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Mrs. Murphy hunted in the hayloft while Tucker slept in the heated tack room. Simon, the opossum, was fast asleep on his old horse blanket, which Harry had donated for his welfare. The owl also slept overhead in the cupola.

The tiger knew where the blacksnake slept, so she avoided her. By now the snake was five years old and a formidable presence even when hibernating.

Hunched on top of a hay bale, an aromatic mixture of orchard grass and alfalfa, Murphy listened to the mice twittering in the corner. They’d hollowed out a hay bale in the back corner of the loft and into it dragged threads, pieces of paper, even pencil stubs until the abode was properly decorated and toasty. Mrs. Murphy knew that periodically a mouse would emerge and scurry across the hayloft, down the side of a stall, then slide out between the stall bars. The object was usually the feed room or the tack room. They’d eaten a hole in Harry’s faded hunter-green barn jacket. Mrs. Hogendobber patched it for her because Harry couldn’t imagine barn chores without that jacket.

Harry fed Tomahawk, Gin Fizz, and Poptart half rations, which caused no end of complaining down below. If the horses couldn’t be turned out for proper exercise, Harry cut back on the food. She feared colic like the plague. A horse intestine could get blocked or worse, twisted, and the animal would paw at its belly with its hind hooves, roll on the ground in its torment, and sometimes die rapidly. Usually colic could be effectively treated if detected early.

The three horses—two geldings and one mare—sassy in their robust health, couldn’t imagine colic, so they bitched and moaned, clanged their feed buckets against the walls, and called to one another about what a horrible person Harry was to cheat on food.

Mrs. Murphy had half a mind to tell them to shut up and count themselves lucky when one of the mice sped from the nest. The cat leapt up and out into the air, a perfect trajectory for pouncing, but the canny mouse, seeing the shadow and now smelling the cat, zigzagged and made it to the side of the stall.

Mrs. Murphy couldn’t go down the stall side, but she walked on the beam over it, dropping down into Poptart’s stall just as the mouse cruised through the stall bars. Mrs. Murphy rocked back on her haunches, shot up to the stall bars, grabbed the top with her paws, then slipped back into the stall because her claws couldn’t hold on to the iron.

“Dammit!” she cursed loudly.

“You’ll never get those mice, Murphy.” Poptart calmly chewed on her hay.“They wait for you to appear and then run like mad. She’s eating grain in the feed room right now, laughing at you.”

“Well, how good of you to tell me,” Murphy spat.“I don’t see you doing anything to keep the barn free of vermin. In fact, Poptart, I don’t see you doing much of anything except feeding your face.”

Placidly rising above the abuse, the huge creature stretched her neck down until she touched Murphy’s nose.“Hey, shortchange, you’re trapped in my stall, so you’d better watch your tongue.”

“Oh, yeah.”

With that the cat leapt onto the horse’s broad gray back. Poptart, startled, swung her body alongside the stall bars. With one fluid motion Mrs. Murphy launched herself through the stall bars, landing on the tack trunk outside.

Poptart blinked through the stall bars as Mrs. Murphy crowed,“You might be bigger but I’m smarter!”

Having a good sense of humor, the horse chuckled, then returned to her orchard grass/alfalfa mix, which tasted delicious.

The cat trotted into the feed room. Sure enough, she could hear the mouse behind the feed bin. Harry lined her feed bins with tin because mice could eat their way through just about anything. However, grains spilled over and the mice had eaten a tiny hole in the wall. They’d grab some grains, then run into the hole to enjoy their booty.

Mrs. Murphy sat by the hole.

A tiny nose peeped out, the black whiskers barely visible.“I know you’re there and I’m not coming out. Go home and eat tuna.”

Murphy batted at the hole and the little nose withdrew.“I’m a cat. I kill mice. That’s my job.”

“Kill moles. They’re more dangerous, you know. If one of these horses steps into a mole hole? Crack.”

“Clever, aren’t you?”

“No, just practical,” came the squeak.

“We’re all part of the food chain.”

“Bunk.” To prove the point the mouse threw out a piece of crimped oat.

“I will get you in good time,” Mrs. Murphy warned.“You fellows can eat a quart of grain a week. That costs my mother money, and she’s pretty bad off.”

“No, she’s not. She has you and she has that silly dog.”

“Don’t try to flatter me. I am your enemy and you know it.”

“Enemies are relative.”

Mrs. Murphy pondered this.“You’re a philosophical little fellow, aren’t you?”

“I don’t believe in enemies. I believe there are situations when we compete over resources. If there aren’t enough to go around, we fight. If there are, fine. Right now there’re enough to go around, and I don’t eat that much and neither does my family. So don’t eat me … or mine.”

The tiger licked the side of her paw and rubbed it over her ears.“I’ll think about what you said, but my job is to keep this barn and this house clean.”

“You already cleaned out the glove compartment of the truck. You’ve done your job.” The mouse referred to Murphy’s ferocious destruction of a field mouse family who took up residence in the glove compartment. They chewed through the wires leading into the fuse box, rendering the truck deader than a doornail. Once Murphy dispatched the invaders, Harry got her truck repaired, though it cost her $137.82.

“Like I said, I’ll think about it.”

“Murphy,” Harry called. “Let’s go, pussycat.”

Murphy padded out of the feed room. Tucker, sleepy-eyed, waddled behind Harry. Fit as she was, Tucker still waddled, or at least that’s how she appeared to Mrs. Murphy.

“Whatcha been doing?”

“Trying to catch mice. You should have heard the sneak holed up there in the feed room where I finally trapped him with my blinding speed.”

“What did he say?”

“One argument after another about how I should leave him and his family alone. He said enemies were relative. Now that’s a good one.”

As Harry rolled open the barn door, a blast of frigid air caused the animals to fluff out their fur. Tucker, wide-awake now, dashed to the house through the screen door entrance and into the kitchen through the animal door. Mrs. Murphy jogged alongside Harry, who was sliding toward the back porch.

“I can handle snow but I hate this ice!” Harry cursed as her feet splayed in different directions. She hit the hard ice.

“Come on, Mom.” Mrs. Murphy brushed alongside her.

Tucker, feeling guilty, emerged from the house. Her claws, not as sharp as Murphy’s, offered no purchase on the ice so she stayed put unless called.

“Crawl on your hands and knees,” Tucker advised.

Harry scrambled up only to go down again. She did crawl on her hands and knees to the back door.“How did I get to the barn in the first place?”

“You moved a lot slower, and the sun is making the ice slicker, I think,” Mrs. Murphy said.

Finally Harry, with Mrs. Murphy’s encouragement, struggled onto the screened-in back porch. She removed her duck boots and opened the door to the kitchen, happy to feel the warmth. Mrs. Murphy kept thinking about the mouse saying enemies were relative. Then another thought struck her. She stopped eating and called down to Tucker,“Ever notice how much bigger we are than mice, moles, and birds? Our game?”

“No, I never thought about it. Why?”

“We are. Occasionally I’ll bring down a rabbit, but my game is smaller than I am.”

“And faster.”

“Oh, no, they’re not!” Mrs. Murphy yelled back at Tucker.“No one is faster than I am. They have a head start on me, and half the time I still bring them down. Anyway, they have eyes on the sides of their heads. They can see us coming, Tucker.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Tucker, pleased that she had twitted feline vanity, rested her head on her paws, her liquid brown eyes staring up at angry green ones.

“I’m not going to continue this discussion. I’ll keep my revelation to myself.” Haughtily she turned her back on the dog and walked the length of the kitchen counter. She stopped before the painted ceramic cookie jar in the shape of a laughing pig.

“Don’t be so touchy.” Tucker followed along on the floor.

“I don’t see why I should continue a discussion with an animal who has no respect for my skills.” She was feeling a little testy since she couldn’t nail the barn mouse.

“I’m sorry. You are amazingly fast. I’m out of sorts because of the ice.”

Eagerly the cat shared her thoughts,“Well, what I’ve been thinking is how small jockeys are. Like prey.”

25

Tricky November. The mercury climbed to 55°F. The ice melted. The earth, soggy from the rain, slowly began to absorb the water. One confused milk butterfly was sighted flying around Miranda’s back door.

Harry and Mrs. Hogendobber sorted through the usual Monday morning eruption of mail. Pewter visited but grew weary of Mrs. Murphy and Tucker describing their dramas on the ice. She fell asleep on the ledge dividing the upper from the lower post boxes. Lying on her side, some of her flabby gray belly hung over.

“Now you are coming, aren’t you?” Mrs. Hogendobber asked about her church’s songfest. “It’s November nineteenth. You write down the date.”

“I will.”

Mrs. Murphy stuck her nose in Mrs. H.’s mailbag. “Mrs. Murphy, get out of there.”

“Don’t be an old poop face.”

Mrs. Hogendobber reached down into the bag, her bangle bracelets jangling, and grabbed a striped kitty tail.

“Hey, I don’t grab your tail!” The cat whirled around.

“Now I told you to get out. I don’t even like cats, Murphy. For you I make an exception.” Mrs. Hogendobber told half the truth. When Harry took over her husband’s job, bringing her animals to work, Mrs. Hogendobber had been censorious. During her period of mourning she would find herself atthe post office, not sure how she’d arrived at that destination. She’d helped George for the nearly four decades that he was postmaster. An unpaid assistant, for the Crozet post office, small and out of the way, did not merit more workers. Of course, the volume of mail had increased dramatically over the years. When Harry took over as postmistress, as they preferred to call the position, her youth allowed her to work a bit harder than George could at the end of his career, but even she couldn’t keep up with the workload. Entreaties for an assistant fell on deaf federal ears. No surprisethere. Out of the 459,025 postal employees, less than 10 percent worked in rural areas. They tended to be ignored, a situation that also had its good side, for rural workers enjoyed much more freedom than urban postal employees, trapped in a standard forty-hour week with some power-hungry supervisor nagging them.

Mrs. Hogendobber began coming once or twice a week to pitch in. At first, Harry had welcomed her company but asked her not to work because she couldn’t pay her. But Miranda knew the ins and outs of the routine, the people at the central post office in Charlottesville on Seminole Trail, even the people in Washington, not to mention everyone in Crozet. She proved invaluable. Since George, prudent with money, had left her with enough to be comfortable, and she was making more with her baking, she didn’t need the money. More than anything, she needed to be useful.

Over time she and Harry grew close. And over time, despite her reservations, Mrs. Hogendobber grew to love the two furry friends at Harry’s side. She’d even learned to love the fat gray cat presently knocked out on the ledge. Not that she wanted anyone to know.

Murphy, having pressed her luck, backed out of the bag, danced sideways to the counter, and leapt on it. She collapsed on her side and rolled over, showing lots of tummy.

“Murphy, you’re full of yourself this morning.” Harry patted her stomach.

“I’m bored. Pewter’s sacked out. Tucker’s snoring under the table. It’s a beautiful day.”

Harry kissed her on the cheek. A light knock at the back door put a stop to the kissing. Mrs. Murphy could take but so many human kisses.

Miranda opened the door.“Adelia, come right in.”

Addie, still wearing her chaps, stepped inside.

“Breeze all your babies?” Harry asked as Tucker lifted her head, then dropped it back down again.

“Oh, yeah.” Addie sniffed as the vanilla odor from hot sticky buns reached her nostrils.

“Your mail’s on the table,” Miranda said as she carried two handfuls of mail to the big bottom boxes used by the small businesses in town.

“Thanks.”

“Ready for the Colonial Cup?” Harry referred to the famous steeplechase in Camden, South Carolina, which had also been started by Marion duPont Scott.

“Well, Ransom Mine is coming along. You remember, he came in second at Montpelier. Royal Danzig, dunno, off these last couple of days, and Bazooka—I think I need a pilot’s license to ride him. Mickey Townsend sent over two horses right after Nigel was killed.” She paused a moment. “He said he wanted me to work them. They’re really going great. Mickey’s always backed me, you know. Chark’s crabby about it, but he knows it’s extra money so he shut up.”

“What are you all talking about, ‘breezing’ a horse?” Miranda paused, oblivious to Pewter who was rolling over in her sleep.

“Watch out!” Mrs. Murphy called.

Too late. Pewter tumbled into one of the large business mailboxes.

“Pewter.” Mrs. Hogendobber leaned over the befuddled cat. “Are you all right?” She couldn’t help it. She burst out laughing.

“Fine.” Pewter picked herself up and marched right out of the box, over to the table where she tore out a hunk of pastry with her claws before Harry could stop her.

