Murder She Meowed

"It's wonderful. Miranda and I toured the town. I had no idea it was so lovely."

"People here know how to garden." Miranda's passion, apart from the choir and baking, was gardening. "I'm tempted to ask for cuttings."

"Bet they'd give them to you." Fair smiled. He put his arm around Harry's shoulders.

"Where's Mim?" she said. "We started out with her—"

"We drove over with her and Jim. That's not the same as starting out." Miranda chuckled. "That Mim, no sooner had we parked than she rocketed out of her car."

"Don't worry. Arthur headed her off before she could get to Addie and Chark. And Jim stuck right with her. He's the only one of us capable of dissuading Mim from her plans."

"She doesn't mean to lean on those youngsters." Mrs. Hogendobber stretched her legs out in front of her, wiggling her toes. She'd walked more in the last twenty-four hours than in the preceding month. "Oh, that feels good."

"Nerves," Harry succinctly said.

"There are plenty of owners worse than Mim. We practically had to tranquilize Marylou Valiant in the old days." He laughed.

"If I'd been dating Mickey Townsend I'd have to be tranquilized too." Harry giggled.

"I thought you liked Mickey." Miranda finally released her purse from her death grip and set it on the ground next to her.

"I do like Mickey. He's full of energy. He's got plenty of that burly masculine charm that Marylou could never resist. But he loses money at the races and doesn't pay his staff until he wins it back."

Fair crossed his arms over his chest. "If he'd married Marylou, he wouldn't have had those worries. Racing isn't for folks who need a weekly paycheck. Plus you need nerves of steel. He has them. I worry more about his temper than the money. He comes up with it somehow."

"It's the somehow I'm worried about," Harry said under her breath.

"Why?"

"Fair, two jockeys are under the ground and—" She looked up then blurted out, "What the hell—?"

Miranda, Fair, and Tucker turned their heads left in the direction of Harry's amazed look. "Gracious!" Miranda exclaimed.

"Bet you didn't recognize me in street clothes," Cynthia Cooper joked.

Fair, a gentleman, stood up and offered Cynthia Cooper his seat as she and Rick Shaw approached.

"Well, do I look the part?" Rick wore a plaid lad's cap, a tweed jacket, and baggy pants.

"Do you think you're incognito?" Harry smiled at him.

"You look splendid." Miranda praised the sheriff, a man with whom she might have disagreements but for whom her affection never dimmed.

Harry lowered her voice. "You know the Virginia gang will recognize you."

Cynthia replied, "Sure, we know that. We've never seen a steeplechase, and the boss here had an impulse, so . . . voila!"

Harry, not believing a word of it, simply smiled. Rick and Cynthia were aware none of the three believed them; probably Tucker didn't either, but they'd go along with the story.

Loud voices at the paddock grabbed their attention.

"You're behind this—" Chark's voice rose.

He shut up when Mickey's fist jammed into his mouth.

Within seconds the two men were knocking the stuffing out of each other.

Fair, Cynthia, and Rick rushed over. Tucker lunged to help but Harry held on to the leash.

"I'll kill you, you dumb son of a bitch," Mickey cursed, then landed a right to the breadbasket. "You're too stupid to know who's on your side and who isn't."

"With you as a friend I don't need enemies." Chark gasped, then caught Mickey on the side of the head with a glancing blow. He reeled back, going down on one knee. The St. Christopher's medal fell out of his pocket, face down on the grass.

Rick and Cynthia deftly stepped between the two men. Rick grabbed Mickey as Cynthia pulled Chark's left arm up behind his back and put a hammer lock around his throat.

"Easy, Chark. Let's end this before it gets a whole lot worse." Cynthia's regulation size .357 Magnum flashed as her blazer opened up. Chark couldn't see it, but as she pressed against him he could feel it. He immediately stopped struggling.

Mickey, however, didn't. Fair stepped in and he and Rick took Mickey down together.

"Goddammit, man." Fair shook his head. "Things are bad enough."

Mickey tried to shake them off. "Bad ain't the word. Let me go." He saw the medal and reached over to pick it up. Fair held him. Rick picked up the medal and handed it to Mickey.

Chark noticed but the object didn't fully register at that moment.

Two uniformed police officers arrived at the scene and brusquely told Cynthia, Rick, and Fair to step back. Then the skinny one noticed her gun.

"You got a license to carry that, ma'am?"

"Deputy Cynthia Cooper, Albemarle County Sheriffs department. I'd shake your hand but I'm occupied. Until you all can talk sense into Mickey Townsend there, I'll remain occupied. We can be formally introduced later."

"Want some help with the perp?" the cop asked Cynthia using the shorthand for perpetrator.

"I'll take care of him. Thanks."

"Coop, I'm okay. I lost my temper." Chark sighed. "Why go out of my way to piss on a skunk?"

"Can't comment on that. Come on, I'll walk you back to the weigh-in. Okay?"

"Yeah. On the way you can tell me what you're doing here."

"A first-class chickenshit!" Mickey, oblivious to the crowd around him, spat out the words as Chark walked away.

Fair whispered, "Mickey, shut up."

"Huh?" Fair's words filtered through the hammer pounding in Mickey's brain.

"Two jockeys who owed you money are dead. No one believes you were playing Old Maid. Chill out," Fair warned.

Mickey shut up.

Rick turned to the two uniformed cops. "This man lives in my county. Nothing to worry about." The two cops nodded and watched Rick and Fair walk away, Mickey between them, the crowd bubbling about what they'd just witnessed.

"You're bullshitting me," Mickey said under his breath to Rick. "You don't know one end of a horse from the other."

"Mickey, you are your own worst enemy." Fair shook his head.

"It's obvious, isn't it?" Mickey spoke to the vet he used and trusted. "Rick Shaw's here to spy on me. Everyone thinks I killed Nigel and Coty. Dammit! Why the hell would I kill my own jockey?"

"You tell me," Rick said.

"I didn't! That's the long and short of it." Mickey's handsome face sagged, and he suddenly appeared old.

"Lying takes so much energy. Just tell the truth," Rick said nonchalantly. "You knew Nigel didn't have a green card. Let's start there."

"Ah, man, give me a break." Mickey squared his shoulders, looking his forty-five years again. "I don't give a shit if the guy had a polka-dot card. He knew how to ride a horse. And don't give me this crap about protecting American workers or protecting abused immigrants. I didn't abuse anyone, and if an American worker can do the job as well as the limey, hey, he's hired. Screw the government."

He was so incorrigible, Rick and Fair had to laugh.

"Mickey, if you'd just give it to me straight I wouldn't have to see you as a prime suspect."

Mickey looked up at Fair imploringly. "Suspect for what?"

"Just talk to the man," Fair said in an even tone.

Mickey gazed over the tops of their heads, over the tops of the trees, all the way up to a robin's-egg-blue sky. "All right."

With a half hour to the first race, Mickey Townsend asked if he might give directions to his jockey, obviously new to the job.

Fair had returned to the paddocks.

Cynthia and Rick walked along with Mickey, Cynthia flipping open her notebook as they headed back to his horses.

"I will tell you everything, but I've got to see the races."

"That's fine," Rick said. "You're not under arrest—yet. You've got enough time to start talking before the first race."

Mickey exhaled deeply, shut his eyes, and then opened them. "Nigel Danforth owed me two thousand dollars, give or take, on a gambling debt—not horses, poker. Coty Lamont owed me over seven thousand from last season. I owe Harvey Throgmorton five and a half grand. His wife had her first child, he's had a bad-luck year with the horses, and he needs the money. I want to pay him off. I didn't kill Nigel and I didn't kill Coty Lamont." He took another deep breath, involuntarily clasping and unclasping his hands. "I got a little crazy. I thought about beating them up, and Coty really pissed me off. He promised to pay me, and—that was on the night he was killed or early that morning. I'd heard one lie too many. I don't know . . . when he didn't show up at my barn at ten that night as agreed, I roared on over to his house. To make a long story short, I threatened him, pulled a gun, told him he'd better pay me by morning or he would be history." He walked over to the cooler and plucked a soft drink out for himself. "Want some?"

"No, thanks."

"All this talking makes me thirsty." Mickey popped the top and drank. "I left. What he didn't figure on was that I'd wait for him. I waited at the end of the driveway behind a big bush, had my lights off. When he drove out of there about half an hour later, I tailed him. Guess I've seen too many cop shows. Anyway, I followed him to Mim Sanburne's stable. He didn't drive in, though, which was the weird thing. He left his truck behind the old Amoco station about half a mile from her main gate. But here's what really made me wonder—he covered his license plate with a rag or something. Josh at the Amoco is always fixing cars, I mean the lot is always full of stuff, but Coty covered up that license plate.

"He didn't hear me because I stayed way far behind, far enough to muffle my motor, and then I cut it. About twenty minutes later I ran out of patience, so I walked into Mim's myself. Had my gun. I found him in the stable. He had her hunter in the crossties. I walked over to the stall, scared the shit out of him. He'd been digging in the corner of the stall. I asked him what the hell was he doing and he said getting my money. I asked him what was down there and he said pirate's treasure, real smartass, you know. I was so mad, I said, 'Cover the hole back up, you're jerking me around—if there was anything of value down there you'd have claimed it by now.' Coty always thought people were stupid, that he could stay one step ahead. He was about to tell me something but then he shut up and we both got scared for a minute because we heard a noise. Turned out it was nothing but mice in the hayloft. You know, when it's real quiet at night you hear things like their feet, those little claws. Damnedest thing.

"Well, he filled the hole back in. He hadn't gotten very deep anyway. Put the horse back in the stall. I walked him out to my car by the road, then drove him back to his truck and told him he had until five o'clock before I took his truck as collateral.

"That was the last I saw of Coty Lamont." Pale, he finished his soda, then said as an afterthought, "Doesn't look too good for me, does it?"

"No," Rick said.

"If you're telling the truth, you'll be all right," Cynthia added.

"Do you know about the coke?" Rick listened as the call to the first race was announced.

"Uh—" Mickey stalled.

"Were they users?" Rick asked.

"Yes."

"Are you?"

"I wouldn't have lasted this long in the business if I were hooked on that stuff."

"Do you know who sells it?"

"Sheriff, it's not hard to get."

"That's not what I'm asking."

"Linda Forloines."

"Thank you, Mickey. After the races you'd best go back to Albemarle County and not leave without checking in with me. Go on, the first race is about to start."

Mickey rose, his knees cracking. He walked to the course, his hands deep in his pockets, his fingers wrapped around Marylou's medallion. He was tempted to tell Cynthia and Rick, sorely tempted, but he'd keep the St. Christopher's medal a secret

for a little bit longer.

