Pay Dirt. Murder, She Meowed. Murder On The Prowl

“Driving’s great. The short game…” Hogan turned down his thumb.

“I’m sorry to hear about the losses at the bank. I know how much that must weigh on you.” The reverend’s voice, deep and resonant, made the listener feel better already.

“I have turned that problem inside and out. Upside down. You name it. And still nothing.”

Aysha and Norman joined them. Kerry hung back, but she wasn’t leaving. Susan joined die circle and Harry stayed a step back with Kerry. Mrs. H. walked behind the counter with Market.

“It’s in the computer,” Susan blurted out.

“Susan, the computer techies checked our system.” Norman grimaced. “Nothing.”

“The Threadneedle virus.” Susan beamed. “Harry and I—”

“No, wait a minute,” Harry protested.

“All right, it was Harry’s idea. She said diat the moneys were noticed missing within a day or two of the Threadneedle scare—”

“We nipped that in the bud.” Norman crossed his arms over his chest.

“That’s just it,” Harry offered. “Whatever the commands were, there must have been a rider, something to delay and then trigger a transfer of money.”

“Like an override.” Hogan rubbed his chin, a habit when his mind raced. “Uh-huh. I wonder. Well, we know the problems not in the machine, so if we can figure out the sequence, we’ll know.”

“It could be something as simple as, say, whenever you punch in the wordThreadneedle, a command is given to take money,” Susan hypothesized.

“Now, ladies, with all due respect, it isn’t that easy. If it were, we would have found it.” Norman smiled weakly.

Aysha, eye on Kerry, chimed in. “Let’s go, honey, we’ll be late for Mother’s dinner.”

“Oh, sure.”

“I think I’ll fiddle around tonight at the bank. I work best at night, when it’s quiet. You’ve given me an idea, you two.” Hogan glanced from Susan to Harry.

Norman rolled his eyes. Both Aysha and Kerry noticed. Keeping his voice steady, he said, “Now, boss, don’t scramble my files.” This was followed by an anemic laugh.

“Don’t worry.” Hogan grabbed his grocery bag. “Those pastries, Miranda—too much.” He left.

Norman and Aysha followed.

Kerry, fighting back her urge to trash Aysha, smacked her carton of eggs on the counter so hard, she broke some of them. “Oh, no, look what I’ve done.”

Susan opened the egg carton. “You sure have. Kerry, it’s never as bad as you think it is.”

“Thanks,” came the wobbly reply.

“Where’s Tucker?” Harry asked of Susan.

“Back at the house.”

“I’m going out to get Murphy. She won’t speak to me. Mrs. H.—”

“Yes.”

“Vet day. If I can’t convince that furry monster to go home with me, will you keep an eye on her? She’ll go to the post office or your back door.”

“I’ll put her in the store with Pewter. Murphy can’t resist a bite of sirloin,” Market offered.

He was right. Both cats waltzed through the back door about an hour later.

Late that night with the lights out, Murphy told Pewter what she had heard at the bank. They sat in the big storefront window and watched the fog roll down.

“You’ve never spent a night in the store,” Pewter observed. “It’s fun. I can go out if I want since Market put in a kitty door like yours, but mostly I like to sit in the window and watch everything.”

“It was nice of Market to let me stay. Nice of him to call Harry too. I suppose she thinks I’m learning a lesson. Fat chance. I’ll remember the date.”

“She fooled you. She took you to the vet on Sunday. Special trip.”

Mrs. Murphy thought about that. “She’s smarter than I think. Wonder what she had to pay Dr. Parker to make a special trip to the office?”

When Hogan pulled into the bank, his headlights were diffused in the thickening mist. The cats could just make him out as he unlocked die front door and entered. Within a minute the lights went on upstairs, in a fuzzy golden square.

“Diligent,” Pewter said. She licked one paw and wiped it over an ear.

Lights turned off in other buildings as the hours passed. Finally only a few neon lights shone in store windows or over signs; the street lamps glowed. The cats dozed, then Mrs. Murphy opened her eyes.

“Pewter, wake up. I heard a car behind us.”

“People use the alleyway.”

A door slammed, they heard the crunch of human shoes. Then a figure appeared at the corner. Whoever it was had walked the length of the alleyway. They couldn’t make out who it was or even what gender, as the fog was now dense. In a moment, swirling gray swallowed the person.

Inside his office Hogan kept blinking. His eyes, exhausted by the screen of the computer, burned. His brain burned too. He tried all manner of things. He punched in the wordThreadneedle. He remembered the void commands. He finally decided he would review clients’ accounts. Something might turn up that Norman had missed. An odd transfer or an offshore transfer. He could go through the accounts quickly since he knew these people and their small businesses. He was at the end of the Hs by midnight. An unfamiliar yet familiar name snagged him.

“Huckstep,” he said aloud. “Huckstep.” He punched in the code to review the account. It had been opened July 30 in the name of Michael and Malibu Huckstep, a joint account. Of course—the murdered man. He must have intended to stick around, if he opened an account. That meant he had an account card with his signature and his wife’s. He was going to go downstairs to check the card files, but first the buttons clicked as he checked the amount in the savings account: $4,218.64. Not a lot of money but enough. He rubbed his eyes and checked his wristwatch. Past twelve. Too late to call Rick Shaw. He’d call him first thing in the morning.

Meanwhile he’d go down and check those signature cards. He stood up, interlocked his fingers, and stretched his hands over his head. His knuckles cracked just as the bullet from a .357 tore into his shoulder. He opened his mouth to call out his assailant’s name, but too late. The next one exploded his heart and he crashed down into his chair.

Back in the store, the cats heard the gunfire.

“Hurry!” Mrs. Murphy yelled as they both screeched out the kitty door. As they ran toward the bank, they heard through the dense fog footsteps running in the opposite direction, up at the corner.

“Damn! Damn!‘“The tiger cursed herself.

“What’s the matter?”

“Pewter, we should have gone around back to see the car.”

“Too late now.” The smallish but rotund gray cat barreled toward the bank.

Arriving at the front step only a couple of minutes after the gunfire, they stopped so fast at the door that they tumbled over one another and landed on a figure slumped in the doorway, a smoking .357 in her hand.

“Oh, NO!” Murphy cried.

24

Kerry McCray lay slumped across the front doorway of the bank. A small trickle of blood oozed from her head. The acrid odor of gunpowder filled the air. The pistol was securely grasped in her right hand.

“We’ve got to get Mrs. Hogendobber.” Mrs. Murphy sniffed Kerry’s wound.

“Maybe I should stay here with her. “Pewter kept patting Kerry’s face in a vain effort to revive her.

“If only Tucker were here.” The tiger paced around the inert form. “She could guard Kerry. Look, Pewter, we’ll have to risk that she’ll be safe. It’s going to take two of us to get Mrs. Hogendobber here.”

That said, the two sped through the fog, running so low to the ground and so fast that the pads of their paws barely touched it. They pulled up under Mirandas bedroom window which was wide open to catch the cooling night air. A screen covered the window.

“Let’s sing, “Murphy commanded.

They hooted, hollered, and screeched. Those two cats could have awakened the dead.

Miranda, in her nightdress, shoe in hand, came to the window. She opened the screen and let fly. Mrs. Murphy and Pewter dodged the missile with ease.

“Bad shot! Come on, Mrs. H., come on!”

“Pewter?” Miranda squinted into the fog.

The tubby kitty jumped up on the windowsill followed by Mrs. Murphy before Miranda could close the screen.

“Oh, please, Mrs. Hogendobber, please listen to us. There’s terrible trouble—“Pewter said.

“Somebody’s hurt!” Murphy bellowed.

“You two are getting on my nerves. Now, you get on out of here.” Miranda slid the screen up again.

“No!” they replied in unison.

“Follow me. “Murphy ran to the door of the bedroom.

Miranda simply didn’t get it even though Pewter kept telling her to hurry, hurry.

“Watch out. She might swat,” Murphy warned Pewter as she snuck in low and bit Miranda’s ankle.

“Ouch!” Outraged, Mrs. Hogendobber switched on the light and picked up the phone. As she did, she noticed the cats circling her and then going back and forth to the door. Their distress affected her, but she wasn’t sure what to do and she was mad at Murphy. She dialed Harry.

A dull hello greeted her.

“Your cat has just bit me on the ankle and is acting crazy. Rabies.”

“Mrs. Hogendobber—” Harry was awake now.

“Pewters here too. Screeching under my window like banshees and I opened the window and they jumped in and—” She bent down as Pewter rubbed her leg. She noticed a bit of blood on

Pewters foreleg and paw where the cat had patted Kerry’s head. “Pewter has blood on her paw. Oh, dear, Harry, I think you’d better come here and get these cats. I don’t know what to do.”

“Keep them inside, okay? I’ll be right over, and I’m sorry Murphy bit you. Don’t worry about rabies—she’s had her shots, remember?” Harry hung up the phone, jumped into her jeans and an old workshirt. She hurried to the truck and cranked it up. As she blasted down the road, she stuck some gum in her mouth. She’d been in too big a rush to brush her teeth.

In seven minutes she was at Miranda’s door. As Harry entered the living room Murphy said, “Try again, Pewter. Mother’s a little smarter than Miranda.”

They both hollered, “Kerry McCray’s hurt.”

“Somethings wrong.” Harry reached for Pewter’s paw, but the cat eluded her and ran to the front door.

“Rabies.” Miranda folded her arms across her bosom.

“No, it isn’t.”

“That tiger, that hellcat, bit me.” She dangled her ankle out from under her nightdress. Two perfect fang marks, not deep but indenting the skin, were revealed.

“Come on,” Murphy yowled at the top of her lungs. She scratched at the front door.

“These two want something. I’m going to see. Why don’t you go back to bed. And I do apologize.”

“I’m wide awake now.” Miranda returned to her bedroom, threw on a robe and slippers, and reappeared. “I can’t go back to sleep once I’ve been awakened. Might as well prove that I’m as crazy as you and these cats are.” With that she sailed through the open door. “I can barely see my hand in front of my face. How’d you get here so quickly?”

“Drove too fast.”

“Come on. Come on.” Murphy trotted up ahead in the gray mists, then back. “Follow my voice.”

“Harry, we’re out on Main Street and they’re headed for the railroad tracks.”

“I know.” The air felt clammy on her skin.

“Is this some cat trick?”

“Shut up and hurry! “Pewter’s patience was wearing thin.

“Something definitely is agitating them and Murphy’s a reasonable cat—usually.”

“Cats are by definition unreasonable.” Miranda stepped faster.

The bank loomed in the mist, the upstairs light still burning.

The cats called to them through the fog. Harry saw Kerry first, lying facedown, right hand outstretched with the gun in it. Mrs. Murphy and Pewter sat beside her.

“Miranda!”

Mrs. Hogendobber moved faster, then she, too, saw what at first seemed like an apparition and then like a bad dream. “Good heavens.”

Harry skidded up to Kerry. She knelt down and felt for a pulse. Miranda was now next to her.

“Is she all right?” Mis. Murphy asked.

“Her pulse is regular.”

Miranda watched Pewter touch Kerry’s head. “We’ve got to get an ambulance. I’ll go in the bank and call. The door’s open. That’s odd.”

“I’ll do it. I have a funny feeling something is really wrong in there. You stay here with her and don’t touch anything, especially the gun.”

Miranda realized as Harry disappeared into die bank diat she’d been so distraught at the sight of the young woman, she hadn’t noticed the gun.

Harry returned shortly. “Got Cynthia. Called Reverend Jones too.”

“If this is as bad as I think it is, then I suppose Kerry needs a minister.” Miranda’s teeth were chattering although the night was mild.

Kerry opened her eyes. “Mrs. Murphy.”

The cat purred. “You’ll be fine.”

“After the headache goes away, “Pewter advised.

“Kerry—”

“Harry—” Kerry reached to touch her head as she rolled onto her side and realized a gun was in her right hand. She dropped it as if it were on fire and sat straight up. “Oh.” She clasped her head with both hands.

“Honey, you’d better lie back down.” Miranda sat beside her to ease her down.

“No, no—let me stay still.” Kerry forced a weak smile.

A coughing motor announced Herb. He pulled alongside the bank and got out. He couldn’t see them yet.

“Herbie, we’re at the front door,” Miranda called loudly to him.

His footsteps came closer. He appeared out of an envelope of thick gray fog. “What’s going on?”

“We don’t really know,” Miranda answered.

Kerry replied, “I feel dizzy and a little sick to my stomach.”

Herb noticed the bank door was wide open.

Harry said, “It was open. I used the phone inside, but I didn’t look around. Something’s wrong.”

“Yes—” He felt it too. “I’m going in.”

“Take the gun,” Miranda advised.

“No. No need.” He disappeared into the bank.

“Should we go with him?“Vevntt wondered.

“No, I’m not leaving Mother.” Murphy continued purring because she thought the soothing sound might calm the humans.

“What little friends you are.” Kerry petted the cats, then stopped because even that made her stomach queasy.

“They found you and then they found us—well, it’s a long story.” Harry sat on die other side of Kerry.

“Herb, what’s the matter?” Miranda was shocked when he reappeared. His face, drained of all color, gave him a frightful appearance. He looked as sick as Kerry.

“Hogan Freely’s been murdered.” He sat heavily on the pavement almost the way a tired child drops down. “I’ve known him all my life. What a good man—what a good man.” Tears ran down his cheeks. “I’ve got to tell Laura.”

“I’ll go with you,” Miranda offered. “We can go after the sheriff arrives.”

“Kerry.” Harry, shaking, pointed to the gun.

Kerry’s voice wavered. “I didn’t kill him. I don’t even own a gun.”

“Can you remember what happened?” Harry asked.

“Up to a point, I can.” Kerry sucked in air, trying to drive out the pain. “I was over at Mother and Dads. Dad’s sick again, so I stayed late to help Mom. I didn’t leave until a litde past midnight, and I was crawling along because of the fog. I passed the corner and thought I saw a light in Hogan’s office window. It was fuzzy but I was curious. I turned around and parked in the lot. I figured he was up there trying to find the money like he said he was going to do and I was going to surprise him, just kind of cheer him up. I walked up these steps and opened the door, and that’s all I remember.”

“What about sounds?” Harry asked.

“Or smells?”Pewter added. “Murphy, let’s go in and see if we can pick up a scent. Harry’s all right. No one’s around to hit her on the head and Kerry won’t do anything crazy.”

“Okay.”

The two cats left.

“I remember opening the door. I don’t remember footsteps or anything like that, but somebody must have heard me. I didn’t think I was making that much noise.”

“Luck of the draw,” Herb said. “You were going in as he was going out.”

The sirens in the distance meant Cynthia was approaching.

The two cats lifted their noses and sniffed. “Let’sgo upstairs. “Mrs. Murphy led the way.

As they neared Hogan’s office, Pewter said in a small voice, “/don’t think I want to see this. *

“Close your eyes and use your nose. And don’t step in anything.”

Murphy padded into the room. Hogan was sitting upright in his chair; his shoulder was torn away. Blood spattered the wall behind him. A small hole bore evidence to the bullet that killed him. Murphy could smell the blood seeping into the upholstery of the chair.

Pewter opened one eye and then shut it. “/can’t smell anything but blood and gunpowder.”

“Blood and gunpowder. “Mrs. Murphy leapt onto his desk with a single bound. She tried not to look into Hogans glassy stare. She liked him and didn’t want to remember him like this.

His computer was turned off. His desk drawers were closed. There was no sign of struggle. She touched her nose to every article on his desk. Then she jumped back to the floor. She stopped by the front of his desk.

“Here.”

Pewter placed her nose on the spot. “Rubber. Rubber and wet.”

“From the misty night, I would think. Rubber won’t leave much of a print and not in this carpet. Dammit! Rubber, blood, and gun-smoke. Whoever did this was no dummy.”

“Maybe so, Murphy, but whoever did this was in a hurry. The computer is off but still warm.” Pewter noticed Hogans feet under the desk. “Let’s talk about this outside. This place gives me the creeps.”

“Okay.” It bothered Murphy, too, but she didn’t want to admit it.

As they walked back down the stairs, Pewter continued. “If someone wanted to dispatch Hogan Freely, there are better ways to do it.”

“I agree. So, he was getting close to the missing money.”

As the cats passed through the lobby, Rick Shaw entered. He saw them but didn’t say anything.

The blue and red flashing lights of the squad car and the ambulance reflected off the fog.

Kerry, on a stretcher, was being carried to the back of the ambulance.

The cats stood next to Harry and Mrs. Hogendobber. Herb, with a slow tread, turned to enter the bank. Cynthia, pad out, was taking notes.

“Herb, I’ll go with you.”

“Good.”

“We’ll wait here.” Harry pulled Miranda back as she was about to follow. “You’ll have nightmares.”

“You’re right—but I feel so awful. I hate to think of him up there, alone and—”

“Don’t think about it and don’t let Laura think about it either when you go over there with Reverend Jones. It’s too painful. She doesn’t have to know all the details.”

“You’re right.” Miranda lowered her eyes. “This is dreadful.”

“Dreadful—“Mrs. Murphy whispered, “andjust beginning.”

25

The hospital smell bothered Harry, reminding her of her mothers last days on earth. She avoided visiting anyone in a hospital if she could, but invariably duty overcame aversion and she would venture down the impersonal corridors.

Kerry was being kept for twenty-four hours to make sure she suffered no further effects from her assault. The doctors treated any blow to the head as serious. Cynthia Cooper was sitting next to Kerry’s bed when Harry entered the room.

“How you doing?”

“Okay—considering.”

“Hi, Coop.”

“Hi.” Coop shifted in her seat. “Hell of a night.”

Kerry fiddled with her hospital identification wristband. “Cynthia went with Rick and Herbie to Laura Freely’s. Laura collapsed when they told her.”

“Who’s with her until Dudley andThea can fly home?” Dudley and Thea were the Freelys’ adult children.

“Miranda spent the night there. Mim’s with Laura right now. The ladies will take turns even once the children return. There’s so much to do and Laura is sedated. She can’t make any of the decisions that need to be made. I think Ellie Wood Baxter, Port, and even BoomBoom will work out a schedule.” Cynthia stretched her legs.

“Kerry, I dropped by to see if you needed anything from home, what with your dad being sick. I’m happy to pick up stuff for you.”

“Thanks, but I’m okay.”

“Cynthia—?” Harry’s eyebrows pointed upward quizzically.

“I’m here to see she doesn’t make a run for it. The .357 in her hand was the gun that killed Hogan. And it’s registered to Kerry McCray.”

“I don’t own a gun.” Kerry teared up.

“According to the records, you bought one at Hassett’s in Waynesboro, July tenth.”

“Are you arresting my friend here?” Harry tried to keep her voice light.

“No, not yet.”

“Cynthia, you can’t possibly believe that Kerry would kill anyone.”

“I’m a police officer. I can’t afford emotions.”

“Bullshit,” came Harrys swift retort.

“Thanks, Harry. We’re not close friends, and here you are— thanks.” Kerry flopped back on the pillows, then winced because she felt the throb in her head. “I never bought a gun. I’ve never been to Hassett’s. On July tenth I worked all day as usual, handling new accounts.”

Cynthia firmly said, “According to records, you showed your driver’s license.”

“I never set foot in that gun shop.”

“What if Kerry is the one who masterminded the bank theft? Maybe Hogan is starting to figure out her m.o.” Cynthia used the police shorthand for modus operandi. “She’s getting nervous. She knew he was working late in that bank that night. Millions of dollars are at stake. She kills Hogan.”

“And hits herself on the head hard enough to knock herself out—yet still keep the gun in her hand?” Harry was incredulous.

“That presents a problem.” Cynthia nodded. “But Kerry could have an accomplice. He or she hits her on the head so she looks innocent.”

“And I could fly to the moon.” Harry sharply inhaled. “This summer is sure turning to crap.”

“How elegantly put.” Cynthia half smiled.

“Forget being an officer and be one of the girls just for a minute, Coop. Do you really think Kerry killed Hogan?”

Cynthia waited a long time. “I don’t know, but I do know that the .357 is the same gun that killed Mike Huckstep.”

“What?” Harry felt her throat constrict.

“Ballistics report came back at six this morning. Rick’s lashing everyone on. Same gun. We’d like to keep that tidbit out of the papers, but I doubt the boss can. His job is so damned political.”

“Huckstep and Hogan Freely.” Harry frowned. “One’s a Hell’s Angel and the other’s a bank president.”

“Maybe Hogan had a secret life?” Kerry spoke up.

“Not that secret.” Harry shook her head.

“You’d be amazed at what people can hide from one another,” Cynthia replied.

“I know that, but at some point you’ve got to trust your instincts,” Harry replied.

“Well then, what do your instincts tell you?” Cynthia challenged her.

“Hogan was getting close and that means the answer is in the bank.”

“Think you’re right.”

Kerry moaned. “My goose is cooked, isn’t it?”

Cynthia stared hard at her.

