Sour Puss

"You know, kids, I miss my mother," Harry said with deep feeling.

19

"Tick."Pewter maliciously stuck one claw into Tucker's fur.

"Ouch."The dog felt the point dig under her skin.

"See." Pewter flicked the offending insect onto the kitchen floor, where she gleefully speared it as the blackish red goo oozed out.

"Thought Fair put that stuff on your neck."Mrs. Murphy, like all cats, could rid herself of ticks more easily than a dog.

Fleas were another story.

"Washed off when we were caught in the thunderstorm."Tucker hated ticks."He put it on the first of the month, which was only the day before."

"But it's still coolish and damp. They love that. You'll be infested if you go into the wrong places!"Mrs. Murphy worried about her buddy.

"Yeah, like the world."Pewter stabbed the tick a second time.

"That's a happy thought,"Tucker grumbled.

"What about that gun in Toby's truck? No happy thought there?"Mrs. Murphy asked the corgi, whom she and Pewter had informed of the P95PR.

"I'm surprised Harry didn't jump the gun, forgive the pun, and assume he was going to shoot Hy—or himself maybe. She's still reading about things that can attack her grapes. She's occupied and no danger to herself,"Tucker replied.

Harry, in the kitchen, stepped on the bleeding tick and slid. "What the—" She looked down. "The scourge of the earth."

"Tucker had the tick. Probably carrying Lyme disease."Pewter was a font of optimism.

"Shut up."The corgi flattened her ears.

"I'm terrified. I'm so scared I might widdle,"Pewter said.

"You only do that on the way to the vet's office,"Tucker fired back.

"I donot,"Pewter huffed.

"I'm amazed none of us did when we ran into the bear's cave."Mrs. Murphy thanked her stars the mother had a full belly and was nursing contentedly.

"We were lucky. But like she said, she'd rather eat berries, honey, and sweets. Likes grubs, too. How can any animal eat a fat white grub?"Pewter grimaced.

"Chickens love them."Tucker liked chickens, although their clucking could get on her nerves.

"Wonder if Harry will get more chickens? That last hen was Methuselah's chicken. I bet she was the oldest Rhode Island Red in the world."Pewter fondly recalled the ancient bird who cackled with delight to the last day of her uneventful life.

"When Harry puts straw in the chicken coop we can bet on more chickens."Tucker watched Harry wipe up the tick goo.

"All right, you all, I'm going to warm up Miranda's corn bread. Wish we hadn't missed her."

Miranda Hogendobber had driven by when Harry was at St. James. Finding no one home, she placed a large tin of corn bread on the screened-in porch with a note.

"Susan!"Tucker barked as she heard Susan's Audi station wagon turn off the state road onto the farm road.

Harry checked the old railroad clock on the wall, knew it was too early for Fair, but put up coffee since someone was coming. She trusted Tucker.

Within minutes Susan burst through the door, tulips in a pot. "Can you believe the color?"

Harry inspected the yellow tulips with deep red throats, red lines fanning out to the end of the petals. "They're incredible."

"My garden," Susan boasted. "For you."

"Thanks." Harry kissed her on the cheek. "Coffee, tea, Co-Cola, what?"

"Fresh coffee."

"Still percolating."

"I could use it. If it's not coffee, then it's my hot chocolate."

"You'll like this coffee. It's Javatra from Shenandoah Joe's."

"What are you having?"

"Co-Cola. Want some corn bread?"

"Well..." Susan wavered.

"Miranda's corn bread."

"Yes," came the decisive reply.

As the two stayed there happily slapping on butter and jam, drinking their beverages, the cats leapt up to sit in the window by the sink. Tucker repaired to her bed.

"I've been riding All's Fair." Harry mentioned the four-year-old gelding by Fred Astaire that Fair had given her as a yearling. "He did very well last year just walking along. I like to bring them along slowly, but he's got such a good mind."

"That was a wonderful present from your husband. I forget how old Tomahawk and Gin Fizz are getting."

"I forget how old I'm getting."

"Don't push it. We aren't forty yet."

"We aren't far, honeypie."

"Say, I came by to tell you that wine people are lunatics. Are you sure you want to grow those Peti-whatever out there?"

"What happened now?"

"Tanking up at the Amoco—"

Harry interrupted, something she rarely did. "Did you refinance your house?"

"Ha." Susan laughed drily. "Prices are so high that Ned and I talked the other night to see if we could get by with one vehicle and we just can't. Those trips to Richmond he takes devour the budget. He sold the BMW by the way, in Richmond, of course." She paused. "Filling the wagon. I hear these voices. Hy and Arch. Not angry but increasing in volume. Hy was worked up because Toby, I don't know when, sounded very recent, had been ugly to Fiona on the phone."

"Toby's really losing it," Harry interjected.

"Arch was telling Hy that Toby's gone to pieces over this Forland thing and to let him be. Hy said that Toby's rude and irresponsible, and everybody lets him get away with it. He's not going to put up with him. When Hy called to explain why Concho was on Toby's property, Toby blew up. Then he called back and blew up at Fiona. Hy's version, anyway, and Hy said we all needed to slap Toby down hard."

"What did Arch say?"

"He kept trying to soften Hy. I mean, it wasn't an argument. More that they didn't see eye to eye. Arch said he didn't much cotton to Toby, either, but there was no point in making a bad situation worse."

The phone rang. "Drat." Harry rose to pick up the old wall phone. "Hello. Hi, honey, where are you?"

"I'm on my way to Toby Pittman's," Fair replied. "I hope it won't be too long and then I'll be right home."

"What's going on over there?"

"His donkey, Jed, cut his hind leg. Toby sounds hysterical. Probably stitch him right up and be on my way."

"Susan says hello. Hurry home."

"I will."

She hung up the phone and relayed the information to Susan.

"Sure hope Fair isn't treated to one of Toby's lectures."

"I heard the one about Andrew Estave the other day."

"Andrew who?"

"Andrew Estave was hired by the Virginia Assembly in 1769 as winemaker and viticulturist for the colony. Virginians grew our first grapes in 1609, but we had a mess of problems. Anyway, over comes the Frenchman and he couldn't get the European grapes to do diddly, but he came to an important conclusion, which was that Virginians needed to use native grapes."

"Then what?"

"With Toby or with grapes?"

"Grapes," Susan laughed.

"Jefferson, the man of a million interests, brought over Philip Mazzei, an Italian wine merchant, and he was doing okay but the Revolution wrecked everything. Tell youwhat, when Toby gets wound up on this stuff, you can't tone him down. You should have heard him today at Alicia's. He accused Hy of trying to destroy everyone's crop. He accused him of killing Professor Forland!"

"What is he doing making these accusations to Alicia?"

"He wanted her to speak to Rick. He said the sheriff wouldn't listen to him. Arch was there, too. Alicia was cool as a cuke, as you'd expect."

"She probably witnessed major tanties in Hollywood." Susan used tanty for tantrum.

"She rarely talks about her film career. I'd like to know what Ava Gardner was like and Glenn Ford and..."

"Wrong generation. She was huge in the seventies and eighties."

"But those actors were still around. They interest me a lot more."

"Why?"

Harry shrugged. "I don't rightly know."

"I do. Better material. The studio system was still strong; they developed the actors, and the stars had better material. Also, stars didn't have their own production companies like they do today. I mean, I realize why they do it, but usually the stuff they select is just a star turn. Boring. I don't care how handsome or beautiful or even talented those people are; if they're in every frame of the picture, if the supporting roles aren't strong, I'm bored out of my head."

"Guess that's why we don't go to the movies." Harry failed to mention she had no time. "You were interested in film when we were kids. I sometimes wonder why you didn't go into it."

"Movie-star looks, that's me," Susan joked.

"You're pretty. But I wonder why you didn't go into some facet of the business?"

"Pregnant with Danny."

Harry crossed one leg over the other. "Hey, we are the generation that was told we could have it all: motherhood, career, deep personal satisfaction."

"They lied."

The phone rang.

Harry rose. "Bet it's more of a problem than he thought. Either that or it's Mim or Miranda." She looked at the clock, which read five after five. "Hello." A long silence followed this as her shoulders stiffened and her eyes widened.

Tucker, smelling the change, the worry, crawled out of her bed to sit next to Harry.

The cats turned from the window.

Susan put down her coffee cup.

Harry then replied, "Is there anything I can do?" Another silence followed. "Honey, I can't believe this." More silence as she listened intently. "I promise. You come home the minute you can. I love you. Bye." Ashen-faced, she hung up the phone.

"What?"

"Fair couldn't find Toby at the barn. He walked out into the vineyard. He heard a truck engine start up and caught sight of Hy driving away—fast."

Susan's eyebrows shot upward. "And?"

