Murder She Meowed

"Very funny. I bet I could steal sushi from a pair of chopsticks on their way to some dope's mouth." She imitated her stealing motion, one swift swipe of the paw, claws extended. She shuddered with delight at the thought of it.

"Hey, look." Mrs. Murphy intruded on Pewter's reverie.

Both cats watched Addie Valiant drive up and park behind the post office. She closed the door of her blue Subaru station wagon, the back jammed with tack, wraps, saddle pads, and other equine odds and ends. Turning up the collar of her heavy shirt, she knocked on the back door of the post office, listened, then opened the door.

"Let's go." Murphy ran across the yard.

"What for?" Pewter didn't budge.

"The dead jockey was her boyfriend."

"Oh." Pewter hurried to catch up. Both cats hit the animal door simultaneously, spit at one another, then Murphy slipped in first, a disgruntled Pewter literally on her tail.

Murphy had washed only half her face; the other half was resplendent with cobwebs.

Addie pulled her mail from the back of her mailbox.

Harry checked through the magazine pile to see if anything was there for her.

"Now, honey, you let me know if there's anything we can do. Anything at all." Miranda handed Addie a bun with an orange glaze. An excellent baker, she made a little money on the side by baking for Market Shiflett's store.

"I'm not hungry, thank you."

"I am," Pewter purred.

Tucker, awake now, scrambled to her feet. "Me, too." She noticed Mrs. Murphy's face. "Halloween's over."

Harry noticed at the same time. "Where have you been?"

"Under Miranda's porch."

Harry scooped up the pretty cat, grabbed a paper towel, and wiped off the cobwebs, not as simple as she thought since they were sticky.

Addie dropped into a chair. "Mind if I sit a minute? I'm tired.

"Shocks will do that to you." Miranda patted her on the back.

"Yeah—I know. I guess I didn't think there were any left for me."

"Life has a funny way of being loaded with surprises, good and bad," the kindly woman said.

"Is anyone going to eat that orange bun?" Pewter asked.

"Chatty Cathy." Harry scratched the gray cat behind the ears.

Miranda pulled little pieces of the bun apart and munched on them.

Pewter let out a wail. "Give me some!"

Miranda ignored this so Pewter scrambled onto a chair and thence onto the small table in the back where the buns rested enticingly on a white plate. She licked off the icing while the humans, deep in conversation, never noticed. Mrs. Murphy, not to be outdone, joined her friend.

Tucker complained bitterly. Murphy batted a hardened bit of icing off the table to the dog to shut her up. If she kept up her racket, the humans might notice their uninvited snack.

"They asked me so many questions they made me dizzy." The young woman's hands fluttered to her face. "I couldn't answer half of them. I wasn't much help. They pumped Chark pretty hard, too."

"Rick Shaw said that Frank Yancey's an okay guy, so he was just asking what he had to, I guess." Harry wanted to be helpful, but she didn't know what to do or say.

Addie's big blue eyes misted over. "I was just getting to know him so—"

"Of course, of course." Miranda patted her hand this time.

"How long had you known him?"

"Two months, give or take a week. I met him at the Fair Hill races and whammo!" She smacked her hands together.

"Happens that way sometimes." Harry smiled.

"We had so much in common. Horses. Horses and horses," Addie said. "He taught me a lot. You know how some people keep what they know to themselves? Won't share anything. Not Nigel. He was happy to teach me, and he was just as happy to learn from me too."

"Sounds like a lovely young man," Miranda, ever the romantic, replied soothingly.

Harry, far less romantic, nonetheless wanted to be supportive, but her inquiring nature couldn't be suppressed for long. "Do you think he had enemies?"

"Harry, you sound like Frank Yancey." Addie crossed one leg over the other, then winced.

"What'd you do?" Miranda solicitously inquired.

"Knees. They take a beating out there, you know." She turned back to Harry. "As far as I know he didn't have enemies. No one knew him long enough, and besides, he was fun, a real positive person." She paused. "Everyone's got some enemies though.

"His poor parents in England." Miranda shook her head.

"Hadn't thought of that," Harry said. "Do you have any idea why this happened?" Her curiosity had surged.

"No." Addie got up. "Everyone is asking me that."

"I'm sorry. But it's natural."

"I hope whoever killed him rots in hell!" Addie flared, then wiped away the unexpected tears.

" "Whoever sheds the blood of man, by man shall his blood be shed; for God made man in His own image,' " Mrs. Hogendobber quoted from Genesis.

"I'll happily shed blood." Addie clamped down her lips.

"What do you mean?" Harry asked.

"I mean, if I find the killer first . . ."

"Don't say that," Miranda blurted out.

"Yeah, don't." Harry seconded her older friend's feeling.

"I don't give a damn. If the killer is caught, he'll go to trial. Lots of money will get spent, and the system is so corrupt that he probably won't get convicted, and if he does he'll be out on parole in no time. It's a farce."

Much as Harry tended to agree, she didn't want to encourage Addie to murder. "You know, the scary part is, what if you do find the killer, or get close? What if he turns on you, Addie? Stay out of it. You liked this guy, but you didn't know him well enough to die for him."

"Harry, you can fall in love in an instant. I did."

"Oh, Addie . . ." Harry's voice trailed off.

Miranda draped her arm over Addie's thin shoulder. "Harry's not trying to argue with you or upset you, honey. She doesn't want you to do something impulsive that could ruin your life. And I agree. Neither one of us wants you to expose yourself to danger. After all, no one knows why Nigel was killed. It's not just the who, it's the why, you see. That's where the danger lies."

Addie cried again. "You're right. I know you're right."

Both women comforted her as best they could. When Addie left the post office, she passed the now empty white plate. The cats had fallen asleep next to the scene of their crime.

Work continued despite the personal sorrow Adelia Valiant had to absorb. Horses needed to be fed, watered, exercised, groomed, turned out, and talked to over a stall door. The routine, oddly consoling, numbed her mind.

Mim told her to take time off if she needed it, but Addie kept riding. After all, she and her brother had other clients to serve, and when people pay you money, they expect results.

The Valiant fortune, some eighteen million and growing due to good investments directed by Arthur Tetrick, should have ensured that Adelia and Charles Valiant need never labor for their bread and butter.

But Marylou had witnessed the dismal effects of wrapping children in wads of money to soften the hard knocks of life. She didn't want her children to become the weak, petty tyrants she had often observed. She wanted to give them grit.

Enough was drawn annually from the trust fund to pay for lodging, cars, clothes, the necessities. This forced her children to work if they wanted more. If they turned into gilded turnips after Adelia's maturity, so be it.

As it happened, both sister and brother loved their work. There was no doubt in either of their minds that they'd continue working once the inheritance was theirs. They might build a good stable of their own, but they'd continue to train and ride.

Addie's past drug problems had more to do with her personality than with her background. Plenty of poor kids ran aground on drugs too. And plenty of poor kids spent their money as soon as they picked up their paycheck. Addie's impulsiveness and desire for a good time had little to do with class.

Addie wiped down the last horse of the day, a leggy gray, as the white Southern States delivery truck rolled down the drive.

"Feed man."

Chark, at the other end of the barn, called out, "I'll attend to it. You finish up what you're doing."

As Addie rubbed blue mineral ice on the gray's legs, she could hear the metal door clang up on the truck, the dolly clunk when it hit the ground, and the grunts of her brother and the delivery man as they loaded fifty-pound sacks of 14 percent protein sweet feed onto the dolly.

After filling up the zinc-lined feed bins—Mim thought of everything in her stable, but still the mice attacked—the delivery man murmured something to Chark and then drove off.

As her brother, a medium-built, well-proportioned man, ambled toward her, Addie asked, "Are we behind on the bill?"

"Up to date—" He smiled. "—for a change."

"What did he want then?"

"Nothing. Said he was sorry to hear about your friend."

The lines around her mouth relaxed. "That was kind of him. People surprise me."

"Yeah." Chark jammed his hands in his jeans. "Sis, I'm sorry that you're sorry, if you know what I mean, but I didn't like Nigel, and you know it, so I can't be a hypocrite now. Not that I wished him dead."

"You never gave him a chance."

"Oil and water." He ground his heel into the macadam aisle.

She led the gray back to his stall. "You don't much like any man I date."

"You don't much have good taste." Chark sounded harsher than he meant to sound. "Oh, hell, I'm sorry. You have to kiss them, I don't." He stopped making circles off his heel. "Nigel was a fake."

"You hate English accents."

"That I do. They smack of superiority, you know, talking through their noses and telling us how they gallop on the downs of Exmoor. This is America, and I'll train my way."

She put her hands on her hips. "Thought we settled that in 1776. You don't like anyone telling you what to do or making a suggestion that you perceive as a veiled criticism."

"I listen to you." His eyes, almond-shaped like his sister's, darkened.

"Sometimes"—she restlessly jammed her hands in her pockets—"you treated Nigel like dirt. And I—I—" She couldn't go on. Tears filled her eyes.

He stood there wanting to comfort her but not willing to give ground on the detested Nigel. Brotherly love won over and he hugged her. "Like I said, I didn't wish him dead. Maybe Linda Forloines did it."

Addie stiffened. "Linda . . . she made a move like a dope fiend." Addie referred to the whipping incident in stable slang.

"That's just it." Chark released his sister. "I'm willing to bet the barn that those two are selling again. Where else would the Forloines get the money for a new truck?"

"Didn't see it."

"Brand new Nissan. Nice truck." He rubbed his hands together. He had arthritis in his fingers, broken years ago, and the chill of the oncoming night made his joints ache.

She shrugged. "Who knows." But she did know.

"She's probably doping horses as well as people."

"I don't know."

"It wouldn't surprise me if she and Will are—uh, in the mix somehow. A feeling."

"I don't know," she repeated. "But I had my own Twilight Zone episode today.

"Huh?"

"I picked up the mail, and Harry and Mrs. H. were really wonderful except Harry's worse than the sheriff—she asks too many questions. Anyway, I lost my temper and said if I found out who killed Nigel before the law, I'd kill him. They both about jumped down my throat and said, 'Don't even say that.' "

"They're right. Crazy things happen."

' 'What gave me the shivers was their saying that if I got too close to the murderer, maybe he'd turn on me."

"Damn," he whispered.

The dagger that killed Nigel Danforth, tagged and numbered, lay on Frank Yancey's desk. Rick Shaw and Cynthia Cooper sat on the other side of the desk.

"That's no cheap piece of hardware." Rick admired the weapon.

Frank touched it with the eraser on his pencil. "The blade is seven and a half inches, and the overall length is twelve and three quarters inches. The blade is double-edged stainless steel, highly polished, as you can see, and the handle is wrapped in wire, kind of like fencing uh—''

"Foils." Cooper found the word for him.

"Right." Frank frowned. "I think this was an impulse killing. Why would someone leave an expensive dagger buried in Nigel's chest?"

