Murder She Meowed

"Now you stay right here," Miranda commanded as Harry made him a cup of instant coffee.

"Sugar and cream?" Harry opened the tiny refrigerator to reach for the cream.

"Two sugars and a dab of cream." He held out his hand for the cup, then put both hands around it, vainly trying to stop shaking.

Boom Boom joined them as Mickey dripped water all over the floor.

"He's white as a sheet," Tucker noted.

"I stopped by your car." Harry threw her coat over his shoulders.

"How long ago?"

"Fifteen, twenty minutes."

"Just missed me." His teeth hit the rim of the cup. "I couldn't find a house. I headed into the cornfield there but realized I had to come back to the road because I couldn't see anything and I'd get lost. I mean, I know that territory but I couldn't see a damned thing and I was—" He gulped down a few warm mouthfuls of coffee. "God, that tastes good."

Miranda pushed open the back door, turned and shook her umbrella out the door, and then closed it because the wind was blowing the rain into the post office. A shopping bag of clothes hung on her arm. "You go right into the bathroom and towel off. There's a big towel here on top. And get into these clothes."

Mickey did as he was told, finally emerging in pants with rolled cuffs and the sleeves of George's old navy sweater rolled up, too, but he was warm.

"Mrs. Hogendobber never throws anything out." Mrs. Murphy laughed. "I guess it's a good thing."

He ate a glazed doughnut and continued his story. "I found the road again and knew if I could get into town you'd be in the post office early. Say, I'd better call a towing service."

"I already called Rick Shaw."

"What for?"

"I didn't know where you were or whether you were okay—things being what they are," Harry said forthrightly. "So I called him."

"Well, he's not worried about me. He treats me like the chief suspect."

"He sounded worried enough on the phone," Harry stated.

"Yeah—well." Mickey slumped a moment, then straightened his back. "I guess I'm a little worried, too."

"Everyone's worried." Boom Boom nibbled an oatmeal muffin.

"I know that road like the back of my hand. Someone swooped down behind me and ran me off the road."

"People don't pay attention to the weather—" Miranda prepared to launch into a diatribe about the bad driving habits of the younger generation, meaning anyone younger then herself.

Mickey cut her off, "No, whoever this was wanted to run me off the road—or worse."

"What?" Boom Boom stopped mid-bite.

"They nudged me from behind and then drew alongside and pushed me right off the road. If we'd been twenty yards further up the road, it would have been a steep drop, I can tell you that."

"Could you see who it was?" Harry asked.

"Hell, no, not in this rain. It was a big-ass truck, I can tell you that. I'm not even sure about the color, although I thought I caught a glimpse of black or dark blue. GMC maybe, but I don't know. It happened so fast."

"Why don't they ask him what he was doing down that road in the first place?" Mrs. Murphy rubbed against Tucker.

"Too polite." Tucker loved it when the cat rubbed on her.

"This is no time to be polite. And furthermore, I don't believe him."

"You don't believe he was run off the road?"

"I believe that." The cat's whiskers touched and tickled Tucker's nose. "But he's hiding something."

"Maybe he knows what's in Orion's stall?"

"Tucker, I don't know about that. I don't think we'll ever get the humans to dig down deep enough, and Orion can't help. He's switched to another stall, remember?"

"Yeah. So what is it about Mickey Townsend?"

"You can smell fear as well as I can."

Harry, Susan, Fair, Big Mim, Little Marilyn, and Boom Boom all had their noses out of joint because the rain had forced them to bag their long-planned foxhunting with Keswick Hunt Club. The only good thing about the rained-out Saturday was that Harry finally went grocery shopping.

As she wheeled her cart around the pet food aisle, always her first stop, she saw Cynthia Cooper piling bags of birdseed into her cart.

"Coop."

"Hey. Great minds run in the same direction."

"Mrs. Murphy will shred the house if I don't get her tuna. She tore the arm off the sofa last week. I still haven't put it back together."

"Because of tuna?"

"No. I left her home from Montpelier and took Tucker. Made her hateful mean."

Five years ago, hearing a story like that, Cynthia Cooper would have thought it a fabrication. However, she had grown to know Harry's cat and dog as well as other Crozet animals. The stories were true. In fact, Mrs. Murphy had pointed out a skull fragment to her on a case at Monticello. It could have been blind luck but then again—

"One of these days I'll get a cat, but I work the most terrible hours. Maybe I need a husband before the cat. That way he can take care of the cat when I'm on duty."

"Hope you have better luck than I did."

"Doesn't it make you crazy that everyone tries to get you and Fair back together—including Fair?" Cynthia laughed.

Harry rested her elbows on the push bar of the cart. "Lack of imagination. They don't believe another eligible man will come through Crozet."

"Blair Bainbridge." She was referring to the model who had bought the farm next to Harry's a few years back.

"His career takes him away for such long stretches of time. And I think Marilyn Sanburne the younger has set her cap for him.

"Quaint expression."

"I'm trying not to be rude." Harry inadvertently kicked the cart and almost fell on her face as it rolled out from under her.

"How much more shopping?" Cynthia pointed to Harry's long list.

"Forty-five minutes. Why?"

"If you buy pasta I'll make it."

"No kidding?" Harry eagerly said. Not being much of a cook, she loved being asked to dinner or having someone cook for her.

"That way we can catch up." Cynthia put her finger to her lips, the hush sign.

Harry understood right away. "Be back at the house in an hour.

As she rounded the next aisle in a hurry, she beheld Boom Boom, ear pressed to cans of baked beans.

"I'm in this aisle now." Harry had to twit her. "I mean, unless the beans are talking to you."

"You need to do something about your hostility level. I really and truly want to take you to Lifeline with me."

"I am doing something about my hostility level." Harry mimicked Boom Boom's mature and understanding voice, the one reserved for moments of social superiority. With that she pushed her cart away.

"What do you mean?" Boom Boom put her hands on her hips. "Harry, come back here."

Harry twirled around the next aisle without looking back. Boom Boom, miffed, hurried after her. "What do you mean?"

"Nothing," Harry called over her shoulder, throwing items into her cart at a fast clip.

Boom Boom, never one to miss an emotional morsel, cut the corner too close and rammed into a toilet paper display that tumbled over the floor, into her cart, and onto her head.

Harry stopped and laughed. She couldn't help it. Then she turned her cart, threw a couple rolls into it and said to the fuming Boom Boom, "Wiped out, Boom."

"Oh, shut up, Harry!"

"Ha!"

Cynthia hooted as Harry recounted the supermarket incident. She dipped a wooden fork into the boiling water to pluck out a few noodles. "Not quite ready."

Harry set the table. Mrs. Murphy reposed as the centerpiece. Tucker mournfully gazed at the checkered tablecloth.

"Here." Harry tossed the corgi a green milkbone.

"How can you eat that stuff?" Murphy curled her front paws under her chest.

"I'll eat anything that doesn't eat me first."

"Very funny. My grandmother told me that joke." The cat flicked her right ear.

"Here we go." Cynthia put the pasta on the table. "Is she going to eat with us?"

"Well—if she bothers you I'll put her on the floor, but she loves pasta with butter, so once this cools I'll fix her a plate."

"Harry, you'll spoil that cat."

"Not enough," came the swift reply as Harry diced pasta for the cat and then made a small bowl for Tucker too. She put butter on her own noodles while Cynthia drenched hers in a creamy clam sauce.

"Can't I interest you in this sauce?"

"You can interest me, but I've got to lose five pounds before winter really sets in or I won't get rid of it until April. Susan and I made a vow last week not to put on winter weight."

"You aren't one pound overweight."

"You don't squeeze into my jeans."

"Harry, you're reading too many fashion magazines. The models are anorexic."

"I don't subscribe to one fashion magazine," Harry proudly proclaimed.

"Of course not. You read whatever comes into the post office."

Harry sheepishly curled her noodles onto the fork. "Well, I suppose I do."

"You're the best-read person in Crozet."

"That's not saying much." Harry laughed.

"The Reverend Jones reads a lot."

"Yes, that's true. How'd you know that?"

"Called on him yesterday in the course of my duties."

"Oh."

"I wondered how well he knew Coty Lamont, Mickey Townsend, and the rest of the steeplechase crowd, and if he knows any knife collectors."

"He knows more people than anyone except Mim and Miranda, I swear. Did he know anything about those—"

"More!" Tucker barked.

"No." Harry sternly reprimanded the greedy dog.

"Said he knew Coty Lamont from years back when he was a groom. I also asked him about Rick's bait and switch idea. Put a fake tattoo on a horse's upper lip and sell it for a lot of money. Herb said it just wouldn't work today. Rick's having a hard time giving up his pet theory since we're running into dead ends. The boss can be very stubborn."

"That's a nice way to put it." Harry scooped more pasta on her plate and used just a little of the clam sauce, which was delicious. "Did he have any ideas about what's going on?"

"No. You know Herb, he likes to rummage around in the past. He took off on a tangent, telling me about when Arthur Tetrick and Mickey Townsend were both in love with Marylou Valiant. Coty Lamont used to spy on Mickey for Arthur."

"Spy?"

"Wrong word. He'd pump the grooms at Mickey's for news about when and if he'd dated Marylou that week. She dated both of them for about six months and then finally broke it off with Arthur." She giggled. "It's hard to imagine Arthur Tetrick being romantic."

"Guess it was hard for Marylou too."

They both laughed.

Cynthia recounted what the minister had told her. "After Marylou disappeared, Herb said Arthur suffered a nervous breakdown."

"He did. They had to hospitalize him for a week or two, which made him feel even worse because he wasn't there for the Valiants. Larry Johnson admitted him."

"Mim took care of the Valiants. That's what Herb said."

' 'Yeah. It was pretty awful. She offered a ten-thousand-dollar reward for any information leading to Marylou's whereabouts. As soon as Arthur was released, he wanted the Valiants with him. Mim told him a woman was better able to look after their needs than a man. Arthur didn't want Mickey to see them at all and Mim disagreed with that, too. Addie was hurt enough. She needed Mickey. This provoked another huge fight between Arthur and Mickey. So Adelia was sent away to school, Charles graduated from Cornell and worked in Maryland for a while. Addie always came home to visit Mickey during her vacations. Arthur and Mickey really hate one another. Mickey didn't get a cent from Marylou. He wasn't mentioned in her will. They hadn't been together long enough, I guess. Mim did her best for the Valiants—well, for Marylou, I would say. She was a true friend."

Coop asked, "Did Mim inherit anything from Marylou?"

"A bracelet as a memento. I don't think Mim ever accepted money from Arthur for the kids' bills, except maybe tuition. Addie didn't stay at school long, of course. Hated it."

"I was brand-new to the force when all that was going on . . . the disappearance. Had nothing to do with the case. Mostly I answered the telephone and punched information into the computer until I had it out with Rick."