"Toby's dead. Shot a couple of times."

20

A soft wind swept over Rockland Vineyards; the new leaves swayed slightly, as did the hair on Toby's head. With his eyes wide open and his mouth slightly ajar, he appeared alive until one noticed the ever-widening circle of blood soaking his chest, another one at his stomach. He had slumped against the base of one of his vines in the row.

Fair studied the situation. Toby appeared to have taken a few steps backward after he was shot, because a few drops of blood speckled the grass. He was as freshly dead as he could be, unless Fair had shot him— then Toby would be dead for seconds instead of minutes.

Rick and Coop showed up within ten minutes, which gave Fair ten minutes to further observe Toby and to wonder at the abruptness of death.

When he called the sheriff with his cell phone, Fair mentioned that Hy had flown out of there, but he didn't know whether he'd turned left or right once out on the state road at the Rockland entrance.

In the far distance he could hear sirens; he expected officers were running down Hy.

Both Rick and Coop checked the ground as they approached the body.

"Did you hear shots?" Rick asked Fair.

"No. I was walking up from the barn. Maybe I was two hundred yards away, if that. It's a rise, but I did see Hy drive out once I reached about one hundred fifty yards."

"Did you hear Hy drive in?"

"No," Fair replied. "But I was in the barn looking for Jed." They stared at this name; he added, "Toby's donkey. I could have missed sounds, truck engines, even shouting. Once out of the barn I could hear well enough."

Coop squatted down near the new Ruger pistol in Toby's hand. She didn't touch it but sniffed the barrel. "Fired."

"What brought you here?" Rick asked Fair.

"Toby called. He said Jed cut his hind leg and I needed to come immediately. He was bleeding profusely."

"No donkey?" Rick rubbed his chin.

"No."

"What time did you reach the barn?"

"Four-thirty, give or take a minute," Fair told Rick.

"What time do you think you reached here?"

"Four forty-two. I checked my watch the second I saw him collapsed like that."

"Did you touch him?"

"Yes. If he showed any signs of life I would have done my best. An animal is an animal, and even though I'm a vet, I can fix up a human if it's a crisis."

"Mmm," Rick nodded as Coop moved behind Toby's body.

"One bullet still in him and one came through," she said.

"See if you can find it. Just put down a marker if you do."

As Coop was looking, the rescue-squad sirens wailed.

"This is a hell of a thing," Fair said.

He wasn't shaken by the corpse. He was a medical man, after all, but the fact that he had literally walked up on a man killed only moments before was unsettling. Erratic as Toby had been, Fair certainly didn't wish him dead.

Rick's phone rang. "Yeah." He listened intently. "Okay. Take him in." He clicked off just as Coop yelled, "Got it."

"Good. Got Hy. He tried to get away but finally gave up when he realized he had one squad car behind him and another blocking the road ahead."

"Did he have a gun?"

"No." Rick knew the chances of this being an open-and-shut case were rapidly dimming.

Coop studied Toby, sighed, and walked up to Fair. "You okay?"

"Yeah. Feel sorry for him."

"It was quick." Coop believed that was worth some solace.

Rick jotted down a few details.

"Do you two need me?"

"I know where to find you if I do. Why?" Rick replied.

"I'd like to find Jed and stitch him up. I'd hate for the poor little fellow to bleed to death."

"Go ahead," Rick said.

As Fair retreated back to the barn, Coop flipped open her notebook. "What do you think?"

Rick shrugged as he heard the rescue-squad vehicle turn onto the farm. "Hy Maudant will hire the best lawyer in the country."

"Yep."

"Anything else?"

He glanced at her. "I'd hate to die un-mourned."

21

Crozet shook as though one of the small earthquakes from the Blue Ridge Mountains had rumbled. The news of Toby's demise was on everyone's lips. Humans, being what they are, appear to enjoy horror on some level. The details of his corpse's disposition added additional allure to the sorry story.

The following morning Fair was in the operating room. He called Sheriff Shaw to ask if Harry could search for Jed. He wanted BoomBoom to accompany her. He emphatically did not want his wife out there alone.

The mercury stuck at fifty-four degrees at eight in the morning; the light breezes gave the temperature a cool tang. Since Boom was six feet tall and strong, Harry was glad she agreed to come along. For good measure both women packed a .38 to humanely end Jed's suffering if he were found in bad shape. Fair told Harry that Toby was very upset and kept repeating that Jed had deeply cut his hind leg.

The two women walked through Toby's small barn.

"These little blue pellets do kill the flies, but they crunch." Harry noted the blue dots on the center aisle.

"I don't like them underfoot,"Mrs. Murphy declared.

"Ever try those hanging lanterns filled with kill juice?" BoomBoom asked.

"The smell will kill you, too." Harry looked around again. "No flies here and no Jed."

"Silent as a tomb," BoomBoom said.

Tucker, at their heels, shuddered."Wish you hadn't said that."

"I had hoped that Jed would come back to his stall. Well, let's work in circles around the barn. When we can't see each other, let's come back here and go to plan B."

"Sounds good to me," BoomBoom agreed as she stepped into the feed-and-supply room. "Toby certainly was preparedfor summer. I've never seen so many rolls of flypaper or blue-crystal bait."

Harry stuck her head in the open doorway. "One donkey, and Toby was prepared for a zillion flies."

After an hour of checking through the vineyards and around the house, they reconvened back at the barn.

"Harry, we'd better work in quadrants. There's a lot left to cover, and we won't be able to see each other," BoomBoom, logical as always, suggested.

"Different quadrants or together?"

"Together. Let's stick together."

"You've got a point there," Harry agreed.

"I'm going back to the truck."Pewter had already had enough of the search and was desirous of her mid-morning nap.

When neither Mrs. Murphy nor Tucker mocked her, she changed her mind. After all, she might miss something, and then she'd have to hear about it ad infinitum.

BoomBoom zipped her Barbour jacket up to her neck as the wind picked up. "Kind of raw. You expect May to be warmer than this."

"Yeah. The closest farm with horses is the old Berryhill farm. Let's walk that wayfirst. If there's a mare in season—and this is the time they go in naturally—the little fellow will have picked up the scent long before we will."

"That kind of scent can travel a mile on a perfect day,"Tucker, the scent expert, agreed.

"What worries me, Harry, is we haven't seen so much as one hoof print."

"Yeah." Harry walked alongside the tall woman. "But there's been so much traffic on the farm roads that would wipe them out— most of them, anyway. And he's not shod, so he won't leave a deep print. But if there had been hoofprints, Fair would have seen them."

"He could have stayed on grass."

"He'd have to jump fences," Harry remarked.

"He can jump." Boom smiled.

They carefully examined the ground to the northwest of the barn, moving consistently in that direction.

"Remember when we were kids, how Grandpa Berryhill collected old farm tools? Everyone thought he was crackers. Be worth a fortune now." Harry liked things that were practical and enjoyed Mr. Berryhill's demonstrations of wooden cider presses, carding utensils, and butter churns.

"Line all died out. Not a Berryhill left."

"Kind of cruel, really. They were so prosperous, and then a dark cloud settled over them and just rained misery."

"You never know."

"No, you don't." Harry tramped down a soft, rolling meadow leading to low woodlands, a serviceable three-board fence dividing the open land from the woodland.

Harry grabbed the fence, because the grass, still slick, made the footing dicey. "I can't help wondering if Hy had something to do with Professor Forland's disappearance, only because Toby studied with Forland and still seemed enthralled with him in some way."

"Nah. Doesn't make any sense." Boom-Boom put her left hand on the top rail and gracefully soared over the fence with a push off.

Harry, not to be outdone, did the same. "Well, nothing makes sense until you find the links."

Pewter scooted under the bottom plank, as did Mrs. Murphy and Tucker.

The woodlands, cool and damp, reverberated with the sound of birds calling out their territory boundaries. Most daytime species already had eggs in the nests. Some birds sang for the pure pleasure of living.

"Bigmouths,"Pewter grumbled.

A piercing cry overhead alerted Mrs. Murphy to the red-tailed hawk."She may be a big mouth, but don't insult her. She's fearless. "

Pewter did respect big birds."Nasty beak."

"Ever notice how each bird has the right kind of beak for the food it eats?"Tucker found birds fascinating.

"Must be tough being a human with that flat mouth,"Pewter said."They can't eat off the ground. They can't eat without their hands; well, I guess they can, but what a mess. Their jaws go up and down and that's aboutit."

"True, but they're omnivorous, which gives them a big advantage. They can eat grains and vegetables, fruits and meats.Catsare obligate carnivores. We must eat fresh meat or cooked meat. I really do envy themtheir range of choices, because it allows them to survive about anywhere," Mrs. Murphy said.