"If it was impulse, why the Queen of Clubs?" Rick countered.

Frank stroked the stubble on the side of his jowls. "Well—"

"And another thing, Sheriff Yancey," Cynthia respectfully addressed the older man, "I've been at the computer since this happened. I've talked to Scotland Yard. There is no Nigel Dan-forth."

"I was afraid of that." Frank grimaced. "Just like I was afraid we'd find no fingerprints. Not a one."

"Well, there are no inland revenue records, no passports, no national health card, no nothing," Cynthia said.

"Who the hell is that on the slab in the morgue?" Frank rhetorically asked.

"About all we can do is get dental impressions and send them over the wires. That will work if the stiff, I mean deceased," Cooper corrected herself, "had a criminal record. Otherwise, your guess is as good as mine."

"I don't like this." Frank smacked his hand on the table. "People want results."

"Don't worry, it's not an election year for you, Frank, and it's not like a serial killer is stalking the streets of Orange. The murder is confined to a small world."

"We hope," Cynthia said.

"I don't like this," Frank repeated. "I'll get Mickey Towns-end in here. Why would he hire a man without a green card?"

"Same reason a lot of fruit growers hire Mexicans and don't inquire about their immigration status. They figure they can get the crop in before Immigration busts them. Any American employer whose IQ hovers above his body temperature knows to ask for a green card or go through the bullshit of getting one for the employee." Rick crossed his right leg over his left knee.

"It's the modern version of an indentured servant. You get someone a green card and they owe you for life," Cynthia added.

"Well, we know a few things." Rick folded his hands over his chest, feeling the Lucky Strikes pack in his pocket and very much wanting a cigarette.

"Sure," Frank said. "We know I'm in deep shit and I have to tell a bunch of reporters we're on a trail colder than a witch's tit."

"No, we also know that the killer likes expensive weapons. Perhaps the dagger has symbolic significance, as does the Queen of Clubs. We also know that Nigel knew his killer."

"No, we don't," Frank said stubbornly.

"I can't prove it, of course, but there are no signs of struggle. He was face-to-face with his killer. He wasn't dragged or we'd have seen the marks on the barn floor."

"The killer could have stabbed him and then carried him to the chair." Cynthia thought out loud.

"That's a possibility, meaning the killer has to be strong enough to lift a—what do you reckon—a hundred-twenty-pound jockey over his shoulder."

"Or her shoulder. A strong woman could lift that." Cynthia scribbled a few notes in her spiral notebook.

"Wish Larry and Hank would call." Frank fidgeted.

"We could go over there, see what they've turned up." Rick stood.

"Bad luck having the county coroner out of town. He's as good as new." Frank, irritated, didn't realize the irony of his remarks.

Just then the phone rang. "Yancey," Frank said.

Hank Cushing's high-pitched voice started spouting out organ weights and stomach contents. "Normal heart and—"

"I don't give a damn about that. Was he stabbed twice or once?" Frank barked into the receiver.

"Twice," Hank responded. "The condition of the liver showed some signs of nascent alcohol damage and—''

"I don't care about that. Send me the report."

"Well, you might want to care about this." Hank, miffed, raised his voice. "He'd put his age down as twenty-six for his jockey application with the National Steeplechase Association, and I estimate his age to be closer to thirty-five. Might be worth sticking that fact in your brain and the fact that he had a serious dose of cocaine in his bloodstream. I'll send the file over as soon as I've written up my report." Miffed, Hank hung up on him.

Frank banged down the phone. "Prick."

"Well—?" Both Rick and Cynthia asked in unison.

"Stabbed twice. Full of coke."

"Makes sense. He'd hardly sit there while someone placed a card over his heart."

"Rick, he would if they'd held a gun to his head."

"Good point, pardner." Rick smiled at Cynthia.

"One other thing, Hank said his age was closer to thirty-five than the twenty-six he wrote down for the steeplechase association."

"Hmm," Rick murmured. "Whoever he was, he was a first-rate liar."

"Not so first-rate," Coop rejoined. "He's dead. Someone caught him out."

"Well, I sure appreciate your help." Frank got to his feet. "I figure the good citizens of Orange can sleep safe in their beds at night."

"That's what I'm doing. Going home to bed." Cynthia felt as if sand was in her eyes from staring at the computer screen for the last two and a half days.

On the way back to Charlottesville in an unmarked car, Rick smoked a cigarette, opening the window a crack first. "Frank's in over his head."

"Yep."

"If we're lucky this will be a revenge killing, and that'll be the end of it. If we're not, this will play out at other steeplechase races or other steeplechase stables, which means the good citizens of Orange and Albemarle counties may not sleep so soundly—not if they've got horses in the barn."

Cynthia stretched her long legs. "Horsey people are obsessed."

"I don't much like them," Rick matter-of-factly said.

"I can't say that, but I can say they fall into two categories."

"What's that?"

"They're either very, very intelligent or dumb as a sack of hammers. No in-between."

Rick laughed, exceeding the speed limit.

A sleek BMW 750il, the twelve-cylinder model, cruised by the post office at seven-thirty Tuesday morning. Harry noticed Mickey Townsend behind the wheel as she passed by in her truck.

"Some kind of car."

Mrs. Murphy and Tucker dutifully glanced at the metallic silver automobile but, not being car nuts, they returned their attention to more important matters.

"Hey, Ella!" Mrs. Murphy called to Elocution, Herb Jones's youngest cat, as she sat by the minister's front door.

Since the window was rolled up, Elocution couldn't hear, but Harry sure could.

"You'll split my eardrums."

"Mother, I have to listen to you morning, noon and night."

"Yeah, but she's not screeching for her friends."

"Tucker, shut up." The cat boxed that long, inviting nose. Murphy wondered what cats living with pugs, bulldogs, and chows did since those canines' noses were pushed in. Guess they jumped on their backs and bit their necks.

The lights were already on inside as Harry parked the truck.

"Hey," she called as she opened the back door, the aroma of fresh cinnamon curling into her nostrils.

"Morning." Mrs. Hogendobber put whole coffee beans into a cylindrical electric grinder. The noise terrified Tucker, who cowered underneath the empty mail cart.

"Chicken."

"I hate that noise," the dog whimpered.

Harry heated up water on the hot plate. She couldn't drink much coffee so she made tea. Doughnuts, steam still rising off them, were arranged in concentric circles on the white plate.

"Cinnamon?" Harry said.

"And cake doughnuts too. I'm experimenting with two different doughs." A knock at the back door interrupted her. "Who is it?"

"Attila the Hun."

"Come on in," Mrs. Hogendobber answered.

Susan Tucker, pink-faced from the cold, opened the door. "Good frost this morning. Hi, Tucker." She reached down to pet the dog. "Hello, Mrs. Murphy, I know you're in the mail cart because I can see the bulge underneath."

"Morning," came the sleepy reply.

"Saw Mickey Townsend drive by," Susan said.

"Passed him on the way in. Oh, Susan, I've got a registered letter for you."

"Damn." Susan thought registered letters usually meant some unwanted legal notice or, worse, a dire warning from the IRS.

Harry fished out the letter with the heavy pink paper attached, a copy underneath. "Press hard so your signature shows through.

Ballpoint in hand, Susan peered at the return address. "Plais-tow, New Hampshire?" She firmly wrote her name.

Harry carefully tore off the pink label, which she kept, the carbon copy remaining with the envelope.

Susan wedged her forefinger under the sealed flap, opening the letter. "Say, this is pretty nice."

"What?" Harry read over her shoulder.

"State Line Tack exhausted their supply of turnout rugs in red and gold. If I'll accept a navy with a red border, they'll give me a further ten percent discount, and they apologize for the inconvenience. They haven't been able to reach me by phone." She snapped the paper. "Because the damn kids never get off it! What a good business."

"I'll say. You know who else is really great: L. L. Bean."

"The best." Mrs. Hogendobber ate a doughnut. "Mmm. Outdid myself."

Susan folded the letter, returning it to its envelope, and then, as is often the case between old friends, she jumped to another subject with no explanation because she knew Harry would understand the connection: signing for letters. "You must know every signature in Crozet."

"We both do." Mrs. Hogendobber wiped crumbs from her mouth. "We could be expert witnesses in forgery cases. I wish you two would try one of these. My best."

Harry grabbed a cinnamon doughnut even though she had sworn she wouldn't.

"Go on." Mrs. Hogendobber noticed Susan salivating over the plate. "I can't eat them all myself."

"Ned told me I can't gain my five winter pounds this year. He even bought me a NordicTrack." Susan stared at the doughnuts.

"Don't eat lunch." Harry saved her the agony of the decision by handing her one.

Once that fresh smell wafted right under her nose, Susan popped the doughnut straight in. "Oh, hell." She helped herself to a cup of tea. "Heard some scoop."

"I wait with cinnamon breath—as opposed to bated, that is." Harry untied the first mailbag.

"Nigel Danforth bet a thousand dollars on the fifth race— Mim's horse, not Mickey Townsend's."

Miranda wondered out loud. "Is that bad?"

"A jockey wouldn't bet against himself or the stable he's riding for, plus a jockey isn't supposed to bet at all. That's a fact for all sports. Remember Pete Rose." Susan, suffering the tortures of the damned, grabbed another cinnamon doughnut.

"Wouldn't it mean he's fixing the race?"

"It might, but probably not in this circumstance." Susan continued: "Mickey Townsend's mare didn't have much of a chance. Of course, Nigel placed the bet through a third party. I mean, that's what I've heard."

' 'Yeah but with steeplechasing—one pileup and a goat could win." Harry leaned over Mrs. Murphy. "Murphy, I need to dump the mail in." No.

"Come on, kitty cat."

"No." To prove her point Murphy rolled over on her back, exposing her beautiful beige tummy with its crisp black stripes.

"All right then, smartass." Harry poured a little mail on the cat.

"I'm not moving." Mrs. Murphy rolled over on her side.

"Stubborn." Harry reached in with both hands and plucked her out, placing her in the fleece teepee she'd bought especially for the cat.

Grumbling, Mrs. Murphy circled inside three times, then settled down. She needed her morning nap.

"Doesn't sound cricket to me." Mrs. Hogendobber occasionally used an expression from her youth when, due to World War II, phrases from the British allies were current.

"It's not the most prudent policy." Harry dumped the remainder of the mail from her sack into the cart, then wheeled it over to the post boxes.

"I'd worry less about that and more about where a jockey got one thousand dollars cash." Susan helped with the third-class mail. "Those guys only get paid fifty dollars a race, you know. If they win, place or show they get a percentage of the purse."

"The wages of sin." Harry laughed.

"You know . . ." Susan's voice trailed off.