“Actually, I think you all have more work with these critters than I do with the horses,” Addie observed. “Breezing—uh, I limber up the horse a little, jog a little, and then I do an exercise gallop around the track. Chark gives me the distance. You work a horse for conditioning and for wind. I guess that’s the easiest way to describe it.”

“Aren’t you ever afraid up there?” Miranda asked.

“Right now I’m more afraid down here.”

“Why? Has someone threatened you?” Mrs. Hogendobber walked back to Addie.

“No.” Addie sat down on the chair by the sticky buns. “Everything’s a mess. Arthur bombards me with daily lectures about how to handle my inheritance when I turn twenty-one. Mim’s giving me the same lecture but with a lot more class. My brother shrugs and says if I blow it it’s my own fault and he’s not keeping me, but then I never asked him to. That’s on a good day. On a bad day he yells at me. Everybody’s acting like I’m going to go hog-wild.”

“Pewter’s the one who goes hog-wild,” Murphy snickered.

“Shut up,” Pewter replied, sitting on the other chair at the table. She thought the humans, engrossed in conversation, wouldn’t notice her filching another piece of bun.

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They did. Addie stretched over and lightly smacked the outreached paw.“You have no manners.”

“I’m hungry,” Pewter pleaded.

Mrs. Hogendobber reached into her voluminous skirt pockets and pulled out a few tiny, tiny fish, Haute Feline treats. She lured Pewter away from the table. Mrs. Murphy leapt off the counter and hurried over, too.

“I never thought I’d live to see the day.” Harry laughed.

“If I don’t do this, there won’t be anything left for us.” Miranda laughed, too. She turned her attention back to Addie. “One of the terrible things about wealth is the way people treat you.”

“Well. Uh, well, I’m not wealthy yet.” Addie rubbed her finger on the table making designs only she could see. “Actually, I came by, Harry, to see if you’d lend me a hundred dollars. I’ll pay you right after Camden—speaking of money.” She smiled sheepishly.

Harry, not an ungenerous soul, hesitated. First, that was a chunk of change to her. Second, what was going on?“Why won’t Chark lend you the money?”

“He’s mad at me. He’s being a butthole.” Her voice rose.

“So, what did you do with the money you won at Montpelier?” Harry juggled a load of mail on the way to the post boxes.

“Uh—”

“I’m not lending you a cent until I know why you’re short. Thereal reason.”

“And what’s that supposed to mean?” Addie flushed.

“Means your deceased boyfriend had a coke habit. How do I know you don’t have one?”

This stunned Miranda, who stopped what she was doing, as did the cats and dog. All eyes focused on Addie, whose face transformed from a flush to beet red.

“He was trying to stop. Until Linda got hold of him. I hope she gets a stiletto through her heart. Except she doesn’t have one.”

“What about you?” Harry pressed.

“I’m off all substances. Anyway, I had the example of Mother.”

“Now, now, your mother was a wonderful woman. She was a social drinker, I grant you.” Miranda defended Marylou.

“She was a drunk, Mrs. Hogendobber,” Addie’s voice became wistful. “She’d get real happy at parties and real sad at home alone. She leaned on Mim a lot, but a best friend isn’t a lover, and Mother needed that. She’d be morose at home … and out would come the bottle.”

“Well …” Miranda was obviously reluctant to give up her image of Marylou Valiant. “At least she always behaved like a lady.”

Harry crossed her arms over her chest.“You still haven’t answered my question. Why do you need a hundred dollars?”

“Because I owe Mickey Townsend from a poker game the night before the Montpelier Races,” she blurted out.

“He won’t wait?” Miranda was curious.

“Mickey’s a good guy. I adore him. I wish Mother had married him. But when it comes to poker, I mean, this isserious.” She rubbed her thumb and forefinger together.

“Come on, he won’t let you work off a hundred dollars with the horses he brought over?” Harry waited for the other shoe to drop.

“I haven’t asked.”

“Addie, I don’t believe a word of this!” Harry figured they were long past the point of subtlety. Mickey was a bum excuse.

“I really do owe Mickey a hundred dollars. I just want to get it out of the way. And I don’t want Arthur to find out.”

“Mickey won’t tell him.” Mrs. Hogendobber stated the obvious, which had no effect on the young woman.

Out of the blue, Harry fired a question.“And how much did Nigel really owe Mickey?”

Without thinking it through, Addie answered,“About two thousand. He’d have made good on it, you see, because he took a kilo from Linda and Will—”

“A kilo!” Harry exclaimed.

“Yes, he thought he could sell it off after cutting it and make a lot of money.” Addie realized she’d let the cat out of the bag. “Don’t tell Rick Shaw or Deputy Cooper!”

“This could have some bearing on the case,” Mrs. Hogendobber replied sensibly.

“Then why hasn’t anyone mentioned the kilo? Where the hell is it? Whoever killed him probably carted it away and is further enriching himself.” Harry threw her hands in the air, disgusted that Addie would hold back something so vital.

“I have it.” Her voice was small.

“You what?” The humans and animals said in unison.

“My God, Adelia, you’re crazy. People have killed for less than a kilo of cocaine, and you know that Linda and Will will be on your tailsoon.” Harry was emphatic.

“They already are.” She put her head in her hands. “I put it in my big safe deposit box at Crozet National Bank when Nigel asked me to help him out. No one else knows. The sheriff from Orange County and Rick combed through his truck and his quarters. Nothing. Clean. Linda knows the cops haven’t found the coke. She wants it back.”

“I’ll bet she does!” Harry exploded.

“She says she’ll blackmail me if I don’t return it. She says nobody will believe that I’m not in on the drug sale, and if I accuse her, it’s her word against mine. She says that if I give her back the coke, that will be the end of it.”

“So whydo you need the hundred dollars?” Miranda picked up the refrain.

“For gas for the dually and for pocket change. I’ll drive the coke up tonight. I haven’t any spare money because I’ve been paying off money I owe Linda”—she paused, thinking—“over a horse deal.”

“How much? Really, how much?” Tucker and Harry both asked.

“Uh …” A long pause followed. “As of today, one thousand and fifteen dollars.”

“Good God, Addie.” Harry sank into the chair that Pewter had vacated when she was offered the Haute Feline. She knew instinctively that Addie owed Linda Forloines on her own drug tab. Addie was lying to her.

“Pretty stupid, huh?” She hung her auburn head.

“Box of rocks.” Harry made a fist and tapped her skull.

Miranda’s imposing figure overshadowed the two seated young women. “This is foolishness and will lead to more pain. ‘As a dog returneth to his vomit, so a fool returneth to his folly,’ Proverbs twenty-six eleven.”

“I resent that,” Tucker barked.

“Gross,” Addie said.

“I am not giving you one hundred dollars. And we’re calling Rick Shaw right this minute.”

“No! He’ll tell Arthur, and Arthur’ll tell Chark. They’ll get the damn trusteeship extended. I’ll never get my money!”

“Your mother’s will is your mother’s will. It can’t be broken,” Miranda told her.

“Maybe not, but they sure can drag it out. It’s my money.”

“But you’ve got to give the sheriff this information. You’ve got to get out before you get in too deep—you’ve already aided and abetted a felon.”

“Coty Lamont was on cocaine, too, wasn’t he?” Mrs. Hogendobber inquired.

Addie nodded.

“For all we know, Addie, you deliver that kilo and you’ll wind up with a knife through your heart.” Harry sighed.

“I can’t tell Rick,” Addie wailed.

Miranda lifted the receiver from the phone as Addie bolted for the door. Tucker tripped her and Harry pounced on her.

“Let me go.”

“Dammit, Addie, you’re gonna getkilled. You give Linda and Will that kilo and you’ll be in business with Linda for the rest of your life. She’ll bring you horses. She’ll want special favors. If you’re lucky, she’ll take the kilo and blow town. If she stays …”

“If you’re not lucky, cement shoes,” Pewter matter-of-factly stated.

26

Rick Shaw, being an officer of the law for all his adult life, never expected people to tell him the truth right off the bat. The truth, like diamonds, had to be won by hand, by pick, by dynamite.

His anger when he heard the dismal story at the post office was not so much provoked by Addie’s withholding information, although he wasn’t happy about that, as by the way she had foolishly placed herself in jeopardy. He also made a mental note that Mickey Townsend had drastically downplayed the amounts of money Nigel and Coty owed him. He had never mentioned Addie’s debt at all.

As soon as he dismissed Addie, after taking her back to his office for a full disclosure, he and Cynthia Cooper hopped into the squad car. He’d taken the precaution of calling the president of the bank, advising him not to let Addie into her safe deposit box. It could be opened only in Rick’s presence.

“Did you call Culpeper?” Cynthia asked in shorthand, meaning the sheriff of Culpeper County.

“Uh-huh.”

They drove in silence. When they reached Dr. D’Angelo’s place, Romulus Farms, Sheriff Totie Biswanger was waiting for them.

“Gone,” was all he said.

“Both of them?” Cynthia asked.

“Ey-ah,” came the affirmative. He pointed to their cottage on Dr. D’Angelo’s farm.

“Neat as a hairpin. Nothing moved. Clothes in the closet. Food in the refrigerator.”

“Kind of funny, ain’t it?” Totie folded his arms over his barrel chest and stared at his shoes.

27

“They dropped the whole damn thing!” Fair’s radiant face underscored the happy news.

Harry had encountered him at Mim’s, where she’d gone to deliver an express package. Mim and Chark Valiant, also on hand, were nearly as excited as Harry was at Fair’s news.

They were all gathered at the barn, where Mrs. Murphy and Tucker nosed around. Rodger Dodger and Pusskin were nowhere to be found.

“Well, let me have a look at Royal Danzig,” Fair said. “Didn’t mean to talk so much.”

“Oh, he can wait another minute. Once we get down to business, we’ll forget to ask the details.” Mim invited them into the tack room.

“Where’s Addie?” Fair asked.

Mim, who knew, said nothing for Chark was in the dark about his sister’s unholy mess. Another request of Rick Shaw’s.

“She called from Charlottesville,” Chark answered. “Said she was tied up and didn’t know when she’d be back.”

“Oh, okay.” Fair grabbed a cup of coffee. He’d been up since four o’clock that morning because of an emergency at a hunter barn. “As near as I can make out, or as much as Colbert Mason wants to tell me, he contacted my accuser, Linda Forloines. She claimed he entirely misunderstood what she had said. She was furious he’d even think that and she had no intention of bringing charges against me. So that’s that.” He sat in the comfy old leather chair and immediately regretted it because he knew he wouldn’t want to get up.

“Typical,” was Mim’s reply.

“She’s not worth talking about,” Chark added.

They all knew Linda’s modus operandi. She’d act as though she had inside information, she’d hint, intimate, change the inflection of her voice to convey the full weight of her words. This way she could say that people misunderstood her, implying there must be a problem withyou if you could even think such a thing.

“Well, let me take a look at Royal Danzig.” Fair forced himself out of the chair.

They walked down the beautiful center aisle and Chark pulled the flashy guy out of his stall. As Fair ran his hands over the horse’s legs, Rodger Dodger, fresh from patrolling the paddocks, sauntered into the barn, his beloved Pusskin by his side.

“Royal, what’s the buzz?” the old ginger cat asked.

“Kinda tender on my left leg. I think I put a foot wrong when I was turned out in the paddock.”

“Hope it’s nothing serious,” Rodger politely replied.

“Me, too, I want to go to Camden.”

“Rodger, how you been?” Mrs. Murphy called out when she heard Rodger’s voice. She and Tucker had been in the tack room. It smelled so good and was toasty warm.

“Murphy. Hi, Tucker,” Rodger said as Pusskin murmured her greetings.

Mrs. Murphy sat down, curling her tail around her.“I’ve got a proposition for you, Rodger.”

“What proposition?” Tucker’s ears pointed up.“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“’Cause I’ve been cooking it.” Mrs. Murphy turned back to Rodger.“There’s a chance your barn mice know what’s in Orion’s stall.”

“Why not ask the horses?” Tucker asked.

“I did.” Rodger flicked his tail for a minute.“They didn’t remember anything, not even Orion, and he’s the oldest, being twelve. ’Course, it could be that whatever is in there was buried in summertime years back. The foxhunters are always turned out in the far pastures in summer, so only the mice and I would have been here. I don’t remember anything, but summers I go up and rest in the big house because of the air conditioning.”