"Doesn't matter where they live, they can't live without us. We kill the pests,"Pewter bragged, then yowled,"It's wet here. My paws are soaking wet."

"Poor darling,"Mrs. Murphy sarcastically remarked.

"Pewter, you ran through a thunderstorm,"Tucker reminded the fat gray cat.

"That was different. I had no choice."Pewter climbed on a fallen log."Pick me up! Harry, you come back here and pick me up!"

"What's she screaming about?" Harry turned to see Pewter marooned on her log.

For spite, Mrs. Murphy splashed past Pewter, puddle water now on her immaculate gray coat.

"/hate you, Murphy."

"Who cares?"The tiger ran ahead of BoomBoom.

Harry, worried that they'd come back by another route, returned to Pewter and picked her up. "Jesus, Pewts, go on a diet."

Tucker mumbled."What a phony."

"I heard that."Pewter wrapped her paws around Harry's neck as the human pushed through the mucky area.

After ten minutes of slogging through the lowlands, passing jack-in-the-pulpits on the edge of the swampy parts, hearing ground nesters in the swamp grass, they emerged at the edge of the old Berryhill place.

"I don't remember the place ever looking this good," BoomBoom commented on the restored Virginia farmhouse, the freshly painted white clapboard gleaming along with the new additions.

"The Hahns sure have done a lot in a year." Harry bent over, glad to put Pewter on the ground.

Pewter stood on her hind paws, reaching up to Harry's knee."I'm traumatized. Carry me some more."

"I'm going to throw up the biggest hair-ball."Mrs. Murphy pretended to gag.

"Ha! You'll throw up worms,"Pewter sassed back, now following Harry, who hadn't fallen for her ploy.

"We get wormed once a month, remember?"

"Doesn't work for you. Only works for Tucker and me,"Pewter saucily declared as they walked through the newly fertilized pastures to the stable, a tidy four-four stall structure that matched the house, Federal-period style.

"Let's check here before we knock on the door." Harry walked into the stable, which was clean. Three horses, contented, lounged in their stalls. Each door sported a brass nameplate.

Munching away in a stall, the door still open, stood Jed.

"Bingo!" BoomBoom called out as she found him first.

Harry trotted over to her, and they closed the stall door. "He's perfectly sound."

"So he is."

"Not a scratch." Harry felt her stomach tighten.

Mrs. Murphy, with presence of mind, asked the happy little fellow,"Did you cut your leg yesterday?"

"No,"came the one-syllable reply.

No one ever accused Jed of high intelligence.

"Who let you out?"Tucker picked up the line of questioning.

"No one."

"How'd you get here?"Pewter joined in the questioning.

"Jumped the fence."

"Jed, did you see anyone on your farm besides Toby?"Mrs. Murphy asked.

Jed laughed."No, didn't see anybody. Heard two trucks. I knew Toby'd be occupied, so I boogied on."

"Why'd you jump out?"Tucker sat down.

"Dunno. Felt good."

Harry and BoomBoom ran their hands over his legs. Jed didn't bat one loopy ear.

Mrs. Murphy looked at Tucker, then Pewter. Finally, she said,"Jed, Toby is dead."

Jed's lower lip dropped down."Huh?"

"He was murdered yesterday."

Two big tears welled up in Jed's large, pretty eyes. He let out a bray that startled Harry and BoomBoom.

"/loved Toby."

"I'm sorry, Jed. I'm sorry to tell you this."Mrs. Murphy was sympathetic.

"Harry will take you home until everything gets settled, Jed. Don't worry about anything like...you know."Pewter certainly didn't want to say what might happen to an animal no one wanted or, worse, pretended to want.

Many a knacker pretended to give a good home to a retiree or a homeless quadruped, only to cart the creature off to the slaughterhouse and pick up about eighty cents to a dollar a pound. Bad enough to cart an animal to a slaughterhouse. It's another sin to deliberately lie to people who trusted you.

Harry patted him on the neck. "Poor Jed. It's like he knows."

"Let's see if Christy's home." Boom-Boom wiped Jed's eye with a handkerchief from her coat pocket.

They walked out and knocked on the back door of the farmhouse.

"Just a minute."

They heard footsteps, then the door opened and pretty Christy Hahn opened it. Thirty-four and trim, she possessed a bubbling personality. "Come on in, Harry and BoomBoom. What a nice surprise."

"Actually, Christy, we've got to walk back to Pittman's farm. Jed's been missing, and we thought he might have come here and he did. When did he show up?"

"What?"

"He's in your barn; the stall door is open. We closed it."

"I bet he's in Hokie's stall. I turned him out early." Christy thought for a second. "Is he all right?"

"Fit as a fiddle." Harry smiled.

"Come on, girls, step inside. It's raw out today." Christy tugged them inside.

The three animals, muddy paws and all, walked inside, too. They had to stay in the mudroom.

The kitchen, completely remodeled by a New York interior-design firm, dazzled Harry and Fair.

"This is beautiful. The cabinetwork looks original." BoomBoom noted the white-oak cabinetry.

"It is. Came from England." Christy was pleased by the compliments.

Harry had other things on her mind. "Excuse me while I call the sheriff, then Fair, will you?"

As Harry gave Rick the particulars, then called Fair, Christy showed BoomBoom the downstairs of the house. The whole interior was English country. The floors had been sanded, stained again. The walls glowed with subtle colors. The patina on the furniture whispered "money."

BoomBoom couldn't wait to tell Alicia.

The two women reentered the kitchen.

"Perfect timing." Harry smiled. "The sheriff told me to take Jed. I'll go back home and bring the rig over."

"Harry, why don't you let me take Jed? Your horses aren't accustomed to looking at or smelling a donkey. Mine have at least gotten used to Burly."

"What's going to happen to Jed?" Christy folded her hands together.

"I don't know. Toby has a sister in Charlottesville, but they didn't get on. I doubt she'll want Jed. We'll work something out. He'll be safe and sound."

"It's upsetting." Christy shivered involuntarily. "This dreadful murder next door."

"They hated each other. It's a sad end."

"Scares all of us," BoomBoom replied.

"It will take me about an hour and a half. Will you still be here?" Harry inquired.

"I'll be here."

Harry and BoomBoom opened the back door to the mudroom.

Christy offered, "Let me drive you back to Pittman's."

"We'd better walk, because we have the cats and the dog. Muddy paws," Harry said.

"That's what station wagons are for."

She smiled, grabbed a Buffalo plaid jacket off the hook by the back door, and walked out to lift the hatch on her red Volvo XC70.

Within minutes they were back at Pittman's farm.

"Thanks, Christy," Harry said.

"I'll look for you all later."

As she drove off, BoomBoom turned to Harry. "Why would Toby lie about Jed?"

Why, indeed?

22

Fair had left the house at four in the morning without a cup of coffee. He delivered a healthy filly out on Route 810 and was now glad to be pulling into the coffee-shop parking lot.

The three men emerged from their vehicles simultaneously. Bo took one look at Arch, then at Fair.

"You sorry son of a bitch!" Bo growled.

"What the hell did I do?" Fair kept levelheaded.

"Not you. Arch." Bo stepped in front of Fair toward Arch, who wisely came up next to Fair.

"Bo, it wasn't my idea."

"Bullshit!"

"It wasn't my idea."

"Arch, you are the most competitive piece of shit I know. You cover it up. You're worse than your goddamned arrogant, idiot boss!"

"Bo, tell us how you really feel." Fair tried to lighten the moment.

Bo's sense of humor rarely failed him, even when angry. He stopped. "You're right. You're right." He took a deep breath. "Why'd you do it?"

"I told you, Bo, Rollie sent me downtown to Toby's sister yesterday. And she's a damned mess."

"Over Toby?" Fair's curiosity grew with each exchange.

"Hell, no. She hated his guts. He was the one who told her she was manic-depressive and needed heavy-duty tranqs."

"She is. All the Pittmans are crazy," Fair agreed.

"True, the whole goddamned family is nuts. They've been nuts since before the Revolutionary War. If any family ever made a case for free abortion on demand, it's the Pittmans." Bo added his two cents.

"I don't suppose either of you would like to tell me why you're cussing?"

"He's cussing. I'm not," Arch answered Fair.

Of course, he'd used the word "damned," but that must have slipped his mind.

"Arch went down to Tabitha—what's her married name now? She's married to some crackhead."

"Martin. Don't know that he's a crack-head, but he's as cracked as she is."

"Maybe they're in treatment together," Fair said, again joking.

"Guess what? It's not working." Arch showed a flash of humor. "All right. Here's what went down. Rollie waited about ten minutes. He said under the circumstances that was all that was necessary. I then offered to buy Toby's farm from Tabitha once the estate was settled."

"And?" Fair raised an eyebrow.