"We ought to go over to Mim's stable," Harry said, "at lunch. Larry comes in today." Dr. Larry Johnson, partially retired, filled in at lunch so Harry and Mrs. Hogendobber could run errands or relax over a meal at Crozet Pizza.

"Now, girls, just a minute. You heard a rumor, Susan, not a fact. You shouldn't slander someone even though he is dead."

"I'm not slandering him. I only told you, and I don't think it hurts if we sniff about."

"I'll do the sniffing," Tucker told them.

"We should talk to the horses. They know what went down. Too bad there weren't any left in the barn when Nigel was stabbed," Mrs. Murphy drawled from inside her teepee.

"Even if there had been, Murphy, chances are that the horse would have been vanned back to its stable and how would we get there? Especially if it was a Maryland horse?" Tucker lay down in front of the teepee, sticking her nose inside. Mrs. Murphy didn't mind.

The front door opened. The Reverend Herb Jones and Market Shiflett bustled in.

"Got the mail sorted yet?" Market asked.

"Is it eight yet?" Harry tossed mail into boxes.

"No."

"I have yours right here. I did it first because I like you so much," Harry teased him.

As Market blew in the front door, Pewter blew into the back.

"What about me?" Herb asked.

"I like you so much, too." Harry laughed, handing him a stack of magazines, bills, letters, and catalogs.

Pewter walked around Tucker and stuck her head into the teepee. Then she squeezed in and curled up next to Mrs. Murphy.

"Boy, you're fat," the tiger grumbled.

"You always say that," Pewter purred, for she liked to snuggle. "But I keep you warm."

"Say, I heard that Linda Forloines bet a thousand dollars on the fifth race against the horse she was riding." Herb Jones flipped unwanted solicitations into the trash.

"See," Miranda triumphantly called as she continued her sorting.

"See what?" he asked.

"Susan said that same thing about Nigel Danforth," Miranda called from behind the post boxes.

"Oh." Herb neatly stacked his mail and put a rubber band around it. "Another rumor for the grist mill."

"Well, someone must have bet one thousand dollars on the fifth race." Susan, chin jutting out, wasn't giving up so easily.

Market leaned over the counter. "You know how these things are. The next thing you'll hear is that the body disappeared."

Fair stood in the doorway, looking as serious as a heart attack. Normally Harry would have cussed him out because she hated it when he dropped in on her without calling first. Sometimes he forgot they weren't married, an interesting twist since, when they were married, he'd sometimes forgotten that as well.

The paleness of his lips kept her complaint bottled up.

"Daddy!" Tucker scurried forward to shower love on Fair.

"Brown-noser." Mrs. Murphy turned her back on him, and the tip of her tail flicked. She liked Fair but not enough to make a fool of herself rushing to greet him. Also, Murphy, having once endured a philandering husband herself, the handsome black-and-white Paddy, keenly felt for Harry.

"Close the door, Fair. It's cold."

"So it is." He gently shut the door behind him, took off his heavy green buffalo-plaid shirt, and hung it on a peg by the door.

"I'm down to cheese and crackers tonight because I haven't been to the supermarket in weeks. You're welcome to some."

"No appetite. Got a beer?"

"Yep." She reached into the refrigerator, fishing out a cold Sol, popped the cap, grabbed a glass mug, and handed it to him as he headed for the living room. He sank into the overstuffed chair, a remnant from the forties, which Harry's mom had found at a rummage sale. It could have even been from the thirties. It had been recovered so many times that only bits of the original color, a slate gray with golden stars, straggled on the edges where the upholsterer's nails held a few original threads. The last recovering had occurred seven years ago. Mrs. Murphy, claws at the ready, had exposed the wood underneath the fabric and tufting, which was why you could also see the upholsterer's nails. Her steady application of kitty destructiveness forced Harry to throw a quarter sheet over the chair. Now that she'd gotten used to it, she liked the dark green blanket, edged in gold, used to keep horses' hindquarters warm in bitter weather.

"To what do I owe this pleasure?"

Fair pulled long on the beer. "I am under investigation—"

"For the murder of Nigel Danforth?" Harry blurted out.

"No—for doping horses. Mickey Townsend drove over to tell Mim, and Mim told me, and sure enough Colbert Mason from National confirmed it. He was kind enough to say that no one believed it, but he had to go through the motions."

"Has anyone formally accused you?"

"Not yet."

"It's a crock of shit!"

"My sentiments exactly." The deep lines around his light eyes only added to his masculine appeal. He rubbed his forehead. "Who would do such a thing?"

"Whoever tells you they wouldn't," Harry remarked. "Who has something to gain by doing this to you? Another vet?"

"Harry, you know the other equine vets as well as I do. Not one of them would sink that low. Besides, we cooperate with one another."

Murphy brought in her tiny play mouse covered with rabbit's fur, one of her favorite toys. She hoped she could seduce Harry into throwing it so she could chase it. She jumped on the arm of the chair, dropping it into Harry's lap.

"Murphy, go find a real one."

"I have cleansed this house of mice. I am the master mouser," she bragged.

"Ha!" Tucker wedged herself on Harry's foot.

"You couldn't catch a mouse if your life depended on it."

"Well, you couldn't herd cows if your life depended on it, so there."

Harry tossed the mouse behind her shoulder, and the cat launched off the chair, tore across the room, skidded past the mouse because she'd put her brakes on too late, bumped her butt on the wall, slid around, got her paws under her, and pounced on the mouse.

"Death to vermin!" She tossed the mouse over her head. She batted it with her paws. She lobbed it in the air, catching it on the way down.

"Wouldn't you love to be like that just once?" Harry admired Mrs. Murphy's wild abandon.

"Freedom." Fair laughed as the tiger, play mouse in jaws, leapt over the corgi.

"I hate it when you do that," Tucker grumbled.

Mrs. Murphy said nothing because she didn't want to drop her mouse, so she careened around and vaulted Tucker from the other direction. Tucker flattened on the rug, ears back.

"Show-off."

The cat ignored her, rushing into the bedroom so she could drop the mouse behind the pillows and then crawl under them to destroy the enemy again.

Harry returned to the subject, "Remember those war philosophy books you used to read? The Art of War by Sun Tzu was one. A passage in there goes, 'Uproar in East, strike in West.' Might be what's going on with you."

"You read those books more carefully than I did."

"Liked von Clausewitz best." She crossed her legs under her. "No one who knows you, no one who has watched you work on a horse could ever believe you would drug horses for gain. Since this complaint came out of the steeplechase set, you know it may not relate to the murder, but then again, it gets folks sidetracked, looking east."

"Yeah—they'll waste time on me," he mumbled.

"Like I said, 'Uproar in East, strike in West.' " She paused. "Did you know Nigel?"

"He didn't talk much so it was a nodding acquaintance." He threw his leg over an arm of the chair. "Want to go to a show?"

"Nah. I'm going to paint the bathroom tonight. I can't stand it another minute.

"You work too much."

"Look who's talking."

"Isn't anyone going to come in here and play with me?" Murphy called from the bedroom as she threw a pillow on the floor for dramatic effect.

"She's vocal tonight." Fair finished his beer. "Bring me your mousie."

Seeing a six-foot-four-inch man of steel ask for a cat to bring her mousie never struck Harry as strange. Both she and Fair were so attuned to animals that speaking to them was as natural as speaking to a human. Generally, it produced better results.

Murphy ripped out of the bedroom, mouse in jaws again, and dropped the little gray toy on Fair's boots.

"What a valuable mouse. Murphy, you're a big hunter. You need to go on a safari." He threw the mouse into the kitchen, and off ran Murphy.

"You indulge her." Tucker sank her head on her paws.

"Miranda and I were going over to Mim's at lunch to poke around about the rumors of Nigel betting against himself in the sixth race, or was it the fifth?" She shrugged. " 'Course, the same rumor floated around about Linda Forloines."

"The thousand dollars?"

"Guess it's made the rounds."

"Yeah. Why didn't you go?"

"Larry relieved us late. Miranda got a call from her church group, some crisis to do with the songfest, so I went over to Crozet Pizza. No point in chasing rumors, which is why I can't believe that Colbert Mason is bothering about this one concerning you. Well, I guess he has to go through the motions."

"You were always better than I was at figuring out people. I'm not a vet just because I love animals. Don't much like people deep down, I suppose—or maybe I just like a few select ones like you."

"Don't start," Harry swiftly replied.

"Mom, don't be so hard on him." Mrs. Murphy deposited her play mouse next to her food bowl.

"Yeah, Mom," Tucker chimed in.

"I'm not starting." He sighed. "You know I've repented. I've told you. I'm changing. Hell, maybe I'm even growing up."

"Mother used to say that men don't grow up, they grow old. Actually, I thought Dad was a mature man, but then again a daughter doesn't see a man the same as a wife does."

"Are you telling me I can't grow up?"

"No." She uncrossed her legs, leaning forward, "I'm not good at these topics. The conventional wisdom is that women can talk about emotions and men can't. I don't see that I'm good at it, and I don't see any reason to learn. I mean, I know what I feel. Whether I can or want to express it is my deal, right? Anyway, emotions are like mercury, up, down, and if you break the thermometer, the stuff runs out. Poof.

"Mary Minor, don't be so tough. A little introspection can't hurt."

"Not the therapy rap again?" She threw up her hands.

He ignored the comment. "I hated going, but I'd made such a mess of my life it was that or sucking on a gun barrel." He paused. "Actually look forward to those sessions. I'm taking a college course and the subject is me. Guess it means I'm egotistical." He smiled wryly.

"What matters is that for you it's a—" she rummaged around for the right word, "an enlarging experience. You're open to it and getting a lot from it. I'm not. I'm closed. It ain't my deal."

"What's your deal?"

"Hard work. Why do you ask what you already know?"

"Wanted to hear you say it."

"You heard me."

"Harry, it's okay to share emotions."

"Goddammit, I know that. It's also okay not to share them. What good does it do, Fair? And what's the line between sharing and whining?"

"Do I sound like I'm whining?"

"No."

They sat in silence. Mrs. Murphy padded in, leaving her mouse by her food bowl.

"Go to a movie with him, Mom," Tucker advised.

"Yeah," Murphy agreed.

"You know if there's any way I can help you with this inquiry, I'll do it."

"I know." He sat waiting to be asked to stay, yet knowing she wouldn't ask. At last he rose, tossed his long-neck bottle in the trash, and lifted his heavy shirt off the peg. "Thanks for listening."

She joined him in the kitchen. "Things will turn out right. It's a waste of time, but dance to their tune for a while."

"Like singing for my supper? Remember when I was starting out, Mim would give me odd jobs at the stable and then feed me? Funny about Mim. She's tyrannical and snobbish, but underneath she's a good soul. Most people don't see that."

"What I remember is Little Marilyn's first husband driving you bananas."

"That guy." Fair shook his head. "I was glad when she was shuck of him, although I guess it was hard for her. Always is, really. Are you glad to be rid of me?"

