Pay Dirt

She silently reached over, slipping a cigarette out of his pack, lit it, and spoke. "We searched his motel room. Blair said the biker told him he was staying at the Best Western. The manager, the night manager, and the maids haven't seen Mike Huckstep, the name under which he registered, in days. They don't pay much attention to people coming and going, I guess. No one agrees when they last saw him, but he seemed to be respectful and quiet when he checked in—and he paid in advance for a week."

"Anything in the room?"

"Three T-shirts and a clean pair of jeans. Not another thing. Not a notepad, a pencil, not even socks and underwear. No paperbacks or magazines. Nada!'

"I've been reading over the transcripts of your questioning of the Ash Lawn staff as well as Harry and Blair. You know"—he tipped back in his chair and swung his feet onto the folders on the desktop—"this doesn't compute."

"You mean dieir testimony?"

"No, no, that's fine. I mean the murder. It leads nowhere. Maybe it was a busted deal and the killer took his revenge and the money. There was no money in the pockets of the dead man's jeans."

"Could be…" Her voice trailed off, then strengthened again. "But you don't believe it was a busted drug deal, do you?"

"You've been around me too long. You and my wife see right through me." He put his hands behind his head. "No, Coop, I don't believe it. Murder offends me. I can't stand the thought of anyone getting away with it. The rules for getting along in this world are very simple. Thou shalt not kill, thou shalt not steal— seems reasonable to me. Oh, sure, there are times when I could brain my wife and vice versa—but I don't and she doesn't. I count to ten, sometimes I count to twenty. If I can act with a little restraint I figure others can too."

"Yes, but I think murder has to do with something deeper. Something infantile. Underneath it all a killer is saying 'I want my way.' Simple as that. They don't, they can't, even conceive that other people have legitimate needs that might be different and in conflict with their own. It's all me, me, me. Oh, they might dress it up and look mature, concerned, or whatever, but underneath they're infants in a violent, quivering rage."

Rick ran his hands over his receding hairline. "You been reading psychology books on me, Coop?"

"Nah."

The phone rang. Outside Rick's office an officer picked it up, then called out, "Cynthia, Motor Vehicles in California. Want to take it in Rick's office?"

"Sure." She reached over and punched a button. "Deputy Cooper here." She paused, listening. "I'd appreciate that." She gave the station's fax number. "Thank you very much." She hung up the phone. "Mike Huckstep. They're faxing his registration papers and drivers license to us. At least we'll have a physical description."

He grunted. "Who in the hell is Mike Huckstep?"

13

Valet parking set the tone for Mim's party. On the invitations she had written that it was a western theme party, complete with square dancing and barbecue. The valet parkers, Susan Tucker's son, Danny, and his high school friends, were dressed in plaid shirts with pointed yokes, jeans, and cowboy boots.

Mim sported beautiful ostrich cowboy boots the color of peanut brittle. Her white leather jeans had been custom made for her, fitting like a glove. She wore a white shirt with a turquoise yoke. Her scarf was Hermes and her Stetson was a 20X beaver. The hat alone must have cost more than $300, since most cowboy hats are only 2X or 4X at most, X being the grade of beaver. The hat, of course, was pure white.

Her husband had donned an old pair of jeans, well-worn boots, and a nicely pressed Wrangler brushpopper shirt. His belt buckle hinted at the family pocketbook. It was a large, beautifully worked silver oval with gold initials in the center.

All of Crozet attended the hoedown, as it was billed.

Harry borrowed a deerskin shirt with fringe on the yoke, front and back, as well as long fringe on the sleeves. She wore her one pair of Tony Lama boots that Susan had given her for her birthday three years ago. Blair looked like a younger, more handsome Marlboro man, right down to the chaps. Fair fried when he beheld his competition. Not that Fair was bad-looking, he wasn't, but somehow he could never quite synchronize his clothes. Cowboy attire suited his tall frame though, so he looked better than usual.

Mrs. Hogendobber, dangling loads of costume jewelry, swayed in a big red skirt and a Mexican blouse. Her blue cowboy hat hung on her back, the little silken thread like a necklace setting off her throat.

Reverend Jones dug out an old cavalry uniform. He wouldn't tell anyone where he found it. He could have ridden in from 1880.

The music, the food, the ever-flowing liquor, put the group in a wonderful mood.

Kerry McCray arrived early and alone. She said her date, the singer from the light Opera series, would join them after his show at Ash Lawn. This didn't prevent her from sashaying over to Norman Cramer while Aysha jumped around the dance floor with another partner.

"Norman."

He turned at the sound of the familiar and once-beloved voice. "Kerry."

"Let me ask you something."

"Sure." His tone was hesitant.

"Are you happy?"

A long, long pause followed. He locked his long-lashed blue eyes into hers. "There are days when I think I am and there are days when I think I've made the biggest mistake of my life. What about you?"

"No. I'm not happy at all." She half smiled. "If nothing else, Norman, we can still be honest with one another."

An agonized expression crossed his features, and then he glanced over Kerry's shoulder, since the music had stopped. "Christ, here comes Aysha." He whispered, "I'll see you at work. Maybe we can have lunch—somewhere, you know."

She watched as he scurried to take his wife by the elbow and hustle her back out onto the dance floor. Tears sprang into Kerry's eyes. Little Marilyn had observed the exchange, although she'd not heard it. She came over.

"He's not worth it."

Kerry sniffed and fought back more tears. "It's not a question of worth, Marilyn. You either love a man or you don't."

Marilyn put her arm around Kerry's waist, walking her away from the dance floor.

Fair and Susan Tucker swung one another around on the floor while the voluptuous widow BoomBoom Craycroft, fabulously dressed, ensnared Blair. He didn't seem to mind. Harry danced widi Reverend Jones. She dearly loved the rev and barely noticed the dramas around her. In fact, Harry often shut out those tempests of emotion. Sometimes that was a great idea. Sometimes it wasn't.

After the song ended, the band took a break. The stampede for the bar left the women at the tables as the men jostled for drinks to carry back to "the girls."

Both Blair and Fair arrived at Harry and Susan's table. Mrs. Hogendobber sat at the next table with Herbie and Bob and Sally Taylor, friends from church. Ned was off politicking with the other lawyers.

"Coca-Cola, darling." Fair placed a glass in front of Harry.

Before she could respond, Blair smacked down a gin and tonic. "Harry, you need a real drink."

"She doesn't drink." Fair smiled, baring his fangs.

"She does now." Blair bared his fangs in return.

"Are you trying to get Harry drunk? Pretty crude, Blair."

"Get over it. You divorced her, buddy. I happen to think she's a fascinating woman. Your loss is my gain."

By now the whole party was pretending to be talking with one another, but every ear was cocked in the direction of this exchange.

"She's not a raffle ticket. I haven't lost her and you haven't gained her." Fair squared his massive shoulders.

Blair turned around to sit down. "Cut the crap."

That fast Fair pulled Blairs chair out from under him. Blair sprawled on the ground with a thud.

Blair sprang up. "You stupid redneck."

Fair swung and missed. Blair was quick on his feet.

Within seconds the two strong men were pounding at one another. Blair sent the vet crashing into the table, which collapsed.

"Will you two grow up!" Harry shouted. She was preparing to haul off and sock whoever came closest to her, when a hand closed around her wrist like a steel vise.

"No, you come with me." Reverend Jones yanked her right out of there.

Susan and Mrs. Hogendobber cleared away as the punching and counterpunching increased. As each fist found its target, a thunk resounded over the party. The band hurried back to the bandstand and picked up a tune. Jim Sanburne moved toward the combatants, as did Reverend Jones once he deposited Harry with her hostess.

Harry, red-faced, mumbled, "Mim, I'm so sorry."

"Why apologize for them? You haven't done a thing. Anyway, ever since those drunken swans ruined my Town Country party I just take it as it comes."

Mim's famed Town Country party was one she gave years before, filled with stars and business leaders from all over the country. She imported swans for the pool turned lily pond. She drugged the swans for the occasion, but the drugs wore off and the swans invaded the party, got into the liquor and food, becoming pugnacious. Clips of her party made the nightly news on every station in the country. The presidential candidate for whom this extravaganza was planned was shown running from a swan whose wings were outstretched as well as its neck, beak aiming for that large presidential bottom.

"The swans behaved better than these two."

"Harry, I told you both of them are in love with you. You won't listen to me."

"I'm listening now."

Mim slugged back a refreshing gin rickey. "You can't just be friends with men. It doesn't work that way. And don't be mad at them because they can't be friends the way women can. If a man comes around, he wants more than friendship. You know that."

Harry watched as Jim Sanburne and Herbie finally separated the two men she thought of as her friends. Fair had a bloody nose and Blair's lip was split wide open. BoomBoom Craycroft rushed to minister to Blair, who shrugged her off. "I know it. And I hate it."

"Might as well hate men, then."

"You know I don't."

"Then you have to choose between these two or tell them how you feel about them." She paused. "How do you feel about them?"

Harry faltered. "I don't know. I used to love Fair heart and soul, nothing held back. I still love him, but I don't know if I can love him again in that way."

"Maybe trust is the operative word."