"I didn't know that."

"Oh, yeah. I told him he was giving me secretarial work and I was a police officer. He surprised me because he thought about it and then said, 'You're right.' We've gotten along ever since. More than that. I adore the guy. Like a brother," she hastened to add.

They ate in silence for a few moments. Mrs. Murphy reached onto Harry's plate, pulling off a long noodle. Harry pretended not to notice. Cynthia knew better than to say anything.

"Coop, what is going on?"

' 'Damned if I know. The autopsy report came back on Coty Lamont. Full of toot. So was Nigel. No fingerprints on the body. No sign of struggle. It's really frustrating."

Harry shook her head. "I bet a lot of those guys are on cocaine. Maybe they owed their dealer."

' 'Drugs are responsible for most of the crime in this country. One other little tidbit you have to promise not to tell."

"Not even Miranda?"

"No."

Harry sighed deeply. It pained her to keep a secret from Miranda or Susan. "Okay."

"There is no Nigel Danforth."

"Huh?"

"Fake name. We can't find out who he is or was. We're hoping that sooner or later someone who doesn't know he's dead will look for him, file a missing persons report." She rested her fork across the white plate. "That's a long shot though."

"Mickey Townsend doesn't know who he is?"

"No, and Rick put it to him. None too kindly either."

"Whoeee, bet Mickey doubled for Mount Vesuvius."

"He kept it in check."

"That's odd."

"We think so, too."

"Mickey's scared," Mrs. Murphy interjected.

"Honey, you've had enough." Harry thought the cat was talking about food.

"I wish just once you would listen to me," Murphy grumbled. "He's scared and there's something in Mim's barn."

"Something not nice," Tucker added.

Harry stroked the cat while Cynthia fed Tucker a bit of buttered bread. "She has the most intelligent face."

"Oh, puleese," the cat drawled.

"Do you think Mickey's in on the murders?"

"I don't think anything. I'm trying to gather facts. He's got an alibi for the first murder because so many people saw him at the time of the murder. He was loading horses from the smaller barns. But then everyone's got an alibi for that murder. As for the second murder—anyone could have done it. And when we review the principals' time frame at Montpelier, most anyone could have done in Nigel Danforth. We've even reconstructed Charles Valiant's moves about the time of the murder because he and Nigel had an argument at the races. Nothing hangs together."

"Did you go through mug shots to try and find Nigel?"

"We punched into the computer. Nothing. We've sent out his dental records. Nothing. I think the guy is clean." She shrugged. "Then again ..."

"Before the races Jim Sanburne and Larry Johnson told me to watch out because Charles and Mickey had gotten into it at the Maryland Cup last year," Harry said. "They thought there'd be trouble between the jockeys, but then they didn't know that Ad-die had fallen for Nigel. That's not where the trouble came from, though. Odd."

"Linda Forloines and Nigel. Yes, we've tried to piece that together. Frank Yancey interrogated Will and Linda separately. We're getting around to them. Rick's instincts are razor sharp. I wanted to drive right up Fifteen North and flush them out, but Rick said 'Wait.' He believes some other bird dog will flush their game."

"You think they're in on this? Actually, I detest Linda Forloines to such a degree that I'm not a good person to judge."

"Lots of people detest her," Cynthia said. "She's a petty crook and not above selling horses to the knackers while telling the owner she's found them a good home."

"She's so transparent that it's ludicrous—if you know horses." Harry piled more pasta on her plate.

"She's selling cocaine again. Rick thinks she'll lead us to the killer—or killers."

"You do think she's in on it." Harry's voice lowered although no one else was there.

"Linda was the one who indirectly accused Fair of doping horses."

"I'll kill the bitch!"

"No, you won't," Cynthia ordered her. "Frank Yancey saw right through her when she planted her 'suspicion.' When Colbert Mason at National got a little worried, we sat back to see what he would do. Mim's faxing off the lawyer's letter pushed Colbert to contact Linda and tell her she had to file a formal complaint. She backed off in a hurry."

"What a worthless excuse for a human being she is."

"True, but why did she do that, Harry?"

"Because she likes to stir the pot, fish in muddy waters, use any phrase you like."

"You can do better than that." Cynthia gathered up the dishes.

"She's throwing you off the scent."

"We've been watching her. She scurried straight to some of the people she's been supplying. Less to warn them than to shut their traps. At least that's what we think. We can't keep a tail on her around the clock, though. We don't have enough people in the department. We're hoping she'll lead us to the supplier."

"Did she sell coke to Coty Lamont?"

"Yes. She also sold it to Nigel Danforth. His blood was full of it, too. Jockeys are randomly tested, and we believe they were tipped off as to when they would be tested.

Harry whistled in amazement. "Poor Addie."

"Why?"

"Jeez, Cynthia, she was about to get mixed up with a user."

"My instincts tell me she's back on it again."

"I hate to think that."

"You can help me." Cynthia leaned forward. "The stiletto used in these murders is called a silver shadow. They retail for anywhere from ninety to one hundred ten dollars. I've checked every dealer from Washington to Richmond to Charlotte, North Carolina. They don't keep records of who buys knives. It's not like guns. Apparently a stiletto is not a big seller because it's not as useful as a Bowie knife. Only six have been sold in the various shops I called. Anyway I'm still checking on this, but it's slipping down on my things-to-do list because we're being overwhelmed after the second murder. The pressure from the press isn't helping. Rick's ready to trade in the squad car for a tank and roll over those press buzzards." She paused. "If you should see or hear anything about knives—tell me."

"Sure."

"One other thing." Harry's expression was quizzical as Cynthia continued. "If this is about drugs, the person committing these crimes might not be rational."

"Do you think murder can be rational?"

"Absolutely. All I'm saying is, keep your cards close to your chest." She winced. "I wish I hadn't said that."

"Me, too," the cat chimed in.

The foxes stayed in their burrows, the field mice curled up in their nests, and the blue jays, those big-mouthed thieves, didn't venture out. The rains abated finally, but temperatures plummeted, leaving the earth encased in solid ice.

Fortunately, since it was Sunday, there wasn't much traffic. While this cut down on the car accidents, it also made most people feel marooned in their own homes.

Mrs. Murphy hunted in the hayloft while Tucker slept in the heated tack room. Simon, the opossum, was fast asleep on his old horse blanket, which Harry had donated for his welfare. The owl also slept overhead in the cupola.

The tiger knew where the blacksnake slept, so she avoided her. By now the snake was five years old and a formidable presence even when hibernating.

Hunched on top of a hay bale, an aromatic mixture of orchard grass and alfalfa, Murphy listened to the mice twittering in the corner. They'd hollowed out a hay bale in the back corner of the loft and into it dragged threads, pieces of paper, even pencil stubs until the abode was properly decorated and toasty. Mrs. Murphy knew that periodically a mouse would emerge and scurry across the hayloft, down the side of a stall, then slide out between the stall bars. The object was usually the feed room or the tack room. They'd eaten a hole in Harry's faded hunter-green barn jacket. Mrs. Hogendobber patched it for her because Harry couldn't imagine barn chores without that jacket.

Harry fed Tomahawk, Gin Fizz, and Poptart half rations, which caused no end of complaining down below. If the horses couldn't be turned out for proper exercise, Harry cut back on the food. She feared colic like the plague. A horse intestine could get blocked or worse, twisted, and the animal would paw at its belly with its hind hooves, roll on the ground in its torment, and sometimes die rapidly. Usually colic could be effectively treated if detected early.

The three horses—two geldings and one mare—sassy in their robust health, couldn't imagine colic, so they bitched and moaned, clanged their feed buckets against the walls, and called to one another about what a horrible person Harry was to cheat on food.

Mrs. Murphy had half a mind to tell them to shut up and count themselves lucky when one of the mice sped from the nest. The cat leapt up and out into the air, a perfect trajectory for pouncing, but the canny mouse, seeing the shadow and now smelling the cat, zigzagged and made it to the side of the stall.

Mrs. Murphy couldn't go down the stall side, but she walked on the beam over it, dropping down into Poptart's stall just as the mouse cruised through the stall bars. Mrs. Murphy rocked back on her haunches, shot up to the stall bars, grabbed the top with her paws, then slipped back into the stall because her claws couldn't hold on to the iron.

"Dammit!" she cursed loudly.

"You'll never get those mice, Murphy." Poptart calmly chewed on her hay. "They wait for you to appear and then run like mad. She's eating grain in the feed room right now, laughing at you."

"Well, how good of you to tell me," Murphy spat. "I don't see you doing anything to keep the barn free of vermin. In fact, Poptart, I don't see you doing much of anything except feeding your face."

Placidly rising above the abuse, the huge creature stretched her neck down until she touched Murphy's nose. "Hey, shortchange, you're trapped in my stall, so you'd better watch your tongue."

"Oh, yeah."

With that the cat leapt onto the horse's broad gray back. Poptart, startled, swung her body alongside the stall bars. With one fluid motion Mrs. Murphy launched herself through the stall bars, landing on the tack trunk outside.

Poptart blinked through the stall bars as Mrs. Murphy crowed, "You might be bigger but I'm smarter!"

Having a good sense of humor, the horse chuckled, then returned to her orchard grass/alfalfa mix, which tasted delicious.

The cat trotted into the feed room. Sure enough, she could hear the mouse behind the feed bin. Harry lined her feed bins with tin because mice could eat their way through just about anything. However, grains spilled over and the mice had eaten a tiny hole in the wall. They'd grab some grains, then run into the hole to enjoy their booty.

Mrs. Murphy sat by the hole.

A tiny nose peeped out, the black whiskers barely visible. "I know you're there and I'm not coming out. Go home and eat tuna."

Murphy batted at the hole and the little nose withdrew. "I'm a cat. I kill mice. That's my job."

"Kill moles. They're more dangerous, you know. If one of these horses steps into a mole hole? Crack."

"Clever, aren't you?"

"No, just practical," came the squeak.

"We're all part of the food chain."

"Bunk." To prove the point the mouse threw out a piece of crimped oat.

"I will get you in good time," Mrs. Murphy warned. "You fellows can eat a quart of grain a week. That costs my mother money, and she's pretty bad off."

"No, she's not. She has you and she has that silly dog."

"Don't try to flatter me. I am your enemy and you know it."

"Enemies are relative."

Mrs. Murphy pondered this. "You're a philosophical little fellow, aren't you?"

"I don't believe in enemies. I believe there are situations when we compete over resources. If there aren't enough to go around, we fight. If there are, fine. Right now there're enough to go around, and I don't eat that much and neither does my family. So don't eat me ... or mine."

The tiger licked the side of her paw and rubbed it over her ears. "I'll think about what you said, but my job is to keep this barn and this house clean."

