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

Harry didn’t think it was BoomBoom’s toes that had fascinated Fair, but she resisted the urge to make a comment. Also, she didn’t believe for one minute that the relationship had magically started right after the divorce. “Can you understand how it would upset me?”

“No. You divorced him.”

“That didn’t mean I was over him, dammit.” Harry decided not to try to pinpoint the exact date of BoomBoom’s liaison with Fair. At least they hadn’t appeared in public until after the divorce.

“Why take it out on me? Take it out on him.”

“I did, sorta.”

“Well, Harry, what about the women, uh,while you were married? Those were your enemies, not me.”

“Did I ever say I was emotionally mature?” Harry crossed her arms over her chest as Tucker followed the conversation closely.

“No.”

“So.”

“So what?”

“So, I could see you. I couldn’t see those affairettes he was having while we were married. I got mad at you for all of them, I guess. I never said I was right to get mad at you but I did.”

“You’re still mad at me.”

“No, I’m not.” Harry half lied.

“You certainly never go out of your way to be nice to me.”

“I’m cordial.”

“Harry, we’re both born and raised in Virginia. You know exactly what I mean.” And BoomBoom was right. One could be correct but cool. Virginians practiced cutting one another with precise elegance.

“Yeah, well, since we were both raised in Virginia, we know how to avoid subjects like this, BoomBoom. I have no desire to explore my emotions with you or anybody.”

“Exactly!”

Harry squinted at the triumphant face.“Don’t start with me.”

“We’ve got to grow beyond our conditioning. We’ve got to cast aside or break through our repression. You can’t hold your emotions in, they’ll eat away at you until you become ill or dry up like some people I could mention.”

“I’m very healthy.”

“You’re also not twenty anymore. You’ve been holding these emotions in for too long.”

“Now, look.” Harry’s voice oozed reasonableness. “What you call repressed, I call disciplined. I am not teetering on the brink of self-annihilation. I don’t drink. I don’t take drugs. I don’t even smoke. I like my life. I’d like a little more money maybe, but I like my life.”

“You’re in denial.”

“Denial is a river in Egypt.”

“Harry,” her voice lowered, “that joke’s got gray hairs. You don’t fool me with your quips. I want you to come with me to Lifeline. It’s changed my life, absolutely. Six months ago I would never have been able to approach you, I would have held on to my own anger, but now I want to reach out. I want us to be friends. Lifeline teaches you to take responsibility for yourself. For your own emotions. It’s a structured process, and I know you like structure. Youcan learn these things, learn new ways tobe with people in a group that will encourage you. You’ll feel safe. Trust me, Harry, it will make you happy.”

Trusting BoomBoom was the last thing Harry would ever do.“I’m not the type.”

“I’ll even pay for it.”

“What?”

“I mean it. I’ll pay for it. I feel so bad that you’re still mad at me. I want us to be friends. Please consider my offer.”

“I—” Harry, caught off guard, stuttered, “I, I—Jesus, BoomBoom.”

“Think about it. I know you’ll find a thousand reasons not to do this, but why don’t you take out a pad of paper and list the pros and cons? You might find more reasons to engage in Lifeline than you know.”

“Uh—I’ll think about it.”

“One other little thing.”

“Oh, God.”

“Think about the fact that you’re still in love with Fair.”

“I am not! I love him but I’m not in love with him.”

“Lifeline.” BoomBoom smiled seraphically, moving off.

Harry breathed deeply, conscious of her heart pounding. Jim Sanburne’s midnight-blue Land Rover hove into view. She collected herself.

“News?” Larry inquired.

“Clean as a whistle,” Harry said.

“Are you all right?” the doctor asked, observing her flushed face and rapid breathing.

“I’m fine. How long till the next race?”

“Half hour. Just about,” Jim answered her.

“I need a co—cola.”

“You need something,” Larry joked. “You’re breathing like a freight train. Why don’t you come to my office Monday? How long’s it been since you had a checkup?”

“Larry, I’m fine. I had a little t?te-?-t?te with BoomBoom.”

“Say no more.” He smiled and as the two men drove off, Jim said, “Did she say tit a tat?”

“No.” Larry laughed loudly. “Jim, you’re just a redneck with money.”

Jim grunted.“Sounded like body parts to me, good buddy.”

2

“Mom, I’m hungry.”

“Tucker, stop yapping, you’re getting on my nerves.”

“You’ve had a ham biscuit and I haven’t had anything since breakfast.” The aroma from the food tents drove Tucker to distraction.

Harry checked her watch. Twenty minutes. She dashed into a tent, grabbed fried chicken, a small container of coleslaw, another one of beans, one cold Coke, and a big cup of hot tea with a plastic cover on it.

As Harry threaded her way through the crowd, she passed the jockeys’ tent. A commotion stopped her. The flap of the tent opened to reveal colorful silks on hangers dangling from a rope strung across the tent. Ace bandages, caps, and socks were tossed on low benches.

Nigel, close-cropped black hair gleaming in the sun, charged out. Chark Valiant charged out after him.

“Leave him alone,” Addie called after her brother. She opened the tent flap, sticking her head through. She hadn’t finished changing and couldn’t come all the way out.

“Shut up, Adelia.” Chark pushed her head back behind the flaps, then twirled on the young man. “You flaming phony—you don’t fool me. If my sister weren’t a Valiant, you wouldn’t give her the time of day.”

Addie popped her head back out of the tent as a florid Mickey Townsend bore down on the scene from one direction.

Arthur Tetrick leaned out of the top of the two-story finish-line tower.“Mickey, don’t—” He shut up, realizing he’d cause a bigger scene.

The jockey kept walking away from Chark, who grabbed him by the right shoulder, spinning him around.

“Stop it.” Nigel’s voice was clipped and furious.

“You stay away from my sister.”

“She’s old enough to make her own decisions.”

Chark shook his finger in Nigel’s face. “You want her money, you lying sack of shit.”

“Bugger off,” Nigel growled.

Chark hauled off to hit him but Mickey Townsend grabbed Chark from behind, pulling him back.“Settle this later.”

Chark twisted his head to see Mickey as Nigel returned to Addie, who’d stuck her head out of the tent again. He slipped into the tent with her as three other jockeys slipped out.

“Takes one gold digger to know another.” Chark struggled.

Mickey, square-built and powerful, continued dragging him away.“Shove it.”

Arthur, who had hurried down from the tower, approached the two men.“Mickey, I’ll take over from here.”

“Suit yourself.” Mickey unleashed his iron grip on the young man.

“Thank you for defusing an embarrassing situation.” Arthur grabbed Chark’s elbow.

“Yeah, sure.” Mickey inclined his handsome, crew-cut head, then ambled back to the paddock.

“Charles, this will not do,” Arthur sternly admonished him.

“I’ll kill that creep.”

Arthur rolled his eyes heavenward.“The more resistance you offer, the more irresistible he becomes. Besides, Adelia’s a baby. She’s not going to date men you find attractive.”

“I don’t find men attractive,” Chark sassed back.

“A slip of the tongue. You know what I mean.” Arthur draped his arm over Chark’s shoulder. “Calm down. Ignore this absurd romance. If you do, it will die of its own accord.” The horses were now in the paddock. “Tell you what, after the races I have to fax in the paperwork to National from the big house. Take everyone maybe an hour. How about if I meet you at the Keswick Club for a drink? We can talk this over then. Okay? Then we’ll look in on Mim’s party or she’ll banish us to Siberia.”

“Okay,” Chark replied, trying to settle his churning emotions. “But I just don’t get it.”

Arthur chuckled.“That’s what makes the world go ’round. They don’t think like we do—”

Chark interrupted.“They don’t think.”

“Be that as it may, men and women see the world quite differently. I’ve got to climb back up to my perch. Keswick Club at eight.”

“Yeah.” Chark smiled at the man who had become his surrogate father, then headed to the paddock where Addie, already up on a rangy bay called Chattanooga Choo, ignored his approach.

Nigel, in orange silks with three royal blue hoops, rode a striking chestnut beside her as they walked the horses around.

Chark sighed deeply, deciding not to give his sister instructions for the third race. She usually ignored them anyway.

Harry jogged back to her position, nodding to friends as she weaved her way through the dense throng. As they spied the official’s badge, they waved her on, a few calling that they’d drop by to see her. She wondered what it was about romantic energy or sexual energy that made everybody crazy, producing a scene like the one she had just witnessed.

She returned to the east gate jump, sat down, and opened her tea. A plume of steam spiraled upward.

“Mother!” Tucker’s voice rose.

“Beggar.” Harry tore off a piece of hot chicken which Tucker gobbled. “Fat beggar.”

“I’m not a beggar, but I can’t reach the tables and you can. And I’m not fat. Fat is Pewter.” Tucker aptly described the gray cat who worked at Market Shiflett’s convenience store next to the post office in Crozet. Pewter couldn’t come to the races either, doubling Tucker’s supreme satisfaction.

The announcer called out post time. Harry started eating as fast as Tucker. She hadn’t realized how famished she was, but she’d been up since five that morning with only a few bites to sustain her.

Each morning Harry fed her three horses, then turned them out into the pasture. She left marshmallows for the possum who lived in the hayloft. Then she’d feed her pets … but sometimes she forgot to feed herself. Mrs. Murphy, apart from a good breakfast, had a huge bowl of crunchies in mixed flavors. Usually Harry left open the animal door that she had installed in her back kitchen door. The screen door off the screened-in porch, which ran the length of the kitchen, was easy for Mrs. Murphy and Tucker to push open. But this morning she had closed up the animal door, deciding she’d keep Mrs. Murphy in the house since the cat had been known to follow the car. By the time she left to fetch Mira, she’d put in three hours of hard work on the farm.

The trumpet call to the third race made Harry eat even faster. She rinsed the food down with tea and Coke.

“Got any left?”

“Tucker, get your nose out of that cup.”

“Just curious.”

Harry brushed herself off, picked up her debris, and stood at her position.

She heard a crack, then a double shot fired. False start. Those wore on the nerves of riders and horses. The announcer called out the renewed lineup.“Horses in position. They’re off!” The third race, the Noel Laing Stakes, two and a half miles over brush, was the second biggest race of the day, with a purse of $30,000—60 percent to the winner.

The crowd yelped in anticipation. The horses charged out of sight and Harry heard the rumble of hooves, the ground shaking like Jell-O. The leader, a bright bay, was way ahead of the others. Every one cleared her fence, although one horse faltered. The jockey pulled up, his green silks with a blue cross already pasted with sweat to his body.

Harry knew this race was two and a half miles long. The horses would be around again in a few minutes. She ran out to the jockey, Coty Lamont.

“You okay?”

“He’s come up lame. I’ll walk up on the inside rail.” Coty dismounted, careful to hold on to the reins as Harry held the horse by the bridle. “Vet’s up there.”

“Blown tendon, I’m afraid, Coty.” Harry hoped she was wrong, because tendon injuries took a long time to heal and the risk of reinjury on a bowed tendon was high.

“Yeah.” Coty touched his crop to his cap by way of thanks. He slowly walked the gelding across the course and up the inside rail as Harry raced back to her post.

Seconds later the field came around for another lap. All jumped clean.

As Harry waited for the announcer’s report on the victor, she saw Will and Linda Forloines walking down the grassy slope toward her. They had in tow a man all but wrapped in Barbour.

Linda called out,“Hello, Harry.”

“Hi.” Harry waved to both of them. No reason to be impolite, much as she disliked the couple. She knew instantly the fellow in country drag had to be their soon-to-be-fleeced Yankee employer. She also knew that Will and Linda were making a point of showing him they knew everyone in the steeplechase world. Linda, more cunning than Will, wouldn’t stop to talk to many people since she knew they would not warmly welcome her. The New Jersey gentleman wouldn’t realize she was not on friendly terms since everyone would be polite. They turned and walked in the other direction as the Land Rover drove toward Harry. Linda ducked her head at the sight of Jim Sanburne.

Jim and Larry pulled up again. This time Mim, in the backseat, hopped out. She hadn’t seen Will and Linda. The men drove on.

“I want to watch the fourth race from here. I can’t bear listening to BoomBoom tell me about spiced cream cheese on endive for another second! It’s either endives or Lifeline.” She twirled her wool cape behind her.

“This fence is too far away for most people to walk.” Harry glanced down the rail. “Uh, but not too far for Greg Satterwaite. I see he’s working the outside rail. I guess he’ll be going to the outside barns next. God forbid he should miss anyone.”

“Don’t tell me,” Mim exclaimed. “Has the good senator seen me?”

“Not yet. He’s busy pumping hands and smiling big.” Harry pulled a huge fake smile as demonstration.

Mim scurried behind one of the big trees. A telltale whiff of smoke would give her away should anyone be looking. Harry ignored Mim’s cheating; she knew Mim wasn’t supposed to smoke. Still, she wasn’t going to tell Mim what to do or what not to do.

“Hi, there. How are you?” Satterwaite held out his hand, already swollen.

Harry suppressed an evil urge to squeeze it.“Morning, Senator.”

“I surely hope I may count on your vote. This is a tough election for me.”

“You can,” Harry replied with little enthusiasm. She hated politics.

A jet of smoke shot upward from behind the tree.

“Thank you, thank you for your support.” He smiled, capped teeth gleaming, then moved on to his next victim.

A few moments later Mim sneaked out from behind the tree.“Whew! Saved. When a politician knows you have money they’ll talk until they’re blue in the face. Save us from our government!”

“We’re supposed to be a democracy. Save us from ourselves.” Harry laughed, then noticed the cigarette still in Mim’s fingers; it was burning down to a stub.

Mim stomped it into the ground.“Don’t tell Jim.”

“I won’t.” But she was surprised to see Mim gambling with her health after her bout with breast cancer.

Harry checked her program.“You’ve got Royal Danzig in this race. Congratulations on the first division of the Montpelier Cup, by the way. Ransom Mine took this fence with so much daylight he was flying.”

“If he stays sound, he’ll be one of the great ones, like Victorian Hill.” Mim mentioned a wonderful horse, a star in the early ’90s.

“Who was the greatest ’chaser you ever saw?”

Mim replied without hesitation.“Battleship, by Man-O’-War out of Quarantine, bred in 1927. To see that horse in Mrs. Scott’s pale blue silks with the pink-and-silver cross was something I’ll never forget. I was tiny then, but it made such an impression. This place was hopping because Mrs. Scott was in her prime. To have seen Battleship, that was heaven.”

“What about Marylou Valiant’s Zinger?” Harry remembered the leggy chestnut colt.

“If he hadn’t injured his stifle, yes, I think he could have been very fine indeed.” She looked up at the sky. “I hope she’s up there watching today. People will say I hired Adelia and Charles out of affection. Granted that may have played some small part, but the truth is they’re good … and getting better. And the difference in the stable since that dreadful couple is gone!” She crossed her arms over her chest. “You know it was a drip-drip like Chinese water torture after Marylou disappeared. The day I admitted to myself she must be dead was one of the darkest days of my life. And I promised to do what I could for her children.”

“You more than kept your promise.”

“The hard work was done. Marylou and Charley did that. When Chark went to Cornell and Addie to Foxcroft, I saw them at holidays and special school functions. What was hard was knowing when to be firm.” She laughed at herself. “Now with Marilyn I never had trouble with that, but … well, their loss had been so profound. I sometimes wonder if I should have been tougher, especially with Addie.”

Before Harry could say anything, they both heard the shot. Mim moved back. Harry trained her eyes on the roll of the land where she would first see the field.

Again that eerie rumble, and then the horses, packed tightly together, surged into view. Mim’s purple silks were in the middle of the pack, a good place for this point in a race of just over two miles. Goggles over her eyes, Addie concentrated on the jump. Harry listened to the grunts and shouts of the jockeys as they cleared the brush, the whap-whap and whoosh as the hind hooves touched the greenery. And then they were gone, raging on, slipping into the dip of the land, and charging uphill again for the next fence.

Mim strained to hear the announcer call out positions. As they cleared Harry’s jump, one horse in the rear of the pack took off too early and crashed through the jump, stumbling on the other side but recovering.

Harry watched the horse, which wasn’t injured but was tiring badly. “Dammit, why doesn’t he pull up?”

“Because it’s Linda Forloines. She’ll drive a horse to death.”

“But I just saw Linda not twenty minutes ago.”

“Zack Merchant’s jockey got stepped on in the paddock as he was mounting up. Linda scurried right up to Zack, and of course he was desperate. The results speak for themselves.”

The crowd noises followed the horses, an odd muffle of congregated voices, and then the field again appeared on the hill, Royal Danzig still safely in the middle.

Harry shook her head.“Linda’s a piece of work.”

“Precisely.” Mim pursed her lips. She was not one to spread negative gossip, but she despised the Forloines to such a degree it took all her formidable discipline not to share her loathing with anyone who would listen.

“Zack Merchant’s not exactly a prince among men either.” Harry hated the way he treated horses, although to customers and new clients he put on a show of caring for the animals. Other horsemen knew his brutal methods, but as yet there was no way to address abuse inside the racing game. It wasa little like telling a man he couldn’t beat his wife. You might hate him for it. You might want to smash his face in, but somehow—you just couldn’t until you caught him in the act.

The announcer’s voice rose in frenzy. “Four lengths and pulling away, this race is all Royal Danzig, Royal Danzig, Royal Danzig, with Isotone crossing the finish line a distant second followed by Hercule and Vitamin Therapy.”

“Congratulations!” Harry shook Mim’s hand. Mim wasn’t a woman designed for a spontaneous hug.

Mim carefully took the proffered hand. Her face flushed. She was wary against her own happiness. After all, the results weren’t official yet. “Thank you.” She blinked. “I’ll find Chark and Addie. Quite a smart race she rode, staying with the pack until the stretch.”

“You’re having a sensational day.” Harry smiled. “And it’s not over yet.”

“The official results of the Montpelier Cup, second division, are Royal Danzig, Isotone, and Hercule.” The announcer’s voice crinkled with metallic sound.

Mim relaxed.“Ah—” She couldn’t think of anything to say.

“Congratulations, Mrs. Sanburne.” Tucker panted with excitement.

Mim said,“Tucker wants something.”

“No, I’m just happy for you,” Tucker replied.

“Tucker.”

“Why do you always tell me to be quiet when I’m being polite?” Tucker’s ears swept back and forth.

“I’d better head up to the winner’s circle. Oh, here comes my knight in shining armor.”

Jim Sanburne rolled down in the Land Rover.“Come on, honeybunch.”

“Well done, Mim The Magnificent!” Larry laughed.

“Hi, guys.” Harry poked her head in the window. “Tell Fair to check on the horse Linda Forloines rode. He looks wrung out.”

“Will do,” Larry Johnson said as Jim kissed his wife, who was sliding into the front seat.

Larry Johnson moved to the back, and for an instant as Mim swung her attractive legs under her, close together as befits a proper Southern lady, Harry had an intimation of what Mim must have been like when young: graceful, reserved, lovely. The lovely had turned to impeccably groomed once she reached 39.999 and holding … as Miranda Hogendobber had put it when she reached sixty herself. However, the graceful and reserved stayed the course. That Mim was a tyrant and always had been was so much the warp and woof of life in these parts that few bothered to comment on it anymore. At least her tyrannies usually were in the service of issues larger than her own ego.