"Yeah." She rubbed her right hand over her eyes. Why was life so complicated?

"Blair?"

"He's a tender man. Very sensitive, and I'm drawn to him—but I'm afraid. Oh, Mim, I just don't know if I can go through loving anyone again."

"Whoever you love will hurt you. You'll hurt him. If you learn to forgive, to go on—you'll have something real." She fingered her Hermes scarf. "I wish I could explain it better than I am. You know that Jim used to cheat on me like there was no tomorrow."

"Uh—" Harry swallowed.

"No need to be polite. He did. The whole town knew it. But

Jim was a big, handsome, wild poor boy when I met him and I used my wealth to control him. Running through women was his revenge. I came so close to divorcing him, but, well, I couldn't. When I discovered I had breast cancer, I guess I rediscovered Jim. We opened up and talked to one another. After decades of marriage we finally just talked and we forgave one another and—here we are. Now, if a rich bitch like me can take a chance on life and love, I don't see why you can't."

Harry sat quietly for a long time. "I take your point."

"You decide between those two men."

"Blair hasn't exactly declared himself, you know."

"I'm not worried about his feelings right now. I'm worried about yours. Make up your mind."

21

Jangled by the previous nights events, Harry awoke early to a steady rain. As it was desperately needed, she didn't resent the gray one bit. She threw on her ancient Smith College T-shirt, a pair of cutoffs, and sneakers, and dashed to the barn.

After she fed the horses, she hung a bridle on a tack hook in die center aisle, grabbed a bar of saddle soap, a small bucket of water, a sponge, and a cloth to begin cleaning. Rhythmic tasks helped her sort out whatever was going on in her life.

Mrs. Murphy climbed into the hayloft to visit Simon. Being nocturnal, he was sound asleep, so she jumped on a stall door and then to an old but well-cared-for tack trunk. Sitting on four cinder blocks, the wooden trunk was painted blue and gold with M.C.M., Harry's initials, in the middle. Mary Charlotte Minor.

Once divorced, she had kept Haristeen. It was such a bother to lose your surname in the first place, and dien to take it back was too confusing for everyone. That's what she said, but Susan Tucker declared she retained her married name because she wasn't yet done with Fair. Everyone had an opinion on Harry's emotional state and no one minded cramming it down her throat.

She'd had enough emotion and probing questions the night before. She wanted to be left alone. Fat chance.

Blair pulled up the drive to the barn. She had the lights on in the barn, so he knew where she was. Dodging the raindrops, he carried a wicker basket into the aisle.

"This is by way of an apology." He flipped open the wicker lid. Delicious scones, Fortnum and Mason jams and jellies, bitesize ham biscuits, a fragrant Stilton cheese, a small jar of exquisite French mustard, and a large batch of peanut butter cookies were crowded inside. There were even water crackers and tins of pate" stuck in the corners. Before she could reply or thank him, he hurried into the tack room carrying a bag of expensive coffee.

"Blair, I've got only a hotpot down here. I don't have anything for you to make fancy coffee with." She was going to apologize for ending her sentence with a preposition, but then thought, Oh, the hell with it. Grammar and speech were ever diverging currents in the English language.

He silently walked back to his truck, returning with a black Krups coffeemaker, an electric grinder, and a small device for frothing milk for cappuccino.

"You do now." He pointed to the espresso machine. "This will have to go in the kitchen. Now you've got everything you need."

"Blair"—her jaw dropped—"this is so, so, uh, I don't know what to say—thank you."

"I was an ass. I'm sorry. If you'll accept my apology, I'll brew whatever your heart desires. How about a strong cup of Colombian to start? Then we can dig in the basket and follow with espresso or cappuccino, whatever you wish."

"Sounds great to me." Harry vigorously rubbed a rein. "And I do accept your apology."

Mrs. Murphy, tail curled around her, swayed on the tack trunk.

She appeared to be sleeping while sitting upright. Humans fell for this trick every time. It was the perfect eavesdropping posture.

Tucker, rarely as subtle, hovered over the basket.

Blair spread a small tablecloth on the rickety table in the tack room. He spied an old coffee tin on a shelf that Harry used as a grain measure. He filled it with water, then dashed outside through the raindrops to pick black-eyed Susans. The coffee was brewed by the time he returned.

"You're soaked."

"Feels good." His hazel eyes were alight.

She put her hands on her hips and looked at the table. "I admire people who are artistic. I couldn't make anything diat pretty out of odds and ends."

"You have other talents."

"Name one." Harry laughed.

"Fishingfor compliments, "Tucker murmured.

"You make people feel good. You have an infectious laugh, and I believe you know more about farming than anyone I've ever met."

"Blair," she laughed, "you didn't grow up on a farm. Anyone who has would seem smart."

"1 see other farmers in the county. Their pastures aren't as rich, their fence lines aren't in as good repair, and their use of space and terrain isn't as logical. You're the best."

"Thanks." She bit into a ham biscuit drenched with the mustard. "I didn't know how hungry I was."

They ate, chatted, and ended their meal with spectacular cappuccino.

Blair inhaled the rich smell of leather, saddle soap, pine shavings, the distinct and warm aroma of the horses.

"This barn exudes peace and happiness."

"Dad and Mom poured a lot of love into this place. Dad's family migrated from the Tidewater immediately before the Revolutionary War, but we didn't find this piece of land until the 1840s. The rich Hepworths, that was Mom's family, stayed in the Tidewater. The Minors, hardscrabble farmers, took what they could. The Depression hurt Papaw and Mamaw, so by the time Dad came along and was old enough to pitch in, there was a lot to do. He realized there wasn't a living in farming anymore, so he worked outside and brought home money. Little by litde he put things back in order, apples, hay, a small corn crop. Mom worked in the library. Early in the morning, late at night, they'd do the farm chores. I miss them, you know, but I look around and see the love they left."

"They left a lot of love in you too."

Tucker put her head on Harry's knee. "Say something nice, Mom."

"Thanks."

"I came over today to apologize and to, well, to tell you I like you a lot. I'm not on my feet… I mean, I am financially but I'm not emotionally. I really like you, Harry, and I haven't, oh—" He paused, as this was harder than he had anticipated. "I haven't been fair to you. I know now that our spending time together has had much greater significance to people here than if we lived in New York. I don't mean to be leading you on."

"I don't feel like you are at all. I'm happy with our friendship."

"That's good of you to say. I'm happy, too, but I vacillate. Sometimes I want more, but when I think about what it would mean here, I pull back. If we lived in New York, I'd know what to do. Here, uh, there's more responsibility involved. I love it when I'm here, but I love being on the road, too, and I guess my ego needs it, the attention. I hate to admit that but—"

"Your ego is what makes you good at what you do."

A sheepish smile and blush followed that remark. "Yeah, but there's something silly about standing around in clothes, being photographed. It's just—if I had any balls, Harry, I'd take acting classes, but I think deep down I know I don't have a scrap of talent. I'm just a pretty face." He laughed at his use of an expression generally used to describe women.

"You're more than that. It's up to you and hey, what does it cost to take acting classes—in money and in time? No one is going to throw tomatoes at you in a classroom. If you're any good at it, you'll know. Nothing ventured, nothing gained." She thought a moment. "The University of Virginia has a good drama department."

"You're okay." He reached across the table for her hand but the phone rang.

"Sorry." She stood up and reached for the wall phone. "Hi. Barn."

The deep timbre on the other line, Fair, said, "Will you still speak to me?"

"I'm speaking to you now."

"Very funny. I'm in the truck, had a call over at Mim's, so I'm on my way."

"Not now."

"What do you mean, not now?"

"I have company and—"

"Blair? Is that son of a bitch there?"

"Yes, he came to apologize."

"Goddammit!" Fair switched off his mobile phone.

Harry sat down again.

"Fair?"

"In an emotional tumult, as my mother would have said."

The phone rang again. "I bet that's him. I'm sorry, Blair." She picked up. It wasn't Fair, it was Susan Tucker. "Susan, I'm glad it's you.

"Of course you're glad it's me. I'm your best friend. Scoop."

"I'm ready." Harry mouthed the name Susan to Blair.

"Ned and Rick Shaw had a meeting today about the fundraiser for the department, and by the bye Rick said the corpse is Mike Huckstep, same fellow that owned the motorcycle. It will be in the papers tomorrow."

"I guess it's not a surprise. I mean, it's what we all figured anyway—that the cycle's owner was the dead man."

"Yeah, I guess that's the end of that. Got a minute?"

"Actually, I don't. Blairs here."

"Ah, that was what I wanted to talk to you about. He came to apologize, I hope."

"Yes."

"We can catch up later, but here it is in a nutshell: Little Marilyn has the hots for Blair."

"A nutshell is where that best belongs." Harry felt that every female under ninety must be swooning over Blair.

"Ah-ha, getting proprietary, are we?"

"No," Harry lied.

"Sure. Okay, I'll call you later for girl talk."

"Spare me. I can't bear one more emotional revelation. Mine or yours or anyone else's. Talk to you later. Bye."

Blair's face clouded over. "Did I just, uh, say too much?"

