yes, but I was thinking I'd have to head home before too long. Miranda closes up shop by nine, you know." Harry referred to Miranda's lifelong habit of early retirement and early rising.

"Well, as I was saying before you drifted off, because the course is demanding jockeys stay focused. Sometimes when it's a bit easy they get sloppy."

"Mom, I'm hungry," Tucker pleaded.

Susan dropped a piece of cake for the dog.

"Susan, you spoil Tucker worse than I do." It was Susan who had bred the corgi. Harry noticed Larry taking Addie by the elbow and Rick whispering in Mim's ear. "Something's going on. Damn, I hope it's not some kind of late protest. I wouldn't put anything past Mickey Townsend. He hates to lose."

Five minutes passed before a howl of pain sounded from the library. All conversation stopped. Mim, holding her husband's hand, put her other hand on Chark's shoulder, guiding him to the library. Larry had wanted to inform Addie before bringing her brother into it. The confusion and concern on Chark's face upon hearing his sister's cry alerted even the thickest person in the room to impending sorrow.

Mim shut the library doors behind her. All eyes were now on her. She walked over to the three-sash window and collected herself. Then, her husband at her side, she addressed the gathering.

"I regret to inform you that there appears to have been a"— she cleared her throat—"murder at Montpelier." A gasp went up from the crowd. "Nigel Danforth, the English jockey riding for Mickey Townsend, was found dead this evening in the main stable. Sheriff Shaw says they know very little at this time. He asks for your patience and cooperation over the next few days as he will be calling upon some of us. I'm afraid the party is over, but I want to thank you for celebrating what has been a joyous day— until now." She opened her hands as if in benediction.

Little Marilyn, unable to conceal her agitation, called out. "Mummy, how was he killed?"

"Stabbed through the heart."

"Good God!" Herbie Jones exclaimed, and after that the noise was deafening as everyone talked at once.

"That explains it," Susan said to Harry, who understood she was referring to Fair's miserable countenance. "How about we pay our respects to our hostess and leave?"

Miranda bustled over. "My word, how awful, and how awful for Mim, too. It certainly casts a pall on her triumph. Harry, Herbie's offered to escort me home so I'm leaving with him."

"Fine. I'll see you on Monday."

"Good, then I'll ride with you." Susan piped up then called to her teenaged son, Danny, "One dent in that car and you are toast.

On the way home Harry, Susan, and Tee Tucker wondered why a jockey would be killed after the races. They ran through the usual causes of death in America: money, love, drugs, and gambling. Since they knew little about Nigel, they soon dropped the speculation.

"Another body blow for Addie." Harry cupped her hand under her chin and stared out the window into the sheltering darkness.

"Ever notice how some people are plagued with bad luck and tragedy?"

"King Lear?" Harry quipped, not meaning to sound flippant. "Sorry."

"I'm not sure I will ever understand how your mind works," Susan wryly said to her friend.

"There are days when it doesn't work at all."

"Tell me about it. Especially after you have children. What's left of your mind flies out the window." As a mother of two teenagers, Susan both endured and enjoyed her offspring. She pulled down the long driveway to Harry's farm.

"Bet you Boom Boom makes a beeline for Addie once she emerges from the library," Harry grumbled.

"Mim will shoo her out first."

"Ha!" Harry said derisively. "Boom Boom will volunteer to clean up after the party, the sneak. Bet you she pounces on Addie with an invitation to join her at Lifeline. Bloodsucker."

"She does seem to draw sustenance from other people's problems." Susan inhaled. "But then again this program of self-exposure or whatever it is has calmed her down."

"I don't believe it."

"You wouldn't." Susan stopped at the screened door at the back of the house. Mrs. Murphy was visible in the window and then disappeared. "A pussycat is anxious to see you."

"Come on in. She wants to see you, too. I'll feed her, then carry you home."

"Good. Then I can look for my black sweater. I know I left it here."

"Susan, I swear I've searched for it. It's not here."

"You won't believe what happened," Tucker called out, eager to tell her friend everything and also eager to watch Mrs. Murphy fume because she'd missed it.

"Tucker, hush." Harry opened the door and ushered Susan inside.

The temperature was in the forties and dropping, and the chill nipped at Harry's heels, so she hurried along behind her friend. The kitchen, deceptively calm, lured her into comfort.