Harry walked to Mim’s tree, leaning against the rough bark. Tucker sat at her feet. The temperature climbed to the high fifties, the sky’s startling pure blue punctuated with clouds the color of Devonshire cream. Harry felt oddly tired.

Miranda, her brogues giving her firm purchase on the grass, strode straight over the hill, ducked under the inside rail, crossed the course, and ducked under the outside rail. Her tartan skirt held in place with a large brass pin completed an outfit only Miranda could contemplate. The whole look murmured“country life” except for the hunter-green beret, which Miranda insisted on wearing because she couldn’t stand for the wind to muss her hair. “No feathers for me,” she had announced when Harry had picked her up. Harry’s idea of a chapeau was her Smith College baseball cap or an ancient 10X felt cowboy hat with cattleman’s crease that her father had worn.

“Tired blood?” Miranda slowly sat down beside her.

“Hmm, my daily sinking spell.”

“Mine comes at four, which you know only too well since I collapse on the chair and force you to brew tea.” Miranda folded her hands together. “Mayhem up there. I have never seen so many people, and Mim can’t take a step forward or backward. This isher Montpelier.”

“Sure seems to be.”

“Isn’t it wonderful about the Valiant children?” Miranda still referred to them as children. “They’re giving Mim what she wants—winners!”

“Uh-huh.”

“When I think of what those two young people endured—well, I can’t bear it. The loss of both parents when they were not even out of their teens. It makes me think of the Fortieth Psalm.” She launched into her spiritual voice. “‘I waited patiently for the Lord; he inclined to me and heard my cry. He drew me up from the desolate pit, out of the miry bog, and set my feet upon a rock, making my steps secure—’ ” She caught her breath.

Harry broke in,“Miranda, how do you remember so much? You could recite from the Bible two weeks running.”

“Love the Good Book. If you would join me at the Church of the Holy Light, you’d see why I lift up my voice—”

Harry interrupted again; not her style, but a religious discussion held no appeal for her.“I come to your recitals.”

Miranda, possessed of a beautiful singing voice, responded,“And so you do. Now don’t forget our big songfest the third weekend in November. I do wish you’d come to a regular service.”

“Can’t. Well, I could, but you know I’m a member of the Reverend Jones’s flock.”

“Oh, Herbie, the silver-tongued! When he climbs up in the pulpit, I think the angels bend down to listen. Still, the Lutheran Church contains many flaws that”—she tried to sound large-minded about it—“are bound to creep in over the centuries.”

“Miranda, you know how I am.” Harry’s tone grew firm. “For some reason I must be today’s target. BoomBoom appeared to force a heart-to-heart on me. Large ugh. Then Senator Satterwaite came over, but I didn’t give him a chance to turn on the tapedeck under his tongue. And now you.”

Miranda squinted.“You get out on the wrong side of bed today?”

“No.”

“You shouldn’t let BoomBoom control your mood.”

“I don’t,” fired back Harry, who suspected it might be true.

“Uh-huh.” This was drenched with meaning. Miranda crossed her arms over her chest.

Harry changed the subject.“You’re right, the Valiants have been through a lot. These victories must be sweet.”

“What would torment me is not knowing where my mother’s body was. We all know she’s dead. You can only hope but so long, and it’s been five years since Marylou disappeared. But when you don’t know how someone died, or where, you can’t put it to rest. I can go out and visit my George anytime I want. I like to put flowers on his grave. It helps.” George, Miranda’s husband, had been dead for nine years. He had been the postmaster at Crozet before Harry took over his job.

“Maybe they don’t think about it. They don’t talk about it—at least, I’ve never heard them, but I only know them socially.”

“It’s there—underneath.”

“I don’t guess we’ll ever know what happened to Marylou. Remember when Mim offered the ten-thousand-dollar reward for any information leading to Marylou’s discovery?”

“Everyone played detective. Poor Rick.” Miranda thought of the Albemarle County sheriff, Rick Shaw, who had been besieged with crackpot theories.

“After Charley died, Marylou kept company with some unimpressive men. She loved Charles Valiant, and I don’t think any man measured up for a long time. Then too, he was only thirty-eight when he died. A massive heart attack. Charley was dead before he hit the ground.” Miranda held up her hands, palms outward. “Now I am not sitting in judgment. A woman in her late thirties sliding into her early forties, suddenly alone, is vulnerable indeed. You may not remember, but she dated that fading movie star, Brandon Miles. He wanted her to bankroll his comeback film. She went through men like popcorn … until Mickey Townsend, that is.”

“Next race!” Harry got up suddenly. The timber jump was alongside the brush jump.

The fifth race, the $40,000 Virginia Hunt Cup, the final leg of the Virginia Fall Timber Championship Series, provided no problems apart from two riders separating company from their mounts, which served to improve the odds for those still in the saddle. Mickey Townsend and Charles Valiant evidenced no antagonism. Their horses and jockeys were so far apart in the four-mile race that neither could cry foul about the other.

As for Linda Forloines, she had picked up Zack Merchant’s other horses and had come in third in the Virginia Hunt Cup. She’d take home a little change in her pocket, 10 percent of the $4,400 third-prize money.

The sixth race, the first division of the Battleship, named in memory of Mrs. Scott’s famous horse, was two miles and one furlong over brush and carried a $6,000 purse. Miranda, weary of the crowd, stayed with Harry. The tension swept over the hill. They could feel the anticipation. Back on the rail, Mim, wound tighter than a piano wire, tried to keep calm. The jockeys circled the paddock. Addie, perched atop Mim’s Bazooka, a 16.3-hand gray, would blaze fast and strong if she could keep him focused. She still avoided Chark. Nigel, wearing Mickey Townsend’s red silks with the blue sash, joked with her. Both riders looked up when the low gate was opened so they could enter the grassy track. Linda Forloines, in the brown-and-yellow silks of Zack Merchant, spoke to no one. The sixth race would be difficult enough for those jockeys who knew their horses; she didn’t. Coty Lamont exuded confidence, smiling to the crowd as he trotted onto the turf.

The gun fired.“They’re off!”

It seemed only seconds before the field rounded toward Harry, soared over the east gate fence, and then pounded away.

“Fast pace,” Harry remarked to Miranda.

The crowd noise rolled away over the hill, then rose again as the horses appeared where the largest number of spectators waited. Again the noise died away as the field went up the hill and around the far side of the flat track; only the announcer’s voice cut through the tension, calling out the positions and the jumps.

Again the rhythm of hoofbeats electrified Harry, and the field flew around the turn, maintaining a scorching pace.

Bazooka, in splendid condition, held steady at fourth. Harry knew from Mim that Addie’s strategy, worked out well in advance with Chark, would call for her to make her move at the next to last fence.

As the horses rushed toward her obstacle, she saw Linda Forloines bump Nigel hard. He lurched to the side as his horse stepped off balance.

“Bloody hell!” he shouted.

Linda laughed. Nigel, on a better horse, pulled alongside her, then began to pull away. In front of the fence Harry saw Linda lash out with her left arm and catch Nigel across the face with her whip. Bloody-lipped, Nigel cleared the fence. Linda cleared a split second behind him. She whipped Nigel again, but this time he was ready for her. He’d transferred his whip from his left to his right hand, and he backhanded her across the face, giving her a dose of her own. Linda screamed. Harry and Miranda watched in astonishment as the two jockeys beat at each other away and up the hill.

“Harry, what do you do?”

“Nothing until after the race. Then I’ll have to hurry to the tower and file my report. But unless one of them protests, not a thing will happen. If either one does—what a row!”

“Vicious!”

“Linda Forloines?”

“Oh—well, yes, but the other one was almost as bad.”

“Yes, but he was in the unenviable position of having to do something or she’d get worse. People like Linda don’t understand fair play. They interpret it as weakness. You need to hit them harder than they hit you.”

“In a race?” Miranda puffed up the hill behind Harry as the winner was being announced—Adelia Valiant on Bazooka. Tucker, ears back, scampered on ahead.

“In the best of all possible worlds, no, but that’s when people like Linda go after you. When they think you can’t or won’t fight back. I’d have killed her myself.”

They reached the tower, Mrs. Hogendobber panting.

“Miranda, climb up here. You’re a witness, too.”

Miranda stomped up the three flights of stairs to the tower top where the announcer, Arthur Tetrick, and Colbert Mason, national race director, held sway. Tucker stayed at the foot of the steps.

The horses, cooling down, galloped in front of the stand.

“Harry,” Arthur Tetrick said, offering her a drink, “thank you so much for all you’ve done today. Oh, sorry, Mrs. Hogendobber, I didn’t see you.”

“Arthur.” Harry nodded to Colbert Mason. “Colbert. I’m sorry to report there was a dangerous and unsportsmanlike incident at the east gate jump. Linda Forloines bumped Nigel Danforth. It could have been an accident—”

“These things happen.” Colbert, in a genial mood, interrupted, for he wanted to rush down to congratulate Mim Sanburne on the stupendous display of winning two races and placing second in another, all in one day. He was especially pleased that Mim had won the Virginia Hunt Cup.

“But wait, Colbert. Then she struck him across the face with her whip. After the jump they flailed at each other like two boxers. Mrs. Hogendobber witnessed it also.”

“Miranda?” Arthur’s sandy eyebrows were poised above his tortoiseshell glasses.

“Someone could have been seriosly injured out there, or worse,” Miranda confirmed.

“I see.” Arthur leaned over the desk, shouting down to the second level to the race secretary. “Paul, any protest on this race?”

“No, sir.”

Just then Colbert leaned over the stand.“I say …” Now he could see the welts on Nigel’s face and his bloody lip as the jockey rode by to the paddock. A look at Linda’s face confirmed a battle.

Arthur leaned over to see also.“Good Lord.” He shouted, “Nigel Danforth, come here for a moment. Linda Forloines, a word, please.”

The two jockeys, neither looking at the other, rode to the bottom of the tower as their trainers and grooms hurried out to grab the bridles of their horses.

“Have you anything to report on the unusual condition of your faces?” Arthur bellowed.

“No, sir,” came the Englishman’s reply.

“Linda?” Arthur asked.

She shook her head, saying nothing.

“All right, then.” Arthur dismissed them as Mim, floating on a cloud, entered the winner’s circle. “Harry, there’s nothing I can do under the circumstances, but I have a bad feeling that this isn’t over yet. If you’ll excuse me, I’m due in the winner’s circle. I have the check.”He patted his chest pocket. “See you ladies at Mim’s party.”

As the crowd slowly dispersed, the grooms, jockeys, trainers, and owners went about their tasks, until finally only the race officials remained. Even the political candidates had evaporated. One horse van after another rumbled out of the Madison estate.

Harry, Mrs. Hogendobber, and Tucker hopped into the truck as the sun slipped behind the Blue Ridge Mountains. Darkness folded around them as they slowly cruised down the lane.

“Lights are still on in the big barn,” Harry noted. “There’s so much to do.” The horses required a lot of attention after a race—cold-hosing their legs, checking medications, feeding them, and finally cleaning the tack.

“All done,” Miranda sang out.

“Huh?”

“The lights just went out.”

“Oh.” Harry smiled. “Well, good, someone got to go home early.”

An hour later the phone jingled up at Montpelier where Arthur and Colbert had repaired for a bit of warmth, then to collate and fax the day’s results to the national office in Elkton, Maryland.

“Hello.” Arthur’s expression changed so dramatically that Colbert stood to assist him if necessary. “We’ll be right over.” Arthur carefully replaced the receiver in the cradle.

He ran out to his car with Colbert next to him, headed for the big stable.

3

“Where is he?” Harry grumbled. “You’d think I’d be used to it by now. He’s never been on time. Even his own mother admitted he was a week late being born.”

“Last time I saw Fair he was checking over that horse with the bowed tendon,” Addie said as yet another person came up to congratulate her. “Wherever he is, Nigel’s probably with him. He’s never on time either.”

Mim, champagne glass in hand, raised it.“To the best trainer and jockey in the game, Hip, hip, hooray!”

The assemblage ripped out,“Hip, hip, hooray!”

Chark lifted his glass in response.“To the best owner.”

More cheers ricocheted off the tasteful walls of Mim Sanburne’s Georgian mansion just northwest of Crozet.

Her husband, Jim, jovially mixed with the guests as servants in livery provided champagne—Louis Roederer Cristal, caviar, sliced chicken, smoked turkey, delicately cured hams, succotash, spoon bread, and desserts that packed a megaton calorie blast.

Many of the serving staff were University of Virginia students. Even with her vast wealth Mim ran a tight ship, and given Social Security, withholding taxes, workers’ compensation, and health insurance to pay, she wasn’t about to bloat her budget with lots of salaries. She hired for occasions like this, the rest of the time making do with a cook, a butler, and a maid. A farm manager and two full-time laborers rounded out the payroll.

Charles and Adelia Valiant trained her horses, but they trained other people’s as well. Once a month Mim received an itemized bill. Since they enjoyed the use of her facilities for half the year, Mim was granted a deep discount. The other half of the year the Valiants wintered and trained in Aiken, South Carolina.

Mim called steeplechasers slow gypsies since they stayed for four to six months and then moved on.

The Reverend Herbert Jones, tinkling ice cubes in his glass, joined Harry as Addie was pulled away by another celebrant.

“Beautiful day. ’Course, you never know with Montpelier. I’ve stood in the snow, the rain, and I’ve basked in seventy-four degrees and sunshine. Today was one of the best.”

“Pretty good.” Harry smiled.

Herb watched BoomBoom Craycroft out of the corner of his eye. She worked the room, moving in a semicircle toward Harry.“BoomBoom’s tacking your way.” He lowered his gravelly voice.

“Not again.”

“Oh?” His eyebrows shot upward.

“She freely shared her innermost feelings with me between the first and second races. Forgiveness and redemption are just around the corner if I’ll join Lifeline.”

“I thought forgiveness and redemption were mine to dispense.” The Reverend Jones laughed at himself. “Well, now, let her ramble. Who knows, maybe this Lifeline really has helped her in some way. I prefer prayer myself.”

In the background the phone rang. Rick Shaw, the Sheriff of Albemarle County, was summoned to it.

“He never gets a break. Coop neither,” Harry observed. Shaw’s deputy was Cynthia Cooper.

“Lots of drunks on the road after Montpelier.”

“They don’t need the races for an excuse. I figure they IV the stuff.”

Rick hung up the phone, whispered something to Mim, and left the party. Mim’s face registered shock. Then she quickly regained her social mask.

4

Sheriff Rick Shaw, penlight in hand, pulled back an eyelid. Nothing. He continued carefully examining the body before him, with Dr. Larry Johnson observing. Shaw didn’t want the corpse moved yet.

Nigel Danforth sat exactly as Fair Haristeen had found him—upright on a tack trunk, wearing his red silks with the blue sash. A knife was plunged through his heart.

Although the murder appeared to have taken place in Orange County and Rick Shaw was sheriff of the adjoining county, Orange’s sheriff, Frank Yancey, had called him in. Rick had handled more murders than he had, and this one was a puzzle, especially since the knife had been plunged through a playing card, the Queen of Clubs, which was placed over Nigel’s heart.

Fair, arms crossed, watched, his face still chalky white.

“His body wasexactly like this when you found him?” Rick asked the lanky vet.

“Yes.”

“See anything, anyone?”

“No, I walked in through the north doors and turned on the lights. All the horses should have been removed by then but I thought I’d double-check. He was sitting there. I didn’t know anything was wrong, although I thought it was peculiar that he’d sit in the dark. I called to him, and he didn’t answer. When I drew closer, I saw the knife sticking out of his chest. I felt his pulse. Goner.”

“What about his body temperature when you touched him?”

“Still warm, Larry. Maybe he had been dead an hour. His extremities hadn’t started to fill with fluid. He really looked as though he was just sitting there.”

“No sign of anybody—anything?” Rick sighed. He’d known Fair for years, respected him as a vet and therefore as a scientific man. Fair’s recollections counted heavily in Rick’s book.

“None in the barn. A few big vans pulled out across the road. Their noise could have covered someone running away. I checked the stalls, I climbed into the hayloft, tack room. Nothing, Sheriff.”

“The card’s a neat trick.” Frank Yancey shook his head. “Maybe it’s a payback for a gambling debt.”

“Helluva payback,” Larry Johnson said.

“Helluva debt?” Frank gestured, his hands held upward.

“Frank, you’ve got the photos and prints you need?” Rick continued when Frank nodded in the affirmative, “Well, let’s remove the body then. Do you mind if Larry sits in on the autopsy?”

“No, no, I’d be glad to have him there.”

“Guess I can’t keep this out of the papers.” George Miller, Orange’s mayor, unconsciously wrung his hands. He had arrived minutes after Yancey’s call. “Colbert Mason and Arthur Tetrick were horrified, but they turned cagey pretty fast. They especially didn’t want a photo of the body to get into the papers.”

“One murder in the steeplechase world doesn’t mean it’s seething with corruption,” Larry remarked sensibly.

“Five years ago there was another murder.” Fair’s deep baritone sounded sepulchral in the barn.

“What are you talking about?” Frank leaned forward.

“Marylou Valiant.”

“Never found her, did they?” Frank Yancey blinked, remembering.

“No,” Rick answered. “We know of no connection to steeplechasing other than that she owned a good string of horses. That’s not a motive for murder. There are some who think she’s not dead. She just walked away from her life.”

“They say that about Elvis, too,” Fair replied. “Anyone told Adelia Valiant?”

“Why?” Frank and George said simultaneously.

“She was dating Danforth … pretty serious, I think.”

Frank eyed the big man.“Well—can you tell her?”

Rick and Fair glanced at each other, then at Larry.

“I’ll tell her,” the old doctor said gently. “But I’d like you fellows with me. And Rick, don’t jump right in, okay?”

The sheriff grimaced. He tried to be sensitive, but the drive to catch a murderer could override his efforts.“Yeah, yeah.”

Two ambulance attendants rolled the gurney into the barn from the south doors as Fair, Larry, and Rick left through the north.

Rick turned to Fair.“Was he a good jockey?”

“Not bad.”

5

Will Forloines’s face fell longer and longer. His color deepened. He couldn’t hold it in any longer. “That was a damn fool thing you did to Nigel.”

“Bullshit.”

“Don’t cuss at me, Linda. I can still kick your ass into next week.”

“I love it when you get mad.” She sarcastically parodied old movies.

He shifted his eyes from the road to her.“You’re lucky he didn’t file a complaint.”

“Had him by the short hairs.”

“Oh—and what if he’d nailed you? You didn’t know he wouldn’t file against you.”

“Will, let me do the thinking.”

The wheel of the brand-new Nissan dropped off the road. Will quickly returned his gaze to the road.“You take too many chances. One of these days it will backfire.”

“Wimp.” While she insulted him, she took the precaution of dropping her hand into his lap.

“Things are going good right now. I don’t want them screwed up.”

“Will, relax. Drive. And listen.” She exhaled through her nose. “Nigel Danforth has bought a shitload of cocaine over the last two months. He can’t squeal.”

“The hell he can’t. He can finger us as the dealers.”

“Better to be mad at me over one race than lose his connection. And if he blew the whistle on us, he’d be blowing it on himself—and his girlfriend. All that money isn’t coming from race purses.”

Will drove a few minutes.“Yeah, but you’re cutting it close.”

“Paid for this truck.” She moved closer to him.

“Linda, you”—he sputtered—“you take too many risks.”

“The risk is the rush.”

