Pay Dirt

1

Cozy was the word used most often to describe the small town of Crozet, not quaint, historic, or pretty. Central Virginia in general, and Albemarle County in particular, abounded in quaint, historic, and pretty places, but Crozet was not one of them. A homey energy blanketed the community. Many families had lived there for generations, others were newcomers attracted to the sensuous appeal of the Blue Ridge Mountains. Old or new, rich or poor, black or white, the citizens of the town nodded and waved to one another while driving their cars, called and waved if on opposite sides of the street, and anyone walking along the side of the road was sure to get the offer of a ride. Backyard hedges provided the ideal setting for enriching gossip as gardeners took respite from their labors. Who did what to whom, who said what to whom, who owed money to whom, and, that glory of chat, who slept with whom. The buzz never stopped. Even in the deepest snows, a Crozetian would pick up the phone to transmit the latest. If it was really juicy, he or she would bundle up and hurry through the snow for a hot cup of coffee, that companion to steamy gossip shared with a friend.

The hub of the town consisted of its post office, the three main churches—Lutheran, Baptist, Episcopal, and one small offshoot, the Church of the Holy Light—the schools—kindergarten through twelfth—Market Shiflett's small grocery store, and Crozet Pizza. Since a person worshiped at one church at a time, the goings-on in the other three might remain a mystery. The small market provided a handsome opportunity to catch up, but you really had to buy something. Also, one had to be careful that Markets fat gray cat, Pewter, didn't steal your food before you had the chance to eat it. Schools were a good source, too, but if you were childless or if your darlings were finally in college, you were out of that pipeline. This left the post office the dubious honor of being the premier meeting place, or Gossip Central.

The postmistress—a title which she preferred to the official one of postmaster—Mary Minor Haristeen rarely indulged in what she termed gossip, which is to say if she couldn't substantiate a story, she didn't repeat it. Otherwise, she was only too happy to pass on the news. Her unofficial assistant, Mrs. Miranda Hogendobber, the widow of the former postmaster, relished the "news," but she drew the line at character assassination. If people started dumping all over someone else, Mrs. Hogendobber usually calmed them down or plain shut them up.

Harry, as Mary Minor was affectionately known, performed her tasks wonderfully well. Quite young for her position, Harry benefited from Miranda's wisdom. But Harry's most valuable assistants were Mrs. Murphy, her tiger cat, and Tee Tucker, her Welsh corgi. They wallowed in gossip. Not only did the goings-on of the humans transfix them, but so did the shenanigans of the animal community, reported by any dog accompanying its master into the post office. Whatever die dogs missed, Pewter found out next door. When she had something to tell, the round gray cat would run to die back door of die post office to spill it. Over die last few years, the cats had banged on the door so much, creating such a racket, that Harry installed a pet door so the friends could come and go as they pleased. Harry had designed a cover she could lock down over the animals' entrance, since the post office had to be secured each night.

Not that there was much to steal from the Crozet post office— stamps, a few dollars. But Harry diligently obeyed the rules, as she was a federal employee—a fact that endlessly amused her. She loathed the federal government and barely tolerated the state government, considering it the refuge of the mediocre. Still, she drew a paycheck from that bloated government on the north side of the Potomac, so she tried to temper her opinions.

Miranda Hogendobber, on die other hand, vividly remembered Franklin Delano Roosevelt, so her perception of government remained far more positive than Harry's. Just because Miranda remembered FDR did not mean, however, that she would reveal her age.

On this late July day the mimosas were crowned with the pink and gold halos of their fragile blossoms. The crepe myrtle and hydrangeas rioted throughout the town, splashes of purple and magenta here, white there. Not much else bloomed in the swelter of the Dog Days, which began on July 3 and finished August 15, so the color was appreciated.

So far, less dian two inches of rain had fallen that month. The viburnums drooped. Even the hardy dogwoods began to curl up, so Mrs. Hogendobber would sprinkle the plants early in the morning and late in the evening to avoid losing too much moisture to evaporation. Her garden, the envy of the town, bore testimony to her vigilance.

The mail sorted, the two women paused for their morning tea break. Well, tea for Harry, coffee for Miranda. Mrs. Murphy sat on the newspaper. Tucker slept under the table at the back of the office.

"Is this a honey day or a sugar day, Mrs. H.?" Harry asked as the kettle boiled.

"A honey day." Miranda smiled. "I'm feeling naturally sweet."

Harry rolled her eyes and twirled a big glob of honey off the stick in the brown crockery honey pot. She then removed the teabag from her own drink, wrapping the string around it on the spoon to squeeze the last drops of strong tea into her cup. Her mug had a horse's tail for a handle, the rest of the cup representing the horse's body and head. Miranda's mug was white with block letters that read WHAT PART OF NO DON'T YOU UNDERSTAND?

"Mrs. Murphy, I'd like to read the paper." Miranda gently lifted the tiger cat's bottom and slid the paper out from underneath.

This action was met with a furious grumble, ears swept back. "I don't stick my paws on your rear end, Miranda, besides which there's never anything in the paper worth reading." She thumped over to the little back door and walked outside.

"In a mood." Miranda sat down and looked over the front page.

"What's the headline?" Harry asked.

"Two people injured on 1-64. What else? Oh, this Thread-needle virus threatens to affect our computers August first. I would be perfectly happy if our new computer were fatally ill."

"Oh, now, it's not that bad." Harry reached for the sports page.

"Bad?" Mrs. Hogendobber pushed her glasses up her nose. "If I do one little thing out of sequence, a rude message appears on that hateful green screen and I have to start all over. There are so many buttons to punch. Modern improvements—time wasters, that's what they are, time wasters masquerading as time savers. I can remember more in my noggin than a computer chip can. And tell me, why do we need one in the post office? All we need is a good scale and a good meter. I can stamp the letters myself."

Seeing that Miranda was in one of her Luddite moods, Harry decided not to argue. "Not everyone who works in the postal service is as smart as you are. They can't remember as much. For them the computer is a godsend." Harry craned her neck to see the photo of the car wreck.

"What a nice thing to say." Mrs. Hogendobber drank her coffee. "Wonder where Reverend Jones is? He's usually here by now. Everyone else has been on time."

"A thousand years is as a day in the eyes of the Lord. An hour is as a minute to the rev."

"Careful now." Miranda, a devout believer although those beliefs could occasionally be modified to suit circumstances, wagged her finger. "You know, at the Church of the Holy Light we don't make jokes about the Scripture." Miranda belonged to a small church. Truthfully, they were renegades from the Baptist church. Twenty years ago a new minister had arrived who set many parishioners' teeth on edge. After much fussing and fuming, the discontents, in time-honored tradition, broke away and formed their own church. Mrs. Hogendobber, the stalwart of the choir, had been a guiding force in the secession. When the offending minister packed his bags and left some six years after the rebellion, the members of the Church of the Holy Light were so enjoying themselves that they declined to return to the fold.

A tiny rumble at the back door announced that a pussycat was entering. Mrs. Murphy rejoined the group. A louder rumble indicated that Pewter was in tow.

"Hello, "Pewter called.

"Hello there, kitty." Mrs. Hogendobber answered the meow. When Harry first took over Mr. Hogendobber's job and brought the cat and dog along with her, Miranda railed against the animals. The animals slowly won her over, although if you asked Miranda how she felt about people who talk to animals, she would declare that she herself never talked to animals. The fact that Harry was a daily witness to her conversations would not have altered her declaration one whit.

"Tucker, Pewter's here, "Mrs. Murphy said.

Tucker opened one eye then shut it again.

"Guess I won't tell her the latest. "Pewter languidly licked a paw.

Both eyes opened and the little dog raised her pretty head. "Huh?"

"I'm not talking to you. You can't be bothered to greet me when I come to visit."

"Pewter, you spend half your life in here. I can't act as though it's the first time I've seen you in months, "Tucker explained.

Pewter flicked her tail, then leapt on the table. "Anything to eat?"

"Pig. "Mrs. Murphy laughed.

"What's the worst they can say if you ask? No, that's what, "Pewter said. "Then again, they might say yes. Mrs. Hogendobber must have something. She can't walk into the post office empty-handed."

The cat knew her neighbor well because Mrs. Hogendobber had whipped up a batch of glazed doughnuts. As soon as her paws hit the table, Harry reached over to cover the goodies with a napkin, but too late. Pewter had spied her quarry. She snagged a piece of doughnut, which came apart in marvelous moist freshness. The cat soared off the table and onto the floor with her prize.

"That cat will die of heart failure. Her cholesterol level must be over the moon." Mrs. Hogendobber raised an eyebrow.

"Do cats have cholesterol?" Harry wondered out loud.

"I don't see why not. Fat is fat___"

On that note the Reverend Herbert Jones strode through the door. "Fat? Are you making fun of me?"

"No, we've been talking about Pewter."

"Relatively speaking, she's bigger than I am," he observed.

"But you've kept on your diet and you've been swimming. I think you've lost a lot of weight," Harry complimented him.

"Really? Does it show?"

"It does. Come on back here and have some tea." Mrs. Hogendobber invited him back, carefully covering up the doughnuts again.

The good reverend cleaned out his postbox, then swung through the Dutch counter door that divided the public lobby from the back. "This computer virus has everyone's knickers in a twist. On the morning news out of Richmond they did a whole segment on what to expect and how to combat it."

"Tell us." Harry stood over the little hot plate.

"No. I want our computer to die."

"Miranda, I don't think your computer is in danger. This seems to be some sort of corporate sabotage." Reverend Jones pulled up a ladderback chair. "The way I understand it, some person or persons has introduced this virus into the computer bank of a huge Virginia corporation, but no one knows which one. The diseased machine has to be a computer that interfaces with many other computers."

"And what may I ask is interface? In your face?" Miranda's tone dropped.

"Talk. Computers can talk to each other." Herb leaned forward in his chair. "Thank you, honey." He called Harry "honey" as she handed him his coffee. She never minded when it came from him. "Whoever has introduced this virus—"

Miranda interrupted again. "What do you mean, virus?"

The reverend, a genial man who loved people, paused a moment and sighed. "Because of the way in which a computer understands commands, it is possible, easy, in fact, to give one a command that scrambles or erases its memory."

"I don't need a virus for that," Miranda said. "I do it every day."

"So someone could put a command into a computer that says something like, 'Delete every file beginning with the letter A.^y" Harry joined in.

"Precisely, but just what the command is, no one knows. Imagine if this is passing throughout the state in a medical data bank. What if the command is 'Destroy all records on anyone named John Smith.' You can see the potential."

"But, Herbie"—Miranda called him by his first name, as they had been friends since childhood—"why would anyone want to do such a thing?"