"Here, kitty, kitty."

"I hate you," Mrs. Murphy called from the bedroom.

Harry walked into the living room followed by Tucker and Susan.

"Uh-oh." Tucker laid her ears flat.

Susan gasped, "Berlin, 1945!"

The arm of the sofa had been shredded, methodically destroyed. Lamps smashed to the ground bore witness to the tiger cat's fury. She had also had the presence of mind to scratch, tear, and bite magazines, the newspapers, and a forlorn novel that rested on Harry's wing chair. The piece de resistance was one curtain, yanked full force, dangling half on and half off the rod.

Harry's mouth dangled almost in imitation of the curtain. She slapped her hands together in outrage.

"Mrs. Murphy, you come out here."

"In a pig's eye." The cat's voice was shrill.

"I know where you're hiding. You aren't that original, you little shit!" Harry tore into her bedroom, clicked on the light, dropped to her knees, and lifted up the dust ruffles. Sure enough, a pair of gleaming green eyes at the furthest recesses of the bed stared back at her.

"I will skin you alive!" Harry exploded.

"You're in deep doo-doo," Tucker whined.

"She'll forget it by morning," came the saucy reply.

"I don't think so. You've wrecked the house."

"I know nothing about it."

Since Harry had closed off the animal door, Mrs. Murphy stayed inside. She would have preferred to go out to the barn just in case Harry woke up mad. As it was she prudently waited until she heard the cat food can being opened before she tiptoed into the kitchen.

"You're impossible." Harry, good humor restored by a sound night's sleep, scratched the cat at the base of her tail.

"I hate it when you leave me."

As Harry dished out shrimp and cod into a bowl upon which was prophetically written upholstery destroyer, Tucker circled her mother's legs.

"Why do you feed her first? Especially after what she's done."

"I'll get to you."

"She feeds me first because I'm so fascinating."

"Gag me." Tucker remembered that the cat knew nothing of yesterday's bizarre event. She forgot her irritation as she settled into the pleasure of tormenting Mrs. Murphy. "Beautiful day at the races."

"Shut up."

"Boom Boom swept down on Mom, though."

Mrs. Murphy, on the counter, turned her head from her food bowl. "Oh, did Mom cuss her out?"

"Nah." Tucker jammed her long nose into the canned beef food mixed into crunchies.

Harry brewed tea and rummaged around for odds and ends to toss into an omelet while the animals chatted. Tucker finished her food so quickly it barely impeded her conversational abilities.

The tiger, delicate in her eating habits, paused between mouthfuls, gently brushing her whiskers in case some food was on them. She surveyed the damage in the living room without a twinge of guilt. "How'd Mim do?"

"Second in the second race, won the fourth race, and she won the big one."

"Wow." She swatted her food bowl, angry all over again at being left out. "I grew up with horses. I don't know why Mother thinks I won't behave myself at Montpelier. As if I've never seen a crowd before."

"You haven't. Not that big." Tucker licked her lips, relishing her breakfast and the cat's discomfort.

"I can handle it!" She glared down at the dog. "I ride in cars better than you do. I don't bark. I don't ask to be fed every fifteen minutes, and I don't whine to go to the bathroom."

"No, you just do it under the seat."

Mrs. Murphy spit, her white fangs quite impressive. "No fair. I was sick and we were on our way to the vet."

"Yeah, yeah. Tapeworms. I'm tired of that excuse."

The pretty feline shuddered. "I hate those tapeworm shots, but they do work. Haven't had a bit of trouble since. Of course, flea season is over."

She had heard the vet explain that some fleas carry the tapeworm larvae. When animals bite the spot where a flea has bitten them, they occasionally ingest an infected flea, starting the cycle wherein the parasite winds up in their intestines. Both cat and dog understood the problem, but when a flea bites, it's hard not to bite back.

Harry sat down to her hot omelet. Mrs. Murphy kept her company on the other side of the plate.

"I am not giving you any, Murphy. In fact, I'm not forking over one more morsel of food for days—not until I clean up the wreckage of this house. I've half a mind to leave you home from work tomorrow, but you'd run another demolition derby."

"Damn right."