"You already cleaned out the glove compartment of the truck. You've done your job." The mouse referred to Murphy's ferocious destruction of a field mouse family who took up residence in the glove compartment. They chewed through the wires leading into the fuse box, rendering the truck deader than a doornail. Once Murphy dispatched the invaders, Harry got her truck repaired, though it cost her $137.82.

"Like I said, I'll think about it."

"Murphy," Harry called. "Let's go, pussycat."

Murphy padded out of the feed room. Tucker, sleepy-eyed, waddled behind Harry. Fit as she was, Tucker still waddled, or at least that's how she appeared to Mrs. Murphy.

"Whatcha been doing?"

"Trying to catch mice. You should have heard the sneak holed up there in the feed room where I finally trapped him with my blinding speed."

"What did he say?"

"One argument after another about how I should leave him and his family alone. He said enemies were relative. Now that's a good one."

As Harry rolled open the barn door, a blast of frigid air caused the animals to fluff out their fur. Tucker, wide-awake now, dashed to the house through the screen door entrance and into the kitchen through the animal door. Mrs. Murphy jogged alongside Harry, who was sliding toward the back porch.

"I can handle snow but I hate this ice!" Harry cursed as her feet splayed in different directions. She hit the hard ice.

"Come on, Mom." Mrs. Murphy brushed alongside her.

Tucker, feeling guilty, emerged from the house. Her claws, not as sharp as Murphy's, offered no purchase on the ice so she stayed put unless called.

"Crawl on your hands and knees," Tucker advised.

Harry scrambled up only to go down again. She did crawl on her hands and knees to the back door. "How did I get to the barn in the first place?"

"You moved a lot slower, and the sun is making the ice slicker, I think," Mrs. Murphy said.

Finally Harry, with Mrs. Murphy's encouragement, struggled onto the screened-in back porch. She removed her duck boots and opened the door to the kitchen, happy to feel the warmth. Mrs. Murphy kept thinking about the mouse saying enemies were relative. Then another thought struck her. She stopped eating and called down to Tucker, "Ever notice how much bigger we are than mice, moles, and birds? Our game?"

"No, I never thought about it. Why?"

"We are. Occasionally I'll bring down a rabbit, but my game is smaller than I am."

"And faster."

"Oh, no, they're not!" Mrs. Murphy yelled back at Tucker. "No one is faster than I am. They have a head start on me, and half the time I still bring them down. Anyway, they have eyes on the sides of their heads. They can see us coming, Tucker."

"Yeah, yeah." Tucker, pleased that she had twitted feline vanity, rested her head on her paws, her liquid brown eyes staring up at angry green ones.

"I'm not going to continue this discussion. I'll keep my revelation to myself." Haughtily she turned her back on the dog and walked the length of the kitchen counter. She stopped before the painted ceramic cookie jar in the shape of a laughing pig.

"Don't be so touchy." Tucker followed along on the floor.

"I don't see why I should continue a discussion with an animal who has no respect for my skills." She was feeling a little testy since she couldn't nail the barn mouse.

"I'm sorry. You are amazingly fast. I'm out of sorts because of the ice."

Eagerly the cat shared her thoughts, "Well, what I've been thinking is how small jockeys are. Like prey."

Tricky November. The mercury climbed to 55°F. The ice melted. The earth, soggy from the rain, slowly began to absorb the water. One confused milk butterfly was sighted flying around Miranda's back door.

Harry and Mrs. Hogendobber sorted through the usual Monday morning eruption of mail. Pewter visited but grew weary of Mrs. Murphy and Tucker describing their dramas on the ice. She fell asleep on the ledge dividing the upper from the lower post boxes. Lying on her side, some of her flabby gray belly hung over.

"Now you are coming, aren't you?" Mrs. Hogendobber asked about her church's songfest. "It's November nineteenth. You write down the date."

"I will."

Mrs. Murphy stuck her nose in Mrs. H.'s mailbag. "Mrs. Murphy, get out of there."

"Don't be an old poop face."

Mrs. Hogendobber reached down into the bag, her bangle bracelets jangling, and grabbed a striped kitty tail.

"Hey, I don't grab your tail!" The cat whirled around.

"Now I told you to get out. I don't even like cats, Murphy. For you I make an exception." Mrs. Hogendobber told half the truth. When Harry took over her husband's job, bringing her animals to work, Mrs. Hogendobber had been censorious. During her period of mourning she would find herself at the post office, not sure how she'd arrived at that destination. She'd helped George for the nearly four decades that he was postmaster. An unpaid assistant, for the Crozet post office, small and out of the way, did not merit more workers. Of course, the volume of mail had increased dramatically over the years. When Harry took over as postmistress, as they preferred to call the position, her youth allowed her to work a bit harder than George could at the end of his career, but even she couldn't keep up with the workload. Entreaties for an assistant fell on deaf federal ears. No surprise there. Out of the 459,025 postal employees, less than 10 percent worked in rural areas. They tended to be ignored, a situation that also had its good side, for rural workers enjoyed much more freedom than urban postal employees, trapped in a standard forty-hour week with some power-hungry supervisor nagging them.

Mrs. Hogendobber began coming once or twice a week to pitch in. At first, Harry had welcomed her company but asked her not to work because she couldn't pay her. But Miranda knew the ins and outs of the routine, the people at the central post office in Charlottesville on Seminole Trail, even the people in Washington, not to mention everyone in Crozet. She proved invaluable. Since George, prudent with money, had left her with enough to be comfortable, and she was making more with her baking, she didn't need the money. More than anything, she needed to be useful.

Over time she and Harry grew close. And over time, despite her reservations, Mrs. Hogendobber grew to love the two furry friends at Harry's side. She'd even learned to love the fat gray cat presently knocked out on the ledge. Not that she wanted anyone to know.

Murphy, having pressed her luck, backed out of the bag, danced sideways to the counter, and leapt on it. She collapsed on her side and rolled over, showing lots of tummy.

"Murphy, you're full of yourself this morning." Harry patted her stomach.

"I'm bored. Pewter's sacked out. Tucker's snoring under the table. It's a beautiful day."

Harry kissed her on the cheek. A light knock at the back door put a stop to the kissing. Mrs. Murphy could take but so many human kisses.

Miranda opened the door. "Adelia, come right in."

Addie, still wearing her chaps, stepped inside.

"Breeze all your babies?" Harry asked as Tucker lifted her head, then dropped it back down again.

"Oh, yeah." Addie sniffed as the vanilla odor from hot sticky buns reached her nostrils.

"Your mail's on the table," Miranda said as she carried two handfuls of mail to the big bottom boxes used by the small businesses in town.

"Thanks."

"Ready for the Colonial Cup?" Harry referred to the famous steeplechase in Camden, South Carolina, which had also been started by Marion duPont Scott.

"Well, Ransom Mine is coming along. You remember, he came in second at Montpelier. Royal Danzig, dunno, off these last couple of days, and Bazooka—I think I need a pilot's license to ride him. Mickey Townsend sent over two horses right after Nigel was killed." She paused a moment. "He said he wanted me to work them. They're really going great. Mickey's always backed me, you know. Chark's crabby about it, but he knows it's extra money so he shut up."

"What are you all talking about, 'breezing' a horse?" Miranda paused, oblivious to Pewter who was rolling over in her sleep.

"Watch out!" Mrs. Murphy called.

Too late. Pewter tumbled into one of the large business mailboxes.

"Pewter." Mrs. Hogendobber leaned over the befuddled cat. "Are you all right?" She couldn't help it. She burst out laughing.

"Fine." Pewter picked herself up and marched right out of the box, over to the table where she tore out a hunk of pastry with her claws before Harry could stop her.

"Actually, I think you all have more work with these critters than I do with the horses," Addie observed. "Breezing—uh, I limber up the horse a little, jog a little, and then I do an exercise gallop around the track. Chark gives me the distance. You work a horse for conditioning and for wind. I guess that's the easiest way to describe it."

"Aren't you ever afraid up there?" Miranda asked.

"Right now I'm more afraid down here."

"Why? Has someone threatened you?" Mrs. Hogendobber walked back to Addie.

"No." Addie sat down on the chair by the sticky buns. "Everything's a mess. Arthur bombards me with daily lectures about how to handle my inheritance when I turn twenty-one. Mim's giving me the same lecture but with a lot more class. My brother shrugs and says if I blow it it's my own fault and he's not keeping me, but then I never asked him to. That's on a good day. On a bad day he yells at me. Everybody's acting like I'm going to go hog-wild."

"Pewter's the one who goes hog-wild," Murphy snickered.

"Shut up," Pewter replied, sitting on the other chair at the table. She thought the humans, engrossed in conversation, wouldn't notice her filching another piece of bun.

They did. Addie stretched over and lightly smacked the out-reached paw. "You have no manners."

"I'm hungry," Pewter pleaded.

Mrs. Hogendobber reached into her voluminous skirt pockets and pulled out a few tiny, tiny fish, Haute Feline treats. She lured Pewter away from the table. Mrs. Murphy leapt off the counter and hurried over, too.

"I never thought I'd live to see the day." Harry laughed.

"If I don't do this, there won't be anything left for us." Miranda laughed, too. She turned her attention back to Addie. "One of the terrible things about wealth is the way people treat you."

"Well. Uh, well, I'm not wealthy yet." Addie rubbed her finger on the table making designs only she could see. "Actually, I came by, Harry, to see if you'd lend me a hundred dollars. I'll pay you right after Camden—speaking of money." She smiled sheepishly.

Harry, not an ungenerous soul, hesitated. First, that was a chunk of change to her. Second, what was going on? "Why won't Chark lend you the money?"

"He's mad at me. He's being a butthole." Her voice rose.

"So, what did you do with the money you won at Montpelier?" Harry juggled a load of mail on the way to the post boxes.

"Uh—"

"I'm not lending you a cent until I know why you're short. The real reason."

"And what's that supposed to mean?" Addie flushed.

"Means your deceased boyfriend had a coke habit. How do I know you don't have one?"

This stunned Miranda, who stopped what she was doing, as did the cats and dog. All eyes focused on Addie, whose face transformed from a flush to beet red.

"He was trying to stop. Until Linda got hold of him. I hope she gets a stiletto through her heart. Except she doesn't have one."

"What about you?" Harry pressed.

"I'm off all substances. Anyway, I had the example of Mother."

' 'Now, now, your mother was a wonderful woman. She was a social drinker, I grant you." Miranda defended Marylou.

"She was a drunk, Mrs. Hogendobber," Addie's voice became wistful. "She'd get real happy at parties and real sad at home alone. She leaned on Mim a lot, but a best friend isn't a lover, and Mother needed that. She'd be morose at home . . . and out would come the bottle.

"Well . . ." Miranda was obviously reluctant to give up her image of Marylou Valiant. "At least she always behaved like a lady."