26

Because of federal regulations, the bank could not be closed on Monday. In fact, if Hogan had been shot during banking hours, the way the law reads he would have been left there and business would have continued while the sheriff worked. People would have had to step over the body. These stringent rules against closing a bank were born in the 1930s when banks bolted their doors or folded like houses of cards. As is customary when legislators cook up some ameliorative law, it never covers the human condition. The employees of Crozet National worked with black armbands around their left arms. A huge black wreath hung at the end of the lobby, a smaller one on the front door. Out front, the Virginia state flag flew at half mast. Mary Thigpen, the head teller for twenty-five years, kept bursting into tears. Many eyes were red-rimmed.

All the talk about Kerry so outraged Norman that he shouted, “She’s innocent until proven guilty, so shut up!”

Rick Shaw had taken over the second floor, squeezing the accounting department, but they managed. The blood splattered on the wall of Hogan’s office made Norman woozy. He wasn’t the only one.

Mim Sanburne came by after her turn with Laura Freely to inform everyone that the funeral service would be held that Thursday at the Crozet Lutheran Church. The family would receive Wednesday night at home.

A subdued hush followed her announcement.

Over at the post office Harry asked Blair to help while Mrs. Hogendobber organized the food for Wednesday night. Dudley Freely proved incompetent due to shock. Thea, the older Freely child, was better at making some of the decisions forced upon her by the event. What kind of casket, or would it be cremation? What cemetery? Flowers or contributions to charity? She fielded these questions, but sometimes she would have to sit down, fatigued beyond endurance. She didn’t realize a great emotional blow is physically exhausting. Mim and Miranda did. They took over. Ottoline Gill and Aysha handled the phone duties. Laura languished in bed. When she regained consciousness she would sob uncontrollably.

Rick and Cynthia tried to question her, but she couldn’t get through even a gentle interrogation.

Rick pulled aside Mim outside the post office, as they had both driven in to get their mail. “Mrs. Sanburne, you knew Hogan all his life. Can you imagine him involved in some kind of scheme to defraud people—”

She cut him off. “Hogan Freely was the most honest and generous man I’ve ever known.”

“Don’t get huffy, Mrs. Sanburne, I’ve got two murders on my hands. I have to ask uncomfortable questions. He could have been involved in the theft and had his partner or partners turn on him. It’s not an uncommon occurrence.”

“I’m sorry, but you must understand. Hogan loved this town and he loved banking. If you knew the people he took chances on, the people he helped get started in business, well, he was about a lot more than money.”

“I know. He helped me get my mortgage.” Rick opened the door for Mim as they stepped into the post office.

Mrs. Murphy, crouched on the little ledge dividing the mailboxes, waited for Rick and Mim to open their boxes.

Rick opened his first and the tiger reached into his box, swatting his hand as he withdrew his mail.

“Murphy.” He walked to the counter and looked around the corner of the boxes.

She looked back at him. “I wanted to make you feel better.”

“That cat going to grab me?” Mim called.

Harry lifted her from the small counter, ideally suited for sorting into the rows of postboxes. “No, I’ve got her right here in my arms.”

Tucker, head on her paws, said, “Murphy, nothing is going to make people feel better right now.”

Rick chucked the tiger under the chin. “If only animals could talk. Who knows what she saw the night Hogan was murdered?”

“I didn’t see anything because of the fog and I missed a chance to identify the killer’s car. I wasn’t so smart, sheriff.”

“You did the right thing, Murphy, you found help, “Tucker lauded her.

Rick left, Mim gave Harry and Blair the information about the family gathering and the funeral, and then she left too.

Harry moved with a heavy tread. “I feel awful.”

Blair put his arm around her shoulders. “Everyone does.”

11

“We’re going to be late.” Norman checked his watch as he paced.

“I’m almost ready. I ran into Kate Bittner at the 19th Hole, and you know how she can talk.”

He bit his tongue. She was always late. Running into someone at the supermarket was just another excuse. A car turning into the driveway diverted his attention away from pushing Aysha on.

Ottoline, in full regalia, stepped out of her Volvo station wagon.

“Oh, no,” he said under his breath.

Ottoline came in the front door without knocking.

“Norman, you look ashen.”

“I’m very tired, Ottoline.”

“Where’s my angel?”

“In the bathroom, where else?”

She squinted at him, her pointy chin sticking out. “A woman must look her best. You men don’t understand that these things take time. I have yet to meet the man who wants an ugly woman on his arm.”

“Aysha could never be ugly.”

“Quite.” She click-clacked down the hallway. The bathroom door was open. “You need different earrings.”

“But, Mummy, I like these.”

“Too much color. We’re going to pay our sympathies. This may be a gathering, but it’s not a party.”

“Well—”

“Wear the drop pearl earrings. Discreet, yet they make a statement.”

“All right.” Aysha marched into the bedroom, took off her enameled earrings, and plucked out the pendant pearls. “These?”

Exasperated, Norman joined them. “Aysha—please.”

“All right, all right,” she crossly replied. “I’m ready.”

“I hope you’ll be made president of the branch now.” Ottoline inspected her son-in-laws attire. He passed muster.

“This isn’t the time to think about that.”

Her lips pursed. “Believe me, there are others not nearly so scrupulous. You need to go into Charlottesville and talk to Donald Petrus. You’re young, but you’re the obvious person for the job.”

“I don’t know if that’s true.”

“Just do as I say,” she snapped.

“There are others with more seniority,” he snapped back

“Old women.”

“Kerry McCray.”

“Ha!” Aysha finally entered into the conversation. “She murdered Hogan Freely.”

“Like hell she did. She’ll be found innocent.”

Ottoline tapped her foot on the floor. “Innocent or guilty… she’s irrelevant. You must seize the day, Norman.”

He looked from mother-in-law to wife and sighed.

28

Harry hated these dolorous social events, but she would attend. Sad as such events were, not to pay one’s last respects meant just that, no respect.

She hurried home from the post office. Miranda had spent the day dashing back and forth between the mailboxes and her kitchen. Luckily, Blair had helped drive food over to the Freelys’ and had run errands for Miranda, because the mail load, unusually heavy for a Wednesday, kept her pinned to the post office more than she had wished.

Once home, Harry hopped in the shower, applied some mascara and lipstick. Her short hair, naturally curly, needed only a quick run-through with her fingers while it was wet.

“What’s she doing in there?“Tnckst languidly rolled on the floor, ending up tummy in the air.

“Tarting herself up.”

“Did she remember the blusher? She forgets half the time, “Tucker noted.

“I’llgo see. “Mrs. Murphy quietly padded into the small bathroom. Harry had forgotten. The cat leapt onto the litde sink and knocked die blusher into the sink. “You need some rose in your cheeks.”

“Murphy.” Harry reached down and picked up the square black container. “Guess this wouldn’t hurt.” She touched her cheek with the brush. “There. A raving beauty. I mean, men quiver at my approach. Women’s eyes narrow to slits. Kingdoms are offered me for a kiss.”

“Mice! Moles’. Catnip, all at your feet. “Mrs. Murphy enjoyed the dream.

“Who’s there? Who’s there?” Tucker barreled toward the back door.

Fair knocked, then stepped over the litde dog, who immediately stopped barking.

“Hi, cute cakes.” Fair smoothed his hand over Tucker’s graceful ears, then he called, “It’s me.”

“I didn’t know you were coming,” Harry called from die bathroom.

“Uh, I should have called, but it’s been one of those days. Had to put down Tommy Bolenders old mare. Twenty-six. He loved that mare and I told him to just go ahead and cry. He did, too, and then I got teary myself. Then that high-priced foal over at Dolan’s crashed a fence. Big laceration on her chest. And Patty has thrush.”

Patty, a sweet school horse at Sally and Bob Taylors Mountain Hollow Farm, had taught two generations of people to ride.

Harry joined him. She wore a long skirt, sandals, and a crisp cotton blouse.

“I don’t think I’ve seen you in a skirt since die day we were married.”

“That long, huh?” She paused. “Now, Fair, you should have called me because I’m supposed to go to the Freelys’ with Blair and—”

Fair held up his hand in the stop position. “We’ll both take you.”

“He may not take kindly to that notion.”

He held up his hand again. “Leave him out of the loop for a minute. Do you take kindly to it?”

“If you both behave.”

“How about this. “Tucker wagged her non-tail. “Mom’s being escorted by the two best-looking men in the county. The phone lines will burn tonight.”

“BoomBoom’s will burn the brightest.” Mrs. Murphy was now sitting next to Tucker.

“You’ll be pleased to know that I called Blair on my way over, since I anticipated this.”

“Why didn’t you call me?”

“What if you’d said no? Then I’d lose a chance to see you, and in a skirt too.”

Another vehicle came down the driveway. Tucker ran barking to the door. She stopped quickly. “Blair, in the Mercedes.”

Harry kissed the cat and dog and walked outside with Fair. They both got into Blair’s Mercedes and drove off.

“How do you like that? “Tucker watched the red taillights.

“/like it a lot. It proves that Fair and Blair can both learn to get along and put Harrys interests first. That’s what I care about. I want someone in Mom’s life who makes her life easier. Love shouldn’t feel like a job.”

29

Flowers, mostly pastels and whites, filled every room of the Freely house. Laura sat in the big wing chair by the living room fireplace. At moments she recognized people. Other times she lapsed into an anguished trance.

Dudley, subdued, greeted people at die door. He’d pulled himself together. A few people cold-shouldered Ned Tucker since they heard he’d taken Kerry McCray’s case.

Thea, with the assistance of Mrs. Hogendobber, Mim, and Little Marilyn, accepted condolences, shared memories, made sure that people had something to eat and drink. Ottoline Gill, relishing her self-appointed position, led people to Laura and then quietly led them away toward the food table. Everything was well organized.

In the dining room, Market Shiflett kept replenishing the food supply at his own expense. Hogan had helped him secure his business loan. In the parlor, Aysha and Norman talked to people. From time to time Norman glanced at the front door. He looked miserable. Aysha looked appropriately sad.

Harry’s arrival with the two men riveted people’s attention until Kerry, released from the hospital that morning, arrived with Cynthia Cooper. At the door she greeted Dudley, who waved off Ottoline. He listened intently, then took Kerry directly to his mother. Ottoline was scandalized, and it showed. A hush fell over the room.

“Laura, I’m so terribly sorry.”

Laura lifted her head in recognition. “Did you shoot my Hogan?”

“No. I know it looks bad, but I didn’t. I admired and respected him. I would never have done anything so horrible. I’m here to offer my deepest sympathy.”

You could have heard a pin drop.

Jim Sanburne took control of the situation. “Folks, we’ve got to reach out for the best in each other. We’ll get through this, we’ll celebrate Hogan’s life by being more like him, and that’s by helping other people.”

“And by catching his killer!” Aysha glared directly at Kerry until Norman squeezed her upper arm—hard.

“Hear. Hear.” Many in the room shared this sentiment.

As people gathered around Aysha, more people poured into the house. There was barely room to turn around. Norman slipped out. Kerry observed this and left, too, after saying good-bye to Laura. Cooper followed her at a discreet distance.

Norman was lighting a cigarette. He stood, forlorn, in the green expanse of the manicured lawn.

She slipped her arm dirough his, surprising him. “Imust see you.”

“Soon.” He offered her a cigarette.

A car was heading toward them. He adroitly extricated diem from die approaching light. “Maybe we’d better walk away from the house.”

As they walked off to the side yard, Kerry pleaded, “I can’t live this way, Norman. Are you going to tell her or not?”

“Tell her what?”

“That you’re leaving her.”

“Kerry, I told you I can’t handle a crisis in my home life and at work at the same time. And right now you’re looking down the barrel of a gun.” He stopped. “Sorry, it’s a figure of speech. Let me get through this thing at work and then I can attend to Aysha.”

“Attend to Aysha first,” she pleaded.

“It’s not that easy. She’s not diat easy.”

“I know diat. She used to be my best friend, remember?”

“Kerry”—he flicked the cigarette into the grass—“maybe I should give my marriage a chance. Maybe the stress at work has blunted my, uh—kept me from feeling close to Aysha.”

Kerry, shaking lighdy, said, “Please don’t do that. Don’t jerk me around. Aysha cares only for Aysha.”

“I don’t want to jerk you around, but I’m in no condition to make a major decision, and neither are you. Monday I passed Hogan’s office. Blood was splattered on the wall. It made me sick. Every time I went downstairs I passed the mess. If you’d seen the blood, you’d be shook too.” He shuddered. “I can’t take this.”

“Time isn’t going to make you love Aysha.”

“I loved her once.”

“You thought you did.”

“But what if I do? I don’t know what I feel.”

Kerry threw her arms around him and kissed him hard. He kissed her back. “What do you feel now?”

“Confused. I still love you.” He shrugged. “Oh, God, I don’t know anything. I just want to get away for a while.”

He reached out and kissed her again. They didn’t hear the soft crunch moving toward them.

“Kerry, youslut.” Aysha hauled off and belted her. “A murderer and a slut.”

Norman grabbed his wife, pulling her away. “Don’t hit her. Hit me. This is my fault.”

“Shut up, Norman. I know this bitch inside and out. Whatever I have, she has to have it. She’s competed with me since we were tiny. It just never stops, does it, Kerry?”

“I had him first!”

The shouting grew louder. Harry and Miranda walked out of the house because of the shouting just as Cynthia Cooper stepped out from behind a big oak. She moved toward the trio.

“You didn’t want him. You were going to bed with Jake Berryhill at the same time.”

Kerry’s face was distorted in rage. “Liar.”

“You told me yourself. You said you knew that Norman loved you and he was sweet but he was boring in bed.” Aysha relished the moment.

Kerry screamed, “You bitch!”

Again Norman pulled them apart with the help of Cynthia. He was mortified to see her.

“For God’s sake, keep your voices down. The Freelys don’t deserve this!” Harry’s lips tightened as she ran over.

“Norman, tell her you’re leaving her.”

“I can’t.” Norman seemed to shrink before everyone’s eyes.

Kerry’s sobs transformed into white-hot hate. “Then I hope you drop dead!”

She twisted away from Cynthia, who caught her. “Time for a ride home until you are formally charged.” She pushed Kerry into the squad car.

Norman meekly addressed the little group. “I apologize.”

“Go home,” Harry said flatly.

Aysha turned and preceded Norman to their car as her mother pushed open the front door. Ottoline called out to her daughter and son-in-law, but they avoided her.

Miranda folded her arms across her chest and shook her head. “Norman Cramer?”

—

Re-inking the postage meter meant sticky red ink on her fingers, her shirt, and the counter too. No matter how hard she tried, Harry managed to spill some.

Mrs. Hogendobber brought over a towel and wiped up the droplets. “Looks like blood.”

Harry snapped shut the top of the meter. “Gives me the willies—what with everything that’s happened.”

Little Marilyn came in with a brisk “Hello.” She opened her mailbox with such force, the metal and glass door clacked into the adjoining box. She removed her mail, sorted it by the wastebin, then stopped at the counter. “A letter from Steve O’Grady in Africa. Don’t you love looking at foreign stamps?”

“Yes. It’s a miniature art form,” Miranda replied.

“When Kerry and Aysha and I went to Europe after college, we stayed in Florence awhile, then split up. I had a Eurailpass, so I must have whisked through every country not behind the Iron

Curtain. I made a point of sending them postcards and letters more so they could have the stamps than read my scrawl. We were devoted letter writers.”

Miranda offered Little Marilyn a piece of fresh banana cake. “You three were best friends for so long. What happened?”

“Nothing. Nothing in Europe anyway. We wanted to do different things, but no one was angry about it. Kerry came home first. She was in London and got homesick. Aysha lived in Paris and I ended up in Hamburg. Mom said either I was to get a job or marry the head of Porsche. I told her he was in Stuttgart, but she wasn’t amused. You know, I still have the letters we sent to one another over that time. Aysha wrote long ones. Kerry was more to the point. It was this business with Norman that broke up the three musketeers. Even when I was married and they were single we stayed close. Then, when Kerry was dating Norman and I was divorcing the monster, we went out together.”

“Maybe Norman has hidden talents,” Harry mused.

“Very hidden, “Mrs. Murphy called out from the bottom of the mail cart.

“Kerry thought so. They always had stuff to talk about.” Marilyn laughed. “As for Aysha, she got panicky. All your friends are married and you’re not—that kind of thing. Plus, Ottoline lashed her on.”

“Panic? It must have been a grand mal seizure.” Mrs. Murphy stuck her head out of the mail cart.

Pewter pushed through the animal door. “It’s me.”

“Iknow,“Murphy called back. Pewter jumped in the mail cart with her.

“Isn’t it a miracle the way those two cats found Kerry?” Marilyn watched the two felines roll around and bat at one another in the mail cart.

“The Lord moves in mysterious ways His wonders to perform,” Mrs. H. said.

Mrs. Murphy and Pewter stopped.

“You’d think they’d realize that the Almighty is a cat. Humans are lower down in the chain of beings.”

“They’ll never get it. Too egocentric.” Pewter swatted Murphy’s tail and renewed the combat.

“I ought to get out those old letters.” Little Marilyn headed for the door. “Be interesting to see who we were then and who we are now.”

“Bring them in someday so I can look at the stamps.”

“Okay.”

Miranda cut another piece of banana bread. “Marilyn, do you believe Kerry could kill someone?”

“Yes. I believe any of us could kill someone if we had to do it.”

“But Hogan?”

She breathed deeply. “Mrs. H., I just don’t know. It seems impossible, but…”

“Where did Kerry work in London—if she did?”

“At a bank. London branch of one of the big American banks. That’s when she found her vocation, at least that’s what she told me.”

“I never heard that.” Harry’s mind raced.

“She’s quiet. Then again, how many people are interested in banking, and you two are acquaintances at best. I mean, there’s nothing shifty in her not telling you.”

“Yeah,” Harry weakly responded.

“Well, this is errand day.” Marilyn pushed open the door and a blast of muggy air swept in.

So did Rick and Cynthia.

“May I?” Rick pointed to the low countertop door separating the lobby and mailbox area from the work area.

“How polite to ask.” Mrs. Hogendobber flipped up the countertop.

Cynthia followed. She placed a folder on the table and opened it. “The owner of a bar in San Francisco where Huckstep worked sent me these.” She handed newspaper articles about George Jarvis’s suicide to Harry and Mrs. Hogendobber.

Harry finished hers first, then read over Miranda’s shoulder.

“The real story is that this man Jarvis, a member of the Bohemian Club, pillar-of-the-community type, was homosexual. No one knew. He was being blackmailed by Mike Huckstep and his girlfriend or wife—we aren’t sure if they were really married— Malibu. She must be a cold customer, because she would hide and photograph Mike cavorting with his victims and that’s how the blackmailing would start.”

“The wedding ring said M M.” Harry handed the clipping back to Cynthia.

“I’m not jumping to conclusions. We’ve checked marriage records in San Francisco for June 12,1986. Nothing on Huckstep. It’s like finding a needle in a haystack. Checked the surrounding counties too. Given enough time, we’ll get through all the records in California.”

“Those two could have stood before the ocean and pledged eternal troth.” Rick was sarcastic. “Or gone to Reno.”

“We’ve sent out a bulletin to every police department in the nation and to the court of records for every county. Nothing may come of it, but we’re sloggin’ away.”

Cynthia pulled out an eight-by-ten glossy blow-up of a snapshot. “Mike.”

“Looking better than when he roared up to Ash Lawn.”

“No one has claimed the body,” Rick informed them. “We buried him in the county plot. We’ve got dental records to prove it was really him. We had to get him in the ground, obviously.”

“Here’s another. This is all Frank Kenton found. He said he called everyone he could remember from diose days when Mike tended bar.”

A figure, blurred, her back turned, stood in the background of the photo. “Malibu?” Harry asked.

Mrs. Hogendobber put on her glasses. “All I can see is long hair.”

“Frank knows little about her. She worked part-time at the Anvil, the bar he owns—caters to gay men. Malibu might as well have been wallpaper as far as the patrons were concerned, plus she seemed like the retiring type. Frank said he can’t recall ever having a personal conversation with her.”

“Did he know their scam?” Harry stared at the figure.

“Eventually. Huckstep and Malibu left in the nick of time. I suppose they left with a carload of money. They moved to L.A., where they probably continued their ‘trade,’ although no one seems to have caught them. Easy, I guess, in such a big city.”

Rick jumped in when Cynthia finished. “We believe she was in the Charlottesville area when Mike arrived. We don’t know if she’s still around. Oh, one other sidelight. We’ve pieced together bits of Mike’s background. His social security number helped us there. Frank Kenton had the number in his records. Mike was raised in Fort Wayne, Indiana. Majored in computer science at Northwestern University, where he made straight As.”

“The Threadneedle virus!” Harry clapped her hands.

“That’s a long shot, Harry,” Rick admonished, then thought a minute. “Puts Kerry right in the perfect place to call in.”

Harry folded a mail sack. “If she was smart enough to create their scam or to link up with the computer genius, she sure was dumb to get caught. Somehow it doesn’t fit.”

“The murder weapon sure fits.” Cynthia took a piece of banana bread offered by Miranda.