Cynthia flipped her notebook shut. "You believe him?" "You know better than to ask me something like that." "Yeah, but I always do, don't I?"

The light breeze made Arthur Tetrick's sky-blue official's ribbon flap. His brisk walk assisted the flapping.

Chark and Addie sat behind the weigh-in station. As they had no horse in the first race they watched everyone else.

"Are you all right?" Arthur asked, noticing Chark's swollen lip.

"I'm embarrassed." Chark ignored the dribble from his bleeding lip.

"What happened?"

"Mickey Townsend acted like Mickey Townsend." Chark spoke ruefully. "I walked out of the official's tent and bumped into him. By mistake. I wasn't looking where I was going. I've got Ransom Mine on my mind, you know. He made some crack about how I excel at the bump and run. He's still pissed off about the Maryland Hunt Cup last year. 'Course, I'm a little tense . . ."

"That's the understatement of the year." Addie spoke out of the side of her mouth.

He held up his hands in supplication. "I saw red. No excuses. I was wrong. I made a spectacle of myself."

"No harm done. I'll head off Mim if I can." Arthur checked his watch. "Hmm. I take that back. I'll try to find Harry and Miranda. Maybe they can keep Mim occupied so you don't have to go over the whole story again. Or get chewed out."

Chark winced as Addie dabbed at his lip with a handkerchief. She couldn't stand the dripping blood anymore. "I'm so ashamed."

"If I had half a chance I'd like to thrash him myself."

Addie peered up at Arthur. "I still like Mickey. You two will never cut him a break."

Arthur snapped, "Mickey Townsend cares for nobody but Mickey Townsend. For reasons I will never fathom he casts a spell over the female of the species."

"Yeah, sure." Addie threw down the hankie. "Arthur, I know you went to see Judge Parker."

Arthur's face clouded. "Just a formality."

"No, it wasn't. You were filing papers to extend your trusteeship."

"I did no such thing." He glared at her. "You inherit your fortune at midnight on your birthday . . . tomorrow night. The paperwork will be done on Monday. That's why I went to see Judge Parker."

"You think I'm not competent. Because of the drugs."

Arthur lowered his voice. "This is neither the time nor the place! But Adelia, I have come to the mournful conclusion that I can do nothing to help you. You may not believe me, but I will be relieved to no longer be your trustee or the executor of your mother's will. I wash my hands of you." He drew in a gulp of sweet air. "I only hope your mother will forgive me if she's looking down upon us."

"What rot." Addie left them. She needed to push everything and everybody out of her mind to concentrate on the horses and the course. Each time she saw Arthur or talked to her brother, she felt she was being pulled back into a white-hot rage. This was the first race without Nigel, and that hit her harder than she thought it would.

Arthur followed her with his eyes, then sadly said, "Well, I've upset her. I didn't mean to but ..."

"She started it."

"So she did, Charles, but I'm old enough to know better."

"You're right about Mickey though. He twisted Mom around his little finger and Addie thought he could do no wrong. Know what else I don't get?" Chark stood up, found he was a trifle shaky, and started to sit back down.

"Here, Chark, you're hurt." Arthur put his hand under Chark's arm to steady him.

"I'm shook up, not hurt. I can't believe I lost control like that."

"You're too hard on yourself." Arthur discreetly glanced at his wristwatch, then sat next to Chark for a moment. "Now, what is it that you don't understand? You lost your train of thought."

"If Mom was so in love with Mickey, why did she refuse to marry him?"

"Ah—" Arthur tipped back his head. "I'd like to think because she knew it wouldn't work in the long run."

"Addie says it was because I didn't like Mickey. Makes me feel guilty as hell."

"Oh, now—"

"You know how she was. She'd do anything for Addie. I used to beg her to marry you. Funny, isn't it?"

"Not to me," Arthur said sadly.

"I used to scream at her that Mickey was a gold digger. When I think of the stuff I said to my mother," he hung his head, covering his eyes, "I feel so terrible."

Arthur put his arm around Chark. "There, there. You're overwrought. You were young. She forgave you. Mothers always do, you know."

Chark shook his head. "I know, but—"

"Let's talk about something pleasant. I picked up Adelia's birthday cake. It's three tiers high since I figured everyone will wind up back at Mim's place anyway. It's got a jockey's cap on it, Mim's colors, with two crossed whips. Chocolate inside, vanilla icing on the outside. Her favorite."

"That's great, Arthur—just great."

"Big birthday, twenty-one." His own twenty-first had receded into memory, a kind of warm blur. "I've got to go. I'll do my best to find Harry or Mim before I take up my post."

"Thanks."

"Don't mention it." Arthur walked away, the sandy soil crunching underfoot.

Addie found Mickey under a huge sweet gum tree on the back side of the course. His stopwatch in his hand, he furtively checked between it and the announcer's stand.

"You mad at me, too?" he said.

"Nah." She drew alongside him.

" 'Bout five more minutes," he said.

"You might win this race."

"Oh, I might win every race." He smiled weakly. "Just depends who the gods smile on that day, right?"

"I think it depends upon the brilliance of the jockey and the heart of the horse."

"That helps." He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "Do you know why Nigel and Linda beat each other up at the Montpelier Races? He never would tell me, and I think it might be why he's dead."

"Nigel bought a kilo of cocaine from Linda. Or at least I thought he bought it. He was going to sell it to pay off debts, yours being one, and then buy a little place and start training horses himself. He said he knew he couldn't be a jockey forever."

"Yeah, well, you don't just go from being a jockey to being a trainer." Mickey folded his arms across his chest. "Think he was hooked?"

"No."

"Did you tell the sheriff?"

"Finally I did. I mean, I'm in a lot of trouble because I stashed the kilo in my safe deposit box."

"Addie—"

"Yeah, well, I told them that, too. They've impounded it."

Mickey chewed the inside of his lip. "What else did you tell them?"

"Not any more than I had to. Look, just because you're a riverboat gambler doesn't mean you killed anybody. It wasn't enough money to kill someone over."

"What do you think?"

"No way." She grinned.

"Tell you one thing, pretty girl." He felt protective toward Addie, who reminded him a lot of Marylou. "We need a soothsayer to help us."

"Soothsayer won the Eclipse Award. Hell, if we had a soothsayer life would be perfect."

He laughed. "You're too young to remember that horse."

Her face darkened a moment. "There's one thing I did lie about, though."

"Huh?" His senses sharpened.

"Nigel never paid for the cocaine. He said he'd pay as soon as he sold it. He only paid for about a fourth of it. I told Sheriff Shaw that Nigel paid for it." She helplessly held up her hands. "I don't know why I lied."

"Addie!" He blanched.

"I don't want Linda coming after me." Her face flushed. "If Linda thinks I set her up, hey ..." She didn't need to finish the thought.

Mickey rolled his shoulders forward and back, something he did to relax his muscles. "She's in so much shit. Hell, they know she sells it. She's a suspect with or without your help."

"Selling ain't killing. You coming to my birthday party?" She fell in with his step.

"No."

"I'll talk to Chark."

"Don't. Let well enough alone, Adelia. I'd be a wet blanket."

"Oh, please come. You'd make me happy." She sighed. "Be a lot happier if Nigel were still here."

He patted her on the back. "Believe it or not, honey, I know how you feel. There isn't a day that goes by that I don't miss your mother." He waited, cleared his throat. "Addie, you aren't the only person withholding information from the sheriff." He reached into his pocket, placing the beautiful St. Christopher's medal into Adelia's hand.

She stared, blinked, then the tears gushed over her cheeks. She brought the medal to her lips, kissing it. "Oh, no. Oh, no." Although she knew her mother must be dead, the medal brought home the full force of the loss; not a vestige of hope remained.

"Where did you get this?" she whispered.

Mickey, crying too, said, "From Nigel Danforth's down jacket." He explained the whole sequence of events to her. "This will lead us to her murderer. My gut tells me it wasn't Nigel. But how did he get this medal?"

"Mickey, let me have it."

"After we flush out the rat."

"No. Let me have it now. I want to wear it just like Mom did."

"Addie, it's too dangerous."

"Please. You can stick close to me. I want Mom's medal, and I want everyone to see it."

Despite being on a leash, Tucker wiggled with excitement. The smells alone thrilled her: aromas of baked ham, smoked turkey, roast beef, and fried chicken mingled with the tang of hot dogs, hamburgers, and mustard. Three-bean salad, seven-layer salad, simple cole slaw, and rich German potato salad emitted a fragrance not as tantalizing as the meats, but food was food and Tucker wasn't picky. The brownies, angel food cakes, pound cakes with honey drizzled on top, and pumpkin pies smelled enticing, too. The sour mash whiskey, bracing single malt scotches, sherries, port, gin, and vodkas turned her head away because these odors stung her nostrils and her eyes.

For Tucker, the Colonial Cup was a kaleidoscope of smells and of more people than she could possibly greet. Tucker knew her social obligations. She was to rush out and sniff each human nearing her mother. If she knew them, she would wag her nonexistent tail. If she didn't, she'd bark her head off, the cheapest and most effective alarm system yet devised. But with thousands of people swarming about, she couldn't bark at everyone. Instead she practiced her steely gaze technique. If someone approached Harry, she braced herself, never removing her eyes from the person's face. Once she felt sure the person was not going to lunge for Harry or Mrs. Hogendobber, she relaxed.

Although bred for herding, corgis are also mindful of their special human and will defend that person to the best of their ability. In Tee Tucker's opinion the best dog for human defense was and ever would be a chow chow. Fanatically devoted to their masters, chows first growled a warning and then, if the warning was ignored, the dog would nail the potential attacker, whether it was another canine, a human, or whatever. Tucker wasn't that ferocious but she was devoted to Harry. Sometimes she wished Harry had another dog. Mrs. Murphy could be so superior sometimes, and she hated it when the cat looked down at her from a table or a countertop. She loved Murphy, but she couldn't play rough with her or the cat would shred her sensitive nose.

"Mother, these tailgates tempt me. If I have to walk by you, you should beg food for me."

The day had warmed up, and the time between races was more exhausting than the races themselves. Miranda, parched from the dust and the sun, pulled Harry toward a drink stand.

Harry longingly viewed the bar set out on the back of a station wagon, but since she didn't know the jolly people celebrating the sunshine, the horses, the day, and one another, she moved on, to the stand.

"I thought Fair wasn't going to work this race," Miranda said.

"You know how that goes." Harry bought a Coke, glanced down at her panting pooch, and asked for an empty paper cup. She walked over to the water fountain, filled it up, and Tucker happily slurped.

"Guess being married to a vet is like being married to a doctor."

"I'm not married to him."

"Oh, will you stop."

"Yes, it's like being married to a doctor, and Fair is so conscientious. He works on animals whether the people pay or not. I mean, they always tell him they're going to pay, but they don't. If an animal is in trouble, he's there."