“Not for me, Babe. Themoney is the rush.”

“And we’re sitting in the middle of it. Dr. D’Angelo’s loaded, and he’s dumb as a post.”

“No, he’s not,” Will contradicted her. “He’s dumb about horses. He’s not dumb about his job or he wouldn’t have made all that money. Sooner or later he’ll figure things out if you try to sell him too many horses at once. Take it slow. I’d like to live in one place for a couple of years.”

She waited a moment.“Sure.”

As this was said with no conviction, Will, irritated, shot back,“I like where we live.”

She whispered in his ear, enjoying her disagreement with him just so she could“win” the argument, get him under her control. She might have loved her husband, but she truly needed him. He was so easy to manipulate that it made her feel powerful and smart. “We’ll make so much money we can buy our own farm.”

“Yeah …” His voice trailed off.

She smiled.“Nigel will forget all about it. I guarantee it. He owes me for a kilo. He’s coming up tomorrow to pay off the rest of it. I got part of the money today before the race.” She laughed. “Bet he couldn’t believe it when I whipped him. He’ll forget though. He’ll be so full of toot, I’llbe his best friend.”

6

When Fair Haristeen walked through the door of Mim’s party, Harry determined to pay no attention to him. However, she couldn’t help noticing his jaw muscles tightening, which she recognized as a sign of distress. Dr. Larry Johnson and Sheriff Rick Shaw flanked him, and Larry headed straight for Addie Valiant. Fair turned to follow them.

“Doom and gloom,” Susan Tucker observed.

“Hope someone didn’t lose a horse,” Harry said.

“I know. It was such an unusual Montpelier. The worst was that bowed tendon, pretty fabulous when you consider some of the accidents in the past. But maybe it’s because the course is so difficult. People are careful.”

“Huh?”

“Harry, are you paying attention?” her best friend said.

“Yes, but I was thinking I’d have to head home before too long. Miranda closes up shop by nine, you know.” Harry referred to Miranda’s lifelong habit of early retirement and early rising.

“Well, as I was saying before you drifted off, because the course is demanding jockeys stay focused. Sometimes when it’s a bit easy they get sloppy.”

“Mom, I’m hungry,” Tucker pleaded.

Susan dropped a piece of cake for the dog.

“Susan, you spoil Tucker worse than I do.” It was Susan who had bred the corgi. Harry noticed Larry taking Addie by the elbow and Rick whispering in Mim’s ear. “Something’s going on. Damn, I hope it’s not some kind of late protest. I wouldn’t put anything past Mickey Townsend. He hates to lose.”

Five minutes passed before a howl of pain sounded from the library. All conversation stopped. Mim, holding her husband’s hand, put her other hand on Chark’s shoulder, guiding him to the library. Larry had wanted to inform Addie before bringing her brother into it. The confusion and concern on Chark’s face upon hearing his sister’s cry alerted even the thickest person in the room to impending sorrow.

Mim shut the library doors behind her. All eyes were now on her. She walked over to the three-sash window and collected herself. Then, her husband at her side, she addressed the gathering.

“I regret to inform you that there appears to have been a”—she cleared her throat—“murder at Montpelier.” A gasp went up from the crowd. “Nigel Danforth, the English jockey riding for Mickey Townsend, was found dead this evening in the main stable. Sheriff Shaw says they know very little at this time. He asks for your patience and cooperation over the next few days as he will be calling upon some of us. I’m afraid the party is over, but I want to thank you for celebrating what has been a joyous day—until now.” She opened her hands as if in benediction.

Little Marilyn, unable to conceal her agitation, called out.“Mummy, how was he killed?”

“Stabbed through the heart.”

“Good God!” Herbie Jones exclaimed, and after that the noise was deafening as everyone talked at once.

“That explains it,” Susan said to Harry, who understood she was referring to Fair’s miserable countenance. “How about we pay our respects to our hostess and leave?”

Miranda bustled over.“My word, how awful, and how awful for Mim, too. It certainly casts a pall on her triumph. Harry, Herbie’s offered to escort me home so I’m leaving with him.”

“Fine. I’ll see you on Monday.”

“Good, then I’ll ride with you,” Susan piped up then called to her teenaged son, Danny, “One dent in that car and you aretoast.”

On the way home Harry, Susan, and Tee Tucker wondered why a jockey would be killed after the races. They ran through the usual causes of death in America: money, love, drugs, and gambling. Since they knew little about Nigel, they soon dropped the speculation.

“Another body blow for Addie.” Harry stared out the windshield into the sheltering darkness.

“Ever notice how some people are plagued with bad luck and tragedy?”

“King Lear?” Harry quipped, not meaning to sound flippant.“Sorry.”

“I’m not sure I will ever understand how your mind works,” Susan wryly said to her friend.

“There are days when it doesn’t work at all.”

“Tell me about it. Especially after you have children. What’s left of your mind flies out the window.” As a mother of two teenagers, Susan both endured and enjoyed her offspring. The truck pulled down the long driveway to Harry’s farm.

“Bet you BoomBoom makes a beeline for Addie once she emerges from the library,” Harry grumbled.

“Mim will shoo her out first.”

“Ha!” Harry said derisively. “BoomBoom will volunteer to clean up after the party, the sneak. Bet you she pounces on Addie with an invitation to join her at Lifeline. Bloodsucker.”

“She does seem to draw sustenance from other people’s problems.” Susan inhaled. “But then again this program of self-exposure or whatever it ishas calmed her down.”

“I don’t believe it.”

“You wouldn’t.” Susan stopped at the screened door at the back of the house. Mrs. Murphy was visible in the window and then disappeared. “A pussycat is anxious to see you.”

“Come on in. She wants to see you, too. I’ll feed her, then carry you home.”

“Good. Then I can look for my black sweater. I know I left it here.”

“Susan, I swear I’ve searched for it. It’s not here.”

“You won’t believe what happened,” Tucker called out, eager to tell her friend everything and also eager to watch Mrs. Murphy fume because she’d missed it.

“Tucker, hush.” Harry opened the door and ushered Susan inside.

The temperature was in the forties and dropping, and the chill nipped at Harry’s heels, so she hurried along behind her friend. The kitchen, deceptively calm, lured her into comfort.

“Here, kitty, kitty.”

“I hate you,” Mrs. Murphy called from the bedroom.

Harry walked into the living room followed by Tucker and Susan.

“Uh-oh.” Tucker laid her ears flat.

Susan gasped,“Berlin, 1945!”

The arm of the sofa had been shredded, methodically destroyed. Lamps smashed to the ground bore witness to the tiger cat’s fury. She had also had the presence of mind to scratch, tear, and bite magazines, the newspapers, and a forlorn novel that rested on Harry’s wing chair. The pi?ce de r?sistance was one curtain, yanked full force, dangling half on and half off the rod.

Harry’s mouth dangled almost in imitation of the curtain. She slapped her hands together in outrage.

“Mrs. Murphy, you come out here.”

“In a pig’s eye.” The cat’s voice was shrill.

“I know where you’re hiding. You aren’t that original, you little shit!” Harry tore into her bedroom, clicked on the light, dropped to her knees, and lifted up the dust ruffles. Sure enough, a pair of gleaming green eyes at the furthest recesses of the bed stared back at her.

“I will skin you alive!” Harry exploded.

“You’re in deep doo-doo,” Tucker whined.

“She’ll forget it by morning,” came the saucy reply.

“I don’t think so. You’ve wrecked the house.”

“I know nothing about it.”

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7

Since Harry had closed off the animal door, Mrs. Murphy stayed inside. She would have preferred to go out to the barn just in case Harry woke up mad. As it was she prudently waited until she heard the cat food can being opened before she tiptoed into the kitchen.

“You’re impossible.” Harry, good humor restored by a sound night’s sleep, scratched the cat at the base of her tail.

“I hate it when you leave me.”

As Harry dished out shrimp and cod into a bowl upon which was prophetically written UPHOLSTERY DESTROYER, Tucker circled her mother’s legs.

“Why do you feed her first? Especially after what she’s done.”

“I’ll get to you.”

“She feeds me first because I’m so fascinating.”

“Gag me.” Tucker remembered that the cat knew nothing of yesterday’s bizarre event. She forgot her irritation as she settled into the pleasure of tormenting Mrs. Murphy.“Beautiful day at the races.”

“Shut up.”

“BoomBoom swept down on Mom, though.”

Mrs. Murphy, on the counter, turned her head from her food bowl.“Oh, did Mom cuss her out?”

“Nah.” Tucker jammed her long nose into the canned beef food mixed into crunchies.

Harry brewed tea and rummaged around for odds and ends to toss into an omelet while the animals chatted. Tucker finished her food so quickly it barely impeded her conversational abilities.

The tiger, delicate in her eating habits, paused between mouthfuls, gently brushing her whiskers in case some food was on them. She surveyed the damage in the living room without a twinge of guilt.“How’d Mim do?”

“Second in the second race, won the fourth race, and she won the big one.”

“Wow.” She swatted her food bowl, angry all over again at being left out.“I grew up with horses. I don’t know why Mother thinks I won’t behave myself at Montpelier. As if I’ve never seen a crowd before.”

“You haven’t. Not that big.” Tucker licked her lips, relishing her breakfast and the cat’s discomfort.

“I can handle it!” She glared down at the dog.“I ride in cars better than you do. I don’t bark. I don’t ask to be fed every fifteen minutes, and I don’t whine to go to the bathroom.”

“No, you just do it under the seat.”

Mrs. Murphy spit, her white fangs quite impressive.“No fair. I was sick and we were on our way to the vet.”

“Yeah, yeah. Tapeworms. I’m tired of that excuse.”

The pretty feline shuddered.“I hate those tapeworm shots, but they do work. Haven’t had a bit of trouble since. Of course, flea season is over.”

She had heard the vet explain that some fleas carry the tapeworm larvae. When animals bite the spot where a flea has bitten them, they occasionally ingest an infected flea, starting the cycle wherein the parasite winds up in their intestines. Both cat and dog understood the problem, but when a flea bites, it’s hard not to bite back.

Harry sat down to her hot omelet. Mrs. Murphy kept her company on the other side of the plate.

“I am not giving you any, Murphy. In fact, I’m not forking over one more morsel of food for days—not until I clean up the wreckage of this house. I’ve half a mind to leave you home from work tomorrow, but you’d run another demolition derby.”

“Damn right.”

Tucker, annoyed at not being able to sit on the table, plopped under Harry’s chair, then rose again to sit by her mother’s knee.“Oh, Murph, one little thing … a jockey was murdered last night at the Montpelier stable, the big old one.”

The green eyes grew larger, and the animal leaned over the table.“What?”

“Mrs. Murphy, control yourself.” Harry reached over to pet the cat, who fluffed her fur.

“A jockey, Nigel somebody or other—we don’t really know him although Adelia Valiant does—he was stabbed. Right through the heart.” Tucker savored this last detail.

“You waited all this time to tell me?” Murphy unleashed her claws, then retracted them.

Tucker smiled.“Next time you tell me cats are smarter than dogs, just remember I know somethings you don’t.”

Murphy jumped down from the table, put her face right up into Tucker’s, and growled.“Don’t mess with me, buster. You get to go with Mom to the races. You come home and tell me nothing until now. I would have told you straightaway.”

The little dog held her ground.“Maybe you would and maybe you wouldn’t.”

“When have I withheld important news from you?”

“The time you and Pewter stole roast beef from the store.”

“That was different. Besides, you know Pewter is obsessed with food. If I hadn’t helped her steal that roast beef, I wouldn’t have gotten one measly bite of it. She would have stolen it herself, but she’s too fat to squeeze into the case. That’s different.”

“No, it isn’t.”

Harry observed the Mexican standoff.“What’s got into you two this morning?”

“Nothing.” Murphy stalked out of the room, taking a swipe at Tucker’s rear end when the dog’s head was turned.

Harry prudently reached down and grabbed Tucker’s collar. “Ignore her.”

“With pleasure.”

The phone rang. Harry answered it.

“Sorry to call you so early on a Sunday morning,” Deputy Cynthia Cooper apologized. “Boss wants me to ask you some questions about the races yesterday.”

“Sure. Want to come out here?”

“Wish I could. You ready?”

“Yes.”

“What do you know about Nigel Danforth?”

“Not much, Coop. He’s a new jockey on the circuit, not attached to a particular stable. What we call a pickup rider or a catch rider. I met him briefly yesterday.”

Hearing this, Mrs. Murphy sourly returned to the kitchen. She didn’t so much as glance at Tucker when she passed the dog, also eavesdropping.

“Crab.”

“Selfish,” the cat shot back.

“Did you ever speak to Nigel?”

“Just a ‘pleased to meet you.’ ”

“Do you know anything about his relationship with Addie?”

“She told me yesterday morning that she liked him.” Harry thought a minute. “She intimated that she might be falling in love with him, and she wanted us to get together after the races at the party.”

“Did you?”

“Well, I was at Mim’s party. Addie was there, too.” She added, “First, though, I waited on standby at the tower after the last race to see if Arthur Tetrick or Mr. Mason wanted me to file a report. There was a nasty incident at my fence, the east gate fence, between Nigel Danforth and LindaForloines.”

“I’m all ears.”

Harry could hear Cooper scribbling as she described the incident.

“That’s quite serious, isn’t it? I mean, couldn’t they get suspended?”

“Yes. I told Arthur and Colbert Mason, he’s the national director, but I guess you know that by now. Neither of the jockeys lodged a protest, though. Without a protest there’s nothing the officials can do.”

“Who has the authority in a situation like that?”

“The race director. In this case, Arthur.”

“Why wouldn’t Arthur Tetrick haul both their asses in?”

“That’s a good question, Coop.” Harry sipped her tea. “But I can give you an opinion—not an answer, just an opinion.”

“We want to hear it,” the cat and dog said, too.

“Shoot.”

“Well, all sports have umpires, referees, judges to see that mayhem is kept to a minimum. But sometimes you have to let the antagonists settle it themselves. Rough justice.”

“Expand.”

“If an official steps in, it can reach a point where Jockey A is being protected too much. I mean, Coop, if you’re going to go out there, then you’ve got to take your lumps, and part of it is that some riders are down and dirty. If they think no one is looking, they’ll foul you.”

“But you were looking.”

“I don’t understand that.” Harry recalled the brazenness of the situation.

“Is Linda dumb?”

“Far from it. She’s a low-rent, lying, cunning bitch.”

“Hey, don’t keep your feelings to yourself,” Cynthia teased her.

Harry laughed.“There are few people that I despise on this earth, but she’s one of them.”

“Why?”

“I saw her deliberately lame a horse temporarily, then lie about it to Mim. She took the horse off Mim’s hands and sold it at a profit to a trainer out of state. She didn’t know that I saw her. I—well, it doesn’t matter. You get the point.”

“But she’s not stupid, so why would she commit a flagrant foul, one that could get her suspended? And right in front of you?”

“It doesn’t figure.” Harry was stumped.

Coop flipped through her notes.“She can’t keep a job, any job, longer than a year. That could mean a lot of things, but one thing it most certainly means is, she can’t get along with people over an extended period of time.”

“Obviously, she couldn’t get along with Nigel Danforth.” Harry sipped her tea again.

“Do you have any idea, I don’t care howcrazy it sounds, why Linda Forloines would hit Nigel in the face?”

Harry played with the long cord of the phone.“I don’t have any idea, unless they were enemies—apart from being competitors, I mean. The only other thing I can tell you—just popped into my head—is that people say Linda deals drugs. No one’s ever pinned it on her though.”

“Heard that, too,” Cooper replied. “I’ll be back at you later. Sorry to intrude on you so early, but I know you’re out before sunup most days. Pretty crisp this morning.”

“I’ll wear my woollies. Let me ask you a question.”

“Okay.”

“Can everyone account for their whereabouts at the time of the murder?”

“No,” Cooper flatly stated. “We’ve got a good idea when he died, within a twenty-minute frame, but really—anybody could have had the time to skip in there and kill him. The commotion of the event wears people out, dulls their senses, to say nothing of the drinking.”

“That’s the truth. Well, if I think of anything I’ll call. I’m glad to help.”

Harry hung up the phone after good-byes. She liked Cynthia, and over the years they’d become friends.

“I couldn’t hear what Cynthia was saying. Tell me,” Murphy demanded.

Harry, cup poised before her lips, put it back down in the saucer.“You know, itdoesn’t make sense. It doesn’t make a bit of sense that Linda Forloines would lay into Nigel Danforth right in front of me.”

“What?” Mrs. Murphy, beside herself with curiosity, rubbed Harry’s arm since she had jumped back on the counter.

“I’ll tell you all about that.” Tucker promised importantly as Harry pulled on an ancient cashmere sweater, slapped the old cowboy hat on her head, and slipped her arms through her down vest.

“Come on, kids, time to rock and roll.” Harry opened the door. They stepped out into the frosty November morning to start the chores.

8

Will Forloines stood up when Linda sauntered out of Sheriff Frank Yancey’s office. At first the husband and wife had balked at being questioned individually, but finally they gave in. It would look worse if they didn’t cooperate.

Will had been surprised at the blandness of Sheriff Yancey’s questions—partly because he was scared the cops might be on to their drug dealing.Where were you at seven on the night of the murder? How well did you know the deceased? That sort of thing.

Linda turned and smiled at Frank, who smiled back and shut his door.

Will handed Linda her coat and they opened the door. The day, cool but bright, might warm up a bit.

Not until they were in the truck did they speak.

“What did he ask you?” Will didn’t start the motor.

“Nothing much.” Her upturned nose in profile resembled a tiny ski jump.

“Well, what?” Will demanded.

“Where was I? I told him in the van with Mickey Townsend. The truth.”

“What else?” He cranked the truck.

“He wanted to know why I hit Nigel in the face with my whip before the east gate jump.”

“And?” Will, agitated, pressed down so hard on the accelerator he had to brake, which threw them forward. “Sorry.”

“I said he bumped me, he’d been bumping me and I was damned sick of it. But not sick enough to kill him for it.”

“And?”

“That was it.”

“You were in there for half an hour, Linda. There had to be more to it than that. Things don’t look so good for us. I told you not to take chances. You’re a suspect.”

She ignored that.“We passed the time of day. He asked how long I’d been riding. Where did I learn? Nothing to the point. I hit the guy in the face. That doesn’t mean I killed him.”

“I don’t like it.”

“Hey, who does?”

Will thought for a moment.“Did he ask anything about drugs? I mean, what if Nigel had coke in his system.”

“No, he didn’t ask anything like that.” She folded her hands and gloated. “I did say that since Fair Haristeen was the person who found Nigel, he ought to be investigated. I hinted that Fair’s been doping horses. Just enough of a hint to send him on a wild-goose chase.”

Will looked at her out of the corner of his eye. He’d grown accustomed to her habitual lying. “Anyone who knows Fair Haristeen won’t believe it.”

“Hey, it’ll waste some of their time.”

“You sure he didn’t ask anything tricky?” His voice hardened.

“No, goddammit. Why are you on my case?”

“Because he split us up to see if our stories conflicted.”

“I don’t have any stories except about Fair. I’ll get even with him yet, and Mim, too, the rich bitch.”

“I wouldn’t worry about them now.”

Her eyes narrowed.“She fired you, too.”

“Someone fires you, you say you quit. People believe what they want to believe. We make good money now. Revenge takes too much time.”