“If you made a deal with the mice, maybe they’d talk to us.” Mrs. Murphy kept to her agenda.

“What kind of deal?”

“Not to catch them.”

“I can’t do that. Mim will be furious if I don’t deliver mice to the tack room. She asks Chark every day if Pusskin and I have done our duty.”

“She’s real fussy,” Pusskin added.

“I thought of that.” Mrs. Murphy wanted to bat Pusskin. She tried to make her meow sound pleasant.“What I propose is that you catch field mice and deliver them to the tack room. The humans don’t know the difference.”

Rodger rubbed his whiskers with his forepaw. He wrinkled his brow. A wise old fellow, he wanted to consider the ramifications of such a bargain.“It will work for a time, Murphy, but as the grain goes down and the barn mice population doesn’t decrease, the humans will figure out something’s wrong. I don’t want Pusskin or me to get the boot.”

“Mim would never do that,” Tucker rightly surmised.

“I’d like to think that.” Rodger knew other cats who were out of work or worse because they got lazy.“But even if she let us stay, she might bring in another cat, and I don’t want to be bothered with that. This is my barn.”

“What if we asked the barn mice not to show themselves?” Mrs. Murphy tried to figure out a solution.“At least so the humans wouldn’t see them. You know how they get about mice.”

“Seeing is bad enough. It’s the grain I’m worried about,” Rodger said sensibly.

“Can’t they get by on what the horses throw on the ground? You know, horses are the sloppiest eaters,” Pusskin chimed in. Not a bad idea for a slow kitty, Mrs. Murphy admitted.

“Less food. More safety,” Rodger purred.“It’s a trade-off. Worth a try, I suppose, but Murphy, why do you care what’s in Orion’s stall?”

“Don’t say curiosity,” Tucker warned.

Mrs. Murphy breathed in the crisp air. Her head felt quite as clear as the air around her.“I think the murders aren’t over, and I think whatever’s in Orion’s stall might be part of the answer.”

“If humans kill one another, that’s their business,” Pusskin, not a major fan of the human race, hissed.

“But what if this puts Mim in danger? Think about that.” Mrs. Murphy reached out with a paw to Pusskin as though she were going to cuff her.“Something has happened in her barn. Something that goes back a few years at least. Mickey Townsend pulled a gun on Coty Lamont in the middle of the night. Coty was in Orion’s stall, digging. Mickey makes him cover it back up, then takes him away. Coty’s truck wasn’t here. He’d walked in from somewhere and Mickey snuck up on him. Pretty peculiar. The next day Coty Lamont is dead in the back of the pickup, a knife through the heart and another playing card on it, the Queen of Spades. That’s what Cynthia Cooper told my mom when they had supper night before last.” She took a breath.

Pusskin blurted out,“That means Mickey’s the killer.”

“Maybe yes and maybe no. Addie has a kilo of cocaine in her safe deposit box that she says belonged to Nigel Danforth.”

“Oh, no!” Rodger and Pusskin exclaimed together.

“She told Rick Shaw. Now she’s in deep doo-doo.” Tucker felt the same urgency that her best friend did.“And I don’t think she would have told him, but Mom and Mrs. Hogendobber forced her to do it. I reckon we haven’t heard the end of it because Addie was supposed to deliver the kilo to Linda Forloines, and what’s Linda going to do when it doesn’t show up?”

“So Addie might be in danger?” Rodger liked Addie.

“Anybody might be in danger, especially if I’m right about there being a secret in Orion’s stall. What if, by pure accident, Mim stumbles on the truth? You can’t expose your owner to that kind of danger. I know you aren’t house cats, but Mim is fair and she takes care of you. And”—Mrs. Murphy lowered her voice—“what would have happened if she hadn’t rescued you all from the SPCA? There are too many kittens, and no matter how good a job the SPCA does—well, you know.”

The animals remained silent for some time after that grim reminder.

Finally Rodger spoke, firmly.“It’s a debt of honor. We’ll do our best for Mim. Pusskin?”

“Whatever you say, darling.”

He filled his red chest, licked the side of Pusskin’s pretty face, then said,“Let’s parlay with the mice.”

The mice were partying in the walls of the tack room. Mim had insulated the tack room so there was plenty of space between the two walls, filled with warm insulation, easy for mice to get in and out of because they burrowed from the stall next door. By this time they had created many entrances and exits, driving Rodger Dodger to distraction because even if he and Pusskin divided to cover holes, they’d still miss the mice.

The raucous squeaking stopped when the mice heard and smelled the approaching cats.

“Must be an army of them,” the head mouse, a saucy female, warned.

Rodger put his pink nose at the entrance to one of the holes.“Loulou, it’s Rodger and Pusskin. Mrs. Murphy and Tucker, the corgi from over by Yellow Mountain, are with us.”

“The post office animals,” Loulou replied, her high-pitched voice clear and piercing.

“How do they know that?” Mrs. Murphy wondered.

“We know everything. Besides, we have cousins at Market Shiflett’s store. Pewter’s too fat to run anyone down.”

Murphy giggled. So did Tucker.

“Loulou, I’ve come with an offer you should consider.”

A moment of silence was followed by a wary Loulou.“We’re all ears.”

“Do you know what’s buried in Orion’s stall?”

“As the oldest mouse, I do,” Loulou swiftly replied.“But I’m not telling you.”

Rodger kept his temper in check, but Pusskin complained,“She’s a real smartass.”

Mrs. Murphy whispered for her to shut up.

“Loulou, I don’t expect something for nothing. Pusskin and I agree not to catch any barn mice for a year”—that last part was Rodger’s own flourish—“if you agree not to let the humans see you. Otherwise they’ll think Pusskin and I are lazing about and we’ll get in hot water, and Mim might try to bring in another cat. You can understand our position, can you not?”

“Yes.”

“Well, a year of freedom for the information—and try not to breed too much, will you?”

“It’s an open shot to the feed room. The humans will see us.” Loulou was playing for time as the excited chatter in the background proved.

“There’s plenty of grain under the horses’ feed buckets. Just don’t show your faces in the barn during the day, and if you hear a human coming at night, duck for cover. Otherwise, we’ll all be in a real bad situation.”

“I’ll get back to you,” Loulou replied.

The three cats and the dog patiently waited. Harry walked by on her way to the john.“What are you all doing?”

“High-level negotiations,” Mrs. Murphy informed her.

“Sometimes you’re so cute.” Harry smiled and continued on her way.

“Whew.” Tucker sighed.“She could have screwed up the whole deal.”

“Yeah, the last thing we want any of them to see is this entrance here with all of us sitting around like bumps on a log.” Rodger shifted his weight from one haunch to the other.

They heard a chorus of tinny voices.“Aye.” Then one lone“Nay.”

“Rodger Dodger!” Loulou said, peeking her little head out of the entrance. She was a feisty mouse and a confident one.

“Yes.”

“We are almost unanimous. We agree to your terms, a free year, but I have a personal favor to ask.”

“What?”

“Can you talk to Lucy Fur and Elocution, the Reverend Jones’s two cats? My youngest sister’s family lives behind the tapestry of the Ascension. Lucy Fur and Elocution hassle them constantly. I’m not asking for a moratorium, just a little less hassle, you know?”

“I don’t know those cats,” Rodger honestly replied.

“I do,” Mrs. Murphy quickly said.“I’ll talk to them. You have my word.”

“You must have mice at your barn,” Loulou pushed.

“I do, but you all are browns and they are grays. I doubt any of your family is out my way.”

A pause followed.“You’re probably right, but you will talk to these barn cats?”

After a long pause Murphy agreed,“Yes. Now, will you tell us what is in Orion’s stall, and whether you remember any of the people involved.”

Loulou coughed, clearing her throat.“I was very young. Mother was still alive but I remember it as if it were yesterday. Five years ago last July. Hotter than Tophet. Coty Lamont and a fellow called Sargent dug a deep hole in the corner of the stall. Had to be two in the morning, and about four when they finished. The earth was soft there, so they made good work of it. We could smell how nervous they were. You know, that sharp, ugly odor.” She caught another big breath.“They left, then came back with a heavy canvas tarp and a man holding either end. I couldn’t see what was in it but I could smell blood.”

“Damn,” Mrs. Murphy whispered.

Loulou listened to a squeak then said,“Mom and I and the older mice, no longer living, of course, watched from the hayloft. When they lifted the tarp to lower it in, I guess they were tired because they dropped it, and one end unraveled a little. Lots of brassy hair spilled out. Mother got a good look at the face because she ran along the top of the stall beam.”

All the animals held their breath as Loulou continued.“It was Marylou Valiant.”

28

Livid, Addie Valiant opened her safe deposit box at Crozet National in the presence of five onlookers. Rick Shaw and bank president, Dennis Washington, stared at the brown-paper-wrapped package. By opening the box in the evening they had avoided the regular ebb and flow of banking traffic, diminishing the chances of someone getting wind of Addie’s escapade.

“I don’t know why everyone has to be here.” Addie pouted. Arthur stood next to Dennis. Chark, arms folded across his chest, leaned against a wall of small stainless steel safe deposit boxes.

Cynthia Cooper held the small brass key. She wouldn’t give it back to Addie. “Arthur is your guardian until midnight November fourteenth. And I would think you’d be glad your brother is here.”

“I’m not glad.”

Rick had waited until the last minute to pull in Charles and Arthur, fearing that the earlier he informed them, the likelier they were to leak the news. That could be dangerous.

Addie’s young face wrinkled in rage. “I’ll hear about my poor judgment for the rest of my life.” She wheeled on Arthur. “And I bet you find a way to extend your trusteeship with helpagain from myloving brother!”

“You’re under duress,” Arthur said in a measured voice. “This was an extremely foolish thing to do. As to your money, the wishes of your mother will be followed to the letter.”

“I don’t believe that. You think I’m stupid about money.”

Arthur opened his mouth, then shut it. Addie, fiery like her mother, wouldn’t hear anything he said.

“Sis, I ought to wring your neck for this stunt,” Chark said through clenched teeth as Cynthia Cooper reached into the deep safe deposit box and lifted out the wrapped kilo.

“It wasn’t what you think. Nigel bought this to pay off his debt to Mickey.”

“This goes far beyond a debt to Mickey Townsend,” Rick replied. “This represents a lot of money on the street.”

“He used you!” Chark yelled.

“He didn’t use me.”

“Let the dead sleep in peace.” Arthur held up his hands to stop the argument. “Whatever his intentions were we’ll never know.”

Rick motioned for Cynthia to lock up the box.

“I have something to tell you all.” Rick’s eyes narrowed. “And Addie, if you’re holding anything back, out with it.” She glared at him as he continued. “Thereis no Nigel Danforth.”

“What do you mean?” Alarm flashed on her face while confusion registered on Chark’s and Arthur’s visages.

“I mean, there is no record of such a person in England. And there is no green card registered to anyone by that name in this country. Our only hope is his dental records, which we have sent out by computer to every police station we can reach, here and in England. A real long shot. His fingerprints are not on file in either the U.S. or England.”

Addie sank like a stone.“I don’t understand.”

Chark caught his sister and gently lowered her into a chair.“He lied even more thanI thought,” he said.

She put her head in her hands and sobbed.“But I loved him. Why would he lie to me?”

Arthur placed his hand on her shoulder.“Sheriff, might he perhaps be from some British colony—or French colony?”

“Coop thought of that. Can’t find a thing. We don’t know who this man was, where he came from, or his exact age. All we know is that he gave a kilo of cocaine to Addie to keep for him. Saying he bought it from Linda Forloines—”

“Well, get them!” Addie wailed.

“We tried to arrest them yesterday. They’re gone.” Rick, embarrassed, saw the dismay on their faces.

“Is my sister”—Chark could hardly get the words out—“under arrest?”

“No. Not yet anyway,” Rick said.

“Now see here, Shaw.” Arthur stood up straight. “She’s been a foolish girl, but many a woman’s been led astray by a man. She is no drug dealer. She isn’t even a user anymore.”

Shaking, tears down her cheeks, Addie choked,“Well—uh, sometimes.”

“Then your brother and I will put you in a clinic.” Arthur’s tone brooked no contradiction.

“What about Camden? Anyway, I only use a little to celebrate. Really. I’m not an addict or anything. Test my blood.”

“We’ll settle this between us.” Arthur took control. “Sheriff, does Adelia have permission to ride in Camden?”

“Yes, but”—he focused on Addie—“don’t try anything stupid—like running away.”

“Do you think Will and Linda will show up there?” Chark asked.