“Now, you two”—Miranda’s voice was laced with humor— “you’re not here to show us a photograph of someone’s back. I know you have two murders to solve. You’d put most of your effort into finding Hogan’s killer, not the stranger’s killer. So you must believe they are connected and you must need us in some fashion.”

Rick’s jaw froze in mid-chew. Mrs. Hogendobber was smarter than he gave her credit for being. “Well—”

“We’re trustworthy.” Miranda offered him another piece of banana bread.

He gulped. “No question of that. It’s just—”

Cynthia interrupted. “We’d better tell them.”

A silence followed.

“All right,” Rick reluctantly agreed. “You tell them, I’ll eat.”

Cynthia grabbed a piece of bread before he could devour the whole loaf.

“We’ve had bur people working on Crozet National’s computers. It’s frustrating, obviously, because the thief has covered his tracks. But we did find one interesting item. An account opened in the name of Mr. and Mrs. Michael Huckstep.”

Harry whistled.

Miranda said, “Mr. and Mrs.?”

Cynthia continued. “We pulled the signature cards. But we can’t really verify his signature or hers.”

“Can’t you match it to the signature on his driver’s license?” Harry asked.

“Superficially, yes. They match. But to verify it we need a handwriting expert. We’ve got a lady coming down from Washington.” She paused for breath. “As for Mrs. Huckstep’s signature… it doesn’t match, superficially again, anyone’s handwriting in the bank.”

“When did he or she open the account?” Harry asked.

“July thirtieth. He deposited $4,218.64 in cash.” Rick wiped his mouth with a napkin supplied by Miranda. “The bank officer in charge of opening the account was Kerry McCray.”

“Not so good.” Harry exhaled.

“What if…” Mrs. Hogendobber pressed her fingers together. “Oh, forget it.”

“No, go on,” Rick encouraged her.

“What if Kerry did open the account? That doesn’t mean she knew him.”

“Kerry declares she never opened an account for Mr. and Mrs. Huckstep even diough she was on the floor all of July thirtieth,” Rick said heavily. “There’s a number on each new account, an identifying employee number. Kerry’s is on Huckstep’s.”

“Is the missing money in his account?” Harry queried.

“No,” both answered.

Cynthia spoke. “We can’t find a nickel.”

“Well, I hate to even ask this. Was it in Hogan Freely’s account?” Harry winced under Miranda’s scornful reaction.

“No,” Rick replied.

“For all we know, the money that disappeared on August first or second could be sitting in an account whose code we can’t crack, to be called out at some later, safer date,” Cynthia added.

“Maybe the money is in another bank or even another country,” Miranda said.

“If two million or more dollars showed up in a personal account, we’d know it by now.”

“Rick, what about a corporate account?”

“Harry, that’s a bit more difficult because the big companies routinely shift around substantial sums. Sooner or later I drink we’d catch it, but the thief and most likely the murderer, one and the same, would have to have someone on the inside of one or more Fortune 500 firms,” Rick explained.

“Or someone inside another bank.” Harry couldn’t figure this out. She didn’t even have a hunch.

“Possible.” Cynthia cracked her knuckles. “Sorry.”

“What can we do?” Miranda wanted to help.

“Everybody tromps through here. Keep your eyes and ears open,” Rick requested.

“We do that anyway.” Harry laughed. “You know, Big Marilyn asked us to watch for registered letters. Could be stock certificates. Nothing.”

“Thank you for the information about Threadneedle.” Rick stood up. “I don’t think Kerry could pull this off alone.”

Miranda swallowed.

As if reading her thoughts, Harry whispered, “Norman?”

“We’re keeping an eye on him.” Rick shrugged. “We’ve got nothing on him at all. But we’re scrutinizing everyone in that bank down to the janitor.”

“Keep your eyes open.” Rick flipped up the Dutch door countertop and Cooper followed.

“If people will kill for a thousand bucks, think what they’ll do for two million.” Cynthia patted Harry on the back. “Remember, we said watch. We didn’t say get involved.”

As they left, both Miranda and Harry started talking at once.

“Telling those two to’stay out of it is like telling a dog not to wag her tail, “Mrs. Murphy said to Pewter.

“‘Ceptfor Tucker, “Pewter teased.

Tucker replied from her spot under the table, “/resent that.”

31

“Where does this stuff come from?” Dismayed, Harry surveyed her junk room.

Calling it the junk room wasn’t fair to the room, a board-and-batten, half-screened back porch complete with Shaker pegs upon which to hang coats, a heavy wrought iron boot scraper, and big standing bootjack and a long, massive oak table. Dark green and ochre painted squares of equal sire brightened the floor. The last line at catching the mud was a heavy welcome mat at the door into the kitchen.

Twice a year the mood would strike Harry and she’d organize the porch. The tools were easy to hang on the walls or take back out to the barn depending on their original home. The boxes of magazines, letters, and old clothes demanded sorting.

Mrs. Murphy scratched in the magazine box. The sound of claws over shiny, expensive paper delighted her. Tucker contented herself with nosing through the old clothes. If Harry tossed a sweatshirt or a pair of jeans in a carton, they really were old. She was raised in the use-it-up wear-it-out make-it-do-or-do-without school. The clothes would be cut into square pieces of cloth for barn rags. Whatever remained afterward, Harry would toss out, although she swore one day she would learn to make hooked rugs so she could utilize the scraps.

“Find anything?“Tucker asked Mrs. Murphy.

“Lot of old New Yorkermagazines. She sees an article she wants to read, doesn’t have time to read it then, and saves the magazine. Now, I’ll bet you a MilkBone she’ll sit on the floor, go through these magazines, and tear out the articles she wants to save so she’ll still have a pile of stuff to read but not as huge a one as if she’d saved the magazines intact. If she didn’t work in the post office, Gossip Central, she’d work in the library like her mother did.”

“My bet is the broken bridle will get her attention first. She needs to replace the headstall. She’s going to pick it up, mumble, then put it in the trunk to take to Sam Kimball.”

“Maybe so. At least that will go quickly. Once she buries her nose in a book or magazine, she takes forever.”

“Think she’ll forget supper?”

“Tucker, you’re as bad as Pewter.”

“She fooled us both, “the dog exclaimed.

Harry, armed with a pair of scissors, began cutting up the old clothes. “Mrs. Murphy, don’t rip apart the magazines. I need to go through them first.”

“Give me some catnip. I can be bought off.” Mrs. Murphy scratched and tore with increased vigor.

Harry stopped snipping and picked up the magazine box. It was heavier than she anticipated, so she put it back down. “I was going to shake you up.”

“Catnip.” Murphy’s eyes enlarged, she performed a somersault in the box.

“Aren’t you the acrobat?” Harry put the box on the oak table. She looked at the hanging herbs placed inside to dry. A large clutch of catnip, leaves down, emitted a sweet, enticing odor.

Murphy shot out of the box, straight up, and swatted the tip of the catnip. A little higher and she could have had a slam dunk.

“Catnip!”

“Druggie.” Harry smiled and snapped offa sprig.

“Yahoo. “Mrs. Murphy snatched the catnip from Harrys hands, threw it on the table, chewed it a little, rolled on it, tossed it up in the air, caught it, rolled some more. Her antics escalated.

“Nuts. You’re a loony tunes, out there, Blue Angels.”

“Mother, she’s always that way. The catnip brings it out more. Now, me, I’m a sane and sober dog. Reliable. Protective. I can herd and fetch and follow at your heels. Even with a bone, which I would enjoy right now, I would never descend to such raucous behavior. “

“Bugger off,“Mrs. Murphy hissed at Tucker. The weed made her aggressive.

“Fair is fair.” Harry walked into the kitchen and brought out a bone for Tucker before returning to her task.

As the animals busied themselves, Harry finished off the box of clothing. She reached into the magazine box and flipped through the table of contents. “Umm, better save this article.” She clipped out a long piece on the Amazon rain forests.

“Someone’s coming “Tucker barked.

“Shut up. “Murphy lolled her head. “You’re hurting my ears.”

“Friend or fie?” the corgi challenged as the car pulled into the driveway.

“Do you really think a foe would drive up to the back door?”

“Shut up, yourself. I’m doing my job, and besides, this is the South. All one’s foes act like friends.”

“Got that right, “the cat agreed, rousing herself from her catnip torpor. “It’s Little Marilyn. What the heck is she doing here at seven in the evening?”

“Come on in,” Harry called. “I’m doing my spring cleaning, in August.”

Marilyn opened the porch door. “At least you’re doing it. I’ve got a ton of my stuff to sort through. I’ll never get to it.”

“How about an iced tea or coffee? I can make a good pot of hot coffee too.”

“Thank you, no.”

“If you don’t need the iced tea, I do.” Harry put down her scissors.

The two humans repaired to the kitchen. Harrys kitchen, scrupulously clean, smelled like nutmeg and cinnamon. She prided herself on her sense of order. She had to pride herself on something in the kitchen, since she couldn’t cook worth a damn.

“Milk or lemon?” Harry wouldn’t take no for an answer.

“Oh, thank you. Lemon. I’m going to keep you from your chores.” Marilyn fidgeted.

“They’ll wait. I’ve been on my feet all day anyway, so it’s good to have a sit-down.”

“Harry, we aren’t the best of friends, so I hope you don’t mind my barging in on you like this.”

“It’s fine.”

She cast her eyes about the kitchen, then settled down. “I don’t know what to do. Two weeks ago Kerry asked me for a loan. I refused her. I hated to do it, but, well, she wanted three thousand dollars.”

“What for?”

“She said she knew her father’s cancer was getting worse. If she could invest the money, she could help defray what his insurance won’t cover. She said she’d split the profit with me and return the principal in a year’s time.”

“Kerry’s a lot sharper than I thought.”

“Yes.” Litde Marilyn sat stock-still.

“Have you told Rick Shaw or Cynthia?”

“No. I came to you first. It’s been preying on my mind. I mean, she’s in so much trouble as it is.”

“Yeah, I know, but”—Harry held up her hands—“you’ve got to tell them.”

Mrs. Murphy, sitting on the kitchen counter, said, “What do you really think, Marilyn?”

“She’s hungry.” Harry got up to open two cans of food for Mrs. Murphy and Tucker. Tucker gobbled her food while Mrs. Murphy daintily ate hers.

“Thanks for hearing me out. We were all such good friends once. I feel like a traitor.”

“You’re not. And horrendous as the process is, that’s what the courts are for—if Kerry is innocent, she’ll be spared. At least, I hope so.”

“Don’t you know that old proverb? ‘Better to fall into the hands of the Devil than into the hands of the lawyers.’”

“You think she’s sunk, don’t you?”

“Uh-huh.” Little Marilyn nodded in the affirmative, tears in her eyes.

32

Every spare moment she had, Kerry punched into the computer in a back office. Cynthia told her she could go to work. She’d be formally arraigned tomorrow. Rick told the acting president, Norman Cramer, to allow Kerry to work. He had a few words with the staff which amounted to “innocent until proven guilty.” What he hoped for was a slip on Kerry’s part or the part of her accomplice.

The thick carpeting in die officer branch of the bank muffled the footsteps behind her as she frantically pulled up records on the computer. Norman Cramer tapped her shoulder.

“What are you doing?”

“Fooling around. Kind of like you, Norman.” Kerry’s face burned.

“Kerry, this is none of your business. You’ll interfere widi Rick Shaw’s investigation.”

What neither of them knew was that Rick was monitoring

Kerry’s computer. An officer down in the basement saw everything she called up.

“Hogan Freely’s murder is everybody’s business. And I’d rather be chewed out by you than not try and come up with some clue, any clue.”

His sallow complexion darkened. “Listen to me. Forget it.”

“Why don’t you and I go outside and talk?”

“And risk another scene? No.”

“I knew you were a coward. I hoped it wasn’t true. I really believed you when you told me you’d leave Aysha—”

He sharply reprimanded her. “It’s not appropriate to discuss personal matters at work.”

“You won’t discuss them at any other time.”

“I can’t. Maybe I know things you don’t and maybe you should forget about me for a while. You shouldn’t have come in today. It upsets everyone.” He spun on his heel and walked away.

Steam wasn’t hotter than Kerry McCray. She followed him. “You sorry son of a bitch.”

He grabbed her arm so hard he hurt her as he half pushed, half dragged her down the narrow corridor to the back door. He practically threw her down the steps into the parking lot. “Take the day off! I don’t care if Rick Shaw thinks it’s okay for you to be here. I don’t. Now, get out and chill out!” He slammed the door.

Kerry sobbed in the middle of the parking lot. She walked over to her car, opened the door, and got inside. Then she put her head on the steering wheel and sobbed some more.

Mrs. Hogendobber passed on her way from the bank. She hesitated but then walked over.

“Kerry, can I help?” she asked through the rolled-down window.

Kerry looked up. “Mrs. Hogendobber, I wish you could.”

Mrs. Hogendobber patted her on the back. ” ‘Love your enemies, bless them that curse you, do good to diem diat hate you… For if ye love them which love you, what reward have ye? Do not even the publicans die same?’”

Kerry recovered enough to remark, “Make that Republicans.”

“There, there, I knew you’d perk up. I find the Bible always helps me in time of need.”

“I think it was you as much as your quote. I wish I could be as wise and as calm as you are, Mrs. Hogendobber.” She opened her glove compartment for a tissue. “Do you believe I killed Hogan Freely?”

Miranda said, “No.” She waited for Kerry to finish blowing her nose. “You just don’t seem like the type to me. I can imagine you killing Norman in a lover’s rage, but not Hogan.” She paused. “If you live long enough, honey, you see everything. You’re still seeing many things for the first time, including a two-timing ex-boyfriend. After a while you know what’s worth getting het up over and what just to let go. He married Aysha. Let him go. Reading the Good Book and praying to the Lord never hurt anyone. You’ll find solace there and sooner or later the right man will come into your life.” She inhaled. “It’s so hot. You’ll fry in that car. Come on over to the EO. and I’ll make you some iced tea. I have some chocolate chip cookies, macadamia nut ones too.”

“Thank you. I’m wrung out. I think I’ll go home and maybe I’ll take your advice and read the Bible.” She wiped her eyes. “Thank you.”

“Don’t give it a second thought.” Miranda smiled, then turned for the post office.

Kerry drove off.

Mrs. Hogendobber waited until there was no one else in the building to tell Harry about the episode. Crozet, being a town of only 1,733 people, didn’t miss much. A few noticed Kerry’s pursuit of Norman down the corridor. BoomBoom Craycroft saw him push her out of the building and fifteen people coming and going saw Mrs. Hogendobber consoling Kerry in the parking lot. Variations of the events made the rounds. Each telling exaggerated Kerry’s unhappiness and surmised guilt until she was suicidal. Norman’s handling of her seemed tinged by heroism to many.

By the time Little Marilyn drove up to Ash Lawn to relieve

Aysha, the tale was worthy of a soap opera, but then, maybe daily life is a soap opera.

Everyone at Ash Lawn was working double duty since Laura Freely would not be returning for the remainder of the year. Trying to schedule and work in Ottoline, who substituted for Laura, frazzled Little Marilyn, in charge of the docents.

Marilyn combed her hair and straightened up as Aysha finished a tour for a group of sightseers. More were coming, but Marilyn had about ten minutes before she would gather up a new group to commence the tour.

Aysha related her version of the Norman-Kerry episode. Her gloating offended Marilyn Sanburne, Jr.

“She’s the loser. You’re the winner. Be gracious enough to ignore her.”

Aysha threw her shoulders back and squared her chin, prelude to some pronouncement of emotional significance tinged with her imagined superiority. “Who are you to dictate manners to me?”

“I used to be your best friend. Now I wonder.”

“You’re on her side. I knew it. Oh, don’t women just love a victim and Kerry paints herself as a real martyr to love—she’s a murderer, for chrissakes!”

“You don’t know that and you don’t have to wallow in it.”

“I’m not.”

“You look like you’re gloating to me,” Marilyn shot back. “Just drop’it.”

Aysha’s voice lowered, a signal that what she was about to impart was really, truly, terribly important and that she’d been keeping it in only because she was such a lady. “She kissed my husband at Hogan Freelys wake.”

Since neither Harry nor Cynthia had ever mentioned it, Marilyn didn’t know about the kissing part of the incident. As the two rivals had yelled and screamed at the top of their lungs, she certainly knew about the rest of it. She heard every word, as did most of the other mourners. “Look, I’d have been upset. I understand that. I wouldn’t want anyone kissing my husband, especially a former lover. But, Aysha, get over it. Every time you react to her, she gets what she wants. She’s the center of your attention, Norman isn’t, and she’s the center of Norman’s attention and you’re not. Rise above it.”

“Easy for you to say. I remember in school how devious she was—so nice to your face, so vicious when you were out of sight—”

“I don’t want to hear that stuff.” Marilyn advanced toward Aysha a step, realized what she was doing, and stopped. “Keep this up, Aysha, and you’ll be as big a bitch as your mother.”

“You think you’re better than the rest of us because you’ll inherit your mother’s fortune. If Big Marilyn were my mother, I’d be worried. Every woman turns into her mother. Mine is small potatoes compared to yours.”

“I don’t care about the money.”

“Those who have it never care about it. That’s the point! Someday I hope I have as much as you do so I can rub your nose in it.”

“Your time is up. I’ll take over now.” Marilyn quietly walked into the front room to greet the visitors to Monroe’s home.

33

Air-conditioning was a luxury Harry couldn’t afford. Her house at the foot of Yellow Mountain stayed cool except on the worst of those sultry summer nights. This was one of those nights. Every window was open to catch the breezes that weren’t there. Harry tossed and turned, sweated, and finally cursed.

“I don’t know how you can sleep through d?s,” she grumbled as she stepped over Tucker and headed toward the bathroom.

As Harry brushed her teetli Mrs. Murphy alighted nimbly on the sink. “Hotter than Tophet.”

Harry, mouth full of toothpaste, didn’t reply to Murphy’s observation. After rinsing, she petted the cat, who purred with appreciation.

Walking through the house provided no relief. She wandered into the library, shadowed by Murphy.

“Mother, this is the hottest room in the house. Why don’t you put ice cubes on your head and a baseball cap over them? That will help.”

“I’m hot too, sweetheart.” Harry glanced at the old books her mother gleaned from the library sales she used to administer. “Here’s the plan. Let’s go into the barn, move the little table from the tack room out into the aisle, and think. The barn’s the coolest place right now.”

“Worth a try.” Murphy raced to the screened-porch door and pushed it open. The hook dangled uselessly because the screw eye was long gone.

As they walked into the barn, the big owl swooshed overhead. “You two idiots will spoil a good night of hunting.”

“Tough. “Mrs. Murphy’s fur fluffed out.

When Harry switched on the lights, the opossum popped his head out of a plastic feed bucket. “Hey.”

“Simon, don’t worry. She doesn’t care. We’re going to do some research. “

“Here?”

“Too hot inside.”

“Feels like being wrapped in a big wet towel out here. Must be even worse in the house,” Simon concurred.

Harry, having no idea of the lively conversation taking place between her cat and the possum, carried the small table to the aisle, set up a fan, grabbed a pencil and yellow tablet, sat down, and started making notes. Every now and then Harry would slap her arm or the back of her neck.

“How come the skeeters bite me and leave you alone?” she asked the tiger, who batted at the moving pencil.

“Can’t get through the fur. You humans lack most protective equipment. You keep telling the rest of us it’s because you’re so highly evolved. Not true. An eagle’s eyes are much more developed than yours. So are mine, for that matter. Put on mosquito repellent.”

“I wish you could talk.”

“/can talk. You just can’t understand what I say.”

“Murphy, I love it when you trill at me. Wish you could read too.”

“What makes you think I can’t? Trouble is, you mostly write about

yourselves and not other animals, so I find few books that hold my interest. Tucker says she can read, but she’s pretty shaky. Simon, can you read?”

“No.” Simon had moved to another feed bucket, where he picked through the sweet feed. He especially liked the little bits of corn.

Harry listed each of the events as she remembered them, starting with Mike Huckstep’s appearance at Ash Lawn.

She listed times, weather, and any other people who happened to be around.

Starting with the Ash Lawn incident, she noted it was hot. It was five of five. Laura Freely was in charge of the docents: Marilyn Sanburne, Jr., Aysha Cramer, Kerry McCray. Susan Tucker ran the gift shop. Danny Tucker was working in the yard to the left of the house. She and Blair were in the living room.

She tried to remember every detail of every incident up to and including Little Marilyns visit to her concerning Kerry’s request for a loan.

“Murphy, I give up. It’s still a jumble.”

The cat put her paw on the pencil, stopping its progress. “Listen. Whoever is behind this can’t be that much smarter than you are. If they came up with this, then you’ll figure it out. The question is, if you do figure it out, will you be safe?”

Harry absentmindedly petted Murphy as the cat tried to talk sense to her.