"Some days, yes. Some days, no."

"What about today?" His eyes brightened.

"Neutral."

He opened the kitchen door and left. "Bye. Thanks for the beer," he called.

"Yeah." She waved good-bye, feeling that phantom pain in her heart like the phantom pain in an amputated limb.

Bazooka, sleek, fit, and full of himself, pranced sideways back to the stable. Addie breezed him but he wanted to fly. He hated standing in his stall, and he envied Mim's foxhunters, who led a more normal life, lounging in the pastures and only coming into their stalls at night.

Like most competitive horses, Bazooka was fed a high protein diet with supplements and encouraged to explode during the race. Mostly he felt like exploding at home. He knew he could win, barring an accident or being boxed in by a cagey opposing jockey. He wanted to win, to cover himself with glory. Bazooka's ego matched his size: big. Unlike most 'chasers at other barns, he also knew that when his competitive days drew to a close, Mim wouldn't sell him off. She would retire him to foxhunting, most likely riding him herself, for Mim was a good rider.

The fact that Mim could ride better than her daughter only deepened Little Marilyn's lifelong sulk. Occasional bursts of filial devotion gusted through the younger Mim's demeanor.

Both mother and daughter watched as Bazooka proudly passed them.

"He's on today," Addie called to them.

"The look of eagles." Mim grinned.

"I am beautiful!" Bazooka crowed.

"Mom, I didn't know Harry was coming by." Little Marilyn had grown up with Mary Minor Haristeen, but although she couldn't say she disliked Harry, she couldn't say she liked her either. Personalities, like colors, either look good together or they don't. These two didn't.

Mim, by contrast, found it easy to talk to Harry even though she deplored the younger woman's lack of ambition.

The Superman-blue Ford truck chugged to the parking lot behind the stable. Tucker and Mrs. Murphy appeared before Harry did. They spoke their greetings, then ran into the stable as Harry reached Big Mim and Little Mim, occasionally called Mini-Mim if Harry was feeling venomous.

"What have you got there?" Mim asked, noticing that Harry carried a small box.

"The labels for the wild game dinner invitations. Little Marilyn was printing up the invitations."

"Did you run these off a government computer?" Mim folded her arms across her chest.

"Uh—I did. Aren't you glad your taxes have gone to something productive?"

Little Mim snatched the box from Harry's hands. "Thanks."

"How do the invitations look?" Harry asked.

Little Marilyn squinted at Harry, distorting her manicured good looks. "Haven't picked them up yet." Which translated into: She forgot to order them, and the labels told her she'd better get cracking. "I think I'll go get them right now. Need anything from C-ville, Mum?"

"No. I gave my list to your father."

"Good to see you, Harry." The impeccably dressed young Marilyn hot-footed it to her Range Rover.

No point in either her mother or Harry criticizing her. They knew she hadn't done her job, but she'd do it under pressure. Nor was there any point in discussing it with each other.

Harry walked with Mim into the lovely paneled tack room. The air was nippy even though the sun was high.

"Where's Chark?"

"Other end of the barn. He's finishing up the last set. Bang 'em out early, as he says."

Harry sat down as Mim pointed to a seat covered in a handsome dark plaid. Harry could have lived happily in Mim's tack room, which was prettier than her living room.

"Mim, I know that Mickey Townsend drove over to tell you about the unfounded charges leveled against Fair. Fair dropped by last night. This is outrageous"—her face reddened—"for somebody to smear one of the best vets in practice. Do you have any idea who would pull a stunt like this?"

"No." Mim sat down opposite Harry. "I called Colbert and Arthur first thing this morning and told them the inquiry had better be fast and be quiet or I am going to make life sheer hell for everyone." She held up her hand as if requesting silence from an audience. "I also told them it's a waste of time when they have far more important things to do."

"Well, that's why I'm here. You're one of the most powerful people in the association." Mim murmured denial even as she was pleased to hear it, and Harry continued. "I dropped by Ned Tucker's this morning. Susan filled him in. He said he would represent Fair, no charge. He drafted a letter, which I have right here."

As Mim read, her eyebrows knitted together and then she smiled. "Good show, Ned."

The letter said in exhaustive legalese that Fair had no intention of submitting to an inquiry without a formal accusation. If this was allowed to continue, then every veterinarian, trainer, and jockey could be paralyzed by poisonous gossip. He demanded his accuser come forward, that a formal complaint be filed. Once that was accomplished, he would defend himself.

"What do you think? Rather, what do you think the National Steeplechase Association will think?" Harry took the letter back from Mim's outstretched hand, sporting only her wedding band and engagement diamond today.

"I expect they'll nail the accuser straightaway. But can you get Fair to sign this? You know how he is about honor. Nineteenth century, but then that's what makes him such a splendid man."

"Of course I can't get him to sign it. He thinks people should resolve their differences any way they can before resorting to lawyers. He doesn't understand that America doesn't work that way anymore. The minute we're born we put some lawyer on retainer."

"So what's the solution here?"

"Uh—Mim, what I had hoped is that you would fax this to Colbert. Maybe write a note that Ned Tucker came to you with this because he doesn't want the association further embarrassed. You know, the murder, public relations problems, et cetera. You want to give Colbert and Arthur, too, plenty of warning so they can frame a response should the press jump on this." Harry breathed deeply. She hadn't realized how nervous she was.

Mim sank back in the chair, painted nails tapping the armrests. "Harry, you are far more subtle than I give you credit for— of course I'll do it."

"Oh, thank you. Fair will never know unless Colbert tells him."

"I'll hint in my cover letter that if this can be rapidly resolved, the signed letter will never arrive. Fair will drop legal proceedings."

Harry beamed. "You're so smart."

"No—you are. And you're still in love with him."

"That's what everyone says, but no, I'm not." Harry quickly replied. "I love him. It's different. He's a friend and a good man, and he doesn't deserve this smear job. He'd do the same for me."

"Yes, he would."

As Mim and Harry discussed Fair, love, Jim, Bazooka, Miranda's choir group's fund-raiser for the Church of the Holy Light, as well as the kitchen sink, Mrs. Murphy and Tucker chatted up the barn cat, a strong, large ginger named Rodger Dodger. His tortoiseshell girlfriend, Pusskin, slept in the hayloft, worn out from chasing a chipmunk that morning.

Bazooka, being wiped down in the wash stall, listened disappointedly because the other animals weren't talking about him.

"How's hunting?" Rodger Dodger asked Mrs. Murphy.

"Good."

"Oh, yeah, she kills her play mouse nightly." Tucker giggled.

"Shut up. I account for my share of mice and moles."

"Don't forget the blue jay. That put Mom right over the edge." Tucker gloated.

"I hated that blue jay."

"I hate them, too," Rodger solemnly agreed. "They zoom down from twelve o'clock directly above you and peck you. Then peel out and zoom away. I'd kill every one if I could."

"What's going on around here?" Tucker changed the subject from rodent and fowl kills. Now, if they wanted to discuss how to turn cattle or sheep, she could offer many stories.

Rodger swept his whiskers forward, stepping close to the tiger cat and corgi. "Last night someone took Orion out of his stall, put him in the cross ties, and dug around in the stall, but was interrupted. Whoever it was covered the hole back up and put Orion in the stall."

"Can you smell anything in the stall?"

"Earth." Rodger Dodger rested on his haunches.

"Let's take a look." Mrs. Murphy scampered down the aisle. Since Orion was a hunter, he was playing outside in a field. The animals could go into his stall.

Tucker put her nose to the ground. The cats pawed the wood shavings away. The ground had indeed been freshly turned over.

Mrs. Murphy cautiously investigated the other corners of the stall. Nothing.

"Doesn't make sense, does it?" Rodger observed Tucker.

"I don't know." She lifted her head, inhaled fresh air, then put her nose back to the smoothed-over spot. "If we could get someone to dig here I might find something. If anything was removed, I would smell that." She sniffed again. "Right now it's blank."

The three animals sat in the stall.

"Do you know who it was?" Tucker asked.

"No, I was out in the machine shed last night. Good pickings. When Orion made mention of it on his way out this morning, I was too groggy to grill him."

"Let's go ask Orion." Mrs. Murphy left the stall just as Bazooka was put into his stall by Chark Valiant.

"You don't have to ask Orion," the steel gray told them. "I saw who it was. Coty Lamont."

"Coty Lamont!" Mrs. Murphy exclaimed. Rodger jumped on the tack trunk in front of Bazooka's stall and got on his hind legs to chat with the horse. "Bazooka, why was he here?"

"He didn't say," Bazooka sarcastically replied. "But Mickey Towns-end tiptoed in and shut the stall door with Coty in there. Coty tried to get out but Mickey wouldn't let him. He told him to cover it back up, and to come with him."

"Old Kotex hates Mickey." Mrs. Murphy used Coty's nickname. "For that matter, so does Chark Valiant."

"Bet Coty didn't go," Tucker said.

"Oh, but he did." Bazooka relished the tale. "Mickey pulled a gun on him and told him he had to go with him."

"Did he go?" Tucker's lustrous eyes widened.

"Sure he did. See, I don't know how he got here. Mickey just tiptoed into the barn," Bazooka added. "Anyway, Mickey told him to put his hands behind his head. He unbolted the stall, and Coty walked in front of him."

"Boy, is that weird." Rodger Dodger scratched his side with his hind leg.

It was more than weird, because that night at dusk Coty Lamont, the best steeplechase jockey of his generation, was discovered on a dirt road in eastern Albemarle County right off Route 22. He was laid out in the bed of his Ford 350 dually pickup truck painted in his favorite metallic maroon. The Queen of Spades was over his heart, a stiletto driven through it.

Rick Shaw lost cigarette lighters the way small children lose gloves. He used disposable lighters because of this. Pulling a see-through lime-green lighter from his coat pocket, he studied the corpse in the truck.

Cynthia Cooper scribbled in her notebook, weakened, and lit up a cigarette herself.

The ambulance crew waited at a distance. Kenny Wheeler, Jr., who had found the body, stayed with the sheriff and his deputy.

"Kenny, I know you've told me this before but tell me again because I need to have the sequence right," Rick softly asked the tall, deep-voiced young man.

"I was checking a fence line. Kinda in a hurry because I was losing light and running behind, you know." He stared down at his boots. "This old road is really on my neighbor's property, but I have use of it, so I thought I'd swing through to get to the back acres. Save a minute or two. Anyway, I saw this truck. Didn't recognize it. And as I drew closer I saw him"—he pointed to the body—"in the bed. I thought maybe the guy fell asleep or something—I mean, until I got closer. Well, I stopped my truck, got out, kinda peeped over the sides. I mean, I knew the man was dead, deader than the Red Sox, but I don't know why I called out, 'Hey.' I stood there for a minute and then I got on the mobile, called you first off, then called Mom and Dad. I described the truck. They didn't know it. Dad wanted to come right out, but I told him to stay put. It's better that I'm the only one involved.