“I don’t know,” Rick replied.

“They’re out of the country by now.” Addie wiped her red eyes. “Linda always said she was going for one last big hit.”

“Why didn’t she do that a long time ago?” Arthur’s voice was hard.

“Because she was using, too. She said she’d cleaned up, though. Now it’s strictly business. She wanted a haul. And out of here.” Addie dropped her head in her hands again.

“There’s lots of this around the steeplechase world, isn’t there?” Cynthia jotted notes in her book.

Addie shrugged.“Goes in cycles. I don’t think there’s any more drug abuse on the backstretch than there is in big corporations.”

“In that case, America’s in trouble,” Chark said.

“We’ll deal with America tomorrow.” Arthur smiled tightly. “Right now my first priority is getting this young lady straightened out. Sheriff, is there any more that you need from us tonight?”

“No,” Rick said. “You’re free to go.”

Later, when Rick and Cynthia were about to get into the squad car, she asked him,“Do you think she’s telling the truth? That she really didn’t know about Nigel?”

“What’s your gut tell you?”

Cynthia leaned against the door of the car. The night, crystalline and cold, was beautiful.“She didn’t know.”

“What else?” He offered her a cigarette which she took.

Cynthia bent her head for a light and took a drag. She looked up, noticing how perfectly brilliant the stars were.“Rick, this thing is a long way from being over.”

He nodded in agreement, and they finished their cigarettes in silence.

29

The big purple van with the glittering gold lettering—DALMALLY FARM on both sides and HORSES on the rear—was parked next to an earthen ramp. The loading ramps, heavy and unwieldy, could injure your back so Mim had had an earthen ramp built. The horses walked directly onto the van without hearing that thump-thump of metal underneath them. Of course, once they were at the races, the loathed ramp did have to be pulled out from the side of the van, but still, any easing of physical labor helped.

Harry loved to inspect Mim’s vans. Mim also had an aluminum gooseneck trailer for hunting. Although purple was the racing color of her mother’s family, for hunting Mim used red and gold on her three-horse slant-load Trailet. Harry coveted this trailer as well as the Dodge dually with the Cummins turbo-diesel engine thatpulled it. That was red, too.

She’d stopped by the stable after work to see if Little Marilyn was around. She didn’t want to seem as though she was checking up on her peer, but she was. Little Mim had finally sent out the invitations for the wild-game dinner, but she hadn’t reported who had RSVPed and who hadn’t. As it was, Susan Tucker had had to pick up the invitations from the printer in Charlottesville.

Just as Harry climbed back into her truck, Big Mim cruised into the parking lot in her Bentley Turbo R. Mim never stinted on machines of any sort. It was an irrational thing with Mim: she couldn’t resist cars, trucks, or tractors. Fortunately, she could afford them. She probably ran the best-equipped farm in Albemarle County. She even had a rolling irrigation system, a series of pipes connected to huge wheels that ran off a generator.

“Harry.”

“Hi. I was trying to find Little Marilyn but no one’s around.”

“She’s in Washington today.” Mim opened the heavy door and slid out. “Worried about the dinner?”

“A little.”

“Me, too. Well, don’t worry overmuch. I’ll check the messages on the service and tell you who’s accepted. I’ll resort to the telephone tree, too, if necessary.” She mentioned the system wherein designated callers were each responsible for calling ten people.

“I can do that.”

“No, she’s my daughter, and as usual, she’s falling down on the job.” Mim fingered her Hermes scarf. “Marilyn hasn’t been right since her divorce was final last year. I don’t know what to do.”

Harry, forthright, said,“She isn’t going to learn much if you do it for her.”

“Do you want the game dinner to fall apart? My God, the hunt club would have our hides. I’d rather do it and get after her later.”

Harry knew that was true. Their foxhunting club, the Jefferson—which chased foxes, rather than truly hunting them—was filled with prickly personalities, big egos, and tough riders as well as those of calmer temperament. Foxhunting by its nature attracts passionate people, which is all very well until the time comes for them to cooperate with one another.Little Marilyn would stir a hornets’ nest if the game dinner didn’t raise the anticipated revenue.

“I wish I could help you, but Marilyn has never much cared for me.”

“Now, Harry, she’s not demonstrative. She likes you well enough.”

Harry decided not to refute Mim. Instead, her attention turned toward Tucker and Mrs. Murphy chattering loudly about who had been in Orion’s stall.

“Mrs. Murphy and Tucker appear to be hungry,” Mim said.

“Mim, I wish you’d listen.” Mrs. Murphy mournfully hung out the driver’s window.

“Yeah, well, let me know if there’s anything I can do to help,” Harry said.

“You’re part of the telephone tree.” Mim started for the stable, then turned. “Harry, what are you doing next weekend?”

“Nothing special.”

“How would you like to come to Camden this weekend to see the Colonial Cup? It would mean a lot to Adelia and Charles, I’m sure.”

“Don’t go.” A bolt of fear shot through Mrs. Murphy and she didn’t know why.

“If Miranda will take care of my babies, I’d love to go.”

“I thought Miranda might like to attend as well. Her sister lives in Greenville. Perhaps she could drive over.”

“Let me see what I can do about the kids here, but I’d love to go.”

“It’s Adelia’s twenty-first birthday. I thought we could celebrate down there and put her troubles behind us.”

“Good idea.”

30

Gray clouds hung so low Harry felt she could reach up and grab one. Although the temperature stayed in the mid-forties, the light wind, raw, made her shiver.

She dashed out of the bank on her lunch hour just as BoomBoom dashed in.

“Harry.”

“BoomBoom.”

“I’m sorry I lost my temper in the supermarket.”

“Uh, well, an avalanche of toilet paper will do that to you.” Harry continued down the steps.

BoomBoom placed a restraining, manicured hand on her shoulder.“Miranda says you can have the next hour off.”

“Huh?”

“I was just in the post office and I asked her if I could borrow you for an hour.”

“What?”

“To go to Lifeline with me.”

“No.”

“Harry, even if you hate it, it’s an experience you can laugh about later.”

Harry wanted to bat Miranda as well as throttle BoomBoom, a vision in magenta cashmere and wool today.“No. I can’t do something like that.”

“You need to reach out to other people. Release your fears. We’re all knotted up with fear.”

Harry breathed deeply, removing BoomBoom’s hand from her shoulder. “I’m afraid to die. I’m afraid I won’t be able to pay my bills. I’m afraid of sickness, and I guess if I’m brutally honest, I’m afraid to grow old.”

“Lifeline can not only banish those fears but teach you how to transform them to life-enhancing experiences.”

“Good God.” Harry shook her head.

Mickey Townsend walked up behind her, a deposit envelope in his gloved hand.“Harry, BoomBoom. Harry, are you all right?”

“No! BoomBoom keeps pressuring me to go to Lifeline with her. I don’t want to go.”

“You’d be surprised at the number of people who do go.” BoomBoom fluttered her eyelashes. Harry assumed this was for Mickey.

“I’ve never been to Lifeline, but—” He paused. “When Marylou disappeared I went to Larry Johnson. He prescribed antidepressants, which made me feel like a bulldozer ran over me, except I could function. I hated that feeling so I went into therapy.”

“You?”

“See!” BoomBoom triumphantly bragged.

“Shut up, Boom. Lifeline isn’t therapy.”

“Did it help? I’m sure it did.” BoomBoom smiled expansively.

Mickey lowered his already low voice.“I found out I’m a real son of a bitch, and you know what else I found out?” He leaned toward BoomBoom, whispering, “I like it that way.”

Harry laughed as BoomBoom, rising above the situation, intoned,“You could benefit from Lifeline.”

“I could benefit from single malt scotch, too.” He tipped his hat. “Ladies.”

Harry, still laughing, bade her improvement-mad tormentor good-bye.

“You know what, Harry?” BoomBoom shouted to her back. “This is about process, not just individual people. Process. The means, not the ends. There are positive processes and negative processes. Like for Mickey Townsend. Ever since the whole town turned on him for courting Marylou—negative process.”

Harry stopped and turned around.“What did you say?”

“Process!” BoomBoom shouted.

Harry held up her hands for quiet.“I hear you. I think I’m missing something.”

“A lot.”

“Go back to Marylou.”

“Not unless you come with me to Lifeline.”

“Look. I’ve got to pack now, I’m going to Camden for the weekend. I haven’t got time to go with you to Lifeline. Talk to me about process right now. I promise I’ll go when I return.”

“Set a time frame.”

“Huh?”

“You could come back and say you’ll go with me next year.”

“In a week.”

BoomBoom, thrilled, stepped closer, looming over Harry from her much greater height.“Nothing happens in isolation. All emotions are connected like links in a chain. Marylou Valiant couldn’t cope without her husband. She began to drink too much. Squander money. That set off Arthur, who loved her. He chased off that greedy movie star and what happens? She falls in love with Mickey Townsend.”

“So?”

“Process. No one directly confronts and releases their emotions. Arthur becomes embittered. He wins over Chark. Mickey wins over Addie. The men fight over Marylou through her children.”

Harry, silent for a long time, said,“This is Act Two.”

“Yes—until everyone involved stops hanging on to hardened, dead patterns. But people’s egos get hung up in their anger and their pain. So they pass it along.”

“What goes around comes around,” Harry said, thinking out loud.

“Not exactly. This is about breaking patterns.”

“I understand. I think.” She rubbed her temples. “Didn’t mean to be, uh, reductive.”

“You will go with me?”

“I said I would.”

“Shake on it.”

Harry extended her hand. She ran back to the post office, pushed the door open.“Miranda, how could you?”

Miranda, glasses down on her neck, said to Herb Jones,“Ignore her.”

Harry strode up to the counter, Murphy, Pewter, and Tucker watching her every move.“You told BoomBoom you’d relieve me for an hour so I could go to Lifeline. How could you?”

“I did no such thing. I told her if you wanted to go you could. It’s a slow day.”

“Damn. I should have known.” Harry propped her elbow on the smooth, worn counter. “Well, I am going.” She held up her hand for stop. “Not today. Next week.”

“Harry, I’m proud of you.” The reverend beamed.

“Why?”

“You’re showing the first signs of forgiveness.”

“I am?”

“You are.” He slapped her on the back, reaching over the counter. “You girls enjoy the races.”

As he left, Harry repeated to Miranda her entire conversation with BoomBoom Craycroft.

“She wasn’t talking about the murders—she was just talking.” Miranda pushed her glasses up to the bridge of her nose.

“Yeah, but it made me wonder if Nigel and Coty’s murders aren’t part of a process—something started before drugs … or during drugs. Fixing races. Betting. That was everyone’s first thought, remember?”

“Yes. It proved unfounded.”

“Well, Mrs. H., they weren’t just killed because someone didn’t like them. They were links in a chain.”

“She surprises me.” Pewter lay down crossing her paws in front of her.“Humans can reason.”

31

Since no one claimed Nigel Danforth’s body, he was buried in a potter’s grave at the expense of the taxpayers of Ablemarle County.

His belongings were in his tack trunk back in the overcrowded locker room at the station.

Cynthia Cooper called Mickey Townsend to pick them up. The department had tagged and photographed each item.

He followed her back to the locker room.

“I was going to turn this over to Adelia since he had no next of kin. But the more I thought about it, the more I decided against it. It could upset her too much, and the big race is this weekend. You were his employer. You’ll have to stand in for next of kin.”

“May I open it?”

“Sure.”

He knelt down, lifting the brass hasp on the small wooden trunk. A riding helmet rested on top of folded lightweight racing breeches. He placed it on the ground with the breeches beside it. Two old heavy wool sweaters and a short winter down jacket were next. Assorted bats and whips rested on the bottom along with a shaving kit.

“Feel that.” Mickey handed her a whip, pointed to the leather square at the end.

“It’s heavy. What’s in there?”

“A quarter. It’s illegal but nothing says he can’t use it during workouts. A crack with that smarts, I promise.”

“Not much to show for a life, is it?” she said.

“He had some beautiful handmade clothes from London. Turnbull& Asser shirts. That kind of thing. He made money somewhere.”

“Yeah. I remember when we went through the cottage. Still, not much other than a few good clothes. The only reason we kept the tack trunk so long is he was sitting on it. We dusted it inside and out.”

Mickey slid his hands into the pockets of the down jacket. He checked the inside pocket. Empty.