Harry crossed her arms over her chest. "You still haven't answered my question. Why do you need a hundred dollars?"

"Because I owe Mickey Townsend from a poker game the night before the Montpelier Races," she blurted out.

"He won't wait?" Miranda was curious.

"Mickey's a good guy. I adore him. I wish Mother had married him. But when it comes to poker, I mean, this is serious." She rubbed her thumb and forefinger together.

"Come on, he won't let you work off a hundred dollars with the horses he brought over?" Harry waited for the other shoe to drop.

"I haven't asked."

"Addie, I don't believe a word of this!" Harry figured they were long past the point of subtlety. Mickey was a bum excuse.

"I really do owe Mickey a hundred dollars. I just want to get it out of the way. And I don't want Arthur to find out."

"Mickey won't tell him." Mrs. Hogendobber stated the obvious, which had no effect on the young woman.

Out of the blue, Harry fired a question. "And how much did Nigel really owe Mickey?"

Without thinking it through, Addie answered, "About two thousand. He'd have made good on it, you see, because he took a kilo from Linda and Will—"

"A kilo!" Harry exclaimed.

"Yes, he thought he could sell it off after cutting it and make a lot of money." Addie realized she'd let the cat out of the bag. "Don't tell Rick Shaw or Deputy Cooper!"

"This could have some bearing on the case," Mrs. Hogendobber replied sensibly.

"Then why hasn't anyone mentioned the kilo? Where the hell is it? Whoever killed him probably carted it away and is further enriching himself." Harry threw her hands in the air, disgusted that Addie would hold back something so vital.

"I have it." Her voice was small.

"You what?" The humans and animals said in unison.

"My God, Adelia, you're crazy. People have killed for less than a kilo of cocaine, and you know that Linda and Will will be on your tail soon." Harry was emphatic.

"They already are." She put her head in her hands. "I put it in my big safe deposit box at Crozet National Bank when Nigel asked me to help him out. No one else knows. The sheriff from Orange County and Rick combed through his truck and his quarters. Nothing. Clean. Linda knows the cops haven't found the coke. She wants it back."

"I'll bet she does!" Harry exploded.

"She says she'll blackmail me if I don't return it. She says nobody will believe that I'm not in on the drug sale, and if I accuse her, it's her word against mine. She says that if I give her back the coke, that will be the end of it."

"So why do you need the hundred dollars?" Miranda picked up the refrain.

"For gas for the dually and for pocket change. I'll drive the coke up tonight. I haven't any spare money because I've been paying off money I owe Linda"— she paused, thinking—"over a horse deal."

"How much? Really, how much?" Tucker and Harry both asked.

"Uh . . ."A long pause followed. "As of today, one thousand and fifteen dollars."

"Good God, Addie." Harry sank into the chair that Pewter had vacated when she was offered the Haute Feline. She knew instinctively that Addie owed Linda Forloines on her own drug tab. Addie was lying to her.

"Pretty stupid, huh?" She hung her auburn head.

"Box of rocks." Harry made a fist and tapped her skull.

Miranda's imposing figure overshadowed the two seated young women. "This is foolishness and will lead to more pain. 'As a dog returneth to his vomit, so a fool returneth to his folly,' Proverbs twenty-six eleven."

"I resent that," Tucker barked.

"Gross," Addie said.

"I am not giving you one hundred dollars. And we're calling Rick Shaw right this minute."

"No! He'll tell Arthur, and Arthur'll tell Chark. They'll get the damn trusteeship extended. I'll never get my money!"

"Your mother's will is your mother's will. It can't be broken," Miranda told her.

"Maybe not, but they sure can drag it out. It's my money."

"But you've got to give the sheriff this information. You've got to get out before you get in too deep—you've already aided and abetted a felon."

"Coty Lamont was on cocaine too, wasn't he?" Mrs. Hogendobber inquired.

Addie nodded.

"For all we know, Addie, you deliver that kilo and you'll wind up with a knife through your heart." Harry sighed.

"I can't tell Rick," Addie wailed.

Miranda lifted the receiver from the phone as Addie bolted for the door. Tucker tripped her and Harry pounced on her.

"Let me go."

"Dammit, Addie, you're gonna get killed. You give Linda and Will that kilo and you'll be in business with Linda for the rest of your life. She'll bring you horses. She'll want special favors. If you're lucky, she'll take the kilo and blow town. If she stays ..."

"If you're not lucky, cement shoes," Pewter matter-of-factly stated.

Rick Shaw, being an officer of the law for all his adult life, never expected people to tell him the truth right off the bat. The truth, like diamonds, had to be won by hand, by pick, by dynamite.

His anger when he heard the dismal story at the post office was not so much provoked by Addie's withholding information, although he wasn't happy about that, as by the way she had foolishly placed herself in jeopardy. He also made a mental note that Mickey Townsend had drastically downplayed the amounts of money Nigel and Coty owed him. He had never mentioned Addie's debt at all.

As soon as he dismissed Addie, after taking her back to his office for a full disclosure, he and Cynthia Cooper hopped into the squad car. He'd taken the precaution of calling the president of the bank, advising him not to let Addie into her safe deposit box. It could be opened only in Rick's presence.

"Did you call Culpeper?" Cynthia asked in shorthand, meaning the sheriff of Culpeper County.

"Uh-huh."

They drove in silence. When they reached Dr. D'Angelo's place, Romulus Farms, Sheriff Totie Biswanger was waiting for them.

"Gone," was all he said.

"Both of them?" Cynthia asked.

"Ey-ah," came the affirmative. He pointed to their cottage on Dr. D'Angelo's farm.

"Neat as a hairpin. Nothing moved. Clothes in the closet. Food in the refrigerator."

"Kind of funny, ain't it?" Totie folded his arms over his barrel chest and stared at his shoes.

"They dropped the whole damn thing!" Fair's radiant face underscored the happy news.

Harry had encountered him at Mim's, where she'd gone to deliver an express package. Mim and Chark Valiant, also on hand, were nearly as excited as Harry was at Fair's news.

They were all gathered at the barn, where Mrs. Murphy and Tucker nosed around. Rodger Dodger and Pusskin were nowhere to be found.

"Well, let me have a look at Royal Danzig," Fair said. "Didn't mean to talk so much."

"Oh, he can wait another minute. Once we get down to business, we'll forget to ask the details." Mim invited them into the tack room.

"Where's Addie?" Fair asked.

Mim, who knew, said nothing for Chark was in the dark about his sister's unholy mess. Another request of Rick Shaw's.

"She called from Charlottesville," Chark answered. "Said she was tied up and didn't know when she'd be back."

"Oh, okay." Fair grabbed a cup of coffee. He'd been up since four o'clock that morning because of an emergency at a hunter barn. "As near as I can make out, or as much as Colbert Mason wants to tell me, he contacted my accuser, Linda Forloines. She claimed he entirely misunderstood what she had said. She was furious he'd even think that and she had no intention of bringing charges against me. So that's that." He sat in the comfy old leather chair and immediately regretted it because he knew he wouldn't want to get up.

"Typical," was Mim's reply.

"She's not worth talking about," Chark added.

They all knew Linda's modus operandi. She'd act as though she had inside information, she'd hint, intimate, change the inflection of her voice to convey the full weight of her words. This way she could say that people misunderstood her, implying there must be a problem with you if you could even think such a thing.

"Well, let me take a look at Royal Danzig." Fair forced himself out of the chair.

They walked down the beautiful center aisle and Chark pulled the flashy guy out of his stall. As Fair ran his hands over the horse's legs, Rodger Dodger, fresh from patrolling the paddocks, sauntered into the barn, his beloved Pusskin by his side.

"Royal, what's the buzz?" the old ginger cat asked.

"Kinda tender on my left leg. I think I put a foot wrong when I was turned out in the paddock."

"Hope it's nothing serious," Rodger politely replied.

"Me, too, I want to go to Camden."

"Rodger, how you been?" Mrs. Murphy called out when she heard Rodger's voice. She and Tucker had been in the tack room. It smelled so good and was toasty warm.

"Murphy. Hi, Tucker," Rodger said as Pusskin murmured her greetings.

Mrs. Murphy sat down, curling her tail around her. "I've got a proposition for you, Rodger."

"What proposition?" Tucker's ears pointed up. "Why didn't you tell me?"

" 'Cause I've been cooking it." Mrs. Murphy turned back to Rodger. "There's a chance your barn mice know what's in Orion's stall."

"Why not ask the horses?" Tucker asked.

"I did." Rodger flicked his tail for a minute. "They didn't remember anything, not even Orion, and he's the oldest, being twelve. 'Course, it could be that whatever is in there was buried in summertime years back. The foxhunters are always turned out in the far pastures in summer, so only the mice and I would have been here. I don't remember anything, but summers I go up and rest in the big house because of the air conditioning."

"If you made a deal with the mice, maybe they'd talk to us." Mrs. Murphy kept to her agenda.

"What kind of deal?"

"Not to catch them."

"I can't do that. Mim will be furious if I don't deliver mice to the tack room. She asks Chark every day if Pusskin and I have done our duty."

"She's real fussy," Pusskin added.

"I thought of that." Mrs. Murphy wanted to bat Pusskin. She tried to make her meow sound pleasant. "What I propose is that you catch field mice and deliver them to the tack room. The humans don't know the difference."

Rodger rubbed his whiskers with his forepaw. He wrinkled his brow. A wise old fellow, he wanted to consider the ramifications of such a bargain. "It will work for a time, Murphy, but as the grain goes down and the barn mice population doesn't decrease, the humans will figure out something's wrong. I don't want Pusskin or me to get the boot."

"Mim would never do that," Tucker rightly surmised.

"I'd like to think that." Rodger knew other cats who were out of work or worse because they got lazy. "But even if she let us stay, she might bring in another cat, and I don't want to be bothered with that. This is my barn."

"What if we asked the barn mice not to show themselves?" Mrs. Murphy tried to figure out a solution. "At least so the humans wouldn't see them. You know how they get about mice."

"Seeing is bad enough. It's the grain I'm worried about," Rodger said sensibly.

"Can't they get by on what the horses throw on the ground? You know, horses are the sloppiest eaters," Pusskin chimed in. Not a bad idea for a slow kitty, Mrs. Murphy admitted.

"Less food. More safety," Rodger purred. "It's a trade-off. Worth a try, I suppose, but Murphy, why do you care what's in Orion's stall?"

"Don't say curiosity," Tucker warned.

Mrs. Murphy breathed in the crisp air. Her head felt quite as clear as the air around her. "I think the murders aren't over, and I think whatever's in Orion's stall might be part of the answer."

"If humans kill one another, that's their business," Pusskin, not a major fan of the human race, hissed.