"Oh, no, no, I don't mean that, but, Blair, all my friends are so busy psychoanalyzing me, you, Fair. I'm sick of it. I'm beginning to think I'm a free movie for everyone."

"I think a single man offends them and a single woman is an object of pity." He held up his hand before she could protest. "It's sexist, but that's the world we live in."

She ran her forefinger over mesmooth surface of the high-tech coffeemaker. "Do you want to get married? Wait, I don't mean to me, it's not that kind of question, but in theory, do you want to get married?"

"No. Right now, at this time in my life, the thought scares the hell out of me." He was as honest as a bone. "What about you?"

"Ditto. I mean, I've been married and I thought I was doing a pretty good job at it. Events proved otherwise."

"That was his stupidity, not yours."

"Maybe, but I'm very self-sufficient and I think Fair, and maybe most men, say they admire that quality but in reality they don't. Fair wanted me to be more, well, more conventional, more dependent, and, Blair, that just ain't me."

"Ever notice how people say they love you and then they try to change you?"

She felt so relieved. He said what she felt. "Yeah, I never thought of it that way, but yeah. I am who I am. I'm not perfect and I'm sure not a movie star, but I get along. I don't want to be any other way than the way I am."

"What about sex?"

She gulped. "I beg your pardon?"

He tipped back his head and roared. "Harry, I'm not that forward. What about people's attitudes about sex? If you have an affair, are you a slut in these parts?"

"No, I think diat honor belongs to BoomBoom."

"Oooh." He whistled. "But if you sleep with someone, doesn't it imply a commitment? You can't get away with it. Everyone seems to know everything."

She cocked her head to one side. "True. That's why one has to look before one leaps. You can get away with it much more easily than I can. The double standard."

"That double standard you just applied to BoomBoom?"

"Ahhh—no. BoomBoom will have engraved on her tombstone 'At Last She Sleeps Alone.' She overdoes it. But I'd feel the same way about a man. You never met him, but BoomBoom's deceased husband was a real animal. He was fun and all, but if you were a woman, you knew never to trust him."

"Animal! I take offense. "Tucker whined, got mad, and padded out to the aisle. She saw Mrs. Murphy and walked over to her friend. She touched her with her nose. "Wake up."

"I'm not asleep."

"You always say that. You're missing some good stuff."

"No, I'm not."

"Well, you think they'll go to bed?"

"I don't know. Not tonight anyway."

Back in the tack room Blair and Harry cleaned up. She packed the uneaten items back in the basket.

"Basket's yours too."

"You're being awfully good to me."

"I like you."

"I like you too."

He pulled her to him and kissed her on the cheek. "I don't know what will happen between us, but one thing you can count on, I'll be your friend."

Harry kissed him back, hugged him, and then let go. "That's a deal."

15

The Crozet National Bank, a squat brick building erected in 1910, sat on the corner of Railroad Avenue in a row of buildings that included the old Rexall's drugstore. The woodwork was white, the effect unadorned and businesslike, which suited its purpose.

Thanks to the frugality of a succession of good presidents over the decades, litde money had been squandered on the interior. The same old hanging lights swayed overhead. Green-shaded bankers' lamps sat in the middle of heavy wooden desks. The tellers worked at a marble counter behind bronze bars. The austerity lent substance to the bank. The only intrusions of modernity were the computer terminals at each teller station and on each administrative desk.

The office of the bank president, Hogan Freely, was on the second floor. Mrs. Murphy, accompanying Harry, wandered up the back stairs. She thought she would generously distribute her personality. However, when she strolled into Norman Cramers office at the far end of the small second story, she decided to hide behind the curtain. Hogan was pitching a major hissy.

"You're telling me you don't know? What in the goddamned hell am I paying you for, Norman?"

"Mr. Freely, please, the situation is highly abnormal."

"Abnormal, it's probably criminal! I'm calling Rick Shaw."

"Let's take this a step at a time." Norman, not the most masculine of men, sounded more masterful than Mrs. Murphy had ever heard him. "If you call in the authorities before I can run a skintight audit, you risk bad publicity, you risk outside auditors being called in. The abnormality in funds may be a glitch in the system. Then we'd be crying wolf. We'd look foolish. Crozet National has built its reputation on conservative investment, protecting our customers' assets and good old common sense. I will work day and night if I have to, but give me some time to comb through our records."

Hogan tapped the floor with his right foot. Mrs. Murphy could see his wing tips as she peered from under the curtain. "How many people do you need and how long?" He paused. "And don't ask Kerry to work on this. The tension between you two is disruptive to everyone."

"Give me the whole accounting department and the tellers as well," Norman replied, his ears red from embarrassment.

"How long?"

"Two days and nights, and we'll have to order in food, lots of food."

A long silence followed, then a forceful reply. "All right. You've got until Wednesday closing time or I'm calling the sheriff. I've got to know why the screen comes up blank when I ask for our assets. And I'm bringing in computer specialists. You work on the books. They'll work on the terminals."

As he started for die door, Norman called to him, "Mr. Freely, I'm head of this department. The buck stops here. If I can't locate the funds or if the technical experts can't find the computer mal-function, which I really believe this to be, then I will face the press. This is my responsibility."

"Norman, I'm sorry I blew up at you. I know you'll do your best—I'm jangled. What if the Threadneedle virus did hit us? I have no way of knowing how much money we have. I can't even keep track of simple daily transactions! How can I cover losses if we've had them? The future of this bank depends on your work. We'll be sitting ducks for a takeover." His voice cracked. "And how can I face my board of directors?"

"Mim Sanburne most particularly," Norman drawled. "We'll find it. Put it out of your mind if you can."

"Out of my mind—?" Hogan left before finishing his sentence.

Mrs. Murphy waited, then slipped out the door, jumping the stairs two at a time. She glided over to Harry, who was withdrawing one hundred and fifty dollars. The truck needed a new battery and she hadn't bought groceries in over two weeks.

"Mom, take it all out," the cat advised.

Harry felt a familiar rub on her legs. "Visiting done? Let's go back to work."

"Mom, this bank is in deep doo-doo. You'd better pay attention to me."

Of course, Harry didn't. She walked back to the post office, Mrs. Murphy glumly following at her heels.

Pewter waited for them outside the market. "Murphy, is it true that the boys got into a fight over Harry?"

"Yes. "Mrs. Murphy evidenced no interest in the subject.

"Who won?"

"Nobody."

"You're a sourpuss. "Pewter fell in alongside her friend.

"Pewts, I was upstairs at the bank and I heard Hogan Freely say that they can't get the computers to report transactions or the amount of money in the bank."

"Humans put too much faith in money."

"Maybe so…1 tried to tell Mom, but you know how that goes. She ought to get her money out of there."

"Money. You can't eat it, it doesn't keep you warm. It's pieces of paper. Weird, when you think about it. I believe in the barter system my-self."

Mrs. Murphy, lost in thought, missed her friend's comment. "What'dyou say?"

"Money's just paper. Not even good enough to shred for a dirt box. But I want to know about the fight."

"I wasn't there."

"Did she say anything about it?"

"No, but Blair came over to apologize."

"Was he horribly contrite?"'Pewter wanted the details.

"He bought her an expensive coffeemaking machine. And he brought a big wicker basket full of fancy food."

"What kind of food?'"Pewter's mouth watered.

"Uh—liverpclte¹, crackers, jellies, scones. Stuff."

"Oh, I wish I'd been there. Liverpte". My favorite."

"Any food is your favorite." ,

"Strawberries. I hate strawberries,'"Pewter contradicted her.

"You know, Mom was on the phone with Susan over the weekend, and then this morning she talked to Mrs. Hogendobber about Fair and Blair, in particular; men, in general. She likes them both, but she's… "Mrs. Murphy shrugged.

"Burned her fingers. What's that expression? Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me. Guess it haunts her."

"Here comes Coop. She already picked up her mail."

Cooper pulled into the lot and saw the cats. "Hot outside, girls. Let's go in."

"Okay."The two cats scooted inside when she opened the door.

Miranda glanced up. "Forget something?"

"No. Just a question for you and Harry."

Harry walked up to the counter. "Shoot."

"Oh, Harry, don't say that." Cynthia grinned. "What I want to know is did you notice anyone paying special attention to the bike when it was parked here?"

"Every man that walked by except for Larry Johnson." Larry was the old doctor in town. He hardly ever used his car. He hated machines, walked everywhere, did his own wood chopping and other chores, and enjoyed robust health.

"Names."

"Gee, Cynthia, everyone. Rob Collier, Ned Tucker, Jim Sanburne. Hogan Freely, Fair, Market, Blair—Danny Tucker about died over it and, uh, did I forget anyone?"

Miranda piped up. "Herbie and, let's see, oh, yes, Norman Cramer."

Cynthia furiously scribbled away. "Women?"

"Barely a glance except for me, of course." Harry added, "Why are you asking?"

"I went over that machine with a fine-toothed comb. Then I decided to go over the saddlebags. I was so busy worrying about what was in them—nothing—that I didn't scrutinize the outsides. Couldn't see much anyway since they're black, but I sent them to our little lab, just in case."

Tucker and Mrs. Murphy pricked their ears. Pewter was playing with a cricket in the corner.