It wasn’t until he got home and hung the jacket on a tack hook, wondering to whom he should give the clothing—maybe some poor, lean kid struggling to make it in the steeplechasing world—that he noticed a folded-over zipper where the collar met the yoke of the down jacket. Nigel had worn the jacket so much that the collar squinched down, covering the zipper. The tack hook straightened out the collar. A hood would be inside, another aid against foul weather.

Out of curiosity, Mickey unzipped it, unfurling the hood. A dull clink drew his eyes to the soft loam of the barn aisle.

He bent over, picking up a St. Christopher’s medal. He started to shake so hard he steadied himself against the stall.

Beautifully wrought, the gold medal was the size of a half-dollar. Over the detailed relief of St. Christopher carrying the Christ child was layer after layer of exquisite blue enamel. The engraving in perfect small script on the gold non-enameled back read:He’s my standin. Love, Charley.

Mickey burst into tears, clutching the medal to his chest.“St. Christopher, you failed her.”

That medal had hung around Marylou Valiant’s neck on a twisted thick gold chain.

Once he regained control of himself, Mickey stood up. He started for the phone in the tack room to call Deputy Cooper. His instinct told him it would have been easy to miss the hood in the collar. If he hadn’t hung up the coat, he would have missed it himself.

He sat down behind the old school desk and picked up the receiver.

He thought to himself,What if they did see it and photograph it? Maybe they’re trying to bait me. I’m a suspect. He put the receiver back in the cradle.No, no they missed it. He held the beautiful medal in both palms.Marylou, this medal will lead me to your killer, and I swear by all that’s holy I’ll take him out. If Nigel killed you, then may he fry in Hell for eternity.

He stood up abruptly and slipped the St. Christopher’s medal in his pocket.

32

“She’s got Susan to take care of us and the horses,” Tucker moaned.“She’s packing her bags. What are we going to do?”

“I can hide under the seat of the Ford and then jump into the racing van.” Mrs. Murphy lay on her side. She’d worried about this so much she was tired.

“But I can’t fit under the seat,” Tucker wailed.“And you need me. Mother needs me, she just doesn’t know it.”

“I’m thinking.”

Tucker dropped her head between her white paws so that her face was in front of Mrs. Murphy’s.“There will be more murders! Everyone will die!”

“Don’t get carried away. Anyway, be quiet for a minute. I’m still thinking.” Five long minutes passed.“I have an idea.”

“What?” Tucker jumped up.

Mrs. Murphy also sat up. She didn’t like to have Tucker hanging over her.“Go into her bedroom and beg, plead, cry. Make her take you.”

“What about you?” Tucker’s soft brown eyes filled with worry.

“She won’t take me. We both know that. I can travel as well as you, but Mother has it in her head that cats don’t like to travel.”

“It’s because you—”

“I only did that once!” Mrs. Murphy flared.“I wish you’d forget it.”

“Mother doesn’t. I’m trying to think like she does,” Tucker hedged.

“The day we think like a human we’re in trouble. We outthink them, that’s the key. She won’t take me. If she’ll take you, one of us will be there at least. She needs a keeper, you know. If she blunders into something she could make a real mess. I’m a lot more worried about Mim, actually.”

“Mim?” Tucker’s tongue flicked out for a minute, a pink exclamation point.

“Marylou Valiant is buried in her barn. Coty Lamont and someone called Sargent put the body there five years ago. Right? Well, Mim may be safe and sound but the fact remains that a murdered woman, a dear friend of hers, is buried on her property. What if she finds out?”

Tucker, knowing her friend well, picked up her train of thought.“It’s a small circle, these ’chaser people. Mim’s important in that world.”

“One thing is for sure.”

“What?”

“The murderer carries a deck of cards.”

“So does half of America.” Murphy brushed against Tucker’s chest, tickling the dog’s sensitive nose with her tail.

“Here’s what really bothers me. Once a murder is committed, the last thing a murderer would want to do is dig up the corpse. It’s the corpse that incriminates them.”

“Maybe they forgot to take off her jewelry or there was money buried with her.”

“Possible, if the murderer or murderers were rattled. Yes, it’s possible but Coty had enough time to collect his wits. He would have stripped her of anything valuable. I’d bet on that. Then, too, we don’t know for sure if Coty or the other guy killed her.”

“Don’t forget Mickey Townsend.”

“I haven’t.” Murphy paced, her tail flicking with each step.“Mickey must know where Marylou is, though. Otherwise, why did he stop Coty from digging that night?” She paced some more.“But it doesn’t feel right, Tucker. Mickey was in love with Marylou.”

“Maybe at the last minute she thought Arthur was the better choice. Maybe she told him and he lost it and killed her—lover’s passion,” Tucker said soberly.

“I don’t know, but you’ve got to go to Camden, Tucker. Mickey will be there. They’ll all be there—and that’s what scares me.”

“I’ll do my best.”

“Go into that bedroom and put on a show.”

Tucker trotted into Harry’s bedroom. She’d placed her duffel bag on the floor. Her clothes lay on the bed and she was folding them.

Tucker crawled into the duffel bag.“Mom, you’ve got to take me.”

“Tucker—” Harry smiled. “Get out of there.”

Mrs. Murphy bounded on the bed.“Take her, Harry.”

“Murphy—” Harry shooed her off a blouse. The cat sat on another one. “Now this is too much.”

“Tucker needs to go with you.”

“Yes, it’s very important,” the dog whined.

“Throw back your head and howl. That’s impressive,” the cat ordered.

Tucker threw back her pretty head, emitting a spine-tingling howl.“I wanna go!”

Harry knelt down and hugged the little dog.“Ah, Tucker, it’s only for the weekend.”

Tucker repeated her dramatic recitation.“I wanna go! Don’t leave me here!”

“Oh, now, come on.” Harry comforted the dog.

“Oo-oo-oo!”

“That’s good.” Mrs. Murphy moved to another blouse. If she couldn’t go she could at least deposit as much cat hair as possible on Harry’s clothes.

“Well—” Harry weakened.

“Oh, please, I’m the best little dog in the world. I won’t make you walk me to go to the bathroom. I won’t even eat. I’ll be real cheap—”

“That’s pushing it, Tucker,” Mrs. Murphy grumbled.

“She’s eating it up.”

“Oh, Tucker, I feel so guilty about leaving you here.”

“Oo-oo-oo!”

Harry picked up the phone by the bed and punched in Mim’s number. “Hello, Mim. I have the unhappiest dog in front of me, curled up in my duffle bag. May I bring Tucker?” She listened to the affirmative reply. “Thank you. Thank you, too, for Tucker.” Then she called Sally Dohner, who agreed to fill in for her at the post office.

“Way to go!” Mrs. Murphy congratulated her friend.

“Oh, boy!” Tucker jumped out of the duffel bag and ran around in small circles until she made herself dizzy and fell down.

“Now how did you know you were going?” Harry laughed at the dog. “Sometimes I think you two understand English.” She petted Mrs. Murphy, who nestled down in a sweater. “I’m sorry, Murphy, but you know how you are on a long trip. You take care of Susan—she’s going to spend the weekend here. She said she’d love a break from being a wife and mother.” Harry sat on the bed. “Bet she brings the whole family with her anyway. Well, you know everyone.”

“Yes. I’ll be a good kitty. Just tell her I want lots of cooked chicken.”

“She even promised to fry pork chops for you.”

“Ooh, I love pork chops.” Mrs. Murphy purred, then called out to Tucker:“Tucker, you’ve got to remember everything you see, smell, or hear.”

“Got ya.”

33

Camden, South Carolina, settled in 1758 and called Pine Tree Hill at that time, sits in a thermal belt, making it perfect for horsemen. While the air freezes, the sand does not, so in wintertime Thoroughbred breeders, trainers, chasers, hunters, and show horse people flock to the good footing and warmer temperatures. While not as balmy as Florida, Camden isn’t as crowded either, nor as expensive.

Mrs. Marion duPont Scott had wintered in Camden, falling in love with the town. The relaxed people, blessed with that languid humor peculiar to South Carolina, so delighted her that she decided to use her personal wealth to create the Colonial Cup, a Deep South counterpoint to great and grand Montpelier. She developed a steeplechase course that allowed spectators in the grandstand to see most of the jumps, a novelty.

Over the years the races grew. The crowds poured in. The parties created many a wild scandal. The pockets of the citizens of Camden bulged.

The only bad thing that could be said about this most charming of upcountry towns in South Carolina is that it was the site of a Revolutionary War disaster on April 16, 1780, when General Horatio Gates, with 3,600 men, lost to Lord Cornwallis’s 2,000 British troops. After that the British decided to enjoy thoroughly the comforts of Camden and the attentions of the female population, famed for their exquisite manners as well as their good looks.

Harry, thrilled to be a guest at the Colonial Cup, walked around Camden with her mouth hanging open. She and Miranda had decided to tour the town before heading over to the track. The races wouldn’t commence until the following day, and they were like schoolgirls at recess. Harry dutifully asked Mim, then Charles, then Adelia, and even Fair if they needed her assistance. As soon as everyone said “No,” she shot out of the stable, Tucker at her heels.

“I could get used to this.” Harry smiled as she regarded a sweeping porch that wrapped around a stately white frame house. Baskets of flowers hung from the ceiling of the porch, for the temperature remained around 65°F.

“How I remember Mamaw sitting on her swing, passing and repassing, discussing at length the reason why she lined her walkway with hydrangeas and why her roses won prizes. Oh, I wish Didee were coming.” Miranda used the childhood name for her sister. “That husband of hers is too much work.”

“What husband isn’t?”

“My George was an angel.”

Harry fought back the urge to reply that he was now. Instead she said,“He had no choice.”

Mrs. Hogendobber stopped. The crepe on the bottom of her sensible walking shoes screeched, which made Tucker bark. That made the West Highland white on the wraparound porch bark.“Do I detect sarcasm?”

“Hush, Tucker.”

“I’m on duty here,” Tucker stoutly barked right back.“If that white moppet wants to run his mouth and insult us, I am not remaining silent.”

“Will you shut up!”

“My husband listened better than your dog.”

“Let’s move on before every dog in the neighborhood feels compelled to reply. Tucker, I don’t know why I brought you. You’ve been a real pain in the patoutee. You sniffed everything where we slept. You rushed up and down the barn aisles. You ran out in the paddocks. You dashed into every parked van. Are you on canine amphetamines?”

“I’m searching for information. You’re too dumb to know that. I’m not rushing around like a chicken with its head cut off. I have a plan.”

“Apparently, Tucker isn’t too pleased with you either,” Mrs. Hogendobber noted.

“She’ll settle down. Let’s go on up the road. The second oldest polo field in the United States is there.”

They walked down a sandy path; the railroad track lay to their right. Within moments the expanse of manicured green greeted them, a small white stable to one side. On the other side of the field were lovely houses, discreetly tucked behind large boxwoods and other bushes.

A flotilla of corgis poured across the field, shooting out of the opened gate of one of the houses. Tee Tucker stopped, her ears straight up, her eyes alert, her non-tail steady. She had not seen so many of her own kind since she was a puppy.

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“Who are you?” they shouted as they reached midfield.

“Tee Tucker from Crozet, Virginia. I’m here for the Colonial Cup.”

Before the words were out of Tucker’s lips the corgis swarmed around her, sniffing and commenting. Finally the head dog, a large red-colored fellow, declared,“This is a mighty fine representative of our breed. Welcome to the great state of South Carolina. Might I invite you to our home for a refreshing drink or to meet my mistress, a lovely lady who would enjoy showing you Camden hospitality?”

“Thank you, but I’ve got to stay close to Mom. On duty, you know.”

“Why, yes, I understand completely. My name is Galahad, by the way, and these are my numerous offspring. Some were blessed with intelligence and others with looks.” He laughed and they all talked at once, disagreeing with him.

“Have you ever seen so many corgis?” Mrs. Hogendobber watched all those tailless behinds wiggling in greeting.

“Can’t say that I have,” Harry said, laughing.

“Galahad,” Tucker asked politely,“have there been any murders at the Colonial Cup?”

“Why, no, not in my recollection, although I think there were many who considered it, humans being what they are. Given their tendency to rely on copious libations for sociability—I’d say it was remarkable that they haven’t dispatched one another into the afterlife.”

“Oh, Daddy.” One of the girls faced Tucker.“He does go on. Why do you ask a thing like that?”

“Well, there’ve been two steeplechase jockeys murdered since Montpelier. I was curious. You know, maybe it’s not so unusual.”