“You know, I’ve sat up half the night making lists. The so-called facts are leading me nowhere. Sitting here with you, Murphy, no chores, totally quiet, I can think. Time to trust my instincts. Mike Huckstep knew his killer. He walked deep into the woods with him. Hogan Freely may or may not have known his killer, but the murderer certainly knew Hogan, knew he was working that night, and had the good fortune to walk into an unlocked bank, or he or she had a key. Any one of us in Market Shiflett’s store knew Hogan would be in the bank. He told us. Laura knew, but I think we can let her off the hook. I wonder if he told anyone else?”

“The thick fog gave the killer a real bonus.” Mrs. Murphy remembered the night vividly.

Harry tapped the pencil on the table. “Was it planned or was it impulse?”

Harry wrote out her thoughts and waited for the sunrise. At six, since Mrs. H. was up and baking by then, she phoned her friend. She asked her to cover for her for half an hour. She needed to drop something off at the sheriffs office.

At seven she was at Rick Shaw’s office, where she left her notes with Ed Wright, who was ending his night shift. By eight Rick called. He’d read the notes and he thanked her.

She sorted the mail with Miranda while telling her what she wrote down for Sheriff Shaw. On those rare occasions when she was up all night she usually got very sleepy about three in the afternoon. She figured she’d nod out and she warned Mrs. Hogendobber not to be too angry with her. However, the events of the day would keep her wide awake.

34

At the beginning of the day Harry blamed the bizarre chain of events on the fact that it was cloudy. That, however, couldn’t explain how the day ended.

At ten-thirty Blair Bainbridge pulled into the front parking lot of the post office on a brand-new, gorgeous Harley-Davidson. It appeared to be black, especially under the clouds, but in the bright sunlight the color would sparkle a deep plum.

“What do you think?” Blair asked.

Harry walked outside to admire the machine. “What got into you?”

“Grabbing at summer.” He grinned. “And you know, when I saw Mike Huckstep’s Harley, I was flooded with memories. Who says I have to be mature and responsible twenty-four hours a day? How about twenty hours a day, and for four hours I can be wild again?

“Sounds good to me.”

Miranda opened the front door. “You’ll get killed on that thing.”

“I hope not. Is there a Bible quote for excessive speed?”

“Off the top of my head, I can’t think of one. I’ll put my mind to it.” She closed the door.

“Oh, Blair, she’ll worry herself to a nub. She’ll call her buddies in Bible study class. She won’t rest until she finds an appropriate citation.”

“Should I take her for a ride?”

“I doubt it. If it’s not her Ford Falcon, she doesn’t want to get in it or on it.”

“Bet you five dollars.” With that he hopped up the steps into the post office.

Harry closed the door behind her as Mrs. Murphy and Tucker greeted Blair.

“Mrs. Hogendobber, I just happen to have two helmets and I want to take you for a ride. We can float across the countryside.”

“Now, isn’t that nice?” But she shook her head no.

Before he could warm up to his subject, the front door flew open and a glowering Norman Cramer stormed in.

“How can you? This is in such bad taste!”

“What are you talking about?” Blair replied since the hostility was directed at him.

“That, that’s what I’m talking about!” Norman gesticulated in the direction of the beautiful bike.

“You don’t like Harleys? Okay, you’re a BMW man.” Blair shrugged.

“Everything was all right around here until the day that motorcycle appeared. How can you ride around on it? How can you even touch it! What’d you do, slip Rick Shaw money under the table? I thought unclaimed property was to go to public auction held by the Sheriff’s Department.”

“Wait a minute.” Blair relaxed. “That isn’t the murdered guy’s Harley. It’s not even black. Go out and take another look. I just bought this bike.”

“Huh?”

“Go look.” Blair opened the door for Norman.

The two men circled the bike as the humans and animals observed from inside.

“Normans losing it.” One side of Harrys mouth turned up.

“If you were caught between Kerry and Aysha, I expect you’d unravel too. Scylla and Charybdis.”

“Steam was coming out of his ears. And how could he say something like that about Rick Shaw? Jesus, the crap that goes through people’s minds.”

“Don’t take the name of Our Savior in vain.”

“Sorry. Hey, here comes Herbie.”

The reverend stopped to chat with the men, then entered the building. “Cheap transportation. Those things must get fifty miles to the gallon. If gas taxes continue to rise, then I might get one myself. How about a motorcycle with a sidecar?”

“You going to paint a cross on it? A little sign to hang on the handlebars, ‘Clergy’?”

“Mary Minor Haristeen, do I detect a whiff of sarcasm in your tone? Haven’t you read of the journeys of St. Paul? Imagine if he’d had a motorcycle. Why, he could have created congregations throughout the Mediterranean, Gaul even. Sped along the process of Christianization.”

“On a Harley. I like that image.”

“You two. What will you come up with next?” Miranda sauntered over to the counter.

“Imagine if Jesus had a car. What would he drive?” Herbie loved to torment Miranda, and since he was an ordained minister he knew she would have to pay attention to him.

“The best car in the world,” Miranda said, “my Ford Falcon.”

“Might as well go back to sandals.” Harry joined in the game. “I bet he’d drive a Subaru station wagon because the car goes forever, rarely needs to be serviced, and he could squeeze the twelve disciples inside.”

“Now, that’s a thought.” Herb reached down to pat Tucker, who walked out from under the countertop.

Blair rejoined them. Norman too.

“I’m sorry. I’m a little edgy.” Norman cast down his eyes.

“Norman, you’ve got one woman too many in your life, and that’s not including Ottoline.” Mrs. Hogendobber was forthright.

He blushed, then nodded.

Blair lightheartedly said, “All those men out there looking for a woman, and you’ve got them to spare. How do you do it?”

“By being stupid.” Norman valiantly tried to smile, then left.

“Well, what do you think of that?” Miranda exclaimed.

“I think he’s about to check into Heartbreak Hotel,” Harry replied.

“Depressed.” Blair opened his mailbox.

“Now, now, if he loves Aysha, he’ll work it out.” Herb believed in the sacrament of marriage. After all, he’d married half the town.

“But what if he doesn’t love her?” Harry questioned.

“Then I don’t know.” Herb folded his arms across his chest. “All marriage is a compromise. Maybe he can find the middle ground. Maybe Aysha can too. Her social climbing tries even my patience.“t

As Herb left, Cynthia Cooper arrived. “Thanks for your notes.”

“Couldn’t sleep. Had to do something.”

“I was up all night too,” Blair added. “If I’d known that, I would have come over.”

“You devil.” Cynthia would have died to hear him say that to her. “Well, we checked out the signature card handwriting with the signature on Mike Huckstep’s income tax statements and driver’s license application with the graphologist from Washington. They are authentic. And Mrs. Huckstep’s signature is not his handwriting. He didn’t forge a signature. It’s not Kerry’s signature either. Two people signed the card.”

“How’d you find out so fast?”

“Wasn’t that fast. Try getting the IRS to listen to a tiny sheriffs department in central Virginia. Rick finally called up our congressman and then things started to move. The DMV part was easy.”

“Did Mike actually go into the bank and sign cards?”

“Well, no one at the bank remembers seeing a man of his description. Or won’t admit to it.”

“Coop, how did he sign?” Blair asked.

“At gunpoint?”

“Have you been able to question Laura yet?” Mrs. H. inquired. “She might remember something.”

“She’s cooperated to the max. Once the shock wore off, she’s helped as much as she can because she wants to catch Hogans murderer. Dudley and Thea are doing all they can too. Unfortunately, Laura says she’s never seen anyone matching Huckstep’s description. Hogan would occasionally discuss bank problems with Laura, but usually they were people problems. The tension between Norman Cramer and Kerry McCray disturbed him. Other than that, she said everything seemed normal.”

“And there’s nothing peculiar in anyone’s background at Crozet National?” Mrs. Hogendobber played with her bangle bracelets.

“No. No criminal records.”

“We’re still at a dead end.” Harry sighed.

“You know, Harry, you’re the only person who has seen die killer,” Cooper replied.

“I’ve wondered about diat.”

“What do you mean?” Blair and Miranda talked over each other but basically they said die same thing.

“Whoever was riding that motorcycle when it almost sideswiped Harry at Sugar Hollow was most likely our man. Unless Huckstep rode out and rode back later.”

“And all I saw was a black helmet with a black visor and someone all in black leather. A real Hell’s Angel.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Miranda wanted to know.

“I did. I told Rick and Cynthia. I’ve racked my brain for anything, a hint, an attitude, but it happened so fast.”

After Blair left to go riding around the countryside, Cynthia stayed on for a little bit. People came in and out as always, and at five the friends closed the post office to go home.

Susan Tucker drove over with Danny and Brookie. They left Harrys house about eight. Then Fair called. The night cooled off a bit, so Harry gratefully drifted off to sleep early.

The jangle of the phone irritated her. The big, old-fashioned alarm clock read four-thirty. She reached over and picked it up.

“Hello.”

“Harry. It’s Fair. I’m coming over.”

“Its four-thirty in the morning.”

“Norman Cramers been strangled.”

“What?” Harry sat bolt upright.

“I’ll tell you everything when I get there. Stay put.”

35

Cinnamon-flavored coffee perfectly perked awakened Harry’s senses. She’d brought the Krups machine into the kitchen from the barn. It was so fancy, she thought it was too nice to keep in the stable. Mrs. Murphy and Tucker ate an early breakfast with her. The owl, again furious at the invasion of privacy, swept low over Fair’s head as he trudged to the back door.

“What happened?” she asked as she poured him a cup and set out muffins on the table.

His face parchment white, he sat down heavily. “Bad case of torsion colic. Steve Alton’s big Hanoverian. He brought her over to the clinic and I operated. I didn’t finish up until three, three-thirty. Steve wanted to stay with her, but I sent him home to get some sleep. I came in through town and turned left on Railroad Avenue. Not a soul in sight. Then I passed the old Del Monte plant and I saw Norman Cramer sitting in his car. The lights were on, and the motor too. He was just kind of staring into space and his tongue was hanging out kind of funny. I stopped and got out of the truck, and as I drew closer I saw bad bruises around his neck. I opened the door and he keeled over out onto the macadam. Called Rick. He arrived in less than ten minutes—he must have gone a hundred miles an hour. Cynthia made it in twenty minutes. All I’d done was put my fingerprints on the door handle. I didn’t touch the body. Anyway, I told them what I knew, stayed around, and then Rick sent me home.”

“Fair, I’m sorry.” Harry’s hands trembled. “If you’d been earlier, the murderer might have gone after you.”

“I’ll see those dead eyes staring out at me for a long, long time. Rick said the body was still warm.” He reached for her hand.

“If I make up the bed in the guest room, do you think you can sleep?”

“No. Let me take a catnap on the sofa. I’ve got to get back to the clinic by seven-thirty.”

She brought out some pillows and a light blanket for the sofa. Fair kicked off his shoes and stretched out. He wistfully looked at Harry as she reached to turn off the light. “I love being in this house.”

“It’s good to have you here. I’ll wake you at six-thirty.”

“Are you going back to sleep?”

“No. I’ve got some thinking to do.” He fell asleep before she finished her sentence.

36

Harry used the tack room as an office. She pulled out her trusty yellow legal pad and wrote down everything Fair had just told her. Then she described what she knew about the killer of Mike Huckstep and Hogan Freely. Whether or not the same person or persons killed Norman was up for grabs, but he was head of the accounting department at Crozet National. Her guess was the three murders were tied together.

She wrote:

1. Knows how to operate a computer.

2. Knows the habits of the victims.

3. Knows the habits of the rest of us, although nearly caught after killing Hogan Freely.

4. Kills under pressure. A quick thinker. Knocked out Kerry before Kerry could see him, then set her up as the killer… unless killer is Kerry’s accomplice. A real possibility.

5. Works in the bank or knows banking routines perhaps from another job. Might have key.

6. Possibly knows Malibu. May use her as bait. Perhaps . Malibu is the killer or the killers partner.

7. Feels superior to the rest of us. Fed media disinformation about the Threadneedle virus and then watched us eat it up.

8. Can ride a motorcycle.

At six Harry picked up the old black wall phone and called Susan* Tucker. Murphy sat on the legal pad. The cat couldn’t think of anything to add unless it was “armed and dangerous.”

“Susan, I’m sorry to wake you.”

“Harry, are you okay?”

“Yes. Fair’s asleep on the couch. He found Norman Cramer strangled early this morning.”

“What? Wait a minute. Ned—Ned, wake up.” Susan shook her husband.

Harry could hear him mumble in the background, a pair of feet hitting the floor, then the extension picked up.

“Harry.”

“Sorry to wake you, Ned, but I think this might help Kerry since you’re her lawyer. Fair found Norman Cramer strangled in his car in front of the Del Monte plant. About three-thirty this morning. He didn’t know he was dead. He opened the door and Norman keeled over onto the pavement. Fair said huge bruises around his throat and the condition of his face pointed to strangulation.”

“My God.” Ned spoke slowly. “You were right to call us.”

“Is everyone crazy? Is the murderer going to pick us off one by one?” Susan exploded.

“If any of us interfere or get too close, I’d say we’re next.” Harry wasn’t reassuring.

“I’m going to call Mrs. H. and Mim. Then I’ve got to wake up Fair. How about we all meet for breakfast at the cafe—seven-thirty? Umm, maybe I’d better phone Blair too. What do you think?”

“Yes, to both,” Susan answered.

“Good enough. We’ll see you there.” Ned paused. “And thank you again.”

Harry called Mrs. Hogendobber, who was shocked; Big Marilyn, who was both shocked and angry that this could happen in her town; and Blair, awakened from a heavy sleep, was in a daze.

She fed the horses, Mrs. Murphy, and Tucker. Then she woke Fair. They freshened up.

“Mrs. Murphy and Tucker, this is going to be a difficult day. You two stay home.” She left the kitchen door open so the animals could go onto the porch. She left each of them a large bowl of crunchies.

“Take me with you, “Tucker whined.

“Forget it, “Mrs. Murphy said impassively. “As soon as she’s down the drive, I’ve got apian.”

“Tell me now.”

“No, the humans are standing right here.”

“They don’t understand what you’re saying.”

“Better safe than sorry.”

Harry kissed both pets, then hopped in the old truck while Fair climbed into his big Chevy truck. They headed for the downtown cafe’. He had called the clinic. The horse was doing fine, so he decided to join the group for breakfast.

“Follow me,” Murphy commanded once the truck motors could not longer be heard.

“/don’t mind doing what you ask, but I hate taking orders,” Tucker grumbled.

“Dogs are obedient. Cats are independent.”

“You’re full of it.”

Nonetheless, Tucker followed as Mrs. Murphy scampered through the front meadows and the line of big sycamores along the creek diat divided the pastures.

“Where are we going?”

“To Kerry McCray’s. The fastest way is to head south. We can avoid the road that way too, but we’ll have to cross the creek.”

“You get your paws wet?”

“If I have ft”was the cat’s determined reply.

Moving at a sustained trot, the two animals covered ground rapidly. When they reached the big creek, Murphy stopped.

“It’s high. How can it be high with no rain?”

Tucker walked to a bend along the bank. “Here’s your answer. A great big beaver dam.”

Mrs. Murphy joined her low-slung friend. “I don’t want to tangle with a beaver.”

“Me neither. But they’re probably asleep. We could run over the dam. By the time they woke up, we’d probably be across. It’s either that or find a place to ford downstream, where it’s low.”

“That will take too long.” She inhaled deeply. “Okay, let’s run like blazes. Want me to go first?”

“Sure. I’ll be right behind.”

With that, Mrs. Murphy shot off, all fours in the air, but running across a beaver dam proved difficult. She had to stop here and there, since heavy branches and stout twigs provided a snaggy surface. Murphy could hear movement inside the beaver lodge. She picked her way through the timber as fast as she could.

“Whatever happens, Murphy, don’t hit the water. They’ll pull you under. Better to fight it out on top of the dam.”

“I know, I know, but there are more of them than us and they’re stronger than we are. “She slipped, her right front leg pushing into the lodge. She pulled it out as if it were on fire.

Slipping and sliding, Murphy made it to the other side. Tucker, heavier, was struggling. A beaver head popped up in the water at the other end of the dam.

“Hurry!” the cat shouted.

Tucker, without looking back, moved as rapidly as she could. The beaver swam alongside the dam. He was closing in on Tucker.

“Leave her alone. She’s trying to cross the creek. We mean no harm, “the pretty tiger pleaded.

“That’s what they all say, and the next thing that happens is that men show up with guns, wreck the dam, and kill us. Dogs are the enemy.”

“No, man is the enemy. “Mrs. Murphy was desperate. “We don’t belong to a person like that.”

“You may be right, but ifl make a mistake, my whole family could be dead. “The beaver was now alongside Tucker, who was almost to the creek bank. He reached up to grab Tuckers hind leg.

The dog whirled around and snarled. The beaver drew back for an instant. Tucker scrambled off the dam as the large animal advanced on her again. On terra firma both Tucker and Mrs. Murphy could outrun the beaver. They scorched the earth getting out of there.

At the edge of the woods they stopped to catch their breath.

“How are we going to get back?” Mis. Murphy wondered aloud. “I don’t want to travel along the road. People drive like lunatics.”

“We’ll have to find a place to ford far enough downstream so the beaver can’t hear us. We can’t swim it now. The lodge will be on alert.”

“It’s going to take us over an hour to get home, but we’ll worry about it later. We can be at Kerry McCray’s in another ten minutes if we run.”

“I’ve got my wind back. Let’s boogie.”

They dashed through the fields of Queen Anne’s lace, butterfly weed, and tall goldenrod. A small brick rancher came into view. Two squad cars were parked behind Kerry’s Toyota. Its trunk lid was up.

“Ihope we’re not too late. “Murphy put on the turbocharger.

Tucker, a speed demon when she needed to be, raced next to her.

They made it to the cars as Kerry was being led out of her house by Sheriff Shaw. Cynthia Cooper carried a woven silk drapery cord with tasseled ends in a plastic bag.

“Damn!” Murphy snarled.

“Too late?“Tucker, having lived with Mrs. Murphy all her life, figured that the cat had wanted to explore before the cops arrived.

“There’s still a chance. You jump on Cynthia when she reaches to pet you and grab the plastic bag. I’ll shred it as quickly as I can. Stick your nose in there and tell me if Kerry’s scent is on the rope.”

Without answering, Tucker charged Cynthia, who smiled at the sight of the little dog.

“Tucker, how did you get over here?” Tucker clamped her powerful jaws on the clear plastic bag, catching Officer Cooper by surprise. “Hey!”

Yanking it out of Cooper’s hand, Tucker raced back to Mrs. Murphy, who was crouched back in the field, where Cynthia couldn’t see her.

The minute Tucker dropped the bag under Murphy’s nose, she unleashed her claws and tore for all she was worth. Cooper advanced on them, although she didn’t know Murphy was there.

Tucker stuck her nose in the bag. “It’s not Kerry’s scent.”

“Whose scent, then?”

“Rubber gloves. No scent other than Normans cologne.”

“Mrs. Murphy, you’re as big a troublemaker as Tucker.” Cooper disgustedly picked up the shredded bag.

“If you had a brain in your head, you’d realize we’re trying to help. “Murphy backed away from Cynthia. “Tucker, just to be sure, go sniff Kerry.”

Tucker eluded Cynthia’s grasp and ran over to Kerry, who was standing by the squad car.

“Tucker Haristeen.” Kerry’s eyes filled with tears. “At least I’ve got one friend.”

Tucker licked her hand. “I’m sorry.”

Rick moved toward Tucker, and the dog spurted out of his reach. “Tucker, come on back here. Come on, girl.”

“No way. “The dog barked as she rejoined Mrs. Murphy, lying flat on her belly in the orchard grass.

“Let’s head back before they take us to the pound for punishment.”

“They wouldn’t do that. “Tucker glanced back at the humans.

“Coop might. “Murphy giggled.

“Kerry’s scent isn’t on the cord. After checking, I’m doubly positive.”

As they leisurely walked back toward their farm, the two animals commiserated over Kerry’s fate. The killer planted the murder weapon in the trunk of her car. Given Kerry’s threats to kill Norman, which every human and animal in Crozet knew about by now, she had as much chance of being found innocent as a snowball in hell. Even if there was doubt about her shooting Hogan Freely, there would be no doubt about Norman.

By the time they reached the creek, they both felt down.

“Think we’re far enough away from the beaver?”

“Murphy, it’s not that deep downstream. If we fool around and try to find a fording place you can clear with one leap, we’ll be here all day. just get your paws wet and be done with it.”

“Easy for you to say. You like water.”

“Close your eyes and run if it’s that bad.”

Tucker splashed across the creek. Murphy, after ferocious complaining, followed. Once on the other side, Tucker had to wait for her to elaborately shake each paw, then lick it.

“Do that when we get home.”

Mrs. Murphy, sitting on her rear end, had her right hind leg straight up in the air. “I’m not walking around with this creek smell on me.”

Tucker sat down since she couldn’t budge Mrs. Murphy from her toilette. “Think Norman was in on it?”

“That’s obvious.”

“Only to us. “Tucker stretched her head upward.