"But what if this puts Mim in danger? Think about that." Mrs. Murphy reached out with a paw to Pusskin as though she were going to cuff her. "Something has happened in her barn. Something that goes back a few years at least. Mickey Townsend pulled a gun on Coty Lamont in the middle of the night. Coty was in Orion's stall, digging. Mickey makes him cover it back up, then takes him away. Coty's truck wasn't here. He'd walked in from somewhere and Mickey snuck up on him. Pretty peculiar. The next day Coty Lamont is dead in the back of the pickup, a knife through the heart and another playing card on it, the Queen of Spades. That's what Cynthia Cooper told my mom when they had supper night before last." She took a breath.

Pusskin blurted out, "That means Mickey's the killer."

"Maybe yes and maybe no. Addie has a kilo of cocaine in her safe deposit box that she says belonged to Nigel Danforth."

"Oh, no!" Rodger and Pusskin exclaimed together.

"She told Rick Shaw. Now she's in deep doo-doo." Tucker felt the same urgency that her best friend did. "And I don't think she would have told him, but Mom and Mrs. Hogendobber forced her to do it. I reckon we haven't heard the end of it because Addie was supposed to deliver the kilo to Linda Forloines, and what's Linda going to do when it doesn't show up?"

"So Addie might be in danger?" Rodger liked Addie.

"Anybody might be in danger, especially if I'm right about there being a secret in Orion's stall. What if, by pure accident, Mim stumbles on the truth? You can't expose your owner to that kind of danger. I know you aren't house cats, but Mim is fair and she takes care of you. And"—Mrs. Murphy lowered her voice—"what would have happened if she hadn't rescued you all from the SPCA? There are too many kittens, and no matter how good a job the SPCA does—well, you know."

The animals remained silent for some time after that grim reminder.

Finally Rodger spoke, firmly. "It's a debt of honor. We'll do our best for Mim. Pusskin?"

"Whatever you say, darling."

He filled his red chest, licked the side of Pusskin's pretty face, then said, "Let's parlay with the mice."

The mice were partying in the walls of the tack room. Mim had insulated the tack room so there was plenty of space between the two walls, filled with warm insulation, easy for mice to get in and out of because they burrowed from the stall next door. By this time they had created many entrances and exits, driving Rodger Dodger to distraction because even if he and Pusskin divided to cover holes, they'd still miss the mice.

The raucous squeaking stopped when the mice heard and smelled the approaching cats.

"Must be an army of them," the head mouse, a saucy female, warned.

Rodger put his pink nose at the entrance to one of the holes. "Loulou, it's Rodger and Pusskin. Mrs. Murphy and Tucker, the corgi from over by Yellow Mountain, are with us."

"The post office animals," Loulou replied, her high-pitched voice clear and piercing.

"How do they know that?" Mrs. Murphy wondered.

"We know everything. Besides, we have cousins at Market Shiflett's store. Pewter's too fat to run anyone down."

Murphy giggled. So did Tucker.

"Loulou, I've come with an offer you should consider."

A moment of silence was followed by a wary Loulou. "We're all ears."

"Do you know what's buried in Orion's stall?"

"As the oldest mouse, I do," Loulou swiftly replied. "But I'm not telling you."

Rodger kept his temper in check, but Pusskin complained, "She's a real smartass."

Mrs. Murphy whispered for her to shut up.

"Loulou, I don't expect something for nothing. Pusskin and I agree not to catch any barn mice for a year"—that last part was Rodger's own flourish—"if you agree not to let the humans see you. Otherwise they'll think Pusskin and I are lazing about and we'll get in hot water, and Mim might try to bring in another cat. You can understand our position, can you not?"

"Yes."

"Well, a year of freedom for the information—and try not to breed too much, will you?"

"It's an open shot to the feed room. The humans will see us." Loulou was playing for time as the excited chatter in the background proved.

"There's plenty of grain under the horses' feed buckets. Just don't show your faces in the barn during the day, and if you hear a human coming at night, duck for cover. Otherwise, we'll all be in a real bad situation."

"I'll get back to you," Loulou replied.

The three cats and the dog patiently waited. Harry walked by on her way to the John. "What are you all doing?"

"High-level negotiations," Mrs. Murphy informed her.

"Sometimes you're so cute." Harry smiled and continued on her way.

"Whew." Tucker sighed. "She could have screwed up the whole deal."

"Yeah, the last thing we want any of them to see is this entrance here with all of us sitting around like bumps on a log." Rodger shifted his weight from one haunch to the other.

They heard a chorus of tinny voices. "Aye." Then one lone "Nay."

"Rodger Dodger!" Loulou said peeking her little head out of the entrance. She was a feisty mouse and a confident one. Yes.

"We are almost unanimous. We agree to your terms, a free year, but I have a personal favor to ask."

"What?"

"Can you talk to Lucy Fur and Elocution, the Reverend Jones's two cats? My youngest sister's family lives behind the tapestry of the Ascension. Lucy Fur and Elocution hassle them constantly. I'm not asking for a moratorium, just a little less hassle, you know?"

"I don't know those cats," Rodger honestly replied.

"I do," Mrs. Murphy quickly said. "I'll talk to them. You have my word."

"You must have mice at your barn," Loulou pushed.

"I do, but you all are browns and they are grays. I doubt any of your family is out my way."

A pause followed. "You're probably right, but you will talk to these barn cats?"

After a long pause Murphy agreed, "Yes. Now, will you tell us what is in Orion's stall, and whether you remember any of the people involved."

Loulou coughed, clearing her throat. "I was very young. Mother was still alive but I remember it as if it were yesterday. Five years ago last July. Hotter than Tophet. Coty Lamont and a fellow called Sargent dug a deep hole in the corner of the stall. Had to be two in the morning, and about four when they finished. The earth was soft there, so they made good work of it. We could smell how nervous they were. You know, that sharp, ugly odor." She caught another big breath. "They left, then came back with a heavy canvas tarp and a man holding either end. I couldn't see what was in it but I could smell blood."

"Damn," Mrs. Murphy whispered.

Loulou listened to a squeak then said, "Mom and I and the older mice, no longer living, of course, watched from the hayloft. When they lifted the tarp to lower it in, I guess they were tired because they dropped it, and one end unraveled a little. Lots of brassy hair spilled out. Mother got a good look at the face because she ran along the top of the stall beam."

All the animals held their breath as Loulou continued. "It was Marylou Valiant."

Livid, Addie Valiant opened her safe deposit box at Crozet National in the presence of five onlookers. Rick Shaw and bank president, Dennis Washington, stared at the brown-paper-wrapped package. By opening the box in the evening they had avoided the regular ebb and flow of banking traffic, diminishing the chances of someone getting wind of Addie's escapade.

"I don't know why everyone has to be here." Addie pouted. Arthur stood next to Dennis. Chark, arms folded across his chest, leaned against a wall of small stainless steel safe deposit boxes.

Cynthia Cooper held the small brass key. She wouldn't give it back to Addie. "Arthur is your guardian until midnight November fourteenth. And I would think you'd be glad your brother is here."

"I'm not glad."

Rick had waited until the last minute to pull in Charles and Arthur, fearing that the earlier he informed them, the likelier they were to leak the news. That could be dangerous.

Addie's young face wrinkled in rage. "I'll hear about my poor judgment for the rest of my life." She wheeled on Arthur. "And I bet you find a way to extend your trusteeship with help again from my loving brother!"

"You're under duress," Arthur said in a measured voice. "This was an extremely foolish thing to do. As to your money, the wishes of your mother will be followed to the letter."

"I don't believe that. You think I'm stupid about money."

Arthur opened his mouth, then shut it. Addie, fiery like her mother, wouldn't hear anything he said.

"Sis, I ought to wring your neck for this stunt," Chark said through clenched teeth as Cynthia Cooper reached into the deep safe deposit box and lifted out the wrapped kilo.

"It wasn't what you think. Nigel bought this to pay off his debt to Mickey."

"This goes far beyond a debt to Mickey Townsend," Rick replied. "This represents a lot of money on the street."

"He used you!" Chark yelled.

"He didn't use me."

"Let the dead sleep in peace." Arthur held up his hands to stop the argument. "Whatever his intentions were we'll never know."

Rick motioned for Cynthia to lock up the box.

"I have something to tell you all." Rick's eyes narrowed. "And Addie, if you're holding anything back, out with it." She glared at him as he continued. "There is no Nigel Danforth."

"What do you mean?" Alarm flashed on her face while confusion registered on Chark's and Arthur's visages.

"I mean, there is no record of such a person in England. And there is no green card registered to anyone by that name in this country. Our only hope is his dental records, which we have sent out by computer to every police station we can reach, here and in England. A real long shot. His fingerprints are not on file in either the U.S. or England."

Addie sank like a stone. "I don't understand."

Chark caught his sister and gently lowered her in a chair. "He lied even more than I thought," he said.

She put her head in her hands and sobbed. "But I loved him. Why would he lie to me?"

Arthur placed his hand on her shoulder. "Sheriff, might he perhaps be from some British colony—or French colony?"

"Coop thought of that. Can't find a thing. We don't know who this man was, where he came from, or his exact age. All we know is that he gave a kilo of cocaine to Addie to keep for him. Saying he bought it from Linda Forloines—"

"Well, get them!" Addie wailed.

"We tried to arrest them yesterday. They're gone." Rick, embarrassed, saw the dismay on their faces.

"Is my sister"—Chark could hardly get the words out— "under arrest?"

"No. Not yet anyway," Rick said.

"Now see here, Shaw." Arthur stood up straight. "She's been a foolish girl, but many a woman's been led astray by a man. She is no drug dealer. She isn't even a user anymore."

Shaking, tears down her cheeks, Addie choked, "Well—uh, sometimes."

"Then your brother and I will put you in a clinic." Arthur's tone brooked no contradiction.

"What about Camden? Anyway, I only use a little to celebrate. Really. I'm not an addict or anything. Test my blood."

"We'll settle this between us." Arthur took control. "Sheriff, does Adelia have permission to ride in Camden?"

"Yes, but"—he focused on Addie—"don't try anything stupid—like running away."

"Do you think Will and Linda will show up there?" Chark asked.

"I don't know," Rick replied.

"They're out of the country by now." Addie wiped her red eyes. "Linda always said she was going for one last big hit."

"Why didn't she do that a long time ago?" Arthur's voice was hard.

"Because she was using too. She said she'd cleaned up, though. Now it's strictly business. She wanted a haul. And out of here." Addie dropped her head in her hands again.

"There's lots of this around the steeplechase world, isn't there?" Cynthia jotted notes in her book.

Addie shrugged. "Goes in cycles. I don't think there's any more drug abuse on the backstretch than there is in big corporations."

"In that case, America's in trouble," Chark said.

"We'll deal with America tomorrow." Arthur smiled tightly. "Right now my first priority is getting this young lady straightened out. Sheriff, is there any more that you need from us tonight?"