“Plenty unusual. Steeplechasing doesn’t attract the riffraff that flat racing does,” Galahad grumbled.

“These days, how can you tell riffraff from quality, Daddy?” the petite corgi asked, knowing full well what the answer would be.

“Bon sang ne sait mentir,” came the growled reply.

“What’s that?” Tucker’s eyebrows quivered.

“Good blood doesn’t lie.”

“Ah, blood tells,” Tucker said. She laughed to herself because that old saw drove Mrs. Murphy wild. Being an alley cat, she would spit whenever Tucker went off on a tangent about purebred dogs.“Well, I am charmed to have met you all. As you can see, the humans are moving off. By the way, I’m staying at Hampstead Farm. If anything should pop into your heads, some stray thought about the racing folks, the ’chasers, I’d appreciate your getting word to me.”

“You some kind of detective?” the pretty little one asked.

“Yes. Exactly.” Tucker dashed to catch up with Harry and Miranda, hearing the oohs and aahs behind her. She neglected to tell them she worked with a partner, a cat. They’d never meet Mrs. Murphy, so what the heck?

34

Dr. Stephen D’Angelo’s farm truck had been discovered in an abandoned barn near Meechum’s River in western Albemarle County.

Rick Shaw and his department thoroughly searched the area, turning up nothing, not even a scrap of clothing.

“Think they ditched the truck and stole another?”

“We’d know. I put out a call to the local dealers and to other county departments. Nada. For the first day they were in their truck, the Nissan. After they got rid of D’Angelo’s truck.”

“By now they know we’re on their trail. They’ve swapped off the Nissan,” Coop said.

“That’s more like it. No telling, though.”

“Sooner or later someone was bound to find this truck.” She sighed. “Well, they’ve got two days’ head start.” Cynthia put on her gloves.

“They got it. They could have driven to any airport out of state by now or picked up the train. Or just kept driving. I expect those two have more fake IDs than a Libyan terrorist. They’ve got seventy-one dollars in cash.” He squinted as a tiny sunburst of light reflected off the outside mirror. “Linda withdrew the money at one o’clock on the day they disappeared.”

“Let’s get this thing dusted for prints.”

“Coop, you’re methodical. I like that in a woman.” He smiled. “Got your bags packed?”

“I always keep a bag packed, why?”

“We’re going to Camden.”

“No kidding.”

“As spectators. If I notify the sheriff down there, it’s one more department to fool with. They don’t know what we do and I’m not inclined to tell them. It’s enough that I have to handle Frank Yancey day in and day out.”

“He’s getting a lot of pressure from the newspaper.” Her mind returned to Linda and Will. “The Forloines have a booming business. And there’s someone higher up on the food chain.”

“Right. You might want to wear your shoulder holster.”

“Good idea.”

35

Nerves tight before a race were stretched even tighter today. Fair Haristeen noticed the glum silence between the Valiants when he checked over Mim’s horses early that morning.

Brother and sister worked side by side without speaking.

Arthur Tetrick stopped by on his way to the racecourse. He, too, noticed the frosty air between the siblings.

Addie, on sight of her guardian, practically spat at him.“Get out of my face, Arthur.”

His eyebrows rose in a V; he inclined his head in a nod of greeting or acquiescence and left.

“Jesus, Addie, you’re a bitch today.” Charles whirled on her as Arthur shut the door to his car and drove out the sandy lane.

She looked into her brother’s face, quite similar in bone structure to her own. “You, of course, are a prince among men!”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“That you and Arthur are ganging up on me again. That I know he called on Judge Parker the day I spilled the beans about Nigel’s stash. God, I was stupid. You’ll both use it against me in court.”

“This isn’t the day to worry about stuff like that.”

“Youknew he went to see Parker, didn’t you?”

“Uh”—Chark glanced outside, the sun filtered through the tall pines—“he mentioned it.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“You’d had enough stress for one day.”

“Liar.”

“I’m not lying.”

“You’re withholding. It amounts to the same thing.”

“Look who’s talking. You lied to me about drugs. You withheld the truth about Nigel. A kilo is a lot of coke, Addie!”

“It wasn’t for me!” she shouted.

“Then what were you doing with Nigel?”

“Dating him. Just because he was really into it doesn’t mean I was, too.”

“Come on, I’m not stupid.”

She pointed her finger at him.“So what if I took a line or two. I’m okay. I stopped. This isn’t about coke. It’s about my money. You want my share.”

“No, I don’t.” He pushed her finger away. “But I don’t want to see you ruin everything Dad worked for. You have no sense of—” He struggled.

She filled in the word for him.“Responsibility?”

“Right.” His eyes blazed. “We have to nurture that money. It seems like a lot but it can go faster than you think. You can’t be cautious and we both know it.”

“No risk, no gain.”

“Addie.” He tried to remain patient. “The only thing you know how to do is spend money. You don’t know how to make it.”

“Horses.”

“Never.”

“Then what are you doing as a trainer?” She was so frustrated tears welled up in her eyes.

“I get paid for training. I’m not running my own horses. Jesus, Addie, the board and vet bills alone will eat you alive. ’Chasing is for rich people.”

“Weare rich.”

“Not if you try to be a major player overnight. We have to keep that money in solid stocks and bonds. If I can double the money in ten years, then we can think about owning a big string of our own.”

“What’s life for, Charles?” She used his proper name. “To hoard money? To read balance statements and call our stockbroker daily? Do we buy a sensible little farm or do we rent for ten years? Maybe I think life is an adventure—you take chances, you make mistakes. Hey, Chark, maybe you even lose money but youlive.”

“Live. You’ll wind up with some bloodsucker who married you for your fortune. Then there’ll be two of you squandering our inheritance.”

“Not our inheritance. My inheritance. You take yours and I’ll take mine. It’s simple.”

“I’m not going to let you ruin yourself.”

“Well, brother, there’s not a damn thing you can do about it.” She stopped, blinked hard, then said in a low voice, “You could have killed Nigel. I don’t put it past you.” She drew close to his face. “I’ll do one thing for you though. You’re so worried about me? Well, this is my advice to you. Dump dear old Uncle Arthur. He’s a dinosaur. And a very well-off dinosaur, thanks to Mom’s will. He got his ten percent as executor. And after you dump the old fart, do something crazy, Chark. Something not useful. Buy a Porsche 911 or go to New York and party every night for a month. For once live your life. Just let go.” She turned and walked outside.

He yelled after her,“I didn’t kill Nigel Danforth!”

She cocked her head and turned back to face him.“Chark, for all I know you’ll kill me, then you can have the whole ball of wax.”

“I can’t believe you said that.” His face was white as a sheet.

“Well, I did. I’ve got races to run.” She left him standing there.

36

The making of a good steeplechaser, like the making of a good human being, is an arduous melding of discipline, talent, luck, and heart. The best bloodlines in the world won’t produce a winner, although they might fortify your chances.

Thoroughbreds a trifle too slow for the flat track find their way to the steeplechasing barns of the East Coast. Needing far more stamina than their flat-racing brethren, the’chasers dazzle the equine world. Many a successful steeplechase athlete has retired to foxhunting, the envy of all who have beheld the creature soaring over fences, coops, ditches, and stone walls.

They gathered at the Springdale track for the $100,000 purse of the Colonial Cup, the last race in the season. After this race the points would be tallied, and the best trainer, horse, and jockey would emerge for the season.

Harry and Mrs. Hogendobber figured the most useful thing they could do was to keep Mim occupied despite her nervousness. They knew better than to disturb the Valiants before a race. Keeping Mim clear of them seemed a good policy.

Tucker, on a leash, complained, but Harry refused to release her.“You don’t know where you are and you might get lost.”

“Dogs don’t get lost. People do.”

“She’s yappy this morning.” Miranda, wearing her favorite plaid wraparound skirt and a white blouse with a red cable knit sweater, seemed the essence of fall.

“The crowd excites her.”

“I’m on a recon mission. I need to chat up any animal who will talk to me.”

Heedless of Tucker’s tasks, Harry pulled her along to the paddock. After being dragged a few feet Tucker decided to give in and heel properly. If she couldn’t have her way, she might as well make the best of it.

The lovely live oaks sheltered the paddock. The officials busied themselves in the final hour before the first race.

Colbert Mason spied Mrs. Hogendobber and waved to her. Miranda waved back.

Arthur bustled out of the small officials’ office, his Worth and Worth trilby set at a rakish angle. Most of the other men wore hats, too: porkpies, cowboy hats, lads’ caps in every imaginable fabric, and one distinguished navy blue homburg. The manufacturers of grosgrain ribbon would survive despite the dressing down of America. Horsemen had style.

The one blond uncovered head among the group belonged to Fair, who had ridden over in the van. He walked over to join his ex-wife and Miranda.

“May I get you ladies a drink or a sandwich?”

“No, but I’d like to sit a spell. This commotion is tiring.” Miranda dumped herself on a park bench.

“Imagine how the horses feel.” Fair sat next to her.

“Fair, make her let me go,” Tucker implored.

He reached down and scratched those big ears.“You’re so low to the ground, girl, I bet all these shoes and legs are bewildering.”

“No, they’re not.”

“Ignore her. She’s whined and whimpered since the moment we arrived.” Harry sternly raised her forefinger to the dog.

“You know, when we were married, I always wanted to bring you here, but somehow I never got the time.”

“I’m here now.”

“Do you like it?”

“It’s wonderful. Miranda and I toured the town. I had no idea it was so lovely.”

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

“Bet they’d give them to you.” Fair smiled. He put his arm around Harry’s shoulders.

“Where’s Mim?” she said. “We started out with her—”

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

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

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

“Nerves,” Harry succinctly said.

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

“If I’d been dating Mickey Townsend I’d have to be tranquilized, too.” Harry giggled.

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

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

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

“It’s thesomehow I’m worried about,” Harry said under her breath.

“Why?”

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

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

“Bet you didn’t recognize me in street clothes,” Cynthia Cooper joked.

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

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

“Do you think you’re incognito?” Harry smiled at him.

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

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

Cynthia replied,“Sure, we know that. We’ve never seen a steeplechase, and the boss here had an impulse, so … voil?!”

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

Loud voices at the paddock grabbed their attention.

“You’re behind this—” Chark’s voice rose.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You got a license to carry that, ma’am?”

“Deputy Cynthia Cooper, Albemarle County Sheriff’s Department. I’d shake your hand but I’m occupied. Until you all can talk sense into Mickey Townsend there, I’ll remain occupied. We can be formally introduced later.”

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

“I’ll take care of him. Thanks.”

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

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

“Yeah. On the way you can tell me what you’re doing here.”

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

Fair whispered,“Mickey, shut up.”

“Huh?” Fair’s words filtered through the hammer pounding in Mickey’s brain.

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

Mickey shut up.

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

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

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

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

“You tell me,” Rick said.

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

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

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

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

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

Mickey looked up at Fair imploringly.“Suspect for what?”

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

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

37

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

Fair had returned to the paddocks.

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

“I will tell you everything, but I’ve got to see the races.”

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

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

“No, thanks.”

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

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

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

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

“No,” Rick said.

“If you’re telling the truth, you’ll be all right,” Cynthia added.

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

“Uh—” Mickey stalled.

“Were they users?” Rick asked.

“Yes.”

“Are you?”

“I wouldn’t have lasted this long in the business if I were hooked on that stuff.”

“Do you know who sells it?”

“Sheriff, it’s not hard to get.”

“That’s not what I’m asking.”

“Linda Forloines.”

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

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

Cynthia flipped her notebook shut.“You believe him?”

“You know better than to ask me something like that.”

“Yeah, but I always do, don’t I?”

38

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

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

“Are you all right?” Arthur asked, noticing Chark’s swollen lip.

“I’m embarrassed.” Chark ignored the dribble from his bleeding lip.

“What happened?”

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

“That’s the understatement of the year.” Addie spoke out of the side of her mouth.

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

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

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

“If I had half a chance I’d like to thrash him myself.”

Addie peered up at Arthur.“Istill like Mickey. You two will never cut him a break.”

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

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

Arthur’s face clouded. “Just a formality.”

“No, it wasn’t. You were filing papers to extend your trusteeship.”

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

“You think I’m not competent. Because of the drugs.”

Arthur lowered his voice.“This is neither the time nor the place! But Adelia, I have come to the mournful conclusion that I can donothing to help you. You may not believe me, but I will be relieved to no longer be your trustee or the executor of your mother’s will. I wash my hands of you.” He drew in a gulp of sweet air. “I only hope your mother will forgive me if she’s looking down upon us.”