"Maybe to wipe out a criminal record or cancel a debt or cover up a sickness that could cost them their job. Some companies will fire employees with AIDS or cancer."

"How can people protect themselves?" Mrs. Hogendobber began to grasp the possibilities for mischief.

"The mastermind has sent faxes to television stations saying that the virus will go into effect August first, and that it's called the Threadneedle virus."

"Threadneedle is such an odd name. I wonder what's the connection?" Harry rubbed her chin.

"Oh, there will be a connection, all right. The newspeople are researching like mad on that," he confidently predicted.

"One big puzzle." Harry liked puzzles.

"The computer expert on the morning show said that one way to protect your information base is to tell your computer to disregard any command it is given on August first."

"Sensible." Miranda nodded her head.

"Except that most business is transacted by computer, so that means for one entire day all commercial, medical, even police transactions are down."

"Oh, dear." Miranda's eyes grew large. "Is there nothing else that can be done?"

Herbie finished his tea, setting the mug on the table with a light tap. "This expert reviewed the defenses and encouraged people to program their computers to hold and review any commands that come in on August first. If anything is peculiar, your review program can instruct the computer to void the suspicious command. Naturally, big companies will use their own computer experts, but it sounds as though whatever they come up with will be some variant of the review process."

"I always wanted to put VOID on my license plate," Harry confessed.

"Now, why would you want to do a thing like that?" Mrs. Hogendobber pursed her lips, seashell pink today.

"Because every time my annual renewal payments would go through to the Department of Motor Vehicles, their computer would spit out the check. At least, that's what I thought."

"Our own little saboteur."

"Miranda, I never did it. I just thought about it."

"From little acorns mighty oaks do grow." Mrs. Hogendobber appeared fierce. "Are you behind this?"

The three laughed.

"You know, when I was a young doctor I had a big Thoroughbred I used to hunt named On Call," Herb reminisced. "When someone phoned my office the nurse would say, 'Oh, I'm sorry, the doctor isn't in right now. He's On Call.'"

Harry and Miranda laughed all the more.

"So what's the scoop, Pewter?"Tucker asked, then turned her attention to Mrs. Murphy. "I suppose you already know or you'd have pulled her fur out."

With that faint hint of superiority that makes cats so maddening, the tiger twitched her whiskers forward. "We had a little chat on the back stoop."

"Come on, tell me."

Pewter sidled over to the dog, who was now sitting up. "Aysha Cramer refused, to Mim Sanburne's face, to work with Kerry McCray for the homeless benefit."

Mim Sanburne considered herself queen of Crozet. On her expansive days she extended that dominion to cover the state of Virginia.

"Big deal. "Tucker was disappointed.

"It is. No one crosses Mim. She pitched a hissy and told Aysha that the good of the community was more important than her spat with Kerry, "the rotund kitty announced.

"Oh, Aysha. "Tucker laughed. "Now Mim will give her the worst job of the benefit—addressing, sealing, and stamping the envelopes. They all have to be handwritten, you know."

"Andall this over Norman Cramer. Mr. Bland. "Pewter giggled.

The animals caught their breath for a moment.

"Boy, it's a dull summer if we're laughing about that tired love triangle, "Mrs. Murphy said wistfully.

"Nothing happens around here, "Tucker carped.

"Fourth of July parade was okay. But nothing unusual. Maybe

someone will stir up a fuss over Labor Day…" Pewter's voice trailed off. "We can hope for a little action."

Mrs. Murphy stretched forward, then backward. "You know what my mother used to say, 'Be careful what you ask for, you might get it."-

The three friends later would remember this prophecy.

2

Ash Lawn, the Federal home of James and Elizabeth Monroe, reposes behind a mighty row of English boxwoods. When the fifth president and his lady were alive, these pungent shrubs probably rose no higher than waist level. The immense height of them now casts an eerie aura yet lends an oddly secure sense to the entrance. The formal entrance isn't used anymore; people must pass the small gift shop and arrive at the house by a side route.

The warm yellow clapboard creates an accessibility, a familiarity—one could imagine living in this house. No one could ever imagine living in the beautiful and imposing Monticello just over the small mountain from Ash Lawn.

Harry walked among the boxwoods and around the grounds with Blair Bainbridge, her new neighbor—"new" being a relative term in Crozet; Blair had moved there more than a year ago. A much-sought-after model, he was out of Crozet as much as he was in it. Recently returned from Africa, he had asked Harry to give him a tour of Monroe's home. This irritated Harry's ex-husband, Fair Haristeen, D.V.M., a blond giant who, having repented of his foolishness in losing Harry, desperately wanted his ex-wife back.

As for Blair, no one could divine his intentions toward Harry. Mrs. Hogendobber, that self-confessed expert on the male animal, declared that Blair was so impossibly rugged and handsome that he had women throwing themselves at him every moment, on every continent. She swore Harry fascinated him because she seemed immune to his masculine beauty. Mrs. Hogendobber got it more than half right despite arguments to the contrary from Harry's best friend and her corgi's breeder, Susan Tucker.

Mrs. Murphy chose the shade of a mighty poplar, where she scratched up some grass, then plopped down. Tucker circled three times, then sat next to her as she eyed the offending peacocks of Ash Lawn. The shimmering birds overran the Monroe estate, their heavenly appearance marred by grotesquely ugly pinkish feet. They also possessed the nastiest voices of birddom.

"Oh, how I'd like to wrestle that big showoff to the ground," Tucker growled as a huge male strutted by, cast the litde dog a death-ray eye, and then strutted on.

"Probably tough as an old shoe. "Mrs. Murphy occasionally enjoyed a wren as a delicacy, but she shied off the larger birds. She prudently flattened herself whenever she perceived a large shadow overhead. This was based on experience because a redtailed hawk had carried off one of her tiny brothers.

"I don't know why President Monroe kept these birds. Sheep, cattle, even turkeys—/ can understand turkeys—but peacocks are useless." Tucker jumped up and whirled around to bite something in her fur.

"Fleas?It's the season. "Mrs. Murphy noticed sympathetically.

"No. "Tucker grumbled as she bit some more. "Deerflies."

"How can they get through your thick fur?"

"I don't know, but they do. "Tucker sighed, then stood up and shook herself. "Where's Mom?"

"Out and about. She's not far. Sit down, will you. If you go off and

chase one of those stupid birds, I'll get blamed for it. I don't see why we can't go into the house. I understand why other people's animals can't visit, like Lucy Fur, but not us. "The younger of Reverend Jones's two cats, Lucy Fur, was aptly named as she was a hellion.

"Bet Little Marilyn would let us through the back door. "Tucker winked. She knew Mim Sanburne's daughter loved animals.

"Good idea. "The cat rolled in the grass and then bounded up. "Let's boogie."

"Where'dyou hear that?"T'ticke,t asked as they trotted to the side door. A bench under a small porch made the area inviting. No humans were around.

"Susan said it yesterday. She picks up that stuff from her kids. Like 'ABCyd'for when you say good-bye."

"Oh. "Tucker found the semantics of the young of limited interest, since every few years the jargon changed.

Underneath Ash Lawn's main level, docents dressed in period costumes spun, wove, boiled lard for candles, and cooked in the kitchen. Little Marilyn—Marilyn Sanburne, Junior, recently divorced and taking back her maiden name—was the chief docent at Ash Lawn this day. Although only in her early thirties, the younger Marilyn had contributed a great deal financially to Ash Lawn as well as to the College of William and Mary. The college maintained the house and grounds of James Monroe and provided most docents. Little Marilyn was a proud alumna of William and Mary, where she had switched majors so many times, her advisers despaired of her ever graduating. She finally settled on sociology, which greatly displeased her mother, and therefore greatly pleased Little Marilyn.

As Harry had graduated from Smith College in Massachusetts, she was not one of the inner circle at Ash Lawn, but the staff was good at community relations, so Harry and her animals felt welcome there. Of course, everyone at Ash Lawn knew Mrs. Murphy and Tucker.

The other docents that July 30 were Kerry McCray, a pert strawberry-blonde and Little Marilyn's college roommate; Laura

Freely, a tall, austere lady in her sixties; and Aysha Gill Cramer, also a friend of Little Marilyns from William and Mary. As Aysha had been married only the previous April, in a gruesome social extravaganza, it was taking everyone a bit of time to get used to calling her Cramer. Danny Tucker, Susan's sixteen-year-old son, was working as a gardener and loving it. Susan was filling in at the gift shop because the regular cashier had called in sick.

A scheduling snafu had stuck Aysha and Kerry there at the same time. The two despised each other. Along with Little Marilyn, the three had been best friends from childhood all the way through William and Mary, where they pledged the same sorority.

After graduation they traveled to Europe together, finally going their separate ways after a year's time. They wrote volumes of letters to each other. Kerry returned to Crozet first, getting a job at the Crozet National Bank, which had started locally at the turn of the century but now served all of central Virginia. Little Mim followed soon after, married badly, and then divorced. Aysha had returned to Albemarle County only six months ago. Her impeccable French and Italian were not in demand. Career prospects were so limited in this small corner of the world that marriage was still a true career for young women, providing they could find a suitable victim.

The friends picked up where they had left off. Aysha, a bit chubby when she was younger, had matured into a good-looking woman bubbling with ideas.

Little Marilyn, recovering from her divorce, was still blue. She needed her friends.

Kerry, engaged to Norman Cramer, often invited Aysha and Litde Marilyn out with them for dinner, the movies, a late night at the Blue Ridge Brewery.

Weedy and timid, Norman possessed a handsome face framing big blue eyes. He, too, worked at the Crozet National Bank as the head accountant. Excitement was not Norman's middle name, so everyone was knocked for a loop when Aysha snaked him away from Kerry. No one could figure out why she wanted him except that she was in her thirties, disliked working, and marriage was an easy way out.

Her mother, Ottoline Gill, far too involved in her daughters life, seemed thrilled with her new son-in-law. Part of that may have been shock from ever having a son-in-law. She had despaired of Aysha's future, declaring many times over that a girl as beautiful and brilliant as her darling would never find a husband. "Men like dumb women," she would say, "and my Aysha won't play dumb."

Whatever she played or didn't play, she captivated Norman with the result that Aysha and Kerry were now bitter enemies who could barely speak to each other in a civil tone of voice. Norman, away from Aysha's scrutiny, would be pleasant to Kerry, although she wasn't always pleasant back.

Marilyn sent Aysha to work downstairs, packing Kerry out to the slave quarters. It eased the tension somewhat. She knew each one would seek her out in the next day to complain about the mix-up. Kerry would be easier to console than Aysha, who liked nothing better than to have someone at an emotional disadvantage. However, Aysha enjoyed being a docent for Ash Lawn and Marilyn would mollify her, for her sake as well as the good of the place. Bad enough to have Aysha fuss at her, but coping with that harridan of a mother was real hell. And if Ottoline picked up the cudgel, then Marilyn's own mother, Mim, would become involved, too, if for no other reason than to put the pretentious Ottoline in her place.