"She said it would take a year to settle it all."

"By which time the grapes will be ruined. Someone has to tend to them and harvest them. All that work." Bo's cheeks flushed.

"That's what I told her. So anyway, after a long, drawn-out process during which I heard everything she loathed about her brother, I offered to rent the farm. When the estate is settled Spring Hill will buy it."

"Did she sign a contract?" Bo, keen to the letter of the law, leaned forward.

"She did. Look, Bo, I know you've got this Belgian couple looking for suitable land for a vineyard, and Toby's place is perfect. The vines are established; the land drains quickly. He's got equipment. It's perfect. Rollie might have been insensitive in timing, but you know if we hadn't grabbed it, you or someone else would have." He stopped a minute. "Truth is, Bo, we beat you to it."

Bo grimaced slightly but didn't reply.

"Competition is the lifeblood of trade." Arch smiled slowly.

Fair agreed, then remarked, "Arch, what do you think about Toby's murder?"

"I'm not surprised." Arch folded his arms across his chest. "Toby pushed Hy and I guess Hy snapped."

"Do you look heavenward and say, Toby's at peace now'?"

"Not me," Arch said.

"Guess you're right," Bo said.

The three went inside and slipped into a booth. Bo had a double order of waffles with local honey poured over them; Arch ate eggs and bacon, as did Fair. A moment of contented silence followed, as it so oftendoes. The world becomes charming on a full stomach.

Finally Bo asked Fair, "Anyone hear anything about Hy?"

"No, and Fiona isn't talking to anyone but her lawyer. She engaged McGuire Woods."

"That was smart." Arch put down his heavy white coffee cup.

McGuire Woods, a large, prestigious firm, had depth in every manner of law in which one could become entangled.

"Smart. See, that's where I keep running into a wall." Bo leaned back. "Hy is damned smart. Why would he be so incredibly stupid?"

"Maybe there was more to it than we know. I mean to Hy and Toby's bad blood," Fair offered.

Bo shook his head. "Still, Hy acted like an idiot. It just doesn't compute."

"Guess we didn't know Hy." Fair lifted his cup for more coffee, which the waitress supplied.

"Does anybody know anybody? Really?" Bo enjoyed philosophical discussions.

"Do you know yourself?" Fair smiled. "My way of looking at the world is: deeds,not words. I watch what people do and I don't listen so much to what they say."

"Good program," Arch agreed.

Bo turned to Fair, and directly asked, "What the hellwere you doing at Toby's?"

"He called all upset and told me I had to rush right over because Jed cut his hind leg. When I got there I couldn't find Jed. What I found was Toby."

"Where's Jed? Did they find him?" Arch asked.

"Don't you watch the morning news?" Bo inquired.

"I'm out in the fields by six," Arch replied.

"Seven o'clock news reported Jed was found yesterday at the old Berryhill farm. All's well with Jed, I guess." Bo shrugged.

"What about his leg?" Arch asked Fair.

"Not a scratch."

"Huh?" Bo dropped his arms.

Arch stared down at the table for a second. "Poor guy. Toby was really losing it."

"What? Toby was hallucinating?" Bo sharply asked.

"Who knows? But strange as he could be, Toby in his right mind wouldn't see a wound that wasn't there." Arch's voice rose. "It is weird. It's like Forland's disappearance pulled a loose thread and the whole cloth unraveled."

"The Pittmans are peculiar, as we've noted," Fair added.

"For Christ's sake, every family in Virginia is peculiar. You all have been nursing your peculiarities since 1607." Bo poked a finger at both Virginia men but in good humor.

"Hey, you weren't born a Virginian, but you got here as soon as you could," Fair poked back.

"I deserve that." Bo smiled. "Well, I don't know about you two, but I have to earn a living."

As Arch paid the bill to mollify Bo—he paid Fair's, too, which was gracious—Bo begged Fair to call him if anything suitable became available for the Belgian couple.

As the three men drove their separate ways, Rick, Coop, and an entire team combed Toby's house. The department computer whiz hunched over the new computer Toby bought in the winter. Toby had bragged about its ASUS motherboard.

So far, every single thing that turned up in the computer, on his desk, and on his bookshelves related to grapes, agriculture. He had everything Professor Forland had published plus unpublished materials, works in progress. One had to be proficient in organic chemistry to read the late professor's work. Toby was. The computer whiz was not.

Toby Pittman's entire narrow existence— like that of his mentor, who had a somewhat wider sweep—was dedicated to the grape, to making wine.

In vino veritas.

23

Hy Maudant was back at White Vineyards by Wednesday. Bail had been set at one million dollars. When Hy's attorney paid it without comment, all of Crozet—indeed, all of Albemarle County—gasped at how rich he must be.

Hy strolled out of jail an almost free man. Paying the bail was his way of giving everyone the finger. Since he did not discuss his net worth, this cool forking over of the money made him appearreally rich, powerful, and confident.

That's what he wanted people to think.

He no sooner arrived home than within twenty-four hours another crisis struck: a very late springtime frost.

Usually frost disappears by mid-April, not to return until mid-October. In recent memory, a frost blanketed central Virginia once as late as May 22. But on the other side of the dreaded—courtesy of the IRS—April 15, farmers and vintners usually breathed a sigh of relief.

This May 11, man and beast awoke to silvery meadows.

Hy immediately called in ten huge helicopters to hover over the vineyards at 120 feet. The ground temperature was twenty-eight degrees Fahrenheit. He ordered the machines an hour before daybreak. Had the frost been predicted, he would have called them the night before.

Jack Frost snuck up on everyone, especially the weatherman.

The helicopters, each at the cost of five hundred dollars per hour, pushed warmer air down to the ground. Four hours later, with the help of the choppers and the sunshine that bathed the hills and valleys, the mercury rose to forty degrees.

Hy saved his grapes. Whether or not he could save himself remained to be seen.

Arch Saunders, not three miles away, had a devil of a time renting helicopters, because Kluge Estate Vineyard, White Vineyards, Oakencroft, and King Vineyards had rented

everything within a three-hour flight radius of Albemarle County.

He finally managed to procure four, at six hundred fifty dollars an hour each. By the time the noisy machines flew off like giant dragonflies, Arch figured they'd lost ten to thirty percent of the crop. Rollie was furious.

The following day, May 12, the countryside glowed in sixty-seven-degree warmth.

Harry had no recourse to helicopters, but her Petit Manseng proved a tough variety. The grape survived through the centuries not only because of careful cultivation but also because of hardiness. Indeed, Petit Manseng was so old it had been used to baptize Henry IV of France in 1553.

Early on the evening of May 12, thanks to Daylight Savings Time, Harry had enough light to keep working. The varieties of sunflowers, redbud clover, and alfalfa that she selected were either native to the area or especially rugged.

Central Virginia weather could provide cold winters as well as sizzling summers. It was a crapshoot.

As Harry finished up, returning to thebarn to check on the horses, she wondered at the shock those early English settlers must have felt in the first quarter of the seventeenth century. The American climate was harsher, the indigenous peoples were so different from Europeans. The wildlife and plant life, much of it, was new to them.

"Fair."Tucker heard his truck.

"He'sbeen working so hard. The pace should be easing off by now,"Mrs. Murphy remarked.

Pewter sauntered into the barn."I'm here."

"So?"The tiger half-closed her eyes.

"Don't you want to know where I've been?"

"Sleeping in the house."Tucker trotted to the open barn doors to await Fair's arrival.

"If that's my reception, I'll keep my news to myself."Pewter walked out, pausing a moment for effect, then headed toward the back porch door, the flab of her belly swaying to and fro.

"If she thinks I'm going to beg, she's wrong."Mrs. Murphy watched the gray cat.

"Yeah, but what if she really knowssomething?"Tucker often fell for Pewter's machinations.

Mrs. Murphy considered this but forgot about it when Fair pulled up in his truck.

The two animals ran to greet him. He knelt down to make a fuss over them as Harry emerged into the fading sunlight.

"I'd like a kiss, too."

"With pleasure." He scratched Tucker's ears, then ran his forefinger along Mrs. Murphy's cheek before standing to embrace his wife. "Long day?"

"Yes, but the frost didn't hurt us, thank God."

"Got some other folks." He opened the driver's door again, running his hand where the seat back joined the seat bottom.

"What'd you lose?"

"Quarters. Fell out of my pocket."

"Don't you hate that?" she commiserated. "Always happens at one of the toll booths on Route 64 in West Virginia."

As they entered the kitchen, the phone rang.

Fair picked it up; his shoulders stiffened as he listened, then he said, "Good-bye."

"What was that all about?"

"Hy Maudant." Fair grabbed string cheese from the fridge.

"What does he want?"