She smirked.“Everyone thinks Mim ran us out of business and that we’re broke. Bet their eyes fell out of their heads when we drove into Montpelier in a brand-new truck.”

She hadn’t reckoned on most people being more involved with the races than with her. Few had noticed their new truck, but then Linda related everything to herself.

“You really didn’t tell him anything?” A pleading note crept into his voice.

“NO! If you’re getting weak-kneed, then stay out of it. I’ll do it.Jesus, Will.”

“Okay, okay.” They headed up Route 15, north. “Our supplier isn’t going to be happy if our names get in the paper. Just makes me nervous.”

“The sheriff asked me one weird question.” She observed his knuckles whiten as he gripped the steering wheel. “Nothing much. But he asked me if I knew anything about Nigel’s green card.”

“His immigration card? You mean his right-to-work card?”

“Yeah, the green card.” She shrugged. “Said I never saw it. Wonder why he’d ask about that?”

9

Mondays Harry and Mrs. Hogendobber shoveled the mail. Mounds of catalogs, postcards, bills, and letters filled the canvas mail cart and spilled onto the wooden floor, polished by years of use.

Mrs. Murphy, disgruntled because she couldn’t snuggle in the mail cart, zipped out via the animal door installed for her convenience at the back. Tucker snored, asleep on her side in the middle of the floor where she could create the greatest obstacle. The cat didn’t wake her.

Truth be told, she loved Tucker, but dogs, even Tucker, got on her nerves. They were so straightforward. Mrs. Murphy enjoyed nuance and quiet. Tucker tended to babble.

The door flapped behind her. She sat on the back stoop of the post office surveying the alleyway that divided the row of old business buildings from private backyards. Mrs. Hogendobber’s yard sat directly behind the post office. Her garden, mulched and fertilized, usually a source of color, had yielded to winter. She’d clipped off her last blooming of mums.

The cat breathed in that peculiar odor of dying leaves and moist earth. As it was eleven A.M. the frost had melted and the scent of wild animals dissipated with it. Mrs. Murphy loved to hunt in the fall and winter because it was easy to track by scent.

She ruffled out her fur to ward off the chill, then marched over to Market Shiflett’s store.

As she approached the back door she hollered,“Pewter, Pewter, Motor Scooter, come out and play!”

The animals’ door, newly installed at the grocery store, swung open. Pewter rolled out like a gray cannonball.

“Everyone’s ass over tit today.”

Mrs. Murphy agreed.“Mondays put humans in a foul mood. Ever notice?”

“There is that, but the stabbing of that jockey sure has tongues wagging.” She lifted her head straight up in the air.“Let’s go root around under Mrs. Hogendobber’s porch.”

The two bounded across the alley and ducked under Miranda’s porch.

“He was here again last night.” Pewter’s pupils grew large.

Mrs. Murphy sniffed.“Like a skunk only, umm, sweeter.” She stepped forward and caught her whiskers in cobwebs.“I hate spiders!” She shot out from under the porch.

“Ha, ha.” Pewter followed her, highly amused at the cobwebs draped over her friend’s whiskers and face.“You look like a ghost.”

“Least I’m not fat.”

Pewter, nonplussed, replied,“I’m not fat, just round.” She moseyed over to the garden.“Bet Mrs. H. would have a major hissy if she knew a fox visited her nightly.”

“Pickings must be good.”

“I wouldn’t want to be undomesticated,” Pewter, fond of cooked foods, revealed.

“You sit in that store and dream on. I’ve never once thought of that.”

“Know what else I’ve thought about?” Pewter didn’t wait for a reply.“Sushi. What Crozet needs is a good sushi bar. Imagine fresh tuna every day. Now I enjoy tuna from the can, I prefer it packed lightly, not in heavy oil, mind you. But fresh tuna … heaven.”

The tiger licked the side of her right paw and swept it up over her ears.“Would we have to use chopsticks?”

“Very funny. I bet I could steal sushi from a pair of chopsticks on their way to some dope’s mouth.” She imitated her stealing motion, one swift swipe of the paw, claws extended. She shuddered with delight at the thought of it.

“Hey, look.” Mrs. Murphy intruded on Pewter’s reverie.

Both cats watched Addie Valiant drive up and park behind the post office. She closed the door of her blue Subaru station wagon, the back jammed with tack, wraps, saddle pads, and other equine odds and ends. Turning up the collar of her heavy shirt, she knocked on the back door of the post office, listened, then opened the door.

“Let’s go.” Murphy ran across the yard.

“What for?” Pewter didn’t budge.

“The dead jockey was her boyfriend.”

“Oh.” Pewter hurried to catch up. Both cats hit the animal door simultaneously, spit at one another, then Murphy slipped in first, a disgruntled Pewter literally on her tail.

Murphy had washed only half her face; the other half was resplendent with cobwebs.

Addie pulled her mail from the back of her mailbox.

Harry checked through the magazine pile to see if anything was there for her.

“Now, honey, you let me know if there’s anything we can do. Anything at all.” Miranda handed Addie a bun with an orange glaze. An excellent baker, she made a little money on the side by baking for Market Shiflett’s store.

“I’m not hungry, thank you.”

“I am,” Pewter purred.

Tucker, awake now, scrambled to her feet.“Me, too.” She noticed Mrs. Murphy’s face.“Halloween’s over.”

Harry noticed at the same time.“Where have you been?”

“Under Miranda’s porch.”

Harry scooped up the pretty cat, grabbed a paper towel, and wiped off the cobwebs, not as simple as she thought since they were sticky.

Addie dropped into a chair.“Mind if I sit a minute? I’m tired.”

“Shocks will do that to you.” Miranda patted her on the back.

“Yeah—I know. I guess I didn’t think there were any left for me.”

“Life has a funny way of being loaded with surprises, good and bad,” the kindly woman said.

“Is anyone going to eat that orange bun?” Pewter asked.

“Chatty Cathy.” Harry scratched the gray cat behind the ears.

Miranda pulled little pieces of the bun apart and munched on them.

Pewter let out a wail.“Give me some!”

Miranda ignored this so Pewter scrambled onto a chair and thence onto the small table in the back where the buns rested enticingly on a white plate. She licked off the icing while the humans, deep in conversation, never noticed. Mrs. Murphy, not to be outdone, joined her friend.

Tucker complained bitterly. Murphy batted a hardened bit of icing off the table to the dog to shut her up. If she kept up her racket, the humans might notice their uninvited snack.

“They asked me so many questions they made me dizzy.” The young woman’s hands fluttered to her face. “I couldn’t answer half of them. I wasn’t much help. They pumped Chark pretty hard, too.”

“Rick Shaw said that Frank Yancey’s an okay guy, so he was just asking what he had to, I guess.” Harry wanted to be helpful, but she didn’t know what to do or say.

Addie’s big blue eyes misted over. “I was just getting to know him so—”

“Of course, of course.” Miranda patted her hand this time.

“How long had you known him?”

“Two months, give or take a week. I met him at the Fair Hill races and whammo!” She smacked her hands together.

“Happens that way sometimes.” Harry smiled.

“We had so much in common. Horses. Horses and horses,” Addie said. “He taught me a lot. You know how some people keep what they know to themselves? Won’t share anything. Not Nigel. He was happy to teach me, and he was just as happy to learn from me, too.”

“Sounds like a lovely young man,” Miranda, ever the romantic, replied soothingly.

Harry, far less romantic, nonetheless wanted to be supportive, but her inquiring nature couldn’t be suppressed for long. “Do you think he had enemies?”

“Harry, you sound like Frank Yancey.” Addie crossed one leg over the other, then winced.

“What’d you do?” Miranda solicitously inquired.

“Knees. They take a beating out there, you know.” She turned back to Harry. “As far as I know he didn’t have enemies. No one knew him long enough, and besides, he was fun, a real positive person.” She paused. “Everyone’s got some enemies though.”

“His poor parents in England.” Miranda shook her head.

“Hadn’t thought of that,” Harry said. “Do you have any idea why this happened?” Her curiosity had surged.

“No.” Addie got up. “Everyone is asking me that.”

“I’m sorry. But it’s natural.”

“I hope whoever killed him rots in hell!” Addie flared, then wiped away the unexpected tears.

“‘Whoever sheds the blood of man, by man shall his blood be shed; for God made man in His own image,’ ” Mrs. Hogendobber quoted from Genesis.

“I’ll happily shed blood.” Addie clamped down her lips.

“What do you mean?” Harry asked.

“I mean, if I find the killer first …”

“Don’t say that,” Miranda blurted out.

“Yeah, don’t.” Harry seconded her older friend’s feeling.

“I don’t give a damn. If the killer is caught, he’ll go to trial. Lots of money will get spent, and the system is so corrupt that he probably won’t get convicted, and if he does he’ll be out on patole in no time. It’s a farce.”

Much as Harry tended to agree, she didn’t want to encourage Addie to murder. “You know, the scary part is, what if you do find the killer, or get close? What if he turns on you, Addie? Stay out of it. You liked this guy, but you didn’t know him well enough to die for him.”

“Harry, you can fall in love in an instant. I did.”

“Oh, Addie …” Harry’s voice trailed off.

Miranda draped her arm over Addie’s thin shoulder. “Harry’s not trying to argue with you or upset you, honey. She doesn’t want you to do something impulsive that could ruin your life. And I agree. Neither one of us wants you to expose yourself to danger. After all, no one knows why Nigel was killed. It’s not just the who, it’s the why, you see. That’s where the danger lies.”

Addie cried again.“You’re right. I know you’re right.”

Both women comforted her as best they could. When Addie left the post office, she passed the now empty white plate. The cats had fallen asleep next to the scene of their crime.

10

Work continued despite the personal sorrow Adelia Valiant had to absorb. Horses needed to be fed, watered, exercised, groomed, turned out, and talked to over a stall door. The routine, oddly consoling, numbed her mind.

Mim told her to take time off if she needed it, but Addie kept riding. After all, she and her brother had other clients to serve, and when people pay you money, they expect results.

The Valiant fortune, some eighteen million and growing due to good investments directed by Arthur Tetrick, should have ensured that Adelia and Charles Valiant need never labor for their bread and butter.

But Marylou had witnessed the dismal effects of wrapping children in wads of money to soften the hard knocks of life. She didn’t want her children to become the weak, petty tyrants she had often observed. She wanted to give them grit.

Enough was drawn annually from the trust fund to pay for lodging, cars, clothes, the necessities. This forced her children to work if they wanted more. If they turned into gilded turnips after Adelia’s maturity, so be it.

As it happened, both sister and brother loved their work. There was no doubt in either of their minds that they’d continue working once the inheritance was theirs. They might build a good stable of their own, but they’d continue to train and ride.

Addie’s past drug problems had more to do with her personality than with her background. Plenty of poor kids ran aground on drugs, too. And plenty of poor kids spent their money as soon as they picked up their paycheck. Addie’s impulsiveness and desire for a good time had little to do with class.

Addie wiped down the last horse of the day, a leggy gray, as the white Southern States delivery truck rolled down the drive.

“Feed man.”

Chark, at the other end of the barn, called out,“I’ll attend to it. You finish up what you’re doing.”

As Addie rubbed blue mineral ice on the gray’s legs, she could hear the metal door clang up on the truck, the dolly clunk when it hit the ground, and the grunts of her brother and the delivery man as they loaded fifty-pound sacks of 14 percent protein sweet feed onto the dolly.

After filling up the zinc-lined feed bins—Mim thought of everything in her stable, but still the mice attacked—the delivery man murmured something to Chark and then drove off.

As her brother, a medium-built, well-proportioned man, ambled toward her, Addie asked,“Are we behind on the bill?”

“Up to date—” He smiled. “—for a change.”

“What did he want then?”

“Nothing. Said he was sorry to hear about your friend.”

The lines around her mouth relaxed.“That was kind of him. People surprise me.”

“Yeah.” Chark jammed his hands in his jeans. “Sis, I’m sorry that you’re sorry, if you know what I mean, but I didn’t like Nigel, and you know it, so I can’t be a hypocrite now. Not that I wished him dead.”

“You never gave him a chance.”

“Oil and water.” He ground his heel into the macadam aisle.

She led the gray back to his stall.“You don’t much like any man I date.”

“You don’t much have good taste.” Chark sounded harsher than he meant to sound. “Oh, hell, I’m sorry. You have to kiss them, I don’t.” He stopped making circles off his heel. “Nigel was a fake.”

“You hate English accents.”

“That I do. They smack of superiority, you know, talking through their noses and telling us how they gallop on the downs of Exmoor. This is America, and I’ll train my way.”

She put her hands on her hips.“Thought we settled that in 1776. You don’t like anyone telling you what to do or making a suggestion that you perceive as a veiled criticism.”

“I listen to you.” His eyes, almond-shaped like his sister’s, darkened.

“Sometimes”—she restlessly jammed her hands in her pockets—“you treated Nigel like dirt. And I—I—” She couldn’t go on. Tears filled her eyes.

He stood there wanting to comfort her but not willing to give ground on the detested Nigel. Brotherly love won over and he hugged her.“Like I said, I didn’t wish him dead. Maybe Linda Forloines did it.”

Addie stiffened.“Linda … she made a move like a dope fiend.” Addie referred to the whipping incident in stable slang.

“That’s just it.” Chark released his sister. “I’m willing to bet the barn that those two are selling again. Where else would the Forloines get the money for a new truck?”

“Didn’t see it.”

“Brand new Nissan. Nice truck.” He rubbed his hands together. He had arthritis in his fingers, broken years ago, and the chill of the oncoming night made his joints ache.

She shrugged.“Who knows.” But she did know.

“She’s probably doping horses as well as people.”

“I don’t know.”

“It wouldn’t surprise me if she and Will are—uh, in the mix somehow. A feeling.”

“I don’t know,” she repeated. “But I had my ownTwilight Zone episode today.

“Huh?”

“I picked up the mail, and Harry and Mrs. H. were really wonderful except Harry’s worse than the sheriff—she asks too many questions. Anyway, I lost my temper and said if I found out who killed Nigel before the law, I’d kill him. They both about jumped down my throat and said, ‘Don’t even say that.’ ”

“They’re right. Crazy things happen.”

“What gave me the shivers was their saying that if I got too close to the murderer, maybe he’d turn on me.”

“Damn,” he whispered.

11

The dagger that killed Nigel Danforth, tagged and numbered, lay on Frank Yancey’s desk. Rick Shaw and Cynthia Cooper sat on the other side of the desk.

“That’s no cheap piece of hardware.” Rick admired the weapon.

Frank touched it with the eraser on his pencil.“The blade is seven and a half inches, and the overall length is twelve and three quarters inches. The blade is double-edged stainless steel, highly polished, as you can see, and the handle is wrapped in wire, kind of like fencing uh—”

“Foils.” Cooper found the word for him.

“Right.” Frank frowned. “I think this was an impulse killing. Why would someone leave an expensive dagger buried in Nigel’s chest?”

“If it was impulse, why the Queen of Clubs?” Rick countered.

Frank stroked the stubble on the side of his jowls.“Well—”

“And another thing, Sheriff Yancey,” Cynthia respectfully addressed the older man, “I’ve been at the computer since this happened. I’ve talked to Scotland Yard. There is no Nigel Danforth.”

“I was afraid of that.” Frank grimaced. “Just like I was afraid we’d find no fingerprints. Not a one.”

“Well, there are no inland revenue records, no passports, no national health card, no nothing,” Cynthia said.

“Who the hell is that on the slab in the morgue?” Frank rhetorically asked.

“About all we can do is get dental impressions and send them over the wires. That will work if the stiff, I mean deceased,” Cooper corrected herself, “had a criminal record. Otherwise, your guess is as good as mine.”

“I don’t like this.” Frank smacked his hand on the table. “People want results.”

“Don’t worry, it’s not an election year for you, Frank, and it’s not like a serial killer is stalking the streets of Orange. The murder is confined to a small world.”

“We hope,” Cynthia said.

“I don’t like this,” Frank repeated. “I’ll get Mickey Townsend in here. Why would he hire a man without a green card?”

“Same reason a lot of fruit growers hire Mexicans and don’t inquire about their immigration status. They figure they can get the crop in before Immigration busts them. Any American employer whose IQ hovers above his body temperature knows to ask for a green card or go through the bullshit of getting one for the employee.” Rick crossed his right leg over his left knee.

“It’s the modern version of an indentured servant. You get someone a green card and they owe you for life,” Cynthia added.

“Well, we know a few things.” Rick folded his hands over his chest, feeling the Lucky Strikes pack in his pocket and very much wanting a cigarette.

“Sure,” Frank said. “We know I’m in deep shit and I have to tell a bunch of reporters we’re on a trail colder than a witch’s tit.”

“No, we also know that the killer likes expensive weapons. Perhaps the dagger has symbolic significance, as does the Queen of Clubs. We also know that Nigel knew his killer.”

“No, we don’t,” Frank said stubbornly.

“I can’t prove it, of course, but there are no signs of struggle. He was face-to-face with his killer. He wasn’t dragged or we’d have seen the marks on the barn floor.”

“The killer could have stabbed him and then carried him to the chair.” Cynthia thought out loud.

“That’s a possibility, meaning the killer has to be strong enough to lift a—what do you reckon—a hundred-twenty-pound jockey over his shoulder.”

“Or her shoulder. A strong woman could lift that.” Cynthia scribbled a few notes in her spiral notebook.

“Wish Larry and Hank would call.” Frank fidgeted.

“We could go over there, see what they’ve turned up.” Rick stood.

“Bad luck having the county coroner out of town. He’s as good as new.” Frank, irritated, didn’t realize the irony of his remarks.

Just then the phone rang.“Yancey,” Frank said.

Hank Cushing’s high-pitched voice started spouting out organ weights and stomach contents. “Normal heart and—”

“I don’t give a damn about that. Was he stabbed twice or once?” Frank barked into the receiver.

“Twice,” Hank responded. “The condition of the liver showed some signs of nascent alcohol damage and—”

“I don’t care about that. Send me the report.”

“Well, you might want to care about this.” Hank, miffed, raised his voice. “He’d put his age down as twenty-six for his jockey application with the National Steeplechase Association, and I estimate his age to be closer to thirty-five. Might be worth sticking that fact in your brainand the fact that he had a serious dose of cocaine in his bloodstream. I’ll send the file over as soon as I’ve written up my report.” Miffed, Hank hung up on him.

Frank banged down the phone.“Prick.”

“Well—?” Both Rick and Cynthia asked in unison.

“Stabbed twice. Full of coke.”

“Makes sense. He’d hardly sit there while someone placed a card over his heart.”

“Rick, he would if they’d held a gun to his head.”

“Good point, pardner.” Rick smiled at Cynthia.

“One other thing, Hank said his age was closer to thirty-five than the twenty-six he wrote down for the steeplechase association.”

“Hmm,” Rick murmured. “Whoever he was, he was a first-rate liar.”

“Not so first-rate,” Coop rejoined. “He’s dead. Someone caught him out.”

“Well, I sure appreciate your help.” Frank got to his feet. “I figure the good citizens of Orange can sleep safe in their beds at night.”

“That’s what I’m doing. Going home to bed.” Cynthia felt as if sand was in her eyes from staring at the computer screen for the last two and a half days.

On the way back to Charlottesville in an unmarked car, Rick smoked a cigarette, opening the window a crack first.“Frank’s in over his head.”