Mrs. Murphy, tail to the vertical, felt the cool grass under her paws. Grasshoppers shot off before her like green insect rockets. They'd jump, settle, then jump again. Usually she would chase them, but today she wanted to get inside the historic home just to prove she wouldn't be destructive.

As the day drew to a close, most of the tourists had left. A few lingered in the gift shop. The staff of Ash Lawn began closing up. Harry and Blair had entered the house to see if Marilyn needed any help.

A distant roar grew louder. Then a screech, burp, and cutoff announced that a motorcycle had pulled into the parking lot, not just any motorcycle, but a gleaming, perfect black Harley-Davidson. The biker was as disheveled as his machine was gorgeous. He wore a black German World War II helmet, a black leather vest studded with chrome stars, torn jeans, heavy black biker boots, and an impressive chain across his chest like a medieval Sam Browne belt. Wraparound black sunglasses completed the outfit. He was unshaven but handsome in a grungy fashion.

He sauntered up die brick padh leading to the front door. Tucker, now on die side of the house by the slave quarters, stopped and began barking at him. Both animals had left the side door to see what was going on.

"Shut up, Tucker, you'll spoil my strategy," the cat warned. She was lying flat by the public entrance just waiting for it to swing open when die visitor entered so she could dart in. Whoever opened the door would let out a yelp as she zipped between dieir legs. Then they'd have to chase her or cajole her. Harry would have a fit and fall in it. Someone would think to bribe her widi food or perhaps fresh catnip from the herb garden. Mrs. Murphy had it all planned. Then she glanced up and saw the Hell's Angel marching toward the door. She decided to stay put.

He opened the door and Little Marilyn greeted him. "Welcome to the home of James and Elizabeth Monroe. Unfortunately our hours are ten to five during the summer and it's five-thirty now. I'm terribly sorry, but you'll have to come back tomorrow."

"I'm not going anywhere." He brushed right by her.

Laura heard this exchange from the parlor and joined Marilyn. Harry and Blair remained in the living room. Aysha was downstairs in the summer kitchen and Kerry was closing up the slave quarters.

"You'll have to leave." Little Marilyn pursed her lips.

"Where's Malibu?" His guttural voice added to his visual menace.

"In California." Blair strode into the front hall.

The biker sized him up and down. Blair was a tall man, broad-shouldered, and in splendid condition. This was no push-over.

"You the resident comedian?" The biker reached into his vest and pulled out a little switchblade. He expertly flipped it open with one hand and began to pick his teeth.

"I am for today." Blair folded his arms across his chest. Harry, too, stepped into the hall behind Blair. "These ladies have informed you that Ash Lawn will be open tomorrow morning. Come back then."

"I don't give a frig about this pile. I want Malibu. I know she's here."

"Who's Malibu?" Harry wedged forward. It occurred to her that the biker's pupils were most likely dilated or the reverse, and he wore sunglasses to cover that fact. He was on something and it wasn't aspirin.

"A thieving slut!" the biker exploded. "I've tracked her down and I know she's here."

"She couldn't possibly be here," Marilyn replied. "All of us who work here know one another and we've never heard of a Malibu."

"Lady, you just never heard die name. She's cunning. She'll hypnotize you, take what she wants, and then strike like a snake!" He pointed his two front fingers at her like fangs and made a striking motion.

Out of the corner of her eye Harry saw Aysha enter through the back door. She could see Kerry out back also on her way to the main house. The biker didn't see them. Harry backtracked, her hands behind her, holding them up in a stop signal. Blair by now had his hand on the biker's shoulder and was gently turning him around toward the front door.

"Come on. You won't find her today. Half the staff's already gone home." Blair's voice oozed reassurance. "I know what you mean, some women are like cobras."

The two men walked outside. Mrs. Murphy stared up at them. The biker smelled like cocaine sweat and grease. She put great store by smell.

The gruff man's voice quivered a touch. "This one, man, this one, oh, you don't know the things she can do to you. She plays with your body and messes with your mind. The only thing she ever really loved was the dollar."

Blair realized he would have to walk this fellow with the stoned expression all the way to his bike because he wasn't budging off the front porch. "Show me your bike."

Mrs. Murphy darted from bush to bush, keeping the men in sight and hearing every word. Tucker dashed ahead of her.

"Tucker, stay behind them."

"You're always telling me what to do!"

"Because you act first and think later. Stay behind That way if Blair needs help this guy won't know you're there. The element of surprise."

"Well—"The dog realized the cat had a point.

"She wanted to make enough money to sit home, to be a lady." He laughed derisively. "I thought she was joking. A lady?"

Blair arrived at the sleek machine, resting on its kickstand. "Bet she hums."

"Yeah, power to burn."

Blair ran his hand over the gas tank. "Had a Triumph Bonneville once. Leaked oil, but she could sing, you know?"

"Good bike." The fellow's lower lip protruded, a sign of agreement, approval.

"Started out with a Norton. How 'bout you?"

"liked those English bikes, huh?" He leaned against the motorcycle. "Harleys. Always Harieys with me. Started out with a 1960 Hog, 750cc, in pieces. Put her back together. Then I put together a Ducati for a buddy of mine, and before I knew it, I had more work than I could handle."

"BMWs?"

The biker shook his head. "Not for me. Great machines but no soul. And that piston instead of a chain drive—you shift gears on one of those things and it's a lurch. Kill your crotch." He laughed, revealing strong, straight teeth. " 'Course there's no more chains, you know. They use Kevlar." He pointed to the space-age material that had replaced the chain.

"My dad had an Indian." Blair's eyes glazed. "What I wouldn't give for that bike today."

"An Indian. No shit. Hey, man, let me buy you a beer. We've got some serious talking to do."

"Thanks, but my date is waiting for me back at the house. Take a raincheck though." Blair inclined his head back toward Ash Lawn, where Harry stood at the end of the entrance walk. She wanted to make sure Blair was okay.

"I'm staying at the Best Western."

"Okay, thanks." Blair smiled.

"I'm not going anywhere until I find that bitch."

"You seem determined. I'm sure you will."

The biker tapped his head with his fist. "Box of rocks, man, box of rocks, but I never give up. Until then, buddy." He hopped on his machine, turned the key, a velvet purr filling the air. Then he slowly rolled down the driveway.

Mrs. Murphy watched him recede. "Motorcycles were invented to thin out the male herd."

Tucker laughed as they fell in with Blair.

"What were you doing out there?" Harry asked as the other women came out of the house and crowded around Blair.

"Talking about motorcycles."

"With that certain?" Marilyn was incredulous.

"Oh, he's not so bad. He's searching for his girlfriend and he's staying at the Best Western until he finds her. I might even have a beer with the guy. He's kind of interesting."

Both Kerry and Aysha had been informed of the search for Malibu.

Laura said, "You're not afraid of him?"

"No. He's harmless. Just a little loaded, that's all."

"Long as you're not Malibu, maybe he is harmless." Harry laughed.

"Can you imagine anyone named Malibu?" Aysha's frosty tone was drenched in social superiority.

"Think my life would improve if I rechristened myself Chattanooga?" Kerry joked for the others' benefit. She wanted to smash in Aysha's face.

"Intercourse. Change your name to Intercourse and you'll see some sizzle." Harry giggled.

"Ah, yes." Laura Freeley's patrician voice, its perfect cadence, added weight to her every utterance. "If I recall my Pennsylvania geography, Intercourse isn't far from Blue Ball."

"Ladies"—Blair bowed his head—"how you talk."

3

The John Deere dealership, a low brick building on Route 250, parked its new tractors by the roadside. These green and yellow enticements made Harry's mouth water. Probably a thousand motorists passed the tractors each day on their way into Char-lottesville. The county was filling with new people, service people who bought enormous houses squeezed on five acres—riding mowers were their speed. They probably didn't lust after these machines sitting in a neat row. But country people, they'd drive by at dusk, stop the car, and walk around the latest equipment.

Harry's tractor, a 1958 John Deere 420S row crop tractor, hauled a manure spreader, pulled a small bushhog, and felt like a friend. Her father had bought the tractor new and lovingly cared for it. Harry's service manual, a big book, was filled with his notations now crowded by her own. The smaller operator's manual, ragged and thumbed, was protected in a plastic cover.

Johnny Pop, as Doug Minor dubbed his machine, still popped and chugged. Last year Harry bought a new set of rear tires. The originals had finally succumbed. Given this proven reliability, Harry wanted another John Deere, the Rolls-Royce of tractors. Not that she planned to retire Johnny Pop, but a tractor in the seventy-five-horsepower range with a front end loader and special weights for the rear wheels could accomplish many of the larger, more difficult tasks on her farm that were beyond Johnny Pops modest horsepower. The base price of what she needed ran about $29,000 sans attachments. Her heart sank each time she remembered the cost, quite impossible on a postmistress's wage.

Mrs. Murphy and Tucker waited in the cab of her truck, another item that needed replacing. The Superman blue had faded, the clutch had been repaired twice, and she'd worn through four sets of tires. However, the Ford rolled along. Most people would buy a new truck before a tractor, but Harry, being a farmer first, knew the tractor was far more important.

She strolled around the machines, not a speck of mud on them. Some had enclosed cabs with AC, which seemed sinful to her, although if you ran over a nest of digger bees, that enclosed cab would be a godsend. She liked to dream, climb up to touch the steering wheel, run her fingers along the engine block. That's why dusk appealed to her. It wasn't so much that she didn't want to talk to the salesmen. She'd known them for years, and they knew she hadn't a penny. She hated to waste their time since she wasn't a serious customer.

She opened the door of her truck; a tiny creak followed. She leaned onto the seat but didn't climb in right away.

"Well, kids, what do you think? Pretty fabulous?"

"They look the same as last time. "Tucker was hungry.

"Beautiful, Mom, just beautiful. "Mrs. Murphy would occasionally ride in Harry's lap when she drove Johnny Pop. "I vote for the enclosed cab myself and you can put a woven basket with a towel in it for me. I believe in creature comforts."

"Ah, well, let's go home." She climbed into the truck, cranked the motor, and pulled onto the highway, heading west.

In fifteen minutes she was at the outskirts of Crozet. She passed the old Del Monte food packaging plant and decided to pull into the supermarket.

"/ want to go home. "Tucker whined.

"If you want to eat, then I've got to get you food." Harry hopped out of the car.

Tucker inquisitively looked at the cat. "Do you think she understood what I said?"