"There was a small quantity of blood on one of the bags."

"I told you!" the cat yowled.

"Mrs. Murphy, get a grip," Harry chided her.

"Considering how the man was shot," Mrs. Hogendobber said, "wouldn't blood have splattered everywhere?"

"We know how he was killed, Miranda, but we don't really know where he was killed. We only know where the body was found. And the blood isn't his. The tests came back on the corpse. He had a rare type, AB negative. The blood on the bag was O positive."

"You mean—" Harry didn't finish her sentence.

"There might be another body." Miranda finished it for her.

"Don't jump to conclusions," Cynthia warned. "We've got a team up in Sugar Hollow. If there's anything there, they'll find it. Especially if it's…" She delicately left off.

"Flesh and blood, "Tucker barked.

16

Harry, Miranda, and Susan combed the forest in the early evening light, the pale golden shafts illuminating spots here and there, the scent of moss and fallen leaves rising around them.

Although Cynthia had told them to keep out of it, they'd do more harm than good, once the sheriff's team left Sugar Hollow, the three women zipped in.

Mrs. Murphy somersaulted as she tried to catch a grasshopper. "Spit, spit tobacco juice and then Til let you go."

"Gotta catch him first." Tucker thought grasshoppers beneath her attention.

"/ will, O ye of little faith, and when I do I'll say, 'Spit, spit tobacco juice and then Til let you go.'"

"Grasshoppers don't understand English. "Tucker put her nose to the ground again. She wanted to assist the humans, but any trace of scent other than the smell of rot still hanging on the ground was gone. The humans could no longer smell die decay. "There's

nothing here. We've been walking in circles for an hour and I don't know why they want to stick their noses in it anyway," growled Tucker, who stuck her nose in everything.

"A dull summer. Besides, when has Mother ever been able to sit still?"

"Isure can. "And with that Tucker plopped down.

The grasshopper or a close relative flipped by Murphy again, and she shot straight up in the air, came down with the insect between her paws, and rolled on the ground.

"Gotcha¹."

However, she opened one paw slightly for a close look at her quarry and the grasshopper pushed off with its hind legs, squirting free. Murphy pounced, but the grasshopper jumped high and opened its wings to freedom. In a rage Murphy clawed at the leaves on the ground.

"Ha-ha, "Tucker tormented her.

"Oh, shut up, stumpy." She batted the leaves once more in disgust. "Tucker—"

"What now?"

"Look."

The corgi reluctantly rose and walked over to the cat's side. She looked at the small clearing Mrs. Murphy made. "A ring."

"More than that. A wedding ring. "Murphy touched it with one claw. "There's an inscription inside. You stay here. I'll get Mom."

"Good luck."

"I'm going straight for the leg. No meowing and brushing by."

"Like I said, good luck."

The leaves crunched underfoot, a fallen tree trunk emanating a dry and powdery aroma blocked her path. The cat soared right over it. She blasted into the middle of the humans.

"Busy bee." Mrs. Hogendobber noticed Murphy's antics.

" 'You ain't seen nothing yet.' "Mrs. Murphy parodied Al Jolson's line. She fixed her gaze on Harry, then turned, ran straight for her leg, and bit it.

"Ouch! What's the matter with you?" Harry swatted at her. Murphy expertly avoided the clumsy hand and bit the other leg.

"Rabies! That cat has rabies." Mrs. Hogendobber stepped backward into a vine and fell right on her large behind.

"Miranda, are you all right?" Susan hurried over to help up the older lady.

"Fortunately, yes. I have ample padding," she grumbled as she brushed off her bottom.

"Come on. "Mrs. Murphy ran around in a tight circle, then sat still in front of Harry. "Okay, Tucker, how about the National Anthem?"

" 'O say can you see—' "Tucker warbled.

"What an awful racket." Miranda held her hands over her ears.

Susan laughed. "She doesn't think so."

"Come on. Follow me. Come on. You'll get it. Watch the pussycat." Mrs. Murphy backed up a few steps.

"She's yakking away as well." Susan watched Murphy.

"Might as well see what it is." Harry got the message. "For all I know, Tucker has her foot caught in a root or something. I never know what these two will get into."

"As long as it's not a skunk." Mrs. Hogendobber wrinkled her nose.

"We'd know by now." Susan crawled over the rotted trunk, which Murphy again cleared in one bound.

Mrs. Hogendobber negotiated the obstacle at a slower pace. By the time she was over, Harry had reached Tucker, who didn't budge.

"'—at twilight's last gleaming, whose broad stripes and—' *

"Tucker, "Mrs. Murphy interrupted this outburst of patriotism, "you can stop now."

"I was just warming up."

"I know. "The cat reached down and touched the ring. "How long do you give them?"

"A minute. There's three of them, and unless one of them steps on it, someone will see it."

Harry knelt down to pat Tucker. "You okay, girl?"

"Willyou look here!" Mis. Murphy fussed.

Susan did. "Jeez O Pete. Look."

Miranda bent over. "A wedding ring." She reached for it, then withdrew her hand. "Better not."

Harry snapped offa twig from a low branch, slipped it through the ring, and brought it up to her eyes. "M M 6/12/86."

17

Coop decided not to gripe at Harry, Susan, and Miranda. After all, they did find the wedding ring, about fifty yards from where the body was found. She'd sent it out for prints, although she figured that was hopeless.

It wasn't even noon, but the day was getting away from her. Two accidents during rush hour and both on Route 29, which snarled up traffic. She'd sent out one officer, but with summer vacations depleting the staff, she covered the other one herself.

As soon as Cynthia had received the information from the Department of Motor Vehicles in California, she called the Los Angeles Police Department. She wondered if Huckstep had a criminal record. Sure enough, the answer came back positive for offenses in San Francisco.

The San Francisco Police Department told her Mike Huckstep had a record for minor offenses: assault and battery, traffic violations, and one charge of indecent exposure. The officer on duty suggested she call Frank Kenton, the owner of the Anvil, a San Francisco bar where Huckstep had worked. When Cynthia asked why, the officer said that they always believed Huckstep was involved in more than minor crime, but they could never nail him.

Cynthia picked up the phone. It would be eight in the morning in San Francisco. She'd gotten the phone number of the Anvil as well as the owner's name and number.

"Hello, Mr. Kenton, this is Deputy Cynthia Cooper of the Albemarle County Sheriff's Department."

A sleepy, gruff voice said, "Who?"

"Deputy Cooper, Albemarle County Sheriff's Department—"

"Where in the hell is Albemarle County?"

"In central Virginia. Around Charlottesville."

"Well, what in the hell do you want with me? It's early in the morning, lady, and I work till late at night."

"I know. I'm sorry. You are the owner of the Anvil, are you not?"

"If you know that, then you should have known not to call me until after one my time."

"I regret disturbing you, but we're investigating a murder and I think you can help us."

"Huh?" A note of interest crept into the heavy voice.

"We found a body which we've finally identified as Michael Huckstep."

"Good!"

"I beg your pardon."

"Good, I'm glad somebody killed that son of a bitch. I've wanted to do it myself. How'd he get it?" Frank Kenton, wide awake now, was eager for details.

"Three shots at close range to the chest with a .357 Magnum."

"Ha, he must have looked like a blown tire."

"Actually, he looked worse than that. He'd been out in the woods in the July heat for at least three days. Anything you can tell me, anything at all, might help us apprehend the killer."

"Shit, lady, I think you should give the killer a medal."

"Mr. Kenton, I've got a job to do. Maybe he deserved this, maybe he didn't. That's not mine to judge."

"He deserved it all right. I'll tell you why. He used to bartend for me. Mike had that look. Big broad shoulders, narrow waist, tight little buns. Good strong face and he'd let his beard go a few days. He was perfect for the Anvil. Think of him as gorgeous rough trade."

Cynthia knew that "rough trade" was a term originated by homosexuals that had passed into heterosexual parlance. It meant someone out of the class system, someone with the whiff of an outlaw, like a Hell's Angel. The term had devolved to mean anyone with whom one slept who was of a lower class than oneself. However, Cynthia assumed that Mike Huckstep was the real deal.

"Is the Anvil a straight or gay bar?"

"Gay."

"Was Mike gay?"

"No. I didn't know that, or I wouldn't have hired him. At first I didn't notice anything. He was good at his job, good with people. He flirted with the customers, made a haul in tips."

"You mean you didn't notice that he wasn't gay?"

"Lady, it was worse than that. He brought in his girlfriend, this flat-chested chick named Malibu. Where in the hell he found her, I'll never know. Anyway, he convinced me to let her help out here. Now, I'll never put a chick behind the bar. That's where we need action. But she fit in, worked hard, so I put her at the door. She could screen customers and handle admission."

"You charge for the bar?"

"On weekends. Always have a live band on weekends."

"Did they steal from you?"

"Not a penny. No, what they did was this. Mike would pick out someone rich. Actually, I think Malibu did the grunt work. Nobody took her seriously. Just another fruit fly, you know what I mean?"

Cynthia understood the term for a woman who hung around gay men. "I know."

"So she'd ask questions, cruise by people's houses if she could track down an address or if they gave it to Mike. Then Mike would trick with the rich guy and Malibu would take pictures."