"Well, Dad didn't like that. He's a hands-on guy, as you know, but I said, 'Dad, if you come on out here, then you'll get caught in the red tape, and you have enough to do. I found him, so I'll take care of it.' So he said okay finally, and here I am."

Cynthia closed her notebook. "Rick, do you need Kenny anymore?"

"Yeah, wait one minute." Rick, gloves on, pulled out the registration. "The truck is registered to Coty Lamont. That name mean anything to you?" Rick leaned against the open door of the truck.

"Coty Lamont." Kenny frowned. "A jockey. I'm pretty sure I've heard that name before. We don't race, but . . . that name is familiar."

"Thanks, Kenny. You've been a tremendous help. Go on home. I'll call you if I need you. Give your Mom and Dad my regards. Wife, too." Rick clapped him on the back.

As Kenny turned his truck around and drove out, Rick looked back into the bed of the truck. "Notice anything?"

"Yeah, he was shot in the back for good measure. Probably struggled." Cynthia answered.

"Uh-huh. Anything else?"

"Same M.O. as the last one, pretty much."

"The card, Cynthia, check out the card."

"The Queen of Spades." She whistled. "Lot of blood on this one."

"Spades, Coop—the other card was clubs."

Cynthia rubbed her hands on her upper arms. The sunset over the Southwest Range and the night air chilled to the bone. "Clubs, spades—are you thinking what I'm thinking?"

"Diamonds and hearts to go."

The glow from the tip of his cigarette shone through Rick Shaw's hand in the starless night. He cupped it to keep out the wind as he leaned over the railing at Montpelier's flat track.

Barry McMullen, who rented the flat track stable, hunched his shoulders against the biting wind, pulling up his collar.

"There's nothing to this thousand-dollar rumor." Barry pushed his chin out assertively. "I've known Coty Lamont ever since he started out as Mickey Townsend's groom. Then he got his first ride on one of Arthur Tetrick's horses back when Arthur kept twenty horses in training. I just don't think Coty would be suckered into a gambling ring, and I know he would never throw a race."

"Not even for a couple hundred thousand dollars?"

Barry considered that. "No jockey that threw a race—and it's damned easy to do in 'chasing—would get that much money. The stakes are considerably lower than flat racing, considerably lower."

"How much?"

"Maybe five thousand. Tops."

"So we're talking about sums, not character."

Barry growled, "Don't put words into my mouth. Coty Lamont possessed an ego three times his size. He was the best, had to be the best, had to stay the best. He wouldn't throw a race. I think this gambling hunch is off the mark—for him. I don't know Jack Shit about the other guy who was killed. That Nigel fella."

"Neither do we." Rick felt hot ashes drop into his hand. He tilted his palm halfway to drop them on the cold ground, stamping them out with his foot.

"Pleasant enough. Asked to ride here. He was a decent hand with a horse, but I didn't have any room for him." He wrapped his scarf tighter around his neck. "Is there a reason we're standing out here in the cold, Rick?"

"Yes. I don't trust anyone in any barn right now."

Barry's light brown eyes widened. "My barn?"

"Any barn. If you repeat my questions there isn't much I can do about it. After all, I'm a public servant and my inquiry must be aboveboard, but it doesn't have to be broadcast. I don't want anyone eavesdropping while mucking a stall or throwing down hay." He shook his head. "I've got a bad feeling about this business."

Barry's jaw hardened. "Jesus, what do you think is going on?"

"What about a ring that sells horses for high prices, then substitutes cheap look-alikes, keeping the high-priced horses for themselves to win races or to be resold again? Possible?"

"In the old days, yes. Today, no. Every Thoroughbred is tattooed on the lip—"

Rick interrupted. "You could duplicate the tattoo."

Slowly Barry replied, "Hard to do but possible. However, why bother? These days we have DNA testing. The Jockey Club demands a small vial of blood before it will register a foal, and it demands one from the mare, too. The system is ninety-nine point ninety-nine percent foolproof."

"Not if someone on the inside substitutes vials of blood."

This floored Barry. "How do you think of things like that?"

"I deal with miscreants, traffic violators, domestic dragons, thieves, and hard-core criminals day in and day out. If I don't think as they do I'll never nail them." The deep creases around Rick's mouth lent authority to his rugged appearance. "It would have to be an inside job. Meaning the seller, the vet, possibly a jockey or a groom, and maybe even someone at the Jockey Club would have to be in on it."

"Not the Jockey Club." Barry vigorously shook his head. "Never. We're talking about Mecca. Sheriff, I would bet my life no one at the Jockey Club would ever desecrate the institution even for a large sum of money, and hey, I don't always agree with them. I think they're turned around backward sometimes, but I trust them, I mean, I trust their commitment to Thoroughbreds."

"Well, I hope you're right. If my bait-and-switch hunch isn't right, I'm lost. Two jockeys have been killed within seven days. Unless we're talking about some kind of bizarre sex club here, or irate husbands, then I'm sticking close to gambling or selling horses."

"You'd better put out that weed, Sheriff Rick." Barry smiled, pointing at Rick's hand.

At just that moment the cigarette burned his palm and Rick flapped his hands, dropping the stub. Its fiery nub burned in the dying grass. Rick quickly stepped on it. "Thanks. Got so preoccupied I forgot I was holding the damn thing."

"They'll kill you, you know."

Rick sardonically smiled. "Better this than a stiletto. Anyway, I've got to die of something." What he kept to himself was the fact that he'd tried to quit three times, the pressure of work always pulling him back to that soothing nicotine. "You know what Nigel was doing in this stable?" He nodded in the direction of the imposing flat track stable lying parallel to the track.

"Picking up gear. I think that's what he was doing. Some jockeys stowed their gear here, away from the crowds."

"Where were you immediately after the races?"

"Enjoying Cindy Chandler's tailgate party."

"And after that?"

He put his hands in his pockets. "Ran into Arthur Tetrick and walked with him on his way to the big house. We chatted about Arthur buying a four-year-old I saw in Upperville. Arthur wants back in the game. We walked toward the gate to the house. I left him there and went to check on one last van pulling out from the back stables, not mine.'' He pointed northeast of his stable in the direction of the smaller stables, well out of sight. "That's when one of Frank Yancey's deputies called me. Pretty dark by then."

"Don't be surprised if Frank asks you all the same questions that I have. I've talked to him, of course."

Barry, although not a native Virginian, had lived in Orange County since the early '70s. He knew Sheriff Yancey well. "Frank's a good man. Not a smart man, but a good man. I'm glad you're on this now."

Rick couldn't cast aspersions on a fellow law enforcement officer. "Frank might be smarter than you know. You see, Barry, it's not what he knows, it's who he knows. I'm going over to roast"—he savored the word—"Mickey Townsend tomorrow. Maybe he'll turn something up for me. You get on with him?"

"Yeah."

Rick started back toward the squad car. "Oh, one other thing. Anyone play cards in this group, the steeplechase people? I don't mean a friendly hand here and there, but impassioned card players?"

"Hell, Mickey Townsend would kill for an inside straight."

Dr. Stephen D'Angelo, a pulmonary surgeon, rode toward the stables. He was immaculately dressed in butcher boots, tan breeches, a white shirt, and tweed hacking jacket.

Linda Forloines rode alongside him. "She's a point and shoot."

"Where did you say this horse hunted?"

"Middleburg, Piedmont, and Oak Ridge."

He patted his horse's neck. "How much?"

"Well, they're asking twenty thousand dollars. But let's go over there. If you ride her and like her, I bet I can get that price down."

"Okay. Make an appointment for Thursday afternoon." He stopped outside the stable door, dismounted, and handed the reins to Linda, who had dismounted first.

Time being precious to him, he scheduled his rides at precisely the same time each day. Then he drove to the hospital, changing there.

He had sworn when he moved down from New Jersey that he'd retire, but word of a good doctor gets around. Before he knew it he was again in practice with two mornings' operating time at the hospital.

Like most extremely busy people in high-pressure jobs, he had to trust those around him. Linda kept the stable clean and the horses worked. He couldn't have known that behind his back she made fun of everything about him.

She mocked his riding ability, calling it "death defying." She moaned about his truck and trailer; she wanted a much more expensive one. She lauded her contributions to his farm to all and sundry even as she bit the hand that fed her.

As soon as the horses were untacked and wiped down, she planned to call her friend in Middleburg who was selling the horse Dr. D'Angelo was interested in for someone else. The horse was worth $7,500. If Dr. D'Angelo liked the mare, Linda would "plead" with her friend to plead with her client to drop the price. They'd counter at $15,000. The owner of the horse would indeed get $7,500. Linda and her friend would split and pocket the additional $7,500 without telling anyone. The original owner wouldn't know because they'd cash the check and pay her in cash. It was done every day in the horse business by people less than honest . . . often selling horses less than sound.

The phone rang as Linda tossed a Rambo blanket over one of the horses.

The wall phone hung on the outside wall.

She picked it up. "Hello."

"Linda," the deep male voice said, "Coty Lamont was found dead in the back of his pickup truck. A knife through the heart."

She gasped. "What?"

"You're losing business." He laughed. Then his voice turned cold. "I know Sheriff Yancey questioned you."

Before he could continue she said, "Hey, I'm not stupid. I didn't say a word."

A long pause followed. "Keep it that way. Liabilities don't live long in this business. Midnight. Tomorrow."

"Yeah. Sure." She hung up the phone, surprised to find her hand shaking.

The pale November light spilled over her like champagne, making the deep blacks of Mrs. Murphy's stripes glisten. Her tail upright, her whiskers slightly forward, she loped across the fields to Mim's house. Alongside her and not at all happy about it wobbled Pewter—not an outdoor girl. Tee Tucker easily kept up the pace.

Mim's estate nestled not fifteen minutes from the post office if one cut across yards and fields.

"Oh, can't we walk a bit?"

"We're almost there." Murphy pressed on.

"I know we're almost there. I'm tired," complained the gray cat.

"Hold it!" Tucker commanded.

The two cats stopped, Pewter breathing hard. A rustle in the broom sage alerted them to another presence. The cats dropped to their bellies, ears forward. Tucker stood her ground.

"Who goes there?" Tucker demanded.

"As fine a cat as ever walked the globe," came the saucy reply.

"Ugh." Pewter squinted. She had never been able to stand Paddy, Mrs. Murphy's ex-husband.

Murphy stuck her head up, "Whatever you're doing on this side of Crozet, I don't want to know."

"And you shan't, my love." He kissed her on the cheek. "Pewter, you look slimmer."

"Liar."

"What a pretty thing to say to a gentleman paying you a compliment."

"What gentleman?"