“The humans will accept that Kerry killed him. A few might think that he was getting too close to the killer in the bank—or that he was her accomplice and he wimped out.”

“Kerry could have killed him and used rubber gloves. It’s possible that we’re wrong.”

“Doesn’t everything come down to character?”

“Yes, it does.”

“Tucker, if Norman wasn’t the person behind the computer virus, do you think he was the type to track the killer? To keep on the case?”

“He wasn’t a total coward. He could have unearthed something. Since he works in the bank, he’d tell someone. Word would get around—”

Mrs. Murphy finished her ablutions, stood up, and shook. “True enough. But we’ve got to trust our instincts. There men have been killed with no sign of struggle. I could kick myself from here to Sunday fir not running into the alleyway to see the car. I heard the killer’s car the night Hogan was shot. Both Pewter and I did.”

“I’ve told you before, Murphy, you did the right thing.” Tucker started walking again. “/don’t think the murderer will strike again unless it’s another bank worker.”

“Who knows?”

37

Harry, Fair, Mrs. Hogendobber, Susan, Ned, Blair, Big Marilyn, and Little Marilyn watched out the cafe window as Cynthia Cooper drove by in the squad car. Kerry McCray sat in the back seat behind die cage. No sooner had the dolorous spectacle passed than Aysha Cramer, pedal to die metal, roared past the cafe’ in her dark green car. Fair stood up, and as he opened the door, a crash could be heard. Within seconds Rick Shaw screeched by, a cloud of dust fanning out behind him. He hit the brakes hard, fishtailing as he stopped.

By now the remainder of the group hurried outside to join Fair, who was running at top speed toward the site of the wreck. Aysha had deliberately sideswiped Cynthia Cooper’s squad car, forcing the deputy off the road. Cynthia, ever alert, stayed inside the car and locked the doors. She was talking on the radio.

“I’ll kill her! Unlock this door! Goddammit, Cynd?a, how can you protect her? She killed my husband!”

Rick pulled in behind Cooper. He leapt out of the car and hurried over to Aysha.

“Aysha, that’s enough.”

“You’re protecting her. Let me at her! An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth.”

As Rick and Fair struggled with Aysha, who would not release the door handle, Mrs. Hogendobber quoted under her breath, ” ‘Vengeance is mine, I will repay, says the Lord’—”

From inside the car Kerry screamed, “I did not kill him. You killed him. You drove him to his death!”

Aysha went berserk. She twisted away from the two men, strengthened by blind rage. She picked up a rock and smashed the back window of the car. Fair grabbed her from behind, slipping his powerful arms inside hers. She kicked backward and hit his shin, but he perservered and, with Rick, Ned, and Blair, pulled her away from the car. She collapsed in a heap by the side of the road. Aysha curled up in a ball, rocking back and forth and sobbing.

Cynthia prudently used fhe moment to pull away.

Rick motioned for the men to help him put Aysha in his car. Fair picked her up and carried her. He placed her in the back seat. She fell over and continued weeping.

Big Marilyn walked around to the other side of the car. Ned stepped in. “Mim, I’ll go. If she loses it again, you may not be able to restrain her.”

Til get in the front with Sheriff Shaw. We’d better get her to Larry.” Larry Johnson, the old town doctor, and his partner, Hayden Mclntire, treated most of the residents of Crozet.

“That’s fine,” the sheriff agreed. “I’ve had to tell many people terrible news, but I’ve never been through one like this. She ran right over me and jumped into her car.”

“Takes everyone differently, I guess.” Harry felt awful. “Better call her mother.”

As if on cue, Ottoline sped down the road, slammed on the brakes, and fishtailed in behind her daughter’s car. She got out, leaving her door open.

“This doesn’t bring him back.” Ottoline slid into the back seat of Rick’s car.

“I hate her!” Aysha sobbed. “She’s alive and Norman’s dead.” She scrambled out of the other side of the back seat. Ottoline grabbed for her, but too late. Aysha stood by Deputy Cooper’s car, screaming, “Why didn’t you put her in jail after she shot Hogan Freely? You left a killer out among us, and now…” She collapsed in tears.

Ottoline, by now out of Rick’s cruiser, helped her to her feet.

Rick hung his head. “There were extenuating circumstances.”

“Like what?” Ottoline snarled.

“Like the fact that Kerry McCray had a goose egg on her head and was knocked out cold,” Cynthia answered.

“And she had the gun that killed Hogan in her hand!” Aysha lurched away from her mother. She faced Rick. “You’re responsible. Norman is dead because of you.”

“Come on, honey, let me take you home.” Ottoline tugged at Aysha.

“Aysha,” Harry said coolly, “did Norman have a close friend in the bank?”

Aysha turned a bloodshot eye on Harry. “What?”

“Did he have a buddy at Crozet National?”

“Everyone. Everyone loved him,” Aysha sobbed.

“Come on now. You’re going to make yourself sick. Come on.” Ottoline pushed her toward her car, the driver’s side door still hanging open. She imparted a shot to Harry. “Your sense of timing is deplorable.”

“Sorry, Ottoline. I’m trying to help.” (

“Harry, stick to postcards.” Ottoline’s tone was withering.

Harry had to bite her lip.

As Ottoline with Aysha, and Cynthia with Kerry, drove away, the remaining friends stood in the middle of the street, bewildered. Market and Pewter were running toward them along with Reverend Jones. Harry cast her eyes up and down the street. She could see faces in every window. It was eerie.

Fair brushed himself off. “Folks, I’ve got to get back to the clinic. If you need me, call.” He slowly walked to his truck, parked in front of the cafe’.

“Excuse me.” Blair trotted to catch up to Fair.

“Oh, my, we forgot to pay,” Little Marilyn remembered.

“Let’s all go back and settle up.” Harry turned for the cafe” and wondered what the two men were talking about.

38

A dejected Cynthia Cooper returned to her desk after depositing Kerry, in a state of shock, at the county jail. Fortunately, there were no other women in custody, so she wouldn’t be hounded by drug addicts, drunks, or the occasional hooker.

Cynthia was plenty disturbed. The phones rang off the hook. Reporters called from newspapers throughout the state and the local TV crew was setting up right outside the department building.

That would put Rick in a foul mood. And if Rick wasn’t happy, nobody was happy.

She sat down, then stood up, then down, up, down, up. Finally she walked through the corridors to the vending machines and bought a pack of unfiltered Lucky Strikes. She stared at the bull’s-eye in the middle of the pack. She’d better damn well get lucky. She peeled off the thin cellophane cord, slipped off the top, tore a small square in the end, and turned the pack upside down. The aroma of fresh tobacco wafted to her nostrils. Right now that sweet scent smelled better than her favorite perfume. She tapped the base of the pack and three white cigarettes slid down. She plucked one, turned the pack right side up, and slipped it in her front shirt pocket. Matches came down the chute with the pack. She struck one and lit up. Leaning against the corridor wall, she didn’t know when a cigarette had tasted this good.

The back door opened, and she heard the garble of reporters. Rick slammed the door behind him, walked past her, grabbed the cigarette out of her mouth, and stuck it in his own.

“Unfiltered,” she called out to him.

“Good. Another nail in my coffin.” He spun on his heel and returned to her. She had already lit another cigarette. “I should have arrested Kerry right away. I used her for bait and it didn’t work.”

“I think it did. Even if she killed Norman. He was her accomplice. Cool. Very cool. He married Aysha to throw us off.”

“So you don’t buy that Kerry McCray took the wind out of Norman’s sails?” Rick gave her a sour look.

Cynthia continued. “It was perfect.”

“And Hogan?”

“Got too close or—too greedy.”

Rick took a long, long drag as he considered her thoughts. “A real cigarette, not some low-tar, low-nicotine crap. If I’m gonna smoke, then I might as well go back to what made me smoke in the first place.”

“What was it for you?”

“Camels.”

“My dad smoked those. Then he switched to Pall Mall.”

“How about you?”

“Oh, Marlboro. At sixteen I couldn’t resist the cowboy in the ads.”

“I would have thought you’d have gone for one of those brands like Viceroy or Virginia Slims.”

“The murder weapon was on the seat of Kerry’s Toyota.”

Cynthia said. “As for Virginia Slims, too nelly… know what I mean?”

“Yeah, I do. As to the cord… it’ll come back no prints. I’ll bet you a carton of these babies.”

“I’m not taking that bet, but, boss, no prints doesn’t mean Kerry wasn’t smart enough to wear gloves. She’s been threatening to kill Norman for days.”

“That’s just it, Coop. Smart. If she was smart enough to team up with Norman, to invent the Threadneedle virus, she wouldn’t be dumb enough to get caught with a .357 in her hand or that cord in her possession.” Rick nearly shouted. “And there’s the unfortunate problem of Mike Huckstep.”

“Yeah.” She thought a minute. “Think she’ll get out on bail?”

“I hope not.” A blue, curling line of smoke twirled out of his mouth. “She’s safer in there and I can keep the reporters happy with the news she’s booked for murder.”

“Safer?”

“Hell, what if Aysha goes after her?”

“Or she goes after Aysha?”

“More likely. This way we can keep everyone out of our hair for a little bit.”

“You’re up to something.” Coop had observed Rick’s shrewdness too many times not to know he was springing a trap.

“You’re going to talk Frank Kenton into flying out here from San Francisco.”

“Fat chance!”

“We’ll pay his way.” He held up his hand. “Just leave the wrangling about money to me. Don’t worry about it.”

“You think he can identify Malibu?”

“He can take a good look at Kerry. That’s a start.”

“But Kerry never lived in San Francisco.”

“How do we know? We’ll question her and cross-examine her and it’s possible, just possible, that something will slip. I think if she sees him, it will scare the devil out of her.”

“Or someone else.” Cynthia stubbed out her cigarette in the standing ashtray filled with sand.

“That too. That too. So, topgirl, get on it.”

“What’s this topgirl stuff?”

“Dunno, just popped into my head.”

39

BoomBoom Craycroft dashed into the post office. The place had been a madhouse all day as people hurried in and hurried out, each one with a theory. Pewter curled up in the mail cart. She missed her friends, but she was glad to catch the human gossip.

“Guess you heard I was pushed off the road by Aysha. How was I to know Norman had been killed and she was chasing Kerry?”

“None of us knew, and you look none the worse for wear. The Jag seems okay too.” Harrys tone was even.

“My guardian angel was working overtime.” BoomBoom opened her mailbox. “These bills. Have you ever noticed they come right on time but the checks never do? Then again, the stock market being what it is, who knows from quarter to quarter how much money they have? I hate that. I hate not knowing how much money I’ve gotcoming in. Which reminds me. Did you know the bank found $250,000 in Kerry’s account?”

“Oh?” Mrs. Hogendobber came over to the counter.

“I just came from there. The place is a beehive—$250,000! She certainly didn’t make that much at Crozet National. And it wasn’t in her account yesterday. If she’d been patient, she could have had it all, unless, of course, she’s a small fry and this is a payoff.”

“BoomBoom, who told you? I’d think the bank or at least the Sheriff’s Department would want to control this information.”

“Control information? You were born and bred in Crozet. You know better than that,” BoomBoom hooted.

“How’d you find out?” Mrs. Hogendobber was pleasant.

“Flirted with Dick Williams.” She mentioned a handsome bank officer who was always solicitous of the ladies but most especially of his wife, Bea. BoomBoom added, “Well, actually it was Jim Craig who told me and Dick, politely, mind you, told him to hold his cards close to his chest for a while. So I batted my eyes at both of them and swore I’d never tell. Who cares? It will be on Channel 29 tonight.”

And with that she breezed out the door.

“What an airhead.”

“You don’t like her because she took up with Fair after your divorce.”

“You don’t like her either.”

“That’s true,” Miranda confessed.

Pewter popped her head up over the mail cart. “She’s a fake, but half the people you meet are fakes. What’s one more?”

“Do you want to come home with me tonight?”

“Harry, I would love to come home with you.” Pewter hopped out and vigorously rubbed Harry’s legs.

“Lavish with her affections,” Mrs. Hogendobber observed. The older woman sat down. “I feel so tired. I shouldn’t be. I got enough sleep, but I can’t keep my head up.”

“Emotions. They’re exhausting. We’re all ragged out. I know am.

Before Harry could sit down with Miranda, Susan opened the back door and stuck in her head. “Me.”

“Come in,” Mrs. Hogendobber invited her. “You usually do.”

Susan dropped into the seat opposite Miranda. “Poor Ned. People are calling up, outraged that he’s defending Kerry McCray. The fact that every citizen has the right to a trial before their peers escapes them.”

“Trial by gossip.” Mrs. Hogendobber shook her head.

“If people want to be ugly, there’s not a lot you or Ned can do about it. If I were in trouble, I’d sure want Ned as my attorney.”

Susan smiled. “I should count my blessings. After all, my husband wasn’t killed, and what are a few hate calls?”

“I bet Kerry doesn’t even have a toothbrush,” Miranda thought out loud. “Girls, we should go over to her house and pack some clothes for her. This is the United States of America. Innocent until proven guilty. Makes no matter what public opinion is, she’s innocent under the law until proven guilty. So we shouldn’t shun her.”

The other two sat quietly.

Finally, Susan replied, “Miranda, you always bring us back to the moral issue. Of course we’ll go over there after work.”

40

“This place is pin tidy.” Mrs. Hogendobber put her hands on her hips. “I had no idea Kerry was such a good housekeeper.”

“Remind me never to invite you to my place.” Cynthia Cooper carefully packed some toiletries.

Harry, Mrs. Hogendobber, and Susan called Cynthia before going over to Kerry’s. The Sheriff’s Department scoured the place, so Rick Shaw said okay to the ladies’ visit as long as Cynthia accompanied them.

He didn’t know that Mrs. Murphy, Pewter, and Tee Tucker accompanied them also.

While Susan and Harry threw underclothes, Tshirts, and jeans as well as a good dress into a carryall bag, the animals went prowling.

“There’ve been so many people in here, so many scents.” Tucker shook her head.

Mrs. Murphy spied the trapdoor to the attic. Pewter craned her neck at the door.

“Think we could get up there? “Pewter asked.

“I’ll yodel. Mom hates that worst of all. “Tucker laughed, threw her head back, and produced her canine yodel which could awaken the dead.

“My God, Harry, what’s wrong with your dog?” Cynthia called from the bathroom.

Harry walked into the hallway to the bedrooms and beheld Tucker yowling in the key of awful. Mrs. Murphy circled around her legs. Pewter was frozen under the attic trapdoor.

“IfI go any faster, I’ll make myself dizzy “The cat slowed down.

“You three are pests. I should have left you home.”

“Oh, yeah?” Murphy reached up with her claws on Harry’s jeans, wiggled her rear end, and climbed up Harry so quickly that the young woman barely had time to complain about the claws.

“Ouch” was all she could say as Mrs. Murphy reached her shoulders, then stood on her hind legs and batted at the attic door.

“Ifshe doesn’t get it, she’s comatose, “Pewter wryly noted.

Susan stuck her head out in the hallway. “A human scratching post. What a good idea. What does she see up there?” Susan noticed Murphy’s antics.

“A trapdoor, stupid, “Tucker yapped.

“Hey. Hey, Cynthia,“Pewter called, as did Susan.

Cynthia and Mrs. H. walked out as Susan called. Susan pointed to the trapdoor. Harry cocked her head to one side to see it and then Mrs. Murphy jumped off.

“Did I tell you that your animals were here when we arrested Kerry? Tucker ran off with the plastic bag in which we had the cord, the suspected murder weapon, all sealed up. She dropped it in the field. Mrs. Murphy used her claws like a chainsaw. What a mess. Fortunately, I retrieved it before she damaged the evidence. This place has to be five miles from your house.”

“I’m going to start locking you two up. You hear?”

“We hear but we aren’t listening, “Murphy sassed.

Pewter was impressed. “Didyou really do that?”

“Piece of cake, “Mrs. Murphy bragged.

“You couldn’t have done it without me. “Tucker was jealous.

Susan brought a chair in from the kitchen, stood on it, and opened the trapdoor. A little whiff of scorching-hot air blasted her in the face.

After searching around, they found a ladder in the basement. Cynthia went up first, with a flashlight from her squad car. “Good. There’s a switch here.”

Mrs. Murphy, who loved climbing ladders, hurried up as soon as Cynthia crawled into the attic. Tucker, irritably, waited down below. Harry climbed up. Pewter followed.

“Even the attic is neat,” Cynthia noted. “You know, I don’t think our boys were up here. Don’t repeat that. It makes the department look sloppy, and guess what, they were sloppy.”

“It’s easy to miss what’s over your head.”

“Harry, we’re paid not to miss evidence,” Cynthia firmly told her.

“I’m coming up too,” Susan called up.

“Well, don’t knock down the ladder when you get up here, Susan, or we’ll be swinging from the trapdoor.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence.” Susan appeared in the attic. “How can you breathe?”

“With difficulty.” Harry grimaced.

“What’s up there?” Miranda called from below.

“Not much. Two big trunks. An old pair of skis,” Harry informed her.

“A large wasps’nest in the eave. “Mrs. Murphy fought the urge to chase wasps. The buzz so attracted her. The consequences did not. “Let’s open the trunk.”

Cynthia pulled a handkerchief out of her pocket and gingerly opened the old steamer trunk. “A wedding dress. Old.”

Harry and Susan, on their knees, looked in as Mrs. Murphy gracefully put a paw onto the satin. Cynthia smacked her paw. “Don’t even think about it.”

“Lift up the dress. “The cat held her temper.

“Bet this was Kerry’s grandmother’s. It’s about that vintage.” Susan admired the lace.

“Harry, take that end and I’ll lift this one,” Cynthia directed.

They lifted up the beautiful old dress. Underneath were old family photo albums and some letters from overseas.

Harry picked up a pile neatly tied in a ribbon. The postmark of the top letter was Roanoke, Virginia, 1952. The pile under that was from overseas from the mid-1980s. They were addressed to Kerry’s mother. “I think this is her mother’s stuff. She probably brought the trunk over here after Barbara McCray died. Do you need to go through it, you know, read the letters and stuff?”

Cynthia rooted through the rest of the trunk, then carefully replaced everything. “I don’t know. If Rick wants me to do it, I can, but I’ll ask first. Right now we’ve got a lot on her.”

“It’s circumstantial,” Susan quietly reminded her.

“That $250,000 is a lot of circumstance.” Cynthia sighed and closed the lid of the trunk.

Pewter, squatting on the second trunk, directed them. “Hurry up and open this one. It’s hot up here.”

“Go downstairs, then,“Mis. Murphy told her.

“No, I might miss something.”

Cynthia gently lifted Pewter off the trunk. “Heavy little bugger.”

Mrs. Murphy laughed while Pewter fumed.

Cynthia lifted the lid. “Oh, boy.”

Harry and Susan looked into the trunk. Mrs. Murphy and Pewter, on their hind legs, front paws resting on the trunk, saw it too.

“Her goose is cooked!” Mis. Murphy exclaimed.

A black motorcycle jacket, black leather pants, and a black helmet were neatly placed in the trunk.

“You know, I had hoped it wasn’t her.” Cynthia softly closed the trunk lid.

“Me too.” Susan sadly agreed.

“It looks bad, but—” Harry lost her voice in the heat, then regained it. “But she’ll get a fair trial. We can’t convict her over a motorcycle helmet.”

“I can tell you, the Commonwealth’s Attorney will sure try,” Cynthia said.

Susan patted Harry’s shoulder. “It’s hard to accept.”

They climbed down the ladder, Mrs. Murphy first, and filled in the expectant Mrs. Hogendobber.

“Well?“Tucker inquired.

“Motorcyclegear in the trunk. “The cat, dejected, licked Tucker’s ear. Grooming Tucker or even Harry made her feel useful if not better.

“Oh, dear” was all Mrs. Hogendobber could say.

Pewter clambered down to join them. “Kerry’s going to be stamping out license plates.”

41

Norman Cramer’s funeral was as subdued as Hogan Freely’s was grand. Aysha, disconsolate, had to be propped up by her mother, immaculate in black linen. Ottoline couldn’t bear Aysha’s grief, but as she and her daughter were the center of attention, she appeared as noble as she knew how. Although part of it was an act, part of it wasn’t, for Ottoline lived for and through her daughter.

The residents of Crozet, stunned at this last murder, sat motionless in the pews. Laura Freely wasn’t there, which was proper, as she was in deep mourning. Reverend Jones spared everyone the fluff about how death releases one to the kingdom of glory. Right now no one wanted to hear that. They wanted Kerry McCray tried and sentenced. If hanging were still in the penal code, they’d have demanded to see her swing. Even those who at first gave her the benefit of the doubt were swayed by the money in her account, and the motorcycle gear in her attic.

Mrs. Hogendobber constantly told people the courts decide, not public opinion. No one listened. Susan, as Ned’s wife, was particularly circumspect. Harry said little. She couldn’t shake the feeling that the other shoe hadn’t yet dropped.