"Like a threesome?"

"No," he bellowed, "she hid and took pictures and then they'd shake the poor sucker down."

"I thought San Francisco was a mecca for gay America."

"If you work in the financial district, it's not any more of a mecca than Des Moines. And some of the older men—well, they have a different outlook. They have a lot of fear, even here."

"So what happened?"

"One of my regulars, a good man, old San Francisco family, member of the Bohemian Club, wife, kids, the whole nine yards, Mike and Malibu nailed him. He shot himself in the head. A couple of friends told me they suspected maybe Mike was behind it. I finally put the pieces together. He got wind of it, or she did. He never came back to work. I haven't seen him since the day after George Jarvis killed himself, January 28,1989."

"What about her?"

"Haven't seen her either."

"Were they married?'

"I don't know. They certainly deserved each other."

"One other question, Mr. Kenton, and I can't thank you enough for your help. Did they deal?"

Frank paused to light a cigarette. "Deputy Cooper, back in the seventies and eighties everyone dealt. Your own mother dealt drugs." He laughed. "Okay, maybe not your mother."

"I see."

"Now, can I ask you a favor?"

"You can try."

"If you've got a photograph of that rotten scumbag, you send it out here to me. I know a lot of people who will want to see Mike dead."

"It's pretty gruesome, Mr. Kenton."

"So was what he did. Send me the pictures."

"Well___Thank you again, Mr. Kenton."

"Next time call after one." He hung up the phone.

Cynthia drummed her fingers on the tabletop. There was no shortage of people who wanted to kill Mike Huckstep. But would they follow him here after years had elapsed? What did Huckstep do between 1989 and now? Was Malibu with him? Where was she?

She called the San Francisco Police Department and spoke to the officer in charge of community liaison. He promised to cooperate. He knew the Anvil, knew Kenton. He'd put someone on the case to ask questions of anyone who might remember Huckstep. It wouldn't be his first priority, but he wouldn't forget.

Then she called the LAPD again. She had asked them to go over to Huckstep's apartment. Yolanda Delgreco was the officer in charge.

"Find anything?" Coop asked when Yolanda picked up the line.

"Funny you should call. I just got back. It's been crazy here. Anyway, I'm sorry I'm late. Place was cleaned out. Even the refrigerator was cleaned out. He wasn't planning on coming back."

"Did the landlord or neighbors know anything about him?"

"His landlord said he didn't work. Had a girlfriend. She dumped him. Huckstep told him he lived off his investments, so I ran a check through the banks. No bank account. No credit cards. Whatever he did was cash and carry."

"Or he had the money laundered."

"Yeah, I thought of diat too. When my money's laundered it's because I forgot to clean out my pockets before putting my stuff in the washing machine." Yolanda laughed.

"Hey, thanks a lot. If you ever come to Virginia, stop by. We've got some good women in the department. It will take a while longer here than there probably, but we're working on it."

"Thanks. If I do find myself in Virginia, I'll visit. You have many murders there?"

Cynthia said, "No, it's pretty quiet that way."

"If anything turns up on Mike Huckstep, I'll buzz." Cynthia hung up the phone. Most of her job on a case like this was footwork, research, asking a lot of questions. Over time and with a bit of luck a pattern usually emerged. So far, no pattern.

18

At seven-thirty in the morning the mercury hovered at a refreshing 63 degrees. Harry intended to jog to work, which took twenty minutes and gave Mrs. Murphy and Tucker exercise too. But she fell behind in her farm chores and hopped in the truck instead. The animals climbed in with her.

"Ready, steady, go." She cut on the ignition. The Superman-blue truck chugged a moment, coughed, and then turned over. "Better let it run a minute or two."

Mrs. Murphy's golden, intelligent eyes were merry. "Mother, it's not the battery that's the problem. This truck is tired."

"Yeah, we need reliable transportation, "Tucker carped.

Harry hummed, then pushed in the clutch, popped it in first, and rolled down the driveway. She reached for the knob on the radio. A country music station blared.

"I hate that stuff. "The. cat slapped at the knob, making the reception fuzzy.

"Threepoints. "Tucker encouraged her.

The tiger's paw shot out again and she moved the dial even more.

"Bless our nations leaders in this time of moral peril, give them the courage to root out the evil of Satanism masquerading as liberalism, and lest we—"

"Gross." Murphy blasted the radio. "Humans are weird beyond belief."

The strains of a popular tune greeted her kitty ears.

"Better." Tucker's pink tongue hung out. "Wrinkle music, you know."

"What do you mean, wrinkle music?"Thc cat cocked her head at the soothing music.

"For old people. Haven't you noticed that no one wants to admit they're old? So radio stations advertise that they play hits from the fifties, sixties, seventies' up to today. That's bunk. It's wrinkle music, but the listener can pretend he's hip or whatever word they used when they were young."

"I never thought of that. "Mrs. Murphy admired her friend's insight. "So how come we don't hear Benny Goodman?"

"The Big Band generation is so old, they're going deaf."

"Savage, Tucker. Wait until you get old and I make fun of you." The cat laughed.

"You'll be old right along with me."

"Cats don't age like dogs do."

"Oh, bull!"

The news crackled over the radio. Harry leaned forward to turn up the sound. "Pipe down, you two. I want to hear the news and thank you, Mrs. Murphy, for manning the stations. Catting the radio? Doesn't sound right."

"You're welcome. "Mrs. Murphy put her paws on the dash so she could see through the windshield.

"The state's largest banks are reporting computer breakdowns. For the last week technicians have been working to restore full function to the computer systems of Richmond Norfolk United,

Blue Ridge Bank, and Federated Investments, all of which are reporting the same problem. Smaller banks are also experiencing problems. Roland Gibson, president of United Trust in Roanoke, counsels people to have patience. He believes this is fallout from the Threadneedle virus, which hit businesses and banks on August first but caused no serious damage, so it was believed. Don't withdraw your money—"

"What do you think of that?" Harry whistled.

"I think I'd call my banker." Murphy arched a silky eyebrow.

"Yeah, me too, "the dog echoed.

Harry pulled up behind the post office. When she opened the door the tantalizing aroma of orange-glazed muffins greeted her. Miranda, in a house-cleaning mood, put a checkered tablecloth on the little table. She was measuring the chairs for seat-cover fabric.

"Morning."

Harry's nostrils flared to better capture the scent. "Been reading Howe and Garden again?"

"Threadbare." She pointed to the chair seats. "Couldn't stand another minute of it. Have an orange muffin. My latest."

Harry shoved the muffin in her mouth and said thank you after she ate it. "I sure hope you took some of these next door. These are the best. The best ever." She gulped. "Threadbare. Threadneedle."

"What?" Miranda's lipstick was pearly pink.

A knock on the door diverted Harry's attention from her musing. Susan pushed through the back door. "Where's Rob?"

"Late. Why, are you offering to sort the mail?"

"No." Susan sniffed. "What is that divine smell?"

Harry pointed to the plate of muffins.

Mrs. Hogendobber nodded and Susans hand darted into the pile. "Oh, oh—" was all she could manage. Swallowing, Susan licked her lips. "I have never tasted anything so delicious in my entire life."

"Now, now, base flattery. You know what the Good Book says about flatterers."

Susan held up her hand for stop. "I don't know what the Good

Book says, but I am not flattering you. These are absolutely out of this world!"

"Well, I want ow/"Tucker yelped.

Mrs. Hogendobber gave the dog a morsel.

"What's up, Susan? It must be pretty good if you're here this early."

"I get up early." She brushed crumbs off her magenta T-shirt. "However, the buzz is that Mim is fit to be tied—in a total, complete, and obliterating rage."

"Why?"

"She owns a large, as in thirty-seven percent, chunk of Crozet National."

"So?" Harry reached for another orange delight.

"Two million dollars is missing from the bank."

"What!" Miranda shouted.

"Two million smackers." Susan ran her fingers through her blond curls. "Ned's on the board and Hogan called him last night to tell him that he has given Norman Cramer until Wednesday night to finish his audit. He's also called in computer whizzes, since that's where the mess seems to have started, but he believes die money is gone. He wants to prepare everyone before he gives a press statement Friday morning. He's not one hundred percent sure about the sum, but that's what the computer types are telling him as they piece the system back together."

"Good Lord." Mrs. Hogendobber shook her head. "What is—"

"It's the Threadneedle virus. Oops, sorry, Miranda, I interrupted you."

Mrs. Hogendobber waved her hand, no matter.

"/ changed the station. That's how she found out, * the cat bragged.

"But Crozet National?" Susan continued. "It's small beer compared to United Trust. Of course, they aren't reporting missing funds—yet."

"The Soviets." Miranda smacked the table and scared Tucker, who barked.

"There aren't any more Soviets," Harry reminded her.

"Wrong." Miranda's chin jutted out. "There is no longer a USSR, but there are still Soviets. They're bad losers and they'd love to throw a clinker into capitalist enterprise."

"At Crozet National?" Harry had to fight not to laugh.

"Banks are symbols of the West."