"Pewter, be civil." Murphy hated playing peacemaker. She had better things to do with her time. "Come on, you two. If we're going to get back by quitting time, we've got to move on."

"Where are you going?"

"Mim's stable. Come along and I'll give you the skinny." Mrs. Murphy used an expression that she had heard Mrs. Hogendobber occasionally use when the good lady felt racy.

"Let's trot. I am not running." Pewter pouted.

"All right. All right," Tucker agreed to put her in a better mood. "Remember, it's because of you that we're on this mission."

"It's not because of me, it's because Coty Lamont turned up dead in the back of a pickup truck, shot in the back and with a knife through his heart. All I did was report the news of it this morning."

"How is it that Harry didn't know first—or the sanctified Mrs. Hogendobber?" Paddy smelled a heavy scent of deer lingering in the frost.

"Cynthia told Harry second. She stopped for coffee and one of Mrs. Hogendobber's bakery concoctions. French toast today and a kind of folded-over something with powdered sugar. Next she dropped in at the post office—."

Tucker interjected, "Said they'd read about it in the papers later, so she'd give them the real facts."

"And then I let you talk me into coming out here. Why I will never know." Pewter loudly decried her sore paw pads.

"Because Coty Lamont slipped into Mim's barn on the night or early morning when he was killed, that's why, and no one knows it but Rodger Dodger, Pusskin, the horses, and us."

Tucker patiently explained again to Pewter. This was like teaching a puppy to hide a bone. Repetition.

Tucker knew that Pewter figured things out just fine, but in bitching and moaning she could be the center of attention. Then, too, her paw pads, unused to hard running, really were tender.

"Another human knows, all right." Mrs. Murphy spied the cupolas on the stable up ahead. "Coty's killer."

"You don't know that," Paddy said and was informed as to the events that had transpired before Coty was found, the events at Mim's stable. Stubbornly, he said, "That means Mickey Townsend, since Rodger said he snuck in and found him."

"Sure looks that way, but I've learned not to jump to conclusions, only at mice," Murphy slyly offered.

"Don't sound superior, Murphy. I hate it when you do." Pewter puffed as they entered the big open doors trimmed in dark green on white.

Addie and Chark Valiant were arguing in the tack room situated in middle of the stable.

"You've got to get serious about the money."

"Bullshit," Addie defiantly replied.

Chark's voice rose. "You'll piss it all away, Addie—"

She interrupted. "All you and Arthur think about is the money. If I burn through my inheritance, that's my tough luck.

"We should keep our funds together and invest. It's the way to make more money."

"I don't want to do that. I have never wanted to do that. You take your share and I'll take mine."

"That's crazy!" he yelled. "Don't you realize what's at stake?"

"I realize that you and Arthur Tetrick went to court two years ago to extend the term of Arthur's trusteeship." Her face was red, "It's my money. Thank God, the judge didn't extend the term!"

"You were loaded on drugs, Addie. We did the right thing to try and protect you."

"Bullshit!" She threw her hard hat on the floor.

Chark tried another approach. ' 'What if we get another adviser?"

"Dump dear Uncle Arthur?" The word uncle was drenched in sarcasm.

"If it would convince you to keep our money together, yes."

A silence ensued, which Addie finally broke. "No. You and Arthur can watch over your money. I'll watch over mine."

"Goddammit, you're so stupid!"

She screamed, "I'm not going to be under your thumb for the rest of my life!"

"No, you'll just be under the thumb of whatever son of a bitch you fall in love with next—just like Mother."

The sound of a slap reverberated throughout the barn. "I could kill you. I wouldn't be surprised if you killed Nigel."

"You're nuts!" Chark stormed out of the tack room and out of the barn.

The animals, not moving, watched as Addie charged out of the tack room, running after her brother and bellowing at the top of her lungs, "I hate you. I really friggin' hate you!"

"Hi," Rodger called down from the hayloft. "Don't pay any attention to them, they're always fighting over money."

"Hi," called Pusskin, Rodger's adored girlfriend, sitting by his side.

"Have you heard?" Pewter loved to be first with the news, any news.

"No." Rodger climbed backward down the ladder to the hayloft. Pusskin followed.

"Coty Lamont was found murdered last night," Pewter breathlessly informed them.

"How awful." Pusskin slipped a rung, putting her hind paw on Rodger's head.

"That's why we're all here, Rodg," Mrs. Murphy said. "Let's go into Orion's stall."

Rodger, knowing of Paddy's reputation with the female of the species, walked between Pusskin and the handsome black cat with the white tuxedo front and white spats on his paws.

Orion stood in his stall, for he was to be clipped today, a process he loathed. The stiff whiskers on his nose and chin would be shaved off with hair clippers like the ones humans used for a buzz cut. His ears would be trimmed and a path on his poll behind his ears would be cut, a bridle path. The stall was latched.

"Orion, how are you today?" Rodger called to him from the tack trunk.

"How do you think? That damned Addie will twitch me and Chark will play barber shop." A twitch was used to keep horses standing still for such beauty treatments. A looped piece of rope at the end of a half broom handle was wrapped around his lip.

"I'll make a deal," Mrs. Murphy called out to him.

"I'm listening." Orion walked over to behold the gathering on his tack box. Tucker was seated beside it.

"I'll open this latch. I think if we cats push on the door, we can slide it back. Now, I don't care if you run out, but will you wait until we stop digging?"

The handsome horse blinked, his large brown eyes filled with curiosity. "What's in my stall, anyway? Sure I'll promise."

Mrs. Murphy, lean and agile, stretched to reach the bolt on the stall door. About the width of a human little finger, although longer, the metal bolt slid into a latch, a rounded piece of metal on the top, enabling a human to pull back the latch with one finger. Helped Mrs. Murphy, too. After much tugging, she pulled the fingerhold on the bolt downward, then she pushed with all her might to push the whole bolt back through its latch.

"You did it." Pewter was full of admiration.

"Now let's push." Rodger put his paws on the stall door, right below the X, which strengthened the lower door panel. Paddy put his paws at the very base of the door. Pewter added her bulk to it, and Tucker nudged with her nose. In no time at all they rolled the door back as quietly as they could.

"Over here." Rodger bounded to the spot.

"Let's pull the shavings away from it." Pusskin sent shavings flying everywhere.

All the cats, plus Tucker, were sprayed with little shavings bits.

"I can't smell anything," Orion added, "and you know I have a good sense of smell."

"I can't either," Tucker confessed. "But, Orion, if you'll use your front hooves to crack up the hard-packed earth, we can get digging faster. We might find something. Treasure, I bet!"

"Treasure is sweet feed drenched in molasses." Orion chuckled as he tore out chunks of earth.

Mrs. Murphy mumbled. "Too noisy—it'll bring the humans."

Noisy as Orion was, he dug out a deep saucer much more quickly than the combined cat and dog claws could have done. They heard footsteps outside.

"I'm out of here." Orion wheeled and trotted out of his stall just as Addie, over her fury, walked back into the barn from the other end.

Once outside, Orion jumped the fence into the pasture where his buddies chewed on a spread-out round bale of hay.

Two other people came into the tack room from outside. Tucker leapt into the small crater.

"Anything?" Mrs. Murphy asked her trusted companion.

"Can you smell gold?" Pusskin innocently asked.

Pewter bit her tongue. The pretty tortoiseshell was a kitty bimbo, but she made Rodger happy in his old age.

"I do smell something. Faint, very faint. Maybe another two feet below, maybe less."

"What?" came the chorus.

"Well, I don't know exactly. A mammal that's been dead for a long, long time. It's so faint and dusty, like mildew after the sun hits it."

Before the animals could react, Addie, Charles, and Arthur Tetrick lurched into the open stall.

"What the—?" Addie opened her mouth.

"That damned Orion. He's too smart." Charles slapped his thigh. "He heard the clippers."

"How'd he get out?" Addie stared at the animals, not comprehending that they had freed the hunter. "What is this, an animal convention? Mrs. Murphy, Tucker, Pewter, Paddy, Rodger, and Pusskin even."

The animals remained silent with Tucker slinking toward the door.

Arthur inspected the hole. "Better fill this in right away. It's not good for a horse to stand in an uneven stall. Not good at all."

"But that's the funny thing." Charles removed his baseball cap and ran his fingers through his hair. "Orion isn't a digger."

Arthur snorted. "Well, he is now."

"You would do best to dig further," Mrs. Murphy told Addie.

"Yeah, Adelia, something's down there," Rodger added, noticing that Addie was pointedly ignoring her brother and Arthur.

"I'll get the shovel and pack this back down." Charles left the stall.

"Keep digging!" Tucker barked.

"That dog has a piercing bark." Arthur frowned. "I never liked little dogs."

"I never liked fastidious men," Tucker snapped back, then ran out of the stall followed by the other animals.

Adelia snapped too, as she walked away from the stall, "You two are as thick as thieves. I'm going to lunch."

"Come on, Addie." Charles said, but she kept walking away.

"Rodger and Pusskin, keep your eyes open," Mrs. Murphy told them as her small group left the barn. "Anything at all. A change in routine—"

"We will," Pusskin agreed. "But what the humans do is their own business."

"Curiosity killed the cat," jibed the big ginger.

"Don't say that, Rodger. I hate that expression." Pusskin frowned.

"I'm sorry, my sweet." He rubbed the side of his face against hers.

Pewter stifled a laugh.

"Bye," they called to one another.

As Mrs. Murphy melted back into the field Paddy said, "You are nosy."

"Well ..." The tiger cat thought a moment. "I didn't much care until Coty was killed and I found out he'd been in the barn the night before. I don't know—guess I am nosy."

"I'm hungry."

"Another ten minutes." Tucker babied Pewter. "Unless you want to run.

"No, not another yard!"

"Wish I could figure out a way to get Mom or even Mim to dig up that stall." Murphy thought out loud.

"About all she knows is when to open a can of food." Tucker loved Harry but suffered no illusions about her mental capabilities.

"You're right," Murphy sadly agreed.

"Whatever is in that stall is going to cause a shitload of trouble," Paddy sagely noted. "And Orion's got to stand on it."

"If he digs it up again just out of curiosity they'll either put him in another stall to see if it's pique on his part or put a rubber mat in the stall. I doubt he'll dig, though." Tucker was getting hungry herself.

"Why do you say that?" Pewter walked more briskly since she was close to home.

"He'll be in enough trouble for bolting his stall and digging that hole in the first place. He'll lie low for a while." Tucker saw Mrs. Hogendobber's house. "Hey, I'll race you to the door."

"No," Pewter adamantly said, but the others took off, leaving her to grumble as she walked to the post office. "Bunch of show-offs."

A small nicotine stain marred Arthur Tetrick's lower lip. A dedicated pipe smoker, he contentedly packed in an expensive mix as he relaxed in Mim's living room. He'd walked up to the house after Addie stalked off.