She sat in the fourth pew in the front right side of the church, the pews being assigned on the basis of when your family had arrived in Albemarle County. The Minors settled here over two centuries ago. In fact, one of the Minors founded Crozet’s Lutheran church and was buried in the old graveyard behind it. The Hepworths, her mother’s family, were Church of England, and they held down their own front-line pew in the Tidewater.

She sat there even when the service ended and the congregation filed out. She scrutinized their faces in an unobtrusive way. Harry scanned for answers. Anyone could be in on this. She imagined each person killing the biker, then Hogan, and finally Norman. What kind of person could do that? Then she imagined Kerry’s face. Could she kill?

Probably anyone could kill to defend oneself or one’s family or friends, but premeditated murder, cold-blooded murder? No. She could so easily picture Kerry bursting into fury and killing Norman or Aysha, but she couldn’t imagine her tracking him down or hiding in the back seat of his car, popping up, asking him to pull over, and then choking the life out of him with a rope. It didn’t fit.

She walked outside. The overcast sky promised rain but had yet to deliver. Blair and Fair were waiting for her.

“You two a team or something?”

“We thought we might go to the cemetery together. It will keep us from squabbling, now, won’t it?” Fair shrugged his shoulders.

“Are you two up to something?”

“What a distrustful thing to say,” Blair mildly replied. “Yes, we’re up to being gendemen. I think we both are ashamed of how we acted at Mim’s. We’ve decided to present a united front in public and spare you further embarrassment.”

“Remarkable.” Harry dully got in the car.

42

Labor Day marked the end of summer. The usual round of barbecues, parties, tubing down the James River, golf tournaments, and last-minute school shopping crammed the weekend.

Over two weeks had passed since Norman was strangled. Kerry McCray, her defense in the hands of Ned Tucker, was freed on $100,000 bail, raised by her much older brother, Kyle, who lived in Colorado Springs. He was shocked when informed of events, but he stuck by his sister. Kerry, ordered by Ned to keep her mouth shut, did just that. Kyle took a leave of absence from his job to stay with her. He feared Kerry would be badly treated. He swore on a month of Sundays that the motorcycle gear was his. When it came back from the lab, no blood or powder burns had been found on it. Most people said he was lying to save his sister’s skin, ignoring the fact that in the early seventies he’d had a motorcycle.

The sun set earlier each day, and Harry, much as she loved the soft light of fall and winter, found the shorter days hectic. So often she woke up in the dark and came home in the dark. She had to do her farm chores no matter what.

Fair and Blair took polite turns asking her out. Sometimes it was too much attention. Mrs. Hogendobber told her to enjoy every minute of it.

Cynthia Cooper and Rick Shaw relaxed a little bit. Cynthia hinted that as soon as schedules could be coordinated, they had a person who could sink Kerry’s ship.

Mrs. Murphy, Tucker, and even Pewter racked their brains to think if there was a missing link, but no one could find it. Even if the humans could have understood the truth about scent, which never falters—one’s scent is one’s scent—and even if they could have understood that Kerry’s scent was not on the murder weapon, chances were they would have discounted it. Humans tend to validate only those sensesthey perceive. They ignore any other species’ reality, and, worse, they blot out any conflicting evidence. Humans need to feel safe. The two cats and dog were far wiser on that score. No one is ever safe. So why not live as much as you can?

The avalanche of mail at the post office on Tuesday following the holiday astonished Harry and Mrs. Hogendobber.

“Fall catalogues,” Harry moaned. “After a while they get heavy.”

Little Marilyn walked through the front door and up to the counter. “You must hate holidays.”

“Nah.” Harry shook her head. “It’s these catalogues.”

“You know what I’ve been doing?” She put her purse on the counter. “I’ve been rereading the letters Kerry and Aysha and I sent to one another when we were abroad and the letters Aysha sent to me when I returned home. I can’t find anything unbalanced in Kerry’s letters. It’s what you would expect of two young women right out of college. We wrote about where we went, what we read, who we met, and who we were dating. I guess I’ve been searching for some kind of answer to how someone I’ve known so long could be a murderer.” She rested her head on her hand. “No answers. Of course, I still have a shoebox left. Maybe there will be something in there.”

“Would you mind if I read them too?”

“Harry, that’s private correspondence.” Miranda frowned.

“That’s why I’m asking. Marilyn can always say no.”

“I’d be happy for you to read them. Maybe you’ll catch something I’ve missed. You know how the keys you’re looking for are always the ones right under your nose. You wanted to see the stamps anyway.”

“In that case, would you mind if I joined you?” Mrs. Hogendobber invited herself, and, naturally, Little Marilyn said she wouldn’t mind at all.

Two cups of coffee and a slice each of Mrs. Hogendobber’s cherry pie later, the ladies sat in Little Marilyn’s living room surrounded by shoeboxes. Mrs. Murphy squeezed herself into one where she slept. Tucker, head on her paws, dozed on the cool slate hearth.

“See, nothing special.”

“Except that everyone expresses themselves well.”

Harry added, “My favorite was the letter where Aysha said you should lend her a thousand dollars because you have it to lend.”

Little Marilyn waved her hand. “She got over it. Well, I’ve finished the last. Might as well put these back in order.”

Big Marilyn knocked on the door. Her daughter lived on a dependency on her mother’s estate. Dependency, although the correct word, hardly described the lovely frame house, a chaste Federal with a tin roof and green-black shutters. “Hello, girls. Find anything?”

“No, Mother. We were just putting the letters back in place.”

“You tried, that’s the important thing.” She breathed deeply. “What an inviting aroma.”

“Cherry pie. You need to sample it. I’m branching into pies now. Market sells out of my doughnuts, muffins, and buns by eight-thirty every morning. He says he needs something for the after-work trade, so I’m experimenting with pies. Don’t think of this as calories, think of this as market research.”

“Bad pun,” Harry teased her.

“Just a tad.” Mim held her fingers close together as Miranda blithely ignored her and cut out a full portion. As she did so, a drop of cherry sauce plopped on a letter.

“Clumsy me.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Little Marilyn instructed her.

Mrs. Hogendobber placed the knife on the pie plate, then bent over. She carefully wiped the letter with a napkin. “Hmm.”

“Really, Mrs. Hogendobber, don’t worry about it.”

“I’m not, actually.” Miranda handed the letter to Harry. Queer.

Harry studied the airmail envelope from France, postmarked St. Tropez, 1988. “Always wanted to go there.”

“Where?” Mim inquired.

“St. Tropez.”

“One of Aysha’s. I don’t think she missed a city in France.”

“Look closer.” Mrs. Hogendobber pointed to the postmark.

Harry squinted. “The ink.”

“Precisely.” Mrs. Hogendobber folded her hands, as happy in Harry’s progress as if she’d been a star pupil.

“What are you two talking about?” Mim was nosy.

Harry walked over and placed the letter in the elder Marilyn’s lap. Mim pulled out her half-moon glasses and held the letter under her nose.

“Look at the color of the ink.” Harry cast her eyes around the piles of letters for another one from France. “Ah, here’s one. Paris. Look at the color here. This one is from Kerry.”

“Different, slightly but different.” Mim removed her glasses. “Aren’t inks like dye lots? This letter is from Paris. That one from St. Tropez.”

“Yes, but postal inks are remarkably consistent.” Harry was now on her hands and knees. She pulled out letters. “The letters from 1986 are genuine. But here, here’s one from Florence, December 1987.” Harry handed that letter to Little Marilyn while giving her one from Italy the year before.

“There really is a shade of difference.” Little Marilyn was surprised.

Within seconds Harry and Mrs. Hogendobber were on their hands and knees tossing the letters into piles segregated by year.

“You two are fast. Let me help.” Little Marilyn joined them.

“Want to work in the P.O.?” Harry joked.

Mim stayed in the chair. Her knees hurt and she didn’t want to admit it. Finally they had all the piles sorted out.

“There’s no doubt about this. Kerry’s postmarks are authentic. Aysha’s are authentic until 1987. Then the inks change.” Harry rubbed her chin. “This is strange.”

“Surely, there’s a mistake.” Mim was confused by the implication.

“Mim, I’ve worked in the post office since George took over in 1958. This postmark is forged. Any good stationer can create a round stamp. That’s simple. Aysha nearly matched the inks, probably from the postmarks on letters she’d received from Little Marilyn and Kerry in Europe, but different countries have different formulas. Well, now, think of stationery itself. Haven’t you noticed how the paper of a personal letter from England is a bit different from our own?”

“Then how did the letters get here?” Big Marilyn asked the key question.

“That’s easy if you have a friend in Crozet.” Harry crossed her legs like an Indian. “All she had to do was mail these letters in a manila envelope and have her friend distribute them.”

“Much as I hate to admit it, when George was postmaster, he let a lot of people behind the counter. We do too, to tell the truth, as you well know. It wouldn’t take much to slip tbese letters into the appropriate boxes when one’s back was turned. Some of the letters are addressed to Little Marilyn in care of Ottoline Gill.”

“Well, I guess we know who her friend was,” Harry said.

“Why would her mother participate in such subterfuge?” Mim was astounded. But then, Mim was also secure in her social position.

“Because she didn’t want anyone to know what Aysha was really doing. Maybe it didn’t fit the program,” Harry answered.

“Then where was she and what was she doing?” Little Marilyn, eyes wide, asked.

43

Little Marilyn turned over the letters to Rick Shaw that night. He emphatically swore everyone to secrecy when he arrived. Mim demanded to know what he was going to do about it, where it might lead, and he finally said, “I don’t know exactly, but I will do everything I can to find out why. I won’t set this aside—just trust me.”

“I have no choice.” She pursed her lips.

After he left, the group broke up to go home. Quietly pulling aside Harry, Little Marilyn nervously asked, “Would you mind terribly—and believe me I understand if you do—but if not, would you mind if I asked Blair to drive over to Richmond with me for the symphony?”

“No, not at all.”

“You see, I’m not sure of your status—that’s not how I meant to say it, but—”

“I understand. I’m not sure either.”

“Do you care for him?” She didn’t realize she was holding her hands tightly. Another minute, and she’d be wringing them.

Harry took a deep breath. “He’s one of the best-looking men I’ve ever laid eyes on, and I like him. I know you like his curly hair.” She smiled. “But Blair’s diffident, for lack of a better word. He likes me fine, but I don’t think he’s in love with me.”

“What about that fight at the party?”

“Two dogs with a bone. I’m not sure it was as much about me as about property rights.”

“Oh, Harry, that’s cynical. I think they both care for you very much.”

“Tell me, Marilyn, what does it mean for a man to care for a woman?”

“I know what they say when they want something—” Little Marilyn paused. “And they buy presents, they work hard, they’ll do anything to get your attention. But I’m not an expert on love.”

“Is anybody?” Harry smiled. “Miranda, maybe.”

“She certainly had George wrapped around her little finger.” Then Little Marilyn brightened. “Because she knew the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.”

They both laughed, which caused Mim and Mrs. Hogendobber to turn to them.

“How can you laugh at a time like this?” Mim snapped.

“Releasing tension, Mother.”

“Find another way to do it.”

Little Marilyn whispered to Harry, “I could bash her. That would do it for sure.”

Harry whispered back, “You’d have help.”

“Mother means well, but she can’t stop telling everyone what to do and how to do it.”

“Will you two speak up?” Mim demanded.

“We were discussing the high heel as a weapon,” Harry lied.

“Oh.”

Little Marilyn picked up the thread. “With all this violence— guns, strangling—we were talking about what we would do if someone attacked us. Well, take off your heels and hit him in the eye. Just as hard as you can.”

“Gruesome. Or hit him on the back of the head when he runs,” Harry added.

“Harry.” Mim stared hard at her feet. “You only wear sneakers.”

“Do you remember Delphine Falkenroth?” Miranda asked Mim.

“Yes, she got that modeling job in New York City right after the war.”

“Once she hailed a cab and a man ran right in front of her and hopped in it. Delphine said she held on to the door and hit him so many times over the head with her high heel that he swore like a fishmonger, but he surrendered the cab.” She waited a beat. “She married him, of course.”

“Is that how she met Roddy? Oh, she never told me that.” Mim relished the tale.

Harry whispered again to Little Marilyn, “A trip down Memory Lane. I’m going to collect Mrs. Murphy and Tucker and head home.”

Once home, she called Cynthia Cooper, who was already informed of the bogus inks and postmarks.

“Coop, I had a thought.”

“Yeah?”

“Did you go by Hassett’s to see if anyone there remembered Kerry buying the gun?”

“One of the first things I did after Hogan was killed.”

“And?”

“The paperwork matched, the driver’s license numbers matched up.”

“But the salesman—”

“He’d gone on vacation. A month’s camping in Maine. Ought to be back right about now.”

“You’ll go back, of course.”

“I will—but I’m hoping I don’t have to.”

“What are you up to?”

“Can’t tell.”

“

44

Cynthia Cooper never expected Frank Kenton to be attractive. She waited in the airport lobby holding a sign with his name on it. When a tall, distinguished man approached her, an earring in his left ear, she thought he was going to ask for directions.

“Deputy Cooper?”

“Mr. Kenton?”

“The same.”

“Uh—do you have any luggage?”

“No. My carry-on is it.”

As they walked to the squad car, he apologized for how angry he had been the first time she phoned him. Gruff as he’d been, he wasn’t angry at her. She declared that she quite understood.

The first place to which she drove him was Kerry McCray’s house. Rick Shaw awaited them, and as they all three approached the front door, Kerry hurried out to greet them, Kyle right behind her. Frank smiled at her. “I’ve never seen you before in my life.”

“Thank you. Thank you.” Tears sprang to her eyes.

“Lady, I haven’t done a thing.”

As Frank and Cynthia climbed back into the squad car, Cynthia exhaled. “I’m half-glad Kerry isn’t Malibu and half-disappointed. One always hopes for an easy case—would you like lunch? Maybe we should take a food break before we push on.”

“Fine with me.”

Mrs. Hogendobber waved as Cynthia cruised by the post office. The deputy pulled a U-turn and stopped. She ran into the post office.

“Hi, how are you this morning?” Miranda smiled.

“I’m okay. What about yourself?”

“A little tired.”

“Where’s Harry and the zoo?”

“She’s up at Ash Lawn with Little Marilyn, Aysha, and Ottoline.”

“What in the world is she doing there, and what is Aysha doing there? Norman’s hardly cold.”

Mrs. Hogendobber frowned. “I know, but Aysha said she was going stir crazy, so she drove up to gather up her things there as well as Laura Freely’s. Marilyn’s lost two docents, so she’s in a fix. Anyway, she begged to have Harry for a day, since she knows the place so well. Harry asked me and I said fine. Of course, she’s not a William and Mary graduate, but in a pinch a Smithie will do. Litde Marilyn needs to train a new batch of docents fast.”

Cynthia stood in the middle of the post office. She looked out the window at Frank in the air-conditioned car, then back to Mrs. Hogendobber. “Mrs. H., I have a favor to ask of you.”

“Of course.”

“Call Litde Marilyn. Don’t speak to anyone but her. She’s got to keep Aysha there until I get there.”

“Oh, dear. Kerry’s out on bail. I never thought of that.” Miranda’s hand, tipped in mocha mist nail polish today, flew to her face. “I’ll get right on it.”

Then Cynthia darted into Market Shiflett’s, bought two homemade sandwiches, drinks, and Miranda’s peach cobbler.

She hopped in the squad car. “Frank, here. There’s been a change of plans. Hang on.” She hit the siren and flew down 240, shooting through the intersection onto 250, bearing right to pick up 1-64 miles down the road.

“You’ll love the peach cobbler,” she informed a bug-eyed Frank.

“I’m sure—but I think I’ll wait.” He smiled weakly.

Once she’d maneuvered onto 1-64, heading east, she said, “It’s a straightaway for about fifteen miles, then we’ll hit twisty roads again. I don’t know how strong your stomach is. If it’s cast iron, eat.”

“I’ll wait. Where are we going?”

“Ash Lawn, home of James Monroe. We get off onto Route 20 South and then hang a left up the road past Monticello. I’m hitting ninety, but I can’t go much more than forty once we get on the mountain road. Another fifteen, twenty minutes and we’re there.” She picked up her pager and told headquarters where she was going. She asked for backup—just in case.

“She’s a real cobra.”

“I know.”

Cynthia turned off the siren two miles from Ash Lawn. She drove down the curving tree-lined drive, turning left into the parking lot, and drove right up to the gift shop. “Ready?”

“Yes.” Frank was delighted to escape from the car.

Harry noticed that Little Marilyn was unusually tense. She hoped it wasn’t because she was failing as a docent. Harry shepherded her group through the house, telling diem where to step down and where to watch their heads. She pointed out pieces of furniture and added tidbits about Monroe’s term of office.

Mrs. Murphy and Tucker had burrowed under the huge boxwoods. The earth was cooler than the air.

Aysha was underneath the house collecting the last of Laura Freely’s period clothing as well as her own. Ottoline was helping her.

Cynthia and Frank walked to the front door as nonchalantly as possible. Harry was just opening the side door to let out her group as Cynthia and Frank entered through the front.

As it was lunch hour, the visitors to Ash Lawn who would be in the next tour group, which was Marilyn’s, had chosen to sit under the magnificent spreading trees, drinking something ice cold.

Harry was surprised to find Cynthia there.

“This is Frank Kenton from San Francisco.”

Harry held out her hand. “Welcome to Ash Lawn.”

“It’s okay, Harry, you don’t have to give him the tour.” Cynthia smiled tensely.

Little Marilyn, having been warned by Miranda, contained her nervousness as best she could. “Should I call her now?”

“Yes,” Cynthia replied.

The candlesticks shook in their holders as Little Marilyn walked by. After a few minutes she returned widi Aysha and Ottoline.

Aysha froze at the sight of Frank.

“That’s Malibu,” he quietly said.

“No!” Ottoline screamed.

Aysha spun around, grabbed Harry, and dragged her into die living room. Ottoline slammed the doors. When Cynthia tried to pursue her, a bullet smashed through the door, just missing her head.

“Get out of here, all of you!” Cynthia commanded.

Marilyn and Frank hurried outside. Marilyn, mindful of her duty, quickly herded the visitors down to the parking lot. The wail of a siren meant help was coming.

Mrs. Murphy leapt up. “Mom. Mom. Are you okay?”

Tucker, without a sound, scooted out from under the boxwood and shot toward the house.

Mrs. Murphy squeezed through the front door which was slightly ajar. Tucker had a harder time of it, but managed.

Cynthia was crouched down, her back to the wall by the door into the living room. Her gun was held at the ready. “Come on out, Aysha. Game’s up.”

“I’ve got a gun in my hand.”

“Won’t do you any good.”

Aysha laughed. “If I shoot you first it will.”

Ottoline called out, “Cynthia, let her go. Take me in her place. She’s lost her husband. She’s not in her right mind.”

Cynthia noticed the cat and dog. “Get out of here.”

Mrs. Murphy tore out the front door. Tucker waited a moment, gave Cynthia a soulful look, then followed her feline friend.

“Tucker, around the side. Maybe I can get in a window.”

They heard Harry’s voice. “Aysha, give yourself up. Maybe things will go easier for you.”

“Shut up!”

The sound of Harry’s beloved voice spurred on both animals. Mrs. Murphy raced to the low paned window. Closed. Ash Lawn was air-conditioned. Both cat and dog saw Harry being held at gunpoint in the middle of the room.

Ottoline stood off to die side of the doors.

“Tucker, these old windows are pretty low. Think you can crash through?”

“Yes.”

They ran back fifty yards, then turned and hurtled toward the old hand-blown window. Tucker left the ground a split second before Murphy, ducking her head, and hit the glass with the top of her head. Mrs. Murphy, her eyes squeezed tight against the shattering glass, sailed in a hairbreadth behind Tucker. Broken glass went everywhere.

Aysha whirled and fired. She was so set on a human opponent, she never figured on the animals. Tucker, still running, leapt up and hit her full force, and she staggered back.

Ottoline screamed, “Shoot the dog!”

Mrs. Murphy leapt up and sank her fangs into Aysha’s right wrist while grabbing on to her forearm with front and hind claws. Then she tore into the flesh for all she was worth.

Aysha howled. Harry threw a block into her and they tumbled onto the floor. Tucker clamped her jaws on a leg. Ottoline ran over to kick the corgi.

Mrs. Murphy released her grip and yelled, “The hand, Tucker, go for the hand.” Tucker bounded over the struggling bodies. Ottoline’s kick was a fraction of a second too late. Aysha was reaching up to bludgeon Harry on the head. Tucker savaged Aysha’s hand, biting deep holes in the fleshy palm. Aysha dropped the gun. Ottoline quickly reached for it. Tucker ran quiedy behind her and bit her too, then picked up the gun.

Harry yelled, “Coop! Help!”

Mrs. Murphy kept clawing Aysha as Tucker eluded a determined Ottoline, her focus on the gun.

Coop held her service pistol in both hands and blew out the lock on the doors. “It’s over, Aysha.” She leveled her gun at the fighting women.

Harry, a bruise already swelling up under her left eye, released Aysha and scrambled to her feet. She was struggling to catch her breath. Ottoline ran up behind Coop and grabbed her around the neck, but Coop ducked and elbowed her in the gut. With an “umph” Ottoline let go.