"That's neither here nor there. I want to make sure my money is safe. So I called Hogan myself. Ned could have killed me. Hogan assured me that our money is safe, and even though two million is a terrible loss for the bank, it can absorb it. And the money may yet be found."

"Is Norman Cramer up to the job? I know he's head accountant over there, but—"

"Harry, what does he have to do but punch numbers into a computer? An audit's an audit. It's time consuming, but it doesn't take a lot of gray matter." Miranda, a good bookkeeper, still thought an adding machine could do the job.

The back door swung open. A depressed Mim came in, then brightened. "What is that marvelous—" She spied the muffins. "May I?"

"Indeed." Miranda held out her hand as if bestowing an orange muffin on her old acquaintance.

"Mmm." Mim brushed off her fingers after making short work of the delicious treat. "Susan tell you?"

"Uh—" Harry stalled.

"Yes."

"We can't do much until tomorrow afternoon, when the audit is complete. Worrying won't help." She poured herself a cup of coffee. "Anyone?"

"Any more caffeine and I'll be—"

"A bitch. "Tucker finished her mother's sentence.

"Hello!" Pewter arrived through die animal door. "What a beautiful day."

"Hello, gray kitty." Susan stroked Pewter's round head. "What do you know that's good?"

"I just saw Kerry McCray tellAysha Cramer to go to bloody hell."

"What?" the cat and dog asked.

"Isn't she cute?" Mrs. Hogendobber pinched off some muffin for the cat.

Rob Collier tossed the mail bag in the front door as Market Shiflett hustled in the back. Everyone yelled hi at everyone else.

"What a goddamned morning!" Market cursed. "I'm sorry, ladies. Even my cat had to get out of the store."

"What's going on?"

"Cynthia Cooper drove in the minute I opened. She was joking, her usual self, bought coffee and an orange muffin, ah, you brought some here too, Miranda. I'm sold out and it's not even eight. Anyway, Aysha zipped in, and as luck would have it, Kerry followed. They avoided each other just as you'd expect, but they both came to the counter at the same time. Cynthia was leaning against the counter, facing the door. I don't know what kicked it off, but Kerry told Aysha to move her fat butt. Aysha refused to move and called Kerry a cretin. The insults escalated. I never knew women could talk like that—"

"Like what?" Mim's eyes widened.

"Kerry called Aysha a slut. Aysha told Kerry if she'd kept Norman happy he'd have never left her. Well, Kerry said she wasn't a cocksucker, that she would leave that work to Aysha. Before I knew it, Aysha slapped Kerry and Kerry kicked Aysha in the shins. Doughnuts were flying and Cynthia put her coffee on the cake display and separated the two, who were by that point screaming. I just—" He shook his head.

"What despicable language!" Miranda picked up Pewter and held her hand over the cats ears, realized what she'd done, and quickly removed her hand.

"Kerry told Aysha she was a fake. She doesn't come from an old family. "Pewter relished the gossip.

Mrs. Hogendobber stroked the cat, oblivious of the details.

"It's true." Mrs. Murphy sat down and curled her tail around her. "The Gills are no more first family of Virginia than Blair Bainbridge. The great thing about Blair is he couldn't care less."

Market caught his breath. "Aysha scratched Cynthia, by mistake she said. I rushed over to pull Kerry back, since Cynthia was trapped between them, keeping them apart—I was sure they were gonna wreck my store. As we pulled them away from each other, Kerry noticed a wedding ring on the floor. She scooped down to pick it up, I had only one arm on her, you know, and she threw it in Aysha's face. 'You lost your wedding ring. That's bad luck, and I wish you a ton of it.' Aysha checked her left hand. She still had her ring on. But she picked up the ring and said, 'This isn't mine.' She held up her ring finger and that set Kerry off again. She lunged for Aysha. I thought I would never get Kerry out of the store. She apologized profusely once I did and then she burst into tears." He threw up his hands. "I feel bad for her.

"The ring had fallen out of Cynthia's pocket when she jumped into action, so to speak. Actually, I shouldn't make light of it. They were out of control and someone could have been hurt. Aysha handed the ring back to Cynthia. 'Married?' she asked. Cynthia said no, she had no secret life. The ring was found near the corpse in Sugar Hollow. She was a little sheepish about it, but she said if she carried it around, now that it was back from the lab, she was hoping it would give offa vibration and give her an idea."

He shook his head again. "Crazy morning. Oh, and Laura Freely came in just looking like death. What's the matter with her? Hogan running around or something?"

"Hogan doesn't run around," Mim said frostily.

"Kerry's got to get over Norman," Susan jumped in.

"Either that or kill Aysha," Market said.

19

Dark circles under Norman Cramers eyes made him look like a raccoon. He stood before Hogan Freely, whose office was adorned with golf mementos.

"—the staff was great, but we couldn't find what does appear to be a two-million-dollar deficit. We keep coming up short, but we can't find the location of the loss, so to speak. We've gone over everything and I feel responsible for this—"

Hogan interrupted him. "Don't blame yourself."

"I was hoping this was an isolated accounting error."

"This must be what the Threadneedle virus was really about."

"I don't know, sir. Odier banks aren't reporting losses. They're reporting downed computers."

"Norman, go home and get some sleep. I'll face the music."

"I should be there with you. This isn't your fault."

"I appreciate that, but the duty is mine to break the news to our investors and customers. Why don't you just go home and sleep? You look like you need it. I appreciate how hard you've worked on this."

"Well"—Norman folded his hands behind his back—"there has to be an answer."

"Yeah"—Hogan smiled weakly—"I just hope I live long enough to find it. Some slick investigator will figure this out. I spoke to an old college buddy down in Virginia Beach at Atlantic Savings and he said the bank has already retained the services of Lorton Rabinowitz."

"The experts on corporate sabotage." Norman's pupils widened.

Hogan stood up. "Go on, get some sleep."

Wednesdays Fair worked the western end of Albemarle County. That was his excuse to show up at Harrys farm. He found her repairing fences on the back line of her property.

"In the neighborhood."

"So I see," Harry replied.

"I was wrong. That guy pisses me off, but I was wrong."

"How about an apology for hanging up on me."

"That too. If you'd waited a minute, I would have gotten to that. I'm sorry I swore at you and hung up." He jammed his hands in his pockets.

"Apology accepted."

"Need a hand?"

"Sure."

They worked side by side as they had done for the years of their marriage. The light faded, the mosquitoes appeared, but they pressed on until it was too dark. They knew one another so well, they could work in silence without worrying about it.

20

The hot, hazy, humid days of August fled before a mass of cool, sparkling air from Canada, the second in the last ten days. The clear skies and rejuvenating seventy-degree temperatures delighted everyone's senses except perhaps diose of Hogan Freely, Norman Cramer, and Mim Sanburne. Not that people clapped their hands when they heard over the morning radio and local television that money was missing from the bank, but in the relief from summer's swelter it didn't seem so immediately important. Also, they believed Hogan when he declared their funds were secure.

Mrs. Hogendobber drove over to Waynesboro Nursery. She wanted a pin oak for the northern corner of her property, a half-acre lot right behind the post office on the other side of the alleyway.

Mrs. Murphy slept in the mail cart. Tucker stretched out under the table in the back. Harry boiled water for tea to counteract her midmorning slump.

The door opened. Aysha glanced around before stepping inside. "Morning."

"Morning, Aysha. No one's here."

"As long as Kerry's not around." Aysha slipped the key in her mailbox, opened the heavy little door, and scooped out her mail. "I suppose you heard what happened yesterday. I guess everyone has."

"Market said you and Kerry got into it." Harry shrugged. "It'll blow over."

Aysha placed her mail on the counter. "She's mental. How can it blow over when she's obsessed with Norman and likewise obsessed widi me—negatively, of course. If he had been in love with her, if it had been the right combination, he would have stayed, right?"

"I guess." Harry was never comfortable when people veered toward analyzing one another. She figured psychology was another set of rules with which to restrain people. Instead of invoking the wrath of God, one now invoked self-esteem, lack of fulfillment, being out of touch with one's emotions. The list could go on and on. She tuned out.

"What am I supposed to do?" Aysha wondered. "Hide? Not appear at any social function where Kerry might be present lest I bruise her fragile emotions? Everybody wants to be loved by everybody. That's her real problem, it's not just Norman. She has to be the center of attention. This sure is one way to get it. Why… I even worry about going into the bank. If she had any decency, she'd transfer to another branch. Norman says he avoids her like the plague."

Harry thought Kerry a bit emotional, but the Kerry she knew didn't fit Aysha's description. "Right now neither one of you can be expected to feel good about the other. Ignore her if you can."

"Ignore someone who would have killed me if she could?"

"It wasn't that bad."

"You weren't there. She would have killed me if Cynthia hadn't separated us. Thank God she was there. I'm telling you, Harry, the girl is disturbed."

"Love does strange things to people."

Susan and Mim, one by the front door the other by the back, entered at the same time.

"How's Norman?" Mim asked.

"Stressed out. He can't sleep. He's frantic over the missing money." She knitted her eyebrows. "And this episode with Kerry preys on his mind. He insisted on going to work today, on being there when Hogan made his press statement. I keep telling him, 'Honey, no one blames you,' but he blames himself. He needs a vacation, something."