"No," Rick said. "You're free to go."

Later, when Rick and Cynthia were about to get into the squad car, she asked him, "Do you think she's telling the truth? That she really didn't know about Nigel?"

"What's your gut tell you?"

Cynthia leaned against the door of the car. The night, crystalline and cold, was beautiful. "She didn't know."

"What else?" He offered her a cigarette which she took.

Cynthia bent her head for a light and took a drag. She looked up, noticing how perfectly brilliant the stars were. "Rick, this thing is a long way from being over."

He nodded in agreement, and they finished their cigarettes in silence.

The big purple van with the glittering gold lettering—Dalmally farm on both sides and horses on the rear—was parked next to an earthen ramp. The loading ramps, heavy and unwieldy, could injure your back so Mim had had an earthen ramp built. The horses walked directly onto the van without hearing that thump-thump of metal underneath them. Of course, once they were at the races, the loathed ramp did have to be pulled out from the side of the van, but still, any easing of physical labor helped.

Harry loved to inspect Mim's vans. Mim also had an aluminum gooseneck trailer for hunting. Although purple was the racing color of her mother's family, for hunting Mim used red and gold on her three-horse slant-load Trailet. Harry coveted this trailer as well as the Dodge dually with the Cummins turbo-diesel engine that pulled it. That was red, too.

She'd stopped by the stable after work to see if Little Marilyn was around. She didn't want to seem as though she was checking up on her peer, but she was. Little Mim had finally sent out the invitations for the wild-game dinner, but she hadn't reported who had RSVPed and who hadn't. As it was, Susan Tucker had had to pick up the invitations from the printer in Charlottesville.

Just as Harry climbed back into her truck, Big Mim cruised into the parking lot in her Bentley Turbo R. Mim never stinted on machines of any sort. It was an irrational thing with Mim: she couldn't resist cars, trucks, or tractors. Fortunately, she could afford them. She probably ran the best-equipped farm in Albemarle County. She even had a rolling irrigation system, a series of pipes connected to huge wheels that ran off a generator.

"Harry."

"Hi. I was trying to find Little Marilyn but no one's around.

"She's in Washington today." Mim opened the heavy door and slid out. "Worried about the dinner?"

"A little."

"Me too. Well, don't worry overmuch. I'll check the messages on the service and tell you who's accepted. I'll resort to the telephone tree, too, if necessary." She mentioned the system wherein designated callers were each responsible for calling ten people.

"I can do that."

"No, she's my daughter, and as usual, she's falling down on the job." Mim fingered her Hermes scarf. "Marilyn hasn't been right since her divorce was final last year. I don't know what to do."

Harry, forthright, said, "She isn't going to learn much if you do it for her."

"Do you want the game dinner to fall apart? My God, the hunt club would have our hides. I'd rather do it and get after her later."

Harry knew that was true. Their foxhunting club, the Jefferson—which chased foxes, rather than truly hunting them—was filled with prickly personalities, big egos, and tough riders as well as those of calmer temperament. Foxhunting by its nature attracts passionate people, which is all very well until the time comes for them to cooperate with one another. Little Marilyn would stir a hornets' nest if the game dinner didn't raise the anticipated revenue.

"I wish I could help you, but Marilyn has never much cared for me."

"Now, Harry, she's not demonstrative. She likes you well enough."

Harry decided not to refute Mim. Instead, her attention turned toward Tucker and Mrs. Murphy chattering loudly about who had been in Orion's stall.

"Mrs. Murphy and Tucker appear to be hungry," Mim said.

"Mim, I wish you'd listen." Mrs. Murphy mournfully hung out the driver's window.

"Yeah, well, let me know if there's anything I can do to help," Harry said.

"You're part of the telephone tree." Mim started for the stable, then turned. "Harry, what are you doing next weekend?"

"Nothing special."

"How would you like to come to Camden this weekend to see the Colonial Cup? It would mean a lot to Adelia and Charles, I'm sure."

"Don't go." A bolt of fear shot through Mrs. Murphy and she didn't know why.

"If Miranda will take care of my babies, I'd love to go."

"I thought Miranda might like to attend as well. Her sister lives in Greenville. Perhaps she could drive over."

"Let me see what I can do about the kids here, but I'd love to go."

"It's Adelia's twenty-first birthday. I thought we could celebrate down there and put her troubles behind us."

"Good idea."

Gray clouds hung so low Harry felt she could reach up and grab one. Although the temperature stayed in the mid-forties, the light wind, raw, made her shiver.

She dashed out of the bank on her lunch hour just as Boom Boom dashed in.

"Harry."

"Boom Boom."

"I'm sorry I lost my temper in the supermarket."

"Uh, well, an avalanche of toilet paper will do that to you." Harry continued down the steps.

Boom Boom placed a restraining, manicured hand on her shoulder. "Miranda says you can have the next hour off."

"Huh?"

"I was just in the post office and I asked her if I could borrow you for an hour."

"What?"

"To go to Lifeline with me."

"No."

"Harry, even if you hate it, it's an experience you can laugh about later."

Harry wanted to bat Miranda as well as throttle Boom Boom, a vision in magenta cashmere and wool today. "No. I can't do something like that."

"You need to reach out to other people. Release your fears. We're all knotted up with fear."

Harry breathed deeply, removing Boom Boom's hand from her shoulder. "I'm afraid to die. I'm afraid I won't be able to pay my bills. I'm afraid of sickness, and I guess if I'm brutally honest, I'm afraid to grow old."

"Lifeline can not only banish those fears but teach you how to transform them to life-enhancing experiences."

"Good God." Harry shook her head.

Mickey Townsend walked up behind her, a deposit envelope in his gloved hand. "Harry, Boom Boom. Harry, are you all right?"

"No! Boom Boom keeps pressuring me to go to Lifeline with her. I don't want to go."

"You'd be surprised at the number of people who do go." Boom Boom fluttered her eyelashes. Harry assumed this was for Mickey.

"I've never been to Lifeline, but—" He paused. "When Marylou disappeared I went to Larry Johnson. He prescribed antidepressants, which made me feel like a bulldozer ran over me, except I could function. I hated that feeling so I went into therapy."

"You?"

"See!" Boom Boom triumphantly bragged.

"Shut up, Boom. Lifeline isn't therapy."

"Did it help? I'm sure it did." Boom Boom smiled expansively.

Mickey lowered his already low voice. "I found out I'm a real son of a bitch, and you know what else I found out?" He leaned toward Boom Boom, whispering, "I like it that way."

Harry laughed as Boom Boom, rising above the situation, intoned, "You could benefit from Lifeline."

"I could benefit from single malt scotch, too." He tipped his hat. "Ladies."

Harry, still laughing, bade her improvement-mad tormentor good-bye.

"You know what, Harry?" Boom Boom shouted to her back. "This is about process, not just individual people. Process. The means, not the ends. There are positive processes and negative processes. Like for Mickey Townsend. Ever since the whole town turned on him for courting Marylou—negative process."

Harry stopped and turned around. "What did you say?"

"Process!" Boom Boom shouted.

Harry held up her hands for quiet. "I hear you. I think I'm missing something."

"A lot."

"Go back to Marylou."

"Not unless you come with me to Lifeline."

"Look. I've got to pack now, I'm going to Camden for the weekend. I haven't got time to go with you to Lifeline. Talk to me about process right now. I promise I'll go when I return."

"Set a time frame."

"Huh?"

"You could come back and say you'll go with me next year."

"In a week."

Boom Boom, thrilled, stepped closer, looming over Harry from her much greater height. "Nothing happens in isolation. All emotions are connected like links in a chain. Marylou Valiant couldn't cope without her husband. She began to drink too much. Squander money. That set off Arthur, who loved her. He chased off that greedy movie star and what happens? She falls in love with Mickey Townsend."

"So?"

"Process. No one directly confronts and releases their emotions. Arthur becomes embittered. He wins over Chark. Mickey wins over Addie. The men fight over Marylou through her children.

Harry, silent for a long time, said, "This is Act Two."

"Yes—until everyone involved stops hanging on to hardened, dead patterns. But people's egos get hung up in their anger and their pain. So they pass it along."

"What goes around comes around," Harry said, thinking out loud.

"Not exactly. This is about breaking patterns."

"I understand. I think." She rubbed her temples. "Didn't mean to be, uh, reductive."

"You will go with me?"

"I said I would."

"Shake on it."

Harry extended her hand. She ran back to the post office, pushed the door open. "Miranda, how could you?"

Miranda, glasses down on her neck, said to Herb Jones, "Ignore her."

Harry strode up to the counter, Murphy, Pewter, and Tucker watching her every move. "You told Boom Boom you'd relieve me for an hour so I could go to Lifeline. How could you?"

"I did no such thing. I told her if you wanted to go you could. It's a slow day."

"Damn. I should have known." Harry propped her elbow on the smooth, worn counter. "Well, I am going." She held up her hand for stop. "Not today. Next week."

"Harry, I'm proud of you." The reverend beamed.

"Why?"

"You're showing the first signs of forgiveness."

I am?

"You are." He slapped her on the back, reaching over the counter. "You girls enjoy the races."

As he left, Harry repeated to Miranda her entire conversation with Boom Boom Craycroft.

"She wasn't talking about the murders—she was just talking." Miranda pushed her glasses up to the bridge of her nose.

"Yeah, but it made me wonder if Nigel and Coty's murders aren't part of a process—something started before drugs ... or during drugs. Fixing races. Betting. That was everyone's first thought, remember?"

"Yes. It proved unfounded."

"Well, Mrs. H., they weren't just killed because someone didn't like them. They were links in a chain."

"She surprises me." Pewter lay down crossing her paws in front of her. "Humans can reason."

Since no one claimed Nigel Danforth's body, he was buried in a potter's grave at the expense of the taxpayers of Ablemarle County.

His belongings were in his tack trunk back in the overcrowded locker room at the station.

Cynthia Cooper called Mickey Townsend to pick them up. The department had tagged and photographed each item.

He followed her back to the locker room.

"I was going to turn this over to Adelia since he had no next of kin. But the more I thought about it, the more I decided against it. It could upset her too much, and the big race is this weekend. You were his employer. You'll have to stand in for next of kin."

"May I open it?"

"Sure."

He knelt down, lifting the brass hasp on the small wooden trunk. A riding helmet rested on top of folded lightweight racing breeches. He placed it on the ground with the breeches beside it. Two old heavy wool sweaters and a short winter down jacket were next. Assorted bats and whips rested on the bottom along with a shaving kit.

"Feel that." Mickey handed her a whip, pointed to the leather square at the end.

"It's heavy. What's in there?"

"A quarter. It's illegal but nothing says he can't use it during workouts. A crack with that smarts, I promise."