Tucker, annoyed at not being able to sit on the table, plopped under Harry's chair, then rose again to sit by her mother's knee. "Oh, Murph, one little thing ... a jockey was murdered last night at the Montpelier stable, the big old one."

The green eyes grew larger, and the animal leaned over the table. "What?"

"Mrs. Murphy, control yourself." Harry reached over to pet the cat, who fluffed her fur.

"A jockey, Nigel somebody or other—we don't really know him although Adelia Valiant does—he was stabbed. Right through the heart." Tucker savored this last detail.

"You waited all this time to tell me?" Murphy unleashed her claws, then retracted them.

Tucker smiled. "Next time you tell me cats are smarter than dogs, just remember I know some things you don't."

Murphy jumped down from the table, put her face right up into Tucker's, and growled. "Don't mess with me, buster. You get to go with Mom to the races. You come home and tell me nothing until now. I would have told you straightaway."

The little dog held her ground. "Maybe you would and maybe you wouldn't."

"When have I withheld important news from you?"

"The time you and Pewter stole roast beef from the store."

"That was different. Besides, you know Pewter is obsessed with food. If I hadn't helped her steal that roast beef, I wouldn't have gotten one measly bite of it. She would have stolen it herself, but she's too fat to squeeze into the case. That's different."

"No, it isn't."

Harry observed the Mexican standoff. "What's got into you two this morning?"

"Nothing." Murphy stalked out of the room, taking a swipe at Tucker's rear end when the dog's head was turned.

Harry prudently reached down and grabbed Tucker's collar. "Ignore her."

"With pleasure."

The phone rang. Harry answered it.

"Sorry to call you so early on a Sunday morning," Deputy Cynthia Cooper apologized. "Boss wants me to ask you some questions about the races yesterday."

"Sure. Want to come out here?"

"Wish I could. You ready?"

"Yes."

"What do you know about Nigel Danforth?"

"Not much, Coop. He's a new jockey on the circuit, not attached to a particular stable. What we call a pickup rider or a catch rider. I met him briefly yesterday."

Hearing this, Mrs. Murphy sourly returned to the kitchen. She didn't so much as glance at Tucker when she passed the dog, also eavesdropping.

"Crab."

"Selfish," the cat shot back.

"Did you ever speak to Nigel?"

"Just a 'pleased to meet you.' "

"Do you know anything about his relationship with Addie?"

"She told me yesterday morning that she liked him." Harry thought a minute. "She intimated that she might be falling in love with him, and she wanted us to get together after the races at the party."

"Did you?"

"Well, I was at Mim's party. Addie was there, too." She added, "First, though, I waited on standby at the tower after the last race to see if Arthur Tetrick or Mr. Mason wanted me to file a report. There was a nasty incident at my fence, the east gate fence, between Nigel Danforth and Linda Forloines."

"I'm all ears."

Harry could hear Cooper scribbling as she described the incident.

"That's quite serious, isn't it? I mean, couldn't they get suspended?"

"Yes. I told Arthur and Colbert Mason, he's the national director, but I guess you know that by now. Neither of the jockeys lodged a protest, though. Without a protest there's nothing the officials can do."

"Who has the authority in a situation like that?"

"The race director. In this case, Arthur."

"Why wouldn't Arthur Tetrick haul both their asses in?"

"That's a good question, Coop." Harry sipped her tea. "But I can give you an opinion—not an answer, just an opinion."

"We want to hear it," the cat and dog said, too.

"Shoot."

"Well, all sports have umpires, referees, judges to see that mayhem is kept to a minimum. But sometimes you have to let the antagonists settle it themselves. Rough justice."

"Expand."

"If an official steps in, it can reach a point where Jockey A is being protected too much. I mean, Coop, if you're going to go out there, then you've got to take your lumps, and part of it is that some riders are down and dirty. If they think no one is looking, they'll foul you."

"But you were looking."

"I don't understand that." Harry recalled the brazenness of the situation.

"Is Linda dumb?"

"Far from it. She's a low-rent, lying, cunning bitch."

"Hey, don't keep your feelings to yourself," Cynthia teased her.

Harry laughed. "There are few people that I despise on this earth, but she's one of them."

"Why?"