"Nah. "Mrs. Murphy shook her head. "Coincidence. °

"I bet I could jump out the window."

"I bet I could, too, but I'm not running around this parking lot, not the way people drive. "She put her paws on the window frame and surveyed the lot. "Everyone must need dog food."

Tucker joined her. "Mim."

"Bet it's her cook. That's the farm car. Mim wouldn't do anything as lowly as shop for her own food."

"Probably right. Well, there's the silver Saab, so we know Susan is here…"

"Aysha's green BMW. Oh, hey, there's Mrs. Hogendobber's Falcon."

"And look who's pulling in—Fair. Um-um. "Tucker's eyes twinkled.

Hurrying down the aisle with a basket on her arm, Harry first bumped into Susan.

"If you're not buying much, you could have gone to Shiflett's Market and saved yourself the checkout line."

"He closed early tonight. Dentist."

"Not another root canal?" Harry counted items in Susan's cart. "Are you having a party or something? I mean, a party without me?"

"No, nosy." Susan pushed Harry on the shoulder. "Danny and Brookie want to have a cookout. I said I'd buy the food if they did the work."

"Danny Tucker behind the barbecue?"

"Well, you see, he's got this new girlfriend who wants to be a chef, so he thinks if he shows an interest in food beyond eating it, he'll impress her. He's talked his sister into helping him."

"Talked or bribed?"

"Bribed." Susan's big smile was infectious. "He's promised to drive her and a friend to the Virginia Horse Center over in Lexington and then he'll look at Washington and Lee University, without Mom, of course."

Mrs. Hogendobber careened around the aisle, her cart on two wheels. "Gangway, girls, I'll miss choir practice."

The two women parted as Miranda roared through tossing items into her cart with considerable skill.

"Great hand-eye," Susan noted.

Nearly colliding with Mrs. Hogendobber, since she entered the aisle from the opposite end, was Aysha Cramer, with her mother, Ottoline. "Oh, Mrs. Hogendobber, I'm sorry."

"Beep! Beep!" Mrs. Hogendobber experdy maneuvered around her and was off.

Ottoline, wearing an off-the-shoulder peasant blouse that revealed her creamy skin and bosoms, plucked the list out of Aysha's cart. "If you're going to waste time talking, I'll work on this list."

Aysha shrugged as her mother continued on and turned the corner. She rolled her cart over to Harry and Susan. "We know she's not DWI."

Mrs. Hogendobber didn't drink.

"Choir practice," Susan said.

"I hope I have as much energy as she does at her age," Aysha said admiringly. "And just what is her age?"

"Mentally or physically?" Susan rocked her cart back and forth.

"Mother says she's got to be in her sixties, because she was in high school when mother was in eighth grade," Aysha volunteered.

Of course, Ottoline the raving bitch never said anything nice about anyone unless it reflected upon her own perceived glory, so Aysha's recounting was a bogus edition of Mrs. Gill's true thoughts.

As if on cue, Ottoline sashayed down the aisle in the opposite direction from which she had left. She dumped items in the cart, nodded curtly to Harry and Susan, only to continue down the aisle, calling over her shoulder, "Aysha, I'm pressed for time."

"Yes, Mumsy." Then she lowered her voice. "Had a fight with the decorator today. She's in a bad mood."

"I thought she'd just redecorated," Susan said.

"Two years ago. Time flies. She's into a neutral palette this time."

"Better than a cleft palate," Harry joked.

"Not funny," Aysha sniffed.

"Oh, come on, Aysha." Harry couldn't stand it when Aysha or anyone behaved like a humorless Puritan.

Apart from the occasional lapse into correctness, Harry thought Aysha had turned out okay except for her unfortunate belief that she was an aristocrat. It was a piteous illusion, since the Gills had migrated to Albemarle County immediately following World War I. To make matters worse, they had migrated from Connecticut. Despite her Yankee roots, Aysha flounced around like a Southern belle. Her new husband, not the brightest bulb on the Christmas tree when it came to women, bought it. He called her "lovegirl." God only knows what she called him. Newlyweds were pretty disgusting no matter who they were.

Susan asked, "Aysha, you've heard about this Threadneedle virus. Tomorrow's the big day. You worried?"

"Oh, heavens no." She laughed, her voice lilting upward before she lowered it. "But my Norman, he's been to meetings about it. The bank is really taking this seriously."

"No kidding." Harry grabbed a few more cans of dog food.

"You can imagine if accounts were mixed up, although Norman says he believes the real target is Federated Investments in Richmond and this whole thing is a cover to get everyone in an uproar while they, or whoever, strikes FI."

"Why FI?" Susan asked the logical question.

"They've been having such hard times. New chairman, shake-ups, and hundreds of people have been let go. Who better but an FI employee to devise a scheme with computers as the weapon? Norman says that by August 2 FI will be in a bigger tangle than a fishing line."

"Ladies!" Fair, framed by a sale sign for charcoal briquets, waved from the end of the aisle.

Aysha smiled at Fair, then looked at Harry to pick up telltale signs of emotion. Harry smiled, too, and waved back. She liked her ex.

"Well, I'd better push on, forgive the pun." Susan headed out. "Danny will be the youngest coronary victim in Crozet if I don't get back with this food."

"Me too."

"Harry, are you cooking?" Aysha couldn't believe it.

Harry pointed to her cart. "Tucker and Mrs. Murphy."

"Give them my best." Aysha moved in the other direction, her laughter tinkling as she went.

Ottoline, hands on hips, appeared at aisle's end. "Will you hurry up?"

Harry reached the end of the aisle, where Fair waited for her. He was pretending to buy charcoal at a discount.

"How you doin'?"

"Fine, what about you?"

"Seeing more shin splints than I can count. Too many trainers are overworking their young horses on this hard ground." Shin splints, or bucked shins, are a common problem among young racehorses.

Harry owned three horses, one of which, still a bit new to her, had been given to her by Fair and Mim. Lately, Mim had warmed to Harry. In fact, the haughty Mrs. Sanburne seemed to have softened considerably over the past couple of years.

"We're doing pretty good at home. Come on by and let's ride up Yellow Mountain."

"Okay." Fair eagerly accepted. "Tomorrow's a mess, but the day after? I'll swing by at six. Ought to have cooled off a little by then."

"Great. Who do you want to take out?"

"Gin Fizz."

"Okay." She started off knowing that the cat and dog would be crabby from waiting so long.

"Uh, heard you and Blair Bainbridge were up at Ash Lawn yesterday. I thought he was out of town." Fair prayed he would be going out of town again soon—like tomorrow.

"He finished up that shoot and instead of stopping by to see his folks, he came directly home. He's pretty tired, I think."

"How can you get tired wearing clothes and twirling in front of the camera?"

Harry refused to be drawn into this. "Damned if I know, Fair, no one's ever asked me to model." She wheeled away. "See you day after tomorrow."

4

"Get out the shovels," Hairy called to Mrs. Hogendobber as she trooped through the back door just as Rob Collier, the mail delivery man, was leaving by the front door.

He ducked his head back in. "Morning, Mrs. H."

"Morning back at you, Rob." She beheld the mammoth bags of mail on the floor. "What in the world?"

"Heck of a way to start August."

As the big mail truck backed out of the driveway, the two women, transfixed by the amount of mail, just stared. "Oh, hell, I'll get the mail cart and start on bag one."

"I'll be right back." Mrs. Hogendobber hurried out the door and returned in less than five minutes, enough time for Harry to upend the big canvas bag and enough time for Mrs. Murphy to crash full force into the pile, sending letters and magazines scattering. Then she rolled over and bit some envelopes while scratching others.

"Death to the bills!''the cat hollered. She spread all four paws on the slippery pile, looked to the right, then to the left, before springing forward with a mighty leap, sending mail squirting out from under her.

"Get a grip, Murph." Harry had to laugh at the tiger's merry show.

"Here's what I think of the power company." She seized a bill between her teeth and crunched hard. "Take that. And this is for every lawyer in Crozet." She pulled her right paw over a windowpane bill, leaving five parallel gashes.

Tucker joined the run, but not being as agile as Mrs. Murphy, she could only run through the mail and shout, "Look at me!"

"All right, you two. This is the only post office in America where people get mail with teeth marks on it. Now, enough is enough."

Mrs. Hogendobber opened the back door just as Pewter was entering through the animal door. "Hey, hey, wait a minute."

Mrs. Murphy sat down in the mail debris and laughed as her fat friend swung toward her. Mrs. Hogendobber laughed too.

"Very funny. "Pewter, incensed, wriggled out.

"Everyone's loony tunes this morning." Harry bent over to tidy the mess but thought the cat had the right idea. "What is that incredible smell?"

"Cinnamon buns. We need sustenance. Now, I was going to wait and bring these over for our break, but Harry, we'll be working through that." She checked the big old railroad clock on the wall. "And Mim will be here in an hour."

"Mim will have to come back." Harry threw letters in the mail cart and wheeled it to the back side of the mailboxes. "Unless you've got some scoop, turn on the radio." Harry winked as she snatched a hot cinnamon bun and started the sorting.

"I'm not listening to country and western this morning."

"And I don't want to be spiritually uplifted, Miranda."

"Don't fuss." Mrs. Hogendobber clicked on the dial.

The announcer bleated the news. "—an eight-million-dollar loss for this quarter, the worst in FI's sixty-nine-year history. One thousand five hundred employees, twenty-five percent of the famed company's work force, have been let go—"

"Damn." Harry shot a postcard into Market Shiflett's box.

"I imagine those people being handed their pink slips are saying worse than that."

The news continued after a commercial break for the new Dodge Ram. The deep voice intoned, "Threadneedle, the feared computer virus, was already striking early this morning. Leggett's department store has reported some small problems, as has Albemarle Savings and Loan. The full extent of the scramble won't be known until the business day gets under way. But the early birds are reporting light trouble."

"You know, if some computer genius out there really wanted to perform a service for America, he or she would destroy the IRS."

"We are overtaxed, Harry, but you're becoming an anarchist." Miranda wiped a bit of vanilla icing that dripped off her lips, hot coral today to match her square hot coral earrings. Mrs. H. believed in dressing for success, fifties style.

"Ten percent across the board if you make over one hundred thousand and five percent if you make under. Anyone making less than twenty-five thousand a year shouldn't have to pay tax. If we can't run the country on that, then maybe we'd better restructure the country—like FI, we're becoming a dinosaur… Too big to survive. We trip over our own big feet."

Mrs. Hogendobber flipped up another bag. "I don't know— but I do agree we're making a mess of things. Now, what's she doing here?" She saw Kerry McCray coming through the door.

"Hope you don't need your mail," Mrs. Hogendobber called out.

"Itore it up anyway. "Mrs. Murphy licked her lips.