"Isn't that why you loved him?"

"Yes." Harry finished her Coke.

"Mmm." Miranda watched the three jockeys, their silks brilliant, standing in the paddock.

Harry followed her gaze, particularly noticing one wiry fellow, hand on hip, crop in hand. "Funny, isn't it? Those behemoth football players get paid a fortune and we worship them for their strength, but these guys have more courage. Women, too. Pure guts, gristle, and brains out there."

"Well, I've never understood how—" Miranda stopped. "Harry, is it rude to talk to jockeys before they ride? I would guess it is."

"They aren't up next. I recognize the silks."

Miranda charged over to the three men. One looked much younger than the others—about sixteen. "Excuse me," she said.

Tucker bounded forward, surprising Harry, who was pulled off balance.

"Ma'am." The eldest of the three, a man in his middle forties, removed his cap.

"Did you know Nigel Danforth?" Miranda demanded.

"I did." The teenager spoke up.

"This may sound like an odd question, but, did you like him?"

"Didn't really know him." The older man spoke up quickly.

The youngest one, in flame-orange silks with two black hoop bands on each sleeve, said, "He acted like he was better than the rest of us."

Harry smiled. That English accent set off people every time.

As if reading her thoughts, the middle jockey, twenty-five or so, added, "It wasn't his accent, which sounded phony to me. He used to strut about, cock of the walk. And brag."

"That he was a better rider?" Harry joined in.

"No," the younger one said. "That he was going to marry Addie Valiant. Addie deserves better than that."

"Yes, she does," Harry agreed.

Now the oldest jockey, in deep green silks with pale blue circles on them, decided to talk. "Don't get me wrong. None of us hated him enough to kill him, and he wasn't a dirty rider, so you have to give the man credit for that, but there was something about him, something shifty. You'd ask him a question, any question, and he'd dance around it like he needed time to think of an answer."

"What did Addie see in him?" the youngest one asked, eyebrows quizzical. His longing tone betrayed a crush on Addie.

Miranda, in her "Dear Abby" voice, replied, "She wasn't thinking clearly. She would have come to her senses."

"Why do you want to know about Nigel Danforth?" the older man asked.

Harry jumped in. "Guess we were as curious as you all were—we couldn't figure out what she saw in him either."

They exchanged a few more words, then Harry, Miranda, and Tucker hastened to the small paddock where jockeys mounted their horses before they were led out onto the track.

Addie, riding for a client other than Mim in this race, walked around led by Chark. Her mother's medal gleamed on her neck. She had the top button of her silks undone. Chark, taut before the race and upset over Mickey Townsend as well as his argument with his sister, didn't notice.

Colbert Mason, the Sanburnes, Fair Haristeen, Arthur Tetrick, Mickey Townsend, Rick Shaw, and Cynthia Cooper, plus hundreds of others, observed the horses. Within a few minutes they'd be called toward the starting cord.

Miranda's mouth fell open. "It can't be," she half-whispered.

"What?" Harry leaned toward her.

"Look at Adelia's neck."

Harry peered, the light bouncing off the royal blue enamel. "Some kind of medal. I don't remember it. Must be an early birthday present."

"No early present. I'd know that medal anywhere. It was Marylou's. She never took it off her neck after Charley died. Not even for fancy balls. She'd drape her rubies and diamonds over it."

Harry focused on the medal. "Uh—yes, now that you mention it. I recall Marylou wearing that."

Mim, across the paddock, also stared at the medal. She grabbed Jim's arm.

Mim, Miranda, and Jim converged on Rick Shaw, pulling him away from the rail and possible eavesdroppers.

Once he persuaded them to talk in sequence, he listened intently as did Deputy Cooper.

"You don't know if it's the exact medal. Someone could have given her a replica," Rick said.

"Flip it over." Mim's lips were white from emotion.

"Even if it carries the same message, it could be a replica." Rick pursued his line of thought.

"It was made by Cartier expressly for Marylou." Mim wrung her hands.

"I appreciate this. I really do. After the races we can ask Adelia to remove the medal so you all can have a closer look, and she can tell us where she got it." Rick hoped the medal was meaningful, but he needed to keep Marylou's old friends calm. He wanted to approach this evidence quietly and sensibly.

"The minute the Colonial Cup is run." Mim was pleading, unusual for her.

"I promise," Rick said firmly.

The trumpet called contestants from the paddocks to the track.

Harry, Mrs. Hogendobber, the Sanburnes, and Tucker raced to the stands. The horses lined up, the cord sprang loose, and they shot off. Addie hung in the pack, easily clearing the fences, but on the second lap the horse was bumped over a fence and lost a stride or two. She couldn't make it up by the finish line, and they were out of the money.

As the humans hollered and exchanged money among themselves, Tucker, happy to see another dog come up into the stands, a jaunty Jack Russell, called out, "Hello."

"Hi," the Jack Russell answered. "I hope we sit near one another. I've had about all the humans I can stand. My name is The Terminator."

"Mine is Tucker."

Fortunately, the owner, a nervous-looking, thin, middle-aged woman, took a seat in front of Tucker. "This is good luck. Are you with anyone in the races?"

"Mim Sanburne," Tucker replied.

"She might win the cup this year," the Russell said sagely. "My human, ZeeZee Thompson—she's a trainer, you know—thinks Mim has a good chance. In fact, my human has been in the top five trainers in winnings for the last ten years."

"Oh." Tucker sounded impressed.

"ZeeZee used to ride in England, but she took a bad fall, ruptured her spleen and damaged her liver plus she broke some ribs. So as soon as she recovered, she learned how to train."

"She must have known Nigel Danforth in England."

The Terminator paused, lowering her voice. "Nigel Danforth is no more a Brit than you or I, my friend. My mother's afraid to talk about him 'cause of the murders, you see. She doesn't want to be next."

"Is she in danger?" Tucker surged forward on her leash. Harry paid no attention, so Tucker moved next to the smooth-coated Jack Russell.

"I hope not, but you see, she is the only person who knows where Nigel came from, and if the killer figures that out, she might be in trouble."

"The killer's only taking out jockeys." Tucker comforted the other dog.

"I don't know, but whoever is doing this knows 'chasing inside and out."

"How did your mother know Nigel Danforth?"

"Montana. One summer—I guess it must have been six years ago, when I was a puppy—we went out to Bozeman. He was a ranch hand, but he was good with a horse. Mom told him the money back East was better than punching cows. He had a full mustache and beard then. Men look real different to humans when they shave them off. They smell the same, of course."

"What was his real name? Do you remember that?"

"Sargent Wilcox." Tucker's eyes widened as the little dog continued. "I sure hope my mother is safe. Wilcox only worked for Mom for a little bit. He was too wild for her."

Tucker hoped so, too, because she was beginning to get the picture, not the whole picture but the very beginning, and it was terrifying.

The Colonial Cup, for which they had waited, was about to be run.

Mim joined her husband, Harry, Mrs. Hogendobber, and Fair in the box in the grandstand. She'd run up from the paddock where she'd smiled at Addie and wished her well, all the while keeping her eyes on the St. Christopher's medal. When Chark gave his sister a leg up, Mim returned to the grandstand for fear her own nerves would make the Valiants agitated. Her beige suede outfit topped with her ubiquitous Hermes scarf showed not a wrinkle, crease, or stain despite her dashing about. She sat down, jaw tight. Little Marilyn would have gladly tightened the scarf around her mother's neck. She hated it when Mim tensed up like this, so she sat with ZeeZee Thompson down the aisle.

No one spoke. Not even Tucker, who sat motionless in Harry's lap.

Addie, shimmering in purple silks, circled on Bazooka, then came into the starting area. The yellow rope stretched across the track. The horses lined up, prancing sideways and snorting. Then twang—the rope snapped back—and off they shot.

Bazooka gunned out front. Chark, down near the starting area, ran back toward the grandstand for a better view and in the process ran into Mickey Townsend again. He said he was sorry and kept going, leaving Mickey to dust himself off. The horse Mickey trained, a client's from West Virginia, was in the middle of the pack.

"She's on too fast a pace," Mim murmured through the tension-narrowed slit that was her mouth.

"Don't fret, honey. Addie knows what she's doing."

Arthur Tetrick, up in the race director's box for this one, stood, mouth hanging open. He peeked over Colbert Mason's shoulder at the big digital timer. "She'll never make it."

"A scorcher," Colbert laconically replied.

Bazooka's stride lengthened with every reach of his black hooves. Addie appeared motionless on top of him, moving only as they landed after each successful jump.

Try as it might, no horse could get near her. The race, so perfect, seemed like a dream to Addie's cheering section. The crowd screamed as much in disbelief as in excitement.

At the next to last fence, Bazooka vaulted over, another perfect landing, and four strides after the fence Addie and the saddle slipped off and under Bazooka. She hit the ground with a thud.

If she'd fallen off at a jump she would have been thrown clear. But the saddle dropped to the left side and slightly underneath Bazooka. His left hind hoof grazed her head. She rolled into a ball.

One fractious horse, seeing Addie on the ground, exploded. The rider fought hard but the animal plunged right over the fallen jockey.

Bazooka crossed the finish line first just as the ambulance reached an unconscious Addie on the track.

Chark, with Mickey Townsend not far behind, tore down the grass track. Arthur Tetrick blasted out of the booth and ran down the concrete grandstand steps faster then anyone thought possible.

Huge Jim Sanburne was immediately behind them. Fair was already on the track on the other side of the finish line. An outrider led Bazooka over to him.

Rick Shaw grabbed Cynthia Cooper's arm as they ran out from the tailgate section.

"I should have seen it coming. Damn me!" He cursed. "You stay here. You know what to do. I'll ride in the ambulance.

"I'll finish up at Hampstead Farm."

"Right." He flashed his badge at a shocked track official and sprinted out to the ambulance, where Addie's unconscious form was being carefully slid into the back. Chark, tears in his eyes, hopped in with her.

Arthur reached the ambulance the same time Rick did. "Sheriff." Rick opened his badge for the ambulance attendants. "Arthur, go back to the booth and get me a video of this race. Now!"

"Yes, of course." Arthur turned and ran back to the grandstand, passing the two slow-moving Camden police.

"Jim, get her saddle. See that no one touches it but you. Hurry before some do-gooder gets there first," Rick commanded.

Jim, without comment, lurched toward the next to last jump.

"Mickey, go find Deputy Cooper. She'll be in the paddock . . . help her. You know these people. They'll talk to you."

"You got it." Mickey peeled off toward the paddock, jumping the track rail in his hurry.

"Chark, I'm coming with you." He hoisted himself into the back of the ambulance.