"I saw her deliberately lame a horse temporarily, then lie about it to Mim. She took the horse off Mim's hands and sold it at a profit to a trainer out of state. She didn't know that I saw her. I—well, it doesn't matter. You get the point."

"But she's not stupid, so why would she commit a flagrant foul, one that could get her suspended? And right in front of you?"

"It doesn't figure." Harry was stumped.

Coop flipped through her notes. "She can't keep a job, any job, longer than a year. That could mean a lot of things, but one thing it most certainly means is, she can't get along with people over an extended period of time."

"Obviously, she couldn't get along with Nigel Danforth." Harry sipped her tea again.

"Do you have any idea, I don't care how crazy it sounds, why Linda Forloines would hit Nigel in the face?"

Harry played with the long cord of the phone. "I don't have any idea, unless they were enemies—apart from being competitors, I mean. The only other thing I can tell you—just popped into my head—is that people say Linda deals drugs. No one's ever pinned it on her though."

"Heard that, too," Cooper replied. "I'll be back at you later. Sorry to intrude on you so early, but I know you're out before sunup most days. Pretty crisp this morning."

"I'll wear my woollies. Let me ask you a question."

"Okay."

"Can everyone account for their whereabouts at the time of the murder?"

"No," Cooper flatly stated. "We've got a good idea when he died, within a twenty-minute frame, but really—anybody could have had the time to skip in there and kill him. The commotion of the event wears people out, dulls their senses, to say nothing of the drinking."

"That's the truth. Well, if I think of anything I'll call. I'm glad to help."

Harry hung up the phone after good-byes. She liked Cynthia, and over the years they'd become friends.

"I couldn't hear what Cynthia was saying. Tell me," Murphy demanded.

Harry, cup poised before her lips, put it back down in the saucer. "You know, it doesn't make sense. It doesn't make a bit of sense that Linda Forloines would lay into Nigel Danforth right in front of me."

"What?" Mrs. Murphy, beside herself with curiosity, rubbed Harry's arm since she had jumped back on the counter.

"I'll tell you all about that." Tucker promised importantly as Harry pulled on an ancient cashmere sweater, slapped the old cowboy hat on her head, and slipped her arms through her down vest.

"Come on, kids, time to rock and roll." Harry opened the door. They stepped out into the frosty November morning to start the chores.

Will Forloines stood up when Linda sauntered out of Sheriff Frank Yancey's office. At first the husband and wife had balked at being questioned individually, but finally they gave in. It would look worse if they didn't cooperate.

Will had been surprised at the blandness of Sheriff Yancey's questions—partly because he was scared the cops might be on to their drug dealing. Where were you at seven on the night of the murder? How well did you know the deceased? That sort of thing.

Linda turned and smiled at Frank, who smiled back and shut his door.

Will handed Linda her coat and they opened the door. The day, cool but bright, might warm up a bit.

Not until they were in the truck did they speak.

"What did he ask you?" Will didn't start the motor.

"Nothing much." Her upturned nose in profile resembled a tiny ski jump.

"Well, what?" Will demanded.

"Where was I? I told him in the van with Mickey Townsend. The truth."

"What else?" He cranked the truck.

"He wanted to know why I hit Nigel in the face with my whip before the east gate jump."

"And?" Will, agitated, pressed down so hard on the accelerator he had to brake, which threw them forward. "Sorry."

"I said he bumped me, he'd been bumping me and I was damned sick of it. But not sick enough to kill him for it.''

"And?"

"That was it."

"You were in there for half an hour, Linda. There had to be more to it than that. Things don't look so good for us. I told you not to take chances. You're a suspect."

She ignored that. ' 'We passed the time of day. He asked how long I'd been riding. Where did I learn? Nothing to the point. I hit the guy in the face. That doesn't mean I killed him."

"I don't like it."

"Hey, who does?"

Will thought for a moment. "Did he ask anything about drugs? I mean, what if Nigel had coke in his system."

"No, he didn't ask anything like that." She folded her hands and gloated. "I did say that since Fair Haristeen was the person who found Nigel, he ought to be investigated. I hinted that Fair's been doping horses. Just enough of a hint to send him on a wild-goose chase."

Will looked at her out of the corner of his eye. He'd grown accustomed to her habitual lying. "Anyone who knows Fair Haristeen won't believe it."