Aysha started to spring out the door, but Harry tackled her.

Coop shoved Ottoline over to where Aysha was slowly getting up.

“You were so smart, Aysha, but you were done in by a dog and a cat.” Harry rejoiced as Tucker brought her the gun.

“It’s always the one you don’t figure that gets you.” Cynthia never took her eyes off her quarry.

Rick Shaw thundered in. He grasped the situation and handcuffed Aysha and Ottoline together, back to back, then read them their rights.

“Ow.” Aysha winced from where Mrs. Murphy and Tucker had ripped her hand.

Harry squatted down and petted her friends. She checked their paws for cuts from the glass.

“Why?” Harry asked.

“Why not?” Aysha insouciantly replied.

“Well, then how?” Cynthia queried.

“I have a right to remain silent.”

“Answer one question, Aysha.” Harry brushed herself off. “Was Norman in on it?”

Aysha shrugged, not answering the question.

Ottoline laughed derisively. “That coward. He lived in fear of his own shadow.” Ottoline turned to Rick Shaw. “You’re making a big mistake.”

Aysha, still panting, said, “Mother, my lawyer will do the talking.”

Harry picked up a purring Mrs. Murphy. “Aysha, your letters to Marilyn from St. Tropez and Paris and wherever—you faked the postmarks and did a good job. But it’s much harder to fake the inks.”

Ottoline grumbled. “You can’t prove that in a court of law. And just because I delivered fake postcards doesn’t make my daughter a criminal.”

Aysha’s eyes narrowed, then widened. “Mother, anything you say can be used against me!”

Ottoline shook her head. “I want to make a clean breast of it. I needed money. Stealing from a bank is ridiculously easy. Crozet National was very sloppy regarding their security. Norman was putty in my hands. It was quite simple, really. When he weakened, I strangled him. As he slowed by the canning plant I popped up out of the back seat and told him to pull over. He was harder to kill than I thought, but I did have the advantage of surprise. At least I didn’t have to hear him whine anymore about what would happen if he got caught.”

Mrs. Murphy reached out with her paw, claws extended. “Aysha, are you going to stand there and let your mother take the rap?”

“I hate cats,” Aysha spat at the little tiger who had foiled her plans.

“Well, this one was smart enough to stop you,” Cynthia sarcastically said.

“That’s enough.” Rick wanted to get mother and daughter down to the station to book them. He pointed toward the squad car. As they were handcuffed back to back, walking proved difficult.

“Did you kill Hogan Freely too?” Harry asked Ottoline.

“Yes. Remember when we were in Market Shiflett’s? Hogan said he was going to work late and bang around on the computer. He was intelligent enough that he might have—”

“Mother, shut up!” Aysha stumbled.

“What if Hogan had figured out my system?” Ottoline said, emphasizing “my.”

“There is no system, Mother. Norman was stealing from the bank. Hogan threatened him. He killed Hogan and his accomplice inside the bank killed him. Kerrywas his partner. He betrayed me.”

“He did?” Ottoline’s eyebrows jumped up. She thought a second, then her tone changed as she followed Aysha’s desperate line of reasoning. “What a worm!”

“Aysha, we know you worked at the Anvil. You can’t deny that.” Harry, still quietly seething with anger, argued as she followed them to the squad car.

“So?” .

Ottoline went on rapidly, babbling as though that would get the people off the track. “I had to do something. I mean, my daughter, aGill, working in a place like that. She was just going through a stage, of course, but think how it could have compromised her chances of a good marriage once she returned home, which she would do, in time. So I begged her to write postcards as if she were still in Europe. I took care of the rest. As it was, she had drifted away from Marilyn and Kerry so they didn’t know exactly where she was. Sending fake postcards wasn’t that hard, you see, and her reputation remained unsullied. I don’t know why young people have to go through these rebellious stages. My generation never did.”

“You had World War Two. That was rebellion enough.”

“I’m not that old,” Ottoline frostily corrected Harry.

“Ladies, these are good stories. Let’s get to the station house and you can make your statements and call your lawyer,” Rick prodded them.

Frank Kenton followed Cynthia. As he opened the door to her squad car he gave Aysha a long, hard look.

Defiantly, she stared back.

Til live to see you rot in hell.” He smiled.

“I like that, Frank. There’s a real irony to that—you as a moral force.” Aysha laughed at him.

“Don’t lower yourself to talk to him,” Ottoline snapped.

“She lowered herself plenty in San Francisco,” Frank yelled at Ottoline. “Lady, we’d have all been better off if you hadn’tbeen a mother.”

Ottoline hesitated before trying to get in the back seat of the squad car. Rick held open the door. The way the two women were handcuffed, they couldn’t maneuver their way into the car.

“This is impossible.” Aysha stated the obvious.

“You’re right.” Rick unlocked her handcuffs.

That fast, Aysha sprinted toward the trees.

“Stop or I’ll shoot!” Rick dropped to one knee while pulling his revolver.

Cynthia, too, dropped, gun at the ready. Aysha made an easy target.

Tucker dug into the earth, flying after Aysha. Passing the human was easy for such a fast little dog. She turned in front of Aysha just as Rick fired a warning shot. Harry was going to call the dog back but thought it unwise to interrupt Tucker’s trajectory.

Aysha glanced over her shoulder just as Tucker crouched in front of her. She tripped over the little dog and hit the ground hard.

Cynthia, younger and faster than Rick, was halfway there, when a wobbly Aysha clambered to her feet.

“Goddamned dog!”

“Put your hands behind your head and slowly, I said slowly, walk back to the squad car.”

Ottoline, crying uncontrollably, slumped against the white and blue car. “I did it. Really. I’m guilty.”

“Shut up, Mother! You never listen.”

A flash of parental authority passed over Ottoline’s face. “If you’d listened to me in the first place, none of us would be in this mess! I told you not to marry Mike Huckstep!”

“I don’t know anyone by that name!” Aysha’s whole body contorted with rage.

Ottoline’s face fell like a collapsed building. She realized that in her frantic attempt to save her daughter she had spilled the beans.

45

Reverend Jones was the last to join the little group at Harry’s farm for a potluck supper hastily arranged by Susan. He greeted Mrs. Hogendobber, Mim, Little Marilyn, Market, Pewter, Ned, Blair, Cynthia, Kerry McCray, and her brother, Kyle.

“What did I miss?”

“Idle gossip. We waited for you,” Mrs. Hogendobber told him. “Fair’s the only one missing. He’ll come when he can.”

“Did you ever find out how Aysha transferred the money?” Susan eagerly asked.

“Yes, but we don’t know what she’s done with it, except for the sum she transferred into Kerry’s account. She fully intends to hire the best lawyer money can buy and serve out her jail term if she doesn’t get capital punishment. She’ll probably be out on good behavior before she’s fifty, and then she’ll go to wherever she’s stashed the money.” Cynthia sounded bitter.

“How’d she do it?” Mim asked again.

“There was a rider attached to the void command in the Crozet National computer. Remember all the instructions for dealing with the Threadneedle virus? Well, it was brilliant, really. When the bank would void the command of the virus to scramble files, a rider would go into effect that instructed the computer to transfer two million dollars into a blind account on August first. The money didn’t leave the bank. Later Aysha or Norman squirreled it out. For all we know, it may still be in that blind account, or it may be in an offshore account in a country whose bankers are easily bribed.”

“Where was Mike Huckstep in all this?” Blair was curious.

“Ah…” Cynthia smiled at him. She always smiled at Blair. “That was the fly in the ointment. She had everything perfecdy planned, a plan she undoubtedly stole from Huckstep, and he shows up at Ash Lawn just before her trap was set to spring. She wasn’t taking any chances and she was shrewd enough to know the death of a biker wouldn’t pull at many heartstrings in Crozet. She coolly calculated how to get away with murder. She told him she was enacting his plan. He signed the bank cards willingly, thinking the ill-gotten gain would be pirated into his account. They’d be rich. Norman inserted the account information into the system, not knowing who Mike really was. Meanwhile, Aysha told Mike she wanted him back. He didn’t know she was married to Norman, of course. She told him how awful she’d felt running out on him, but she was afraid of total commitment, and when she realized her mistake she couldn’t find him—he’d moved from Glover Street, where they used to live. She suggested he pick her up on the motorcycle and they could cruise around. Bam! That was it for Mike Huckstep, her real husband. Not only is she a killer and a thief, she’s a bigamist.”

“How did he find her?” Harry wondered.

“He knew her real name. Aysha got a break when he showed up at Ash Lawn strung out like he was. He called her by the name he knew best. Of course, Ottoline is claiming Huckstep must have been killed by a drug dealer or some other low life—anyone but her precious daughter.”

“So, Coop, how did Huckstep find Aysha?” Susan asked.

“Oh,” she said, smiling, “I got off the subject, didn’t I? He must have tapped into our Department of Motor Vehicle files or he could have zapped the state income tax records. The man seems to have been, without a doubt, a computer genius.”

“Imagine if that mind had been harnessed to the service of the Lord,” Mrs. Hogendobber mused.

“Miranda, that’s an interesting thought.” Herbie crossed his arms over his chest. “Speaking of his mind, I wonder what provoked him to look for her.”

“Love. He was still in love with her, despite all,” Blair firmly stated. “You could see that the day he came to Ash Lawn. Some men are gluttons for that brand of punishment.”

“We’ll never really know.” Cynthia thought Blair’s interpretation was on the romantic side.

“Takes some people that way,” Kerry ruefully added to the conversation.

“Guess he got more and more lonesome and—” Susan paused. “It doesn’t matter, I guess. But what I can’t figure out is how he knew to go to Ash Lawn.”

“Yeah, that’s weird.” Little Marilyn recalled his visit.

“My hunch is that Aysha bragged about her pedigree, that old Virginia vice. She probably said she was or would be a docent at Monticello or Ash Lawn or something like that. I doubt we’ll ever truly know because she is keeping her mouth shut like a steel trap.” Cynthia shook her head. “In fact, if it weren’t for the way Ottoline keeps letting things slip, we wouldn’t know enough to put together a case.”

“Poor Norman, the perfect cog in her wheel.” Kerry’s eyes misted over.

“Why couldn’t Mike put his plan into effect?” Little Marilyn asked.

“A man like that wouldn’t have friends inside a bank. He needed a partner who was or could be socially acceptable. I suppose the original plan entailed Aysha working inside a bank,” Mim shrewdly noted,

“Aysha decided she could pull it off without him,” Cynthia said. “When he showed up she shrewdly told him she’d found a dupe inside the bank. They could be in business pronto. Although Mike probably did love her as Blair believes, she couldn’t control him the way she could control Norman. And she definitely had her eyes on the whole enchilada.”

“I keep thinking about poor Hogan. There he was in Market’s store, telling us he was going to work late that night, telling Aysha.” Susan shivered, remembering.

“He scared her for sure. The fog was pure luck.” Cynthia glanced over at Blair. He was so handsome, she couldn’t keep her eyes off him.

Little Marilyn noticed. “Thank God for Mrs. Murphy and Tee Tucker, they’re the real heroes.”

“Don’t let it go to your head,” Pewter chided.

“You’re out of sorts because you missed the fireworks.” Mrs. Murphy preened.

“You’re right.” Pewter tiptoed toward those covered dishes in the kitchen.

“Has she shown any remorse?” Mrs. Hogendobber inquired.

“None.”

“Ottoline says Aysha is being framed. She insists that Kerry is the culprit while she killed Norman to spare her daughter a dreadful marriage.” Mim rose to signal time to eat. “But then, Ottoline always was a silly fool.”

“Whose blood was on the saddlebag?” Harry asked.

“What blood?” Mim motioned for Little Marilyn to join her. “I don’t know anything about blood.”

“A few drops of blood on Mike Huckstep’s saddlebags.” Cynthia checked her hands and decided she needed to wash them before eating. “Aysha’s. She must have had a small cut.”

By now the humans had invaded the kitchen. Much as they wanted to wait for Fair, their stomachs wouldn’t. Besides, with a vet, one never knew what his hours would be.

Little Marilyn had cooked crisp chicken.

“Don’t forget us,” came the chorus from the floor.

She didn’t. Each animal received delectable chicken cut into small cubes. As the people carried their plates back into the living room, the animals happily ate.

Miranda asked, “What about Kerry?”

“Aysha was slick, slick as an eel.” Cynthia put down her drumstick. “First she used the termThreadneedle because she knew Kerry worked for a bank in London, near the Bank of England, on Threadneedle Street. She figured by the time we unearthed that odd fact, Kerry’s neck would be in the noose. Aysha had a fake driver’s license made with her statistics and photograph but with Kerry’s name, address, and social security number, which she pulled out of the bank computer in Norman’s office. She bought the gun at Hassett’s that way.”

“Fake driver’s licenses?” Miranda was surprised.

“High school kids are a big market—so they can buy liquor,” Harry said.

“How would you know that?” Miranda demanded.

“Oh—” Harry’s voice rose upward.

“It’s a good thing your mother is not here to hear this.”

“Yes. It is.” Harry agreed with Miranda.

“But why would Aysha kill Norman? He was her cover,” Marilyn wanted to know.

“She didn’t,” Harry blurted out, not from knowledge but from intuition and what she had observed at Ash Lawn.

“Norman chickened out after Hogan’s murder. White-collar crime was all right, but murder—well, he was getting very shaky. Aysha was afraid he’d crack and give them away. Ottoline, terrified that her daughter might get caught, really did strangle him. I’m sure the old girl’s telling the truth about that, although we don’t have any proof.”

“So Ottoline knew all along.” Harry was astonished.

“Not at first.” Cynthia shrugged. “When Mike Huckstep’s body was found, Ottoline got her first seismic wake-up call. When Hogan was killed, she had to have known. Aysha may even have told her. Like I said, Aysha denies everything and Ottoline confesses to everything.”

“She killed to protect her daughter.” Mim shook her head.

“Too late. And planting the weapon in Kerry’s Toyota—that was obvious and clumsy.”

“Then it was Aysha driving the motorcycle out from Sugar Hollow?” Harry remembered her close call.

“Yes.” Cynthia finished off a chicken wing as the others chatted.

“You know,” Mim changed the subject, “Ottoline was forever Aysha’s safety net. She never let her grow up in the sense that the woman was never accountable for her actions. The wrong kind of love,” Mim observed. “Hope I didn’t do that to you.”

Her daughter answered, “Well, Mother, you’d be happy to live my life for me and everyone else’s in this room. Youare domineering.”

A silence descended upon the group.

Big Marilyn broke it. “So…?”

They all laughed.

“Didyou think it was Aysha?“l?ewter spoke with her mouth full.

“No. We just knew it wasn’t Kerry. At least we were pretty sure it wasn’t, “Tucker replied.

“I’m happy we’re alive.”Murphy flicked her tail. “I don’t understand why humans kill each other. I guess I never will.”

“You have to love them for what they are. “Tucker snuck over to sniff Pewter’s plate.

Pewter boxed Tucker on the nose. “Watch it. I don’t have to love a poacher!”

“You take so long to eat. “Tucker winced.

“Ifyou’d eat more slowly you’d enjoy it more,” Pewter advised.

They heard the vet truck pull up outside, a door slamming, then Fair pushed open the screen door. The friends, intent on their dinners, greeted him. Then one by one they noticed.

“What have you done?” Mrs. Hogendobber exclaimed.

“Curled my hair a little,” he replied in an unusually strong voice. “Didn’t come out quite the way I expected.”

“Might I ask why you did it?” Harry was polite.

“Works for Blair.” He shrugged. “Thought it might work for me.”

5. MURDER, SHE MEOWED

1

The entrance to Montpelier, once the home of James and Dolley Madison, is marked by two ivy-covered pillars. An eagle, wings outstretched, perches atop each pillar. This first Saturday in November, Mary Minor Haristeen—“Harry”—drove through the elegant, understated entrance as she had done for thirty-four years. Her parents had brought her to Montpelier’s 2,700 acres in the first year of her life, and she had not missed a race meet since. Like Thanksgiving, her birthday, Christmas, and Easter, the steeplechase races held at the Madisons’ estate four miles west of Orange, Virginia, marked her life. A touchstone.

As she rolled past the pillars, she glanced at the eagles but gave them little thought. The eagle is a raptor, a bird of prey, capturing its victims in sharp talons, swooping out of the air with deadly accuracy. Nature divides into victor and victim. Humankind attempts to soften such clarity. It’s not that humans don’t recognize that there are victors and victims in life but that they prefer to cast their experiences in such terms as good or evil, not feaster and feast. However she chose to look at it, Harry would remember this crisp, azure day, and what would return to her mind wouldbe the eagles … how she had driven past those sentinels so many times yet missed their significance.

One thing was for sure—neither she nor any of the fifteen thousand spectators would ever forget this particular Montpelier meet.

Mrs. Miranda Hogendobber, Harry’s older friend and partner at work, rode with her in Harry’s battered pickup truck, of slightly younger vintage than Mrs. Hogendobber’s ancient Ford Falcon. Since Harry had promised Arthur Tetrick, the race director, that she’d be a fence judge, she needed to arrive early.

They passed through the gates, clambering onto the bridge arching over the Southern Railroad tracks and through the spate of hardwoods, thence emerging onto the emerald expanse of the racecourse circling the 100-acre center field. Brush and timber jumps dotted the track bound by white rails that determined the width of the difficult course. On her right, raised above the road, was the dirt flat track, which the late Mrs. Marion duPont Scott had built in 1929 to exercise her Thoroughbreds. Currently rented, the track remained in use and, along with the estate, had passed to the National Historic Trust upon Mrs. Scott’s death in the fall of 1983.

Straight ahead through more pillared gates loomed Montpelier itself, a peach-colored house shining like a chunk of soft sunrise that had fallen from the heavens to lodge in the foothills of the Southwest Range of the Blue Ridge Mountains. Harry thought to herself that Montpelier, built while America labored under the punitive taxes of King George III, was a kind of sunrise, a peep over the horizon of a new political force, a nation made up of people from everywhere united by a vision of democracy. That the vision had darkened or become distorted didn’t lessen the glory of its birth, and Harry, not an especially political person, believed passionately that Americans had to hold on to the concepts of their forefathers and foremothers.

One such concept was enjoying a cracking good time. James and Dolley Madison adored a good horse race and agreed that the supreme horseman of their time had been George Washington. Even before James was born in 1752, the colonists wagered on, argued over, and loved fine horses. Virginians, mindful of their history, continued the pastime.

Tee Tucker, Harry’s corgi, sat in her lap staring out the window. She, too, loved horses, but she was especially thrilled today because her best friend and fiercest competitor, Mrs. Murphy, a tiger cat of formidable intelligence, was forced to stay home. Mrs. Murphy had screeched“dirty pool” at the top of her kitty lungs, but it had done no good because Harry had told her the crowd would upset her and she’d either run into the truck and pout or, worse, make the rounds of everyone’s tailgates. Murphy had no control when it came to fresh roasted chicken, and there’d be plenty of that today. Truth be told, Tucker had no self-control either when it came to savoring meat dishes, but she couldn’tjump up into the food the way the cat could.

[Êàðòèíêà: img_4]

Oh, the savage pleasure of pressing her wet, cold nose to the window as the truck pulled out of the farm’s driveway and watching Mrs. Murphy standing on her hind legs at the kitchen window. Tucker was certain that when they returned early in the evening Murphy would have shredded the fringes on the old couch, torn the curtains, and chewed the phone cord, for starters. Then the cat would be in even more trouble while Tucker, the usual scapegoat, would polish her halo. If she had a tail, she’d wag it, she was so happy. Instead she wiggled.

“Tucker, sit still, we’re almost there,” Harry chided her.

“There’s Mim.” Mrs. Hogendobber waved to Marilyn Sanburne, whose combination of money and bossiness made her the queen of Crozet. “Boiled wool, I see. She’s going Bavarian.”

“I like the pheasant feather in her cap myself.” Harry smiled and waved too.

“How many horses does she have running today?”

“Three. She’s having a good year with Bazooka, her big gelding. The other two are green and coming along.” Harry used the term that described a young animal gaining experience. “It’s wonderful that she’s giving the Valiants a chance to train her horses. Having good stock makes all the difference, but then Mim would know.”

Harry pulled into her parking space. She fished her gloves out of her pocket. At ten in the morning the temperature was forty-five degrees. By 12:30 and the first race, it might nudge into the high fifties, a perfect temperature for early November.

“Don’t forget your badge.” Mrs. Hogendobber, a good deal older than Harry, was inclined to mother her.

“I won’t.” Harry pinned on her badge, a green ribbon with OFFICIAL stamped in gold down the length of it. “I’ve even got one for Tucker.” She tied a ribbon on the dog’s leather collar.

The Hepworths, Harry’s mother’s family, had attended the first running of the Montpelier Hunt Races in 1928 when it was run over a cross-country course. It was always the “Hepworth space” until a few years ago when it became simply number 175.