"Not much to show for a life, is it?" she said.

"He had some beautiful handmade clothes from London. Turnbull Asser shirts. That kind of thing. He made money somewhere."

"Yeah. I remember when we went through the cottage. Still, not much other than a few good clothes. The only reason we kept the tack trunk so long is he was sitting on it. We dusted it inside and out."

Mickey slid his hands into the pockets of the down jacket. He checked the inside pocket. Empty.

It wasn't until he got home and hung the jacket on a tack hook, wondering to whom he should give the clothing—maybe some poor, lean kid struggling to make it in the steeplechasing world—that he noticed a folded-over zipper where the collar met the yoke of the down jacket. Nigel had worn the jacket so much that the collar squinched down, covering the zipper. The tack hook straightened out the collar. A hood would be inside, another aid against foul weather.

Out of curiosity, Mickey unzipped it, unfurling the hood. A dull clink drew his eyes to the soft loam of the barn aisle.

He bent over, picking up a St. Christopher's medal. He started to shake so hard he steadied himself against the stall.

Beautifully wrought, the gold medal was the size of a half-dollar. Over the detailed relief of St. Christopher carrying the Christ child was layer after layer of exquisite blue enamel. The engraving in perfect small script on the gold non-enameled back read: He's my stand-in. Love, Charley.

Mickey burst into tears, clutching the medal to his chest. "St. Christopher, you failed her."

That medal had hung around Marylou Valiant's neck on a twisted thick gold chain.

Once he regained control of himself, Mickey stood up. He started for the phone in the tack room to call Deputy Cooper. His instinct told him it would have been easy to miss the hood in the collar. If he hadn't hung up the coat, he would have missed it himself.

He sat down behind the old school desk and picked up the receiver.

He thought to himself, What if they did see it and photograph it? Maybe they're trying to bait me. I'm a suspect. He put the receiver back in the cradle. No, no they missed it. He held the beautiful medal in both palms. Marylou, this medal will lead me to your killer, and I swear by all that's holy I'll take him out. If Nigel killed you, then may he fry in Hell for eternity.

He stood up abruptly and slipped the St. Christopher's medal in his pocket.

"She's got Susan to take care of us and the horses," Tucker moaned. "She's packing her bags. What are we going to do?"

"I can hide under the seat of the Ford and then jump into the racing van." Mrs. Murphy lay on her side. She'd worried about this so much she was tired.

"But I can't fit under the seat," Tucker wailed. "And you need me. Mother needs me, she just doesn't know it."

"I'm thinking."

Tucker dropped her head between her white paws so that her face was in front of Mrs. Murphy's. "There will be more murders! Everyone will die!"

"Don't get carried away. Anyway, be quiet for a minute. I'm still thinking." Five long minutes passed. "I have an idea."

"What?" Tucker jumped up.

Mrs. Murphy also sat up. She didn't like to have Tucker hanging over her. "Go into her bedroom and beg, plead, cry. Make her take you."

"What about you?" Tucker's soft brown eyes filled with worry.

"She won't take me. We both know that. I can travel as well as you, but Mother has it in her head that cats don't like to travel."

"It's because you—"

"I only did that once!" Mrs. Murphy flared. "I wish you'd forget it."

"Mother doesn't. I'm trying to think like she does," Tucker hedged.

"The day we think like a human we're in trouble. We outthink them, that's the key. She won't take me. If she'll take you, one of us will be there at least. She needs a keeper, you know. If she blunders into something she could make a real mess. I'm a lot more worried about Mim, actually."

"Mim?" Tucker's tongue flicked out for a minute, a pink exclamation point.

"Marylou Valiant is buried in her barn. Coty Lamont and someone called Sargent put the body there five years ago. Right? Well, Mim may be safe and sound but the fact remains that a murdered woman, a dear friend of hers, is buried on her property. What if she finds out?"

Tucker, knowing her friend well, picked up her train of thought. "It's a small circle, these 'chaser people. Mim's important in that world."

"One thing is for sure."

"What?"

"The murderer carries a deck of cards."

"So does half of America." Murphy brushed against Tucker's chest, tickling the dog's sensitive nose with her tail.

"Here's what really bothers me. Once a murder is committed, the last thing a murderer would want to do is dig up the corpse. It's the corpse that incriminates them."

"Maybe they forgot to take off her jewelry or there was money buried with her."

"Possible, if the murderer or murderers were rattled. Yes, it's possible but Coty had enough time to collect his wits. He would have stripped her of anything valuable. I'd bet on that. Then, too, we don't know for sure if Coty or the other guy killed her."

"Don't forget Mickey Townsend."

"I haven't." Murphy paced, her tail flicking with each step. "Mickey must know where Marylou is, though. Otherwise, why did he stop Coty from digging that night?" She paced some more. "But it doesn't feel right, Tucker. Mickey was in love with Marylou."

"Maybe at the last minute she thought Arthur was the better choice. Maybe she told him and he lost it and killed her—lover's passion," Tucker said soberly.

"I don't know, but you've got to go to Camden, Tucker. Mickey will be there. They'll all be there—and that's what scares me."

"I'll do my best."

"Go into that bedroom and put on a show."

Tucker trotted into Harry's bedroom. She'd placed her duffle bag on the floor. Her clothes lay on the bed and she was folding them.

Tucker crawled into the duffle bag. "Mom, you've got to take me."

"Tucker—" Harry smiled. "Get out of there."

Mrs. Murphy bounded on the bed. "Take her, Harry."

"Murphy—" Harry shooed her off a blouse. The cat sat on another one. "Now this is too much."

"Tucker needs to go with you."

"Yes, it's very important," the dog whined.

"Throw back your head and howl. That's impressive," the cat ordered.

Tucker threw back her pretty head, emitting a spine-tingling howl. "I wanna go!"

Harry knelt down and hugged the little dog. "Ah, Tucker, it's only for the weekend."

Tucker repeated her dramatic recitation. "I wanna go! Don't leave me here!"

"Oh, now, come on." Harry comforted the dog.

"Oo-oo-oo!"

"That's good." Mrs. Murphy moved to another blouse. If she couldn't go she could at least deposit as much cat hair as possible on Harry's clothes.

"Well—" Harry weakened.

"Oh, please, I'm the best little dog in the world. I won't make you walk me to go to the bathroom. I won't even eat. I'll be real cheap—"

"That's pushing it, Tucker," Mrs. Murphy grumbled.

"She's eating it up."

"Oh, Tucker, I feel so guilty about leaving you here."

"Oo-oo-oo!"

Harry picked up the phone by the bed and punched in Mim's number. "Hello, Mim. I have the unhappiest dog in front of me, curled up in my duffle bag. May I bring Tucker?" She listened to the affirmative reply. "Thank you. Thank you, too, for Tucker." Then she called Sally Dohner, who agreed to fill in for her at the post office.

"Way to go!" Mrs. Murphy congratulated her friend.

"Oh, boy!" Tucker jumped out of the duffle bag and ran around in small circles until she made herself dizzy and fell down.

"Now how did you know you were going?" Harry laughed at the dog. "Sometimes I think you two understand English." She petted Mrs. Murphy, who nestled down in a sweater. "I'm sorry, Murphy, but you know how you are on a long trip. You take care of Susan—she's going to spend the weekend here. She said she'd love a break from being a wife and mother." Harry sat on the bed. "Bet she brings the whole family with her anyway. Well, you know everyone."

"Yes. I'll be a good kitty. Just tell her I want lots of cooked chicken."

"She even promised to fry pork chops for you."

"Ooh, I love pork chops." Mrs. Murphy purred, then called out to Tucker: "Tucker, you've got to remember everything you see, smell, or hear."

"Got ya."

Camden , South Carolina , settled in 1758 and called Pine Tree Hill at that time, sits in a thermal belt, making it perfect for horsemen. While the air freezes, the sand does not, so in wintertime Thoroughbred breeders, trainers, chasers, hunters, and show horse people flock to the good footing and warmer temperatures. While not as balmy as Florida, Camden isn't as crowded either, nor as expensive.

Mrs. Marion duPont Scott had wintered in Camden, falling in love with the town. The relaxed people, blessed with that languid humor peculiar to South Carolina, so delighted her that she decided to use her personal wealth to create the Colonial Cup, a Deep South counterpoint to great and grand Montpelier. She developed a steeplechase course that allowed spectators in the grandstand to see most of the jumps, a novelty.

Over the years the races grew. The crowds poured in. The parties created many a wild scandal. The pockets of the citizens of Camden bulged.

The only bad thing that could be said about this most charming of upcountry towns in South Carolina is that it was the site of a Revolutionary War disaster on April 16, 1780, when General Horatio Gates, with 3,600 men, lost to Lord Cornwallis's 2,000 British troops. After that the British decided to enjoy thoroughly the comforts of Camden and the attentions of the female population, famed for their exquisite manners as well as their good looks.

Harry, thrilled to be a guest at the Colonial Cup, walked around Camden with her mouth hanging open. She and Miranda had decided to tour the town before heading over to the track. The races wouldn't commence until the following day, and they were like schoolgirls at recess. Harry dutifully asked Mim, then Charles, then Adelia, and even Fair if they needed her assistance. As soon as everyone said "No," she shot out of the stable, Tucker at her heels.

"I could get used to this." Harry smiled as she regarded a sweeping porch that wrapped around a stately white frame house. Baskets of flowers hung from the ceiling of the porch, for the temperature remained around 65°F.

"How I remember Mamaw sitting on her swing, passing and repassing, discussing at length the reason why she lined her walkway with hydrangeas and why her roses won prizes. Oh, I wish Didee were coming." Miranda used the childhood name for her sister. "That husband of hers is too much work.

"What husband isn't?"

"My George was an angel."

Harry fought back the urge to reply that he was now. Instead she said, "He had no choice."

Mrs. Hogendobber stopped. The crepe on the bottom of her sensible walking shoes screeched, which made Tucker bark. That made the West Highland white on the wraparound porch bark. "Do I detect sarcasm?"

"Hush, Tucker."

"I'm on duty here," Tucker stoutly barked right back. "If that white moppet wants to run his mouth and insult us, I am not remaining silent."

"Will you shut up!"

"My husband listened better than your dog."

"Let's move on before every dog in the neighborhood feels compelled to reply. Tucker, I don't know why I brought you. You've been a real pain in the patoutee. You sniffed everything where we slept. You rushed up and down the barn aisles. You ran out in the paddocks. You dashed into every parked van. Are you on canine amphetamines?"

"I'm searching for information. You're too dumb to know that. I'm not rushing around like a chicken with its head cut off. I have a plan."

"Apparently, Tucker isn't too pleased with you either," Mrs. Hogendobber noted.

"She'll settle down. Let's go on up the road. The second oldest polo field in the United States is there."