"Didyou really?" Pewter was impressed.

"Sure, look at this." Mrs. Murphy pushed over an envelope bearing neat fang marks on the upper and lower corners.

"Bet it's a federal offense," the gray cat sagely noted.

"Hope so, "Mrs. Murphy saucily replied.

"I'm not here for the mail," Kerry said. "Just wanted to tell you that the Light Opera series at Ash Lawn is doing Don Giovanni on Saturday and really, you've got to come. The lead has such a clear voice. I don't know music like you do, Mrs. Hogendobber, but he is good."

"Why, thank you for thinking of me, Kerry. I will try to swing by."

Harry stuck her head around the mailboxes. "So, Kerry, you been out with the lead singer yet?"

Kerry blushed. "I did show him the University of Virginia."

"You just keep being yourself, honey. He'll soon fall head over heels."

Kerry blushed again, then left, crossing the street to the bank.

"Where does the time go?" Harry shot envelopes into the boxes a bit faster.

"You're too young to worry about time. That's my job."

Harry snagged another cinnamon bun. Pewter had the same idea. "Hey, piggy. That's mine."

"Oh, give her a bite."

"Miranda, you were the person who didn't like cats. The one who thought they were spoiled and sneaky and, as I recall, speaking of time, this was not but two years ago."

Pewter, golden eyes glowing, trilled at Miranda's feet, open-toed wedgies today a la Joan Crawford. "Oh, Mrs. Hogendobber, I loooveyou."

"I'm gonna puke, "Mrs. Murphy growled.

"Now this little darling wants the tiniest nibble." Mrs. Hogendobber pinched off some sweet, flaky dough liberally covered with vanilla icing. The cinnamon scent flooded the room as the bun was broken open. "Here, Pewter. What about you, Mrs. Murphy?"

"I'm a carnivore, "Mrs. Murphy declined. "But thank you."

"I'll eat anything. "Tailless Tucker wagged her rear end furiously.

Mrs. Hogendobber held a bit aloft, and Tucker stood on her hind feet, not easy for a corgi. She gobbled her reward.

The rest of the day held the usual round of comings and goings, everyone expressed an opinion on the Threadneedle virus, which like so many things reported on television was a fizzle. People also expressed opinions on whether or not BoomBoom Craycroft, the sultry siren of Crozet, would set her cap again for Blair Bainbridge now that he had returned from Africa and she from Montana.

At five to five Mrs. Sanburne reappeared. She'd stopped by at eight-thirty A.M., her usual. Post offices close at five, but this was Crozet, and if anyone needed something, either Harry or Mrs. Hogendobber would stay late.

"Girls," Mim's imperious voice rang out, "Crozet National Bank was infected with the virus."

"Our little bank?" Harry couldn't believe it.

"I ran into Norman Cramer, and he said the darned thing kept inserting information from other companies, feed store companies. Dumb stuff, but they immediately countered with the void commands and wiped it out quickly."

"He's a smart one, that Norman," Mrs. Hogendobber said.

"Sure fell hook, line, and sinker for Aysha. How smart can he be?" Harry giggled.

"I've never seen a woman work so hard to land a man. You'd have thought he was a whale instead of a"—she thought for a minute—"small-mouthed bass."

"Three points, Mrs. Sanburne," Harry whooped.

"My favorite moment was when I played through on the eleventh at Farmington. Aysha, who never so much as looked at a golf club in her life, was caddying for Norman and his golf partner, that good-looking accountant fellow, David Wheeler. Anyway, there she was at the water fountain. She put the golf balls in the fountain. I said, Aysha, what are you doing?' and she replied, 'Oh, washing Norman's balls. They get so grass stained.'"

With that the three women nearly doubled over.

Pewter lifted her head as she lay on the back table. Mrs. Murphy was curled next to her, but her eyes were open.

"What do you think of Norman Cramer?"

Mrs. Murphy shot back, "A twerp."

"Then why wasAysha so hot to have him?"Tucket, on the floor, asked.

"Good family. Aysha wants to be the queen of White Hall Road by the time she's forty."

"Better make it fifty, Murphy, she's got to be in her middle thirties now." Pewter touched the tiger with her hind paw. Murphy pushed her back.

"Have you seen Don Giovanni yet?" Mrs. Hogendobber inquired of Mim. "I was thinking about going tomorrow, Friday."

"Loved it! Little Marilyn can't stand opera, but she did endure. Jim fell asleep, of course. When I woke him he said his duties as mayor of our fair town had worn him out. The only event Jim Sanburne doesn't sleep through that involves music is the Marine Corps band. The piccolo always jolts him awake. Well, I've got a bridge party tonight—"

"Wait, one question. What's the lead singer look like?" Harry was curious.

"She was wearing a wig—"

"I mean the male lead."

"Oh, good-looking. Now, Harry, don't even think about it. You've got two men crazy over you. Your ex-husband and Blair Bainbridge, who I must say is the best-looking man I've ever seen in my life except for Clark Gable and Gary Cooper."

Harry waved off Mim. "Crazy for me? I see Fair from time to time and Blair's my neighbor. Don't whip up a romance. They're just friends."

"We'll see," came the measured reply. With that she left.

Harry washed her hands. The maroon post office ink was smeared into her fingertips. "We should change our ink color every year. I get bored with this."

"And you complain about taxes… think what it would cost."

"That's true, but I look at stamps from other countries and the postmark inks, and some of them are so pretty."

"Long as the mail gets there on time," Miranda said. "And when you consider how much mail the U.S. Postal Service moves in one day, one regular business day, it's amazing."

"Okay. Okay." Harry laughed and held up her hands for inspection. "I wouldn't want to waste any valuable ink on my fingers."

"Let's say you have rosy fingertips of a color not found in nature."

"Okay, I'm out of here."

5

The battery flickered on Harry's truck, so she stopped by the old Amoco service station which, a long time ago, was a Mobil station. The ancient Coke machine beckoned. She slipped the coins in and then "walked" the curvaceous bottle through to the end, where the metal jaws opened as she pulled the botde to freedom. She liked the old machines because you could lift the top up and put your hand into the cool chest. Also, the new soda dispensers were so bright and full of light, she felt she ought to wear sunglasses to use them. A nickle bought a Coke when she was tiny. Then it jumped to a dime when she was in grade school. Now they cost fifty cents, but if one traveled to a big city, the price tag was easily seventy-five. If this was progress, Harry found it deeply depressing.

Usually she headed straight home after work, but the horses grazed on rich pasture. She didn't need to feed grain in the summer. The twilight lingered with intensity. Why hurry?

She absentmindedly nosed the recharged vehicle north up Route 810.

"Where are we going?" Tucker rested her snout on the win-dowsill.

"Another one of Mom's adventures." Mrs. Murphy curled up behind the long stick shift. She liked that part of the seat best.

"The last time she did this, we ended up in Sperryville. I'm hungry. I don't want to go for such a long drive."

"Whine, then. Get those sweet doggy tears in your eyes. That arouses her maternal instincts. "Mrs. Murphy laughed.

"Yeah, well, I can overdo, you know. I've got to save that for special occasions. "Tucker was resigned to her fate.

Harry clicked on the radio, then clicked it off. The Preparation H ad disturbed the soft mood of the fading light which blended from scarlet to hazy pink to a rose-gray laced with fingers of indigo.

She slowed at the turn to Sugar Hollow, a favorite spot in western Albemarle County for hikers and campers. The hollow led into a misty crevice in the mountain. No matter how hot the day, the forested paths remained cool and inviting. One could drive a car a few miles into the hollow to a parking lot, then walk.

A roar made Harry hit the brakes so hard that Tucker and Mrs. Murphy tumbled off the seat.

"Hey!"The cat clawed back onto the seat. A black blur skidded in front of them, hung the turn, and then violently sped down the darkening road away from Sugar Hollow.

Harry squinted after the cycle. It was the black Harley, the driver encased in black leather and on such a hot day. She'd gotten a good look at the bike when Blair had escorted the man out of Ash Lawn. No other motorcycle like it in the area, plus it had California plates.

"Bet he didn't find Malibu in Sugar Hollow either." Harry grimaced.

6

A cold front rolled huge clouds over the mountains together with a refreshing breeze. Although it was the beginning of August, the tang of fall tantalized. In a day or two the swelter would return, but for now Mother Nature, surprising as always, was giving central Virginia a respite.

Harry and Fair turned their horses back toward her barn. The black-eyed Susans swayed in the field along with white Queen Anne's lace and the tall, vibrant purple joe-pye weed. Tucker ran alongside the pair. Mrs. Murphy elected to visit Simon, the possum who lived in the hayloft. A large black snake lived there, too, and Mrs. Murphy gave her a wide berth. The owl slept up in the cupola. The cat and owl couldn't stand one another, but as they kept different schedules, harsh words were usually avoided.

Tucker, thrilled to have the humans all to herself, kept up no matter what the pace. Corgis, hardy and amazingly fast, herd horses as readily as they do cattle. This was a trait Harry had had to modify when Tucker was a puppy, otherwise a swift kick might have ended the dog's career although the breed is nimble enough to get out of the way. Tucker merrily trotted to the side of the big gray mare, Poptart. She hoped that her mother would flirt with Fair. Tucker loved Fair, but Harry had signed off flirting the day of her divorce. Tucker knew Harry was usually forthright, but a little flirting couldn't hurt. She wanted the two back together.

"—right over the ears. Funniest damn thing you ever saw, and when she hit the ground she yelled 'Shit' so loud"—Fair grinned in the telling—"that the judges couldn't ignore it. No ribbon for Little Marilyn."

"Was her mom there?"

"Mim and the old guard. All of them. Clucking and carrying on. You'd think she'd have the sense to get away from her mother and go out on her own."

Harry drawled, "Thirty-three is a long, long adolescence. She could have stayed in the house she had with her ex, but she said the colors of the walls reminded her of him. So she moved back to that dependency on Mim's farm. I know I couldn't do it."

"Sometimes I feel sorry for her. You know, everything and nothing."

"I do, too, until I have to pay my bills, and then I'm too jealous for sympathy." A cloud swept low over her head. Harry felt she could reach up and grab a handful of swirling cotton candy. "The hell with money on a day like this. Nature is perfect."

"That she is." Fair spied the old log jump up ahead that Harry and her father had built fifteen years ago, big, solid locust trunks lashed together with heavy rope that Harry replaced every few years. It was three feet six inches. It looked bigger because of the bulk. He squeezed Gin Fizz into a good canter and headed toward the jump, sailing over.

Harry followed. Tucker prudently dashed around the end.

"Who did win the class at the benefit hunter show?" Harry remembered to ask.

"Aysha, with her mother in full attendance and Norman cheering. You'd have thought it was Ascot."