Mim changed the subject. "Marilyn will take your place at Ash Lawn tomorrow. I know she called and left a message on your machine, but since I'm here, I thought I'd tell you."

"Bless her heart." Aysha's face relaxed. "I can spend tomorrow with Norman. Maybe I can slip a tranquilizer into his coffee or something. Poor baby."

Susan, in her tennis blouse and skirt, checked the old railroad clock. "Harry, I'm late for my game. You gonna be around tonight?"

"Uh-huh. I'm on the back fence line."

"Okay. Ned's going to Richmond, so I'll bring a cold supper."

"Great."

Susan left, Aysha swept out, and Mim stayed. She flipped up the divider and walked behind the counter. As Harry's tea water was boiling, she poured Harry's cup of tea and one for herself too. "New seat covers."

"Miranda couldn't stand the old ones. She's so good at stuff like this."

"Harry, will you do me a favor?"

"If I can."

"When you sort the mail, if you see an unusual number of registered letters or large packages from brokerage houses"—she paused—"I guess you can't tell me, but call Rick Shaw immediately."

Harry gratefully sipped the hot beverage. "I can do that."

"I think the money has to go somewhere. Buying large quantities of stock would be one place, although not the safest. I considered that." Her large gold bangle bracelets clanged together when she reached for her cup. "But a person could say the money was inherited or they could even be in collusion with a broker. But the culprit could be anywhere, and two million dollars doesn't disappear."

Harry, not knowing much about high finance, said, "Is it difficult to get one of those numbered accounts in Switzerland?"

"Not really."

"I would think the temptation to spend the money would be overwhelming. I'd buy a new tractor and truck today."

"Whoever did this is patient and highly skilled at deceit, but then, I suppose we all are to one extent or another."

"Patient or deceitful?" Harry laughed.

"Deceitful. We learn early to mask our feelings, to be polite."

"Who would be smart enough to pull this off?"

"Someone with a more rapacious appetite than the rest of us ever realized."

Just then Reverend Jones stepped into the post office.

Mrs. Murphy looked up at her mother just as Mim did. Mim and Harry looked at the portly reverend and said, "Never."

"What are you girls talking about?"

"Appetites," Harry answered.

Kerry McCray nibbled at carrot sticks and celery. She wasn't hungry and she'd cried so much, she felt nauseated. Reverend Jones, just back from the post office, shepherded her to the slate patio in the back of his house, scrounged in the refrigerator for something to eat, and made some iced tea.

"I don't know what to do." She teared up again, her upturned nose sniffing.

"Everyone loses his or her temper. I wouldn't worry too much about that."

"I know, I know, but I love him and I don't think she does. Oh, she fawns all over him for show, but she doesn't really love him. How could she? All she thinks about is herself. She hasn't changed much since grade school except she's better-looking. The boob job helped."

Herb blushed. "I wouldn't know about that."

"How can you miss it?"

"Now, Kerry, if you dwell on Aysha and Norman, you'll worry yourself to a shadow. You've lost weight. You've lost your sparkle."

"Reverend Jones, I pray. I ask for help. I think God's put me on call-waiting."

He smiled. "That's my Kerry. You haven't lost your sense of humor. We are each tested in this life, although I don't know why. I could quote you Scripture. I could even give you a sermon, but I don't really know why we have to suffer as we do. War. Disease. Betrayal. Death. Some of us suffer greater hardships than others, but still, we all suffer. The richest and the poorest alike know heartache. Maybe it's the only way we can learn not to be selfish."

"Then Aysha needs to suffer."

"I've felt that way about a few people I don't much like, too, but you know, leave them to heaven. Trust me."

"I do, Reverend Jones, but I'd like to see her suffer. I don't feel like waiting until I'm forty. In fact, I'd like to kill her." Kerry's lower lip trembled. "And that's what scares me. I've never hated anyone like I hate her."

"It'll pass, honey. Try to think about other things. Take up a new hobby or a vacation, something to jolt you out of your routine. You'll feel better, I promise."

As Reverend Jones counseled Kerry with his mixture of warmth and good sense, Susan and Harry finished up the fence repairs. Mrs. Murphy chased a mouse. "Gotcha!" She grabbed at the mouse, but the little devil squirmed from under her paw to scoot under a pile of branches that Harry had made when she pruned the trees in the back.

Tucker, also in on the chase, whined, "Come on out, coward."

"They never do. "Murphy checked the back of the woodpile just incase.

"Locust posts are hard to find." Harry admired the posts her father put in twenty years earlier. "The boards last maybe fifteen years, but these posts will probably outlast me."

"You'll live a long time. You'll replace them once before you go." Susan picked up her hammer. "I should do this more often. No wonder you never gain an ounce."

"You say that, but you look the same as when we were in high school."

"Ha."

"Don't accept the compliment, then." Harry grinned, checked the ground for nails, and stood up. "Wish we had a little more light. We could take a trail ride."

"Me too. Let's go over the weekend."

"Did I tell you what Mim said to me at her party? She said that men and women couldn't really be friends. Do you believe that?"

"No, but I think her generation does. I've got scads of male friends and Ned has women friends."

"But you still have to settle the issue of sex."

Susan swung her hammer to and fro. "If a man doesn't mention it, I sure don't. I think it's their worry not ours. Think about it. If they don't make a pass at a lady, have they insulted her? I suppose it's more complicated than that, but it seems to me they're damned if they do and damned if they don't. If they take the cue from us that it's okay to forget about it, then I think most of them do. Anyway, after a certain age a man figures out that the first three months sleeping with a new woman will be as thrilling as always. After that it's the same old same old."

"Are we getting cynical?"

"No. Realistic. Everyone you meet in life has problems. If you dump one person and pick up another, you've picked up a new set of problems. It might be that person number two's problems are easier for you to handle, that's all."

"I'm between person number one and person number two and I'm sick of problems. I'm considering being a hermit."

"Everyone says that. Fair's person number one and—"

"It galls me that he thinks he can waltz back into my life."

"Yeah, that would get me too, sometimes, but hey, give him credit for knowing you're the right person and he screwed up."

"Screwed around."

"Mother, give him a break, "Tucker said.

"Nonetheless, my point stands. As for Blair—"

"Blair hasn't declared himself, so I'm not taking him as seriously as everyone else is."

"But you like him—I mean, likehimi" Susan's voice was expectant.

"Yeah—I like him."

"You can be maddeningly diffident. I'm glad I'm not in love with you." Susan punched her.

"Don't be ugly."

They trudged toward the barn in the distance. Mrs. Murphy raced ahead, sat down, and as soon as they drew near her, she'd race off again. Tucker plodded along with the humans.

As they put away the tools, Harry blurted out, "Susan, when did the money disappear from the bank?"

"Last week, why?"

"No one has pinpointed an exact time, have they?"

"Not that I recall."

"There's got to be a way to find out." Harry grabbed the phone in the tack room and dialed Norman Cramer. She peppered the tired man with questions, then hung up. "He said he doesn't know for certain the exact time, but yes, it could have started on August first."

Susan rolled the big red toolbox against the corner of the tack room. "The damn virus did work, but doesn't it seem weird to you that other banks aren't reporting missing funds?"

"Yeah, it does. Come on into the house."

Once inside, Harry sat cross-legged on the floor of the library just as she did when she was a child. Books surrounded her. She paged through an Oxford English Dictionary. Susan, in Daddy Minor's chair, propped her feet up on the hassock, leafing through a book on the timetables of history.

Mrs. Murphy prowled the bookshelves as Tucker wedged her body next to Harry's.

"They'vegot all the books they need."

The cat announced, "There's a mouse in the walls. I don't care about the books."

"You won't get her out. You haven't been having much luck with mice lately."

"You don't know."

"Say, where's Paddy?"Tucker wondered where Mrs. Murphy's ex, a handsome black and white torn with the charm and wit of the Irish, was living these days.

"Nantucket. His people decided the island would be dull without him, so I guess he's up there chasing seagulls and eating lots of fish."

Harry flipped to "thread." It covered two pages of the unabridged version of the O.E.D.

She found "threadbare," which was first used in writing in 1362. The gap between when a word is used and when it is written down can be decades, not that it mattered in this case.

Her eyes swept down die thin, fine grade of paper. "Ah-ha."

"Ah-ha what?"

"Listen! 'Threadneedle' first appeared in writing in 1751. It's a children's game where all join hands. The players at one end of this human string pass between the last two at the other end and then all pass through."

"I can't see that that has anything to do with the problem."

"Me neither."

"Are there other meanings?"

"Yeah. As a verb phrase, 'thread the needle.' It was written in 1844. It refers to a dancing movement when a lady passes under her partner's arm, their hands being joined." Harry glanced up from the dictionary. "I never knew that."

"Me neither. Anything else?"

"It can also mean to fire a rifle ball through an augur hole barely large enough to allow the ball to pass without enlarging the hole." Harry closed the big volume, making a thick, slapping sound. "What have you found?"

"On August 1, 1137, King Louis VI of France died. So did Queen Anne of Britain in 1714." She read some more. "And Germany declared war on Russia in 1914. Well, that certainly changed the world."