The driver's assistant closed the heavy door behind them. With its flashers turned on, the vehicle rolled along the side of the track. The driver, savvy about horses, would save his siren until they reached the highway.

"Who saddled the horse?" Rick waved to the gesticulating policemen.

"I did." Chark held his sister's hand.

"Where do you keep your tack?"

"At the stalls."

"Hampstead Farm?"

"No, no—the stalls at the track. We pick up the saddle pad number, we draw for position first, then we saddle up."

"Wouldn't be hard for someone to mess with the saddle or the—'' Rick stopped to think of the term.

"Girth," Chark said.

"Girth, yes."

"Yes, but I saddled Bazooka. I'd have seen it." He squeezed his sister's hand, the tears coming down his face. He reached over and touched the St. Christopher's medal, turning it over. "What in God's name . . ." he whispered.

"What is it?"

"This is Mother's. We haven't seen it since the day she disappeared." He stared, uncomprehending, at Rick.

The emergency rescue worker held Adelia's head firmly between her hands. If Addie's neck were broken, one bump could make a bad situation very much worse.

Rick, on his knees, bent over. He read aloud the inscription: He's my stand-in. Love, Charley

"Dad gave that to Mom the year they were married."

"And you haven't seen this since your Mother disappeared?"

"No."

Rick sat back on his haunches as the ambulance sped to the hospital.

"Sheriff."

"Huh?" Rick's mind was miles away.

"Whoever had this killed my mother."

Rick reached over and put his hand on Chark's shoulder. He said nothing, but he was praying hard, praying that Adelia would live, praying she wouldn't be paralyzed, and praying he could persuade Camden's police to provide twenty-four-hour protection until she could be moved to Albemarle County.

"Charles, you understand that my job forces me to ask unseemly questions."

"I do, sir."

"Could your sister have killed your mother?"

"Never." Chark's voice was level even as the tears kept flowing.

"Adelia comes into her majority tomorrow. Did you want her dead?"

"No," Chark whispered, shaking his head.

"What about Arthur Tetrick? Would he gain by your sister's death?"

Chark regained his voice, "No. His term as executor expires tomorrow at midnight. Even if"—he choked—"she doesn't make it, he has nothing to gain."

"Do you have any idea who would do this?"

"I can only think of one person. Linda Forloines. Because of the cocaine."

"We thought she might show up. Disguised. It's a bit farfetched, but"—he squeezed Chark's shoulder—"we were worried."

"She could have paid someone to do this."

"Yes. Deputy Cooper is working over the officials and jockeys pretty hard right about now."

"Sheriff, I had a stupid fight with Addie. If anything should happen—" he covered his eyes, "I couldn't live. I couldn't."

"She's going to be okay." Rick lied, for he couldn't know. "You'll have plenty of time to mend your fences."

Rick looked imploringly at the rescue-squad woman, who looked down at Addie.

A small incident occurred during the questioning of track personnel, owners, trainers, and jockeys.

When Jim Sanburne brought Addie's light, small racing saddle to Deputy Cooper, Mickey Townsend reached for it and Arthur Tetrick slammed him across the chest with a forearm.

They slapped each other around until the men in the paddock quickly separated them.

"He's trying to smear the prints," Arthur protested.

"No, I wasn't!" Mickey shouted from the other side of the paddock.

After they quieted down, Cynthia resumed her questioning. Harry and Miranda helped by organizing people in a line and by quickly drawing up a checklist of who was in the paddock area.

Fair turned Bazooka over to a groom after checking the animal thoroughly for injury. As a precaution he drew blood to see if Bazooka could have been doped. An amphetamine used on a horse as high octane as Bazooka was a prescription for murder. He conferred with a reputable local equine vet, an acquaintance, Dr. Mary Holloway. She took the vial, jumped into her truck, and headed for the lab.

Fair reached the paddock and joined Coop. "What can I do?"

"Got a pair of rubber gloves?"

"Right here." He pulled the see-through gloves from his chest pocket.

"Inspect the saddle, will you? But be careful—remember, it has to be fingerprinted. Jim Sanburne, Chark and Addie will have prints on the saddle. We're looking for—well, you know."

"I'll be careful." Fair picked up the saddle, lifted the small suede flap. The leathers, beltlike with buckles, were solid on both sides. Then he inspected the girth, torn in two. "That's how they did it." He flipped over the girth and could see on the underside the razor cut, which ran its width. As the outside of the girth was not cut, someone could tighten the girth and not realize it was cut underneath.

"Would someone need to know a lot about horses or racing to do that?" Cooper asked.

"It would help. But with a little direction anyone could do it."

Troubled, Coop pressed her lips together. "Next."

A slight young man stepped forward. "Randy Groah. I ride for Michael Stirling here in Camden."

"Where were you before the last race?"

As Cynthia questioned, Harry wrote down everyone's statistics, name, address, phone number, etc. . . .

Tucker, having easily slipped her collar, followed The Terminator. They checked the changing room, hospitality tents, and the on-site stables. They turned up nothing except for doughnut crumbs, which they ate, certain the food had nothing to do with the case.

A long, low whistle stopped the Jack Russell. "That's my mom."

"I'll follow you over." Tucker trotted alongside her feisty new friend.

"Terminator, let's go." ZeeZee clapped her hands.

"I'll walk along for a bit." Tucker fell in beside The Terminator.

They reached the stables, where ZeeZee's Explorer was parked in front.

"Come on, Term." She scooped up the little guy and put him on the passenger seat.

"Good luck," the Jack Russell called out.

"You, too." Tucker scampered back to the paddock while ZeeZee peeled out of there.

Three and a half hours later Harry, Miranda, Fair, and Cynthia Cooper finished questioning jockeys and track officials. The Sanburnes left for the hospital as soon as Cynthia dismissed them. Mim had told Coop about the St. Christopher's medal, and Miranda confirmed it.

Coop stopped by the jockeys' changing tent to check over Addie's gear bag. She unzipped it. "I will slice and dice this son of a bitch!"

On top of Addie's clothes rested a Queen of Diamonds.

When Harry finally walked into her kitchen at 2:30 a.m. and saw Susan, all the horrors of the day, which now seemed years ago, began to spill out. Susan had heard about Addie's accident on the radio and had waited at the farm to talk to her friend.

The two dear friends sat down at the kitchen table. Harry told her that Chark was under suspicion but hadn't been arrested.

"So you see, Sargent Wilcox is Nigel and it was Sargent who, along with Coty Lamont, buried Marylou Valiant." Tucker lay down nose to nose with Mrs. Murphy, flat out on her stomach.

"And you say this Jack Russell met Nigel in Bozeman, Montana?" Mrs. Murphy gently swished her tail back and forth like a slender reed in slowly moving water. "Not that I would put much faith in anything a Jack Russell says, but still—"

"This was a reputable Russell, not one of those yappers."

"Oh, you'll stick up for any dog."

"No, I won't. You've never heard me say anything good about a Chihuahua, have you?"

The cat allowed as to how that was a fact. She flicked her pink tongue over her black lips. "Apart from ZeeZee Thompson, no one there knows that Nigel Danforth is Sargent Wilcox."

"No," Tucker said, "but that's not all. Mrs. Hogendobber and Mim— Jim, too—were upset about a St. Christopher's medal Addie wore after the first race."

"Why?"

"It was her mother's. No one has seen it since Marylou disappeared."

"Maybe that's why Coty Lamont was digging"—she paused—"except he didn't reach the body. Oh, this is giving me a headache!"

"Whoever had the St. Christopher's medal has had it for the last five years. And you know what else?" Tucker panted. "Someone put the Queen of Diamonds in Addie's gear bag."

Mrs. Murphy put her paws over her eyes, "Tucker, this is terrible."

"Son of a bitch!" Rick Shaw exploded.

"You couldn't have known." Cynthia offered him a cigarette. He snatched one out of the pack.

"He's playing with us." He lit his cigarette and clenched so hard on the weed that he bit it in half, sending the burning tip falling into his crotch. He batted out the fire.

Cynthia, too, smacked at the glowing tip. "Sorry." He paused a minute, then glanced down at her hand in his crotch. "Ah—I'm sure there's something I could say to cover this situation, but I can't think of it right now." He dropped the stub in the ashtray.

Cynthia lit him another cigarette. "Don't bite, just inhale."

It was five in the morning and they circled the growing city of Charlotte with ease—too early for traffic. Rick and Cynthia had stayed to assist the Camden police since the crimes in their respective jurisdictions were most likely linked. The Camden police had insisted on booking Charles Valiant on suspicion of attempted murder. Rick finally let them, figuring twenty-four hours in Camden's jail would be twenty-four hours in which they would know Chark's whereabouts. Arthur would free him on bail early Monday morning.

"The Queen of Diamonds! Son of a bitch!"

"Boss, you've been saying that for the last hour and a half. There's one bloody queen left and—"

"Bloody queen is right. I know this guy will strike again, I know it. If only I could figure out the significance of the cards." He slammed the dash.

"Your blood pressure's going to go through the roof."

"Shut up and drive!" He glowered out the window and then turned to her. "I'm sorry."

"It's a bitch. I never saw it coming, either," she said sympathetically.

"If we only knew what they had in common."

"Jockeys."

"Not enough." He shook his head.

"They all knew one another."

"Yes." He began to breathe a bit more regularly.

"They're all young people."

"Yes."

"They owed money to Mickey Townsend. They all used cocaine."

"Yes." He rubbed his eyes with the back of his hands. "Oh, Coop, it's staring me right in the face and I can't see it."

It was a subdued group that gathered at Miranda's on Sunday night: Harry, Rick Shaw, and Cynthia Cooper, plus Pewter, Mrs. Murphy, and Tucker.

The big news from Camden was that Addie had suffered a severe concussion. The doctors, afraid that her brain would swell, insisted on keeping her in the hospital for two more days. She'd also broken her collarbone. Given what could have happened, the consensus was that she was a lucky woman. And a rich one. She had attained her majority.

The Camden police, in a burst of efficiency, arrested Mickey Townsend on suspicion of the murders of Nigel Danforth and Coty Lamont. A pack of cards found tucked in his car's side pocket was missing the queens of clubs, spades, and diamonds. A stiletto rested under the seat of his silver BMW.

He protested his innocence. He'd be sent up to Ablemarle County as soon as the paperwork was completed between Rick's department and Camden 's. Rick didn't protest the Camden police holding Mickey. Secretly, he felt Mickey'd be safer in custody.

Harry told Rick she didn't think Mickey was the killer. The gambling debts, though sizable, weren't large enough to kill over, and Mickey wasn't that stupid.

Rick, hands interlocking over his stomach, listened. "You don't buy Charles Valiant as the murderer?"