"He said he saw me walking up the hill when he drove out. He's sorry he didn't stop, but he was, in his words, 'not in full possession of himself.' He said he was so rattled by the sight of Toby that he ran."

"How very convenient that Toby had his own gun in his hand."

Fair ate a long piece of string cheese, handing some to his wife. "Sure was. Saw Bo Newell the other day, and Arch, too, at the coffee shop. Wound up having breakfast with them once they got over themselves, and Arch actually paid. I figured he'd pay for Bo but not me. He'll never forgive me for winning you back."

"Honey, that was years ago, Arch and my time together. Tell me what happened."

"Oh, well, Bo said Hy wouldn't be that stupid."

"It's hard to believe he wasn't. He killed Toby and put Toby's own gun in his hand. What's so difficult to believe about that?" She played devil's advocate, because she'd begun to wonder herself.

"There's something to that, but it's not so far-fetched to think someone would lose their composure walking up to a freshly killed man. And there's something else that bothers me. I would have heard the shots. I didn't hear a thing."

"The other thing is, Toby called about Jed, and Jed's fine. How quickly did you get there after Toby called?"

"Couldn't have been ten minutes. I wasn't that far and I put the pedal to the metal."

"How long do you think Toby had been dead?"

"Minutes. Literally minutes. He had to have been shot just before I reached the barn." He took a long breath. "I pick on you when your curiosity spikes. Now it's me."

"I'm so glad you recognize that." She gloated ever so slightly.

"Something is missing."

"Professor Forland."

"The two aren't connected."

"We don't know that." Harry reached for more cheese.

"True, but say that Toby's murder is exactly what it seems to be: the end result of an ongoing feud, of bad feelings. There's still something we don't know."

"That's not consoling."

"No, it isn't."

Pewter, who had soaked up every word, turned to Mrs. Murphy and Tucker again."Don't you want to know where I've been?"

"Oh, Pewter."Mrs. Murphy dismissed her.

"All right, then."Miffed though she was, Pewter looked like the cat who swallowed the canary.

24

"I don't know." Big Mim stood in the middle of the quad in front of her old stable, originally built in 1802.

The new stable under construction, its back facing north, was sited at a right angle to the old stable.

Tazio Chappars had designed the new stable so it harmonized with the old, using the same graceful proportions and the same roof pitch.

The 1802 structure, which was brick and painted white, bore testimony to the enduring quality of the materials and the design. Both stables had excellent drainage.

The new one had pipes running underneath to two huge buried holding tanks, four thousand gallons each. Each drain in the new stable was covered with a perforated lid. This kept out much of the debris while allowing a stable hand to lift it and clean it out with a plumber's snake.

The new stable, instead of being infested with wires, had a small dish facing due south so Paul de Silva could use his computer without electricity.

A backup generator was housed in an insulated room that also contained a large hot water heater. A small heat pump for the office would be hidden outside behind the office once construction was finished and bushes could be planted.

The work stall had recessed lights, some of which were heat lamps controlled by a separate switch.

The brilliant design never shouted. The tranquillity of the stable would be further enhanced by the landscaping once the last truck rolled away.

Harry, next to Mim, admired Violet Hill, the stunning four-year-old blood bay that Mim loved.

"You know what you really want to do." Harry thought the filly one of the best movers she had ever seen.

"Mom will tell Big Mim to do what she wants to do,"Mrs. Murphy, resting underthe eaves of the old stable, commented to Press Man, the springer spaniel puppy Mim had purchased to enliven her old, much loved springer spaniel, currently asleep at the house.

The little guy, all of five months, thought Mrs. Murphy hung the moon because she talked to him.

Mim's barn cats hissed and swatted at Press.

Tucker observed Paul now running alongside Violet Hill, encouraging the beautiful horse to extend her trot, which she did.

Pewter, also under the eaves, kept her eye on purple finches eating fennel seed from a feeder hung not far from the barn.

"Paul, thank you. Any more and you'll have completed the marathon." The elegant older woman laughed.

"Anyone else you'd like to see, Senora?"

"No, thank you."

Handsome, tightly built, and light on his feet, the young trainer walked Violet Hill back to the old stable. She would be wiped down, then turned out.

Mim, like Harry, believed horses needed to be out.

"I can't decide." Big Mim crossed her arms over her crisp white cotton shirt.

"If you send her out," Harry meant on the steeplechase circuit, "she may do very well. She has a large heart girth, large nostrils, and a big throat latch. I like that. Makes it easy to get air into those big lungs. But it's a risk to the mind."

"Yes."

"She may like 'chasing, you never know."

"Yes."

"But, as you know more than I, it can change a horse's personality forever. Some can retire to hunt. Others can't do it."

"She could always be a broodmare. There's not that much wolf blood out there." Big Mim named her sire, an Argentine import.

"You'd look fabulous in the hunt field on a blood bay."

A light flickered in Big Mim's eyes. "I've never had one, you know. Not in all these years."

"Blood bays are unusual. A true blood bay."

A long, happy sigh escaped Mim's lips. "I'll hunt her. She's been bold over the small fences here. She loves being outside; plus,we get along. Wonderful smooth gaits. That's good on these old bones."

"You've ridden her, then?" Harry thought to herself how deep the bond ran between a true horseman and the horse.

"With Paul on Toodles. Dear old Mr. Toodles is so calm. I think he talks to her."

"Lucky?"

"Not much. She certainly notices everything, but then, Thoroughbreds do. Saddle-breds, too. They're so intelligent. I can't believe people think otherwise." Mim stopped a moment. "She didn't even shy when a big, red-shouldered hawk flew low over here. Scared me. She stopped, then walked in. I am just besotted with this horse."

"I would be, too," Harry honestly replied.

"I'm so glad you dropped by. I've been wanting you to see her again. Fair's quite taken with her."

"I know. That's one of the reasons I came by. He's talked about Violet Hill so much that I had to see her. I haven't really seen her much since she was a yearling. As you know, Fair is one of her—and your—biggest fans." Harry followed Big Mim as she walked to the old stable. This pleased Mim, because she knew Harry was being genuine.

Wrought-iron benches bearing Mim's colors, red and gold, in a center medallion beckoned.

Mim sat on the long cushion, with Harry next to her.

"Well?"

Harry laughed. After all, Big Mim knew her when she was in her mother's womb. She launched right in. "Toby Pittman was killed with his own gun."

"Yes." Mim knew from Rick as well as her husband about the disposition of the body.

"Fair never heard the shots. He should have heard them."

"True, but he could have arrived just after Hy killed Toby." Mim's logic was strong. "And when the coroner examined the body he found signs of struggle. Marks on Toby's wrist. A smashed finger, as though he'd been held on the ground and his hand pummeled against the earth. He had a broken cheekbone, as well."

"How come Fair missed that? He's observant."

"Toby had on a long-sleeved shirt. And according to Rick his face wasn't caved in. It might have looked like a red mark where he was hit. One other thing: three shots were fired."

"Ah." Harry crossed her feet at the ankles. "Maybe he did get a shot off at Hy."

"They haven't found the bullet. Not on the farm or in Hy's truck. It would help if that third bullet were found."

"Do you think Hy killed Toby?"

"Yes."

The third bullet preyed on Harry's mind. She wanted to find it.

When she did, finally, it nearly killed her.

As the humans talked, Mrs. Murphy, enticed by the chirping, also came out on the lawn.

"/was here first" Pewter had a territorial moment.

"/ canwatch the birds as well as you can."

Up on the bird feeder, the purple finches, who had been joined by goldfinches, eyed the cats inching forward.

"Want to fly away?"the brightest purple finch asked the others.

"They can't get us,"answered a goldfinch.

"/know. But we could poop on them." The bright purple finch cracked a fennel seed.

"Yay!"the others answered, lifting off the perches as if in fear of the felines, only to circle, then fly over, releasing their contents.

"No fair"Pewter skedaddled back under the eaves.

The two dogs laughed, which did not improve Mrs. Murphy's humor as she took a direct hit.

Driving home, the three animals listened to the radio. Mrs. Murphy, grumbling, cleaned furiously.

"Square in the center of the back. That's hard to reach,"Tucker commiserated.

"Finches are supposed to be mean."Pewter got off lightly with a sprinkle on her paw. She'd already cleaned it.

"Birds are birds," adisgusted Mrs. Murphy said, then further complained, "/wish she'd turn off that country music. I hate that stuff."

"She's singing along, and even she doesn't much like it. Must be in a mood. Fat chance."Pewter so rarely heard popular music that she wasn't yet irritated by it.

"Guess you two still don't want to know where I went."

Exasperated, Mrs. Murphy narrowed her pupils."We're dying to hear."

"You're sarcastic. I'm not talking to you when you're like that."