“Yep.”

“If we’re lucky this will be a revenge killing, and that’ll be the end of it. If we’re not, this will play out at other steeplechase races or other steeplechase stables, which means the good citizens of Orange and Albemarle counties may not sleep so soundly—not if they’ve got horses in the barn.”

Cynthia stretched her long legs.“Horsey people are obsessed.”

“I don’t much like them,” Rick matter-of-factly said.

“I can’t say that, but I can say they fall into two categories.”

“What’s that?”

“They’re either very, very intelligent or dumb as a sack of hammers. No in-between.”

Rick laughed, exceeding the speed limit.

12

A sleek BMW 750il, the twelve-cylinder model, cruised by the post office at seven-thirty Tuesday morning. Harry noticed Mickey Townsend behind the wheel as she passed by in her truck.

“Some kind of car.”

Mrs. Murphy and Tucker dutifully glanced at the metallic silver automobile but, not being car nuts, they returned their attention to more important matters.

“Hey, Ella!” Mrs. Murphy called to Elocution, Herb Jones’s youngest cat, as she sat by the minister’s front door.

Since the window was rolled up, Elocution couldn’t hear, but Harry sure could.

“You’ll split my eardrums.”

“Mother, I have to listen to you morning, noon and night.”

“Yeah, but she’s not screeching for her friends.”

“Tucker, shut up.” The cat boxed that long, inviting nose. Murphy wondered what cats living with pugs, bulldogs, and chows did since those canines’ noses were pushed in. Guess they jumped on their backs and bit their necks.

The lights were already on inside as Harry parked the truck.

“Hey,” she called as she opened the back door, the aroma of fresh cinnamon curling into her nostrils.

“Morning.” Mrs. Hogendobber put whole coffee beans into a cylindrical electric grinder. The noise terrified Tucker, who cowered underneath the empty mail cart.

“Chicken.”

“I hate that noise,” the dog whimpered.

Harry heated up water on the hot plate. She couldn’t drink much coffee so she made tea. Doughnuts, steam still rising off them, were arranged in concentric circles on the white plate.

“Cinnamon?” Harry said.

“And cake doughnuts, too. I’m experimenting with two different doughs.” A knock at the back door interrupted her. “Who is it?”

“Attila the Hun.”

“Come on in,” Mrs. Hogendobber answered.

Susan Tucker, pink-faced from the cold, opened the door.“Good frost this morning. Hi, Tucker.” She reached down to pet the dog. “Hello, Mrs. Murphy, I know you’re in the mail cart because I can see the bulge underneath.”

“Morning,” came the sleepy reply.

“Saw Mickey Townsend drive by,” Susan said.

“Passed him on the way in. Oh, Susan, I’ve got a registered letter for you.”

“Damn.” Susan thought registered letters usually meant some unwanted legal notice or, worse, a dire warning from the IRS.

Harry fished out the letter with the heavy pink paper attached, a copy underneath.“Press hard so your signature shows through.”

Ballpoint in hand, Susan peered at the return address.“Plaistow, New Hampshire?” She firmly wrote her name.

Harry carefully tore off the pink label, which she kept, the carbon copy remaining with the envelope.

Susan wedged her forefinger under the sealed flap, opening the letter.“Say, this is pretty nice.”

“What?” Harry read over her shoulder.

“State Line Tack exhausted their supply of turnout rugs in red and gold. If I’ll accept a navy with a red border, they’ll give me a further ten percent discount, and they apologize for the inconvenience. They haven’t been able to reach me by phone.” She snapped the paper. “Because the damn kids never get off it! What a good business.”

“I’ll say. You know who else is really great: L. L. Bean.”

“The best.” Mrs. Hogendobber ate a doughnut. “Mmm. Outdid myself.”

Susan folded the letter, returning it to its envelope, and then, as is often the case between old friends, she jumped to another subject with no explanation because she knew Harry would understand the connection: signing for letters.“You must know every signature in Crozet.”

“We both do.” Mrs. Hogendobber wiped crumbs from her mouth. “We could be expert witnesses in forgery cases. I wish you two would try one of these. My best.”

Harry grabbed a cinnamon doughnut even though she had sworn she wouldn’t.

“Go on.” Mrs. Hogendobber noticed Susan salivating over the plate. “I can’t eat them all myself.”

“Ned told me I can’t gain my five winter pounds this year. He even bought me a NordicTrack.” Susan stared at the doughnuts.

“Don’t eat lunch.” Harry saved her the agony of the decision by handing her one.

Once that fresh smell wafted right under her nose, Susan popped the doughnut straight in.“Oh, hell.” She helped herself to a cup of tea. “Heard some scoop.”

“I wait with cinnamon breath—as opposed to bated, that is.” Harry untied the first mailbag.

“Nigel Danforth bet a thousand dollars on the fifth race—Mim’s horse, not Mickey Townsend’s.”

Miranda wondered out loud.“Is that bad?”

“A jockey wouldn’t bet against himself or the stable he’s riding for, plus a jockey isn’t supposed to bet at all. That’s a fact for all sports. Remember Pete Rose.” Susan, suffering the tortures of the damned, grabbed another cinnamon doughnut.

“Wouldn’t it mean he’s fixing the race?”

“It might, but probably not in this circumstance.” Susan continued: “Mickey Townsend’s mare didn’t have much of a chance. Of course, Nigel placed the bet through a third party. I mean, that’s what I’ve heard.”

“Yeah but with steeplechasing—one pileup and a goat could win.” Harry leaned over Mrs. Murphy. “Murphy, I need to dump the mail in.”

“No.”

“Come on, kitty cat.”

“No.” To prove her point Murphy rolled over on her back, exposing her beautiful beige tummy with its crisp black stripes.

“All right then, smartass.” Harry poured a little mail on the cat.

“I’m not moving.” Mrs. Murphy rolled over on her side.

“Stubborn.” Harry reached in with both hands and plucked her out, placing her in the fleece teepee she’d bought especially for the cat.

Grumbling, Mrs. Murphy circled inside three times, then settled down. She needed her morning nap.

“Doesn’t sound cricket to me.” Mrs. Hogendobber occasionally used an expression from her youth when, due to World War II, phrases from the British allies were current.

“It’s not the most prudent policy.” Harry dumped the remainder of the mail from her sack into the cart, then wheeled it over to the post boxes.

“I’d worry less about that and more about where a jockey got one thousand dollars cash.” Susan helped with the third-class mail. “Those guys only get paid fifty dollars a race, you know. If they win, place or show they get a percentage of the purse.”

“The wages of sin.” Harry laughed.

“You know …” Susan’s voice trailed off.

“We ought to go over to Mim’s stable,” Harry said, “at lunch. Larry comes in today.” Dr. Larry Johnson, partially retired, filled in at lunch so Harry and Mrs. Hogendobber could run errands or relax over a meal at Crozet Pizza.

“Now, girls, just a minute. You heard a rumor, Susan, not a fact. You shouldn’t slander someone even though he is dead.”

“I’m not slandering him. I only told you, and I don’t think it hurts if we sniff about.”

“I’ll do the sniffing,” Tucker told them.

“We should talk to the horses. They know what went down. Too bad there weren’t any left in the barn when Nigel was stabbed,” Mrs. Murphy drawled from inside her teepee.

“Even if there had been, Murphy, chances are that the horse would have been vanned back to its stable and how would we get there? Especially if it was a Maryland horse?” Tucker lay down in front of the teepee, sticking her nose inside. Mrs. Murphy didn’t mind.

The front door opened. The Reverend Herb Jones and Market Shiflett bustled in.

“Got the mail sorted yet?” Market asked.

“Is it eight yet?” Harry tossed mail into boxes.

“No.”

“I have yours right here. I did it first because I like youso much,” Harry teased him.

As Market blew in the front door, Pewter blew into the back.

“What about me?” Herb asked.

“I like youso much, too.” Harry laughed, handing him a stack of magazines, bills, letters, and catalogs.

Pewter walked around Tucker and stuck her head into the teepee. Then she squeezed in and curled up next to Mrs. Murphy.

“Boy, you’re fat,” the tiger grumbled.

“You always say that,” Pewter purred, for she liked to snuggle.“But I keep you warm.”

“Say, I heard that Linda Forloines bet a thousand dollars on the fifth race against the horse she was riding.” Herb Jones flipped unwanted solicitations into the trash.

“See,” Miranda triumphantly called as she continued her sorting.

“See what?” he asked.

“Susan said that same thing about Nigel Danforth,” Miranda called from behind the post boxes.

“Oh.” Herb neatly stacked his mail and put a rubber band around it. “Another rumor for the grist mill.”

“Well, someone must have bet one thousand dollars on the fifth race.” Susan, chin jutting out, wasn’t giving up so easily.

Market leaned over the counter.“You know how these things are. The next thing you’ll hear is that the body disappeared.”

13

Fair stood in the doorway, looking as serious as a heart attack. Normally Harry would have cussed him out because she hated it when he dropped in on her without calling first. Sometimes he forgot they weren’t married, an interesting twist since, when they were married, he’d sometimes forgotten that as well.

The paleness of his lips kept her complaint bottled up.

“Daddy!” Tucker scurried forward to shower love on Fair.

“Brownnoser.” Mrs. Murphy turned her back on him, and the tip of her tail flicked. She liked Fair but not enough to make a fool of herself rushing to greet him. Also, Murphy, having once endured a philandering husband herself, the handsome black-and-white Paddy, keenly felt for Harry.

“Close the door, Fair. It’s cold.”

“So it is.” He gently shut the door behind him, took off his heavy green buffalo-plaid shirt, and hung it on a peg by the door.

“I’m down to cheese and crackers tonight because I haven’t been to the supermarket in weeks. You’re welcome to some.”

“No appetite. Got a beer?”

“Yep.” She reached into the refrigerator, fishing out a cold Sol, popped the cap, grabbed a glass mug, and handed it to him as he headed for the living room. He sank into the overstuffed chair, a remnant from the forties, which Harry’s mom had found at a rummage sale. It could have even been from the thirties. It had been recovered so many times that only bits of the original color, a slate gray with golden stars, straggled on the edges where the upholsterer’s nails held a few original threads. The last recovering had occurred seven years ago. Mrs. Murphy, claws at the ready, had exposed the wood underneath the fabric and tufting, which was why you could also see the upholsterer’s nails. Her steady application of kitty destructiveness forced Harry to throw a quarter sheet over the chair. Now that she’d gotten used to it, she liked the dark green blanket, edged in gold, used to keep horses’ hindquarters warm in bitter weather.

“To what do I owe this pleasure?”

Fair pulled long on the beer.“I am under investigation—”

“For the murder of Nigel Danforth?” Harry blurted out.

“No—for doping horses. Mickey Townsend drove over to tell Mim, and Mim told me, and sure enough Colbert Mason from National confirmed it. He was kind enough to say that no one believed it, but he had to go through the motions.”

“Has anyone formally accused you?”

“Not yet.”

“It’s a crock of shit!”

“My sentiments exactly.” The deep lines around his light eyes only added to his masculine appeal. He rubbed his forehead. “Who would do such a thing?”

“Whoever tells you they wouldn’t,” Harry remarked. “Who has something to gain by doing this to you? Another vet?”

“Harry, you know the other equine vets as well as I do. Not one of them would sink that low. Besides, we cooperate with one another.”

Murphy brought in her tiny play mouse covered with rabbit’s fur, one of her favorite toys. She hoped she could seduce Harry into throwing it so she could chase it. She jumped on the arm of the chair, dropping it into Harry’s lap.

“Murphy, go find a real one.”

“I have cleansed this house of mice. I am the master mouser,” she bragged.

“Ha!” Tucker wedged herself on Harry’s foot.

“You couldn’t catch a mouse if your life depended on it.”

“Well, you couldn’t herd cows if your life depended on it, so there.”

Harry tossed the mouse behind her shoulder, and the cat launched off the chair, tore across the room, skidded past the mouse because she’d put her brakes on too late, bumped her butt on the wall, slid around, got her paws under her, and pounced on the mouse.

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“Death to vermin!” She tossed the mouse over her head. She batted it with her paws. She lobbed it in the air, catching it on the way down.

“Wouldn’t you love to be like that just once?” Harry admired Mrs. Murphy’s wild abandon.

“Freedom.” Fair laughed as the tiger, play mouse in jaws, leapt over the corgi.

“I hate it when you do that,” Tucker grumbled.

Mrs. Murphy said nothing because she didn’t want to drop her mouse, so she careened around and vaulted Tucker from the other direction. Tucker flattened on the rug, ears back.

“Showoff.”

The cat ignored her, rushing into the bedroom so she could drop the mouse behind the pillows and then crawl under them to destroy the enemy again.

Harry returned to the subject,“Remember those war philosophy books you used to read?The Art of War by Shu Tzu was one. A passage in there goes,‘Uproar in East, strike in West.’ Might be what’s going on with you.”

“You read those books more carefully than I did.”

“Liked von Clausewitz best.” She crossed her legs under her. “No one who knows you, no one who has watched you work on a horse could ever believe you would drug horses for gain. Since this complaint came out of the steeplechase set, you know it may not relate to the murder, but then again, itgets folks sidetracked, looking east.”

“Yeah—they’ll waste time on me,” he mumbled.

“Like I said, ‘Uproar in East, strike in West.’ ” She paused. “Did you know Nigel?”

“He didn’t talk much so it was a nodding acquaintance.” He threw his leg over an arm of the chair. “Want to go to a show?”

“Nah. I’m going to paint the bathroom tonight. I can’t stand it another minute.

“You work too much.”

“Look who’s talking.”

“Isn’t anyone going to come in here and play with me?” Murphy called from the bedroom as she threw a pillow on the floor for dramatic effect.

“She’s vocal tonight.” Fair finished his beer. “Bring me your mousie.”

Seeing a six-foot-four-inch man of steel ask for a cat to bring her mousie never struck Harry as strange. Both she and Fair were so attuned to animals that speaking to them was as natural as speaking to a human. Generally, it produced better results.

Murphy ripped out of the bedroom, mouse in jaws again, and dropped the little gray toy on Fair’s boots.

“What avaluable mouse. Murphy, you’re a big hunter. You need to go on a safari.” He threw the mouse into the kitchen, and off ran Murphy.

“You indulge her.” Tucker sank her head on her paws.

“Miranda and I were going over to Mim’s at lunch to poke around about the rumors of Nigel betting against himself in the sixth race, or was it the fifth?” She shrugged. “’Course, the same rumor floated around about Linda Forloines.”

“The thousand dollars?”

“Guess it’s made the rounds.”

“Yeah. Why didn’t you go?”

“Larry relieved us late. Miranda got a call from her church group, some crisis to do with the songfest, so I went over to Crozet Pizza. No point in chasing rumors, which is why I can’t believe that Colbert Mason is bothering about this one concerning you. Well, I guess he has to go through the motions.”

“You were always better than I was at figuring out people. I’m not a vet just because I love animals. Don’t much like people deep down, I suppose—or maybe I just like a few select ones like you.”

“Don’t start,” Harry swiftly replied.

“Mom, don’t be so hard on him.” Mrs. Murphy deposited her play mouse next to her food bowl.

“Yeah, Mom,” Tucker chimed in.

“I’m not starting.” He sighed. “You know I’ve repented. I’ve told you. I’m changing. Hell, maybe I’m even growing up.”

“Mother used to say that men don’t grow up, they grow old. Actually, I thought Dad was a mature man, but then again a daughter doesn’t see a man the same as a wife does.”

“Are you telling me I can’t grow up?”

“No.” She uncrossed her legs, leaning forward, “I’m not good at these topics. The conventional wisdom is that women can talk about emotions and men can’t. I don’t see that I’m good at it, and I don’t see any reason to learn. I mean, I know what I feel. Whether I can or want to express it is my deal, right? Anyway, emotions are like mercury, up, down, and if you break the thermometer, the stuff runs out. Poof.”

“Mary Minor, don’t be so tough. A little introspection can’t hurt.”

“Not the therapy rap again?” She threw up her hands.

He ignored the comment.“I hated going, but I’d made such a mess of my life it was that or sucking on a gun barrel.” He paused. “Actually look forward to those sessions. I’m taking a college course and the subject is me. Guess it means I’m egotistical.” He smiled wryly.

“What matters is that for you it’s a—” she rummaged around for the right word, “an enlarging experience. You’re open to it and getting a lot from it. I’m not. I’m closed. It ain’t my deal.”

“What’s your deal?”

“Hard work. Why do you ask what you already know?”

“Wanted to hear you say it.”

“You heard me.”

“Harry, it’s okay to share emotions.”

“Goddammit, I know that. It’s also okay not to share them. What good does it do, Fair? And what’s the line between sharing and whining?”

“Do I sound like I’m whining?”

“No.”

They sat in silence. Mrs. Murphy padded in, leaving her mouse by her food bowl.

“Go to a movie with him, Mom,” Tucker advised.

“Yeah,” Murphy agreed.

“You know if there’s any way I can help you with this inquiry, I’ll do it.”

“I know.” He sat waiting to be asked to stay, yet knowing she wouldn’t ask. At last he rose, tossed his long-neck bottle in the trash, and lifted his heavy shirt off the peg. “Thanks for listening.”

She joined him in the kitchen.“Things will turn out right. It’s a waste of time, but dance to their tune for a while.”

“Like singing for my supper? Remember when I was starting out, Mim would give me odd jobs at the stable and then feed me? Funny about Mim. She’s tyrannical and snobbish, but underneath she’s a good soul. Most people don’t see that.”

“What I remember is Little Marilyn’s first husband driving you bananas.”

“That guy.” Fair shook his head. “I was glad when she was shuck of him, although I guess it was hard for her. Always is, really. Are you glad to be rid of me?”

“Some days, yes. Some days, no.”

“What about today?” His eyes brightened.

“Neutral.”

He opened the kitchen door and left.“Bye. Thanks for the beer,” he called.

“Yeah.” She waved good-bye, feeling that phantom pain in her heart like the phantom pain in an amputated limb.

14

Bazooka, sleek, fit, and full of himself, pranced sideways back to the stable. Addie breezed him but he wanted to fly. He hated standing in his stall, and he envied Mim’s foxhunters, who led a more normal life, lounging in the pastures and only coming into their stalls at night.

Like most competitive horses, Bazooka was fed a high protein diet with supplements and encouraged to explode during the race. Mostly he felt like exploding at home. He knew he could win, barring an accident or being boxed in by a cagey opposing jockey. He wanted to win, to cover himself with glory. Bazooka’s ego matched his size: big. Unlike most ’chasers at other barns, he also knew that when his competitive days drew to a close, Mim wouldn’t sell him off. She would retire him to foxhunting, most likely riding him herself, for Mim was a good rider.

The fact that Mim could ride better than her daughter only deepened Little Marilyn’s lifelong sulk. Occasional bursts of filial devotion gusted through the younger Mim’s demeanor.

Both mother and daughter watched as Bazooka proudly passed them.

“He’s on today,” Addie called to them.

“The look of eagles.” Mim grinned.

“I am beautiful!” Bazooka crowed.

“Mom, I didn’t know Harry was coming by.” Little Marilyn had grown up with Mary Minor Haristeen, but although she couldn’t say she disliked Harry, she couldn’t say she liked her either. Personalities, like colors, either look good together or they don’t. These two didn’t.