"Good. Say, did I tell you that Aysha was a docent up at Ash Lawn when I was there the other day?"

"She did go to William and Mary, didn't she?" Fair recalled as he slowed to a walk.

"Kerry was there, too, a scheduling foul-up, and Laura Freely. Little Marilyn was in charge, of course, but what set the day off was that this biker came up and had to be escorted off the premises___" She realized that in bringing up Ash Lawn, she would remind Fair that she'd been up there with Blair, which would provoke a frosty response. Her voice trailed off.

"A biker?"

"Hell's Angel type."

"At Ash Lawn?" Fair laughed. "Maybe he's a descendant of James Monroe. What were you and Blair doing up there anyway?"

"Oh—Blair had never seen it. He wanted to do something relaxing."

Fair's lips clamped together. "Oh."

"Now, Fair, don't get in a huff. He's my neighbor. I like him."

"Yeah, Fair, lighten up. "The dog added her two cents.

"Are you serious about this guy, or what?"

Harry and her ex-husband had been a pair since kindergarten, and she knew his moods. She didn't want Fair to sink into one of his manly pouts. Men never admitted to pouting, but that's exactly what he did. Sometimes it took her days to pull him out of one. "Number one, I don't have to answer to you. I don't ask you questions." She decided to attack.

"Because I'm not seeing anyone."

"For now."

"That was then. I'm not seeing anyone and I don't want anyone but you. I admit my mistake."

"Make that plural," Harry wryly suggested.

"Well—I admit my mistakes and I repent them. You know you're going to get over this and we'll—"

"Fair, don't be directive. I hate it when you tell me what I'm going to do, and feel and think. That got us into trouble in the first place, and I'm not saying I don't have my share of faults. As wives go, I was a real bust. Can't cook, don't want to learn. Can't iron but I can wash okay. I keep a clean house but sometimes my mind is untidy, and I forgot your birthday more times than I care to admit. Never remembered our anniversary either, for that matter. And the more you'd withdraw from me, the harder I'd work so I wouldn't have to talk to you—I was afraid I'd blow up. I should have blown up."

He pondered that. "You know—maybe you should have."

"Done is done. I don't know what tomorrow will bring, and it's not going to bring togetherness if you get pushy."

"You're the only woman in the world who talks to me like that."

"I suppose the rest of them swoon, bat their lashes, and tell you how wonderful you are. Bet their voices coo."

He suppressed a grin. "Let's just say they shower me with attention. And I have to be nice about it. I can't cut them to shreds over it." He paused. "You make me so mad, I could—I don't know. But I'm never bored with you like I'm bored with the, uh, conventional model."

"Thank you."

"Will you go with me to Mim's party next Saturday?"

"Oh"—her face registered confusion—"I'd love to, but I already have a date."

"Blair?"

"As a matter of fact, yes."

"Dammit to hell!"

"He asked me first, Fair."

"I have to line up for a date with my wife!"

"Your ex-wife."

"You don't feel ex to me." He fumed. "I can't stand that guy. The other day Mim was carrying on about his curly hair. So what? Curly hair? That's a fine recommendation for a relationship."

"Apparently it is for Marilyn Sanburne." Hany couldn't help herself. She wished she were a better person, but his discomfort was too delicious.

"Then I am asking for Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Years Eve."

"What about Labor Day weekend?" she teased him.

"Laminitis conference in Lexington," he replied, referring to the hoof disease.

"I was only kidding."

"I'm not. Will you save me those dates?"

"Fair, let's just take it as it comes. I'll say yes to the next summer party—someone's bound to have one—and we can go from there." She sighed. "Given the way the days are clicking off, I ought to say yes to Thanksgiving."

"Tempus fitgit," he agreed. "Do you remember Mrs. Heckler singing her congratulations to us?"

"Yeah." She grew wistful. "Isn't it funny what we do remember? I remember that old sweater Dad would wear every homecoming."

"His Crozet football letter sweater." Fair smiled. "I don't think he ever missed a game. Your dad was a good athlete. He lettered in football, baseball, and didn't he play basketball too?"

"Yeah. In those days I think everybody did everything. It was better. Healthier. Tenth-graders now are dreaming of their en-dorsemenf contracts. Doesn't anybody play for fun anymore? Dad sure did."

"What year did he graduate?"

"Forty-five. He was too young for the war. Bothered him all his life. He remembered some of the boys who never came home."

"Thank God my father made it back from Korea—seems like no one remembers that war except the guys who fought in it."

"I'm glad he came back too. Where would you be?" She urged Poptart over next to Gin Fizz, reached over, and punched Fair in the arm.

"Love tap? Mother, can't you brush his hair with your fingertips or

something?"'Tucker advised. Tucker had been watching too much TV. She declared it was to study human habits, but Mrs. Murphy said there was plenty of that to study in front of her face. Tucker loved the television because it put her to sleep.

"Tucker, don't yip so loud," Harry pleaded.

"You're hopeless!"Tbit dog ran in front of them. She could see Mrs. Murphy sitting in the hayloft door. "The soul of romance."

"You or Mom?" Mrs. Murphy laughed.

"A fat lot you know about /W, "the dog replied.

"/ know it can get you in all kinds of trouble."

7

Harry was the first to notice it because she walked to work that Monday morning. The Harley, like a raven with folded wings, was perched in front of the post office. Although Tucker and Mrs. Murphy accompanied her, she had no desire to be alone in the P.O. with that man even if Blair did think he was nonviolent.

She peeped into Market's store. "Hey."

"Hey, back at you," Market called to her.

Pewter thundered out the front door when it was opened, the flab on her belly swaying from side to side. She and Mrs. Murphy immediately ran around the back of the buildings. Tucker was torn whether to join diem or stay. She finally followed the cats.

"Where's the biker?"

"The what?" Market wiped his hands on his apron and walked toward Harry behind the counter.

"The Hell's Angel who owns the Harley. If he'd been in your store, you would have noticed."

"Nobody like that this morning. Of course, it's just seven-thirty, so maybe he's out for his morning constitutional and I'll yet have the pleasure." Market offered her a sticky bun. "Is he really a Hell's Angel?"

"Sure looks like one."

"Well, then, Miss Priss, how do you know him? You been hanging around biker bars?" Market teased her.

"He roared up to Ash Lawn the other day when I was giving Blair the tour."

"A cultural Hell's Angel. Harry, you're pulling my leg."

"No, honestly." Harry's inflection rose with her innocence.

"Maybe it's a surprise from Fair."

"Sure, sure."

"Blair?"

"Market, what is this? You're getting as bad as the biddies around here, trying to get me tied down again."

"Better than being tied up." He paused. "Then again…"

"Have you been talking to Art Bushey?"

As Art was famed for his sense of humor, dwelling mostly on sexual topics, this was not a long-shot question.

"Oh, I'm pricing a new Ford truck over at Art's. I'd like to move up to a three-quarter ton."

"Better sell a lot of potato chips."

"Ain't that the truth."

"This roll is delicious. Are you using a new bakery?"

"Miranda. She's decided she needs pin money, as she puts it, and she's going to be bringing in whatever she whips up. She's such a good baker, I think this arrangement might work."

"Put in a Weight Watchers clinic down the street, and you'll have all your bases covered. There's no way you can eat her concoctions without carrying extra freight."

Aysha and Norman Cramer pushed open the door. Harry stepped aside.

"Hi." Aysha bubbled over. "Sweet'n Low, please. I'm manning, I mean womanning, the phones over at the Junior League charity roundup today. We'll be drinking lots of coffee."

"Norman, what about you?" Market pointed to a sticky bun.

Norman blinked. He blinked a lot, actually, Harry observed.

"I, uh, yeah, I'll try one," he said.

"Now, honey, I don't want any love handles." Aysha pinched him.

"Lovegirl, just a little eensy bite." He smiled. He had beautiful big white teeth.

Laura Freely and Mim entered.

Laura went over to the headache remedies while Mim asked Harry, "And why aren't you in the post office? You're five minutes late."

"Waylaid by a Miranda Hogendobber sticky bun," Harry replied.

Norman swallowed. "They're delicious."

"Don't tempt me!" Laura instructed. "And don't take any to my husband over there at the bank." She nodded in the direction of National Crozet across die street. "Hogan looks at sweets and he gains weight."

Mim hovered over die buns. The odor enticed even her considerable willpower. The swirls in the buns resembled tantalizing pin-wheels. "What the heck?" She plunked down a dollar and grabbed two buns. "Does she bring these to work?"

Harry nodded. "She's been baking a lot these last few weeks. She didn't tell me she was going into business though. Guess I was the guinea pig."

"And you don't have an extra pound on your frame," Aysha complimented her.

"Oh, thanks."

Laura pushed her BC Powders on the counter. "If you did all the farm chores, you wouldn't have to worry either. Harry can probably eat three thousand calories a day and not gain an ounce."

"Speaking of fat, where's Pewter?" Norman, who liked cats, leaned over the counter to look for her.

"Walked out the front door to have a chat with Mrs. Murphy. Well, gang, time to sort your mail."

"Throw out my bills, will you?" Aysha laughed.

"I'm going to give you mine." Harry grinned and left.

She unlocked the front door. Mrs. Hogendobber hadn't come in the back yet. Rob Collier pulled into the front parking space before Harry closed the door. She let it hang open and joined him.

"Only one big bag today."

"Thank God. You about killed us last week."

He noticed the motorcycle. "Who owns diat?"

"I don't know his name."

"California plates. A long way from home." Rob hopped out of the truck, bag over his shoulder, and began reminiscing about motorcycles. Motorcycles engendered male nostalgia. "Did I ever tell you about the little Vespa I had? No bigger than a sigh. I wanted to learn to ride a bike, a real bike. I was fourteen, so I gave Jake Berryhill fifty bucks for his brothers old Vespa. Still ran. I didn't get out of second gear for the first month. Then I got the hang of it, so I traded the Vespa in on a 250cc Honda. I thought I was macho man, and I rode that thing on the back roads 'cause I didn't have a license and I didn't have plates."

"How'd you get away with it?"

"Hell, Harry, there weren't but two deputies for the whole of Albemarle County then. They couldn't be bothered with a kid on a Honda." He continued. "Got my license on my sixteenth birthday. Delivered the paper. Saved up and traded up—500cc Honda." He dumped the bag behind the counter, waved to Miranda, and wistfully gazed at the Harley. "You know, I just might have to get me one. Yeah. Slid on your machine, cranked it, and the crank would always fly up and bark your shin. Roll that right wrist in, let out the clutch with your left hand, just nice and easy, pick up your feet and roll—just roll on to freedom."

"Why, Rob, that's poetic," Miranda said.