"Hey, it'll waste some of their time."

"You sure he didn't ask anything tricky?" His voice hardened.

"No, goddammit. Why are you on my case?"

"Because he split us up to see if our stories conflicted."

"I don't have any stories except about Fair. I'll get even with him yet, and Mim, too, the rich bitch."

"I wouldn't worry about them now."

Her eyes narrowed. "She fired you, too."

"Someone fires you, you say you quit. People believe what they want to believe. We make good money now. Revenge takes too much time."

She smirked. "Everyone thinks Mim ran us out of business and that we're broke. Bet their eyes fell out of their heads when we drove into Montpelier in a brand-new truck."

She hadn't reckoned on most people being more involved with the races than with her. Few had noticed their new truck, but then Linda related everything to herself.

"You really didn't tell him anything?" A pleading note crept into his voice.

"NO! If you're getting weak-kneed, then stay out of it. I'll do it. Jesus, Will."

"Okay, okay." They headed up Route 15, north. "Our supplier isn't going to be happy if our names get in the paper. Just makes me nervous."

"The sheriff asked me one weird question." She observed his knuckles whiten as he gripped the steering wheel. "Nothing much. But he asked me if I knew anything about Nigel's green card."

"His immigration card? You mean his right-to-work card?"

"Yeah, the green card." She shrugged. "Said I never saw it. Wonder why he'd ask about that?"

Mondays Harry and Mrs. Hogendobber shoveled the mail. Mounds of catalogs, postcards, bills, and letters filled the canvas mail cart and spilled onto the wooden floor, polished by years of use.

Mrs. Murphy, disgruntled because she couldn't snuggle in the mail cart, zipped out via the animal door installed for her convenience at the back. Tucker snored, asleep on her side in the middle of the floor where she could create the greatest obstacle. The cat didn't wake her.

Truth be told, she loved Tucker, but dogs, even Tucker, got on her nerves. They were so straightforward. Mrs. Murphy enjoyed nuance and quiet. Tucker tended to babble.

The door flapped behind her. She sat on the back stoop of the post office surveying the alleyway that divided the row of old business buildings from private backyards. Mrs. Hogendobber's yard sat directly behind the post office. Her garden, mulched and fertilized, usually a source of color, had yielded to winter. She'd clipped off her last blooming of mums.

The cat breathed in that peculiar odor of dying leaves and moist earth. As it was eleven a.m. the frost had melted and the scent of wild animals dissipated with it. Mrs. Murphy loved to hunt in the fall and winter because it was easy to track by scent.

She ruffled out her fur to ward off the chill, then marched over to Market Shiflett's store.

As she approached the back door she hollered, "Pewter, Pewter, Motor Scooter, come out and play!"

The animals' door, newly installed at the grocery store, swung open. Pewter rolled out like a gray cannonball.

"Everyone's ass over tit today."

Mrs. Murphy agreed. "Mondays put humans in a foul mood. Ever notice?"

"There is that, but the stabbing of that jockey sure has tongues wagging." She lifted her head straight up in the air. "Let's go root around under Mrs. Hogendobber's porch."

The two bounded across the alley and ducked under Miranda's porch.

"He was here again last night." Pewter's pupils grew large.

Mrs. Murphy sniffed. "Like a skunk only, umm, sweeter." She stepped forward and caught her whiskers in cobwebs. "I hate spiders!" She shot out from under the porch.

"Ha, ha." Pewter followed her, highly amused at the cobwebs draped over her friend's whiskers and face. "You look like a ghost."

"Least I'm not fat."

Pewter, nonplussed, replied, "I'm not fat, just round." She moseyed over to the garden. "Bet Mrs. H. would have a major hissy if she knew a fox visited her nightly."

"Pickings must be good."

"I wouldn't want to be undomesticated," Pewter, fond of cooked foods, revealed.

"You sit in that store and dream on. I've never once thought of that."

"Know what else I've thought about?" Pewter didn't wait for a reply. "Sushi. What Crozet needs is a good sushi bar. Imagine fresh tuna every day. Now I enjoy tuna from the can, I prefer it packed lightly, not in heavy oil, mind you. But fresh tuna . . . heaven."

The tiger licked the side of her right paw and swept it up over her ears. "Would we have to use chopsticks?"