Mim, by contrast, found it easy to talk to Harry even though she deplored the younger woman’s lack of ambition.

The Superman-blue Ford truck chugged to the parking lot behind the stable. Tucker and Mrs. Murphy appeared before Harry did. They spoke their greetings, then ran into the stable as Harry reached Big Mim and Little Mim, occasionally called Mini-Mim if Harry was feeling venomous.

“What have you got there?” Mim asked, noticing that Harry carried a small box.

“The labels for the wild game dinner invitations. Little Marilyn was printing up the invitations.”

“Did you run these off a government computer?” Mim folded her arms across her chest.

“Uh—I did. Aren’t you glad your taxes have gone to something productive?”

Little Mim snatched the box from Harry’s hands. “Thanks.”

“How do the invitations look?” Harry asked.

Little Marilyn squinted at Harry, distorting her manicured good looks.“Haven’t picked them up yet.” Which translated into: She forgot to order them, and the labels told her she’d better get cracking. “I think I’ll go get them right now. Need anything from C-ville, Mum?”

“No. I gave my list to your father.”

“Good to see you, Harry.” The impeccably dressed young Marilyn hotfooted it to her Range Rover.

No point in either her mother or Harry criticizing her. They knew she hadn’t done her job, but she’d do it under pressure. Nor was there any point in discussing it with each other.

Harry walked with Mim into the lovely paneled tack room. The air was nippy even though the sun was high.

“Where’s Chark?”

“Other end of the barn. He’s finishing up the last set. Bang ’em out early, as he says.”

Harry sat down as Mim pointed to a seat covered in a handsome dark plaid. Harry could have lived happily in Mim’s tack room, which was prettier than her living room.

“Mim, I know that Mickey Townsend drove over to tell you about the unfounded charges leveled against Fair. Fair dropped by last night. This is outrageous”—her face reddened—“for somebody to smear one of the best vets in practice. Do you have any idea who would pull a stunt like this?”

“No.” Mim sat down opposite Harry. “I called Colbert and Arthur first thing this morning and told them the inquiry had better be fast and be quiet or I am going to make life sheer hell for everyone.” She held up her hand as if requesting silence from an audience. “I also told them it’s a waste of time when they have far more important things to do.”

“Well, that’s why I’m here. You’re one of the most powerful people in the association.” Mim murmured denial even as she was pleased to hear it, and Harry continued. “I dropped by Ned Tucker’s this morning. Susan filled him in. He said he would represent Fair, no charge. He drafted a letter, which I have right here.”

As Mim read, her eyebrows knitted together and then she smiled.“Good show, Ned.”

The letter said in exhaustive legalese that Fair had no intention of submitting to an inquiry without a formal accusation. If this was allowed to continue, then every veterinarian, trainer, and jockey could be paralyzed by poisonous gossip. He demanded his accuser come forward, that a formal complaint be filed. Once that was accomplished, he would defend himself.

“What do you think? Rather, what do you think the National Steeplechase Association will think?” Harry took the letter back from Mim’s outstretched hand, sporting only her wedding band and engagement diamond today.

“I expect they’ll nail the accuser straightaway. But can you get Fair to sign this? You know how he is about honor. Nineteenth century, but then that’s what makes him such a splendid man.”

“Of course I can’t get him to sign it. He thinks people should resolve their differences any way they can before resorting to lawyers. He doesn’t understand that America doesn’t work that way anymore. The minute we’re born we put some lawyer on retainer.”

“So what’s the solution here?”

“Uh—Mim, what I had hoped is that you would fax this to Colbert. Maybe write a note that Ned Tucker came to you with this because he doesn’t want the association further embarrassed. You know, the murder, public relations problems, et cetera. You want to give Colbert and Arthur, too, plenty of warning so they can frame a response should the press jump on this.” Harry breathed deeply. She hadn’t realized how nervous she was.

Mim sank back in the chair, painted nails tapping the armrests.“Harry, you are far more subtle than I give you credit for—of course I’ll do it.”

“Oh, thank you. Fair will never know unless Colbert tells him.”

“I’ll hint in my cover letter that if this can be rapidly resolved, the signed letter will never arrive. Fair will drop legal proceedings.”

Harry beamed.“You’re so smart.”

“No—you are. And you’re still in love with him.”

“That’s what everyone says, but no, I’m not.” Harry quickly replied. “I love him. It’s different. He’s a friend and a good man, and he doesn’t deserve this smear job. He’d do the same for me.”

“Yes, he would.”

As Mim and Harry discussed Fair, love, Jim, Bazooka, Miranda’s choir group’s fundraiser for the Church of the Holy Light, as well as the kitchen sink, Mrs. Murphy and Tucker chatted up the barn cat, a strong, large ginger named Rodger Dodger. His tortoiseshell girlfriend, Pusskin, slept in the hayloft, worn out from chasing a chipmunk that morning.

Bazooka, being wiped down in the wash stall, listened disappointedly because the other animals weren’t talking about him.

“How’s hunting?” Rodger Dodger asked Mrs. Murphy.

“Good.”

“Oh, yeah, she kills her play mouse nightly.” Tucker giggled.

“Shut up. I account for my share of mice and moles.”

“Don’t forget the blue jay. That put Mom right over the edge.” Tucker gloated.

“I hated that blue jay.”

“I hate them, too,” Rodger solemnly agreed.“They zoom down from twelve o’clock directly above you and peck you. Then peel out and zoom away. I’d kill every one if I could.”

“What’s going on around here?” Tucker changed the subject from rodent and fowl kills. Now, if they wanted to discuss how to turn cattle or sheep, she could offer many stories.

Rodger swept his whiskers forward, stepping close to the tiger cat and corgi.“Last night someone took Orion out of his stall, put him in the cross ties, and dug around in the stall, but was interrupted. Whoever it was covered the hole back up and put Orion in the stall.”

“Can you smell anything in the stall?”

“Earth.” Rodger Dodger rested on his haunches.

“Let’s take a look.” Mrs. Murphy scampered down the aisle. Since Orion was a hunter, he was playing outside in a field. The animals could go into his stall.

Tucker put her nose to the ground. The cats pawed the wood shavings away. The ground had indeed been freshly turned over.

Mrs. Murphy cautiously investigated the other corners of the stall. Nothing.

“Doesn’t make sense, does it?” Rodger observed Tucker.

“I don’t know.” She lifted her head, inhaled fresh air, then put her nose back to the smoothed-over spot.“If we could get someone to dig here I might find something. If anything was removed, I would smell that.” She sniffed again.“Right now it’s blank.”

The three animals sat in the stall.

“Do you know who it was?” Tucker asked.

“No, I was out in the machine shed last night. Good pickings. When Orion made mention of it on his way out this morning, I was too groggy to grill him.”

“Let’s go ask Orion.” Mrs. Murphy left the stall just as Bazooka was put into his stall by Chark Valiant.

“You don’t have to ask Orion,” the steel gray told them.“I saw who it was. Coty Lamont.”

“Coty Lamont!” Mrs. Murphy exclaimed. Rodger jumped on the tack trunk in front of Bazooka’s stall and got on his hind legs to chat with the horse.“Bazooka, why was he here?”

“He didn’t say,” Bazooka sarcastically replied.“But Mickey Townsend tiptoed in and shut the stall door with Coty in there. Coty tried to get out but Mickey wouldn’t let him. He told him to cover it back up, and to come with him.”

“Old Kotex hates Mickey.” Mrs. Murphy used Coty’s nickname.“For that matter, so does Chark Valiant.”

“Bet Coty didn’t go,” Tucker said.

“Oh, but he did.” Bazooka relished the tale.“Mickey pulled a gun on him and told him he had to go with him.”

“Did he go?” Tucker’s lustrous eyes widened.

“Sure he did. See, I don’t know how he got here. Mickey just tiptoed into the barn,” Bazooka added.“Anyway, Mickey told him to put his hands behind his head. He unbolted the stall, and Coty walked in front of him.”

“Boy, is that weird.” Rodger Dodger scratched his side with his hind leg.

It was more than weird, because that night at dusk Coty Lamont, the best steeplechase jockey of his generation, was discovered on a dirt road in eastern Albemarle County right off Route 22. He was laid out in the bed of his Ford 350 dually pickup truck painted in his favorite metallic maroon. The Queen of Spades was over his heart, a stiletto driven through it.

15

Rick Shaw lost cigarette lighters the way small children lose gloves. He used disposable lighters because of this. Pulling a see-through lime-green lighter from his coat pocket, he studied the corpse in the truck.

Cynthia Cooper scribbled in her notebook, weakened, and lit up a cigarette herself.

The ambulance crew waited at a distance. Kenny Wheeler, Jr., who had found the body, stayed with the sheriff and his deputy.

“Kenny, I know you’ve told me this before but tell me again because I need to have the sequence right,” Rick softly asked the tall, deep-voiced young man.

“I was checking a fence line. Kinda in a hurry because I was losing light and running behind, you know.” He stared down at his boots. “This old road is really on my neighbor’s property, but I have use of it, so I thought I’d swing through to get to the back acres. Save a minute or two. Anyway, I saw this truck. Didn’t recognize it. And as I drew closer I saw him”—he pointed to the body—“in the bed. I thought maybe the guy fell asleep or something—I mean, until I got closer. Well, I stopped my truck, got out, kinda peeped over the sides. I mean, I knew the man was dead, deader than the Red Sox, but I don’t know why I called out, ‘Hey.’ I stood there for a minute and then I got on the mobile, called you first off, then called Mom and Dad. I described the truck. They didn’t know it. Dad wanted to come right out, but I told him to stay put. It’s better that I’m the only one involved.

“Well, Dad didn’t like that. He’s a hands-on guy, as you know, but I said, ‘Dad, if you come on out here, then you’ll get caught in the red tape, and you have enough to do. I found him, so I’ll take care of it.’ So he said okay finally, and here I am.”

Cynthia closed her notebook.“Rick, do you need Kenny anymore?”

“Yeah, wait one minute.” Rick, gloves on, pulled out the registration. “The truck is registered to Coty Lamont. That name mean anything to you?” Rick leaned against the open door of the truck.

“Coty Lamont.” Kenny frowned. “A jockey. I’m pretty sure I’ve heard that name before. We don’t race, but … that name is familiar.”

“Thanks, Kenny. You’ve been a tremendous help. Go on home. I’ll call you if I need you. Give your Mom and Dad my regards. Wife, too.” Rick clapped him on the back.

As Kenny turned his truck around and drove out, Rick looked back into the bed of the truck.“Notice anything?”

“Yeah, he was shot in the back for good measure. Probably struggled.” Cynthia answered.

“Uh-huh. Anything else?”

“Same M.O. as the last one, pretty much.”

“The card, Cynthia, check out the card.”

“The Queen of Spades.” She whistled. “Lot of blood on this one.”

“Spades, Coop—the other card was clubs.”

Cynthia rubbed her hands on her upper arms. The sunset over the Southwest Range and the night air chilled to the bone.“Clubs, spades—are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

“Diamonds and hearts to go.”

16

The glow from the tip of his cigarette shone through Rick Shaw’s hand in the starless night. He cupped it to keep out the wind as he leaned over the railing at Montpelier’s flat track.

Barry McMullen, who rented the flat track stable, hunched his shoulders against the biting wind, pulling up his collar.

“There’s nothing to this thousand-dollar rumor.” Barry pushed his chin out assertively. “I’ve known Coty Lamont ever since he started out as Mickey Townsend’s groom. Then he got his first ride on one of Arthur Tetrick’s horses back when Arthur kept twenty horses in training. I just don’t think Coty would be suckered into a gambling ring, and I know he would never throw a race.”

“Not even for a couple hundred thousand dollars?”

Barry considered that.“No jockey that threw a race—and it’s damned easy to do in ’chasing—would get that much money. The stakes are considerably lower than flat racing, considerably lower.”

“How much?”

“Maybe five thousand. Tops.”

“So we’re talking about sums, not character.”

Barry growled,“Don’t put words into my mouth. Coty Lamont possessed an ego three times his size. He was the best, had to be the best, had to stay the best. He wouldn’t throw a race. I think this gambling hunch is off the mark—for him. I don’t know Jack Shit about the other guy who was killed. That Nigel fella.”

“Neither do we.” Rick felt hot ashes drop into his hand. He tilted his palm halfway to drop them on the cold ground, stamping them out with his foot.

“Pleasant enough. Asked to ride here. He was a decent hand with a horse, but I didn’t have any room for him.” He wrapped his scarf tighter around his neck. “Is there a reason we’re standing out here in the cold, Rick?”

“Yes. I don’t trust anyone in any barn right now.”

Barry’s light brown eyes widened. “My barn?”

“Any barn. If you repeat my questions there isn’t much I can do about it. After all, I’m a public servant and my inquiry must be aboveboard, but it doesn’t have to be broadcast. I don’t want anyone eavesdropping while mucking a stall or throwing down hay.” He shook his head. “I’ve got a bad feeling about this business.”

Barry’s jaw hardened. “Jesus, what do you think is going on?”

“What about a ring that sells horses for high prices, then substitutes cheap look-alikes, keeping the high-priced horses for themselves to win races or to be resold again? Possible?”

“In the old days, yes. Today, no. Every Thoroughbred is tattooed on the lip—”

Rick interrupted.“You could duplicate the tattoo.”

Slowly Barry replied,“Hard to do but possible. However, why bother? These days we have DNA testing. The Jockey Club demands a small vial of blood before it will register a foal, and it demands one from the mare, too. The system is ninety-nine point ninety-nine percent foolproof.”

“Not if someone on the inside substitutes vials of blood.”

This floored Barry.“How do you think of things like that?”

“I deal with miscreants, traffic violators, domestic dragons, thieves, and hard-core criminals day in and day out. If I don’t think as they do I’ll never nail them.” The deep creases around Rick’s mouth lent authority to his rugged appearance. “It would have to be an inside job. Meaningthe seller, the vet, possibly a jockey or a groom, and maybe even someone at the Jockey Club would have to be in on it.”

“Not the Jockey Club.” Barry vigorously shook his head. “Never. We’re talking aboutMecca. Sheriff, I would bet my life no one at the Jockey Club would ever desecrate the institution even for a large sum of money, and hey, I don’t always agree with them. I think they’re turned around backward sometimes, but I trust them, I mean, I trust their commitment to Thoroughbreds.”

“Well, I hope you’re right. If my bait-and-switch hunch isn’t right, I’m lost. Two jockeys have been killed within seven days. Unless we’re talking about some kind of bizarre sex club here, or irate husbands, then I’m sticking close to gambling or selling horses.”

“You’d better put out that weed, Sheriff Rick.” Barry smiled, pointing at Rick’s hand.

At just that moment the cigarette burned his palm and Rick flapped his hands, dropping the stub. Its fiery nub burned in the dying grass. Rick quickly stepped on it.“Thanks. Got so preoccupied I forgot I was holding the damn thing.”

“They’ll kill you, you know.”

Rick sardonically smiled.“Better this than a stiletto. Anyway, I’ve got to die of something.” What he kept to himself was the fact that he’d tried to quit three times, the pressure of work always pulling him back to that soothing nicotine. “You know what Nigel was doing in this stable?” He nodded in the direction of the imposing flat track stable lying parallel to the track.

“Picking up gear. I think that’s what he was doing. Some jockeys stowed their gear here, away from the crowds.”

“Where were you immediately after the races?”

“Enjoying Cindy Chandler’s tailgate party.”

“And after that?”

He put his hands in his pockets.“Ran into Arthur Tetrick and walked with him on his way to the big house. We chatted about Arthur buying a four-year-old I saw in Upperville. Arthur wants back in the game. We walked toward the gate to the house. I left him there and went to check on one last van pulling out from the back stables, not mine.” He pointed northeast of his stable in the direction of the smaller stables, well out of sight. “That’s when one of Frank Yancey’s deputies called me. Pretty dark by then.”

“Don’t be surprised if Frank asks you all the same questions that I have. I’ve talked to him, of course.”

Barry, although not a native Virginian, had lived in Orange County since the early’70s. He knew Sheriff Yancey well. “Frank’s a good man. Not a smart man, but a good man. I’m glad you’re on this now.”

Rick couldn’t cast aspersions on a fellow law enforcement officer. “Frank might be smarter than you know. You see, Barry, it’s not what he knows, it’s who he knows. I’m going over to roast”—he savored the word—“Mickey Townsend tomorrow. Maybe he’ll turn something up for me. You get on withhim?”

“Yeah.”

Rick started back toward the squad car.“Oh, one other thing. Anyone play cards in this group, the steeplechase people? I don’t mean a friendly hand here and there, but impassioned card players?”

“Hell, Mickey Townsend would kill for an inside straight.”

17

Dr. Stephen D’Angelo, a pulmonary surgeon, rode toward the stables. He was immaculately dressed in butcher boots, tan breeches, a white shirt, and tweed hacking jacket.

Linda Forloines rode alongside him.“She’s a point and shoot.”

“Where did you say this horse hunted?”

“Middleburg, Piedmont, and Oak Ridge.”

He patted his horse’s neck. “How much?”

“Well, they’re asking twenty thousand dollars. But let’s go over there. If you ride her and like her, I bet I can get that price down.”

“Okay. Make an appointment for Thursday afternoon.” He stopped outside the stable door, dismounted, and handed the reins to Linda, who had dismounted first.

Time being precious to him, he scheduled his rides at precisely the same time each day. Then he drove to the hospital, changing there.

He had sworn when he moved down from New Jersey that he’d retire, but word of a good doctor gets around. Before he knew it he was again in practice with two mornings’ operating time at the hospital.

Like most extremely busy people in high-pressure jobs, he had to trust those around him. Linda kept the stable clean and the horses worked. He couldn’t have known that behind his back she made fun of everything about him.

She mocked his riding ability, calling it“death defying.” She moaned about his truck and trailer; she wanted a much more expensive one. She lauded her contributions to his farm to all and sundry even as she bit the hand that fed her.

As soon as the horses were untacked and wiped down, she planned to call her friend in Middleburg who was selling the horse Dr. D’Angelo was interested in for someone else. The horse was worth $7,500. If Dr. D’Angelo liked the mare, Linda would “plead” with her friend to plead with her client to drop the price. They’d counter at $15,000. The owner of the horse would indeed get $7,500. Linda and her friend would split and pocket the additional $7,500 without telling anyone. The original owner wouldn’t know because they’d cash the check and pay her in cash. It was done every day in the horse business by people less than honest … often selling horses less than sound.

The phone rang as Linda tossed a Rambo blanket over one of the horses.

The wall phone hung on the outside wall.

She picked it up.“Hello.”

“Linda,” the deep male voice said, “Coty Lamont was found dead in the back of his pickup truck. A knife through the heart.”

She gasped.“What?”

“You’re losing business.” He laughed. Then his voice turned cold. “I know Sheriff Yancey questioned you.”

Before he could continue she said,“Hey, I’m not stupid. I didn’t say a word.”

A long pause followed.“Keep it that way. Liabilities don’t live long in this business. Midnight. Tomorrow.”

“Yeah. Sure.” She hung up the phone, surprised to find her hand shaking.

18

The pale November light spilled over her like champagne, making the deep blacks of Mrs. Murphy’s stripes glisten. Her tail upright, her whiskers slightly forward, she loped across the fields to Mim’s house. Alongside her and not at all happy about it wobbled Pewter—not an outdoor girl. Tee Tucker easily kept up the pace.