All said, "No."

Cynthia added, "Bazooka wasn't doped. The blood tests came back negative. Fair was on the ball to pull blood."

"Rick, what haven't you told us?" Miranda addressed him in familiar fashion as she offered him one of her famous scones.

Delicately he bit off a piece and chewed before answering. "I know that Mickey Townsend followed Coty Lamont to Mim's stable on the night of Coty's death. He admits to pulling a gun on Coty and marching him out of there. He swears he didn't kill him."

"Why was he in Mim's stable?" Miranda picked up her knitting needles then dropped them in the basket.

"That I don't know. Coty was digging in a stall in the back. Said he would pay Mickey when he unearthed the treasure, well, I don't think those were his exact words. He told me that at Camden yesterday. Lord, it seems like a week ago." He wiped his forehead. "Guess we'd better visit the stable."

At the mention of Mim's stable, Mrs. Murphy sprang to her feet. "Go crazy! Run around! Bark! Steal a scone! We've got to let them know they need to go over there right now!"

Mrs. Murphy ran toward the wall, banked off it then jumped clean over Mrs. Hogendobber's laden tea trolley, narrowly missing the steaming tea pot.

"I say—" Miranda's mouth fell agape.

"Go to the stable! Go to the stable now!" Tucker barked.

Pewter, lacking in the speed department, hurried to the center of the living room, rolled over, displayed her gargantuan tummy, and said, "Pay attention to us! Right now, you stupid mammals!"

Tucker ran in faster circles and Mrs. Murphy ran with her. Pewter jumped up, considered jumping over the tea trolley, realized she couldn't and instead leapt on the armchair and patted Harry's cheek.

"Harry, these animals are tetched," Miranda finally sputtered.

"No, we're not. We know what's in Orion's stall. We've known for days, but we haven't been able to tell you. You're on track now. GO TO THE STABLE!" Mrs. Murphy lifted her exquisite head to heaven and yowled.

Harry stood up and walked over to the cat who eluded her grasp. "Calm down, Murph."

"Maybe she's got rabies." Miranda drew back.

"You say that any time an animal gets excited. She's cutting a shine. Aren't you, Murphy?"

"No, I am not."

"Me neither. Listen to us," Pewter pleaded.

"Murphy, I'm exhausted. Can I stop now?" Tucker continued circling the humans.

"Sure."

The dog conveniently dropped by the tea trolley where some crumbs had fallen on the rug.

Rick clapped his hands on his knees. "Well, I'm going over to Mim's to see if she'll let us dig up that stall. Which stall was it?"

Cynthia checked her notes. "Orion's."

"Hallelujah!" Mrs. Murphy declared.

The cold crept into the stable. At first nobody noticed, but as Harry, Miranda, and the two animals stood watching Rick Shaw's team dig into Orion's stall, the chill crept into their bones.

When the sheriffs crew arrived, they surveyed the fourteen-foot-square stall and didn't know where to start, so Tucker began digging at the spot. The humans followed suit because Cynthia Cooper remarked that dogs, thanks to their keen noses, could smell things humans could not.

Mrs. Murphy grew tired of sitting on the center aisle floor, so she climbed into the hayloft where, with Rodger Dodger, Pusskin, and the mice, she gazed down as the humans labored. Spadeful after spadeful of crush-or-run and then clay was carefully piled to the side.

Mim, her shearling jacket pulled tightly around her, joined the humans. "Anything?"

"No," Harry answered.

"You don't think this is some kind of nutty tale on Mickey's part—a wild-goose chase?" she asked.

Rick, arms folded across his chest, replied, "I've got to try everything, Mrs. Sanburne. Don't worry, we'll put everything back just as we found it."

A car pulled up outside, the door slammed, and a haggard Arthur Tetrick strode into the stable. "Mim?" he called out. "Are you out here?"

"Here."

Arthur shouted as he walked up. "I've gotten Chark released! He'll fly home tomorrow. An ambulance will bring up Adelia on Thursday if the doctors agree." He noticed the digging. "What's going on?"

"We don't know exactly," Mim answered.

Harry shivered.

"Why don't you go back to the tack room," Miranda suggested. "You don't have enough meat on your bones to ward off the cold. Not like I do."

"No. I'll walk around a bit." Harry jiggled her legs and walked up and down the aisle. Tucker walked with her.

"You racking up brownie points, Tucker?" the tiger hollered.

"Oh, shut up. You can be so green-eyed sometimes."

That made Rodger Dodger and Pusskin laugh because Mrs. Murphy had beautiful green eyes.

One of the officers hit something hard. "Huh?"

Rick and Cynthia drew closer. "Be careful."

The other two officers carefully pushed their spades into the earth. "Yeah." Another light click was heard.

They worked faster now, each shovelful getting closer until a rib cage appeared.

"Oh, my God!" Mim exclaimed.

"What is it?" Arthur pushed his way to the edge, saw the rib cage and a now partially exposed arm as the men feverishly dug.

Arthur hit the ground with a thud.

"Wuss." Mrs. Murphy turned her nose up.

Charles Valiant appeared far older than his twenty-five years. Dark circles under his eyes marred his handsome appearance. He'd eaten nothing since Addie's fall. Neither Fair nor any of his friends could get him to eat. Boom Boom took a turn with him as did everyone. She spoke passionately of Lifeline, leaving him some literature, but he was far too depressed to respond.

Fair sat with him in the living room of the little cottage on Mim's estate. Harry boiled water for a cup of instant soup. Mrs. Murphy and Tucker quietly lay on the rug.

"Chark, you've got to eat something," Harry pleaded.

"I can't," he whispered.

A knock on the door propelled Fair out of a comfortable old chair. He opened the door. "Arthur."

A subdued Arthur came inside, quickly shutting the door behind him. He forced a smile. "Well, we know one thing."

"What?" Fair's blond stubble made him look like a Viking.

"It can't get any worse."

Harry said nothing for she thought it could indeed get worse, and if the killer weren't apprehended soon, it would.

"Charles, Adelia will be fully recovered before you know it. She'll be home before the week is out. Please eat something so she doesn't worry about you," Arthur reasoned.

"He's right," Fair said.

"Well, I stopped by to see how you're doing." Arthur held out his hand. "I nearly forgot. Congratulations on coming into your inheritance. I know you'll use it wisely."

"Oh," Chark's voice sounded weak, "I'd forgotten all about it."

"This troublesome time will pass. All will be well, Charles. And as for Adelia"—he folded his hands together—"perhaps she is right. She needs to go her own way and be her own person. I truly believe things will work out for the best."

"Thanks, Arthur." Chark shook his hand.

"Well, I'd better be on my way."

"I'll walk you to your car." Harry opened the front door, asking as they walked, "Do they know yet who it was in Orion's stall? I mean conclusively?"

Arthur shook his head. "No, but I think we all know." A strangled cry gurgled in his throat. "To see her like that when I thought never to see her again . . ." He collected himself. "I will advise Mim on an excellent criminal lawyer, of course."

"Why?" Harry innocently asked.

"The body was found on her property. I should think she'll be a suspect and possibly even arrested."

Harry's voice rose. "Has everyone lost their minds? Marylou Valiant was one of her best friends."

"Most murders are committed among people who are family or friends." He held up his hands. "Not that I, for one minute, think that Mim Sanburne murdered her. But right now, Mim is in a vulnerable position. Go inside before you catch your death."

Harry walked back into Chark's cottage, closing the door tightly behind her, and thought about the phrase "catch your death"—as though death were a baseball hurtling through the azure sky.

Mrs. Murphy left the stable at six-thirty in the morning, cutting across the hay fields . . . she needed time to herself to think. She brushed by some rattleweed, causing the odd metallic sound that always startled city people upon first hearing it. The light frost, cool on her pads, would melt by ten in the morning, lingering only in areas of heavy shade or along the creek bottom.

A deep, swift creek divided Harry's farm from Blair Bainbridge's land, property that had once belonged to the family of the Reverend Herbert Jones. Murphy hoped Blair would return soon, because she liked him. As a model he was one of that growing number of Americans who made a lot of money at his job but preferred to live somewhere lovely instead of in a big city. He was often on the road, though.

She stopped at the creek, watching the water bubble and spray over the slick rocks. Mrs. Murphy, never overfond of water, liked it even less when the mercury was below 60°F. She bent over the deep bank, for there were quiet pools, and if she stayed still she could see the small fish that congregated there. She'd watched Paddy, her ex, catch a small-mouth bass once, a performance that must have heated up her ardor for him although now she couldn't understand what she had ever seen in that faithless torn. Still, he was handsome and likable.

A flip of a tail alerted her to the school of fish below. She sighed, then trotted to where Jones's Creek, as it was known, flowed into Swift Run and thence into Meechum's River.

The scent of fallen and still dropping leaves presaged winter. They crunched underfoot, which made hunting field mice a task. She followed the twists and turns of Jones's Creek, admiring the sycamores, their bark distinctive by the contrasts of gray peeling away to beige. She startled ravens picking grain out of a cornfield. They hollered at her, lifted up over her head, circled, and returned after she passed.

Another ten minutes and she reached the connection where the creek poured into Swift Run. A big willow, upturned in last week's rains and wind, had crashed off the far bank into the river. A lone blue heron, a silent sentinel, was poised about fifty yards downstream from the willow.

As Mrs. Murphy was on the opposite shore, the heron, enormous, worried not at all about the small predator. Then again, the bird was so big that if Mrs. Murphy had swum Swift Run and catapulted onto her back, the heron could have soared into the air, taking the cat with her.

She looked up from her fishing, giving Mrs. Murphy a fierce stare. The heron's methods depended on stillness followed with lightning-fast reflexes as she grabbed a fish—or anything else that caught her fancy—with her long beak.

The tiger cat sat and watched the great bird. An odd ripple of current under the willow's trunk drew her gaze away from the heron. The water would strike the obstacle and whirl around it, the obstacle would roll a bit, then the water would break free on its way downstream.

She walked along the bank to get a better look, reveling in her good eyes, so much better than human or dog eyes. She focused and another little gusher of water lifted up the obstacle. An arm broke through the surface and then sank again. Another hard rain and the corpse would be free from the branches of the willow.

Mrs. Murphy, fur fluffed out, watched. The next surge of water pushed the body up a bit farther, and she saw what was left of Linda Forloines's face. The eyes and nose were gone, courtesy of hungry fish and crawdads. The face was bleached even whiter and bloated, but it was Linda Forloines without a doubt. Mrs. Murphy remembered her from when she had worked at Mim's stable.

She trotted back to her original spot and called out to the heron, "I'm sorry to disturb your hunting. Is this your territory?"

"Of course it's my territory," came the curt reply.

"Do you know there's a dead human back at the willow?"