"Smartest horse. Too smart." He tapped down the tender tobacco releasing a sweet unsmoked fragrance. "You're going to have to put a combination lock on his stall door."

Mim, out of the corner of her eye, saw Chark and one of her grooms chasing Orion in the field. This was a holiday, a canceled school day for the hunter, and he was making the most of it.

"Some sherry, Arthur?"

"No, no." He waved his hand. "No libations until the sun's over the yardarm."

"Coffee or tea then? I have some wonderful teas that Little Marilyn gave me for my birthday."

"A bracing darjeeling would do me a world of good." He held the match over the bowl of his burl pipe, the bowl shining with the use of many years, the draw perfect. That same pipe today would cost well over $250, so Arthur cherished it. No true pipe smoker would stick the flame right into the bowl just as no true cigar smoker would ever put the flame to the end of the cigar.

Mim shook a tiny bell. Gretchen appeared at the doorway. Gretchen and Mim had been together so long neither could imagine life without the other no matter how unequal the terms. "Yes, Miz Big." Her shorthand for Big Marilyn.

"Some darjeeling for the gentleman and some Constant Comment for me."

"Morning, Gretchen." Arthur nodded.

"Morning, Mr. Arthur. Cream or sugar?"

"Cream, well, half-and-half if you have it."

"Oh, Miz Big, she got everything." Gretchen turned, her wiry frame almost leaving a puff of smoke, she turned so fast.

"Mim, I'm here on a mercy mission." He cleared his throat. "As you know, Adelia comes into her inheritance November fourteenth, the day after the Colonial Cup. It's a considerable fortune, as you are aware. At that time she may elect to separate her share from Charles's share, which, of course, I oppose. Adelia is a lovely, lovely girl with absolutely no head for business. She should never be allowed to get her hands on her money. The interest is sufficient to allow her to live very well indeed."

"Bonds. Are you talking bonds, Arthur?" Mim shrewdly asked.

"Well, yes and no. As it now stands the Valiant resources are so conservatively invested that they reap barely six percent per annum. I have deliberately invested conservatively so as to run no risks until they inherit. Once that happens, I would still advise them to be prudent but to diversify more than I did when they were minors. They can afford a bit of risk, you know, keep the bulk in secure investments while targeting a small portion for high-risk/high-yield investments. My fear is, Adelia will take her money and—" He held up his hands. "Shiny cars, the usual foolish pleasures . . . Mim, you and I have both seen impulsive scions run through more money than Adelia will inherit. Large as the amount is, no well is bottomless. She greatly respects you. She finds me an old bore."

"Impossible," Mim said brightly as Gretchen delivered the tea.

Mim's tea service, which had been in the family on her mother's side since George III, caught the light, holding it prisoner to the lustrous silver. No one with an eye for beauty could behold her tea service without a slight gasp of appreciation.

"Need anything else?" Gretchen smiled.

"New knees."

"I told you not to hunker down there in that garden this summer, but you didn't listen to me. You don't listen to anyone."

"I'm listening to you now, Gretchen dear."

"Yes, Miz Big, dear." Gretchen put her hands on her hips. "Mr. Arthur, you talk to her. She is the most stubborn woman God ever put on this earth. She don't listen to me. She don't listen to her husband—'course, I don't listen to mine either. She is just a whirlwind of opinion. Uh-huh." That said, Gretchen wheeled and vacated the room.

"She is one of a kind." Arthur chuckled.

"Thank God. I don't think I could stand two."

Mim used the delicate silver tongs to drop a sugar cube into her Constant Comment, making it even sweeter. "Now let me understand you fully. You want me to tell Adelia to be a bit more aggressive with her investments but not to get crazy and, of course, never, ever, on pain of death, to touch the principal. Ideally she will keep the money together with Charles's." A beat. "And you'd like to remain as an adviser, or in some capacity."

"Um . . ." He nodded in the affirmative and placed his pipe in the pipe ashtray that Mim kept in the living room as he delicately brought the thin teacup to his lips. "I say, this is marvelous tea. My compliments to Little Marilyn."

"Before I have this financial meeting with her, I want to know who you are recommending for handling the portfolio. After all, out of duty you must recommend people other than yourself. We must hope the children will be wise enough to stick with you."

"I rather like Ed Bancroft at Strongbow and McKee."

"Yes, he's very good, but he's older. They might work better with someone in his or her thirties."

Arthur paled. "Too young, too young. A young person hasn't ridden the market through a few cycles. They panic during contractions." He refused to call a recession or a depression just what it was.

"Good point." She leaned back in the silk-covered chair. "Well, you seem to be the best person for the job. There's always Arnie Skaar, should they wish a change—you know, an assertion of independence."

"Yes, Arnie's good."

"Will you be saddened if you lose your job?" she forthrightly asked.

"Oh, I never thought of it as a job, and in some ways Charles has been Adelia's guardian more than I have. Really, I'll continue to guide them as best I can no matter what happens. I was shocked, when Marylou disappeared, to discover she'd made me her executor. I thought she was so besotted with Mickey Townsend that she might have foolishly changed her will. Devastated as I was to lose Marylou, I was heartened by her caution on this matter." He drew on his pipe. "Charles and I have been able to draw together. Adelia favored Mickey, and, well—women are so unpredictable." He held up his hands as if in supplication.

"You've done your best. Being anyone's executor is a time-consuming and sad process. I was Mother's executor, and I learned more in that one year than I think I did in all the years before." Mim poured Arthur more tea. "Terrible news this morning. It's giving us all the chills."

"What?" He inhaled the delicate yet strong tea aroma.

"You haven't heard?" Mim put her cup and saucer down.

"No."

"Coty Lamont was stabbed through the heart on a dirt road off Route Twenty-Two. Dumped in the back of his pickup truck."

"Good God!" Arthur's cup slipped from his hand. He captured it with his saucer but slopped tea everywhere. "I'm so sorry, Mim."

"Scotchgard." She tinkled for Gretchen again. "Works wonders."

"Ma'am." Gretchen perceived the situation as soon as the "Ma'am" was out of her wide and generous mouth. "I'll be back."

She returned quickly with dishtowels, mopping up Arthur and dabbing the rug. "No harm done."

"I do apologize. It was such a shock."

"What shock?" Gretchen wouldn't budge.

"Oh, Gretchen, Sheriff Shaw called to tell me there's been another murder. Coty Lamont."

"That handsome good-for-nothing jockey? Why, he used to ride for you, didn't he, Mr. Arthur, back when you was in the game?"

"Yes, yes, I gave him his start. I gave a lot of men a leg up, so to speak. He left me to ride for Mickey Townsend and then moved on from there. That's the way of the world—the young and ambitious, climbing the ladder." He wiped his brow with a neatly folded linen handkerchief. "This is too much. Why didn't Adelia and Charles say something?"

"They don't know yet. Rick just called. I'd like to think I was his first call, but I doubt it. I'm going to buy one of those CBs that lets me listen to police calls."

"No, you aren't," Gretchen scolded. "You'll be running all over the county. Bad enough that Mr. Jim does it. 'Course, being mayor he has to, I guess."

"Something's dreadfully wrong," Mim blurted out. "Arthur, you officiate at different races. Surely, you must know something."

"No." He wiped his brow again. "Coty Lamont. It doesn't seem possible. And stabbed through the heart, you say?"

Mim nodded. "Apparently he wasn't as easy to kill as Nigel Danforth was because Rick says he was shot first. Of course, they'll do an autopsy, but he believes the shot preceded the stabbing. This grotesque symbol—the stiletto through the heart. And another playing card."

"What do you mean?" Gretchen asked, curiosity getting the better of her.

"Gretchen . . . oh, sit down and have some tea. I'll get a crick in my neck turning around to talk to you."

Gretchen quickly fetched another cup, eagerly plopped down and helped herself to some of the darjeeling.

"You see," Mim intoned, "the first man murdered had a playing card over his heart. The Queen of Clubs. Fair Haristeen found him. And Arthur, I must talk to you about Fair. Anyway, this second murder—" She paused. "The Queen of Spades."

"Mojo." Gretchen downed her tea in one big swallow.

Arthur smiled indulgently. "I don't think anyone knows voodoo in central Virginia."

"Mojo." She clamped her jaw shut.

"Well, if it isn't mojo, it still means something."

"Means something wild. You stab a man through the heart, you got to get real close. You got to look in his eyes and smell his breath. You got to hate him worse than the angel hate the Evil One. I know 'bout these things."

Arthur shuddered. "Gretchen, you are very graphic."

"When was the last time you saw Coty?" Mim asked him.

"Montpelier. I was always proud of him, you know—that I saw his talent early and encouraged it. I emphatically did not encourage his arrogance."

Mim's tone flattened a bit. "But he was arrogant—arrogant and too clever by half."

"Ain't clever now."

"That's just it, Gretchen. Maybe he was, and like I said, he was too clever by half always playing odds with the bookies through fronts like Linda Forloines. No one could catch him at it." She smoothed over her skirt. "I suppose I'll go down and tell Charles and Adelia. Arthur, I'll wait a day or two to have that financial discussion with Adelia."

"Of course, of course. Well, I'd better be heading home. I was going to run some errands in town, then go to the office, but I think I'll go straight home and, well—ponder."

"Nothing to ponder. Somebody got a backwards passion. It's worse than hate—reverse love." Gretchen picked up the silver tray and ambled out.

"I resent that. I resent this whole damned line of questioning!" Mickey Townsend roared in Rick Shaw's face.

Rick, accustomed to such displays, calmly folded his hands as Cynthia Cooper, behind him, took notes. "I don't think there's any way to make this pleasant. Nigel Danforth rode for you and—"

"Rode for me for two months. How the hell did I know he was, uh—a non-person?"

"You could have checked his green card."

"Well, I didn't. He was a decent jock and I let it go, so call down the damned bloodhounds from Immigration on me. They'll harass me for hiring a skilled Brit, yet they let riffraff pour over the border and go on welfare and we pay for it!"

"Mr. Townsend, I wouldn't know about that," Rick Shaw replied dryly. "But you are a successful trainer. You have knowledge of the steeplechase world, and two jockeys have been killed within a week of one another under similar circumstances. You knew them both. And they both rode for you at various times."

His face reddened. "Balls! Everyone in the game knew Coty Lamont. I don't like your line of questioning, Shaw, and I don't much like you."

"You're accustomed to having your own way, aren't you?"

"Most successful people are, Sheriff." Townsend folded his burly arms across his chest. "So I'm a prick. That doesn't make me a killer."

"Did you owe Nigel Danforth money?"

"Absolutely not. I pay at the end of the day's race."

"Easier when you don't have withholding taxes and Social Security to worry about, isn't it?"

"You're damned right it is, and taxes will destroy this nation. You mark my words."

"Did you owe Coty Lamont money?"