Mim’s estate nestled not fifteen minutes from the post office if one cut across yards and fields.

“Oh, can’t we walk a bit?”

“We’re almost there.” Murphy pressed on.

“I know we’re almost there. I’m tired,” complained the gray cat.

“Hold it!” Tucker commanded.

The two cats stopped, Pewter breathing hard. A rustle in the broom sage alerted them to another presence. The cats dropped to their bellies, ears forward. Tucker stood her ground.

“Who goes there?” Tucker demanded.

“As fine a cat as ever walked the globe,” came the saucy reply.

“Ugh.” Pewter squinted. She had never been able to stand Paddy, Mrs. Murphy’s ex-husband.

Murphy stuck her head up,“Whatever you’re doing on this side of Crozet, I don’t want to know.”

“And you shan’t, my love.” He kissed her on the cheek.“Pewter, you look slimmer.”

“Liar.”

“What a pretty thing to say to a gentleman paying you a compliment.”

“What gentleman?”

“Pewter, be civil.” Murphy hated playing peacemaker. She had better things to do with her time.“Come on, you two. If we’re going to get back by quitting time, we’ve got to move on.”

“Where are you going?”

“Mim’s stable. Come along and I’ll give you the skinny.” Mrs. Murphy used an expression that she had heard Mrs. Hogendobber occasionally use when the good lady felt racy.

“Let’s trot. I am not running.” Pewter pouted.

“All right. All right,” Tucker agreed to put her in a better mood.“Remember, it’s because of you that we’re on this mission.”

“It’s not because of me, it’s because Coty Lamont turned up dead in the back of a pickup truck, shot in the back and with a knife through his heart. All I did was report the news of it this morning.”

“How is it that Harry didn’t know first—or the sanctified Mrs. Hogendobber?” Paddy smelled a heavy scent of deer lingering in the frost.

“Cynthia told Harry second. She stopped for coffee and one of Mrs. Hogendobber’s bakery concoctions. French toast today and a kind of folded-over something with powdered sugar. Next she dropped in at the post office—”

Tucker interjected,“Said they’d read about it in the papers later, so she’d give them the real facts.”

“And then I let you talk me into coming out here. Why I will never know.” Pewter loudly decried her sore paw pads.

“Because Coty Lamont slipped into Mim’s barn on the night or early morning when he was killed, that’s why, and no one knows it but Rodger Dodger, Pusskin, the horses, and us.”

Tucker patiently explained again to Pewter. This was like teaching a puppy to hide a bone. Repetition.

Tucker knew that Pewter figured things out just fine, but in bitching and moaning she could be the center of attention. Then, too, her paw pads, unused to hard running, really were tender.

“Another human knows, all right.” Mrs. Murphy spied the cupolas on the stable up ahead.“Coty’s killer.”

“You don’t know that,” Paddy said and was informed as to the events that had transpired before Coty was found, the events at Mim’s stable. Stubbornly, he said,“That means Mickey Townsend, since Rodger said he snuck in and found him.”

“Sure looks that way, but I’ve learned not to jump to conclusions, only at mice,” Murphy slyly offered.

“Don’t sound superior, Murphy. I hate it when you do.” Pewter puffed as they entered the big open doors trimmed in dark green on white.

Addie and Chark Valiant were arguing in the tack room situated in the middle of the stable.

“You’ve got to get serious about the money.”

“Bullshit,” Addie defiantly replied.

Chark’s voice rose. “You’ll piss it all away, Addie—”

She interrupted.“All you and Arthur think about is the money. If I burn through my inheritance, that’s my tough luck.”

“We should keep our funds together and invest. It’s the way to make more money.”

“I don’t want to do that. I have never wanted to do that. You take your share and I’ll take mine.”

“That’s crazy!” he yelled. “Don’t you realize what’s at stake?”

“I realize that you and Arthur Tetrick went to court two years ago to extend the term of Arthur’s trusteeship.” Her face was red, “It’smy money. Thank God, the judge didn’t extend the term!”

“You were loaded on drugs, Addie. We did the right thing to try andprotect you.”

“Bullshit!” She threw her hard hat on the floor.

Chark tried another approach.“What if we get another adviser?”

“Dump dear Uncle Arthur?” The worduncle was drenched in sarcasm.

“If it would convince you to keep our money together, yes.”

A silence ensued, which Addie finally broke.“No. You and Arthur can watch over your money. I’ll watch over mine.”

“Goddammit, you’re so stupid!”

She screamed,“I’m not going to be under your thumb for the rest of my life!”

“No, you’ll just be under the thumb of whatever son of a bitch you fall in love with next—just like Mother.”

The sound of a slap reverberated throughout the barn.“I could kill you. I wouldn’t be surprised ifyou killed Nigel.”

“You’re nuts!” Chark stormed out of the tack room and out of the barn.

The animals, not moving, watched as Addie charged out of the tack room, running after her brother and bellowing at the top of her lungs,“I hate you. I really friggin’hate you!”

“Hi,” Rodger called down from the hayloft.“Don’t pay any attention to them, they’re always fighting over money.”

“Hi,” called Pusskin, Rodger’s adored girlfriend, sitting by his side.

“Have you heard?” Pewter loved to be first with the news, any news.

“No.” Rodger climbed backward down the ladder to the hayloft. Pusskin followed.

“Coty Lamont was found murdered last night,” Pewter breathlessly informed them.

“How awful.” Pusskin slipped a rung, putting her hind paw on Rodger’s head.

“That’s why we’re all here, Rodg,” Mrs. Murphy said.“Let’s go into Orion’s stall.”

Rodger, knowing of Paddy’s reputation with the female of the species, walked between Pusskin and the handsome black cat with the white tuxedo front and white spats on his paws.

Orion stood in his stall, for he was to be clipped today, a process he loathed. The stiff whiskers on his nose and chin would be shaved off with hair clippers like the ones humans used for a buzz cut. His ears would be trimmed and a path on his poll behind his ears would be cut, a bridle path. The stall was latched.

“Orion, how are you today?” Rodger called to him from the tack trunk.

“How do you think? That damned Addie will twitch me and Chark will play barber shop.” A twitch was used to keep horses standing still for such beauty treatments. A looped piece of rope at the end of a half broom handle was wrapped around his lip.

“I’ll make a deal,” Mrs. Murphy called out to him.

“I’m listening.” Orion walked over to behold the gathering on his tack box. Tucker was seated beside it.

“I’ll open this latch. I think if we cats push on the door, we can slide it back. Now, I don’t care if you run out, but will you wait until we stop digging?”

The handsome horse blinked, his large brown eyes filled with curiosity.“What’s in my stall, anyway? Sure I’ll promise.”

Mrs. Murphy, lean and agile, stretched to reach the bolt on the stall door. About the width of a human little finger, although longer, the metal bolt slid into a latch, a rounded piece of metal on the top, enabling a human to pull back the latch with one finger. Helped Mrs. Murphy, too. After much tugging, she pulled the fingerhold on the bolt downward, then she pushed with all her might to push the whole bolt back through its latch.

[Êàðòèíêà: img_8]

“You did it.” Pewter was full of admiration.

“Now let’s push.” Rodger put his paws on the stall door, right below the X, which strengthened the lower door panel. Paddy put his paws at the very base of the door. Pewter added her bulk to it, and Tucker nudged with her nose. In no time at all they rolled the door back as quietly as they could.

“Over here.” Rodger bounded to the spot.

“Let’s pull the shavings away from it.” Pusskin sent shavings flying everywhere.

All the cats, plus Tucker, were sprayed with little shavings bits.

“I can’t smell anything,” Orion added,“and you know I have a good sense of smell.”

“I can’t either,” Tucker confessed.“But, Orion, if you’ll use your front hooves to crack up the hard-packed earth, we can get digging faster. We might find something. Treasure, I bet!”

“Treasure is sweet feed drenched in molasses.” Orion chuckled as he tore out chunks of earth.

Mrs. Murphy mumbled.“Too noisy—it’ll bring the humans.”

Noisy as Orion was, he dug out a deep saucer much more quickly than the combined cat and dog claws could have done. They heard footsteps outside.

“I’m out of here.” Orion wheeled and trotted out of his stall just as Addie, over her fury, walked back into the barn from the other end.

Once outside, Orion jumped the fence into the pasture where his buddies chewed on a spread-out round bale of hay.

Two other people came into the tack room from outside. Tucker leapt into the small crater.

“Anything?” Mrs. Murphy asked her trusted companion.

“Can you smell gold?” Pusskin innocently asked.

Pewter bit her tongue. The pretty tortoiseshell was a kitty bimbo, but she made Rodger happy in his old age.

“I do smell something. Faint, very faint. Maybe another two feet below, maybe less.”

“What?” came the chorus.

“Well, I don’t know exactly. A mammal that’s been dead for a long, long time. It’s so faint and dusty, like mildew after the sun hits it.”

Before the animals could react, Addie, Charles, and Arthur Tetrick lurched into the open stall.

“What the—?” Addie opened her mouth.

“That damned Orion. He’s too smart.” Charles slapped his thigh. “He heard the clippers.”

“How’d he get out?” Addie stared at the animals, not comprehending that they had freed the hunter. “What is this, an animal convention? Mrs. Murphy, Tucker, Pewter, Paddy, Rodger, and Pusskin even.”

The animals remained silent with Tucker slinking toward the door.

Arthur inspected the hole.“Better fill this in right away. It’s not good for a horse to stand in an uneven stall. Not good at all.”

“But that’s the funny thing.” Charles removed his baseball cap and ran his fingers through his hair. “Orion isn’t a digger.”

Arthur snorted.“Well, he is now.”

“You would do best to dig further,” Mrs. Murphy told Addie.

“Yeah, Adelia, something’s down there,” Rodger added, noticing that Addie was pointedly ignoring her brother and Arthur.

“I’ll get the shovel and pack this back down.” Charles left the stall.

“Keep digging!” Tucker barked.

“That dog has a piercing bark.” Arthur frowned. “I never liked little dogs.”

“I never liked fastidious men,” Tucker snapped back, then ran out of the stall followed by the other animals.

Adelia snapped too, as she walked away from the stall,“You two are as thick as thieves. I’m going to lunch.”

“Come on, Addie.” Charles said, but she kept walking away.

“Rodger and Pusskin, keep your eyes open,” Mrs. Murphy told them as her small group left the barn.“Anything at all. A change in routine—”

“We will,” Pusskin agreed.“But what the humans do is their own business.”

“Curiosity killed the cat,” jibed the big ginger.

“Don’t say that, Rodger. I hate that expression.” Pusskin frowned.

“I’m sorry, my sweet.” He rubbed the side of his face against hers.

Pewter stifled a laugh.

“Bye,” they called to one another.

As Mrs. Murphy melted back into the field Paddy said,“You are nosy.”

“Well …” The tiger cat thought a moment.“I didn’t much care until Coty was killed and I found out he’d been in the barn the night before. I don’t know—guess I am nosy.”

“I’m hungry.”

“Another ten minutes.” Tucker babied Pewter.“Unless you want to run.”

“No, not another yard!”

“Wish I could figure out a way to get Mom or even Mim to dig up that stall,” Murphy thought out loud.

“About all she knows is when to open a can of food.” Tucker loved Harry but suffered no illusions about her mental capabilities.

“You’re right,” Murphy sadly agreed.

“Whatever is in that stall is going to cause a shitload of trouble,” Paddy sagely noted.“And Orion’s got to stand on it.”

“If he digs it up again just out of curiosity they’ll either put him in another stall to see if it’s pique on his part or put a rubber mat in the stall. I doubt he’ll dig, though.” Tucker was getting hungry herself.

“Why do you say that?” Pewter walked more briskly since she was close to home.

“He’ll be in enough trouble for bolting his stall and digging that hole in the first place. He’ll lie low for a while.” Tucker saw Mrs. Hogendobber’s house.“Hey, I’ll race you to the door.”

“No,” Pewter adamantly said, but the others took off, leaving her to grumble as she walked to the post office.“Bunch of showoffs.”

19

A small nicotine stain marred Arthur Tetrick’s lower lip. A dedicated pipe smoker, he contentedly packed in an expensive mix as he relaxed in Mim’s living room. He’d walked up to the house after Addie stalked off.

“Smartest horse. Too smart.” He tapped down the tender tobacco releasing a sweet unsmoked fragrance. “You’re going to have to put a combination lock on his stall door.”

Mim, out of the corner of her eye, saw Chark and one of her grooms chasing Orion in the field. This was a holiday, a canceled school day for the hunter, and he was making the most of it.

“Some sherry, Arthur?”

“No, no.” He waved his hand. “No libations until the sun’s over the yardarm.”

“Coffee or tea then? I have some wonderful teas that Little Marilyn gave me for my birthday.”

“A bracing darjeeling would do me a world of good.” He held the match over the bowl of his burl pipe, the bowl shining with the use of many years, the draw perfect. That same pipe today would cost well over $250, so Arthur cherished it. No true pipe smoker would stick the flame right into the bowl just as no true cigar smoker would ever put the flame to the end of the cigar.

Mim shook a tiny bell. Gretchen appeared at the doorway. Gretchen and Mim had been together so long neither could imagine life without the other no matter how unequal the terms.“Yes, Miz Big.” Her shorthand for Big Marilyn.

“Some darjeeling for the gentleman and some Constant Comment for me.”

“Morning, Gretchen.” Arthur nodded.

“Morning, Mr. Arthur. Cream or sugar?”

“Cream, well, half-and-half if you have it.”

“Oh, Miz Big, she got everything.” Gretchen turned, her wiry frame almost leaving a puff of smoke, she turned so fast.

“Mim, I’m here on a mercy mission.” He cleared his throat. “As you know, Adelia comes into her inheritance November fourteenth, the day after the Colonial Cup. It’s a considerable fortune, as you are aware. At that time she may elect to separate her share from Charles’s share, which, ofcourse, I oppose. Adelia is a lovely, lovely girl with absolutely no head for business. She should never be allowed to get her hands on her money. The interest is sufficient to allow her to live very well indeed.”

“Bonds. Are you talking bonds, Arthur?” Mim shrewdly asked.

“Well, yes and no. As it now stands the Valiant resources are so conservatively invested that they reap barely six percent per annum. I have deliberately invested conservatively so as to run no risks until they inherit. Once that happens, I would still advise them to be prudent but to diversify more than I did when they were minors. They can afford a bit of risk, you know, keep the bulk in secure investments while targeting a small portion for high-risk/high-yield investments. My fear is, Adelia will take her money and—” He held up his hands. “Shiny cars, the usual foolish pleasures .. . Mim, you and I have both seen impulsive scions run through more money than Adelia will inherit. Large as the amount is, no well is bottomless. She greatly respects you. She finds me an old bore.”

“Impossible,” Mim said brightly as Gretchen delivered the tea.

Mim’s tea service, which had been in the family on her mother’s side since George III, caught the light, holding it prisoner to the lustrous silver. No one with an eye for beauty could behold her tea service without a slight gasp of appreciation.

“Need anything else?” Gretchen smiled.

“New knees.”

“I told you not to hunker down there in that garden this summer, but you didn’t listen to me. You don’t listen to anyone.”

“I’m listening to you now, Gretchen dear.”

“Yes, Miz Big, dear.” Gretchen put her hands on her hips. “Mr. Arthur, you talk to her. She is the most stubborn woman God ever put on this earth. She don’t listen to me. She don’t listen to her husband—’course, I don’t listen to mine either. She is just a whirlwind of opinion. Uh-huh.” That said, Gretchen wheeled and vacated the room.

“She is one of a kind.” Arthur chuckled.

“Thank God. I don’t think I could stand two.”

Mim used the delicate silver tongs to drop a sugar cube into her Constant Comment, making it even sweeter.“Now let me understand you fully. You want me to tell Adelia to be a bit more aggressive with her investments but not to get crazy and, of course, never, ever, on pain of death, to touch the principal. Ideally she will keep the money together with Charles’s.” A beat. “And you’d like to remain as an adviser, or in some capacity.”

“Um …” He nodded in the affirmative and placed his pipe in the pipe ashtray that Mim kept in the living room as he delicately brought the thin teacup to his lips. “I say, this is marvelous tea. My compliments to Little Marilyn.”

“Before I have this financial meeting with her, I want to know who you are recommending for handling the portfolio. After all, out of duty you must recommend people other than yourself. We must hope the children will be wise enough to stick with you.”

“I rather like Ed Bancroft at Strongbow and McKee.”

“Yes, he’s very good, but he’s older. They might work better with someone in his or her thirties.”

Arthur paled.“Too young, too young. A young person hasn’t ridden the market through a few cycles. They panic during contractions.” He refused to call a recession or a depression just what it was.

“Good point.” She leaned back in the silk-covered chair. “Well, you seem to be the best person for the job. There’s always Arnie Skaar, should they wish a change—you know, an assertion of independence.”

“Yes, Arnie’s good.”

“Will you be saddened if you lose your job?” she forthrightly asked.

“Oh, I never thought of it as a job, and in some ways Charles has been Adelia’s guardian more than I have. Really, I’ll continue to guide them as best I can no matter what happens. I was shocked, when Marylou disappeared, to discover she’d made me her executor. I thought she was so besottedwith Mickey Townsend that she might have foolishly changed her will. Devastated as I was to lose Marylou, I was heartened by her caution on this matter.” He drew on his pipe. “Charles and I have been able to draw together. Adelia favored Mickey, and, well—women are so unpredictable.” He held up his hands as if in supplication.

“You’ve done your best. Being anyone’s executor is a time-consuming and sad process. I was Mother’s executor, and I learned more in that one year than I think I did in all the years before.” Mim poured Arthur more tea. “Terrible news this morning. It’s giving us all the chills.”

“What?” He inhaled the delicate yet strong tea aroma.

“You haven’t heard?” Mim put her cup and saucer down.

“No.”

“Coty Lamont was stabbed through the heart on a dirt road off Route Twenty-two. Dumped in the back of his pickup truck.”

“Good God!” Arthur’s cup slipped from his hand. He captured it with his saucer but slopped tea everywhere. “I’m so sorry, Mim.”

“Scotchgard.” She tinkled for Gretchen again. “Works wonders.”

“Ma’am.” Gretchen perceived the situation as soon as the “Ma’am” was out of her wide and generous mouth. “I’ll be back.”

She returned quickly with dishtowels, mopping up Arthur and dabbing the rug.“No harm done.”

“I do apologize. It was such a shock.”

“What shock?” Gretchen wouldn’t budge.

“Oh, Gretchen, Sheriff Shaw called to tell me there’s been another murder. Coty Lamont.”

“That handsome good-for-nothing jockey? Why, he used to ride for you, didn’t he, Mr. Arthur, back when you was in the game?”

“Yes, yes, I gave him his start. I gave a lot of men a leg up, so to speak. He left me to ride for Mickey Townsend and then moved on from there. That’s the way of the world—the young and ambitious, climbing the ladder.” He wiped his brow with a neatly folded linen handkerchief. “This is too much. Why didn’t Adelia and Charles say something?”

“They don’t know yet. Rick just called. I’d like to think I was his first call, but I doubt it. I’m going to buy one of those CBs that lets me listen to police calls.”

“No, you aren’t,” Gretchen scolded. “You’ll be running all over the county. Bad enough that Mr. Jim does it. ’Course, being mayor he has to, I guess.”