"I really want to know."Tucker had no stomach for a cat fight.

With great satisfaction, Pewter said,"Stealth bombers."

25

"That wasn't here before." Pewter indicated some sticky strips, old-time fly catchers, twirling from a few lower branches.

"Maybe you didn't notice."Tucker knew she shouldn't have said that the minute it popped out of her mouth.

"/saw everything!" Pewter's pupils became slits for a second."I'm not human. They can't see the nose on their faces."

Mrs. Murphy inhaled the odor of the abandoned Alverta peach grove that Harry was reviving. The tang of the tree bark, the lingering scent of tiny dots where blossoms had been, where the delicious fruit could ripen, all informed her. This small orchard, bursting with life, was inviting. Few folks remained who grew Alverta peaches. Harry understood the need for crop diversity. Agribusiness, however, was becoming monocrop farming, a dangerous development genetically.

"You're silent as the tomb,"Pewter sassed.

"I seethe stealth bombers."Mrs. Murphy noted the glassy-winged insects that looked like the famed combat jet.

"Some died on the sticky strips."Tucker marveled at how many little corpses there were.

"Along with every kind of fly in the county."Pewter loathed flies. They tried to deposit tiny white eggs in her tuna.

Mrs. Murphy asked the gray cat,"Footprints yesterday?"

"I don't think so."In truth, Pewter hadn't noticed.

"There are today."Tucker put her gifted nose down on the large treads left by work boots.

"Tire tracks?"Mrs. Murphy asked Pewter.

"No."

"Anyone could park behind the equipment sheds and walk up here. We wouldn't know. It's too far away."Mrs. Murphy sat staring up at the insects on the sticky strips, listening to the variety of insects flying."What a strange bug."

A scarlet tanager chirped as he sat on a branch farther down the orchard row.

"Anything with six legs is strange."Pewter wasn't making the connection.

Tucker walked into the orchard, followed by Mrs. Murphy.

The orchard faced south, to soak up the warmth and light. A northern exposure would be too fierce at this latitude. A rise behind the small orchard protected the peaches from the north winds.

Peaches could grow in central Virginia, but the farmer had to protect the tree much more than apple trees.

Tucker reached the disturbed earth. Mrs. Murphy sat on the edge of the packed dirt.

Pewter, on her haunches, fretted, then joined Mrs. Murphy, asking,"What? What's noticeable?"

"This grave-size slight depression."The tiger paced the long side, seven feet, of the depression.

"That's what the bear said."Pewter recalled the unintended visit.

"/half-believed her and half didn't." Tucker kept sniffing the earth."Bears can be such fibbers."

"/believed her. I didn't know how we could get Harry here, and then all that other stuff happened." Mrs. Murphy put her nose down, then asked Tucker,"Can you smell a body?"

"If it's above six feet, I can. Below I can't. So if there's a body in here, whoever buried it dug deep."

"We have to get Harry here."Mrs. Murphy started for home.

The animals trotted down the sloping pasture, crossed the rutted-dirt farm road, slipped under the old fencing, the locust posts holding firm.

Tucker started running. The cats followed her lead, over another pasture, then under more old fencing. They saw the Jones graveyard below to their right. Usually they'd linger there a moment, for it was so peaceful and often wild animals were there, as well, so they could chat. Not today.

Upon reaching Harry's Creek, Tucker Plunged in. She enjoyed a good swim. Mrs. Murphy followed, although she hated getting wet.

Pewter halted a moment, opened her mouth to complain, her deep pink tonguebright against her gray color. Her two friends reached the creek bank.

"Bother,"she mumbled to herself, jumping in, dog-paddling for all she was worth, her ears flat against her head held high.

Mrs. Murphy turned once on top of the creek bank. Satisfying herself that Pewter wouldn't drown, she kicked into high gear to catch up with Tucker, hustling toward home.

Corgis, fast, can turn on a dime, too. Mrs. Murphy flew alongside the determined canine.

A wet Pewter, sputtering with fury, lagged fifty yards behind. Beads of water sprayed off her fur, turning into tiny rainbows.

The two front-runners skidded into the barn not two minutes after crossing the creek a half mile away.

Harry had to be in the barn or house, because they didn't see or smell her outside.

Sure enough, Harry, on her hands and knees, was in the wash stall. The drain cover was removed, the trap sat on the floor, and she scrubbed down into the eight-inch-wide pipe with a long, thin stiff brush. The drain rarely clogged, because she repeated this procedure once a week, and because years ago when she rehabbed the barn she put in large pipes.

"Come with me!"Tucker barked.

Pewter brought up the rear.

"Pewter, you look like something the cat dragged in," Harry laughed.

"This isn't funny. Stop what you're doing and come with us."Pewter ignored Harry's jest.

"She's right, Mom. Just leave everything. You can put it back later."Mrs. Murphy leapt onto Harry's shoulders.

"Murphy." Harry felt creek droplets soak through her white T-shirt. Pawprints festooned the shoulders. "Oh, well." Harry reached back to pat her friend.

Mrs. Murphy licked her hand while Pewter continued to urge Harry to get up and go.

"Come on. Follow me,"Tucker pleaded.

Harry replaced the drain trap as Mrs. Murphy dug into the human's shoulders to hang on.

"Those claws hurt."

"You're lucky I don't really use them."

Pewter encouraged Tucker."Try the running-away-and-coming-back routine. She usually pays attention to that"

Tucker barked loudly, dashed down the center aisle, returned, barked more. She repeated this until Harry gently placed Mrs. Murphy on the floor.

"All right."

"Let's go!"As Tucker hustled out the opened doors, light streamed in.

Harry grew up on this farm. Animals surrounded her. Given the limitations of her species, she knew as best she could that all three were worked up and needed her attention. It wasn't until she was halfway to the creek that she realized this was going to be a hike. But her friends, insistent, prodded her on. When she hesitated at the creek swollen with spring rains, Tucker boldly nipped at her heels.

"Tucker, I get the picture. And don't you dare tear up my new work boots, you hear me?"

"Come on. Come on. It's not that bad. We'llshow you the best place,"the mighty dog cajoled.

Although the ford was the best place, thebanks were steep. Tucker, without glancing back, catapulted off the bank.

Harry watched Tucker's tail-less rump disappear under the water. When Mrs. Murphy followed suit, Harry ran back about twenty yards, picked up speed, and pushed off the bank. She made it to the other side, hearing a crescent of the bank's lip tumble into the water.

"I'm not going in here again!"Pewter wailed.

Neither Mrs. Murphy nor Tucker paid any mind to the gray cat.

Harry looked across the creek. "Pewts, go on back to the barn."

"Carry me!"Pewter wailed piteously.

"Dear God, give me patience," Harry muttered, then gauged the distance, walked back thirty yards this time, ran hard, and sailed over. She picked up Pewter, now purring, put her on her shoulders. "Hang on."

Crouching low on Harry's broad shoulders, claws sunk in, Pewter gushed, "/love you."

Taking into account her feline burden, Harry hit the turbocharger and made it, although her right foot just found purchase onthe bank. Part of the softened earth gave way and she lurched forward as Pewter leapt off. When she righted herself, she had to laugh, for the gray cat had the good manners to wait for her when she could have run ahead.

Mrs. Murphy and Tucker, frustrated, sat down until Harry and Pewter drew closer. Then they again took the lead.

Sweat rolled over Harry's forehead by the time she reached the peach orchard. The sun, high, drenched with golden light the tiny first nubs, the dark bark incised with thin horizontal lines raised at the edges.

The two cats and dog darted into the peach rows. Harry shrugged but dutifully followed.

Tucker stopped, as did Mrs. Murphy, nearly dry from running. Pewter was perfectly dry.

Harry blinked at the sight of the sticky strips. She examined one. She walked to the next one, peering intently.

Noticing the stealth-bomber bugs, different from the others, she almost got her nose stuck on the yellow strip.

"What in the hell is going on?" she exclaimed.

Tucker barked,"Come here."

Harry did. She beheld the earth and her heart dipped deeper than the sunken dirt.

26

Because of the peach rows, the sheriff did not bring in a backhoe. Two men rhythmically dug into the reasonably workable dirt. If it had rained within the last week the task would have been easier, but at least the earth wasn't hard.

Coop and Rick reached Harry within a half hour of her call. So did Fair. He canceled his last appointment—hoof X-rays for a purchase exam.

Mrs. Murphy, Pewter, and Tucker sat by Harry and Fair, although as the men dug deeper the pleasing aroma of decay enticed Tucker. The humans couldn't smell it until one man's spade hit a rib cage.

He stepped back, eyes watering.

Rick and Cooper moved to the grave's edge. The other digger stopped, too.

It was time to call in the forensics team. By early evening they knew they had Professor Forland.