"Why would I owe Coty Lamont money?" The bushy eyebrows knitted together.

"That's what I'm asking you."

"No."

"Did you like Coty Lamont?"

"No."

"Why?"

"That's my business. He was a talented son of a bitch. That's all I'm prepared to say."

"We'll get a lot further along if you cooperate with me." He swiveled to exchange looks with Coop, who frowned. This was part of their routine before recalcitrant subjects. They could play "good cop, bad cop" but Mick was too smart for that game.

"Well, let me try another tack then. Did either Nigel Danforth or Coty Lamont owe you money?"

"No." Mick rolled his forefinger over his neat black mustache. "Yes."

"Who and how much?"

"Nigel owed me three hundred forty-seven dollars, a collection of poker debts, and Coty owed, oh, about one hundred twenty-two dollars."

"You didn't like Coty but you played poker with him?"

"Hey, there's down time in this business. I don't have to love a guy to let him sit in on a poker game."

"You're a good player?"

Mick shrugged.

Cynthia chimed in, "Everyone says you're slick as an eel."

"They say that because they don't remember which cards are out and which ones are still in the deck. If you're playing stud, that's all you gotta do." He shrugged those powerful shoulders again. "I'm not so smart."

Rick rubbed his receding hairline. It was almost as if he were searching for the hair. "Coop, can you think of anything?"

"One little thing—Mr. Townsend, do the card suits have a special significance?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, what if—crazy, I know, but what if I had a royal flush in hearts and you had one in spades. Who would win?"

"I would. The suits in ascending order are clubs, diamonds, hearts and spades."

"But wouldn't most people declare it a draw?" Rick puzzled. "I mean most people wouldn't know the significance of the suits. At least, I don't think they would. If a situation like that occurred, wouldn't you draw off the deck, high card takes it?"

"In a situation with two royal flushes, you'd both have cardiac arrest and it wouldn't matter. The odds are impossible."

"But you know the significance of the suits," Rick pressed.

"Yes, I do."

"Isn't there another way to look at the suits, a non-poker way?" Cynthia asked.

He leaned back in his chair. "Sure."

"Can you tell me what that is?"

"You've done your homework. You tell me." He stared at her.

"All right." She smiled at him. "Clubs represent humans at their basest. Spades is a step up. Instead of clobbering one another, they work the earth. Diamonds is a higher level than that, obviously, but the highest type of human would fall into the heart category."

"Well put." Mickey smiled back at the young officer. He couldn't help himself. She was nice-looking.

"A club and a spade have been used," Rick drawled.

"So next comes a diamond. Somebody rich." Mickey folded his arms across his chest. "Won't be me. I'm not rich."

Totem, a Thoroughbred hotter than Hades, ditched most people who climbed on his back. The only reason he wasn't turned into Alpo was that he could run like blazes. Dr. D'Angelo had bought him on sight from Mickey Townsend at Montpelier. Linda Forloines, furious that she wasn't in on the deal and hence got no commission, plotted how to get rid of the animal.

She promised Dr. D'Angelo that she would faithfully work Totem. She'd then take a bar of soap and lather him up fifteen minutes before D'Angelo walked into the stable. This way the horse looked as though he'd been exercised. Then Linda would make up a story about how he had behaved, full of little details to cement her lies. As soon as D'Angelo left she'd hose the horse off and turn him out in the paddock.

Will, grabbing the halter with a lead chain over the nose, helped his wife walk the horse to the paddock.

"I'll get this horse out of here in two months' time," she bragged.

"How?"

"Ask Bob Drake to ride him when D'Angelo's here."

"Bob Drake can't ride this horse." Will's eyes widened.

"Exactly." She grunted as the large animal bumped into her. She hit his rib cage with her fist, hoping he'd not bump into her again.

They both breathed a sigh of relief when Totem walked into his paddock and the gate closed behind him.

"Linda, Bob could get hurt—bad."

She shrugged, "He's a big boy. He doesn't have to ride the horse."

Will pondered that. "Well, he gets planted. Then what?"

"Then I tell D'Angelo he could get sued with a horse like this. I'd better take it off his hands."

Will smiled, "The commission ought to be pretty good."

"Just remember"—she winked at him—"we're going to own our own stable—real soon. We can make money in this business. Real money."

"What if D'Angelo won't sell?"

"He will." She rubbed her hands together. "I've got him all figured out. Listen, honey, I've got to make a pick up tonight. I'll be back real late."

He frowned. "I wish you'd let me go with you."

"I'm safe. It's better if only one of us knows who the supplier is. Since I knew him first, it doesn't make sense to drag you into it. And he'd never allow it."

Will shielded his head as a gust of wind blew straw and hay bits everywhere. "It's dangerous."

"Nah."

"Two of our best customers are dead."

"Has nothing to do with us."

"God, I hope not." Will's features drained of animation.

Linda didn't want Will to know the supplier for two reasons. In a tight spot he might spill the beans, ruining everything. And he'd know the exact amount of coke being sold to her. That would never do because she didn't want him to know how much she kept back for herself. She cut it lightly once before bringing it back home. Then she and Will cut it together, using a white powdered laxative.

Will could be the brawn of the outfit. She was the brains. What he didn't know wouldn't hurt him.

Later that night, at ten-thirty, when Linda pulled out of the driveway in the truck, Will hurried outside and jumped into Dr. D'Angelo's old farm truck. He followed her, lights off, until she turned south on Route 15. He allowed a few cars to buffer the zone between himself and his wife. Then he clicked on the lights and followed her to her rendezvous.

Silver strands of rain poured over the windshield. Harry could barely see as she drove to work. The windshield wipers sloshed back and forth, allowing momentary glimpses of a road she luckily knew well.

Mrs. Murphy, paws on the dash, alert, helped Harry drive. Tucker wasn't quite able to rest her hind paws on the bench seat and reach for the dash.

"Big puddle up ahead," the cat warned.

Harry slowed, wondering why her tiger was so chatty.

"Mom, a stranded car dead ahead." Mrs. Murphy's claws dug into the dash.

Mickey Townsend's beautiful silver BMW rested by the side of the road, the right wheels in a drainage ditch that had swollen from a trickle to a torrent.

Harry stopped, putting on her turn signal because the old truck's flasher fuse had a tendency to blow. Of course, that wasn't as annoying as having the gear shift stick whenever she tried to put it in third gear. The passenger window looked as though Niagara were pouring over it. She couldn't see a thing.

"Damn." She pulled ahead of the beached vehicle, careful not to suffer the same fate. "Guys, stay here."

"Don't go out in that," Mrs. Murphy told her. "You'll catch your death of cold."

"Stop complaining, Murphy. You stay right here. I mean it."

She clapped her dad's old cowboy hat on her head, which channeled the water away from her face and off the back and front of the hat. She'd never found anything better for keeping the rain out of her eyes. She also wore her Barbour coat, a dark green dotted with mud, and her duck boots. They would keep her dry.

She slipped out, quickly closed the door, and prayed no one would skid around the curve as it appeared Mickey Townsend must have done. She put her hand over her eyes and peered into the driver's seat. Nothing. She walked around to the other side, just to be sure he wasn't bending over outside his car, trying to figure out how to extricate himself from this mess. He wasn't there.

She lifted herself back up into the truck, clicked off the turn signal, and rolled on down the road. By the time she walked through the back door, carrying both Mrs. Murphy and Tucker under her Barbour, Mrs. Hogendobber had sorted out one bag of mail.

"Miranda, I'm sorry I'm late. I couldn't go over twenty-five miles an hour, the visibility was so awful."

"Don't worry about it," Mrs. Hogendobber airily replied. "The water is ready for tea and I whipped up oatmeal muffins last night and another batch of glazed doughnuts. I can't bake enough doughnuts for Market. He sells out by ten o'clock."

"Oh, thanks." Harry gratefully pulled off her raincoat as Mrs. Murphy and Tucker shook off the few drops of water that had fallen on them. Harry hung up her coat on the coat rack by the back door and poured herself a cup of tea. "I'd die without tea."

"I doubt that, but you'd sure be grouchy in the morning." Miranda helped herself to a second cup.

"Oh, I better call Rick." Harry carried the steaming cup with her to the phone.

"Now what's wrong?"

"Mickey Townsend's BMW is stranded at Harper's Curve." She punched the numbers.

"I hope he's all right. Things are so—queer just now."

Harry nodded. "Sheriff Shaw, please, it's Mary Minor Haristeen." She waited a minute. "Hi, Sheriff. Mickey Townsend's BMW has two wheels dropped in a ditch at Harper's Curve. I got out to check it and it's empty."

"Thanks, Harry. I'll send someone over once things quiet down. It's one fender bender after another on a day like this." He paused a moment. "Did you say Mickey Townsend's car?"

"Uh-huh."

His voice sounded strained. "Thanks. I'll get right on it. That curve can be evil."

The phone clicked and Harry put the receiver back in the cradle.

"Well?"

"At first he didn't seem too worried about it but now he's sending someone right over."

"You know at choir practice last night Ysabel Yadkin swore that Mickey is involved in a big gambling scam and that Nigel Danforth owed him oo-scoobs of money. I asked her what was the last steeplechase she attended and she gave me the hairy eyeball, I can tell you. 'Well, Ysabel,' I said, 'if you're going to tell tales, you ought to at least know the people you're talking about.' She fried. But then after practice she came over and declared that I was being snotty because I had horsey friends. Her Albert knows Mickey Townsend because he works on that expensive car of his."

"Since when did Albert start working on BMWs?"

Mrs. Hogendobber drained her mug, returning to the second mailbag. "Since they offered him more money than Mercedes."

"Mrs. H., sit down, you did that first bag all by yourself. I'll do this one."

"Idle hands do the devil's work. I don't mind."

Together they tipped the bag into the mail cart just as Boom Boom Craycroft sashayed through the front door at eight o'clock sharp.

"What a morning, and the temperature is dropping. I hope this doesn't turn to ice."

"We're a little behind, Boom Boom, and it's my fault."

"I can help."

"Oh, no, don't bother," said Harry, who knew that Boom Boom's idea of help would be to sort for five minutes, then have a fit of the vapors. "Why don't you run a few errands and come on back in about half an hour?"

' T guess I could.'' She plucked her umbrella out of the stand where she had dropped it. "Isn't it awful about Coty Lamont?"

Before she had the complete sentence out of her mouth a soaking-wet Mickey Townsend pushed open the door and sagged against the wall.

"Mickey, are you all right?" Boom Boom reached out to him.

"Yes, by the grace of God." He began shaking; he was chilled to the bone.

"Come back here." Miranda flipped up the dividing barrier. "You need a hot drink. I'll run to the house and get some of George's clothes. They're too big for you but at least they're dry."

"Oh, Mrs. Hogendobber, a cup of coffee will put me right." His teeth chattered, belying his words.