"Yes."

"Do you know how long it's been there?"

The heron cocked her head, her light violet-crested plume swept back over her head. "Not quite a week. There's another body one mile from here as I fly, more miles on the ground. That one is stuck in a truck." She snapped her long powerful beak. "I wish they'd have the decency to bury their dead."

"The murderer was in a hurry," the cat called over the creek.

"Ah." She stretched her graceful neck to the sky then recoiled it. "They exhibit a strange penchant for killing one another, don't they?"

"A genetic flaw, I suppose." Mrs. Murphy also thought human violence most unanimallike. After all, she and her kind only killed other species, and then for food, although she had a difficult time resisting dispatching the occasional mouse for sport.

The heron spread her wings, exposing each feather to the warming sun. "Oh, that feels good. You know, if I felt like it, I could fly right over there and pick you up by your tail."

"You'd have to catch me first," Mrs. Murphy countered.

"You'd be surprised at how fast I can fly."

"You'd be surprised at how fast I can zig and zag." Mrs. Murphy's toes tingled. She unsheathed her claws. "Tell you what. I'll get a head start and you see if you can catch me. Don't pick me up, though, because I haven't hurt you—why hurt me? Just a game, okay?"

"All right." The heron flapped her wings while still standing.

Mrs. Murphy took off like a shot. She raced along the edge of Jones's Creek back toward the cornfields as the heron lifted off to her cruising altitude. She ducked into the cornfields, which infuriated the crows, who soared up like pepper dashed into the sky. They saw the heron approaching and complained at the top of their considerable lungs.

The heron swooped low over the corn calling, "No fair."

"You never said I couldn't seek cover."

The crows dive-bombed back into the corn, forgetting for a moment about Mrs. Murphy, who leapt forward, nearly swatting one iridescent black tail.

"HEY!" The crow clamped its yellow beak together, then zoomed out of there, the others following.

The heron circled, landing at the edge of the cornfield, eyes glittering. Mrs. Murphy walked to the end of the corn row. She was maybe ten feet from the huge creature.

"You could run out and attack me before I could get airborne," the heron taunted the cat.

"Maybe I could, but why would I want to pull feathers from a bird as elegant as yourself?" Mrs. Murphy flattered her. She knew that gleam in the eye, and she didn't trust the heron even though she wasn't on the bird's customary menu.

The compliment pleased the heron. She preened. "Why, thank you." She stepped toward Mrs. Murphy, who didn't back into the corn row. "You know that dead woman back there at the willow?"

"I know who it was. No one I care about, but there's been a rash of murders among the humans."

"Um. My mother used to tell me that she could give me a fish or she could teach me how to fish. Naturally, I was lazy and wanted her to give me the fish. She didn't. She swallowed it right in front of me. It made me so mad." The big beak opened, revealing a bright pink tongue. "But I got the message, and she taught me how to fish. If you don't know how to fish you look at everyone as a free meal or you become bait yourself. I expect that dead thing back there couldn't fish."

"Partly true. She liked fishing in troubled waters." The cat intently watched the heron. Those huge pronged feet looked out of place in the cornfield.

"Ah. Well, I enjoyed talking to you, pussycat. I'm going back to my nest."

"I enjoyed you too."

With that the heron rose in the sky, circling once. Mrs. Murphy walked out of the cornfield, then made a beeline back to the old barn as the heron made a wider circle and cawed out to her below. Even though she felt the heron wouldn't attack, the sound of that caw pushed her into a run. She flew, belly flat to the land, the whole way home.

"Why, Mrs. Murphy, you look as though you've seen a ghost," Harry said as Murphy careened into the barn, her eyes as big as billiard balls.

"No, just Linda Forloines."

Tucker tilted her head. "Not in the best of health, I presume." Then she laughed at her own joke.

"She was useless in life. At least she's useful in death."

"How?"

"Fish food."

"Do you know what you're doing?" Miranda paced, her leather-soled shoes sliding along the worn shiny floorboards of the post office.

The old railroad clock on the wall read 7:20. Darkness had enveloped the small building. The shades were drawn and only a glimmer of light from the back room spilled out under the back window. The front door, kept unlocked, every now and then opened and closed as Crozet residents, on the way home from work or to a party, dashed in and picked up their mail if they had been unable to get there during the day.

As a federal facility, a post office, no less, the front part of the building where the boxes were had to be kept open to the public. The back was locked, and the crenelated door was pulled down to the counter much like a garage door, and locked from behind.

"I'll be at your choir show a tad late," Harry said.

"You shouldn't be here alone. Not with a killer on the loose."

"She's right," Mrs. Murphy, Tucker and Pewter echoed.

Pewter, seeing the light, had sauntered in from next door. "Market's open until eleven, but still someone could sneak in here and he'd never know. He's too busy watching television."

"Harry, come on. You can do this tomorrow."

"I can't. I've got this one little hunch."

"If you're not at our choirfest by intermission, I am calling Rick Shaw. Do you hear me?"

"Yes."

With reluctance, Mrs. Hogendobber closed the door, and Harry locked it behind her.

Working with the mail meant she saw every catalog under the sun. She knew of three hunting catalogs, five gun catalogs, which also featured knives, and one commando catalog for those who envisioned themselves soldiers of fortune. If the police hadn't traced the knives that the killer used, it might very well be because they had confined themselves to local stores.

She started calling. Since all the catalog companies had twenty-four-hour 800 numbers, she knew she'd get someone on the end of the line.

An hour later she had found Case XX Bowie knives for over $200, replicas of sabers, double-edged swords, saracens, and even stilettos, but not the kind she wanted. She'd spoken to college kids moonlighting, crusty old men who wanted to discuss the relative merits of government-issue bayonets, and even one aggressive man who asked her for a long-distance date.

The two cats nestled into the mail cart, since there wasn't anything they could do to help. Tucker fell asleep.

Having exhausted her supply of catalogs, Harry had hit a dead end. She couldn't think what to do next. She'd even called a uniform supply company on the outside chance someone there might be a cutlery enthusiast, as she put it.

"Call L.L. Bean. They know everything," Mrs. Murphy called out from the bottom of the mail cart.

Harry made herself a cup of tea. She checked the clock. "If I don't get over to the Church of the Holy Light in about twenty minutes Mrs. H. will fry me for breakfast."

"I told you, call L.L. Bean."

Harry sat down, sipped her tea. She felt more awake now. She kept an L.L. Bean catalog, her own, stacked next to the sugar bowl.

"Tucker, has she got it yet?"

"No." The dog lifted her head. "Forget it."

"Sometimes people drive me around the bend!" the sleek cat complained, leaping out of the mail bin.

"Why bother?" Pewter stretched out in the bottom. "She won't listen about Linda's body. She won't listen now either."

Mrs. Murphy jumped onto the table, rubbed Harry's shoulder then stuck out her claws and pulled the L.L. Bean catalog toward Harry.

"Murph—" Harry reached out and put her hand on the catalogue, fearful the cat would shred it. "Hmm." She flipped open the pages, filled with merchandise photographed as accurately as possible.

She gulped down a hot swallow, jumped up, and dialed the 800 number.

"Could I talk to your supervisor, please?"

"Certainly." The woman's voice on the other end was friendly.

Harry waited a few moments and then heard, "Hello, L.L. Bean, how may I help you?"

"Ma'am, pardon me for disturbing you. This has nothing to do with L.L. Bean, but do you know of any mail-order company that specializes in knives?"

"Let me think a minute," the voice said, that of a middle-aged woman. "Joe, what's the name of that company in Tennessee specializing in hunting knives?" A faint voice could be heard in the background. "Smoky Mountain Knife Works in Sieverville, Tennessee."

"Thank you." Harry scribbled down the information, "You've been great. May I make one suggestion about your duck boots? I mean, I always call them duck boots."

"Sure. We want to hear from our customers."

"You know the Bean Boot you all started making in 1912? Well, I love the boot. I've had mine resoled twice."

"I'm glad to hear that."

"But women's sizes don't carry a twelve-inch upper. Ours only go to nine inches, and I work on a farm. I would sure like to have a twelve-inch upper."

"What's your shoe size?"

"Seven B."

"You wear a seven and a half in this—you know, a little bigger for heavy socks."

"Yes, thank you for reminding me."

"Tell you what, can you call me back tomorrow and I'll see what we can do? The sales force is twenty-four hours, but I'll have to wait until regular hours tomorrow to see if I can accommodate your request. What's your name?"

"Mary Minor Haristeen."

"Okay then, Miss Haristeen, you call me tomorrow afternoon and ask for Glenda Carpenter."

"Thank you, I will."

Harry pressed the disconnect button and got the phone number for the Sieverville company. Hurriedly she punched in the phone number.

A man answered, "Smoky Mountain."

"Sir, hello, this is Mary Minor Haristeen from the Crozet post office in central Virginia. I am trying to trace back orders for folks here. A resident says he had the knives sent to my post office, and I swear they must have gone to the main post office in Charlottesville instead. It's no mistake on your part, by the way— just one of those things."

"Gee—that could be a lot of orders."

"Maybe I can help you. It would either be repeat orders or a bulk order for that beautiful stiletto, uh, I forget the name, but the handle is wrapped in wire and it's about a foot long."

The voice filled with pride. "You mean the Gil Hibben Silver Shadow. That's some piece of hardware, sister."

"Yes, yes, it is." Harry tried not to shudder since she knew the use to which it had been put.

"Let me pull it up on the computer here." He hummed. "Yeah, I got one order to Charlottesville. Three knives. Ordered for Albemarle Cutlery. Nice store, huh?"

"Yes. By the way, is there a person's name on that?" Harry didn't tell him there was no Albemarle Cutlery. The name had to be a front.

"No. Just the store and a credit card. I can't read off the number, of course."

"No, no, I understand, but at least I know where the shipment has gone."

"Went out two months ago. Hasn't been returned. I hope everything is okay."

"It will be. You're a lifesaver."

She bid her good-byes and then called down to the central post office on Seminole Road.

"Carl?" She recognized the voice that answered.

"Harry, what's doing, girl?"

"It only gets worse. Between now and December twenty-fifth we might as well forget sleep. Will you do me a favor?"

"Sure."

' 'Do you have a large post office box registered to Albemarle Cutlery?"

"Hold on." He put the phone down.

Harry heard his footsteps as he walked away, then silence. Finally the footsteps returned. "Albemarle Cutlery. C. de Bergerac.

"Damn!"

"What?"

"Sorry, Carl, it's not you. That's a phony name. Cyrano de Bergerac was a famous swordsman in the seventeenth century. The subject of a famous romance."

"Steve Martin. I know," Carl confidently replied.