Harry and Fair were aghast at the news but not entirely surprised once it was apparent the remains were human.

Coop had dropped by to tell them.

"Do you know how he was killed?" Harry asked.

"He had been shot, but that doesn't mean that's what killed him. The coroner will know soon enough." She then spoke to Fair. "You found Toby, and we found Professor Forland on your property."

"So I'm under suspicion?"

"You are." She adored Fair, but she was also a very good law-enforcement officer.

"Are you going to arrest him?" Harry's hands shook slightly.

"No. I'm just letting you know where things stand, and," she paused, "I'm sorry."

As soon as Cooper drove off, Fair called Ned. "Ned, I need you."

After Ned agreed to represent Fair, Harry called Patricia Kluge and Bill Moses, since they were the last people to see Professor Forland alive, apart from the killer. Harry then asked Bill if she could bring over a strip of the flypaper with the strange insect.

If Bill didn't know what it was, he'd find out fast enough, since he had every conceivable program for his computer relative to wine-growing.

Then Harry, Fair, Mrs. Murphy, Pewter, and Tucker glumly sat in the living room.

Finally Harry said, "We'll get to the bottom of this."

"I hope so, honey. Innuendo can ruin one's reputation. Sometimes I think the facts are irrelevant once the media gets hold of you."

"We'll come through." She put her hand on his. "In the meantime, we carry on. Business as usual."

He was glad she was by his side. "Right."

Pewter, on the back of the couch behind Fair, faced Mrs. Murphy, who was behind Harry. Tucker curled up at the end of the sofa.

"Thought of something,"Pewter piped up.

"What?"Mrs. Murphy's tail swayed slightly.

"Jedheard two trucks."

Tucker lifted her head."Hy's and Fair's." "He couldn't have heard Fair's truck. Jed had jumped out and was on his way by then. That's why Fair couldn't find him." Pewter sat up.

Mrs. Murphy looked at Pewter, then at Tucker."She's right"

27

"It cuts the water supply, cuts off the nutrients going through the xylem, like our veins." Bill Moses studied the sharpshooter on his computer screen.

Harry had taken the strips to Bill and Patricia. Hy Maudant might know of the glassy-winged sharpshooter, but Harry had considered his position and hers. Also, Patricia and Bill could quickly command help if needed. Right now, Hy could not.

Patricia leaned over her husband's shoulder as he brought up a picture of the odd-looking insect. "How long does it take to get established?"

"That's just it." Bill hunched forward as he scrolled up more information. "The sharpshooter shouldn't be here at all. We're too far north."

"But it is here." Harry absorbed their rising concern.

"It just doesn't make sense." Bill then answered his wife's question. "If this insect introduces the bacteria into the vine, it can kill all of them in one to two years. According to this, some vines may survive five years, but the glassy-winged sharpshooter shouldn't be able to survive frosts."

"What were the sharpshooters doing in my peach orchard?" Harry asked.

"Because the bacteria can infect peaches, plums, almonds, as well as grapes. It may not take hold in your orchard, but you don't want to wait to find out."

"No." Angry, Harry's heart beat faster. "No. And why does someone want to harm my peaches? There are hardly any Alverta peaches left. Bad enough Professor Forland's body was there. I just can't believe it."

"Right now your Alverta peaches seem to be a magnet for evil." Patricia put her arm around Harry's shoulders, then asked her husband, "Bill, how does the disease spread? I know the insect carries it, but how quickly can it spread?"

Bill scrolled up more information. "Mmm,a sharpshooter can fly a quarter of a mile. Once established, the insect population explodes. And the bacteria can be transmitted to the host within an hour's worth of feeding."

"That's a long time to eat," Harry ruefully joked.

"What else?" Patricia moved from Harry to lean over Bill again.

"One good thing: not all sharpshooters are infected."

"So maybe these bugs are clean?" Harry said hopefully.

"We should call the USDA."

"Yes. We need to send some of these strips to Virginia Tech, too. They'll work fast." Bill looked back at the screen. "Today. We have to do this today. In the 1880s, the sharpshooter destroyed thirty-five thousand acres of vineyards in southern California. When the sharpshooter migrated to the Hill Country of Texas after five unusually warm winters, it killed every vine in every vineyard, and that was after 1995."

"My grapes are more than a mile from the peach orchard." Harry felt a ripple of despair. "Isn't there anything I can do to protect my peaches or my grapes?"

"Put up sticky strips to keep an eye on your insect population. There isn't a tried-and-true remedy." He stood up. "I'll run these strips down to Blacksburg."

Blacksburg, home of Virginia Tech, was in the Shenandoah Valley, a good two-and-a-half hours away.

"I'll take some to the USDA office, then," Patricia said. The agency kept a small office off Berkmar Drive in Albemarle County.

"I'm going back to my peach orchard. Maybe I can trap whoever is doing this. Put up a sticky strip for a human."

"Harry, don't do that," Bill commanded. "I mean it. You don't know who did this. Considering everything that's been happening, it could be dangerous."

"Killed for a peach." Harry rolled her eyes.

Bill's brows furrowed. "People have been killed for less. Until we really know who killed Professor Forland, we'd better be as vigilant around people as around these sharpshooters."

Patricia punched a button on her cell phone for a prerecorded number. As she waited she asked Harry, "Are you going right home?"

"Yes."

"Sixty-four?" Patricia named the interstate.

"Yes."

Patricia diverted her attention from Harry. "Hello, this is Patricia Kluge. Is Deputy Cooper there?"

Within seconds, Cooper picked up. "Deputy Cooper here."

"Coop, will you meet Harry at her farm in a half hour? Apart from last night's grisly discovery, someone has been tampering with her peach orchard, and it could have disastrous consequences for many of us. She'll explain when you get there."

"I'll be there."

"Harry, get moving." Bill kissed her on the cheek.

As she drove out, Harry noted that Kluge Estate sat at the same elevation her farm did, from eight hundred to one thousand feet. That elevation was perfect for apples and certain grape varieties.

Virginia ranked sixth in the nation for growing apples, and the state was moving up in the grape-growing numbers, too.

When Harry arrived home, two disgruntled cats and one joyful dog greeted her.

"You left without me."Pewter coolly received Harry's hug.

Mrs. Murphy wasn't much better."We should be with you at all times!"

"Hi, Mom. Hi, Mom."Tucker ran in circles.

"She is so obsequious,"Pewter remarked.

"Dogs—" Mrs. Murphy didn't finish her sentence, as she heard the squad car coming down the drive.

As soon as Coop pulled in, Harry hopped into the squad car along with her three animals. She told the deputy about the sharpshooter as they drove.

They had to drive back out, turn right on the state road, and go a mile to the old Jones driveway.

"You going to rent this place?" Coop asked as the gray number-five stones rattled off the skid plate.

"Up to Herb. He owns ten acres and the house."

"When's he moving out?"

"Well, that's the thing. He swears he will retire next year, but we all know that's not going to happen."

"Think he'd rent it to me?"

"What a good idea!" Harry's countenance brightened, as she was happy to have her mind off events if even for a moment. "Ask him."

"I will."

As they passed the house, turning left by the cattle barns, the dust from the road kicked up behind like a rooster's plume.

"After all the rain we've had this spring, I can't believe how dry this road is."

"That's central Virginia, isn't it? Walk ten paces and you're standing on a different kind of soil. One type drains well and another doesn't."

"I didn't think you were interested in such things," Harry replied.

"I'm not a farmer, but I am observant. Part of my job." She smiled as she pulled over. "Wish these squad cars had four-wheel drive. Wouldn't be as good in a car chase, I guess."

They got out then walked the rest of the way to the orchard. Yellow tape cordoned off the grave site. It would be removed and the dirt filled back in once Rick felt certain they hadn't overlooked anything.

"How many strips did you say there were originally?"

"Twenty." Harry touched Cooper's arm. "Coop, you know I'm not a scaredy cat."

"/resent that," Pewter complained.

"You're tough as nails."

"I'm afraid."

Cooper carefully held the bottom of a strip, examining the sharpshooter. "Someone has snuck onto your land. Maybe two someones: one to bury the body, the other to bring in insects."

"I feel like they know my schedule. Fair's, too."

Cooper considered this. "It's possible, but your house and barn are two miles away as the crow flies. And you can't see the peach orchard. You can't even see it from the old Jones house."

"I know." She interlocked her fingers. "I feel like I'm being set up."

"Fair," Cooper replied. "It's more like Fair is being set up."

28

Twilight lingered in the spring. An hour of fading light enlivened by brilliant sunsets brought many Virginia residents outside to watch. Cloud wisps looked as though painted with a flat brush swirling upward, turned white then gold. After ten minutes the horizon line over the farther mountains deepened, but over the Blue Ridge themselves a brilliant turquoise line appeared as outlining on what were once the highest mountains in the world.