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

Arthur followed her with his eyes, then sadly said,“Well, I’ve upset her. I didn’t mean to but …”

“She started it.”

“So she did, Charles, but I’m old enough to know better.”

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

“Here, Chark, you’re hurt.” Arthur put his hand under Chark’s arm to steady him.

“I’m shook up, not hurt. I can’t believe I lost control like that.”

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

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

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

“Addie says it was because I didn’t like Mickey. Makes me feel guilty as hell.”

“Oh, now—”

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

“Not to me,” Arthur said sadly.

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

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

Chark shook his head.“I know, but—”

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

“That’s great, Arthur—just great.”

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

“Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.” Arthur walked away, the sandy soil crunching underfoot.

39

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

“You mad at me, too?” he said.

“Nah.” She drew alongside him.

“’Bout five more minutes,” he said.

“You might win this race.”

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

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

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

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

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

“No.”

“Did you tell the sheriff?”

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

“Addie—”

“Yeah, well, I told them that, too. They’ve impounded it.”

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

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

“What do you think?”

“No way.” She grinned.

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

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

He laughed.“You’re too young to remember that horse.”

Her face darkened a moment.“There’s one thing I did lie about, though.”

“Huh?” His senses sharpened.

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

“Addie!” He blanched.

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

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

“Selling ain’t killing. You coming to my birthday party?” She fell in with his step.

“No.”

“I’ll talk to Chark.”

“Don’t. Let well enough alone, Adelia. I’d be a wet blanket.”

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

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

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

“Where did you get this?” she whispered.

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

“Mickey, let me have it.”

“After we flush out the rat.”

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

“Addie, it’s too dangerous.”

“Please. You can stick close to me. I want Mom’s medal, and I want everyone to see it.”

40

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I thought Fair wasn’t going to work this race,” Miranda said.

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

“Guess being married to a vet is like being married to a doctor.”

“I’m not married to him.”

“Oh, will you stop.”

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

“Isn’t that why you loved him?”

“Yes.” Harry finished her Coke.

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

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

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

“They aren’t up next. I recognize the silks.”

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

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

“Ma’am.” The eldest of the three, a man in his middle forties, removed his cap.

“Did you know Nigel Danforth?” Miranda demanded.

“I did.” The teenager spoke up.

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

“Didn’t really know him.” The older man spoke up quickly.

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

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

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

“That he was a better rider?” Harry joined in.

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

“Yes, she does,” Harry agreed.

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

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

Miranda, in her“Dear Abby” voice, replied, “She wasn’t thinking clearly. She would have come to her senses.”

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

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

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

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

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

Miranda’s mouth fell open. “It can’t be,” she half-whispered.

“What?” Harry leaned toward her.

“Look at Adelia’s neck.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Flip it over.” Mim’s lips were white from emotion.

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

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

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

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

“I promise,” Rick said firmly.

The trumpet called contestants from the paddocks to the track.

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

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

[Êàðòèíêà: img_11]

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

“Mine is Tucker.”

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

“Mim Sanburne,” Tucker replied.

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

“Oh.” Tucker sounded impressed.

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

“She must have known Nigel Danforth in England.”

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

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

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

“The killer’s only taking out jockeys.” Tucker comforted the other dog.

“I don’t know, but whoever is doing this knows ’chasing inside and out.”

“How did your mother know Nigel Danforth?”

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

“What was his real name? Do you remember that?”

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

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

41

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Don’t fret, honey. Addie knows what she’s doing.”

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

“A scorcher,” Colbert laconically replied.

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

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

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

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

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

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

42

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

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

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

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

“I’ll finish up at Hampstead Farm.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Mickey, go find Deputy Cooper. She’ll be in the paddock … help her. You know these people. They’ll talk to you.”

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

“Chark, I’m coming with you.” He hoisted himself into the back of the ambulance.

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

“Who saddled the horse?” Rick waved to the gesticulating policemen.

“I did.” Chark held his sister’s hand.

“Where do you keep your tack?”

“At the stalls.”

“Hampstead Farm?”

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

“Wouldn’t be hard for someone to mess with the saddle or the—” Rick stopped to think of the term.

“Girth,” Chark said.

“Girth, yes.”

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

“What is it?”

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

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

Rick, on his knees, bent over. He read aloud the inscription:He’s my standin. Love, Charley

“Dad gave that to Mom the year they were married.”

“And you haven’t seen this since your Mother disappeared?”

“No.”

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

“Sheriff.”

“Huh?” Rick’s mind was miles away.

“Whoever had this killed my mother.”

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

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

“I do, sir.”

“Could your sister have killed your mother?”

“Never.” Chark’s voice was level even as the tears kept flowing.

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

“No,” Chark whispered, shaking his head.

“What about Arthur Tetrick? Would he gain by your sister’s death?”

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

“Do you have any idea who would do this?”

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

“We thought she might show up. Disguised. It’s a bit far-fetched, but”—he squeezed Chark’s shoulder—“we were worried.”

“She could have paid someone to do this.”

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

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

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

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

43

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

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

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

“He’s trying to smear the prints,” Arthur protested.

“No, I wasn’t!” Mickey shouted from the other side of the paddock.

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

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

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

“Got a pair of rubber gloves?”

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

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

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

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

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

Troubled, Coop pressed her lips together.“Next.”

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

“Where were you before the last race?”

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

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

A long, low whistle stopped the Jack Russell.“That’s my mom.”

“I’ll follow you over.” Tucker trotted alongside her feisty new friend.

“Terminator, let’s go.” ZeeZee clapped her hands.

“I’ll walk along for a bit.” Tucker fell in beside The Terminator.

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

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

“Good luck,” the Jack Russell called out.

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

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

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

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

44

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh, you’ll stick up for any dog.”

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

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

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

“Why?”

“It was her mother’s. No one has seen it since Marylou disappeared.”

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

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

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

45

“Son of a bitch!” Rick Shaw exploded.

“You couldn’t have known.” Cynthia offered him a cigarette. He snatched one out of the pack.

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

Cynthia, too, smacked at the glowing tip.“Sorry.”

He paused a minute, then glanced down at her hand in his crotch.“Ah—I’m sure there’s something I could say to cover this situation, but I can’t think of it right now.” He dropped the stub in the ashtray.

Cynthia lit him another cigarette.“Don’t bite, just inhale.”

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

“The Queen of Diamonds! Son of a bitch!”

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

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

“Your blood pressure’s going to go through the roof.”

“Shut up and drive!” He glowered out the window and then turned to her. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s a bitch. I never saw it coming, either,” she said sympathetically.

“If we only knew what they had in common.”

“Jockeys.”

“Not enough.” He shook his head.

“They all knew one another.”

“Yes.” He began to breathe a bit more regularly.

“They’re all young people.”

“Yes.”

“They owed money to Mickey Townsend. They all used cocaine.”

“Yes.” He rubbed his eyes with the backs of his hands. “Oh, Coop, it’s staring me right in the face and I can’t see it.”

46

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

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

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

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

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

Rick, hands interlocking over his stomach, listened.“You don’t buy Charles Valiant as the murderer?”

All said,“No.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I say—” Miranda’s mouth fell agape.

“Go to the stable! Go to the stable now!” Tucker barked.

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

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

“Harry, these animals are tetched,” Miranda finally sputtered.

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

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

“Maybe she’s got rabies.” Miranda drew back.

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

“No, I am not.”

“Me neither. Listen to us,” Pewter pleaded.

“Murphy, I’m exhausted. Can I stop now?” Tucker continued circling the humans.

“Sure.”

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

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

Cynthia checked her notes.“Orion’s.”

“Hallelujah!” Mrs. Murphy declared.

47

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

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

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

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

“No,” Harry answered.

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

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

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

“Here.”

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

“We don’t know exactly,” Mim answered.

Harry shivered.

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

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

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

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

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

One of the officers hit something hard.“Huh?”

Rick and Cynthia drew closer.“Be careful.”

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

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

“Oh, my God!” Mim exclaimed.

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

Arthur hit the ground with a thud.

“Wuss.” Mrs. Murphy turned her nose up.

48

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

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

“Chark, you’ve got to eat something,” Harry pleaded.

“I can’t,” he whispered.

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

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

“What?” Fair’s blond stubble made him look like a Viking.

“It can’t get any worse.”

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

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

“He’s right,” Fair said.

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

“Oh,” Chark’s voice sounded weak, “I’d forgotten all about it.”

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

“Thanks, Arthur.” Chark shook his hand.

“Well, I’d better be on my way.”

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

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

“Why?” Harry innocently asked.

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

Harry’s voice rose. “Has everyone lost their minds? Marylou Valiant was one of herbest friends.”

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

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

49

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Of course it’s my territory,” came the curt reply.

“Do you know there’s a dead human back at the willow?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know how long it’s been there?”

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

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

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

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

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

“You’d have to catch me first,” Mrs. Murphy countered.

“You’d be surprised at how fast I can fly.”

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

“All right.” The heron flapped her wings while still standing.

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

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

“You never said I couldn’t seek cover.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ah. Well, I enjoyed talking to you, pussycat. I’m going back to my nest.”

“I enjoyed you, too.”

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

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

“No, just Linda Forloines.”

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

“She was useless in life. At least she’s useful in death.”

“How?”

“Fish food.”

50

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

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

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

“I’ll be at your choir show a tad late,” Harry said.

“You shouldn’t be here alone. Not with a killer on the loose.”

“She’s right,” Mrs. Murphy, Tucker, and Pewter echoed.

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

“Harry, come on. You can do this tomorrow.”

“I can’t. I’ve got this one little hunch.”

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

“Yes.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I told you, call L.L. Bean.”

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

“Tucker, has she got it yet?”

“No.” The dog lifted her head.“Forget it.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Could I talk to your supervisor, please?”

“Certainly.” The woman’s voice on the other end was friendly.

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

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

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

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

“Sure. We want to hear from our customers.”

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

“I’m glad to hear that.”

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

“What’s your shoe size?”

“Seven B.”

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

“Yes, thank you for reminding me.”

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

“Mary Minor Haristeen.”

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

“Thank you, I will.”

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

A man answered,“Smoky Mountain.”

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

“Gee—that could be a lot of orders.”

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

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

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

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

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

“No. Just the store and a credit card. I can’t read off the number, of course.”

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

“Went out two months ago. Hasn’t been returned. I hope everything is okay.”

“It will be. You’re a lifesaver.”

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

“Carl?” She recognized the voice that answered.

“Harry, what’s doing, girl?”

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

“Sure.”

“Do you have a large post office box registered to Albemarle Cutlery?”

“Hold on.” He put the phone down.

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

“Damn!”

“What?”

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

“Steve Martin. I know,” Carl confidently replied.

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

“Yeah, sure. You up to something?”

“Well—yes.”

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

“More than good enough. Thanks.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Come on, gang, we’ve got to get to church before Mrs. Hogendobber pitches a hissy.”

“Don’t worry about Mrs. Hogendobber,” Pewter sagely advised.“Call the sheriff.”

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

“That’s what I’m afraid of.” Mrs. Murphy fluffed out her fur and jumped off Harry’s shoulder.

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

“Everybody will be there—including the killer.”

51

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

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

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

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

“Maybe, but only Mom knows the signature.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Don’t look at her,” Mrs. Murphy directed her fat gray sidekick.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What are we looking for?” Pewter asked.

“Someone guilty as sin.”

“Ooh-la,” she trilled.

“And in church, too,” Tucker giggled.

“Will you get back here!” Harry whispered.

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

“You’re going to get it,” Pewter warned.

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

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

“Count the exits.”

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

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

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

“Well, let’s hope nothing happens.” Pewter, not the most athletic girl, wanted to stay put.

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

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

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

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

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

Cynthia studied the fax sheet with a little pocket flashlight.

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

“Was the body Marylou Valiant’s?” Harry asked.

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

“Did you have any idea?” Harry asked Rick.

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

“What do we do now?” Harry shuffled her feet.

“We don’t do anything,” Rick said as more applause broke out inside. “We wait.”

“He’s got good alibis,” Coop commented.

“But if you broke down each murder, minute by minute, wouldn’t you find the loophole?”

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

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

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

“Rick, youcan’t let that son of a bitch go free.”

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

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

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

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

The two cats remained on the table.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You come one step closer and she’s dead.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No. Not without jeopardizing Harry.”

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

“He’ll kill her for sure if we don’t stop him.”