"Yes, well, that's one way to remember." Harry laughed and wondered what Rostand, the playwright, would make of Steve Martin as his hero. "Listen, would you fax me his signature from the receipt?"

"Yeah, sure. You up to something?"

"Well—yes."

"Okay, I'll keep my mouth shut. I'll pull the record and fax it right over. Good enough?"

"More than good enough. Thanks."

"Mother, calm down," Mrs. Murphy told her. "The fax will come through in a minute."

Harry froze when she heard the whirr and wheeze of the fax. Her hands trembled as she pulled the paper out. Mrs. Murphy hopped on her shoulder.

"It can't be!" Harry's hands shook harder when she saw the left-leaning, bold script.

"Well, who is it?" Pewter called from the mail bin.

"I don't know," Murphy called back. "I don't see the handwriting of people like Mother does. I mean, I know Mom's, Fair's, Mim's, and Mrs. Hogendobber's, but I don't know this one."

Tucker scrambled to her feet. "Mother, call Rick Shaw. Please!"

But Harry, dazed by what she now knew, wasn't thinking straight. Shaken, she folded the paper, slipping it into the back pocket of her jeans.

"Come on, gang, we've got to get to church before Mrs. Hogendobber pitches a hissy."

"Don't worry about Mrs. Hogendobber," Pewter sagely advised. "Call the sheriff."

"Everyone will be at the choirfest, so she can see him there," Tucker added.

"That's what I'm afraid of." Mrs. Murphy fluffed out her fur and jumped off Harry's shoulder.

"What do you mean?" Pewter asked as she crawled out of the mail bin. She was too lazy to jump.

"Everybody will be there—including the killer."

The heater, slow in working, sent off a faint aroma in Harry's blue truck. She gripped the steering wheel so tightly her knuckles were white. Puffs of breath lazed out into the air as she sped along, a big puff from her, a medium puff from Tucker, and two small puffs from Mrs. Murphy and Pewter.

"I'm proud of Mom," Tucker said. "She figured this one out all by herself. I couldn't tell her about Nigel being Sargent, although we still don't know all that we need to know about him."

"Humans occasionally use their deductive powers." Mrs. Murphy wedged close to Harry's leg, Pewter next to her, as they huddled down to get warm.

"But if she figured out about the knife place, don't you think Rick Shaw and Cynthia have figured that out as well?" Pewter asked.

"Maybe, but only Mom knows the signatures."

"Maybe he's afraid of exposing her to risk. Whoever this is is ruthless. Let's not forget that this started years ago," Mrs. Murphy prudently noted.

The parking lot of the Church of the Holy Light, jammed from stem to stern, testified to the popularity of the evening's entertainment. The choirfest, one of the church's biggest fundraisers, drew music lovers from all over the county. They might not be willing to accept the Church's strict message, but they loved the singing.

Harry scanned the lot for a place to park but had to settle for a spot along the side of the road. She noticed that the squad car was near the front door. Mim's Bentley Turbo R, Susan and Ned's Conestoga—as they called their station wagon—were there, Herbie's big Buick Roadmaster; in fact, it looked as though everyone was at the choirfest but her.

She forgot to tell the animals to stay in the truck. They hopped out when she opened the door, following her into the church just as the choir made its measured entrance to enthusiastic applause. Intermission was over and the folks could expect a rousing second half.

Harry noticed her little family as did some of the other people who turned to greet her. Tucker quietly sat down next to Fair. Mrs. Murphy and Pewter, not exactly sacrilegious but not overwhelmed either, decided to check out the gathering before picking their spot.

"You kitties come back here," Harry hissed, staying at the back of the church.

"Don't look at her," Mrs. Murphy directed her fat gray sidekick.

"Mrs. Murphy! Pewter!" Harry hissed, then stopped because the choirmaster had lifted his baton, and all eyes were on him. The organist pressed the pedals and the first lovely notes of "Swing Low, Sweet Chariot" swelled over the group.

Tucker, realizing Harry wouldn't chase after her, decided to follow the cats, who generally led her into temptation.

Chark Valiant sat in the front row with the Sanburnes and Arthur Tetrick. Rick and Cynthia stood off to the side. Harry, not finding a seat, leaned against the wall, hoping to catch Rick's or Cynthia's eye unobtrusively.

Mrs. Hogendobber stepped forward for her solo. Her rich contralto voice coated the room like dark honey.

"Mrs. H.?" Mrs. Murphy was so astonished to hear the good woman that she walked right in front of everyone and sat in front of Miranda, her pretty little head tilted upward to watch her friend, the lady who formerly didn't like cats.

Miranda saw Mrs. Murphy, now joined by Pewter and Tucker. The two kitties and the dog, enraptured, were immobile. A few titters rippled throughout the audience, but then the humans were oddly affected by the animals listening to Miranda singing one of the most beautiful spirituals, a harmonic record of a harsher time made endurable by the healing power of music.

Herb, also in the front row, a courtesy seat from the church, marveled at the scene.

When Miranda finished, a moment's hush of deep appreciation was followed by thunderous applause.

"You were wonderful," Mrs. Murphy called out, then trotted down the center aisle to check over each face in her passing.

"What ate we looking for?" Pewter asked.

"Someone guilty as sin."

"Ooh-la," she trilled.

"And in church, too," Tucker giggled.

"Will you get back here!" Harry whispered.

"Ignore her. No matter how red in the face she gets, just ignore her."

"You're going to get it," Pewter warned.

"She has to catch me first, and remember, she left me to go to Montpelier and then Camden. I just pray"—she remembered she was in a church—"we can get her out of here before the fur flies."

The next song, a Bach chorale, held everyone's attention. Mrs. Murphy jumped onto a low table along the back wall near Harry but far enough away so she could jump off if Harry came after her. Pewter followed. Tucker lagged behind.

"Count the exits."

"Double front doors, two on either side of the nave. There's a back stair off the balcony but that probably connects with the doors off the nave."

"And I'm willing to bet there's another back door." She swept her whiskers forward. "Tucker, get up here."

"Tucker, there are four exits. The one behind, two on the side, and one behind the proscenium, I think. If something goes wrong, if he gets scared or anything, we can run faster than he can. You go back to the nave exit, we'll stay by this one. If anything happens, stay with Mom and we'll go out our door and catch up with you. We'll be out the door before the humans know what hit them."

"Well, let's hope nothing happens." Pewter, not the most athletic girl, wanted to stay put.

Rick edged his way toward Harry, careful not to make noise. Cynthia moved to the front door.

Harry reached in her back pocket and pulled out the fax. "Come outside with me for a minute."

The sheriff and his deputy tiptoed out with Harry. Keenly, Miranda observed them as she sang. A few other people noticed out of the corners of their eyes.

"Harry, you've been meddling again," Rick said in a low voice as they closed the doors behind them.

"I couldn't help it. I figured if we could trace the knives we'd have a first down, goal to go."

Cynthia studied the fax sheet with a little pocket flashlight.

Rick held it steady in his hands, as Harry told him whose handwriting it was. "I'm not surprised," he said.

"Was the body Marylou Valiant's?" Harry asked.

"Yes." Cynthia answered. "Dr. Yarbrough brought the dental records right over a half hour ago. It is Marylou."

"Did you have any idea?" Harry asked Rick.

"Yes, but I thought this was about money. It's not." He rubbed his nose, the tip of which was cold. "The cards and knife in Mickey Townsend's car—right over the top. That brought me back to the real motive: jealousy." He shook his head. "When you get down to it, motives are simple. Crimes may be complicated, but motives are always simple."

"What do we do now?" Harry shuffled her feet.

"We don't do anything," Rick said as more applause broke out inside. "We wait."

"He's got good alibis," Coop commented.

"But if you broke down each murder, minute by minute, wouldn't you find the loophole?"

"Harry, it's not that easy. We've pinpointed the time of the murders as close as we can, but that still gives him a healthy thirty-minute comfort zone. A good lawyer can chip away at that very easily, you know, try to get the jury to believe the coroner's report is fuzzy. Things like the temperature inside the barn versus the temperature outside would affect the corpse, as would the victim's health while alive. They'll erode the time frame of each murder as well as planting doubt in the jury's mind as to how he could have escaped notice at Montpelier. Then they'll indulge in character assassination for each prosecution witness. Right now it's a cinch he'll get off with a good lawyer. Case is totally circumstantial." Rick hated the way the system worked, especially if a defendant had money.

"Yes, but what about Marylou's murder?" Harry's lips trembled she was so angry. "Can't we pin him down there?"

"Maybe if Coty were alive," Coop said. "He obviously knew where Marylou was buried."

"Rick, you can't let that son of a bitch go free."

"If I arrest him before I've built my case, he will go free, scot free, Harry." Rick's jaw clenched. He folded the fax. "This is a big help and I thank you for it. I promise you, I will do everything I can to close in."

More applause from inside roused Harry. "I guess I'd better go back in and make sure Murphy hasn't caused another commotion."

"A musical cat." Cynthia smiled, patting Harry on the back. "I know this is upsetting, but we just can't go out and arrest people. We'll keep working until we can make it stick. It's the price we pay for being a democracy."

"Yeah." Harry exhaled from her nose, then opened the door a crack and squeezed through.

The two cats remained on the table.

The last song, a great big burst from Handel's Messiah, raised the rafters. The audience cheered and clapped for an encore. The choir sang another lovely spiritual and then took a final bow, separating in the middle and filing out both sides of the stage.

The audience stirred. Harry walked over to the table, ready to scoop up Mrs. Murphy and Pewter when Mim, Jim, Charles, and Arthur came over, Fair immediately behind them.

Harry, overcome with emotion at the sight of the murderer, blurted out, "How could you? How could you kill all those people? How could you kill someone you loved?"

Arthur's face froze. He started to laugh but a horrible flash of recognition gleamed in Mim's eyes and in Chark's. Lightning fast he grabbed Harry, pulled a .38 from under his coat, and put it to her head. "Get out of the way."

Fair ducked low to tackle him. Arthur fired, grazing his leg. Fair's leg collapsed under him as people screamed and ran.

Mrs. Hogendobber, not yet off the stage, ran out the side door and hopped into her Ford Falcon. She started the motor.

Rick and Cynthia, hearing the shot, rushed back in through the double doors just as Arthur dragged Harry out.

"You come one step closer and she's dead."

"What's another one, Arthur? You're going to kill me anyway." Harry thought how curious it was to die with everyone looking on. She felt the cold circle of the barrel against her head, saw the contorted anguish on the faces of her friends, the snarling rage of her dog.

No one noticed the two cats streaking by. Tucker stayed with Harry.

"Don't rile him, Mother. The minute he shifts his eyes I'll nail him," the sturdy little dog growled.