Fair noticed the sky, streaks of pulsating scarlet mingled with gold and copper, as he walked back from the barn with Harry. "My God, that's beautiful."

Harry looked up. "Sure is."

"When that sun goes down the chill comes on fast, doesn't it? Always amazes me."

"Yeah, but then we get into summer and the nights are languid. I love that feeling of warm nights with a light breeze to keep the bugs off."

"Girl, you've got bugs on the brain." He wrapped his arms around her waist as they watched the sky.

"I do, Fair. I'm baffled. And I can't help but think, two men are dead, both of whom had a great deal of knowledge about pests, about black rot, about grapes."

"I still don't see those deaths being connected."

"If Professor Forland were studying insect-borne diseases, he could have told Toby."

"He probably did. But all the vintners or their managers are scientists of a sort. Hy, Arch, Bill, and Patricia know how to look through a microscope to identify diseased tissue or what chemicals to use to kill their fungus on that."

"Yeah, you're right."

"Isn't that something about Toby's sister refusing to claim his body? What's wrong with people?" Fair shifted the subject. "Doesn't matter if they weren't on good terms. He's still her brother."

"Maybe she killed him," Harry flippantly replied.

"At this point, honey, I'm ready to believe anything."

"Inheriting a large farm under intense cultivation isn't a slim motive." Harry watched a great blue heron fly overhead, croaking as she headed for her nest.

"What an awful voice. You think she'd shut her bill,"Pewter remarked.

"Ever notice how ugly people are often more vain than good-looking ones? Maybe it's the same with birds. She thinks she has a lovely voice,"Tucker observed.

"I'd feel better if I didn't think the two murders were related." Harry wasn't giving up on this idea.

"Suppose this was about bioterrorism: wouldn't it be easier to send out anthrax?" She flipped up her coat collar. "You've been to seminars about this. Professor Forland certainly scared people at the panel. Maybe he was working for our government."

Fair thought awhile, then took her hand as the twilight faded, heading back to the warmth of the house. "Anthrax can be contracted through a cut. The bacterium enters the skin. If I handle a contaminated hide—not even the animal itself—I could contract anthrax if I have a break in my skin. You can breathe it in and you can get it from contaminated meat."

"What are the signs?"

"Do I have to listen to this?"Pewter wrinkled her nose.

"If a human ingests the bacterium, the intestinal track becomes acutely inflamed. Vomiting and fever, followed by vomiting blood and severe diarrhea, occur. And this kind of infection usually results in death in a very high number of cases, from twenty-five to sixty percent."

"That's a big spread."

"Yeah, it is." He opened the porch door just as Flatface flew out of the barn for a night of hunting, "But you have to consider the health of the individual who contracts it and the level of health service available. Someone who ingests anthrax in the Sudan will have a much worse time of it than someone who becomes infected in Canada. Obviously, chances of infection inCanada are next to nothing."

"What about a cut?"

"Raised itchy bump like an insect bite. One or two days later a painless ulcer occurs on the site, a bit of necrotic skin in the center. The lymph glands swell. About twenty percent of infected people die. However, the last case of cutaneous anthrax occurred in our country in 1992. You see it in the developing countries. The real problem is airborne anthrax." He turned on the flame under the teapot. "Breathe that stuff in and the bacterium races through your lungs and then is passed into your circulatory system. Fatal septicemia comes on very fast. The incubation time is anywhere from one to six days."

"Wouldn't that make more sense as a bioterrorism weapon than stuff distilled from fungii?" She put a pot of water on the stove. Tonight was a good night for spaghetti.

"Seems so to me, especially since the anthrax spores resist environmental degradation. But the trick to creating anthrax that can kill huge sections of the population is the size of the spores. A chemist has to transform the wet bacteria culture into dry clumps of spores. But when the spores are dried they glop together into larger lumps, and then they have a static electric charge, so they cling to surfaces just like laundrywith static cling. If the spores do that, they won't float through the air."

"Could a smart loner figure it out?"

"The method of reducing the spores to the optimum size for penetrating the human lung once free of static electricity has been closely guarded by what used to be the Soviet Union and by our government."

"But the secret really is out, isn't it?"

"Yes." He handed her a packet of spaghetti. "One way to find out who knows the secret is to capture anthrax that has been used in an attack. Then you'd be able to tell how closely the stuff genetically resembles the weapons strain our government made before 1969."

"Why 1969?"

"We agreed to destroy our stored biological weapons then. At one time, honey, our country had nine hundred kilos of dry anthrax made per year at a plant in Arkansas. I have not one shred of doubt that some was saved after we supposedly destroyed it all."

"And it's possible some was stolen, isn't it?"

"Yes, and over time those spores divided. Remember, they are living things, sothey divide. And think about all the anthrax the Soviet Union made. That's not all gone, either."

"Gives me the creeps."

"Ought to give every single American the creeps." He paused. "How about I make clam sauce after I make you a cup of tea?"

"Okay. Want a vegetable?"

"You're heading somewhere with this. Fess up." He poured water in the teacups. "Uh, I don't want a vegetable, but I'll take a salad."

"I don't think the murders have one thing to do with bioterrorism, and one of the reasons is that anthrax is easier, is available. I just wanted to hear the particulars. So I'd feel more convinced of my direction."

"Gut instinct?" he questioned her simply.

"It may be that Professor Forland's specialized knowledge plays into his murder— Toby's, too, perhaps—but that's not what's underneath all this. I just wish I could find the reason."

"Not knowing is always worse than knowing. To change the subject, what's the dress code for Mim's party tomorrow?"

"She doesn't want us to call it a party. She says it's a gathering of friends to relax and celebrate the redbuds."

He smiled. "Right. We both know Mim."

"Coat and tie."

"You, too?"

"Probably be better than the ancient tea dress I trot out."

"You wear the coat and tie and I'll wear the dress."

"Fair, they don't make women's clothes large enough for you." She imagined him in a dress, and it was a funny picture.

"What about all those drag queens?"

"You are twisted." She tapped the back of his hand with her spoon.

"That's why you married me." He leaned over and kissed her.

"I have a surprise for you. I bought you a new tie."

He laughed. "Then it's not a surprise, is it? You just told me."

They laughed together.

29

"And that's the difference between red and white wine," Arch explained to Miranda at Mim's redbud party. She always threw an "impromptu," or as impromptu as Mim could be, celebration of the redbuds when in full bloom. Given the wild bounce in temperatures, it was only now that the gorgeous trees opened their cerise buds.

"I never knew that. Is the pigment of the skin extracted when you make the wine?" Miranda, not a drinker at all, was nonetheless interested. She had just returned from a visit to Greenville, South Carolina.

Arch puffed on his Dunhill pipe, the burly bulldog bowl emitting a beguiling odor, a hint of spice among the rich dark tobacco. He found smoking just one pipe in the evening very relaxing. "You need the right kindof grape for your region, but the aging is every bit as important. The fruity reds, the ones so much in vogue," he shrugged, "I don't like them. Depth and complexity are the mark of a master andterroir —place. The grape, the wine, expresses the place. Americans don't understand that. We're so busy talking about the variety, the shape, the topography, the climate. People confuse soil withterroir. Terroir is soul. The wine—red, white, rose—expresses the soul of the place. The Italians and French I worked with in California taught me that."

Lingering by the bar, Harry and Susan drank Jim's special lemonade. "Are things settling down?" Susan asked, although she'd spoken to Harry that morning.

"Yeah, but the whole thing creeps me out." A piece of lemon pulp caught in her teeth.

"It would upset anyone." Susan pointed with her forefinger to her own tooth so Harry would remove the lemon pulp, which she did. "Look how upset Christy was when Toby was killed, and that wasn't even her property. Everyone's on pins and needles."

"When that happens other stuff surfaces, ever notice?"

"Yes." Susan smiled as Reverend Jonesapproached. "Soon time to go fishing, Herbie."

"It is." He smiled broadly. "You know, I believe Jesus favors fishing. After all, He went out as the men cast their nets."

"And as I recall, a great storm came up," Harry said.

"And He calmed the waters." Herb glanced outside as a stiff breeze zipped through the rooms at that moment. "And I think He might consider calming this one. Look."

The two women saw inky clouds swiftly moving from the west.

"You know, I think I was wrong. Jesus wasn't fishing when the storm arose. He went out after preaching. Miranda will know."

"She can quote the Good Book better than I can." Herb smiled, although he did know this story by heart. "Miranda, we need you."

Miranda left off Arch and joined them. "I'm so glad to be back from South Carolina, even if we are about to be blown off the map."

"Not the same without you." Susan genuinely complimented her.