“Fair. Stay where you are!” Rick commanded.

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

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

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

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

“I’ll kill that meddling biddy!” he screamed, losing his temper for the first time.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And Tucker. Brave dog.” Harry again kissed a happy Tucker.

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

52

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

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

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

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

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

“And Arthur was a most conscientious executor of Marylou’s will.” Jim Sanburne hooked his fingers in his belt.

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

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

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

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

“He thought she knew?” Miranda questioned.

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

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

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

“What about Linda and Will? They’re still missing.”

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

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

“What was the significance of the queens?” Mim asked.

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

“Addie is lucky to be alive,” Miranda said softly. “Poor children. What they’ve been through.”

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

Mrs. Murphy chimed in,“Men like Arthur aren’t accustomed to rejection.”

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

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

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

“Yes!” Pewter meowed.

Market laughed,“Think of the money I’ll save.”

“Yeah, Pewter’s a lion under the lard,” Mrs. Murphy teased her friend.

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

“What are you buying?” Miranda demanded.

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

53

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

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

“Gotcha!”

The mouse stayed still under the cat’s paws.“Make it fast. I don’t want to suffer.”

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

“You aren’t going to kill me?”

“No, but don’t run around where Harry can see you.”

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

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

The phone rang.

“Hello.”

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

“Sure.”

“I’ll pick you up at the P.O.”

“Fine.”

“See you then. Bye-bye.” BoomBoom signed off.

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

6. MURDER ON THE PROWL

1

Towns, like people, have souls. The little town of Crozet, Virginia, latitude 38°, longitude 78° 60’, had the soul of an Irish tenor.

On this beautiful equinox day, September 21, every soul was lifted, if not every voice—for it was perfect: creamy clouds lazed across a turquoise sky. The Blue Ridge Mountains, startling in their color, hovered protectively at the edge of emerald meadows. The temperature held at 72° F with low humidity.

This Thursday, Mary Minor Haristeen worked unenthusiastically in the post office. As she was the postmistress, she could hardly skip out, however tempted she was. Her tiger cat, Mrs. Murphy, and her corgi, Tee Tucker, blasted in and out of the animal door, the little flap echoing with each arrival or departure. It was the animals’ version of teenagers slamming the door, and each whap reminded Harry that while they could escape, she was stuck.

Harry, as she was known, was industrious if a bit undirected. Her cohort at the P.O., Mrs. Miranda Hogendobber, felt that if Harry remarried, this questioning of her life’s purpose would evaporate. Being quite a bit older than Harry, Miranda viewed marriage as purpose enough for a woman.

“What are you humming?” ‘A Mighty Fortress Is Our God.’ Martin Luther wrote it in 1529,” Mrs. H. informed her.

“I should know that.”

“If you’d come to choir practice you would.”

“There is the small matter that I am not a member of your church.” Harry folded an empty canvas mail sack.

“I can fix that in a jiffy.”

“And what would the Reverend Jones do? He baptized me in Crozet Lutheran Church .”

“Piffle.”

Mrs. Murphy barreled through the door, a large cricket in her mouth.

Close in pursuit was Pewter, the fat gray cat who worked days next door at the grocery store: nights she traveled home with Harry. Market Shiflett, the grocer, declared Pewter had never caught a mouse and never would, so she might as well go play with her friends.

In Pewter’s defense, she was built round; her skull was round, her ears, small and delicate, were round. Her tail was a bit short. She thought of herself as stout. Her gray paunch swung when she walked. She swore this was the result of her having “the operation,” not because she was fat. In truth it was both. The cat lived to eat.

Mrs. Murphy, a handsome tiger, stayed fit being a ferocious mouser.

The two cats were followed by the dog, Tee Tucker.

Mrs. Murphy bounded onto the counter, the cricket wriggling in her mouth.

“That cat has brought in a winged irritant. She lives to kill,” Miranda harrumphed.

“A cricket doesn’t have wings.”

Miranda moved closer to the brown shiny prey clamped in the cat’s jaws. “It certainly is a major cricket—it ought to have wings. Why, I believe this cricket is as big as a praying mantis.” She cupped her chin in her hand, giving her a wise appearance.

Harry strolled over to inspect just as Mrs. Murphy dispatched the insect with a swift bite through the innards, then laid the remains on the counter.

The dog asked, “You’re not going to eat that cricket, are you?”

“No, they taste awful.”

“I’ll eat it,” Pewter volunteered. “Well, someone has to keep up appear ances! After all, we are predators.”

“Pewter, that’s disgusting.” Harry grimaced as the rotund animal gobbled down the cricket.

“Maybe they’re like nachos.” Miranda Hogendobber heard the loud crunch.

“I’ll never eat a nacho again.” Harry glared at her coworker and friend.

“It’s the crunchiness. I bet you any money,” Miranda teased.

“It is.” Pewter licked her lips in answer to the older woman. She was glad cats didn’t wear lipstick like Mrs. Hogendobber. Imagine getting lipstick on a cricket or mouse. Spoil the taste.

“Hey, girls.” The Reverend Herbert Jones strolled through the front door. He called all women girls, and they had long since given up hope of sensitizing him. Ninety-two-year-old Catherine I. Earnhart was called a girl. She rather liked it.

“Hey, Rev.” Harry smiled at him. “You’re late today.”

He fished in his pocket for his key and inserted it in his brass mailbox, pulling out a fistful of mail, most of it useless advertisements.

“If I’m late, it’s because I lent my car to Roscoe Fletcher. He was supposed to bring it back to me by one o’clock, and here it is three. I finally decided to walk.”

“His car break down?” Miranda opened the backdoor for a little breeze and sunshine.

“That new car of his is the biggest lemon.”

Harry glanced up from counting out second-day air packets to see Roscoe pulling into the post office parking lot out front. “Speak of the devil.”

Herb turned around. “Is that my car?”

“Looks different with the mud washed off, doesn’t it?” Harry laughed.

“Oh, I know I should clean it up, and I ought to fix my truck, too, but I don’t have the time. Not enough hours in the day.”

“Amen,” Miranda said.

“Why, Miranda, how nice of you to join the service.” His eyes twinkled.

“Herb, I’m sorry,” Roscoe said before he closed the door behind him. “Mim Sanburne stopped me in the hall, and I thought I’d never get away. You know how the Queen of Crozet talks.”

“Indeed,” they said.

“Whydo they call Mim the Queen of Crozet?” Mrs. Murphy licked her front paw. “Queen of the Universe is more like it.”

“No, just the Solar System,” Tucker barked.

“Doesn’t have the same ring to it,” Mrs. Murphy replied.

“Humans think theyartthe center of everything. Bunch of dumb Doras.” Pewter burped.

The unpleasant prospect of cricket parts being regurgitated on the counter made Mrs. Murphy take a step back.

“How do you like your car?” Roscoe pointed to the Subaru station wagon, newly washed and waxed.

“Looks brand-new. Thank you.”

“You were good to lend me wheels. Gary at the dealership will bring my car to the house. If you’ll drop me home, I’ll be fine.”

“Where’s Naomi today?” Miranda inquired about his wife.

“In Staunton. She took the third grade to see the Pioneer Museum .” He chuckled. “Better her than me. Those lower-school kids drive me bananas.”

“That’s why she’s principal of the lower school, and you’re headmaster. We call you ‘the Big Cheese.’ ” Harry smiled.

“No, it’s because I’m a good fundraiser. Anyone want to cough up some cash?” He laughed, showing broad, straight teeth, darkened by smoking. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a pack of Tootsie Rolls, then offered them around.

“You’re not getting blood from this stone. Besides, I graduated from Crozet High.” Harry waved off the candy.

“Me, too, a bit earlier than she did,” Miranda said coyly.

“I graduated in 1945,” Herb said boldly.

“I can’t get arrested with you guys, can I? You don’t even want my Tootsie Rolls.” Roscoe smiled. He had a jovial face as well as manner. “Tell you what, if you win the lottery, give St. Elizabeth’s a little bit. Education is important.”

“For what?” Pewter stared at him. “You-all don’t do a damn thing except fuss at each other.”

“Some humans farm,” Tucker responded.

Pewter glared down at the pretty corgi. “So?”

“It’s productive,” Mrs. Murphy added.

“It’s only productive so they can feed each other. Doesn’t have anything to do with us.”

“They can fish,” Tucker said. ,

“Big deal.”

“It’s a big deal when you want your tuna.” Murphy laughed.

“They’re a worthless species.”

“Pewter, that cricket made you out of sorts. Gives you gas. You don’t see me eating those things,” Mrs. Murphy said.

“You know, my car does look new, really.” Herb again cast his blue eyes over the station wagon.

“Went to the car wash on Twenty-ninth andGreenbrier Drive,” Roscoe told him. “I love that car wash.”

“You love a car wash?” Miranda was incredulous.

“You’ve got to go there. I’ll take you.” He held out his meaty arms in an expansive gesture. “You drive up—Karen Jensen and some of our other kids work there, and they guide your left tire onto the track. The kids work late afternoons and weekends—good kids. Anyway, you have a smorgasbord of choices. I chose what they call ‘the works.’ So they beep you in, car in neutral, radio off, and you lurch into the fray. First, a yellow neon light flashes, a wall of water hits you, and then a blue neon light tells you your undercarriage is being cleaned, then there’s a white light and a pink light and a green light—why it’s almost like a Broadway show. And”—he pointed outside—“there’s the result.A hit.”

“Roscoe, if the car wash excites you that much, your life needs a pickup.” Herb laughed good-naturedly.

“You go to the car wash and see for yourself.”

The two men left, Herb slipping into the driver’s seat as Harry and Miranda gazed out the window.

“You been to that car wash?”

“No, I feel like I should wear my Sunday pearls and rush right out.” Miranda folded her arms across her ample chest.

“I’m not going through any car wash. I hate it,” Tucker grumbled.

“You hear thunder and you hide under the bed.”

The dog snapped at Murphy, “I do not, that’s a fib.”

“Slobber, too.” Since Murphy was on the counter, she could be as hateful as she pleased; the dog couldn’t reach her.

“You peed in the truck,” Tucker fired back.

Mrs. Murphy’s pupils widened. “I was sick.”

“Were not.”

“Was, too.”

“You were on your way to the vet and you were scared!”

“I was on my way to the vet because Iwassick.” The tiger vehemently defended herself.

“Going for your annual shots,” Tucker sang in three-quarter time.

“Liar.”

“Chicken.”

“That was two years ago.”

“Truck smelled for months.” Tucker rubbed it in.

Mrs. Murphy, using her hind foot, with one savage kick pushed a stack of mail on the dog’s head. “Creep.”

“Hey!” Harry hollered. “Settle down.”

“Vamoose!” Mrs. Murphy shot off the counter, soaring over the corgi, who was mired in a mudslide of mail, as she zoomed out the opened backdoor.

Tucker hurried after her, shedding envelopes as she ran.

Pewter relaxed on the counter, declining to run.

Harry walked to the backdoor to watch her pets chase one another through Miranda’s yard, narrowly missing her mums, a riot of color. “I wish I could play like that just once.”

“They are beguiling.” Miranda watched, too, then noticed the sparkling light. “The equinox, it’s such a special time, you know. Light and darkness are in perfect balance.”

What she didn’t say was that after today, darkness would slowly win out.

2

On her back, legs in the air, Mrs. Murphy displayed her slender beige tummy, the stripes muted, unlike the tiger stripes on her back, which were shiny jet-black. She heard the Audi Quattro a quarter of a mile down the driveway, long before Harry realized anyone had turned onto the farm drive.

Tucker, usually on guard, had trotted over to the creek that divided Harry’s farm from Blair Bainbridge’s farm on the southern boundary. A groundhog lived near the huge hickory there. Tucker, being a herding animal, possessed no burning desire to kill. Still, she enjoyed watching quarry, occasionally engaging a wild animal in conversation. She was too far away to sound a warning about the car.

Not that she needed to, for the visitor was Susan Tucker, Harry’s best friend since toddler days. As Susan had traded in her old Volvo for an Audi Quattro, the tire sound was different and Tucker wasn’t used to it yet. Mrs. Murphy possessed a better memory for such sounds than Tucker.

Pewter, flopped under the kitchen table, could not have cared less about the visitor. She was dreaming of a giant marlin garnished with mackerel. What made the dream especially sweet was that she didn’t have to share the fish with anyone else.

Harry, on an organizing jag, was dumping the contents of her bureau drawers onto her bed.