"Let's try another book. There has to be something we're missing."

"It could be a red herring, you know."

"Yeah, I do know, but there's something about this that smells of superiority. Whoever is fooling around—"

"Stealing."

"Right, whoever is stealing money is going to rub our noses in how dumb we are."

"Here." Mrs. Murphy, with her paw, pulled out another book listing events in history. The book fell to the floor.

"Murphy." Harry shook her finger at the cat. "You can break a book's spine doing that."

"Don't be such a pill."

"Back talk." Susan laughed. "It sounds exactly the same whether it's your animals or your children."

"I never talk back, "Tucker stated.

"Liar," came the cat's swift reply. She jumped down from the bookshelf to sit next to Harry. Susan left her chair and sat on the floor on the other side of Harry.

"Okay. August first. Slavery was abolished in the British Empire in 1834."

"That reminds me, Mim was talking to Kate Bittner about the Civil War series on PBS. Mim said, 'If I'd known it was going to cause this much fuss, I would have picked the cotton myself.'"

Harry leaned back, hands on knees. "Jeez, what did Kate do?" As Kate was of African descent, this was not an idle question.

"Roared. Just roared."

"Good for her. Think she'll be voted president of the Democratic Party in the county?"

"Yes, although Ottoline Gill and—"

"Ottoline's a Republican."

"Not anymore. She had a fight with Jake Berryhill. Bolted from the party."

"What a tempest in a teapot. Let's see what else. In the Middle Ages, August first was considered an Egyptian Day which was supposed to be unlucky."

"Give me that." Susan took the book from Harry. "You're too slow." Her eyes scanned the dense print. "Harry, here's something." She pointed to the item halfway down the page.

They read aloud, "In 1732, the foundation stone was laid for the Bank of England's building on Threadneedle Street in the City ofLondon."

Harry leapt up and grabbed the phone in the kitchen. "Hey, Coop. Listen to this."

Susan, on her feet now, held the book for Harry to read.

When she finished reading, Harry said, "Susan and I—huh?"

Coop interrupted her, "Keep it right there. Between you and Susan."

Offended, Harry replied, "We aren't going to take out an ad in the paper with this."

"I know, but in your enthusiasm you might spill the beans." Coop apologized. "I'm sorry if I snapped at you. We're understaffed. People rotating off for summer vacation. I'm stressed out and I'm taking it out on you."

"I understand."

"You've done good work. Threadneedle means something… I

guess. It's about banks. You know, this whole thing is screwy. The Threadneedle virus seemed to be a prank. Then two million dollars cannot be accounted for at Crozet National. There's a rash of car wrecks on 29 and a very dead Mike Huckstep, about whom we know little, is on a slab in the morgue. Everything happens at once."

"Sure seems to." Harry had held the earpiece for Susan, who heard everything.

"Hang in there, Coop," Susan encouraged.

"I will. I'm just blowing ofFsteam," she said. "Listen, thanks for your help. I'll see you soon."

"Sure. Bye."

"Bye."

Harry hung up the phone. "Poor Coop."

"This too shall pass."

"I know that. She knows that, but I don't want my money to pass with it. My money is in Crozet National. It may not be so much, but it's all I have."

"Me too." Susan cupped her hand under her chin, deep in thought. In a moment she asked, "You're getting pretty good on the computer, aren't you?"

Harry nodded.

Susan continued. "I'm not so bad myself. I had to learn in self-defense because Danny and Brookie use the thing constantly. At first I didn't know what they were talking about. It really is great that they learn this stuff at school. To them it's just business as usual."

"Want to raid Crozet National's computer?"

"You read my mind," Susan said, grinning. "We could never get in there though. Hogan might be willing, but Norman Cramer would die if anyone touched his babies. I guess his staff wouldn't be too thrilled about it either. What if we screwed it up?"

"Somebody's done that for us," Harry said. " 'Course, we could sneak in."

"Harry, you're nuts. The building has an alarm system."

"/ could sneak in," Mrs. Murphy bragged, her cars pricked forward, her eyes flashing.

"She could. Let her do it, "Tucker agreed.

"You guys must be hungry again." Harry patted Tuckers head and rubbed her long ears.

"Every time we say anything, she thinks we want to go out or we want to eat. "Mrs. Murphy sighed. "Tucker, we can go into the bank ourselves."

"When do you want to do it?"

"Tomorrow night."

21

A heavy mist enshrouded the buildings. Downtown Crozet seemed magical in the dim, soft night. Mrs. Murphy and Tucker left the house at one-thirty A.M. with Harry sound asleep. Moving at a steady trot, they arrived at the bank by two.

"You stay outside and bark if you need me."

"What if you need me?"Tuds.ci sensibly asked.

"I'll be all right. I wonder if Pewter is awake? She could help."

"If she's asleep, it will take too long to get her up and going." Tucker knew the gray cat only too well.

"You're right. "The tiger sniffed the heavy air. A perfumed scent lingered. "Smell that?"

"Yeah."

"Why here?"

"I don't know."

"Hmm, well, I'm going inside." Her tail straight up, the cat moved to the back door with its old wooden steps. Bricks in the foundation had loosened over the years, and a hole big enough for a cat, a possum, or a bold raccoon, accommodated Mrs. Murphy. She swept her whiskers forward, listened intently, then dropped down into the basement. She quickly ran up the stairs to the first floor. She smelled that perfume again. Much stronger now. She jumped on the cool marble counter in front of the teller windows. She trotted down the counter to the end. The carpeted stairway leading to the second floor was nearby. She followed her nose to the stairs, silently leaping two at a time. The only noise was that of her claws in the carpet as she grabbed for a foothold.

As she neared the top of die stairs, she heard human voices, low, urgent. She flattened herself and slunk along the hallway. She arrived at Hogan's office, where sitting on die floor in the dark were Norman Cramer and Kerry McCray. She froze.

"—to do." Norman's voice was ragged.

"Get a divorce."

"She'll never allow it."

"Norman, what's she going to do—kill you?"

He laughed nervously. "She's violently in love with me, or so she says, but I don't think she really loves me. She loves the idea of a husband. When no one's around, she tells me what to do like I'm an idiot. And if she's not telling me what to do, Ottoline takes up the slack."

"Just tell her it isn't working for you. You're sorry."

He sighed. "Yeah, yeah, I can try. I don't know what happened to me. I don't know why I left you. But it was like I had malaria or something. A fever. I couldn't think straight."

Kerry didn't really want to hear this part. "You need to be real clear. Just 'I'm sorry, I want a divorce' is a good way to start. Okay, so she loses her temper and runs you down all over town. Everyone does that when they break up, or almost everyone."

"Yeah—yeah, I know. It's just that I'm under so much pressure now. This mess here at die bank. I don't know if I can handle two crises at the same time. I need to solve one before attacking the other. I'm not stringing you along. I love you, I know that now. I

know I've always loved you and I want to spend the rest of my life with you, but can't you wait—until I get things straightened out here? Please, Kerry. Please, you won't regret it."

"I—" She began crying. "I'll try."

"I do love you." He put his arm around her and kissed her.

Mrs. Murphy, belly low, quiedy backed away, then turned and tiptoed down die hall to die stairs. Once on the first floor, she raced across the polished parquet in that sanctuary of money, scooted back down into the cellar, and squeezed out the hole to freedom.

Tucker, relieved to see her friend, bounced up and down on her stubby legs.

"Kerry and Norman are in there crying and kissing. Damn. "Mrs. Murphy sat and wrapped her tail around her, for die air was quite cool now.

"Where're their cars?" Tucker was curious. "They had to have hidden them. Everyone knows everyone, right? Imagine if Reverend Jones or anybody, really, drqpe by and found their cars at the bank. I want to know where they've stashed their cars."

"Me too." Mrs. Murphy inhaled die cool air. "/ hate love triangles. Someone always gets hurt."

"Usually all three," die dog sagely noted. "Come on. Let's check in the alleyway behind the post office."

They hurried across the railroad tracks. No car rewarded their speedy efforts.

"Ifyou were a human, where would you park your car?" the cat wondered. "Under something or behind something unused or ignored in some way."

They thought for a time.

"There are always cars behind Berryman's garage. Let's look."

They ran back out to Railroad Avenue and loped west, turning south at the railroad underpass onto Route 240. The little garage, freshly painted, was on the next corner.

Stuck behind the other cars waiting to be repaired was Norman's Audi.

"Score 0«?/"Tucker yipped.

"We'd better head home. If we circle the town trying to find Kerry's car, we won't be home by daylight. Mom will be worried. We found one, that's good enough for now."

Footsteps in the distance alerted them. Norman Cramer was heading their way.

"Ssst, here." Mrs. Murphy pointed to a truck that was easy to crawl under.

They peered out but remained motionless. Norman, wiping his eyes, quietly opened the driver's door, got in, started the motor, and drove about half a block without lights before turning them on.

"He looks like Death eating a cracker, "Tucker said.

They made it home by sunrise. When Harry fed them she noticed grease on Tuckers back. "Damn, Tucker, have you been playing under the truck again? Now I've got to give you a bath."

"Oh, »o/"Tucker wailed to Murphy. "See the trouble you got me into."