He blushed. "Happy times." Then he sighed. "What happens? I mean, when is the moment when we get old? Maybe for me it was when I sold that 500cc."

"Honda dealer's in town. There's Harley dealers in Orange and Waynesboro," Harry said.

"Yeah, yeah. I'm going to think about it—seriously."

"While you're thinking, go next door and buy one of Miranda's sticky buns. She's entered the baking business."

"I'll do that." He backed out the door and walked over to Market's.

Miranda beamed. "Do you think it's a good idea?"

"Uh-huh." Harry's tone was positive.

Out back, Mrs. Murphy, Tucker, and Pewter craned their necks upward at the post office drain spout. Little cheeps reverberated from inside.

"Heard it this morning," Pewter solemnly noted. "Haven't seen anyone fly in or out. Of course, I would have caught anyone if they'd tried."

"Dream on, Pewter. "Tucker giggled.

"/ can catch a bird. I most certainly can, "she huffed.

"We aren't catching this one." Mrs. Murphy's whiskers pointed forward, then relaxed. "Come on, time to sort the mail."

"Is there any food in there?" Pewter inquired.

"You work in a market. Why do you always want to know if we have food at the post office?"T'tids£ts tongue hung out. The day was already heating up.

"Curious. Don't you know anything, Tucker? Cats are by nature curious."

"Brother. "The dog pushed open the animal door and entered the post office.

• • •

By noon the biker still had not appeared. Harry couldn't stand it anymore. She went out front and sat on the Harley. It did feel great, nice and lowdown. She checked around to make sure the Hell's Angel wouldn't charge out of a building and scream at her for touching his precious bike.

By three, still no sign of the owner.

"Harry, I'm calling Rick Shaw." Miranda picked up the phone.

Harry considered this a moment. "Wait a second. Let me go get the license plate number." She ran outside and scribbled the number on a scrap of paper.

Miranda dialed the sheriff's department. Cynthia Cooper picked up the phone. "Why aren't you in the squad car?"

Miranda's voice was distinctive. Cynthia knew the caller at once. "I was. What can I do you for?"

"A black Harley-Davidson motorcycle has been parked in front of the post office all day and the owner doesn't seem to be around."

"Do you know the owner?"

"No, but Harry does. Hold on a minute." Miranda handed the phone to Harry.

"Hi, Cynthia. Actually, I don't know the owner but I saw him at Ash Lawn last week."

"Do you suspect anything?"

"Uh, no, I guess we're just wondering why the bike has been here all day. Maybe he copped a ride in a car or something, but we're not a public parking lot. Want the license number?"

"Yeah, okay."

She read off the number. "California plates. Pretty ones."

"They are. Pretty state taxes too. If I paid that much, I'd want gold-plated tags. Okay, Skeezits, I'll run a check and get back to you," she said, calling Harry by her childhood nickname.

The phone rang in fifteen minutes. It was Cynthia.

"The bike belongs to Michael Huckstep, Los Angeles, California. He's a Caucasian—thirty-four years old."

"That was fast." Harry was impressed.

"Computers. If the bike is still there tomorrow, call me. Actually, I'll swing by tonight and check on it anyway, but call me in the morning. Sometimes people do take advantage of federal facilities. It will probably be gone tomorrow."

8

But it wasn't. The next morning, Tuesday, the Harley was right there.

Cynthia cruised on over and inspected the bike while Harry and Mrs. Hogendobber hurried to finish their morning sorting. Mrs. Hogendobber kept running in and out of the office, she was so afraid she'd miss something.

On her last pass into the post office she breathlessly informed Harry, "She's going to have them dust for prints—you know, in case its stolen."

"Well, if it were stolen, don't you think he'd know it and report it?"

"Not if he's the thief."

Harry cocked her head. "Do criminals have legitimate driver's licenses?"

"Little Marilyn does. The way she drives is a crime." Miranda laughed at her own joke.

Unable to contain her curiosity any longer, Mrs. Murphy strolled out the front door on yet another pass by Miranda. Tucker, lying on her back, legs straight up in the air, was dead to the world. The cat chose not to wake her.

Cynthia, tall and slender, knelt down on the left side of the machine and wrote down the serial number.

Mrs. Murphy jumped on the seat of the motorcycle. She quickly jumped off since it was boiling hot. "Ouch! Don't they make sheepskin seat covers for bikes?"

The humans forgot the task at hand for a moment to gossip about Little Marilyn's latest beau—a man both Mrs. Hogendobber and Cynthia considered unsuitable. They moved on to BoomBoom Craycroft's summer vacation, their hope that Kerry McCray would find a decent guy following her loss of Norman, and the delightful fact that Miranda's baked goods were sold out by eight-thirty that morning.

The tiger, her coat shiny as patent leather in the sunlight, sniffed around the motorcycle. She was careful not to get too close, as the metal would be hot as well. A familiar whiff on the right saddlebag, jet black like the rest of the bike, made her stop. She stood on her hind legs, perfectly balanced, and sniffed deeper. Then she got as close as she dared and inhaled. "Cynthia, Cynthia, there's blood on the saddlebag."

"—Blair Bainbridge, but you know if BoomBoom lays siege to him again, he might give in. Men find her sexy." Cynthia couldn't help indulging in a light gossip.

"She won't turn his head." Mrs. Hogendobber crossed her arms over her large bosoms.

"They all look at BoomBoom." Cynthia never could understand why a good makeup job and big tits made idiots out of supposedly intelligent men.

"Hey, hey, will someone listen to me!"

"Aren't you a Chatty Cathy?" Miranda reached down to stroke the cat's pretty head.

"There's blood on the saddlebag. Want me to spell it foryou?"The cat yowled. She vented her frustrations concerning human stupidity.

"My, she is out of sorts." Cynthia brushed her hands on her pants.

"You're about as smart as a pig's blister. "Mrs. Murphy spat in disgust.

"I've never seen Mrs. Murphy spit like that." Miranda involuntarily took a step backward.

The cat whirled around and diumped to the front door. She called over her shoulder, "It's not chicken blood. It's human blood, and it's a couple of days old. If you all would use those pathetic senses of yours, you might even find it yourselves. "She banged on the door. "Let me in, dammit. It's hot out here."

Since Harry failed to rush right over, Mrs. Murphy, now in a towering rage, shot around to the back of the post office. She smacked open die kitty door, walked in, and whapped Tucker right on the nose.

"Wake up!"

"Ow. "The dog raised her head, then dropped it. "You are hateful mean."

"Come outside with me. Now, Tucker. It's important."

"More important than sleeping in the air-conditioning?"

Mrs. Murphy whapped her again. Harry noticed. "Murphy, retrieve your patience."

"You can just shut up too. None of you know bugjuice. You rely on your eyes far too much, and they aren't that good anyway. Humans are weak, vain, and smelly!"

By now Tucker was on her feet and had shaken herself awake. "Humans can't help being what they are any more than we can."

"Come on. "She vanished out die door.

Tucker joined her at the motorcycle. Both Miranda and Cynthia had ducked into the market.

"Here. "The cat pointed.

Tucker lifted her nose. "Oh, yes."

"Don't touch the bike, Tucker, it's scorching."

"Okay. "The corgi moved closer. Her head was tilted back, her eyes bright and clear, her ears forward. "Human. Definitely human and fading."

"I say four days."

"Hard to tell in this heat, but it sure has been a couple of days. It's only a drop or two. If the saddlebag were soaked, even they'd notice it. The aroma of blood is powerful"

"They don't like the smell, assuming they can smell it."

"Ifthere's enough of it, even they can pick it up. I don't know why they don't like it. They eat meat just like we do."

"Yeah, but they eat broccoli and tomatoes too. Their systems are fussier." Mrs. Murphy brushed by Tucker. "/ trust your nose. I'm glad you came out with me."

"Have you tried pointing this out to them?"

"Yes. "The cat shrugged. "Same old same old. They'll never get it."

"Well, it's a few drops of blood. No big deal—is it?"

"Tucker, a Hell's Angel shows up at Ash Lawn, makes a scene asking for a woman named after a town. Blair gets him out of there. Right?"

"Right."

"Then he sideswipes us as he flies out of Sugar Hollow. And now his motorcycle has been parked in front of the post office for two days."

Tucker scratched her ear. "Something's rotten in Denmark."

9

Actually, something was rotten in Sugar Hollow. A platoon of grade-school hikers on a Wednesday nature trail excursion stumbled upon the remains of a human being. In the high heat the body shimmied with worms.

The stench made the kids' eyes water and some threw up. Then they ran like the dickens down the hollow to the nearest telephone.

Cynthia Cooper picked up the call. She met Sheriff Rick Shaw at the Sugar Hollow parking lot. The nature camp counselor, a handsome nineteen-year-old named Calvin Lewis, led the sheriff and his deputy to the grisly site.

Cynthia pulled out a handkerchief and put it over her mouth and nose. Rick offered one to Calvin. The young man gratefully took it.

"What will you use?" he asked.

"I'll hold my nose. Besides, I've seen more of this than you'll ever want to know." Rick walked over to the corpse.

Cynthia, careful not to touch the body or disturb the scene around it, scanned the blackened mess from end to end.

Then she and Rick walked away from the stench to join Calvin, who wisely had remained at a distance.

"Did you notice anything else when you found die body?" Rick asked. No.

Cynthia scribbled in her notebook. "Mr. Lewis, what about broken branches or a path made by die feet of the body if it was dragged through the underbrush?"

"Nothing like that at all. If we hadn't been looking for mushrooms—die class is identifying different kinds of mushrooms—I don't think we would have, uh, found… that. I smelled it and, uh, followed my nose. It was so strong everywhere that at first I couldn't pinpoint die smell. If I'd known, I would have made the kids stay back. Unfortunately some of them saw him. I didn't mean them to see it—I would have told them it was a dead deer."

Rick put his arm around the young man's shoulders. "Quite a shock. I'm sorry."

"The kids who saw it—I don't know what to tell them. They'll have nightmares for weeks."

Cynthia spoke, "There are a lot of good therapists in the area, people experienced with helping children through trauma." What she didn't say was that most therapists never got this close to raw life or rather, raw death.

After cordoning off the corpse, Rick and Cynthia waited for their team. Calvin rejoined his campers way down at the parking lot.

Rick leaned against a big fiddle oak and lit a cigarette. "Been a long time since I've seen something like this. A real worm's hamburger."

"Whole back blown away. A .357 Magnum?"

"Bigger." Rick shook his head. "Had to have made a loud report."

"People shooting off guns all the time." Cynthia bummed a cigarette offher boss. "Even if it isn't hunting season."

"Yeah. I know."

"A few more days and I think the animals would have been able to pull the arms off, and die legs too. At least the body is intact."