Harry and Tucker hopped out of the car, ducked under the white rail, sprinted across the soft, perfect turf, and joined the other officials in the paddock area graced by large oak trees, their leaves still splashes of orange and yellow. In the center sat a small green building and a tent where jockeys changed into their silks and picked up their saddle pad numbers. Large striped tents were set up alongside the paddock in a restricted area for patrons of the event. Harry could smell the ham cooking in one tent and hoped she’d have time to scoot in for fresh ham biscuits and a cup of hot tea. Although it was sunny, a light wind chilled her face.

“Harry!” Fair Haristeen, her ex-husband and the race veterinarian, was striding over to her, looking like Thor himself.

“Hi, honey. I’m ready for anything.”

Before the blond giant could answer, Chark Valiant and his sister, Adelia, walked over.

Chark, so-called because he was the sixth Charles Valiant, hugged Harry.“It’s good to see you, Harry. Great day for ’chasing.”

“Sure is.”

“Oh, look at Tucker.” Addie knelt down to pet her. “I’d trust your judgment anytime.”

“A corgi official or an Official Corgi?” Chark asked, his tone arch.

“The best corgi,” the little dog answered, smiling.

“You ready?” Harry peered at Addie, soon to be twenty-one, who’d followed her older brother into the steeplechasing world. He was the trainer, she was the jockey, a gifted and gutsy one.

“This is our Montpelier.” She beamed, her youthful face already creased by sun and wind.

“Mim’s the nervous one.” Chark laughed because Mim Sanburne, who owned more horses than she could count, paced more than the horses did before the races.

“We passed her on the way in. Looked like she was heading up to the big house.” Harry was referring to Montpelier.

“I don’t know how she keeps up with her dozens of committees. I thought Monticello was her favorite cause.” Fair rubbed his hands through his hair, then put his lad’s cap back on.

“It is, but she promised to help give elected officials a tour, and the Montpelier staff is on overload.” Harry did not need to explain that in this election year, anyone running for public office, even dogcatcher, would die before they’d miss the races and miss having a photo of themselves at the Madison house run in the local newspaper.

“Well, I’m heading back to the stable.” Chark touched Harry on the shoulder. “Find me when the races are over. I hope we’ll have something to celebrate.”

“Sure.”

Fair, called away by Colbert Mason, director of the National Hunt and Steeplechase Association, winked and left Harry and Addie.

“Adelia!” Arthur Tetrick called, then noticed Harry, and a big smile crossed his angular, distinguished face.

Striding over to chat with“the girls,” as he called them, Arthur nodded and waved to people. A lawyer of solid reputation, he was not only acting race director for Montpelier but was often an official at other steeplechases. As executor of Marylou Valiant’s will, he was also her two children’s guardian—their father being dead—until Adelia turned twenty-one later that month and came into her considerable inheritance. Chark, though older than his sister, would not receive his money, either, until Addie’s birthday. His mother had felt that men, being slower to mature, should have their inheritance delayed. She couldn’t have been more wrong concerning her own offspring, for Chark was prudent if not parsimonious, whereas Addie’s philosophy was the financial equivalent of the Biblical “consider the lilies of the field.” But Marylou, who had disappeared five years earlier and was presumed dead, had missed crucial years in the development of her children. She couldn’t have known that her theory was backward in their case.

“Don’t you look the part.” Addie kidded her guardian, taking in his fine English tweed vest and jacket.

“Can’t be shabby. Mrs. Scott would come back to haunt me. Harry, we’re delighted you’re helping us out today.”

“Glad to help.”

Putting his hand over Addie’s slender shoulder, he murmured, “Tomorrow—a little sit-down.”

“Oh, Arthur, all you want to do is talk about stocks and bonds and—” she mocked his solemn voice as she intoned, “—NEVER TOUCH THE PRINCIPAL. I can’t stand it! Bores me.”

With an avuncular air, he chuckled.“Nonetheless, we must review your responsibilities before your birthday.”

“Why? We review them once a bloody month.”

Arthur shrugged, his bright eyes seeking support from Harry.“Wine, women, and song are the male vices. In your case it’s horses, jockeys, and song. You won’t have a penny left by the time you’re forty.” His tone was light but his eyes were intense.

Wary, Addie stepped back.“Don’t start on Nigel.”

“Nigel Danforth has all the appeal of an investment in Sarajevo.”

“I like him.” She clamped her lips shut.

Arthur snorted.“Being attracted to irresponsible men is a female vice in your family. Nigel Danforth is not worthy of you and—”

Addie slipped her arm through Harry’s while finishing Arthur’s sentence for him, “—he’s a gold digger, mark my words.” Irritated, she sighed. “I’ve got to get ready. We can fight about this after the races.”

“Nothing to fight about. Nothing at all.” Arthur’s tone softened. “Good riding. Safe races. God bless. See you after the day’s run.”

“Sure.” Addie propelled Harry toward the weigh-in stand as Arthur joined Fair and other jovial officials. “You’ll adore Nigel—you haven’t met him, have you? Arthur’s being an old poop, as usual.”

“He worries about you.”

“Tough.” Addie’s face cleared. “Nigel’s riding for Mickey Townsend. Just started for him. I warned him to get his money at the end of each day, though. Mickey’s got good horses but he’s always broke. Nigel’s new, you know—he came over from England.”

Harry smiled.“Americans don’t name their sons Nigel.”

“He’s got the smoothest voice. Like silk.” Addie was ignoring the wry observation.

“How long have you been dating him?”

“Two months. Chark can’t stand him but Charles the Sixth can be such a moose sometimes. I wish he and Arthur would stop hovering over me. Just because a few of my boyfriends in the past have turned out to be blister bugs.”

Harry laughed.“Hey, you know what they say, you gotta kiss a lot of toads before finding the prince.”

“Better than getting a blister.”

“Addie, anything is better than a blister bug.” She paused. “Except drugs. Does Nigel take them? You can’t be too careful.” Harry believed in grabbing the bull by the horns.

Quickly, Addie said,“I don’t do drugs anymore,” then changed the subject. “Hey, is Susan coming today?”

“Later. The Reverend Jones will be here, too. The whole Crozet gang. We’ve got to root for Bazooka.”

Chark waved for his sister to join him.

“Oops. Big Brother is watching me.” She dropped Harry’s arm. “Harry, I’ll see you after the races. I want you to meet Nigel.”

“After the races then.” Harry walked over to get her fence assignment.

Harry, as usual, had been assigned the east gate jump, so-called because it lay closest to the east gate entrance to the main house. She vaulted over the rail to the patrons’ tents, put together a ham biscuit and a cup of tea, turned too fast without looking, and bumped into a slender dark man accompanied by a jockey she recognized.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“Another woman falling over you,” Coty Lamont said sarcastically.

“Coty, you aren’t using the right cologne. Old manure doesn’t attract women.” The other man spoke in a light English accent.

Harry, who knew Coty slightly—the best jockey riding at this time—smiled at him. “Smells good to me, Coty.”

He recognized her since she occasionally worked other steeplechase races.“The post office lady.”

“Mary Minor Haristeen.” She held out her hand.

He shook her hand. He couldn’t extend his hand until she offered hers … rough as Coty appeared, he had absorbed the minimum of social graces.

“And this here’s Nigel Danforth.”

“Pleased to meet you Mr. Danforth.” Harry shook his hand. “I’m a friend of Addie’s.”

Their faces relaxed.

“Ah,” Nigel said simply, and smiled.

“Then be ready to part-tee,” Coty said.

“Uh—sure,” Harry, a bit confused by their sudden enthusiasm, said softly.

“See you later.” Coty headed for the jockeys’ changing tent.

Nigel winked.“Any friend of Addie’s …” Then he, too, hurried to the tent.

Harry watched the diminutive men walk away from her, struck by how tiny their butts were. She did not know what to make of those two. Their whole demeanor had changed when she mentioned Addie. She felt as if she’d given the password to an exclusive club.

She blinked, sipped some tea, then walked out the east side of the tent area and stepped over the cordon. Tucker ducked under it.

“Come on, Tucker, let’s check our fence before the hordes arrive.”

“Good idea,” Tucker said.“You know how everyone stops to pass and repass. If you don’t get over there now you’ll never get over.”

Harry glanced down at the dog.“You’ve got a lot to say.”

“Yes, but you don’t listen.”

From the east gate jump Harry couldn’t see the cars driving in, but she could hear the steady increase in noise. Glad to be alone, she bit into the succulent ham biscuit and noticed Mim walking back through the gates to the big house, toward the races. She thought to herself that the political tour must be over, another reason she was happy to be in the back—no handshaking.

Working in the Crozet post office allowed Harry weekends and a minimum of hassle. The P.O. was open Saturdays from 8 A.M. to noon. Sally Dohner and Liz Beer alternated Saturdays so Harry enjoyed two full days of freedom. Her friends took their work home with them, fretted, burned the midnight oil. Harry locked the door to the small postal building on Crozet’s main drag, drove home, and forgot about work until the next morning. If she was going to fret over something, it would be her farm at the base of Yellow Mountain or some problem with a friend. Often accused of lacking ambition, she readily agreed with her critics. Her Smith College classmates,just beginning to nudge forward in their high-powered careers in New York, Boston, Richmond, and far-flung cities in the Midwest and West, reminded her she had graduated in the top 10 percent of her class. They felt she was wasting her life. She felt her life was lived from within. It was a rich life. She used a different measuring stick than they did.

She had one thing they didn’t: time. Of course, they had one thing she didn’t: money. She never could figure out how you could have both. Well, Marilyn “Mim” Sanburne did, but she had inherited more money than God. In Mim’s defense, she used it wisely, often to help others, but to be a beneficiary of her largesse, one had to tolerate her grandeur. Little Marilyn, Harry’s age, who glowered in her mother’s shadow, was tiring of good works. A flaming romance would take precedence over good deeds, but Little Mim, now divorced, couldn’t find Mr. Right, or rather, her mother couldn’t find Mr. Right for her.

Harry’s mouth curled upward. She had found Mr. Right who’d turned into Mr. Wrong and now wanted to be Mr. Right again. She loved Fair but she didn’t know if she could ever again love him in that way.

A roar told her that the Bledsoe/Butler Cup, the first race of the day, one mile on the dirt, $1,000 winner-take-all—had started. Tempted as she was to run up to the flat track and watch, she knew she’d better stay put.

“Tucker, I’ve been daydreaming about marriage, men”—she sighed—“ex-husbands. The time ran away with me.”

Tucker perked up her big ears.“Fair still loves you. You could marry him all over again.”

Harry peered into the light brown eyes.“Sometimes you seem almost human—as if you know exactly what I’m saying.”

“Sometimes you seem almost canine.” Tucker stared back at her.“But you have no nose, Harry.”

“Are you barking at me?” Harry laughed.

“I’m telling you to stop living so much in your mind, that’s what I’m saying. Why you think I’m barking is beyond me. I know what you’re saying.”

Harry reached over, hugged the sturdy dog, and kissed the soft fur on her head.“You really are the most adorable dog.”

She heard the announcer begin to call the jockeys for the second race, the first division of the Marion duPont Scott Montpelier Cup, purse $10,000, two miles and one furlong over brush for“maidens” three years old and upward, a maiden being a horse that had never won a race. She could see people walking over the hill. Many race fans, the knowledgeable ones, wanted to get away from the crowds and watch the horses.

A brand-new Land Rover drove at the edge of the course, its midnight blue shining in the November light. Harry couldn’t imagine being able to purchase such an expensive vehicle. She was saving her pennies to replace the ’78 Ford truck, which despite its age was still chugging along.

Dr. Larry Johnson stuck his head out the Land Rover’s passenger window. “Everything shipshape?”

“Yes,sir.” Harry saluted.

“Hello, Tucker.” Larry spoke to the sweet-eyed dog.

“Hi, Doc.”

“We’ve got about ten minutes.” Larry turned to Jim Sanburne, Mim’s husband and the mayor of Crozet, who was driving. “Don’t we, Jim?”

“I reckon.” Jim leaned toward the passenger window, his huge frame blotting out the light from the driver’s side. “Harry, you know that Charles Valiant and Mickey Townsend are fighting like cats and dogs, so pay close attention to those races where they’ve both got entries.”

“What’s the buzz?” Harry had heard nothing of the feud.

“Hell, I don’t know. These damn trainers are prima donnas.”

“Mickey accused Chark of instructing Addie to bump his jockey at the Maryland Hunt Cup last year. His horse faltered at the sixth fence and then just couldn’t quite pick it up.”

“Mickey’s a sore loser,” Jim growled to Larry. “He’ll break your fingers if you beat him at checkers—especially if there’s money bet on the game.”

“Goes back further than that.” Harry sighed.

“You’re right. Charles hated Mickey from the very first date Mickey had with his mother.” Jim ran his finger under his belt. “Takes some boys like that. But you know Charles had sense enough to worry that Townsend only wanted her money.”

“Chark couldn’t understand how Marylou could prefer Mickey to Arthur.” Larry Johnson recalled the romance, which had started seven years ago, ending in shock and dismay for everyone. “I guess any woman who compares Arthur to Mickey is bound to favor Mickey. I don’t think it had to do withmoney.”

“Off the top of your head, do you know what races—”

Before Harry could finish her question, Jim Sanburne bellowed,“The third, the fifth, and the sixth.”

“Nigel Danforth is riding for Townsend,” Larry added.

“Addie told me,” Harry said.

“You heard about them too.” Jim smiled.

“Kinda. I mean, I know that Addie is crazy for him.”

“Her brother isn’t.” Larry folded his arms across his chest.

“Hey, just another day in Virginia.” Harry smacked the door of the Land Rover.

“Ain’t that the truth,” Jim said. “Put two Virginians in a room and you get five opinions.”

“No, Jim, putyou in a room and we get five opinions,” Larry tweaked him.

Jim laughed.“I’m just the mayor of a small town reflecting the various opinions of my voters.”

“We’ll come by after the first race. Need anything? Food? Drink?” Larry asked while Jim was still laughing at himself.

“Thanks, no.”

“Okay, Harry, catch you in about a half hour then.” Jim rolled up the hill as Larry waved.

Harry put her hands on her hips and thought to herself. Jim, in his sixties, and Larry, in his seventies, had known her since she was born. They knew her inside and out, as she knew them. That was another reason she didn’t much feel like being the Queen of Madison Avenue. She belonged here with her people. There was a lot that never needed to be said when you knew people so intimately.

This shorthand form of communication did not apply to BoomBoom Craycroft, creaming over the top of the hill like a clipper in full sail. Since BoomBoom had once enjoyed an affair with Harry’s ex-husband, the buxom, tall, and fashionable woman was not Harry’s favorite person on earth. BoomBoom reveled in the emotional texture of life. Today she reveled in the intense pleasure of swooping down on Harry, who couldn’t move away since she was the fence judge.

“Harry!” BoomBoom cruised over, her square white teeth gleaming, her heavy, expensive red cape moving gently in the breeze.

“Hi, Boom.” Harry shortened her nickname, one won in high school because her large bosoms seemed to boom-boom with each step. The boys adored her.

“You’re dressed for the job.” BoomBoom appraised Harry’s pressed jeans and L. L. Bean duck boots—the high-topped ones, which reached only nine inches for women, a fact that infuriated Harry since she could have used twelve inches on the farm; only the men’s boots had twelve-inch uppers.Harry also wore a silk undershirt, an ironed flannel tartan plaid, MacLeod, and a goosedown vest, in red. If the day warmed up, she would shed her layers.

“BoomBoom, I’m usually dressed this way.”

“I know,” came the tart reply from the woman standing there in Versace from head to foot. Her crocodile boots alone cost over a thousand dollars.

“I don’t have your budget.”

“Even if you did you’d look exactly the same.”

“All right, Boom, what’s the deal? You come over here to give me your fashion lecture 101, to visit uneasiness upon me, or do you want something from Tucker?”

Tucker squeezed next to her mother.“She’s got on too much perfume, Mom. She’s stuffing my nose up.”

BoomBoom leaned over to pat the silky head.“Tucker, very impressive with your official’s badge.”

“Boom, those fake fingernails have got to go,” the dog replied.

[Êàðòèíêà: img_5]

“I’m here to visit and to watch the first race from the back.”

“Have a fight with Carlos?”

BoomBoom had been dating a wealthy South American who lived in New York City and Buenos Aires.

“He’s not here this weekend.”

“Trolling, then?” Harry wryly used the term for going around picking up men.

“You can be so snide, Harry. It’s not your best feature. I’m here to patch up our relationship.”

“We don’t have a relationship.”

“Oh, yes, we do.”

“They’re lining up, the starter’s tape is up,”—the announcer’s voice rang out as he waited for the tape to drop—“and they’re off.”

“I’ve got to work this race.” Harry moved BoomBoom forcibly back, then took up her stance on the rail dead even with the jump. If a rider went down, she could reach the jockey quickly, as soon as all the other horses were over the fence, while the outriders went after the runaway horse.

The first jumps limbered up the horses and settled the jockeys. By the time they reached Harry’s jump, the competition would be fierce. The first race over fences covered a distance of two miles and one furlong; competitors would pass her obstacle only once. This race, and in fact all races but the fifth, the Virginia Hunt Cup, were run over brush, meaning the synthetic Grand National brush fences, which had replaced natural brush some years ago. The reasoning behind the change was that the natural brush varied in density. Because steeplechase horses literally “brushed” through the top of these jumps, any inconsistency in texture or depth or solidity could cause a fall or injury. The Grand National fences provided horses with a safer jump. Timber horses, on the other hand, had to jump cleanly over the whole obstacle, although the top timbers were notched on the back so they would give way if rapped hard enough. Even so, the last thing a timber trainer or jockey wanted was for one of their horses to “brush” through a timber fence.

Harry heard the crowd. Then in the distance she heard the thunder. The earth shook. The sensation sent chills up her spine, and in an instant the horses turned the distant corner, a kaleidoscope of finely conditioned bays, chestnuts, and seal browns, hooves reaching out as they lengthened their stride. She recognized the purple silks of Mim Sanburne as well as Addie’s determined gaze. The Urquharts, Mim’s family, had registered the first year that the Jockey Club was organized, 1894, so their horses ran in solid color silks. Harry also saw the other silks: emerald green with a red hoop around the chest, blue with yellow dots, yellow with a diagonal black sash, the colors intense, rippling with the wind, heightening the sensation of speed, beauty, and power.

The first three horses cleared the brush, their hooves tipping the top of the synthetic cedar, making an odd swishing sound, then she heard the reassuring thump-thump as those front hooves reached the earth followed by the hind. The three leaders pulled away, and the remainder of the pack cleared the jump, a Degas painting come to life.

She breathed a sigh of relief. No one went down at her fence. No fouls. As the hoofbeats died away, moving back up the hill toward the last several jumps and the home-stretch, the crowd screamed while the announcer called out the positions of the horses.

“Closing hard, Ransom Mine, but Devil Fox hanging on to the lead, and here they come down the stretch, and Ransom Mine is two strides out, but oh, what a burst of speed, it’s Devil Fox under the wire!”

“Hurray for Mim!” Harry whispered. “A strong second.”

BoomBoom drew alongside her.“She didn’t expect much from Ransom Mine, did she?”

“She’s only had him about six months. Picked him up in Maryland, I think.”

“Changing trainers helped,” BoomBoom said, “Chark is working out really well for her.”

“Will and Linda Forloines are still going around telling horror stories about how much they did for Mim, and how vile she was to fire them.” Harry shook her head, recalling Mim’s former trainer and his wife, a jockey. “Will couldn’t find his ass with both hands.”

“No, but he sure found the checkbook,” BoomBoom said. “And I don’t think Will has a clue as to how much Linda makes selling cocaine or how much she takes herself.”

“They’re lucky Big Mim didn’t prosecute them, padding the stable budget the way they did.”

“She’d spend thousands of dollars in court and still never see a penny back. They’ve squandered all of it. Her revenge will be watching them blow out. Mim’s too smart to directly cross druggies. She’ll let them kill themselves—or take the cure. Thank God Addie took the cure.”

“Yes,” Harry said succinctly. She hated people who took advantage of others and justified it by saying the people they were stealing from were rich. If she remembered her Ten Commandments, one said,Thou Shalt Not Steal. It didn’t say,Thou Shalt Not Steal Except When the Employer is Wealthy. Will and Linda Forloines still hung around the edges of the steeplechase world. The previous year Will had been reduced to working in a convenience store outside of Middleburg. Finally they had latched on to a rich doctor who moved down from New Jersey and who wanted to“get into horses.” Poor man.

“They’re here.”

“Here?” Harry said. BoomBoom’s deep voice could lull one, it was so lovely, she thought.

“You’d think they’d have the sense not to show their faces.”

“Will never was the brightest bulb on the Christmas tree.” Harry peeled off her down vest as BoomBoom changed the subject.

“I’m here to tell you that I’m sorry I had a fling with Fair, but itwas after your divorce. He’s a sweet man, but we weren’t the right two people. I hadn’t dated anyone seriously since Kelly died, and I needed to put my toes in the water.”