“Something’s dreadfully wrong,” Mim blurted out. “Arthur, you officiate at different races. Surely, you must know something.”

“No.” He wiped his brow again. “Coty Lamont. It doesn’t seem possible. And stabbed through the heart, you say?”

Mim nodded.“Apparently he wasn’t as easy to kill as Nigel Danforth was because Rick says he was shot first. Of course, they’ll do an autopsy, but he believes the shot preceded the stabbing. This grotesque symbol—the stiletto through the heart. And another playing card.”

“What do you mean?” Gretchen asked, curiosity getting the better of her.

“Gretchen … oh, sit down and have some tea. I’ll get a crick in my neck turning around to talk to you.”

Gretchen quickly fetched another cup, eagerly plopped down and helped herself to some of the darjeeling.

“You see,” Mim intoned, “the first man murdered had a playing card over his heart. The Queen of Clubs. Fair Haristeen found him. And Arthur, I must talk to you about Fair. Anyway, this second murder—” She paused. “The Queen of Spades.”

“Mojo.” Gretchen downed her tea in one big swallow.

Arthur smiled indulgently.“I don’t think anyone knows voodoo in central Virginia.”

“Mojo.” She clamped her jaw shut.

“Well, if it isn’t mojo, it still means something.”

“Means something wild. You stab a man through the heart, you got to get real close. You got to look in his eyes and smell his breath. You got to hate him worse than the angel hate the Evil One. I know ’bout these things.”

Arthur shuddered.“Gretchen, you are very graphic.”

“When was the last time you saw Coty?” Mim asked him.

“Montpelier. I was always proud of him, you know—that I saw his talent early and encouraged it. I emphatically did not encourage his arrogance.”

Mim’s tone flattened a bit. “But he was arrogant—arrogant and too clever by half.”

“Ain’t clever now.”

“That’s just it, Gretchen. Maybe he was, and like I said, he was too clever by half always playing odds with the bookies through fronts like Linda Forloines. No one could catch him at it.” She smoothed over her skirt. “I suppose I’ll go down and tell Charles and Adelia. Arthur, I’ll wait a day or two to have that financial discussion with Adelia.”

“Of course, of course. Well, I’d better be heading home. I was going to run some errands in town, then go to the office, but I think I’ll go straight home and, well—ponder.”

“Nothing to ponder. Somebody got a backwards passion. It’s worse than hate—reverse love.” Gretchen picked up the silver tray and ambled out.

20

“I resent that. I resent this whole damned line of questioning!” Mickey Townsend roared in Rick Shaw’s face.

Rick, accustomed to such displays, calmly folded his hands as Cynthia Cooper, behind him, took notes.“I don’t think there’s any way to make this pleasant. Nigel Danforth rode for you and—”

“Rode for me for two months. How the hell did I know he was, uh—a non-person?”

“You could have checked his green card.”

“Well, I didn’t. He was a decent jock and I let it go, so call down the damned bloodhounds from Immigration on me. They’ll harass me for hiring a skilled Brit, yet they let riffraff pour over the border and go on welfare and we pay for it!”

“Mr. Townsend, I wouldn’t know about that,” Rick Shaw replied dryly. “But you are a successful trainer. You have knowledge of the steeplechase world, and two jockeys have been killed within a week of one another under similar circumstances. You knew them both. And they both rode for you at various times.”

His face reddened.“Balls! Everyone in the game knew Coty Lamont. I don’t like your line of questioning, Shaw, and I don’t much like you.”

“You’re accustomed to having your own way, aren’t you?”

“Most successful people are, Sheriff.” Townsend folded his burly arms across his chest. “So I’m a prick. That doesn’t make me a killer.”

“Did you owe Nigel Danforth money?”

“Absolutely not. I pay at the end of the day’s race.”

“Easier when you don’t have withholding taxes and Social Security to worry about, isn’t it?”

“You’re damned right it is, and taxes will destroy this nation. You mark my words.”

“Did you owe Coty Lamont money?”

“Why would I owe Coty Lamont money?” The bushy eyebrows knitted together.

“That’s what I’m asking you.”

“No.”

“Did you like Coty Lamont?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“That’s my business. He was a talented son of a bitch. That’s all I’m prepared to say.”

“We’ll get a lot further along if you cooperate with me.” He swiveled to exchange looks with Coop, who frowned. This was part of their routine before recalcitrant subjects. They could play “good cop, bad cop” but Mick was too smart for that game.

“Well, let me try another tack then. Did either Nigel Danforth or Coty Lamont oweyou money?”

“No.” Mick rolled his forefinger over his neat black mustache. “Yes.”

“Who and how much?”

“Nigel owed me three hundred forty-seven dollars, a collection of poker debts, and Coty owed, oh, about one hundred twenty-two dollars.”

“You didn’t like Coty but you played poker with him?”

“Hey, there’s down time in this business. I don’t have to love a guy to let him sit in on a poker game.”

“You’re a good player?”

Mick shrugged.

Cynthia chimed in,“Everyone says you’re slick as an eel.”

“They say that because they don’t remember which cards are out and which ones are still in the deck. If you’re playing stud, that’s all you gotta do.” He shrugged those powerful shoulders again. “I’m not so smart.”

Rick rubbed his receding hairline. It was almost as if he were searching for the hair.“Coop, can you think of anything?”

“One little thing—Mr. Townsend, do the card suits have a special significance?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, what if—crazy, I know, but what if I had a royal flush in hearts and you had one in spades. Who would win?”

“I would. The suits in ascending order are clubs, diamonds, hearts and spades.”

“But wouldn’t most people declare it a draw?” Rick puzzled. “I mean most people wouldn’t know the significance of the suits. At least, I don’t think they would. If a situation like that occurred, wouldn’t you draw off the deck, high card takes it?”

“In a situation with two royal flushes, you’d both have cardiac arrest and it wouldn’t matter. The odds are impossible.”

“But you know the significance of the suits,” Rick pressed.

“Yes, I do.”

“Isn’t there another way to look at the suits, a non-poker way?” Cynthia asked.

He leaned back in his chair.“Sure.”

“Can you tell me what that is?”

“You’ve done your homework. You tell me.” He stared at her.

“All right.” She smiled at him. “Clubs represent humans at their basest. Spades is a step up. Instead of clobbering one another, they work the earth. Diamonds is a higher level than that, obviously, but the highest type of human would fall into the heart category.”

“Well put.” Mickey smiled back at the young officer. He couldn’t help himself. She was nice-looking.

“A club and a spade have been used,” Rick drawled.

“So next comes a diamond. Somebody rich.” Mickey folded his arms across his chest. “Won’t be me. I’m not rich.”

21

Totem, a Thoroughbred hotter than Hades, ditched most people who climbed on his back. The only reason he wasn’t turned into Alpo was that he could run like blazes. Dr. D’Angelo had bought him on sight from Mickey Townsend at Montpelier. Linda Forloines, furious that she wasn’t in on the deal and hence got no commission, plotted how to get rid of the animal.

She promised Dr. D’Angelo that she would faithfully work Totem. She’d then take a bar of soap and lather him up fifteen minutes before D’Angelo walked into the stable. This way the horse looked as though he’d been exercised. Then Linda would make up a story about how he had behaved, full of little details tocement her lies. As soon as D’Angelo left she’d hose the horse off and turn him out in the paddock.

Will, grabbing the halter with a lead chain over the nose, helped his wife walk the horse to the paddock.

“I’ll get this horse out of here in two months’ time,” she bragged.

“How?”

“Ask Bob Drake to ride him when D’Angelo’s here.”

“Bob Drake can’t ride this horse.” Will’s eyes widened.

“Exactly.” She grunted as the large animal bumped into her. She hit his rib cage with her fist, hoping he’d not bump into her again.

They both breathed a sigh of relief when Totem walked into his paddock and the gate closed behind him.

“Linda, Bob could get hurt—bad.”

She shrugged,“He’s a big boy. He doesn’t have to ride the horse.”

Will pondered that.“Well, he gets planted. Then what?”

“Then I tell D’Angelo he could get sued with a horse like this. I’d better take it off his hands.”

Will smiled,“The commission ought to be pretty good.”

“Just remember”—she winked at him—“we’re going to own our own stable—real soon. We can make money in this business. Real money.”

“What if D’Angelo won’t sell?”

“He will.” She rubbed her hands together. “I’ve got him all figured out. Listen, honey, I’ve got to make a pickup tonight. I’ll be back real late.”

He frowned.“I wish you’d let me go with you.”

“I’m safe. It’s better if only one of us knows who the supplier is. Since I knew him first, it doesn’t make sense to drag you into it. And he’d never allow it.”

Will shielded his head as a gust of wind blew straw and hay bits everywhere.“It’s dangerous.”

“Nah.”

“Two of our best customers are dead.”

“Has nothing to do with us.”

“God, I hope not.” Will’s features drained of animation.

Linda didn’t want Will to know the supplier for two reasons. In a tight spot he might spill the beans, ruining everything. And he’d know the exact amount of coke being sold to her. That would never do because she didn’t want him to know how much she kept back for herself. She cut it lightly once beforebringing it back home. Then she and Will cut it together, using a white powdered laxative.

Will could be the brawn of the outfit. She was the brains. What he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.

Later that night, at ten-thirty, when Linda pulled out of the driveway in the truck, Will hurried outside and jumped into Dr. D’Angelo’s old farm truck. He followed her, lights off, until she turned south on Route 15. He allowed a few cars to buffer the zone between himself and his wife. Then he clicked on the lights and followed her to her rendezvous.

22

Silver strands of rain poured over the windshield. Harry could barely see as she drove to work. The windshield wipers sloshed back and forth, allowing momentary glimpses of a road she luckily knew well.

Mrs. Murphy, paws on the dash, alert, helped Harry drive. Tucker wasn’t quite able to rest her hind paws on the bench seat and reach for the dash.

“Big puddle up ahead,” the cat warned.

Harry slowed, wondering why her tiger was so chatty.

“Mom, a stranded car dead ahead.” Mrs. Murphy’s claws dug into the dash.

Mickey Townsend’s beautiful silver BMW rested by the side of the road, the right wheels in a drainage ditch that had swollen from a trickle to a torrent.

Harry stopped, putting on her turn signal because the old truck’s flasher fuse had a tendency to blow. Of course, that wasn’t as annoying as having the gear shift stick whenever she tried to put it in third gear. The passenger window looked as though Niagara were pouring over it. She couldn’t see a thing.

“Damn.” She pulled ahead of the beached vehicle, careful not to suffer the same fate. “Guys, stay here.”

“Don’t go out in that,” Mrs. Murphy told her.“You’ll catch your death of cold.”

“Stop complaining, Murphy. You stay right here. Imean it.”

She clapped her dad’s old cowboy hat on her head, which channeled the water away from her face and off the back and front of the hat. She’d never found anything better for keeping the rain out of her eyes. She also wore her Barbour coat, a dark green dotted with mud, and her duck boots. They would keep her dry.

She slipped out, quickly closed the door, and prayed no one would skid around the curve as it appeared Mickey Townsend must have done. She put her hand over her eyes and peered into the driver’s seat. Nothing. She walked around to the other side, just to be sure he wasn’t bending over outside his car, trying to figure out how to extricate himself from this mess. He wasn’t there.

She lifted herself back up into the truck, clicked off the turn signal, and rolled on down the road. By the time she walked through the back door, carrying both Mrs. Murphy and Tucker under her Barbour, Mrs. Hogendobber had sorted out one bag of mail.

“Miranda, I’m sorry I’m late. I couldn’t go over twenty-five miles an hour, the visibility was so awful.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Mrs. Hogendobber airily replied. “The water is ready for tea and I whipped up oatmeal muffins last night and another batch of glazed doughnuts. I can’t bake enough doughnuts for Market. He sells out by ten o’clock.”

“Oh, thanks.” Harry gratefully pulled off her raincoat as Mrs. Murphy and Tucker shook off the few drops of water that had fallen on them. Harry hung up her coat on the coat rack by the back door and poured herself a cup of tea. “I’d die without tea.”

“I doubt that, but you’d sure be grouchy in the morning.” Miranda helped herself to a second cup.

“Oh, I better call Rick.” Harry carried the steaming cup with her to the phone.

“Now what’s wrong?”

“Mickey Townsend’s BMW is stranded at Harper’s Curve.” She punched the numbers.

“I hope he’s all right. Things are so—queer just now.”

Harry nodded.“Sheriff Shaw, please, it’s Mary Minor Haristeen.” She waited a minute. “Hi, Sheriff. Mickey Townsend’s BMW has two wheels dropped in a ditch at Harper’s Curve. I got out to check it and it’s empty.”

“Thanks, Harry. I’ll send someone over once things quiet down. It’s one fender bender after another on a day like this.” He paused a moment. “Did you say Mickey Townsend’s car?”

“Uh-huh.”

His voice sounded strained.“Thanks. I’ll get right on it. That curve can be evil.”

The phone clicked and Harry put the receiver back in the cradle.

“Well?”

“At first he didn’t seem too worried about it but now he’s sending someone right over.”

“You know, at choir practice last night Ysabel Yadkin swore that Mickey is involved in a big gambling scam and that Nigel Danforth owed him oo-scoobs of money. I asked her what was the last steeplechase she attended and she gave me the hairy eyeball, I can tell you. ‘Well, Ysabel,’ I said, ‘if you’re going to tell tales, you ought to at least know the people you’re talking about.’ She fried. But then after practice she came over and declared that I was being snotty because I had horsey friends. Her Albert knows Mickey Townsend because he works on that expensive car of his.”

“Since when did Albert start working on BMWs?”

Mrs. Hogendobber drained her mug, returning to the second mailbag.“Since they offered him more money than Mercedes.”

“Mrs. H., sit down, you did that first bag all by yourself. I’ll do this one.”

“Idle hands do the devil’s work. I don’t mind.”

Together they tipped the bag into the mail cart just as BoomBoom Craycroft sashayed through the front door at eight o’clock sharp.

“What a morning, and the temperature is dropping. I hope this doesn’t turn to ice.”

“We’re a little behind, BoomBoom, and it’s my fault.”

“I can help.”

“Oh, no, don’t bother,” said Harry, who knew that BoomBoom’s idea of help would be to sort for five minutes, then have a fit of the vapors. “Why don’t you run a few errands and come on back in about half an hour?”

“I guess I could.” She plucked her umbrella out of the stand where she had dropped it. “Isn’t it awful about Coty Lamont?”

Before she had the complete sentence out of her mouth a soaking-wet Mickey Townsend pushed open the door and sagged against the wall.

“Mickey, are you all right?” BoomBoom reached out to him.

“Yes, by the grace of God.” He began shaking; he was chilled to the bone.

“Come back here.” Miranda flipped up the dividing barrier. “You need a hot drink. I’ll run to the house and get some of George’s clothes. They’re too big for you but at least they’re dry.”

“Oh, Mrs. Hogendobber, a cup of coffee will put me right.” His teeth chattered, belying his words.

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

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

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

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

“He’s white as a sheet,” Tucker noted.

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

“How long ago?”

“Fifteen, twenty minutes.”

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

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

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

“Mrs. Hogendobber never throws anything out.” Mrs. Murphy laughed.“I guess it’s a good thing.”

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

“I already called Rick Shaw.”

“What for?”

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

“Well, he’s not worried about me. He treats me like the chief suspect.”

“He sounded worried enough on the phone,” Harry stated.

“Yeah—well.” Mickey slumped a moment, then straightened his back. “I guess I’m a little worried, too.”

“Everyone’s worried.” BoomBoom nibbled an oatmeal muffin.

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

“People don’t pay attention to the weather—” Miranda prepared to launch into a diatribe about the bad driving habits of the younger generation, meaning anyone younger than herself.

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

“What?” BoomBoom stopped mid-bite.

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

“Could you see who it was?” Harry asked.

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

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

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

“This is no time to be polite. And furthermore, I don’t believe him.”

“You don’t believe he was run off the road?”

“I believe that.” The cat’s whiskers touched and tickled Tucker’s nose.“But he’s hiding something.”

“Maybe he knows what’s in Orion’s stall?”

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

“Yeah. So what is it about Mickey Townsend?”

“You can smell fear as well as I can.”

23

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

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

“Coop.”

“Hey. Great minds run in the same direction.”

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

“Because of tuna?”

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

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

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

“Hope you have better luck than I did.”

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

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

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

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

“Quaint expression.”

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

“How much more shopping?” Cynthia pointed to Harry’s long list.

“Forty-five minutes. Why?”

“If you buy pasta I’ll make it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What do you mean?” BoomBoom put her hands on her hips. “Harry, come back here.”

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

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

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

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

“Oh, shut up, Harry!”

“Ha!”

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

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

“Here.” Harry tossed the corgi a green milkbone.

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

“I’ll eat anything that doesn’t eat me first.”

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

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

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

“Harry, you’ll spoil that cat.”

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

“Can’t I interest you in this sauce?”

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

“You aren’t one pound overweight.”

“You don’t squeeze into my jeans.”

“Harry, you’re reading too many fashion magazines. The models are anorexic.”

“I don’t subscribe to one fashion magazine,” Harry proudly proclaimed.

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

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

“You’re the best-read person in Crozet.”

“That’s not saying much.” Harry laughed.

“The Reverend Jones reads a lot.”

“Yes, that’s true. How’d you know that?”

“Called on him yesterday in the course of my duties.”

“Oh.”

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

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

“More!” Tucker barked.

“No.” Harry sternly reprimanded the greedy dog.

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

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

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

“Spy?”

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

“Guess it was hard for Marylou, too.”

They both laughed.

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

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

“Mim took care of the Valiants. That’s what Herb said.”

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

Coop asked,“Did Mim inherit anything from Marylou?”

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

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

“I didn’t know that.”

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

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

“Coop, what is going on?”

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

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

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

“Not even Miranda?”

“No.”

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

“There is no Nigel Danforth.”

“Huh?”

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

“Mickey Townsend doesn’t know who he is?”

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

“Whoeee, bet Mickey doubled for Mount Vesuvius.”

“He kept it in check.”

“That’s odd.”

“We think so, too.”

“Mickey’s scared,” Mrs. Murphy interjected.

“Honey, you’ve had enough.” Harry thought the cat was talking about food.

“I wish just once you would listento me,” Murphy grumbled.“He’s scared and there’s something in Mim’s barn.”

“Something not nice,” Tucker added.

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

“Oh, puleese,” the cat drawled.

“Do you think Mickey’s in on the murders?”

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

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

“We punched into the computer. Nothing. We’ve sent out his dental records. Nothing. I think the guy is clean.” She shrugged. “Then again …”

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

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

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

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

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

“She’s selling cocaine again. Rick thinks she’ll lead us to the killer—or killers.”

“You do think she’s in on it.” Harry’s voice lowered although no one else was there.

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

“I’ll kill the bitch!”

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

“What a worthless excuse for a human being she is.”

“True, but why did she do that, Harry?”

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

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

“She’s throwing you off the scent.”

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

“Did she sell coke to Coty Lamont?”

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

Harry whistled in amazement.“Poor Addie.”

“Why?”

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

“My instincts tell me she’s back on it again.”

“I hate to think that.”

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

“Sure.”

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

“Do you think murder can be rational?”

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

“Me, too,” the cat chimed in.

24

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

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