"Let's hope that's a help." He spewed out a stream of soothing blue smoke. "You know, diere used to be stills up here. Clear mountain water. Just perfect. Those guys would blow you away pronto. The marijuana growers are more subtle. Here anyway."

"No still around here—at least, I don't think so."

He shook his head. "Not anymore, now that Sugar Hollow is public. Ever drink diat stuff?"

"No."

"I did once. Take your head right off. It's not called white lightning for nothing." He glanced over his shoulder at the distant corpse. "Wonder what he got into."

"Guess we'll find out."

"Might take us a while, but you're right. Whenever there's a murder I hope it's an isolated expression of violence and not the start of some, you know…"

She knew he meant a serial killer. To date nothing of the kind had ever happened in their area. "I know. Oh, Christ, here come Diana Robb and the crew. If she sees me smoking, I'm going to get Health Lecture 101." Cynthia quickly smashed out her butt in the soft earth.

"Would it do any good?"

"Oh, sure it would—until I wanted the next cigarette."

^o

A damp wind slid down the mountains. Harry jounced and jostled along on Johnny Pop. The manure spreader turned, flinging out wood shavings and manure. The sun seemed pinned to the top of the mountain, the shadows from the line of oaks lengthened. Sunrise and sunset were Harry's two favorite times of the day. And today the sweet smell of her red clover filled the air, making the sunset seem richer. Harry kept her fields in alfalfa, red clover, and timothy. She usually produced a very good hay crop from this.

The cat and dog slept in the barn. A full day at the post office wore them out. Tucker heard the noise of a heavy truck crunching down the driveway. She jumped up and awakened Mrs. Murphy.

"Who goes there?"T't'tc'taa bounded outside.

Blair Bainbridge's dually pulled into sight. Blair stopped and hopped out, shaded his eyes with his hand, saw Harry and sprinted out into the field.

"That's odd, "Tucker said to herself. "He always says hello,"

Mrs. Murphy, yawning in the doorspan, replied to Tucker's unspoken thought. "Maybe he's realized he's in love with Mom."

"Don't be sarcastic." Tucker sat down, stood up, sat down, finally stood up, and trotted toward the tractor.

Mrs. Murphy rolled over on her other side. She wasn't going anywhere. "Seeyou later, Alice Gator."

Tucker tore after Blair, caught up with him, then blew past him.

Harry, seeing diem both, cut the engine. One couldn't hear very well with Johnny at full throttle. "Blair. Hi."

Out of breadi, he gasped, "There's been a murder."

"Who?" Harry's eyes enlarged.

"They don't know."

"How'd you find out?"

He put one hand against the seat of die tractor. "Accident."

"Accident or accidentally?" She smiled at herself because she realized rJiat was exacdy the kind of question her mother would have asked.

He caught his breath as Tucker circled the tractor. "Accident on 810 at Wyant's Store. I slowed down and noticed Cynthia Cooper just mad as hell, so I pulled over. It was a kid in an old Trooper, driving it like a car. He went off the side of the road, overcor-rected, and then sideswiped Cynthia, who was coming from the opposite direction. I mean, she was steamed. The kid was crying, of course, begging her not to tell his parents."

"Is she okay?"

He nodded yes. "Kid too. Anyway, I stayed to help, not that there was much to do, but she isn't the type to get upset. She told me she'd just come out of Sugar Hollow, where a nature group had discovered a dead man. Said it was the grossest mess and she wouldn't be eating dinner tonight. She described what the man was wearing—Harry, I think it's the biker."

Harry jumped down. "What?"

He nodded again. "Heavy black boots, leather vest with symbols and studs—who else fits that description?"

"Blood on the saddlebagst'Tuckcr yipped.

"Well, he can't be the only man in the country with a black leather vest." She stopped a minute and shrugged. A chill overcame her. "Damn, he about ran me over coming out of Sugar Hollow. Covered from head to toe in leather."

"Better talk with Cynthia."

"Did you tell her what you thought?"

"Yeah." He stared at the huge tractor wheel. "He was a little strange. The wheel of fortune, you know."

Harry watched the sun vanish. "Someone's up and someone's down—or dead."

"Won't somebody listen to me? There's evidence on the motorcycle's saddlebags!"

"Tucker, hush, I'll feed you in a minute."

Dejected, Tucker sat on Blair's foot. Blair reached down to pet her.

Blair's lustrous hazel eyes bored into Harry's. "Do you ever get a feeling about somebody? A real sense of who they are?"

"Sometimes."

"Despite his appearance and his manner that day, I just felt he was an okay guy."

"Blair, he can't have been so okay, or he wouldn't be dead."

11

A small crowd gathered at the post office parking lot. Harry, Mrs. Hogendobber, Reverend Jones, Market Shiflett, Aysha, Norman, Ottoline, Kerry, the Marilyn Sanburnes—senior and junior, Blair, Mrs. Murphy, Tucker, and Pewter watched as the sheriff's men loaded the motorcycle onto a flatbed gooseneck. Hogan Freely, president of the Crozet National Bank, with his wife, Laura, walked over and joined the crowd.

Cynthia supervised.

Reverend Jones spoke for all of them. "Do you know anything, Cynthia?"

As Cynthia replied, Susan Tucker pulled in. "Wait, wait for me."

"What is this, a town meeting?" Cynthia half joked.

"Kind of." Susan slammed the door of the new Saab. "Fair's on call. He can't make it, but I'll see that your report gets to Fair and BoomBoom, who has a doctor's appointment."

"There's not much to report. A decayed body, a white male most likely in his early thirties, was found in Sugar Hollow yesterday, late afternoon. We have reason to believe, thanks to Blair's accurate description, that the body is that of the owner of this motorcycle. We're running dental checks and we hope to know something soon. That's it."

"Are we in danger?" Mim asked the sensible question.

Cynthia folded her arms over her chest. "There's no way to accurately answer you, Mrs. Sanburne. We suspect foul play, but we don't know for sure. At this point the department isn't worried that there's a killer on the loose, so to speak."

But there was a killer on the loose. The little gathering felt safe because they didn't know the victim and therefore falsely believed they couldn't know the killer.

As Deputy Cooper drove off behind the truck with the motorcycle, the assembled folks squeezed into Market's for some drinks. The motorcycle had conveniently been removed during lunch hour. The sun beat down on them. An ice-cold drink and air-conditioning were welcome.

The animals scooted between legs.

"Come back here. "Pewter led them to the back shelves containing household detergents. "If we get up here we can see everything." She jumped onto boxes from the floor to the top shelf. Mrs. Murphy followed her.

"Raw deal, "Tucker grumbled.

"You can go behind the counter. Markets so busy, he won't notice."

"All right." Tucker, happier now that she could participate in gleaning information from the humans, worked her way back through the legs to the counter.

Susan, a born organizer, addressed the gathering. "Any of us that've seen the motorcycle before it was parked at the post office ought to write it down for Sheriff Shaw and Deputy Cooper. Obviously, anyone having contact with the deceased should do likewise."

"Contact? He barged into Ash Lawn and made such a scene!" Laura blurted out.

"Well, did you tell Deputy Cooper?" Mim inquired.

"No, but I will. I mean, how could I tell her? We just this instant found out—if it really is that same man. Could be someone else."

Miranda happily watched as people bought her doughnuts, brownies, and tarts—today's batch of goodies. Each day she baked larger quantities and each day they disappeared. She tore herself away from her own products to say, "Those of you who were up at Ash Lawn can go see Sheriff Shaw tomorrow. It would save him time if you go together."

"What happened at Ash Lawn?" Herbie Jones asked the obvious.

"This disheveled man, this dirty biker, pushed open the front door after we were closed—" Laura started to say.

"He wasn't that disheveled," Blair interrupted.

"Well, he certainly wasn't well groomed," Laura protested.

"Jeez." Market brought his hand to his face. "If you can't agree on how he looked, I can't wait to hear the rest of it."

"I was in the back, so I can't add anything." Aysha bought a lemon curd tart. She couldn't resist despite her mothers glowering gaze.

Harry added to the picture. "Blair and I were in the living room. We didn't see him come in but we heard him. He wasn't rude, really, but he was, uh, intense."

"Intense? He was cracked." Kerry put her hands on her hips. Kerry was a bit of an overreactor. She'd only come in from the slave quarters to catch the tail end of the incident. "He wouldn't leave, and Marilyn, who was in charge that day—"

"I asked him to leave," Little Marilyn chimed in. "He wouldn't go. He said he wanted Marin—"

"Malibu," Harry interrupted.

"Yes, that was it. He wanted this Malibu and he claimed she was at Ash Lawn. Well, of course she wasn't. But he was so insistent."

"Who's Malibu?"

"An old girlfriend," Blair told them.

"That doesn't tell us who she is." Mim, as commanding as ever, hit the nail on the head.

Ottoline sarcastically said, "With a name like Malibu, I suggest we look for someone in a tube top, high heels, short shorts, and with voluminous hair—bleached, of course."

n

The sheriff's office, drab but functional, suited Rick Shaw. He disliked ostentation. His desk was usually neat since he spent most of his time in his squad car. He disliked desk work as much as he disliked ostentation. Mostly he hated being stuck inside.

Today files cluttered his desk, cigarette butts overflowed in the large, deep ashtray and the phone rang off the hook. He'd been interviewed by the local television station, the local newspaper, and the big one from Richmond. Those duties he performed as a necessity. He wasn't a sheriff who loved seeing his face on the eleven o'clock news. Sometimes he'd make Cynthia juggle the interviews.

The coroner worked late into the night taking tissue samples.

No driver's license or identifying papers were found on the body. Cynthia knew the plates were registered to Michael Huckstep. But was the body that of Michael Huckstep? They could assume it was, but until they had a positive ID, they wouldn't know for certain. After all, someone could have killed Huckstep and posed as him.

Rick asked for a list of missing persons as well as stolen motorcycles to be made available to him. They were. Nothing on either California list matched the abandoned Harley or the dead man.

Cynthia scraped into the office. He held up his hand for her to wait. He dispensed with his phone call as soon as he could.

"Mim," he said.

Cynthia emptied the ashtray into the wastebasket. "She wants to be the first to know." She replaced the ashtray. "We went over the bike. Nothing there. No prints. Whoever drove it to the post office wore gloves."

"Bikers usually wear gloves."

"Wonder what he was doing in Sugar Hollow?"

Rick held up his hands as he twirled around in his swivel chair. "Sightseeing?" He twirled in the opposite direction, then stopped. "Makes me dizzy."

"If it weren't for drugs, we'd be out of work," she joked. "I bet he went in there to make a deal. Sugar Hollow is pretty but not exactly a tourist attraction. He was in there with someone who knows the county—I betcha."