"Arthur Tetrick!" Mim shrieked. "You'll rot in hell for this. You killed Marylou Valiant, didn't you?"

Arthur fired over her head just for the joy of seeing Mim frightened. Except she wasn't. People around her hit the ground but she shook her fist at him. "You'll never get away with it."

Chark, the time for talk past, lunged for Arthur. A crack rang out and the young man slumped to the ground, grabbing his shoulder.

Arthur ran outside now, propelling Harry, the cold air clarifying his senses, but then Arthur was always coolly assessing the odds in his life. His car was parked near the front. He pushed Harry into the driver's side, keeping the gun on her at all times, making her slide over to the passenger seat.

"Can you get a shot off?" Rick, on one knee, asked Cynthia, also on one knee, pistol out.

"No. Not without jeopardizing Harry."

Fair limped out, trailing blood. Herbie Jones ran after him, struggling to hold him back. "He'll kill her, Fair!"

"He'll kill her for sure if we don't stop him."

"Fair. Stay where you are!" Rick commanded.

Tucker had reached the car where Harry was and grabbed Arthur's ankle as he started to get in. Arthur shook the dog off, not noticing that Mrs. Murphy and Pewter had leapt into the backseat. He quickly turned the gun back on Harry, who had her hand on the passenger door handle.

"Keep down in the backseat," Mrs. Murphy told Pewter. "Once he gets in the driver's seat and reaches for the ignition, we've got him."

Pewter, too excited to reply, crouched, her fur standing on end, her fangs exposed.

To Arthur's shock, Mrs. Hogendobber roared through the parking lot, stopping the Falcon directly in front of him.

"I'll kill that meddling biddy!" he screamed, losing his temper for the first time.

He opened the driver's window and took aim, firing through her passenger window. Mrs. Hogendobber opened her door and rolled out, lying flat on the ground. Arthur could no longer see her.

"Run for it, Miranda, he's going to ram the car!" Herb shouted as he rushed forward, crouching to help Miranda. She scrambled to her feet, her choir robes dragging in the stone parking lot.

Just as Arthur cut on his ignition he heard two hideous yowls behind him.

"Die, human!" Mrs. Murphy and Pewter leapt from the backseat into the front, attacking his hands.

Murphy tore deeply into his gun hand before he registered what had happened.

Seizing the opportunity, Harry grabbed his right hand, smashing his wrist on the steering wheel. He tried to reach over the steering wheel for her with his left hand but Pewter sank her fangs to their full depth into the fleshy part of his palm. He screamed.

Harry smashed his wrist again as hard as she could against the steering wheel. He dropped the gun. She reached down to grab it. He kicked at her but she retrieved it.

Now Arthur Tetrick felt the cold barrel of a gun against his right temple.

Rick Shaw, his .357 Magnum pressed against Arthur's left temple, said, "You are under arrest for the murders of Nigel Danforth, Coty Lamont and Marylou Valiant. You have the right to remain silent—" Rick rattled off Arthur's rights.

Cynthia opened the passenger door as Arthur howled, "Call off your cats!"

Harry slid out the opened door. "Come on, girls!"

Mrs. Murphy took one last lethal whack for good measure, then leapt out followed by Pewter, who appeared twice her already impressive size.

Tucker and Fair, both limping, reached Harry at the same time. Fair grabbed Harry and held her close. He couldn't speak.

Harry began to shake. Curious how she had felt so little fear when she was in danger. Now it flooded over her. She hugged her ex-husband, then broke to rush to Miranda, being attended to by Herbie and Mim.

"Miranda, you could have been killed!" Tears rolled down Harry's cheeks. She stopped to scoop up the two cats, clutching them to her, repeatedly kissing their furry heads, then knelt down to kiss her sturdy corgi.

"Well, if he'd gotten out of this parking lot, you would have been killed," Miranda stated flatly, oblivious to her own heroism.

"I'd say two hellcats and Miranda saved your life." The Reverend Jones reached out to pet the cats.

"And Tucker. Brave dog." Harry again kissed a happy Tucker.

Arthur Tetrick sat bolt upright in his car. He'd never felt so much pain in his life, and being the self-centered man that he was, it did not occur to him that what he had inflicted upon his victims was much, much worse.

The whole crowd—Miranda, Fair, Cynthia, Rick, Big Mim, Little Marilyn, Jim, Susan, Herbie, Market Shiflett, Mrs. Murphy, Pewter, and Tucker—sat in the back of the post office the next day. Addie had come home from the hospital, but now Chark was in. She had the ambulance take her to Martha Jefferson Hospital to be with her brother; he would recover, but the bullet had shattered some bone.

Arthur had confessed to the murders of Marylou Valiant, Sargent Wilcox, a.k.a. Nigel Danforth, and Coty Lamont. As a lawyer he knew that after his behavior at the church he was dog meat, so he planned to throw himself on the mercy of the court with a guilty plea and thereby escape the death penalty.

Rick, who had interrogated Arthur, continued his story. "—probably the only time Arthur ever acted out of passion, but once he killed Marylou Valiant, he had to get rid of the body. Coty and Sargent, through pure dumb luck, walked in on him as he was dragging her to his car. Sargent had been at Arthur's barn for only ten days, but he proved willing and flexible. He and Coty helped him bury Marylou in the last place anyone would ever look—Mim's barn. Sargent must have pocketed the St. Christopher's medal when no one was looking. Shortly after that Arthur gave up steeplechasing."

Mim chimed in, "I remember that. He said he couldn't go on without Marylou. It was her sport. He'd officiate but he'd run no more horses. What an actor he was."

"When Marylou disappeared, the two prime suspects were Arthur and Mickey Townsend for obvious reasons. We had no way of knowing whether Marylou was even dead, though. Technically we had no crime, we had no victim, we had a missing person," Rick said.

"And Arthur was a most conscientious executor of Marylou's will." Jim Sanburne hooked his fingers in his belt.

"Well, then, what happened to start this killing spree?" Fair stretched his bandaged leg out slowly. It felt better if he moved it around every now and then.

"Sargent came back," Cynthia said. "Wooed Addie. And stirred up Coty, who had been content up until then, to make more demands."

"Oh, that must have scared the bejesus out of Arthur," Herbie blurted out.

"Not as much as seeing Marylou's St. Christopher's medal around Addie's neck before the Colonial Cup," Cynthia said.

"He thought she knew?" Miranda questioned.

"He realized Sargent or Coty must have taken the medal. He feared Nigel—Sargent—had told Addie and that she would tell Rick after the race. Imagine his shock when he saw that royal blue medal just before she went out on the course," Rick said.

"I know how shocked I was to see it." Mim shook her head.

"Sargent and Coty were bleeding him heavily. He had no designs other than killing them. Addie upset the applecart," Cynthia added.

"What about Linda and Will? They're still missing."

Rick held up his palms, "Don't know. We have no idea if they're alive. Their absence is certainly not lamented and I doubt Arthur would need to kill them. I don't think they knew anything. We only know that sooner or later drug dealers sometimes get what they deserve."

As the group talked, Harry fed the cats and dog tidbits from the ham sandwiches Market had brought over.

"What was the significance of the queens?" Mim asked.

"Arthur said that was just meant to drive us all nuts. The bloody queen, he said and laughed in my face. Marylou was a bloody queen when she dumped him for Mickey. Arthur exploded . . . and strangled her."

"Addie is lucky to be alive," Miranda said softly. "Poor children. What they've been through."

"Yes." Mim reached in her purse for a handkerchief to dab her eyes.

Mrs. Murphy chimed in, "Men like Arthur aren't accustomed to rejection."

"Here, have some more ham." Miranda offered a piece to the cat since she interpreted the meows as requests for food.

"I bet he ran Mickey Townsend off the road that terrible rainy day—he was quietly going out of control." Miranda remembered that cold day.

Harry watched Pewter as she reached up and snagged half of a ham sandwich. "Market, we should share Pewter. What if I take her home with me every night, but she can work in the store during the day and work here, too?"

"Yes!" Pewter meowed.

Market laughed, "Think of the money I'll save."

"Yeah, Pewter's a lion under the lard," Mrs. Murphy teased her friend.

The phone rang. Harry answered it, "Oh, hello, Mrs. Carpenter. You can? That's great. Let me give you my credit card number." Harry reached into her purse, pulled out a credit card, and read off her number.

"What are you buying?" Miranda demanded.

"L.L. Bean is making me a special pair of duck boots in my size, with twelve-inch uppers."

Poised on a hay bale, Mrs. Murphy waited. Pewter stayed inside with Harry. Mrs. Murphy rather liked having another cat around. Tucker didn't mind either.

There'd been so much commotion this weekend, she needed to be alone to collect her thoughts. She heard the squeaks from inside the hay bale. When an unsuspecting mouse darted out, with a jet-fast pounce Mrs. Murphy had her.

"Gotcha!"

The mouse stayed still under the cat's paws. "Make it fast. I don't want to suffer."

Mrs. Murphy carefully lifted the corner of her paw to behold those tiny obsidian eyes. She remembered the help of Mim's barn mice. "Oh, go on. I just wanted to prove to you that I'm faster than you."

"You aren't going to kill me?"

"No, but don't run around where Harry can see you."

"I won't." The tiny creature streaked back into the hay bale, and Mrs. Murphy heard excited squeals. Then she walked outside the barn and watched through the kitchen window. Harry was filling up her teapot, a task she performed at least twice a day. Mrs. Murphy was struck by how divine, how lovely, how unique such a mundane task could be. She purred, realizing how lucky she was, how lucky they all were to be alive on this crisp fall day.

Harry, glancing out of the kitchen window, observed Mrs. Murphy, tail to the vertical, come out of the barn.

The phone rang.

"Hello."

"Harry, it's Boom Boom. You were supposed to go with me to Lifeline last week, but considering all the excitement I didn't call. How about Monday at one o'clock?"

"Sure."

"I'll pick you up at the P.O."

"Fine."

"See you then. Bye-bye." Boom Boom signed off.

"Damn!" Harry hung up the phone. She looked out at Mrs. Murphy in the sunlight and thought how wonderful, how glorious, how relaxing it must be to be a cat.

Dear Highly Intelligent Feline:

Tired of the same old ball of string? Well, I've developed my own line of catnip toys, all tested by Pewter and me. Not that I love for Pewter to play with my little sockies, but if I don't let her, she shreds my manuscripts. You see how that is!

Just so the humans won't feel left out, I've designed a T-shirt for them.

If you'd like to see how creative I am, write to me and I'll send you a brochure.

Sneaky Pie's Flea Market

c/o American Artists, Inc.

P.O. Box 4671

Charlottesville , VA 22905

In felinity,

SNEAKY PIE BROWN

P.S. Dogs, get a cat to write for you