They walked down a sandy path; the railroad track lay to their right. Within moments the expanse of manicured green greeted them, a small white stable to one side. On the other side of the field were lovely houses, discreetly tucked behind large boxwoods and other bushes.

A flotilla of corgis poured across the field, shooting out of the opened gate of one of the houses. Tee Tucker stopped, her ears straight up, her eyes alert, her non-tail steady. She had not seen so many of her own kind since she was a puppy.

"Who are you?" they shouted as they reached midfield.

"Tee Tucker from Crozet, Virginia. I'm here for the Colonial Cup."

Before the words were out of Tucker's lips the corgis swarmed around her, sniffing and commenting. Finally the head dog, a large red-colored fellow, declared, "This is a mighty fine representative of our breed. Welcome to the great state of South Carolina. Might I invite you to our home for a refreshing drink or to meet my mistress, a lovely lady who would enjoy showing you Camden hospitality?"

"Thank you, but I've got to stay close to Mom. On duty, you know."

"Why, yes, I understand completely. My name is Galahad, by the way, and these are my numerous offspring. Some were blessed with intelligence and others with looks." He laughed and they all talked at once, disagreeing with him.

"Have you ever seen so many corgis?" Mrs. Hogendobber watched all those tailless behinds wiggling in greeting.

"Can't say that I have," Harry said, laughing.

"Galahad," Tucker asked politely, "have there been any murders at the Colonial Cup?"

"Why, no, not in my recollection, although I think there were many who considered it, humans being what they are. Given their tendency to rely on copious libations for sociability—I'd say it was remarkable that they haven't dispatched one another into the afterlife."

"Oh, Daddy." One of the girls faced Tucker. "He does go on. Why do you ask a thing like that?"

"Well, there've been two steeplechase jockeys murdered since Montpelier. I was curious. You know, maybe it's not so unusual."

"Plenty unusual. Steeplechasing doesn't attract the riffraff that flat racing does," Galahad grumbled.

"These days, how can you tell riffraff from quality, Daddy?" the petite corgi asked, knowing full well what the answer would be.

"Bon sang ne sait mentir," came the growled reply.

"What's that?" Tucker's eyebrows quivered.

"Good blood doesn't lie."

"Ah, blood tells," Tucker said. She laughed to herself because that old saw drove Mrs. Murphy wild. Being an alley cat, she would spit whenever Tucker went off on a tangent about purebred dogs. "Well, I am charmed to have met you all. As you can see, the humans are moving off. By the way, I'm staying at Hampstead Farm. If anything should pop into your heads, some stray thought about the racing folks, the 'chasers, I'd appreciate your getting word to me."

"You some kind of detective?" the pretty little one asked.

"Yes. Exactly." Tucker dashed to catch up with Harry and Miranda, hearing the oohs and aahs behind her. She neglected to tell them she worked with a partner, a cat. They'd never meet Mrs. Murphy, so what the heck?

Dr. Stephen D'Angelo's farm truck had been discovered in an abandoned barn near Meechum's River in western Albemarle County.

Rick Shaw and his department thoroughly searched the area, turning up nothing, not even a scrap of clothing.

"Think they ditched the truck and stole another?"

"We'd know. I put out a call to the local dealers and to other county departments. Nada. For the first day they were in their truck, the Nissan. After they got rid of D'Angelo's truck."

"By now they know we're on their trail. They've swapped off the Nissan," Coop said.

"That's more like it. No telling, though."

"Sooner or later someone was bound to find this truck." She sighed. "Well, they've got two days' head start." Cynthia put on her gloves.

"They got it. They could have driven to any airport out of state by now or picked up the train. Or just kept driving. I expect those two have more fake IDs than a Libyan terrorist. They've got seventy-one dollars in cash." He squinted as a tiny sunburst of light reflected off the outside mirror. "Linda withdrew the money at one o'clock on the day they disappeared."

"Let's get this thing dusted for prints."

"Coop, you're methodical. I like that in a woman." He smiled. "Got your bags packed?"

"I always keep a bag packed, why?"

"We're going to Camden."

"No kidding."

"As spectators. If I notify the sheriff down there, it's one more department to fool with. They don't know what we do and I'm not inclined to tell them. It's enough that I have to handle Frank Yancey day in and day out."

"He's getting a lot of pressure from the newspaper." Her mind returned to Linda and Will. "The Forloines have a booming business. And there's someone higher up on the food chain."

"Right. You might want to wear your shoulder holster."

"Good idea."

Nerves tight before a race were stretched even tighter today. Fair Haristeen noticed the glum silence between the Valiants when he checked over Mim's horses early that morning.

Brother and sister worked side by side without speaking.

Arthur Tetrick stopped by on his way to the racecourse. He, too, noticed the frosty air between the siblings.

Addie, on sight of her guardian, practically spat at him. "Get out of my face, Arthur."

His eyebrows rose in a V; he inclined his head in a nod of greeting or acquiescence and left.

"Jesus, Addie, you're a bitch today." Charles whirled on her as Arthur shut the door to his car and drove out the sandy lane.

She looked into her brother's face, quite similar in bone structure to her own. "You, of course, are a prince among men!"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"That you and Arthur are ganging up on me again. That I know he called on Judge Parker the day I spilled the beans about Nigel's stash. God, I was stupid. You'll both use it against me in court."

"This isn't the day to worry about stuff like that."

"You knew he went to see Parker, didn't you?"

"Uh"—Chark glanced outside, the sun filtered through the tall pines—"he mentioned it."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"You'd had enough stress for one day." Liar.

"I'm not lying."

"You're withholding. It amounts to the same thing."

"Look who's talking. You lied to me about drugs. You withheld the truth about Nigel. A kilo is a lot of coke, Addie!"

"It wasn't for me!" she shouted.

"Then what were you doing with Nigel?"

"Dating him. Just because he was really into it doesn't mean I was, too."

"Come on, I'm not stupid."

She pointed her finger at him. "So what if I took a line or two. I'm okay. I stopped. This isn't about coke. It's about my money. You want my share."

"No, I don't." He pushed her finger away. "But I don't want to see you ruin everything Dad worked for. You have no sense of—" He struggled.

She filled in the word for him. "Responsibility?"

"Right." His eyes blazed. "We have to nurture that money. It seems like a lot but it can go faster than you think. You can't be cautious and we both know it."

"No risk, no gain."

"Addie." He tried to remain patient. "The only thing you know how to do is spend money. You don't know how to make it."

"Horses."

"Never."

"Then what are you doing as a trainer?" She was so frustrated tears welled up in her eyes.

"I get paid for training. I'm not running my own horses. Jesus, Addie, the board and vet bills alone will eat you alive. 'Chasing is for rich people."

"We are rich."

"Not if you try to be a major player overnight. We have to keep that money in solid stocks and bonds. If I can double the money in ten years, then we can think about owning a big string of our own."

"What's life for, Charles?" She used his proper name. "To hoard money? To read balance statements and call our stockbroker daily? Do we buy a sensible little farm or do we rent for ten years? Maybe I think life is an adventure—you take chances, you make mistakes. Hey, Chark, maybe you even lose money but you live."

"Live. You'll wind up with some bloodsucker who married you for your fortune. Then there'll be two of you squandering our inheritance."

"Not our inheritance. My inheritance. You take yours and I'll take mine. It's simple."

"I'm not going to let you ruin yourself."

"Well, brother, there's not a damn thing you can do about it." She stopped, blinked hard, then said in a low voice, "You could have killed Nigel. I don't put it past you." She drew close to his face. "I'll do one thing for you though. You're so worried about me? Well, this is my advice to you. Dump dear old Uncle Arthur. He's a dinosaur. And a very well-off dinosaur, thanks to Mom's will. He got his ten percent as executor. And after you dump the old fart, do something crazy, Chark. Something not useful. Buy a Porshe 911 or go to New York and party every night for a month. For once live your life. Just let go." She turned and walked outside.

He yelled after her, "I didn't kill Nigel Danforth!"

She cocked her head and turned back to face him. "Chark, for all I know you'll kill me, then you can have the whole ball of wax."

"I can't believe you said that." His face was white as a sheet.

"Well, I did. I've got races to run." She left him standing there.

The making of a good steeplechaser, like the making of a good human being, is an arduous melding of discipline, talent, luck, and heart. The best bloodlines in the world won't produce a winner, although they might fortify your chances.

Thoroughbreds a trifle too slow for the flat track find their way to the steeplechasing barns of the East Coast. Needing far more stamina than their flat-racing brethren, the 'chasers dazzle the equine world. Many a successful steeplechase athlete has retired to foxhunting, the envy of all who have beheld the creature soaring over fences, coops, ditches, and stone walls.

They gathered at the Springdale track for the $100,000 purse of the Colonial Cup, the last race in the season. After this race the points would be tallied, and the best trainer, horse, and jockey would emerge for the season.

Harry and Mrs. Hogendobber figured the most useful thing they could do was to keep Mim occupied despite her nervousness. They knew better than to disturb the Valiants before a race. Keeping Mim clear of them seemed a good policy.

Tucker, on a leash, complained, but Harry refused to release her. "You don't know where you are and you might get lost."

"Dogs don't get lost. People do."

"She's yappy this morning." Miranda, wearing her favorite plaid wraparound skirt and a white blouse with a red cable knit sweater, seemed the essence of fall.

"The crowd excites her."

"I'm on a recon mission. I need to chat up any animal who will talk to me."

Heedless of Tucker's tasks, Harry pulled her along to the paddock. After being dragged a few feet Tucker decided to give in and heel properly. If she couldn't have her way, she might as well make the best of it.

The lovely live oaks sheltered the paddock. The officials busied themselves in the final hour before the first race.

Colbert Mason spied Mrs. Hogendobber and waved to her. Miranda waved back.

Arthur bustled out of the small officials' office, his Worth and Worth trilby set at a rakish angle. Most of the other men wore hats, too: porkpies, cowboy hats, lads' caps in every imaginable fabric, and one distinguished navy blue homburg. The manufacturers of grosgrain ribbon would survive despite the dressing down of America. Horsemen had style.

The one blond uncovered head among the group belonged to Fair, who had ridden over in the van. He walked over to join his ex-wife and Miranda.

"May I get you ladies a drink or a sandwich?"

"No, but I'd like to sit a spell. This commotion is tiring." Miranda dumped herself on a park bench.

"Imagine how the horses feel." Fair sat next to her.

"Fair, make her let me go," Tucker implored.

He reached down and scratched those big ears. "You're so low to the ground, girl, I bet all these shoes and legs are bewildering."

"No, they're not."

"Ignore her. She's whined and whimpered since the moment we arrived." Harry sternly raised her forefinger to the dog.

"You know, when we were married, I always wanted to bring you here, but somehow I never got the time."

"I'm here now."

"Do you like it?"